No More Strangers

Penina.  I keep seeing her face in my mind's eye.  She looked worried but her smile showed acceptance at the same time - a courageous combination.  Let me explain.

Last general conference, more than one leader of the church encouraged the membership to reach out in local do-able ways to assist with the refugee crisis.  The invitation was open-ended in application, leaving room for inspiration.  President Uchtdorf's teary plea recalled his family history and reminded us of our church's own history with the familiar story of the early Utah Mormon pioneers having been forced to leave the confines of the contiguous boundaries of the United States at the time, and of necessity creating a new life out of whole cloth in the wilderness of the western frontier.  In a grander sense we are all refugees on this planet, like Wordsworth says, "trailing glory,...from God who is are home" I suppose.  So the challenge is to make homes and families here and provide refuge for others to have the freedom to do the same.

I was excited about the guidance from our leaders.  It made me proud and happy that as a people we were taking cues from a place of love instead of fear.  I internet-hunted the service opportunities in my city and signed up to attend a training session on an upcoming Saturday.  I found the address of the refugee service center.  It was in a large building or complex full of other city services:  part urban-planning think tank, part community center, part local government offices.  There were two presenters conducting the training. Previously, my knowledge of the refugee crisis was sourced from a combination of news headlines and hollywood.    That evening I learned a little more about the nuances of the terminology that we throw around. Although the term "refugee" is often used the most broadly, "displaced persons" is the preferred umbrella term for people who have left their homes and homelands usually for typically life-threatening reasons.  "Refugees" are "officially" those who have fled their homes, do not have the means to go very far on their own, usually live in the camps sometimes for years waiting for their name to come up and be placed in a designated city through the refugee program.  Their travel expenses will be paid for and they will be given housing and helped to find work during a transitional period of about 6 months, and then basically they are on their own, with only as-needed assistance.  "Asylum seekers" have made their way to our country or another country on their own and have asked to be admitted, again, because it would be too dangerous to go home.  A third category of displaced persons includes those that are forced to immigrate as sex slaves or who are tricked or lured to come to our country with promises of work, and are then forced to labor for no pay.  Shockingly, slavery still exists in the United States - not legally of course.  This center's largest program focused it's support on the refugees during that 6 month period of getting them on their feet.
Basically, each refugee family is assigned a case worker whose job it is to secure the big things like housing and the job.  At the same time, volunteers are welcomed and encouraged to help in a multitude of ways:  picking the families up at the airport, outfitting their apartment, taking them to the clinic for immunizations, taking them to the social security office to get cards, taking them to the local schools to register their children, teaching them the ropes of the local bus system, etc., (I guess so we don't have to indefinitely give them rides everywhere.) The assistance is clearly crafted as a support system towards independence.  Along those lines, this refugee center also sponsors an english teaching program and a sewing lesson program.  I could do this.

Once a layman like myself finishes training, and after the mandatory background check, you receive a monthly email with links to a sign up genius of the volunteer opportunities for the week.  I admit I was choosy.  I thought that going shopping and oufitting a little apartment sounded way more fun than an extra trip to the doctor or worse, the long lines of the social security office.  Maybe even my kids or the youth at church could go to Walmart with me.  Apparently, volunteers are given a Walmart card, a shopping list, and the key to the family's apartment.  It's like being a secret Santa.  Apparently, I am not the only person who felt this way.  Every time I would try to sign up for an apartment set up, it was taken.  Month after month.  My good intentions were essentially shelfed over the summer, with all the children home, and time spent traveling.  I thought unless I got an apartment set up job, I'd just wait for Fall.  That's when my team teacher inspired me.

Since last year, I have been teaching seminary every other day.  My team teacher, Amy, loves her two day a week schedule.  It's "just right" for her busy life with a preschooler still at home, and I love having my extra time to lesson plan too.  Working and planning together we have become friends who confide in each other on rough days and things like that.  One day, Amy said was rough, almost as an aside, or to top it off, because this time when she drove all the way downtown with her boys to take a refugee family to the clinic, the family had forgotten and were not even there.  I was so impressed!  I didn't know Amy had trained too!  Not only that, she was a semi regular volunteer.  If she could do it with three little boys in tow, what was my excuse for not having signed up to help yet?  I still waited until school started, but I decided I would stop apple picking my service and be willing to do the less "fun" jobs too. I'm so glad I did.  It's how I met Penina.

