The Middle of Everywhere (24 page)

By now all of the girls looked a little stunned. This class had covered too much too fast. The bell rang. These girls needed more discussions. Could they teach their mothers to do breast exams? What was a Pap smear? A pelvic exam?

Many of the mothers had never had a physical exam or any health care because they wouldn't see a male doctor and there were no female doctors in their areas. Many women from Africa had medical problems as a result of female genital mutilation. I wished we could have a campaign that explained the health problems associated with this terrible practice.

One fifteen-year-old girl from Tajikistan had been taken from school for an arranged marriage. The girl's father was dead and her mother had been afraid her daughter would lose her virginity in America. So she lied about her daughter's age and signed papers giving permission for an arranged marriage to an older man. The girl went from learning grammar and fractions to being a pregnant wife in a matter of a few weeks.

An Albanian girl became pregnant while in a refugee camp. Her pregnancy was discovered here when she had her routine physical. She was six-months pregnant and swore she had never had sex. It was unclear if she even knew what sex was and that it had a connection to the pregnancy. Her mother was dead and no one had ever talked to her about the facts of life. Because of malnutrition and trauma, she'd never had regular periods. I asked her if she had been raped and she stared at me confused. It was a stupid question. The term "consensual sex" had no meaning to a young woman who had been scared, hungry, and hopeless in a refugee camp.

The class was over. Hurried and cursory as it was, this would be all the health information these girls received. There was so much more to teach—about nutrition, exercise, stress management, addictions, and regular checkups. Still, I was grateful to the health educator for what she did say. I walked to the library to check on Homera.

Day 170—May 19, 2000

Mrs. Kaye announced she would not be returning next year. She had accepted a job in another city. She didn't explain why, but I suspected that dealing with the gang kids had exhausted her. Nobody in this class liked her decision. Velida and Tharaya looked as if they were about to cry. Homera said, "You are my best friend in America." Anton and Faisal poked at each other to distract themselves from their feelings. Both Liem and Nadia looked suddenly depressed.

Alberto asked, "You're joking, aren't you?"

But Cahn and Khoi were the most upset. Khoi said, "I will move with you. I will help you at the new school." Cahn shouted out, "If you are not here at school, I am not here." Then he said, "I am a little kid. I want my teacher." He began to suck his thumb. He tried to make a joke of this, but the thumb-sucking looked pretty genuine. The other students stared at him in amazement. Patti asked softly, "What are you doing, Cahn?"

Nobody, except Alberto, really wanted to leave school. The world looked much colder and harder outside the school. Refugee students are understandably afraid of change. Some gang members purposefLilly fail twelfth grade so they can stay in school another year. One Laotian girl attempted suicide on graduation day.

As I watched the students react to Mrs. Kaye's news, I realized how much we all had changed over the year, how we had all grown together. Homera was more relaxed. She still dressed in her traditional way, but she spoke in class and sometimes even joked around. She looked everyone in the eye now, even boys. Only when her husband showed up did she become an obedient, demure wife.

Miraculously, Anton had not been beaten up by Cahn and Khoi. He hadn't calmed down much, but his English was better and he had made it through his hard first year. He still didn't have any real friends although it wasn't for lack of trying. He pestered Velida and Tharaya daily to be his girlfriends. His mother had forgiven me for suggesting therapy. Recently she had sent little cakes to class to celebrate Easter.

Patti was pregnant. Apparently the sex education class hadn't come in time. She hadn't publicly identified the father, but I suspected it was Khoi. He had been especially kind to Patti, and several times recently, he had actually turned in his assignments.

Cahn had started using heroin. Twice this month he'd fallen asleep on his desk. Mrs. Kaye had referred him to the drug counselor, but he wouldn't go. Regardless of where Mrs. Kaye worked, I didn't think Cahn would return to school next year.

Velida rarely came to school now. Her tumors were back and she had many severe headaches. But whenever she came, she was cheerful and kind to others. She was grateful for every small blessing.

