International Refugee Day

There really is a day designated for everything. But, strangely, this one hit a chord with me...I've never been a refugee - unless my fleeing the cold Minnesota winters counts - but I've known my share.

Most notably I went on a memory trip to 3rd grade. But let me set the stage. I grew up in Minnesota, even in the summer, this is one of the whitest states in the nation. There is something like a 7% minority rate for the state as a whole. I did grow up in Minneapolis, so I saw more diversity than, say, a kid in Moorehead, but for the most part, I grew up with kids with names like Tor and Ingve (very scandanavian, yes and very white).

But in 3rd grade that all changed. Minneapolis was designated as a settlement site for Laotian immigrants and Sister Kenny Elementary School was the grade school to which most of the Laotian children were sent. I think they had a horrendous bus ride in order to come to our school.

One would think this a shock and something from which we children, or our parents, would recoil, but I remember it as a welcome change. Suddenly we had assemblies in which we could watch Laotian dancing. There were fun new recess games to play that didn't involve kicking or throwing balls (something I've never been terribly good at). I even developed a friendship with one girl, Samsakoun, who never could speak enough English (nor I enough Laotian) to really communicate well.

We heard brief and sketchy accounts of fleeing Laos and living in refugee camps, but my young mind could not take in something so big or traumatic. Even now, when I know more about what the world can dish out, I cannot really comprehend how strange it must have been for these kids to come into this world that I so blithely inhabited.