Sparkly Garb

The Q train emerged from the East River into the bright morning. The sun’s vibrant rays caused me to squint and revel in the heat beating through the train’s window landing on my face. Still sleepy and a bit unfamiliar of my whereabouts, I looked above to the list of upcoming stops on the yellow line. This was my first time on the Queens-bound train heading towards the up and coming neighborhood of Astoria. Whenever I thought of Queens I pictured my family and I picking up my grandma from her quaint apartment and settling down to a nice kosher meal of over-stuffed tuna sandwiches on rye and half sour pickles (the best kind, of course). Our favorite restaurant was Ben’s in the nearby shopping plaza. However, this time I was not traveling with my family; instead I was venturing into the unknown by myself.

As soon as I had signed up to volunteer at the Center for the Integration and Advancement of New Americans (CIANA) in Astoria, I became very intrigued to learn more about its location and the experience of attending a meeting there.

Used to the almost-always claustrophobic subway rides deep under New York City’s bustling streets and flowing rivers, it was refreshing to appear aboveground in the royal borough, leaving Manhattan behind. Following an eye-opening, humbling, and rewarding experience the previous week of tutoring English at the Arab American Family Support Center (AAFSC), I decided to opt for a different refugee center, but with the same task of tutoring English. Though I thoroughly enjoyed working with yet another Darfuri refugee, I wanted to discover the other populations that have chosen to call New York their temporary or permanent home.

“30^th Avenue” flashed on the scrolling screen inside the subway car. As I looked around again at the passengers, I noticed the train seemed to be relatively new as opposed to the 2 or 3 trains whose grime and graffiti do nothing to hide their old age. I checked my phone, 9:55, it read. On time as usual.

I jumped off the train and onto the platform raised high above the city streets. Down the stairs and onto the sidewalk I went. “If that way is North,” I thought to myself, “then I need to cross the street and head over there.” Phew, found the office with no problems.

As I rang the doorbell to enter the building, I was anxious to finally get inside and meet both employees and immigrants who frequented the organization.

“Hi, I’m here for the English class,” I explained to the woman whose eyes landed on mine.

“Oh, Okay. Did you see Jessica?” she responded

“No. I don’t think so.”

“She has red hair. You can’t miss her. She’s down the stairs to the r—Actually, wait, I’ll bring you there.”

The kind woman led me down the stairway to a large room where a few other people were standing in a small circle listening to a redhead, presumably Jessica.

“Hi, I’m Jessica,” said the ginger, extending her hand for me to shake. I was right.

“Marissa. Nice to meet you.”

“You too. I’m just explaining how things work around here. It’s your first time?”

“Yep, first time,” I agreed.

Jessica continued her spiel of the services available to new immigrants and of a rough breakdown of the populations who most often take advantage of them.

“…and so Rachel will be the teacher today,” she finished.

A barricade separated the room in two, one half empty aside from an easel and a small couch, the other holding three tables, a handful of chairs, and a large whiteboard.

Rachel took her place at the front of the room as three other volunteers and I chose seats at the various tables. There was only one student when the class began, a middle-aged-man with tan skin and a thick accent. I couldn’t quite place where he was from, but I was confident it wasn’t Darfur.

The young teacher, most likely still in college, began the lesson of both past and future. Her technique was almost nonexistent as she jumped back and forth asking questions and providing personal examples to portray the tenses.  Two women and one young man found their way to their seats at the same table as the only other student, leaving the four volunteers to sit student-less amongst themselves.

“What did you last week?” Rachel asked the older male student.

Confused, the man laughed nervously and looked to one of the women covered completely in sparkly garb and a hijab concealing her dark hair. She spoke loudly in a language I had never heard before. Fairly confident he had finally understood the teacher’s question, the man proudly answered, “I went to the store.” Nicely done.

After a few more minutes of unclear direction, each volunteer was paired up with one student. I was first assigned to work with the older gentleman, but was quickly redirected to the Muslim woman. Men worked with men, women worked with women.

I sat down next to the mysterious woman, eager to find out what her story was.

“So where are you from?” I started. Typical opening question.

“I am from Bangladesh.”

“Oh wow,” I said, curiosity already overtaking me. “And where do you live now?”

“In the Bronx.”

“OK, interesting. Do you have children?”

“Yes, I have 6 children.” The older woman stated.

This conversation was supposed to continue for a full hour? How was I going to keep it going? At least English is my first language so I feel completely comfortable in it, but come on, lady, give me something!

