Sealed with a kiss

I just turned 28 and... this one... it feels good. Birthdays are funny like that. Sometimes you can actually feel them, the year ahead of you is more tangible than elusive, just as real as the texture of the shirt or jacket you put on before you leave the house. Each year has a different sensation, tailor-made and delivered that morning as a complete surprise.
We American's tend to be very overdramatic about our birthdays, myself included. We have golden birthdays, over the hill birthdays, sweet sixteens, our "21st" or "30th" or "60th" or "80th". We get a lot of presents and throw large parties.
When I was living in Boamadumase i asked a few people about their birthdays and they usually responded with their birth months. "The day?" I'd ask, "Don't you know the day?"
They'd shrug and say sometime in June, or maybe July. They just couldn't remember. The people who did remember didn't seem to mention anything about gifts, and when asked, they replied that "Yes, on your birthday, you get gifts." However, my village friends birthdays' passed with no gift openings.
Most of my refugee client's share the same birthday, that is, 01/01/approximate the year. When refugees are granted refugee status and begin to go through the immigration process to move in to the United States, one of the many markers of identity they leave behind is legal recognition of their true day of birth. They usually don't have birth certificates. But many of them don't seem to mind. Like boxed cold milk handed out to hungry kids in the cafeteria, 01/01/fill in the year seems to be the ubiquitous choice as a refugee's birthday, and many of them take it gladly.
This year I wanted my birthday to be simple, but fun. I went to school, and I went to work for a few short hours. Then I met up with a man, a pastor, who volunteers full time at our refugee resettlement agency. His name is Dan. When I called him to see where he was he said, "We're at the beach," referring to himself and his wife and a gaggle of African children. "Well, the bay really. Just take the Coronado bridge, were right at the bottom, there's a park and a long stretch of sand."
"Okay, I'll be there."
When I pulled up it was quite a sight. They had transported, in their church bus, 19 children of all ages, fit them with bathing suits of all sizes, and let them loose into the stagnant chilled water of the Coronado Bay. A bike pathway lined the edges of the grass, and the grassy hill overlooked the water. Bike riders slowed down, swiveling their heads in confusion while trying not to run in to one another. 19 children ran up and down the sandy stretch, burying each other underneath huge white mounds, playing soccer and spraying up sand in all directions, dolphin jumping in the water, or secretly trying to crawl in to people's private canoes.
I stood at the shoreline, experiencing a very strange sensation of forgetting which country I was in. When I looked ahead of me it was Ghana, when I looked behind me, the U.S.
Dan and his wife sat inconspicuously underneath an umbrella, chatting and relaxing.
A few girls yelled my name and ran up to me, and slung their lanky wet bodies on my arm. They were two of the six children of John Opendi, a very tall boisterous Kenyan man I have been trying to help find a job for quite some time now. He and his Sudanese wife live in a 2 bedroom apartment with their entire family. Whenever I do a home visit I never leave hungry. They are true Africans.
The first time I was there I tried to wiggle out of the living room before the food was served. I could smell it cooking, beef and onions and tomatoes simmering from the huge pot on the oven. It changed the humidity of the room- from dry, to delicious. I was hungry but I didn't want to be rude. I didn't want to decrease portion sizes by adding myself in to the equation, so I thanked them for their time and stood up to leave.
John yelled out. "HUH! Ah! Kacie, sit. Sit, please. Don't you want to enjoy the food with us?"
"It's okay." I said, uncertain as to which cultural code I should be operating under. An American visitor "imposing" is a Ghanaian visitor being polite. To drop in and eat a meal (in San Diego) one must first refuse, to show appreciation and to test the authenticity of the invitation. My refusal to John and Mary was offensive.
And the food looked good.
"Sure sure sure- I'll stay! Of course I'll stay. Oh it looks incredible!"
They sat me back down and Mary took care of every detail, as African wives do. She poured our water glasses, handed out napkins, distributed plates with sliced oranges on each. John intercepted to increase his portion size. And I dug in to mine hands first.
"You eat like an African. You know how to eat ugali?"
"Ya. I love ugali."
"Look at this Mary, she is eating like an African. I haven't seen this, you know. I went to a dinner last Saturday. It was a dinner and Mary cooked for some Whites, and they did not eat the ugali. It was the African's who ate the ugali. But look, you are almost finished."
"It's good," i said, between mouthfuls. "What about the children? Aren't they coming?"
Mary rolled her eyes and turned her head away. "Pfh! Since we have come here they have stopped eating this food. I call them to eat and they don't come."
"In Africa" John continued "you do not have to convince people to eat. You call, they come. But here..."
Mary pointed to the boxed cereals on top of her fridge. Puffed processed food. "They prefer that."
"So I can have more?" I asked, selfishly but knowing they would be pleased.
"YES! Oh please, continue."
"And they eat at school. They like that food too." Mary said.
"So when do they eat your food?" I asked.
"When we call, and they come, that is the time they will eat. As for the times they do not come, they do not eat. It is as simple as that."
John yelled out their names and not one emerged from the back room.
I took a third helping.
Now, at the beach, remembering my time and conversation with John and Mary, I looked at their girls in the bathing suits. They looked healthy, and strong. More shivering children began to circle around me. I could only recognize half of them, but I wanted to know them all. So we sat down in the sand and I tried to figure it out.
"You are..." I'd point.
"Happiness." She said.
"And is this your sister?" I asked, motioning to a miniature version of herself. They both tucked their chins and looked up.
