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)

The good, the bad, and the baby!

[Side note: thanks for all of the support concerning Emory! The interview weekend was really neat. I didn't get the scholarship but it was great to get another look at the school and I am glad that I went.]

The Good
Remember how I got cursed a few weeks ago? That family managed to make it to Minnesota to see their relatives! The dad's dying wish was fulfilled despite the best efforts and confusion of the medical establishment. Also in the "good" category--last week we took an 11 yr old Afghani boy to outdoors camp. He has only been in the US for a few months but he is super brave and wanted to participate in the outdoors camp (something that every 6th grader gets to do in this district). He didn't have anything on the packing list so we were scrambling to find a sleeping bag, flashlight, etc.. His mom was probably the most nervous--she cried and blessed him with the Koran when we went to pick him up. But he had a fabulous time and even won a "best camper" award!

The Bad
Not all refugees make it in the United States. One of our guys who struggles with mental illness just lost his housing when his benefits ended. I'm really struggling with this one--this guy was the very first refugee who I worked with by myself (remember that frantic post during my first week about the Iranian father and daughter?). I feel like once we decide to resettle a refugee in the United States then we have a certain responsibility towards them. There is something fundamentally wrong about bringing an unwell man to the United States to be homeless. It is hard to feel good about your work when the system completely fails.

The Baby!!!
On the other side of the emotional spectrum, I visited a new baby the other day--the first american citizen in this family! Even more precious than the newborn were the new parents. They were so nervous and careful with this little guy, and every time the baby yawned the Dad would exclaim with delight. It was even more special because these parents were from two different cultures--one was a somali muslim and one was an ethiopian christian (the wife told me that if she wants to tease her husband she brings up Israel). They should be the poster family for world peace.

The good, the bad, and the supernatural

The good: I got a call from Emory School of Medicine's dean of admissions who told me that I am a finalist for a full-tuition scholarship to the school! The school is flying me out to Atlanta next week for another round of interviews. (for perspective: 12 finalists, 4 scholarships) WOOOOOT!!!!!!

The bad: I nicknamed an iraqi family "sketchy mcsketchers" last week when i found out that they are in the process of arranging for a russian bride for their son over the internet. Sketchy....

The supernatural: I was officially cursed by a Somali elder on Friday-or rather, I and the medical establishment were cursed. This was during a palliative care team meeting which I was invited to sit in on while we talked with one of our Somali family's about Dad's end-stage cancer (Dad is 80+). They had only arrived a week earlier and I started out very upset that we brought a man to the US just to die in a foreign land. It turns out that it is not quite a foreign land--he has friends in Minnesota and he wants to see them before he dies so that they can bury his body correctly. When the doctor tried to explain that he wouldn't survive a trip to Minnesota, the wife got very agitated and the translator had to awkwardly explain that we were being cursed for not following the wishes of an elder. I have discovered that I really am a romantic--I am totally on the family's side and believe that there is something sacred about a man's dying wish. I am also pretty sure that they will get him there--it might involve kidnapping him out of hospice and pulling a 'little miss sunshine' in the back of a VW van. But seriously, they will get him there--if an 80 yr old guy could survive a two day trip from the other side of the world with metastatic tumors, they will find a way to get him to Minnesota. (I might slip them a train schedule on the sly to help).

Different Perspectives

Funny story--I got really sick. Like really sick, and I had to miss nearly two weeks of work in favor of lying in bed and resenting the outside world that I could not join. Since I am a part of a Luddite-loving organization, I do not have internet access at home so I was unable to complain about feeling sick in blog form. After some intense western medicine, however, I am significantly improved and have (thank God) returned to work. And thus resume my de-contextualized stories of the refugee-in-Portland world. I have two stories today that I can sort of label "different perspectives"

1) There is this Burmese family that was being cheated in a major way by their ex-landlord who wanted close to $2,000 for "extreme damages" to their old apartment (minus the security deposit that still meant the family owed about $900). This family has 7 kids and only government assistance for an income so when they came to us I was ready to "go to bat" for them in a major way. I researched tenant/landlord laws, spoke to renters rights hotlines, contacted friends in law offices, etc.--I didn't want the family paying anything extra. After we had drafted one letter, the landlord and the case manager spoke and the landlord agreed to knock off $200 in charges. Legal action really wasn't an option for the family so the case manger just sent them the revised bill. I was not thrilled. But the family came in to see us later that day and they were ecstatic. They were so excited, mom kept shaking our hands saying "thank you" and the teenage boy (the only english speaker) asked us to look over the check he wrote to make sure it was correct. They even brought an envelope and a stamp and asked us to write out the landlord's address. They didn't even know what they were paying for--in their eyes they were just asked for a large sum of money, they came to us for help and they saw a concrete result from our advocacy. They were so happy that someone cared enough to help them. Despite my frustrations I decided it was a success story--even though I still think the land lord is a crook--because in the end what matters is that we made someone feel like they mattered enough to be helped.

