I asked one of our hosts at our casa particular (homestay), and she recommended a market just south of the Capitolio. We set out on foot and walked through our neighborhood of Centro Habana and through El Barrio Chino. When we arrived at the market, it turned out that the resident money-changer was taking a break and nowhere to be seen.

We were distracted by all of the sights and sounds before we even entered the market. Since it was morning, the street was buzzing. Bici-taxis waited outside to cart people, others were making deliveries to the market, and locals were doing their daily shopping.

We entered the market and I loved all of the colors and displays. We saw several vegetables that we never ate on our entire trip and would later wonder who was buying them. I would venture to guess that some are unaffordable to the average Cuban, who makes a salary of only $15-25/month.

Upon exiting the market, we were greeted by bici-taxis. To our right, was a row of women making beautiful floral displays.

As we crossed the street, we heard a loud bang that sounded like a car backfiring and realized that a man’s bicycle tire had popped. I assume it is a common occurrence in Cuba, since almost no one can afford a car and many rely on bicycle to get around. Because, the next thing you know every man on the block is hooping, hollering, and laughing at this poor guy whose tire just blew, as if it were a celebration. He took it in jest and was sheepishly smiling as well. At least Cubans have a sense of humor!

Across the street, we watched as people used the public pay telephones (since, again, due to salary, many people do not have cell phones) and also saw a man whose job was to refill plastic Bic lighters.

Our morning at the market came to an end and we decided to head to a big cafeteria for lunch and to exchange money. Later, I would discover that my old client worked in this cafeteria… talk about the laughs he had upon seeing his old co-workers in our photos!

We woke up our second day in Havana, eager to explore! After a nice breakfast at our casa particular (homestay), we set out. We were staying in Centro Habana neighborhood (we stayed in Habana Vieja on our return visit) and really enjoyed the local feel of the neighborhood. There were very few tourists in Centro Habana, so our initial walk through our neighborhood was very much about observing locals setting out for the day. We watched as people made deliveries… someone would drop a bag tied to a rope from their third story balcony, and someone on the ground would fill it with bread or other deliveries. We passed butchers preparing meat for the day, parents hustling to get their kids to school on time, and others walking to work. It was sensory overload, trying to take in all of the buildings and cars, but also getting a glimpse of how life goes on in Cuba. While it may seem very normal from the outset, I tried to catch small glimpses at differences that are often disguised in Cuba. A facade that is presented to tourists is usual very different from the realities of how people actually live. I wanted to observe and absorb everything in site. The government propaganda was hard to miss. The crumbling buildings, the old cars, the macho men, the loud demeanor, the livelyness of it all- it was love at first sight.

We wandered from Centro Habana thru El Barrio Chino and on to Habana Vieja. We got our bearings and navigated the city pretty easily. We visited a friend of a friend’s family in Habana Vieja and continued our walk from there. On Obispo, a very popular tourist street, we ducked into this huge cafeteria. We ate there the following day but it was a very cool space filled with people coming and going. This past week, while sitting at work with one of my Cuban clients, he mentioned that he worked at a large cafeteria on Obispo. When my friend and I pulled up the photos of this place, he was so surprised he almost fell out of his chair. This was the very cafeteria he used to work in, and he was laughing with excitement to see photos including his former co-workers that he hadn’t seen in over a year. He messaged one of his buddies to tell him that he just saw a photo of him all the way in Portland. Small, small world.

After a walk through the neighborhoods  (more posts to come with more photos of Havana), we walked back to our neighborhood for lunch. We wanted to eat in a local paladar that was charging pesos (the local money) and not tourist prices of the CUC (foreigner currency). In Havana, nearly everyone leaves their doors and windows open, both day and evening. I was so surprised that in the capital city, people were not worried about it and we got a glimpse into many people’s homes. At one of the open doorways, we stopped to ask a local where to eat. She recommended a place just around the corner and for about $1 each we were served giant portions of typical food. Rice with black beans, yucca, meat, cucumbers, and sweet potatoes.

By then it was late afternoon, and we decided to round out the day by renting a convertible for an hour to go on a drive thru Havana. They line up by Parque Central and for about $25, it is an inexpensive way to see other parts of the city. My friend’s mom’s only request was that we didn’t get a pink car. And, we got a pink car! We negotiated with someone and before we knew it, he was walking us to a pink car :)

One of my favorite sites we passed was the US Embassy. I had seen past photos of Cuba flying 138 Cuban flags in front of the US Embassy, as well as flying black protest flags to hide an electronic ticker on the building that had US propaganda for democracy on it. Now that relations are getting better, they simply fly one Cuban flag in front… but the other flag poles remain.

We polished off our evening with really good pizza at a restaurant called Venami, near Floridita in Habana Vieja. Cubans eat a lot of pizza, but the quality highly varies (by the end of our trip, we were really sick of it). However, Venami’s pizzas were the best we had!

More to come on Havana, before exploring more cities and sights of Cuba!

