by Lopez Lomong
“I cannot give them to you because you have not paid the fee.”
“What fee? I’ve paid all the fees.”
“You need to pay another two hundred and thirty dollars.”
“Why?” I asked. Anger rose up in me.
“Because they are Sudanese,” the woman said with a matter-of-fact tone.
“How horrible are you? God knows what you are doing and you will answer to Him someday. Who is Sudanese? Who is Kenyan? Who is American? We are all people made by God! We are all equal. I want to speak to your manager.”
“I am the manager.”
“Let me speak to an American.”
“I’m sorry. Come back next week.”
I was about to go nuts. I had already purchased tickets for a flight that night. Next week was not an option. Right before I completely lost my temper, God intervened. The American who had helped me the day before walked into the office.
“Lopez,” he said, “did you get your brothers’ passports and visas? Did we get everything worked out for you?”
I glared at the woman. “No,” I said. The man looked shocked.
“Oh, here they are,” the woman said. She shoved the passports through the window below the glass.
I acted like I did not see them. “This woman said I had to pay another two hundred and thirty dollars because my brothers are Sudanese.”
“What?” he said. “What difference does that make?”
“You ask her, sir,” I said. I grabbed the passports and walked out.
I went back to my mother’s house, expecting to find my brothers clean and shining. Instead, they were outside playing in the dirt, no haircut, no showers, no clean clothes. Obviously they did not have a clue as to what was about to happen to them. I got them cleaned up and ready for our flight. We said a tearful goodbye to our mother at her house and headed for the airport.
The joy I felt walking onto the plane bound for America with my brothers was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I melted into my seat. All the hard work, all the headaches with the embassy, were worth it to have these two next to me on the plane. I felt more like a proud dad than a brother. I looked at the two of them as they checked out the magazines in their seats’ back pockets. As good as I felt about bringing them to America, I knew I wanted to do more. Now I just had to find a way to balance training as a professional athlete, working to make a difference in South Sudan, and, of course, finishing my college degree.
TWENTY-FIVE
The Greatest Moment!
The biggest moment of my life did not take place in Beijing. Nor was carrying the United States flag in the opening ceremonies my greatest flag-bearing experience. No, my greatest moment when my wildest dreams came true came just over three years after the 2008 Olympics. Nothing compares to it, for not only did it mark my greatest accomplishment thus far in my life, an accomplishment I never imagined possible ten years earlier, it forever changed my future. Now, standing on the other side, I know nothing is impossible. A whole new world of opportunity has been opened to me, opportunities I will pursue the rest of my life. People who grew up in America may not understand what I just wrote. To fully appreciate why December 16, 2011, was the greatest moment of my life, you must go back with me to Kimotong and Kakuma.
My village in Sudan was and is very poor by American standards. No one owns a car. No one has electricity. But worst of all, there is no school in Kimotong. Very few people can read and write because there is no place to learn and no one there to teach them. As I wrote before, parents in Kimotong who want to give their children an education must send them to Kenya. Only the wealthiest people can afford to do that.
When I was a boy, my father occasionally talked about sending my brothers and sister and me to Kenya for school. He dreamed of giving this gift to us, but he had no way of making the dream come true. Although we were wealthy in terms of our herd of cows, my parents did not have the money to send any of us away to school. Even if they had, I would have received only the most basic education. I might have learned to read and write and do basic math. With luck, I might have graduated from high school, but that is unlikely. By the time I was old enough and big enough to go to high school, the needs of the family farm would have brought me back to Sudan. In Kimotong, you farm by hand, which means you need lots of hands to produce a successful crop.
No, I never would have received the most basic education if I had spent my life in Kimotong. But of course, I did not spend my life there. After the rebels kidnapped me at the age of six, I never thought I would see my home again. If I had been bigger, the rebels would have given me an education. They taught all the bigger boys how to march and how to shoot and how to kill. I was too small for those lessons. They left me behind in the hut where I would either grow big enough to become a soldier, or I would die. They did not care which path I took.
After my escape with my three angels through the wilderness, I arrived in the Kakuma refugee camp poor and hungry. I started school soon after, but it was not the school of which my father dreamed. As I wrote before, because we lacked books, we sang most of our lessons. Most days we sang for two hours or more. I learned history through songs, along with math and English and most every subject. When it came time to write lessons out by hand, I did not have access to paper or pencil. A few boys did, those lucky enough to be sponsored by someone outside the camp. No one ever sponsored me, which meant I wrote my lessons in the dirt with a stick. The teacher came over to me, told me to write an A, and I scratched it out in the dust as best I could. If I wrote the letter correctly, the teacher walked on to the boy next to me. If I wrote it incorrectly, the teacher gave me a swat with a switch. “Why did you write it like that?” they barked.
