Part II Day 173: August 11, 2010 (losing hope and life in tough economic times)

Position: Part-time Temporary Instructor

EDD Check: $250 per week ($0 left in award balance)

I'm not poor, nor have I ever been. I've lived on couches and felt the burning pain of hunger, but those were by choice, and I always had the resources and power to end those situations. What I can't control is the lack of self-worth I've felt collecting unemployment. You may think it's wonderful to be home all day, doing whatever you like, but you're limited by the sparse income and sudden lack of energy brought on by depression. Your life loses structure.

In these hard economic times, it's no surprise that in my new home of Tuscaloosa, AL, a small college town of 78,000 residents, the suicide rate reached a new record last year––31 dead––and is set to eclipse it this year (20 already dead by July, 31) . While people choose to cash out on life for different reasons, this article in the Tuscaloosa News quotes Dr. Beverly Thorn, the chair of the University of Alabama's psychology department, as saying that "hard economic times could be at the root of some of the cases." Four times as many men in this town committed suicide this year than women, most often by a gunshot wound. The article opens with a man in his thirties shooting himself in the head in his home and being discovered by his parents, but never talks about his economic situation.

While I assume the higher suicide rate among men in hard economic times is due to the loss of one's ability and social/instinctual need to provide, that cannot be proven. And since only seven of the twenty suicides this year left notes, and the article doesn't disclose the contents of those notes, we may never know how poverty or a loss of employment directly correlates to suicide. By reading Urdo Grashoff's strange collection of German suicide notes, called Let Me Finish, I've learned that lost love can be just as responsible as lost wages for suicide and general economic standing doesn't determine the likelihood of suicide. Rich people kill themselves as often as poor people.

What I've also discovered by moving to Tuscaloosa sans personal transportation is that living in a city designed for automobiles can prove unmanageable for those who cannot afford a car. I've only been here less than a week, but riding my bike in 100 degree heat across town (20 minutes each way) to buy needed supplies at Target, such as a pot in which to cook oats and rice, can make anyone feel suicidal. One must rely on the kindness of strangers or new friends with cars in order to survive. At least I have that option. I can also afford a car, so I feel sorry for those who can't. They must feel trapped in their homes.

As you can tell, I'm struggling to find a new angle on poverty here to write about, but that's not the point (suggestions are welcome, though). For me, the point of this "experiment" has been to highlight the plight of the poor in our country and to develop a culture of volunteerism in my own life, which has sadly been lacking until this point. As soon as I get settled and my classes are humming along, I shall begin finding ways to volunteer and continue writing about the poor. Stay tuned . . .

In the meantime, here is some Gil Scott-Heron singing about my life:

Part II Day 163: August 1, 2010 (saying what you have and what you are, before saying goodbye)

Position: Volunteer

EDD Check: $250 per week ($250 left in award balance)

Hours Volunteered: 3

Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $1,300

I knew saying goodbye would be difficult before we arrived here, but I had no idea how difficult. I've accepted a part-time teaching position at the University of Alabama for fall, and I must move to Tuscaloosa by the end of this week.

When we enter the Bhutanese family's apartment, the familiar quilt is laid out on the floor, grandma sits in her place on the couch, and the mom squats between the kitchen and dinner table, peeling potatoes over a bowl on the floor. The father disappears into the back room and returns with his note pad, ready for the lesson.

In my absence, Etel has been teaching them the verbs "to have" and "to be." Etel and I run them through the items they have: "I have four children"; "I have a sofa"; "I have a table," etc. After we cover most of the items and people in the room––"I have a husband"––we move on to the expansive verb, "to be." We start with physical descriptions, which, because of our lack of preparation, leads to awkward and funny moments. It's easy to describe the father: "You are tall," followed by, "You are thin." The kids translate the meaning of thin, and we all agree that the dad is tall and thin.

When we turn to the mom, we can only describe her as short. "I am short," she says. The body type for her is a little more difficult. Etel turns to me and says, "What's the word for being between thin and fat?"

I stumble and say, "Normal?"

