It isn't that easy

I am coteaching a daily job club, an employment-readiness class to about 45 refugees. Many of them are from Africa; Somalia, Kenya, Eritrea, Burundi, Rwanda and Sudan. Some of them are Burmese; Karen and Chin. And I have a handful of people from Iraq, Afghanistan, and Turkmenistan. The group is interesting and the class is going well. My favorite times are when a job-related subject paves the way into something much deeper, something which allows for desires to be expressed and communal pains to be shared.
During the first week, my coworker, Rufael, and I decided we would start with the basics. To build a good house there must be a solid foundation, and none of my clients are going to get a job with bad breath and body odor. "This food in America" Rufael explained, "is what makes for the foul-smelling odors. I am sorry to say Kacie, we were never smelling like this in our home countries. We ate fresh. Our sweat was pure. Things were fine! But the food here? Have you read the ingredients?"
We decided a day's lesson on Hygiene was essential.
I cringed when I first saw the handouts. Rufael had come up from the copy room with stapled packets in his hand and gave them to me. They were still warm. I flipped through some of the pages, each had 3 or 4 simple childlike pictures of every day products important to health and cleanliness. The first page had a bar of soap with the caption "Soap". Underneath that was a toothbrush and toothpaste.
I figured we didn't have enough material to make it through the first hour, let alone the entire morning, but he seemed confidant so I went along with it. Secretly I was embarrassed, and I didn't want to offend the class by treating them like kindergartners.
I walked around the room and passed out the papers. People looked down and slowly read the names of the images underneath their breath.
Most of the participants of the training are not new to the U.S. They are mothers and fathers who receive welfare money and are required to complete mandatory educational hours each week to continue getting their checks. They are supposed to be building their employability skills. Most of them, I assumed, knew they should be brushing their teeth. I looked at Rufael and let the bottom corners of my mouth slack a bit. "I don't know..."
He gave me a serious nod. "Its important. Teach it."
I held the picture up for the class. "Who in here knows what this is?"
They stared at me, listless and blank.
"Oh c'mon!" I said, smiling. "Who in here knows what this is?"
I saw one of the beautiful women, who always comes to class draped in fabric with sequins and pastels, look down and smirk.
I feel so stupid, I thought.
Noor, the Afghani father of 2 who worked 5 years as an interpreter for the US Army, raised his hand. "It is soap."
"Good." I said. "And beneath that?"
Amina, an outspoken Somali woman who has a tendency to challenge even the most neutral comment shouted out "Toothbrush and toothpaste."
"Perfect."
I told them a story about when I was living in the village in Ghana. "My roommates were all men, and they kept close watch on me. Some mornings they would go into town and buy a big batch of porridge, then bring it home before I had woken up. They'd knock on my door and ask if I wanted breakfast and I'd go out to eat with them. But before they'd serve me a bowl they'd send me to brush my teeth. They came to the conclusion that because I didn't automatically brush my teeth in the morning before breakfast, they thought I didn't brush them at all. I didn't speak enough Twi to explain to them that I brushed AFTER I ate, and they couldn't understand me when I tried to explain. It didn't make sense to them. People were supposed to brush before they ate."
The class laughed and said it was true. When you wake up in the morning, you need to brush. I told them Americans think it is best to brush after you eat, to keep your breath smelling nicely. We talked about bad breath and bad first impressions and how ultimately it could cost you a job.
Amina raised her hand. I could barely talk for more than 3 or 4 minutes before she had something very important to say.
"I don't see why it matters if you brush before or if you brush after, for us it doesn't, because we don't use toothpaste."
Some people, I'm assuming the ones who use toothpaste, laughed.
I didn't believe her, in fact, I was starting to tire of her constant challenging.
"You don't use toothpaste?"
She sneered and cocked her head to the side, without answering.
I asked again, more direct. "You don't use toothpaste?"
I couldn't get a response from her and she was visibly annoyed. I decided to move on. Rufael had included an image of mouthwash, which I don't consider a necessity but tried to briefly touch upon before Amina yelled out in an accusatory tone, "We can't afford all this! Who is going to give us this stuff? You tell us we need this but we can't afford this!"
I could feel a reaction forming and I knew it wasn't professional, so I tried to stand in silence and think of something more diplomatic to say. The class took my silence and filled in the gap. People began shouting their opinions back at Amina.
Verbal warfare had been ignited. It was like a runway of opinions each with its own accent to match. After one person had fully expressed their thoughts on her comment, the next was just around the corner waiting to be released.
I didn't try to calm anybody, or hush the class. I looked at Rufael and our eyes locked. She had hit upon a social nerve.
"How can you say 'Who is going to give us this stuff'? How can you say that?" Someone yelled from the back. People murmured in agreement and in disbelief.
The class simmered down and a hand delicately shot up. I called on the woman, a dignified intelligent lady from Eritrea who rarely spoke out. She shifted the papers on her desk in circles and took a deep breath. "You know, I don't know how people can be expecting the American government to give them everything. I had to leave my country. I believe we all had to leave our countries, because of war and because our governments could not provide the things we needed. The Americans have let us live here. They have given us safety from our wars. They have given us a lot. I do not think it is right to ask for any more. I will take what is given to me and I will work hard to be a better person."
Some people really liked what this woman had to say, and they gave heavy nods in agreement.
Amina shot back. "How many children do you have?"
