Courage does not always roar.

...neither does success. At Migration and Refugee Services where I have been teaching vocational skills and job readiness classes to adult refugees, I've been counting my small daily triumphs.

There is a phrase used often by a number of my coworkers: "That's so MRS." This phrase is uttered in frustration, exclaimed in exasperation, stated in disbelief, and even said with a laugh and an eye roll, depending upon the situation. It is an all-encompassing phrase that reminds me of three separate words in Pohnpeian (the language of the small island where I spent the last two years teaching with Jesuit Volunteer Corps). "Oiei..." is used to express annoyance, embarrassment, and disgust at the egoism of another; "ohsa!" is used to express anger; and "ohtier..." is used to express exhaustion. "That's so MRS" encompasses all of these sentiments and more. At its root, it describes the inability of MRS Staff to know exactly what each day will bring - the necessary inconsistency of our work.

For example, I was talking with my supervisor today about emergency planning for refugee arrivals over Christmas, as I will be one of the only staff members not out of town between December 22 and January 3. The US Department of State must think it's still 1999, because they actually still send us notice of arrivals via fax. Faxing very important documents, as we all know, is not the most reliable form of communication; I could list all of the reasons, but the most important one is: EMAIL. We were discussing how to hit the "Easy" button in the event that I receive a fax during Christmastime regarding incoming arrivals so I don't have to work on Christmas day.

I made the mistake of asking my supervisor the question I've always wondered: What is the shortest period of time that you had notice for a new arrival?

Half-jokingly, she reached over to her desk phone, picked it up, and said, "What? They're on the plane?"

She proceeded to tell me a tale (non-fiction) of the time last year when they received notice of a family of eight arriving that same day, and had their home set up for them by the time they arrived in Cleveland... four hours later. Four... hours... later. She encouraged me to remember this tale when whatever happens over Christmas happens - and remember that it could be worse. Also to remember - "That's so MRS."

The phrase, at its core, means that every once in a while we have to drop whatever we're doing and help each other out to prepare for a short-notice arrival or otherwise emergency situation - someone in the hospital and their kids at home alone, someone has been evicted and the landlord will be throwing all of their furniture and belongings out in the yard unless we go pack them up and get them out TODAY, someone who accidentally got on a bus to a different city and can't find their way back, and so on, and so on.

I can arrive at the office in the morning with whatever grand plans I want - to get all of my thank you notes done for all of the donations we've received in the last four months, to assign volunteer mentors to families and set up meetings, to organize materials for my classes, to call that guy who I was supposed to call four weeks ago, to wash the Tupperware that's been under my desk for about 14 days. But reality at MRS demands that something else may pop up, and my day will take an exciting or frustrating new turn. The donors will just have to call again and demand their thank you notes (which double as charitable contribution tax donation receipts), the volunteers will have to wait, I'll show up to class totally unprepared, and that guy will just have to call someone else. And the two-week old Tupperware? It will be of help to me in one of my favorite community activities - sticking it in front of JP's face and opening the lid, and watching him scream and thrash around and threaten to get sick.

And so in the face of this uncertainty, I have to take my victories where I can get them. Here's an example:

I had been confused for months about the odd head motion of the Nepalis in response to my yes/no questions. It is a quick, slight tip of the right ear towards the right shoulder, with a blank look on their face. In American, this means "I don't know" or "Well, I'll give it a shot!" So you can imagine how frustrating of a response this is to my furious, repeated question, "Do you understand?" Once, exasperated, I took a woman's chin and hairline in my hands and nodded it up and down until the whole class was falling over with laughter. Finally, a few weeks ago, a Nepali who understands American customs quite well explained to me that this is the Nepali version of the "yes" nod - they had been trying to tell me "yes, I understand!" the whole time! Delirious with relief, I asked my interpreter to explain to them that they looked to me like a bunch of baby dolls whose heads weren't screwed on right. He told them and they erupted in laughter. They responded to him, and he translated for me: "Well, they didn't know what you were doing either. When you nod, you look like one of those stupid bobble-head dolls!" We all laughed for a while before continuing our math lesson of converting fractions to decimals.

So there it is. That is what I have accomplished at MRS - mocking Nepali customs and inciting them to mock mine. All kidding aside, it was a new level of cultural understanding, and one achieved through humor and friendship. That interaction could have easily offended one of us or the other, and I could have become so frustrated and angry with them for their seeming lack of concern for understanding, that they may have stopped attending my class or dreaded it. But I stayed patient and waited for the day of discovery of this custom that was so strange to me. And when I discovered it, used humor to cover up embarrassment and feelings of degradation or of being "different." Now, they nod their head emphatically and though they're probably mocking me more than anything, I feel victorious.

I have one more class-time moment that sticks out in my memory. It teaches no moral lesson, and probably shouldn't be counted as a success, but I'll tell it anyway. In Vocabulary class, I was teaching the names of various feelings - sad, angry, tired, sick. I was really struggling with "disgusted." My charades of examples were making them confuse it with something smelling bad, tasting bad, or with a person feeling sick. My mind flashed back to an Etiquette class from the other day when I taught them that picking their nose is not acceptable in American culture. I looked around pensively, and zeroed in on one Sudanese woman towards the front of the room. With my eyes locked on her, I slowly ran my finger up my face until it was firmly inside of my nose, dug around for a few seconds, pulled it out, looked at what I'd found, opened my mouth, and stuck it in. Her eyes became wide as she shrieked "Ayyyyiiii!" and her motherly instincts forced her out of her seat. She lunged for my hand and pulled it violently out of my mouth. I looked at the rest of the class, who were again laughing at me (it's a daily occurrence) and exclaimed, "Disgusted!" They all nodded that they understood.

Victorious.

Peace,

Samantha