Adoption Day

Waiting for your homestay family to pick you up is a bit like waiting to be picked for dodgeball in gym class. As I sat outside our Kigali guest house watching student after student depart with their long-lost mom or dad—I couldn’t help but wonder when or if mine would even show.

The only information we were given on our host parents was contained in a tiny slip of paper handed out the day before: name, occupation, neighborhood, and number of kids. As my father was said to be a journalist living in Kimironko, the host/student compatibility felt almost too good to be true.

Finally, the green entrance gate opened and a white cab pulled into our lot with a younger-looking guy in the front seat. Due to some prior Facebook sleuthing, I knew right away that it was my host father stepping out of the vehicle. He said my name with a grin and I jumped from my seat to hug him. This is an important note because in Rwanda, hugging is essential, but not always customary for new male acquaintances. We had been advised beforehand by SIT staff to “wait for our fathers to approach us“ before determining whether a hug was warranted or a simple handshake would suffice.

”I am daddy,” my host father said and shook hands with each of the other students waiting to be picked up. If I hadn’t conducted the previous research, I would have thought this was a pretty patronizing introduction, I mean did he really expect me to call him daddy right off the bat? But to clear things up—his name is actually Daddy, making the scenario much less weird.

On the ride to my new home, Daddy asked about my first impressions of Rwanda, pausing every so often to point out important facilities: the U.S. Embassy, President Kagame’s office, a soccer stadium, and a local university. When we reached my new house, Daddy said it would be about a thirty minute walk to Kimironko Station where I would have to catch the bus to school everyday. The house is about midway up a hill, as all Rwandan homes are, in what I would consider a medium-density residential area. From the porch, there’s a picturesque view of the next hill over, dotted with terra-cotta houses.

The next family member I met was Denise, one of two house helpers in my new residence. House helpers are common in Rwanda in the way washing machines, dishwashers, and ovens are common in the U.S. The price of water and electricity is so high in Kigali that it’s actually more cost-effective to hire specialized employees to live with you and take care of children, cooking, cleaning, and running the house.

Daddy then showed me to my room—a respectably sized bed with a window, an electrical outlet, two lockable drawers for my valuables and a mosquito net. After unpacking the few things I thought qualified as valuables worthy of protecting, I found my host father in the living room, bouncing a wide-eyed little boy named Yael in his lap. Yael is a little over a year old and has the walking-phase jitters to prove it. He toddled from couch cushion to couch cushion, lifting each one to find a coin or lost battery to promptly hurl at the ground with a screech. I didn’t meet my host mother nor other two-year-old host brother, both named Roland (though my host mother’s is spelled with an “e” at the end), until a few hours later as they were resting. Both of my host parents work full-time jobs that often call for weekend dedication—certainly justifying a nap or two here and there.

A few things made my new home feel slightly less like, well... home. The lack of running water, kitchen, or dinner table made me suddenly realize how often I take showers, countertops and family meals for granted back home in Cornish, Maine. Comforts one must learn to temporarily live without in order to fully appreciate I suppose.

Before I even had time to take in the initial discomfort of uprooting oneself yet again, I was swept up into my new family’s various dynamics. After an hour or so, any and all feelings of discomfort were immediately quelled by the universal cuteness of one and two-year-old brothers and incredibly attentive parents. It’s truly magical how much of a kick kids seem to get out of wide eyes, sharp inhales, and hand covered mouths. ”Hello” is the extent of verbal communication between Roland and I—but spinning soccer balls and couch-cushion imaginary cars seem to be equally comprehensible.

SIT must have done their research, because it feels like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.