Scene 1:No one bothered to tell me that virtually
no one in Moscow was wearing hot pink in the winter of 1992. Coats were mostly black, grey, navy blue, or brown in just
barely post-Soviet Russia. I, however, was a young, idealistic, clueless American with a fuschia coat – fuschia lined with green and purple plaid, no less. And every time I hopped aboard a bus, heads turned and usually, people smiled. They immediately knew I was a foreigner. Occasionally, a brave soul would say something to me and in those cases, it usually came out that I was an American.
“Oh!” the person would exclaim in delight, “you’re from America? Have you been to New York?”
Then they’d want to know what I was doing in Moscow, what I thought of the city, and they'd recommend an interesting place for me to visit or some Russian cuisine to taste. Sometimes, they’d apologize for unfriendly people or the lackluster conditions of their country. Often, they’d ask if I needed help getting somewhere. Typically, they’d compliment me on my Russian, acting honored and impressed that I’d even tackle their formidable language.
Scene 2:The other day, I was on a bus in Michigan riding home from campus. A young man wearing a bright pink coat boarded the bus. When our eyes met, he brandished a most contagious smile. It was M, a former student of mine from the Refugee Center. He is a refugee from Burma, a country plagued by a ruthless military dictatorship, a recent spate of devastating natural disasters, and impossible economic conditions. Each week, he’d come to my class with his buddies. They were refugees, too – several of them were the only survivors in their family. Everyone else was dead. If they were lucky, they worked menial jobs in Lansing, cleaning hotel rooms, washing dishes, or sewing uniforms at a factory. Now that they were in America, they knew that learning English was the key to their future. With English, they could attend school, get a better job, make friends, understand television shows, and read the newspapers.
I’ll never forget the week when the weather turned cold. It wasn’t
that cold yet, but still my Burmese students showed up in the most wonderful array of winter coats. To their Southeastern Asian sensibilities, it was plenty cold. My guess is that they picked out their coats from a pile of donated winter wear. I had seen this once. The director of the Refugee Center had announced a new arrival of donated clothing. Behold: a random assortment of clothes strewn in the hallway, some items in boxes, others simply tossed on the floor. Humbly and gratefully, some of them a bit embarrassed, my students selected items that might be worn by themselves or friends or family. I imagined a similar pile of coats. I don’t know if M chose the pink coat because he liked it or if it was the only one remaining. I wonder if he knew that most young men in Lansing wouldn’t be caught dead in a fuschia coat. I wonder if he cared. After all, it did the job.
M and I exchanged a brief greeting as he made his way to the back of the bus. The bus wasn’t full, but that was where his friends were sitting. I listened to them cheerfully chattering in Burmese.
I waved to M as I got off the bus. Again, he smiled broadly.
I wondered. Do people here express interest in M? Do they care what he thinks of our country? Do they apologize for unfriendly people? Are they impressed and honored that he is trying to learn English? Do they know or care where Burma is? Can they even begin to imagine what it would be like to be the only living soul in your family?
Do they wonder who’s inside that hot pink coat?
