Cathy Weiss, Poet Laureate

 

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An excerpt from Summer Sandals, read the whole story in the Summer 2019 New Authors Journal. Available on Amazon.

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Fast forward to the Fourth of July 1993. I was at a barbecue given by some Bosnian refugees I had helped to resettle in the US the previous year. As i looked around, I noticed I was the only social worker that was part of their resettlement team who was there. In fact, I was the only American.

 

I wriggled my toes in the grass and thought about freedom. and the choices people have to make for that very privilege. I thought of the refugee in my own soul. Hadn’t I left everything familiar for the freedom to choose a better life?

 

just a year ago, I had to explain what fireworks were to two refugees after they dived down to the ground and covered their heads in he middle of the street thinking they were being bombed. Their war wounds were not yet healed, and the fireworks scraped away at their still fresh battle scars.

 

A year later, and they themselves are celebrating the fourth of July; their new American holiday. They are celebrating freedom as United States citizens.  This one year grant position to re-settle refugees was some of the most gratifying work I would ever do. Many people who sought my counsel were not interested in taking it. However, these refugees ate up every bit of advice I gave them. They wanted freedom and to have a better life, and saw my guidance as part of a means t that end. 

 

Soon through them revelations about my life, the summer of  1971, and my struggle to be free from my past became clearer. I too left everything familiar so long ago to create the life I wanted. To become free from the limits of my past was the gift that now helped me relate to their current circumstances.

 

I never was really aware of the pain and suffering in the world outside my own life. Yes, I watched the TV news and read the newspaper. Yes, I cared about all of it, but it was far removed from my daily life. Nestled snuggly into my Connecticut shoreline home when I took the job, I never knew how close to the world and its suffering I would become. Yet, at the same time, I realized how far I had traveled  away from my own suffering.

 

When I took the job, I thought, “I’ll sign them up for English as a second language classes, fill out food stamp applications, get them apartments, find them jobs. Yes, I did all those routine things, but not before I learned of their torture and pain. I prided myself on being strong, but when I would pick these clients up at the airport, some who were bloodied and beaten, I realized what strength really was. Some were recently raped, or had seen their family members shot in front of their eyes, and some were malnourished near death. I realized I was a very small fish in a big pond of survival techniques. Telling me their story was necessary to heal. It was a gift to listen and be a part of something bigger than myself. I was a stepping stone on their journey, just like Margaret was in mine.

 

A year later and they were celebrating Independence Day. They had jobs, Spoke English, and some even had cars. They were smiling and proud. They were shaking my hand, telling me how grateful they were. They are no longer afraid of fireworks.

 

I thought that I should thank them. Through them I realized I too had been a refugee. I left my family, friends, and familiar surroundings to start a better life. Years later, there I was trying to help others do the same.

 

Sometimes I think of them, the refugees I met, and wonder if they are still doing well. I wonder if telling their stories helped them be free, or if the past still haunts them.

 

I write this knowing we have a world full of terrorists and full of wars. I wonder what crosses people around the world, including my children will have to bear. I hope they find a way to tell their stories, to have their stories lift them to freedom. I hope they eat some ice cream, and wriggle their toes in summer sandals on a Fourth of july as they watch fireworks.