In 21st Century America, people are afraid. They are afraid of foreigners, of Muslims in particular because some people who identify as Muslims are doing some pretty horrific things around the world. And so, people are afraid. They think Muslim refugees fleeing war are going to come to their house and do horrible things, so that gives them the right to hate all Muslims and refuse them refuge. I get that. I understand this feeling, to the core of my being...because "they" came to my house...
One day, in late 1970's suburban America, the Vietnam War came to my house. When I was in 3rd grade it came knocking, and my adoptive family let the door swing wide, despite the seemingly obvious perils, and some bad things happened...and for a long time I could not face the Vietnamese people. Yes, I mean the entire planetary collective of Vietnamese people. This is what the mind of a child does when they are victim to sexual abuse and don't know how to process what is happening. This is literally a juvenile reaction to being wronged; to blame an entire population of culturally similar people.
I grew up in the New York City suburbs. Vietnam and Cambodia began sending refugees out as fast as they could and the US agreed to assist and accept many refugees during the late 1970's and early 80's. My family signed up without hesitation. My adoptive mother had a social work degree and was on a mission to "save children" from their circumstance, with little discretion, at whatever the figurative price. Our household was a collection of kids from different families, most of us adopted, some of us foster, many of us with disabilities and scars, both inside and out. Scooped up from different tragedies and thrown together to make a family. We were special. We were chosen. We were siblings. And we were unsupervised.
And even though the Vietnam War was in our school history books, here were these boys...men, really, standing in our living room. They arrived eating different foods, speaking a different language, wearing foreign clothes, foreign names...smelling of despair and restlessness. But the loudest voice in my world at the time, my adoptive mother, was insisting they were our brothers and we needed to embrace them. We needed to welcome them. There was no arguing. And anyway, they were running from a war torn country. I felt lucky to have a roof, some clothes. Who was I to argue? Who were any of us, really?
I was 10, at least at the start of it. I remember a lot, though I am sure, not all. Mostly I remember the dark and the dread, and later the shame. After they were removed, proving too difficult to handle, labeled incorrigible, I suppose, I remember the relief.
Growing up in the shadow of NYC meant living the true melting pot experience. Diverse people, including the Vietnamese and their culture proliferated. If someone introduced themselves to me as Vietnamese I would shy away, shut down, keep walking. If I was offered Vietnamese food I would turn it down. I was afraid, bitter, angry and I was letting him win. My attempt to cope was to place the blame on everyone who looked, ate, spoke, and smelled like him. I let him rob me of my open mind.
A decade later, I moved across the country. I was still wrestling with my experience, my prejudice, which viscerally and intellectually I knew was wrong, but could not shed. It was there a friend brought me to a social event at a local noodle shop and I was again introduced to a Vietnamese family. This time I could not run. I began talking with the owner. We had so much in common, raising small children, running a business...we totally clicked. I felt so much sadness leave me as I began to feel comfortable around the language and the food...The People. My old distorted memories of intertwined cultural and abusive encounters began to unravel and were replaced with new, healthy experiences of friendship and laughter.
My experience has taught me that better choices about placement need to be made by the adults entrusted with the care of our nation's children, but it does not mean we should turn our backs on the children of other nations. I know the hurt and the harm of shutting out a culture, a people, an entire ethnicity and what it does to a person. I can't imagine what it would do to our country.
Copyright 2017 Marci Purcell: All rights reserved; may be used freely with citation by non-profits and educational institutions.
Copyright 2017 Marci Purcell: All rights reserved; may be used freely with citation by non-profits and educational institutions.
