Sarah-in-Atlanta

I temporarily renamed my blog to more accurately reflect my location. I am, in fact, in Atlanta taking a short break from simple living in order to interview for medical school at Emory. The trip has, so far, been absolutely fabulous. I was worried that my nerves would spoil everything but so far I have been having a blast. Last night I arrived at the courtyard marriot where I was given a room with two double beds so I naturally ate cookies and crackers in one of them while watching TV and surfing the internet and then slept in the other one after showering in a large, clean shower that had a massage setting on the shower head. It was SO nice to just revel in the little modern luxuries. But I didn't totally take a break from my jesuit volunteer-ness-- I still let yellow mellow in the bathroom until I left in the morning to save water :)

The trip has also been wonderful because I met the COOLEST shuttle driver ever last night. While the plane was pulling up the gate I got a phone call from an unknown number-- on the other end was a heavily-accented man named Sayeed asking for me. I assumed it was one of the refugees who needed something (oops....to be fair I get those calls a lot) but it was actually my shuttle driver letting me know where he would pick me up. When I got in the car I naturally asked him where he was from and it turns out that he was Somali! That launched a conversation about the Somali people I knew and then he started to tell me about his family. Turns out that this guy's dad was the somali ambassador to Germany from the 60s through the 80s! He was also invited to the United States as a part of the new African delegation to begin integrating African political leaders into world politics (while in the US he told the US ambassador that his country needed to work on civil rights). And, in the 70s, he negotiated the rescue of hostages from a hijacked plane from Monaco that was being held in somalia and he was subsequently honored at the German parliament--only the second foreigner to be so honored (first was JFK, third was Nelson Mandela)! How awesome is that! I told this Sayeed guy that he should write a book about his dad and that he has a really awesome family. Sayeed went on to tell me about the political history of Somalia and gave his opinion about international intervention efforts. At the end of the shuttle ride he refused to accept a tip and wished me luck on my interview.

In another instance of strange yet fruitful meetings, the woman next to me on the plane was extremely chatty and told me her whole life story. She then asked about what I was doing and when I mentioned the refugees she said "Oh my gosh! If you ever need clothes or blankets you need to contact this person from the American Sewing Guild (which (a) exists apparently and (b) she is a member of) and they will make you anything that you need!" She also gave me the name and contact info for another woman who does traditional hand embroidery who could help out the sudanese mother I may have mentioned before (7 children, limited english, does elaborate emroidery). I feel like Grandma Dupont would have been proud of the entire evening-- networking with strangers chance encounters, the Dupont way.

My interview is tomorrow and I am feeling great about it. I feel like this trip has been very auspicious so far. I have a few more stories from my week in the refugee world that I will have to tell you about later (my time on the lobby computer is about to be up) but quick preview: CPS, negotiating with a teenager to get her to help her dad pay rent, parent-teacher night with the congolese, public health department meeting about infectious disease in the refugee community (NOT a fantasy--actually happened!!!) and another CPS encounter. until then, stay well, insh'allah!

Portlandia

My housemates and I have been embracing our Portland citizenship with super "bourgey" (as in bourgeois) activities. It started when two of my housemates went to this super organic/local/portlandia store yesterday afternoon and priced Diva cups on their iphones while chatting with a lesbian couple doing the same. From there we all took the bus downtown and went to see the swifts at Chapman elementary. ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wy5oN7fv8aw ) This is a phenomenon that happens every september as these birds (swifts) migrate south. Thousands of them roost in the chimney of this elementary school every evening and at dusk they all fly in a spiral pattern around it and then, when some hidden cue is broadcasted, they all swoop down and dive into the chimney. It was really neat! We brought a picnic and watched it with about 1,000 other spectators. We then went to a local brewery and took the max home. This morning, while it was pouring rain, we trekked to the community garden and worked on our plot as a house activity. We harvested potatoes and planted kale and spinach. I am now sitting in a coffee shop mooching free internet while drinking tea out of a ceramic mug and wearing a knitted purple hat. Did I mention that two of my housemates are also out getting new piercings? As I said, embracing portland.