Our flight took off a little late, but we arrived in Cuba around 4pm. I was armed with my passport, a tourist card which I had purchased in the Mexico City airport, and a carry-on with electronics for my clients’ family members. I was a little nervous about this but my clients had warned me that they screen all carry-on luggage so I came prepared with an excuse of everything I had on hand. I first got to passport control and they asked me if I wanted them to stamp my passport or not (however, they didn’t give my friend the option). I said, ‘Yes,’ as I think it’s irrelevant these days whether or not you go to Cuba and I had nothing to hide. I then had to get my luggage screened. The women working in the airport were all wearing tight, short, tan uniform mini-skirts with black lace tights. I shouldn’t have been surprised, knowing that Cubans often wear sexy attire, but I was surprised given that it was a government uniform. The beautiful young lady sitting behind the screening machine had to keep tugging at her skirt as to not expose herself- yes, the skirts were that short. My carry-on rolled through the x-ray machine and on the other side another woman was searching bags. She opened the woman’s bag in front of mine and pulled out a Wii game remote. She turned it over in her hands, inspected it carefully, then took it over to her co-worker (the one tugging at her skirt) and asked her what it was. Again, considering the lack of technology and modern amenities available in Cuba, it shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. The other young lady didn’t know what it was either, so she brought it back to the owner to ask. After explaining that it was a game remote, they let her go. Next, she asked me about something in my bag. Not understanding Spanish, I started to open my bag so I could find the possible item in question, but she just brushed it off and told me I could go. One of the few times when not knowing the language is a plus!

The luggage area was a bit chaotic. I found my bag on the conveyor almost immediately, but it took us a good half hour to find my friends’ bags. Both had been pulled off the conveyor and sitting among piles of other bags- however it’s a fairly small luggage area and quite crowded so we didn’t spot them right away. Otherwise, the airport was nice and the exit was easy. We stepped outside and got in line to exchange our Euros into CUC, the ‘tourist’ currency for Cuba (although not necessarily just for tourists these days, as it’s becoming a currency to distinguish a growing upper class as well… you see? Cuba is complicated to talk about! But later, we got national pesos as well).

We grabbed a taxi and headed into the city for our casa particular Lunass in Centro Habana. The first thing that hit me was, of course, the old cars! I’ve seen plenty of photos and I knew there were a lot of old cars still on the streets, but in Havana, there are SO many. It’s hard to imagine all of the old cars until you see them in person. I was glued to the window. As we got closer to the city center, it was sensory overload. I noticed the old buses jam packed full of people on their way home from work and recalled client stories about how you rarely get a seat on the bus and sometimes don’t even pay fare. The architecture was captivating- so beautiful, but crumbling away due to lack of infrastructure and funds. We arrived at the fourth-floor walkup apartment, complete with a lovely balcony, and knew the journey was just beginning. Some photos from our homestay:

Motivated by hunger, we showered quickly and stepped out in search of our first meal and our first mojito!

High off of nearly a month out of the office and exploring new and exciting (and warm!) lands, I’m so excited to share with you about my most recent travels. In December, I spent nearly two weeks in Cuba, followed by a few short days in Mexico City. From there, I headed back to South Carolina to meet my new niece and spend Christmas with the family. The entire trip was exhilarating, educational. eye-opening, and adventurous. Yes, right up my alley. I plan to blog about the places I visited in Cuba, transport, accommodation, internet and answer the questions I get asked most, like “Is it legal and/or easy to go to Cuba?” because things are changing in Cuba extremely quickly. For example, my guidebook said internet cost 6 CUC/hour and can only be found at certain hotels and government-run cafes, and the connection is slow. Starting just a few months ago, internet only cost 2 CUC/hour, wifi is accessible in most parks in Cuba, and the connection was good. It’s also expected to drop in price again in just a couple of months. If you’re headed to Cuba, guidebooks are helpful on where to go/what to see, but government policies are changing so rapidly, that you will find surprises with other information everywhere you look.

Cuba is one of the most surprising and unexpected destinations I visited. I loved it more than I thought I would. It helps that I already had somewhat of an understanding of government and culture in Cuba, since I have worked with Cuban political refugees for the past two years, however my Spanish language skills are next to none. Luckily, I traveled with my co-worker/friend who is fluent, and the experience was so much more enriching. I do hope to return to Cuba in the near future, but until then I will live off of the memories and the journey at hand.

If you decide to take a trip to Cuba, I would highly recommend some research into the history of this island nation. I don’t think you’ll visit any place in the world that is quite like it- from the political propaganda that is literally everywhere to walking some of the safest streets in the entire world to the flourishing Santeria religion that was brought over by slaves. Based on many discussions I had with taxi drivers, interactions with locals, and witnessing segregation of locals and foreigners in certain situations, I think the historical context is particularly helpful when traveling here. I have friends who have not enjoyed Cuba (and let’s face it- everyone has a different taste for what they like with travel!) but I also think the frustrations that people complain about are often out of the hands of locals. And the locals are really what make this feisty place so special. And one last thing to note- do not come to Cuba if you are searching for a destination with good food. I can’t even really say that the food is not good.. I have to say that it is quite terrible! Again, it’s a consequence of government policies, but just save your appetite and fly back home through Mexico City :)

More on Cuba (and Mexico City) to come!

