About

I was born on one October morning in 1983 at St. Paulos Hospital, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. At the age of four, my parents enrolled me in Bethlehem Elementary School. Two years later, my father was forced to leave Ethiopia for the US. Young adults like him were being harassed by the government at that time. Although he had been reluctant to leave, his mother convinced him that it was the only way he could provide for me...alive. A year after that, my mother joined him. So at the age of seven, I was living with my grand parents in an area called Gulele, north of Addis Ababa.

On one Saturday afternoon, May, 1997, I landed at Dulles International Airport in Virginia. I was accompanied by my grandmother who had taken care of me for the previous seven years. When we walked out of the Airport, I saw the two people whose faces have never left me throughout my childhood. Three months later, I was enrolled in Oliver Wendell Holmes Middle School in Fairfax, Virginia. It was there that I spent the happiest time of my life. It also happens to be the period in my life where I learned the most about everything from music to the meaning of life itself.

On Christmas day, 1999, my father and I drove a U-Haul track from Virginia to Nashville, Tennessee. A week later, my father registered me at Antioch High School. For the following four years, I completed my high school curriculum while playing tennis and helping my father renovate our house in my spare time. When I graduated from High school, I moved to Knoxville to attend the University of Tennessee.

In July of 2008, I received a call from my mother telling me the doctors had found a dark spot on my father's chest X-Ray. Then she said, "you know how it is, many Ethiopians have that spot from the TB vaccinations we received back home." My brain was about to freeze. I have always been good at calculating the worst possible outcome of any situation. So I said to her, "Nini, call the doctors immediately and ask them to look at it further...don't wait another day." She didn't understand. She asked, "why? what's wrong?" I didn't want to say anything that might worry them both. So I told her that it would just be a good idea. She agreed and hanged up the phone. I was driving back from Kroger, where I had bought onions and tomatoe to make dinner. Instead, I went straight to bed and cried my eyes out. I could not bear the possibilities. The next day, I went to work and had my fingers on the keyboard and my eyes at the monitor...and instead of reading what was in front of me, I cried non-stop the whole morning. When it was time for lunch, I went straight home.

A few days later, I had to travel to DC for work and so I called home once I got to my hotel. My mother answered and said, "Henokiye..." I am not a fan of that sound, because it has often been followed by, "...your dad is going to America," or "...your mom is going to America," or "your grandfather has passed away." This time, it was followed by, "...it is a SMALL tumor." She said the doctors are very optimistic that they will be able to remove it quickly. Then she said, "here, talk to your dad." In my mind, I was screaming, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I don't want to talk to him...we're not friends anymore." A few seconds later came that voice which had always sounded so friendly to me...a voice so powerful, it cured my flu and stomachache throughout my childhood. "Shrimbilo, how are you?" I sat down on the bed and then replied, "okay." That's unusual, because anyone who has ever met me knows that my answer to that question is almost alwasy, "fantastic," "great," or at least "good." He asked me where I was staying and I told him I was at the Hyatt Regency in Bethesda. He said, "are you serious? That is one of my favorite hotels. Now I want you to do me a favor." He rarely asked me for a favor so I was ready to step up, for it maybe my last chance. He then said, "There is a sandwich place two blocks away from that hotel. Your mother and I spent many days there because it is so good. I want you to try it tomorrow and let me know." Oh, that was good! My tears dried up instantly. That was the favor?

Around lunch time on January 4, 2009, he asked my mother to make him spaghetti without tomatoes. Spaghetti was his favorite food. While my mother was making him lunch, he sat by the dining table and asked me to get him some water. He said to me, "Henok, I was hopefull that I would feel better by now. I guess that is not going to happen." There was nothing I could say. It had gotten so bad that earlier that morning I prayed to God to take him away. He did not deserve to suffer so much...mentally or physically. After lunch, his body became irritated. He would sit down for a second and then get right back up. He would walk around the house, then sit back down. I told him to rest, but he said he couldn't. For the first time in a while, he asked if it was better to go the hospital. He hated that place. Then he sat down again and muttered the words, "it is my fault." I was getting totally confused. I had slept less than five hours over three days... looking over him to make sure he was as comfortable as possible.

We all got dressed and we started to walk him to the car when I noticed he was dozing off. I asked someone to hold him and ran to call 911. They told me the paramedics will be there soon and so we got him into the car as we waited for them to arrive. The fire engine arrived before the ambulance and they were able to give him some oxygen until the ambulance arrived. He was still sitting in the car so I sat next to him in the car. He took the oxygen mask off and said, "Did I ever tell you that story?" I said, "what story?" He explained, "the story about that fire engine in New York that was caught delivering hot pizza?" I smiled. He put the mask back on.

We spent the night at the hospital. The attending nurse that morning came in to check his vitals. When she was finished, she said, "give him a couple of hours." Sorry? A couple of hours for what?

He woke up a little later and asked me to give him something to drink. When he finished drinking he said, "Would you get Henok for me?" I almost dropped on the floor. My mother looked at me, and gave me a nod of approval. So I turned back to him and said, "Okay, I will."

A friend of the family, who was also a nurse, came in to see him. She sat by his bed and held his arm in her hands and began to monitor his pulse. I was getting very tired and looking at him breathe was nauseating me. His friends took me to the lobby to get something to eat. I got some salad and sat down with them. However, I was not in the mood to eat. I kept thinking to myself, "the man who brought you into this world and has labored to feed and cloth you is fighting for his life and you're eating salad?" Minutes later, someone's phone rang. They were calling from upstairs. He hanged up and said, "they're asking for his son." They did not even say "Henok, they want you." They explicitly said, "his son."

When I was in Ethiopia, I heard a lot of stories about my father. One of those stories was that when I was born, his friends asked him if it was true...that he was indeed a father. Apparently, he had replied, "yes, bittoregn biye." That is Amharic for, "yes, hoping he'll take care of me in my old age." I would find out later that day, that his was a false hope.

We ran to his room and I found many people surrounding his bed. They said, "talk to him, Henok, talk to him." What was I supposed to say? I bent my head over his, close enough to whisper in his ears, and started, "Mikriye..." Then I paused. There were a couple of things I could have said. The first was to say thank you...for bringing me into the world, changing my diapers, feeding me, clothing me, teaching me how to fly a kite, teaching me how to eat fish, bringing me to America, teaching me how to write in English, teaching me how to do algebra, advising me to stay away from politics, advising me to live my own life rather than that of others, advising me to marry the girl that loves me rather than the girl that I love alone, and...in his last days...to do what I love NOW rather than later. That was one possibility. But that was tricky. What if he survives and lives to say, "Henok, you were ready to let me go so easily!" Well, I had to say something quick...time was running out. He was breathing once every minute. I took the cheap way out, and muttered, "Mikriye, are you going to leave me here by myself? Am I going to live without a father?" He didn't say anything. I waited for a minute...then another minute, and just as I was about to give up, he pushed the air one last time. I took it to mean, "Yes, Henok! Once again...you need to take care of yourself...how long were you planning to live on me?"

I thanked God for answering my prayers from the morning before. Of course, I had been praying for the previous five months asking God to heal my father. I guess he only got my last prayer. But, that'll do. It's not like I can complain.

And so here I am...well over a year after his passing, trying to make something out of life. Even though I was not able to take care of my father in his old age, I can at least live my life in a manner that would simulate that experience. If you are one of those people who have been a friend or a boss or an acquaintance, thank you for your support.