In this past Thursday’s class, Kiya handed out a survey that focused on religion and faith practices. The first question asked “How often do you volunteer?” with “1” being “Not often” and “7” being “Very Often.” I circled a 6 because of my past work, but since last week, I feel like a -1. Jimmy and I are not able to visit the R’s any longer and I have decided to focus our efforts on the grandparents. Unfortunately, we cannot do this either because Grandpa is currently in the hospital after being hit by a car, poor man.

But let me back up.

The day after I was asked to leave, I felt pretty terrible. I knew that Jimmy was very, very angry—which was fine, of course—but I was miserable because I felt like I let not only the the family down, but also Jimmy, Dr. Amick, the class, my family, and myself down. I mean, c’mon, I was basically fired from a volunteer position. I felt pretty pathetic. Also, I started to feel a bit sick during class, but I knew I had to stick around to tell my professor about the R’s. Dr. Amick is almost always surrounded by a crowd of eager students after class so I tried to give him the short-version of what had happened (Jimmy wasn’t there because he had pulled an all-nighter for an exam). I don’t think he really understood what was going on, because Dr. Amick had said that we ought to contact the ECAC to get the kids a tutor for each day. But I started feeling sicker, so I just decided to email him and Jimmy later and left for home. The feeling “sick” turned out to be sicker, and after a 3:00am visit to the hospital, I found out that I had contracted gastroenteritis—and the doctors believe that I most likely got it from the R’s, sadly. There are a couple ways to get gastroenteritis and all of them are, to be honest, pretty gross. If you really want to know, Google it. But just know that I was out of commission from that Tuesday morning until late Saturday and pretty miserable.

After a frantic phone call from Jimmy on Friday evening, I decided to go through my previously ignored email where I was greeted with a rather large conversation between Dr. Amick, Sarah at the ECAC, and Jimmy. Sarah told us that the R’s denied everything. I was in absolute shock. They had told her that the R’s had definitely not given me an ultimatum, that they would “like” us to visit five days a week between three and six in the evening, that us arriving between 8 and 9pm is too late, and that we are taking too much food by demanding dinner every visit. All of this is a lie. During the week I had moved from shame to embarrassment and now shock with a tinge of anger. Why did they say this about us? Why did they lie? Of course they issued an ultimatum—both Jimmy and I were told of it separately by two different family members. Even the children were there to witness it. Also, we never arrive even close to 8pm and always leave a little before or at 9pm…the children aren’t even ready for bed by that time. Jimmy said that last year, everyone stayed up late watching Bollywood movies or YouTube videos anyway. Furthermore, we never require food (and after that week, I honestly don’t think I can have anymore for awhile…), the parents always stop us from tutoring and make us sit and eat, usually piling on second and third helpings.

As I hadn’t been online in a few days, the conversation seemed pretty resolved, but I wanted to send Sarah my version of events anyway. It was decided that Jimmy and I would start tutoring the grandparents. We knew for a fact that they enjoy us and the company we bring, as well as have a desire to learn English. Plus, we may get to see the children again if they come to visit (!).

I had a lot of time to think last week…and some of it worried me. I am, in no possible way, looking for pity or have the desire to come off like I keep harping about being sick, but I was alone for a large portion of the time and I feel the need to say this. I am currently in the process of applying for the Peace Corps and I leapt at the chance to take this class as a way to prepare myself for the Corps. I know I still really want to work for the Peace Corps, but I got very scared last week. I was basically bedridden except for my frequent trips to the bathroom. Academically, I was supposed to have quite a busy week and on top of that, my best friend from home was flying in for the weekend for her first trip to Chicago. I had many mini-breakdowns and I hate admitting that. I hate it, hate it, hate it. It took me a long time to decide if I want to write about this…I don’t like admitting, let alone voicing, how weak I can be. The biggest thought that haunted me day and night is that this will happen again. It is sure to, no matter where I go with the Corps. And I’m scared that I won’t be strong enough, mentally, to work through it. I KNOW this sounds incredibly melodramatic and I sincerely apologize, but I think if any of the readers have experienced gastroenteritis or a version of it, they will understand. Now, don’t misunderstand me and think I’m talking about me perhaps suffering from a psychotic break in the future, I just mean that this was most assuredly a test…probably from God. For a long time, I thought I failed. It wasn’t until Christen (my visitor) and I discussed it did I realize that I still want to work for the Corps. I cannot envision myself doing anything else, in fact. And I think I can hold onto that.