"One." the woman said.
"Hmf."
People had begun to sit back down in their chairs and turn to the front of the room. I wanted to harness the energy, the concepts, and the spectrum of feelings in the room and use them, but I wasn't sure how so I let the comments continue.
Ariel, someone who struck me as consistently jolly, asked if she could speak.
"Sure go ahead." I said.
"Every day" she started "we make a choice for this or a choice for that. When a person says they cannot buy something it is because they have chosen not to because they think it is not important. The teachers are here to tell us these things are important. The toothpaste is important. You see? The teachers are trying to help us get jobs. So maybe instead of buying new clothes you should save your money for other things."
This elicited a round of applause, and Amina sunk deeper in her chair.
Because of Amina's consistent attitude of purposefully setting up roadblocks to explain why she wouldn't or couldn't get a job I I was allowing for the continuation of an avalanche of comments which seemed to be burying her alive.
Rufael made a short speech about prioritizing needs versus wants and made note of how he himself came over as a refugee and understands their challenges. When he was finished everyone was quiet and waiting.
Far in the corner of the classroom sat a very dark, very small woman from Uganda. She spent her entire life as a secondary school teacher, yet she reminded me more of a librarian. Sort of mouseish, extremely quiet, respectful in her demeanor. She stood up slowly and unwrinkled her pant suit. "Miss Kacie, I am listening to everyone and I understand what they are saying. I also am wondering if people are understanding what Amina is saying?" She looked at Amina. "I am sorry, but I think I know the problem you are facing because I have the same problem. Can I ask you..."
"Go ahead." Amina said.
"What amount of money do you receive from welfare each month?"
"$865."
"And how much is your rent?"
"$850."
The teacher looked at me. "This is the problem. We come here as refugees and we are thankful to be here, but we are resettled in to poverty and it is very difficult to get out of that. Amina, how many children do you have?"
"Four."
"I have the same. I am being honest when I tell you that I cannot afford toothpaste. I do make choices, but they are for example, the choice to keep my electricity on instead of brush my teeth with paste. There are many things we are grateful to know, but not all of them we can do."
I scanned the room. I saw the weary faces. Many people were relating, whether they were voicing it or not. The challenges began to rain down in front of me and the reality behind it was exhausting.
It is hard to reverse roles without an actual relevant prompt in that visualization. But imagine the difficulties you or I may have if we had to personally live through combat, watch our family die, perhaps our husbands or God-forbid our children. If you are a woman, which most of my students are, you have been most likely raped. On top of this your home is no longer safe and your neighborhood, your city, is no longer the way it used to be. You have to leave and you do not have the time, or the mind, to gather yourself together. Eventually you get sent somewhere safer, but you don't have a choice. The UNHCR has decided to send you to a country where you don't speak the language and really, you don't know anything about how to survive there. You get on the plane, you get off. You slowly learn about who to ask for what. You can survive with what is given to you. You are wounded from what you have experienced but life in this new place is not stopping for you so you drag yourself along and do your best.
I realize every person who lives as a refugee has their own unique experience. But the above scenario is not far from typical and it is important to meet people where they are at. Many issues which arise at work, from a direct perspective, can be irritating and sometimes overlooked as something less important or less severe than the issues they are truly pointing to.
Unemployment was a symptom of something much more complex.
Somebody asked me earnestly "Miss Kacie, can you please ask the city to increase the amount we receive because San Diego is an expensive place to come and live!"
I laughed a little, wishing it was that easy.
"Yes, if we could just get some more money, I think our life might be easier and we could do the things you are telling us to do and also, I think it may free our worries. Because right now, living like this, I stay up at night and think and think and think. I wonder every night how I can help my family."
"It is difficult to take the welfare money but I do not know what else to do. We have the mandatory hours to keep each week or else they stop our check. So we go to class, but also, I have 7 children and I do not have a husband. So if you can give me a job it would be better. I do not have the time to look and to go to class."
The day continued like this, where everyone began to share their stories and personal challenges. The stories were waiting to be told, one by one, and I could tell it was relieving the tense atmosphere. It elevated the level of camaraderie between the classmates, but honestly, for me, I felt like every story, every voice, each issue was a big black billowing cloud of polluted smoke, and I was suffocating.
I like injecting hope and promise and vision into dullness and apathy. But the issues my students are dealing with require a special kind of strength that is nurtured mostly by people who have been forced to develop it.
It is called, "long-suffering".
To stand in front of a class and give them words of encouragement about issues I haven't had to face seemed close to futile, and at the same time it is all I have to offer.
I do not have jobs to hand out, and I can't give money away. I can't fix people's problems. In a room where the problems grow exponentially, and in direct relation to this my utter helplessness is magnified, I am made aware of a different purpose.
I sat down at the front of the class and let go of trying to have any control or trying to be able to fix anyone's problems. I took a deep breath and I opened myself up as a conduit for all things good. I wanted to be available for God.
At the end of the day, Amina and I talked privately. She put her head down on my desk and broke down crying, wiping away the flow of tears with the long fabric of her hijab. She looked precious and sad and really really tired. And I saw that she wasn't the confrontational tough girl I had previously been interacting with, rather, a scared, brave, and uncertain mother trying to hold together the pieces of a delicate life.
When I got home from work that day, I did the most inconsequential thing, really the only thing I could think to do. I went to the corner store and bought her some toothpaste.