Meeting the Family

This afternoon I met the Burmese refugee family that I will be volunteering with, to help them learn English. My appointment was at 4 pm. I arrived a few minutes early so that I could find their apartment. They live in a poorer community of San Diego, where over 90 languages are spoken. The apartment complex that I was looking for, on the odd-numbered side of the street, was full of what looked to me to be African immigrants. Children were playing outside, riding tricycles and small bikes, chasing each other and standing around. Women in bright headscarves sat in chairs or swept the landings. People were coming and going. I could not find the number I was looking for, 3557. I asked some of the kids where the building 3557 was, but we could only find 3553, 3555 and 3559. I knocked on the door of #6, which was the apartment I was looking for, but the neighbor poked her head out the window and said no one lived there. She directed me to another building that had lost the last digit of its number, saying there was an Asian family that lived there. I knocked on their door, and it was the wrong Asian family. I finally met the daughter of the apartment manager, who asked her dad about the family I was looking for and he advised me that they had moved out a month ago.

Getting back to my car, I called Jewish Family Service and they had the translator that I was to meet with at the family’s apartment call me. He had given me the wrong address. The family lived in the primarily Asian-occupied building across the street. It was interesting to me that on one side of the street were primarily Asians, and on the other were primarily African immigrants. I climbed the stairs to #6. There were several boys hanging around the doorway, in amongst a mishmash of shoes that were removed before entering the apartment. I took my shoes off, went inside and sat down on the white plastic lawn chair next to the translator. He was working with another American woman, who was having him give directions to the family on how to prepare one of the children for an upcoming operation. When she was done, the translator introduced me to the family. There are two parents and five children. The oldest son, 17, is married and does not attend school. I was struck by his wife’s beauty. She had a happy face that was delicate but with a strong bone structure. The youngest , four, is the only girl. She is enrolled in a Headstart program. I think she will probably learn English the fastest. The other boys are from ages 8 to 14 and are in school.

The family has lived in a Thai refugee camp for 15 years. All the children except the oldest were born in the camp. They have been in San Diego since the beginning of September, so they are four and a half months into their eight-month resettlement program. They are given eight months of welfare, and after that they have support themselves. How difficult it would be to move to a foreign country with my family and get assimilated in a short eight months.

Their apartment was full of used furniture that looked more like Goodwill castoffs. Their clothes were old and ill-fitting. The mother, a very petite woman, was wearing a surfer t-shirt that would have been more appropriate for her hefty husband.

The translator helped us arrange a schedule between us. After the translator left, I stayed and asked some simple questions, like what grades the children were in, how old were they, etc. Towards the end of the hour, the oldest son, Jon, led a very old and sick-looking woman, who didn’t look like she could hear or see into the living room. The mother, May, said, “Grandmother.” She was led outside and down the stairs.

I left at this time, as the family all seemed to be going in different directions. Driving home, I thought of how I could help them with their English. Where do I start? How can four hours a week make much difference?