I have wanted to write this entry for nearly two weeks. I'm sorry it's been so long since my last post, but there has been nothing else that I've wanted to write. This has been all that came to mind.
One day a group of men came in to Catholic Charities about ten minutes before it was time for us to close up shop and leave. I was kind of annoyed because it was almost time for me to go and the day had gone by at a snail's pace. The men were clients of mine and I asked them how I could help them and did my best to answer their questions while our entire office shut down. They thanked me for my help and left. I walked out behind them and made my way to the bus stop.
I was alone for the first time all day and was finally able to unwind a little bit before I had to go to my house and be in a group setting once again. The introverted side of me loves every second of my afternoon bus ride because I am under no obligation to speak to anyone.
My worst fear was realized right as I looked up. The four clients that I had just been talking to in the office were making their way to the bus stop. MY bus stop. My quiet time was about to be ruined. Dread was building up inside of me. They were going to ask me questions. Questions that I didn't know the answer to. Ask me to try and help them in ways that I couldn't within my job description. I did what any socially awkward person would do: put my headphones in. I know I shouldn't have. It's a sign of disrespect to the people around you. What kind of high horse was I on anyways? These were men that had served our country when they were under no obligation to do so. They were men that had risked their lives and well-being to work against the Taliban in anyway possible.
I jumped ahead of myself. Let me get back to the point. . .
I had my headphones in and was doing my best to not make eye contact when one of them tapped me on the shoulder.
"Victoria, are you a volunteer like Marie was?"
Marie, my predecessor, is still very much held in the hearts of all my clients. I hear a lot about her. So much about her that I added her on Facebook because I felt like I had known her for years. She was an amazing volunteer and went above and beyond for everyone she worked with and I'm just trying to make it through the day without offending someone and fill out food stamp applications without screwing things up.
Again, I've gotten off topic, but, Marie, if you're reading this just know that you are missed and you are AWESOME. Your year in Texas absolutely made an impact on so many people.
Back to the story. . .
I told him that I was a volunteer, but Marie and I came from different programs, but the goal of the program seems, to me, very similar.
Guys, this is where the story actually starts to see a purpose. . .
He looked at me and said, "So why are you doing this? Is it so you'll get something good or do you feel like you have to? Why are you here?"
Wow, why am I here? Good question, (name removed for confidentiality purposes and because I don't have a cool nickname for him). I looked at him, in that moment where I was taken so off guard and said that there was a bible verse (Matthew 25:40) that I felt like I was called to live out. I could tell he thought that this answer meant, to him, that I was obviously working towards some greater goal in my own life. Which, I guess, is true.
You would think that this story is about me and how I was finally asked questions about what I was doing, but it's not at all. I had been asked a few times why I was doing this work, but I had yet to sit and talk to other people about what brought them here. I hadn't felt like I could. I had asked the three guys that I work closely with about their lives, but until this moment it hadn't realized that people had any interest in sharing their stories with me.
So I took the leap.
"What made you come to the US?"
(Name Removed): We worked for the US military in Afghanistan.
"But why would you want to leave your home?" I have asked this question plenty of times since then, and have never gotten an answer that would make me want to move thousands of miles away from my family.
Most of the time they say that the opportunity was there, they liked what the States had to offer and were hoping to continue their education here and make their lives all over again.
"What did you guys study in school?" At this point it was only my two clients that had any interest in talking to me. The other two men weren't concerned and, quite frankly, have much more reserved personalities than the other men.
(Name removed): I didn't finish university, but I hope to start on an IT degree when I'm allowed to go to school here.
Jack (you'll see why I call him this shortly): I studied politics in Afghanistan, and I want to study that here as well.
The bus came, and I was asking him some silly questions about politics. Probably the stupidest question was, "Oh, do you like American politics?" Uh, duh he does, Tori.
Jack ended up sitting next to me and I got to hear him talk more about himself. I don't think I'm going to do his story justice by any means, but I'll attempt to make it as amazing as it was.
Jack was born in Afghanistan in the eighties. When he was six months old Russia invaded the nation, and his parents were both shot and killed, leaving him and his two brothers orphaned. Luckily, his grandparents were able to take him and his brothers in and they raised them.
