The Newcomers Page 7

  Silence.

  “Bridge,” prompted Mr. Williams. “Bridge. Can you say that word?”

  “Bridge,” Yonatan echoed carefully.

  “What do you see here?” Mr. Williams pointed to a stone building with what looked like a steeple.

  “Church,” Yonatan said immediately.

  “Church, yes, that is a church. Is it made from rocks?”

  Yonatan looked baffled.

  “Rocks—this material. Is it made from rocks?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is made from rocks, yes.”

  Mr. Williams turned back to the beginning of the book and read it aloud, enunciating each word carefully. (“These are rocks. Rocks are found everywhere. This is a path. It is made from rocks. This path is made from rocks, too. This is a wall. It is made from rocks.”) Then he had Yonatan read out loud with him, and after that he asked the student to read out loud by himself. The large crucifix that Yonatan wore swung forward when he leaned over the book. He looked frustrated, as if it was hard to tackle material so basic, when he was seventeen and in a hurry to start his new life. Yonatan stumbled over the unfamiliar words and mispronounced a few of them, but Mr. Williams never told him that he was saying things the wrong way; instead he simply repeated what Yonatan had just said, showing him the correct pronunciation. Then Yonatan would try again, and his English would be a little better. Finally, Mr. Williams leafed through the book, asking questions to gauge Yonatan’s comprehension. Mr. Williams asked what material had been used to make a path.

  “Rocks,” answered Yonatan.

  “Can you write that?”

  The question perplexed Yonatan. Mr. Williams pantomimed the act of writing, as he asked again, “Can you write that?”

  Yonatan did not appear to have anything with which he could write.

  “Do you want a pencil?”

  Yonatan did not seem to know what that was.

  “I have some pencils right here.” Mr. Williams got up to fetch one, and when he returned, he made sure to repeat the word again, asking, “Would you like this pencil?”

  Mr. Williams was curious to see if Yonatan could shape the letters of the Latin alphabet. Tigrinya is a Semitic language, and uses the Ge’ez script, which is an abugida, or a type of writing in which each symbol represents both a consonant and a vowel. Yonatan took the pencil, scribbled the word “rocks,” and handed what he had written to Mr. Williams, who nodded vigorously. Yonatan had produced the Latin alphabet easily. By this point, the hard expression on his face had begun to soften. Mr. Williams asked if he had any questions. There was one word Yonatan did not understand, and he reached across to point at it. The problematic word was “this.”

  Usually, Mr. Williams tried to illustrate the meaning of unknown words by pantomime or by a picture, but those tools were useless for an abstract concept such as “this.” Instead the teacher said “this” over and over while pointing to various objects—“this is a book, this is a chair, this is a table”—until Yonatan got the idea.

  Mr. Williams asked Yonatan to complete a handout with questions about the reading, and left to check on the other reading groups. Then he returned to look over Yonatan’s answers.

  “Good job, Yonatan!” Mr. Williams said. “Nice work today.”

  Yonatan tried to hand the pencil back, but Mr. Williams held up his hands.

  “You can have that pencil. You can have it.”

  Yonatan started to walk away, then turned around.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  * * *

  As I observed Mr. Williams read with Yonatan, I remembered that while listening to the radio in my car that morning, I had caught part of a news story about Donald Trump’s candidacy for president. “We need to build a wall,” Trump had said, in his iambic cadences. As Mr. Williams worked with Yonatan, I found myself thinking about how much I admired this teacher who lived to build bridges between people, even when the chasms dividing them were especially large. This was a fraught moment to arrive as a refugee in the United States, and I thought the political climate itself also affected what was taking place in the classroom. Xenophobia was not listed formally as a factor that inhibited learning among ELA students, but as the weeks slipped by and the cacophony of the presidential election ratcheted up, elevating all kinds of sentiments in the voting populace, including a virulent dislike of people from other countries, I came to think of the fear some people in my own country felt toward foreigners as an issue that itself inhibited the newcomers’ learning. They were acutely sensitive and could detect when they were misunderstood.

