A Refugee's Story

I loved the suggestions I got in this post for topics this month. Because I went to the ESL class this morning where I volunteer, I'll respond first to Fiona's request for an update on the man I wrote about here.

He wasn't there today. The last time I saw him, he told me he had been sick, so I'm wondering if he isn't sick again. The language barrier between the two of us is glaring. He "told me" he was sick by my acting out what sick looks like and then his answering 'yes'. I hope that he's in class next week. How strange would it be to invite him for Thanksgiving, I wonder. What would he do at our house, knowing virtually zero English? Would he feel uncomfortable? Should we just play charades? Anyone with advice, I welcome words of wisdom on this one.

I have been slowly but surely every week getting to know these elderly immigrant/refugees from Africa. There is a particular favorite of mine that I discovered a lot about today.

He comes faithfully every week, always dressed in very modern clothes and carrying a Forever 21 plastic bag. If it's chilly out, he wears his fuzzy cap with earflaps. That, combined with the Forever 21 bag, is quite a combination. He has a quick smile, always.

Today, he showed me a typed document that he is taking to a court appointment on Tuesday, an attempt to get his permanent work visa. He is hoping to be granted official 'refugee' status by the U.S. government, so the document explains his life story. This man who is always smiling has suffered more than I most likely ever will. He was born in one country but left due to religious persecution and lived in a neighboring host country for 37 years, where he raised all his seven children. He eventually tried to go back to his country of origin, but again suffered extreme religious persecution and had three of his sons conscripted to that nation's army. He left again to the neighboring country, the same one who hosted him for those 37 years.

In the middle of the night, soldiers from his country of origin knocked on his door, demanding to know where his sons were. He tried to explain that they were already in the army, but the soldiers wouldn't believe him, taking him to jail where he was interrogated and tortured for days.

Due to the torture, he was eventually sent to a hospital where a friend helped him escape. This friend housed him secretly for several years, letting him work at his auto repair shop. He was eventually granted a one-year visa to the U.S. in 2006 where he came to live with one of his daughters. The rest of his children are still in Africa.

He doesn't want to go back home, even though most of his family is there. He simply wants to work as much as he can to help his family. He is an elderly man. Many people in the western world are looking forward to this time of life to finally take it easy, buy an RV and go on cruises. This man simply wants the freedom to work legally so he can send money to his children. The New York Times had an article this week about this very issue, which you can read by clicking here (this man is not Somali, but some of the issues are similar).

In theory, I go to this class to help these people learn English so that they can function independently in American culture. Many people have said this before and in much more eloquent ways, but I am getting so much more from knowing them than they are getting from me. After reading the man's court document a few times to get the facts straight, I handed it back to him, thanked him, then placed the palms of my hands together in a symbol of prayer and lifted my hands and eyes upward. He smiled, nodded, and said 'thank you'. If you are the praying kind, could you do the same? I'll be seeing him again on Tuesday, and I'd be so happy to let him know that he had others saying a prayer for him.

Shay's Okay...whew.

Internet Down

Last night I was really tired after putting Abe to bed and emotionally spent after seeing Shae go home on Biggest Loser (seriously, she makes me cry, and I am genuinely worried about her after last night's show because there was no "look at me now" segment about her, only Daniel...anyone have any info on that sweet Shae lady who had 200+ pounds to go? I just keep hoping there was no segment on her because they're waiting for the big reveal at the finale). I sat down at the computer to throw together a blog post at 11:30 and found that our internet was down.

So that's my excuse for missing yesterday. It wasn't my fault.

Someone on another blog (can't remember who) asked for comments about what she should write about. I'm not exactly running out of ideas, but I am curious if anyone has an opinion about topics I should cover during this month of daily posts (when the internet is working). Um, but asking that feels a little narcissistic, like I'm assuming that anyone gives a flying flip what I have to say because really, like my mom told me on the phone yesterday, her so-and-so friend from work "follows closely the pictures on your blog."

Yep, it's all about pictures of Abe for most people.

