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.