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.