The mom already knows the opposite of thin, and she announces, "I am short and fat." We all laugh, including the kids, but it sounds awful. "No, no," Etel says, "you are thin," which isn't quite true either. The mom has an average body for a short Bhutanese woman, neither thin nor fat, but she's definitely roundish. The mom laughs and repeats that she's short and fat, and Etel, unlike Cosmopolitan Magazine, assures her she's thin.

We move on to conditional forms of "to be," such as "I am hungry" and "I am warm," which they quickly understand. They struggle for a minute with the negative use, adding in "not," before finally getting it: "I am not cold"; "I am not hungry." The oldest daughter has been in the kitchen this whole time cooking, and I, personally, am very hungry.

When we finish the lesson, we move to the couch and the mom folds and puts away the quilt. The daughter serves us fry bread and samosas and tomato curry paste with cups of water, since we've said we prefer not to have coffee and tea today. Etel, as usual, barely eats anything while I chow down, and the family takes notice. "You don't eat," the mother says.

"I'm not that hungry," Etel says and points to her stomach. The mother tells Etel that she is thin, and then grandma speaks up from across the room. She says something in Nepali, and then points at her belly. We don't understand, so in order to be more demonstrative she lifts her shirt and sagging breasts to reveal her bare, flabby stomach. The kids translate: "She says she is fat and you are thin." We love the grandmother's sense of humor, even though we can't understand her, and we're just glad she didn't expose her breasts.

Etel reminds the oldest daughter again how we've collected money to help her pay the relocation loan. She looks "sigh" again, but is very thankful. Etel hands her an envelope with $100 and says, "This is to make your first payment."

The kids ask Etel if she can help them with the new apartment they're trying to move the family into, because they don't understand what's going on. Etel calls the new landlord and sets up an appointment for the next day. When she's done, I broach the subject of my move. The family looks confused, so I explain I received a teaching job. "But you already have a job with the IRC," the son says. We explain that we are volunteers, that we don't get paid, and he's incredulous. "I thought you got paid by the IRC," he says. "We have volunteers at school, so I know what that is."

I manage to say, "I'm very sad," but can't hold back the emotions. I walk over to the door, sit on the floor and slip on my shoes while staring at the wall, and then walk outside to the end of the apartment walkway. I watch the kids soccer game across the street and try to compose myself, but I can't. A Somali girl bends down at the small BBQ next to me and lifts the lid. Unrecognizable cuts of meat cover the grill. She jams a large knife past the meat and stirs the coals. "What kind of meat is that?" I ask. Beef.

When I get myself together, I return to the apartment. While I was gone, the youngest daughter brought out a map and asked Etel to show her where I'm moving. "It's far," she said when Etel pointed to Alabama on the map. I sit back down on the couch, and the mom stares at me with pain in her eyes. I'm trying hard to hold it together. "It's very sad," the son says.

"Yes, I'm very sad," I say.

When we go to leave, I shake the son's hand, bow to grandma and say "Namaste," shake hands with the youngest daughter, and then hug the mom and oldest daughter, before I head for the door. Damn, this is hard. They make me promise to call and e-mail them, and I say I will.

Tomorrow, Etel will return and take them to the new apartment, where they won't understand why they can't leave their old apartment without a 30-day notice and why the new landlord––who greeted them by saying, "Does anyone speak English here?"––won't hold the apartment until the end of the month for them. It's all so confusing to the Bhutanese family, and the old landlord won't budge. "30-days is California law," he'll say, "and I'm tired of them saying they're moving out, they're staying, they're moving."

What he may or may not know is that the landlord at other apartment they had lined up for $895, changed the price on them at the last minute, saying it was now $1,200, the same amount they're paying. I've never really understood what slum lords are, but now I know. They overcharge for crappy apartments in crappy parts of town and take advantage of people like the Bhutanese and their confusion.

After their failed attempt to set up a new apartment, Etel will drive them back to their old apartment, and the mom will turn to her and say, "I am sad Eric go. I learned so much from him." And that breaks my heart.

Part II Day 148: July 17, 2010 (dividing carrots by streets, and the white shoes that nearly took mine away)

Position: Soryteller

EDD Check: $250 per week ($750 balance left in award)

Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $1,300 (only $100 left to reach our goal)

Mexican Interlude Part II:

Theft is the product of desire. As in you have something I want, not necessarily need but want, and I either don't have the means to obtain it or the willpower to avoid the desire. Theft isn't easy to explain. Some people steal glasses from bars, even when they can afford to buy them, their judgement ruined by desire.

