AFTER A LONG BUS RIDE, I hopped in a cab, which took me to the Tulip Tree Apartments in Bloomington, Indiana. They called my uncle down to settle the cab fare, but instead of doing so, he got into a verbal altercation with the driver.
UNCLE WAL: What do you mean, a hundred dollars? You are trying to take advantage. You should have told him to take the train, which would’ve been much cheaper. I will pay you sixty dollars and that’s it!
The moment I walked through the door into the spacious three-bedroom apartment, I felt a sense of redemption. I was being given a chance to start life over with my uncle and his wife, both doctorate degree holders, and their sons Bil and Kueth and daughters, Nyagon and Nok. Their eldest son, my cousin Duany, was away at the University of Wisconsin. So much smarts in one place.
UNCLE WAL: Everyone, please meet Ger. He’s the cousin from Sudan about whom I’ve been telling you guys.
AUNTIE JULIA: Let me show you to your room.
ME: Yes, Auntie Julia.
AUNTIE JULIA: You will be sharing it with your cousins Bil and Kueth. But please feel welcome. That’s the shower over there. You can have a quick one before dinner is served.
My cousins came to me with warm smiles and outstretched arms, the Sudanese way, giving me a long group embrace that made me feel like we had known each other all along. I hadn’t felt such love and warmth for a long time.
Kueth was away at basketball practice and came back just after I’d had a shower and changed my clothes. I heard someone opening the bedroom door and saw a tall, dark young man about my age walking in. He could have passed for one of my Sudanese friends I’d grown up with, were it not for his heavy American accent.
KUETH: Hey, Dad. This is Ger?
UNCLE WAL: Yes, that’s your cousin.
KUETH: He looks more like Duany.
Kueth’s brother Duany was a basketball legend, so I took that as a compliment. I stood up and went to greet him the Sudanese way, by patting him on both shoulders before embracing him, but Kueth had no idea what I was up to. He stood there beaming.
KUETH: Hey, Ger, how are you doing, man? It’s really great to finally meet you. Dad’s been talking about you a lot. How was your journey here?
ME: I’m doing great, Kueth. It’s really nice to meet you too. The trip was eventful but nothing unusual.
I don’t know why I couldn’t speak the truth about my journey and the atrocities I’d witnessed or the trials I’d faced. Maybe I thought it just wasn’t the right time. Maybe I thought there’d never be a right time to relive all that.
KUETH: I’m glad that you made it. This is home. I think you’ll like it here. If there’s anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to let me know.
From our first meeting, I knew my cousin Kueth and I would have a special friendship. He seemed genuine and unpretentious, and we bonded over our love of basketball.
My uncle did more formal introductions at the dinner table later that evening, telling my cousins part of my story and saying that his first priority was to get me an education.
UNCLE WAL: Ger is your brother. We all have to find ways of supporting him so he can get a proper education and make something of himself.
One of the first things I noticed in my uncle’s household was that everyone had a right to speak and share their opinion at the dinner table, including Bil, the youngest in the family. It was completely opposite to life in Sudan, where my father’s word was law. I was now part of a world that was not restricted by the culture and traditions from back home. I found it difficult to fit in at first, accustomed to the carefree life on the streets of Sioux Falls. My first obstacle was language. My cousins, uncle, and auntie spoke proper English, while mine was heavily littered with street slang. I had to check myself every time I spoke to make sure I didn’t use any expletives, which was the norm in my previous life.
I spent the summer with Kueth, working on a few people’s lawns during our spare time, and made some pocket change while developing a work ethic, which my uncle insisted I do. Then, during dinner one evening, he brought up my returning to Sioux Falls and the topic of my education.
UNCLE WAL: Getting an education is what Ger needs most at this point in his life. I think he should head back to South Dakota before the school year starts up again.
I think he felt his family was big enough and also knew I had a reputation for fighting. Everyone seemed to think it wasn’t a good idea, however. My cousin Duany, who was home from the University of Wisconsin, piped up first.
DUANY: Dad, look at Ger. He has the physique to play basketball. Let him stay and have Kueth teach him how to play better. He can take my spot in the bedroom while I’m away at school.
With all my cousins rooting for me to stay, my uncle was outnumbered.
UNCLE WAL: Ger, if you are to start school here, I have a little test for you. I want you to write a composition. Your auntie and I will look at it, then decide if you can be a sophomore.
I was a little older than Kueth, but due to my late schooling, I would now be a sophomore with him—if everything went according to plan. I did my level best.
To my uncle and Aunt Julia,
I am writing this letter to beg you that I like to stay here in Bloomington Indiana. It is good chance to get your guidance in this strange land. I will be a good family members in this house. I left Sudan because there was no school but my mother and father did not believe that I could be here with you in the USA. I will complete my education, with hope that I will return to serve our family in Dengjock Village.
In Itang camp, my level of education is primary school but when I arrive in Ifo camp in 1993, we did not get any schooling. I know how to write in Nuer language. I know how to speak Arabic very well. If I can spend time here in Bloomington, I believe I can succeed as a junior in high school instead of sophomore. I am so embarrassed to attend classes with children in which are two to three years younger then I am.
I held my breath as I handed it to my aunt.
AUNTIE JULIA: Hey, Ger, you sure have good handwriting.
Auntie passed the paper around the house for everyone to see. At that point in time, I knew I couldn’t express myself that well in prose, but the one thing I had going for me was exceptional handwriting. The upside to having to sit and write this composition was that I was allowed to stay with this new crop of relatives and start school!
As low as my grades were, my uncle took me to school and insisted I be made a sophomore. I had other ideas.
ME: Uncle, why not let me be a junior in high school?
UNCLE WAL: Ger, things don’t work like that here. Let me tell you my story. When colonizers had control over Sudan, they cultivated an education system based on the white man’s knowledge and culture. They actually asked chiefs of our villages to give up their children to go to school. But my father, Duany, refused to give us kids up while your father, Thabach, was still young. Later, he did allow me and the Honorable Peter Gual Kuiny to attend their schools. I arrived in America in the sixties, with tribal marks across my forehead, and was sent to school as an older child. And due to this educational opportunity, the Honorable Peter Gual became the leader of South Sudan. And I served as minister of finance in South Sudan until Sharia law was introduced. It doesn’t matter how old you are, education is lifelong learning. Even if I had been forty years old, I would have had to start at the beginning, until I reached higher learning.
It was important to me not to be socially behind my peers, even if academically I needed extra help. I thought it would help my emotional growth and self-esteem. Concepts and mathematical laws will come to you in time, whereas shame can leave you back decades. But I lost my argument with my uncle, so sophomore it was.
I knew I could play basketball, run track, and play soccer, and said as much during the admission process. I scored four goals in my first soccer scrimmage, making me an instant star on the field. But when I went to the basketball court, the first thing the coach told me was that I was too skinny.
COACH McKINNEY: Hey! Young man! You’ve got to eat. You’ve got to build some muscle.
I eat to survive, I said to myself. I wondered if any American could understand that.