I chose my sign up based on what was the best time for me - Thursday morning.  There were two slots for taking a family of 8 to the clinic.  The center assumed this would take two vehicles.  I signed up for the second slot.  I got an email later explaining that the first volunteer could indeed fit everyone in her car, but that a new family of 5 from Afghanistan would need a ride to the clinic that same morning and could I fit 5?  I said yes and was sent their address.  Because they had a three year old and a five year old, if I needed to borrow car seats, I could stop by the center on my way over. That sounded like it could work just right.  Thursdays are Amy's day, so I don't teach in the early morning.  Also, my high schooler, Weston was getting a ride to cross country practice.  Once I got the younger ones off to school, I could head downtown.

Of course, the morning did not go as planned.  Weston was never picked up from seminary. Didn't I remember they were training at the nearby park, not at the high school this morning, so they didn't have to leave straight from seminary?  My bad.  At least Weston wouldn't be as late as I thought.  The thing to go was the shower.  It would have to be a sponge bath morning.  We picked Blake up, gave Miles the go ahead on the bus, Weston walked Blake in (late) because I still wasn't wearing shoes, and then it's a good thing he runs fast enough that he probably caught up with his team in no time. This could still work, but I would definitely need to at least wear shoes and maybe lipstick.

The funny thing is, I was early.  I got to the center, I got the car seats, I drove to the apartment complex, and I waited in the car and read my scriptures.  Go figure.  All that stress for nothing. When it was really time to knock, I said a little prayer and prepared to meet the family from Afghanistan who knew nothing about me, and of whom I knew only about three things:  1) They had three children (two of which needed car seats,) 2) the father was the only family member who spoke any English, and 3)  their last name was aptly, "Afghan."  As I mounted the steps to the second story of the apartment complex, I thought to myself, this is just like being on a mission or like visiting teaching, or finding lost sheep.  I've done this lots of times.  Except I must admit I was missing a companion.  Well, here goes nothing, and I knock. Nothing.  I knock again.  Oh no, it's like what happened to Amy.  They are not here.  I had asked a man outside if this was the right address.  Should I just leave?  Call the center?  Well I have to at least return the car seats.  I decide before abandoning ship to double check with the office because I couldn't see the address posted on the outside of the building anywhere.  The office staff tell me I am looking for the next complex.  Relief and a little anxiety wash over me.  Great, now I am going to be late!  I repark and reascend.  This time there's a door bell.  Did it work?  I knock.  Not again..., but that might have been some rustling.  One more knock.   A pretty little girl who looks about the same age as my Blake opens the door half way.  She is wearing a black head scarf and a beautiful beaded tunic over some baggy leggings.  She looks intrigued and not unwelcoming as she opens the door a little wider.  I'm glad I'm not scary, and I assume that they are expecting me. I see her two little brothers bashing into each other and play fighting over a yellow rubber ball in the background.  The are both wearing stiff new jeans and marvel comic t-shirts.  You can tell that the 5 year old is jumping up and down partly to show me how his Captain America sneakers light up when he lands.  Adorable.  Next, the mother emerges from the back room.  She smiles and nods as I try to explain who I am.  "Yes."  She says over and over, and motions for me to enter.

I wonder if the husband is finishing getting ready and then we'll leave for the clinic.  I obediently sit down.  I notice all the shoes at the door and think, I probably should have taken mine off.  I survey the scantily furnished 2 rooms.  I am sitting on the sole couch.  A dining set is in the apartment too, but it seems to be playing a different role.  The chairs are lined up against the far wall of the dining area, and the table is pushed under the window of the living room with a dell laptop on top.  That's it.  No pictures on the wall.  Nothing even from their country.  I wish I'd gotten their apartment set up job, but then, maybe like the dining set, some of my offerings or ideas would be lost in translation.  After a little while it becomes clear that the husband isn't home and consequently this sweet mother has no idea what I was saying or why I am in her home.  When I realize this I am astounded at her free kindnesses.

