ArchArk 1701

2/5 This is what I remember from my first day as a math tutor for adult Somali refugees:
That day, I tried to explain how to round numbers to a young Somali man and a cute old Somali grandpa with a dyed orange beard. Rounding comes automatically to me, but explaining this to Somali refugees with limited English skills was incredibly hard. I tried hand motions; I tried pictures; I tried learning some Somali numbers, none of which I remember now. I probably looked like I had no idea what I was doing because the grandpa chuckled and said, “You understand?�, meaning he doubted my intelligence. Humbly, I admit that I am not smart, but I contend that I surely understand how to round numbers. In the end, it was unsuccessful, but I had a kick out of hanging out with this strange pair, trying to learn Somali numbers while they laughed at my attempts to do so.

2/14 I fractured my arm for the first time at Tae-Kwon Do Club two days earlier, and yet I found myself at VOA on a Valentine’s Day night. Don’t pity me: it’s not like I had a boyfriend, anyway, so I wasn’t missing out on anything special.
I remember that the instant I walked into the math room, a swarm of Somali ladies flocked to me and asked if I was okay, using their orange-painted fingertips to point at my arm which was bound in a ridiculously large cast and uncomfortable sling. I felt flattered to be at the center of such attention. But that night, as I walked around the room, helping the adult students with multiplication problems, I noticed something: a lot of these Somali refugees bore scars. Some had deformed fingers that were fused or crushed. Some looked like they suffered burns sometime in their life. These were only the visible scars. I wondered how many more scars the Somali women concealed under their hejabs, how many scars the Somali men bore on their backs and legs. I wondered how many of them carried emotional scars. One Somali gentleman had trouble sitting still and kept on cutting me off every time I tried to explain how to multiply two-digit numbers with a one-digit number. Later, Musa, the math teacher, seeing how disappointed and confused I was, pulled me aside and told me that this student was constantly “worried� and “agitated.� This adult student probably had gone through very rough times during the war in Somalia. Whenever he came to class, he just needed to have pen paper in front of him to pretend to perform math problems as a means to calm his restless self.
That day I realized something: sure, I broke my arm, and it sucked, having to walk back home in the frigid cold and the snow-covered ground. Yet, in comparison to the adverse situations these Somali refugees faced in Somalia, my burdens were nothing. Yet, I was overwhelmed with the care and concern these adult students showed me who gave up their seats to let me sit whenever I helped them. The way they acted, it was as if my broken arm was the newest worst thing that happened in this chaotic world.
I went home at 9:00 p.m., took a shower with a plastic bag over the cumbersome cast and laid awake in bed with my fragile arm delicately balanced on pillows. Before I closed my eyes, I took a deep breath and emptied my mind of its complaints: no boyfriend, a broken arm, lousy weather, hard classes, a new zit, an organic chemistry test, a new blog prompt, stinky snow boots, etc . . . That night, I remember falling asleep, feeling very lucky.

 
2/19 I helped out a student (I no longer remember his name) today who was trying to understand long division; he was confused as to when to stop dividing. I was impressed with his eagerness to learn. I might have been explaining long division, but we got sidetracked. Somehow, improper fractions, multiplication, cancelling out ratios and some other math concept got mixed into our discussion. “Whenever I discuss a problem with Teacher, I think about new problems,� he said. I laughed, thinking how that is like me; back in high school, if I was reading a chapter in a science book, and there was a terminology that didn’t make sense to me, I couldn’t finish reading the chapter unless I completely understand the terminology.
In his VOA class, this Somali student shared a math book with seven other of his classmates. “There was a problem in the book that I didn’t know how to do . . .,� he said as I was about to go. He actually got up, crossed the room where the math book lay in his classmates lap, and flipped through it to hunt for the confusing problem. He couldn’t find the problem, yet it was as if he didn’t want me to leave his desk, wanted to think up new math problems to ask me to explain. I almost felt flattered, thinking about how much he regarded me as a resource of knowledge. As I helped him, I sort of took a step and observed the picture: here was a 30-some year old Somali man who probably had very little schooling in his life and was trying to grasp elementary school math. Here was someone with a passion for learning. I thought about how over my middle and high school years, after having to go through chemistry, physics and calculus, I lost the zest to learn, constantly cursing Adam for eating from the tree of knowledge. But this gentleman reminded me how lucky I was to pursue an academic career.
Oftentimes, I always attend classes with an unwilling heart, as if it is forced upon me. People have always told me that education is a blessing, and I have always found those nagging words to be annoying; however, working with the Somali gentleman crystallized the meaning of these words. I do have so much: working with this Somali refugee, I have realized how much I have, how much I can do, and how much ability I have to help others.

