The Apple Juice Invite

She invited me in for apple juice.  Not tea or coffee, neither a Coke nor a glass of water, but straight-out, lukewarm apple juice in a cup.  And, while the drink might not have been my #1 beverage of choice, the moments shared over it were sweet indeed.

Monday morning was just brimming with mistaken misperceptions.  My own, that is.  To begin with, I was running a good bit late to pick up a newly arrived Bhutanese family for x-rays at the children’s hospital.   Since we didn’t have an appointment and rather were just supposed to show up, I wasn’t too concerned.  Drawing on previous experiences of sometimes needing to wait up to an hour for refugee clients to be ready to leave, I decided not to call, envisioning that I might still need to wait once I arrived.  I was wrong.  As soon as I pulled up, both parents rushed out with three year-old Sonam in tow, the father quickly installing the child’s car seat and then explaining he was off to his ESL class soon and as such wouldn’t be joining us.  And here we find misperceptions # 2 and 3: I had gone in expecting not to be able to communicate with either parent, only to revise my view immediately and imagine that it was just the father who spoke some English.  However, after clearly, albeit almost tentatively, introducing myself to Shreeni, Sonam’s mother, I found that not only was she able and prepared to answer my questions, but that she was also eager to ask them of me as well!  And so the drive to the children’s hospital went far, far more smoothly than last time, with little Sonam munching contentedly on an apple and Shreeni and I chatting away.

The actual x-ray process itself was blessedly uneventful, with the most notable moment being when the technician cheerfully and sincerely asked, in reference to the family’s current residence, “So, they live in a refugee camp on Chestnut Avenue?”[1]  Thinking of pictures I’ve seen of squalid living conditions in grossly overpopulated refugee camps in Kenya and Jordan, I tried for a moment to imagine what it might mean were such a camp to be located here, in the States, or even in Clarkston, a mere couple of miles from the hospital and my own apartment.  Would maybe then we be propelled into deeper levels of awareness about these international neighbors of ours, mobilized into greater action on their behalf, opened up to new heights of hospitality and solidarity?  I can only wonder.

Back at the Chestnut Ave. apartments a good deal later, I grabbed the car seat as Shreeni corralled Sonam and his shiny green cellophane balloon up the stairs.  Once in the apartment, I began to say my good-byes just as Shreeni motioned me to sit.  I started to explain about the meeting I needed to prepare for, the afternoon class that was coming up, and the reading I really had better finish.  But then out came the apple juice; and well, that was that.

As I sat there gulping down the juice so proudly offered to me by my host, we spoke together of our families, our favorite hobbies, our likes and dislikes, with Sonam’s gleeful antics over his balloon prompting giggles that punctuated the conversation.  How fun it was to really get a chance to converse, especially given that almost all of the French-speaking clients that I have been given the opportunity to know are males!  The experience was encouraging, on the one hand, instilling me hope that Shreeni and I might have the chance to grow into friendship as we meet again through follow-up appointments.  But it was also saddening, humbling, and a very real sort of disturbing.  Here I had been, assuming the family would be late, assuming first that neither parent spoke English and then perhaps it was just Shreeni who didn’t.   And then, having been corrected on that count, I still instinctively assumed the need to answer questions at the hospital, only to have to bite my tongue and give her space to find the words she needed herself.  Yes, it was humbling indeed for me, who can be oh so sensitive to/ aware of xenophobic reactions towards refugees by others, to come face to face with these very same tendencies within myself!  

Womanist theologian Emilie Townes writes that “we must come to know folks through their lives and not from books or images that caricature the very is-ness of people…we must meet people as pilgrims rather than tourists.”  Clearly this is a thing about which I still have much to learn, a beautiful way of relating to others which I so often fail to embody, instead coming up woefully short.  And yet, nonetheless, on that sunny Monday afternoon, there we sat together smiling: Shreeni—the woman whom I had unwittingly allowed my mind to stereotype— and myself, holding on tightly to one glass full of grace.

 

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[1] NB: Names of street and people have been changed for privacy.

 

Had I been the Burmese mother

Site work this past Friday was a wee bit unusual.  To begin with, rather than interpreting for a French-speaking family as I became more or less accustomed to last semester, this particular afternoon I was to accompany a Burmese family to the children’s hospital for x-rays.  The father, who speaks a conversational level of English and whom I had met previously, was supposed to come with me, but, unfortunately, was nowhere to be found when I arrived.  So, after a good half-dozen phone calls to case managers to clear up in Burmese just why it was that I needed them to get in the car to begin with, off we went, the mother, her five- and three- year-old daughters, and I!  Everything seemed to be under control once we were all buckled up and en route…until, that is, the poor three year-old began to get sick to her stomach (car sickness, perhaps?) all over herself and the backseat.  That evening, once everything was cleaned up and the hospital experience was safely behind us, I kept thinking about how I couldn’t fathom what it would be like to find myself in that mother’s shoes.  To wind up in a stranger’s car, as your child continues to throw up, with nothing to help her and no way to communicate with said stranger…yep, nope, I just couldn’t imagine!  So, for this post, that’s precisely what I decided to do— imagine.  Please note that the stream-of-consciousness-styled lines that follow are almost entirely fictitious, indicative far more of my own thoughts than of the mother’s.  Nevertheless, for me this was a helpful way to reflect more on the experience, and I only hope it doesn’t make for too tedious reading![1]  But regardless, here we go, my made-up thoughts had only the roles been reversed:

