by Susan Tabin
The two that had been yoked by string were still alive, wideeyed, lying on cots next to each other. The dehydrated girl perhaps four-years old, the boy curled in a fetal position about three. I sat on the edge of the cot with a spoon and a small bowl of ugali in my hands. She accepted the porridge eagerly, but kept watch over her brother to see if he was eating. Kevin had the sickly boy cradled in one arm while he patiently fed him the starchy ugali. The sister showing signs of fierce independence would try to wrap her skeleton fingers around the handle of the spoon, but she was too weak to do even that. The membranes inside of her little broad nose were so dry she could hardly breathe at first—sucking in the air through her parched mouth. Her teeny fingernails were brittle and ridged. Each line told a tale of famine and malnutrition. The children responded quickly. Within days we learned their names, Imani and Juma.
I held Imani close to me and I knew that she was the child of my first intimacy, conceived seventeen years ago when Africa and I were together. I recalled that long ago summer night on Crete when he asked, “Are you sure you want me to? My people say the first man you’re with is the father of your first born, even if the baby comes many years after. They say the baby is hiding, waiting to be born later from a bisisi, a long pregnancy. It’s said you have a bisisi child.”
Imani is not the daughter of my womb, but she has waited and now this ebony girl is my true bisisi child born of a long bisisi pregnancy—born from the best part of who I am, born of my heart, of my loving. And yes, I am prepared to help Imani and Juma through the loss of their parents and to raise them to adulthood.
Twenty-Four
By weeks end we were able to bring Imani and Juma to the Mbingo house. Aisha Mbingo with her stunning angular face and Tanzanian reserve welcomed us as best she could under the newly crowded conditions of her home.
Kevin flew back to the states. First to New York to gather a dark blue suit, some shirts, ties, his Johnston and Murphy wing tip shoes and a pit stop to the barber. On to Washington D.C. to call in favors at the highest levels his family’s influence reached. He wired me when he arrived in Washington. I received the telegram thirteen days later.
Africa who had followed in his diplomat father’s footsteps was doing all that he could to facilitate passports and visas for Imani and Juma, for whom no birth certificates existed on a continent where nothing was easy, especially for Africans to leave.
I gave the children liquids and like fragile baby birds fallen from their nests I fed them small amounts in intervals around the clock until they gained strength and were able to take their meals with the Mbingo children. They had never used utensils.
“Juma, you will hurt yourself with the fork. Use the spoon like Imani,” Aisha insisted. He put the fork down and picked up the spoon. “You are a good listener, Juma,” she praised him. And his sweet face lit up.
I immersed myself in learning Swahili. All the while Imani and Juma were picking up English words from the bilingual Mbingo children. I learned to cook traditional dishes. Aisha laughed at me the first time I tried to make ugali. She said to her husband, “Amadou, this American girl needs strong arms.” She gripped the wooden spoon. “Don’t let it stick to the pot!” and stirred cornflower, water, milk and butter with the force of an Osterizer. I laughed too and put a pinch of salt into the large pot.
We hired attorneys in both countries. There were mountains of paperwork generated and seemingly insurmountable challenges to handle: death certificates for the parents, for the children proof of age, medical history, official change of name requests— where no last name was known.
Kevin came back to Tanzania to check on the children and me. The disfiguring bloat and the pasty complexions were no longer dominant. They were skinny, but much healthier. Juma even began to sprout hair on his little bald head and Imani’s lips once cracked and caked with sores were turning smooth and plump. On the second night of Kevin’s return, I slept twelve straight hours knowing that he would take care of the children. I awoke to the sounds of laughter outside. I went to the window and pulled the curtains back. Kevin had all seven children lined up playing Simon Says. At the moment I looked out all of the children were bent over touching their toes. Kevin only stayed with us for five days before he returned to New York for the start of classes in September. I took a leave of absence from my teaching position at Queens College.
When the children were well enough I dealt with getting them routine immunizations for entry into the United States. Finally we were in compliance with U.S. immigration requirements, and visas were issued by the state department. The children were under our guardianship while we petitioned the courts in the United States for adoption.
The night before we left, Africa asked me to bring the children outside. The four-bedroom ranch style house could have been a suburban number in any American neighborhood except that it was part of a walled-in compound. There was another smaller, but similar three-bedroom ranch house where Africa’s parents lived. The six foot-eight retired elder statesman and his five foot-three wife tended the large vegetable garden. There were chickens and a coop, a smelly stable with several horses and a small pond stocked with fish. The sun had fallen silent two hours before and beyond the compound it was mostly dark.
“Imani, Juma, look up,” he said in English. Then he pointed out the North Star and told them in Swahili it was at the end of the Little Bear’s tail.
Juma frowned and asked, “What is a bear?”
Africa patted him lightly on the head and answered, “It’s a large animal with shaggy hair. When you arrive to your new home in New York you will see big buildings that reach into the sky. It will be very different. Darjeeling will show you the North Star at the end of the Little Bear’s tail and you will know you are under the same sky.”
