Last year, as I went home for the summer, one thing lingered in my mind: “I was not sure the USA is for me.” In my previous blogs, I have talked about the traumatic experience I went through while in college in Texas, to the point of idolizing death. Deep into the summer in Uganda, I received around five phone calls from different coaches offering me opportunities. I was reluctant to commit. I didn’t know whether I wanted to return to a country that had hurt me. But soon, I committed to the oddest offer I received. It wasn’t a full-ride scholarship, but I felt like it was the best decision I had to make then. Weirdest of all things, I committed to a school in a town called Devil’s Lake. I can’t count how many times I searched the internet to understand why the town had such a bizarre name. At the back of my mind, I solemnly swore that I was walking into one of those ghost towns in the USA.
Fast forward, the summer came to an end, and I arrived in Devil’s Lake in late August. I fell asleep during the four-hour drive from Fargo Airport to the town from the fatigue of a 30-hour flight. When I woke up, I said, “Oh, that was quick,” looking at the bright sun and blue clouds above us. The coach laughed and replied, “It’s almost 9:00 pm.”
Once we arrived at school, he gave me a quick tour of the school. I was puzzled how an entire college was under one building. This made sense later when winter came. From November to mid-March, the temperatures were always below 0°F (-18°C), and in some weeks it dipped as low as -40°F (The temperature where Celsius and Fahrenheit meet).
Once the school year started, the basketball year started. Unfortunately, I was still recovering from my right leg ACL surgery and wasn’t cleared to play. Fast forward, once I was cleared to play, I tore my left ACL. My life crushed. I didn’t have a great roommate or a close friend. I felt lonely. I was then less of a crybaby, but I felt like I was one of God’s forgotten kids.
But through the ACL healing process, I met a community. It was as if the ACL injury was the gateway to most of the relationships I enjoyed. Like one of my summer ‘besties’, Kansas, who I had always seen on the school compound, but we barely spoke. One night, she found me in the school weight room, and a conversation sparked about ACLs. I had been cussing and angry at God, but then I met Kansas, whose faith was like a rock, and yet she had had three ACL surgeries. We went on to become summer resident assistants, and no day passed without us having a ‘fight.’
Since I completed high school, I have always been an up-and-go person. ‘Carelessly’ wandering without worry or fear of where the world is taking me. I lived in Rwanda, then came to the USA, where I have lived in four states and visited five states. In all these travels, I have realized it’s not the place that makes the difference, but the people.
When I requested Elonda to take me in after my surgery, she immediately welcomed me into her house. By the second day of waking her up almost every two hours in the night to support me to the bathroom, I felt guilty for putting her through this pain. But she still showed up and made an effort to make me feel at home. Before I went into therapy, she had received a share of the ‘dislike’ feelings patients have for their therapists because she was always on time to flex my leg.
And then there came Marianna, a black American, whom my heart was initially closed to because of the trauma I had gone through at the mercy of a Black American in Texas. I always felt like God placed her in my path to challenge my conditioned attitude towards Black Americans. She and her husband became a blessing, taking me in as their daughter. Marianna ensured that I never missed any doctor’s appointments despite my hospital being two hours away. When I had surgery, she was right there, and when I was ready to move to my new school, her husband hopped behind the wheel to make this happen.
But before Marianna, there was (and still is) Stella, who introduced me to Marianna. Every time she texted, “Lunch at my place,” I knew it was time to eat the best jollof rice. And as I left her home, like a mother, she packed a big container with more jollof rice and chicken. Incidentally, her husband, Nicholas, was my doctor. He was also all out to ensure I received the best care whenever I went to the hospital.
Speaking of food, with all the traveling, someone would think I have adjusted to different textures and tastes of food. On my end, it has been tough, especially with American food – but I am improving. Stacie, the lady who would later spend most of her summer evenings asking me not to kill her as she taught me how to drive, was quick to notice my struggles whenever I went to the cafeteria. Every time I walked into the cafeteria, she rushed to the back to pick a pan of food she had specially prepared for me. She spoiled me. And over time, it was Stacie who would say, “Ice cream on me,” when I said, “Today was a beautiful day.” Alongside Stacie was a group of other kitchen ladies and a gentleman with whom I worked with throughout the semester and in the summer. Couldn’t get enough of teasing them and laughing at stupid jokes.
Huck. The name Huck. The small gentleman who always tucked in his short-sleeved collar shirts into his jeans. He walked with quick steps and was only slow when seated on the mopping/scrubbing machines as he cleaned tiles. At first, as we passed each other, it was a quick glance accompanied by “hi.” Soon, we realized we had a lot in common, beyond just sharing a friend from Malaysia, Reuben. The “hi” turned into minutes, and soon it became hours of sitting under the tree shade in the courtyard for our book dates every Saturday evening. Huck – hopefully one day I will write a full story on this man. What a person!
Not every day do you meet an African in Devil’s Lake, and more so, a fellow countryman. The joy on Richard’s face when he approached me asking for Liz and I replied, “I am Liz,” is unexplainable. He had brought his niece Cynthia from Uganda, who would be joining the school this fall. Richard always wore Uganda-themed shirts, and his wife, Dr. Ritah Nalubega (whose name most people struggled to mention but couldn’t stop singing praises about her), was equally excited to meet me. To add icing to the cake, she was also an alumnus of Mt. St. Mary’s College Namagunga.
And then came my biology professor, who was out to ensure I never lacked, Shaun Prince. I don’t think I will ever come to terms with how most professors (not all) in the USA go beyond the classroom well-being of students to their personal needs. I think one thing that bridges that gap between professors and students is the mere fact that we don’t call them professors or Sir or Mr or Mrs… but just call out their first names like we call our friends or siblings. It was Shaun’s family who took me for my first typical American 4th of July. Every time I lit fireworks and watched them light up the sky, I thought, “Another $50 bill shredded” (Topic for another day).
I hate to end here, but I would have loved to drag on and on because of the goodness of Devil’s Lake. I will always remember the day care kids who, every time they saw me, screamed, “What’s up?” trying to sound like me. They all smiled whenever they met me, and oh boy, how a child’s smile is a replenishment to the soul. I don’t blame parents who want their children to remain children forever (inserts laughing emojis).
And the school trainer, Schuh, who, despite the school year ending, made it a point to ensure I had therapy sessions with him. I looked forward to our sessions not only because they challenged me physically and mentally, but also because we chatted through the sessions about every topic that crossed our minds.
And then Marlee, who surprised me when she knew how to work on dreads. I promised her I would tell the world, “I met a white girl who knows about dreads more than I, an African.” And our trips to church before we spent hours, sometimes with Kansas, at thrift shops looking for the cheapest ‘steals.’
Through my travels and relocations, I have learned that society is what makes the difference. In Texas, I was in the same predicament of a torn ACL, but I hated it there, and yet here, I tore another ACL, but what unfolded from the process was beauty and love.
“The greatness of a community is most accurately measured by the compassionate actions of its members.” Unknown
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