“All day, my boy,” Jahii said as we ran up the court together. “All day.”
I was a little rusty, but I played all right and we won the game. Three days later, on January 12 (the day before my nineteenth birthday), I played a home game for the first time since my suspension. Eaxctly one year earlier my hopes and dreams, along with my basketball career, had been shattered. So much had happened since then. Now there was light again, after all the darkness.
As I took my place at the center circle for the opening jump, the crowd went crazy, chanting my name in unison.
“BLON-DY! BLON-DY! BLON-DY!”
This time it wasn’t just the student section. As I looked up into the crowd, I could see others chanting, as well: grown men and women, parents with their children. Emotion swelled in my heart. I thought for a moment I might start crying right there in the middle of the floor, before the game even started.
I lowered my head and took several short, shallow breaths. Then I looked into the crowd again and gently tapped a fist against my chest.
“I love you,” I said, though I’m sure they couldn’t hear me.
We won that game, as well. I had eleven points and seven rebounds, felt a little more comfortable on the floor. But the biggest regular-season game of the year was January 18, in the Martin Luther King Classic at Arizona State University. Our opponent was Mountain View, our big rival. I’d been dreaming of this game for a year. Last year, after all, I’d been suspended right before the game. As happy as I was, I sometimes felt waves of anxiety over the possibility that something could still go wrong and take basketball from me again. Part of this was due to the fact that we still hadn’t gotten a response on my petition for asylum.
“Don’t worry,” Brandon said to me one day after practice. “This year, you’re playing against Mountain View. Hope you’re ready.”
Oh, I was ready, all right. And so were our fans. A few days before the game, Laurie’s brother (I referred to him as Uncle Brad) sent us more than one hundred blue T-shirts emblazoned with the words “Blondy’s Bombshells.” A few people, including Jared Blitz, wore blond wigs along with the T-shirt. It was quite a sight.
Quite a game, too, very intense and well played. It went into overtime. With just seconds to go in OT Mountain View was trailing by two, 54–52, and called timeout. When play resumed they ran a nice play that screened a defender and freed one of their guys to drive to the basket. It wasn’t my man, but part of my job as the tallest player on the court, and a defensive specialist, was to protect the basket and help my teammates.
With seconds to spare, I saw him rise for the shot, and slid over to block it. If I had been even a fraction of a second late, he would have had a layup and Mountain View would have tied the game. But I got there just in time. Leaping between the player and the basket, I reached out and swatted the ball away as the buzzer sounded, preserving a Mesa victory.
The crowd went wild! The entire team danced around, screaming and celebrating on the court. It felt like we had won the state championship. For me, personally, it was one of the highlights of my basketball career. I remember feeling so happy as my teammates swarmed around me. I raised my right index finger into the air and waved it back and forth, shouting “No, no, no!” like Dikembe Mutombo. And then we fell into a pile on the floor, hugging each other and laughing.
This, I thought to myself, is why I love basketball.
WE HAD A MUCH better season than anyone expected; it’s funny how things work out that way sometimes. In my junior year, when Donte and I played together—a pair of Division I recruits—Mesa was supposed to be one of the best teams in the state. But everything fell apart when I got suspended and the team was forced to forfeit some of its games. This year, with Donte gone and my status uncertain, expectations were low. By sectional time, though, we were practically unbeatable, and we entered the state tournament as the favorite. Unfortunately, we lost to St. Mary’s, 65–62, at home, in the quarterfinals.
When the game ended I was filled with sadness and disappointment. I have always hated losing, but there was something about this loss that was particularly painful—the sting of uncertainty and the possibility that I had played not just my last high school game, but my last game ever in America. It was bad enough knowing I would never wear a Mesa High School uniform again, or play with any of my friends and classmates. But what if I never wore any uniform again? What if my application for asylum was rejected? I thought about this in the locker room, fighting back tears as I peeled off my jersey for the last time.
The uncertainty ended just a couple of days later, when an envelope arrived in the mail at the Blitz house. According to the return address, it came from U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. I was in my room doing homework when Laurie yelled from the living room.
“Blondy! Come out here.”
When I walked out, Laurie was holding the envelope in her hand. She was smiling nervously. Terry and Jared were also in the room.
“Is that it?” I asked.
Laurie nodded and handed me the envelope. “Open it,” she said.
I did, but I didn’t read it. Not right away. I was too nervous about what it would say, and fearful that I might not understand. Instead, I handed the letter back to Laurie. Her hands shook as she read it silently, although I could see her moving her lips. After a few short moments, a smile crossed her face. She lowered the letter and looked at me, her eyes wide.
“Yay! Blondy!” Laurie shouted. “You did it!” She waved the paper furiously as she turned to face Terry and Jared. “He’s been granted political asylum!”
Terry looked absolutely shocked. He took the letter from Laurie’s hands, read it for a moment, and then smiled.
He showed me the letter. At the very top, in boldface letters, underlined for emphasis, were the following words:
ASYLUM APPROVAL
* * *
The first few sentences told us everything we needed to know:
Dear Mr. Baruti:
This letter refers to your request for asylum in the United States filed on Form I-589.
