I got beat up in Africa: This, and other experiences that have made me

​I was floating. I heard a woman’s voice beneath me, screaming and crying out, and I felt sadness for her. Who was she? Why was she so upset? I felt light, peaceful, free. I couldn’t see any images, just an orange tinted haze all around me. I didn’t know who I was, I didn’t know that I didn’t know, I didn’t know that the girl screaming beneath me, was me.

​Me. Born to Connie and William Loumeau, in 1984, near Los Angeles, CA. Born to a mother who was adoring, and a father who wanted to be, but just never figured out how. Born the eldest of my mother’s, with four to follow, and the second eldest of my father’s. My blood was a very American mix of French, Guatemalan, English, and Irish. Fiery hair, a fiery mouth, a fire that helped me fight through many trials and adventures that were to come.

​I opened my eyes, and was blinded by a light. The sterile glare of the operating room lights were immediately blocked by the silhouette of Rita. “You’ve been attacked.” I reached my hand around the back of my head, to touch the pain. I pulled my hand forward into my view, and it was covered in blood. I remembered. The men surrounding me in the darkness, seeing one reveal from behind his body a police stick, as he raised it above me. I was falling, and everything went black.

​The train car went black as the man closed the sliding door before we made it out. One mother and four small children, with all of our bags, just couldn’t get us out in time. We were on our way to Utah, leaving our home in crisp, lush Oregon. Leaving a father who was too broken to care for us, going to a place I did not know. My little brother lunged forward in the darkness and jolted the door open. A man on the tracks was angry at first, then realized we were nearly forgotten, and helped us step out into our new home.
​Two dozen moves in one state, new schools, new friends, a new dad, a new sister. Boyfriends, a wedding, a companion, and more moves. Colorado, Tennessee, Colorado again. I saw Guatemala, Mexico, Belize,Amsterdam, and Africa. I saw Africa, and it almost took me.

​I was in front of a mirror. Who was that? Me? No. The girl in the mirror was broken. She was swollen, bloody, black, ugly. Not me, who?

​Me. Watching the rain kiss the ocean waves. Smelling the salty air, feeling the sand in my toes, the wind that threatened to bring in the tide before I made it back past the rocky shoreline. I picked up shells, pooled them into the bowl of fabric from my shirt. The sky and the ocean were one, there was no longer a distinction; the raindrops were so thick. Beauty.

​The first time I saw her, I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was. Despite the emergency, the pain, the fear, I said only, “I am so happy. I am so happy.” I kissed her forehead, and she was gone. I begged to see her, but I was too sick. She was too sick to be brought to me. At last, I saw her. My baby girl. She couldn’t breath on her own, couldn’t eat, she was so weak. I sobbed endlessly for fear of losing her, or leaving her. I cried to my ancestors, to my God, to save her. To save me so I could be with her. Someone was stroking my hair, but I opened my eyes, and no one was there. “Not me,” I said, “Go to her.” I wheeled up to her floor, leaned over her tiny bed, and felt a shoulder against mine. Someone else was also leaning over my sweet baby, but no one was there.

​I woke up the next morning, and my reflection was unchanged. I felt someone against my shoulder, next to me. Someone was there. Who? Faces I did not recognize leaned over me, they cried for me. “We heard your friend cry for help. I ran to you, I felt your pulse. I thought you were dead.” Her dark skin was creased with concern, her eyes fearful. “Your mother cannot be here with you, so I will be your mother now.” A few others joined her, and they prayed for me.

​I prayed on the plane that winter, prayed that the vision I had was just my imagination. Prayed that the Tsunami I learned about from the small tv on the back of the seat in front of me did not really take Kali. Prayed that the instant vision of her body being ripped through the water, far below air, wasn’t real. The plane landed and I desperately grabbed for my phone. I turned it on, 4 new messages. “Monique, Monique, did you hear? They can’t find her. Monique, Kali is missing in the Tsunami.” The pain was excruciating. I knew she wasn’t missing, I knew she was gone. I raced in a daze for the exit, raced to get home to stare at the talking faces on the screen. Missing. Lost. Searching. And finally, a body found. My sweet Kali, the girl I cared for, made macaroni and cheese for, drove to gymnastics, to parties, went shopping with, loved, gone.

​I changed my degree. I became a humanitarian, an activist. My long sought after dreams of fame as an actress and a singer seemed silly. They took back seat to my new ambition-I wanted to be a humanist. Kali was gone, but those left to suffer in this world needed aid. Support, love, oneness. It was settled, I was going to Africa.

​Abdi was there next. Holding my hand. He said little, just sat for hours. How did you get here? I asked. He lived hours away by bus, a bus fare that was quite costly for his wages. He did not have to answer. I knew, food money was sacrificed to hold the hand of a white girl, a friend, who needed him.

​God is my lineage, for I am his daughter. And I need him. I need him because I am afraid, I am often confused, and I need him to protect those I love. I need him to show others that this world is still good. That a girl can be beaten, bloodied, left for dead, because she is a girl, and she is white. But, that same girl can be surrounded by the sacrifice of strangers, by the pure hearts of his otherchildren. We need God, we need him to help us see that we are all one. That Kali, who was taken by a Tsunami, is our sister. That Abdi, who went hungry to serve a friend, is our brother. That we are incredible, capable, and we can make a difference. We can hold the hand of a bruised girl, we can light candles for a lost child, we can watch over and pray for a sick baby. We can and we should. I can. I do.

​Me. Fire. Strong. I am a woman, I am a fighter. I am a mother. I am powerful, and I am learning. My legs are strong. I am not floating; I am firm on the ground. And I am running forward.