“Hello. I’m a counselor at [a local resettlement agency], and I’m here with your client C and her family. She just received news this morning that her brother has passed away back in their country. However, we don’t know how to reach her sister L, who is working and doesn’t have a cell phone. We would like her to come home to be with the family. Could you pick her up?”

I said, “Of course,” and hung up the phone. I was stunned. So many thoughts running through my head. I didn’t know how their brother had died, but I knew he had to be young. I started to imagine the heartache they must have felt after moving so far away from him just months ago and to have to receive the news by phone. I wondered what it was like to be unable to say goodbye and unable to return home for the funeral. I felt sadness for these two sisters who I had gotten to know so well in the four months we had been working together.

I didn’t realize how difficult it would be. I picked up the phone and dialed the number to the hotel. I asked for the HR manager, who I knew personally. She answered the phone and as I explained that L’s brother had just died and her family wanted her to come home, I started tearing up. I got so choked up that it caught me off guard, and I started stumbling over my words. I remember telling her that I would be there in 30 minutes to pick L up, but that she wasn’t aware of the news and just to tell her I would be coming.

My coworker saw my red eyes and asked what was wrong. I couldn’t get over the awkwardness of what would happen when I went to pick L up. Had she seen it coming? Was her brother sick? Was it a sudden death? Would she ask me why I was picking her up from work in the middle of the day? And, most important, would she be able to tell I had been crying? My gracious co-worker had a meeting downtown shortly after and offered to ride with me so that I didn’t have to go alone. I gladly accepted the distraction.

We got into the city, and I was lucky to find parking right out front of the hotel. My coworker left for her meeting and I knew I’d only be a minute, so I hurried into the hotel without paying a visit to the parking machine . I asked for L at the front desk. Her manager came out a minute later but said she just called L down and now she was changing out of her uniform. It took a few minutes longer than I expected. She came out with a sense of nervousness about her. I didn’t know what to say so I just rushed over the words that her sister asked me to pick her up and then tried to switch the topic to her job. We left the hotel and walked across the street to my car. I had the dreaded yellow envelope on my window, a glaring punishment for ignoring the parking laws, despite the fact that my work would have paid for it.

We climbed in the car and I dealt with the situation the best way I knew how- to fill the empty space between us with small talk. We talked about Michael Jackson. About music. Who her favorite artists are. She had a nervous shake in her legs and kept looking straight ahead. We weren’t making eye contact. I couldn’t smile or laugh- how can you in the midst of death? But I didn’t want to seem sad either. Her answers to questions were uncharacteristically short and her face covered in worry.

I knew. I knew that she knew. But it wasn’t my place to tell her and there was nothing I could say. So instead, we let this tragic piece of news float between us without either of us claiming it. We got off the interstate and drove the 60 remaining blocks to her house. As more lights turned from red to green, I got butterflies in my stomach. Her short answers became one word answers.  The last ten blocks I didn’t say anything. I turned on her street and then into her parking lot. Her house was the very first door on the right and it was open. She got out of the car, gathered her belongings, and started to walk away. The second she crossed the threshold into her house, I heard a loud wail that only comes from the very depths of your being. I felt it in the pit of my stomach, sickened by what just happened inside. I turned around, ready to run, to flee the situation. As I made my move, someone I didn’t recognize stepped outside. It was the grief counselor. I rolled down my window just briefly enough for her to tell me thank you. She told me my other clients, who are friends and community members with L and C were there to be with them as well. I did find some small comfort in the strong sense of community and togetherness they had brought with them from their culture. I rolled up the window and pulled out of the parking lot just in time to cry. As the tears rolled down my cheeks, the scream I heard from L, the wail that caused her to collapse at the doorway, was playing in my head.

I had to drive back to work. It was early afternoon and the sun was out. I had clients to serve and I couldn’t just go home and wallow in someone else’s sorrows. But I also couldn’t get past the fact that they would never see their brother again or be there to bury him, a ceremony so important in their culture and for many people, a a part of the healing process.

I was numb the rest of the afternoon. I also felt embarrassed that I had cried on the phone to the employer. I had been in the job for less than a year. I started thinking about how service providers shouldn’t get emotionally involved. I also remember thinking that I always thought that was stupid.. and now I was wondering if maybe it wasn’t.

I left work that day and and drove to one of my favorite parks. I called my sister. I started sobbing as soon as she picked up the phone. I could barely spit it out. “I don’t think I can do this job anymore.” Being the more rational one between us (or maybe the only rational one), she tried to calm me down. I explained the sadness I felt for my client over the loss of her brother and how she can’t return home.  My sister listened and told me I don’t have to do this job anymore if I didn’t want to. I appreciated her support.

She also told me she had a terrible mishap getting a spray tan that day, just like Ross did on Friends, and got sprayed twice on the front and looks like an oompa loompa. Making herself the target of my jokes, she always knows how to take one for the team.