Zlatko, Liem, and Nadia had all progressed academically. They were in regular classes pursuing their long-term goals of college educations. Zlatko and Nadia continued to think of helping people in their home countries. Liem wanted set a good example for his younger siblings and to make his parents happy.

Alberto wouldn't be back next year. He had a job at a body shop and didn't want to continue school. He had made some Mexican friends and had avoided the gangs. His English had improved and he seemed happier.

Faisal had been arrested twice. He had made very bad choices about friends and activities. He had learned all the wrong things about America. I felt sorry for him and for his parents. I worried about what would happen to him over the summer.

Tharaya had blossomed. She was a resilient girl with good coping skills. She had been awarded a summer school scholarship to the university. Her family and her community were very proud of her.

Mrs. Kaye announced that today she would read "I am from" poems, an identity exercise. Many teens love poetry, which allows them to express their feelings and to bracket the past with words that heal. She explained that the assignment was to write poems that included something about place, religion, and food. My "I am from" poem began this book.

Mrs. Kaye read poems from former students. Senada had written, "I am from parents that always had pain inside them and from the big beautiful oceans that I flew above." Sara had written, "I am from Shiraz, the city of flowers, the city of poems. I am from teachers that beat children with thick sticks." Boa had written, "I am from a house made of leaves, and when it rained, water dropped into my bed." Pablo had written, "I am from people who work really hard to get minimum wage. I am from a family who is always missing the ones in Mexico."

Vu had written, "I live in a world of peace, freedom, loneliness." Koa had written, "My heart is breaking / I'm going for a long walk / to forget the past." Manuel had written, "I dream I have a ton of gold / So I can help my family/And I help other people so no one would be homeless." Ivan had written, "The war begins when two / or more politicians decide / to get more land/power and money./But they do not care/about the people / the people suffer and do not want war."

Khairi had written, "I am from the country of sadness and dying people /because of too many wars /1 am the one who got lost in this world / and I do not know what my real nation is." Zohra had written, "I am from Afghanistan / in the heart of Asia / with high mountains that hold emeralds and rubies. /1 am from a country that has rushing rivers/that wash the blood of people / who lost their bodies." Lana had written, "I am from a country/where the sun stopped shining, where the butterflies stopped flying and where mothers' hearts started crying." Tavan had written, "I am from where the waterfalls drop like a bird in the sky/From a place where the land is green and beautiful all summer long and in the fall the leaves fall like diamonds from the sky." Mrs. Kaye read these beautiful poems, then she said, "Now write your own poems for tomorrow."

"
I would like to. remember nothing.
"

Jasminka's teacher wanted us to meet. She had great respect for Jasminka, who was in school and also worked to help her mother support her younger siblings. I interviewed Jasminka in the cafeteria at our community college where she was studying business administration.

Jasminka was twenty, a tall and strong-looking young woman with straight dark brown hair. She wore a striped sweater, tight jeans, and earrings shaped like camels. I mispronounced her name and Jasminka looked at me angrily. When I apologized and corrected myself, she smiled and opened up to me. Over grilled-cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, she told me her story.

Jasminka was a Muslim Albanian born in Kosovo in 1981. She was the second of seven children. At the time of her birth, demonstrators marched daily in Pristina and people were being shot and put into prison. Her grandfather was in his tenth year of prison for protesting on behalf of the Albanian population. The year of her birth, her father developed heart problems. However, shortly after she was born, things quieted down for a while. Jasminka's family had "sort of a normal of a life."

Then in 1989, Pristina was once again in crisis. Schools were gassed by the Serbs, and soon all Albanian children were being educated in basements by volunteers. Jasminka said that, under these conditions, it was hard to learn. The teachers were compassionate, but they had no books, desks, or even paper.

People were killed in the streets, arrested at their jobs, and taken away forever. Her oldest brother, who was in the Kosovar Liberation Army, slipped out of the country. In 1995 Jasminka's father died of his heart problems. When Jasminka told me this, she lost her matter-of-fact tone. She hadn't cried when she talked about the corpses in the streets, her grandfather in prison, or her brother fleeing for his life. But she sobbed at the mention of her father.