The children arched their necks and gazed at the wondrous light show above. I knelt down to their size and held them in my arms. Africa knelt down beside us and said, “She loves you both very much. She wants you to have a mother and a father. It would be good if you call Darjeeling, Mama and Kevin, Papi.”
Twenty-Five
On November 16, 1976, Kevin, my father and Arlene, May and her parents awaited us at Kennedy International Airport in New York. My cousin and my stepmother held a huge hand-lettered banner that said, “WELCOME IMANI AND JUMA.” Kevin scooped up the children, one in each arm. They called him Papi and planted kisses on his face that I swear have been imprinted on his countenance and have remained there always. Aunt Anna seemed somewhat annoyed as if she had just stepped into an elephant turd but then I realized we were in New York and as I remembered my pale gray aunt always looked as if she were sucking on a lemon. Besides, when we chose to adopt Juma and Imani, we knew our family would be met by some opposition. At the time of our decision we vowed to focus into the Light and to allow those who would be repugnant and antagonistic their darkness.
In preparation for Imani and Juma, Kevin had a wall in our apartment removed. Where once there were two guestrooms there was now one open bright space sporting a playful floor-toceiling mural of safari animals amidst thick-trunked baobab trees with foot-long fruit dangling from ropy stems, and thorny flat-topped acacia trees with Mount Kilimanjaro slathered in the background. The beds were done up with childlike animal prints, a teddy bear perched atop each. At the foot of each bed stood a long necked giraffe for hanging clothes. The windows were draped in sheer batik fabric with a colorful African motif.
The children sleep on and off. Me too. I get up, look in on them. Imani has the sweetest small heart-shaped face with a full upper lip that resembles a bow, reminding me that she is a gift from God. Her dark hair and skin are a healthy reddish bronze color. Her black eyes are almond-shaped, like mine. Juma’s skin and hair also have that reddish bronze coloring. Juma’s features are strong and broad like his sister’s. I stand in the doorway as if in a dream. Sleepily I return to my bed, snuggle up to Kevin…sleep…get up again… peer in on Imani and Juma… lay down next to Juma, nuzzle my f
ace against his little wooly head. During my five-month stay at Aisha and Amadou Mbingo’s I slept in the same room with the children. Now I get up from Juma’s bed and cuddle with Imani. I love her little girl smell. I breathe her in.
The next evening we brought the children up to the roof. With smiles spreading across their faces they both easily identified what Imani called, “The big star on Little Bear’s tail.” After my father and Arlene took them across the way to Central Park’s Wildlife Center, Juma burst in the door. “Mama, I see real bear!” When a Goldilocks and the three bears float passed along Fifth Avenue where we were standing at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade Juma squealed with delight. Imani shouted, “Look it’s Little Bear, he came down from the sky.”
I took the children to see Santa Claus at Macy’s. We entered the huge department store from 34th street. The store windows displayed scenes from The Miracle on 34th Street, the movie about a Macy’s Santa Claus who persuaded the court he was the real, plump, red-suited, white-bearded old man who delivered presents to good children at Christmas time.
“Mama, why you cry?” Imani asked.
As my eyes filled with water I was a child again being told by my mother that Santa Claus was a figment of the Christian imagination.
If Christmas in Manhattan dazzled the children, springtime liberated them. They loved to play barefoot in the grass at Central Park. Imani learned to tie her laces almost immediately. Juma was more creative, sometimes tying both little sneakers together. They’d take off their socks, roll them neatly, set them in a row and fling their sneakers as far as they could. Then they’d run and tumble and fall across the grass and retrieve them— squealing and laughing the whole time. Their little feet slapped the dewy blades of grass and made a sloshing sound. Imani would run back to the bench where I was sitting and report earnestly. “Mama, the grass is crying.” I’d tell her they were surely tears of joy, the grass was so happy she and Juma were visiting again. She’d lower her small heart-shaped face to the ground reflecting on what I’d said, then raise up with an endearing smile. I’d smile, we’d look at each other and she’d pad back to Juma—the grass sloshing beneath her feet.
Exactly one year from the children’s arrival in New York the adoption process was finalized. To mark the occasion we attended a performance of the International Afrikan American Ballet. Kevin got us second-row orchestra seats at Klitgord Auditorium in Brooklyn. Imani tugged at my dress when she saw how close up we were. I was aware that like me she understood this was a privilege. Kevin blew a kiss at me across Juma and Imani who were sitting between us and said, “Thank you, Darjeeling… thank you for our family.” I saw the beginning of the mesmerizing dance and drumming through a curtain of tears.
~
We kept a two-sided easel permanently stationed in the children’s large sunny room. They painted together sharing colors and brushes. Unlike other siblings they never argued. Imani watched over Juma like a mother hen. She would paint huge orange sun balls. On the other side of the easel Juma’s paintings were lyrical from early on.
“Imani, please read me Curious George,” Juma entreated his sister. Stomach down, skinny legs bent at the knees, ankles crossed in the air, Imani spread across her bed and read to her little brother while he painted away.
