Happy 25th!

So, this is another blog for my Children at Risk course. I had the option of submitting it online instead of blogging, but it's actually pretty relevant to my thesis topic--involving clients in the decision-making process of programs that impact their lives--so I thought it would be fitting to include it here. This post is in response to the 25th Anniversary of the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, which has been ratified by 193 countries. I found Article 12 to be particularly of interest, as it guarantees the right of children to participate in proceedings that impact the life of the child:

"1. States Parties shall assure to the child who is capable of forming his or her own views the right to express those views freely in all matters affecting the child, the views of the child being given due weight in accordance with the age and maturity of the child.

2. For this purpose, the child shall in particular be provided the opportunity to be heard in any judicial and administrative proceedings affecting the child, either directly, or through a representative or an appropriate body, in a manner consistent with the procedural rules of national law."

How interesting, to include children in making “grown-up” decisions. My initial thoughts on this were as follows: I’m not a parent, but I have had some experience with children, and am not sure I trust their judgment. They seem either fickle or stubborn, easily swayed by immature impulse or the presence of candy. Having been a child for quite some time myself, I think if I had had my way, I would have eaten macaroni and cheese every day until high school, owned fifty cats, and lived in a sofa fort. While I certainly wanted to be part of family decisions, I didn’t care about or understood politics that impacted my experience as a child. However, I believe I could have if someone had bothered to explain them to me. How can anyone have an opinion on something they know nothing about?

Understandably, “The participation of children in all matters that affect them has sometimes been seen as undermining the role of he family and the authority of parents” (Laurence Gray, The ‘Right’ of the Child to Speak and Be Heard). We expect children to obey their parents in daily life without “backtalk,” and to allow children input in family decisions feels threatening for some people. Any time we allow for someone else’s input, we give them power, but we also give them responsibility. They become involved in the decision and its consequences. When I was a kid, we moved to a new house and I got to pick my bedroom: either I got a small room with my own bathroom, or I got a big room and shared my bathroom with guests. I picked the big room, and had the responsibility to keep the shared bathroom clean. I learned, even through small decisions, that with the power to make decisions comes responsibility.

This can be expanded to bigger issues relating to community life or politics, which we relegate to adults. Children cannot vote, and are effectively excluded from participating in civic life. They have very little responsibility, partly because we would not trust them to contribute, and partly because we do not feel they are ready for the responsibilities that come with the right of participation. We think they wouldn’t understand the problems, or be mature enough to come up with solutions. Like many assumptions, this is not true. "Young people can design and manage complex projects together if they feel some sense of ownership in them...Involvement fosters motivation, which fosters competence, which in turn fosters motivation for further process" (Hart, Children’s Participation, p. 5).

As is noted by Reddy and Ratna in A Journey in Children’s Participation, “The three essential elements of empowerment are: an organisation or forum, access to and use of relevant information and access to resources (structural, material, human and financial)” (p. 6). This applies to empowering all groups of people, not just children. Of course, as often happens when we give power over to those with a different viewpoint, we must be ready to listen with an open mind: “We must also be prepared for the fact that children will say things we do not necessarily agree with, they will ask embarrassing questions for which we do not have ready answers and they will disagree on the stands they take based on the differing realities they face” (Reddy & Ratna, p. 13).

While it may be difficult to deal with these questions, including the perspective of children in solving problems allows for constructive solutions never before considered. Their involvement may even change what we consider to BE the problems. Allowing children the right to participate benefits society through working together in the present—but even more so, in shaping the next generation of responsible citizens. If we can protect the rights of children, involving them in ways that give voice to a generation often unheard, we will gain a better understanding of the world as it is and how to advance it.

“Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,

Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.”

Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

5K in the Kitchen

So, I thought I should let y'all know I'm paring back the internship. One day a week. What with school and work and thesis and all, I figured it would help me stay sane. If you read my last post, you know my computer died, which was a bit of a setback since all my practicum notes and documents were in there, and I hadn't backed them up. I had meant to look up the Cloud thing or whatnot, but as you may have guessed, I'm not super into technology and have now learned my lesson. Proud to say I just installed Dropbox on my new Mac, and it's up and running. Also very happy to report that BECAUSE of my tech incompetence, almost everything I really need was in emails, i.e. I couldn't figure out how to submit assignments online, didn't have a printer or a scanner, or needed help fixing something in the document. So, HA! Planning, pshh.