2) I have made friends with this really sweet Ethiopian lady who is about to have her first baby (thousands of miles away from any relatives--and she is only a year older than me). She has been translating for us (for free) and I stopped by her apartment the other day to say thank you and to give her a baby blanket I made. She and her neighbor were sharing coffee and invited me to join them. It turns out that the two of them watch Jerry Springer together every afternoon (they asked me if the people were real.....I wasn't sure how to answer). This episode had this crazy lady (as per usual) who was in a fight with her boss--both of them happened to be African American. We were chatting about the show and I discovered that the two women thought that all black people in the US must be like this and consequently they were afraid of Portland's African American community. I spent some time trying to explain "stereotypes," "non-representative samples" and the general problems with reality TV but I don't know if I made any difference. So thank you Jerry Springer--you have successfully made Africans afraid of African Americans.    

As promised, a few stories

Again, I apologize for the delay in story updates--we had to go do JVC which means no access to technology for the better part of a week. So allow me to catch you up on a few gems:

The suspicious Nepali family:  I got to do my first airport pickup on my own. I was sent to meet three Nepali siblings and deliver them to their sponsor family (cousins) in the states. The sponsor had my cell number and we agreed to meet outside of security [side note: we don't normally have to go to the airport to meet someone if they have family willing to go for us. The sponsor family was settled by another volunteer agency, however, and my supervisor's competitive streak kicked in--she wanted us "to look good in comparison" so I was sent] I got to security and was looking around for a nepali family but couldn't find anyone who fit the part. I called the cell number and realized I was standing next to the sponsor--he was a punk-looking twenty-something yr. old with a smart phone (someone has been doing some acculturating). The three siblings arrived without incidence and we managed to get them back to the sponsor's apartment--where there was an AK-47 made out of cardboard and tape hanging on the wall above the couch with a pair of handcuffs (no accounting for decorating taste). It only got weirder when the family started hinting they wanted me to leave--before we ate anything! I usually have to beg a Nepali family to stop feeding me and these guys wanted me to go without even a cup of tea....weird. It got even weirder when I picked them up for an appointment two days later and they were eating lunch with spoons and forks (not their hands). This family perplexes me.

The missing I-94: [background info necessary to appreciate this story--the I-94 is a 4"x6" piece of cardstock that serves as a temporary passport that every refugee is given that says "Refugee" and gives them permission to be in the United States. It is their ticket to social services and is what allows them to cross borders] So I picked up the three Nepali siblings to go get social security cards (this is the same day I saw them eating with silverware and was really thrown off). It seemed to be our lucky day because we got a great parking space (right by the door), the office was completely empty when we got there (we still had to wait fifteen minutes, because, you know, it was the social security office) and we had all the correct paperwork so it was no problem to get the cards. We got back in the car and started driving home when one of the brothers said "I lost the little paper." I swerved to the side of the road and we started checking pockets, folders, seats, etc. After a thorough check we didn't find it so I returned to the social security office. There I searched the entire waiting room, combed the parking lot, watched the security guard search behind the counter through all of the papers, and finally dug through the trashcans just in case someone threw it away. The siblings walked 2-3 blocks up and down the street in case the wind blew it away. It was NOWHERE to be found. The Nepali guy was (understandably) freaking out--his sister kept repeating "very bad, very bad." I finally put a stop to the search when they started stripping his clothes off (it was unlikely to be in his pants--and he couldn't afford to get arrested for public indecency since he now did not have ID). I reassured the guy that he was not going to be sent back to Nepal and I finally called the case manager to break the bad news (she then asked me "well did you look in the car or in the waiting room?"). Crazy thing is, it turns out that the only thing he absolutely needed the original I-94 for was applying for a social security card--everything else can be done with copies (which we have). As long as he stays in the state of Oregon for the next year (till he can get a green card) it's okay he literally lost it 2 seconds after it didn't completely matter. We never did find that I-94--it was literally 40 feet from the counter to the car and it completely vanished .