This past Monday, Jimmy informed me that he was visiting the R’s to “cut the cord.” I was not invited to go with him because he said that he had gotten the feeling that it would be “dangerous” for me to re-visit them. I really don’t think this was true and I was a little upset because I had intended to at least give the children the stack of Christmas presents I had for them, but I understand his reasoning. Besides, I was trying to catch up on homework at the time and the thought of being made to eat again didn’t exactly make my stomach leap with joy. Anyway, Jimmy called me afterward and reported being shocked at the treatment he was given. The R’s were extremely kind and Jimmy even saw K (the father who we’ve had the most trouble with). K was gracious and happy—quite the opposite version that Sarah had worried us about. My partner was told that the family is looking for tutors that can rotate enough for the children to get their babysitter/tutor for each weekday. But what was most intriguing was that Jimmy was invited back “anytime.” He could even bring me back, too, for a visit and a meal. Jimmy was very excited to tell me about this, but I believe this was an example of what Dr. Amick had warned us about—they may not know how to (or want to) say “no.” Regardless, we will not be visiting the R’s apartment complex again but we still hope to see the kids at the grandparents’.

Once I returned to class, I learned of Grandpa’s accident. He was hit by a car just after they moved into their new condo. He is still in the hospital with a twisted arm, a broken shoulder, a broken leg, and quite a scratched up face—I just learned the details today. Jimmy and I hope to visit him soon. I’m not sure of the politics of St. Francis Hospital, but I hope we can get in. He is such a kind, sweet man, my heart goes out to him and Grandma.

Now that two weeks have passed since the incident, I have gained some perspective. I still sometimes feel embarrassingly useless when I go to class or read our blog, but I hope that as soon as Thanksgiving passes, we will be able to visit the grandparents. I do not take the R’s actions personally any longer, I know readjustment to a new country is difficult and stresses can manifest in many ways. I wish the family the very, very best and I pray that the children will get great tutelage. I do not regret anything and I cannot wait to help the grandparents out in any way I can.

Besides the festivals there are more permanent and readily available remnants of Nepali/Bhutanese culture in my adopted family’s life. I think of these things as artifacts from times past, but can actually be thought of as living relics. The most important artifacts may be their traditional clothes, icons (I like to use murtis, the Hindu word for images of gods, because they aren’t exactly Icons, and idols has a negative connotation in the Western World) of their gods (such as Shiva, Parvati, Maha Devi, Ganesha, and Hunuman among others), or the many pictures of their remaining family in Nepal. The clothes are something the average Nepali tucks away and saves for special occasion. Only the grandparents and women wear Nepali clothes (but with American beanies in the cold). The rest wear old American clothes. The Nepali clothes consist of ornate Saris and lungees for the women and a Topi hat for men, which resemble a Nehru cap. I was fortunate enough to be given one of these hats by Laximi after one festival. I thought he had given it to me for the ceremony only, but he insisted I took it. I was honored, as he only had two of them. The grandmother and other older women who visit wear large amounts of gold jewelry especially as large earrings and bangles. Most women have a jewel set in gold stud in their nose. The icons of the gods remain hidden away in the back of bedroom closets which serve a second function as mini shrines, but the pictures they proudly have framed all over their shabby apartment walls. These pictures they will often point to and smile. They point to groups of children in refugee camps and smile. A place of entrapment immortalized in a picture ushers forth happy memories. It was not the place, but the people. The lives they had echo in the faces of loved ones now scattered across the globe, or waiting patiently in the camps so under equipped to provide support. They even have extra shoeboxes and albums that they will pull out. They are proud of their family roots and will happily mill through English words and fumble along trying to explain the life they lost to you in simple terms.

After many months I have made the general transition into their society, into the family. Over a span of time I came from being Jimmy Sir, to Jimmy Teacher, to Jimmy Uncle, which can be broken down into simply Jimmy or Uncle, and sometimes Ammaji which means (respected Uncle). I have also lost a brave soldier along the way. My partner Nick Guerrero has left due to getting a job, so now it is just me visiting the Nepalis. So it’s just me, which makes things harder, but now all the attention is on me. This can be good and bad I guess.

The kids are no longer distant but will readily come to my lap and do homework or read a story book. Always after homework we play little games as well. This is usually followed by a Nepali movie or some more coloring, and if I have enough energy… more games.

