He listened with interest and smiled. “Well, where is he?”
“I’ll bring him in today.”
“Make it after lunch. Before five.”
• • •
I knocked on their apartment door. Benson answered dressed in the slacks we’d bought the first day, a shirt, and tie. Perfect.
The ironing board was set up in the living room. Alepho, Lino, and Daniel came from the bedroom. All dressed in their best.
Oh no. Four? Bob asked for one. Damn. I couldn’t bring in four. I should have known by now that Benson wouldn’t have gone with me alone. Too shameful in his culture to seize an opportunity without offering it to the others. Just as shameful for me to leave anyone back.
“You look great,” I said. “But just so you know, if they hire anyone today, it will probably just be one of you, so don’t be upset or take it personally. There will be other opportunities. If he offers only one job, how should we choose who takes the job?” I figured the manager would choose, but in case he faced the same dilemma, I wanted to be as democratic as possible.
They looked from one to the other. Daniel needed work the most immediately. He no longer received financial assistance and within a month, because he was twenty-one, he wouldn’t have medical benefits. The hotel job didn’t offer any; they hadn’t even offered work recently.
“How about the oldest?” I suggested. Age seniority seemed to have major priority for them. On the other hand, I was their mentor, not Daniel’s. He and James didn’t have one.
“That’s fine,” Benson said.
Even filled out, their applications were mostly blank without a job history to report. That bothered them. We did some practice interviews. I made suggestions for answers to common questions and took photos of them in various combinations to memorialize the day of their first interview.
“Did you eat breakfast?” I asked.
They gave a sheepish response. “No.”
“If you get the job, you must eat before work each day. It’s very important because your break might not be for four hours. You’ll be hungry.” They didn’t appear panicked. Four hours without eating just didn’t rank up there in this crowd.
I was hungry, though. We couldn’t go to the interview until afternoon. That left plenty of time for a sit-down lunch at a nice restaurant. A special treat I’d been wanting to give them. Better to go before the interview in case there was nothing to celebrate afterward. They could relax and be served an abundance of food. Growing young men who’d spent most of their lives on survival rations deserved an abundance of food. Someone waiting on them would boost their confidence for the interview, I hoped.
There was an upscale Mexican place with great décor and big booths on the way to Ralphs. Perfect. They could relax in luxury.
The restaurant was crowded. “We only have one large table.” We didn’t have time to wait. The hostess led us through the restaurant. I tried, but much like the ball game, I couldn’t miss the stares. Too many. A few were so obvious I wanted to whip around and stare back.
At the table, I explained the menu, but with the noise and the food names in Spanish, they were still confused.
“Five fajita specials,” I told the waitress to make it simple for her and them.
We tried to have a conversation, or I tried, but their voices were so quiet I couldn’t hear them. I’d been noticing that all of the Sudanese spoke softly. At first, I’d thought the guys were shy about their English, but some older Sudanese who had been here awhile and spoke perfect English also spoke in quiet voices. So, it had to be a cultural thing, along with their reserved regal presence. I often found myself straightening my posture around them, which left me still about a foot shorter. How did I seem to them? A short, sloppy, loud know-it-all who invaded their space?
Regardless, speaking so softly simply wouldn’t work for them in this country. “Be sure to speak up in an interview,” I emphasized a few times during lunch. I still overenunciated and avoided contractions. It seemed to help their understanding of what I was saying but I also wondered if it wasn’t a bit like my father whose attempts at Spanish were often adding an o to the end of English words.
“Are you ready?” I asked outside after lunch.
Alepho sighed.
“Nervous,” Daniel said.
He couldn’t be more nervous than I was.
THE UNIVERSE WAS WITH US
Alepho
I sat on the couch and watched the news on the television. America was preparing for a bloody war. That gave me a worrisome fear. My heart pumped with adrenaline.
The apartment phone rang. Benson picked it up. “That is good,” he said into the phone. “We feel honored when we are with you.” He hung up. “Judy says we are to prepare for job interviews tomorrow.”
The universe was to be with us that day. I took out the board and ironed my favorite shirt. Did an interview mean we would get a job? I needed a job while I waited for my green card. A few days earlier, I’d stopped in a store on El Cajon Boulevard and put a soda on the counter. I’d seen other people pay with their cards, so I took out my I-94 and gave it to the clerk.
The clerk said, “What am I supposed to do with this?”
I stared back at him with my confident look. “That is to buy a soda.”
“That’s not a credit card,” he said.
What was a credit card? I walked out of the store with a disappointed heart and no soda.
• • •
Judy arrived at our apartment the next morning. We greeted her in our interview clothing.
“Oh. All of you are prepared,” she said. She looked surprised. “They might only hire one person.”
She said it should be the oldest. That was Daniel. That was fine with us.
She gave us applications. There were only three. She said Daniel could do his at the store. I wished I could do mine at the store. My headache was strong that morning.
