Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 156
Hours Volunteered: 2.5
EDD Check: $250 per week
Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $320
Etel and I begin today's lesson with the Bhutanese refugee parents by reviewing the dozen or more places that they've learned in English and asking them what they do at each place. There are small pictures of buildings on the handout. The post office is one. After the mom and dad correctly identify the post office in the picture, Etel asks, "What do you do at the post office?" The mom stares at her. "You mail letters," Etel answers.
"Yes, Teacher," the mom says, "I mail letters."
Somewhere down the list, after "caseworker's office" and "grocery store," we hit upon "the bank," and Etel asks what they do there. The mom stares at her, again. "What do you do at the bank?" Etel repeats. The mom and dad sit silent and smile. "You get money at the bank," Etel says.
"No money, no bank, Teacher," the mother says. We laugh. That's right. The family has had no interaction with banks, yet. They receive their welfare payments for food and living on a debit card. No money, no banks.
When we're done with the place names, Etel and I discuss how best to work on letter sounds with them. I have no idea how to teach phonics, but we decide we'll power through the first five letters of the alphabet, and move on week by week, because the parents are struggling most with reading and writing. They cannot connect the sounds with the letters that represent those sounds.
We start with "A," and I write down three lists: words with one short "A" sound, such as cat, bat, and fat; words with another short "A" sound, such as ball, call, and fall; and words with long "A" sounds, such as cake, bake, and fake, in order to use similar starting letter sounds. The lesson seems to stall in place, mostly due to my phonics incompetence. I think there is a breakthrough on the letter "B," which, out of frustration, I write seven times across the page and say, "How would you say that?" I pause for a second and then answer myself, "Buh, buh, buh, buh, buh, buh, buh. Every time you see the letter B, you just make the sound 'buh.' It's that simple." The mom laughs and says, "Buh."
After the lesson is over and we're ready to go, the son tells us the mom has made something for us. Out come the customary samosas, curry paste, grapes, and over-sugared and over-creamed tea for me and over-sugared and over-creamed coffee for Etel. This is always my favorite time, because not only do I get to eat great food, the formality of the lessons falls away and we can chat. Late in the conversation, mom, sitting behind her son, quietly says something to him.
Half-embarrassed, he says, "Oh, my mom wanted to ask you about my grandma. She has a pain in her tooth." We ask if they have an assigned dentist, and he says yes. He hands us a form from the dentist, which says the grandmother's medical history is unknown and the dentist cannot perform the necessary operation without a doctors approval allowing for the use of a local anesthetic, amoxicillin, and Tylenol with codeine. I explain what the form means, and about allergies, and ask them if they have a doctor they see. They all seem a little confused. "Did someone examine you when you got here to the U.S.?" I ask. They say yes. "You're covered to see a doctor, right?" Yes.
The mom disappears into the back room and returns with a mess of cards and papers, among which I recognize yellow immunization cards. They also have green Medi-Cal cards, Social Security cards, and both Work Authorization and California State IDs. They can't find the grandma's Medi-Cal card. I tell them they should keep everything better organized, like all of each kind of IDs and cards together. I sort them out and place them into separate piles.
We ask them if they have a clinic nearby that they use, and they point out the back window and say it's far. Etel tells them to call on Monday for a doctor's appointment, and then Etel can come take the grandma, so she can get clearance for the dentist, whose office is within walking distance. Everyone seems to understand how things are going to proceed, and I tell the son to be sure to bring all of Grandma's IDs and cards, and the doctors should be able to find her Medi-Cal information. What a nightmare the grandma must be experiencing, dealing with a tooth that needs to be pulled while hoping her family can figure out the bureaucracy of our system.
At the same time, it's funny that I should be sitting here helping the poor when I don't have medical nor dental insurance (haven't had either in almost a decade), and have just signed up for three sessions of cavity fillings that are costing me $1,300. I've been plagued by terrible sinuses, a possible case of sleep apnea, and I still have that spot on my upper thigh I worry is skin cancer. I don't mention all of this to complain or beg for your sympathy but because the system only works for the very rich, who can afford their own coverage (barely, now), or the very poor, who have everything paid for by the generosity of taxpayers.
Before we leave, we get the information about the oldest daughter's resettlement loan, so that I can call on her behalf. I tell the daughter I'll call on Monday (I will, and I'll find out that I can only extend her deadline for three months, even though she's still in job training school and has no income. I'll also find out not paying the loan will destroy her credit, which isn't good for a young person who may eventually need a car or school loan). We say goodbye, hoping the oldest daughter and son will follow through on their promises for the grandma, as we will follow through on our promises to them.
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