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