"I'm Destiny." the little one whispered.
"Nice to meet you Happiness and Destiny."
Many of their parents were (or are) my clients, however I had yet to meet the children. Generally they are at school during office hours. I was completing my own personal version of a human jigsaw puzzle. It was intensely satisfying.
"So your father is Miguel" I asked the pudgy 10 year old in a tight bikini.
"Yes."
After a lot of hard work from both Miguel and myself, he is now employed at a Casino. "Next time we talk I will tell him what great swimming you did today!"
She smiled.
"And who are your parents?" I put my hand on the shoulder of two girls I had not ever seen, and didn't yet know.
"Our mother is dead." she stated, sweetly, eerily. The control over her response and the peace in her voice made her seem wiser than her years, of which I would guess were about nine.
"Oh."
The group, in a circle, sitting in the sand, stayed quiet. It was up to me to continue. "When did she die?"
"Last year, she died in Nevada."
Subconsciously my mind would not accept that fact.
"In Nevada?"
"Yes, she died last year in Nevada."
The story didn't sit well with me, only because when I asked when they arrived to the States and when their mother died it was roughly around the same time. I didn't want to believe that she had struggled as a refugee only to make it to the U.S. and perish.
"I am really sorry to hear that."
She dug her toes in to the sand.
Later, when Dan's wife had called the children up to the grassy area to congregate and eat lemon cookies I stood with Dan as they all ran past us. We admired the potency of their energy.
"Did you see Selvany's arm?" He asked.
"It's crazy."
"I've never seen anything like it before. I guess it was hurt it in Sierra Leone and they never got it fixed. Now his mom doesn't want to send him to the doctor here. She wants to just keep it as it is."
"Like a big noodle?"
"Yeah. I guess."
Selvany's arm was injured at the elbow. It looks as if there is no joint keeping his forearm and his arm from hyperextending. He can rotate his entire limb in a complete circle at the shoulder and at the elbow. It is actually too bizarre to accurately explain. "Some doctors checked it out and were really excited about it" he said "they were all talking about how they never get to see anything like that here."
I laughed.
We glanced back down at the water and saw two girls running up to join in the cookie fun. We watched them until they ran past us then Dan broke the silence. "They're mom died up in Nevada last year."
"That's what they were telling me."
"Oh really? What did they say?"
"Just that, exactly."
"Huh. Well at least they're talking about it a little. It was really awful. Her uterus was ruptured during an abortion."
"WHAT?"
"Yeah." He shook his head.
An image of a coat hanger flashed in my mind, and of too many familiar stories I witnessed while working at the Huttel Health Clinic.
"She did it herself?"
"No, no, no. She didn't do it herself. We don't think she even wanted one. It's a really sad story. Some abortion doctor, he ruptured her uterus while he was giving her an abortion. Can you believe that? There is a law suit now. I went up there when I heard this story, up to Nevada, this was right when I started volunteering at Alliance. This story was enough to get anyone in to this-" and he waved his hands through the air, meaning, in to the lives of San Diego refugees. "Any way, it was bad. Her family said there was no way she would have wanted an abortion, she was glad to be pregnant. She was going for a check-up and we think he either explained it to her and had her agree to something she didn't understand... or just did it. The details of the story with this doctor are very blurry and nothing seems right. So we started a law suit, that's kinda how I got started with all of this."
My mind raced, I was more than interested to know the truth of the situation. Truth without agenda. If it was as Dan said, a racist abortion doctor abusing the powerless, I was angry and frustrated by how far mankind had failed to progress. If in fact, it was not as Dan said, then I was tired of people manipulating the powerless to rally for their cause, even if in this case the cause was Life.
I know Dan is a very strong Christian and his mission field is the refugee families of San Diego. He is a constant reminder to me that I need not travel far to be of big help. I see his love for the refugee community spring forth in the million ways he dies to himself and serves other people, daily. Moment by moment. He strolls through our offices and sweeps up little messes of unglamourous work, like a true silent hero.
"Dan, I have this client and he really needs help filling out his 10 year work history for an online application. I can't do it this morning, do you have the time?"
"Sure, I can do that."
"Thank you so much! Oh, and watch out, his breath is, let me just call it... powerful today. Stand back."
If i began a list of all that Dan and his wife contribute I may never be able to stop. They are a blessing.
I walked over to the group of cookie monsters and told them good-bye. I had to leave early to meet up with my mother. As I walked to my car Esther shouted my name and came bouncing my way. "Kacie why didn't you tell us today is your birthday?"
I laughed. "Oh, I don't know."
"You should have told us today was your birthday!"
I didn't want to fish for happy birthdays from a bunch of kids whom I assumed didn't even celebrate their own.
"Come here!" she ordered.
I walked over the prickly grass and stood in front of her. She jumped up and swung her arms around my head and hung from my neck. "Happy Birthday. I love you so much." Then she let go and ran away.
I turned back towards my car and couldn't help but giggle and then I heard another "KACIE!!!"
This time another one of my client's children came bounding in my direction. "You didn't tell us it was your Happy Birthday?!"
She wrapped her arms around my waist and squeezed tight. Then she motioned for me to bend down and gave me a big kiss on my nose. "We love you! Happy Birthday!" And she sprinted back to her friends.
As I drove over the bridge I looked down at the beach, at the water, and smiled. Maybe I was wrong, I thought. Maybe birthday's are a big deal. And perhaps, the birthday girl never opens gifts, she only receives them.