Afghani family-- This one was a tougher story. An Afghani family was just referred to us for school registration and since there were five kids, I got to help. These kids are so stinkin' cute! And they are really polite and have just enough english to completely charm you. I was so happy to get them into school but there were a few heart-breaking moments. First, when we remarked how responsible and self-confident the 11yr old boy was we were told that it was because when they lived in Iran he was the "man of the household" (Dad was killed in the war) and so he was the one who had to earn a living for the family--so he worked in a store for several years (which would make him 7 at the time). I made paper airplanes with him while his mom was filling out paperwork and I decided that I wanted to make a special effort of helping him to remember how to be a kid again. The second sad moment was when the 18 yr. old tried to register for highschool. Amazingly, the local school agreed to take her and she was thrilled to continue her studies. But then the case manager had to break it too her that if she enrolled in school she would automatically drop out of the job-placement program and her family would lose $300/mo in cash assistance. Since they could not afford their bills without that she had to make the really tough decision to not enroll in school and instead pursue a job. Another tale of kids having to grow up too fast....

The really lucky Iranian man: We just resettled an Iranian man who used to be a woman before surgery in Thailand (primary reason he is now a refugee). He is joining his partner in portland--a woman who used to be a man. He is really sweet and polite and every time I see him I think "man, is he LUCKY he got settled in Portland and not Utah or the midwest." That feeling was underscored when one of the case managers reported that she is pretty sure she smelled weed at their apartment (we aren't doing anything about it--we are case managers, not baby sitters). Again, it is hard to think of a better place for this couple to have landed than in Portlandia--they will fit right in.

BONUS STORY: I did my second airport pickup today--a somali mom and son. Time was tight so I had to pick up groceries and a few appliances for their apartment on the way to the airport. I figured that we could squeeze  in their two or three IOM duffel bags into the backseat with the kid. Turns out they had SEVEN bags, six of which were large roller-bags that were 40lb+. I did not see that one coming (and I had to bust out my amazing tetris skills in the honda once again).

An up-beat preview

That last post was kind of heavy.... I have some great stories to balance it but I have to leave for our JVC social justice retreat in ten minutes (because we don't spend enough time focusing on social justice). So I will give you a taste of what is to come:

--The suspicious Nepali family.......
--The case of the missing I-94 and the stripping Nepali man......(might be same family)
--School registration with the Afghanis
--The Iranian man who is REALLY lucky that he was resettled in Portland

Sorry that there is no time for the full tales now--but stay-tuned!!

Hoping for Results....

I often try to just focus on the funny, the positive, or the real learning-moments of my work for this blog. But to be honest, sometimes it is really overwhelming and tough. I will pour my heart and soul into trying to help a family and will get nowhere, things will fall through and forces beyond my control will foil plans. This week has been particularly tough. In the interest of honesty about my experience I would like to share these things with you. I also want to share a quote I have taped to my desk.
--I have spent dozens of hours trying to get this kid into basketball with the hope that participating in sports will help boost his performance in school (which has been dismal due to attitude problems). I got him in, convinced someone to pay for it, and gave him instructions to take the bus to practice. Then, inexplicably, his brothers and mother all signed up for an English class exactly when his practice would be so there is no available bus pass for him to use to get to practice. That same day I also got and email from a teacher saying that he is not paying attention in class and has been repeatedly late.
--I am having a serious disagreement with one of my coworkers about how to best approach a case. My coworker thinks one member of the family is being selfish and should be pressured to translate for/help the other; I think that this is not our place and that we need to back off. Meanwhile this family member burst into tears in front of me in our office, no one in the family is moving even close to self-sufficiency and their benefits end in two months.
--We just got informed that the state of Oregon is experiencing a budget shortfall and so is looking to cut DHS spending by 3.5%. To accomplish that, they want to cut the state refugee budget by 10%. But they counted all of the state refugee budget in that math (including, I think, federal money) even though the cuts would only come from the monthly benefits (TANF) pot. Much complicated math later (courtesy of yours truly) that means that refugee benefits could be cut by 48% (giving families only 4 months instead of 8 months to learn english and get a job--when only 17% of families are managing to do that on the current schedule). The alternative proposal is to cut overall DHS spending by 10% which, as proposed would equal a  97% cut in monthly benefits (i.e., 1 week of support to learn english and get a job). If this happened we would pretty much just have to end the current resettlement program.....

