Truth Doesn't Have a Side

by Bennet Omalu

  As we rode along in the back of the car, my family looked and felt like the great American success story I had always aspired to become—someone I used to see only in magazines and movies. I wore a beautiful, custom-made black suit; a crisp, custom-made white silk shirt; a blue-black tie; and black, executive shoes. My son wore a tuxedo and a big smile. Ashly looked beautiful in a formal blue-black dress with a white sweater. I tried to talk Prema into buying a long black evening dress for the occasion. She said no in no uncertain terms. “I prefer pants and a jacket,” she told me while we shopped for our wardrobes for the night. I pressed the issue until the assistant who was helping us pulled me aside and told me to let my wife wear whatever made her feel comfortable. Prema ended up selecting gray Giorgio Armani pants and a matching jacket. She looked beautiful. I wondered why I ever questioned her judgment.

  Prema was very quiet and meditative during the drive, while my kids talked so fast to each other in their adoptive American accents. I have never been able to develop the classic American way of talking, no matter how hard I try. My children speak so fast and so American that I sometimes cannot understand what they are saying. They only know a handful of words in my wife’s and my native languages. They can ask, “Kedu?” which means “How are you?” in Igbo, and can say “Jambo bwana,” which means “Hello, mister” in Prema’s native Swahili.

  “We’re almost there, sir,” the chauffeur said. Driving down the streets of Hollywood, I saw so many famous sights I had first seen in the movies growing up in Nigeria. I honestly did not know exactly where we were going. Sony personnel—so many of them young, beautiful women and young, handsome men—were essentially managing my life. They made air reservations for me, sending me to different parts of the country in the first-class cabins of commercial jets. Once or twice, I even flew in a private jet with Will Smith and his wife, Jada. Sony also put me in the best suites in the finest hotels across the United States. They took such good care of me, yet I was almost like a zombie, going where they told me to go when they told me to go there. Over the past few weeks, I had been so occupied with media appearances that in one city, one of the young women packed my clothes in my hotel room while I spoke with reporters in another part of town. Because I did not have time to get back to the hotel and check out before rushing off to the airport to catch another flight, she packed all my clothes, toiletries, medications, and even my underwear—something no one had ever done for me before, not even my wife.

  “Here we are, sir,” the chauffeur said as he pulled the Escalade up to the front of the world-famous TCL Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. The place was glamour defined. So beautiful. So majestic. Any other time, my family and I might have walked around the grounds of the theatre and looked at the footprints in the concrete of so many Hollywood legends, but that was not possible tonight. Floodlights were everywhere. A red carpet extended out to the curb where we had parked. Ropes stretched out beside the red carpet, behind which stood so many excited and loud people who all looked happy to see us.

  The chauffeur opened the car door. I climbed out as cameras flashed. I helped Prema out of the car. She looked nervous. My kids climbed out. Both had huge smiles on their faces, but I could tell they were also unsure of what was happening around them. This was a long way from our very private life in Lodi.

  We lined up and prepared to walk up the red carpet. An announcer said, “Dr. Bennet Omalu and family.” I put on a grin I had practiced for hours in front of a mirror at home. More cameras flashed around us. Television crews lined up and filmed our walk up the carpet. Do not be afraid, I heard the Lord say. I thought back to my father and the trip he took in the back of a car when he was about the age I was now. Then he had escaped with his life. Now his son and daughter-in-law and grandchildren were being treated like royalty. I wondered if he heard the Lord whisper, Do not be afraid, as he made a long journey through war-torn Nigeria. Oh, how I wish he could have lived to see the movie and the vindication for the truth that it offered.

  I took Prema by the hand and led her and the children to a Sony executive, who led them into the theatre while I stayed back on the red carpet to do interviews. Before we left Lodi, I told her what I experienced when I saw the movie for the first time. “This may be very emotional for you, because it was for me. It’s okay. We will get through it,” I said to her. Walking into the theatre for the world premiere of Concussion, I did not feel excited or expectant or any of the other emotions I thought I might feel. I was simply present in the moment.

  Deep down, I knew that as soon as the movie hit the theatres, our lives were going to be disrupted for a time, something I did not need. Early on, a Sony consultant came to our house to brief me on what to expect from having a movie made about my life while I was still living. He told me that it is like winning the lottery. For some people, this is a good thing, but for many others, their lives end up in a bad place as a result of all the attention the movie brings. “Don’t let it consume who you are,” he told me. Will Smith said the same thing to me on one of the days we spent together. While showing him how to use a microscope, he looked over and said, “Bennet, this is who you are. Never give this up. Don’t let the movie or anything else take your life away from you.”

  In the days and weeks leading up to the premiere, I reminded myself of their words. Now that the premiere was here I repeated a prayer reminiscent of the one the Virgin Mary prayed when Gabriel the angel told her she would give birth to the Christ.1 I prayed, Lord, may it be done to me according to Your word. I trust in You. Then I prayed the prayer that has come to define my life: Jesus, I love You. All I have is Thine. Yours I am, and Yours I want to be. Do with me what Thou wilt. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Prema. She remained very quiet. She hadn’t asked for any of this, but she took it all in and did what needed to be done. My children, on the other hand, soaked in every camera flash and all the glamour of the moment.

