I think I had a break-through the last couple of times I visited the Phans. The kids are usually very chatter-y with me, but sometimes after an hour there is a lull in the conversation. I’m not that outgoing, so those pauses make me feel uncomfortable, as I search my brain for the match that will spark a conversation. Last Saturday I told Sonny, who understands English the best, that I was going to Los Angeles that afternoon to visit a friend who just got a pacemaker. I didn’t use those words of course. I said something like this: “I’m going to Los Angeles today. My friend got a machine right here (putting my hand over my heart) to help his heart pump. (I opened and closed my fist.) The machine helps the heart pump. Thump, thump, thump.”
Sonny passed the story on to the rest of his family. They seemed genuinely interested. Pacemakers aren’t a part of refugee camp medicinal cures. As neighbors came and went as they always do at their apartment, I knew the story was being passed around in their language, Karen. I could pick up the words “Los Angeles” and the sounds “dup dup dup.” When each new person heard the story, their eyes would get wide, and they would say something like our English “ohhhhhh.”
Yesterday the kids and I spread out in a circle on the familiar green and white woven mat. Some of them got out their homework while the mom, May, took out a clump of grocery store ads that came in the mail. She busied herself cutting out the food items, while the kids and I worked on homework. At one point, I took out a credit card from my wallet and told Sonny that someone stole my bank number from my card and took $1,000 from me. I said they bought makeup with the money and asked them if they knew what makeup was. They did not. I mimed putting on eye shadow, rouge and lipstick and said that was makeup. Me-yem immediately translated my actions into the Karen word for makeup. Everyone had stopped what they were doing to listen intently to Sonny’s translation. I said they had bought the makeup online. “Online” was a new word for them, so I used the words “on computer.” We talked for a while about that. It felt good that they were so captivated with a story from my life.
My usual course of conversation is to ask them questions. This time, they were asking me questions. They were very surprised when I said the bank is going to give me my money back. This concept was as foreign to them as a pacemaker. Someone asked how they got my number. I told them that I didn’t know, but when I enter a PIN, I’m going to be much more careful to hide the keypad when I type it in. Actually, I didn’t exactly say all that; I borrowed Sonny’s calculator to demonstrate entering my PIN and how I am now going to cover the pad with my other hand. May asked if her food stamps card number could be stolen. I asked her to show it to me, because I didn’t know what a food stamps card looked like. I didn’t know if it resembled a check or a credit card. It looks more like a toy credit card. It is the same size as a real bank card, but the numbers are printed on it, not raised like a credit card. I asked if she needed to enter a PIN, and Sonny asked, “You mean four numbers?” I replied that the four numbers you enter is called a PIN. May does need to enter a PIN when she buys groceries. We all agreed to be more careful when we enter our PINs.
We went back to solving the sum of fractions with different denominators, identifying the food that May had carefully cut out and reading a very simple story about snow. I left on a high note, feeling like I had really accomplished something by realizing that things that go on in my life may be just as interesting to them as their stories are to me.
Showing posts with label Karen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Karen. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 07, 2012
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Hugs and Hits
When I leave the Phans, they all give me a hug good-bye, except the dad, who shakes my hand. Hugging May, the mom, is like hugging a 10 year-old girl who has not yet hit puberty. I feel huge when I hug her. Sonny gives me a hug like any 15 year-old boy, quick and not too intimate. Kay Lee wraps her arms around my knees and squeezes hard. Noah and Tomtom give me warm, tight hugs. When it is time to leave, the younger kids grab my bags, purse, games, or jacket, anything I have brought, and run down the stairs in whatever flip flops their feet happen to land in as they fly out the door. By the time I put my shoes on and hug those who are not walking me to my car, the two or three who have my purse and keys have opened my car doors and plopped my things on the front seat. Pushing the button on the key remote is a thrill and goes to whoever happens to grab my purse first.
Noah, a teddy bear-like ten year old, is affectionate in a lean-to way. When we are doing homework or playing games on the floor, he leans onto me and plops his head on my lap. It always seems like hidden determination, or more like a planned accident. He falls into my lap; he doesn’t deliberately sit there. He roughhouses with his little sister and ends up with his arms around me from behind. I love it. In his kind of clumsy way, it feels like pure affection. When he is working on a drawing or hurrying through homework, I tousle his black hair, or rub his back. He has given me permission to do so with the unspoken language of physical contact.
Kay Lee owns my lap. I always sit on the floor when I visit, because it gives us all plenty of room to spread out to do homework, play games, or just talk. Kay Lee plops in my lap like I’m her personal throne, especially when there are neighbor kids around. From my lap, she can have some control of what is going on. If we are playing bingo, she can pull the bingo cards. When we play twister, she can spin the dial. If everyone is doing homework, she can talk to me easier, and distract me from helping the kids. When she is in her throne, I can hug her.
The kids compete to get my attention. They are all full of something to tell me that is more urgent than what anyone else has to say. I’m not very good at making them take turns; I usually listen to the loudest first. I try to listen to them with my full attention, but it gets raucous. Last Monday they didn’t have school because it was the beginning of the Thanksgiving break. When I asked them what they did that day, they said, “Watch TV.” so when I came over, it not only was raucous, but rambunctious. Their apartment building is not conducive to playing outside. So when I come over, it is a big distraction from the monotonous TV.