So, yeah, it has been rough. As promised, here is the quote:
(courtesy of Thomas Merton's "Letter to a young activist")
"Do not depend on the hope of results.  When you are doing the sort of work you have taken on, essentially an apostolic work, you may have to face the fact that your work will be apparently worthless and achieve no result at all, if not perhaps results opposite to what you expect.  As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results but on the value, the truth of the work itself.  And there, too, a great deal has to be gone through, as gradually as you struggle less and less for an idea, and more and more for specific people.  The range tends to narrow down, but it gets much more real.  In the end, it is the reality of personal relationships that saves everything. "

The good, the bad, and the ugly in the last 7 days

The good: I met two Iranian brothers today who had to get an ID from the DMV. It took a while and there were all sorts of classic paperwork snafus-- "you need to fill out the yellow form, not the grey one," "The department of homeland security doesn't have his birthday in the system," "why does his last name have two parts to it?" etc.--but while we were waiting one of the brothers, through much miming, was able to tell me about how he was a photo-journalist and a political cartoonist in Iran (which is why he is now a refugee--not a safe or prosperous profession in those parts). He even showed me some of his political artwork including a pencil drawing of a Persian woman with haunting eyes mutely pleading for help from behind an Iran-shaped crack in a wall. I never thought I would say this about a trip to the DMV, but I had a really great time.

The bad: Speaking of Iranians, this one Iranian girl keeps calling me with these really surreal questions. She called me once last week because she missed a meeting with her job coach and was worried that he would be mad at her and wanted to know if everything would be okay (if only she knew how much of our lives was filled with missed meetings). She then called me last week and said "my job coach found a position for me at 7-eleven but I heard that if I work there I will get shot because people rob 7-eleven stores." I like to think of it as a spiritual exercise when I have to exert every iota of my will to keep a straight face and consider her question seriously. I think it will be excellent practice for being a primary care doc in the future ("yes, it is possible that you have a flesh-eating bacteria but statistically-speaking I am going to guess that it is just a splinter"). The bad part is that she has gotten my cell phone number and has started texting me these ridiculous questions on the weekend--I am going to have a serious talk with her about boundaries.

The ugly: I was chatting with a friend-of a friend-of a friend over the weekend about his new job as a corporate "summit" consultant. He plans conferences for CFOs of fortune-1000 companies. The people with whom he communicates are such big-whigs that he is not allowed to send an email to anyone yet without running it by two coworkers for content and grammar first. I was struck by this and suddenly remembered a form I recently filled out--the end of which consisted of a single question "Do you recomend that this child is safe in his or her home?" and I had to circle "yes" or "no." No one checked over my work on that form. The priorities in this world terrify me--I have not yet gotten over that deeply disturbing comparison.

The ending-on-a-happy-note part: The sudanese mom I have been working with has made it into income-based housing! She now pays $14/mo in rent and will be able to afford toilet paper for her kids again! She ahd to move with very little notice, however, so there was no time to contact the schools in advance. Instead, her kids just walked up to each of their teachers and said "I won't be here tomorrow" and then left. (I had to field a lot of confused phone calls after that)

Cross-cultural education moments

Three learning moments with one somali family:
1) I helped the aunt in the family (who is only 2 yrs older than I am) to open a bank account so that she could pay the rent by check. We went to the same bank where the JVs go since I knew they were free ("the world's greatest bank"--not fact, just a slogan). It didn't seem like it would be hard--she had the right ID, she spoke english, and she had money to put into the account--but we ended up staying 30 minutes past closing for one thing: the security questions for online banking. I have created security questions for literally dozens of online accounts and I never realized how culturally-specific they are. There was a list of 20 questions and she just had to answer 5 of them but we couldn't do it. She grew up in a refugee camp where she had few if any posessions, did not go to high school, and is from a culture with a different naming convention. With that in mind, imagine trying to answer any of these questions: "highschool mascot name?" "most inspiring highschool teacher's name?" "favorite author?" favorite painter?" "favorite musician?" "first instrument you played?" "mother's maiden name? (somali's don't change their names when they marry)" "name of the street you grew up on? (no streets in Kakuma)" "favorite sport's team?" "City where your closest sibling lives? (they all died in the war)." My favorite moment was when the manager kept asking her the name of any pet she had growing up. It took a lot of effort for me not to look at him and say "look, dumbass, no one keeps pets in a camp where children are chronically malnourished." In the end I invented answers for her, wrote them down and told her not to lose the paper. (much like how the US government gives the Somali's birthdays)

