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!!