But there is also this element of dangling carrots in people's faces, the "haves" creating desire in the "have-nots." In cities like my hometown of Fresno, the carrots are separated from the carrot-less by distance and main thoroughfares––Herndon, Belmont, Hwy 99––and neighborhoods are mostly segregated by de facto. That's why major cities, such as New York, are shocking to me: the people with the most carrots live very near those with the least, though border streets keep them semi-separated (e.g. 110th in Manhattan).

With a large American and Canadian ex-pat population (10-12%), San Miguel de Allende is an anomaly in Mexico. While many parts of the country have descended into a drug war hell of deaths and decapitations, San Miguel remains blissfully high in the central desert. It's retained its colonial luster, and gringo dollars keep the economy moving, beer prices high, and the streets relatively safe. But the strange thing about this town is that while there are "good" and "bad" neighborhoods, many people have built mansions in the midst of poor neighborhoods, ignoring the common courtesy of unspoken segregation. Sure, from the outside many of these palatial spreads look inconspicuous behind their ten-foot high walls and spiked gates, but like tinted windows, we know who's inside: someone with lots of carrots.

Under unfortunate circumstances that I don't want to get into, I end up staying in a beautiful studio apartment in a section of nice San Miguel houses bordering the poor neighborhood of San Antonio, where crime is on the rise.

The first night after being out, I arrive back at around 3:30 a.m. (bars don't seem to have official closing times and it's easy to lose track of time). I take my bar smoked T-shirt off and hang it outside to air out, then sit down at the computer. Though I've heard the story of how a local man mixed up in drugs was recently decapitated (he was the exception not the rule), how a newspaper baron and his wife were kidnapped from here three years ago and he was held for ransom (dangled too many carrots), and how four years ago a serial rapist targeted foreign women (Americans), I feel relatively safe.

That's why when I hear the gate downstairs open and footsteps on the stairs, I think nothing of it. The neighbors must have been out late. And since they stopped and jangled my doorknob, they must also be drunk.

I look out the door window and only see a pair of white Adidas ascending to the third floor (I'm on the second), and my suspicions are confirmed: drunk neighbor. I return to the computer, but then I hear the footsteps descending the stairs. I meet them by my door, and just before I peer out, the metal screen on the window next to the door gets punched in: Boom!

Holy shit! I think, someone's coming inside. I yell, "Órale, vato," and slam the door-like window shut, hoping I crush hands or smash a face.

I hear the white Adidas scramble down the stairs and out the gate while I run to the kitchen window facing the alley and yell, "Policía, policía!" In two seconds, I no longer hear the Adidas slapping the cobblestone rocks of the streets. I grab a full tequila bottle the previous occupant left, and open the front door, looking to smack a head if he returns. I'm too scared to descend the stairs into the darkness and make sure the gate is secure.

I pace and then sit, shaking and unable to calm down. A friend from my school days, a lawyer living in Thousand Oaks, California, reads my distress on facebook, and talks to me through the instant messenger "Chat function" until I can sleep.

Tomorrow night will be worse, as I will anticipate a second attempt and awake every half hour. I will try sleeping with the TV and lights on. I will place a steak knife on the nightstand––to what? Commit murder in Mexico? I speculate on whom the robber was: probably the poor teenager around the corner who watched me move in with my oversized hiking backpack and laptop carrying case.

I grow skittish, and the next day, while I'm reading in the Jardín, a teenager and his friend, wearing white Adidas, will sit down next to me, and I'll want to confront them. Like a missing lunch in a classroom, everyone is now suspect. But white Adidas are just popular shoes right now, because there will be more kids and more Adidas in the Jardín, and any pair could belong to the mid-morning marauder just as easily as they could not.

And this paranoia, this sense that I'm no longer safe, is the price we pay, the carrot holders, the danglers.

