If you’re just joining the story of A Gift from Oregon, you can read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

My stomach was a ball of nerves, like one of those giant office supply rubberband balls snapping and bouncing between my ribcage.  The ride to Bungatira took me way outside of Gulu, past several villages each boasting a small roadside store or two.  Boda drivers waiting to carry fares sat parked along the road and clustered on the corners.  Mothers and children sat selling the riches of their gardens and the children called out, “Munu!  Munu!”  I waved and smiled at their innocence, but the rubberband ball in my gut continued to ping-pong off my insides.

Denis was his usual chatty self, but I couldn’t help but remember my last visit to Bungatira.

The pain of seeing discrimination against people with mental illnesses inked so clearly on their community Constitution.

The anguish of sitting beside my son during talk of child soldiers returning from war changed for the worse.

The feeling of wanting to run away.

The burning sensation in the very core of my being that made me stay and speak up for my loved ones.

The community members who walked out of the meeting.

The tears that fell in the red dirt when I spoke about my loved ones struggling with mental illness and the searing pain that they wouldn’t be welcomed in this group.

The heartfelt apologies for causing me pain.

And finally the blissful relief of seeing those discriminatory words removed from the community Constitution.

This time I returned with a purse full of shillings for the Bungatira community group.  640,000 shillings from my friend Jenna who had been so moved by their willingness to change that she bequeathed $250 raised by her Oregon Vigilantes of Kindness to the group in Bungatira.

The money would go towards helping them start a savings and loan program, wherein group members could borrow reasonable amounts and pay them back with interest.  The people of Bungatira would now be able to take out loans to pay their child’s school fees.

Inside my purse beside my fat stack of shillings was my iPad.  On it I had pictures of my loved ones who struggle with mental illness and pictures of Jenna and her loved ones as well.  I’d go and share our stories, share that we too are mothers and wives battling on our knees alongside our loved ones.

Donald M. Murray, one of my favorite writers and writing teachers, once said, “The more personal I am, the more universal I become.”  As Denis steered us closer to Bungatira, I prayed that would be true.  I prayed that in sharing the stories of my life and explaining what compelled Jenna to choose Bungatira to receive the money from Oregon, the people of Bungatira would see the very personal side of the universal issue of living with and loving people living with mental illnesses.  I didn’t want to be another white person advising them on what I think is best for their community.  I wanted to be Lanyero Alicia, a woman and a friend who has walked some of the same paths they’re walking and has come out scarred, but stronger for having chosen to love when it was painful and to fight for my loved ones when they couldn’t fight for themselves.

But, Lord have mercy, that was a tall order and the closer we got to Bungatira, the more it felt like I wasn’t up to size.  The sky turned from blue to pallid gray, the perfect match to my unease.

We first stopped at Denis’ brother’s store in Bungatira where a local women’s dance troupe were preparing to perform underneath a mango tree behind the store.  Denis had asked them there in my honor and these women were stunning, absolutely stunning.  They were dressed in every color of the rainbow with bells tied around their ankles.  Two men brought out drums and these beautiful women sang and danced with such strength that my heartbeat began to keep time with their songs.  I’m told they didn’t sing a prayer for rain, but the rain came nonetheless and the women kept on dancing.  I couldn’t snap photos quickly enough.  I marveled at their feet, so tough from everyday life, so exquisite as they danced in time together.

The rain came down in sheets and we moved underneath the overhang in front of the store.  The women kept dancing and singing, their voices rising over the rain, which drowned out the thumping ball of nerves in my belly.  After the dancing, we ate cookies and drank soda with the women.

When the rain let up, it was time to complete the journey to Bungatira.  On the back of Denis’ motorcycle, I took deep breaths and listened to the greenery thwapping against my skirt as the road grew narrower.  Upon reaching Denis’ compound, the community group gathered and I sat in a plastic chair with the officers of the group.  Denis’ brother, Michael, sat beside me ready to translate.

They opened the meeting with a prayer and after a few short words, I had the floor.  Gulp.  I looked into their eyes and they into mine.  With a final deep breath, I began to speak, first thanking them for inviting me back and then the time came to share my story of loving people with mental illnesses.  I willed the lump in my throat back down as I spoke and barely contained tears as I spoke of a particular loved one living a happy and healthy life with bi-polar disorder.  Michael translated that my loved one is now happy and healthy and the group gathered on papyrus mats at my feet broke into applause.  I smiled and showed photos and then told Jenna’s story of loving someone through post traumatic stress disorder.  They clapped and cheered when I told them that fatherhood is helping this particular person heal from PTSD.  They clapped and cheered like our loved ones were their loved ones.  The ball of rubberbands in my stomach settled as my heart filled.

I explained that because they’d changed their constitution to include people struggling with mental illness, Jenna and the Oregon Vigilantes had sent me with money for their savings and loan program.  I presented all 640, 000 shillings to the Treasurer and again, the people of Bungatira broke into applause.  Denis spoke kind words over me and I deflected them, insisting that the money was because of the changes they’d made not because of anything I’d done.

Denis introduced me to a man and his daughter.  The man is a single father and his daughter had epilepsy and autism.  Denis explained to me that when the father heard the group was accepting people with mental illnesses, he and his daughter had joined immediately.

Denis’ words were like a punch in the gut.  For them, the term “mental illness” also encompasses mental disabilities.  Oh God.

I found myself struggling for breath.  I thought of all the kids with special needs who I’ve fought to include in my classroom, all the meetings where I’ve gone toe to toe to fight for their rights.  To find the fight here in the African bush had knocked me off kilter.

I looked at the man and his daughter sitting so proudly as official dues paying members.  Equals with equal buy-in and equal power.

“I’m so glad you’re both here.  It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I met the father’s eyes.