I hang up the phone and less than five minutes later, before I have a chance to walk back to my car, L is calling me. I wasn’t sure what to do. I answered calmly, and I hear her soft voice on the line. She tells me that today she received her first pay check, but in the midst of the situation, she has lost it and wants to know if it’s in my car.  I get back to my car and check everywhere- under the seat, beside the seat, up front, in the back, but I don’t find it. She has lost her very first pay check in the U.S. I wonder if she needs it to help pay for the funeral. I tell her not to worry and we will sort it out on Monday. I tell her I’m sorry about her brother, and I hang up.

I drive down the mountain, away from the park, and with a small sense of ease about me, feeling lighter. I got it out of my system. And I heard L’s voice. It didn’t mean she wasn’t grieving and feeling pain, but I knew she was going to make it through another hurdle in her life. I also knew she needed to get her pay check. And to do that, she needed my help. My sister was right. While I was sitting there thinking I couldn’t do this job anymore, she was putting it in perspective that I didn’t have to do this job anymore if I didn’t want to. It was never the case that I didn’t want to, I just needed to find some thicker skin. And after traversing uncomfortable territory that day, I started to find it.

***

When I started serving refugees, I had to figure out how to serve them most effectively. I learned, with time, to feel the same empathy I had felt before but to channel my feelings of sadness or sorrow into actions. It doesn’t mean that their problems don’t upset me. It doesn’t mean that I don’t pause to let my client cry it out and unload their burdens on a listening ear. But it does mean that I have to steer conversations in positive directions and channel my energy into doing something proactive. More on this topic to come.

L gave birth to a beautiful baby boy four months later. She has since returned to work at the same job and can speak basic English now.

****

Coming to America doesn’t make all of your problems go away. It doesn’t mean nothing bad will happen now that you’re here. It doesn’t mean you will be able to afford to buy shoes. It doesn’t put your brother back together who was dismembered in a grenade attack. It doesn’t reverse the effects of rape or the trauma of being infected with HIV. And it doesn’t magically make your drinking problem go away or make your sexual orientation accepted. But coming to America can mean hope and a chance for a fresh start, and as hard as many days are for refugees, I know the American dream is still very much alive and out there for the taking.

That’s what I am most thankful for this year- the American Dream. I’ve gained so much gratitude during the course of this year for my freedoms, my happiness, a roof over my head, food in my pantry, and my health. But on a larger scale, I am lucky to see the American Dream very much alive and well. Here’s a little list of what I think the American Dream encompasses and why I’m so thankful:

1. I’m thankful that my pregnant mothers all gave birth to healthy babies this year (three boys and two girls!), as they had access to world-class maternal health practitioners.
2. I’m thankful that my client who speaks a rare African language, and with no interpreter, grew to trust me through our own method of communication. And despite her lack of language, literacy, or skill sets, is working a full time job that she likes.
3. I’m thankful that both my clients that were hit by cars this year have/or will make a full recovery and that they got good medical care.
4. I’m thankful that I had more than 100 adults become gainfully employed this year from my case load.
5. I’m thankful that the cases I struggled with the most (mainly those with medical problems and single mothers) are all working… I can’t wait to share more of these stories.
6. I’m thankful that one of my clients with physical wounds from war, as well as psychological wounds from war, got the mental health help he needed and was able to heal enough to start work before he became homeless. I’m thankful he’s still working 6 months later, going to school, and is always happy to assist me when I ask him for interpretation favors.
7. I’m thankful that at least five of my clients joined a savings program and purchased cars this year. Having a car makes a world of difference, and they can make it from work to school on time and also help their families with errands and appointments.
8. I’m thankful that our country provides food assistance to families with little or no income and temporary cash assistance to those struggling to find a job. As well as milk, diapers, and other necessities for mothers of young children. I’m thankful that, despite a severe lack of services still needed for refugees and Americans alike, we still have many more services available than most countries in the world.
9. I’m thankful for Head Start, an incredible government-sponsored preschool program that not only helps many children from low-income families, but also really prepares our refugee children to integrate and prepare for school.
10. I’m thankful for a good economy where jobs are becoming more abundant. There is still a large gap in assistance for our citizens who have been incarcerated, but unless you have a criminal background, a drug problem, or a severe medical issue, you’ll most certainly find a job.

While I’m always thankful for delicious food and good company, this Thanksgiving I’m thankful to truly understand what the American Dream encompasses and see that it is very much alive. What are you thankful for this year?

