[a moment] of doubt

 

[moment 263]

I don't know if she's quieter because I'm around or because of something else. I don't know if she likes me or doesn't or is afraid of me. With my tattoos and blue hair, I'm definitely not a person this Afghan woman would automatically be comfortable with, and it doesn't help that part of my volunteer work with her family requires scanning all their documents and health records and asking incredibly personal questions. I realize that what I do in the beginning of the refugee resettlement process is incredibly invasive, but it's something I have to do.

As someone who grew up always feeling different - and insecure about my differences - I can feel some of that anxiety creeping back into my thoughts. I try to reassure her that the toys on her floor don't bother me - that it's a part of having kids. I try to compliment her on their bedroom arrangement. I try to reassure her that the cards with their cash and food assistance will be here as soon as possible. I ask her if she needs anything or wants to go anywhere. But she either shakes her head at me or just won't meet my gaze. 

With each experience my anxiety grows. With each comment about how reserved she is all of a sudden when she was different over the weekend (when I wasn't there) makes me feel badly for being involved at all. I don't know if it's all in my mind or if there's substance to it. The traumas of my past haunt my thoughts, casting doubt on my involvement with the family.

Nevertheless, I am who I am and I look how I look and I know who I am at heart. I know that my intentions are good and that I have a lot in common with this young mom. I also know that part of learning to live in a new country is meeting a variety of people, some of whom may be unlike anyone you've previously encountered,, and refugee resettlement is that, too. I know what I'm doing for this family is vital for their life here. And I realize that I'm just as apt to be projecting my insecurities on her as she is to be insecure with my presence.