Over time the family has really become fond of me, and they have even called me once to wish me “Good luck on exam Jimmy Uncle”. It is a gesture I appreciate, even if it was a 6:30 in the morning… It’s also interesting to note how much Nepalese value education. Beyond visiting every other day, I now go everyday so I can do homework, and be fed dinner. If I don’t show up on time I get a phone call asking where I am. Also, attending festivals and activities with the family has also been a great bonder. Lots of things have changed in the relationship.

For example, a little while after I had started teaching the two kids, Anish got a little shy and would only read his story books for a little bit. While Uncle Binod found out that he was doing less work than he used to, he said the following to Anish: “You listen to Jimmy Uncle. He is your teacher. He comes here because he cares about you and about our family’s well being. He is here for you! When Jimmy Uncle tells you to do something to do something, you do it. Your teacher is your God. Look over there (points to their family shrine containing Shiva, Parvati, and Ganesh) Do you see them? Your teacher is a higher God than them. Listen to him. Look at him (points to me). What is he?” Anish replies sheepishly in a broken whimper, “My God and teacher” I awkwardly smiled and nodded my head. I had after all, never been a God before. It seems because of my teaching I have transcended Maya and am now among the Devas. Nevertheless, after that lecture Anish picked up and has been a stellar student.

Everyone plays Uno. It is a fact of life. If you by chance have not played Uno, you have been deprived. I suggest, no urge you go buy a pack and submerse yourself in that multicolored deck of cards. With the simplicity of the game it can be a good de-stresser. Something you can do with six year olds and eighty year olds alike. Everyone can have a good laugh while doing it.

I played Uno as a child with my family, but also at many a swim-meet. Between races, there would be long interludes of time that passed. We could not leave the team area, we had to save our energy, and if we had to leave suddenly for a race, our replacement needed to readily pick up where we left off. What game fulfilled all of these criteria, Uno of course. Later on towards the end of High School at St. Xavier, I went on a mission trip to a reservation in South Dakota to teach Bible camp to little kids. At night we played Uno among the several high school buddies and our two chaperones, Miss Lora Robinson who I affectionately call Mama and Mr. Gerry Becker, who I called Ger-Bear during the trip. This brought all of us diverse kids together, the bookworms/nerds, swimmers, jocks, the popular kids, and everything in-between. We bonded over Uno. Reversing, Random color cards, Skipping, Pick Four. Everything resulted in laughter. A simple game created community.

Two summers later I would be playing Uno again, this time not in a Mission house on the Great Plains of North America with young high school guys, but a very different place. High in the Himalayas straddling Tibet and India, I sat in a Tibetan café drinking Tibetan butter tea and watching clouds gently roll up the mountains from the valleys into our little mountain town, becoming a mist that engulfed everything. All the while I sat playing Uno with my fellow Hindi students, Kristen and Jason, and a friendly Tibetan porter. Kristen and Jason recalled tales of playing Uno with friends in places they had been. Kristen had played with her friends while living in New Zealand and Nepal, and Jason during his studies in Sri Lanka and Nepal.

I did not have any stories to share of playing in those countries, but I had played Uno with Nepalis. The first time I played with the Rajals, it had been quite the time. While I played a game of Uno with the children (to teach colors and numbers in English while having fun and establishing trust) I was asked many questions, especially about my origin. The aunts and uncles were obsessed with knowing my origin and roots. My answer of being an American from Cincinnati, Ohio was not sufficient enough for them.

They not only wanted to know ‘my’ country of origin, Germany, but also the state it was in, which is Bavaria, and the city Baden-Baden, which was a very fun word for them to say. At first I was confused, but I realized these were people with roots. They were American, or were on the road to it, but they would always look back to the mother country of Bhutan. Perhaps they were applying the same for me and trying to figure of what country was like Bhutan to me, which makes complete sense coming from their perspective.

They also wanted to know how many languages I spoke. When I said I obviously knew English, had a working knowledge of Spanish, was learning Hindi/Urdu, and knew some words in German, they automatically concluded and insisted that I ‘knew’ four languages and kept lauding me with praise. Then with a large smile, Khina added that Nepali would be my fifth language. After each round of Uno we would clap for the winner and start a new game. It was very exciting for them since they had never played a game like that before.

A lot of the time the kids would throw down cards that did not fit, like a red five over a blue two. It was hard at first, because their English was non existent at that point, but through lots of hand gestures and translation from their Aunt Khina, who is about my age, they began to get it. Apparently there is a game similar to Uno in Bhutan, but the smaller kids had not played in the camps in Nepal, but I forget the name of the game. Whether atop a mountain, on a Great Plain, or in a tenement in Chicago… Whether with a seven year old or seventy year old, Uno brings out the human in us. We laugh, we play, and we share stories. We share ourselves. Uno, the ties that bond.

