The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti

by Blondy Baruti

  At the edge of the court, Brandon looked at me and smiled. My cousin said something to him in English that I did not understand. Whatever it was, it made both of them laugh. Brandon then pulled out his cell phone and called Coach Burcar to let him know how good I was, based on what he had seen so far. Brandon was clearly excited. I shot around for about ten or fifteen minutes, then we closed up the gym and drove back to my new home.

  That night I was introduced for the first time to the concept of an American shower. It was unlike anything in the Congo, where I typically washed outdoors in an open area. Mrs. Blitz gave me some towels, pointed to the tub, and left me alone. I know she was merely trying to respect my privacy, but a tutorial of some sort might have been in order. Too embarrassed to ask for help, I tried to figure out on my own precisely how the shower worked. It took me a minute or two to get the water running and turn on the shower. It felt so good to stand in the spray—it was the warmest and strongest shower I had ever experienced. Indeed, the pleasure was so intoxicating that I stayed there for what seemed like an hour, letting the water soak my skin, then soaping up and rinsing off, and doing it all over again. Multiple times. Finally, when I had begun to look like a prune, I turned off the water and stepped out of the tub. It was only then that I realized what a colossal mistake I had made. I had wondered why there was a curtain hanging from a rod above the tub. I guess I figured it was purely decorative, so that people wouldn’t have to look at an open shower or tub when they used the bathroom. I had never seen anything like it before and didn’t really give it much thought. I just pushed it aside and took my shower.

  A very long . . . wet . . . shower.

  As I stepped out of the tub, I discovered to my horror that the bathroom floor was covered with water—nearly an inch deep, from wall to wall. I might as well have stood outside the tub and taken my shower; the effect would have been no worse.

  “Mama nakufiye, bako bomanga lobi na tongo!” I whispered out loud. (Translation: “Mama, I am going to die. They’re going to kill me in the morning!”) I believed this, too. In Africa, you see, the stereotype of white America is one of intolerance and selfishness. I thought for sure that the Blitzes would cast me out of their house on the very first night for being such an ignorant fool. I frantically began scooping water with my hands, throwing it into the toilet or back into the tub. I did this for the longest time, until the water started to abate, and then I used every towel I could find to soak up whatever was left. Then I put on my clothes—the same sweatpants and shirt I had been wearing for days—and walked sheepishly into my bedroom, where Patrick was waiting. I told him what had happened.

  “I have flooded their house. They will kick me out for sure.”

  Patrick waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, Blondy. We all expected something like this might happen. You will adjust. Relax.”

  I had hardly slept at all in the previous two days, and I was suffering from terrible jet lag. My new bedroom was cool and comfortable—everything looked and smelled so clean. But I could not sleep. I tossed and turned all night, thinking about how I must have been the luckiest kid on the planet. That same night I walked outside the house with a huge bowl of ice cream that had been sitting in the refrigerator. I stood under the dark sky with a big smile on my face, eating ice cream and quietly singing an African song so that I wouldn’t wake anyone else. I looked around the neighborhood and sat down in the driveway, shaking my head in disbelief. I still couldn’t get over the fact that I was in America!

  The next morning, I woke up early and checked the bathroom to see if the floor was dry. It wasn’t; there were still puddles of water all over. All I could think of was, “These white people will kill me when they see this.” As I was leaving the bathroom I met Terry and Laurie coming out of their bedroom. I tried to stand between them and the bathroom door, but Laurie realized that something was wrong: there was water leaking out into the hallway. I started shaking. She walked into the bathroom, stood there for a moment, and then came out and said something to Terry. I could not understand what she was saying, but I presumed it had something to do with the mess I had created. She looked at me sympathetically and tried to explain how to use the bathroom.

  “Blondy,” she said, leading me into the bathroom. “Curtain.” She pinched the shower curtain with two fingers and repeated the word. “Curtain.”

  I still didn’t know what she meant. The words were gibberish to me. For some reason I pulled up my Mesa T-shirt that had been given to me and started saying, “Mesa, Mesa, Mesa,” with great pride. As if this had anything to do with the situation.

  “No Mesa,” Laurie said. “Use the curtain.”

  “Mesa! Mesa!” I shouted.

  Terry just stood nearby smiling, as if he was watching a comedy show.

  Finally, Laurie laughed and walked away.

  “Don’t worry,” Terry said, patting me on the back reassuredly. “We’ll fix it.”

  That morning, Terry cheerfully showed me the proper way to safely operate an American shower. My flooding days were over. Then Laurie and Patrick took me to a nearby shopping mall to buy some clothes. When I think back on this now, I am overwhelmed by their unquestioning kindness. I had nothing—no money, no clothes, no ability to speak the language. The Blitzes knew neither me nor my cousin, and yet they opened their home and their hearts to both of us.

  As we walked from store to store, filling bags with T-shirts and polo shirts and pants and shorts and shoes and socks, I marveled not just at Laurie’s generosity, but her ability to pay for it all. A swipe of the plastic, and off we went. Is it like this for everyone in America, I wondered? Does everyone have a stack of cards in their wallets, with an unending line of credit? Is everyone rich, as I had been led to believe when I was growing up? I did not know what to think. Everything was happening so quickly, and so seamlessly, and yet it was all beyond my comprehension.