Work was great this week--I took a few more kids to their first days of school! I also got to go to a kindergarten orientation with a burmese child and her Dad. I want to go back to kindergarten! I also ran into an interesting problem at the social security office. One of our clients hadn't received her social security card and when I asked why they explained that their records said that she had already applied. Or rather, a woman with her name and birthdate had already applied. The problem is that every somali who does not have a birth certificate (which is anyone not born in the refugee camp, aka over the age of 20) is automatically given the birthday of 01/01/year they guess they were born. Somalis also have a few names that are REALLY common (Mohhamed, for example). So it is not surprising that two women with the same name who are roughly the same age are assigned the same birthdate and apply for social security cards. It's a problem.... not sure how it will work out.

I am getting some serious glares about the internet mooching--gotta run. Until next time!

Speaking of Refugees.....

Working with refugees leads to bizarre phone conversations. I sometimes find myself talking to Americans on the phone without any articles and only in the present tense because of habits I picked up at work (Friday we go coffee?). But sometimes I get to overhear some real gems from my coworkers: “We have an appointment tomorrow.... what? You moved to Alaska?” “No—Paw is her first name, Paw is his last name, and I don’t know who that third child named Paw is.” “There are three people in Kenya with the names..(x y z)..who say they know you and want to live with you when they arrive—do you know who these people are?” “Yes, I would like to rent an apartment for four single men from Somalia” (that last one has to raise a red flag for some agency somewhere I feel). And finally, the most sketchy-“Yes, she is not coming because she is being detained because of that fake bomb” (NO idea what that last one was about).

Speaking of Somalis—I made a trip to the clinic yesterday with a Somali mom, her kids, and an Iranian guy. They all had appointments around the same time so I decided to carpool and pick them both up for the clinic. Somehow the Iranian ended up in the back with the two kids but they both smiled and it seemed fine. Suddenly there was yelling in Somali and frantic movement from the mom and while I’m trying to keep the car on the road I turn around in time to see the mom do an impressive swooping maneuver and thrust a plastic bag in front of a puking kid. Everyone is talking rapidly and I am trying to pull over (into the clinic parking lot, conveniently enough) all the while the Iranian guy, looking deathly pale, is saying “Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!” with a tinge of panic while pointing at the puke-filled bag. I finally pull into a handicap parking spot, jump out, grab the kid and his bag, run him to the bathroom, toss the bag, find the rest of the crew and shoo them inside so that I can park (though it was complicated by the little girl who really wanted to help so kept taking my keys out of the car and shutting my door, not understanding that I had to move the car). The Iranian guy ran to the bathroom also (I suspect sympathy puker) and I am left to try to check in a very green-looking bunch of patients. I felt like a mom. 

Speaking of puking—I cannot remember if I mentioned before but when you are eating with the Nepali the way that you complement the chef is by eating very quickly. The logic is that the better the food tastes, the faster you will eat it. I was with a Nepali family today (specifically took that assignment hoping I might be fed) and I was invited to eat after the IRCO appointment. The appointment went long, however, so I was running late and so in an attempt to both complement the cook and get back in time I shoveled food in my mouth at a prodigious rate. It was spicy deliciousness and I nearly choked on it—I wonder what Nepali culture says about throwing up on your food as a guest?

Speaking of IRCO (Immigrant and Refugee Community Organization)—I felt pretty cool this morning when I walked into IRCO with a young Eritrean mother (with the CUTEST damn baby I have ever seen and contemplated stealing) and I was greeted by at least four refugees in the waiting room. I am becoming known in the refugee world.

Speaking of this Eritrean Mom—I dropped this girl (really young—like Deborah’s age with a baby) off at IRCO at 9am. I was told she didn’t need a ride home. The same person who told me that then asked me, around noon, when I was planning to pick her up. I scrambled for a bit and the caseworker called IRCO to let the girl know we were coming—but she had disappeared. There was literally nothing we could do at that point so I uneasily put it from my mind. When I returned to IRCO around 2:30 for another client, the Eritrean girl came walking out of a room at IRCO with her baby and said “finished” (the only thing she can say in English beyond hello). I gaped at her, tried to figure out how to ask her in tigrian where she had been for the last five hours, gave up and just drove her home.

