Tomorrow is a big day around these parts. Our nine year old is having surgery. It's fairly minor, but will nonetheless require several days' hospitalization. Unfortunately, our local hospital does not perform the type of surgery that she needs, so we'll be headed to a larger city, which complicates our plans. I had hoped to have a journal page posted by now, but it just hasn't come together and time is not on my side this week. As soon as we move beyond this hurdle, I'll be keen to get back here and post a new page.
Before I go, I just want to thank you guys, so much, for reading along during the last four posts. Your comments, as always, touched my heart and made me feel that writing about the experience was a good thing. How to express myself here is still very much a work in progress and I am forever grateful for your support and kind words.
I'll be back soon.
Hugs,
Christie
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
A fresh look around . . . the end, for now
Continued from parts 1, 2 and 3 . . .
Yesterday, I spent most of the day with my new friend. We visited the public library, where we registered her for a card and she happily borrowed several thick novels. We sorted through her food bank hamper so that I could identify a number of items she's never seen or tasted. We did a little supplementary grocery shopping, we called up the Canada Revenue Agency to ask a few questions, we stopped by a government office to ask a few more questions, we attempted to access a government web site for some account information and determined that password she'd been given was just not going to work, and we filled out some forms. There is no end to the forms.
There was a time, not so long ago, before she and her children made the move from the motel to her little apartment, when she needed me almost every day. We'd blithely embark on one seemingly simple task and three additional and essential corollary tasks would present themselves for immediate action. My youngest was undergoing the usual bouts of new-kindergartner flus and colds at exactly the same time and the husband had to stand in for me on a couple of occasions, pushing back meetings so that he could stay with our youngest for a few hours until I could relieve him. The youngest even came along with us once or twice, upset and disoriented.
At the time, every task on our interminable list of to-dos seemed urgent and long overdue. It felt as if there was no individual support, other than me, to get her through this phase. Yes, there were many, many agencies from which we could seek assistance, but they appeared not to be connected, geographically or otherwise, in any meaningful way and there was certainly no guide or manual that set out the priorities or the appropriate settlement steps or the prerequisites to the steps.
One settlement agency, for example, helps with employment, but not housing. Another helps with housing, but not the income assistance required to pay for the housing. One agency offers financial assistance, but requires a bank account first, and there is no one to help with that, even though my new friend had never had a bank account and had no idea how to choose a bank, acquire an account or make deposits or withdrawals. And there were the usual hefty service fees associated with even the most basic accounts. When I explained to one customer service representative that the fees were excessive, that they were taking food out of the mouths of my friend's children, he agreed to waive the fees for three months. Would that have happened if I hadn't been there to advocate? I just don't know. And you know we'll be back there in three months, begging for an extension to the fee waiver.
I won't lie. There were moments when I wondered how, exactly, this was supposed to work. She never asked for help with anything other than the most fundamental human needs -- food, shelter, clothing, a source of income. And yet, there were moments when I resented the imposition. It's a hard thing to admit and even harder, I suppose, to accept in myself. But there it was. And of course the resentment was immediately followed by the complementary emotions of guilt and shame. How could I, for one moment, feel imposed upon, me with my car and home and winter boots and freedom from persecution and torture?
Ultimately, it was good to sort out all of those feelings. The bad along with the good, the generosity built into the system and the inequities. There is no doubt that I have had the great privilege of learning and growing in this and of extending exactly the kind of help to a family in need that I would hope to receive if the circumstances were reversed, as they easily could have been, but for accident of birth.
She's managing quite well on her own now, still volunteering at the drop-in centre while her children are in school and while she waits for permission to work. From here on in, I think we'll probably get together about once a week for errands or coffee or to fill out forms. We've begun to talk about how we can turn her experience into something from which other newcomers can benefit. There is still work to do and in the coming weeks, when the immediate pressures hopefully begin to subside, we'll get to work on that.
I promise to keep you posted.
Yesterday, I spent most of the day with my new friend. We visited the public library, where we registered her for a card and she happily borrowed several thick novels. We sorted through her food bank hamper so that I could identify a number of items she's never seen or tasted. We did a little supplementary grocery shopping, we called up the Canada Revenue Agency to ask a few questions, we stopped by a government office to ask a few more questions, we attempted to access a government web site for some account information and determined that password she'd been given was just not going to work, and we filled out some forms. There is no end to the forms.
