Spring Break in Texas: Breaking Down Barriers, Cultivating New Ground

Uncanny. Enlightening. Endearing. Three words for my latest experience among the Somali Bantu. Several of my newer English students have migrated to Nashville from Houston, where they were originally resettled in 2004. As a fellow escapee from the 4th most populated city in America, I couldn’t imagine how—or where—a refugee group with such needs could survive in that metropolis! From 1956-1986, my only interaction with the inner city was during graduate school when I was required to drive through the Third Ward on my way to the University of Houston. My modest but safe neighborhood was the stuff “Leave it to Beaver” was made of, including my elementary school at the end of the street.

When visiting my parents in Houston this time, I brought the address one of my English students gave me. I said I would try to visit his elderly parents. After using Google Maps to locate their government subsidized apartments, I gingerly approached my dad about the possibility of driving over to the Second Ward to visit Farah’s parents . . . “On Runnels? Not me” was the response. I zoomed in a little closer, though he already knew the street names—“That area was a shanty town when I worked over there in 1957." Geographical barriers. Security barriers. Social barriers. I dropped the subject as we googled “Myers-Spalti Furniture Manufacturing Company”, assuming that the old buildings where my grandfather had also worked from 1905 until retirement had been torn down . . . nope, still standing with a Texas Historical Marker out front . . . on Runnels Street!

We woke up yesterday, with no real plans before my flight back to Nashville, until breakfast, when Dad suggested that we drive downtown—"We don’t have to get out of the car if it doesn't look safe." My dad is a real native Houstonian, who still knows most of its streets simply by “feel.” Since 1926, he has observed virtually every layer of Houston’s development. He grew up on La Branch Street-- once considered the edge of town, it now cuts right through the downtown skyscrapers. It was fun to hear my parents reminisce as we wound our way through the residential and business district that has dramatically evolved since the Great Depression . . . high rise lofts, electric trolleys, Minute Maid Stadium, and the JP Morgan Chase Tower (tallest in TX).

As we finally approached the "slums" we saw plenty of people carrying bottles in brown wrapping paper or pushing grocery carts; but were struck by how different it looked than what we had envisioned. Other than the Head Start Building and Boys' and Girls' Center on each side of the Administrative Office, Abdi Kawaga's complex looked more like a townhouse community than "the projects" . . . but then we were distracted by some striking red brick buildings. What? Luxury Lofts and Condominiums? A Texas Historical Marker? The utterly transformed Myers-Spalti Furniture Manufaturing Company was . . . next door!

One set of barriers fell, but more would emerge. Language barriers. Cultural barriers. Gender barriers. Generational barriers. My parents wondered what to do and say . . . or not do and not say? We briefly reviewed as we circled the complex and located Apt. 99. We were about to knock on the door, when a young African woman drove up. I asked if she speaks English or knows Mr. Kawaga or my friend, Farah. “Yes. Abdi is my grandfather and Farah is my uncle” Amina smiled, “Can you follow me to my apartment?”

Finally our acquaintance unfolded. We got out of the car just as Farah’s dad strolled up the sidewalk with his thick, hand-carved cane—regal in his embroidered Muslim cap, traditional African skirt, French blue button down and penny loafers! Simultaneously, a tiny, aged-looking grandmother with the cutest smile full of zigzag teeth was greeting us from the tidy little porch. As we entered the home, we removed our shoes, even though Amina insisted that we didn't have to. She translated as introductions were made—we had been expected. Farah had been sure I would come. Before long, Amina's mom, Sitay, came in (she's Farah's sister) with Amina's wide-eyed preschoolers. The air was overflowing with the warmth that is customary between old friends!

The language barriers fell—Farah’s niece is a college student aiming for pharmacy school, and the most fluent Somali Bantu person I’ve met in five years. The cultural barriers fell, though my dad was a little hesitant about the refreshments (little plastic jugs of red or blue juice and a variety pack of Frito Lays chips). Gender barriers fell—the men shook hands, the women hugged and both of Farah’s parents hugged me and kissed my hands as we left! Best of all, generational barriers fell. We were one united circle of children, parents, grandparents and great-grandparents enjoying a Spring morning in the shadow of my Grandaddy Everett’s workplace. One last "coincidence" . . . I've never known where the Somali Bantu refugees were first resettled or attended school in "Space City" . . . "Braeswood area. McNamara Elementary." (Braeswood borders my parents aging suburban neighborhood and McNamara was the little school I attended from 1961-1967)! Ironic. Instructive. Charming. And unforgettable. Isn't that just like God?