Baitika is a festival celebrated throughout India, but is especially valued in Nepal. The ceremony consists of the younger brother or sister of an old brother blessing the older brother on the forehead with the tika, the red dot many people confuse with a Bindi. Now what exactly is a tika? Good Question! A tika is a lot of mushed rice, red kum kum powder, and a little bit of kurd/Nepali yogurt. With all of this mixed together, you get a sticky substance to slap on another’s forehead to bless them. Surrounding all of the central blessing there are rites recited by a priest and a huge feast follows. In my case it consisted of lamb cutlet soaked in a chili powder paste spread amongst a bead of white rice followed by large fried doughy rings of a special kind of roti, called cel roti. Just watching grandma Bhagi make the roti is exciting. She will dip her right hand into a large bowl of paste, swirl it around, and whip it into a frying pan full of oil. Its so simple, and yet powerful to watch her do it. To top it all off had gooey sweet cheese balls soaked overnight in a milk and sugar syrup/paste called rus gullah. Yum.

Many people have crowded into the apartment, not the R’s on the fifth floor, but Bhagi and Laxmi’s on the fourth floor. The grandparent’s apartment is no bigger than the R’s or D’s upstairs, but because of the respect the grandparents have in the community, and their status, their apartment seems to be ‘the hub’. Visitors always seem to be coming by, and today the little apartment was crammed with teenagers and younger Nepali children waiting to bless and be blessed. It was very exciting for me to see this, at was my first real experience of a Nepali ritual outside of daily practices. Binod, the son of Bhagi and Laxmi, and also Uncle of Anish and Anisha by way of being Dambar (the mom)’s brother, was also there. His English being the best of any in the room, began to explain different parts of the ritual to me, and how it strengthens family bonds.

I watched as corn sheaths were placed behind ears, the tikas were put on brother’s heads, and holy mala beads gently adorned like garlands. It was sacred, but personal and fun. Anisha put a tika on Anish’s nose as a little joke and both of the kids had a jolly little laugh. It was a heart warming sight.

A year and a half ago I headed to the now defunct and crumbling Damen’s 6^th floor to hear a talk about refugees. I had been advised to go the first week of school by a board member of HSO (Hindu Student Organization) during the first club meeting I attended. I figured I could get involved some more by going to this meeting about refugees which was being held by LRO (Loyola University Refugee Outreach). I walked up the escalator alone and held Things Fall Apart in my hand, which I was going to read if I was a few minutes early. I was such an eager freshman. It was my first time in Damen since I had no classes, and all the bulletin boards full of flyers of a thousand shades surrounded me, beckoning me to get involved, but I had a goal and was slowly gliding toward it up those creaky escalators.

As it turns out I was a little early and I sat on a chair outside the classroom and attempted to read the book, but could not concentrate on the words in front of me as my head filled with the possibilities of what was to come, if I could help a refugee family, and other things of the sort swirled about my head in a dizzying concoction. Suddenly the door opened and the few other people standing around sheepishly walked inside.

I walked into the room and was met by Dr. Amick who proceeded to divide the room into pairs. He was wearing a shirt with fish on it, and seemed like a nice guy. The pairing continued, and I was beginning to worry because I didn’t know anyone in the room. Luckily my friend Nick arrived and we were paired up. When Dr. Amick took us to the back of the room for our briefing, we were asked what kind of family we would like to have. Our options were Iraqi, Bhutanese/Nepali, and Burmese. Nick wasn’t sure what he wanted, but I had my eye on the prize. I responded that I would like to have an ethnic Nepali Bhutanese family. The way I figured would be that the family would be Hindu, as the bulk of many Nepalis are. I was also hoping that the family would know a little Hindi, which is widely understood among Nepalis although their national language is Nepali (both are written in the same script however, Devanagari/देवनागरी). I consider Nepali and Hindi to Spanish and Italian. Learning one could help the other. Being an Asian languages minor, it was an exciting prospect.

I am also a Theology-Religious Studies major and my primary focus is on Hinduism, so I figured it would be a great way to learn about Hinduism and Hindi, the language of many Hindus as well by getting hands experience by helping people, which is my civic duty as well as a religious one, being Roman Catholic.