Finally!  It looks like we are at last going to get out of this car!  Oh, wait, what is that girl doing? Again?  She’s parking again?  Ok, good, now I can get out.  Have to finish cleaning Mya…and this car!  I still can’t believe that this happened!  No change of clothes, so it looks like Mya might just have to go in naked.  Better that than still in her spit-up drenched clothes, yes?  Ah, ok, my coat—I’ll bundle her up in my coat and hope no one will think to guess why!  Nu, child, stay here by me, I’ve still got to finish cleaning this mess.  That Girl—oh what is her name?  something funny, something strange!— she doesn’t seem angry about this mess, but maybe she is, I don’t know.  I hope not, but there is nothing I can do.

Ok, it looks like now we’re going in.  I tie up all the wipes and tissues and Mya’s clothes into a funny sac That Girl had in her back seat.  She’s smiling, still smiling, so I guess it’s ok.  Stay by me, Nu.  I hold Mya carefully so the coat still covers her nakedness.  Now we’re going quickly.  We pass so many sick, sick children, and I feel sad for their parents, worried for my girls.  My girls are fine, I know they are.  It is nothing, I am sure. 

We keep walking, walking, walking, and now it’s time to sit.  That Girl speaks to someone quickly, quickly, then signals to me that she needs cards, but which ones I don’t know, so I hand over them all.  Nu, child, come back, please!  She is her usual, precocious five year-old self, always pointing and looking and asking, and I am proud of her, my smart girl; but this place is quiet.  In this place I need her to be still.  Do the other mothers in this room know that little Mya is wearing only my coat? Can they tell?  I am not sure. I can’t let her get down from my lap, else she will surely wriggle free from it, and that is not something she should do here, I think. Nu keeps peering, flitting about, and That Girl motions to her, smiling, still smiling, but Nu is too busy.  I see the others watching me now, and I wonder.  Suddenly, the woman who was sitting closest to us sighs, scoops up her baby carrier, and moves to the other side.  Why?  Why is that?  I do not understand the wariness, the guardedness in her glance as she moves away.  I feel small.  No, oh no, I do not want to be here.  Nu must stay closer. I raise my voice and she comes, and I shift still closer to That Girl until we take up very little space at all.

Finally we go, we go to a tiny little room with a desk, and a man, and a computer.  We sit, and the man asks That Girl lots of things.  She speaks and speaks and speaks, and I recognize nothing until she says the words Burma and Burmese.  The man picks up a phone and waits, we wait.  Now the man is speaking, asking questions of the phone, and oh!  This is nice, this is very nice— coming from the phone is someone who speaks Burmese!  He is not from our part of Burma, I know, but still, I am thankful.  The Burmese-voice asks me a question, then another one, and I answer.  I ask a question and he asks the American man for me, but the answer I get back doesn’t make sense.  Burmese man sounds like he is reading from a script, not really talking to me. 

Now the American man stands up and leaves, saying something quickly before turning away.  That Girl frowns, tilts her head.   We wait, and now he is back.   Only, this time he is wearing a mask.  A big mask, so big that only his eyes peep out.  Nu thinks it is funny, giggling and pointing.  That Girl raises her eyebrows, tilts her head again, and says nothing.  She does not look happy at him.  And me?  I am mad, at least a little bit, I think.  Does this man think we are aliens?  Foreign beings that he must protect himself from?  When we walked by him earlier, he was not wearing this big mask to talk to the other families.  Again, I am feeling small.

This goes on and on and on, with the American man asking, the Burmese voice speaking these unnatural-sounding questions, me trying to answer, and That Girl nodding, talking sometimes to the American man when he still looks confused.  Now she pulls out paper and I see her draw something, then she motions Nu over and offers her the pen.  Nu looks at what she has drawn and shakes her head.  Now she takes the pen and begins to write.  ABC’s, I say quietly, ABC’s.  She begins in Chinese, and I point, wanting to make That Girl understand.  China, I whisper in English, still pointing— China!  We wait and wait and keep waiting, and now Nu writes still, this time her letters in English.  Sometimes she does not know, so I write one for her and then she copies again and again and again.  That Girl chatters now to Nu and I, and though I don’t understand the words’ meaning I know she is impressed.  For a moment, I feel bigger, more my normal size, in this space again. 

