A Journey from Iraq into Disneyland: Part II

After our meal Rozelyn, Nabeed, Isa and I moved to the couch to stretch out and digest. Post-dining is around the time when I begin to feel guilty, when I begin to doubt if I am a valuable employee and not just some satiety-seeking creep. But if I have learned one thing from my travels it is that America is the only place where people can eat and run and not terribly offend. So I face a dilemma, of whether to teach my lovely immigrant hosts a cultural lesson and most definitely hurt their feelings, or to spend an extra half hour and keep our relationships strong. I always choose the latter.
"Do you cook like this every day?" I asked, impressed.
Rozelyn shook her head yes, and hung her head heavy. "Every day Miss Kacie, every day."
Looking at Rozelyn can make a person tired. She is in her mid-40's, but if her hair turned gray she could pass as an 80 year old. I cannot imagine the journey she has traveled, and nor would I want to. Much of what she eludes to is too much for my imagination to bear, too graphic and disturbing that i prefer to not even write about it here. It is mankind at his worst, and these memories are seared so deeply in to the psyche that we spent only a few minutes digesting our lunch and she began again.
"You know at times Miss Kacie it became so horrible, that I tried to make a joke with some friends. They would ask me how everything is going, during the war, and I would say to them, it is just as happy as Disneyland. I no longer knew what to say, so I just said this." She laughed to herself, incredulously.
At times it is uncomfortable because I don't know what to say. I don't want to minimize her experience with filler conversation or wrong words muttered, so i try to remember in the power of stories. When a victim is given a chance to share their story, when they have reached a point when they CAN share their story, a divine work begins to happen at a deeper level. I believe they are closer to healing, to some sort of freedom, to knowing their truth whatever it may be.
So I sat and listened and a little thought began tinkering away in the back of my mind.
My sister became a manager of the busiest Jamba Juice in all of America last year. This Jamba Juice also happens to be located on Disneyland property in Anaheim, which in turn, allows for her to obtain 3 free daily passes in to the park. The tickets are meant for mostly employee related business, but with 3 a day, everyday... c'mon! My sister has a big heart and not a lot of time to spare so after a few months she had to make some rules. I backed off from asking her any Disneyland favors, not wanting to be another secret headache she said yes to.
But listening to Rozelyn speak, and holding the power to make something happen, I had to give her a call.
When I finally got back to my office I wrote her a brief email explaining their situation and asking for her magic. She wrote back and said of course. I called Rozelyn to ask if this was something she thought Isa would want to do and she gasped and said she wanted it more, but that "Of course Miss Kacie, for Isa too."
We set a date 3 months in advance, to give her time to save a little extra money (I informed her of Disneyland prices!) and frankly I thought 3 months of excited anticipation could be a healthy medicine. The night before we left I called her and asked if she was prepared. I was worried they wouldn't have enough money to buy food and she wouldn't know how to pack food to-go.
"If anyone is a professional at preparing for a day it is me." She said. "You know, when I was applying to become a refugee, do you know what I had to do? I had to travel 12 hours on a bus once a week and get in line at the UN by 4:00 in the morning. Then I would stand in line ALL day until they shut their doors. I would pack food, but once you were inside the building you could not bring your food in. Sometimes you were inside the building all day. So believe me Miss Kacie, I am very skilled at this. I will bring food tomorrow, I am finished preparing it. But even if I don't eat I am fine."
I told her to wear comfortable shoes and bring a hat and that I'd see them at 7:30 am. She hung up with power and enthusiasm.
The next morning I had a slight premonition that I should buy them a disposable camera. I wasn't planning on spoiling them, the trip up to Anaheim was as much for me as it was for them. I hadn't seen my sister in awhile. I wasn't giving them extra money or buying them souvenirs. I was just a vessel transporting them into a dream. But I wanted them to be able to capture this dream in an image, or multiple images, that would last forever. I stopped by a Rite-Aid and bought a cheap camera and some sunscreen.
When I pulled up to their complex Nabeed was waiting in the grimy parking lot smoking a cigarette. Isa came bounding from around the corner and Rozelyn scuffled after him with bags hanging from every inch of her arm. Nabeed walked over and gave me his sweet smile, along with a handshake.
"Good Morning." He said, making serious eye contact as if to thank me already.
I hurried around to the back of my car and pulled the surprise out from a plastic bag in the trunk. "I was thinking you didn't have one of these..." I held it up "...so here you go!"
Both Rozelyn and Nabeed caved in to one another and looked up at me. "OH! How wonderful, how wonderful. Oh wonderful! I sent Nabeed to every house last night asking to borrow a camera, but no one here owns a camera. Even this morning he woke up and went around looking for someones camera, just for a day. Oh you do not know how great this is, oh! Look Nabeed, look, a camera!"
He grinned and I saw where his son got the sparkly eyes.
Despite all the beauty of that morning, and when the memory of Nabeed dashing to the Chevron counter to fill up my gas tank faded, I found that I was tired and amazingly... a little bit grumpy. Rozelyn pointed out that the rolling hills north of San Diego looked very similar to the mountains in Iraq. "It snows there you know." She wanted to chat, she was excited.
As much as I've tried, I've reverted. The mornings are not my time, so I smiled and rolled down the window and tried to wake myself up. I looked back at Isa who was clueless about the day. He didn't understand the power behind the word Disneyland, I could tell because he didn't perk up or recognize it at all. The car became humid with food smells so I had to ask. "What food did you bring?"
"I cooked chicken and potatoes."
I smiled at the thought, a sit-down meal on the go.
