Recently in one of my psychology classes a woman came in as a guest speaker and talked to us about Death. It was a fascinating night, in that we approached a subject I rarely talk about or hear talked about in big groups. It got me thinking about midwifery and how I plan to devote my life to the opposite side of the spectrum- yet how closely birth straddles that invisible line, and how, unfortunately the other side occasionally wins. I began to think that in order to become a comprehensive midwife, I must understand, or know death on a more intimate level.
This is not a prayer I intend on praying, but I was well aware of an opportunity which had presented itself of which I had initially ignored.
One of our volunteers at AAA dropped by my office two weeks ago to let me know my client was in the hospital. It didn't surprise me, this client was incredibly unpredictable. I had weekly updates of other places she had been spotted; on the street corner at 2 a.m. or sleeping in a ditch on the side of a busy intersection midday. She would visit me at work and ask me why I wasn't finding her a job. I explained that we had some serious barriers to tear down before she would be considered employable. She accused me of playing favorites with the other African women in her apartment complex, that I spent all my time working with them, bringing them to interviews and job fairs. I told her I would be in her area the next Thursday, if she could put together some of the clothes I gave her in to an acceptable looking outfit and could be ready on time WEARING THEM, she was welcome.
I didn't need to knock on her door the day of the job fair, it was wide open and i could see her lounging on her couch waiting for me. I poked my head in. "Hey Dorris."
She sat up and rubbed her eyes. "Kacie, I'm coming." I waited outside while she gathered a purse and slipped on some shoes. But I could already tell this was a bad idea. Somehow between the time we had talked and this day she had lost the majority of her hair and developed a severe rash all over her face. The rash was raised and unsightly, millions of wart-like projections freckling it's entirety.
When she walked out she put her hand flat against her cheek. "My face is troubling me." She said, cringing at what lay beneath.
"Your outfit looks nice." I said, trying to stress a positive.
"Yes, thank you, but my face." She covered her patchy tufts of hair with a flimsy white ball cap which had fluorescent pink writing scrawled across its perimeter. I couldn't tell what it said because it was tagged and undecipherable.
Needless to say the job fair did not go over well. I made connections with employers of hotels, security agencies, and restaurants. Each time I shook a hand Dorris came up from behind in her gangster hat and ruined any impression I may have made. At every booth she claimed to the Human Resources staff she had 15 years or more experience in that field, so that by the time we had left I calculated her age as 215.
I was caught off-guard, completely unsure of what to do. I wanted to tell her to wait outside, that the fate of so many worthy qualified refugees hung delicately in the impressions made during this hour. The other women I had brought were ideal; they networked, asked relevant questions, smiled, and handed out their resumes. They looked professional.
But Dorris. I wanted to love her but it was just hard.
I had determined by the end of that day that Dorris had definite mental issues which needed attending to before any other step in the job search arena would take place. I told her this and she disagreed. She said her mental issues were arising because of being unemployed. Being unemployed was driving her crazy.
In less than a month she flooded her apartment, got kicked out, lost her sons to the system, and went to the streets. Pastor Dan (AAA volunteer) kept a watch on her, offering assistance in needed areas, but she refused.
I called him to see if he had visited her in the hospital yet, and to find out why exactly she was there.
"Yeah, I saw her. She's not doing well. Have you gone? It looks like she might have a few days left."
"In the hospital?"
"No. A few days until she dies. She's dying."
I was well aware of her health status, of her testing positive for HIV. I didn't know how serious it had progressed. I was also well aware that she had no support system in San Diego, besides her two beautiful teenage boys who were now in foster homes. This was her fault, her utter aloneness. Many people had reached out to Dorris, attempting to include her and incorporate her back in to a healthy lifestyle through groups, friendships, church. She walked away from it all, rather bluntly and ungraciously- telling people, including myself, that we were useless.
But the thought of dying alone in a hospital bed in a foreign city haunted me, and I felt drawn to visit her. "This is the result of the life she chose to live." I'd snap back to the part that wanted to go. Time was ticking, and a dying person only needs comfort for so long. "She's only a few blocks away from your house." The comforter would say. "Go. She needs someone."
One of the most moving and influential lines my pastor has ever preached often echoes in my decision-making process, and reminds me of what it means to live a life that is truly counterculture, a life that resembles the heart of God.
"Grace" he reminded us "does not ask how you got yourself in to this. Grace always chooses love."
So I went. And when I asked for her at the front desk, I found out she had given either me or them an alias. She wasn't the name I had been calling her.
I took the elevator to the 7th floor and checked in with the nurse. "Go down to room 704 she's in there." The lack of enthusiasm streaming from this woman's voice made me hope we'd never become future coworkers.
I noticed a huge sign strung across Dorris's entryway that said "STOP. ANY PERSON ENTERING THIS ROOM MUST WEAR PROTECTIVE GEAR. GOGGLES AND FACE MASK ARE MANDATORY."
I thought it odd the nurse didn't mention anything. "Um!" I yelled to her down the hall, pointing at the sign.
"Oh ya. Gotta do it." She replied, staring at her computer.
I walked back over to her and in a low voice asked "Can you please tell me why I am doing this?"
"Cause the sign says. I don't know honey. You can find another nurse somewhere around here and ask. I think the patient spits or something? I don't really know."
Dorris spitting on people did not surprise me. For half a second I had a romantic vision of her appreciating my visit and not spitting on me, but that quickly dissolved in to an image of a loogie dripping down my face. "Okay, I'll put it on."
By the time a nice helpful young man had finished tying all my stray ties and got my face mask put on securely, the only part of my body that was visible were my eyes. I felt like I was about to handle kryptonite.
The t.v. was set to a talk show, and she was staring blankly in to the screen registering nothing. I walked in and she turned her head slowly in my direction. I pulled up a stool on wheels and sat next to her side. When I spoke, my voice reverberated in my face mask and filled the pocket with heat and humidity. I wasn't sure she could recognize me with no smile. "It's me, Kacie." I said, reaching out my gloved hand and touching her arm.
"Kelsey. I remember."
I turned towards the television and took turns alternating my attention to daytime drama and real life drama. Dorris was not talkative, which I had expected. I was told her sons had visited her once and she refused to say a word to them. They left without a sentence exchanged.
"Please put that Ensure in to the waste basket for me." She motioned her arm towards the tray filled with bottles of Ensure. I knew she was probably expected to finish some, and being monitored by the nurses of any progress. I told her I couldn't, I was just there to visit, to say hello. "Please put it in the waste basket."
"Later. I'll do it later."
"Okay."
I wanted to address my get-up, I felt so awkward. "So the nurses say you spit, so I had to put all this on."
She moved a thick wad of phlegm between her cheeks and nodded.
"How are you?" I asked, suddenly realizing and wondering if this is a stupid question to ask somebody dying.
"Terrible." She mumbled, through her full cheeks.
"Yeah. I'm sorry."
"This place is terrible. Hand me that towel."
I passed her a white hospital towel, the same I use to wipe down a laboring mothers sweaty brow. She struggled to bring it to her mouth, so I helped while she spit the contents of saliva she had accumulated in to the rag. It was a dark yellow.
"This place is terrible. Really terrible."
I know how to be around a woman in labor. You must slow yourself down. You must become the ultimate listener and be okay with silence. Silence is crucial. I began to pretend Dorris was birthing. It made the room more comfortable when I did this, I was able to hear her and not worry about offering a solution.
"Why is it so terrible?" I asked.
"The nurses. This hospital. All of it is ruining me."
"Has anybody visited you?" I asked.
"Nobody."
I looked over at a balloon that was floating halfway between life and death as well. It said, I Love You.
"Nobody?"
"How is everybody, all of the people, Dan and Kristen and everyone?"
"They are doing well. Everyone is very busy. A lot of refugees coming in still, but we haven't gotten any from Nigeria. How are your people? Your sons?"
She swiveled her head to the side. "This place... my sons came last week to visit me and the hospital stole my voice. I couldn't speak when they were here but when they left I was fine. I could talk again. I couldn't talk to my boys. I am telling you Kacie this place is horrible."
"Hm."
