Just a snippet of my summer program life...in photo form

Some of my cutest kids at the summer program--flashing gang signs (oops)

I have been doing the summer program for 4 weeks now. It is still tough but the kids are cute. Here are three pics I took while chasing kids around.

He looks super cute (and is) but is also the face of tyranny....hyperactive tyranny

Roman is my super bus buddy. He is confused about how to say "I like xyz"so  instead he says things like "I like you starfish!"

Top 10 and short update

We have officially begun our summer program for the refugee kiddos! We have 27 adorable little hell-raisers from 9-2 every day and we are working on math and English with them in hopes of preparing them for school in the fall. I have mixed feelings about it--on the one hand these kids are RIDICULOUSLY CUTE and are really benefiting from the program but on the other hand I am EXHAUSTED. Seriously, I don't know how teachers do it--I come home from the program everyday and just collapse on my bed for a few hours (those of you who lived with me in college--think fall semester of sophomore year). There are a couple of really cute 6-year-olds whose shenanigans are a source of infinite amusement and tears (something else is also a source of amusement and tears--there are five nepali boys named yogesh, prabesh, pranesh, prajal and naresh in one class and I have to keep them straight). I will be collecting stories to share with y'all over the next few weeks. Unfortunately, posts might be few and far between because while at the summer program I have no internet access except after work at the local library and those hours were just cut! But I shall persevere :)

In any case, the main purpose of this blog is to share a list that I have been working on for the past 11 months:

TOP 10 WAYS YOU KNOW YOU'RE A JESUIT VOLUNTEER (based on actual experiences this year)

1) You use phrases like "sacred tension" and "intentionality" to discuss the chore wheel
2) You think that plants are a viable source of milk (e.g., almond milk, rice milk, etc)
3) You find yourself seriously discussing whether it is better to keep the thermostat at 45 degrees or 50 degrees during the winter.
4) Your "Mr. Roger's routine" when you get home is putting on long-johns and a flannel
5) You get piercings together and then "solidarity soak" them in salt water every night.
6) You really want to be classy about splitting a restaurant bill but with 8 roommates earning $100/month you never are.
7) You have to remind yourself that "if it's yellow, let it mellow" is not a socially acceptable practice when you were invited to someone's house for dinner.
8) You aren't phased when food shows up on your doorstep from an unknown source--or if someone you don't know comes to your door at 10:30pm with cinnamon rolls.
9) You don't have real pie weights so you have to use beans but then you get really stressed out about wasting the beans.
10) You go so long without shaving your legs that you need an electric razor first when you finally decide to tackle them. (not me, one of my roommates)

Bonus: You manage to find room in your budget for booze but you can't afford chasers or mixers.

Double-Dipping blogs

I am actually maintaining two blogs about refugee resettlement (which is why both are somewhat neglected). The other one is super politically-correct and is for our organization's volunteers. But I just spent two hours writing a post about food in refugee communities for that blog (so I am really hungry) and I thought it might also interest this crowd. So here is that post from the other blog for your information (in case you are ever invited over to a somali's home for dinner) based on my experiences this year:

"Food is a major part of hospitality for many of our refugee families. For some families, making dinner is a way to say thank you to their volunteer. If a family offers you food or tea, feel free to accept! It can be a new cultural experience and a bonding opportunity for you and the people you are tutoring.

     While Bhutanese/Nepali and Iraqi families are likely to feed you early and often, some families are a little more shy about their cuisine. The Burmese families, for example, might not invite you to dinner for some time because they worry you won’t like the food. I volunteered with a Chin Burmese family for 4 months before they invited me to dinner, but after that first dinner they cooked for me every single time I stopped by. Somali families, I have found, will feed you if you happen to be there when they are having dinner. Here is a very basic guide for those times when you are invited to eat with a family—what kind of food and practices you might see in Burmese, Nepali/Bhutanese and Somali households.