Their cases landed on my desk three weeks ago. After being in the country for seven months, their job coach made a sudden departure and their cases became mine. As a couple without children, they only had one month of government assistance remaining and only received a meager $420/month in total- I knew they would need a job as soon as possible. I love a challenge and having met the husband once before, I knew he was very kind but also that he has physical disability. I didn’t know that he was married until his wife’s case was handed to me as well. Their case notes were essentially a blank white page staring back at me, so I had no idea what they had been doing in their job search for seven months.  Never having seen the wife in my office in the seven months she had been in the country, I was worried that maybe she wasn’t participating and I might have just been handed a bigger challenge than I was ready for.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I called to inform them that I would be their new job coach and to please come the following day for a meeting. The next day I walked into the lobby to greet “J” & “V”. They warmly stood up, and in nearly perfect English told me what a pleasure it was to meet me. They weren’t dismissive, they weren’t angry at the lack of assistance they had received; they were all ears. We went back to my desk and the first question I asked was how many jobs they had applied for. My heart sank when they said, ‘None’. They had been attending classes at the employment department and had excellent attendance but sort of got lost in the mix and were waiting for job assistance. I made resumes for both of them and realized they were university educated and had experience in the education and social sector. They had a passion for helping people with disabilities and refugees. Kindred spirits. Within a half an hour, V was telling me how grateful she was to get me as her new job coach and she felt really good about it. I felt flattered but I hadn’t done anything yet. We had six weeks to find them employment and get them their first paycheck or they wouldn’t be able to make rent.

I’ve faced the time crunch before in plenty of cases. It’s a stress that I’ve grown accustomed to, in a way, and I’m proud to have had the opportunity to work with some extremely challenging cases. In this case, J & V had specialized skill sets. Finding jobs in their fields takes time, especially when you are a refugee with no documented work experience in the U.S. But I felt like I owed them that opportunity to shoot for their dream jobs, when they had been deprived of it from the start. We agreed that we would apply for ideal jobs for two weeks and at the end of those two weeks, we would apply for any type of job we could find.  I helped J apply at local school districts with special ed needs and V at local nonprofits working with immigrant children.

The following week I called them to find out if they had received any calls for jobs. J said he had a phone interview with one of the schools. I asked him what types of questions they asked.

J: “She asked me if I really was from the country X, because she didn’t know many people living in Portland from X. And she said my English is so good. She asked me if I was willing to work anywhere in the Portland area. I told her, ‘Of course, I need a job. And I like all of the surrounding areas of Portland.’ I told her I would work at any school, as long as it was in Oregon. Because this is my state, this is my home, and I never want to leave from Oregon.”

I asked J to come see me the following day, as I had another slew of jobs I wanted to help him apply for, but I needed him to login to his email in order to do so. He came the following day, and that’s when he delivered the first blow.

“I have a problem with my phone. It doesn’t work in most places.” I can’t tell you how many refugees have their numbers disconnected and most go through a few numbers in our time together. I asked J if he could pay to switch plans. “I can’t. We have no money to pay.” The ten job descriptions sitting in front of me, all at schools and in his field of work, and for which I had just applied, were useless. Because you can’t get a job if a company can’t reach you for an interview. And it also means no one would be calling his wife for an interview either. We hit the we-must-find-any-job-as-soon-as-possible phase. Keeping in mind he has a type of physical limitation, I knew he wouldn’t be suited for a production job. I know it’s very humbling, but I asked if he would do a hotel cleaning job. “Yes of course, any job. It doesn’t matter what it pays. I don’t care if it pays minimum wage. I can start anywhere. And continue to improve my English. I am already living my dream by being in America.”… and after a pause he said, “I was a janitor in the refugee camp.” I asked him why he never mentioned it, as it’s important for me to know for applications. And I thought he came here from his country- what refugee camp was he talking about?

Working in social services, clients are like onions. You slowly peel back the layers. There is a very thin outer later, which is easy to peel. It’s the surface. Then there are a few really thick, solid layers. But after you get passed those there are lots of layers beneath it. Sometimes those layers make your eyes burn. And you have to blink and look away. And sometimes those layers create actual tears, some momentary and others that lead you to step out of the room. Most of the time I can chop and peel an onion without any affect on my tear ducts. But every now and then, onions really get the best of me. The same goes for working with refugees. I’ve blinked back tears. I’ve cried from being over the top happy. I’ve teared up with relief when I helped find a job for that client with an endless list of barriers. I’ve also cried from being overwhelmed. From feeling tragically sad. From putting a face on the emotion of deep sorrow, grief, and pain. But onions are flavorful- they make a great base, a solid foundation for dishes. One of the the most basic ways to take a bland dish and give it a little flavor, is to add some onions. If you peel the layers one by one, it takes some time, but each layer has flavor. That’s also what refugees do, they add flavor to our communities, to our schools, and to our nation.

Turns out J had traveled halfway around the world from his country to live in two refugee camps, before flying halfway around the world again to get to the U.S. border via Mexico. The thin layer is all the data- addresses, legal documents, basic personal information, which we covered on day one, but now I’m beginning to dig through those thicker layers. I get excited that he has cleaning experience and that he has a great attitude. I update his resume for the job. I ask him if V will also do cleaning. “Of course.” I ask her to come the following morning.

They show up at my office at 9am. I explain to V about cleaning positions. I tell her that housekeeping is a much more physical job but that it pays more. She tells me she’s a survivor. And tells me with her sweet and loving smile that she’s strong. I tell her I never doubted it and to be prepared to go for interview in the next few days. She asks her husband if he’s happy. I ask them if they are okay to work together since (jokingly) they probably see each other enough at home. She tells me they’ve been married 16 years and indicates that they are very close. And he confirms that they are happy to work together.  In that moment, I made a mental note that if I ever do get married, this is the type of love I’m looking for.

