Turns out I'm bad at updates. Who knew? I did. I totally knew that. So instead of trying to tell you everything I've been doing, I'll just go through one day, last Tuesday.
Checked the schedule online before heading out to Kent, had a half day starting at 12:30. My highlighted portion indicated I was to take the WR van, bring a car seat, and pick up a family of six for first time doctor appointments for the four kids. Get the dad to bring ID docs and medical cards. By their last name I assumed they were either Somali, Iraqi, or Afghani. The case worker wasn't in the office when I got there, so I didn't have a chance to ask him about the family and info about the assignment like I usually do. I like to be prepared, especially after my first appointment was a fiasco. I had gone to pick up a woman for an eye appointment, realized I had the wrong apartment, and had no phone numbers for the office, the case worker, or the client to call. After accidentally calling WR headquarters in Boston, they gave me a wrong number for the local office, and after a fourth phone call I finally reached our secretary, who directed me to the case worker, who gave me the right apartment number, only to find out the woman had already left with an unidentified "case worker," as her husband informed me in limited English. Went back to the office empty handed.
Anyway, I keep everyone's phone numbers with me now, and check in with case workers before I head out. I got to the family's apartment, knocked, and waited. No answer. Knocked again, rang the doorbell...finally a barefoot kid peered around the edge of the door and then ran back inside. A woman with a scarf loosely covering her dark hair hurried over and welcomed me in with broken English. Afghani, I could tell. Iraqi women either don't cover or cover with a traditional hijab, just the head. Somali women cover their heads with tight scarves and coverings that hang loose down to the elbows. Afghani women tend to wear a loose scarf with some hair showing, the covering mostly a token. I asked if she was ready to go to the appointment, but she motioned for me to sit at the kitchen table, obviously not in a hurry. Instead, she brought out a prayer rug, and asked me with motions if it was ok for her to do her prayers first. Of course, I said, and sat quietly, watching her in the open living room. The apartment was a reasonably sized, two bedroom deal with a porch connected to the living room. I could see a stroller out there, under a clear tarp. Decorations were sparse, they must not have been here long. The couch and armchair were definitely second-hand, but clean. I could hear the kids in the bedroom, and occasionally saw them peek around the corner at me, the littlest one running in and out, laughing. Mom adjusted her prayer rug in the living room, facing the corner. I wondered how they knew so certainly where Mecca was in relation to their Kent apartment. She pressed her palms together, muttering the prayer, put her arms to her side, knelt, touched her head to the carpet a few times, stood up, and repeated the process. When her scarf, too loose to stay in place, fell from her head, she rearranged it quickly.
I wasn't in a huge hurry, but it was definitely time to go. The dad appeared from the other bedroom, also barefoot and obviously not aware I had been in the apartment for some time. I stood up as he introduced himself in perfect English. "Ah! No one has offered you anything? Not even to drink?!" He scolded his children and searched the kitchen for an appropriate offering, as the four children jumped to their feet, eager to make amends. The oldest, a boy of about 13, looked like he might have just hit a growth spurt. He was wearing Western style clothing covered in slogans of poor English. The main words I could make out on his shirt were "Geople happy, Dokie denim." A girl, lanky and precocious, offered me a glass of what could only be mango juice, full to the brim. She gently used both hands, and I took it with both of mine, careful to use my right hand when holding the cup. The dad apologized it was warm, as they had none in the fridge. I of course accepted it, acting pleased, though I knew it would be a task to chug the whole thing before we could leave. Warm, thick mango juice right after I had eaten a full lunch. The whole family was now scurrying around the apartment, finding shoes, collecting documents, speaking quickly in Dari, the Afghani version of the Persian language. They were ready before I was half done with the glass. I stood up, but the dad reassured me they could wait until I finished. Ahhh, no way out. As I took one gulp after another, I could feel my stomach rebel, gag reflex acting up. I remembered how I used to water this stuff down at home, and prayed I could hold it down. The family watched as I finished the last of it and wiped my mouth. "Thank you SO much, that was perfect!" I exclaimed as they looked relieved I was satisfied with their hospitality. The dad showed me he had all their documents in order, and we headed out.