About half-way through our one-sided questioning, desperate for some new ideas, I boldly asked, “Do you have any questions for me?”

“No,” she responded, smiling.

Great.

So what did I learn about this woman: She is married to a chef, but her cooking is better. One of her daughters is pretty rebellious, refuses to do her homework, and is only interested in her cell phone. She likes going to the Bronx Zoo. She moved to the US about 7 years ago. Let’s remember that about 40% of all words get lost in translation during these practice discussions, but we did have a lovely time together.

Towards the end of the session, we joined a conversation with another volunteer and an Egyptian woman sitting at the same table as us. The Egyptian was dressed in modern clothing, far from the traditional wear of my partner. I was so intrigued by her dress code and of course wanted to learn all about her story, but time ran out.

I said good-bye to the students and the other volunteers and made my way outside to the sunny street. As I was leaving, I noticed one of the other volunteers was walking in the same direction as me.

“Hey, so, was that your first time there?” I asked the guy.

“Me? Oh, yeah. First and last unfortunately.” He had an accent. Where was this guy from?

“Really? Why’s that?”

“Well, I’m only here for another few days.”

“Oh, are you traveling?” I asked.

“Yeah. Next is Miami and then on to California.”

“That sounds nice. I’m sure you’ll love it. Where are you from?”

“South Africa.”

“Cool,” I said. “I’m taking the Q back into Manhattan.”

“Me too. I think. Yeah, that’s right.”

We boarded the train together where our conversation continued as we dipped back under the city and arrived to 59^th Street where I had to make a connection.

The South African guy had been transferred to his company’s New York office for 3 months, which ended a week before he decided to volunteer at the immigrant center. He explained how he had never volunteered before and was more or less baffled by those choosing to work for free.

“I honestly admire the work everyone does there.” He said.

“Isn’t it amazing?” I gawked.

I’m fairly certain he won’t be spending his free time trying to fix the world, but at least he dove into something he wasn’t familiar with. We parted ways and wished each other well as I made my way back to reality.

Mohammed

A shy 20-something with glasses studied his work as I, with the other volunteers, entered the bright classroom. I took a seat next to the young man and quickly introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Marissa.”

 “I’m Mohammed. Nice to meet you.”

Sitting on the table in front of him were two worksheets talking about winter, the clothes you wear, the sports you play, and even the animals that hibernate.

“How about we start with the vocabulary?” I suggested.

“OK, yes, thank you. That’s great.”

As we worked our way through coats, skis, frost, and bears, Mohammed’s laugh became contagious. His upbeat personality and willingness to learn made the hour-long English conversation session a pleasure.

“Where are you from?” I asked. Considering we’d spent a whole ten minutes together, I figured it would be all right to ask. Plus, from my experience working with Africans, most of them are too polite to not answer anyway.

“I am from Sudan,” Mohammed responded.

“Really?” I exclaimed. “I spent nine months working closely with men from Darfur last year in Israel.”

“I am from Darfur!” Mohammed said, a large grin overtaking his studious face. Forget blizzards and flurries, I wanted to find out more.

Having lived through years of war, genocide, rape, and murder, Mohammed left his home in the western section of Sudan, Darfur, and made his way to his country’s capital, Khartoum. There he spent a few years working with his uncle until he had saved enough money to escape war-torn Sudan and made his way to Cairo. Thousands, if not millions, of Sudanese have left their homes since the gingaweed (the northern army) began terrorizing its own countrymen in 2003. Racial cleansing became the army’s goal, wiping out entire villages of their Muslim brothers in Darfur. While both populations share the same religion—as opposed to those in Southern Sudan of a different religion and different conflict—racial differences and clashes constituted the main problems of the genocide. Several years after living in Cairo, Mohammed left for the Big Apple. What a change.

Since arriving in the States, he has settled down in Brooklyn and has successfully found work as a cab driver.

“Cab driver? What did you do back home?” I asked.

“Diesel, you know?” Mohammed inquired.

“Yes, diesel.”

“Well,” he started, “I used to fix diesel trucks. The parts and things.”

“Oh, very interesting.” I responded. Man, he must be bored driving a taxi around all day if he’s a guy who likes to work with his hands. But hey, he’s got a job. And he’s alive.

We moved onto spring as I attempted (key word: attempted) to explain sprouts, buds, and blossoms through my 3^rd-grade-level drawings. Sure these words are relative to the beautiful season, but how many times do you use the word bud in your daily life? Probably not enough to have it on a vocab list. But I digress.