Since they don’t have a phone they promise to check their emails. They go to classes and also go to the library every day to use the computer. I explain that their interview will be the following afternoon or two days later so they must check their emails later in the day. They promise and get up to leave. I feel a sense of relief knowing that with the attitude they have, not only will they succeed in cleaning jobs, but I know they will reach their goals sooner rather later.

I got confirmation two hours later that they will interview the following afternoon at 2pm. I send an email to J & V immediately and ask them to confirm. Late in the afternoon, I send a second email after not receiving a response. The following morning I felt a pang of panic, as my inbox is full of emails, but none from them. I sent a third email. By lunch I feel frustrated yet helpless, but know they really want the jobs and must start work in the next few weeks if they plan to make rent. Five minutes before we are due to leave for the interview, they are not at my office. I leave a message for their case worker, to see if he knows their neighbors or friends and if I can track down another way to reach them. I get a phone call from J at 3pm. He’s calling from the library. “I’m so sorry but we had an issue with our rent yesterday and this morning and didn’t get to check our emails because we were trying to fix it.” This is also not unusual for our clients. With so many appointments and issues that arise, it happens. I tell him not to worry but stress the importance of the interview. I call the employer with J still on the line, because I can’t afford for him to hang up. She agrees to see them the following morning. I am relieved that a new interview is sorted.

J & V show up in my office 35 minutes early the following day, carrying the guilt from the day before of not showing up. I give them copies of their updated resumes. J apologizes again, and I insist that it’s okay now and not to worry. But he keeps talking. “I’m so sorry, Laura. But we are getting kicked out of our apartment next week and we haven’t found a place to go yet.” What? No phone, and soon, no home? They need a job to pay for a home, but they need a home to start a job. This is not good. With smiles on their faces still, they explain that they moved in with a single mom of three kids they had met, because they were able to afford to pay her rent with their meager $420/month. But they were unaware she was living in low-income housing and roommates are not allowed. Management informed them they had one week to move.  For now, step one is to pass the interview. So we concentrate on that. V asks me about some interview response examples, and I am impressed by her articulation. She sees the connection of her seemingly unrelated positions and how her experience serving refugees in her home country translates into excellent customer service skills for a hotel. I know they will breeze through the interview.

We leave thirty minutes later. In the car, we talk about possible housing options and about what it’s like to work at a hotel. Interspersed in that is V quizzing J on the job title he is applying for, as he keeps forgetting the English name of his position.

We get downtown and make seemingly endless loops around and around in the parking garage until we eventually find parking on the tenth floor. V tells me she is excited, as she’s never had a formal interview in her entire life (most countries don’t) and she has butterflies in her stomach. I remind her that with her smile and warm personality, she will be just fine. We make our way to the basement of the hotel, and V is interviewed first. J and I sit in the staff lunchroom. Our topic of conversation quickly turns to his journey to the U.S., as the emotions of potentially finding a job bring back his nostalgia. He and his wife sold their house and their entire belongings, bought one way tickets to a European country that would accept them as refugees, and left with literally $15 in their pockets. The first year was hard. Living in a country where people don’t like America, he was a man who has more passion for my country than anyone I know. His love for America was a bad taste in the mouths of the locals. He and his wife crossed the border to a neighboring country but were sent back. They tried a second time, and succeeded, landing in a different refugee camp. He worked as a janitor, while he saved money for his American dream. They were granted residency and they left the camp. They saved a little more money, bought one way tickets to Mexico, and started the next phase of their journey. I asked him about his border crossing. He told me, with the most wonderful smile on his face, when he finally caught sight of the American flag as he crossed the river, he knew he had made it. He knew his dreams were coming true. The border police tried to turn him back, despite legally having the right to stay due to his refugee status.

“I told the officer I had the right to stay. Then I told him I had $500 in my pocket. I gave it to him and he said, ‘Okay, okay, no problem.'”

“You paid him off?!” I asked incredulously. “And he accepted?” I am reminded that corruption exists everywhere.

“Yes, I was so tired after our long journey.” I knew he didn’t just mean his flights through Europe and Mexico. I knew he meant his two-year journey that was years in the making through four different countries, as a refugee. “I knew I had the right to stay, but I didn’t have it in me to argue. I didn’t care. It’s just money. In America, I can always earn it again. I just needed to make it home. From there, we paid our own way to Oregon.”

“Why did you choose Oregon?”

“Because I love this state. We did our research on the internet, and V & I wanted to live the rest of our lives in Oregon.”

I felt his pride. I felt his love for my country. But just then his wife returned and it was J’s turn to interview.