A few weeks ago I was tasked with taking an elderly Iraqi refugee to Social Security and DSHS. Her son and his family arrived a couple years ago; they're well-settled, and the father has a good job, so grandma was moving in with them. Since her grandchildren speak English, one of her granddaughters came along to translate. Unfortunately, grandma has really bad back problems and needed serious assistance walking anywhere. As soon as we get in the car, she starts complaining about health problems. Now, I love old people, but sometimes they wax on and on about the meds they take and what doctors they see and how many surgeries this toe had and blahblahblah, and it makes it difficult to enjoy the conversation. It's not a cultural thing; I'm pretty sure old people everywhere do this. So I employ my old-people-distraction-tactic, asking about "the good old days," which almost always works, and ALWAYS pays off. Old people have great stories, and this lady topped most of them. Her husband was in the Iraqi military for like 50 years and was an ambassador to France for a few years. So not only is she fluent in French, she's traveled the world, met awesome people, seen first hand the biggest political and global changes in the last near-century, and experienced both ends of the wealth and public favor spectrum. Her English isn't half-bad, either, and she's got a great sense of humor to boot. Her granddaughter is a sweet middle schooler, quiet and kind of shy, so grandma and I carry on our own muddled conversation mostly in English, partly in minimal French, with a smattering of my fragmented Arabic, cracking jokes the whole way through. She asks if I've had Iraqi food, and I explain I lived in Kuwait for two years, assuming Kuwaiti food is pretty similar. She belly laughs and assures me I haven't lived til I eat Iraqi food, "BEST in the world." I will gain 5 kilos as soon as I start eating it, she says, because I won't be able to stop. Come to my kitchen! I will make you fat like me! So I promise I'll come by sometime and try her cooking.

After a long day sitting in offices, we make it home, and I tell her she should take a nap. Instead, she makes me sit on the couch and watch t.v., and brings me a full plate of baklava straight from Iraq. I eat a couple of pieces, dripping with honey, and rave about how good it is. I don't have to fake that, because it really is absolutely delicious. She tells me to eat another piece, and I don't want to be a pig, but ok, fine, twist my arm. We sit and talk, and she shows me old pictures of her husband in his uniform, pictures of him shaking hands with generals and politicians. Her son looks just like him. I ask if she has any pictures of herself from then, and she says no, they're in Iraq. Even years after his death, she is excited to talk about him, proud of his accomplishments and character. She may not seem sad, but she certainly still loves him, and I feel glad she can be with family again, investing in her husband's legacy through caring for her grandchildren. The littlest granddaughter, out of the four, all girls, plays on the floor. Grandma asks, "Are you a GOOD girl? You are a BAD girl, very bad." She smiles mischievously and says, "Nononono, GOOD!" They both laugh, and the grandma makes me eat another piece of baklava. Ok, last one, I say. One more, one more, she insists, literally holding another piece in front of my face. She wasn't kidding about fattening me up, so I take a bite and put it back on the plate. Eventually, I head out after giving her son my phone number so she can call me and we can set up a time to eat a real meal together.

He calls a couple weeks later, explaining that somehow they got the wrong number, or they would have called earlier to invite me over. We make plans for lunch on a Thursday, when the family's old case worker can come, as well as the grandma's new case worker. I'm really excited, and when the day comes, I make sure I'm good and hungry before heading over. The grandma and mother have been cooking all morning, the father is home from work, and there is a huge feast waiting for the six of us. I should have written the names of the dishes down, because I've forgotten them now, but there was roasted chicken biryani with potatoes, rice with thyme and beans, regular rice, goat and tomato soup, spiced meat patties, chopped salad with cucumbers and tomatoes, mango juice, and more I can't even remember now. Needless to say, it was all amazing, and I ate way past the fill line of my stomach. My favorite dish was the rice with thyme and what I think were lima beans, which went with the goat soup. Ah, I'm getting hungry now just thinking about it. I could definitely gain a solid 5 kilos in a week eating like that every day. One of the many perks working with refugees! Next on the menu, Afghani food :)

Children and Poverty

*This post is for a new class. Not about the internship. Must post on here for unknown reasons. Regularly scheduled programming will resume shortly.*

Caveat: My laptop's hard drive is broken, within which all of my notes are stored, and my computer has been shipped to the Apple Macdaddy big boss store for further probing. Will be at least 5-15 days before Compy comes home, so this post is being written on a library computer with a screen that has been zoomed in so far I have to continuously scroll from left to right to see the whole line of script, and I am technologically incompetent, so that's super fun. May not be the best writing I've ever done.