On that note, because I give the people what they want, a very short video taken by Staci on Halloween:

And if you feel like leaving a comment with an idea for a topic, please do.

Revolving Door

Some of the best parents we know, a couple in Los Angeles, can attribute the well-roundedness of their children to the parade of guests that come through their home. This couple (and family) is one of the most hospitable I've ever met. Their kids are used to having all kinds of people around and have learned how to relate and converse with most anyone.

The first time I went to their house, when Ted and I were engaged, their 8-year-old son came running, jumping up into Ted's arms, looking him in the face and shouting, "I can't believe it! I can't believe it!"

Ted looked at the small ape hanging on him and asked, "What can't you believe?"

"You're here! You're really here!"

Yeah, they're pretty over-the-top hospitable. We want our kids to be comfortable around most anyone. So we're happy that this fall, we've had a revolving door of guests that started with my dad, then a college friend of Ted's, then our friend Staci who was here during Halloween, and now one of my old students from my years teaching in Slovakia whose Austrian boyfriend is arriving tomorrow.

Abe is shy for all of five minutes but is quickly trying to rummage through their suitcases while asking them, "What are you doing now?" every 30 seconds.

I was searching for a decent picture of my student, but the only one I could find in our photo library is this one:
This was at her stuzkova (sort of like prom, but just a lot fancier and way more formal and much fewer drunken binges and DUIs). She's in the black skirt, on the right, the one with the most beautiful red hair you've ever seen. I took this in December of '06, the last time I was in Slovakia, which is much too long in my opinion. Having her here is making me miss it.

It's been really fun today to trade gossip on our old school while drinking wine (hey, she's 22 now, so it's alright). It's always a little bittersweet to see these sweet students growing up, making lives of their own.

I'm just so lucky that they still sometimes want to hang out with me. And they bring me fancy European chocolate too. Whole bagfulls of it. Like I said, I'm really lucky.

The One Where I Gush about Where the Wild Things Are

I never read Where the Wild Things Are as a kid. I was familiar with the art and the Wild Things but had never read the book from start to finish until I checked it out from the library with Abe several months ago. After our first reading of it, Abe looked me square in the eye and said, "read it again, Mom." So we did. Three more times in one sitting.

I cried the first time I saw the trailer for the movie and was pretty excited to see Spike Jonze attached to it. Also, the kid who plays Max is a Portland resident, also named Max. I loved the music they used for the trailer. I waited a few days to see the movie because I'm one of those people who gets annoyed in crowded theaters. Since Abe joined our family, I've gone a couple of times to see movies by myself at a local theater in our neighborhood. I go about a week after the release date, in the middle of the day so I don't have to share the theater with too many people. Otherwise, I'm distracted by the popcorn smacking (disgusting) and end up really grouchy and just wanting to leave.

Anyway. One day a couple of weeks ago when Ted was home, I went during Abe's naptime to see Where the Wild Things Are, all by myself. Ten minutes into the movie, I was already tearing up. The acting is incredible. Of course, Catherine Keener is lovely in anything she does, so we already knew that, but this Max Records kid is incredible. Just incredible. He had never acted before this film. There were so many subtle moments, so many tiny details that made Wild Thing Max very real, like any kid and every kid you've ever known.

Spike Jonze and Max Records

The term "feast for the eyes" is a cliche, so I'm sorry to be using it, but I have to. I can't think of a better way to describe the land of the Wild Things. I'm sure I had my mouth hanging open most of the time. A couple of reviewers complained about how slow the film was at times, that Spike Jonze's indulgence of showing you his love for this world slowed down the pace of the film. Well, fine by me. I love that world too and was content being there as long as Max was.

Though the bulk of the story takes place in the fantastical imagination of a boy, I was struck by the realism and truth presented in the film. I cried off and on through the whole thing partly because of how beautiful it is but also because of how truthful it is. Of course, you've probably heard by now that each Wild Thing is an aspect of Max's personality, that he's working through the problems in his real life by projecting onto these made-up characters. I can see that, but honestly, I wasn't thinking about that while watching the film. Each Wild Thing was distinct, each one so human, with all of our selfish instincts towards self-preservation, but also with wonder, imagination, insecurities and beautiful selflessness. The Wild Things are as complex as human beings are.