V sits down and has a smile on her face. “How’d it go?” I ask.  “It was very good,” she tells me. “I really like this job! She asked me about living in Europe, and about my work with refugees. She told me how physical the job is, and I told her, ‘Do you see me? I am healthy and strong, I can do this job.’ I think she liked me.” I had no doubt. Passing the time, I tell V how her husband told me about her journey from her home country to Oregon. She doesn’t miss a beat and begins to fill in the gaps. “I’m so happy here. Coming to Oregon, we have made it home. My country is not my home. Do you know when I was a social worker for refugees, I only made $15/month? We didn’t have enough to eat. There I was helping refugees, and I had holes in my shoes. I didn’t have a bed. Our house was so bad. My government doesn’t care. They don’t take care of their people, they only care about themselves. I thanks God everyday that we have made it. I told J I refused to die there. I couldn’t bear the thought.” At this she starts to get teary eyed, and wipes away a tear under her glasses. I ask about her family, and her son is still there, with hopes of coming to America in the future. We discuss more about her life back in her home country. Then J returns. The employer gives an indication that they will both be hired. I feel a sense of relief, even if it doesn’t mean life is suddenly easy now.

We leave the hotel, and they ask if they have a job. I tell them it’s likely, and V, with her heart always looking after other people, asks her husband if he’s happy. Of course he answers in the affirmative. As we walk back to the car, he asks her a question in their native language, and she interrupts him. “I’m sorry, but I only speak English now. This is my language. Please ask me again in English.” Her husband and I laugh, and the sense of pride is more than just a lingering feeling for her.

Back in the car, we wind our way down the ten floors of the garage. Once on the interstate, our conversation makes its way back to their journey. J tells me how much he loves the U.S. Constitution and our Bill of Rights. I smile, because I know this to be true. Even their emails are a nod to our constitution. V mentions how much J loves American history. He starts telling me about the personal life of Thomas Jefferson, and as his story goes on, I realize I know so much less about Thomas Jefferson than my client does, and probably about U.S. history for that matter. V says her husband’s favorite song is America the Beautiful. J tells me, “Remember when I told you, as I crossed the river, and I saw the American flag at the border for the first time? I started to sing. As I walked across the bridge, I started singing loudly.” And then he begins to sing. Right then. In my car. “Oh beautiful for spacious skies…” I was so moved. I saw it so vividly. A literal march to his freedom, singing a song describing a land that was previously only a dream to him. His wife pipes back in. “In our room, we have a small American flag hanging on our wall. But one day, when we have a house, we will fly a big American flag out front.”

I felt so much pride in my country at that moment, as a land of freedom and as a land that helps refugees to find the same, but I felt even more love and gratitude for two of the gentlest hearts and passionate people I have met in my job.

I dropped them off in a convenience store parking lot to catch the bus back home. To their temporary home. I don’t know what will happen to their housing. I wished them luck in their housing search. They wished me a good weekend and climbed out of the car. V poked her head back in the door to tell me again, how grateful she is to have my help. As I walk back in the door to the office today, I don’t know if I will have two homeless clients sitting at my desk, or good news of a temporary bed being found. But I do know that these two are going to make it. And I know that as an American, we are lucky to call them our neighbors and fellow citizens.

As I approach my anniversary of moving to Portland and just coming off an incredibly amazing birthday, I have so many thoughts flowing. Summing up my thirtieth year is no easy feat. I’ve been challenged at work beyond what I thought I could handle (but somehow I did!), and I hit a brick wall with my business. I moved and then lost my roommate after 4 weeks (don’t worry, I found a great replacement, but am still trying to convince her to move back to Portland!), and on a more lighthearted note, I managed to sit next to TWO puking people during one day of flying (Reminds me- I have such good luck with air travel). Oh yeah, and I kissed a giraffe! Yes, the past year was full of excitement, both good and bad.

However, my year of thirty opened up so many unbelievable opportunities for me. In terms of business, I got my ass kicked by several folks and I found direction. I got not one, but two business advisors, and I found a community of entrepreneurs here (Portland is full of them!) to mingle in. I participated in my first startup pitch event for women… and I won! Far more important than winning was the fact that I got over my fear of discussing my plans for Amsha publicly. I’m not fearful of public speaking but if you tell people your plans, it means you might be held accountable. I found a sweet new place to call home in Portland, which came with a large office, a great location, and a yard where I started my first organic garden. I’ve never kept any plants alive in my life, except for a single gerbera daisy in college… and I eventually killed that too, so the fact that all of my tomato plants are alive and thriving have left me feeling triumphant.

The weather has been great this summer in Portland, and I have hiked, biked, and swam until my heart’s so full it could burst. I got over my fear of biking in the city and now that it’s summer, I bike most places except for work (since I have to drive for my job). I also participated in Pedalpalooza, which included karaoke biking and an awesome Bowie vs Prince ride. And perhaps one of the biggest changes of all, I started working four days/week. And I LOVE it! No really, I loooooooooove it. Attempting to strike that work/life balance, I now have Mondays off from my day job to work uninterrupted on my business. This frees up more of my weekend to go on adventures, hike, drink wine with friends, ride my bike, and go to the park every Sunday with some pretty fantastic kids. I can’t imagine going back to five days/week in an office and even now I have that creeping feeling of finding it hard to do four days…but that’s for another blog post.