I've heard a lot of people talk about people that they admire, but the look in Jack's eyes when he talked about his grandmother was one of complete adoration. He looked as if he had been raised by a saint which, I'm sure, is how he looks at this woman that devoted her life to raising there more children after hers were grown and had been murdered.
I asked him about his politics classes and how they were explained in his middle eastern society and he told me that the world was split up into two major sections. The section that was under the influence of the United States and the section that was under the influence of Russia. Which sounded a lot like the Americanism vs. Communism class that both of my parents took in place of Civics in high school.
I keep getting off track slightly. . .
The most amazing thing about this man was the time he had spent working for the military.
Jack first went to the American army looking for work when he was sixteen. A man looked at him and said, "Son, you're going to have to change your birthday if you want to work for us. You have to be at least eighteen." So he did just that. He made himself two years older, which was fairly easy for him. He's at least 6'3'' and looks like he's been growing a beard since he was five years old.
With documents changed he began work for the US government that lasted nearly a decade, and, to this day, his papers make him two years older than he is.
During his time working for our military he earned the nickname "Jack" because they told him that he was, in many ways, like Jack Bauer from 24. He earned the reputation because of his bravery and his willingness to put himself in incredibly dangerous situations if it meant that he would be able to help someone else.
Jack was blown up. Literally. He was in the hospital for a year and in a coma for 100 days. Today, he lives with shrapnel in his legs that can't be taken out because if it's removed he could lose the ability to walk and feel where it was. He lives without feeling in his feet. Insides that were pretty much torn to shreds and a soft spot on his head where he's missing part of his skull.
All because he was attempting to save the life of a friend. Because he volunteered for a mission that he wasn't even supposed to go on.
I asked him how his grandmother handled him being in so much danger and hurt for so long. "I never told her. She died not knowing that I almost died, because she wouldn't have been able to handle it."
Jack's story is an extraordinary one. He could honestly write a book that's turned in to a hit action movie one day, but it proves a point that I don't think that I could have made on my own. Many men that I have the privilege of working with are here because it's not safe for them in their home countries anymore. It's not safe because they made a choice to join our army.
When you question the type of people that I work for, if you think that they're not worthy of coming to our nation and getting all of the rights and privileges that being an American entails, ask yourself if you'd be willing to make the sacrifices that many of them have made, because, unless you were in our military, the answer is most likely no.
One day a group of men came in to Catholic Charities about ten minutes before it was time for us to close up shop and leave. I was kind of annoyed because it was almost time for me to go and the day had gone by at a snail's pace. The men were clients of mine and I asked them how I could help them and did my best to answer their questions while our entire office shut down. They thanked me for my help and left. I walked out behind them and made my way to the bus stop.
I was alone for the first time all day and was finally able to unwind a little bit before I had to go to my house and be in a group setting once again. The introverted side of me loves every second of my afternoon bus ride because I am under no obligation to speak to anyone.
My worst fear was realized right as I looked up. The four clients that I had just been talking to in the office were making their way to the bus stop. MY bus stop. My quiet time was about to be ruined. Dread was building up inside of me. They were going to ask me questions. Questions that I didn't know the answer to. Ask me to try and help them in ways that I couldn't within my job description. I did what any socially awkward person would do: put my headphones in. I know I shouldn't have. It's a sign of disrespect to the people around you. What kind of high horse was I on anyways? These were men that had served our country when they were under no obligation to do so. They were men that had risked their lives and well-being to work against the Taliban in anyway possible.
I jumped ahead of myself. Let me get back to the point. . .
I had my headphones in and was doing my best to not make eye contact when one of them tapped me on the shoulder.
"Victoria, are you a volunteer like Marie was?"
Marie, my predecessor, is still very much held in the hearts of all my clients. I hear a lot about her. So much about her that I added her on Facebook because I felt like I had known her for years. She was an amazing volunteer and went above and beyond for everyone she worked with and I'm just trying to make it through the day without offending someone and fill out food stamp applications without screwing things up.
Again, I've gotten off topic, but, Marie, if you're reading this just know that you are missed and you are AWESOME. Your year in Texas absolutely made an impact on so many people.
Back to the story. . .
I told him that I was a volunteer, but Marie and I came from different programs, but the goal of the program seems, to me, very similar.
Guys, this is where the story actually starts to see a purpose. . .
He looked at me and said, "So why are you doing this? Is it so you'll get something good or do you feel like you have to? Why are you here?"