Bhutanese/Nepali

[Note: I am using the terms “Bhutanese” and “Nepali” interchangeably in this post. For an explanation, click here]



A typical Nepali meal

Bhutanese/Nepali families love to feed people—they consider hospitality to be extremely important. (I cannot tell you how many times case managers have gone to pick up a Bhutanese family for an appointment and have been fed first—it is generally faster to stop arguing about the time and eat). Nepali food is similar to Indian food in that it is very flavorful, is usually eaten with rice, and will not include beef of any sort. A typical Nepali plate might have a big mound of rice surrounded by small bowls of Dahl (lentil broth), spicy chicken or goat and pickled vegetables. In addition, there will usually be a plate of sliced cucumbers or radishes on the table to be eaten intermittently when the food is too spicy. One pours the side dishes onto the rice and then mixes it up and eats it with one’s hands. Nepali/Bhutanese families will usually give you a spoon but they are generally delighted if you try to eat it with your hands “like Nepali” (little kids love giving you lessons about the right way to eat) but make sure you wash your hands first! Also, Nepali people typically do not talk very much while eating a meal.

     **Side note from a past volunteer: sometimes Nepali/Bhutanese families serve me food without serving themselves and then watch me eat—this may feel intensely uncomfortable for you, but I would just try to relax and go with it if that happens (though I have tried to explain to families that I prefer eating with them, with mixed success).  

     Nepali/Bhutanese families will keep putting food on your plate until you tell them to stop—they want to make sure you eat as much as you want. You might have to tell them several times that you are full before they will stop trying to give you more—so if they just put more food on your plate, don’t worry if you cannot finish it. When you are finished, it is perfectly okay to lick your fingers (but don’t do that while you eat, that’s frowned-upon) and then you can go wash your hands at the kitchen sink.

     Before or after dinner (or really anytime during the day) Nepali families will serve tea (aka “chai”). Their tea is steeped in milk with cardamom seeds and is very sweet (if you are diabetic, mention it before they make the tea—this tea is usually loaded with sugar). Everybody in the family drinks tea, down to the littlest kids who might drink out of carefully-cooled bowls. 

Burmese

     Burmese food varies among the different ethnic groups but it is generally similar to Chinese food (e.g. a lot of rice, noodles and fish sauce). Consequently, Burmese families do most of their shopping at Asian markets like Fubonn on SE 82^nd Ave. Burmese food tends to be served with a main dish of rice, noodles, or soup and lots of little bowls of other ingredients on the tables from which you mix your own dish (which is nice if you want to avoid spicy food). Karen families will more often eat with their hands while other ethnic groups prefer to use spoons.  

A typical Burmese meal

Generally it is polite to finish your food but they won’t be insulted if you cannot. Much like with the Nepali they will keep serving you seconds and thirds in order to be hospitable so it is important to tell them when you don’t want any more. Also, it is fine to ask what is in a dish ahead of time and refuse it if you don’t like some of the ingredients—just tell them you don’t eat ___, they won’t mind. It will be a lot more awkward after the fact if they find out they have been serving you something you don’t like.

If you want to cook for a Burmese family, chicken is probably your safest bet. Mostly stay away from cheese and dairy, the Burmese tend to be unfamiliar with cheese in particular and don’t like to eat it. Baked goods and sweets are popular, though Burmese families don’t typically know how to bake these themselves (ovens are a new experience for most of the families).

Finally, if you are going to have tea with a Burmese family, expect Jasmine tea without sugar—it is a light, sweet-smelling green tea that one can buy fresh from Asian markets.   

Somali

     Somali food is characterized by lots of meat (beef or camel) cooked in oil and onions and eaten with bread. Somali families observe halal (Islamic rules for eating) pretty strictly so they buy most of their meat at Halal markets around Portland. Somali food is also strongly influenced by past Italian colonialism so most Somalis love spaghetti with onions and tomatoes any time of the day. Bananas are also a major part of meals for many Somalis—they will serve rice or pasta with a whole raw banana on the side.

Somali Sambusas

     I have also found that since many Somalis spent a long time in refugee camps they frequently eat the food of whatever country they lived in before coming to America—so there can be a lot of variation in what families will eat (e.g. if a family came from Kakuma, Kenya they will eat a lot of Kenyan food).  One dish that is pretty popular with most east Africans is Sambusas (aka “samosas)—fried dough packets stuffed with spicy ground beef or lamb (I highly recommend them!). 

     As with Nepali/Bhutanese families, Somalis will probably give you a spoon but they will be delighted to teach you to eat with your hands. If you are unsure how to eat something, just ask them how they would do it (though they will probably first insist that you can eat it however you would like).