A reviewer for The Oregonian gave Where the Wild Things Are a basically good review but added that, much like the Wild Things themselves, it seemed to be written mostly for adults who never wanted to grow up. I don't like his insinuation that this is a bad thing. When I read that line, I felt a little pang of recognition in my chest because another reason why I was so moved by the film was the feeling it gave me of remembering so vividly my own childhood. Was that the only reason I loved the film so much? Because I don't want to be a grown-up and long to sail off to an island where I build forts with made-up creatures?
Hm. I'm not sure about that one. Some days I definitely feel that way. But it then struck me that probably the main reason I was so emotional during the film was because my introduction and full immersion in to the world Maurice Sendak created in his book only came because of my very own Wild Thing living in our house. My love for this story is completely tied up in my love for my son. Abe loves it, so I love it.

One of the best parents I know, a man my parents' age, became my friend while I was in graduate school and made an offhanded comment one day that will always stay with me. He decided against his usual french roast at the coffeeshop where I worked, going instead that day for a chai tea because, "Ben and Ali like these, so I figure they must be good." This may not seem like a big deal, but this man was a creature of habit, nearly always ordering the same thing. But he choose differently this day because he wanted to like the things his kids liked because he loved his kids and thought they hung the moon. I tear up thinking about it even now. I want to be a parent like this.

Where the Wild Things will be forever connected to my love for my son. Abe liked it, so I knew it must be good. His love for this story became my love for this story, and Spike Jonze did a damn fine job showing us this world on film.

Beka's Shower

Every baby shower needs booze and a copy of The Three-Martini Playdate, right?
Three reasons I love living in Oregon: I get to share it with these people.

Apparently, I didn't get the black/grey outfit motif, ruining yet another photo.

For some good, thought-provoking reading, go look at the comments in my last post. Ted even read through all of them and made the point that those are some good parents writing in. Love the well-mannered pirate story. Thank you all for all your thoughts. So much to think about.

What Battles Do You Fight?

One of my best friends from high school is now the mom to three kids, one more on the way. She is a very good mother. I mean, stellar. Totally stellar. She made the very good point one day that even though some people may consider her to be too strict, she never ever has trouble finding a babysitter. Her kids are lovely to be around, even the stronger-willed ones. Her kids are simply very happy. She's doing something right.

I sometimes call her with parenting questions, and we end up talking for a couple of hours at a time. I love her, love her, love her. She is also a straight talker, sometimes pretty blunt. One of my favorite quotes of hers is something like this, "I don't get people who say that you have to choose your battles with your kids. Honey, I fight every single one with mine, always to win." As any good Southern woman, she speaks in hyperbole, so you know, she's exaggerating a little. Maybe.

Since becoming a parent, I've thought a lot about what battles are worth fighting with my child and which are okay to let go, if any. The pastor of the church I grew up in had an extremely strong willed daughter who fought them on everything. One of the battles they chose not to fight with her was the battle over what she would wear every day. So every day, she got to pick out her own clothes, even as a 3-year-old. It was entertaining to see what she'd show up to church wearing on Sundays, but her parents' allowing her this area of freedom stuck with me. I thought it was wonderful. Because really, as long as your kids aren't naked or cold, what does it matter what they're wearing?

We definitely have chosen a few battles to fight with Abe. But I want to hear from you: what battles do you fight with your kids? More accurately, which battles are you most determined to win? Why?

Ted made the very good point that talking about parenting styles is akin to discussing religion or politics. Potential touchy subject. It's partially why I didn't disclose which battles we fight with our child; too much chance of sounding pious or like I'm trying to make someone with differing styles feel guilty. So feel free to leave anonymous comments if you want your identity hidden.