In case I ever forget these images or moments, let me tell you about Burma--not the military regime, or the refugee camps, or the strange experience I had across the border two summers ago. Let me tell you about Burma in Harrisburg and the refugee family that just came to my community.
It is so cold, I cannot feel my fingers--but all I can think about is their fingers and toes and heads and shoulders. The van door opens. A father, weary with travel, wrinkles his brow in confusion as the airport van driver starts unloading bags and babies. I am holding one and he is screaming--from the wind? my strangeness? hunger? not enough sleep? I am trying to get a coat on a little boy, but he won’t receive me. Instantly, I am a foreigner in my own place. Thank God for my dear friend Myint Mu who can interpret and help me. “He say ‘where am I? where we go?” once we are back in my car. Nyi Nyi, her youngest son is playing with my hair as I carefully pull away from the terminal. I’m wondering the same thing.
Now I am standing in the apartment I have nearly lived in this week. I spent most of my time preparing for this family of eight in moving dressers and beds and sweeping and dusting and scrubbing and praying. Even still, the gas stove won’t work and the electrician stripped the baseboards, creating several hazards for the babies. There are more babies than I thought--the screaming one I held I thought was the infant, but no: he is the three year old with down syndrome and perhaps polio and he cannot walk. He cried all day, poor thing. I cried a little bit for him later on my quiet drive back home. For now, though, it is time to orient the family--this is how you turn on the lights. At least five pairs of bewildered eyes watch my hand flip the switch up and the corresponding bulb instantly glow. I repeat it several times--wonder of wonders, it seems. Running water, climbing stairs, wide eyes, confusion. A stocked food pantry, cans and cans of unidentifiable foods--do Burmese people even eat beans? Rice, seven sacks to be precise. I’m suddenly very thankful for food. So is a daughter who opens the refrigerator and discovers juice. I feel an unwarranted wave of emotion--I want to hug her for noticing the juice. Everything is fantastic and strange and I am more aware of everything as they study it, bewildered, exhausted, and hungry.
Now I am in my car with faithful Myint Mu, father, and oldest daughter--it is time to bring prepared food from the anchor’s home to theirs--it is time to eat. I weave carefully through midday traffic. The reunion is beautiful; I can only stand like an awkward foreigner in the door as family receives family. I can only imagine what they are saying--maybe they are expressing gladness and talking about travels and health. Maybe someone’s taller; maybe someone’s put on a little weight. The mystery makes it more beautiful, I think, and I forget myself again. I pick up a pot of rice and return with food, family, and smiles to the apartment. In my absence, the toilet has broken, the house is mayhem--there are maybe fifty people there. Word spreads quickly in the Burmese community about a new arrival, I quickly deduce. My hand is extended and shaken; I cannot remember what my role is or why I’m here at all. Joseph, the Burmese caseworker, smiles at me and instructs me. Thank God, too, for Joseph.
As I meet with Joseph in a separate room, I can see the family in the kitchen eating ravenously. I wonder when they ate last, but I need to think about social security because they have ten days to get it, reminds Joseph. The infant fits perfectly in the bright yellow fleece one-sy I bought at Salvation Army yesterday, but right now we need to talk about getting TB tests and all of the family members in for health exams. They are Muslim; I can tell because of the beautiful hijabs the women are wearing. I wonder where the closest halal market is; Myint Mu will know.
The father is sick and sways back and forth in the backseat of my car on the way to the landlord’s office to sign the lease. I wish I had a plastic bag to offer him. It’s time to call UGI before it closes--we need to turn the gas on for the stove. I am on hold for twenty minutes as Joseph sits between the landlord and the father, discussing all of the important parts of the contract. I am watching the father and listening to awful waiting music. He will vomit; I know he will. Myint Mu alerts me that he is dizzy and can’t see straight--now is not the best time to sign a contract, this much I know. I can’t remember the rest of these moments, but the lease was never signed.
Can you speak Thai? says a Burmese boy who is maybe my age, but probably older. Chay dte nitnoy, kha, I respond naturally. Yes, but a little. I am in the anchor family’s home again and am checking on the father. He is still very dizzy, but I’m pretty confident that after a night of sleep and a bowl of rice, he’ll be feeling a little better about freezing Harrisburg and a new life in the United States. Then again, maybe not, but these thoughts, too, are interrupted--who are you? Where do you come from? Did you live in Thailand? Have you travelled in Burma? How old are you? As I’m asked these questions interpreted through Myint Mu and the Burmese boy who asked me the first question, I answer as quickly as I can, wishing I could disappear and not be the center of attention. I am once again back in Thailand, frustrated by the color of my skin that will always separate me from them. They can’t understand this strange white girl who wants to stand in the corner of this over-crowded one room apartment, enjoying babies and the smell of the deep-fried curried something. “Are you married?” Myint Mu asks. “No,” I said and the room roars. Again, I’d like to disappear. I don’t know why it’s funny or laughable, but it is. On the bright side, at least it’s funny and not shameful or disappointing to others in this culture. “You are single lady; you are strong” Myint Mu says to me, maybe noticing my discomfort. Thanks.