In the refugee camp, we had the choice of going to school or making money doing small businesses. During orientation in the refugee camp, they told us that in America we either chose to work or go to school. The choice was ours. I thought James and Daniel wanted to make extra money and that was why they looked for work every day. I wanted to go to school. I told Judy that many times. She seemed more concerned about getting jobs.
I’d probably misinterpreted some things in orientation. I had pretended I understood English well when I attended and that I did not need a translator.
Judy gave us pens and said to follow the example we’d learned in job-preparedness training.
How could I answer the questions about previous jobs, places I’d lived, or the school I went to in the camp? My application looked blank. I said to Judy, “Brianna told us we must fill out the whole form.”
“Turn the application over,” Judy said. “Fill out the essay section.”
Judy was telling us something different than Brianna, our job-preparedness teacher. Some Lost Boys wanted to marry Brianna. She was tall like Dinka girls.
We did some practice interviews. Judy called them common questions and took our photos.
“Did you eat breakfast?” she asked.
“No.”
“When you begin work, it’s important to have food before you go.”
She drove us to Mission Valley.
“Where is the store?” I asked.
“There is time. We will have lunch first at a restaurant.”
I did not have an appetite for food; my stomach was not good. But maybe it would help my headache. In camp, when I got food, my headache often left. In America, sometimes the food made my headache greater.
We walked into a large place that was cool and dark. That felt good. A young woman led us through the place. Everyone stopped eating and looked at me as though a giraffe had just walked in. They could see
that I had never been to a place like this.
The young woman led us to a table where we each sat in a big chair. She handed us a thin book.
“That’s the menu,” Judy said. “Just like at Burger King, but it’s not on the wall.”
I read it but I didn’t understand any of it. The names were different than my understanding of American food. I felt ashamed not knowing what to order.
Benson made his choice. “Beef.”
“Okay, they have a special today,” Judy said. “Fajitas. Kind of like African food.”
I agreed to what Judy suggested. I didn’t want to appear to not know anything. I didn’t like being a newcomer. I wanted to be a sophisticated fellow.
“Put your napkin in your lap,” Judy said. “It catches the food and shows good manners.”
I took the little square paper from the table and placed it on my lap.
Judy said, “That small napkin is a coaster, it’s for your drink.” She pointed to a cloth in a roll. “Open that and your utensils are inside. Put the big napkin on your lap, and the little one on the table.”
There were many things to learn. Even in the camp, a person needed to follow the traditions, but here there were more tools and things to know.
A man brought a basket with a cloth. Benson looked inside. “It is like injera. In Ethiopia they make a large round bread like this one. We use it to take the vegetable and meat.”
“Same here,” Judy said.
Another man brought us each a huge plate filled with food. We looked at each other. One plate in the middle of the table would be enough for all of us to share. We’d always eaten from one bowl. A few times when we’d saved a few shillings and gone to the Ethiopian section of Kakuma camp to a restaurant, they’d placed a big plate like that in the middle with cooked meat and vegetables and each person took their share with the injera.
“I know it looks like a lot,” Judy said. “You don’t have to eat it all. Just let me know if you want a doggy bag.”
What was a doggy bag?
Judy took up the bread that looked like injera except that it was more like paper. She filled it with food from her plate and folded it, then used her tools to eat it.
I did the same. But when I tried to cut it with the knife, the meat and vegetables squished out. Some people watched me. They could see that my eating skills were not good. I wasn’t from this country and didn’t know how to follow the traditions. I only ate a few bites. I didn’t want to mess up my interview clothes. Worrying made my stomach not willing to accept food. Daniel ate his food. What would Judy think if I did not eat my food? There was enough for the rest of the week.
Judy said, “Okay. It’s time to go to the store.”
We left. I felt shame for leaving all that food behind. What would they do with it?
I NEED A COKE
Judy
We huddled outside of the restaurant for a last-minute strategy session. “If we’re lucky today,” I said, “we’ll meet the manager. If we’re really lucky, he may interview one of you. Just remember that your English is excellent. But sometimes you speak too softly for Americans. Show off your great English. Speak up loudly and clearly so the manager can hear you.”
They all nodded.
The five of us filed into Ralphs grocery store. I told a clerk, “We’re here to see Mr. Murphy.”
After a few minutes, a medium-height dark-haired man, maybe forty, in a white shirt and dark tie came to the front. Not Mr. Murphy. Oh no.
“Hi, I’m Bob Sullivan,” he said.
Bob Sullivan, the guy I’d talked to originally on the phone. Even better.
He shook my hand and somehow managed to hide his shock at four, not one, job applicants. Without missing a beat, he extended his hand to Benson and introduced himself. He asked Benson’s name. He did the same with Daniel, Alepho, and Lino. Their replies were in such soft voices that I’m sure Bob couldn’t understand any of the unfamiliar names over the noise of the store. I liked Bob. He was serious and businesslike, but pleasant. I especially liked him for greeting each of the guys individually and so respectfully.
“Follow me,” Bob said.