  Another funny thing about that first shopping excursion: I was shocked by the sight of so many women, some of them as old as my grandmother, wearing what appeared to be very skimpy shorts. In America, of course, this is perfectly normal, especially in the desert Southwest. But to me it was startling.

  Why are these older women wearing tiny shorts? Do they have no dignity, no self-respect? Do they not understand that this is unacceptable?

  In African culture, adult women did not dress in this manner, and I understood for the first time why my grandmother used to say that the devil lives in America, because women do not know how to dress.

  “Why are these women exposing their bodies?” I whispered to Patrick. “Do they not know any better?”

  He laughed. Many years later, I can only smile at my naïveté.

  The shopping itself was equally overwhelming. “What am I supposed to choose?” I had asked Patrick when we first arrived at the mall.

  He shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

  I walked through a sporting goods store and picked out three or four pairs of sweatpants. “That is enough,” I said.

  Patrick showed them to Laurie, who laughed. They talked for a moment, and then Patrick translated.

  “You can’t just wear sweatpants,” my cousin explained. “It’s a hundred degrees here every day. You need some shorts, as well.”

  I looked at Laurie, seeking her approval. She smiled and nodded.

  That’s the way we went about our lives for much of the next month, communicating often through my cousin, or using hand signals and facial expressions. It is truly amazing what people of different cultures can accomplish if they are working from a foundation of love and respect, as was clearly the case with the Blitz family. I was scared and excited and disoriented and happy—all at the same time—and the Blitzes somehow understood all of this and made me feel welcome.

  It was a miracle.

  When we got home from our shopping trip, my cousin made what seemed like an unusual request. He wanted me to stand on a bathroom scale. I was very tall and rail thin, and I wasn’t sure why my
weight was of any concern to Patrick, but he explained that Terry and Laurie were concerned that I wasn’t just skinny, but perhaps malnourished. I stepped onto the scale and watched impassively as it registered my weight: 155 pounds. Patrick merely smiled, but Laurie seemed shocked.

  “She is worried that you are too skinny,” Patrick said.

  “No, please tell her I am fine.” I smiled and tightened my hands into fists and flexed my slender muscles. “I am strong!” This wasn’t just an attempt to deflect Laurie’s concern. I believed it. In the Congo, it is not unusual to be tall and lean. Genetics, environment, and poor diet combine to create a rather different standard than in Western culture. Admittedly, I had lost a few pounds in the previous week due to travel, anxiety, gastric issues, and a general shortage of food, but in those days, even under the best of circumstances, I was extremely thin.

  Laurie patted me on the back and said something to Patrick. Again, he laughed.

  “She says we are going to put some meat on those bones.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what this meant, but I liked the sound of it.

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  I’d been in town only a few days when it was time to start school. On the first day I was both nervous and excited. I woke early and took a shower (without flooding the bathroom!), then put on some of the new clothes that Laurie had bought for me. At breakfast my stomach rumbled from both hunger and anxiety. I wasn’t scared—I’d been through far too much to be frightened of going to school, even in a strange land where I did not speak the language—but I was certainly apprehensive. What would the other students be like? What would they think of me? On the ride to school, Laurie and Patrick both told me to relax.

  “Everything will be fine, cousin,” Patrick said. “Do not worry.”

  Since I was living with the Blitzes and Patrick was my guardian, they both accompanied me to help with the registration and enrollment process. Everything about the process was confusing. There was so much happening at the school, so many people running around preparing for a new school year. (And so many pretty girls!) Everyone was talking and moving, but I couldn’t understand a word; it passed through my ears like the humming of a fan, or the buzz of a motorway: ceaseless, rhythmic, impenetrable.

  When Coach Burcar walked into the main office, he shook hands with Laurie and Patrick. For two days, my cousin had been instructing me on how to behave and respond during this introduction, so that I would make a good impression on my new coach. I was supposed to stand erect and firmly shake Coach Burcar’s hand; that much I knew instinctively. But it was Patrick’s idea to teach me a single line of English, to be uttered proudly and emphatically when I met Coach Burcar.

  “Repeat after me,” Patrick said. “ ‘I am a soldier.’ ”

  I said it first in Lingala, and then in English: “I am a soldier.”

  “Good,” Patrick said. “Keep practicing. He will respect you for knowing some English, and for what it means.”

  I had no idea whether Patrick was right or wrong. I mean, I wasn’t a soldier. I was a seventeen-year-old boy. But I guess the idea was to be portrayed as a survivor, a fighter (which was certainly true), and to let the coach know that I would bring that same spirit and intensity to the basketball court. When Coach Burcar walked into the office and introduced himself, and immediately made a joke about my slender physique, I stood up, extended my hand, and proclaimed, rather loudly, “I am a soldier!”

  The entire office fell silent. Everyone stared at me, including Coach Burcar. With a confused look on his face, he turned to Patrick. They talked for a moment, and it soon became apparent that Coach Burcar had not understood what I had said.

  “He is saying that he is a soldier,” Patrick stated.