Part II Day 143: July 12, 2010 (the story of Sidney, the voice of God, and his life in Mexico)

Position: Storyteller

Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $1,175* (see note below)

Mexico Interlude:

Two years ago, my friend Sidney went to Mexico with an engagement ring in his pocket. He didn't do this to surprise his girlfriend on the trip. He didn't even have a girlfriend, nor did he have any prospects of finding one. Though he was a 45-year-old who didn't look a day over thirty, women were not necessarily attracted to him. Some even said he was repulsive. And living with his 80-something-year-old mother in Houston probably didn't increase his odds at finding marital bliss late in life.

Being from Texas, Sidney could be considered a victim of his own racist and homophobic culture. He often says things that the more sensitive among us would find offensive, especially out of the mouth of anyone besides Sidney. You see, there's a child-like innocence about him, a pureness of heart, that makes his statements seem as harmless as the curious white child who inquires if black people are made of chocolate (true story from Bill Riddlesprigger––R.I.P.) or another child who once asked me why my gums were so big (they just are).

When Sidney came to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, two years ago, he brought two main questions along with that ring: 1) Could he find a Mexican wife (he announced his intentions to every Mexican woman we encountered, including the middle-aged bank teller)? 2) Would it be possible, since he is poor, to bury his dear mother in Mexico for less than he could in the U.S. (he inquired at a local casket dealer)? Sidney would often rant about the injustices in the U.S., about how medical bills bankrupted his elderly parents, and how his mother said Americans want to build the border wall to keep Americans in, not Mexicans out. I would listen to his complaints and nod my head.

After a month in Mexico, Sidney's questions went unanswered. But a year later, he received the answer to at least one of them. He returned to San Miguel, and while on a trip to Mexico City, he saw a pretty Mexican girl sitting in the bus station at Queretero. As one version goes, Sidney heard a voice, presumably God's, tell him to go and talk to the girl. He did. Only God knows what was said between them, and they parted ways with a promise to stay in touch.

Though an admitted technophobe, Sidney religiously sent and answered e-mails with his lady friend in Mexico after his return to Texas. Four or five months into their heated e-mail exchange, he asked her to marry him. She said yes. And after proving he was baptized in the name of Jesus, though the certificate was from a Mormon church, a large Catholic wedding ensued in Mexico, attended by all of her family and none of his. Even though he only speaks as much Spanish as she speaks English, which is very little, he moved to Jilotepec, an hour outside Mexico City, to live with her family.

While living in Mexico, his dear mother died last winter in the care facility in which she lived. Unfortunately for Sidney, no one notified him of her death for almost a month. By the time he returned to Texas, their Pakistani landlord had thrown out all of his mother's possessions. This meant he had nothing to remember his parents by. No nicknacks, no grandfather clock, not even pictures of his father, who served in WWII. Sidney felt this action was heartless and speculated about how the Pakistani family was able to afford the building in the first place (illegal arms sales in Pakistan being his initial guess).

Before returning to Mexico by bus, Sidney, who used to deal in antiques, sold off most of his possessions and antiques and resigned himself to a simpler life in Mexico with his pretty, 32-year-old wife. "I like nice things," he said in his soft voice. "Not because I'm homo or nothin'. I just like nice things." But his nice things were gone.

While he rents a decent two-bedroom apartment for $200 a month in Mexico, he hasn't been able to make much of a living. He had a job teaching English at a night school, but his wife objected out of jealousy (she thinks he likes the school's proprietor). "I ain't thinking of no other women or nothin' like that," he says. "She's jealous. That's just how Latina women are." And since his wife's flat stomach is now gestating and bulging with a baby, he must find a new way to provide for his expanding family. He's thinking of moving them to the border town of Matamoros, Mexico, and taking temp work over in Brownsville, TX, commuting daily by bus. I told him that's probably not a good idea.

Despite his troubles, Sidney says to me, "You need to get you a beautiful Mexican girl. Or maybe even just a pretty one. The thing about Mexico," he says, "is that there isn't any shame in being poor, because almost everyone is poor." I think that's what I find oddly appealing about Sidney's story, because I live in a culture where the subtext is that everyone is expected to be rich or famous. And if you don't at least have some modest success, as defined by those parameters, then you're made to feel like a failure.