Speaking of questionable parenting—there is this Burmese kid who is supposed to arrive at the end of the month to live with his Dad. He is travelling alone and I have been asked to do a home assessment (basically making sure the kid has a place to live, will go to school, and won’t be trafficked as a child slave—I should not be trusted with this). Unfortunately, when we called the number for the father in the US we are informed that the father is living in Kansas to work right now—either for 2 weeks or 1 year (not sure which). But the Dad apparently insists that the kid can live with his friend/cousin/God knows because every Burmese refugee is someone’s cousin. We have had to call the national office in Washington and are scrambling to figure out what to do with this kid who is now officially an “unaccompanied minor” and may have been abandoned by both of his parents.

Cute little Kidlets & Social Security--Gangsta' style

This week has been a shmorgasboard (sp?) of cheap volunteering gratification--in other words, I have been taking adorable little kids to their first days of school. I walked each kid to his or her bus stop and watched them board the bus, then I raced ahead to the school and tried to meet the bus before the kid disembarked and then I would hold their hand and walk them to their classrooms. These kids are CUTE--we are talking like "Save the Children" advertisement cute, like I could make Ghaddaffi interrupt a rant and say "awwww!!!!!" And they are so terrified! Most of them do not speak any english and are overwhelmed by the masses of other children. For their sakes (and my love of cuteness) I am so glad that I could walk them through the process on their first day. Other little kids were not so lucky--I passed on crying burmese 3rd grader and another little boy who did not speak english and was too terrified to respond to any questions in any of the variety of languages the counselor was trying. My heart just went out to every one of these sweethearts (sorry to gush, but OMG precious!) and I wish I could have sat next to them all day.

My kids all got on and off the buses okay the first day but today (the second day) I got a frantic phone call from one girl's little sister reporting that the older sister had missed the bus and was stuck at school (a good 4 miles away). I drove to the school (45 minute drive during rush hour for me) and when I pulled up there were three ESL kids, counting my student, who had all been confused and missed the bus. A school administrator was near them and she said "oh my god, are you Sarah?!" like she couldn't believe I was a real person. Apparently the kids couldn't explain where they lived or how they were getting home but my kid kept repeating "Sarah is coming" and the administrator was left to pray I existed. It struck me then how bizarre my role is in these kids' lives--they don't know who I am, who I work for, or why exactly I am helping them but they have this inexhaustable supply of trust that I will be there when they need help. I ended up taking the lot of the kids home. One of them was a plucky turkmeni kid who spoke english pretty well and was a hilarious conversationalist the whole drive home (he at first refused to tell me that he was from turkmenistan because he was tired of people not knowing that it was a country in Asia--I liked this kid, he had moxy).

Today I also was supposed to take a Somali to the Social Security Administration to get a social security card. I picked him up from a friend's apartment (who had been resettled in 1996!) and headed out. I blame the fact that I was driving a 30 yr old Somali man wearing baggy jeans, a popped collar and a sideways hat (which he changed into from a button-up shirt and slacks just to go to the SSA office for--someone needs to talk to this guy about american stereotypes) for the fact that I forgot to check whether he had brought any documents with him. Apparently the SSA wants some form of ID and verification that you are a legal resident before they will give you a social security card......oops. I told the guy I'd have to take him back tomorrow.

Final story-- I have discovered that I love the Nepali. All of the families I have met are adorable and really really hospitable. I drove one family to a clinic and the one english-speaking family member talked my ear off the whole way there. He told me about how he loves to play music, how his favorite thing in the world is to see a group of children in matching uniforms heading off to school, how since "we are educated people" (meaning he and I) we know that there is only one God and that man created the fight over religion so he as a Hindu was still a brother to me, a Christian. The same guy also nearly passed out later when he had to have his blood drawn and spent several minutes explaining to me how much he hates needles (hey mom, you should be friends). I was just tickled pink by this family. In a few minutes I am going to the airport to pick up another Nepali family with my coworker. Said coworker told me that we have to take the 15 passenger van because every singly other Nepali in the city wants to go meet this family at the airport--that is the Nepali way. We will pick 12 of them to go with us and help get this new family settled tonight. I am really excited--I'll let y'all know how it goes!