I just returned from teaching English at the Refugee Development Center. We meet in the basement of an old church in downtown Lansing. My class in some ways is a microcosm of the world -- the main difference being that my students peacefully co-exist. The largest group is from Cuba, but others come from Iraq, Egypt, Myanmar, China, Burundi, Somalia, Afghanistan, and Mexico. They are Christians, Muslims, and Buddhists and speak nine different languages. Each has come to America hoping for a better life for their children. Most are unemployed (the curse of Michigan), but each one would gladly have a job -- anything. The ones who are fortunate eek out meager livings working at a factory, doing housekeeping, or preparing food. The women cook and clean the house. Everyone watches a lot of television. They study English. The American dream seems awfully tarnished, but they don't complain - except about the weather. I don't blame them.
Meanwhile on Monday and Wednesday evenings, we struggle together to figure out words that are commonly taken for granted.
"Boyfriend? Like a small boy who is your friend?" one man asks.
"A cousin is your mother's sister's son or your father's sister's daughter or your mother's brother's son. You know - your grandmother's grandchildren!" I gaze out at a room full of blank stares. I had hoped that the funny-looking family tree I drew on the board might be helpful. But no - "cousin" turns out to be more complicated than I had anticipated.
We press on, forging through the linguistic impasses that continually creep up. The students whisper translations to help their friends or to double-check their hunches. They smile at me and play along with my sometimes misguided plans.
I tell them that my mother has seven brothers and three sisters. But she only has two daughters.
"How many children do you have?" they ask.
"I don't have any children."
"No children?" They seem surprised.
"You are not married?"
"No," I confess.
"What your birthday?" a middle-aged man (a former army officer) from Afghanistan asks. I know what he's trying to say.
"I'm 38." (Or am I 37? I never can remember these days.)
They don't know how to respond. Their faces reveal a combination of pity and astonishment.
"I'm old," I interject. "I need to find a husband." The Afghani man nods in agreement.
One of my Burmese students, a young woman with striking features and gorgeous brown eyes reassures me.
"I don't see 'old'," she says, "I see beautiful."
We spend the last ten minutes of class singing along with John Denver. I've discovered that people will often sing when they're too nervous to speak.
"'Cuz I'm leaving on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again. Oh babe, I hate to go. . . ."
The lyrics seem to resonate.
Now the time has come to leave you.
One more time, let me kiss you.
Close your eyes, I'll be on my way.
Dream about the days to come
when I won't have to leave alone. . .
Class is over and my students gather their things. Echoes of "Thank you, teacher!" fill the room.
"No," I think. "Thank you."
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4 comments:
I love to read your blog. Thanks Anny for your eloquent way of expressing yourself. I must confess it took me a minute to process the cousin thing the way it was written out. Family trees are complex, just like singing!!
That was both beautiful and moving. I love that you sing John Denver with them - one of my all-time favorites. They are lucky to have you as a teacher.
Apparently we have some of the same linguistical problems. My kids definition of boyfriend is much the same. Lindsey has a "boyfriend" and Jacob has "girlfriends" (even though he can't tell his friends about them.) Ahh, naivety.
Thank you for the tender moments of experiencing 'world peace' vicariously through your expressive writing. Today we spent time in our basement hanging some pictures we have gathered during our 'international lives' - one special one is of a Burmese grandma in a humble setting stitching something with loving hands. Tell your friends from Myanmar and all the other places we learn much from them and desire Peace for all. Thank you Anny for your loving service to help bring that Peace -- a little piece at a time.
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