Finally we leave the little room with the man and the Burmese voice and the computer.  We walk down long hallways, and this time Nu holds That Girl’s hand.  Nu talks to her, telling her about all the things that she has learned from me when we play school at home, but I know That Girl doesn’t understand, and that is alright.  We wait again, and a nurse comes and gives my girls stuffed animals.  Mya is still sleepy and isn’t interested at all, but Nu is jubilant, tossing her bear up, up, up for That Girl to catch.  Now the x-rays.  Nu’s go quickly—she is quiet and still, understanding that that is what she must be.  But not Mya.  No, definitely not Mya.  She is all awake now and is not happy.  The nurse has me lay her on the table and Mya screams.  Screaming more and more and louder still.  The nurse doesn’t know what to do and neither do I.  That Girl is waiting for us outside.  Finally, finally, x-rays are done, and we go back out the long hallways.  Into the elevator.  Through the dark spaces of the parking lot to find the car.  We get in the car, and I shudder at the smell.  Please, please don’t let That Girl notice, I think to myself over and over.  I hold Mya tightly as we drive home, all quiet, and my baby does not get sick again.  Now we are back, and smiling That Girl helps us out of the car.  Nu waves good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, and so do I.  That Girl smiles one more time, gets into her car, and drives away.  I do not know if we will see her again.  For the moment, I am too exhausted to care.  I sit with my girls, helping them with their shoes, and relief floods over me.  The ordeal is over.  And we are home. 

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[1] Note too that all names have been changed for the protection of privacy.

Star-Throwers and Holstein Cows: A Note for the New Year

New Year's Eve Sunset

This very well might be the worst New Year’s post you read this year.  To begin with, I am a whopping twelve days late on the whole let’s-write-about-the-past/coming-year bandwagon.  Moreover, in the following paragraphs there is not a single New Year’s resolution to be found.  [I figure I am overly goal-oriented to begin with, so I try to stick with situationally-negotiable, adaptive plans].  Nor are there any elegant looking-back moments summarily capturing all that I’ve learned in the past year.  As fitting as that would be, life, I find, tends to resist all such tidying-up tasks with vigor.   All I can offer, it would seem, would be a word of thanks and of beauty (the latter borrowed from thinkers much wiser than myself).    

So, here we go: thank you, thank you, thank you to all who have walked with me so faithfully through the topsy-turvy, transition-jammed year that was 2013—from graduation in the spring, to a whirlwind of travel in the summer, and then to the disorienting leap from Senegal to seminary this fall, well, it’s been quite a year! Thank you, too, for so patiently wading through these posts and not deeming me too presumptuous for sharing my thoughts as I seek to grow into the craft of writing and the practice of advocacy. 

And now to share two of the breathtakingly striking passages that I stumbled across over break: The first is from Frederick Buechner’s Wishful Thinking: A Seeker’s ABC, in which he defines praise as the following:

"[Praise] is about as measured as a volcanic eruption, and there is no implication that under any conceivable circumstances it could be anything other than what it is.  The whole of creation is in on the act— the sun and moon, the sea, fire and snow, Holstein cows and white-throated sparrows, old men in walkers and children who still haven't taken their first step.  Their praise is not chiefly a matter of saying anything because most of creation doesn't deal in words.  Instead the snow whirls, the fire roars, the Holstein bellows, the old man watches the moon rise.  Their praise is not something that at their most complimentary they say but something that at their truest they are." (85). 

What might it mean, I wonder, to live this coming year with deeper awareness of this truth at the forefront of our consciousness?  To tap into the implications of the radical notion that praise is what/ who we are designed to be?  How might such an understanding shape my interactions with my family, classmates, refugee clients, strangers, or, even/especially the people with whom I don’t naturally get along?? 

Second, in his book The Promise of Paradox, Parker Palmer relates Loren Eiseley’s story of the star thrower.  Eiseley recounts his experience of— in a town where so many of the inhabitants would daily comb the beaches to collect, kill, and sell starfish— coming across in the very early morning a man who would, against the odds, get to the beaches before the others in hopes of throwing back in and thereby rescuing as many starfish as he could.  Reflecting on the significance of Eiseley’s story, Palmer writes,

“It offers an image of a God who threw the stars and throws them still.  It speaks of how ordinary men and women can participate in God’s enveloping mercy.  And it suggests a vocation that each of us could undertake on our inward way of the cross: To recognize, to identify and lift up those moments, those acts, those people, those stories which contradict the ways in which the world says no to life” (47).

What might it look like in our own lives and communities to participate in this star-throwing mission, I wonder?  In what areas of our lives and the world is God continuing to throw stars?  Who are the human star-throwers around us that we’ve been passing by unseen, and how might we train ourselves to look for them, join them, and help sustain them in this work?

Everyone, I would wager, has their own seemingly small practices of throwing stars.  This year, I hope and hey, maybe even resolve, to live in such a way and at such a pace that these practices might become ever more visible to my eyes and graspable to my hands.