2/26 Apparently, I am to be in the VOA’s spring newsletter. I received the honor of being interviewed by a beautiful Somali lady named . . . well, maybe I shouldn’t reveal her name for privacy’s sake - let’s just call her Amy. It was her first time writing any kind of article. Apparently she’d never written an article before, even in Somali. This was probably one of the most interesting interviews: favorite color, favorite food, favorite subject, etc . . . were among the questions she asked. She really wanted to ask about dating, but seemed thoroughly disappointed when I told her that I was unfortunately single.
Our conversation somehow turned from me to her. Her story affected my emotions to the point that I couldn’t stop thinking about her life when I went to bed that night. Apparently, Amy is the second oldest, the oldest being her sister. In her tumultuous life, she went to class once, when she was about six or seven. Her sister got married shortly after, a dowry was paid, and Amy’s family needed Amy at home to complete chores and take care of the younger siblings, thus ending her transient academic career. When civil war struck, Amy and her family escaped to Kenya, where they lived happily. However, in the coming years, Kenya faced political problems as well, and the country no longer provided refuge for these Somali refugees. Somewhere in the midst conflict, Amy’s father and brother died. Writing this paragraph, I almost feel like I’m writing a fiction; these are the kinds of things that you read in books, not things that are supposed to happen in “real life�. Of course, I’ve seen read about such events in National Geographic, but for me, the stories have always stayed in the magazine, have never really translated into my head. I might read them in magazines, take pity on suffering people for about two minutes, and then call my best friend about how I hate the lettuce in my hamburger that I am currently eating. Even as I type this, I can’t stop thinking about my talk with Amy. Even now, I feel ashamed, thinking about the trivial things I complain about.
Apparently Amy is only one her family who came to the United States. When she got married, Amy told her mother over the phone, and her mother lamented on how she couldn’t meet her husband. I thought about how hard that must be, how worried a mother must be to not be able to ensure that her daughter, who is on the other side of the world, is surviving alright. It must be so difficult for a grandma to only be able to hear the babbling of her grandchildren over the phone, to have to imagine hugging her grandchildren instead of actually holding them in her arms.
With her limited English skills, Amy and I also talked about cultural differences. She expressed surprise at how ladies and men can hang out in such a carefree manner. Back in Somali, a woman was not supposed to be seen with a man unless she was married to him. She was even more surprised that non-married couples had babies. Amy has four children with her husband. “I hope my children don’t lose our culture,� she expressed. The United States may be seen as the land of the free, but finding refuge in this “free land� has its adverse challenges: as a Somali refugee, Amy has given up her culture and identity. Coming to the U.S., she has to start from square one, has to worry about financial resources, and has to worry about how to pay off bills with a low-pay job, if she can even find one with the little education she has.
Before going to volunteer that night, I had felt really stressed, thinking about the major lab test I had in biology the next day. Afterwards, while walking home, I knew my worries were trivial.

3/4 I nearly lost my patience. A Somali lady, who reminded me more of a shy teenage girl, was trying to divide with decimals. I wanted to demonstrate to her that however many places you move the decimal point for the divider is the number of places you move the decimal place of the dividend to the right. I don’t think she had any idea what I was saying. The event was quite frustrating. I was thinking about my stack of homework waiting for me in a formidable pile back in the dorm, and this lady wasn’t exactly helping alleviate my stress. I spent more than half an hour with this lady. To get the point across, instead of using words, I used pictures and numbers, really simplifying my vocabulary to the point that I was calling “decimal point� the way she was calling decimal points – “pointy.� I learned an obvious but important lesson that I somehow forgot: when explaining a concept, talk at the level of the listener.
It might have taken a long time, but the student finally understood. The instant she understood, it was like her face completely lit up. I think I know what teachers mean when they say that a student’s face “lights up in understanding.� I agree with teachers: it’s a fantastic moment.
On a side note, after volunteer work, as I was standing at the bus stop, I realized that I couldn’t recognize students’ faces with other African Americans or Muslims walking along the street; so although some students waved to me, I wasn’t exactly sure if I recognized them, so I was more reserved in my response. I feel like a failure: I can’t even recognize people I have worked with for over four weeks.
The second time Caucasian acquaintances meet me, they usually can’t distinguish me from other Chinese people, and I feel rather insulted. Now I know how it feels to be a Caucasian trying to identify an Asian. I will definitely pay more attention to details when working with these students.