  Slowly, over time, I learned how much I did not know about them and how much they did not know about life in America. At the end of October, for example, shortly after the arrival of Ksanet, Yonatan, and Lisbeth, Mr. Williams had the students rearrange their seats by language groups. Then he asked them to take out their textbooks to begin going over a lesson about holidays celebrated in the United States. Halloween was four days away. The basic idea of Halloween was familiar to Lisbeth, Saúl, and Stephanie—who were sitting together at the table assigned to Spanish speakers—because Mexico and El Salvador have similar traditions. The holiday was largely unknown to the students from Africa, Asia, and the Middle East, however; a Muslim parent later told me that people at his mosque found Halloween especially befuddling, as they feared a holiday that celebrated black magic might constitute devil worship. Why would Americans worship spiders, skeletons, and ghouls?

  Mr. Williams asked his students to complete the following sentence:

  Halloween is a ______ that is ______ on October ______.

  Then he listed the words they could use to fill in the blanks:

  if

  the

  celebrated

  holiday

  31

  Friday

  This looked like a rudimentary exercise, but the newcomers had only just learned the English words for the days of the week and the months of the year, and it took them a little while to complete. After everybody had finished the sentence, the class went over other vocabulary words related to Halloween. Mr. Williams asked about “ghost” and “jack-o’-lantern.” Did they know other terms related to Halloween?

  “Una bruja!” Lisbeth called out happily.

  “A witch,” translated Mr. Williams. “Lisbeth, do they have haunted houses in El Salvador?”

  “Sí!”

  She had arrived less than a week ago, yet she was already answering questions. Mr. Williams could see that Lisbeth was going to light up his classroom. He didn’t mind that she had answered in Spanish—she had answered correctly, which meant that she had understood his query.

  “Mariam, do they have haunted houses in Iraq?”

  “No!” Mariam said, shaking her head. She looked slightly alarmed at the idea. Her braid was rumpled that day, as if she had slept on it.

  “Have you ever worn a costume for Halloween?”

  “No,” Mariam said wistfully.

  “Stand up if you have eaten a pumpkin,” suggested Mr. Williams.

  Grace stood up. She said that she had eaten pumpkin soup and pumpkin cake. Most of the room looked mystified about what exactly a pumpkin might be, so Mr. Williams paused to explain. Pumpkins grew in a garden; they were big, round, and orange; you could bake them in a pie. Mr. Williams showed the class a picture of a pumpkin.

  “Stand up if you have been to a haunted house,” said his aide, Mr. DeRose.

  Stephanie stood up immediately.

  “Casa de terror,” Saúl gallantly translated for Lisbeth.

  The three Spanish-speaking students understood the concept of a haunted house, but students who spoke Karen, Tigrinya, Kunama, Swahili, and Arabic seemed bewildered. Why would anybody want to make a house appear terrifying?

  Inside the U.S.A. focused on American culture, but Mr. Williams knew that for foreign-born students to grasp the meaning of the conversation, it would be helpful to discuss concepts with which they were already familiar, so he
broadened the topic. Could the students name other holidays they had celebrated in their home countries?

  “I like to celebrate Navidad,” said Saúl.

  “Okay,” said Mr. Williams. “And in English, that’s Christmas.”

  “Thanksgiving,” Stephanie said in English.

  “Great.”

  Mr. Williams turned to Mariam. “What are some of the holidays you celebrated in Iraq?”

  Mariam said nothing. It was not clear whether or not she followed his meaning.

  “Ramadan?” prompted Mr. DeRose.

  Silence.

  “Is that the most important holiday in Iraq?” asked Mr. Williams.

  Silence.

  Mariam knew it was her turn to speak, but she seemed uncertain what to say. Was this because it was hard for her to produce spoken English, or was the subject of religious holidays in Iraq more complicated than her teachers realized? It seemed as though there was a lot that Mariam wanted to share, although she could not verbalize any of it in English. Meanwhile, the teachers wanted an answer to what they saw as a simple query: Was Ramadan the most important holiday in Iraq?