The mother sort of mysteriously disappears in the back and I show the children pictures of my children and use my fingers to confirm how old the girl is - yup, same age as my Blake.  Without any ability to communicate through language I am struck by the universality of family roles.  I recognize the girl as the motherly and mildly bossy oldest daughter.  The baby of the family is unmistakably that spunky scrappy youngest brother who has had to defend himself his whole life.  Finally, the five year old seemed to be the typical middle child, a little attention hungry and apt to show his little brother who is boss.  He was creative too.  He began to play a whole game of jacks with his yellow ball and a handful of imaginary jacks, or whatever their counterpart is called in Afghanistan.  His five year old fingers and hands were clearly practiced at the movement of throwing up the ball and picking up what were invisible little objects, before successfully opening his hand to catch the falling ball in the nick of time.  When the brothers became extra rambunctious, fighting over the ball again, I couldn't suppress a laugh. The little brother had a wicked grin on his face and shot me some dancing eyes as he came up from behind big brother and kicked in him the rear.  When the big brother retaliated the sister got between them.  In resistance, the five year old put his little hands around big sister's neck.  They could tell, I was asking them to be nice then.  I looked shocked, and then pantomined petting my arm, and asked them to "be soft."  That's when big sister went back to her mother, probably to tell on her brothers and finally the mother reemerged from the back bedroom again, this time in a golden dress.  She had straightened and pinned her headscarf in place.  She looked gorgeous and I assumed ready to go to the clinic in a golden dress.  I was wrong.  She went to the kitchen and sliced up an apple, core and all.  She handed the plate of apple slices to me as a sat.  I thanked her.  It was delicious.  It was a honeycrisp and it was chilled.  I confess I ate the seedless slices first and smiled.

I broke out my iphone.  What language do they speak in Afghanistan?  Multiple.  I tried the most common - Pashto and wrote down "I am here to take you to the clinic" or something like that on a translation website.  A scrawl of Arabic looking letters filled a box and I showed it to her.  Zero recognition.  I used google images to look up pictures of immunizations.  Now we were getting somewhere, or were we?  When I pointed to the pictures and pointed to the children and pantomined shooting a needle in my arm, for the first time, she did not say "Yes."  She shook her head and looked very opposed.  So what was there to do?  Perhaps she could get a waiver if she didn't want her children immunized before registering them for school, but she would for sure need a translator or her husband for that.  I set down the plate of apple slices and thanked her again.  She didn't look prepared to go, in fact, by now the boys were on an embroidered cloth on the living room floor eating pita slices and scrambled eggs out of the pan.  How efficient, I thought.

My last ditch effort to take them to the clinic was to point to my vehicle and motion if they wanted to follow me.  Again she said "Yes" but she must have meant "Yes, you are leaving now."  Or else, her philosophy is to say "yes" when in doubt.  It's a pretty good philosophy actually.  They were a lovely family, and I felt like my visit had been useless for them.  Perhaps I entertained the children a bit.  I left feeling grateful for the international language of family which gave me a connection to this other mother, a hope that the daughter stays strong because she will probably learn English before her mother, a desire to buy some jacks for the big brother, a smile when I remembered the baby and jokester of the family, and a sheepish embarrassment for having had a conversation the day before with my husband about wishing for wooden instead of vinyl framed windows.  We. have. soooo. much.

I went back to the clinic and returned the car seats.  They had another job for me.  I explained I'd be happy to help for the next hour and a half, but then I was expecting a plumber at my house.  Our water heater had been broken and we'd been having cold showers for about two weeks.  The case worker involved  said, "if you can just take this woman to the emergency room, you will have made my day.  I can come pick her up later."  There was a pregnant woman from the Republic of the Congo who was hadn't been able to use the bathroom or eat for a few days.  She was about 4 and a half months along, and had an appointment with an obstetrician the following week, but her case worker didn't think she should wait that long.  Amen to that.  I would be happy to take her.  She was so new to the country that her medicaid paperwork was in process, so they scrawled out her corresponding number.  The case worker also put her own name and phone number on the back of a card for me to give to the hospital so they could call her when it was time to pick the woman up.  The recent refugee didn't have a passport yet either.  She just had an official looking computer print out with passport picture like images of her, her husband, and their five children.  That's when I first saw Penina looking back at me from those precious pieces of paper that I was terrified to misplace.

