I am a different person who returns to America. I am an adult who has lived completely on my own for three months, held a full-time job, made my own money, and opened my own bank account. I’ve also had some disastrous sexual experiences and been sick, depressed, scared, and alone, and I survived. I’m still here.
I’d been taught that God’s Family is my real family, but the minute I stepped outside the group, all ties were severed, just like when I was twelve and stranded in America with my mom, Jondy, and Nina. It wasn’t the Family that came to our rescue; it was my System relatives, even those who didn’t like or agree with us. When the chips are down, blood is stronger than conviction.
My first long-hop stop is Houston to see my dad and my grandmother Eve. Houston is a hotbed of Family members and ex–Family members, and I quickly realize it’s not a good environment for me. Too many people who want to hash out Family ways or immerse me in fundamentalism. Mother Eve and Steven’s family have been working with the Korean churches since they left the Family, and they try to drag me to one church event after another. They all want me to accept their brand of Jesus, but I need space to figure out who I am first.
For Thanksgiving, I visit Grandad Gene and Barbara in Indianapolis. My granddad, who’d promised to help me go to college if I ever decided to do so, agrees to give me $100 a month for food while I’m in school. It’s not nearly as much as I’d hoped for, but I shoulder the disappointment and give him a big hug. I know he loves me; I figure he forgot that $100 doesn’t go as far today as it did when he was in school. Barbara squeezes my shoulder and tells me she’s proud of me, but I sense I can’t impose on her nice retirement by staying long-term. I’m also not the least bit interested in spending a snow-locked winter in Indiana.
I head to see my grandmother, who is living in a one-bedroom apartment in an assisted-living facility in Georgia. She was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, so she can’t live alone and is mostly in a wheelchair. I’m shocked—and so grateful we got to spend time together a few years ago on our trip to Europe. Did she know about her condition then? Was that why she was so adamant about me coming with her? I try to cheer her up by telling her my plans for the future. She’s thrilled I’m going to go to college, but enthusiasm is about the only thing she can offer. There’s obviously no place for me there.
My final stop is my mother’s sister Madeline, who moved her family from Georgia to Monterey, California, a couple of years ago. I release a sigh of tension when I see my kindly uncle Rick waiting for me with a smile in the arrivals area at the San Francisco Airport. Being deserted by the Family at the airport in Miami has never fully left me.
After a welcoming hug, he loads my heavy suitcases into his SUV. Then he shoots me an impish grin. “How would you like to come with me to a wine tasting?” he asks.
“That sounds great!” I exclaim. “What’s a wine tasting?”
He laughs. “You’ll see.”
What a cool way to start my life in California!
We drive to the San Francisco Marriott Hotel and head into a huge ballroom with dozens of long tables lined with bottles of wine. I’ve never seen anything like it. This is a far cry from the Family’s regimented one glass a week of cheap box wine.
“I’m a wine distributor,” Uncle Rick explains. “It’s my job to go up and down the coast to events like this, tasting different varieties. Try this one first.” He hands me a glass. “Swirl it in your mouth, then spit it into these silver buckets at the end of the table. Don’t swallow, or you’ll get real drunk real fast.”
What a strange sight. All these professionals in suits, spitting into buckets. I join the fun and wash away some of the anxiety I’m starting to feel about my new potential home before the two-hour drive south to Carmel Valley.
We pull up to a beautiful, yellow, Spanish-style house with a garden. It’s enchanting. Aunt Madeline is there to greet me with a big hug. Still, I’m on edge. Excited and tired but on edge. Will they like me? Will they let me stay?
“Erika and Erin!” I call to my twelve-and fifteen-year-old cousins. “I hardly recognized you! You’ve gotten so big since I last saw you!”
“You look the same,” they say with a laugh.
Erika holds back shyly.
“Erika, show Faith to your room!” Madeline booms.
Rick grabs my suitcases and carries them out to the guesthouse that I’ll be sharing with Erika. It’s set against the main house with its own entrance and consists of one big room with two single beds and a couple of chests of drawers, and a small bathroom.
“Is this okay?” Rick looks concerned.
“This is great!” I assure him. “I’m used to sharing a room. Thank you so much for taking me in.”
That night, as I climb into my single bed with the white-and-yellow quilted bedspread, I stare at a huge oil painting of a purple flower hanging on the wall. Thank You, God, for bringing me here safely and giving me a place to lay my head. It might not be every young woman’s dream to share a room with her twelve-year-old cousin, but I know I’m lucky not to be on the streets.
When I explain to Aunt Madeline about my situation, she invites me to live with them, free of charge until I can get on my feet, as long as I help her clean the house. I’m used to cleaning, and California has an excellent university system. Bingo.
College is my single-minded goal, and I want to make sure I attend the best one I can get into. Even though it’s frowned upon in the Family, I’ve always been competitive. Comes with keeping up with five older brothers. I start researching U.S. News & World Report college rankings and contact college admissions officers of top schools around the country. Over and over, I hear the same thing: “Well, you seem like an interesting candidate, but you have no scholastic record that we recognize.”
I try to explain, telling them, “My parents were overseas missionaries, so I was homeschooled. Here are my scores from the high school exam that I took in the US. I scored in the top percentile.”
The Rice University admissions counselor tells me, “Yes, but without an official high school transcript, there’s no way we can compare you to other students. We don’t recognize homeschool records. My suggestion is that you go to community college for a year. Make good grades, get an academic record, then try to apply.”
Undefeated, I head to the local community college in Monterey. They also don’t recognize my homeschool records, but they accept the diploma.
“You’ll need to take a placement exam in math and English, so we know what classes to put you in,” the admissions counselor says. “Do you have SAT or ACT scores? If you get a high enough grade in one of those, you won’t have to take all the remedial English and math.”
Okay, I think, I can take the test.
I ask about tuition.
“It takes a year to qualify as a California resident, so your first-year tuition will be $3,500, as compared with $300 for residents.”