Unbeknownst to me and my family, Genesis One fell into this category. Soon enough, it became apparent that moving back to Mississippi and attending Genesis One might cause more problems than it solved. I knew nothing about this while the drama unfolded. Terry and Laurie handled everything, with help from Coach Ward and Coach Burcar. They all wanted me to focus on basketball and school and friendships; they knew what I had already been through and did not want me to worry or suffer. But each time Terry spoke with a college coach, the issue of eligibility was front and center. Whenever Terry mentioned Genesis One, the coach would fall briefly silent, and then gently try to convey his concern.
“Oh . . . are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Well, if he doesn’t go there, he won’t be able to play high school basketball,” Terry would explain. But this did nothing to influence the coach’s decision.
“Doesn’t matter,” one of the Tulsa coaches told Terry. “Let him stay home, finish school, and play AAU ball. He can sit out his senior season and it won’t make any difference to us. He’ll be fine. We know Blondy can play.”
In the end, Terry came to believe that it was not a good idea to return to Mississippi. Like the coaches who recruited me, he was worried that a year at Genesis One would worsen, rather than enhance, my academic profile. He worried that the school might go out of business, or that a lack of accreditation would result in my being declared ineligible. Although we all liked Coach Norris and appreciated him coming to my rescue, there was just too much risk associated with transferring to Genesis One.
What really solidified the decision in Terry’s mind was the fact that my visa problems remained, even as the summer deepened and fall appeared on the horizon. The primary reason for going back to Mississippi was because my new, corrected (and legal!) visa would stipulate those terms, as I was going to be a student at Genesis One. But if I enrolled at Genesis One, without a valid visa, then my situation would be just as precarious as it was now in Arizona. And at least in Arizona I would have the love and support of the Blitz family; I would have my friends and teammates, my teachers and coaches. But ultimately it would be my decision to make.
One night in early August, Terry and Laurie summoned me from my room and asked me to sit at the kitchen table. Instantly I became nervous and apprehensive—in the past, whenever I was told to sit down for a serious conservation, some terrible, life-altering event usually followed: leaving home with my cousin, going to prep school. Tentatively, I pulled up a chair.
“Relax,” Terry said. “It’s nothing bad.”
He proceeded to explain everything that had happened related to my visa and my recruitment. He put a positive spin on everything, but ultimately left the choice up to me. After all, I was an adult.
“You can stay home and graduate with your friends,” Terry said. “You probably won’t be able to play basketball at Mesa this year, but you’ll have your scholarship to Tulsa and you can play AAU and work out every day.” He paused. “Or you can go back to Mississippi. You might be able to play there, or you might not be able to play. It’s risky. If something happens, we won’t be there to help you.”
I felt terribly conflicted. I really liked Coach Norris as both a coach and a person. A cynic might say that he helped me only because I could play basketball, but that is not the impression I got from him and his family. They took me in when I had nowhere else to go. They treated me with compassion and warmth and generosity. Coach Norris never pressured me to play at Genesis One, and did not try to prevent me from going back to Arizona for the summer. I mean, he was a basketball coach and probably felt like a gift from heaven had presented itself when a 6-foot-8 African kid walked into his gym and began kicking butt in pickup games. But he didn’t act that way. He was kind and gentle. I believe he simply wanted to help me.
And I wanted to play for him.
But I trusted Terry and Laurie to know what was best, and to steer me in the right direction. I’d been to prep school once and hated it; while I felt reasonably confident that Genesis One would be a different experience, especially with Coach Norris there, I liked the idea of staying at home. There was safety in Mesa. There was comfort. There were people I loved and trusted. All of that, I decided, was worth more than a single basketball season. God willing, there would be more games to play in college.
The decision became easier when we found out that Genesis One was closing its high school division. Coach Norris would be moving to a new school and a new program, and I certainly could have tried to join him. It all seemed too risky and nebulous, though, especially with the uncertainty over my visa status. I talked with Terry and Laurie a lot, and in the end decided to take their advice and remain in Mesa. I called Coach Norris and thanked him for everything he had done for me; I hoped he wouldn’t be too angry or think I was ungrateful. I just had to do what was best for me under the circumstances. He said he understood and that he wished me the best. There are predators and sycophants and generally bad people in the world, and no shortage of flesh peddlers in the orbit of Division I sports. I know that. I also know there are good people, and Coach Norris is one of them.
But he was not a miracle worker, and since I was no longer going to return to Mississippi, there was only so much we could expect him to do about my visa. As the start of a new school year approached, we had heard nothing. Technically, I was in violation of my visa; while it was possible that U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services might not catch up to me before the end of the school year, which meant I would be able to graduate, there was no way I would be able to enter a U.S. college without a valid student visa. My offer from the University of Tulsa remained on the table, but unless something changed, I would never get an opportunity to matriculate or play basketball.
