I sat there, listening intently. The experience was so different from my own, and I asked internally, “How would I feel? What would I do?” Knowing white privilege exists yet being white is surely different than being a person of color and knowing it; I could hear pain in their voices as they told their stories.

“Yeah, it is always amazing to me. My brother and I were coming through customs in Boston on our return from Kenya,” Habiba shared, “and until we showed up, everyone looked like you, Miss Rosemarie. Then when they saw us, the customs attendant stepped forward to say, ‘Random check. Random check. You two, over here.’ It sure didn’t seem random to me!” Several of the others laughed with her, familiar with her plight.

“I know what you mean,” Pious added. “If you need one hour at the airport, Rosemarie, I need two. Now, I try to say politely to the attendant, ‘Why don’t you get the supervisor, because eventually you will be calling him. It will save us both a lot of time.’ My name always brings up red flags, for some reason, and they always have to do additional review before I am allowed to fly.”

Many stories were shared at our weekly conversation gathering, a time to allow immigrants and refugees a chance to establish camaraderie, friendship, and safety. It is an enriching and rewarding experience. We gather on Sunday nights; who can come, comes. Often someone chooses a topic, saying, “Tonight I want to ask this question.” We eat a little food and share stories, ideas and opinions. The gift of their trust and honesty adds such value to my life; it is indescribable.

One night someone asked, “What does faith mean to you and how do you practice that?” Fascinating discussion. Another time, a young Iraqi man asked, “Do you believe that parents should beat children to teach them a lesson?” Varied views, multiple responses, rich discussion.

This night it was just after the Boston Marathon bombing. “Why is it that these attacks are only called ‘acts of terrorism’ when they find out that the people who did them are Muslim?” Ekhlas asked. A good question. Why is that? Why wasn’t Sandy Hook or Virginia Tech called an act of terrorism? Weren’t people terrified? Weren’t they “acts against humanity?” It makes no sense. And how would I feel if my religious affiliation was the primary identifying factor that defined whether what happened was terrorism? Why is it that when a Christian commits a similar act, that identification is never reported? Something is wrong here.

After the most recent attack in Nairobi, the discussion surfaced in my English class for non-native English speakers. Somali Muslim students who felt particularly affected were brave enough to speak.

“I am Muslim and I am Somali but I am not a terrorist. I do not support what was done, and I do not support this kind of behavior in any way,” Kasim spoke openly, “but what will each of us do about this? How should we treat one another and accept one another to be sure that this kind of discrimination, this stereotyping does not continue?”

The conversation evolved to this question: When do we speak up in defense of others? One student said he didn’t trust what anyone said, so he chose not to be involved.

Salat answered: “If you do not speak up for others, who will speak up for you when you need it? How can we make any change if we do not speak up?”

The words of Martin Niemoller’s poem rang in my head. I brought it up on the overhead. Silence until someone said, “Yes. We have to remember it is important to speak for others when you know something is wrong.” Our writing prompt was set.

These conversations leave me with a lot to consider, to mull over. While I am their college professor, they, too, are my teachers. I learn from them, every day, and their lessons are the most meaningful of my lifetime. Their stories are real; their experiences are poignant; their voices speak truths.

Sunday night I met three Rwandese young men, new to this country, seeking asylum. I heard they needed a few things. When I arrived, I saw they had nothing. No beds, no table, three forks, five spoons, one pan, and a couch. After filling my truck with “extras” I had around my home, I returned with miscellaneous furniture, towels, toiletries, two jumbo pizzas and two young people to help. We unloaded the truck and started to turn this empty apartment into a place they may someday call home. Afterward, we listened to Yannick play the guitar and sing; we shared stories.

With so much loss, no family, a new and unfamiliar country, new language, and no place to lay their heads, they showed nothing but gratitude. I have so much to learn.

I am still looking for beds.

Rosemarie De Angelis is a professor at Southern Maine Community College and also works as a Guardian ad litem and mediator in family district court. She resides in South Portland and formerly served six years on the South Portland City Council.