There was a time, not so long ago, before she and her children made the move from the motel to her little apartment, when she needed me almost every day. We'd blithely embark on one seemingly simple task and three additional and essential corollary tasks would present themselves for immediate action. My youngest was undergoing the usual bouts of new-kindergartner flus and colds at exactly the same time and the husband had to stand in for me on a couple of occasions, pushing back meetings so that he could stay with our youngest for a few hours until I could relieve him. The youngest even came along with us once or twice, upset and disoriented.
At the time, every task on our interminable list of to-dos seemed urgent and long overdue. It felt as if there was no individual support, other than me, to get her through this phase. Yes, there were many, many agencies from which we could seek assistance, but they appeared not to be connected, geographically or otherwise, in any meaningful way and there was certainly no guide or manual that set out the priorities or the appropriate settlement steps or the prerequisites to the steps.
One settlement agency, for example, helps with employment, but not housing. Another helps with housing, but not the income assistance required to pay for the housing. One agency offers financial assistance, but requires a bank account first, and there is no one to help with that, even though my new friend had never had a bank account and had no idea how to choose a bank, acquire an account or make deposits or withdrawals. And there were the usual hefty service fees associated with even the most basic accounts. When I explained to one customer service representative that the fees were excessive, that they were taking food out of the mouths of my friend's children, he agreed to waive the fees for three months. Would that have happened if I hadn't been there to advocate? I just don't know. And you know we'll be back there in three months, begging for an extension to the fee waiver.
I won't lie. There were moments when I wondered how, exactly, this was supposed to work. She never asked for help with anything other than the most fundamental human needs -- food, shelter, clothing, a source of income. And yet, there were moments when I resented the imposition. It's a hard thing to admit and even harder, I suppose, to accept in myself. But there it was. And of course the resentment was immediately followed by the complementary emotions of guilt and shame. How could I, for one moment, feel imposed upon, me with my car and home and winter boots and freedom from persecution and torture?
Ultimately, it was good to sort out all of those feelings. The bad along with the good, the generosity built into the system and the inequities. There is no doubt that I have had the great privilege of learning and growing in this and of extending exactly the kind of help to a family in need that I would hope to receive if the circumstances were reversed, as they easily could have been, but for accident of birth.
She's managing quite well on her own now, still volunteering at the drop-in centre while her children are in school and while she waits for permission to work. From here on in, I think we'll probably get together about once a week for errands or coffee or to fill out forms. We've begun to talk about how we can turn her experience into something from which other newcomers can benefit. There is still work to do and in the coming weeks, when the immediate pressures hopefully begin to subside, we'll get to work on that.
I promise to keep you posted.
Monday, November 7, 2011
A fresh look around . . . part 3
Continued from parts 1 and 2 . . .
After our second meeting, I googled refugee process in Canada. I wanted to know how it actually works, when a person decides not to return to her homeland, but to present herself to an immigration officer instead. There was plenty of detailed information on the process, but what stuck with me were words like persecution, torture, death.
The bottom line, it seemed to me then, as it does now, is that a refugee is a person seeking protection. This is the sentiment I've carried around for weeks now and even though my new friend is older than I am and her kids are older than mine and she patiently gives me advice on home remedies for my girls who are both battling unending colds, I have found myself feeling protective of her.
When we'd encounter an official or customer service agent who was less than helpful, dismissive or even rude upon learning her status, I'd think, don't you realize that this is someone in need of protection?
Much of what she needed in those early weeks had to be accomplished, or at least initiated, by telephone. She is fluently trilingual, but English is her third language and she has a moderately strong accent. Phone calls tended to be difficult, not only because of the accent, but also because she was occasionally confused by the instructions she was given. Things are done very differently here.
I started making calls for her. Before long, I had a little introductory speech. Hello. I'm calling on behalf of a friend who is new to the country. Her name is . . . My English is a little better than hers. Then I'd ask for whatever she needed or leave a message. We left lots of messages.