For ten years I did my lessons in the dirt with a stick, and I learned everything that constituted a well-rounded education in Kakuma through song. Never once did I ever think I might one day move on from the camp school and go to college. I might as well have dreamed about flapping my arms and flying to the moon. Given the state of education in Kakuma, the moon was a more realistic dream. Even after ten years of school, I read, wrote, and did math on a first-or second-grade level when I arrived in the United States. I came here, not dreaming of a college education. No, I just hoped to learn enough English to get a job with which I could support myself while sending money back to my friends in Kakuma.
Since you have made it this far in this book, I know you already know everything I just wrote. But I needed to refresh your memory for you to fully grasp what I am about to say.
The greatest moment of my life came on December 16, 2011, when I walked into the Sky Dome on the campus of Northern Arizona University carrying the banner of the W. A. Franke School of Business. It took me a little longer to get here than I had planned. After I left school to turn pro at the end of the fall 2007 semester, I only had three semesters left to graduate. However, I could only attend classes in the track off-season. I took as many classes as I could online, but the pace was still too slow. Finally, in the fall of 2011, I moved back to Flagstaff and took twenty-two hours of classes to finish my degree all at once. That semester was my final academic kick, like the last three hundred meters of a 1,500 meter race. It was hard, but the moment I walked into the Sky Dome carrying my school’s banner, I forgot all about the difficulties. This was my victory lap.
I was one of four flag bearers in the commencement ceremony, each of whom represented one of the four colleges within NAU. I carried the banner using the very belt I wore in Beijing. The crowd was much smaller than the Olympic opening ceremony, but for me, the size of the crowd meant far less than the people who were there. On one side of the Sky Dome sat Brittany and her family. They drove down to Flagstaff just to support me. And on the other side of the Sky Dome sat two people who never for a moment doubted this day would come, my mom and dad, Rob and Barbara Rogers.
As soon as I walked through the door of the dome, I heard my parents cheering for me. I turned my head just a little as I wa
lked in, and I spotted them. My mom held up two signs. One said, “Congratulations, Lopez!” The other said, “You did it!” I tried to play it cool, but the sight of those signs made me break out in a smile.
I placed the banner in the flag holder on the stage, then went back to join my seat in the midst of my fellow graduating seniors. Up above, mom pulled out another sign she’d made. I laughed. I glanced around the Sky Dome at all the people. This cannot be real! I thought. This had to be a dream. I flashed back to my days of writing my lessons in the dirt in Kakuma. How did this happen?! Who would have ever thought this possible?! A wave of pure joy washed over me. The moment the wave hit my feet, I started dancing. No one thought it odd, because several of my fellow graduates were also dancing around. This was the biggest, greatest party I could ever imagine.
Once the speakers took their places on the platform, I had to stop dancing and sit down. The president of the college spoke, then another speaker. I think one of the students may have also talked, but I wasn’t paying much attention. I felt like at any moment I would lift up out of my chair and fly around the dome a few times, I was so happy.
Back when my mom first started talking about college to me, I thought she was crazy. I failed as many classes as I passed my first semester at Tully High School. A handful of F’s didn’t dampen her enthusiasm for school for me, nor did it ever cause her to doubt what I could do. Late at night, as I sat at the computer trying to type out an essay in a language I did not think I would ever master, she would come over to me and tell me, “You can do this, Joseph. You are smart and you are not afraid to work hard. I know you will accomplish anything you set your mind to. Anything is possible for you.”
I have to be honest. During my first couple of semesters of high school, my mom believed in my abilities far more than I did. But slowly but surely I started to catch on and catch up. The day I graduated from high school, my mom cried like a baby. Now I looked up at her and Dad in their seats in the Sky Dome. She wasn’t crying yet, but I knew it was only a matter of time.
Finally the moment I had been waiting for arrived. The speakers stopped talking. I and my fellow students stood. A little over 2,000 of us slowly made our way to the platform to receive our degrees. I smiled so wide I’m sure my mother in Kenya had to be able to see it. With each name that was called, I moved forward another couple of steps, dancing the whole way. On the outside, I contented myself with a little happy swaying back and forth. On the inside, I was jumping up and down like crazy.
The line moved along. I arrived at the steps leading up onto the platform. Each of us carried a name card, which also listed our degree program. I held out my card, and went up the three stairs. A girl took my card. She handed it over to the announcer. I looked across the stage. The guy in front of me shook hands with the university president. Then I heard these words, “Lopez Lomong, graduating with a bachelor of science in hotel and restaurant management.” I knew in my heart at that very moment my mom would break down in tears. And she did.
I walked across the stage. “Congratulations,” the president said to me as he handed me a blue folder. “I am very proud of you.”
“Thank you,” I said as I shook his hand. Winning a gold medal in London will not feel better than the weight of that folder in my hand. I floated on across the stage, shaking hands with the other faculty members. Even though I knew my real degree was not yet in the folder, I instinctively kissed it. Then I held it up toward heaven, just as I hold up my arms after winning a big race. This was bigger than any race I’d ever run. I can run 1,500 meters in a little over three and a half minutes. Winning this race had taken a lifetime spread out over two continents separated by the Atlantic Ocean.