  “Yes?” ventured Mariam, her tone making a question out of the answer.

  And it was true—most people living in Iraq would consider Ramadan a significant holiday. Mariam’s family had lost their place in Iraqi society after Muslim fanatics had turned on them, however, and during their time in exile, questions about how the girls would classify themselves and which religious holidays to mark had grown only more complex. In terms of understanding Mariam’s predicament, I was as blind as her teachers: I saw her sister’s hijab, and I thought, Muslim. But nothing was so simple, and my assumptions were causing me to misunderstand the girls entirely.

  5

  * * *

  Have You Seen War?

  At about nine o’clock one Saturday morning, I knocked on the door of the rented house on Wabash Street where I believed that Solomon and Methusella were living with their family. Nobody answered. The house had a weathered clapboard exterior painted tan, but not recently. The yard was filled with dried brown leaves flung over bare dirt, surrounded by a chain-link fence. The homes in the neighborhood were modest, and it had a significantly higher rate of crime than surrounding locations. I lived less than ten minutes away, but on the other side of Colfax Avenue, an economic dividing line in this part of the city.

  I knocked again, but it seemed nobody was home. I knocked a third time, more loudly, and suddenly the front door swung open. A small child stood before me, wearing a green silk party dress with sequins and a large bow. The dress was a little grubby.

  “Hello there,” I said to the girl. “Is this the house where Solomon and Methusella live?”

  “No!” the girl in the party dress said emphatically.

  The boys had written down the address for me in my notebook. I double-checked the number of the house. It was correct.

  “Solomon doesn’t live here?” I ventured again.

  “No!” said the child again. She spoke with confidence.

  “Okay, I’m sorry, maybe I am at the wrong house. Do you have a brother named Solomon?”

  “Solomon?” she said, brightening. “Oh, yes—Solomon is right here!”

  She pronounced her brother’s name with a British accent, so that it sounded quite different from the way I had been saying it. The girl’s name was Sifa (“praise” in Swahili), and she was Solomon’s sister. Soon a bevy of small children flocked around my knees. Two girls with bright yellow hair ribbons took me by the hand; one of them had on a sparkly purple tutu, while the other was naked. One of these girls was Solomon and Methusella’s sister Zawadi (Swahili for “gift”) while the other was their niece. A small boy ran around us in circles, wearing blue shorts and clutching a green T-shirt in his hands. This was their brother Ombeni (“prayer”). We passed by a bedroom. I glanced inside and saw two twin mattresses covered in plastic wrap, even though the mattresses were clearly being used, as comforters lay strewn about. The children forgot about me and swept into the living room, where they began dancing exuberantly to African gospel music videos playing at top volume on a large TV.

  In the kitchen, I found Solomon’s mother, busy at the stove. Beya was forty-five years old and had a beautiful face that she held completely still while I spoke in English. Her feet were bare and she wore an outfit that spoke of life in the African countryside: a floor-length skirt of multicolored cotton, a red T-shirt, and a green wool beanie perched on top of her head. Her hat said MARVEL AVENGERS on it and appeared to have been borrowed from one of the children.

  “Jambo,” I said in Swahili.

  At the sound of the familiar greeting, a quick flash of a lightning-swift smile lit up Beya’s features. She answered warmly, but I could not understand what she said. I gave her a pineapple and coffee cake that I had brought for the family. Solomon came down a flight of stairs and helped me explain the gifts. I thanked his mother for welcoming me to their home, and she said asante sana (thank you) for coming. Solomon and his mother conferred, and then Solomon told me that his mother was inviting me to sit down. When I sat at the kitchen table, one of the girls with yellow ribbons climbed into my lap, where she amused herself by gathering my hair into a ponytail over and over again. Ombeni pulled the green T-shirt over his head but did not put his arms through the sleeves. Solomon explained that his oldest brother, Gideon, was married and had three children of his own; Gideon and his family did not live in this house, but Beya was watching her grandchildren that day.

