I recently finished teaching English as a volunteer for six weeks at the Salvation Army. Most students had only been in the U.S. for a month or two. The class was all over the place with its English proficiency. So I simply began.

It was mix and match. I never got to know all 60 names. We were too chaotic for such polite formality. They needed to be in line at the homeless shelter for a bed that night. Or they needed to meet with immigration, housing counselors or medical appointments. Carrying their possessions all day was confusing to them. There was no place to securely leave their small things. Yet they showed up. Yet they smiled.

On the last day I asked them to give a small speech. My star student went first. She was a physical therapist in her home country. She had to leave her husband and four children behind. ”This is not easy,” she told us. One by one, others followed.

“I want to be a truck driver. I drove trucks in Angola.”

“I want to be a carpenter.”

“I want to drive cars? Fix cars, I mean.”

“I want to be an electrician.”

“I want to be a hairdresser.”

After that came a young man who said he missed and loved his mom.

Next came a quiet student. I encouraged him to share that he was a doctor.

“I went to medical school in Cuba. My father died four days ago. He was a pastor. I want him to be proud of me.”

We paused, quiet and sad. These attitudes were American when I grew up in the 1950s and ’60s. I welcome their return to our shores.

Aurelie Bald
South Portland