“Like a large metal box. On a ship,” he says.
He is searching for the word. There is a moment of silence. “Container?” I say.
“Yes,” he says, and he repeats the word. “Container.”
That’s how Khaled came to America. In a container with other refugees aboard a cargo ship. The assignment asks students to describe, if they’re willing, their journey to the United States. Some came across the border by foot. Some arrived in Miami by plane.
Khaled’s journey began in Pakistan, and passed through 11 different countries on a journey that lasted 14 months during the height of Covid. He was robbed twice. The second time, in Mexico, he was robbed by a gang that took his phone, his jacket, his backpack, and whatever else was on him. But somehow, he found his way to the United States.
Today, he is a student in my class where I teach English as a second language at the adult school in Fremont. I, too, am a child of immigrants who came to this country more than 50 years ago from Hong Kong.
Khaled comes to class tired, after having worked all day as a plumber, but he comes nonetheless, and I try to make the class as interesting and participatory as possible, so that he will not fall asleep.
He is a sweet, kind man, and often he will buy me an iced coffee from the vending machine at break time. He leaves it on my desk while I’m away, and I get the feeling the act of kindness embarrasses him.
Four days a week, students arrive in the evenings to learn English for two and a half hours. Our classes fill up quickly on registration days, and there is often a waiting list.
Who are these students? They are housekeepers and gardeners. Fast food and construction workers. Nannies. Warehouse workers and Uber drivers.
They come from Afghanistan and China. From Mexico and Vietnam. From Central and South America. In class, a Ukrainian woman sits next to a Russian man. Watching them laugh and help each other with their lessons, you’d never know that their countries were at war.
To us, who were born here or have lived here for most of our lives, we see today’s America as a poor substitute for the country we knew and loved growing up. But for these immigrants, who left a country where music and dancing are no longer allowed, and girls are no longer allowed to attend school, America offers a different possibility.
These immigrants leave behind countries where citizens struggle to maintain a simple life against the terror of the drug trade. These immigrants leave behind countries with collapsed economies.
To these immigrants, this country is a hell of a lot better than the country they left, with more freedom, and a lot more opportunities for a better life. That’s why they are here.
Lilliana, a janitor, hopes to learn enough English to pass an exam to work for the post office. Gustavo is looking to enroll in a training course to be a truck driver. They are happy to be here.
There are people in this country, including leaders in our government, that would like us to believe that a large number of immigrants entering our country south of the border are criminals and a threat to our national security. My experience teaching at Fremont Adult School tells me something quite different.
So on this Fourth of July, on Independence Day, if you want to believe in the promise of this country again, if you want to feel lucky about living in this country, you won’t find it turning on the 10 o’clock news. You won’t find it listening to talk radio.
You will find it at 4700 Calaveras Avenue, in Fremont, in a classroom where students lean forward in their seats, to learn the English words: “hope,” “opportunity,” “freedom.” Words that exist in their own language, but come to life before them in this new country.
Bob Leung
Fremont