It has been determined that you are eligible for asylum in the United States. Attached please find a completed Form I-94, Arrival-Departure Record, indicating that you have been granted asylum status pursuant to 208(a) of the Immigration and Nationality Act (INA) as of 12/09/09.
I looked at Terry and smiled. He nodded approvingly and then said loudly, “Blondy, you are a warrior!”
Hearing those words from Terry, a man I admired so deeply, and to whom I owed so much, was almost more than I could bear. I began to weep, softly at first, and then uncontrollably. I wrapped him in a bear hug and held him tight. And then I did the same to Laurie, as we all cried together.
“Thank you,” I said to them both. “I love you.”
That very day I called home to give the news to my family. Well, that isn’t quite true. I actually spoke only with my uncle Joseph. As I said, when I first began having problems in America, I sometimes confided in my uncle. At his suggestion, though, I said nothing to anyone else back home. My mother and grandmother worried about me incessantly, and Uncle Joseph felt it would be best to spare them the details of my struggle. So while I spoke with my mother or grandmother roughly once a week, or every other week, I never shared with them any disturbing news. It was better, Uncle Joseph said, to simply pretend that everything was okay.
I agreed.
That night, when I called home, and the phone rang across ten thousand miles, I felt both happy and homesick.
“Uncle Joseph, I have been granted asylum in America!” I said.
“That is good, Blondy,” he said. There was a long pause. “This means you cannot come home.”
This was true, of course. I had sought political asylum based on the likelihood that I would face persecution or even death if I returned to the Congo. Now, having won my case in part by publicly describing the horrors and atrocities of my homeland, I had made that likelihood a certainty. I could ne
ver go home. The risk was simply too great.
“Yes, Uncle, I know.” I was so emotional that I decided not to speak at all with my mother or grandmother; I might have been tempted to share the good news, which to them wouldn’t have been good at all, but instead an alarming resolution to a mystery they did not even know existed. It would have been hard for me, as well, knowing that while I had been granted my greatest wish, it came at a price: I might never see my family again. So I spoke only with Uncle Joseph. I just wanted him to know that I was safe and sound. He would take care of the rest.
“Please tell Mama I love her,” I said.
CHAPTER 18
* * *
After so much uncertainty and turbulence, it felt great to be a normal high school senior. My course load was heavier than most, but I didn’t mind because I enjoyed spending time in school, with my friends, and I knew that soon all the hard work would pay off. I no longer had to worry about being deported or losing my scholarship to Tulsa. For the first time, there was very little anxiety in my life. I was safe. I was happy. There was only one thing missing.
Something every high school senior needs.
A driver’s license!
Yes, like every other adolescent male in America, I dreamed of having the freedom that comes with a driver’s license. I would no longer have to ask Terry or Laurie to chauffeur me everywhere I needed to go. I could drive myself to the gym, or to the movies, or to the mall. Best of all, I would be able to spend more time with girls without Terry and Laurie knowing exactly what I was doing. What can I say? I was becoming, in many ways, just a typical American boy.
I studied the manual and committed to memory most of the rules of the road before I ever sat behind the wheel. I had taken only a single short lesson by early springtime, when Jared showed up at the house while we were all standing outside in the driveway. Jared, knowing that I was eager to learn how to drive, pulled along the curb at the end of the driveway, got out of the car, and left the engine running.
“Blondy, would you like to park the car for me?”
What happened next, I can attribute to a combination of youthful exuberance and poor communication skills.
“Yes!” I shouted. Then I climbed into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and sped away. And I do mean “sped.” I hit the gas, waved goodbye out the window, and disappeared from sight. I drove down the street for maybe a half mile before turning around and speeding back in the other direction, toward the Blitzes’ house. I roared past them as they stood at the end of the driveway, waving frantically and shouting. I did not know what they were saying and did not really care. There were other cars in the neighborhood, and I realized they were all going much slower than me. The speed limit was twenty miles per hour in the neighborhood, and I must have been going close to fifty. I drove past the house for a block or two, then doubled back again, this time very slowly. I pulled up to the curb, stopped the engine, and got out.
“I’m a good driver,” I declared proudly.
Before I could say anything else, Laurie was in my face. She was so mad.
“Blondy!” she shouted. “Are you crazy?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t have a license to drive a car,” she said. “You don’t have insurance. If you had gotten in an accident and hurt someone, you’d be history. The government could send you back to the Congo, or put you in prison.”
I felt terrible. I had never seen Laurie so angry.
“What were you thinking?” she added.
“But Jared said ‘park.’ So that’s where I went.”
Laurie looked perplexed. “What?”
“The park,” I explained. “Where I play basketball.”
Terry and Jared started to laugh. Laurie remained angry for a few more seconds, but finally she smiled and shook her head.
“Okay, Blondy. Just don’t ever do that again.”
