The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti

by Blondy Baruti

  All of this was serious business, and it should have been enough to occupy my mind. But as basketball season approached, I found myself growing sad and distracted. I was working out with Coach Ward and playing pickup ball with my Mesa teammates. It was fun, and I was playing very well. I had come to terms with the notion that I would not play competitive basketball again until I got to Tulsa—assuming I got to Tulsa—but the more time I spent in the gym with my teammates, bonding and talking about the upcoming season, the more I wanted to play. And not just pickup ball. I wanted to wear a Mesa High School uniform. I knew in my heart that this was not an important matter—not in comparison to the larger issue of gaining political asylum—but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. One day, I asked Terry if we could talk. I even steered him toward the dinner table, the way he and Laurie always did to me when a serious topic was at hand. And, like me, Terry responded apprehensively.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “I miss playing basketball,” I said. “And I was wondering if there is any way for me to play this season.”

  Terry waited a long time before answering. I could tell he did not want to hurt my feelings. But Terry is an honest man, and he wasn’t going to give me false hope.

  “As far as I can tell, no,” he said. “There is no way for you to play at Mesa. Or anywhere else. Not until you get to college.”

  He paused and looked me hard in the eye. “I’m sorry, Blondy. This isn’t your fault. I wish there was something I could do.”

  Short of hiring another attorney, which he could not afford, and which I did not expect him to do, there was little Terry could offer aside from sympathy; he and Laurie had already done enough for me. They understood how much I loved basketball, and how hard it would be for me to sit on the sideline all winter while my friends and teammates played. Nevertheless, it was important to keep my eye on the prize: political asylum and the right to pursue my education in America. Coach Wojcik had repeatedly assured us that if I was in the country legally, my scholarship was safe, and that I would play for the University of Tulsa the following year. They saw no problem with me sitting out my senior year. But I did, and with each passing day, the pain grew worse.

  But wait! There was another angel looking over me, for the news of my story had traveled far and wide, resulting in an offer from another lawyer who wanted to fight the lifetime ban that had been imposed upon me by the Arizona Interscholastic Association. His name was Charles Riekena.

  “I don’t like the way this young man has been treated,” Charles said in an email to Terry. “It’s not right. And I would like to represent him.”

  Mr. Riekena told Terry that he wanted to fight on my behalf. Terry later admitted to me that he started sweating during this exchange, as he immediately began thinking of the financial implications.

  “Don’t worry,” Mr. Riekena said. “I’ll do it for free.”

  I tried not to get my hopes up, but the attorney seemed confident. Even better, he seemed angry—like he felt personally offended by the AIA decision. I took this as a good sign: if someone is going to plead your case, you want that person to believe in your cause. And what other motivation was there? After all, he wasn’t getting paid.

  Fortunately, I was much too busy to obsess about my appeal to the AIA. In addition to juggling a heavy load of classes and homework, I continued to study intensely for my upcoming interview with U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services.. You would think that I would have known my own life and story well enough to communicate it effectively to anyone, but it wasn’t that simple. For one thing, I was extraordinarily nervous about the interview and the impact on my life. I worried that the interrogator would be wily and treacherous—that his (or her) intent would be to make me so anxious and confused that I would mess up or otherwise seem unconvincing. The entire Blitz family rallied together in this cause. Terry, Laurie, and Jared all read my story many times; then they took turns interviewing me, peppering me with questions, sometimes in an antagonistic manner. They tried to fool me. They tried to make me uncomfortable. But each time I answered the questions correctly.

  “I am going to get political asylum on the first interview,” I told Terry.

  “I hope you’re right,” he said. But Terry was a pragmatist, and every so often he would remind me of the odds. “Remember, less than one percent of applicants for political asylum are successful on the first attempt, Blondy. It’s not going to be easy.”

  CHAPTER 17

  * * *

  I did not expect it to be easy. But I did believe that God was watching over me. Just as he had carried me through civil war and delivered me to America, he would help me win this struggle, as well. I believed this in my heart. I had come too far to fail. The thing that concerned me most was the possibility that I would not understand some of the questions because of my deficiencies with English. But our lawyer assured us that communication would not be a problem, as a translator would be present in the room during the interview. I could give my responses in French. This made the process less terrifying, although it remained intimidating.

  The interview took place in early November, in Phoenix, at the offices of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. My whole family came with me: Terry, Laurie, Brandon, Jared, and Travis (the oldest Blitz son, who wasn’t around much because he had such a busy work schedule, but who showed up to support me nevertheless). We sat together in the waiting room, making small talk the way families do, and reassuring each other that everything would be okay.

  “Mr. Baruti?”

  Standing in the doorway was a pleasant-looking woman. She held a folder in her hand. In that moment, neatly dressed, with a big smile on her face, she seemed benign.

  I stood up. So, did Terry and Laurie. I gave each of them a big hug. They seemed even more nervous than I did. I guess that’s the way it is with parents: nothing hurts more than seeing one of your children go through a difficult time. And while I was obviously not part of the Blitz bloodline, I was in many ways their fourth son.