In addition to the phone calls, I drove her places. We crisscrossed the city, again and again, from one government office to the next, to pick up forms, to drop off forms, to ask for forms she should have been given weeks ago, and so on and so forth. We visited potential doctors' offices, possible apartment buildings, the new landlord's office in the building she eventually chose, the kids' schools, community centres, food banks, employment service agencies, settlement service agencies, various church charities, the bank, the hydro utility -- all of which involved multiple visits and so very many forms.
And what did we learn?
We learned that ours is a giving community. Early on, when I knew nothing of the agencies that exist to support those in need in my city, I worried that it would be impossible for a family with absolutely nothing to find sufficient food, shelter and clothing. And yet, she and her children now live in a small, sparsely furnished apartment. There is food in the cupboards and warm winter clothing in the closets.
During those first few days, the agencies we approached seemed impenetrable. At first, we went to the wrong places and asked the wrong questions and filled out the wrong forms.
We learned very quickly that it is essential to ask the right questions. Even if we didn't know the right questions, we kept asking questions, everywhere we went. Sometimes, we got an answer we didn't expect -- news of a service no one had previously mentioned; a way to avoid a fee she couldn't possibly afford; a benefit her children desperately need.
We learned that while there are some out there who couldn't care less about helping persons in need -- even if, in fact, it is an integral part of their job description -- there are also extraordinary people who go above and beyond the call of duty every single day. And they do so in an environment in which the need far outweighs the resources and the people in need far outnumber the people who can help.
We learned that patience and faith are part of the process.
We learned that she might just be okay in all this, even though there is still a long way to go.
***
There is one more post to come, I think, on this subject. I'd like to describe a few of the people we met and write a little about the lasting impact of the past month. Then we're back to journal pages. I'll post number 48 on Thursday.
After our second meeting, I googled refugee process in Canada. I wanted to know how it actually works, when a person decides not to return to her homeland, but to present herself to an immigration officer instead. There was plenty of detailed information on the process, but what stuck with me were words like persecution, torture, death.
The bottom line, it seemed to me then, as it does now, is that a refugee is a person seeking protection. This is the sentiment I've carried around for weeks now and even though my new friend is older than I am and her kids are older than mine and she patiently gives me advice on home remedies for my girls who are both battling unending colds, I have found myself feeling protective of her.
When we'd encounter an official or customer service agent who was less than helpful, dismissive or even rude upon learning her status, I'd think, don't you realize that this is someone in need of protection?
Much of what she needed in those early weeks had to be accomplished, or at least initiated, by telephone. She is fluently trilingual, but English is her third language and she has a moderately strong accent. Phone calls tended to be difficult, not only because of the accent, but also because she was occasionally confused by the instructions she was given. Things are done very differently here.
I started making calls for her. Before long, I had a little introductory speech. Hello. I'm calling on behalf of a friend who is new to the country. Her name is . . . My English is a little better than hers. Then I'd ask for whatever she needed or leave a message. We left lots of messages.
In addition to the phone calls, I drove her places. We crisscrossed the city, again and again, from one government office to the next, to pick up forms, to drop off forms, to ask for forms she should have been given weeks ago, and so on and so forth. We visited potential doctors' offices, possible apartment buildings, the new landlord's office in the building she eventually chose, the kids' schools, community centres, food banks, employment service agencies, settlement service agencies, various church charities, the bank, the hydro utility -- all of which involved multiple visits and so very many forms.
And what did we learn?
We learned that ours is a giving community. Early on, when I knew nothing of the agencies that exist to support those in need in my city, I worried that it would be impossible for a family with absolutely nothing to find sufficient food, shelter and clothing. And yet, she and her children now live in a small, sparsely furnished apartment. There is food in the cupboards and warm winter clothing in the closets.
During those first few days, the agencies we approached seemed impenetrable. At first, we went to the wrong places and asked the wrong questions and filled out the wrong forms.
We learned very quickly that it is essential to ask the right questions. Even if we didn't know the right questions, we kept asking questions, everywhere we went. Sometimes, we got an answer we didn't expect -- news of a service no one had previously mentioned; a way to avoid a fee she couldn't possibly afford; a benefit her children desperately need.