This was yet another staggering obstacle, and I had no clue as to how to go about trying to overcome it. Thankfully, once again, I had Terry and Laurie in my corner, offering guidance and support and unconditional love, as well as the financial resources that I obviously did not possess. They suggested that we hire an immigration lawyer and file for political asylum in the United States, a daunting process that I was warned had little chance for success.
“It’s a long shot,” Terry said to me. “But don’t lose hope. We’re going to do everything we can.”
Think about this for a moment, as I have on numerous occasions over the years. Think about what this family did for me—the emotional and financial support they offered, and the unconditional love that went with it. For me, a poor African kid who was not part of their bloodline, and whose sudden appearance in their lives (with so much baggage) could not have been easy. Terry Blitz became the father I never had—a man of strong faith and conviction, he never wavered in his support, offering guidance and stability and love just as if I were his very own son. Laurie Blitz also treated me like her own flesh and blood. No one will ever replace my mother, of course; my strength and endurance came from her and my grandmother, and I was in touch with them throughout my entire journey (although I did not share with them the details of my hardship; this I told only Uncle Joseph, who felt it was best to spare my mother and grandmother the anguish they surely would have felt). But Laurie Blitz is like a second mother to me, and I will be forever grateful that she came into my life . . . and welcomed me into hers.
I had been told that less than one percent of applications for asylum in the state of Arizona are approved, but I was so moved by the love and support of my new family that I couldn’t help but feel confident.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” I said to Terry with a smile on my face. “I got this. I know who I am. I know God is with me. I didn’t come this far just to be turned away. I’m going to go to college in America.”
This may have been naive, but in my mind I was thinking that if I could survive the bloodshed in the Congo, nothing could stop me from getting asylum. The odds were less than one percent? Fine. I knew I needed only one tenth of one percent to be successful. As my mother had always said, “
When things get hard, turn your eyes to the Lord, and he will be there for you.”
Terry smiled. “All right, Blondy.”
Terry and Laurie began the painstaking process of putting together a detailed history of my life, so that an attorney could make a strong case for my application. This was a daunting task for the Blitzes, for they knew only an overview of my story—anecdotes I had shared and some that had been provided by Patrick. In seeking political asylum, a candidate must demonstrate clearly that his health and well-being are in danger if he is deported to his native country. A detailed timeline of events is required—documented evidence supporting the candidate’s request. Compiling all this information was challenging, in part because of my shortcomings with the English language, but also because Terry and Laurie were reluctant to ask me to talk about my childhood in the Congo. They knew the basic outline of my story, but not the gruesome details, and they worried that the sharing of this painful journey, in all its bloody sadness, would be a devastating emotional experience. And, frankly, I’m sure I had blotted some of it from my memory as a simple act of self-preservation.
But we were all in this together, so I told Terry and Laurie as much of the story as I could. I also wrote to my uncle Joseph and asked him to fill in some of the gaps, especially from my early childhood. Using every tool at our disposal, we crafted what we all felt was a compelling argument for my being granted political asylum.
We met first with an immigration attorney from a large firm in Phoenix. The lawyer had a good reputation, but the meeting did make any of us feel confident. Terry and Laurie told him my story, and he responded by mapping out his case—a plan that could take many years and multiple appeals, and drain every penny from the Blitzes’ savings and retirement accounts. I did not particularly like this attorney—he was very young and seemed arrogant; he also failed to make an emotional connection with any of us. He actually recommended to Terry that I be sent back to Golding Academy, because he believed that represented my best chance to get a new visa. This, he said, was a far more likely path to victory than seeking asylum in the state of Arizona. Thankfully, Terry and Laurie rejected his suggestion. Now, I understand that you don’t hire an attorney based on personality, but this was an intensely personal situation for me and the Blitz family. We all wanted to believe that our attorney was willing to fight for us with everything he had; we needed to feel as though he believed in us, and understood what we had been through. None of us felt that that attorney did.
Terry and Laurie decided to seek out another attorney, one who was more personable, confident, and perhaps a little less expensive. Terry chose from a directory a female attorney with a name that sounded as though she was of Asian descent. She had solid credentials, to be sure, but Terry also figured a woman might be more naturally sympathetic to my plight; he also thought that, given her name, maybe she wasn’t several generations removed from a personal connection to the immigrant experience in America. All of this was merely a hunch on Terry’s part, but it proved right.
The attorney, as it turned out, was from China. Her name was Joy Huang, and she spoke fluent English, but with enough of an accent that our first meeting was challenging. Terry’s and Laurie’s first language was English; mine was French; the attorney’s was Chinese. With all of these dialects flying around the room, it took great patience for all of us to arrive at the same level of understanding. I was somewhat lost, but Terry and Laurie remained calm and reassuring throughout the process, and then relayed the details when we got home.