Prompt, for those who are reading this anyway: "Draw on your web based research and the readings for this session to blog on how children experience poverty in ways that are unique to children, and in ways which are similar to adults."

How do we define childhood? Most Americans would include as part of their description the time before we have real responsibilities. However, as Kathryn Copsey notes, "Thinking of childhood as a time for play is a Western notion" (Miles and Wright, 2003, p.3). Besford and Stephenson echo this in saying that "Childhood has become a Holy Grail - a time not to be touched and tampered with" (Miles and Wright, 2003, p.147). They point out that Christian ministries working with children use promotional materials that "depict 'normal' children as those laughing and being schooled" (p.148). However, childhood is relative to context; culture, time period, environment, and social status (among a myriad of other factors) play a role. Many societies view youth as simply part of the continuum of one's part in contributing to the family and society. As soon as they are able, children become part of the work force, either on the family farm or in an outside venue that contributes to family income. With this in mind, it is hard to generalize on the experience of children globally, though there are similarities especially in reference to experiencing poverty. Examining these commonalities with shared adult experience of poverty gives a much broader understanding of how poverty affects society.

Children are born into a situation where they rely on an adult caregiver. In this state, they are completely vulnerable. During developmental years, almost everything has a lasting effect on children, from emotional support to brand of milk. Adults are better able to find their own food and shelter, earn wages, and problem solve based on past experience. Often, children in poverty at completely at the mercy of adults and have no way to provide for themselves; they have no control over distribution of family income or the way they are treated by adults. However, at some point children become “social actors — individuals with rights and responsibilities of their own; playing an active role in the lives of their families, communities and societies; and having interests, views and priorities which may differ from those of the adults with whom they interact" (Children's Christian Fund, 2003, p.1). In response to poverty, when an adult caregiver cannot provide protection and sustenance, children can become more self-empowered. For example, street children learn to take care of themselves and develop communities on their own. They have many of the same strengths as adults, some to a greater degree, like resilience; scholars even argue that this adversity provides a deep source of character strength (CCF, 2003, p.3). Among other things, children display higher levels of openness, imagination, and resourcefulness, and their lives are much less complicated than those of adults (Miles and Wright, 2003, p.17). They view the world in a more simplistic way, and value things differently than adults. Children care more about being secure in their relationships, while adults care more about succeeding in life. Thus, in some ways, children are better equipped to deal with poverty than adults, while in others, they experience it more negatively.

In both cases, poverty can be very damaging to children and adults alike. Insecurity of physical safety, stable family dynamics, future lifestyle, and treatment from others are shared concerns of those in poverty (CCF, 2003, p.7). This is obviously skimming the top of the iceberg; in order to better understand how to solve poverty, we need to take a better look at those it affects, including listening to their perspective (i.e. children). This actually ties in well with my thesis focus of empowering the marginalized, giving them a voice and inviting them to become part of the solution. Only when we involve those we are trying to help can we make a lasting impact, and children are one of the most marginalized groups of people on earth. It is encouraging that organizations like the UN (and their Convention on the Rights of the Child), UNICEF, Amnesty International, Save the Children Alliance, and Young Lives are working toward ending poverty in impactful and lasting ways. I look forward to seeing them lead a growing movement in making the world a safe place for children.

Thesisy Things

Apparently in Master's programs, they expect you to do a thesis, and as much as I've pretended to know what I'm going to do about that, I feel really unprepared. The farther along I get in this program, the larger the Cloud of Thesis Doom gets on the horizon, and I'm finally starting to solidify real plans for what I want to write about. Last year, I started out thinking I was going to focus on Hispanic immigrant women's holistic health, designing a series of classes for them to learn about healthcare, jobs, education, and childcare in the U.S.  Then I wanted to do more qualitative study on this demographic's healthcare perceptions...something like that. I don't think I really knew. 

At some point, I must have had a conversation with my advisor, because I switched directions to researching ESL. Not that I've been a teacher or know a whole lot about different teaching methods or anything, but I like languages. I thought it would be cool to see how learning ESL impacts people internally, whether it makes them feel more self-sufficient and empowered, whether it makes them more or less proud of their mother tongue and culture, how it affected family dynamics, things like that. I still think that's a cool idea, but after reading literature about it, I feel like there is already plenty of research out there, and I'm not sure I would have much to contribute. If I'm going to devote months of my time to something, I want it to count.

