On Friday afternoon Molly and I went to visit our refugee family for the first time. Molly had just come straight from class and we were both worried we would be late. As we met at the L stop, rushed onto the train, rushed off the train, frantically found the address, and ran up the six flights of stairs, we both lost our breath. However, as we stood outside of the apartment door, we looked at each other and realized we were not out of breath because of the hurrying. We stood there for a moment fighting the adrenaline that kept our hearts racing. We knew we were about to begin something truly amazing. It was a chance to learn, grow, give, and share. As I knocked on the door we looked at each other and giggled. This was it.
At first the family seemed a bit confused. I asked them if the ECAC had told them we would be visiting today. After a few attempts at communicating my question their faces broke into smiles and they gestured for us to sit down. Luckily, a teenage boy who is related to the family had offered to visit with us that day. He introduced us to the whole family and helped us to understand everyone’s backgrounds. We went over names, ages, relationships, and how long each family member had been in the U.S. An awkward silence prompted me to pull out a deck of cards and offer that we play a game. They were enthusiastic to play with us- we spent over an hour teaching each other games. There is a strange sort of bonding that takes place when you teach and are willing to be taught. Molly and I learned a Nepali card game and we taught the boys how to play “go fish” and “BS”. Several times, we had to explain that there is only four of each type of card in a deck, but we all laughed every time. Inevitably, the boys had to correct us several times during their lesson about cards. It is this willingness to be wrong and to laugh at your mistakes that makes you most vulnerable- I truly believe that it is this vulnerability that makes you capable of friendship.
This brings me to my final anecdote. Molly and I returned only two days later (upon the request of the family) to teach English. After over two hours of working with the family on pronunciation and penmanship of the alphabet, as well as a few key phrases and new words, we began to carry on casual conversation with the more fluent family members. I was talking with the father of the group about activities we could do together, his upcoming ELL lessons, finding a job, and other topics. Somewhere along the way, I mentioned “my Nepali friends” (I visit another Nepali family once a week with another student from LRO). The father laughed at my statement and I shyly asked what was funny. He asked “Nepali friends?” and I replied “yes, another family I met when they first came to America”. Something must have clicked in his head, because he quickly stopped laughing and made eye contact with me. Until this point, he had been shyly looking around the room and had seemed indifferent to the conversation. However, he made sure to look me in the eye as he asked the question “are we friends?” I was touched by this man’s question and unsure of the response he wanted or expected, so I quickly decided it was best to be honest and replied “yes” with a smile. The man’s face broke into a large smile and laughter and he laughed out the words “ok, good. We’re friends”. That moment reminded me of how important relationships are in our lives. Even if I couldn’t give this man nice things, a great job, perfect English, or any of the other things he desperately needed, I could give him friendship. I was reminded that all of the awkward moments and frustrating language barriers are worth it. Our friendship is worth it.