Then I meandered around town a bit admiring the fantastic murals that pepper the area and puzzling over a department store called "Fallas" which means "faults" in Spanish.
Eventually I made my way to the shelter. Almost immediately upon entering I was hugged by a small child. Inquiries in both Spanish and English for the center coordinator led me to the kitchen where I was sat down with a plate of leftovers: rice, corn, and cupcakes from the FOUR birthdays celebrated that day. It felt like Peace Corps: being immersed in Spanish, having no idea of the process, yet being well fed and feeling strangely comfortable with the situation.
I was foisted onto a volunteer named Mary who showed me how to fix to-go bags for the refugees. As the refugees are resettled all over the United States they often wind up taking multi-day bus trips or flights. And we equipped every family with blankets, sandwiches and snacks, water, and one or two toys for the journey. Churches from around the country had also sent welcome notes to include in these bags in charmingly incorrect Spanish. (Do this with your parish or Girl Scout troop or school! The personal touch is so so helpful in making a family feel welcome)
Mary definitely set off my nun-dar and despite my subtle questions like "Are you sure it's not Sister Mary?" and "Are you the flying type nun, Mary?" she insisted on being called just Mary. But she was totally a Maryknoll and my nun-dar is never wrong!
After packing some bags I was then shown how to make hygiene kits: a bag with soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, and hair ties for each family. Other supplies like sanitary pads, lotion, hair gel, diapers, lice shampoo etc were organized into different shelving units for use upon request. This station was my happy place for the week. Not only did it indulge my great joy in sorting things but it was also usually managed by Jean, another nun who had spent most of her life in Chile and who was just sarcastic enough to let me know she was a kindred spirit.
I also got the run down on the clothing bank and the intake routine before a bus of approximately 50 men, women, and children arrived on an ICE bus. As each family disembarked they were cheered and families who had been at the shelter for a day or two held welcome signs and ushered the newbies into the kitchen. Everyone who came off the bus looked scared or numb or shocked; they were holding in so much emotion that they had no emotion. So we fed them chicken soup. And welcomed them.
The welcome speech went something like this,"Welcome. You are in a shelter operated by the Catholic Church. We are not the government and you are free to go. Please let us know if you have an immediate medical need. Tonight we will get you new clothing and a hot shower and we will call your families or sponsors in the US. We do have some rules...."
Invariably during this speech, one or two people would break down. Every night as people slowly realized that after months of walking they had made it to the United States, that they would be reunited with their family soon, that they were not in detention anymore, that they were safe and warm and being fed chicken soup by people who cared -- there would be tears. (So of course Sr. Jean and I would well up as well.) The teenagers took longer to relax and it was heartbreaking. I could see them start to celebrate, to smile, to relax, but then harden up - unwilling to fully let down their guard. They were trying to stay strong and stoic for as long as possible.
And whelp, I'm crying again.
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