Irina and Gena
by
Tenley Harrison, RT
Volunteer Tutor/Board Member
When I first began
tutoring Irina and Gena Dubrov, refugees from the Ukraine, they
lived in a very small apartment in a rough neighborhood, and worked
several jobs each. Despite long work days and having to care for a
young son, they were eager to spend an hour or so each week learning
English with me. Quick with a joke and full of laughter, they
charmed and impressed me from the beginning with their optimism,
work ethic and intelligence.
Over the course of
our two years studying together, I was able to watch, before my
eyes, as the family achieve “the American dream.” They moved to a
spacious two-bedroom apartment in a nice neighborhood, purchased a
new car, and cut back to one job each. Irina, ever ambitious, took
additional English classes at the local college and started taking
certificate courses over the internet to expand her career
possibilities. The son became fluent in Russian and English, and
started at the local public school. Their English became so
proficient that instead of arriving with a lesson plan, I fielded
their questions: about the American school system, letters they had
received that they didn’t understand, legal issues, and—most
exciting of all—the US citizenship exam. I was honored to attend
their swearing-in ceremony and witness the official end of one
chapter of their story, and the beginning of the next.
While they were
proud of their new citizenship and embraced American life, I
respected the way they maintained Ukrainian traditions and values.
Genna would happily answer my general questions about the Ukraine
and loved to teach me Russian phrases, but he spoke with caution
concerning details of his life and their reasons for leaving. He
spoke of poverty, oppression, and working in nuclear waste disposal
(very unregulated, from his accounts), and of how much he missed his
family.
Though hopefully
they learned some English from me, I learned so much more from
them—about courage, determination, hard work, and sacrifice. I was
truly honored to know them and call them friends.
From Kabul to California
by
Rashna Wadia
Fourteen-year-old Farida sits with
her brother on a worn-out couch in a tiny apartment. Her family has
been in the country for one year, and only Farida can understand and
speak bits of English. As the family's translator and bridge between
Kabul and California, she is the rock that keeps the family
together. She frowns at me suspiciously as I enter the living room
and introduce myself as their new English tutor.
Ten-year-old Aarif, wearing a typical Afghan white outfit with a
decorative cap covering his head, smiles and scoots over on the
couch motioning for me to sit down next to him. He can't read or
write, but tells me that he enjoys school, especially PE. He reports
happily to me that he likes to watch TV and play outside, and that
he loves animals and had a pet dog back in Afghanistan.
Many months pass, and I become part of the family. I sit at my
familiar spot on the couch, sip hot tea and pull out activities,
games and stories from my overstuffed school bag, ready to share
with the children. Farida has begun to smile a little and Aarif is
picking up more English every day from watching TV shows like the
Simpsons.
One afternoon Aarif surprises me, and places an old faded black and
white photo gently into the palm of my hands. It is a picture of his
father and mother on their wedding day. Aarif says it's the only
photo he has of his father. "What happened to your father?" I ask
gently.
"Back in Kabul I watch a man with a gun shoot my father in the
middle of the street." We are silent for a moment, and then Aarif
abruptly snatches the picture from my hand and disappears into his
bedroom. He emerges a half hour later, wearing a San Francisco
Giants baseball cap.
"I gonna go out and play now. Next time you gonna finish reading
that story Shiloh, the one about the boy and his dog?"
He's already out the door before I can respond. I glance over at
Farida, but she is thoroughly immersed in reading the chapter book I
gave her. She doesn't notice me staring at her until she looks up
from her book to ask me the meaning of a word. I hesitate for a
moment, wanting to talk about Aarif and the picture of his father.
But instead, I remain silent, and instinctively move closer to
Farida to continue on with my teaching.
We have time—time for me to help these children find ways to process
their experiences, past and present, and time for them to teach me
about their own culture and history, and about the courage needed to
start life over again in a new strange land.
The New American Dream
by
Joe McCrossen
I sat with Emma Halilovic and her
four boys at the Immigration and Naturalization Services (INS)
office on a rainy day in San Francisco in December 2001. As we
waited for their green cards, I though about how a war had propelled
her thousands of miles from Velika Kladusa, a farming village in
northern Bosnia-Herzegovenia, to Northern California.
My wife and I first met Esma in 1999 in her cramped two-bedroom
apartment in Oakand, CA. We were to be her English tutors. Her
formal education had ended at the eighth grade. Her facial features
suggested someone much older than her 31 years. It was the face of
someone who had suffered a personal loss—a husband killed in the
Balkan War while she was pregnant with her youngest son. As a
result, she was forced to flee to the U.S. as a refugee in 1998. We
could sense that her grief had physically changed her, but that her
resolve to learn English, raise her boys, and become an American
citizen was steadfast.
Through Esma, I witnessed the effects of the Balkan War in a deeply
personal way. Her story is probably not unlike that of other
refugees—personal tragedy leading to forced displacement. To me,
Esma’s story is one that deserves to be told because it is the
embodiment of the re-imagined American Dream. Immigrants once came
to America desiring material wealth; now, much like Esma, they come
to America seeking a degree of peace and normalcy not possible in a
homeland infused with hostility.
Sitting in that INS office, Esma was that much closer to becoming an
American citizen. A perfunctory task for the INS clerk was a
triumphant moment for Esma. When the clerk called the Halilovic
family to receive their green cards, Esma said little, but her
discreet smile spoke volumes.