  “Do not worry,” I whispered to them. “Everything will be all right.”

  Four of us disappeared into a room: me, the immigration officer, my lawyer, Joy Huang, and the translator. For the first few minutes I was very nervous. The woman remained just as friendly as she had seemed upon introduction, but the process was inherently traumatic. There was so much at stake! Despite the presence of the translator, the immigration officer never took her eyes off me. She would look right at me—right through me, it seemed—as she formulated long and complicated questions in English. I would return her gaze, but then break away as the translator put her words into French. It was such a long and laborious way to conduct a conversation—I worried with each question and answer that something was getting lost in translation, but I did my best to remain calm and provide accurate information. I didn’t want to lie or even embellish my story; indeed, any deviation from the truth as she already knew it would only have hurt my application for asylum.

  It was interesting to watch her response as I spoke. She would look me first in the eye, and then as my response wore on, she would lower her gaze—to my lips, my hands, my feet. I had been told this would happen, that immigration officers who conducted these interviews were skilled at ferreting out fabricators not just by listening to their words, but by examining their body language. I had been advised to sit tall and proud, and to not avert my gaze. I had been told to keep my hands on the armrests of my chair, or on the desk in front of me, so as not to appear uneasy.

  Don’t squirm.

  Don’t fidget.

  Don’t scratch yourself or clear your throat.

  All of these things, I was told, are indicative of trying to hide something. Of course, they also represent a perfectly reasonable human response to an extraordinarily stressful situation. But that was beside the point. It wasn’t enough to avoid lying; I had to avoid the appearance of lying, which is a far more difficult thing.

  The interview went on for ne
arly four hours. I became more comfortable with the line of questioning, more confident that I was effectively relating the tale of my journey from the Congo to Arizona. Nevertheless, it was an exhausting experience. At the end, the immigration officer thanked me for my time and complimented me on my presentation.

  “Do you have anything else you’d like to add,” she said.

  In fact, yes, there was something I wanted to add. From a folder I withdrew a sheaf of papers—my written scholarship offer from the University of Tulsa. I handed it to the officer and let her look it over for a moment.

  “I want to go to school and get my education,” I said, this time using fractured English to get the point across: that I was determined to assimilate. “I want to be a citizen here in America. I want to be a citizen—just like you. And I want to have a family here in America, and also help my people in the Congo.”

  She smiled and nodded, thanked me for my time, and then we left the room. Outside, Terry and Laurie were nervously waiting. We all walked to the parking lot together, and on the way Joy informed the Blitzes that the interview had gone very well. It was still a long shot that asylum would be granted based on a single interview, she said, but anything was possible. She also stressed that patience would be necessary.

  “They never give an answer right away,” she explained. “It’ll probably be a few months.”

  Around this same time, I was granted a meeting with the AIA in regard to my athletic eligibility status in Arizona. My attorney, Mr. Reikena, had been dogged in his pursuit of reinstatement. Rather than beg forgiveness on my behalf, he went on the offensive, pressuring the AIA for answers and information, and arguing persuasively that I had done nothing wrong. There had been no proof of recruitment by anyone associated with the Mesa High School basketball program, and while there might have been mistakes in protocol, they occurred without my knowledge or approval, and were entirely orchestrated by a third party—specifically, my cousin Patrick. The lawyer argued that it was grossly unfair to punish me for something I knew nothing about. He also stated that in handing down a lifetime suspension, the AIA had violated my right to due process.

  Basically, Mr. Reikena took a sledgehammer to an organization that routinely made draconian decisions affecting people’s lives, and yet rarely was compelled to defend those decisions. Hardly anyone challenged the AIA; the organization was simply too powerful, and a fight was too costly for the average person. But I was blessed to have an attorney fiercely devoted to the cause, and not only willing to work for free, but also shrewd and talented.

  Although both Terry and Mr. Reikena felt we had a strong case, they were careful to caution against being overly optimistic. The AIA was a large and influential bureaucratic organization. Even if its leaders determined that my case had been mishandled, and justice meted out unfairly, they would likely still feel a need to save face.

  “What we are really hoping for,” Mr. Reikena explained, “is some sort of compromise.”

  The meeting with the AIA was intense. My attorney was well prepared and filled with passion. I was moved almost to the point of tears as he pleaded my case and accused the AIA of behaving in a rash and inappropriate manner. I could not understand everything they were saying, of course, but the message came through loud and clear:

  This young man is a victim. He did nothing wrong.

  Finally, as with the immigration interview, at the end of the meeting one of the members of the AIA asked me if I would like to speak. We thought this would probably happen, so I wasn’t caught off guard. I was planning to say just a couple of words, but after watching Mr. Reikena fight so bravely for my cause, I was inspired to do the same. I stood up, took a deep breath, and began to speak in my broken but impassioned English.

