Food for Thought

As I drove to the Phans’ apartment, I took the time to glance at the colorful neighborhood of City Heights. It certainly is diverse in its population and types of storefronts, with Vietnamese markets, Ethiopian restaurants and Mexican tortilla shops all nestled side by side. Not many restaurant, drugstore or supermarket chains are there, which gives way for smaller enterprises to take root.

I turned onto their street and parked near their building. I entered the apartment and promptly took off my shoes. A young Burmese woman was sitting on the couch. She said she was a neighbor, and was here for English lessons. “Welcome!” I said. Since her English was considerably better than the rest of the family, I could communicate some important things through her. At least I hoped what I said got to the intended person. She explained that she was Karenni, not Karen and that the kids only knew how to speak Karen, not Karenni, or Kaya. The mother, May, could speak both, so when I said something, Nawmu, the neighbor, would translate it into Kaya for the mother, who then translated it into Karen for the boys. I hoped Tomtom understood when I said that I had contacted his school so he did not have to take the assessment. I did not know about Karenni, and now I feel like my world has expanded. The Karenni state was never fully incorporated into British Burma, and has always tried to claim its independence. Not only do I now know about the tribe, I am proud to know someone of the tribe.

I noticed a new, large woven mat on the floor and sat down on it cross-legged. Sonny, the ninth-grader, his older brother, Jon and Jon’s wife, Kueh, joined me, as well as Tomtom. May and Nawmu also sat within the circle. Ser, the father, was at his first day of work.

We started with colors. I had brought colored pieces of cardstock and asked them to name the colors. They knew many of them. They didn’t know gold or silver, so I taught them those. I wear gold rings and a silver watch. Kueh, who exudes the energy of a young woman who is interested in style, was wearing a gold ring and a silver bracelet. A trick is to get them to answer in complete sentences, like “The color of the paper is yellow,” instead of just saying “Yellow.” But we’re getting there. I went around the circle and asked them what color was their shirt, etc. Then I had them ask each other what color someone in the circle was wearing.

Kueh spread some glossy junk mail in the center of the circle. Most were food ads. I asked them to name as many things as they could. I then had them identify the colors. I would say, “What is green?” or “What color is the lettuce?” None of them knew what a pear was, and had never heard of peanut butter. After they seemed to have food down, I asked them what they like to eat for dinner. I started with Sonny and it sounded like he said, “Mink.” He is very enthusiastic and has a smile that involves his whole face, which is wonderful. I asked, “Mink?” and he confirmed it, smiling like he was talking about the best dinner he had ever had. I spelled it out: “M-I-N-K” and he emphatically nodded yes. Well, I thought, maybe they sell mink in Asian markets. But don’t minks live in the north? I then spelled it out on a corner of one of the ads and he exclaimed, “No! M-I-L-K!” “M”s and “L”s and “R”s are hard to distinguish. After we got that cleared up, I asked the next person, Nawmu, the neighbor, what she likes to eat for dinner. She said, “Frog.” I asked, “Frog?” and imitated a frog. She said “Yes!” So maybe they don’t sell mink in Asian markets, but I guess they sell frog. May said she likes to eat mama for dinner. I again was confused and repeated the word. She confirmed that that is what she meant, then got up and went to the kitchen to get a package of ramen that has the brand name “Mama.” The rest of the answers were tame, like fish, rice and noodles.

As we were playing our language games, the two youngest children and Nawmu’s young son were running around, yelling and climbing on all the furniture as if the living room was an outdoor playground. This doesn’t bother me. Children’s energy always makes me happy because they seem so carefree. Who cares that there is an English class going on in the middle of the room? They are so into their playful worlds. It was getting darker in the house as evening approached. Sonny placed a desk lamp on the couch, which kept getting knocked over as the little ones jumped on the couch. Every time this happened, Sonny giggled and laughed, and his face would crinkle into his infectious smile. He was having as much fun as the preschoolers.

Tomtom brought out some homework worksheets. He had to solve word problems such as: The team ordered 12 pizzas and ate 8 slices from each. How many did they eat? Draw it, write it as a numerical sentence, write it as a word sentence, and then write it in a different way as a numerical sentence. There were five problems, each with the same instructions. Tomtom did not know fractions, so I showed him how to draw the problems out and how to figure them out. It was time-consuming. All the others tried to interpret what I was saying and work out the problems with him. I found myself getting mad at the teacher for assigning work that was way over Tomtom’s head. I think he is learning a lot, just being in this country and trying to pick up English, that there is no reason why he should do all these problems. He tries very hard, and is fastidious with his work. I want to ask him if he went to school while he was in the refugee camp. Was he exposed to fractions, and word problems? I doubt it. Couldn’t the teacher give him appropriate homework? The problems might be fine for a fourth grader who has grown up here, but is so blatantly not okay for someone like Tomtom.

The two hours passed quickly on the mat on top of the carpet. We played games until it was time for me leave at 6 p.m. I walked to my car parked on the street, which, in the dark takes on a different feeling. There are more men out on the sidewalk. The women and children have gone inside. Unusual aromas wafted from the apartments, marking dinner time no matter what culture, camp or country the cooks were from.