She saw them at a Wal-Mart, huddling in an aisle, scrutinizing the food labels as though they were written in Chinese. They were darker than most black folks in Denver, tall, nicely dressed in sweatsuits and bright white tennis shoes, and speaking with an accent that might have been British.
John Johnston
Daniel Lual fled his village in 1987. Fourteen years later, he landed in Denver.
John Johnston
We are family: Dorothy O'Donal (seated, center) and other volunteers host a Thanksgiving dinner for the young men from Sudan.
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Being nosy, Dorothy O'Donal walked right up and asked, "Why are you buying all that food?"
She smiled.
The young men smiled back.
A fellow who was with them, volunteer Rich Wildau, explained that the youths had recently arrived from Africa and were settling into a group home in Aurora. He'd taken them shopping to pick up few things.
Then and there, Dorothy decided to help. She's like that, always donating her time and energy to people in need. She noticed that some of the young men had a strong body odor, so she told them, "Now, I don't mean to offend you, but when you go and look for a job, you have to be neat and clean and smell nice. So you use want to use soap and deodorant." She showed them how, right in the store.
The young men's thanks were so genuine that Dorothy glowed inside. She decided to take down their number and call them in a few days.
But one thing led to another, and somehow Dorothy misplaced their phone number. A few months later, she located Rich Wildau and tracked down the young men's address. One night, she decided to drive from her Park Hill home to the group apartment in Aurora. On her way, she prayed she was doing the right thing.
A new group of refugees had joined the young men that Dorothy had encountered at the store. At first they were all a little standoffish. Using hand signals and slow, careful speech, Dorothy was able to get her message across: "I'm here to help. Whatever you need, I'll help."
She asked how old they were; most said they didn't know. They all had the same birthdate of January 1. She asked about their parents and their families, and they all said they'd lost everyone in the war in Sudan.
Dorothy's heart broke. Then she made a decision: "I want to be your mother," she announced. "Call me Mama Dorothy."
After that, she began visiting the young men regularly. She became one of a small army of volunteers who've donated their time, energy and resources to bringing furniture, TVs, dishes, clothes and books to the Lost Boys. Unlike many of the other volunteers, Dorothy is not affiliated with any church group or service agency. She's just helpful.
"The only thing they eat is beans and rice and beans and rice," she says. "So I went down to the store and bought some ground chuck -- not hamburger, because it's too greasy, and they don't like greasy food -- and then added some Ragú and some onion, and cooked it in my own special way. Then I got a big pitcher and poured in some powdered milk and ice and stirred it up real good. Oh, they were so happy. You should have seen how happy they were. They just ate everything."
Dorothy was so smitten that she began calling the Lost Boys "my children," even though she has kids of her own. They call her husband "Papa Joe."
"They don't have any black people to love them," Dorothy explains. "We're the only black people who have shown them love. They're afraid to approach people because they think they'll go to jail. I told them, 'Baby, you all won't go to jail. Just come here and give me a hug.' And one by one, they gave me a hug. I'm a hugger. I'm a person who needs a lot of love and affection, and they give it to me. They believe in God, too. Oh, I appreciate them. And they appreciate me. It's just beautiful."
At age 65, recovering from shoulder surgery, Dorothy doesn't have as much time, money or energy to invest in the Lost Boys as she'd like. Still, every few days she shows up with a few groceries. She gave the young men a computer desk, but they didn't know how to use it: They stood it on end.
"I just love them," she says. "They're so respectful. They say, 'Yes, ma'am' and 'Thank you,' and they all want an education. They all want to work and they all want to improve themselves. They don't speak English too well, but they're trying. I'll do everything in my power to help them."
When friends who'd settled in New York called a few months back to see how Denver's Lost Boys were adjusting, they replied, "We have a mother now. We call her Mama Dorothy."
Makercot Manyiel has lived in the United States for two years. He has two jobs, a car, an apartment and a paycheck big enough to support himself and send money back to Sudan. He has not only survived, he has succeeded.
Makercot spent his early years in the city of Rumbek, but his family sent him away to school so he would not get tangled in the war. Wherever he went, though, war followed. In 1990, while fighting raged in southern Sudan, he left for India. He stayed in that country nine years, often going three days without a meal, unable to return home. Finally, he applied for refugee status and was resettled in Denver.