3/11 Apparently, one of the students who attends VOA night class works as a dishwasher in my dorm. This gentleman, named Abdu, is amazing in that he knows that he can one day attend college. He’s asked me in the past if I could lend him some help studying for math outside of VOA night school, although I haven’t had time to tutor him.
I was just thinking, a Somali refugee’s life really isn’t easy at all. Refugees come to the United States for a new shot at life, yet living the American dream is another set of high hurdles. They come to the U.S. and feel the clash of the liberal American culture on their conservative Somali values; in the U.S., they are looked down upon for their little education; some held high jobs back in the day, but coming to the United States, they can only be on the janitorial staff performing menial tasks. Coming here and expecting success is difficult because most of these Somali refugees don’t have the education needed to hold decent jobs. It’s a brutal world.
Abdu working in the dishwashing room is such a sardonic image: everyday, he cleans off the half-eaten plates of wasteful and ungrateful college students who complain about such matters such as the texture of UDS pizza or the blandness of pasta. I wonder what he thinks when he cleans off these plates, knowing very well that his friends and relatives who were unable to leave Somali might very well be starving and suffering. Is he disgusted by our materialism and wastefulness? I would be. It’s almost as if life is taunting him.
Abdu is so brave to pursue his dream, to confidently believe that sometime in the future, after these dishwashing days, he will have had enough education to lead him to find a better job. With the amount of hard work that he’s putting in, every hardship he endures will be paid off. I’m rooting for him.

3/17 I tutored the only African American student in the whole class. It was his first day at VOA today. The teacher assigned worksheets to find the circumference and area of a circle, and he was quite nervous. “It’s my first day here. I never graduated from high school. I don’t know this stuff. It’s so hard.�
What I’m about to say is going to make me sound stupid and haughty, so please excuse me in advance: growing up immersed in Chinese-American culture, education is basically shoved upon you. It never really occurred to me that non-immigrants/non-refugees a.k.a born-in-the-United-States citizens would have such a dilemma as not graduating from high school. I guess that in the snooty private high school that I attended, drugs, alcohol and other uncomfortable subjects were never discussed; it was as if everyone wanted to be lawyers, businessmen or doctors. Everyone had their life mapped out.
Talking to this gentleman, I wondered how his life had passed for him to come to this point. I began thinking about my spring break trip in Denver, where I had spent one day at Urban Peak Outreach for Youth. Urban Peak is a refuge for runaway youth; some of these teens looked like they possibly came from troubled backgrounds while others . . . well, my parochial mind had difficulty understanding the need for them to find refuge in a shelter. For example, there was one clean-shaven youth who didn’t talk. I couldn’t tell if he was mute or if he was just unwilling to say anything. Yet, when I served him food that day, he had the sweetest smile I’d ever seen. Every time I passed him, he’d smile.
Coming to college has expanded my horizons in that I realize how lucky I am to have the education I’ve had and the family that, although constantly nags me, sincerely cares for my welfare. I came from a high school where classmates compared test scores, sought to be the best, and assigned a person’s value based on the last test score. It’s a crime I’m guilty of, but working with VOA has forced me into recognizing that I cannot judge a person based on their academic or social background; life and chance dole out happiness and disappointment in disproportionate shares. If God had created me seconds later, I could have been born in a war-torn and starving African nation.
By the end of the class period, the African-American gentleman had successfully finished the assigned circumference/area problems. In the future, I hope he keeps on coming, and I hope his confidence keeps on growing; I also hope that I can give him morale support with the little abilities and still-developing social skills that I have.

