Every Wednesday afternoon for the past year, my husband and I have been volunteering with a local refugee family. Our family is from Burma, although the two kids were born in the refugee camp in Thailand. Having lived abroad ourselves, we felt we would be well-equipped to help a family going through the same situation here. We first got the idea from watching the documentary God Grew Tired of Us about the lost boys of Sudan—the children who fled during the civil war. The film chronicled a few of the boys, now men, as they journeyed from the refugee camp to the U.S. for resettlement. Upon their arrival in the U.S., there was a person who showed them their apartment, how to use a flush toilet and toilet paper, how to go grocery shopping….I wanted to be that person.
At a Peace Corps event half a year later I met a former Peace Corps volunteer who now works with Lutheran Family Services, an organization that helps refugees who are assigned to resettle here. The only problem was that if you signed up to help a family, you had to do everything—furnish their apartment, help them go to doctor appointments, help them find a job, help with transportation…it was too much for just us. Usually church groups, with a well-organized network of resources and plenty of retirees with lots of time, are the ones to sponsor families. And I am not part of a church group. I applied for any open jobs with the organization, but they didn’t seem interested in me.
Then, about a year later, I met another former Peace Corps volunteer who worked with the local branch of the U.S. Committee for Refugees and Immigrants (USCRI). She said her organization had several different volunteer options, where individuals or groups could be involved. So we went to an orientation, and they paired us with our family. They had just arrived about two weeks ago—a husband and wife and their two kids. The husband was my husband's age, and the wife was two years younger than me. Their son was going to be starting third grade and their daughter was going to start kindergarten. They spoke some English.
It was the beginning of August when we drove to the apartment complex where USCRI placed many of the refugees upon their arrival. Most refugees in this area are from Burma or Burundi. We heard rumors that there was some racial tension between the two groups, as the lighter skinned Burmese shunned the darker skinned Burundis. Oh, the irony. Which brings me to a little tangent. Popular culture (movies, books) lead us to believe that the oppressed are somehow morally superior to their oppressors (think of the Holocaust and slavery) but really, the only difference is that one group is in power, and the other is not (consider the Israeli oppression of the Palestinians, the way the resettled slaves enslaved the local population in Liberia).
We met our family and talked a little bit about what they wanted from us. It seemed they mainly wanted us to help their kids with their homework. The case worker, who herself was a refugee, told us that the local elementary school gave students a homework folder every Wednesday. So we agreed that it would be good for us to come every Wednesday afternoon. Then, seeing as how school was going to start in a couple of days, we took the father and some relative of his that spoke better English to Wal*Mart to buy their kids some school supplies.
Thus began our weekly trips to their sparce, cockroach infested house. As time went on, the pile of shoes by the door grew, new pieces of random furniture showed up: a cot, another sofa, a large folding table, chairs. They also accumulated a broken computer, toys, bikes, and a bookcase to hold their growing fleet of shoes. USCRI got the dad a job busing tables in the food court at the mall, and the mom works for a laundry service. They make minimum wage, ride the bus to work, have friends take them shopping, and for the most part, they seem to be doing just fine.
The most interesting part has been watching the kids. The son, aptly named Y Two K since he was born in the year 2000, and the daughter, named Mu Hser, didn’t know much English when they came. Y2K could communicate basic information, but Mu Hser just knew a few zoo animals, which is actually quite useless. Although animal names are one of the things ESL teachers love to teach kids, (I know, because I was one) it is actually quite useless to know what a giraffe and elephant are.
As the year went on Y2K never seemed to have much homework, beyond a few math problems or a word search. My husband would spend time with him talking about his toys, or going over a map. We bought some picture dictionaries to help the kids improve their vocabulary.
Meanwhile, Mu Hser and I progressed through the kindergarten curriculum: a new alphabet letter every week, colors, sight words, patterns, and finally, basic addition. In the beginning she didn’t understand much of what I said, but she did ok. Around Christmas is became clear that she was understanding English better, but she still wasn’t speaking much. By Easter, there was a breakthrough. She started speaking. The grammar was bad, the pronunciation was mangled, but my little Mu Hser was finally speaking.
Part of this breakthrough may have been due to her developing friendship with Luu, a Vietnamese refugee who lived in the next apartment building and was in her class. Since they had different native languages, they had to speak to each other in English.
Luu was at the apartment today when I came by. It was the last day of school today. They had had a “beach day” on Monday, which they tried to tell me about. “We play games, no write. Just have fun.” Today they got their grade cards for the year. Luu was being promoted to first grade, but Mu Hser was going to repeat kindergarten. Mu Hser said, “Luu cry. She no want go first grade.” I looked at Luu. She nodded. “I’m scared.” We practiced some flash cards with pictures and words. Luu was clearly outshining Mu Hser, who was preoccupied with eating the smarties candy she got at school that day.
They showed me the movie their teacher gave them—a compilation of pictures from throughout the year. Mu Hser and Luu were mixed in with all the American-born kids, and I thought about the American dream. Their parents didn’t want to come here—they really wanted to return to their own country, just not at the risk of their lives. So here they are, and although the parents may never rise much above menial jobs, I’m convinced their kids will be just fine. They’ll be fluent in English in another year, and they will be able to achieve whatever they want.
Which brings me to my real motive in writing this. (I teach my students that their thesis must go in the first paragraph, and here I am—burying mine in the 13th paragraph!) I see these kids and I am confident that although their parents were refugees—literally coming to the US with nothing—they will grow up to be middle class. This is why it is hard to say that there is some system keeping poor people poor. Being poor has nothing to do with it. Their parents are limited due to their lack of education and English proficiency, but the kids, just by going to public schools, will be able to get ahead. So should the children of any poor parents. We see this with the stories of Obama and Sotomayor. It isn’t easy, but it is possible. Y2K and Mu Hser may not grow up to be a president or supreme court justice, but the opportunity is there.