(*Note: I'm impressed and flattered by all the kind donations we've received to help our Bhutanese family repay their relocation loan. Thank you all so much. I'm touched. We only need about 300 more dollars)

Part II Day 135: July 4, 2010 (the caring manager, downsizing apartments, grandpa's departure, and unpronounceable sounds of good credit)

Position: Volunteer

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 170

EDD Check: $250 per week (with $1,250 balance left)

Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $595

Hours Volunteered: 2.5

The Bhutanese grandmother is out on the apartment complex's balcony when Etel and I arrive. We greet her, and Etel points to her own mouth and asks about the tooth that was causing the grandma pain. The grandmother makes a pulling motion from her mouth, as if the dentist extracted her tooth the old fashioned way, with pliers. "Much better?" Etel says. The grandma smiles.

As we walk into the apartment, we're followed by a man I assume is one of their Somalian neighbors, until I hear him speak. "I want to talk to Nari," he says with a soft voice and American accent. "I'm the manager," he tells us.

Nari, the oldest daughter, emerges from the back bedrooms. The manager says, "The owner would really like to keep you in here. He's willing to work with you on the price." This is the first we've heard about any moves. Nari tells him the apartment she's looking at is $895 a month. "Oh, well, he won't go that low. It's too bad. We really like having you around."

The manager looks at Etel and I and says, "They're probably the best tenants we've ever had. Look at this place; it's like no one ever lived here. They take their shoes off, so the carpet looks like new. But they don't need the extra bedroom since the grandpa died. He was a nice man. It was sad," he nods toward the grandma, "they used to go everywhere together. I never saw them apart." He looks at the daughter and says, "They were together, what, sixty-something years?"

"Did he die of a heart attack or something?" I ask.

"Yeah, a massive heart attack," he says. "I tried to revive him, but he never regained consciousness."

There is a minute of funeral silence. "Do you know CPR?" I ask.

He looks at me as if I've assumed a black man wouldn't know CPR. "Yeah. I was a medic in the army," he says with pride. I picture him bent over the frail, elderly Bhutanese grandpa, blowing air into his unresponsive lungs. I assume the family had no idea what this kind manager was doing to their grandfather. I can only imagine how horrific the scene was for everyone, as the grandfather's body lay still.

We move on to the lesson for the day, which includes reviewing the parts of the human body. The mother is very good at naming body parts––lips, mouth, nose, head––but both the mom and dad struggle when they're asked to write some of the words down. They also have trouble pronouncing some of the sounds they don't have in Nepali, such as the "th" sound in "teeth." I keep putting my tongue between my teeth to show them how they have to lisp the sound. It's as if their tongues won't go into that position. They begin growing a little flustered, so we ask them to tell us some body part words in Nepali in order to show them how hard it is for us to pronounce some of their sounds.

The grandmother, who normally alternates between napping on the couch in the background or sitting in a kitchen chair and staring blankly at our lessons, becomes animated when she hears the Nepali words. She points to her toes, leg, arm, mouth, and hair in rapid succession and says the words, and we try to repeat them. We all laugh. We continue on with the lesson, but grandma keeps naming body parts in the background, until the dad tells her to stop. She returns to silently sitting on the couch.

When we're done for the day, the oldest daughter comes out from the bedroom and asks us to look at an official form. It's a questionnaire for continuing their welfare benefits. I fill it out for them, and we say we'll mail it, since the deadline is tomorrow. It would be unfortunate if their payments––and, therefore, their ability to pursue happiness––were delayed do to the celebration of the Declaration of Independence.

Etel asks me to explain to the oldest daughter that we want to help her with the IOM loan repayment. I tell Nari I spoke with the IOM people, and that if she doesn't repay the loan, it will ruin her credit, and if she ever wants to buy a car or needs a school loan, they will deny her.

"Oh, no," she says, "I don't want to have bad credit." It turns out she completely understands her situation and is going to use the difference between the rent at their new apartment and this one to start paying down the entire family's debt. We explain that we've started collecting money from family and friends to help her pay the loan even faster, since she won't begin working for another year (her medical assistant training lasts two years).

"I'm sigh," she says.

"What?" we say.

"I'm sigh."

