Fresh Perspectives from the Classroom:
What Refugees and Immigrants can Teach Us
The late Rep. John Lewis, in the days after the 2016 Pulse Nightclub shooting, advocated for changes to gun laws. He spoke on the House floor, “When you see something that is not fair, not right, not just, you have to speak up.You have to say something; you have to do something.” As educators, we do see, we must speak up, and we can do something.
Abdi enrolled in my fall English Composition class. A 25-year-old first year student, he aspired to transfer to Syracuse University after finishing his associate degree at our community college. He brought his curiosity, vulnerability, and resilience to class and to life. At 15, he witnessed a rebel faction shoot dead his father in their Somali home. To flee the terrors of everyday living, Abdi’s mother gathered her children and, with hundreds of others, began the long trek from Somalia to Kenya where they would live in a sprawling refugee camp.
After ten years in the camp, Abdi and his brothers gained permission to emigrate and journeyed to the United States — an unknown but promising land of opportunity. He told a funny story about one of their misperceptions of the US, formed by watching movies. They expected to readily access money in ATM machines, whenever they needed it. This is not a comment on their naivety but rather a cautionary tale to us all about seeing people through an inadequate lens.
When Abdi told me his mother remained in the refugee camp, I felt sadness for her, for her children, yet she made a courageous decision to embrace her children’s opportunity for new life. I can imagine her exhaustion from being uprooted from home and, perhaps, grief for her husband lingered still; the thought of another trek into the unfamiliar was too much to bear.
Abdi and his brothers arrived in the US, living in several metropolitan areas and eventually relocating to Greeley, Colorado, where he worked the late shift at a meat packing plant. He recounted explaining to the hiring staff that, as a practicing Muslim, he could not work in the pork plant, only the beef plant. A tall, strapping young man, Abdi’s job cut rump roasts off cattle carcases — 2400 in an eight hour shift. The job paid well: enough to pay for school, help support his brothers and himself, and send money home to his mother each month.
With a gift for writing and storytelling, Abdi wrote with an urgency to advocate for change in his country and to encourage others, like him, to persist. He was a voice for the voiceless, for those left behind. He embodied the hope, tenacity, and resilience that can transform terror and tragedy.
He shared stories of his family, the hard work at the packing plant, and his dream to attend Syracuse. I gave an article to Abdi about prestigious universities’ outreach efforts to recruit community college students like him. It was as if the universe were working in concert with him.
Abdi inspired me to teach better, to check my assumptions and biases, ones I held wittingly or unwittingly. Even the most well-intentioned teacher holds implicit bias. I was no different, despite what I thought were my best efforts: high expectations, rigor, support, knowing my students — their interests, their strengths, their challenges. Admittedly, I recognized that I made pass/fail projections in my mind about students’ success within the first week or two of class.
What I came to realize is that students want and need to be heard, to be valued, and to know you are on their team and invested in providing a supportive learning environment that challenges and pushes them. Many of our students, unfortunately, have been told they are too behind, too slow, too non-white, too poor to learn and rise above their circumstance.
Abdi didn’t seek riches or celebrity. Abdi sought a seat at the table to improve the status quo for himself and his community. I delighted in his joy and enthusiasm for learning that pushed him beyond his comfort zone towards that transformation. I believed in him.
The following semester, he stopped by to see me on a quiet afternoon in the Writing Center. His eyes looked weary, his shoulder heavy. The precarious balance of work, family, and school had been disrupted. Instead of cutting 2400 rump roasts in a shift, he was now required to cut 2900 in eight hours. I don’t recall whether he used a knife or saw, but the repetitive overhead exertion had taken its toll. He was withdrawing from school because he couldn’t keep up with the physical demands of work and still attend to his academics. Unfortunately, other jobs in the area couldn’t match the wages at the plant. His dream deferred, my heart sank.
Weeks later, he emailed to ask that I be a character reference for him for an apartment. He shared exciting news of his recent marriage and a new job in a nearby city. Though I celebrated his news, I grieved that he had not returned to school. I mourned the lost potential of that confident, hopeful young man, always eager to expand his knowledge of the world and strengthen his writing, his voice for change. Would Syracuse ever know what a contribution Abdi could be to their student body?
Intellectually I understood the reasons for Abdi’s decision, yet my grief remained. Until I read Reyna Grande’s memoir, The Distance Between Us (2013). Grande recounts the unimaginable risks of desert terrain and physical harm she, her siblings, and father survived to emigrate from the far south of Mexico to the US. Although her father was a brick mason in Mexico, his meager wages were inadequate to house and feed his family. After settling in the US, Reyna succeeded academically and professionally despite enduring racist comments from classmates and teachers, alike. Yet her siblings struggled, falling into traps of mental health and substance use.
Through their story, I saw Abdi’s decision very differently. I can empathize with his setting aside what seemed to be most important in exchange for something common to us all: to love and be loved, to belong, to be respected and valued. Having escaped the yoke of oppression and fear in Somalia, his resilience buoyed him. When one dream faded, he saw new horizons. Hope would endure, and, perhaps, he’ll have another opportunity to finish school.
Abdi remains an inspiration to me. I see his hope in so many students on our diverse campus. When I coach faculty who strive to improve their instruction and student learning, we are collaborating to empower all of the “Abdi’s” we have the privilege of knowing. We are well-positioned to “do something,” as John Lewis calls us to do. To partner with our students — to disrupt a pedagogical model that, intentionally or unintentionally, discounts students’ diverse lived experiences and identities. To value, instead, those experiences and identities as enriching content and new ways of seeing, knowing, and co-creating new knowledge that will impact all aspects of our ability to live and thrive in community.