Clearly he had been a good man. Unlike some Muslim men, he'd wanted his daughters to attend college and to go out with their friends. He'd told his family, "I love education and I love freedom. Why would I not want these things for my daughters?" He'd also said, "My girls are good girls. I can trust them anywhere with the family honor."

I dug out some tissue and waited while Jasminka cried. Finally she wadded up the Kleenex and smiled bravely. Her soup was cold and she pushed it away. She said, "I am too fat." I said, "You have the American attitudes toward weight." She shrugged and sighed, "It is the universal attitude now."

Jasminka looked at me as if to say, "Listen carefully. You really need to understand what I will tell you next." Then she continued. After her father's death, the family was strapped for cash. The second oldest brother drove a delivery truck. He was quite successful, but every day he was in danger of being shot.

In 1998 this brother was arrested and imprisoned for his KLA activities. Jasminka's voice rose as she told me about this horrible time. Many men got sick or died in prison. Others went crazy from fear and torture. In April 1999, many Albanians in Kosovo were slaughtered by the Serbs. Jasminka trembled as she told me of the night the Serbs came to her house. She said, "The Serbs did terrible things to women."

Seeing her struggle to control her face, I extended my hand. She was quiet for a few minutes. Then she said, "I would like to remember nothing."

I said, "It's hard to forget and hard to remember."

She said, "My mother told me to pretend I was having a bad dream."

She swallowed and continued. Shortly after that night, Jasminka, her mother, and her four younger siblings escaped to Macedonia by train. Jasminka said, "I had to leave my kitten behind. I don't know if she is alive today." Of the journey, Jasminka said, "We were loaded like cattle into the cars." Her brother had escaped from prison, but he stayed behind to fight in the KLA.

At the Macedonian border they were stalled for several days, sleeping in muddy fields beside the train. They had no food, water, or blankets, not even newspapers to cover their heads. Then they were admitted into a crowded and unsanitary camp. During the five weeks her family was there, they were not able to take showers or have a hot meal.

Jasminka said her mother helped her survive this place. Her mother believed that even the worst life was better than death. Jasminka said, "I don't believe that, but our lives did get better."

After five weeks in the camp, the family was flown to the United States and assigned to Lincoln. They would have much preferred to live in Germany or Sweden; none of them spoke English and they hated to be so far from their own country. But they had no money, no papers, and no choices. Jasminka said, "My mother cried all the way across the ocean."

In Lincoln she and her mother found jobs sorting mail. She worked nights and finished her senior year in high school during the day. At first, she was terrified of Americans. Some students were racist, but the teachers were kind and she loved to learn. She said, "My father would be proud to see me in college."

After high school, Jasminka had enrolled in the community college. She said, "I made some friends at college. One American girl has helped me in every way she could. I invited her home to meet my family. But most of the students are too immature and wild."

She was deeply upset about pregnancies without marriage. She also disliked some of her classmates' sloppy dress and their obsession with getting high or drunk. She said, "Sometimes guys I hardly know put their hands on me." She made a grimace of disgust. "They should respect women more."

Jasminka showed me a picture of her mother, a pretty woman who looked like Jasminka, and she said, "I could never lie to my mother. She would look in my eyes and know I was lying."

Jasminka said she would not date until she was ready to marry, after she finished her business degree and found a good job. She would never marry an American, because he wouldn't understand her history or her religion and she would never marry anyone who didn't love her mother. Jasminka said, "I go out with my friends. My mother even trusts me with young men. She knows I will never betray the memory of my father."

Jasminka said she had bad dreams and flashbacks. She often woke in the night thinking she was in a basement being bombed. She worried she would go crazy if anyone in her family died. On the other hand, she was hopeful about her life now. She was working for her family and for her own future. Her little brothers would not need to serve in the KLA. In school it was hard to compete with students whose first language was English. She had trouble understanding her teachers and she couldn't afford to buy all the textbooks. Still, she was passing her courses and hoped to be an office manager someday.