We sat silently again, for awhile, and then she ordered me to hand her the Ensure. I didn't move so she reached her body over, grabbed it and threw it across the room in to the trashcan missing completely and spilling the chocolate liquid on my shoes and over the floor.
I pretended nothing happened.
I wanted to say nice things to her, to change the feeling of the room and lift her state. I told her about a beautiful song I had stuck in my head that morning, I taught her the words and we sung it together. It sounded awful, but we smiled and sang and she opened up for a moment.
"Kacie. I am not a monster."
I grabbed her hand, and said "I know Dorris, nobody thinks you are a monster."
"I am not a monster, Kacie."
When I looked down and saw my glove and my body suit and felt the mask on my face I couldn't repeat the reassuring words. I was dressed as if she was a monster. I wanted to take it all off, to remove my face mask and let us share smiles, but I couldn't. I didn't trust her.
"I AM NOT A MONSTER!"
I squeezed her hand and said something I always feel but that usually does not come out of my mouth. "You are a beautiful child of God."
The next few minutes I watched as a spiritual war began to ravage her. Quietly and softly she would remind herself "I am a beautiful child of God. I am a beautiful child of God." But momentary peace would give way to angst, and little crys, and uncertainty as she forcefully stated that she was not a monster. I sat by her bed and watched and prayed and then I started crying. My eye shield fogged up and splashed with tears and she grabbed my hand and asked why I was crying.
"I don't know. I just need to cry." I said.
"I need to cry too."
My tears quickly dried and hers never came, but we sat together while the Ensure began to puddle around the feet of my stool. She tried to spit another mouthful in to the same towel but it missed and dropped on to the breast of her hospital gown. While she wiped herself up I told her my garden was blooming with sweatpeas and that I would pick some and bring her a bouquet. I wanted her to remember beauty. She said she would like that, and would also like it if I could bring her a Bible so she could read during the time she was there. I said of course.
A week has passed and I have trimmed 3 bouquets of sweatpeas from my garden. My mother took one, I gave one to my sister-in-law, and my neighbor got the last one. I haven't been able to put any in my house where I usually keep them because a bouquet now carries just as much aesthetic appeal as it does of the nagging reminder of a promise I made.
Time is going. Death is uncomfortable. A deteriorating body and a spirit like hers are difficult to face, but the sweatpeas are prolific and I do intend to keep this promise.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Encounters with Grace in Taiwan: When God Surprises
It's Sunday, I'm a Christian, and usually I go to church. But today I decided to stay at home, sit on my couch, and eat dark chocolate instead. I don't see this as a better alternative, because I love the church, but for this day it was what I decided to do.
And while I've been sitting here I've been having flashes, of times and places in my life where God has shone through in truly extraordinary ways. And as a person who believes that God is readily available to each and every one of us at any moment, this should be the case. God is extraordinary so His ways must be also. I am moved to document the grace that has been shown to me.
Taiwan: Teaching English: Love the kids: Hate lesson planning so I wing it every day in class by telling stories: 23 years old: Living in a big congested city: Having fun with all my girlfriends but homesick and confused and on an emotional roller coaster:
My boyfriend at the time flies across the world to ask if I'll marry him. I say yes. He has 5 days to spend in Taiwan. I put him on the back of my scooter and try to show off- driving haphazardly and paying attention to very little. I haven't learned what the road signs mean and I don't really care. I'm unlicensed and a bit too cocky. We get hit by a car and it is entirely my fault. After slamming into the car's windshield I fly through the air and my body smacks in to the asphalt. His does too. Very intense surges of adrenaline are releasing and it numbs my pain. I worry about our engagement when the first thing I think is NOT "i hope he's alive" but... "how am I going to get back to Africa if I'm in a wheelchair?" An ambulance rushes us to hospital. We are both relatively OK. A few days later he leaves and I get an unexpected phone local from a Taiwanese woman.
"Hello, is this the girl who was hit last week?"
"Yes. It is."
"Oh okay. We are very sorry about that! Are you okay now?"
"I'm fine, thanks. Who is this?"
"I am calling on behalf of Mrs. Yin. I am her interpreter. She doesn't speak English. Mrs. Yin is the woman who hit you."
"Ohhhh." I covered the phone and mouthed to my girlfriend 'it's-the-lady-who-hit-me!' and she cringes. Accidents with foreigners in Taiwan are far too common. At each potluck, or party, or gathering, there was always somebody wrapped up in some cast showing off their road rash. Everyone knew it was not a matter of if, but when. And tales had been told of accidents gone bad, both physically and financially. Some ex-pats advise to play the dumb foreigner card and hang up when they try to contact you. They would never find you in the sea of city life, and to them all white people look the same.
I went to Taiwan for a few reasons, and one was to make money. But somehow that was not happening. I had $5 in my bank account. But I didn't hang up.
"Yes, Mrs. Yin would like to meet with you, regarding the accident."
"Okay." I responded.
"When is a good time for you?"
I was unprepared and being lured in to uncomfortable territory.
I offered up an answer while looking at my girlfriend. "Nights?"
"We will come and meet you because I can assume that you are not driving your scooter right now."
"Correct."
"Are you able to walk?"
"Yes."
"Okay. The police report said you live close to Wuchuan. There is a restaurant across the street. Would you like to meet outside of the restaurant tomorrow at 7?"
"Sure."
"Then we will be there at 7. It will be me, Mrs. Yin, and a lawyer. See you then. Goodbye."
When I heard the dial tone my stomach twisted. The conversation was like a hammer pounding in my recent feelings of complete lack of control and anxiety, about everything in my life. I looked at my girlfriend and she offered up two words of advice. "Don't go."
I opened the front door of the 8th floor apartment and walked the staircase to the roof of the building. I looked out over the city. I looked up at the stars. I thought about my $5.
"Don't go." The words echoed, but they didn't resonate.
I stared back out over the city. There is something incredibly calming about rooftops. Calming, and also lonely. I didn't like the lonely part, so i prayed "God. Help. I don't know what to do."
and I waited. and then i prayed some more.
the city faded away and a simple awareness abounded, it said;
it is all going to be just fine, just do your job.
at that point my job was very clear. i needed to show up at 7 the next night, and i needed to take responsibility.
I was on the bench, outside the restaurant, waiting nervously like i was on a blind date. I stared expectantly at each group of passerby's, and waited for some mutual hint of recognition. i sat, then i stood, trying to look friendly and composed. if at that moment i had a magic power i would have used it to be back at home- in California- far away from where i was and far away from how i was feeling. i was awaiting my fate amidst the interrogative glow of Asian street life.
and then, i saw them. Mrs. Yin and the interpreter, clinking down the pavement with shiny hair, lips, and purses. Even their pants glowed with wealth. They were polished women on a mission, and they were aiming for me. I suddenly became aware of my messy hair and ripped up jeans.
I walked up to them and extended my hand. They nodded and smiled and shook it, but Mrs. Yin held an expression of reservation that reminded me of our purpose.
A beefy man in a business suit walked out from inside of the restaurant and came straight over to us. He had a briefcase and slicked hair and motioned for us to all sit down on the bench and so that is what we did.
The interpreter stood up and began to talk. "The reason we are here tonight is to discuss the accident. I am here to listen and to help you two come to an agreement for compensation. If there is anything you need to say please feel free to say it and I will tell Mrs. Yin, and she will do the same."
"Okay."
There was a smattering of words, between the lawyer, the interpreter, and Mrs. Yin, and they passed a clipboard back and forth between each other pointing at numbers and phrases. The caricatures meant nothing to me so I waited until the clipboard eventually made it into my lap.
The interpreter pointed to the number circled. "This here is the cost of repairs from the damage you caused her car."
The figure meant nothing to me. It wasn't in dollars and I had yet to convert that high of a sum in any encounter since I had entered the country. I had no emotional response, just a perplexed expression and the memory that it was a Mercedes-Benz that hit me.
"In Taiwan, when a person causes an accident it is up to them to take care of the costs incurred by the accident."
I nodded.
"And do you agree that the accident was your fault?"
Take responsibility. "Yes, I agree."
"Okay, then do you agree that you will pay for this? What we have listed here is the list of the repairs she had to have done to her bumper, her hood, and her windshield."
"Yes. I agree."
