Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 127
Hours Volunteered: 3.5
EDD Check: $250 per week
We had agreed that no one would bring food, that we'd all eat before we went to the beach, so we could easily make it through the afternoon. But that's not what happened. Today is the official IRC beach day, when tutors and their families will all spend time together at Coronado beach. Last night, Etel stayed up until 2 a.m. with her Brazilian friends making vegetarian empadinhas––miniature pot pie-looking pastries filled with palm hearts, olives and cheese––and Argentinean tortilla made with eggs, peas, potatoes, and carrots. I am in charge of buying apples, waters, and Cokes, which I do.
When we arrive at the Bhutanese family's apartment, not only am I surprised to see the mom dressed in new jeans, a button up shirt, and a jacket (Western clothes), she has a backpack stuffed with their own Cokes and food. Down at the cars, we decide the women will go with Etel, the men will ride with me. Our ride is mostly silent, while Johnny Cash's older, American V voice croons about lost love and God. (I hit them with the more upbeat Cuban sounds of the Buena Vista Social Club on the way home.)
As we drive over the Coronado bridge, the father and son strain to get a good look at downtown San Diego and the massive aircraft carriers idling at the Navy base. Seen through their eyes, the world looks new and amazing, even to me. "Pretty crazy how big those ships are, huh?" I say. Then, I'll try to imagine what it was like, especially for the grandmother, to board the plane to America, not knowing if you'll ever see your country again and knowing you must adjust to this new one. (On the way home from the beach, the son will tell me he's never been to downtown San Diego, and I'll promise to take him sometime.)
As soon as we get the quilt spread out at the beach, the grandma, sitting cross-legged, points to the ocean and puts her hands together in prayer. "I think she wants to go pray in the ocean," I tell Etel. When we first met the family, we asked them if they'd ever been to the beach, and they told us they had, because when the grandfather died shortly after their arrival in America, they needed to immerse themselves in water to pray as part of the mourning process. In Bhutan and Nepal, they would have done this in a river.
Etel and the father gingerly help the grandmother to her feet and walk her into the ocean. I run back to get my camera and I miss the prayer and the throwing of gold coins into the water, but I shoot some good pictures of Etel, the grandma, and father reemerging.
Once we're settled back on the quilt, the Bhutanese mom hands us warm Cokes out of her backpack and then breaks out flat fry bread and curry paste and puts them on plates for us. Etel says she's not yet hungry, but I dive in. The food is excellent, as always. While the grandma, mom, and I are eating, Etel pulls out her South American food and says, "I made this for you. It's from my country, Brazil." The mom smiles as we push the plastic Snapware containers of food toward her and the grandma and encourage them to try it. They have clearly never see anything like this. They both slowly remove empadinhas from the container, examine them, and then take a small bite.
Their faces immediately go sour, but then they smile, trying not to betray their distaste for the empadinhas. We laugh and Etel tells them they don't have to eat them. They pretend they'll continue eating them, but Etel sees the mom dispose of them on the sly. The grandmother, feeling adventurous, I guess, even tries the tortilla, which she says she likes, but she only eats one small cube. I devour the empadinhas, which are dry but super tasty, and the tortilla.
All around us, spread across a small section of beach, Vietnamese, Somalian, other Bhutanese families and the American tutors share food. Etel decides she should take her fare around for the others to try, and I join her. The Americans, our palettes used to exotic foods, love Etel's empadinhas.
A relative of our family (everyone seems to be a "cousin"), calling us both Teacher, invites us over to their blanket to share food. They say they'll try Etel's food, but every one of them has the same reaction after the first bite, like they bit into a poo sandwich. We laugh and tell them it's okay, but one of the fathers, who speaks decent English, says, "No, Teacher. I like it." We laugh, but he insists on finishing the whole thing while the others spit theirs out. They feed us vegetarian samosas in return. One of the daughters, who spit out her empadinha, eats Flamin' Hot Crunchy Cheetos, which seems to be a favorite American junk food of the Bhutanese.
I spend the rest of my beach time playing football with our family's son and his cousins. I enjoy showing each one how to grip the ball to throw it with a spiral. Some get it, some don't, but we have a blast. The son of our family struggles with throwing a tight spiral, but he catches everything I throw at him, even doing dramatic jumps when catching easy passes, like I would. That's it, I think. You get it.
Around one o' clock, right after the sun comes out, the families begin packing up and heading for the bus. We drove our family, so we tell them we can stay as long as they like. They pack up, anyway. In the car on the way home, the youngest daughter asks Etel if the yellow-haired people at the beach are real or fake, meaning she isn't used to seeing blond hair. It makes sense; outside of relief workers, she wouldn't have seen many blond people in Bhutan or Nepal, and where she lives now and attends school the children are everything but blond.
It's great seeing these small revelations: the specific palette of the Bhutanese, which embraces Flamin' Hot Crunchy Cheetos and Cokes but rejects empadinhas; the grip that suddenly makes a football spiral rather than flutter; the 19th century seriousness with which they pose for pictures; and the fear of a fake blond planet.
Wonderful.
ReplyDeleteI love the photos. They are very powerful alongside your words : )
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