2) As a thank you for helping her with the bank account, this woman and her sister taught me how to make sambusas (somalian samosas). I learned how to cook them the somali way (with bare hands on a hot plate--the trick is to keep your hands moving quickly so they don't burn as you make the wrappers--the sister teased me about having soft hands--it's called a functioning nervous system!). see here for description: http://www.mysomalifood.com/appetizers/somali-sambusa/  I learned some real gems of somali wisdom while cooking with them--e.g. if you cry a lot while cutting onions it means that you will be a jealous wife. Also, when somalis make "chips" (aka fries--thank you british imperialism) one of the necessary ingredients is the color yellow. Not even kidding--they added food dye to the potatoes before frying them. I looked at the additive, determined that it was just dye with no flavor, and when I asked why they added it they just said "because they should be yellow." I have no clue what historical/marketing quirk is behind that one but I would love to know. Unfortunately the cooking lesson took 3 hours longer than I anticipated/had checked out the car for (originally I was just going to social security with her husband) so I am now on the permanent shit-list of the secretary at my office. Worth it though, those things are delicious.

3) after the cooking lesson, while we were eating the delicious sambusas, the three of us chatted about men and the appropriate way one should pursue a husband (pretty predictable: get parental approval, make sure he doesn't do drugs, make sure he is respectful to his mother, don't sleep with him before marriage or "he will think you are cheap" is what they advised). But as the sister was advising me on this she started out by saying "when you are seducing a man....." I stopped, asked her to repeat herself, and confirmed that she indeed said "seducing a man." As she is a devout somali woman who wears a hijab and a full abiyat (traditional ankle and wrist-covering dress) I assumed that wasn't what she meant. I explained what that meant/the connotations of that word (really awkwardly, I waved vaguely into space as I said "it means you plan to do something..um...maybe before marriage" like I was a 1960s dad talking to a teenager). When it clicked what I meant she turned red, gasped, and said "oh no! I would never do that!" and after much discussion we decided that the word she was looking for was "courting."

This post has gone on much too long, and it is all about the somali. So, I will just leave you with one or two more gems I have learned about the Nepali/bhutanese:
1) Nepali families love to do things together. So when I went to pick up a family of four to get clothes I ended up taking 11 people to a store where they ultimately sat in a circle on the floor and loudly sorted through a mound of clothes before choosing a wardrobe by committee.
2) Nepali families like to feed guests--which is great--but they also often prefer the guest to eat first....alone....while they all stand in a semi-circle around you and watch--I have never been so uncomfortable with such wonderful food.

New Year!......same weird stories

Sorry about the long interval between posts- it turns out that even for JVs december is really busy. Our house got a christmas tree and celebrated the season of "greshlahem" together one night. We each made gifts for everyone else on a budget of $5 or less TOTAL! It was hard but the gifts were really meaningful. They included pretty poems or quotes written in calligraphy on nice paper, hand-made notebooks, earrings, and "memory jars" which we will fill up through the rest of the year. Sniffle...it was magical.

January 2nd I was back to work and it looks like 2012 is shaping up to be similar to 2011 in that there are lots of quirky refugees and little time to speak of them. My most significant accomplishment this week was learning to drive a 12 passenger van! In rush-hour! I had to pick up two big burmese families to take them to get clothes (at a Deseret Industries store which agreed to partner with us to provide needed clothing for families--2 points to the mormons!). There were 11 people I was supposed to pick up so I had to take the van. I was terrified but I made it to their apartment--where only 3 people got into the car. I could have taken the honda! We went to DI and I told them/mimed that they each had $100 dollars for clothing for their families. Mom from one family was right on target and got shoes, jackets, socks, etc. for her kids but Dad and son from the other family struggled a bit more. In the end they bought some good clothes but also a spiderman costume and rollrblades (clothing necessity? I said yes). I think mom was going to be upset when they got home, this is why maybe Dad shouldn't do the shopping.... The clothing voucher system is working great though and I am stoked to take more families next week, even if it does mean using the passenger van.