Next I met her in person.  She was regaled in a vivid screaming yellow, grass green, and brown patterned african gown with a wrap-around adjustable waist making room for her swelling belly. Why are American clothes so boring?  She was shy and young (30 something), and very beautiful.  The translator would not be going with us to the emergency room, the case worker told me, so I had to remember everything that she told me.  "I can do this."  I sort of whispered under my breath, which is a mantra I tell myself often when facing a new or unwanted challenge.  The case worker sort of stopped everything and looked at me and repeated with conviction, "Yes you can."  as in "woman up!"  and then she said, "and she can too" as in "if you only knew what this woman has already lived through."  Before I knew it, just Penina and I by ourselves were headed out to my vehicle.  I opened the front passenger door and she climbed on it.  I closed the door for her and went over the driver's side.  I buckled up and looked over at her and although I wasn't sure what good speaking English would do, I asked Penina if she needed help with her seatbelt.  I pointed above her shoulder and it was clear she didn't know what to do next.  I helped her get buckled up, being sure to put the belt sort of across her lower abdomen, and turned on the car.  The next thing I wondered was which radio station to play.  Dead silence seemed too awkward.  I decided on classical - it was wordless, that could be universal.  As the symphony played Beethoven or was it Tchaicovski,  I realized this music and these instruments although they are expressing universal themes and emotions, could be as foreign to her as the English language.  Oh well.

Thank goodness for google maps.  Although, I knew how to get to the hospital from home, the service center was in a part of town I wasn't as familiar with.  I turned off my talking phone once I knew the rest of the way.  While driving, I could tell that Penina was not entirely comfortable.  With all the construction and lane closures and freeway changes, I couldn't blame her.  I was trying to place myself in her shoes.  The trust she had in an absolute stranger to take her away through a labrynth of Texas freeways in a place where no one could even pronounce the name of her language let alone speak it was astounding.  Of course, she was doing it for her baby.  That I could understand.  Before backing out I had shown her my five children.  Motherhood was our instant connection.

Seton Main hospital was so crowded that morning.  I could tell, because I had to park up on the roof of the parking lot across from the emergency room entrance.  Penina's case wasn't so emergent that I would have to take her just to the curb, besides I didn't want to leave her alone, until she was somewhat cared for and accounted for.  As we walked to the entrance, I wasn't sure if she would want to hold on to my arm.  She was sort of shuffling her sandled feet a little slowly.  She didn't appear to be in stoic pain, but she definitely was in discomfort.  When we made it as far as the elevator, she did grab my arm for a second to steady herself, and one other time, I saw her wince, but when she caught me looking, she changed it for a smile.  So she was being stoic after all.  At the emergency room I told the admittors all I knew about Penina.  They said they had a policy if she was over 20 weeks, that they would send her up to Labor and Delivery instead.  I said, "well she must be right about exactly 20 weeks."  It was determined to send her upstairs - that is down the hall, turn right, past the cafeteria, another right, another set of elevators...  You get the picture.  I wasn't sure if I should get a wheelchair.  I couldn't gauge if that would hurt her pride or be a nice gesture.  I didn't know how to address this, so we walked.

Labor and delivery was swamped too, and just about sent us right back to the ER.  This time I stood my ground and advocated for Penina.  I explained that we just walked all the way over here, she is within the time frame when she should be seen by them, and explained that the woman hadn't eaten for maybe days.  They got the nurse.  Again the question, "how far along is she?"  I wasn't sure if they were still trying to send her away.  The staff were kind, but just so busy, and trying to triage.  At least Penina was sitting down now and could rest a little.  They were able to reach an interpreter on the phone.  "What was the due date you were given by the doctor or clinic when you found out you were pregnant?"  She had never been to a doctor or clinic for this or perhaps any of her pregnancies before.  "Ok then, we are going to have a lot of questions.  It doesn't look like an emergency, so I will be back later. Does she speak French?"  "No."  Then, to Penina, " Take off all your clothes and put this gown on, and I will come back to monitor you."  The nurse said this with gestures so she thought Penina understood.  Then she closed the curtain between Penina and myself to give her some privacy.  I waited and checked my email and instagram for the time I thought it would take Penina to change.  It sounded silent on the other side of the curtain.  I peeked around, to see if she was done and let her know I was still there.  She was standing motionless in her slip and undershirt, obviously not knowing what to do next.  The clock was ticking, but I couldn't leave Penina like this.  If she was lost, no one would even know her name. I pointed at her undershirt and she pulled it over her head.  I placed the robe on her and tied it in the back.  I didn't bother with the slip.  Why is it necessary for us to be so exposed and vulnerable before a doctor even knows what needs checking.  Sorry, a discussion for another day.

