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.