My Kind (of) America: 101 Stories about the True Spirit of Our Country by Amy Newmark

Author:Amy Newmark
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Chicken Soup for the Soul

Nine, Twelve, and Fourteen

True friendship comes when the silence between two people is comfortable.

~David Tyson

Wheeling, Illinois, summer of 1997. It didn’t seem that unusual when my mother told us a Somalian family was going to stay with us for a few weeks. My mother liked taking care of people. Not only did she make cookies for the school bake sale and help us with homework, but she also took in foster children from time to time. They’d stay for a few days, even a month, and then move on.

Like most fourteen-year-olds, I knew Somalia was a country in Africa where no one had food, but I couldn’t point it out on a map. I asked my mom some questions about the whole situation, and I learned a few things:

• The family consisted of five people: mother, father, and three kids — a little boy about five, and two girls about nine and twelve.

• They spoke mostly Arabic. The dad spoke a little English.

• No, I didn’t have to share a room with the girls. They were all going to sleep in the guest room.

• Yes, she was positive I didn’t have to share my room.

When the family showed up, I watched them from down the hall. The father had a large mustache. He shook my stepfather’s hand with a firm grip. The females had scarves covering their hair and necks. The little boy and nine-year-old girl clung to their mother’s skirt, but the twelve-year-old girl peeked around at everything. She was scared, though. They were all scared.

I asked Mom about it later. She told me they were escaping a war in Somalia. Some of their family members had been killed, and they were scared for their lives. They ran away first to Russia, and then to America.

A few days after they arrived, I found myself in the living room trying not to make eye contact with the sisters. Mom had told me their names, but I didn’t remember them, and I felt stupid asking. In my mind, the older one was Twelve, the younger was Nine. I didn’t know what to say; I didn’t speak their language anyway. I couldn’t stop thinking about how hot they must be in long sleeves and headscarves in the summer. They sat on the floor next to each other, talking quietly. It was odd to me to see siblings who were so gentle with each other. My brother would yell at me if I put my pinkie on his side of the couch.

Mom told me they could use a friend and suggested that we all play a game together while she was in the kitchen doing kitchen things. I rooted through the pile of games in the corner, finally settling on Connect Four. I sat on the carpet by Twelve, dumped the box out in front of us, and started sorting the reds from the blacks. Twelve saw me sorting and shooed Nine away so she could help. Once we were done, I scooted in front of her, set up the stand, and dropped my first black piece in.

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