     If you are cooking for a Somali family, chicken is probably safest bet (they are not as concerned about what store it came from) but raw veggies (e.g., salads) will probably not go over very well. Never serve something prepared with alcohol—even if it is “cooked off” (e.g. in desserts).

     You will probably be served Somali tea starting with your very first visit. They prefer black tea steeped in milk with cardamom pods, cinnamon sticks and whole cloves (basically a chai latte—very delicious!). They tend to drink it very sweet with lots of sugar so be sure to tell your host in advance if you cannot eat that much sugar.

Again, these are very basic guidelines, every family is different. We would love to hear some stories from our volunteers about eating with refugee families, feel free to post a comment below!"

So there you have it. FYI I am trying to get an "in" with each community so that I can learn how to cook all of this food so that I do not experience painful withdrawals when I return to Salt Lake City in a month.

I chose to laugh so I wouldn't cry....aka find the humor in every situation

Here is a random collection of stories I have accumulated over the last few weeks that are united by the humor that I found in each situation. (My laughter was accompanied by a forehead slap and a groan)

I picked up a somali guy at the airport last night (as per the state department's request) and took him to stay with a few of our other Somali guys for a couple of days. While he was catching his breath (by drinking sugary tea in true somali fashion) I watched TV with another guy (who I will call Faisel). We were watching a documentary about Pirates of the Caribbean and I turned to him and asked "do you know what this is about? Pirates? Do you know the word Pirate?" He looked confused and apologized for "little English." For some reason it suddenly seemed very important to me to explain what the word pirate meant--I started with "ocean", got to "boat" and mimed taking money. My gestures were getting more and more elaborate when suddenly Faisel's face lit up and said "oh! Pirates--Somalia!" I awkwardly said "yeah...pirates in somalia" he then pointed to the TV and asked "this is about pirates?" and when I said yes he yelled to his roommates "hey, come see, somalia is on the news!" LOL

I was waiting for this Somali guy at the airport with another Somali (my interpreter who taught me the somali phrase for "welcome to America!"). I told my interpreter the name of the guy we were waiting for and he immediately flipped open his phone and made a call in the Somali language. When he was done he turned to me and said "this guy we are looking for, he is short and fat--like four men but very small." I asked him how on earth he knew that and he told me "I called my friend in Michigan who came today and he was on the plane from Tunisia with him." Literally 2 minutes with just a name and the Somali network in the US was able to give me more personal details about this guy than the state department bio I was given! We picked him up without a hitch--he was short and a bit rotund--but not that fat. Really, he will fit into American society just fine. But the Somalis who meet him keep commenting on how fat he is. One lady patted his stomach and said "how could you survive Libya and Tunisia and still be this big!?" It's like they can accept that Americans are fat but they consider it open for public comment when one of their own is (I'm starting to suspect that Somalis may think Americans are a different species...)

The congolese family of nine I mentioned in the last post has been a joy to work with....mostly. I took them to go get clothes last week and, as per usual, I gave them a rough guideline of how much to spend. The problem with taking people to get clothing is that people vary dramatically in how much they think they need, how much they are willing to take, how well they can add prices in their heads, and how much they know about Portland weather. Different groups need different guidelines--with some wild generalizations this is what I have observed: somali guys won't really take anything beyond a shirt and maybe a pair of shoes, nepali families really like buying fake flowers, burmese families need encouragement to take more clothes for their kids, and most middle-eastern families are kind of grossed-out by the idea of used clothes. I didn't know what to expect with the congolese family so I just told them to "get what you need." Oops! six shopping carts and $1500 later we nearly cleaned out the store and significantly depleted our community grant. The problem was that this family didn't speak English at all so I couldn't figure out how to gently say "oh my god! Stop!!" I chalked it up to a learning experience and decided that in the future, for big families it was better to just tell them how many carts they could use.

On a different note.....Our summer program for elementary school-aged refugee kids starts in two weeks! I have been working on this for months and it looks like it is going to be a big success. We are working on a curriculum with two ESL teachers and I am busy planning field trips and fun activities. Those "fun activities" include a tae kwon do class that I will be teaching (with minimal english?) and messy science experiments! I'm gonna make gak and gooey slime!!! (needless to say, I am stoked!) I will try to get pictures to share with y'all during the course of the program...stay tuned!