I stepped off the stage and started toward my seat. A hand reached out and grabbed me. The hand belonged to my mentor, Professor Jon Hales. “Congratulations, Lopez. You worked hard for this moment,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
I tried to shake his hand, but he pulled me in and gave me a huge hug. “This is the start of a new chapter in your life. I’m proud of you,” he said.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” I said. Professor Hales pushed me and encouraged me while I was a full-time student at NAU. Once I turned pro, he kept in contact with me. He made sure I did not lose sight of my education goal.
I left Professor Hales and danced back to my seat. “I’ve made it,” I said over and over. “I’ve made it.”
My talk with myself didn’t last long. As soon as I returned to my seat, I found myself back in the celebration. Everyone high-fived one another, laughing and celebrating. After the last person had walked across the stage, the announcer said something like, “Congratulations, Class of 2011. You may turn your tassels.” Confetti rained down from the ceiling and a loud cheer exploded from the crowd.
I reached up and moved my tassel from one side of my hat to the other. As I did, I let out a yell of jubilation. Afterward, my family and Brittany’s family went out to celebrate. It reminded me of the night we all celebrated my making the 2008 Olympic team. This night was better, much, much better.
Even after reading all this you may not understand how graduating from college is, for me, far greater than running in the Olympics or carrying the flag into the opening ceremonies for our national team. After all, I spent time with the president of the United States himself in Beijing. He patted me on the back and sent me off with the words, “Don’t let the flag touch the ground, buddy.” What can compare to that?
Yet, Beijing represented an accomplishment that culminated in a single moment. I will forever look back on it and smile. I still have a little trouble believing it happened to me. However, walking across the stage at Northern Arizona University and receiving my degree represents both a past accomplishment and the future that now lays wide open to me. My life is now forever changed, as will be the lives of the generations that follow me. More than that, this degree in my hand speaks to the plans I have for my future, and even greater plans God has for me.
Jeremiah 29:11 says, “ ‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the LORD. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.’ ” These words sound like God wrote them specifically for me. I lived through disaster. I lived through hardship and death. Yet God never left me. He changed me from Lopez the lost boy to Joseph. And just like Joseph in the Bible, He took what was once intended for evil and transformed it into good. Receiving my college degree along with the future that degree represents is the ultimate expression of God turning disaster into a future and a hope, at least so far.
Now that I have finished this race, I want my experience to encourage the other lost boys and girls out there that they, too, have hope of something more. Whether they are in a refugee camp in Kenya, or in the projects of an American inner city, anything is possible for them. If Lopez Lomong can go from a rebel prison camp to college graduate, so can they. The day I graduated from college, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that anything is possible. That’s not just true for me, but for anyone who is willing to work hard and let nothing stand in the way of reaching their dreams.
I’ve reached the end of this book, but my story has only really started. I feel like I am standing at the starting line of the biggest race of my life. The gun is about to sound. My opponents surround me, but I am not nervous. No, I am excited. I cannot wait to start the race. I cannot wait to take off, running for joy in a race that will not end until God takes me home.
EPILOGUE
Still Running for My Life
Over the past few years, I have made many trips back to Kimotong and South Sudan. Every trip left me convinced that the problems the people there face can be resolved. However, doing so will require a team effort. Out of conversations with friends and other athletes, I came up with the idea to start my own foundation. There was only one problem: I did not know anything about starting a charitable foundation. Something like that never stopped me before. I decided
I needed to talk to one of my good friends, Tim Lawrence, who has experience with nonprofits. Tim owns a media company in Oregon. Over the years he did several projects for nonprofit groups working in Africa.
Even though Tim had worked with nonprofits, he did not know how to start one. But he saw no reason for that little detail to get in the way. That’s why we are such good friends. Neither of us knows the meaning of the word impossible. He just had one question for me: “What specifically do you want to do there?”
I’d thought a lot about that question for a very long time. The way I see it, there are four basic needs that must be addressed to improve the lives of the people in South Sudan. First, we need clean water. Today, women spend a large portion of their day walking to the river to fetch water. They carry large buckets of water back to the village on their heads. Even then, the water is not very clean. Waterborne diseases strike regularly all over the world where people do not have access to clean water. But that is not the only danger. My sister was ambushed and raped on her way to the river for water. Something as simple as a well in the middle of the village could have protected my sister. Just thinking about this makes me angry.
Second, I want to open up access to education. I brought my two youngest brothers to America so that they could receive an education. At the time, I had no other good options. My brothers have excelled in school, and not just because I told them they would be on the next plane back to Africa if they screwed up. They have done so well in school because they want to learn. They want an education. Other Sudanese boys and girls are just as eager to learn, but they do not have access to education. I want to change that by building a school in Kimotong. In addition, I want to provide vocational training for women in my village and the surrounding areas. Access to education is limited in the area, but women have it even worse. Education is power, and I want to empower my sister and my mother and the other women of our village and give them a real future.