The nurse returned as promised, although this time it was a different nurse.  A younger nurse - maybe an intern.  She was less perfunctory, but also a little more flustered. She had brought a bracelet for the patient, but it did not say "Penina."  Gratefully, the nurse looked quizzically at the Western sounding name, and asked to review the identification papers.  "I'll be right back."  She said.  Then she whispered to me "I just read this fascinating history on the Republic of the Congo have you ever read it?"  "I've read Poisonwood Bible" I shrugged.  After she left, I sort of shuddered to think of Penina being mislabeled and even the Refugee Service center having a hard time locating her as a result. My plumber would have to wait.  Wait.  I noticed it didn't seem to bother Penina so much.  How long had she and her family waited in the camps until their names came up?  How long did she have to wait in airports and security vettings and wasn't she hungry?

The nurses' reading reference gave me an idea of how to pass the time with Penina until I really had to leave.  I looked up images of her country on google images.  I first pointed to a map of Africa with her country highlighted.  It didn't seem to interest her that much.  I showed her some jungle images and lush mountains, and waterfalls.  She smiled gratefully.  Then I stopped scrolling and took the phone away.  I didn't want her to see the images of the guerilla fighters.  Of dead bodies slashed open. There was a village of small huts.  I wondered if that was what her home had been like.  She didn't speak French.  She hadn't been to school.  She wasn't comfortable walking in shoes.  Someone else came in to ask Penina to sign some consent forms.  Penina made a very careful x on the dotted line. "Can you ask her if she can sign her name?"  The woman said in the phone, handed the phone to Penina, and then Penina smiled and put another neatly formed x on the next line.  "Ask her if she has a living will, or what's it called, ...oh yea, power of attorney?"  I wondered why this woman thought Penina would have an answer to that, but I guess she had to ask.  I thought: so much to learn. Meaning, I have so much to learn that Penina could teach me.  There are so many ways to live and so many places and so many words and other things I do not know.  Her experiential knowledge is just as exhaustive if not more than mine - it's just different, that's all.  The nurse was back on the phone with the interpreter.  "Can you ask her which pregancy this is?  and which number baby?"  Of course those aren't the same question, and I realized, there is a good chance she has lost a child.  She had.  I wondered how.  I wanted to know so much more, not out of curiosity anymore, I could read a history book for that.  I wanted to meet her children, and see her again, and make sure that this new little American baby would be okay, but it was really time to go.  This time her bracelet had the correct name and I had given three different people the number and name of Penina's case worker.  I said my reluctant goodbye.  I had been there when it seemed she understood that someone else would bring her back, but now that I was leaving, she looked at me as if she wanted me to stay.  I don't think I made the right choice.  Through the interpreter she asked me, "where was I going?"  "I had an appointment"  I said.  Figuring that wouldn't have a lot of frame of reference, the nurse just told the interpreter simply, "tell her she has to go."  Back to the rush like I'd had that morning - paying 1700 dollars so my family could have the luxury of showering in hot instead of cold water, picking up the car pool, making homemade pizza for dinner, and staying up with Blake to finish his procrastinated vocabulary homework, etc. etc. but I couldn't get Penina's pleading and then accepting face out of my mind.  I called her case worker's number back later to see if she had been picked up safely.  Another voice answered.  "Oh yea, I think I am supposed to be waiting for a call for the hospital.  Haven't gotten it yet."

"She's still there?"

"Apparently?"  I was kind of freaked out that the case worker had given the task to yet another stranger for Penina, and what had she been doing in the room all this time?  I prayed for Penina. What else could I do?

"Well, let her caseworker know if there is anything else I can do, please let me know."

"We will.  We really appreciate your service."  Click.

Next Thursday.  I can do this.