  Coach Burcar smiled and nodded. Then he turned to me.

  “I am a soldier!” I repeated. And then again, even louder, as if by shouting my diction would become clearer. “I AM A SOLDIER!”

  By now, people in the office were beginning to laugh, which made me laugh, too.

  “I AM A SOLDIER!” I repeated. “I AM A SOLDIER!!!!”

  Coach Burcar held out a hand, palm down, a universal signal for, “Okay, calm down, son. I get it.”

  After registering for classes I had to see a doctor for a physical examination and multiple immunizations. This was an unpleasant surprise for two reasons: I thought I had already received all the necessary vaccinations before leaving the Congo, and I hated needles. Apparently, some of the medical paperwork had been lost or never transmitted; either that, or someone in the Congo did not realize the extent of immunization requirements for a student in the U.S. Regardless, I soon found myself getting poked with one needle after another. Each time I protested and cried like a child, my whining so loud that it could be heard in the waiting room. When I walked out, everyone was staring at me in disbelief.

  Was this giant man really responsible for all that whining?

  Good thing Coach Burcar could not hear me. I sounded more like a baby than a soldier.

  The school administration was not sure what to do with me. They had transcripts of my academic record, but these were of limited value thanks to my language deficiencies and the extreme differences between American and Congolese schools. I found out later that they considered enrolling me as a sophomore, which would have given me more time to catch up academically, along with three years of high school athletic eligibility. But because of my age (I was seventeen), it was decided that eleventh grade was a more appropriate designation.

  To say that I was a novelty at Mesa High School would be an understatement. I was the tallest person in every class. Despite being enrolled in the English Language Learning program (an intensely immersive program that requires students who speak English as a second language to spend at least four hours a day in classes where only English is spoken), I was slow to acquire skills in the native tongue. I was not alone in this, of course. Mesa had a fair share of Hispanic students who spoke little or no English, but most of them blended in with the rest of the student body. This was not possible for me. My body was too big, my skin too dark, my story too dramatic and well-known. Very quickly people came to know me as “the African basketball player.” For better or worse, I was an instant celebrity.

  The workload was hard, there is no denying that, but I did my best to keep up and prove myself worthy of the Blitzes’ generosity. It helped that I was able to start playing basketball right away. We had informal workouts most days, even though basketball season was a couple of months off. The very first time I walked into the locker room to get ready to play, Coach Burcar showed me my locker stall. I opened the door and inside was a new pair of basketball shoes—silky smooth Nikes, just like the pros might wear. Or so it seemed to me. I had never owned a pair of shoes like this, and the sight of them made my heart beat faster.

  “Me?” I said, pointing a finger at my own chest.

  “Yes,” Coach Burcar said. “They’re for you, Blondy.”

  All I could think of was how different they looked compared to the basketball shoes that I had worn back in the Congo. I was accustomed to beat-up old shoes, and now I was about to rock these new Nikes?

  Thank you, Lord!

  My teammates accepted me unconditionally. The first to open his arms, and his heart, was a kid named Donte Medder, the team captain. He walked me to classes, and to practice, and introduced me to many people. So did a pair of boys named Lorenzo and Adrian, both of whom were Mexican. On my first day of school, Lorenzo and Adrian took me to lunch. I was bewildered by the spectacle of it all, and ignorant of protocol. There was a long line stretching from the front of the cafeteria out into the hallway. The smell of the food made me ravenous, and I was tempted to just walk past everyone; I had no idea what the rules were, but I remembered the response I had provoked by butting in line at the airport, and decided instead to follow Lorenzo and Adrian, and to do whatever they did.

  As we made our way through the line, I picked out an ass
ortment of things to eat. Finally, we got to the end, where a woman sat at a cash register. Adrian paid for his lunch. Lorenzo paid for his lunch. Then it was my turn. The woman looked at me blankly. I understood what she wanted, but I had no money. In the confusion that day, neither my cousin nor my host family had remembered to give me lunch money. It was an honest mistake. But what was I to do now? I thought that I had been invited to lunch as a guest of Adrian and Lorenzo. In the Congo, when someone took you to lunch, they paid. I did not understand that this was different, that lunch was part of the everyday school experience, and that I would have to pay for it.

  Lorenzo and Adrian tried to explain to me what was happening. I shrugged and turned out my pockets, to show them that I had no money. They both laughed. Then Lorenzo said something that sounded like “It’s okay.” He took out his wallet, removed a couple bills, and paid for my lunch. I nodded appreciatively. Lorenzo waved a hand, as if to say, “Don’t worry about it.” After that, and even to this day, Lorenzo and Adrian would joke that I still owe them money for lunch.

  Another of my teammates, a boy named Leon, found out that I spoke French, as well as Lingala, and volunteered to translate much of what I was saying from French into English, so that people would understand me, and I could understand them. This was incredibly nice of him, and made it much easier for me to assimilate. Indeed, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. People were so welcoming that I barely felt any homesickness. There was even a story about me in one of the local newspapers, telling about my journey to America from the Congo, and describing me as a potential Division I basketball player. Patrick translated the story for me and seemed impressed. But he also warned me that the publicity might cause a backlash among my new friends.