As an adult, my mother emigrated from Canada to just over the border in northern New York State. It wasn’t her first choice, but my American father’s work situation in Québec City had changed, and heading to the U.S. seemed like the best — and potentially only —plan. Things went fine for a few years, but when cancer took my father’s life and widowed my mother at a fairly young age, she struggled to make sense of her future. As one of the older kids, I was already out of the house, but Mom still had kids at home, and it was a hard time.
These days, we’re inundated with dystopian headlines and, on any given day, I can’t keep up. A recent, particularly ugly one reminded me of how my mother, Céline, gained a new lease on life after she met refugee families from Somalia and Ethiopia.
Céline taught piano lessons and French classes at home, putting one foot in front of the other. A friend noticed, however, that my mother seemed at loose ends, and suggested that Céline get involved with helping refugees who were arriving in Plattsburgh from Atlanta, where they’d landed after escaping civil wars in their home countries. The newcomers were nearly all women and children; most of the men had died violently back home. The exhausted, battered refugees were bound for Canada, but had to endure a waiting period of several months before crossing the border.
Céline had the linguistic skills to assist the refugees, many of whom spoke French. Most actually spoke several languages including Arabic, Somali, and a Djibouti tribal tongue. I found them fascinating, tragic, and a little overwhelming, because I’d never encountered people who’d lost family members on a large scale. The mothers were loving and attentive toward their gorgeous, fun-loving children, despite all they’d been through. Some of the kids were shy, some outgoing, but they all struck me as brave and smart, and they picked up English easily while their elders struggled with the famously difficult language.
Céline grew particularly close to some of the families and eventually invited five Somalians to move into her small home when their meager accommodations became unavailable. “I have empty rooms, and they have no home,” she told me over the phone. “I love them, and it’s the right thing to do.” Céline grew very close to her new family, so much so that — when I visited, sleeping in the living room because my former bedroom now housed two Somalians — it seemed like they’d all lived together for years. Céline cooked healthy meals of French and American cuisine, and her housemates created menus unlike anything she’d ever known. The house was filled with children’s laughter, gentle teasing, industriousness, and gratitude. When that family obtained the necessary papers and moved to Montréal, Céline visited them regularly — and then found others to fill her empty rooms.
In any given year, xenophobia is all the rage in various circles. I believe it indicates ignorance, fear, and lack of moral fiber. But all I have to do in order to remember that the scuttlebutt about Somalians is a damned lie is to recall the joyful smiles on the face of my mother — an immigrant helping immigrants — and to recall how she found her place amidst new sisters, delightful children, and warm hearts.
Eveline MacDougall lives in Greenfield.