In cities and towns all over the country, refugees arrive daily. Lost Boys from Sudan, survivors from Kosovo, families fleeing Afghanistan and Vietnam: they come with nothing but the desire to experience the American dream. Their endurance in the face of tragedy and their ability to hold on to the essential virtues of family, love, and joy are a tonic for Americans who are now facing crises at home. Their stories will make you laugh and weep--and give you a deeper understanding of the wider world in which we live.
The Middle of Everywhere moves beyond the headlines, into the hearts and homes of refugees from around the world. Her stories bring to us the complexity of cultures we must come to understand in these times.
Harcourt is donating a portion of the proceeds from this book to the Pipher Refugee Relief Fund of the Lincoln Action Project.
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About the Author
Mary Pipher, Ph.D., is the author of three bestselling books, including Reviving Ophelia, which was on the New York Times bestseller list for over 2 years. She speaks all over the country all year and has received a presidential citation from the American Psychological Association. She lives in Lincoln, Nebraska.
Read an Excerpt
MIDDLE OF EVERYWHERE
The World's Refugees Come to Our Town
CULTURAL COLLISIONS on the GREAT PLAINS
I AM FROM
I am from Avis and Frank, Agnes and Fred, Glessie May and Mark.
From the Ozark Mountains and the high plains of Eastern Colorado,
From mountain snowmelt and lazy southern creeks filled with water moccasins.
I am from oatmeal eaters, gizzard eaters, haggis and raccoon eaters.
I'm from craziness, darkness, sensuality, and humor.
From intense do-gooders struggling through ranch winters in the 1920s.
I'm from "If you can't say anything nice about someone don't say anything" and "Pretty is as pretty does" and "Shit-mucklety brown" and "Damn it all to hell."
I'm from no-dancing-or-drinking Methodists, but cards were okay except on Sunday, and from tent-meeting Holy Rollers,
From farmers, soldiers, bootleggers, and teachers.
I'm from Schwinn girl's bike, 1950 Mercury two-door, and West Side Story.
I'm from coyotes, baby field mice, chlorinous swimming pools,
Milky Way and harvest moon over Nebraska cornfields.
I'm from muddy Platte and Republican,
from cottonwood and mulberry, tumbleweed and switchgrass
from Willa Cather, Walt Whitman, and Janis Joplin,
My own sweet dance unfolding against a cast of women in aprons and barefoot men in overalls.
As a girl in Beaver City, I played the globe game. Sitting outside in the thick yellow weeds, or at the kitchen table while my father made bean soup, I would shut my eyes, put my finger on the globe, and spin it. Then I would open my eyes and imagine what it was like in whatever spot my finger was touching. What were the streets like, the sounds, the colors, the smells? What were the people doing there right now?
I felt isolated in Beaver City, far away from any real action. We were a small town of white Protestants surrounded by cow pastures and wheat fields. I had no contact with people who were different from me. Native Americans had a rich legacy in Nebraska, but I knew nothing of them, not even the names of the tribes who lived in my area. I had never seen a black person or a Latino. Until I read The Diary of Anne Frank, I had never heard of Jewish people.
Adults talked mostly about crops, pie, and rainfall. I couldn't wait to grow up and move someplace exotic and faraway, and living where I did, every place appeared faraway and exotic. When I read Tolstoy's book on the little pilgrim who walked all over the world, I vowed to become that pilgrim and to spend my life seeing everything and talking to everyone.
As a young adult, I escaped for a while. I lived in San Francisco, Mexico, London, and Madrid. But much to my surprise, I missed the wheat fields, the thunderstorms, and the meadowlarks. I returned to Nebraska in my mid-twenties, married, raised a family, worked as a psychologist, and ate a lot of pie. I've been happy in Nebraska, but until recently I thought I had to choose between loving a particular rural place and experiencing all the beautiful diversity of the world.
Before the Europeans arrived, Nebraska was home to many Indian tribes. The Omaha, the Ponca, the Pawnee, and the Nemaha lived in the east, the Lakota Sioux in the west. In the late 1800s immigrants from Europe pushed out the Native Americans. Wave after wave of new pioneers broke over Nebraska and we became a state of Scots, Irish, British, Czechs, Swedes, and Danes. For a while, we had so many Germans that many schools held classes in German. But after World War I, when nativist sentiments swept our state, our unicameral made instruction in German illegal.
