Someone like Goma

Language barriers are quite a difficult thing to live with, especially if that barrier is the lack of comprehension of English or solely understanding English. Fridays at the SDSS were usually seen as "half-days," quite similar to North America and our Fridays. Unfortunately, the daily teacher saw it as a sign to not come in at all on Fridays, and she was truly the only "bilingual" teacher there. So the task was bestowed on me to teach these children the English they were there for. I was told to continue on body parts, have them color a sheet, and perhaps move on to the names of different fruits. Their coloring sheets consisted of a cartoon drawing of a boy they could color and arrows pointing to parts of the body they'd learned prior. I chose to recreate the boy on the whiteboard and add each arrow necessary to create an easier learning environment and quick jots in the notes. I asked what each part was about a million times, poking and prodding myself in order to make sure they knew where on their own body I was speaking of, and they chose to communicate with me, and we learned together! Once I felt entirely confident they knew what they were doing (and that they were too cool for "Head and Shoulders, Knees and Toes"), I moved on, a touch anxious about what to do next due to complete unpreparedness. I headed back into the classroom—for class was outside—and I gathered most of the plastic toy fruits and vegetables and plates to hand around. I was told earlier that it was quite difficult for these kids to learn anything, especially a new language, for their old school was a "repeat back to me" type of learning as opposed to hands-on and visual. I opted to change that, placing my old school needs into the empty slot known as theirs. I handed each student a plate and took a fruit from the basket, asking what it was. They responded back, and I then asked what color. We went on for an hour passing the fruits to and from plates to the basket as a young girl, around five, chose to join us. We politely accepted her into our group and began a color walk, which was really sitting out by the playground and asking where this color was seen and playing iSpy with colors. Then, with such luck in the long time span I had left, I'd found tiny scrap pieces of colored paper, and we played association games with that. We finished with spinning the container like a top and laughing untranslated laughter. Never in my life have I been so spontaneous and "on the spot," and I do appreciate teachers and what they do, not that I never did before.

That afternoon, my class was over and Kathryn, Bijata, and I were preparing to head to dinner with Bijata's kids and in-laws. Before anything, we'd all walked down to a beauty salon because the other two wanted a type of hair treatment. As we walked, I people-watched quite a bit, wondering what these people thought and saw in Kathryn and me when they stared blankly as we walked with a Nepali but looked nothing like one ourselves. I thought to myself that none of these people know why I am here, probably do not care, yet I am making a difference, and Kathryn is making a difference, and Bijata is making a difference, and they will never know. I think that quite often, but it struck me most here as an outsider.

The dinner was lovely. We'd gone to a Korean barbecue house where they cooked the meat in front of us at two different tables due to the large size of our group. I was seated with Goma and Bishesh, Bijata's son, who spoke and acted quite similarly to my younger brothers, which brought some comfort but also the realization of the loss of identity social media presents to young kids. During the waiting portion, a marching band passed by, and we all exited to witness the arrival of a wedding, with a marching band celebrating loudly, leading the parade of men and women in suits and dresses and a white vehicle decorated in red roses, carrying the bride. That brought some light and conversation topics into the meal, and it was pretty lively as we ate—and I was first taught how to, then prompted to eat more. Then, the cake came out, for it had been Goma's birthday less than a week ago. I asked if I could record, and she was all for it, and her grandkids were next to her, excited to be with her, and she was obviously excited to be with them as they are the living proof her son existed. They are her living memories of him, and you can tell how grateful she is for that. At the end of the night, when we parted ways, saying good night, Goma pinched my cheek and hugged me, telling me with all her might in broken English that her home was always open. I aspire to be someone like Goma, beautiful and welcoming, even through a most stressful and painful life. I want to smile like her, and I hope I get to tell her that soon.