The lawyer handed over a document.
"Can you please sign this?"
"I can't read what it says. And if we can just step back a moment and if you can tell me how much money this is that I owe... in dollars..."
The group was having difficulty in the conversion, as we rustled through our bags and pulled out calculators and cell phones and scribbled mathematical equations on backs of papers. After a few minutes, when we all reached the same amount, the reality of the situation began to settle in heavy. My poverty, my stupidity, this massive amount of money that felt like a big noose around my neck and an anchor tied to my ankles. It was over $4,000. I had $5, and she needed a lot more than that.
I crumpled under the demand. Until this point I was holding it all together. My stress was contained, making continuous restricted u-turns inside my head, inside my abdomen, through my limbs. But the impossibility of what this $4,000 meant unraveled me and I began to cry. The emotion escaped out of me in a giant exhale, but the inhale was a sob as well. I stood up and walked away as expressing emotion is considered a sign of weakness, and the extent of my tears in public was a social disgrace upon all of us. Not only had I caused all of us to grovel in these unpleasentries but i was bringing us into another level of humiliation by my inability to stop crying.
The harder I tried to pull myself together, the more I plunged into a well of despair. I was planning on leaving Taiwan, returning home to resume the life that was waiting for me. But I made an agreement to hold up my end and i wanted them to know that.
The interpreter walked over to me and put her hand on my shoulder, then ushered me over to a pathway which wound itself through a small intercity park. She reached up and rubbed my back with her tiny hand. She suggested we take a little walk. Mrs. Yin would wait.
By this point, I was snotty and full of post-crying hiccups. She tried to entice me in to small-talk, about how I like Taiwan and how she had spent some time in Los Angeles. She asked me how my boyfriend was and how he was liking Taiwan. I broke down again and told her he was back at home, waiting for me.
"You mean he doesn't live here?"
I shook my head No.
"Oh." She said, wondering.
"I'm trying to go home, as soon as possible." and then I launched in to my drama, which was propelled by a true desire to pay back the money. "I want to let you know, that I will pay back the debt I owe to Mrs. Yin." With five measly dollars, it seemed insurmountable. "But i have to be honest. I don't have much. Right now."
"Well I am sure something can be worked out. Maybe you can pay half of it now and half of it later?"
She really didn't understand.
"When I say I don't have much, I mean, I have very little to give back right now." I could feel my lip quivering and her hand went back on my shoulder.
"I know, these accidents. They can be expensive. I got in one last month and I owe A LOT of money."
I saw her lament on her unfortunate situation and forget me for a moment.
"I will give her every last penny, but as of today, I am going to have to get some money to do that." I started to scramble for ideas of how to pay back this debt. "I can sell my scooter. That is $600. And I'll be getting some paychecks soon, I can give that to her. But this is going to take awhile."
She listened as I became more and more pathetic with each step we took. She realized that I had truly NOTHING to give and I was scrambling to dig up something of value to offer back. "Lets go back and you can work something out with Mrs. Yin."
I didn't make eye contact with anyone as the interpreter explained my current situation. I could smell Mrs. Yin's perfume wafting through the cool breeze, past my hot sweaty face and my sticky body. I felt slovenly, also big and exposed and unable to hide, like a grotesque wart. I wanted so badly to NOT feel this way, to be able to give back something, anything.
She mmmm'ed while the interpreter and the lawyer talked. She held a quiet power.
I was adding up how many months worth of work it would take to get her the money but my thoughts were interrupted by silence.
The interpreter waited for me to look up and began. "Having an accident is very common and very costly here which is why people must be very careful when they drive scooter. Like I told you, I had an accident which has cost me a lot, and my friends have all had accidents and they weren't so lucky either. I have never heard of a situation ending like this, but Mrs. Yin would like me to tell you that you owe her nothing."
I was dumbfounded, then ashamed, then painfully aware of how unworthy I felt. I didn't have a response, because I was taken completely off-guard. I wanted to pay her back. I couldn't understand this gift. This woman didn't know me. I had caused considerable damage to her very functional and good-looking expensive car. I had taken time out of her life, made her hire an interpreter and a lawyer, and embarrassed her in public with my melt-down.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing. She says your debt is erased."
I went home that night and ascended the stairs back to the rooftop, where I spent more time in prayer and a lot of time crying. Only this time, my burden had lifted and had been replaced with gratitude. Gratitude floated me up to the spot where just a day earlier dread had kept me bound.
I have never connected to the reality of God's grace as I did that night; of his free abounding love, of his desire for us to seek him first so he can lead us in his way, of his deep empathy and forgiveness. I have never known what it feels like, experientially, to have your debt erased. This was money and it affected me profoundly. Some of us live our entire lives, amidst God but with our back turned towards Him and our eyes and minds focused on titillating fruitless endeavors, like trying to wade through this mess on our own. When God says that he can free us from sin, this is what he means. He can free us from the times when we get ourselves stuck. He can free us from the life that we have stuck ourselves in. He is a practical God, a God who delivers, a God who turns rocks of despair into seeds of life.
We must show up and do our part. Our part, is believing God will show up. It is having faith. We must have faith. God will work wonders with the impossibilities that lie before you.
And while I've been sitting here I've been having flashes, of times and places in my life where God has shone through in truly extraordinary ways. And as a person who believes that God is readily available to each and every one of us at any moment, this should be the case. God is extraordinary so His ways must be also. I am moved to document the grace that has been shown to me.
Taiwan: Teaching English: Love the kids: Hate lesson planning so I wing it every day in class by telling stories: 23 years old: Living in a big congested city: Having fun with all my girlfriends but homesick and confused and on an emotional roller coaster:
My boyfriend at the time flies across the world to ask if I'll marry him. I say yes. He has 5 days to spend in Taiwan. I put him on the back of my scooter and try to show off- driving haphazardly and paying attention to very little. I haven't learned what the road signs mean and I don't really care. I'm unlicensed and a bit too cocky. We get hit by a car and it is entirely my fault. After slamming into the car's windshield I fly through the air and my body smacks in to the asphalt. His does too. Very intense surges of adrenaline are releasing and it numbs my pain. I worry about our engagement when the first thing I think is NOT "i hope he's alive" but... "how am I going to get back to Africa if I'm in a wheelchair?" An ambulance rushes us to hospital. We are both relatively OK. A few days later he leaves and I get an unexpected phone local from a Taiwanese woman.
"Hello, is this the girl who was hit last week?"
"Yes. It is."
"Oh okay. We are very sorry about that! Are you okay now?"
"I'm fine, thanks. Who is this?"
"I am calling on behalf of Mrs. Yin. I am her interpreter. She doesn't speak English. Mrs. Yin is the woman who hit you."
"Ohhhh." I covered the phone and mouthed to my girlfriend 'it's-the-lady-who-hit-me!' and she cringes. Accidents with foreigners in Taiwan are far too common. At each potluck, or party, or gathering, there was always somebody wrapped up in some cast showing off their road rash. Everyone knew it was not a matter of if, but when. And tales had been told of accidents gone bad, both physically and financially. Some ex-pats advise to play the dumb foreigner card and hang up when they try to contact you. They would never find you in the sea of city life, and to them all white people look the same.
I went to Taiwan for a few reasons, and one was to make money. But somehow that was not happening. I had $5 in my bank account. But I didn't hang up.
"Yes, Mrs. Yin would like to meet with you, regarding the accident."
"Okay." I responded.
"When is a good time for you?"
I was unprepared and being lured in to uncomfortable territory.
I offered up an answer while looking at my girlfriend. "Nights?"
"We will come and meet you because I can assume that you are not driving your scooter right now."
"Correct."
"Are you able to walk?"
"Yes."
"Okay. The police report said you live close to Wuchuan. There is a restaurant across the street. Would you like to meet outside of the restaurant tomorrow at 7?"
"Sure."
"Then we will be there at 7. It will be me, Mrs. Yin, and a lawyer. See you then. Goodbye."
When I heard the dial tone my stomach twisted. The conversation was like a hammer pounding in my recent feelings of complete lack of control and anxiety, about everything in my life. I looked at my girlfriend and she offered up two words of advice. "Don't go."
