As I was driving home from Lynn today, I was listening to a program on the radio of an interview with a Eboo Patel (his blog, his organization), I was struck by his statements about American’s pluralism. He summarized his organization’s goal as one which builds an environment (or in his words, a “movement”) of “religious pluralism” by fostering respectful relationships whereby people from varying backgrounds can celebrate their commonalities and at the same time understand their differences. I think this is important and all, but this idea is nothing new to me.

What struck me was when he continued to flush out the aspects of such respectful relationships, noting that we discover and define ourselves when we meet others that are different. I was reminded of my own periods of the continual self-discovery while abroad, when my homestay father and his son would ask me questions like: “Why is it that in America, people move out the house when they turn 18?” and “What is important in America?” and “How on Earth do you Americans pay for college (opening up an interesting series of discussions on the notion of credit)?” My mind turned to one of the women that we met at the New Americans Center in Lynn. She was an immigrant (or perhaps a refugee) from Russia and as I looked around her office, I noticed artwork and trinkets which encapsulated the different aspects of her culture: a matryoshka doll and a menorah both on her bookshelf, an abstract drawing of a concentration camp, and another Jewish-themed drawing on the opposite wall. Marks of a Russian Jew. My mind jumped again to a dinner conversation with my girlfriend’s father about how his grandparents were “Old Country” Russians and how the only shoes they wore were black boots that laced all the way up above the ankle. I found myself there, in that woman’s office, in the same mental pickle that I found myself in while I was in Nicaragua talking to my host-family about my (American, Jewish, suburban, twenty-something, etc.) customs. Again, I was trying to answer the question: “Who am I?” in the context of “Where do I come from?”

What's in a Name?

As we went around the room today, learning names, I realized after labored attempts that I the only names I had remembered of the seven who were introducing themselves were the two, European-derived monikers which fit my European-derived mental framework. The other five African identifiers simply slipped in one ear and out the other without any chance of being learned. During my travels abroad, I had been able to fit new terms into an old system, appending my own European/American culture with items that were foreign, but still connected at least linguistically. Even the myriad of new medical terms finds its place in my mind in the Latin skeleton that I created from seventh to eleventh grade (five full years!) which itself rested upon that majority of English words which is connected phonetically to its Latin roots. I suppose that what they say about teaching an old dog new tricks applies to me.

Nonetheless, these newcomers, nearly all of whom must be awestruck by the mere industrialization of an American city, who must be struggling with the humbling nature of realizing that their old skills and wisdom are not easily transferable to our culture, and some of whom are (according to some readings we received and common sense to boot) battling post-traumatic stress disorders, are expected to do just that: learn new tricks. I mean, simply, that English has no common derivation with the languages that these refugees use to express themselves and insofar as the transformation of language parallels the transformation of cultures, neither does their culture relate to American culture (although this is somewhat of a less scientific comment). However, sympathy is about as far as anyone can go on the emotional scale for these new Americans; their timeline for assimilating is ambitious—4 months—and learning the language and the culture is only a means to the goal of becoming self-sufficient. In fact, I felt a sense of emergency, rather than pity, when considering the fact some of those with whom I spent time teaching how an “uncle” is related to his “niece” or how a “grandmother” is related to her “granddaughter” had already been in the country for a month, one fourth of the allotted time for finding a job and avoiding welfare.

There was one man who especially struck me and who was also especially having trouble learning his new tricks. I happened to glance at his résumé, which the IRC helps its clients to create, and saw that, prior to the eleven nine years that he spent in a refugee camp in Tanzania, he had been a farmer for 19 years. For nearly as long as I’ve been alive, this man had tilled fields, cultivated land, and harvested crops. He had lived the simple (romantic) life that many of this nation’s forefathers dreamed of fulfilling themselves. Then, in 1998, something had drawn him away from what he had likely been doing for a hefty majority of his life (I’m not sure how old he was) and brought him first to a refugee camp and then to 101 Tremont Street where he was trying to learn English. It was heart wrenching for me, especially because his identity as a farmer could serve no purpose in the urban or suburban landscape, short of learning how to mow a lawn or if he were lucky, start his own garden (which plants that would undoubtedly be foreign to him). He essentially had to start with a clean slate at some mid-life age. When trying to transpose this circumstance onto my own life, I am at a loss for how I would manage to retain, frankly, my own sanity.

Perhaps even easier to relate, but along the same vein, was a news report that I heard on the radio while running errands last week: Iraqi medical students relying their frustrations with having to interrupt their medical training because of the seemingly ceaseless war. One interviewed student said something to the effect of: “I entered medical school because I want to help people and now my country needs help, but I cannot be there because our schooling has stopped. I don’t even know how I can conclude my training so that I can fulfill my dream to help.” Stripping someone of their dreams is perhaps the most debilitating of malices, especially when that person is already on the path to achieving them. Again, I don’t know how I would manage similar circumstances in my life.

My goal for this clerkship is to understand how better to help immigrant and refugee populations that I may encounter in my professional career. While one component of that will certainly be having knowledge of support services and opportunities, I believe empathy and understanding is another.

My Mind Wandering About Genetics Before the Exam

Check these out:
http://www.or-live.com/

Also, typing "surgery" into the search function of Google Video dumps you into a myriad of keyholes into the world of a surgeon. It's pretty amazing that 1) we can perform procedures like laproscopy, brain surgery, and lazik 2) any Joe Shmoe, from the comfort of their home can watch these surgeries. Surgeons are becoming more and more like Roboticists in that it seems they work with their hands less and with their machines more.

I wonder about the future of medicine often with the speed of innovation pointing our society more and more to computers. I especially wonder what will happen in the coming decade as we further explore the human genome - its inner mechanics, its nuances, and its faults - and eventually learn to control it. I mean, what happens when Science discovers how to do away with useless body parts like the appendix, wisdom teeth, and other unneeded organs before the womb? Or when we decide that humans are better off with four arms and extra muscle? What about when we discover that DNA and protein complexes are not the more efficient way to store and transmit genetic information. I am very eager to see these discoveries take place but it begs the question: in what field should I investment myself now which will enable me to be involved in change - whether scientific, social, or governmental?