The African Family

This post will be accompanied by unrelated photos that make me happy. Starting with this one that I will just never get over. (Clearly not the African family.)

Every once in a while my folk's church will somehow acquire some refugees and help to get them setup for success here in The States, and because he's the kind of guy that can procure anything you may need, Chris Union tends to become the point-person for the refugee families. Whether you're looking for an obscure fruit or a place to live, Chris Union has got you covered. So far, all of the refugee families that Pops has helped have moved along to other States where they have some other family members.

A few months ago, a family from Cameroon arrived with nothing but big smiles and open minds. There are 7 seven of them. A mom and dad, and five kids with number six on the way. Normally, Dad works with the church folks on helping the refugees, and the rest of the Union clan has nothing to do with it.  But this family happens to not speak any English, only French. Well, do you know who was the top French student in her class and came in 2nd (1st place for losers) in a state French competition? It was me! C'est moi! Je parle en francais! So I went along with Dad to meet the family and my heart turned to mush and the rest is history. 

They are so kind and giggly. My French skills are not up to the task of deciphering their particular accent so mostly we grin at each other and use rudimentary communication. Dad often acts out what he wants to say and this makes everyone cackle. Pops and the Dad mostly just give each other fist bumps and pats on the back. Men are simple in every language. It has been so interesting and surprising to realize all the things we are so used to that other people don't have. Ovens, bicycles, hot water. Explaining how these things work is something I've never had to do, and certainly not in another language. Don't put metal in the microwave. "No... place... *tap on something metal*... dan le petit feu boîte...  go Boom! Poof!" Dad's sound effects for a fiery explosion were taken with an amused seriousness. When they asked if they could put plastic in the oven, I acted out "melting" and the oldest daughter was beside herself with laughter.

The oldest daughter, Evodie, and I are good buddies now. She's super smart and can understand concepts I'm trying I explain even though I'm using all the wrong words. But the best part is, instead of telling her parents what I'm trying to say, she'll giggle at me and then correct my pronunciation and make me say it properly in French. She and the dad, Simplice, are the ones handling all of the new information and appointments and things. The family has an apartment up in North Charleston and as of last week-ish, all of the children are enroll in school, except Evodie because she is 20 years old. I feel so sad for Evodie to be skipped over in this way, she says she really wants to go to school. But the family does have English classes twice each week and Evodie looks over her siblings homework to take what she can from it. Once she learns English she will have so many more opportunities. 

The mother is the most quiet and seems to be the only one that cannot read or write. She keeps to herself but will smile at you when you look at her. She is very pregnant and no doubt overwhelmed. The rest of the children are happy and energetic and very well-behaved. Big Mama Union strategically stays out of the refugee business. She knows she will become anxious and worried for the families, so she leaves the face-to-face part to Dad. But Dad and I would talk so fondly of this family and tell Mom how great they are... so she met them... and now she's worried sick about them. "I hope no one takes advantage of them. What if something goes wrong in the night? Do they know about 911? Chris, have you explained how to turn off the oven? They're going to need jobs but don't have a car. How are they going to afford so many children? I can't stand this." 
The point, she thinks they are precious too. 

Mom and Dad and I have taken the family to buy clothes and shoes and groceries. Dad takes Simplice to the grocery store every week, and he zooms through the aisles Chris Union-style, holding up items and waiting for a yes or no from Simplice. Then he throws it in the cart or back on the shelf and zooms ahead to the next section. Simplice is giddy about their new life and wants to learn and understand everything right away. He is always smiling and full of gratitude. We just love him. 

This past week, Dad and I took Simplice, Evodie, and the mom, Gertrude on a little tour of Downtown and it was so exciting to see their reactions. They were nervous about the water when we took them to the Battery. They stood far from the edge and stood on their toes to peer over the side. Gertrude stayed on the far side near the road. They took lots of pictures of themselves in stoic poses. We told them to smile and they looked at us like we were crazy. They wandered into the park and Evodie studied each of the statues of the civil war leaders and asked me to translate the plaques. She said she loves history and was fascinated that the houses nearby were so old.

While Dad runs up and down the interstate to bring them what they need, Mom dutifully takes them to their appointments for heath screenings, blood tests, eye doctors, etc. She sits quietly with them and smiles and I'm sure she's just as comforting to them as she is to everyone else. All of us have French translators on our phones now, which is the main way Mom and Dad communicate with them. Dad likes to blurt out things that he thinks sound French and the family is polite enough not to laugh until they see me laughing at him. 

Every time I come home for visiting with them, I'm on some kind of gratitude high. I realize how spoiled and lucky I am, but also I replay my conversations with Evodie, correcting my grammar retrospectively and laughing again about how we both abandoned a chat about cooking plantains when we both got to a point that my French couldn't go. "What?' "I said..." "What's that word?" "Which word?" "It means..." We both paused, smiled at each other, waved our hands as if to erase the conversation, and then got in the car and rode home in silence. I'll tell Brett all about my day with them and he gets excited about how excited I am. He asked if we could have the family over for supper soon, so they're all coming over next weekend and I have all kinds of feelings about it. 

I'm thrilled, nervous, worried and excited. I know our house will seem like a palace to them. They are staying in a tiny, dark apartment that's hardly big enough for them and they described the place as magnificent. Compared to the refugee life I'm sure it is. Will our house seem over the top? What do we cook for them? I don't want them to force down food they don't like just because they are so polite? Will seeing how Brett and I live make them sad in any way? I'm worried about these things. But mostly I'm so excited to have them here to feel welcome and loved. 

Also, being the translator is a mentally exhausting job. Fulfilling, but exhausting. I fall asleep as soon as I come home from a visit and I sleep hard. I've been studying my old text books and talking to myself in French, but it's really all for naught. I forget all of it as soon as they ask me a question and all their beautiful faces are staring at me waiting for an answer. We all can't wait for them to learn enough English that we can learn more about their lives up until now. What an adventure they have lived.