Stirring the Pot

Karey White is a friend from my past. She found me on FB (I love that about FB!) recently. Karey knew me when. She knows a chapter in my story that many of my adulthood friends don't. She was there. We hung out the year I sat out of school.

Kary writes, blogs and books. I like reading Karey's blog (I'm waiting for the book). Sometimes I wipe tears from my eyes, and it could be from laughing so hard, grief or tender feelings-her writing has evoked all of them. She asks hard questions in her reflections; I've had to answer privately at times because of the experiences I've had aren't all "out there" on public display.

Karey blogged some book reviews last month. I got to thinking about reading. I haven't done much in recent years. Oh, I'll pick up a Louis La'Mour when I want light reading and to escape. But I certainly don't read like I used to.

I teach English now. And I ask the students to read. Perhaps I should consider setting an example. I haven't put much effort out in finding good books to read. So, gratefully, I copied down the titles and authors that Karey wrote reviews on. And put it in my purse. (At some point, the list will be digital on my Droid. I went to the public library after school today. I found one of the books "A Thousand Splendid Suns". And just finished it tonight.

As I read, I thought of my Afghani students. I can picture 7 of them. I met 5 of them in 2002. All were refugees. Two came from a family that was certain that President Bush had invited them here and was going to take care of them because a rocket had come into their home in Kabul. The boy lost a leg in that event. And as we worked with him, we figured out that there had probably been head trauma as well. There's more to that story that doesn't go here.

But the one I remember most is Yalda. I miss her. I am certain her mother misses her daily. Yalda was a freshman in my earth science class. The only Farsi word I know is because of her. And I can't repeat it. She worked hard. And came back to my class as a junior to take chemistry. And worked hard. She had little tolerance for lazy students. She got a job that year at Food City. She bought a TV and entertainment center for her mother and father.

Grand Canyon University has a yearly health career fair, and since it is down the street the A&P teacher would take his students to see the cadavers (and other exhibits.) I took about half of the chemistry class that year I had Yalda, and we walked the few blocks. The cadaver got Yalda thinking. Walking back to the school, she asked me about death and life after, was there anything? She was raised in the Islam tradition. She also had evidently learned something about Catholic beliefs because she referenced what she had heard about. I told her what I knew to be true. That there is something after. Our spirit does continue on, even if our body lies in the ground.

Within a week, Yalda was dead. I still tear up. It at the end of Ramadan. It happened the morning after the night that the faithful stay up reading from the Koran. Was she tired and careless? Was it too dark to see properly? Were the traffic signals, in fact, out of sync? The flashing yellow/flashing red was to have changed to red/green about the time of the accident. Whatever the circumstances were, she was struck by a pickup truck as she crossed a street walking to school early. The driver was not charged.

This blog is called "Meandering". My stories wander. I always come back to the original, but it seems I don't take a direct route.

Yalda spoke about 5 languages. The family had left Afghanistan and lived in Pakistan for some years. She really didn't get to go to school there because it cost money. Her dad was probably a school teacher. He was still there, within a couple weeks of getting permission to immigrate when she died. His paperwork was expedited to come be with his wife and children. He was a good step father. A good man and wife. I spent time in the home. I sat with the women as they broke fast together in her mother's home. I realized I was sitting with the equivalent of the Muslim Relief Society. They were gathered supporting the grieving mother at a time they would otherwise be rejoicing and rejuvenating their faith.

I am going to write a book report on "A Thousand Splendid Suns". If I'm going to ask the students to write and find the elements, I will do it also. I need the practice. I don't remember the last report I ever wrote on fiction.

Thank you, friend Karey, for making me think, hard. And for stirring the pot. It needed stirring.