We learned that while there are some out there who couldn't care less about helping persons in need -- even if, in fact, it is an integral part of their job description -- there are also extraordinary people who go above and beyond the call of duty every single day. And they do so in an environment in which the need far outweighs the resources and the people in need far outnumber the people who can help.
We learned that patience and faith are part of the process.
We learned that she might just be okay in all this, even though there is still a long way to go.
***
There is one more post to come, I think, on this subject. I'd like to describe a few of the people we met and write a little about the lasting impact of the past month. Then we're back to journal pages. I'll post number 48 on Thursday.
Friday, November 4, 2011
A fresh look around . . . part 2
Continued from yesterday's post . . .
I picked her up the following week right where we'd left off, at the drop-in centre. She'd asked that I meet her inside, as she had an appointment that might take longer than expected. I parked the car and entered via the back entrance, where a group of gravelly voiced men were gathered, smoking and laughing and swearing. One apologized for his language as I approached and held the door for me.
Inside and to the left, tables and a food service area. To the right, more tables, the washing machines against a wall, and computers, two of which were occupied by men playing solitaire and Bejeweled. Around a corner, a carpeted meeting area with two large tables. My new friend was seated at one, her back to me, speaking softly to a nurse practitioner. No privacy really and nowhere for me to sit and wait, unannounced, but a few feet away from her in a row of empty chairs. My ears honed in. She was crying. There was despair in her voice; it hadn't been there when we first met, or had it been there all along and I failed to notice?
Her children missed their father. Her daughter cried every night for him. They'd been in the motel too long. The children hated it there. The apartment search had thus far been fruitless. She had her own medical issues to manage and they were becoming overwhelming. The nurse practitioner was sympathetic, murmuring reassurances in soothing tones.
They stood after a few minutes. She turned to leave and quickly wiped away her tears when she saw me. After a few words of nebulous encouragement, the nurse practitioner was on to the next patient, while we checked on my new friend's laundry. Wet clothes and no available dryers. She'd dry them at my house, I announced, and we bagged the clothes and ventured out into fall sunshine.
Had she eaten? No. Alright then. Let's start with lunch. Her eyes filled up again and I searched my purse for the Kleenex I keep handy for the kids' runny noses and sticky fingers. I suggested a nearby cafe that serves an African curry I thought she might like.
At lunch we talked about her home country, a place I'd searched on Wikipedia the night before. She told me of its topographical beauty. We spoke very little of her present situation while we ate. She was not fond of the curry. Too much sauce. It stung a little, not being able to offer her a slice of home. Why did the chef have to put too much sauce? Hadn't she been through enough already? Impossibly, I had hoped that lunch would be perfect and make everything all better. It was going to be a long road to better.
After lunch, back at my house, her laundry spinning in the dryer, we reviewed the list of approved apartment buildings she'd been given. If memory serves, there were six buildings; they were owned by the only landlords in town willing to take on social assistance recipients.
She is a refugee claimant, you see, who came here with nothing but her children and a suitcase of clothing. Near daily laundry and the struggle to be seen and heard are her realities.
To be continued . . .
I picked her up the following week right where we'd left off, at the drop-in centre. She'd asked that I meet her inside, as she had an appointment that might take longer than expected. I parked the car and entered via the back entrance, where a group of gravelly voiced men were gathered, smoking and laughing and swearing. One apologized for his language as I approached and held the door for me.
Inside and to the left, tables and a food service area. To the right, more tables, the washing machines against a wall, and computers, two of which were occupied by men playing solitaire and Bejeweled. Around a corner, a carpeted meeting area with two large tables. My new friend was seated at one, her back to me, speaking softly to a nurse practitioner. No privacy really and nowhere for me to sit and wait, unannounced, but a few feet away from her in a row of empty chairs. My ears honed in. She was crying. There was despair in her voice; it hadn't been there when we first met, or had it been there all along and I failed to notice?
Her children missed their father. Her daughter cried every night for him. They'd been in the motel too long. The children hated it there. The apartment search had thus far been fruitless. She had her own medical issues to manage and they were becoming overwhelming. The nurse practitioner was sympathetic, murmuring reassurances in soothing tones.
