Middle of Everywhere - Mary Bray Pipher [105]
We had brought the family some Uno cards. We taught them to play and we left them the cards. They were soon beating us at every game we taught them.
We gave them a calendar and showed them how to write things down on it. I asked about their birthdays and wrote them on the calendar. These birthdays had been arbitrarily assigned to them when they left Africa. (An inordinate number of refugees say they were born on January 1 or the Fourth of July.) Birthday celebrations are a very American idea. They are about time and individuality. Birthday parties are our way of teaching children that the day they came into the world matters.
We took the family's picture—four handsome people sitting on their couch, hands folded in their laps with big smiles. Martha's doilies gave the couch a festive, homey touch. The scene was one of excitement and hope. When we left that first time, we asked if they wanted us to return. Joseph said, "You are welcome anytime."
After our first visit, Jim and I talked about what role we would play in the lives of this family. We had originally planned to be their family therapists. But now it seemed like they needed an American mom and dad. They needed practical help with school, jobs, and managing time and money. They didn't need family therapists as much as they needed cultural brokers.
America was going to be hard for them. We knew of a Sudanese man in Nebraska who had gotten overwhelmed and killed himself. The best mental health plans for them seemed preventative. Fred Rogers spoke of "loving people into existence." We decided to love them into a new life in America. We would teach them to be Americans. We'd have field trips and language and culture lessons. We'd make it up as we went along.
When Jim and I stopped by a few days later, Martha was cooking an omelet. Their canned goods were in the refrigerator and the milk and produce were left on the counter. I explained a few things about food storage. I also gently hinted that it was good to turn off the television now and then.
The family seemed happy to see us. We had brought them a few basic supplies—gloves and hats, scissors, a clock, and Scotch tape. They had never seen Scotch tape before. They put their hats and gloves on immediately. I could see I'd bought gloves that were too small and I offered to exchange them. They said the gloves were just fine and they kept their hats on.
There is a saying that if you want to know something about the Dinka, ask a cow or a woman; the men will not talk. In response to our questions, the family would answer, "Everything is okay." Martha might have been more talkative if she'd known our language. Joseph was unfailingly polite but volunteered little information. Abraham seldom spoke but he communicated a great deal nonverbally. Paul was a loving kid who occasionally blurted out something, such as his request one day that I buy him a Walkman.
One of the lessons I learned from the family was to be comfortable with silence. We Americans tend to talk all the time when we are together. When I tried to do that with this family, I felt silly and they were overwhelmed with the verbiage. I learned to be silent and wait for a topic to emerge. It was restful once I got used to it.
Sometimes they talked about the past in a matter-of-fact way. Joseph told of fleeing Ethiopia and of being stalked by lions. The children had been so hungry they'd eaten dogs, grass, roots, lizards, anything. Paul couldn't remember life before he lost his parents. All the years he should have been in elementary school, learning to play ball and swim, and just having a childhood, he was on the run. He reminded me