As we continued our seasonal conversation with almost no mistakes, we both started to feel more comfortable.

“Your English is really good,” I stated. If there’s anything I’ve learned while studying a foreign language, it’s that compliments go a long way.

“Really? No, I need to study more,” Mohammed answered shyly, too polite to relish in the much-deserved praise.

“Do you watch a lot of TV, Mohammed?” I asked.

“Sometimes yes. But I listen to the radio all the time. I need to know traffic when I’m driving. You know, if there is traffic I go a different way.”

“Like 1010 WINS?”

“Yes, 1010!”

Thanks, Mom, for always putting on 1010 AM while driving into NYC for as long as I can remember. You allowed me to share this awesome moment with Mohammed, the Darfuri cab driver, who I met in the AAFSC on a windy day in March.

"Write About What You Know"

“Write about what you know.” So what do I know? I know that I like to tell stories. And I know that I like to explore the unknown. As far back as I can remember I’ve always loved to entertain, loved to get a chuckle out of my audience, loved to relay what I believed to be important information. “Hey, did you know that…?” “Have you heard yet…?” Maybe the majority of the time people don’t care what I have to share, but I still have this unexplainable urge that can’t be stopped. YOU MUST KNOW! One of my favorite topics over the years is the people I’ve met along the way.

I’m not talking about my friends or my family, but instead the strangers I’ve met at home and otherwise.

Last year I spent 9 months volunteering, studying, traveling, and enjoying living abroad in Tel Aviv, Israel. I left New York behind in hopes of being exposed to new cultures, new languages, new experiences. I found all of that and more. I had the great fortune of meeting so many diverse men, women, and children who inspired me to create this blog. It is these people that have opened my eyes to a bigger world.

Following my volunteer experience, I have resettled in New York City and have continued to quench my thirst of all things foreign. The Big Apple is by far one of the most eclectic cities in the country, if not the world. The diversity is unparalleled.

During summer 2008 I studied in Jerusalem, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, for almost 2 months. Upon my return to NY, I distinctly remember riding the subway to Brooklyn from Manhattan and realizing how comfortable I felt surrounded by so many different colors, religions, and ethnicities. I know how easy it is to take things for granted as an American, but it wasn’t until that subway ride did I realize just how lucky I was to live in such a mixed country. 

Have you ever heard an accent and tried to place it? Wondered where someone comes from just from his/her distinct look? Dared to ask if someone speaks a certain language? No? Well I have and do all the time. You may be wondering if it’s appropriate for me to pry into other people’s lives and pasts, but rest assured, I (almost) never overstep the boundaries. It’s important to read the person you’re conversing with before diving into family history, but even if I get a little exchange going on I’ll go for it. Ever heard that expression “Give an inch, take a mile?” Hi, I am the epitome of that.

As the blog takes shape and beings to evolve, I’m sure there will be different topics I’ll want to include. Right now I’m already thinking of the power of language. I have always been intrigued with languages, dead and alive, and have studied a bunch from the Middle East to the romances to the Far East. Communication is another luxury that we so often take for granted. To show you what I mean, take a look at an anecdote from my blog last year during my time volunteering at the African Refugee Development Center in Tel Aviv:

“When I arrived to the ARDC office on Sunday afternoon, I met another foreign volunteer with whom I will be working. Upon arrival to the center, I noticed there were a few people in the waiting area, and I was quickly informed that we needed to register one of the women who was visiting the ARDC for the first time. So one woman from America, one from Australia, and one from Africa met in a small room in South Tel Aviv.

“We immediately learned that this woman spoke no English or Hebrew (or French or Spanish or Mandarin) and therefore we had no way to communicate with her except through miming and drawing some pictures. It’s funny how this happens, but you can’t help it: Whenever it’s impossible to communicate with someone in your own language, instead of just not talking, you end up talking extremely slowly like that’s going to help. Totally did that and no, it didn’t really work. But we were able to fill out some information on this woman’s folder. Although she said that she was from Sudan, “Eritea” was written on her temporary visa. Also, she was definitely reading information in Tigrinya (the most commonly spoken language in Eritrea) and now Arabic (that spoken in Sudan). We were able to understand that she was six months pregnant, though, and completely alone in Israel. She couldn’t have been older than thirty years old. There was no way to communicate why she was here and with that, we started to collect the necessary items everyone receives when first registering at the ARDC.”

Comments, concerns, suggestions, questions, etc. are all encouraged. Visit often and enjoy!