  Once everyone was in the theatre, Peter Landesman introduced the movie. The theatre was packed, with people standing along the sides. In the middle of his introduction, Peter asked me to stand. I was not aware he was going to do this. When I stood, the applause thundered around me. People continued clapping for at least a minute. “Prema,” I mouthed to my wife, “stand with me.” She shook her head, NO. A quiet woman who does not like the limelight, she had had all she could stand. I did not press the issue. My children, however, stood up next to me. I think they enjoyed the moment. They felt very important.

  The applause finally ended. Peter completed his introduction. The lights fell. The movie began. The audience was dead quiet when they should be silent, cried when they should cry, and laughed when they should laugh. Peter did a marvelous job of weaving together all the emotional elements in the film. Watching the movie with my family and a packed theatre full of people was a very different experience from watching it alone.

  When the final credits rolled up on the screen, I thought this was the end. A premiere party was planned for later, and I looked forward to having some fun. A Sony executive came over and asked me to follow her to the greenroom. “Is it okay if my family comes too?” I asked. I knew Will was going to be back in the greenroom for a post-film talk by the producers. I knew my children wanted to see him again.

  “Of course,” the executive replied.

  We went back to the greenroom, where I thought we would wait out the question-and-answer session going on upon the stage in the theatre. Once it was over, we would all go to the premiere party. However, to my surprise, once I was in the greenroom, someone came over to me and said, “Bennet, get ready.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “You are going on stage.”

  “On stage? Why?”

  “For the panel discussion. Get ready.”

  A short time later, I found myself standing behind a black curtain, waiting. Then I heard my name called. The Sony executive opened the curtain, and I walked out on stage. The thunderous cheers, applause, yelling, and screaming
took my breath away. The floodlights shining upon me blurred my vision. I looked over to the far side of the stage. Will, Peter, and the others on the panel were clapping and yelling as well. I got even more confused, almost to the point of fear. I began saying the same good old prayer: Jesus, I love You. All I have is Thine. Yours I am, and Yours I want to be. Do with me what Thou wilt.

  I walked with trepidation across the stage, raised my hands, and began waving to the audience. I hugged Will and walked over to the empty chair and looked out at the theatre. Most people were still yelling and screaming. I could not make out people’s faces because of the floodlights. I stood to Will Smith’s left. He sat down, and I sat down. I was unsure what to do next. The moderator began speaking, and for the next hour, he led a Q&A session. Many people had questions for me. Answering them, I became another person—a person I did not even know. God has His sense of humor, and He manifests it in our lives and when we do not even expect it.

  While I was on that stage, my mind wandered, and I asked myself, Bennet, could this be you? Could this be you? Look at how far you have traveled from the war-torn village in Nigeria and air bombardments and malnutrition to a difficult childhood plagued by extremely low self-esteem. For so long, you struggled with who you are and battled depression. You thought these battles were behind you when you came to America, yet they followed you here. In America, you faced ever-increasing depression, cultural shock, and rejection in America as an outsider, as a black African man in mainstream America who had an accent and looked different. Look at how far you have come. By faith the impossible becomes possible.

  The impossible becomes possible, I said again and again to myself. The phrase has since become a part of every speech I deliver. My experience has shown me that all you have to do is to believe that, come what may, whatever will be will be—for God is on His throne. He is in charge. All I must do is trust Him and entrust myself to Him. By faith in Him, the impossible becomes possible, no matter how small the faith may be: “Amen, I say to you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.”2 In fact, it was this night that I realized the mountain Jesus was talking about here was not the mountain in front of us, but the mountain inside of us. The biggest mountain we must overcome is the mountain of you, and the mountain of me. Remember, we are sons and daughters of a mighty God, the God who created the heavens, the universe, the earth. He created the sun and the moon and the mountains and the skies. He created me. He created you. And He breathed upon us His Spirit.

  You and I are children of God, as majestic as the starry skies of night and as majestic as the sun. We are as illuminating as the sun. We are like the stars, the sun, the moon, the skies, the mountains, the universe. So if by faith I tell the mountain of me to move, it moves. Not because I am the one moving it, but because the God of the impossible makes all things possible in me. It may take a long time coming, but in the fullness of His time, it will come. Always dream the impossible dream, and by faith that impossible dream will become possible. Standing on the stage at the premiere of Concussion, I saw this impossible journey reach heights I never imagined possible. But it was not the end of the journey. No, in many ways it was just getting started.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  From Doctor to Dad: What Will I Say When My Son Asks, “Can I Play Football, Pleeeaaaassse?”

  My middle name, Ifeakandu, is an Igbo name that means “life is the greatest gift of all.” I thought I understood the value of this gift through the life God has given me. Then, at the age of thirty-nine, I became a father for the first time. Holding my first child for the first time, I came to understand the real meaning of Ifeakandu. I knew this little girl, this life, is the greatest gift.