I opened the front door of the 8th floor apartment and walked the staircase to the roof of the building. I looked out over the city. I looked up at the stars. I thought about my $5.
"Don't go." The words echoed, but they didn't resonate.
I stared back out over the city. There is something incredibly calming about rooftops. Calming, and also lonely. I didn't like the lonely part, so i prayed "God. Help. I don't know what to do."
and I waited. and then i prayed some more.
the city faded away and a simple awareness abounded, it said;
it is all going to be just fine, just do your job.
at that point my job was very clear. i needed to show up at 7 the next night, and i needed to take responsibility.
I was on the bench, outside the restaurant, waiting nervously like i was on a blind date. I stared expectantly at each group of passerby's, and waited for some mutual hint of recognition. i sat, then i stood, trying to look friendly and composed. if at that moment i had a magic power i would have used it to be back at home- in California- far away from where i was and far away from how i was feeling. i was awaiting my fate amidst the interrogative glow of Asian street life.
and then, i saw them. Mrs. Yin and the interpreter, clinking down the pavement with shiny hair, lips, and purses. Even their pants glowed with wealth. They were polished women on a mission, and they were aiming for me. I suddenly became aware of my messy hair and ripped up jeans.
I walked up to them and extended my hand. They nodded and smiled and shook it, but Mrs. Yin held an expression of reservation that reminded me of our purpose.
A beefy man in a business suit walked out from inside of the restaurant and came straight over to us. He had a briefcase and slicked hair and motioned for us to all sit down on the bench and so that is what we did.
The interpreter stood up and began to talk. "The reason we are here tonight is to discuss the accident. I am here to listen and to help you two come to an agreement for compensation. If there is anything you need to say please feel free to say it and I will tell Mrs. Yin, and she will do the same."
"Okay."
There was a smattering of words, between the lawyer, the interpreter, and Mrs. Yin, and they passed a clipboard back and forth between each other pointing at numbers and phrases. The caricatures meant nothing to me so I waited until the clipboard eventually made it into my lap.
The interpreter pointed to the number circled. "This here is the cost of repairs from the damage you caused her car."
The figure meant nothing to me. It wasn't in dollars and I had yet to convert that high of a sum in any encounter since I had entered the country. I had no emotional response, just a perplexed expression and the memory that it was a Mercedes-Benz that hit me.
"In Taiwan, when a person causes an accident it is up to them to take care of the costs incurred by the accident."
I nodded.
"And do you agree that the accident was your fault?"
Take responsibility. "Yes, I agree."
"Okay, then do you agree that you will pay for this? What we have listed here is the list of the repairs she had to have done to her bumper, her hood, and her windshield."
"Yes. I agree."
The lawyer handed over a document.
"Can you please sign this?"
"I can't read what it says. And if we can just step back a moment and if you can tell me how much money this is that I owe... in dollars..."
The group was having difficulty in the conversion, as we rustled through our bags and pulled out calculators and cell phones and scribbled mathematical equations on backs of papers. After a few minutes, when we all reached the same amount, the reality of the situation began to settle in heavy. My poverty, my stupidity, this massive amount of money that felt like a big noose around my neck and an anchor tied to my ankles. It was over $4,000. I had $5, and she needed a lot more than that.
I crumpled under the demand. Until this point I was holding it all together. My stress was contained, making continuous restricted u-turns inside my head, inside my abdomen, through my limbs. But the impossibility of what this $4,000 meant unraveled me and I began to cry. The emotion escaped out of me in a giant exhale, but the inhale was a sob as well. I stood up and walked away as expressing emotion is considered a sign of weakness, and the extent of my tears in public was a social disgrace upon all of us. Not only had I caused all of us to grovel in these unpleasentries but i was bringing us into another level of humiliation by my inability to stop crying.
The harder I tried to pull myself together, the more I plunged into a well of despair. I was planning on leaving Taiwan, returning home to resume the life that was waiting for me. But I made an agreement to hold up my end and i wanted them to know that.
The interpreter walked over to me and put her hand on my shoulder, then ushered me over to a pathway which wound itself through a small intercity park. She reached up and rubbed my back with her tiny hand. She suggested we take a little walk. Mrs. Yin would wait.
By this point, I was snotty and full of post-crying hiccups. She tried to entice me in to small-talk, about how I like Taiwan and how she had spent some time in Los Angeles. She asked me how my boyfriend was and how he was liking Taiwan. I broke down again and told her he was back at home, waiting for me.
"You mean he doesn't live here?"
I shook my head No.
"Oh." She said, wondering.
"I'm trying to go home, as soon as possible." and then I launched in to my drama, which was propelled by a true desire to pay back the money. "I want to let you know, that I will pay back the debt I owe to Mrs. Yin." With five measly dollars, it seemed insurmountable. "But i have to be honest. I don't have much. Right now."
"Well I am sure something can be worked out. Maybe you can pay half of it now and half of it later?"
She really didn't understand.
"When I say I don't have much, I mean, I have very little to give back right now." I could feel my lip quivering and her hand went back on my shoulder.
"I know, these accidents. They can be expensive. I got in one last month and I owe A LOT of money."
I saw her lament on her unfortunate situation and forget me for a moment.
"I will give her every last penny, but as of today, I am going to have to get some money to do that." I started to scramble for ideas of how to pay back this debt. "I can sell my scooter. That is $600. And I'll be getting some paychecks soon, I can give that to her. But this is going to take awhile."
She listened as I became more and more pathetic with each step we took. She realized that I had truly NOTHING to give and I was scrambling to dig up something of value to offer back. "Lets go back and you can work something out with Mrs. Yin."
I didn't make eye contact with anyone as the interpreter explained my current situation. I could smell Mrs. Yin's perfume wafting through the cool breeze, past my hot sweaty face and my sticky body. I felt slovenly, also big and exposed and unable to hide, like a grotesque wart. I wanted so badly to NOT feel this way, to be able to give back something, anything.
She mmmm'ed while the interpreter and the lawyer talked. She held a quiet power.
I was adding up how many months worth of work it would take to get her the money but my thoughts were interrupted by silence.
The interpreter waited for me to look up and began. "Having an accident is very common and very costly here which is why people must be very careful when they drive scooter. Like I told you, I had an accident which has cost me a lot, and my friends have all had accidents and they weren't so lucky either. I have never heard of a situation ending like this, but Mrs. Yin would like me to tell you that you owe her nothing."
I was dumbfounded, then ashamed, then painfully aware of how unworthy I felt. I didn't have a response, because I was taken completely off-guard. I wanted to pay her back. I couldn't understand this gift. This woman didn't know me. I had caused considerable damage to her very functional and good-looking expensive car. I had taken time out of her life, made her hire an interpreter and a lawyer, and embarrassed her in public with my melt-down.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing. She says your debt is erased."
I went home that night and ascended the stairs back to the rooftop, where I spent more time in prayer and a lot of time crying. Only this time, my burden had lifted and had been replaced with gratitude. Gratitude floated me up to the spot where just a day earlier dread had kept me bound.
I have never connected to the reality of God's grace as I did that night; of his free abounding love, of his desire for us to seek him first so he can lead us in his way, of his deep empathy and forgiveness. I have never known what it feels like, experientially, to have your debt erased. This was money and it affected me profoundly. Some of us live our entire lives, amidst God but with our back turned towards Him and our eyes and minds focused on titillating fruitless endeavors, like trying to wade through this mess on our own. When God says that he can free us from sin, this is what he means. He can free us from the times when we get ourselves stuck. He can free us from the life that we have stuck ourselves in. He is a practical God, a God who delivers, a God who turns rocks of despair into seeds of life.
We must show up and do our part. Our part, is believing God will show up. It is having faith. We must have faith. God will work wonders with the impossibilities that lie before you.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Davids Mantra
I have a friend in Ghana and his name is David. He is a soft soul, easy to be around, someone who makes life feel fluffy and free. He lives in the village and was hired on as administrative staff at the Huttel Health Center during my second stay. I used to wake up early in the morning (my room was in the birth center), before any patients had arrived, before any of the nurses began work, and spend a peaceful hour in the waiting room doing yoga, looking through the screen walls at the thick crops and mango trees just outside. Mid-session David would ride up on his bike, smiling from ear-to-ear, park, jump off, and mosey over.