Mexican workers came to build the railroads and to work on farms and in meatpacking. African Americans came to farm and to work in our cities. Nebraska's first free black person, Sally Bayne, moved to Omaha in 1854, and an all-black colony was formed at Overton in Dawes County in 1885. Malcolm X was born in Omaha in 1925.
Even though people of color have a rich history in our state and, of course, the Native Americans were here first, our state's identity the last 150 years has been mainly European. Until recently, a mixed marriage meant a Catholic married to a Methodist. After World War II, so many Latvians came here that we became the official site of the Latvian government in exile. Our jokes were yawners about farmers or Lutherans-"What did the farmer say after he won a million dollars in the lottery?" "Thank God I have enough money to farm a few more years." Or, "Wherever four Lutherans are gathered there is always a fifth."
However, in the last fifteen years something surprising has happened. It began with the boat people, mostly Vietnamese and Cambodians, coming in after the Vietnam War. In the 1980s Lincoln began having a few Asian markets, a Vietnamese Catholic church, a Buddhist temple, and English Language Learners (ELL) classes. Around the same time, Mexican migrant workers, who had long done seasonal work in our area, bought houses and settled down. Refugees from the wars in Central America trickled in.
The real change occurred in the 1990s. Because Lincoln had almost no unemployment and a relatively low cost of living, we were selected by the U. S. Office of Refugee Resettlement as a preferred community for newly arrived refugees. Now we are one of the top-twenty cities in America for new arrivals from abroad. Our nonwhite population has grown 128 percent since 1990. We are beginning to look like East Harlem.
Suddenly, our supermarkets and schools are bursting with refugees from Russia, Serbia, Croatia, Bosnia, Hungary, and Ethiopia. Our Kurdish, Sudanese, and Somali populations are rapidly increasing. Even as I write this, refugees from Afghanistan, Liberia, and Sierra Leone are coming into our community. Some are educated and from Westernized places. Increasingly, we have poor and uneducated refugees. We have children from fifty different nationalities who speak thirty-two different languages in our public schools.
Our obituary column shows who came here early in the 1900s. It is filled with Hrdvys, Andersens, Walenshenksys, and Muellers. But the births column, which reflects recent immigration patterns, has many Ali, Nguyen, and Martinez babies. By midcentury, less than half our population will be non-Latino white. We are becoming a brown state in a brown nation.
Lincoln has often been described by disgruntled locals and insensitive outsiders as the middle of nowhere, but now it can truthfully be called the middle of everywhere. We are a city of juxtapositions. Next to the old man in overalls selling sweet corn at the farmers' market, a Vietnamese couple sells long beans, bitter melons, and fresh lemongrass. A Yemeni girl wearing a veil stands next to a football fan in his Big Red jacket. Beside McDonald's is a Vietnamese karaoke bar. Wagey Drug has a sign in the window that says, TARJETAS EN ESPAÑOL SE VENDEN AQUI. On the Fourth of July, Asian lion dancers perform beside Nigerian drummers. Driving down Twenty-seventh Street, among the signs for the Good Neighbor Center, Long John Silver's, Fat Pat's Pizza, Snowflakes, and Jiffy Lube, I see signs for Mohammed's Barber Shop, Jai Jai's Hair Salon, Kim Ngo's jewelry, Pho's Vietnamese Café, and Nguyen's Tae-Kwon Do.
We celebrate many holidays-Tet, Cinco de Mayo, Rosh Hashanah, and Ramadan. At our jazz concerts, Vietnamese families share benches with Kurdish and Somali families. When my neighbor plays a pickup basketball game in the park, he plays with Bosnian, Iranian, Nigerian, and Latino players. I am reminded of the New Yorker cartoon which pictured a restaurant with a sign reading, RANCHO IL WOK DE PARIS, FEATURING TEX-MEX, ITALIAN, ASIAN, AND FRENCH CUISINES.
Women in veils exchange information with Mexican grandmothers in long black dresses. Laotian fathers smoke beside Romanian and Serbian dads. By now, every conceivable kind of grocery store exists in our city. And the ethnic shelves in our IGA grocery stores keep expanding. The produce sections carry jicama and cilantro. Shoppers can buy pitas, tortillas, egg rolls, wraps, and breads from all over the world. My most recent cab driver was a Nigerian school administrator who fled his country because he was in a pro-democracy group. S. J. Perelman's description of Bangkok-"It seemed to combine the Hannibal, Missouri, of Mark Twain's childhood with Beverly Hills, the Low Countries, and Chinatown"-could now apply to Lincoln.