"Pre-arrival Services"

Technically our work is split into two parts--pre- and post-arrival services. Normally I mostly just help with the post-arrival services but I lent one of the case managers a hand with pre-arrival work this last week. Last week we got the news that a family of nine from the Congo was being resettled by our agency in Portland. We only had about 10 days to find and furnish a 4-bedroom apartment--and our donations coordinator was out of town. Fate was with us and we did manage to find a place (at the last second we managed to find a landlord who had never before rented to a refugee family--she is going to hate us for a while I think (even with the best of families it just tends to involve a lot of chaos and "creative" paperwork while they are waiting for their documents to be processed).

Here is the Congolese family of nine with all of their worldly possessions
(The balloon was from the interpreter)

We spent hours upon hours setting up this apartment (eight bed frames to assemble, eight box springs and mattresses to carry up the stairs and eight sets of sheets to make up the beds with). What really struck me was the sheer volume of excess plastic packaging all of the lamps, microwave, vaccuum, etc. involved. But it was exciting because everything we put together was for a family who had probably never had it before.

About two hours before this family was supposed to arrive we got a phone call letting us know that their flight was delayed in Dallas. A serious problem with the refugee resettlement program (among many others) is that once a family goes through customs there isn't really a system of support for the family to help them through their connecting flights. At that point the airline in theory takes over but since the families often do not speak English it can be pretty tricky. So this family was stuck in DFW for hours and hours without food, money, or the ability to ask what was going on and how long the delay would be. A stranger finally took pity on them and let the dad use her phone to call the emergency US number (which is Cecilia's cell, LOL) and we told him that as soon as he got to Portland we had food for them and a place to sleep. Meanwhile we were really concerned that their flight would be delayed over night in Dallas. In theory the airline would give them vouchers for food and a hotel but how would a refugee family with no english be able to figure out how to use that? As the flight was delayed later and later I got more and more concerned so I finally called in the calvary (aka the Dupont family---or more specifically, Rick and Margaret) and warned them that if this family's flight got delayed much more I was going to ask for a favor way above and beyond the ties of family and have them pick up this family and make sure they got food and a place to sleep (I figured that if anyone could feed nine people on short notice it would be the Duponts). Though I am pretty sure they were alarmed and I probably over-extended my "favorite niece" karma they agreed to help if it came to that.

Luckily, the Congolese family's plane did take off and they made it to Portland. Of course, once they arrived in Portland they did not understand that they needed to come outside of security in order for us to find them. After an hour, (at this point around 11pm Portland time) we confirmed with an airport employee that the family was still waiting outside the gate and, after unsuccessfully arguing with a TSA agent, we had to call the Portland police to go through security and wave the family out (absolutely ridiculous that neither TSA nor the airline could help us out then). We finally got the family out and collected their luggage. They were, of course, exhausted and overwhelmed--the interpreter kept taking pictures and speaking to them rapidly in French/Swahili trying to explain that my co-worker and I were trustworthy and would help them--but they were also incredibly relieved and happy. At one point I turned to the mom to say something simple in French and she had her face in her hands and was mumbling to herself, visibly shaking with relief. I don't speak Swahili or French really but I am pretty sure she was saying "we made it" over and over.

You can see the rest of the family gathered around the kitchen
table reflected in the window

We finally got them back to their apartment where I got to show them all of the beds, kitchen utensils and bathroom things we had carefully purchased and arranged just for them (very fun part of the job). Though they were glassy-eyed with exhaustion and we no longer had an interpreter to help the case manager had to walk them through safety features and basic orientation to the shower, locks and electricity. I cooked them a basic dinner (sauteed veggies, bread and a few rotisserie chickens) and by about 1am they were all gathered around their table, finally eating and able to relax. My coworker Brendon looked at them and said "why can't the state department see this when they review us?" He paused and then said, "they'd probably criticize us for not having a food handler's license."