"Gooood mooooorning..." He'd whisper, and walk away.
I loved these mornings, mostly, because I was falling in love with a new part of life.
I have never been a morning person, or so that is what I believed. But heat penetrated the village, intensely, by 9:00 a.m. and I had to change my ways. I had to wake up.
Now I must admit. I have always secretly admired morning people, I think all night owls do. I have always felt they held a special exuberance, deeper insight, greater peace, but I figured losing the extra hours of sleep in the morning was just not worth it so I passed it off as an annoying perkiness.
Environmental factors soon forced me to change my ways. Each morning, gentle waves of heat began to layer upon me, coaxing me to leave my sweat soaked sheets and buck up, to try something new.
At first, it was enough to just be upright by 6 a.m.
That, to me, was a major success.
Villagers are morning people. And the type of morning where nature is still quiet and the sun has not risen. Deep morning. What I would argue to be, night.
"You sleep too much!" They'd say.
"What do you mean?"
"I came to your room yesterday, to say hello, and you did not answer. You were sleeping! Ah Akua, by that time, the morning was gone. It was 7 already. Why do you sleep like you are a lazy baby?"
So I began my new habit. I began early rising. And friends started to visit. And I hated it.
I hated having to talk, to think, to form words and sentences and make actual conversation. I found when I did yoga, people would leave me alone, confer with one another that I was doing my "exercise" and should not be bothered, and continue walking home with that mornings enormous harvest balancing on top of their heads. But David was different.
"Goooood mooooooorning..." He would whisper, again, the next day and the one after. A two-word offering, never expecting much in return.
His daily salutation brought me a lot of joy. I would internalize it, the sweet hum of his voice, and repeat it over and over. I would move through my poses, breathing and arching and bending and reflecting: I am awake... and alive... and this IS a good morning. I am awake... and alive... and this is a GOOD morning. I am awake... and alive... and this is a good MORNING?!
The world has a lot to offer at 6 a.m. that can not be had at 9 a.m., bits of passing existence that feed the soul. Like mist, and children running by with buckets to fetch water for their daily bath before school.
David became a conduit, a sage, speaking truth and simplicity in to each of my days through something potentially mundane as a greeting. I usually only offered him a faint smile back, or a little 'hi', or a wave of my fingertips. And he would walk away happily, undoubtedly unaware of the soft impression he had just made.
"Gooood mooooorning..." He'd whisper, and walk away.
I loved these mornings, mostly, because I was falling in love with a new part of life.
I have never been a morning person, or so that is what I believed. But heat penetrated the village, intensely, by 9:00 a.m. and I had to change my ways. I had to wake up.
Now I must admit. I have always secretly admired morning people, I think all night owls do. I have always felt they held a special exuberance, deeper insight, greater peace, but I figured losing the extra hours of sleep in the morning was just not worth it so I passed it off as an annoying perkiness.
Environmental factors soon forced me to change my ways. Each morning, gentle waves of heat began to layer upon me, coaxing me to leave my sweat soaked sheets and buck up, to try something new.
At first, it was enough to just be upright by 6 a.m.
That, to me, was a major success.
Villagers are morning people. And the type of morning where nature is still quiet and the sun has not risen. Deep morning. What I would argue to be, night.
"You sleep too much!" They'd say.
"What do you mean?"
"I came to your room yesterday, to say hello, and you did not answer. You were sleeping! Ah Akua, by that time, the morning was gone. It was 7 already. Why do you sleep like you are a lazy baby?"
So I began my new habit. I began early rising. And friends started to visit. And I hated it.
I hated having to talk, to think, to form words and sentences and make actual conversation. I found when I did yoga, people would leave me alone, confer with one another that I was doing my "exercise" and should not be bothered, and continue walking home with that mornings enormous harvest balancing on top of their heads. But David was different.
"Goooood mooooooorning..." He would whisper, again, the next day and the one after. A two-word offering, never expecting much in return.
His daily salutation brought me a lot of joy. I would internalize it, the sweet hum of his voice, and repeat it over and over. I would move through my poses, breathing and arching and bending and reflecting: I am awake... and alive... and this IS a good morning. I am awake... and alive... and this is a GOOD morning. I am awake... and alive... and this is a good MORNING?!
The world has a lot to offer at 6 a.m. that can not be had at 9 a.m., bits of passing existence that feed the soul. Like mist, and children running by with buckets to fetch water for their daily bath before school.
David became a conduit, a sage, speaking truth and simplicity in to each of my days through something potentially mundane as a greeting. I usually only offered him a faint smile back, or a little 'hi', or a wave of my fingertips. And he would walk away happily, undoubtedly unaware of the soft impression he had just made.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Lessons from a Mockingbird
In the 11 months that I have been working this job, I have had to move my office 4 times. To me, this seems like a lot and I am tired of these transitions. They are starting to make me feel underappreciated, like I am Ms. Mobile who doesn't care where she works. And frankly, I finally got an office with a window (I never thought this would be what I would write about!) and I was quite happy with it.
And then last week, I was told we had just hired a new employee.
"Great!" I said, "Where are they moving me?"
I was being sarcastic, but then my coworker pointed out the door and across the building. To the windowless room that bakes in the summer.
I went home that day angry.
My client's don't even know where to look for me anymore, I am like that hard-to-find easter egg or the lost sock employee. If I wasn't trying to get them jobs they would have probably given up on me. Every time they call I have to give them new directions. "Upstairs, I'm upstairs now. On the other side! In the back!"
They see me and laugh. They're refugees, I'm sure they understand. Impermanence, for some part of their life, is what defined them.
I'm rather talented with the move now. I can do it quickly, and once I'm settled in my chair I look like I've been in that particular office forever. I smile, swivel around, type, have pictures hanging. But I decided, perhaps I am too good and it is working against me.
This time I put up as much of a fight as I know how. I went in to Jimmy's office and told him how extremely unprofessional it is to move around this frequently. He shrugged his shoulders and said "Yeah, well..."
I wanted to be firm and say "I'd prefer for this next move to be my last, thank you very much" But I didn't want to get stuck in the sauna forever.
On my drive home that night I sulked, and when I pulled up to my house I noticed something different. All our plants had been hacked. We had scheduled a "cut-back" of the overgrowth in our yard, but from what I was noticing this was men-gone-crazy-with-chainsaws.
Workers emerged from my backyard pulling huge limbs and trash cans full of our once beautiful flowering pink bushes. When I went back to look at the landscaping, it was stark and depressing. Our lush sky-high bamboo had been trimmed to an inch off the ground. The pink bush was gone. The trees no longer had leaves, or branches, or anything really. For some reason, they weedwacked the remaining bit of the lettuce heads in my garden, as if those needed serious tending to.
A trim job gone awry is an affront to the soul. This yard would take years to grow back.
I went inside pissed off, and moments later deflated. Kicked out of my office again, and now this.
I found my yoga mat and went to my front porch. I unrolled it and sat down. I knew I didn't actually want to do yoga, but for some reason I wanted to be in a bad mood on my mat. Its a great place for a bad mood because subconsciously perhaps I believed my mat was magical, that it wouldn't allow bad moods to sit on it, and would somehow transform me. I stretched a little and noticed a mockingbird. I watched it jump around and cock it's head to the side. It hopped to the base of my steps and looked up at me, then picked up a tiny twig between its beak and jumped away.
I kept stretching.
Another bird emerged and grabbed a stick, then looked at me and flew up in to the only tree that remained untouched and unscathed, a cactus tree.
An array of homeless birds began to encircle, their nests scattered on the ground beneath the thinned out tree. Their springtime homes, once so full and reliable, where now as useful as tumbleweeds. The longer I sat there and the more birds I saw, the sadder I got.
I felt their pain.
All that hard work and all that time they had invested meant nothing. Their place was gone.
A few of them were making new nests already, in the most undesirable spot I could imagine. Nestled between the sharp points protruding from the cactus tree, little corrals of sticks began to be laid down.
These birds were moving on, looking ahead. I didn't see them sulking. Nope.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes and this is when I noticed, they weren't just rebuilding their lives with what they had- but they were singing melodies while they did it.