Michael leaned in and explained to me that since the man and his daughter had joined the group, the people of Bungatira had met to see how they can help him raise his daughter and keep her safe.  The women are teaching the girl to cook and the men of the community are acting as her extremely protective big brothers.  They have surrounded the man and his daughter and enfolded them into their own families.

After a day of holding back tears, I let them fall freely.  I cried for the beauty of it all and for the fact that I got to play a small part in this story.

I stayed in Bungatira until nightfall when Denis’ family sits nightly around the bonfire and roasts maize.  The bonfire is where they gather as a family and address any concerns.  It’s a sacred time and as one of the children crawled into my lap, I knew how fortunate I was to be included.  I sat in their inner circle and listened, gazing up at the sky which had cleared and given way to millions of blinking stars.

On the boda ride back to town, I felt a particular sadness leaving Bungatira and her people.  I held their faces in my mind and closed my eyes to the wind on my face.  Denis told me several times during my trip that I was changing the world, but leaving Bungatira for the last time, I knew that I was the one who was forever changed.

If you’re just joining the story of A Gift from Oregon, you can read Part 1 here.

While in Uganda I got to spend a lot of time with Denis riding on the back of his boda and visiting his village, Bungatira.  He became my closest Ugandan friend which meant I got to see him when he was happy, when he was annoyed with me (which was hilarious), when he was grateful, when he was inspired and when he was sad, but I’d never seen his nervous side.

That is, I’d never seen his nervous side until the day we went to his new school.

I’d heard about his plans to return to school for weeks on end, heard all the questions he was going to ask the admissions counselor, heard him vacillate back and forth between studying to become a doctor or a teacher.  School was all he could talk about since the day he picked up his new pigs courtesy of my friends, Julie and Clark.  This talk was kicked into high gear when Jenna and her posse of Oregon Vigilantes, bequeathed Denis enough money to return to school that very term while his pigs matured enough to breed and sell for the next term’s fees.

All his talk of returning to school was endearing.  There aren’t free public schools in Uganda.  Only the well off get to send their children to school.  That sentence catches like rocks in my throat each time I write or speak it.  Denis’ parents had done their best to raise and sell crops so he could attend school, but the money ran out before the third term of his Senior Three year, the equivalent of the third term of his sophomore year in high school.

Denis is 27.

And he was on his face desperate to return to school.

Can you imagine returning to your high school courses at the age of 27?  Neither can I.  Friends, that takes moxie I simply don’t have.

So Denis had every right to be nervous and as he pulled the boda onto the school compound, he was quiet.  I had my camera at the ready, knowing that he might be too nervous to remember the details of the day, but that it was a day so worthy of remembering.  We entered the modest handmade brick building that serves as the office.  The administrator was working inside and she welcomed us as we entered.  We sat in front of her desk and to my surprise, Denis asked her none of the questions he’d mentioned to me on the boda.  He sat quietly in the chair and twisted his hands, fidgeting and barely making eye contact.  I began to ask questions on his behalf, voicing all the things he’d wondered aloud on our daily rides.  The administrator gave Denis the registration form and he fumbled with it, his hands visibly shaking.

“Denis, relax.  This is a good thing.  You get to go back to school,” I covered his hands with my own.  “Just relax.  Why don’t you fill out the form while we’re here and if you want me to look it over, I’m happy to do that.”

“Yes.  I’ll fill it out right now,” Denis removed a pen from his pocket.  I watched as he wrote every word and letter with precise care.  I talked to the administrator while Denis filled the form out and I was delighted to find out that the administrator was once a primary teacher.  I shared with her that I’m a primary teacher in the U.S. and we had a lovely chat.

“Alicia, will you take a look?”  Denis passed me his registration form.  I scanned the facts of his life.  His age.  His family name.  His tribe.  His birthdate.  The name of his last school.  So much information about my friend and at the same time so very little.

“Looks good, Denis, but you have to fill out the back as well,” I said quietly turning the paper over and passing it back to him.

“The back?”  If it were physically possible, I think Denis would’ve blushed.  He took the paper and read the backside, carefully filling in more spaces.

“Are you his sponsor?” the administrator asked me.

“No, I’m his friend.”

“His friend?”

“Yes, he’s my boda driver and we’ve become friends.”  I smiled at Denis and snapped his photo as he filled out the registration paper.

“Can I put your name here?”  Denis pointed to a place on the form for names of people likely to visit him at school.  He’d listed his mother and one of his brothers.  There was one more line.

“Definitely.  I’d love to visit you at school when I return.”  Denis wrote my name.  The form also asked for the relationship.  Denis penned the words ‘best friend’.  I smiled knowing I was in good company with his best friend J.B. and his other best friend, my oldest son, William.

Denis completed the form and we left the school under a drizzling sky that couldn’t begin to dampen my mood.  I snapped a final photo of Denis standing outside the doorway, his school name emblazoned above the door.

A couple of days later he returned to school with the requisite passport sized photo and his enrollment fee, courtesy of my beloved Oregon Vigilantes.

In one of our many conversations, Denis asked if I would return to Uganda for his graduation.  “You will sit next to my mom and wear a Gomesi.”

“I’d like that.”

“To wear a Gomesi?”

“To see you graduate.”

On my last evening in Uganda, I sat in a hotel room near the airport and all the way across the country from my loved ones in Gulu.  My phone rang and on the other end was Denis calling to tell me he’d used some of the money from the Oregon Vigilantes to sign up for additional tutoring before the term started and also to buy books and a school uniform, the requisite attire for all schools in Uganda.

The new term begins in a matter of days and after years of waiting and working and praying and hoping for a second chance to go to school, my dear friend Denis is a student once again.  And it’s all because some recklessly kind Oregon Vigilantes saw Denis’ potential from halfway around the world and decided to do something about it.