  Solomon and I were still sorting through the question of which children were his siblings and which were his nieces and nephews when Solomon’s father, Tchiza, entered the kitchen. He was a dignified man of fifty-two, wearing a navy collared shirt and navy trousers. He studied my face intently as he said hello. I felt as though I were looking at a much older Solomon—both their faces were dominated by the same high cheekbones, although Tchiza’s black hair included strands of gray, his face was lined, and his brown eyes were rimmed with pale blue.

  Almost immediately the doorbell rang, and we were joined by the interpreter I had hired. Julius was from Sudan, but he recognized Solomon’s father, because he had translated for the family at a recent visit to a medical clinic. The two men greeted each other warmly in Swahili. All of us sat down at the kitchen table, and Solomon’s mother brought over a tall plastic pitcher, which held some type of reddish-purple semiliquid substance. Julius exclaimed in happy recognition, and then explained to me that this was a Congolese version of porridge, made out of millet. Beya poured the porridge into coffee mugs and handed one to each of us; apparently, Congolese people drank their cereal. The porridge was hot and delicious, sweetened with sugar. It reminded me of oatmeal, although the consistency was more grainy.

  “Do you have this every day?” I asked Solomon.

  “Not every day!” he exclaimed in surprise. I understood this to mean his mother had made something special, because they had a visitor.

  When his mother handed a mug of porridge to his father, Tchiza said asante and gave his wife a look of loving regard. As she smiled back at him, I was struck by the couple’s obvious warmth.

  I told Tchiza that he should be proud of his sons. Solomon and Methusella were very good students. “They are learning very quickly,” I said.

  Tchiza asked Julius a question in Swahili.

  The interpreter told me that Tchiza wondered if I were their teacher.

  The misunderstanding surprised me. I had sent home a letter written in Swahili, and believed I had described myself plainly, but apparently that was not the case. I put aside my list of typed questions and instead tried to explain slowly and clearly who I was.

  “I am a visitor to the classroom,” I said. “I am a journalist, and I’ve been working on a book about their teacher and their classroom.”

  I explained that I was hoping to write about several families who had children at South in more detail, which was why I was here. I told Tc
hiza that the classroom served as a mirror of the global crisis, and that by telling the stories of various students, it would be possible to illustrate the crisis as a whole. I thought he could help me understand what was happening in the Congo, for example.

  Tchiza had some questions for me.

  “Are you writing this book because you are still in school? Is this something you are doing so that you can graduate?” he asked. “Or this is your hobby?”

  For me, writing was more than a hobby, I replied. I had been a professional journalist for more than twenty-five years and had written two other books. I gave Tchiza a copy of my first book that I had brought with me and explained that it was about undocumented students whose families had emigrated from Mexico. We talked about that subject for a while. I also told Tchiza a little bit about my own background and how that had sparked my interest in these subjects. My parents had been born in another country, and so had I—we had moved to the United States when I was one year old.

  “So are you telling me you were not born here?” Tchiza asked in Swahili.

  “I was not born here,” I confirmed.

  “Where were you born?” Tchiza asked.

  “My mother grew up on a farm in Ireland—” I began.

  “Ireland,” said Julius. “England. London.”

  I restrained myself from pointing out that Ireland and England are not at all the same thing.

  “Europe?” Tchiza asked.

  “Yes, Europe,” I said. “My mother and father both grew up in Ireland. They came here in 1965, and I was one year old. I have been living in this country for fifty years.”

  Julius translated all of this.

  “So it’s like you were born in this country, pretty much, because when you came here you were so little you didn’t understand anything else,” Tchiza said in Swahili.

  “Exactly,” I confirmed.

  Beya sat down at the table with us. I asked her if it was hard to find the ingredients to make Congolese food. Was it problematic for her to find familiar items, like the porridge we were eating?