We finally left, telling the family that we would check on them the following afternoon. [side story: this family lived clear across town from my house and I had an 8am appointment the next morning with another refugee very close to their apartment. I had a brief moment where I wanted to just sleep on this family's couch. I was thinking "they wouldn't know it was weird--it's not like they'd say no, they would assume that this is what case managers just did in America." I was very tempted but I did drive home in the end].

I have more stories to come about this family, so stay-tuned! A special shout-out to Rick & Margaret for not just hanging up the phone when I called :) 

So it has come to this.....

(for an explanation of the title, click here)
Someone who shall not be named (*cough* my mother) has informed me that lately I have been remiss in my updates on JVC life. Since it was just Mother's day I feel like I should probably rectify that immediately:

First, I had a fabulous weekend. I accomplished 3/3 goals: I biked further than I have every biked before (which is only 12 miles but that is a big deal for me), I painted a bird on my door (Portlandia, anybody?), and I brought dinner to my Ethiopian client who just had a baby. That last one was really fun--I ate dinner with her and her (somali) husband and they told me about how they met (which included a real gem of a moment when the wife was explaining why the nations of Somalia and Ethiopia don't get along--her: "Somalia thinks that Ethiopia stole this piece of land, you see" and him: "because they did!")

"So, it has come to this..." (a series of stories that should each end with this statement)
A Cuban client came to our office today (not manuel) and while filling out paperwork he asked us for a rosary. His case manager asked everyone in our office, and then asked everyone on the 4th floor and nobody had one. We had to refer the guy to a Catholic Church down the block.....awkward (which is funny because our executive director just gave a speech about embracing our catholic identity as a nonprofit).
A company near Portland contacted us because they need people to record messages for their clients in a variety of languages. They are willing to pay pretty well for some of the more obscure languages (which no longer seem so obscure to me) so we have been going through our files finding people who need extra cash (which is everybody) and who can read in their own language (not so many people). What is funny is that this company is looking for both Swahili and Kiswahili speakers--which are in fact two names for the exact same language. I told the case managers that we should still totally send them two people (or one person who speaks "both" languages) because if multinational corporations are willing to pay $45/hour to refugees for redundant work then we shouldn't stop them. This part of my brain is the same one that is secretly rooting for the Somali pirates every now and then (click here for more on that).

I have been spoiled by very compliant refugee clients. Normally I can just put a paper in front of them and they will sign it before I can even explain what it is--that is not what happened last week. The other day I was asked to take a somali lady and her brother to an appointment. While I was picking them up at their apartment complex the manager came up to me and explained that they needed to sign the application for tenancy (normally this is done when one applies for residency but since we have to furnish apartments and move people in usually after midnight we have a deal with certain managers to fudge the paperwork) I took them to the office but as soon as I started explaining the 6-month lease they informed me that they did not want to sign the application because they didn't want to be obligated to stay in Portland for more than a month at a time. I started to panic (their case manager was out of town and was going to freak out when she heard) and tried to tell them that they were already living in the apartment and had to sign the papers. The apartment manager even said that he would let them go in a month if he could find another family to take their spot. The sister still refused to sign and explained that she didn't want it to hurt her credit history if she decided to move (she just got out of Dadaab Camp four days earlier, how in the hell did she know what a credit history was?). I had these visions of our office getting in trouble, of the manager never renting to us again and of this brother and sister getting tossed out into the street. I ended up finding another Somali client to interpret for me and I explained that it was impossible to live in an apartment in the US without signing papers. They finally signed the papers under duress. It's funny because being concerned about your credit history and refusing to sign a contract you don't understand is a great instinct--it was just a damned inconvenient time for it to kick-in.



My house enjoying the sunshine with a vegan BBQ!



As my time in JVC is starting to wind down, I would like to conclude this post with a short reflection on some of the things I will be taking away from my experiences in Portland:

Skills I have gained while in JVC:

--I can use non-violent communication--including the priceless tip from our area director (paraphrased): if you cannot believe what absurdity a person just said, repeat back to them "so what you're saying is...." just so you have an extra moment to process how stupid it was

--I can correctly-ish fill out an application for food stamps and medical benefits (at least for the state of oregon) I also know how to find a primary care doc if you have medicaid (not easy)
--I can have a phone conversation with a person who speaks almost no English (start with "do I know you?" "who are you trying to talk to?" "Are you calling me from the United States?")
--I can beat an apartment manager at his own game (maybe-I haven't been succesful yet but this week is looking really promising)
--I can identify at least 6 different types of greens at the farmers market and cook them with re-hydrated beans into a reasonably delicious meal.