And then last week, I was told we had just hired a new employee.
"Great!" I said, "Where are they moving me?"
I was being sarcastic, but then my coworker pointed out the door and across the building. To the windowless room that bakes in the summer.
I went home that day angry.
My client's don't even know where to look for me anymore, I am like that hard-to-find easter egg or the lost sock employee. If I wasn't trying to get them jobs they would have probably given up on me. Every time they call I have to give them new directions. "Upstairs, I'm upstairs now. On the other side! In the back!"
They see me and laugh. They're refugees, I'm sure they understand. Impermanence, for some part of their life, is what defined them.
I'm rather talented with the move now. I can do it quickly, and once I'm settled in my chair I look like I've been in that particular office forever. I smile, swivel around, type, have pictures hanging. But I decided, perhaps I am too good and it is working against me.
This time I put up as much of a fight as I know how. I went in to Jimmy's office and told him how extremely unprofessional it is to move around this frequently. He shrugged his shoulders and said "Yeah, well..."
I wanted to be firm and say "I'd prefer for this next move to be my last, thank you very much" But I didn't want to get stuck in the sauna forever.
On my drive home that night I sulked, and when I pulled up to my house I noticed something different. All our plants had been hacked. We had scheduled a "cut-back" of the overgrowth in our yard, but from what I was noticing this was men-gone-crazy-with-chainsaws.
Workers emerged from my backyard pulling huge limbs and trash cans full of our once beautiful flowering pink bushes. When I went back to look at the landscaping, it was stark and depressing. Our lush sky-high bamboo had been trimmed to an inch off the ground. The pink bush was gone. The trees no longer had leaves, or branches, or anything really. For some reason, they weedwacked the remaining bit of the lettuce heads in my garden, as if those needed serious tending to.
A trim job gone awry is an affront to the soul. This yard would take years to grow back.
I went inside pissed off, and moments later deflated. Kicked out of my office again, and now this.
I found my yoga mat and went to my front porch. I unrolled it and sat down. I knew I didn't actually want to do yoga, but for some reason I wanted to be in a bad mood on my mat. Its a great place for a bad mood because subconsciously perhaps I believed my mat was magical, that it wouldn't allow bad moods to sit on it, and would somehow transform me. I stretched a little and noticed a mockingbird. I watched it jump around and cock it's head to the side. It hopped to the base of my steps and looked up at me, then picked up a tiny twig between its beak and jumped away.
I kept stretching.
Another bird emerged and grabbed a stick, then looked at me and flew up in to the only tree that remained untouched and unscathed, a cactus tree.
An array of homeless birds began to encircle, their nests scattered on the ground beneath the thinned out tree. Their springtime homes, once so full and reliable, where now as useful as tumbleweeds. The longer I sat there and the more birds I saw, the sadder I got.
I felt their pain.
All that hard work and all that time they had invested meant nothing. Their place was gone.
A few of them were making new nests already, in the most undesirable spot I could imagine. Nestled between the sharp points protruding from the cactus tree, little corrals of sticks began to be laid down.
These birds were moving on, looking ahead. I didn't see them sulking. Nope.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes and this is when I noticed, they weren't just rebuilding their lives with what they had- but they were singing melodies while they did it.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Sealed with a kiss
I just turned 28 and... this one... it feels good. Birthdays are funny like that. Sometimes you can actually feel them, the year ahead of you is more tangible than elusive, just as real as the texture of the shirt or jacket you put on before you leave the house. Each year has a different sensation, tailor-made and delivered that morning as a complete surprise.
We American's tend to be very overdramatic about our birthdays, myself included. We have golden birthdays, over the hill birthdays, sweet sixteens, our "21st" or "30th" or "60th" or "80th". We get a lot of presents and throw large parties.
When I was living in Boamadumase i asked a few people about their birthdays and they usually responded with their birth months. "The day?" I'd ask, "Don't you know the day?"
They'd shrug and say sometime in June, or maybe July. They just couldn't remember. The people who did remember didn't seem to mention anything about gifts, and when asked, they replied that "Yes, on your birthday, you get gifts." However, my village friends birthdays' passed with no gift openings.
Most of my refugee client's share the same birthday, that is, 01/01/approximate the year. When refugees are granted refugee status and begin to go through the immigration process to move in to the United States, one of the many markers of identity they leave behind is legal recognition of their true day of birth. They usually don't have birth certificates. But many of them don't seem to mind. Like boxed cold milk handed out to hungry kids in the cafeteria, 01/01/fill in the year seems to be the ubiquitous choice as a refugee's birthday, and many of them take it gladly.
This year I wanted my birthday to be simple, but fun. I went to school, and I went to work for a few short hours. Then I met up with a man, a pastor, who volunteers full time at our refugee resettlement agency. His name is Dan. When I called him to see where he was he said, "We're at the beach," referring to himself and his wife and a gaggle of African children. "Well, the bay really. Just take the Coronado bridge, were right at the bottom, there's a park and a long stretch of sand."
"Okay, I'll be there."
When I pulled up it was quite a sight. They had transported, in their church bus, 19 children of all ages, fit them with bathing suits of all sizes, and let them loose into the stagnant chilled water of the Coronado Bay. A bike pathway lined the edges of the grass, and the grassy hill overlooked the water. Bike riders slowed down, swiveling their heads in confusion while trying not to run in to one another. 19 children ran up and down the sandy stretch, burying each other underneath huge white mounds, playing soccer and spraying up sand in all directions, dolphin jumping in the water, or secretly trying to crawl in to people's private canoes.
I stood at the shoreline, experiencing a very strange sensation of forgetting which country I was in. When I looked ahead of me it was Ghana, when I looked behind me, the U.S.
Dan and his wife sat inconspicuously underneath an umbrella, chatting and relaxing.
A few girls yelled my name and ran up to me, and slung their lanky wet bodies on my arm. They were two of the six children of John Opendi, a very tall boisterous Kenyan man I have been trying to help find a job for quite some time now. He and his Sudanese wife live in a 2 bedroom apartment with their entire family. Whenever I do a home visit I never leave hungry. They are true Africans.
The first time I was there I tried to wiggle out of the living room before the food was served. I could smell it cooking, beef and onions and tomatoes simmering from the huge pot on the oven. It changed the humidity of the room- from dry, to delicious. I was hungry but I didn't want to be rude. I didn't want to decrease portion sizes by adding myself in to the equation, so I thanked them for their time and stood up to leave.
John yelled out. "HUH! Ah! Kacie, sit. Sit, please. Don't you want to enjoy the food with us?"
"It's okay." I said, uncertain as to which cultural code I should be operating under. An American visitor "imposing" is a Ghanaian visitor being polite. To drop in and eat a meal (in San Diego) one must first refuse, to show appreciation and to test the authenticity of the invitation. My refusal to John and Mary was offensive.
And the food looked good.
"Sure sure sure- I'll stay! Of course I'll stay. Oh it looks incredible!"
They sat me back down and Mary took care of every detail, as African wives do. She poured our water glasses, handed out napkins, distributed plates with sliced oranges on each. John intercepted to increase his portion size. And I dug in to mine hands first.
"You eat like an African. You know how to eat ugali?"
"Ya. I love ugali."
"Look at this Mary, she is eating like an African. I haven't seen this, you know. I went to a dinner last Saturday. It was a dinner and Mary cooked for some Whites, and they did not eat the ugali. It was the African's who ate the ugali. But look, you are almost finished."
"It's good," i said, between mouthfuls. "What about the children? Aren't they coming?"
Mary rolled her eyes and turned her head away. "Pfh! Since we have come here they have stopped eating this food. I call them to eat and they don't come."
"In Africa" John continued "you do not have to convince people to eat. You call, they come. But here..."
Mary pointed to the boxed cereals on top of her fridge. Puffed processed food. "They prefer that."
"So I can have more?" I asked, selfishly but knowing they would be pleased.
"YES! Oh please, continue."
"And they eat at school. They like that food too." Mary said.
"So when do they eat your food?" I asked.
"When we call, and they come, that is the time they will eat. As for the times they do not come, they do not eat. It is as simple as that."