  “I am one of the luckiest people in this world. There are so many kids who would give anything to be in my position right now, and I am so grateful for it. My heart and my mind have been hurt by bad memories, but God is here for me now. I can see that. Leaving the Congo and coming to Arizona was the biggest dream that any kid in Africa could have. Why would I put myself in a bad position here? I did not know anything about what was going on before I came here. I just wanted to work hard every day to accomplish my dreams, which is to become a professional basketball player. My family back in the Congo and I trusted my cousin. We didn’t know any better. But I am grateful for what I have today. I grew up very poor until these people, Terry and Laurie, took me into their house and gave me food, clothes, and water; they were there for me anytime I was in need. They do not see me as a kid from Africa; they see me as their own son. They love me and I love them, so no matter what happens here today, they will always be my family.”

  I paused to take a deep breath and a drink of water. There was so much more to say. I looked at them, one by one, staring into their eyes so they would know how I really felt.

  “You guys took my joy away from me. You suspended me for something I did not do. The people who put me in this situation were not punished. But what about me? I had to leave my teammates and go somewhere else. I had to run away from people who mistreated me. I slept outside in the cold. I was sick and I did not have medicine. I cried every single night, begging God to rescue me. I ran away from people at Golding who mistreated me, and I wound up in Jackson, Mississippi, because I had to go somewhere that I thought would be safe. All of this happened because a few people made decisions about my life for their own benefit. I love my Mesa teammates to death. I would have done anything to be on the court with them in the second half of my junior year, but I was not. I watched them lose again and again, and I could not help.”

  I paused again. It was possible that I was saying too much. I looked at my lawyer. He nodded subtly, as if to say, “Go on . . .” And so I did.

  “I want to be part of my team once again before I attend college. I want to wear my jersey again, and win games with my teammates. Please, I ask you—give me that opportunity.”

  I thanked the committee for their time and sat down. The room was very quiet. Mr. Riekena leaned toward me and whispered, with a smile, “Maybe you should think about becoming a lawyer.” I tried not to laugh.

  A few days later, the committee offered us a deal, just as Mr. Riekena had predicted. The AIA was in a difficult position. If the organization had rescinded its ruling completely, it would have faced a credibility problem. Moreover, while I had no control over the circumstances that led me to Arizona instead of the Northeast, it is true that rules were broken; I suppose someone had to be held accountable. Since the AIA held no jurisdiction over my cousin, the burden of responsibility fell mostly on me, and, to a lesser extent, on Mesa High School. Mesa had served its time by forfeiting the games in which I had played the previous season. But I was serving a lifetime sentence. It just didn’t seem fair. In the end, the AIA agreed, handing down a partial reversal that would uphold the forfeiture of the previous games, along with a suspension. The good news, however, was that the lifetime ban was lifted; I would have to sit out the first fifteen games of the 2009–10 season. Then I would be eligible.

  When I first heard about the offer, I was conflicted, for I had hoped for a complete exoneration, despite the fact that my attorney had said that was unlikely. I wanted to get out on the basketball court immediately, with my friends.

  “What happens if we don’t take the deal?” I asked.

  “Then we go to court,” Mr. Riekena explained. “It could take a long time—probably more than fifteen games—and we still might lose.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  Within a couple of days the AIA announced its decision, and there were stories in the local newspapers. Although I had to sit out the first fifteen games, I was nevertheless a member of the team and thus allowed to participate in practice. Game nights, of course, were tough. I wanted to be out there, helping my teammates, swatting shots into the bleachers and running up and down the floor. But at least as I was practicing. I worked on my game every day, tried
to be a strong and supportive teammate, and maintained a positive attitude. Before each game, I would gather the whole team beneath the basket. We would form a circle, with me in the middle.

  “WHO’S NEXT?” I would shout, as the circle rocked in rhythm.

  “WE NEXT!” came the response.

  What did this mean? Well, it referred to a sign on the wall of the Mesa gym. The team had won many state championships, the most recent coming six years earlier, 2004. Next to a banner denoting this accomplishment was a sign with the words “Who’s next?” (To win a state title.)

  “WE NEXT!”

  I had a lot of fun leading this chant every game, and if it wasn’t quite like playing at least it made me feel like a valuable member of the team. The team was doing well, too, which made me even more excited about playing. After fifteen games, our record was 12–3.

  My first game was January 8, 2010, at Tucson High School. Tucson was almost an hour and a half from Mesa, but a lot of our fans made the trip. I was so pumped up that I could barely get through warmups before the game. My hands were slippery, my mouth dry. But everyone was encouraging. I was not about to let them down by playing badly.

  I did not start the game, but four minutes into the first quarter, Coach Burcar called my name.

  “Blondy! Let’s go.”

  I stood up, took off my warmups, and began to walk toward the scorer’s table. The gym was nearly packed—it seemed like Mesa had almost as many fans as Tucson. Everyone stood and clapped as I knelt at the scorer’s table. Then they began to chant.

  “BLON-DY! BLON-DY!”

  It took only a few seconds to get my first touch—a nice pass from Jahii Carson. I grabbed it, turned to face the basket, and threw down a monstrous dunk with as much force as I could. I’d been waiting almost a year to dunk the ball in a real game, and in that single play I was able to release all of the anger and frustration; in an instant they were replaced by something closer to joy.