In the meantime, I've been doing this awesome internship, getting to know refugees and staff who really care about helping people. World Relief is a model NGO, responsible with resources, impacting local and global community, and genuinely caring for their clients. Part of my internship is finding a project to work on for the organization, either from a list of suggestions from staff or one of my own choosing. A month or so ago, I checked out the list, and there was a project to "Help develop a tool for caseworkers to measure outcomes," which sounded interesting. Another intern was also interested, so we had a meeting with our supervisor, who explained that while WR has to meet certain requirements stipulated by the U.S. government, there was not much in place for feedback from refugees. The caseworkers themselves filled out a sheet noting the level of refugee competencies, but that was about it. So we decided to come up with a way to incorporate the clients, refugees, into evaluation of World Relief's programs by developing a tool for refugee feedback about programs.

This kind of invitation to the client is pretty unusual in the NGO world. Most organizations have higher-ups who decide what is best for those they want to help, and they hardly ever ask their clients to participate in the decision-making process. For example, child-sponsorship agencies don't end up asking the kids how they liked they program after they graduate from it. Homeless shelters don't usually involve the homeless in designing programs. I think they should, at least to some extent. Giving voice to these groups allows them to be part of the solution to their own problems and empowers the marginalized.

So that's what I'm going to write my thesis on.

Helpful Hints for the Foreigner-Challenged

I spend a lot of time with refugees. I also spend a lot of time with other people who interact with refugees. Many of these people, common citizens who eat hamburgers and speak more slang than dictionary English, seem to have a difficult time relating to people from other countries. Ironically enough, many of these people are also immigrants/second generation Americans, albeit from more familiar cultures. Some common reactions I have seen are:

1. Ignore refugee. Sometimes, people treat a refugee as if they are not present, opting instead to address only me or an interpreter. This reminds me of when "grown-ups" discuss a child in front of the child, or when doctors discuss a patient while they're all still in the room. Just because they are not fluent English speakers does not mean their presence should be ignored.
2. Be annoyed. All of the eye rolling I have seen when a patient/client/applicant refugee needs an interpreter is probably causing muscle damage for some people. In truth, refugee cases can be more complicated and time consuming, but if you work in service (health, public, etc.), and your goal is to help people, you can feel really great knowing that the extra time and effort is making a huge difference.
3. Make assumptions. Just because a woman is Muslim and has a lot of kids doesn't mean she is oppressed by her husband. Stereotypes are a problem for all types of people and create barriers to building community. Another example is when someone from another culture seems unhappy or serious, but just isn't as outwardly happy and loud as most Americans. Not everyone is comfortable wearing emotions on their sleeve.

This isn't to say that all Americans are hard-hearted or ignorant. Most interactions are great, and people do their best to help refugees feel welcome. Sometimes, it can just be hard to know how to act in an unfamiliar situation. Here are three positive things to keep in mind when interacting with refugees/immigrants:

1. They are not (usually) hard of hearing. If they do not understand what you said, it does not mean you must speak louder; instead, try speaking slower, using simpler words, and enunciating. I remember learning Spanish in school and thinking I had it down, only to enter a conversation where everyone seemed to be speaking rivers of words, all running together. It helps to use your hands purposefully when you talk. When you talk about the weather and say "It's cold," rub your arms, and when you say "It's hot," fan your neck, etc. Don't "talk down." This is kind of difficult, actually, since facial expressions are hard to control, and we naturally exhibit our efforts to be patient. People do this to children and the elderly, too. I try to smile to let them know I am not bothered by taking the conversation slowly or explaining multiple times.
2. When immigrants ask you to come over, they mean it. Americans flippantly say to each other, "let's get together sometime," meaning, "in the distant future, when I'm in your part of town, I may call/email/text you to set up a dinner appointment at a restaurant." If a refugee says, "come in," he wants you to come inside his house, right now, and stay a few hours. I don't even know how long this welcome extends to, since I usually peace out after an hour or two, and my host is genuinely upset I'm leaving so quickly. And when they say, "come visit," they mean, stop by (announced or not) at your convenience. Spending time with people inside the home is an important part of most immigrants' lives. Family and friends are top priority, and there is always time for them.
3. Normal is different for everyone. I was with a Somali woman at the doctor the other day, using a video chat interpreter, and the doctor was trying to figure out why the patient had severe anemia. In asking about what foods she regularly ate, the patient simply replied, "normal foods." Thankfully, the doctor had the insight to get a more detailed list which included a lot of rice, pasta, liver, goat, etc. As intrigued as we are by foreign foods and customs, imagine how much more surprised refugees are at Americans. One Afghani lady commented on how it seemed almost everyone here has tattoos, which are forbidden in Islam. I taught a woman this week how to use a cross-walk with an electronic sign: red hand means stop, white man means walk, it beeps when you can go. We can't assume everyone know things like this, things we consider normal and common knowledge. For a lot of new arrivals, so many new rules and so few old rules can be overwhelming. Life can be confusing and difficult, but caring people who can show them the ropes and be a patient friend can make all the difference.