We went through a door near the front of the store and up a narrow, steep flight of stairs. At the top, we passed several small offices and entered a much larger one with an executive desk at the back of the room and a round conference table with four chairs.
“Have a seat,” Bob said and pointed.
Looking unsure, each of the guys took a chair. They looked every bit as stiff and anxious as I felt. I sat in an extra office chair off to the side and Bob took a seat behind his desk.
Bob said to me, “My daughter was in Kenya on a mission.”
In my barrage of background information to Bob on the phone, I’d mentioned that they’d come through a refugee camp in Kenya. Was that the connection, the vital piece, that had gotten us here? Maybe just curiosity. Whatever worked. “That’s wonderful. Must have been a great experience for her. I’d like to go myself.”
“Yes, she really enjoyed it. Life changing.” A serious look came over him. “I don’t know if I can use all four right now.”
That he would even consider hiring one person had me over the moon.
“Will that be a problem?” he asked. “I don’t want to cause a fight.”
He was insightful and considerate too. “No,” I said. “They realize that. We discussed it. The oldest first. That was their choice.”
Bob and I chatted for a few more minutes. I tried to turn toward the guys and speak clearly enough that they could follow, but I was sure they felt outside the whole conversation.
“So,” Bob said, and turned toward the guys, “when did you get here?”
The question wasn’t directed to any one of them in particular. No one responded. Come on, guys. They just looked at me like they were at the kids’ table wondering if they were supposed to speak at all. I knew Bob didn’t really care about the question. He was just trying to make conversation, to see how well they spoke English, see if they could interact with customers. “Daniel,” I prompted, “you got here first, right?”
“Yes, I was the first,” he said in perfect English but so softly there was no way Bob heard him.
Bob stood up and rolled his chair from behind his desk over to join the guys at the table. Daniel had still not answered Bob’s original question. Bob was trying hard to make it work, and I liked him even more for it. I’d been so obsessed with getting them the job I hadn’t focused on what it would be like once they had it. They needed an understanding, motivated manager like Bob.
“When did you arrive?” Bob asked again, now directing his question to Daniel.
“I arrive in March of 2001,” Daniel said.
I looked at the others hoping they would offer an answer. Their politeness, nervousness, whatever it was that had sealed their lips, could be misconstrued that they didn’t speak English. I smiled at them and did my best to put on a go ahead and speak look. No luck. My silent cheerleading wasn’t working. No one said a thing. “Benson, Alepho, and Lino came together in August,” I said. “Benson and Alepho are brothers. Lino is their cousin.”
“Oh,” Bob said in a concerned tone. “They can’t work at the same store then. The brothers. Policy.”
I cringed. Why had I offered that? Shut up and let them talk.
Bob looked over their applications. He would have seen that two of them had the same last names anyway. Even so, my interjections didn’t help. Made them seem incapable.
Bob set the applications down. “I’d like to go around the table and talk to each person individually.”
My stomach hadn’t felt like this since I’d had to give an oral book report in ninth grade. It had all come down to this moment. I couldn’t keep myself from talking for them, which would be counterproductive. I couldn’t take it anymore. �
��Excuse me,” I said. “I’m going to step out for a Coke.” I didn’t drink Coke.
SHE LEFT US
Alepho
Mr. Sullivan took us upstairs above the store. His big office looked so neat and clean. It smelled modern, like nothing I’d smelled before.
He allowed us to sit at a big table. I wasn’t sure where to put my hands. Were we supposed to talk? What would I say?
Judy had conversation with Mr. Sullivan, speaking the native language so fast I had to cock up my ears like a hippopotamus to appear as someone who understood. I didn’t want to seem like I’d just gotten out of a refugee camp and my English wasn’t good. I nodded my head in agreement to everything. The truth was, I didn’t understand a thing. Americans spoke fast and that made America seem so complex. Things just went in and out of my ears and remained a mystery. I wondered if one day I would speak as fast as they did.
Mr. Sullivan looked so important in his work attire of a white shirt with a tie and black pants. One day, maybe I could have my own office and dress up clean and neat. I wanted to be educated like this white man in front of me. He seemed so confident and well-versed in his language. I wanted that image of success and prestige.
Judy said this was a job interview, but it was going so differently from the training for job readiness at IRC. When was I supposed to introduce myself and look the boss in the eyes?
Judy and Mr. Bob Sullivan talked while he looked at the applications we had filled out. Nothing was going the way I’d learned and practiced.
Judy stood up and said she was leaving to get a Coke. Why was she leaving us? What was I supposed to do?
MALLS AND WIVES
Judy
Bob smiled when I said I needed to step out. He understood and was probably relieved. Now he could get done what he needed to do.
I paced around the store. Relax. This is just one of the steps on the road to success. Whatever the outcome, it is progress. Part of the learning process. We all learn more from our mistakes than our successes. Blah, blah, blah. The jittery feeling didn’t go away.
Disturbed in Their Nests Page 21