Culture Shock Moment 16.9.10

In my haste to get the week in review posted, I forgot my favorite and most memorable moment of the week.

I was sitting on the tram on my way to meet up with the other students for the farmer’s market when I overheard one of the most interesting conversations I’ve ever heard. Two kids, maybe ten or eleven years in age, were standing next to me talking about their lives. Fortunately for me, it was in English and I could understand what they were saying. One of the kids was Vietnamese, the other, I think, was an expat whose mother grew up in Columbia.

The kids swapped stories about the conditions in which they grew up, visas, and police corruption. The Vietnamese boy recounted his experience of running from the police and never staying in one place. Apparently his parent’s visas were not in order, so every few weeks they would have to find a new home. He smiled when he remembered that the time of greatest stability is when they lived next to the police station for three years.

When the conversation turned to police corruption I was taken aback. I’ve had exactly two encounters with the police, and entirely two too many, but mine were during traffic stops and I am the only one to blame. While my impressions of police officers from those encounters are not heart-warming, I have the utmost respect for the profession and empathize with the hardships they face everyday, from the long hours to the shouting, angry, and or dangerous citizens they encounter when fulfilling their obligations. These kids talked about living in Bosnia and their understanding that when a police officer stops you, you hand them $20 and be on your way.

Just before he got off the tram, the Vietnamese boy also talked about health care. His father got trapped under a tram once as it tried to move forward. While the man survived, he hurt his arm, but was unable to go to the hospital for fear of being deported. Instead of seeking professional medical treatment then, the boy’s father treated himself and stayed in the apartment for a few weeks while recovering.

Up to this point, the conversation was amazing to me, but what happened next is on a whole other level. The boys put smiles on, said their “good byes,” “’til next times” and went on with their lives as if this were all completely normal and natural. Maybe the conversation won’t affect their lives, but I know it has changed mine. 


Author's Note: I know I didn't do this story justice, and for that I apologize. It's one of those moments that I'll relive innumerable times in my head in the days, months and years to come, so maybe one day I'll have a more polished version to share.