I didn’t go back to teaching. The children thrived. They did well in school, music, art and sports. Juma asked endlessly to visit the polar bears at Central Park while Imani asked, “Mama, tell me how I’m your special girl?” And I would answer, “You’re my bisisi girl… you waited to be born from my heart.” I’d look at my daughter and it made all the sense in the world to me that my first-born child was a dark-skinned beauty. When the barber refused to work on Juma’s hair, Kevin switched to a shop in Harlem where both father and son could have their hair cut together. Kevin was determined the children never lose their mother tongue and as a family we often spoke in Swahili. Decembers in our home were a cornucopia of grace and blessings with the celebration of Kwanzaa, Christmas and Chanukah. I never did get that Chanukah bush my father promised me as a child, and Kevin was right when he said, “Darjeeling, your eyes are as green and bright and as big as the tree… if you ask me you’re getting off on this more than the kids.”
I even hosted a Passover seder one year when May called and asked, “Dar, would you? I can’t fit everyone.” May and Arlene did most of the cooking. Ere Zeta and my brother Michael were in town. The table stretched from here to forever.
Imani seated next to May’s daughter, Riva, named after our grandmother, turned to her blue-eyed cousin and said, “See my new ring… it’s tanzanite from Amadou in Africa.”
Yeah, purple—it’s cool… I like it,” Riva answered.
May’s little boy said, “I have to pee.”
And his mother said, “So go, quickly.”
May asked Ere Zeta about the significance of the holiday. He looked down the length of the table like a camera with a zoom lens. His head turned slightly from side to side, his eyes made contact with everyone present and he said, “For those who are Jewish this comes out of your tradition. For all of us this comes out of our heritage. The seder is about a deliverance from bondage into freedom. It represents the spiritual journey from darkness into Light. Passover is about enduring to the end into spiritual liberation. It’s a symbol of man’s inner journey.”
I scanned the room; saw Michael with his mother Mary Alice on one side, our father, Pini and Arlene next to him on the other and I had a glimmer of what Ere Zeta meant when he taught that those who endure to the end, win.
Twenty-Six
My precious boy was eight, his sister nine, when speaking for both of them he said, “Mama we want American names.”
“But Juma, your names are special, they were given to you by your African mother and father.”
“Mama.” Imani swiveled with her hand on her hip like a runway model. “We’ll keep them for middle names.”
“I don’t know… I have to think about it.”
“Mama, please,” they begged.
When I brought the subject up with Kevin, at first he covered his mouth, then he broke out laughing right in my face. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he kept on laughing, “but isn’t their mother the well known Darjeeling DeMornay, queen of the name change realm?”
“How’d I get so lucky to have you as my husband?”
“You’re the one who always tells me there’s no coincidence!” he answered.
The children picked their own names. Our daughter became Wendy Imani DeMornay; our son, Gregory Juma DeMornay. I really liked their names. They fit them well.
One night after dinner we were up on the roof when Gregory, holding back tears, his lip quivering, said, “There’s this kid at school—he’s mean. He says I’m an alien…Wendy too—cause we don’t look like you.”
Almost two decades had passed since my friend Andrew Goodman was murdered during the Freedom Summer of ’64. Since then I’d had plenty of practice in girding my heart against the stares and occasional sneers aimed at my family. Still, a sinking feeling came over me, the one reserved for mothers when their children are hurting.
“Do you remember Kunta Kinte?” Kevin asked.
“From Roots?” Gregory asked.
“Yes, Kevin answered.
“I remember,” Gregory said.
“Me too,” Wendy said with a puzzled look.
Kevin placed his large hands gently on Gregory and Wendy’s shoulders and said, “When Kunta was a baby and his father named him he held him up to the heavens and said behold the only thing greater than yourself.”
We all looked up at the clear night sky.
“Always remember the truth of who you are,” Kevin said.
“We will Dad,” Gregory said.
Wendy smiled and nodded in agreement.
~
A year later at dinner, Gregory, ever the spokesperson for
change, asked us, “Can we have our own rooms?”
Kevin put
his fork down and asked, “Won’t you be lonely?”
“Mom, Dad,” Wendy said, “We’ll visit just like we always visit you for stories and hugs.”
And so a wall went up again. Wendy’s room housed the bookshelves, Gregory’s the easel. Over the next few years the giraffes, mural and African theme made way for rainbows and teen idol posters in our daughter’s room and sport’s paraphernalia in our son’s.
It was right about that time my father began addressing me as Darjeeling. Of everyone, I loved hearing my father call me Darjeeling. I felt as though he was finally acknowledging my choices. My father never voiced his opinion with regard to the children’s adoption. He was a good grandfather. Wendy and Gregory meant the world to him and as he had done with me he regularly took them to New York’s free and affordable cultural events. When he accompanied Wendy and Gregory if anyone stared at them he stared back. After all, my father still had to be right.
Instead of a Bar Mitzvah to celebrate Gregory’s thirteenth birthday Kevin and I opted for a family trip to Tanzania.
“It’s nice for Gregory to return and see where he came from, Darjeeling.”
“That’s good thinking; thanks, Dad.”
“We’ll help in anyway we can,” Arlene added.
“Mom, I’m nervous about going back. I don’t feel African. I mean I know I’m black but I’m American.”