Don't even get me started on car seats. Every one has different belts and buckles and straps. We finagled the littlest kid, a boy of five, into his booster in the minivan, and I plugged the hospital address into my phone GPS. The husband sat up front with me, and we chatted about Afghanistan and his old job as an interpreter at the U.S. embassy. Now that sentiments had changed, people who had worked with Americans are in a lot of danger there, so he had moved his family to the U.S. in April. He told me it had been 47 days, and he was hopeful about their new life. The school his kids had been in before didn't have desks, and they sat on the concrete floor. Here, the kids had been in school for a month before summer vacation started, and he hoped they could start a summer ESL program soon. I turned in my seat and asked the kids if they liked school. Oh, yes! They were sad it was over already. Along the way, the dad made sure to mentally note where the bus stops were so they could get there alone next time. I was impressed with his foresight and savvy as he explained that he hoped to get a car eventually, but had to figure out where to get a good used one, how to pay for insurance, etc. He said he heard Americans only buy new cars and no one here liked buying second hand, just threw things away when they weren't new enough anymore. Yes, many Americans are like that, I agreed, but not everyone.
I had a map of the hospital campus and had been there once before, so we found the right building pretty quickly, which was a relief for me since half the time I drive places I get lost and look completely incompetent. I showed the husband the map so he could see it for next time he came. Once inside, I explained that since the address was Suite 206, it meant it was on the second floor, and that in America, the first floor was the ground floor. Most countries, the first floor is "Ground," and our "2nd floor" is their "1st floor." The husband dutifully explained this info to his family. Everything I said about how things were done here, he soaked in, eager to learn as much as he could to make life easier here for his wife and kids. I tried to address both the husband and wife when I talked, to make sure she felt included, but she just smiled and seemed content to let her husband to take care of things.
The next part is pretty boring. Lots of paperwork. I literally thanked God the husband spoke and read English, so he could do most of it himself, since there were duplicate forms en masse for the four kids. After I made sure he didn't need my help, I went to sit with the wife while the kids watched Stuart Little on the TV on the other end of the waiting room. There was a magazine in the chair next to her, one of those home styling glossy ones, with a lot of pictures of uber-rich white people's houses, spacious and spotless. I flipped through it while she looked on with me, and I felt ashamed. I've never felt comfortable with such luxury, and to see ads for closets as big as master bedrooms, replete with walls of expensive shoes and purses, it made me feel uncomfortable. There was no chance for her to ever have a home like these, and I wondered how she felt, if she thought maybe this was how most Americans lived, how they expected her to live. I wanted to tell her this is not what all Americans value, and that we do accept people no matter their station in life, at least a lot of us do. I wished I spoke Dari. My eye caught a piece of art in the background of one of the pictures, colorful numbers 1 through 10. I pointed to them and started counting slowly in English, inviting her to join. She lit up; this was some of the only English she knew. The 5 year old came over and joined in, eager to show off that he could count in English, too. I asked how to count in Dari, and we repeated and repeated each number, laughing at my bad pronunciation. The other children huddled around to hear my attempts, and tried to get me to say it better. I showed off the four other words I knew in Dari, "hello," "thank you," "sister," and "brother," and they laughed. They taught me more words, none of which I could remember, but they were happy to remind me over and over when I forgot. It was probably the first time they heard an American in the U.S. try to speak their language.
