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Published: February 9th 2013
Reading the news a couple weeks ago, I came across a story of a black woman in Chicago, a single mother, who had just buried her fourth and last child. All of her children had been killed from gun violence. One of her sons was named Jerome. My heart sank as I thought this could possibly be the Jerome from my last blog. I learned that it wasn't. Even so, it's heartbreaking to learn how difficult and dangerous life can be for many so close to home.
It got me thinking though. Its not just Jerome that touched me. There are many others I've gotten to know close to home with unbelievable stories; people that deliver mail, make coffee at Starbucks, cut hair, clean carpet. They all have a story to tell.
Take the time to get to know your neighbor. You may be surprised what you learn.
The Beautician: We'd never met before but I heard she gave the best haircuts in town. She introduced herself as Kim-Ly. At barely five feet tall, a whopping 85 pounds with shiny black shoulder-length hair she was the tiniest and prettiest Asian woman I'd ever seen. After discussing how I wanted my hair cut, I made myself comfortable in her barber's chair flipping through a People magazine. She began the small talk about her family, kids and recent trip to Disney World.
"Oh! So do you like to travel?" I asked, thinking I'd found a common denominator.
"Definitely! We love taking the kids to Florida in the winter. Winters here are dreadful."
I couldn't agree more. They are awfully depressing.
Kim-Ly was obviously Asian but had an American accent and I began to wonder how she ended up in Illinois cutting hair.
Her cell phone rang and she excused herself. She returned a few minutes later, visibly shaken, with teary eyes.
"Kim, my hair is not important. If you're not feeling well I can just reschedule for another time, ok?" I said.
"No, no, no. You stay. I can still work. Its just...." she started.
"Its just what? Did you get some bad news?"
"Yes. It's my dad. Well, my adopted dad. His biopsy just came back and he has colon cancer. It doesn't look good."
"Oh man, I'm so sorry to hear. Maybe it was caught soon enough..." and I trailed off. Then the awkward silence began between the two of us. She's absorbed in her grief and I'm thinking it may be in the best interest of my mane to come back another time. Of course, I didn't leave. I got inquisitive.
"Are your adoptive parents American?" I asked her.
She nodded yes.
"Ok, so tell me about these amazing adoptive parents of yours and how they came to have you. Where are you from originally?"
"I'm Vietnamese," she started. "Have you heard of the boat people?"
I shook my head no.
She explained how she and her younger sister were born in Vietnam but by the time they were teenagers in the late 70's things had gotten so bad that their mother decided that sending the two girls away was the only way to save their lives. So with little food and even less money, Kim-Ly and her little sister boarded a crowded wooden boat.
I can only begin to imagine the tearful goodbye. "I want my girls to be brave and take care of each other, ok?" the mother said.
Kim-Ly didn't elaborate much on what her journey was like. In doing research later I came to learn that one-third of the boat people never made it. They were killed by pirates, storms, food shortage and illness. There were unique threats to young girls as you can imagine.
But Kim-Ly and her sister did make it. They took up residence in a refugee camp in Thailand. From the way Kim spoke about it, life in the refugee camp was as harrowing as life at sea.
In time, the youth in the refugee camp received aid from various churches in the United States. Kim-Ly and her sister received aid from a Baptist church and within months were legally adopted by a loving couple from the parish who took the two refugees into their home and loved them as their own.
Today, Kim-Ly, her sister AND their mother all live in the United States.
The Negotiator: I left the salon that day and headed to the public library to meet a young man to finish a work assignment.
“Do you like to travel?” I asked him.
“Nah, not really. I'm too busy with school. Although I did just get from Colombia but that doesn't really count,” he said.
“I think that going to Colombia counts as traveling. Is that where your family is from?”
“Yeah, that's where my mom, dad and brothers are. I was born and raised there, but lucky enough to get into the university here in the States.”
“Well, did you have a nice visit back home?” I asked.
“It was ok. It was really last minute and not so much fun.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” he said.
Having just heard the story of the boat people from my beautician I said, “Try me.”
“Well, my grandma was kidnapped by drug lords in Bógota. My mom calls me in a panic and asks me to fly down right away to help negotiate her release. This is a big problem there and it's happened in my family before. Colombia is the kidnap capital of the world ya know?”
I believed him, but I had a thousand questions.
He explained how rampant the drug and weapon problem in Colombia is. He told me about his family and how they had “some money” and this was the second kidnapping of a relative for ransom. He said typically when a person is kidnapped they are treated well (his grandma was given her diabetes medicine), and once the perpetrators receive the cash, the victim is released and life goes back to normal.
“How much did it cost to get your grandma back?” I asked.
“We ended up paying about $100,000,” he answered. “I tell you, the kids here don't know how good they've got it. Life is easy. I never want to live in Colombia again but my family is there so I am torn.”
I thanked him for sharing his story with me, took my books and left thinking that maybe living in the middle of nowhere wasn't so bad after all.
I never did see the young man again.
The Chef A few months after meeting the Colombian at the library I was invited to a dinner party. There I met a beautiful Mexican couple that looked entirely too young to have teenage children. They introduced themselves as Juanita and Eduardo. They were giggling and holding hands like newlyweds when they told me they'd been married fifteen years. They met in Mexico when they were sixteen, married, immigrated legally to the United States and had two children here.
“You two are glowing!” I said. “You must of just gotten home from a great vacation or something.”
“Actually, we did! We went to visit our family back in Mexico and only got home last night.”
Juanita continued to tell me how nice it was to see her brother on his rare break from work.
“What does your brother do that its rare for him to get a break from?” I asked.
“Oh my brother is a chef,” Juanita told me proudly.
“I've heard those chef's put in some seriously long days on their feet. He must be good if they don't want to let him go,” I laughed.
“Yeah, you could say that,” Eduardo interjected with a raised eyebrow.
Juanita added, “His job is a little unusual.”
“Well, now you've got me curious. What's unusual about being a chef?” I asked. Boy did I find out. As it turns out Juanita's brother is a chef for the leaders of various drug cartels outside Mexico City.
“We never know where he's working because
he doesn't ever know where he's working,” she added. “You see, every time he is taken to a new location, he has a burlap sack placed over his head. This way, if he's captured by an opposing gang, he can never give up the location of his employer.”
“Are you kidding me?!” I blurt out.
“Why would I joke about this? No. He's been doing this for years. This is life in Mexico for many people.”
“Let's back this train up Juanita,” I let out. “First of all, where do these guys camp out? And aren't they sometimes attacked by opposing gangs? How can he possibly live for years like this?”
“The guerillas live in the jungle, the woods. Yes it is dangerous and yes he's seen many, many men killed. But he is safe.
No one will kill the cook. Many times he is captured and made to be the cook for the invading cartel. He gets passed around that way. And every so often he is let free for a couple of weeks to visit our mother and then back into the jungle he goes,” she explained.
“We just saw him this week and he's doing well,” Juanita said with a smile.
“And then he went back to jungle? With the sack over his head? To cook?”
“Sí! Exactaménte!”
I think I've heard it all now.
Not every story is tragic. But each encounter offers a brief glimpse into another life, another world. And if you ask me, that's what travel's about.
Even if its in your own neighborhood.
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Linda Giese
non-member comment
What absolutely interesting and educational stories. It is good to be at ease asking questions. See what you learn and can share. Keep it up!