After hearing the story, the attorney said that I should not seek political asylum. This surprised Terry and Laurie.
“Why not?” they asked.
“Because you have no chance of winning,” Joy responded. “Not because Blondy doesn’t have a good case, but simply because it’s almost impossible to receive political asylum.” She reiterated some of the depressing statistics we had already heard: less than one percent of cases approved, an endless and overwhelmingly expensive journey that would likely end in failure and deportation.
We all hung our heads.
“Then what do we do?” Terry asked.
The attorney advised us to forget about political asylum and instead focus on a much more attainable goal: fixing my visa. This involved applying for a new and updated Form I-20, a document more formally known as the Certificate of Eligibility for Nonimmigrant Student Status. I already had an I-20, but by traveling to Arizona when I first came to America, I had inadvertently violated its terms. The best course of action now, Joy explained, was to apply for a new I-20 in the hope of reinstating my student status. We had a far greater likelihood of success with this approach, she said, and if the I-20 was approved, not only would I be allowed to finish school at Mesa High School, but I would be able to attend the University of Tulsa, as well.
I was encouraged by this meeting; Terry and Laurie, not so much. They had spent the better part of the previous four months working with Coach Norris while he tried to expedite a new I-20 application on my behalf. Even with his connections, there had been little to no progress. The Blitzes were naturally pessimistic that an attorney would be able to accomplish this task, but they deferred to her judgment. Unfortunately, their doubt was confirmed a short time later when Joy reported that obtaining a new I-20 was unlikely, if not impossible. So, we came full circle, with our attorney telling us that my only chance to remain in the country legally was to apply for political asylum. Disappointing as it was to hear this news, we all respected her honesty.
“Nothing has changed,” Joy said. “It’s a long shot. But it’s the only chance we have.”
Unlike our previous attorney, she did not map out a questionable plan of attack that would take years and cost my family every penny they had. She would charge a flat fee that would cover all expenses, including court dates and appeals; the meter would not simply run forever. It was still a lot of money—approximately $6,000—but Terry and Laurie said they could handle the expense.
“Don’t worry, Blondy,” they said. “You just concentrate on school and basketball.”
I wanted to cry when they told me this; the combination of guilt and gratitude that their generosity provoked was overwhelming. Someday, I promised myself, I would pay them back. In the meantime, I had an obligation to hold up my end of the bargain, and I embraced it with a full heart. I had received no academic credit for the second semester of my junior year, but I still hoped to graduate in June of 2010 with my class at Mesa High School. That way, if my visa situation was somehow corrected, I’d be eligible to enroll at Tulsa.
The administration at Mesa graciously accommodated this request, but they made it clear that the schedule would be daunting, to say the least. In addition to taking seven classes each day in school (one more than the usual load), for two semesters, I would also have to register for one online class each semester. The possibility of a summer school session loomed, as well. All of this was a bit intimidating, especially for someone still struggling to master the English language, but I wasn’t about to complain. If my family was willing to fight for me, then I had to fight alongside them.
The days were long: up at 5:45, home around four in the afternoon, dinner at five, work online for a couple hours, and then go to basketball practice or training with Coach Ward until 9:30 or 10:00. This was the daily routine in the fall of my senior year. There wasn’t a lot of time for socializing, which was sometimes frustrating, but ultimately unimportant. I had my eye on a bigger prize.
After working on it for several months, we completed a narrative of my life story, which would be the centerpiece of my appeal for political asylum. The goal was to gain an appearance with an immigration officer who would listen to my story and then either act on the request for asylum or refer it to the court system. If it went to the courts, as was usually the case, we would likely be fighting for many months, with little chance for victory. As I understood it, the interview would be demanding; the officer’s job was to poke holes in my sto
ry, to separate fact from fiction. Many people request political asylum in the United States. Some of them have a legitimate fear of reprisal if they are deported. Others have fled because life in their home country is so dangerous. Some are merely seeking a better life in America, which may be perfectly understandable but is not sufficient reason to be granted political asylum.
Life in the Congo was dangerous. I had escaped death a multitude of times while growing up, and the situation in my homeland remained volatile. As a somewhat prominent athlete who had left the country and sought asylum in the U.S., I faced the prospect of being targeted upon returning to the Congo. There was no doubt about this. The challenge was to convince a USCIS officer of the veracity of my story.
In early October we found out that we had cleared the first hurdle. My case would be heard by an immigration official. I would have a chance to tell my story. In person. I was excited and hopeful about this opportunity, but quite anxious, as well.
“We have another month to get ready,” Terry said. “But don’t worry. You’re going to be great. We’re all going to help.”
After that, I went to bed every night thinking about the interview, replaying the narrative in my head, the monologue coming out in a jumble of English and French. But always the message was clear.
If I go back to the Congo, I will die. If you let me stay, I will live. I will be grateful. And I will make you proud.
The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti Page 18