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Fun fact! Somalis loooove bananas. And spaghetti! And bananas IN their spaghetti, with marinara sauce, eaten with bare hands. The spaghetti comes from Italian influence back when most of the country was a protectorate (1880's) -> colony -> "governorate" -> military administration (under the Brits) -> territory until 1960. Then the country experimented with a constitution, overthrew it with a putsch, tried out socialism with a Muslim twist but got blindsided by the Soviets and partnered with the U.S. instead, and ran through a couple of military dictators until the last one was overthrown in 1991. The U.N. tried to help out, but was scared off by militia within a couple years, and the country has been essentially without centralized government since, relying instead on indigenous traditional law, Islamic Sharia law, and remnants of secular law.

Bonus Picture Post

Check it out! Two posts in one week! This one is a bonus picture post. I work with a lot of kids, which is awesome, because they are often more talkative than the adults, and more willing to make mistakes trying to speak English. Plus, they are great teachers of their own language, and will repeat the same phrase as many times as you need to hear it, which may be a few dozen. Also, it's easy to ask them stupid questions, like what's your favorite color/animal/sport/toy/school subject/etc, that you can't really ask an adult without feeling condescending, which is unfortunate because I love talking about those things. For real. It's also fun talking about what they want to be when they grow up. When you ask an adult refugee a question like that, most of them explain they just want a job, any job, and then you feel bad for asking. At least I do, because they can't dream of being an astronaut or a doctor at this age, and will probably end up as a janitor or working in a factory, and that's really not so fun to talk about.

Anyway, this is ending up wordier than I meant. So here are some pictures:

This is a picture an Iraqi girl drew of a "Hospital," "Doktor," and "Ambulans car." The family had been living in Turkey for 4 years, so she preferred to speak and write Turkish, which is evident on the doors. They say "open" and "close." She wants to be a doctor, go figure.

This is her brother's drawing of a mall where they lived in Turkey. It's labeled in Turkish. Kent doesn't really have any malls (that I know of), and they live in a small apartment complex in the boonies, so it's probably a big change. He wants to be a fireman when he grows up. His mom says he watches too much American t.v.

One of my first cases. We went to the doctor with her grandma and hung out in the hallway while her grandma got a pap smear. Then the granddaughter, 7, had to get a shot. She said no and tried to run away, which was...dramatic. The grandma enlisted my help and the interpreter's help to hold her down while they gave the shot, and then she picked these sunglasses out of the toy box as a reward. In Somali culture, even the youngest girls cover their heads, but they get to wear fun colors, unlike the adult women, who traditionally wear black. More Americanized Somali women wear stylish headcoverings of many colors. *edit: Apparently it is common in Somalia for a lot of women to wear very colorful outfits, not black/dark colors.

Bonus picture of me at work at the thrift store with a donated cut-out of Orlando Bloom. As our newest staff member, he works in the elevator as a lift man. Welcome to the team, Orlie.

Long Lines and Warm Cereal

June 24, Tuesday. First day going to the Social Security Administration (SSA) and Department of Social and Health Services (DSHS). The staff at WR tell me to bring snacks, since it's an all-day affair, and to get there as early as possible. I'm picking up a Somali woman and her two kids, one of whom supposedly speaks English and can help me fill out paperwork.

