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.
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