When it rains, it pours

I realized that I have been telling a lot of stories but I haven't been posting any pictures. This is partially because I have been unsure about whether or not I can post photos of refugees. Today I finally decided that if I am not giving identifying information or telling deeply personal stories then if nobody knows, no one is hurt. So after no photos for five months, here are a bunch of photos from events this year:

Our JV christmas card (many of you have seen this and know that there is also an "eye spy" game with this.

A photo of the "tributes" for the JV hunger games in Tacoma last week. Just a reminder, Gresham won.
(In this photo you can see our lovely costumes representing Gresham's "industry" of salons)

This is the famous Manuel during his intake with my coworker

This mom was reunited with her son after more than 5 years apart (he was left in the camps when she resettled)

This is a somali family with the CUTEST pair of kids I have ever encountered. You will notice that Somali men do NOT smile for pictures.

During one of our JV parties we all got "hand dragon" temporary tattoos. The next day at church someone asked me if that was a real tattoo--all I could think was "how dumb do you think I am?" although it would give a completely different tone to that book/movie "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo"

Just to clarify...

So apparently a few people have been calling my mother very concerned about why I am deferring medical school. So just to clarify: I am NOT pregnant, NOT getting married, I do NOT have cancer, and I am NOT doing a secret government research project (though if I was I wouldn't tell you otherwise). I am planning on deferring medical school because I feel like I need to slow myself down a little bit. I am really passionate about medicine and public health and I know that medical school is right for me but I feel like I have been barreling-along for so long that I don't know what it means to slow down and take care of myself. So I want to spend some time with fewer commitments so that I can figure out what a physical, mental and spiritually sustainable lifestyle would look like for me. I figure that my life isn't going to get any less hectic after I enter medical school so there is no better time to pause than right now--there is nothing at Emory that won't be there in one year. I am sure that within five months I will be cursing the day that I made this decision and will be going insane with wanting to be back in school but that is okay--I'll just take up some bizarre hobbies (I've always wanted to try noodling....).

Manuel está en New Jersey

I owe myself ten bucks--totally was a different state. So we found the Cuban eventually and he will now be forwarded to Portland.

"¿Dónde está Manuel?" And other stories

First, I am going to Emory (Woot!) but I think that I am going to defer medical school for a year (take a moment, pick up your jaw from the floor). There are a lot of reasons for this but in short I feel like God is poking me in the arm about this and, as a friend recently told me, "you should listen to those pokes in your arm, otherwise he'll start shoving and he's a big guy, that'll hurt." I'll keep y'all posted as that decision develops.

"All Hail Panem"
This weekend was really fun! We had the JV Olympics (hosted by the Tacoma house) themed Hunger games! Each house had to dress up to represent our "district" (We wore hair curlers and big fake nails to represent Gresham: the land of a thousand hair salons). We then had a processional parade with a trumpet and a large banner to a nearby park where we competed in a variety of Hunger Games-themed competitions. (part of the theme was that the rules changed frequently and that the "capitol" sabatoged us frequently--aka the Lutheran Volunteers from Tacoma came with tennis rackets to intercept the water balloon toss). The most important part of this story is that Gresham won! It was a close competition with Hillsboro but in the end our knowledge of Hunger Games trivia carried the day (we studied the trilogy in the car ride over--we are that competitive). Our prize was a large glass goblet decorated in gold rhinestones--I will be shocked if it survives the next JV party without it getting stolen.

"Applying Old Skills"
Our office is chronically short of interpreters so we often have to rely on other clients to interpret for newcomers (does this violate privacy?--probably. Do we have any other choice?--no). There is sort of this "sweet spot" around 3-7 months when English-speaking refugees don't have a lot to do (lots of free time) and have been around long enough to help out a newcomer. My coworker Brendon relied on an amenable Iraqi client--who had been a translator for the US military--during an intake for a recent arrival today. He apparently was an excellent interpreter but his set-up was a little quirky. During the intake held at a round table, Brendon sat at 12 o'clock, his client sat at 3 o'clock, and the guy translating stood behind them at 1:30. Brendon kept offering a chair to the guy but he refused saying that he was used to translating this way and that it was more comfortable. I was laughing about this quirk but occured to me shortly after hearing this story that he probably worked in intelligence for the US military and was a translator for interrogations--erm...at least he's applying his skills?