TIME MOVED QUICKLY IN the spring of my senior year. I passed my driver’s test on the first try, and before I knew it, graduation day had arrived. It was a typically perfect Arizona day, the sun splashing across the Mesa High School football field as we marched into the stadium in our purple gowns. I thought about everything that had happened to me since I had arrived in America. It had been less than two years, but it felt like so much longer. There had been so many hardships and disappointments, but so much to cherish, as well. Think about it: two years earlier I was still in the Congo, dreaming of a life in America. I spoke not a word of English, and knew not a soul beyond my country. And now? Here I was, about to graduate from high school with my friends and classmates. Right on time!
I thought about my family back in the Congo and the sacrifices they had made for me—how hard it must have been for my mother to let me go. I thought about how lucky I was to have found a new family in Arizona, people who opened their hearts to me and took me into their lives and their home. I looked around the stadium, at my classmates and teachers, at the smiling faces in the crowd, so many proud and happy families.
I was one of them.
I belonged.
Throughout the ceremony I had trouble sitting still. I kept looking up into the crowd, waving to my American family: Terry and Laurie, and their sons, Brandon, Jared, and Travis. Laurie’s mom, my American grandmother, even flew in from New Mexico. Finally, after speeches had been delivered and awards presented, it was time to hand out diplomas. I had trouble controlling myself during this portion of the ceremony. I kept yelling and jumping up and down and clapping my hands whenever the principal announced the name of one of my friends. And since I was friendly with just about everyone in the school, it happened quite a lot. I didn’t mean to be inconsiderate; I was just so excited and grateful. Fortunately, everyone seemed to understand. They knew what I had been through, and what a long and remarkable journey it was that brought me from the Congo to this stage.
When my name was called, a roar went out from the crowd, just like at a basketball game. Only better. I walked to the center of the stage, shook hands with the principal and accepted my diploma. Rather than walk right back to my seat, I scanned the audience for Terry and Laurie. Then I held my diploma high above my head and shouted at the top of my lungs:
“Yes! Mom and Dad—we did it!”
CHAPTER 19
* * *
Most of my teammates on the University of Tulsa basketball team arrived on campus early in the summer, as is customary for Division I athletes. The summer serves as a boot camp of sorts, with incoming freshmen taking classes and training hard in the gym to prepare for both the academic and athletic rigors of college life. It gives everyone an opportunity to bond while accepting the realization that in the classroom and on the basketball court, college will be much more demanding than high school. It is, in short, an integral part of the indoctrination process.
And I missed it.
In order to qualify as an NCAA Division I student athlete, I had to make up some classes during the summer after my senior year. This was not exactly a surprise—I knew that by insisting upon trying to graduate with my classmates at Mesa, I would have to carry a heavy load and perhaps attend summer school. So that’s what I did. Given what I had already been through on my journey to becoming a high school graduate, it was more of an annoyance than a burden; I wanted to be at Tulsa with my teammates. I wanted to make new friends and reunite with one of my best friends, Donte Medder. I wanted to prepare for basketball season by getting in the weight room and adding muscle and strength to my still slender frame. I wanted to get ahead in the classroom, like everyone else. Instead, I toiled away at Mesa High.
I left Arizona late in the summer, with Laurie as my traveling companion. I know that Terry wanted to make the trip, as well, but airfare was expensive and Laurie was more than capable of handling the move on her own. More than that, really. She was my American mom, and everyone knows that mothers are better suited to last-minute shopping and setting up dorm rooms. On the night before I left, however, Terry invited me t
o sit at the dining room table for another one of those important discussions I had come to know so well. This time there was nothing specific on the agenda. As my American dad, Terry merely wanted to make sure that I was okay before leaving the house. He wanted to talk about life and love; about respect and responsibility.
“Always remember where you come from,” he began, and I noticed right away that his voice was softer than usual, his tone more measured. “Remember your family in the Congo, and everything you went through together. Remember that you have a family here, too. We know what you’ve accomplished, how you found a way to transform all the pain of your childhood into joy. You did it by having a great attitude, and by working hard. So keep doing that. Never quit, never give up.”
“I won’t,” I interrupted. “I am not a quitter.”
Terry smiled. “I know that, Blondy. But the thing is, Tulsa is going to be different. Everyone will be bigger, stronger, and faster than the players you saw in high school. Some of them have been there for a few years. They will test you. They will talk trash and they will knock you down. Don’t say anything. Just get up off the floor and keep playing hard. Show them you are different from them. Show them you can’t be intimidated. You have seen things and experienced things they can’t imagine. Use that as a source of strength.”
I nodded. “I will, Terry. Thank you.”
There was a long pause as he lowered his head. When he looked up at me, I could see that his eyes were wet.
“I will always be here for you,” he said. “I am so proud of you. I love you, son.”
I reached across the table and put my arms around Terry. “I love you, too, Daddy.”
ON THE DAY THAT I arrived at the University of Tulsa, I felt like I had made the best possible choice to begin the next chapter of my journey. I had visited during my senior year—even spent a night with Donte in the dorms—so I knew what to expect. But the campus seemed even prettier now, and everyone was so friendly and warm.
The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti Page 20