As with presumably all siblings, there are fights over pencils, toys, or attention. One boy has something and the other tries to grab it. My brothers and I fought over things, and so did my children. Yet I never was hit for fighting, nor did I hit my kids. I have seen May hit her boys hard for small things, like grabbing a pencil from someone else. When she hits, it is not a gentle slap on the thigh, it is a closed-fisted punch on the back, arm or chest. Sonny told me one time that his mother hit him every day in the camp. She hit him for coming home late, or swimming in the river, which was forbidden. She laughed when he told me, and confirmed what he said. I’m sure there were no pop parenting theory books in the camp. Being a pacifist and one that abhors violence of any kind, it makes me very uncomfortable to see Noah or Tomtom or Sonny get hit for something that can be solved through discussion. One time Sonny, who is not much bigger than his two younger brothers, but is the oldest child in the household, hit Noah so hard that the force of it stopped everyone from doing what they were doing, either because of the sound of it or the sound of Noah’s reaction. It happened when there were a number of neighborhood children visiting, getting homework help from me. Sonny’s mom was there and didn’t say anything. Noah pouted, but did not cry. He rubbed his arm for a few minutes and inspected it to see if a bruise started blossoming.
I find myself saying, “Gentle” when I see aggression get out of hand. Kay Lee, the youngest by several years and the only girl, often hits her older brothers. I tell her to be gentle. I doubt she knows the meaning of the word, but it is what I would say to any child acting out aggressively.
Sometimes the dad or Sonny show me YouTube videos of their people, the Karen, fighting the Burmese soldiers. The videos are violent and disturbing. The younger children have seen them many times. I never watch violence on TV or in movies, and to see real soldiers fighting guerrilla soldiers is very upsetting to me. I wonder what they think of my reactions, when I put my hands over my eyes.
Sonny has told me that his friends have been threatened by gang members. A bike has been stolen. An expensive hat was taken. Some of Sonny’s friends have fought the gang members. The Phans moved from Burma to the refugee camp to escape violence. Now they face gang violence in their own neighborhood.
I am glad I get to experience the sweet, warm, affectionate side of the family. Even the Karen neighborhood kids that I’ve gotten to know give me a hug when they leave. Maybe they think it is required here, like a handshake.
Noah, a teddy bear-like ten year old, is affectionate in a lean-to way. When we are doing homework or playing games on the floor, he leans onto me and plops his head on my lap. It always seems like hidden determination, or more like a planned accident. He falls into my lap; he doesn’t deliberately sit there. He roughhouses with his little sister and ends up with his arms around me from behind. I love it. In his kind of clumsy way, it feels like pure affection. When he is working on a drawing or hurrying through homework, I tousle his black hair, or rub his back. He has given me permission to do so with the unspoken language of physical contact.
Kay Lee owns my lap. I always sit on the floor when I visit, because it gives us all plenty of room to spread out to do homework, play games, or just talk. Kay Lee plops in my lap like I’m her personal throne, especially when there are neighbor kids around. From my lap, she can have some control of what is going on. If we are playing bingo, she can pull the bingo cards. When we play twister, she can spin the dial. If everyone is doing homework, she can talk to me easier, and distract me from helping the kids. When she is in her throne, I can hug her.
The kids compete to get my attention. They are all full of something to tell me that is more urgent than what anyone else has to say. I’m not very good at making them take turns; I usually listen to the loudest first. I try to listen to them with my full attention, but it gets raucous. Last Monday they didn’t have school because it was the beginning of the Thanksgiving break. When I asked them what they did that day, they said, “Watch TV.” so when I came over, it not only was raucous, but rambunctious. Their apartment building is not conducive to playing outside. So when I come over, it is a big distraction from the monotonous TV.
As with presumably all siblings, there are fights over pencils, toys, or attention. One boy has something and the other tries to grab it. My brothers and I fought over things, and so did my children. Yet I never was hit for fighting, nor did I hit my kids. I have seen May hit her boys hard for small things, like grabbing a pencil from someone else. When she hits, it is not a gentle slap on the thigh, it is a closed-fisted punch on the back, arm or chest. Sonny told me one time that his mother hit him every day in the camp. She hit him for coming home late, or swimming in the river, which was forbidden. She laughed when he told me, and confirmed what he said. I’m sure there were no pop parenting theory books in the camp. Being a pacifist and one that abhors violence of any kind, it makes me very uncomfortable to see Noah or Tomtom or Sonny get hit for something that can be solved through discussion. One time Sonny, who is not much bigger than his two younger brothers, but is the oldest child in the household, hit Noah so hard that the force of it stopped everyone from doing what they were doing, either because of the sound of it or the sound of Noah’s reaction. It happened when there were a number of neighborhood children visiting, getting homework help from me. Sonny’s mom was there and didn’t say anything. Noah pouted, but did not cry. He rubbed his arm for a few minutes and inspected it to see if a bruise started blossoming.
I find myself saying, “Gentle” when I see aggression get out of hand. Kay Lee, the youngest by several years and the only girl, often hits her older brothers. I tell her to be gentle. I doubt she knows the meaning of the word, but it is what I would say to any child acting out aggressively.
Sometimes the dad or Sonny show me YouTube videos of their people, the Karen, fighting the Burmese soldiers. The videos are violent and disturbing. The younger children have seen them many times. I never watch violence on TV or in movies, and to see real soldiers fighting guerrilla soldiers is very upsetting to me. I wonder what they think of my reactions, when I put my hands over my eyes.
Sonny has told me that his friends have been threatened by gang members. A bike has been stolen. An expensive hat was taken. Some of Sonny’s friends have fought the gang members. The Phans moved from Burma to the refugee camp to escape violence. Now they face gang violence in their own neighborhood.
I am glad I get to experience the sweet, warm, affectionate side of the family. Even the Karen neighborhood kids that I’ve gotten to know give me a hug when they leave. Maybe they think it is required here, like a handshake.
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