I get to the apartment around 8a.m. and knock on the door. No one opens, but I can hear noises inside. I knock again and wait. Still no one, but this time I hear people yelling and I know they're in there. After a few minutes, I raise my hand to knock again and the door opens as a girl frantically waves me in, saying I'm there "in a good time." I smile and say, ok, thanks, thinking she means they're ready, only to see the mother run out the back door as the girl pulls me into the bathroom, where the bathtub is almost overflowing and the torrent of water from the faucet has splashed all over the floor into the bedroom. Ah. Yes, well, this is interesting. The girl, maybe 15, tells me it's broken and they can't turn it off. It's one of those three-knob deals, two on the side for hot and cold, and one in the middle to shift it to shower mode. I try the cold side--it's off--then the hot. I turn it a few times and the water stops. The girl looks at me with surprise and relief. She says it's the first time they have tried to use it, and they kept trying the handles and couldn't make it stop. They have been here 5 days, and I wonder if they have washed at all...maybe just with a pitcher or washcloth? Maybe not.

The mother rushes in with a Hispanic groundskeeper, who asks me in broken English what the problem is, and I reply in Spanish that the tub is not broken, it's ok. I will teach them how to use it. He looks suspicious, but nods and leaves. I explain to the girl, who translates for her mother and brother, how to use the shower, and then make them try it so I know they understand. To get to the bathroom, one must walk through the bedroom, where all three of them sleep in small beds. All of their possessions are in that room, in small piles on the floor. I go sit on the couch to wait until they are ready to go. Ten minutes go by, and another mechanic stops by to "fix" the problem, which I explain again. In maybe another ten minutes they are ready to go. When I am at someone's house, I make every attempt to avoid looking at my phone. Checking the time won't make them ready faster, and it can seem rude. We finally leave, and I'm hoping the line at SSA won't be incredibly long.

It is. The waiting room is filled, and the line to check in goes down the hallway, blocks an emergency exit, and winds back toward the elevator. The kids look at me with eyebrows raised. I suppose someone told them in America things are orderly and quick. Eventually we reach the front, and the man asks if we have an appointment. I say no, and he asks which organization I'm with. I tell him, and he marks us as having a scheduled appointment. Before I can correct him, he moves onto the next person. There are no seats left in the waiting room, so we stand awkwardly near a wall and wait for our number. We only have to wait about 20 minutes before getting called back, and when the SSA lady finds out we don't actually have an appointment, she gets annoyed and threatens to send us back in line. I explain I told him we didn't have one, and she sighs, then takes the paperwork to process. I thank her profusely and sweet talk her into a good mood.

Next is DSHS, where we spend the rest of the day, until about 3pm. The daughter and I talk a lot. The family spent the last 8 years in Egypt, so she speaks Somali, Arabic, and English. I ask where her dad is, and she says the last time they saw him was in Somalia. She doesn't seem to want to expand on that, so I ask what she wants to be when she grows up. She gets excited and says she's wanted to be a doctor since she was four years old, a pediatrician. I ask where she wants to work, and she says she wants to go back to Somalia, says there are a lot of sick people there. Her brother, two seats over, has his head in his arms, resting on his knees, sleeping. He wants to be an engineer, the sister explains, and he will help build the hospital she will run. Is it hard, she asks, to be a doctor? You have to study a lot, I say. It takes a long time and a lot of hard work, but I know you can do it. You will be a good doctor and will help a lot of people. I think about her desire to be with her people, to give back to her community. Many Americans assume immigrants move here to make more money, to get rich and exploit the welfare system. I wish they could talk to this girl, meet her family. I wish they had the same aspirations of making their world better and doing something great with their lives. Maybe Americans who assume immigrants are greedy and self-serving are simply placing their own faults and attitudes on others.

I take them home and they invite me in, like all refugees do, hospitable with whatever they have to give. I sit on the couch and the daughter brings me tea while the mother makes me something in the kitchen. She brings it out, a bowl of warm cereal. Looks like frosted flakes, with extra sugar. I'm actually really hungry at this point, not having eaten lunch. The girl and her mother eat traditional Somali bread, which looks like a thin pancake, smeared with honey. I would much rather have that, but the girl explains that the mother gave me the last of the cereal, a prized American commodity that I would like much more than their ethnic food. I tell her next time, I will eat what they eat, that I would love trying their home-cooked food. Today I eat the soggy dregs of corn flakes with warm milk and (literally) pray it's warm because it was microwaved, not because it's been on the counter since they bought it. I make sure to look pleased so they know the meal is sufficient, and we sit and chat, with long pauses when we run out of things to say. It is common in non-American cultures to sit without filling the air with continuous noise. It is ok to simply be together. Eventually, I explain I must get back to work, and the mother offers me a water bottle to take. I have my own, but thank her in Somali (one of the few words I know in the language) for her kindness and head back to the office.