At a Peace Corps event half a year later I met a former Peace Corps volunteer who now works with Lutheran Family Services, an organization that helps refugees who are assigned to resettle here. The only problem was that if you signed up to help a family, you had to do everything—furnish their apartment, help them go to doctor appointments, help them find a job, help with transportation…it was too much for just us. Usually church groups, with a well-organized network of resources and plenty of retirees with lots of time, are the ones to sponsor families. And I am not part of a church group. I applied for any open jobs with the organization, but they didn’t seem interested in me.
Then, about a year later, I met another former Peace Corps volunteer who worked with the local branch of the U.S. Committee for Refugees and Immigrants (USCRI). She said her organization had several different volunteer options, where individuals or groups could be involved. So we went to an orientation, and they paired us with our family. They had just arrived about two weeks ago—a husband and wife and their two kids. The husband was my husband's age, and the wife was two years younger than me. Their son was going to be starting third grade and their daughter was going to start kindergarten. They spoke some English.
It was the beginning of August when we drove to the apartment complex where USCRI placed many of the refugees upon their arrival. Most refugees in this area are from Burma or Burundi. We heard rumors that there was some racial tension between the two groups, as the lighter skinned Burmese shunned the darker skinned Burundis. Oh, the irony. Which brings me to a little tangent. Popular culture (movies, books) lead us to believe that the oppressed are somehow morally superior to their oppressors (think of the Holocaust and slavery) but really, the only difference is that one group is in power, and the other is not (consider the Israeli oppression of the Palestinians, the way the resettled slaves enslaved the local population in Liberia).
We met our family and talked a little bit about what they wanted from us. It seemed they mainly wanted us to help their kids with their homework. The case worker, who herself was a refugee, told us that the local elementary school gave students a homework folder every Wednesday. So we agreed that it would be good for us to come every Wednesday afternoon. Then, seeing as how school was going to start in a couple of days, we took the father and some relative of his that spoke better English to Wal*Mart to buy their kids some school supplies.
Thus began our weekly trips to their sparce, cockroach infested house. As time went on, the pile of shoes by the door grew, new pieces of random furniture showed up: a cot, another sofa, a large folding table, chairs. They also accumulated a broken computer, toys, bikes, and a bookcase to hold their growing fleet of shoes. USCRI got the dad a job busing tables in the food court at the mall, and the mom works for a laundry service. They make minimum wage, ride the bus to work, have friends take them shopping, and for the most part, they seem to be doing just fine.
The most interesting part has been watching the kids. The son, aptly named Y Two K since he was born in the year 2000, and the daughter, named Mu Hser, didn’t know much English when they came. Y2K could communicate basic information, but Mu Hser just knew a few zoo animals, which is actually quite useless. Although animal names are one of the things ESL teachers love to teach kids, (I know, because I was one) it is actually quite useless to know what a giraffe and elephant are.
As the year went on Y2K never seemed to have much homework, beyond a few math problems or a word search. My husband would spend time with him talking about his toys, or going over a map. We bought some picture dictionaries to help the kids improve their vocabulary.
Meanwhile, Mu Hser and I progressed through the kindergarten curriculum: a new alphabet letter every week, colors, sight words, patterns, and finally, basic addition. In the beginning she didn’t understand much of what I said, but she did ok. Around Christmas is became clear that she was understanding English better, but she still wasn’t speaking much. By Easter, there was a breakthrough. She started speaking. The grammar was bad, the pronunciation was mangled, but my little Mu Hser was finally speaking.
Part of this breakthrough may have been due to her developing friendship with Luu, a Vietnamese refugee who lived in the next apartment building and was in her class. Since they had different native languages, they had to speak to each other in English.
Luu was at the apartment today when I came by. It was the last day of school today. They had had a “beach day” on Monday, which they tried to tell me about. “We play games, no write. Just have fun.” Today they got their grade cards for the year. Luu was being promoted to first grade, but Mu Hser was going to repeat kindergarten. Mu Hser said, “Luu cry. She no want go first grade.” I looked at Luu. She nodded. “I’m scared.” We practiced some flash cards with pictures and words. Luu was clearly outshining Mu Hser, who was preoccupied with eating the smarties candy she got at school that day.
They showed me the movie their teacher gave them—a compilation of pictures from throughout the year. Mu Hser and Luu were mixed in with all the American-born kids, and I thought about the American dream. Their parents didn’t want to come here—they really wanted to return to their own country, just not at the risk of their lives. So here they are, and although the parents may never rise much above menial jobs, I’m convinced their kids will be just fine. They’ll be fluent in English in another year, and they will be able to achieve whatever they want.
Which brings me to my real motive in writing this. (I teach my students that their thesis must go in the first paragraph, and here I am—burying mine in the 13th paragraph!) I see these kids and I am confident that although their parents were refugees—literally coming to the US with nothing—they will grow up to be middle class. This is why it is hard to say that there is some system keeping poor people poor. Being poor has nothing to do with it. Their parents are limited due to their lack of education and English proficiency, but the kids, just by going to public schools, will be able to get ahead. So should the children of any poor parents. We see this with the stories of Obama and Sotomayor. It isn’t easy, but it is possible. Y2K and Mu Hser may not grow up to be a president or supreme court justice, but the opportunity is there.
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