We were eventually assigned to the R1 family, and after some contacts with the director of ECAC (Ethiopian Community Association of Chicago), Alexandra Hill Nick and I set off to meet them. They live about several blocks south of campus on Winthrop, so it takes about ten minutes to get to. Nick and I were told to get the family some welcoming gifts to show them that we were friends. So, we got the kids some Uno cards (easy way to introduce English colors and numbers), candy, and a card that said we were friends and listed our numbers so that they could reach us whenever they needed us.

The first thing we did was ring the buzzer for their room and wait and wait. We waited for about ten minutes, and figured we had the wrong room number written down because there was no response. Just as we were about to leave a woman walked into the main apartment door in a black sari and grey hooded sweatshirt holding two children’s hands with smiles on their faces and book bags on their backs. We stood between them and the door and asked as nicely as we could if they were the R1 family. The kids giggled and the mom looked at us with puzzled faces. “R1?” the woman said as she strained her neck and looked at us still with puzzled faces. Nick and I shook our heads and said we were there for the family. She still looked confused but let us upstairs with her and quickly got her husband, Krishna, who speaks broken English to translate for us. In our discussion we told him that we were from Loyola University Chicago and that we were there to help his family adjust to American life. We also told him we would stay from 3-5.

We rose five flights of stairs to the top of the building being battered by the smell of stale urine and old food in the dimly lit yellow and brown hallways. When they opened the door to their apartment, room 501, I was relieved at the smell of fresh air coming from the windows.

Immediately I was told to sit on a humble sofa and was served a minty chai and within minutes was offered deep red and tart pomegranate arils from a platter. Over the course of several minutes several aunts and uncles from the three apartments the family collectively inhabited in the complex swarmed the room to get a look and interact with the new outsider that had just entered their little world. The kids sat opposite me and looked at me like a novelty item from a strange land.

Eventually two of my Indian friends, Nehal and Darshan, showed up because I figured they could help bridge the cultural divide. While India and Nepal are by no means the same, the religion is, and I figured it might be a nice gesture. We all played Uno, other card games, ate candy, and helped the kids with homework for several hours. Through that time I learned that Anish was the older brother, at eight years old and that Anisha was the younger sister at six years of age. The candy had lulled them in and the Uno cards kept them close so I could establish a relationship and build trust, all with a smile on my face.

Eventually my Indian friends had to leave and Nick had to catch a train. So I was left with the family. Over time the grandpa, Laxmi, from downstairs and two aunts named Khina and Devi came to visit. As far as I know they had never had a white friend before, so I must have been a curiosity to them. For a long time I taught them words, but eventually it was time for dinner. I insisted that I had to go, but they insisted back that I stay and join them for dinner.

I sat down with the kids and was served a Nepali feast of long grained basmati rice, lentils/daal, pickled lemons, potatoes and cauliflower (aloo gobi), a side of mint chutney, and a spicy sauce coated in chili powder that blanketed it all. After the first monumental helping I sat back and relaxed, trying to let my stomach expand. However, I was brought back from my food coma with the sound of a large plop on my plate. Dambar had dropped a steaming lump of rice on my plate and was now heading over with the vegetable mixture. I looked at her politely, smiled, and said, “I’m full, no thank you.” She smiled back and laughed, “Food goot!” While attempting the word good, she left me with a second round of good food. I ate again, this time more slowly. However when I was finished, I got another round of food. Luckily after round three I was done. It was delicious food, but I felt like a blimp.

The dad also offered me a coke, which is his favorite drink. Krishna also offered me a coke, which I politely turned down but in retrospect I wish I hadn’t because in their house coke is saved only for the dad so it was a great honor to be bestowed a coke. Its funny how being a family with no money makes coke something special compared to your average blue collar family where coke is just a typical drink everyone can have. Water is better anyways, and it saved them some money.

After the dinner I was about to take my leave and the entire family that had been dispersed throughout their three apartments came back to see me off. Before I left the family asked when I could return, and I said they could just call whenever they needed me, but that I was also a student and sometimes I would not be available. I left that night shaking the father’s hand, giving the mom a hug, and waving to the kids because they were still a little shy. I had wanted to leave at five, and it was now close to nine thirty, and I had been there since three. Time flies when you are having fun. I left the apartment building and began my fifteen minute walk back to Simpson, my freshman dorm, which was only a few blocks down the same street. On my walk back I reflected on the day, and began to think of the new path of was treading.

Fast forward a month or two and you have the kids crawling into ‘Jimmy Uncle’s’ lap to read a story book. I play with the kids every day and their English is improving greatly. I really feel as if I am a part of their family because if I try to leave before dinner they get really sad. The family even invited me to a festival, called Bhaitika Tihar, which was a lot of fun… More on that next time.

