When I was 14, I got a call from a man claiming to be my dad. I only knew one man to be my dad. He’s the one who raised me, who loved me. In every way, I was daddy’s little girl. With one call, everything changed.
This man I didn’t know wanted to meet me. I just wanted to travel. I was living in Ethiopia. He was in a refugee camp in Kenya with his wife and their nine kids. Curious, I went. He told my mom it would only be three months, but he was planning to steal me away and take me with him to the United States.
Before that happened, I was raped and got pregnant. I could not go back to Ethiopia with a baby in my arms. I could not face my mom. The neighbors would shame her rather than believe me.
I was supposed to have more than her. She got married for the first time at 13 and had her first child when she was 14. She never had the chance to go to school and get an education. My mom worked hard so I could have what she didn’t.
I did the best thing I thought I could do at the time. I moved with my dad’s family to Marshall, Minnesota in 2005. There was one big problem, though. My step-mom didn’t like me. She treated me like a live-in maid, who cooked and cleaned for her kids. She’d cuss at me, and I’d still serve her tea. She’d yell at me, and I’d still make her food. I showed her nothing but kindness. She showed me nothing but contempt.
She didn’t help at all with taking care of my baby – even though I barely knew what I was doing. I got a lot of help from strangers. They helped me get enrolled in school. They helped me find a daycare for my daughter. They helped me figure out how to take the bus to drop her off and pick her up.
Everywhere I turned, I got help, and I needed it.
I didn’t go to school for two years when I was in Kenya. I didn’t speak any English, and suddenly, I was a junior in high school in America, raising my child alone. Learning a fifth language was one thing, but there were other challenges, too – some that continue today.
Because I cover my head and my skin is dark, people think I’m Somali. The countries are right next to each other, but we have a different language, a different culture. In high school, I’d hear a call come over the intercom: “Somali student, please come to the principal’s office.” I’d get in trouble for not going. They’d say to me, “We called you. Why didn’t you come?”
“I’m not Somali.”
“What are you then?”
I told them over and over again, I’m Ethiopian. Finally, they started using my name.
People still judge me by how I dress. They don’t even know me, but they’ll call me names or say things like “Go back to where you came from.” One man saw my headscarf. He came up to me and told me to take it off. I don’t know why it bothered him so much.
You can ask me why I wear it, but don’t do that. Don’t call me names.
I cover my head because of my religion. In the Quran, it says women should dress modestly. Not all Muslim women wear a headscarf. I choose to. I choose to cover myself from head to toe when I go out. It’s who I am. I’ve worn a headscarf since I was a kid. Even if I wanted to take it off, I wouldn’t feel comfortable because I’m so used to wearing it.
I’m old enough to kind of ignore the looks and comments, but I worry about my kids.
My oldest daughter wanted to start wearing a headscarf when she was 10. Sometimes, she’ll take it off when she swims or plays basketball, revealing – to her classmates’ surprise – she does have hair. Other times, the kids will tease her about the hijab, saying, “Are you from ISIS?”
She doesn’t even know what ISIS is.
I teach her to be kind to everyone, even people who are mean to her. You treat them how you would want to be treated.
Finishing high school was hard for me, but I did it for her. I wanted to set a good example for my daughter and prove my step-mom wrong.She always said that I was never going to graduate. I was never going to be good enough.
That only made me more determined to be something. That’s what my mom wanted. I wanted to make her proud.
I graduated and went to college, working four jobs to get by, but I didn’t finish because I got married and got pregnant. The baby was due in September, right when I needed to start student teaching. I’m 28 now, and I still think about going back to finish my degree.
With everything that had happened, I never thought I’d get married.
Just like with school, my step-mom always put me down, saying, “Nobody will ever want to marry you with a child.” For a long time, I believed her.
I never dated. I worried about answering the questions that might come up about my daughter, about her father. What would I say? Even if I got past that, I worried about how getting married would affect her. What if my husband didn’t love her and treat her right? How would she feel if I had more children? Would she be hurt?
With all my worries, I agreed to an arranged marriage. I went to Kenya to meet this man and get a marriage certificate. I got this strange feeling that I had seen him before. When I voiced doubts about going through with this plan, my step-mom let it slip that it would be good for my daughter to be with her own father. She had arranged for this man to rape me when I was 15 years old.
I canceled the process. My family disowned me because I didn’t do as I was told. They no longer speak to me, but now I have my mom.
In 2012, I went back to Ethiopia to see her for the first time in nine years. I had a brother and a sister, who were born after I had gone to Kenya. My mom moved to Sioux City a few months ago. She works at a meatpacking plant. Like she did for me, she’s still working hard to provide a better life for my younger siblings.
They’re living in Ethiopia with my dad until they can earn enough money to come here.
As for my daughter, she’s 12 now, and she doesn’t know anything about her father. She’s never asked. She will someday. I don’t know when. I’m still not ready to explain it to her.
She only knows one man as her father. My husband. When we go out, he never says, “This is my step-daughter.” He always just says, “My daughter.”
That makes me so happy. This is what I was looking for.
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Ode is a storytelling series where community members tell true stories on stage to promote positive impact through empathy. It is produced by Siouxland Public Media.
The next event is 7 p.m. Friday, February 3 at {be}Studio in downtown Sioux City. The theme is “Be Moved: An ode to transitions and transformations.”Tickets are available at kwit.org.
For more information, visit facebook.com/odestorytelling.
