Welcome to America

Certain family stories embarrass the kids, and I try to be courteous and protect their privacy as much as possible. However, some stories are simply too good to keep to myself.

This is the infamous "Lost Boys" story, of all my wild-but-(mostly)-true tales, the one most frequently requested and retold. It first appeared in an email prayer letter dated December 31, 2002.

It was the first time we had attempted to set up housekeeping and reside in the US since 1990. We had just completed the journey from southern Mexico to northern Ohio with seven children, ages 4, almost 6, 7, 11, 13, 15, and 17. Four of the children had never lived north of the border, and only the oldest two had vague memories of our other furlough. We soon discovered a huge difference between visiting the US for a quick summer trip, and actually settling in and trying to Americanize the kids before college.

One concern for the older boys, in particular, was their lack of mobility in the states. With no cheap public transportation like on the field, they would have to walk a lot. Back home they were free to roam as they pleased, with no real dangers aside from malamujer (a poisonous plant), or a very occasional snake or scorpion, which they were equipped to deal with. With guaranteed sunshine almost 365 days a year, there was almost never a day they were not outdoors. That was in Mexico.

After a day and a half of unpacking and rearranging the furniture once we got to Ohio, sure enough, the boys began getting antsy with cabin fever. Knowing how cold, wet, and nasty the Cleveland weather was, I allowed Mike and Tim (the 13- and 15-year-old) to go "exploring" as they called it. I figured they would walk around the block, get their bearings, and come home freezing and wet within the hour.

When they didn't return right away, I assumed they had found their way to some friends' house a few miles away, where Jim had taken the younger kids to play while I organized the house. When Jim returned after dark without the boys, we were concerned. After an hour of Jim searching the streets while I prayed frantically at home, I was imagining all the possible scenarios.

About 8:30 a policeman showed up at the door. Having seen my share of TV shows, I knew what this meant. Something bad had happened. It was one of the lowest milliseconds in my life as a parent. I remember the policeman standing there speechless, oblivious to my agony. Finally I blurted out, “Just tell me quick: what happened? Are they dead? Tell me where Tim and Mike are. God will give me grace to handle whatever you tell me, but please tell me quickly. Are they dead?”

What happened is that the boys had gotten lost. The police simply refused to believe that these teens honestly did not know their address, and that we did not have a telephone of any sort in our home. So much for the "nice community helpers" I had described in Social Studies. The boys were found inside a public building, trying to use a phone book and deciding who to call for help, and ended up at the police station, being patted down and questioned about "guns, needles, and knives."

The police, alternating between good-cop and bad-cop, proceeded to interrogate them, all the while refusing to accept any of their consistent replies.
Imagine the line of questioning:
Where do you live? "We don't know."
What is your phone number? "We don't have a phone."
No cell phone? "We've never owned cell phones."
Where are you from? "Oaxaca, Mexico"
Where were you born? "Guatemala"
What do your parents do? (Silence. Unsure if it was safe to divulge our occupation, they only added to the suspicious atmosphere.) “I don’t think we should answer any more questions without our parents or legal counsel present.”
Fine. So tell us how to reach your parents! “We don’t know how to reach our parents.”

And on it went.

Right! Every answer was inconceivable to these policemen who presumed all "juveniles" are liars. They couldn't even believe Mike's age, since he was already over six feet tall at age 13. It didn’t help that the boys were wearing an odd assortment of ill-fitting, slightly hideous winter clothing people had donated. With that, not to mention their longish hair and their clearly-non-Cleveland accents, the officers concluded the whole story was fabricated, and that Mike and Tim must be runaways. After all, they hadn’t even known one person’s local phone number to call. The situation did look sketchy, I admit.

Apparently we did not exist on their computer data base, not having Ohio drivers' licenses, and not having been enrolled in any school in the US. What the policeman found the most ludicrous of all is that the boys were picked up ten miles from the landmark across the street from our house, where Tim insisted they had started out. Even after coming to our house (exactly where the boys described it), confirming the story with me, seeing the packing boxes, and reviewing my passport, the police officer still refused to believe these kids had actually WALKED ten miles. What American teenager walks anywhere in this day and time?

Ah, but that was his first mistake. These were not in any way "typical" American teens. I assured him that these boys frequently hiked that far in Mexico. And what self-respecting man of any age or cultural background would ask for directions until absolutely necessary?

Welcome to America, kids!