I look at Etel, who says, "Oh, you're shy. Say 'shy.'" The daughter tries, but she can't make the "sh" sound. I spell out on paper the difference between "sigh" and "shy," but the "sh" sound isn't in her range. "Don't be shy," Etel continues, "we want to help you." The daughter is very humble and thankful, and says, "I want my grandmother and I to both have good credit." We don't tell her that an 82-year-old woman doesn't need to worry so much about credit; we just act like grandma will live forever.

Part II Day 124: June 23, 2010 (the unemployed philanthropist gets outbid by the girl from brazil, and I eat like a starving artist)

Position: Philanthropist

Number of Days Officially Unemployed: 159

EDD Check: $250 per week

Money Raised for Bhutanese Family: $370

The IRC's First Things First school, where our Bhutanese family's mother goes during the day to learn English and other life and work skills, is holding a fundraiser this evening. The flier doesn't say much more than the open house at the school grounds will include two sessions, music, and food. I assume we're going to eat some great food, listen to some music, and drop $15 or so in a cash jar.

So I'm a little surprised when we sign in that we're handed auction paddles with a number on one side and a picture of a refugee child on the other, along with a list of items on which we can bid. The items aren't things you take home, but things you can buy for the school. The list includes everything from a $10,000 playground at the top all the way down to $9 worth of diapers, which is probably what I'll end up bidding on. The school has to make $25,000 worth of upgrades and improvements to gain certification as a childcare facility, which will then make them self-sufficient and eligible for reimbursements and other forms of funding. (You can read more about the school and donate here if you like.)

When we sit down, the school's coordinator talks about what the goals are, and then a couple former students, African women dressed in long skirts and black Muslim headscarves, tell their stories about getting jobs after "graduating" from the school. Before the auction begins, the coordinator tell us to help ourselves to the food table, where there's Ethiopian rice, tofu spring rolls, and Indian samosas. It's about six o' clock, and I haven't eaten dinner, so I can't take my eyes off the food table, which is on the opposite side of the event. "You always look so desperate around food. Why is that?" Etel says. I have a reputation for sustained attacks on food tables at parties––well past the point of being full. I don't know what it is about appetizers on tables, but I lose all self-control.

(Here I am caught in the act at Etel's birthday party the very next night)

When the professional auctioneer begins the bidding process with the $10,000 playground, no one is surprised that bidding paddles don't rise. People in the small crowd of about 50 even chuckle. In a reverse move on how normal auctions work, he drops the bidding price to $5,000, then $2,000, then $1,000, then $500, and still no paddles rise. He says, "How about a hundred bucks? Can I get anyone to give me a hundred dollars for that playground?" Etel raises her paddle, being the first bidder. I look at her, surprised.

"What?" she says. "I gave myself a budget of $200." Well, I had no idea. "What did you think, that you were going to come to a fundraiser and not spend any money?" I tell her I thought maybe I'd give ten to fifteen dollars. The bidding moves on, and a young man drops $500 on another item. People begin bidding hundreds here and there, and I'm impressed. I get caught up in the moment, in the spirit of the thing, and want to bid. I peruse the list and think maybe I can bid on an $85 item.

When the time arrives, I hesitate, and someone else bids on the $85 item. The aucioneer asks if anyone else also wants to bid $85, and he'll "move the money around." I decide it's too much, but I see a $50 item (a crib, I think) on the list, and decide that's more reasonable for me. He asks for bids on the $50 cribs, which they need three of, and my paddle raising is met by eight or more other people. I guess fifty was the magic number. Etel leans over and says, "Fifty dollars is pretty impressive for a guy who's unemployed."

Maybe it's not the wisest move for me right now, but in the big picture––where I spend money on much dumber things––I can afford to help the school, which does great work. Plus I feel like I scored some hero points with Etel, who finishes by bidding on bed sheets.

With the auction done, a Burmese man begins playing beautiful music on his saung, a Burmese string harp, and I head straight for the food table. I impatiently wait while some children dish rice and samosas onto their plates. I go light at first––one chicken samosa, one spring roll piece, and a little Ethiopian rice––but when I see a man putting more food out, I return for seconds. I also eat at least two of the small desserts being passed around by Somalian women. Etel looks at me downing my second helping of food and says, "So desperate."

Part II Day 121: June 20, 2010 (banks are for people with money, go out for a long "A," and grandma's bureaucratic tooth pain)

Position: Volunteer

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.