Eventually, a medical assistant called us back to a small exam room, and the seven of us squeezed in with her. She did the routine stuff: weight, height, blood pressure, temperature, etc. Unfortunately, an error had been made in getting the ID and medical cards when they first got the to U.S. Each kids' names were out of order, meaning their middle names had been placed as their first name. This difficulty was compounded because each child had the same middle name- their father's first name. So each kid ended up with the same name as their father on their cards and paperwork, except for a middle initial. Just an example of little things that make life more difficult in silly ways. Anyway, the doctor came and did check-ups, went through all their immunization history, and decided to do a urine test, a hepatitis vaccine, and bloodwork. The girl also needed a chickenpox vaccine, but the others didn't for some reason. It's hard to know when to keep asking the doctor questions, when to let the client ask their own questions, and when to just trust the doctor knows what he's doing and just let it go. There was only one small two-person bench in the room, which the mother sat on, and the kids rotated turns on, sometimes squeezing two or even three kids on with the armrest. The dad and I stood the whole time, which turned out to be 4 hours. It was a long time, and felt even longer...especially when it came time for shots and bloodwork.
Urine tests seemed to be fun for the kids, they got to pull the tiny Dixie cups from the holster on the wall and drink and drink until they could pee. In general, they were well behaved, except for the youngest, who threw a loud temper tantrum when the dad was filling out paperwork on him. Apparently, the kid didn't want him to write down how much he weighed at birth. Hard to tell exactly why he was angry, but the parents just let him do his thing, didn't seem to be bothered by him hitting his mother and yelling a lot. He even grabbed the paperwork out of the dad's hand and crumpled it up. The dad calmly took the paper back and uncreased it, then agreed not to write the info on there. The older kids had their shots first, and did great. Not a single complaint, and I was genuinely impressed by their fortitude. Then came the 5 year-old's turn. Since he was so small, he had to get his shot in the thigh. He was ok until the second the needle hit the skin, and then let out a piercing scream. I thought that would be it, that he would cry it out for a few seconds after they pulled his jeans back up and his dad hugged him. Nope. The crying only got louder, and continued long after there could have possibly been any pain. Eventually it was obvious he wasn't going to stop. Maybe it was the build-up of sitting in the office all day, in a strange place with strange people, maybe he was just tired or scared. The dad held him, rubbing his back, and the kids crowded close. The oldest brother sat on the exam table next to him, the sister in front with her hands on his knees. They coaxed him to be calm, not in anger, but with gentleness. I watched from the corner, out of the way, privy to an intimate family moment. This was their life in America. Everyone's pain was valid, even from the smallest, even the pain that seemed misplaced. They stuck close, supported each other. They had to. It reminded me of my own family, made me miss them and the closeness that can only come from experiencing life together. It made me want to have my own family, have kids who may fight but in the end are there for each other. Who do you have in the end but family?
He did much better during the blood draw. Turns out the dad promised to get him a toy helicopter if he behaved. The kids showed off their arm bandages after, and the girl proudly pointed out she had gotten an extra shot, was extra brave. We went back to the lobby to make follow-up appointments for next month, but the employees were already gone since it was 5pm. I got a business card and made sure the dad knew how to call in the morning to set it up himself. I kept a card to give to the case worker, so if he needed help, the dad could have him set it up instead. They'll only be in the system another couple months, so it's important to learn how to take care of these things early on. It's a hard line to draw, but sufficiency is expected within 6 months of arrival unless refugees need extra time to learn English. They even have to pay back the money for their plane trip here. No such thing as a free ride.
Back in the minivan, my GPS took us a different way home, and the dad asked why we were going a new route. I honestly have no idea why the GPS does that, so I told him I thought maybe it took into consideration bad traffic. I let him hold my phone and explained how to use the GPS, since he had never seen it before. He wants to get into school for computer science, and I believe he is capable of doing really well in that field. Very intelligent, a quick learner, eager to understand and use new knowledge. I may never see the family again, but I have high hopes for their experience here. Once the kids are in school, the mother will have time to bus to ESL classes, will make friends with other Afghanis in the area, and will have plenty of help from her husband and kids, who know more English than they let on. Some families aren't so lucky. Some are preliterate in their own language, much less able to figure out--in English--the healthcare system, school system, and job market. This is why I feel so compelled to be involved at World Relief, to be part of these people's journey, to develop relationships and help refugees make a new life here. It may not be much in the grand scheme of things, but it's a lot to them, and it's a lot to me to be privileged to learn from them, to be humbled by their courage and perseverance, and to see the world through their eyes.