I learned once we arrived that from my house in San Diego I take less than 3 turns to get to Disneyland and I felt foolish for not having visited sooner.
My sister met us in the employee parking lot, where she walked us through Disneyland's Downtown- an area to eat and shop before you get in to the park. She filled them up on Jamba Juice smoothies and watched Isa as his eyes illuminated each time he saw a person wearing something with Mickey Mouse embedded on it. I watched him as the contagious thrill of Disney began to infect.
She looked at me and said "He has no idea what he's in for, does he?"
I laughed and said no.
"Kace, I'm here everyday and I can't stand walking through Disneyland, but look at his face! We might have to hang out."
I didn't take my eyes off of Isa, because his joy was so pure and overspilling it filled me up. My sister was doing the same thing. We could barely talk because we were smiling so much, and laughing at the mere idea that Isa's world was about to turn 3 dimensional and begin talking back to him.
Each time we passed through a line, whether it be bag check or getting our hands stamped, I noticed Nabeed became flustered and panicked. After having spent the last few years in lines at border crossings and getting stopped by Iraqi police, in United States immigration, in airports, at the United Nations- being questioned, scrutinized, and carefully interrogated and considered, I tried to explain that there are no interviews to get in to Disneyland, you just walk through the line and go.
The day was cloudy with a slight breeze, so my sister and I decided we had enough energy to deal with it for a few hours before retreating to her house to catch-up and relax. Isa's gait had turned in to a full-blown bounce, and he suddenly perked up with a confidence I hadn't witnessed before.
I'm glad we stayed, mostly because I now have a new perspective of Disneyland. Even though many consider it to be the happiest place on earth- including Rozelyn, Nabeed, and Isa- I'm sure we could all now agree that there seems to be an awful lot of bombs.
The first ride the parents laid their eyes on were shooting rockets that peacefully glided around in a circle. Similar to the Dumbo affair, but park goers nestle themselves into a rocket instead of an elephant. I was holding Isa's hand when I looked back and saw the two of them bent over in hysterics, pointing at the "amusement".
My sister asked what was so funny and Rozelyn blurted out "In Iraq we have the real thing flying through the air!" Then Nabeed wrapped his arms around his stomach as if to hug himself to stop the laughing. I saw my sisters mind shift, a subtle awareness of a world different than what she knows. We laughed, because it was funny, even though it wasn't.
As a child I always loved Mr. Toad's wild ride so I convinced our pack to wait in the short 15 minute line and take a spin. The three of them crammed in to a cart in front of us and flew off in to the darkness of make-believe. Tess and I loaded up and just as we were going in to a dark cave-like room a fake bomb exploded and shot us around. Lights began to flash and dry ice filled up the area. I never remembered Mr. Toad's Wild Ride reenacting a war scene? Our cart sped through into another room where explosions were occurring on every side of us. I grabbed her arm and screamed out a few cuss words, dodging the figures of the exhibit stole my thoughts. What had I done? I tried to catch a glimpse of their faces as they sped by on the opposite side of the track, but all I saw was darkness. More bombs, more rattling, more disarray.
When the ride finished I jumped out and ran over to Rozelyn. She looked a bit shaken, but her husband and Isa appeared just fine. "How was that?" I asked, embarrassed at having claimed that as one of my favorite rides.
"Ahhh- it was..."
"Scary?" I asked.
"Uhh...?"
"Stupid?"
"I would like to go somewhere happier than that."
My sister had ideas that ToonTown would relieve our last experience, so we trudged across the park and immediately Isa was in heaven. We walked over to all the fake cars, the bright blue cars and bright orange cars and he climbed inside and drove like a madman. ToonTown literally looks as if you just flew into your children's Saturday morning cartoon set and decided to spend the day. Isa was obsessed with the cars and Nabeed had to gently remind him that other kids were waiting. We turned the corner and laying in front of us was a fake TNT handle which supposedly linked up to the second story of the ToonTown home in front of us, where a pile of explosives is activated which causes ANOTHER explosion and the entire house to light up, shake ferociously and spit thick clouds of smoke out from up above. It came as a complete surprise, just as our nerves were settling and we all were feeling easy again. I looked at Tessa and shook my head, while Nabeed and Rozelyn ducked for cover. Isa was oblivious. I ushered them out of the area as if a true attack had just taken place and asked them if they were alright. Rozelyn laughed a true laugh and shrugged her shoulders. "I guess I was not lying when I told people Iraq is as nice as Disneyland. From all that I have seen I think they are taking their ideas from my country!"
Her husband looked fine, he was enjoying himself by watching his son's delight.
"Yes, Nabeed is not scared because we are familiar with this Miss Kacie. But here, it is not real, so it is funny. Why Americans do this for fun I do not understand, that is what is funny! Actually I am happy Miss Kacie. Did you see how Isa did not notice a thing? There are bombs all around here and he is just fine. He is doing well. I don't think his life in Iraq has done the same thing for him as it has for us. I am very happy for this, I am very glad to be here."
After this my sister and I forced them to follow us on a manic search to find the real Mickey. He was our only safe bet, unless he now stored ammo in his pockets or carried an AK47. As if a divine force had carved out the way, we quickly found Mickey's house where all visitors are welcome, there were no lines, and hugs were given freely. When Isa nuzzled his face into Mickey Mouse's stomach and stretched his arms as wide as they could go without ever making them around and wanted to refuse to let go after a few minutes of intense gripping (but has been raised with better manners than that so he didn't) I knew the trip was worth it. I never thought watching a kid hug a big fake rat could restore such peace, but it did.