Wow, why am I here? Good question, (name removed for confidentiality purposes and because I don't have a cool nickname for him). I looked at him, in that moment where I was taken so off guard and said that there was a bible verse (Matthew 25:40) that I felt like I was called to live out. I could tell he thought that this answer meant, to him, that I was obviously working towards some greater goal in my own life. Which, I guess, is true.
You would think that this story is about me and how I was finally asked questions about what I was doing, but it's not at all. I had been asked a few times why I was doing this work, but I had yet to sit and talk to other people about what brought them here. I hadn't felt like I could. I had asked the three guys that I work closely with about their lives, but until this moment it hadn't realized that people had any interest in sharing their stories with me.
So I took the leap.
"What made you come to the US?"
(Name Removed): We worked for the US military in Afghanistan.
"But why would you want to leave your home?" I have asked this question plenty of times since then, and have never gotten an answer that would make me want to move thousands of miles away from my family.
Most of the time they say that the opportunity was there, they liked what the States had to offer and were hoping to continue their education here and make their lives all over again.
"What did you guys study in school?" At this point it was only my two clients that had any interest in talking to me. The other two men weren't concerned and, quite frankly, have much more reserved personalities than the other men.
(Name removed): I didn't finish university, but I hope to start on an IT degree when I'm allowed to go to school here.
Jack (you'll see why I call him this shortly): I studied politics in Afghanistan, and I want to study that here as well.
The bus came, and I was asking him some silly questions about politics. Probably the stupidest question was, "Oh, do you like American politics?" Uh, duh he does, Tori.
Jack ended up sitting next to me and I got to hear him talk more about himself. I don't think I'm going to do his story justice by any means, but I'll attempt to make it as amazing as it was.
Jack was born in Afghanistan in the eighties. When he was six months old Russia invaded the nation, and his parents were both shot and killed, leaving him and his two brothers orphaned. Luckily, his grandparents were able to take him and his brothers in and they raised them.
I've heard a lot of people talk about people that they admire, but the look in Jack's eyes when he talked about his grandmother was one of complete adoration. He looked as if he had been raised by a saint which, I'm sure, is how he looks at this woman that devoted her life to raising there more children after hers were grown and had been murdered.
I asked him about his politics classes and how they were explained in his middle eastern society and he told me that the world was split up into two major sections. The section that was under the influence of the United States and the section that was under the influence of Russia. Which sounded a lot like the Americanism vs. Communism class that both of my parents took in place of Civics in high school.
I keep getting off track slightly. . .
The most amazing thing about this man was the time he had spent working for the military.
Jack first went to the American army looking for work when he was sixteen. A man looked at him and said, "Son, you're going to have to change your birthday if you want to work for us. You have to be at least eighteen." So he did just that. He made himself two years older, which was fairly easy for him. He's at least 6'3'' and looks like he's been growing a beard since he was five years old.
With documents changed he began work for the US government that lasted nearly a decade, and, to this day, his papers make him two years older than he is.
During his time working for our military he earned the nickname "Jack" because they told him that he was, in many ways, like Jack Bauer from 24. He earned the reputation because of his bravery and his willingness to put himself in incredibly dangerous situations if it meant that he would be able to help someone else.
Jack was blown up. Literally. He was in the hospital for a year and in a coma for 100 days. Today, he lives with shrapnel in his legs that can't be taken out because if it's removed he could lose the ability to walk and feel where it was. He lives without feeling in his feet. Insides that were pretty much torn to shreds and a soft spot on his head where he's missing part of his skull.
All because he was attempting to save the life of a friend. Because he volunteered for a mission that he wasn't even supposed to go on.
I asked him how his grandmother handled him being in so much danger and hurt for so long. "I never told her. She died not knowing that I almost died, because she wouldn't have been able to handle it."
Jack's story is an extraordinary one. He could honestly write a book that's turned in to a hit action movie one day, but it proves a point that I don't think that I could have made on my own. Many men that I have the privilege of working with are here because it's not safe for them in their home countries anymore. It's not safe because they made a choice to join our army.
When you question the type of people that I work for, if you think that they're not worthy of coming to our nation and getting all of the rights and privileges that being an American entails, ask yourself if you'd be willing to make the sacrifices that many of them have made, because, unless you were in our military, the answer is most likely no.
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