John yelled out their names and not one emerged from the back room.
I took a third helping.
Now, at the beach, remembering my time and conversation with John and Mary, I looked at their girls in the bathing suits. They looked healthy, and strong. More shivering children began to circle around me. I could only recognize half of them, but I wanted to know them all. So we sat down in the sand and I tried to figure it out.
"You are..." I'd point.
"Happiness." She said.
"And is this your sister?" I asked, motioning to a miniature version of herself. They both tucked their chins and looked up.
"I'm Destiny." the little one whispered.
"Nice to meet you Happiness and Destiny."
Many of their parents were (or are) my clients, however I had yet to meet the children. Generally they are at school during office hours. I was completing my own personal version of a human jigsaw puzzle. It was intensely satisfying.
"So your father is Miguel" I asked the pudgy 10 year old in a tight bikini.
"Yes."
After a lot of hard work from both Miguel and myself, he is now employed at a Casino. "Next time we talk I will tell him what great swimming you did today!"
She smiled.
"And who are your parents?" I put my hand on the shoulder of two girls I had not ever seen, and didn't yet know.
"Our mother is dead." she stated, sweetly, eerily. The control over her response and the peace in her voice made her seem wiser than her years, of which I would guess were about nine.
"Oh."
The group, in a circle, sitting in the sand, stayed quiet. It was up to me to continue. "When did she die?"
"Last year, she died in Nevada."
Subconsciously my mind would not accept that fact.
"In Nevada?"
"Yes, she died last year in Nevada."
The story didn't sit well with me, only because when I asked when they arrived to the States and when their mother died it was roughly around the same time. I didn't want to believe that she had struggled as a refugee only to make it to the U.S. and perish.
"I am really sorry to hear that."
She dug her toes in to the sand.
Later, when Dan's wife had called the children up to the grassy area to congregate and eat lemon cookies I stood with Dan as they all ran past us. We admired the potency of their energy.
"Did you see Selvany's arm?" He asked.
"It's crazy."
"I've never seen anything like it before. I guess it was hurt it in Sierra Leone and they never got it fixed. Now his mom doesn't want to send him to the doctor here. She wants to just keep it as it is."
"Like a big noodle?"
"Yeah. I guess."
Selvany's arm was injured at the elbow. It looks as if there is no joint keeping his forearm and his arm from hyperextending. He can rotate his entire limb in a complete circle at the shoulder and at the elbow. It is actually too bizarre to accurately explain. "Some doctors checked it out and were really excited about it" he said "they were all talking about how they never get to see anything like that here."
I laughed.
We glanced back down at the water and saw two girls running up to join in the cookie fun. We watched them until they ran past us then Dan broke the silence. "They're mom died up in Nevada last year."
"That's what they were telling me."
"Oh really? What did they say?"
"Just that, exactly."
"Huh. Well at least they're talking about it a little. It was really awful. Her uterus was ruptured during an abortion."
"WHAT?"
"Yeah." He shook his head.
An image of a coat hanger flashed in my mind, and of too many familiar stories I witnessed while working at the Huttel Health Clinic.
"She did it herself?"
"No, no, no. She didn't do it herself. We don't think she even wanted one. It's a really sad story. Some abortion doctor, he ruptured her uterus while he was giving her an abortion. Can you believe that? There is a law suit now. I went up there when I heard this story, up to Nevada, this was right when I started volunteering at Alliance. This story was enough to get anyone in to this-" and he waved his hands through the air, meaning, in to the lives of San Diego refugees. "Any way, it was bad. Her family said there was no way she would have wanted an abortion, she was glad to be pregnant. She was going for a check-up and we think he either explained it to her and had her agree to something she didn't understand... or just did it. The details of the story with this doctor are very blurry and nothing seems right. So we started a law suit, that's kinda how I got started with all of this."
My mind raced, I was more than interested to know the truth of the situation. Truth without agenda. If it was as Dan said, a racist abortion doctor abusing the powerless, I was angry and frustrated by how far mankind had failed to progress. If in fact, it was not as Dan said, then I was tired of people manipulating the powerless to rally for their cause, even if in this case the cause was Life.
I know Dan is a very strong Christian and his mission field is the refugee families of San Diego. He is a constant reminder to me that I need not travel far to be of big help. I see his love for the refugee community spring forth in the million ways he dies to himself and serves other people, daily. Moment by moment. He strolls through our offices and sweeps up little messes of unglamourous work, like a true silent hero.
"Dan, I have this client and he really needs help filling out his 10 year work history for an online application. I can't do it this morning, do you have the time?"
"Sure, I can do that."
"Thank you so much! Oh, and watch out, his breath is, let me just call it... powerful today. Stand back."
If i began a list of all that Dan and his wife contribute I may never be able to stop. They are a blessing.
I walked over to the group of cookie monsters and told them good-bye. I had to leave early to meet up with my mother. As I walked to my car Esther shouted my name and came bouncing my way. "Kacie why didn't you tell us today is your birthday?"
I laughed. "Oh, I don't know."
"You should have told us today was your birthday!"
I didn't want to fish for happy birthdays from a bunch of kids whom I assumed didn't even celebrate their own.
"Come here!" she ordered.
I walked over the prickly grass and stood in front of her. She jumped up and swung her arms around my head and hung from my neck. "Happy Birthday. I love you so much." Then she let go and ran away.
I turned back towards my car and couldn't help but giggle and then I heard another "KACIE!!!"
This time another one of my client's children came bounding in my direction. "You didn't tell us it was your Happy Birthday?!"
She wrapped her arms around my waist and squeezed tight. Then she motioned for me to bend down and gave me a big kiss on my nose. "We love you! Happy Birthday!" And she sprinted back to her friends.
As I drove over the bridge I looked down at the beach, at the water, and smiled. Maybe I was wrong, I thought. Maybe birthday's are a big deal. And perhaps, the birthday girl never opens gifts, she only receives them.
We American's tend to be very overdramatic about our birthdays, myself included. We have golden birthdays, over the hill birthdays, sweet sixteens, our "21st" or "30th" or "60th" or "80th". We get a lot of presents and throw large parties.
When I was living in Boamadumase i asked a few people about their birthdays and they usually responded with their birth months. "The day?" I'd ask, "Don't you know the day?"
They'd shrug and say sometime in June, or maybe July. They just couldn't remember. The people who did remember didn't seem to mention anything about gifts, and when asked, they replied that "Yes, on your birthday, you get gifts." However, my village friends birthdays' passed with no gift openings.
Most of my refugee client's share the same birthday, that is, 01/01/approximate the year. When refugees are granted refugee status and begin to go through the immigration process to move in to the United States, one of the many markers of identity they leave behind is legal recognition of their true day of birth. They usually don't have birth certificates. But many of them don't seem to mind. Like boxed cold milk handed out to hungry kids in the cafeteria, 01/01/fill in the year seems to be the ubiquitous choice as a refugee's birthday, and many of them take it gladly.
This year I wanted my birthday to be simple, but fun. I went to school, and I went to work for a few short hours. Then I met up with a man, a pastor, who volunteers full time at our refugee resettlement agency. His name is Dan. When I called him to see where he was he said, "We're at the beach," referring to himself and his wife and a gaggle of African children. "Well, the bay really. Just take the Coronado bridge, were right at the bottom, there's a park and a long stretch of sand."
"Okay, I'll be there."
When I pulled up it was quite a sight. They had transported, in their church bus, 19 children of all ages, fit them with bathing suits of all sizes, and let them loose into the stagnant chilled water of the Coronado Bay. A bike pathway lined the edges of the grass, and the grassy hill overlooked the water. Bike riders slowed down, swiveling their heads in confusion while trying not to run in to one another. 19 children ran up and down the sandy stretch, burying each other underneath huge white mounds, playing soccer and spraying up sand in all directions, dolphin jumping in the water, or secretly trying to crawl in to people's private canoes.
I stood at the shoreline, experiencing a very strange sensation of forgetting which country I was in. When I looked ahead of me it was Ghana, when I looked behind me, the U.S.
Dan and his wife sat inconspicuously underneath an umbrella, chatting and relaxing.
