Russ Trowbridge and I were waiting for the Congolese family to arrive. We’d driven out to the 24/7 filling station on the highway which also serves as the bus station. We waited in Russ’s Lincoln because with its temperature controls, leather seats, and roomy interior, it’s more comfortable than the bench across from the pumps. The Heartland Family Services van with Del, the handyman, behind the wheel parked beside us just as the Greyhound rolled up. Through the high, tinted windows I could see figures moving in the aisle, reaching up to the racks for luggage. It gave me goose bumps, thinking about how far our refugees were from Africa. We got out of the car and waited for them to step down onto the pavement. Russ took a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and practiced under his breath: “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Olomide.”
When they were all out of the bus, they stood together in a group talking in their language, though I thought I heard something like oui and maybe l’auto that reminded me of my father who still spoke a little French by the time he’d moved in with me. I would have expected the Congolese to speak an African language.
Russ stepped forward. “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Olomide.”
Mr. Olomide straightened. “Good afternoon,” he said, and extended his hand. “Very indeed pleased.” The mother and grandmother didn’t look directly at us. The children, running in ages from about three to probably fourteen, stared with large, still eyes. Del slid open the van door and Russ gestured for them to get in while he helped Del load the suitcases—two were tied with rope—into the back.
The parents waited for the grandmother who took a spry step up into the van followed by the seven children, the mother, and then the father. I’ve never liked that van because the windows are dark and you can’t see what’s inside. I felt emotional because I couldn’t see the family anymore. Even though people always say our town is a good place to live, the Olomides didn’t know that, and there were so many changes, maybe not as many changes as they’d already lived through, but there were so many changes ahead. You have a deep feeling you’re watching something important happen. That’s how I felt about the Olomides: they were bigger than me. Congo was bigger than our town. Africa was bigger than the United States. I’d never had that thought before and it made me feel large and small at the same time.
Related Reading: Culture Topic/ City or Country Life
Acculturation Process
Culture Shock
