IN DECEMBER 1994, I GOT in touch with a group of refugees I had known at the Walda and Ifo refugee camps in Kenya. Shortly after I’d come to the United States, they had immigrated to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, some having taken longer routes to America, including through Lebanon. Mostly young adults, they were now living in several apartments in the same building at East Rice Apartments, located right by the main highway. Everyone in the Sudanese refugee community knew that if you wanted a place to hang out and have conversations with fellow countrymen, then South Dakota was the place, and East Rice Apartments was one of the spots.

One of these individuals, James Tot Miak, who was a decade or so older than me, had taken a lot of young refugees under his guardianship. So I approached Paul with a plan in my head.

ME: May I have your permission to visit a group of old friends from Sudan in South Dakota?

PAUL: I think it is a good idea; go during Christmas break.

Once I got to Sioux Falls, I reached out to James Tot Miak using a term of endearment.

ME: Garmiak, I’d like to attend school at Washington High. I was wondering if you could be my guardian while I’m here?

UNCLE JAMES TOT: Did you discuss this with Mr. Paul Ruot?

ME: No, I will call him once I have your answer.

UNCLE JAMES TOT: Well, I am okay with it, Ger. I’ll be your guardian if Paul agrees to it.

What I didn’t say to either man was that I had been in touch with Thomas Kutey, the boy from the prominent Nairobi family I had befriended when I was at Ifo. He had come to America much earlier than me to seek educational opportunities and was attending high school in Sioux Falls. We had luckily reconnected through the refugee grapevine, and I’d learned he had a driver’s license and access to a vehicle almost twenty-four hours a day. This sounded just like the living situation I wanted.

Thomas resided with an older Sudanese refugee, Will, who had spent many years working in Khartoum, Iraq, Syria, and Lebanon as a military specialist. Will owned the car, which he always left with Thomas. All Thomas had to do was drop Will off at work in the morning, then pick him up in the evening, and, over the weekend, run errands for him, never forgetting to stock his favorite beer. The rest of the time, Thomas and I could drive around, buying chicken and hip-hop radio cassettes whenever we had change left over from Will’s errands. Thomas was a fast driver and the music was always loud in the car. The freedom felt good.

It was nice living with other young people in Sioux Falls, including Thomas’s younger brother. But there were many Sudanese who, after settling in America, struggled in one way or another. Some had alcohol problems or mental health issues, or couldn’t keep a job. We didn’t judge them, however. Because of the spirit of brotherhood espoused throughout the community, they always found a place to eat and sleep, no matter how bad things got. This, in a way, allowed them to hide their problems and their shame. The refugee community had its own safety net, guaranteeing them at least the minimum for survival.

Over the break, I started settling into the lifestyle of my refugee friends in South Dakota, spending days and nights talking about old times, joking around, watching American movies, and listening to hip-hop. But because most of us were former child soldiers, we almost always gravitated toward the violent aspects of American pop culture. After seeing gang warfare glorified in films and music videos, we began to fancy ourselves members of either the Bloods or the Crips, and dressed accordingly in their respective gang colors, red and blue.

For the first time in my life, I felt totally liberated, like I was a completely new person. I was finally becoming just a young man in America, my Sudanese past, I thought, vanishing from my psyche. FUBU, Guess, and Karl Kani became the baggy jeans of choice. I wore red bandannas, and within six months, I had picked up English and would now sing along to Scarface and Wu-Tang Clan lyrics.

It had never occurred to me in my wildest imagination that a day would come when I would feel more at home in America and less worried about Sudan and my family. But what I experienced in South Dakota—that sense of disconnection from my past and being transplanted into a present that felt like a distant future—simply blew my mind. I let go of my attachments to the motherland, instead deciding to be American and feel American.

No one knew how to make this happen for me like Thomas Kutey did. And the Sudanese refugee community, which had immersed itself in the gangsta-rap lifestyle of fast cars, nice clothes, and endless partying, created the proper social ecosystem needed for my newfound Americanness to thrive. The lack of a concerned guardian like Paul didn’t help matters. My life was now fully in my hands.