A few girls yelled my name and ran up to me, and slung their lanky wet bodies on my arm. They were two of the six children of John Opendi, a very tall boisterous Kenyan man I have been trying to help find a job for quite some time now. He and his Sudanese wife live in a 2 bedroom apartment with their entire family. Whenever I do a home visit I never leave hungry. They are true Africans.
The first time I was there I tried to wiggle out of the living room before the food was served. I could smell it cooking, beef and onions and tomatoes simmering from the huge pot on the oven. It changed the humidity of the room- from dry, to delicious. I was hungry but I didn't want to be rude. I didn't want to decrease portion sizes by adding myself in to the equation, so I thanked them for their time and stood up to leave.
John yelled out. "HUH! Ah! Kacie, sit. Sit, please. Don't you want to enjoy the food with us?"
"It's okay." I said, uncertain as to which cultural code I should be operating under. An American visitor "imposing" is a Ghanaian visitor being polite. To drop in and eat a meal (in San Diego) one must first refuse, to show appreciation and to test the authenticity of the invitation. My refusal to John and Mary was offensive.
And the food looked good.
"Sure sure sure- I'll stay! Of course I'll stay. Oh it looks incredible!"
They sat me back down and Mary took care of every detail, as African wives do. She poured our water glasses, handed out napkins, distributed plates with sliced oranges on each. John intercepted to increase his portion size. And I dug in to mine hands first.
"You eat like an African. You know how to eat ugali?"
"Ya. I love ugali."
"Look at this Mary, she is eating like an African. I haven't seen this, you know. I went to a dinner last Saturday. It was a dinner and Mary cooked for some Whites, and they did not eat the ugali. It was the African's who ate the ugali. But look, you are almost finished."
"It's good," i said, between mouthfuls. "What about the children? Aren't they coming?"
Mary rolled her eyes and turned her head away. "Pfh! Since we have come here they have stopped eating this food. I call them to eat and they don't come."
"In Africa" John continued "you do not have to convince people to eat. You call, they come. But here..."
Mary pointed to the boxed cereals on top of her fridge. Puffed processed food. "They prefer that."
"So I can have more?" I asked, selfishly but knowing they would be pleased.
"YES! Oh please, continue."
"And they eat at school. They like that food too." Mary said.
"So when do they eat your food?" I asked.
"When we call, and they come, that is the time they will eat. As for the times they do not come, they do not eat. It is as simple as that."
John yelled out their names and not one emerged from the back room.
I took a third helping.
Now, at the beach, remembering my time and conversation with John and Mary, I looked at their girls in the bathing suits. They looked healthy, and strong. More shivering children began to circle around me. I could only recognize half of them, but I wanted to know them all. So we sat down in the sand and I tried to figure it out.
"You are..." I'd point.
"Happiness." She said.
"And is this your sister?" I asked, motioning to a miniature version of herself. They both tucked their chins and looked up.
"I'm Destiny." the little one whispered.
"Nice to meet you Happiness and Destiny."
Many of their parents were (or are) my clients, however I had yet to meet the children. Generally they are at school during office hours. I was completing my own personal version of a human jigsaw puzzle. It was intensely satisfying.
"So your father is Miguel" I asked the pudgy 10 year old in a tight bikini.
"Yes."
After a lot of hard work from both Miguel and myself, he is now employed at a Casino. "Next time we talk I will tell him what great swimming you did today!"
She smiled.
"And who are your parents?" I put my hand on the shoulder of two girls I had not ever seen, and didn't yet know.
"Our mother is dead." she stated, sweetly, eerily. The control over her response and the peace in her voice made her seem wiser than her years, of which I would guess were about nine.
"Oh."
The group, in a circle, sitting in the sand, stayed quiet. It was up to me to continue. "When did she die?"
"Last year, she died in Nevada."
Subconsciously my mind would not accept that fact.
"In Nevada?"
"Yes, she died last year in Nevada."
The story didn't sit well with me, only because when I asked when they arrived to the States and when their mother died it was roughly around the same time. I didn't want to believe that she had struggled as a refugee only to make it to the U.S. and perish.
"I am really sorry to hear that."
She dug her toes in to the sand.
Later, when Dan's wife had called the children up to the grassy area to congregate and eat lemon cookies I stood with Dan as they all ran past us. We admired the potency of their energy.
"Did you see Selvany's arm?" He asked.
"It's crazy."
"I've never seen anything like it before. I guess it was hurt it in Sierra Leone and they never got it fixed. Now his mom doesn't want to send him to the doctor here. She wants to just keep it as it is."
"Like a big noodle?"
"Yeah. I guess."
Selvany's arm was injured at the elbow. It looks as if there is no joint keeping his forearm and his arm from hyperextending. He can rotate his entire limb in a complete circle at the shoulder and at the elbow. It is actually too bizarre to accurately explain. "Some doctors checked it out and were really excited about it" he said "they were all talking about how they never get to see anything like that here."
I laughed.
We glanced back down at the water and saw two girls running up to join in the cookie fun. We watched them until they ran past us then Dan broke the silence. "They're mom died up in Nevada last year."
"That's what they were telling me."
"Oh really? What did they say?"
"Just that, exactly."
"Huh. Well at least they're talking about it a little. It was really awful. Her uterus was ruptured during an abortion."
"WHAT?"
"Yeah." He shook his head.
An image of a coat hanger flashed in my mind, and of too many familiar stories I witnessed while working at the Huttel Health Clinic.
"She did it herself?"
"No, no, no. She didn't do it herself. We don't think she even wanted one. It's a really sad story. Some abortion doctor, he ruptured her uterus while he was giving her an abortion. Can you believe that? There is a law suit now. I went up there when I heard this story, up to Nevada, this was right when I started volunteering at Alliance. This story was enough to get anyone in to this-" and he waved his hands through the air, meaning, in to the lives of San Diego refugees. "Any way, it was bad. Her family said there was no way she would have wanted an abortion, she was glad to be pregnant. She was going for a check-up and we think he either explained it to her and had her agree to something she didn't understand... or just did it. The details of the story with this doctor are very blurry and nothing seems right. So we started a law suit, that's kinda how I got started with all of this."
My mind raced, I was more than interested to know the truth of the situation. Truth without agenda. If it was as Dan said, a racist abortion doctor abusing the powerless, I was angry and frustrated by how far mankind had failed to progress. If in fact, it was not as Dan said, then I was tired of people manipulating the powerless to rally for their cause, even if in this case the cause was Life.
I know Dan is a very strong Christian and his mission field is the refugee families of San Diego. He is a constant reminder to me that I need not travel far to be of big help. I see his love for the refugee community spring forth in the million ways he dies to himself and serves other people, daily. Moment by moment. He strolls through our offices and sweeps up little messes of unglamourous work, like a true silent hero.
"Dan, I have this client and he really needs help filling out his 10 year work history for an online application. I can't do it this morning, do you have the time?"
"Sure, I can do that."
"Thank you so much! Oh, and watch out, his breath is, let me just call it... powerful today. Stand back."
If i began a list of all that Dan and his wife contribute I may never be able to stop. They are a blessing.
I walked over to the group of cookie monsters and told them good-bye. I had to leave early to meet up with my mother. As I walked to my car Esther shouted my name and came bouncing my way. "Kacie why didn't you tell us today is your birthday?"
I laughed. "Oh, I don't know."
"You should have told us today was your birthday!"
I didn't want to fish for happy birthdays from a bunch of kids whom I assumed didn't even celebrate their own.
"Come here!" she ordered.
I walked over the prickly grass and stood in front of her. She jumped up and swung her arms around my head and hung from my neck. "Happy Birthday. I love you so much." Then she let go and ran away.
I turned back towards my car and couldn't help but giggle and then I heard another "KACIE!!!"
This time another one of my client's children came bounding in my direction. "You didn't tell us it was your Happy Birthday?!"
She wrapped her arms around my waist and squeezed tight. Then she motioned for me to bend down and gave me a big kiss on my nose. "We love you! Happy Birthday!" And she sprinted back to her friends.
As I drove over the bridge I looked down at the beach, at the water, and smiled. Maybe I was wrong, I thought. Maybe birthday's are a big deal. And perhaps, the birthday girl never opens gifts, she only receives them.
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