My year of thirty only made life in Portland that much sweeter. Some of my family made the trek out from the east coast to visit which was fun. I have amazing friends, gorgeous surroundings, and…. not to be forgotten, I can WALK to a coffee shop. And to the grocery store (it’s one block away), and to a tea shop, a park, restaurants, the river, downtown… and the list goes on. When I graduated, I said my wish was to live in a place where I could walk to a coffee shop. The irony that I don’t drink coffee is not lost on me, but I do love coffee shops! The walkable aspect of this city, and the fact that I have actually started to buy furniture, just might be an indication that I’m sticking around for a while.  And really, I can’t wait to tell you what I have up my sleeve for this year.

Dear 31, I’m ready for you.

My birthday this year really snuck up on me. I can’t even believe that I’m 31 today. I actually wouldn’t have given it much thought, except that my mother asked me last weekend over the phone, “What do you want for your birthday?” I told her I didn’t want anything… my parents do enough for me and I have everything I could possibly need. But after a few moments, I recanted my statement. “I take that back- you can donate towards John’s surgery.” That’s what gave me the idea. In lieu of birthday high fives and gifts I don’t need, I would instead persuade, coerce, sweet talk, and convince people that what they most wanted to do for my birthday was give the best donation they could ever give to save a young man’s hand. 

John is currently living with a dislocated wrist, a fractured scaphoid, significant pain, numbness in his fingers, and the onset of arthritis. Not exactly the diagnosis we had hoped for. The initial injury was caused from a soccer accident a year ago. The fracture went completely undiagnosed and he dislocated his wrist again when some guys in Nairobi jumped him with knives. While he is fortunate that he didn’t get cut and go to the hospital for stitches (unlike his friends), they did further damage to his hand, which left him in too much pain to return to school.

Many of my friends and readers of this blog have done so much for John over the years. It’s really taken a village to send him to school and to give him a better life. I’m proud to say that the entire income I earned from this blog (back in the day) went towards helping me pay for John’s boarding school. I couldn’t have earned that income without readers. Many of you have donated your time and given encouraging words over the years. It’s truly been a group effort. When I put on a fundraiser to help with his school fees, so many of you bought Kenyan crafts. When he switched boarding schools, someone offered to pay for his new uniform. When I wanted to take him on a trip to show him a piece of Kenya, my family pitched in. And ya know what? He’s worth every last penny.

I wish I had a bigger bank account. Sometimes I find myself yearning to work in the for-profit world so that I didn’t have to ask for help. Despite the ever-so-modest salary that comes with working in a non-profit, I’ve still managed to make his boarding school payments. But I’m afraid a wrist surgery by a top-notch orthopedic surgeon comes with a price.

My birthday wish is to raise $1500 for John’s surgery. With on and offline donations, I’m only $360 shy of my goal. Can you give $5 today in lieu of buying coffee? Or $31 because, yes, I’m getting that old? Or, equally as important, can you share John’s story through social media or with friends? He’s just four months shy of being able to sit for his final exams. It’s time to get him back in school!

You can check out my fundraiser and learn more here:  Help Heal John’s Hand.

It is so humbling to see how many people share a sense of connection with John. So many of you have cared for him like you have cared for me. I can’t thank you enough. You all make this world such a better place to live in.

With love and gratitude,
La
#HelpHealJohnsHand

I figured an eight-month hiatus from this blog was long enough and that I might shock many of you by actually writing again!… or just posting pretty photos. I have enough content to write for days, but it’s always a balance of time. Now that it’s summer in Oregon, the days are long and my weekends are full. When I’m not working (my job requires me to drive), then I’m taking advantage of the weather and biking where I need to go. The next three months are an outdoor lover’s paradise. The summers in Oregon cause me to momentarily forget how cold I think the winters are and remind me that Portland is AMAZING.

One of my favorite spots to explore is the area around Mt. Hood. It’s only about an hour’s drive outside of Portland, and there is so much to discover. While I find myself drawn to return to one of my favorite hikes- Tom, Dick, and Harry Mountain– I’ve recently discovered a new trail- Bald Mountain– that sees very few visitors and provides a close-up view of Mt. Hood. A friend of mine also took me swimming at Timothy Lake recently, which features a stunning Mt. Hood backdrop and mildly cool waters, by Oregon’s standards. I never thought I would swim in a lake or river in Oregon, but alas I was wrong. After about 10 minutes of dipping my toes in, I finally took a swim in the lake. Now who’s coming to visit me in Portland???

For Timothy Lake: Park at the Hood View campground. I think it has a nice ‘beach’ area, good views, and isn’t as crowded as other spots.

For Bald Mountain via Lolo Pass trail: Head east on 26 until you’re just past Rhododendron. Take a left on Lolo Pass and drive for about 10 miles. This trail splits twice (with no sign mentioning ‘Bald Mountain’). Choose the left path for Pacific Crest Trail at the first split and then the middle path for Muddy Forks at the second split.