They stood after a few minutes. She turned to leave and quickly wiped away her tears when she saw me. After a few words of nebulous encouragement, the nurse practitioner was on to the next patient, while we checked on my new friend's laundry. Wet clothes and no available dryers. She'd dry them at my house, I announced, and we bagged the clothes and ventured out into fall sunshine.
Had she eaten? No. Alright then. Let's start with lunch. Her eyes filled up again and I searched my purse for the Kleenex I keep handy for the kids' runny noses and sticky fingers. I suggested a nearby cafe that serves an African curry I thought she might like.
At lunch we talked about her home country, a place I'd searched on Wikipedia the night before. She told me of its topographical beauty. We spoke very little of her present situation while we ate. She was not fond of the curry. Too much sauce. It stung a little, not being able to offer her a slice of home. Why did the chef have to put too much sauce? Hadn't she been through enough already? Impossibly, I had hoped that lunch would be perfect and make everything all better. It was going to be a long road to better.
After lunch, back at my house, her laundry spinning in the dryer, we reviewed the list of approved apartment buildings she'd been given. If memory serves, there were six buildings; they were owned by the only landlords in town willing to take on social assistance recipients.
She is a refugee claimant, you see, who came here with nothing but her children and a suitcase of clothing. Near daily laundry and the struggle to be seen and heard are her realities.
To be continued . . .
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Taking a fresh look around
It began simply enough.
Several weeks ago, I signed up to volunteer at a community event -- a short morning commitment with an additional request that I pick up a fellow volunteer who needed a drive. That is how it began.
I picked her up in front of a tiny motel that I'd never noticed before, tucked away as it was between a succession of auto body repair shops and parts suppliers. Stupidly, I thought she must own the motel. Because why else would she have me pick her up there? It didn't occur to me at all that she might have taken up temporary residence there with her three children in a miniscule, nearly windowless unit in the basement next to the laundry facilities.
We chatted a little as we worked together during the event and I learned that she had arrived in Canada only a month before. I thought that she might like a tour of her new city or perhaps someone to share a coffee with from time to time, so I offered both of those things and we agreed to meet up the following week.
I dropped her off that day at a drop-in centre near the downtown core. It's a place I've driven by a zillion times, but never paid much attention. She volunteered there, she told me, and as she took hold of the straps of a bulging, oversized grocery bag that she'd brought with her and entered the building, it never occurred to me that not only would she spend the afternoon helping others, but that she'd also be using the community machines inside to wash the laundry stashed inside her bag and the telephones to continue her search for an apartment for herself and her children.
That was a month ago and in the days and weeks since, we have embarked on a journey to build a new life in a city that I've lived in for six years, but haven't fully seen.
To be continued . . .
Several weeks ago, I signed up to volunteer at a community event -- a short morning commitment with an additional request that I pick up a fellow volunteer who needed a drive. That is how it began.
I picked her up in front of a tiny motel that I'd never noticed before, tucked away as it was between a succession of auto body repair shops and parts suppliers. Stupidly, I thought she must own the motel. Because why else would she have me pick her up there? It didn't occur to me at all that she might have taken up temporary residence there with her three children in a miniscule, nearly windowless unit in the basement next to the laundry facilities.
We chatted a little as we worked together during the event and I learned that she had arrived in Canada only a month before. I thought that she might like a tour of her new city or perhaps someone to share a coffee with from time to time, so I offered both of those things and we agreed to meet up the following week.
I dropped her off that day at a drop-in centre near the downtown core. It's a place I've driven by a zillion times, but never paid much attention. She volunteered there, she told me, and as she took hold of the straps of a bulging, oversized grocery bag that she'd brought with her and entered the building, it never occurred to me that not only would she spend the afternoon helping others, but that she'd also be using the community machines inside to wash the laundry stashed inside her bag and the telephones to continue her search for an apartment for herself and her children.
That was a month ago and in the days and weeks since, we have embarked on a journey to build a new life in a city that I've lived in for six years, but haven't fully seen.
To be continued . . .
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