Copyright © 2002 by Mary Pipher
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Table of Contentscontents
Prelude: Ellis Island xxi
Part One: Hidden in Plain Sight
Chapter 1: Cultural Collisions on the Great Plains 3
Chapter 2: The Beautiful Laughing Sisters-An Arrival Story 24
Chapter 3: Into the Heart of the Heartland 64
Chapter 4: All that Glitters... 83
part two: Refugees across the Life Cycle
Chapter 5: Children of Hope, Children of Tears 113
Chapter 6: Teenagers-Mohammed Meets Madonna 161
Chapter 7: Young Adults-"Is There a Marriage Broker in Lincoln?" 196
Chapter 8: Family-"A Bundle of Sticks Cannot Be Broken" 216
part three: The Alchemy of Healing-Turning Pain into Meaning
Chapter 9: African Stories 247
Chapter 10: Healing in all Times and Places 275
Chapter 11: Home-A Global Positioning System for Identity 305
Chapter 12: Building a Village of Kindness 325
Coda: We're All Here Now 351
1. Working with People for Whom English Is a New Language 355
2. Becoming a Cultural Broker 358
3. Universal Declaration of Human Rights 359
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I really thought I was going to like this book. We read it for my book club at work and honestly this book did nothing for me. I didn't quite understand who exactly she was.... she kept saying that she was a "cultural broker" but never really explained what that meant. I thought the stories were good -- but the book it's self was all over the place... I didn't like the way it was laid out and how it jumped around. I guess this book also might be more insightful for someone who doesn't work with refugees on a daily basis. I pretty much knew everything she was writing about. I might share this book with someone who has never had the experience of knowing a refugee personally.
This book does an excellent job of immersing the reader in the lives of the immigrants with whom we share this country. The culture shock experienced by Mary Pipher's interviewees is very eye-opening, as the American reader will see the simple luxuries they possess which are not available elsewhere. Emotions run high while reading The Middle of Everywhere. The stories are told with notable sincerity that contributes greatly to the book¿s overall value. Messages of both struggle and hope are intertwined throughout every account that this book offers.
The Middle of Everywhere is a book based on Pipher¿s personal experiences working to assimilate refugees to American ways of life. The book ranges from driving to cooking, to the college process or the obvious language barriers. In a way, this book is also a sort of ¿how-to¿ book for those who help refugees. Through stories of Pipher¿s own successes and, indeed, failures, she invites the reader to understand what works and what has proven unhelpful when assisting refugees which American skills are necessary and which are harmful. A major message of the book is that when dealing with refugees, assume nothing. The Middle of Everywhere is split up into three main sections and further divided into ¿chapters.¿ Each chapter consists, for the most part, of a single experience or story that is obviously carefully chosen to keep the reader¿s attention. Many stories are very comical, but each is still respectful and has a valuable lesson to be learned. Pipher does an excellent job in not being repetitive with her lessons and also presents them with a tremendous amount of humility. She pays close attention to small details that make the book easier (and more enjoyable) to read. However, sometimes the purpose of each story within the larger sections of the book was a bit unclear. The titles of the sections and even of the individual stories can be very misleading. Still, The Middle of Everywhere is a wonderful and very valuable book. It is respectful and personal and any American should read The Middle of Everywhere in order to better understand the plight of the many refugees who are becoming a part of our world more and more.
I assigned this text for a multicultural classroom where my students were working with Somali children in the community. There is a lot of helpful information in this book for those new to working with immigrants. However my students, particularly the immigrant students, found Pipher's tone to be extremely condescending. They hated the book. While she does talk at length about refugees' strengths many of her stories make them sound pitiful so that she must become their 'American mother'. At other points her culturally biased judgements are quite offensive. At one point she praises a Muslim man who is 'a good man' unlike most Muslim men who do not encourage education for their daughters. At another point she marvels at the 'good manners' of a Sudanese refugee who smiles and shakes hands and she wonders where he learned to be so polite. Basically Pipher would have done refugees a much better service by telling their stories at greater length and without comment.