In the 1980s the government of Bhutan engaged in genocide and forced deportation of the many ethnic Nepalese living in the Western part of their country. The confiscation of lands, rape, burning of property, and wholesale murder drove the ethnic Nepalese into seven makeshift holding camps on the Eastern border of Nepal. During decades of international debate and indecision in the UN, the people languished in ramshackle refugee camps in Eastern Nepal. These camps had no running water or electricity. Homes were little more than shanties made of bamboo and the roads were dirt paths. Crime was an issue in these overcrowded population centers and the schooling was so deficient that most incoming refugees of college age and beyond need to get an American GED before any further education is possible. An entire generation, including the children I teach, grew up knowing nothing of the greater world besides those camps. Finally in the last few years the U.N brokered a deal that sent thousands of refugees to Sweden, Germany, Australia, India, and America. America has agreed to take in and naturalize sixty thousand refugees and they have been trickling in since early 2008. These blogs will be an attempt to portray their story of living in America. This is a story of a shattered people forging a life out of ashes. With each blog, a new patch will be given to a quilt of knowledge, it may seem haphazard at times, but by the end it will look beautiful.

Nepali society seems moderately closed to the general American public at this point in time. There is still a large language and cultural barrier that has yet to be bridged. However I think that over time they will eventually assimilate, just as other immigrant groups have. The Germans were once a vast community in America that was looked upon as ‘different’ by the general WASP population because of their different language, religion, and customs. However over time it is hard to tell an American of German or English descent apart at first glance or in a casual conversation. I think after the Nepalese have grasped English and are able to be educated efficiently they can move up the social ladder and become a normal part of American society.

In the meantime they are a recent immigrant group that is still adjusting to America. It took several generations of Irish and Germans to become fully integrated and open up their communities from being just ethnic neighborhoods or ghettos, and I expect the same for the Nepali community. Being from Cincinnati, I can say I know about ethnic ghettos. For many years, the Germans remained clustered in Over-the Rhine downtown. There were German libraries, German street names, beergartens, and all German churches both Lutheran and Catholic that had German, not English, inscribed into its sacred stone. If that strong a community will assimilate, any will.

For now they (Nepali) are clustered in small family oriented groups, but eventually they will be able to spread out and really acculturate when they no longer have to rely solely on the family because of language and cultural barriers. This is largely due to the fact there is no established Nepali community. These people are the forerunners and are establishing Nepali culture in America.

On that note the families may decided not to split up and seek their own fortunes, because the Nepalese have told me that their culture is less individualistic as American culture and their respect for the elderly is drastically different than our views on older people. While many elderly Americans eventually end up in nursing homes, assisted living, or have some alternative form of assistance, the Nepalese treat their elderly every differently.

Nepalese take care of their own parents and grandparents their entire life from what I have gathered. One of the Uncles I talked to told me that the grandparents Bhagi and Laximi only agreed to come to America if their children promised not to leave them once they had reached success in the new country, which of course the children promised. Now they find themselves as a family fighting not to save their lives as they had in the old country, but to forge better lives for themselves and their progeny in future generations by hard work and advancement through education. This is where I come into the fold.

This blog has been a long time in the coming; a year and a half to be exact. I have been working with the Rajal and Khatiwada family (names have been changed for privacy) for over a year and a half now. I have only been apart from them during school breaks and over my summer program in India, but even then they called and talked to me, which is very special considering every penny for them is important, and they were more than ready to spend some money on long distance calls.
Before I dive into my experiences with the Rajals, I should address some other things to give the reader some background information, a good prerequisite before beginning a new story alien to you. Why would a college student waste five to six hours a day on complete strangers? That is/was a question asked by many people I have known. Before answering, we first have to consider the question- Why would a college student waste five to six hours a day on complete strangers? Look closely at this question. There is a flaw. Notice the word waste. The one asking the question finds that I am wasting my time with the Rajal family. I reply: Is giving a kids future by teaching them English a waste of time? Is being a surrogate uncle a waste of time? Is showing newcomers to our country a waste of time? Is my learning of Bhutanese/Nepali culture a waste of time? Being a friend is never a waste of time, if it were; our society would collapse faster than you can say citu citu (quickly in Nepali). I made some sacrifices to do this, like not getting a job, or being in as many clubs; however I am confident in the choice I made. Working with this family last year opened my eyes to many things, and made me who I am today.