  When Prema learned she was pregnant, neither of us took this gift of life for granted. But after losing our first child, we prayed anxiously for our second child’s life. When Prema passed the point where we had lost our first baby, we both breathed a sigh of relief. When she reached full-term, we both grew anxious and excited. We had transformed part of our home into the baby’s room. Now this little one just needed to come out into the world to enjoy it.

  Prema’s first contraction came while we were at home. We immediately started timing their frequency. Throughout most of the day, they remained very sporadic. Our baby had signaled she was ready to meet us face-to-face, but she was not in a hurry. Prema was actually in labor for almost two days. Finally the labor pains became stronger and more frequent. We rushed to the hospital. Our baby decided to take a little longer still. All throughout the night, we timed contractions. The time was growing closer. Eventually, Ashly arrived early in the morning. I remember her first noise, her first cry. It was miraculous and magical. I felt like heaven had come down to earth. Holding her for the first time, I could not believe this life had come from Prema and me. We had begotten life—the greatest gift of all.

  After such a long labor and delivery, Prema was exhausted. We spent a good deal of time holding Ashly before the nurses came and took her so Prema could get some rest. I rushed home to take a shower and take care of a couple of things. I went back to the hospital as quickly as I could. By the time I returned, the nurses had cleaned up my baby girl for me. I took her in my arms. “Hello, cutie pie,” I said. She opened her eyes at the sound of my voice and breathed in deep, like she was taking in the scent of her father. Those eyes looked up into mine. I felt like I was looking into the eyes of God. I became overwhelmed with emotion. Tears rolled down my face—tears of joy. I realized right then that in the process of conception between a man and a woman, God invites us to partake in His glory and share in His holiness and godliness. The creation of life is a holy experience. The baby girl I held close to my bosom was His gift of life.

  Two years later, I enjoyed the same experience with the birth of our son, Mark. Being the bold boy that he is, Mark was in a hurry to come into the world. His labor was precipitous. We actually went to the hospital for an elective cesarean section birth, but Mark could not wait. I dropped off Prema and rushed out to take Ashly and our nanny back home. When I arrived back at the hospital less than twenty minutes later, Mark had already been born. As soon as I walked into the room, he heard my surprised voice and began crying loudly. The nurse handed my little boy to me. The moment he landed in my arms his crying stopped.

  Again, when I felt Mark’s warm body up close to my bosom, I felt like God was touching me. I had come from nowhere, with nothing—and now I had a son in my arms. Once again, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I cried and cried while my baby son slept in my arms. It was a tender moment I will never forget.

  In the days after the births of Ashly and Mark, I felt a great burden to be a good father for them. God gave me the responsibility to lead and guide them and teach them about God and His creation. I am charged with teaching them about the great gift of life God has given them and show them how to make the most of this life. From the start, the two of them watched everything I did and said. They emulate everything I do. Many times they will ask me why I do what I do or say what I say. They ask me questions I never thought about before. Such are the joys and challenges of being a parent. These two precious lives ask me questions as they form their own unique personalities. They are growing up to be their own selves, the people they were born to be. After all, as parents we are only conduits and vessels of God’s love. I do not own my children, and I cannot control the choices they make. But I can guide them—both by my words and by my example.

  My words and my example and the words and example of my wife are not the only words and examples shaping my children’s lives. They are surrounded by their peers and classmates. The two of them are immersed in a culture very different from the one in which I grew up in Nigeria or the one in which Prema grew up in Kenya. My children are becoming their own individuals, with Ashly’s love of books and Mark’s potent imagination, but they are also part of a larger communi
ty. And as part of that community, they will want to fit in and be like everyone else. Since a large part of the social context in America revolves around sports, my children will one day want to participate. I have written much about contact sports, but the question I face is very different when those precious eyes of my son or daughter look up at me as they ask, “Daddy, can I play football [or wrestle or take karate or join in one of the other very popular contact sports]?”

  The question is difficult for every parent, even for me. I know how valuable sports are in the life of a child. Physical activity helps them develop into healthy adults, while playing on a team teaches them a great number of things about working together with other people and sacrificing oneself for the greater good. I want my children to play sports. I look forward to sitting in the stands and cheering them on as they strive to be the best they can be.

  However, as a father, I will do my children a great disservice if I do not protect them from that which can cause them lifetime harm. I am not an overprotective parent. I do not try to keep my children from all risks. Prema and I did not cover the ground under our swing set with pillows and wrap our children in bubble wrap, lest one of them accidentally goes down the slide the wrong way. When I refuse to allow my children to play football or ice hockey or to do headers in soccer, I am not being overprotective; instead, I am protecting the great gift God has given them.

  We do this as a society. When Prema and I brought Ashly and then Mark home from the hospital, we strapped them into car seats that appeared to have been designed by NASA engineers. The hospital where they each were born even offered a service to check to make sure the car seat was properly installed. Properly installed car seats for children is a very big issue in our country today, according to many parenting blogs. In most states, children must by law ride in some sort of protective seat until they are nine or ten years old. The reason is simple: as a society we value our children and want to protect them at all costs.