"Speaking of Iraqis" part I
I helped enroll five Iraqi kids in school this week (two older brothers and a set of triplets!) The family seems really sweet. One of the triplets is developmentally disabled and has never gone to school before--I am really excited for him because I think that the United States' school system does a great job helping kids with special needs (especially compared to Jordan and Iraq)--I think he will flourish. The dad is a character--very intense, very Iraqi--who cares a lot about his kids. He doesn't speak English very well so he is very intense and focused when trying to force out sentences. When two of the kids started school yesterday he waited with them at the bus stop. He noticed the other kids at the stop and--thinking they lived in the same complex as his kids (true) and wanting them to be available to help his kids if they ran into trouble (valid)--turned to them and said very loudly and intensely "What is your apartment number?!" The kids kinda panicked (stranger-danger radar going off to the nth degree I am sure) and my coworker had to reassure them that they weren't going to be kidnapped. Later, the Dad wanted to make sure his kids had gotten to school okay so he took a bus and just marched through the hallways of the school, without a visitor's pass, looking for them. Luckily, my coworker again intercepted him and tried to explain the concept of school security so that he won't get arrested some day in a grand cultural misunderstanding.

"¿Dónde está Manuel?" or "La Jefa"
I have spent the last several days trying to locate an elderly cuban man. Rather, more specifically, I have been trying to figure out where he will be resettled next week. This guy came into our drop-in center last week seeking help for getting his brother's case (Manuel is the brother) transfered to Portland. Apparently Manuel, being 75 and having never left Cuba, forgot the name of the city where his brother lived and so was sent to whatever resettlement city had room. His arrival is imminent so the brother needs to get in touch with his case manager to arrange the switch but no one know which resettlement agency he is coming through. Furthermore, the city to which he says he is being sent does not actually have a resettlement agency. We called the nearby cities but no one had heard of his case. I am convinced he is remembering the state wrong (he's old and there are several cities by this name in other states) but the brother swears it is correct. (I'm not too worried, when he arrives he can call his brother and tell him where he is--ten bucks says it's a different state.) But the whole time I am helping this guy I keep thinking back to a book exercise we did in spanish class where we wrote repeatedly "¿Dónde está Manuel?" and then practiced saying where he could be. ¿Dónde está Manuel? Manuel está en Cuba. Manuel está en el aeroplano. Manuel no está in Portland. ¿Dónde está Manuel? They gave us his refugee case number and I told his friend (the interpreter) that Cecilia would try to find him (side note: this interpreter was resettled by Cecilia 13 yrs. before--he was shocked that she was still around) When he explained this to Manuel's brother he said "La jefa va a buscarlo." I told Cecilia that the Cuban guy referred to her as "La jefa" she said "Oh yeah, they used to call me that." [NBD] I am not calling her anything else from now on.

"Speaking of Iraqis" part 2
This older Iraqi lady was just resettled by us and I went with her case manager (brendon) to visit her at home. We knocked on the door repeatedly and called her name but there was no answer. She spoke no English and had only arrived a few days prior so it was highly unlikely that she had gone out. The door was unlocked (oops--guess that part of "cultural orientation" didn't stick) so we pushed it open and continued to shout her name. There was still no answer so I was sent in (because I was a woman and therefore not as threatening) to see if she was in her room. I saw that she was laying on her bed so I quickly tip-toed out to confer with Brendon. We couldn't just leave--she might be dead for all we know--but I was afraid to go into her bedroom and wake her up--if she wasn't dead, I might kill her from shock. In the end I awkwardly knocked on the frame of her bedroom door and yelled her name really loudly several time. She finally woke up--startled and discomforted that we just walked in--and we spent some time trying to explain to her that she needed to lock her door when she went to sleep because "anybody" could come in (clearly we did).

Well, I have to go speak to a man about a horse (or rather, to a Somali about a job). Until next time! (which hopefully won't be longer than 2 weeks like last time)