group of friends and wade through the crowd to hug me and talk to me. His love knew absolutely no shame.
“He was a special boy, and if I’d had a son, I would have wanted him to be just like Tewolde.”
He is often remembered among our
habesha
community, too, even though it’s been almost eight years:
“Yes, he was a blessed one,
bruck neyroo, abey kirikeb —
where can his like be found? — that eldest son of Father Haileab.”
“Listen, now, there was that one time when their mother had gone back to Adi, and I came over because some guests were coming and I had promised to help with the preparations.
“I came over and soon found myself overwhelmed with cooking the
sebhi
and
injera,
let alone doing everything else. And then that boy came.
“I did not ask him to help, but he came in like a whirlwind, washing the dishes, sweeping the floors, straightening out the living room, helping me prepare the food, asking me to sit down and rest. Before I knew it, he had done almost everything himself and wanted to know if he could do anything else.”
Not long after his death, I went to his room and looked through some of his papers. A single picture stopped me. It showed a dark-haired South American boy, about five years old, with the warmest, brightest, most hopeful eyes, and the hint of a smile on his light-brown face.
I flipped the card over and read it: “Here is your child. Thank you for sponsoring him. With your twenty dollars a month, he goes to school, receives medical care, and eats healthy food.”
I wondered how my brother had donated $240 a year to Compassion International, when he had so little money to spare. He was struggling to save money for college and was trying to help his family, too.
I thought of the Biblical tale where a rich man donates a large sum to a synagogue and a poor woman donates her last two cents. As the story goes, her gift is worth infinitely more, for the rich man gave out of his surplus and she out of her scarcity.
As I reflected on what my bro had meant to the child, I thought of what he meant to all of us.
I thought of my mother, and her special relationship with him, and how when he was a child and misbehaved, she would grab the leather belt and try to whip him. But the harder she whipped him, the more Tewolde laughed, and the more he laughed, the harder she whipped him. He would keep laughing, smiling at her with every blow, until she gave up and joined him in laughing.
I thought of our younger brother, Hntsa. Tewolde knew that seven-year-old Hntsa loved quarters, so he would keep a lookout each night when he cleaned the Toyota dealership with Jim.
Tewolde always found several quarters — and if he didn’t, he took some out of his own pocket — and left them in his shoes for Hntsa. As soon as Hntsa woke up, he would run to see how many quarters his older brother had left for him.
I thought of Mehret, the lone girl among us after Mulu got her own place; Mehret could always turn to Tewolde for an ally. I thought of my pops, and the high level of respect that Tewolde always showed him, even when doing so meant swallowing his own pride.
Then I thought of myself, and of what the word
bro
means to me.…
It means a measuring stick,
A higher standard,
A heart that sees angels,
A lifelong inspiration.
It means God be with us …
And may we meet again.
In Sudan, from left to right: Tewolde, Mehret, Tsege, and Mawi.
C OFFEE T ALES
A s children, Tewolde, Mehret, Hntsa, and I knew better than to breach certain topics with our parents. High on the “Never Bring Up” list were boyfriends, girlfriends, and all things sexual. My parents had married by arrangement and considered dating to be a uniquely American
sidinet,
or wickedness, that their children would never practice — at least not while we lived under their roof.
One day, my father grabbed Tewolde and me and sat us down.
D O NOT HAVE SEX. Y OU WILL GET AIDS. Y OU WILL DIE. YOU WILL HAVE CHILDREN THAT YOU
“He was a special boy, and if I’d had a son, I would have wanted him to be just like Tewolde.”
He is often remembered among our
habesha
community, too, even though it’s been almost eight years:
“Yes, he was a blessed one,
bruck neyroo, abey kirikeb —
where can his like be found? — that eldest son of Father Haileab.”
“Listen, now, there was that one time when their mother had gone back to Adi, and I came over because some guests were coming and I had promised to help with the preparations.
“I came over and soon found myself overwhelmed with cooking the
sebhi
and
injera,
let alone doing everything else. And then that boy came.
“I did not ask him to help, but he came in like a whirlwind, washing the dishes, sweeping the floors, straightening out the living room, helping me prepare the food, asking me to sit down and rest. Before I knew it, he had done almost everything himself and wanted to know if he could do anything else.”
Not long after his death, I went to his room and looked through some of his papers. A single picture stopped me. It showed a dark-haired South American boy, about five years old, with the warmest, brightest, most hopeful eyes, and the hint of a smile on his light-brown face.
I flipped the card over and read it: “Here is your child. Thank you for sponsoring him. With your twenty dollars a month, he goes to school, receives medical care, and eats healthy food.”
I wondered how my brother had donated $240 a year to Compassion International, when he had so little money to spare. He was struggling to save money for college and was trying to help his family, too.
I thought of the Biblical tale where a rich man donates a large sum to a synagogue and a poor woman donates her last two cents. As the story goes, her gift is worth infinitely more, for the rich man gave out of his surplus and she out of her scarcity.
As I reflected on what my bro had meant to the child, I thought of what he meant to all of us.
I thought of my mother, and her special relationship with him, and how when he was a child and misbehaved, she would grab the leather belt and try to whip him. But the harder she whipped him, the more Tewolde laughed, and the more he laughed, the harder she whipped him. He would keep laughing, smiling at her with every blow, until she gave up and joined him in laughing.
I thought of our younger brother, Hntsa. Tewolde knew that seven-year-old Hntsa loved quarters, so he would keep a lookout each night when he cleaned the Toyota dealership with Jim.
Tewolde always found several quarters — and if he didn’t, he took some out of his own pocket — and left them in his shoes for Hntsa. As soon as Hntsa woke up, he would run to see how many quarters his older brother had left for him.
I thought of Mehret, the lone girl among us after Mulu got her own place; Mehret could always turn to Tewolde for an ally. I thought of my pops, and the high level of respect that Tewolde always showed him, even when doing so meant swallowing his own pride.
Then I thought of myself, and of what the word
bro
means to me.…
It means a measuring stick,
A higher standard,
A heart that sees angels,
A lifelong inspiration.
It means God be with us …
And may we meet again.
In Sudan, from left to right: Tewolde, Mehret, Tsege, and Mawi.
C OFFEE T ALES
A s children, Tewolde, Mehret, Hntsa, and I knew better than to breach certain topics with our parents. High on the “Never Bring Up” list were boyfriends, girlfriends, and all things sexual. My parents had married by arrangement and considered dating to be a uniquely American
sidinet,
or wickedness, that their children would never practice — at least not while we lived under their roof.
One day, my father grabbed Tewolde and me and sat us down.
D O NOT HAVE SEX. Y OU WILL GET AIDS. Y OU WILL DIE. YOU WILL HAVE CHILDREN THAT YOU
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