4/1 I did something really stupid. So there’s this lady who looks exactly like another Somali student whom I’ve tutored before. Let’s refer to her as Lady #1, since I can neither pronounce nor spell her name. Lady #1 has a really soft voice, a voice that makes her sound like she has phlegm in her throat. Trying to start a conversation, I said, “Oh, no. Are you sick today?� Lady #1 smiled and said in her broken English, “No, my voice like this always.� I was mortified and instantly felt the obligation to cover up my mistake. “Oh . . . I guess you just sound tired today. Are you tired?� I asked stupidly. “No, not tired,� Lady #1 replied as other Somali women chuckled. I felt like blushing. Gah. I hate myself. Talk about being socially awkward. The situation was like something that happened a couple weeks ago when a lady asked me, “Your face have allergies?� I had to resist the temptation to run away while I replied, “Actually . . . I just have really bad acne.�
In the case with Lady #1, I feel like I’ve committed a serious social blunder because Lady #1’s scratchy voice could have possibly been induced by some unfortunate event back in Somalia. I not only embarrassed her (and me!), but could have also possibly revived some buried memories that were meant to be buried. I need to be way more careful next time.

4/15 Only about a month left to go, and I feel like I will really miss these Somali students. The week before, VOA night class students had spring break. Instead of moaning about how short the break was like a typical college students, they seemed really excited to be back. In particular, the old Somali grandpa with the orange beard, the one whom I helped on my very first day, seemed so happy to see me. As he walked into the classroom, he shook my hand and said, “How are you, my daughter?� What a cutie-patootie. For the next forty-five minutes, he buttonholed me by making me three pages of his addition problems. I’m definitely going to miss this old guy.

4/29 I practically lost my patience today. I was trying to explain the difference between area and volume to a Somali lady named Amina (?). I asked her, “Do you understand?� She said yes . . . very hesitantly. Then I asked her to solve the practice problems, which was to find the volume of a rectangular pyramid. The equation is as follows: V = (1/3)Bh. So I asked her, “What’s the area of the base of this pyramid?� She kept on trying to multiply one side of the rectangle with the height of the pyramid to find the area of the base. Determined to make her understand the difference between the area of the base and how to find the volume of this pyramid, I did three examples with her, corrected her three times. By the fourth time, I was extremely frustrated to the point that I think I might have actually raised my voice. I started thinking about how professors must be irritated, knowing that their students nod their head as if understanding the course material when they really don’t.
As demeaning as my thoughts were, I was intensely determined to have Amina understand me, so I folded 3-D structures out of paper to demonstrate the meaning of “height� and “base.� Seven minutes later, she was able to distinguish between the height of the base verses the height of a pyramid and successfully find the volume of a rectangular and triangular pyramid. Watching her smile with understanding was unbelievably rewarding. In that brief moment, I understood why teachers would want to be teachers; teachers must find so much joy each time they know that they’ve advanced students’ minds by another level.
Afterwards, as she was about to go, Amina told me something that went like this: “I not understand most things . . . teachers look me and say ‘no, she don’t understand’ and go away.� I understand that volunteer organizations are often understaffed, so teachers might move on to other nimble-witted students who need help. However, thinking about how this 30-some year old lady, trying to learn elementary math but was being looked down upon, made me, a pseudo-teacher, feel very ashamed. I saw the little self-esteem in her, and I felt cruel, thinking back at how frustrated I was at her. I am no smarter, no different than her when I learn new material, but I have been blessed with patient teachers throughout my academic career.
I felt angry for her and for other immigrants and refugees who come to the United States and face such adversity, who get looked down upon because of their little education and because of their weak grasp on the English language. It reminded me of how my mother often gets teased by others, shamefully sometimes by me, for her poor English.
I’m glad I didn’t give up on Amina when she couldn’t understand my explanation for the third time. Her finally understand the concept made her so much more confident, knowing that she could do something right. It also flattered me to know that she believed that I could have faith in her intelligence; it also reminded me that even if you don’t understand or can’t communicate, persevere, and in the end, the link will be made.
Afterwards, Amina kept on saying, “Thank you, teacher; thank you, teacher.� I was amazed, and I wondered when I last thanked my teacher for helping me on a tough problem. I had always taken my education for granted. So . . . I’m honestly not trying to suck up, but seriously, as a humble student, thank you Ozaayr and Sarah, for teaching me this semester.