First Impressions
Today’s blog post is by Intern Blake Gilmore. Blake is a student at Brentwood High School.
It’s the morning of my first internship. My father guides our Infiniti SUV as it circles the International Institute. Peering into the passenger mirror, I begin to apply the last coat of my mascara when the vehicle comes to a screeching halt. The wand scrapes an inky black line onto my upper eyelid. “Dad! Why didn’t you tell me you were going to stop? I need to set a good impression,” I exclaim, though I recognize this is probably what I deserve for applying makeup in the car. Mildly annoyed, I say goodbye and resolve to remove the mess in a bathroom before anyone sees me. Too late. A man unlocks the glass door just as I reach it, giving me a peculiar look.
After some feverish cleaning, I set out to explore the Institute with twenty minutes to spare. It’s a bit reminiscent of an airport, actually. Perhaps this is symbolic. The airy main hall is replete with ethnic decorations, from a cabinet filled with ornate dolls in traditional dress to massive photographs from around the world. I make my way towards the lobby and sit. A woman exits a classroom fully enwrapped in a tan burqa. Her stark brown eyes are the only parts she reveals. Suddenly, I’m fully conscious of my bare knees peeking out beneath my blue dress. Kate Howell, the volunteer coordinator, cheerfully greets me shortly thereafter. She’s wearing a dress, too, albeit the fabric continues a few inches farther than mine. She leads me behind the welcome desk which we’ll be staffing until the man who usually works there returns. Non-profit employees must be versatile. I listen as she gives me more information on the Institute and the vast assortment of services they offer. They completely care for refugees, delivering them from their country of refuge, picking them up at the airport, and ameliorating every aspect of their lives to help them succeed.
By 8:45, a smattering of cultures converges within the lobby. Various dialects merge, rising and falling in an indecipherable clamor. A small Burmese (or perhaps Bhutanese?) boy, dark eyes darting around the unusual environment, pulls on the pink satin fabric of his mother’s dress, chiming its embroidered gold trinkets. Muttering something in broken English, the mother sashays to the front of the welcome desk. All I interpret from her utterance is “I… class. Okay?” Somehow Kate knows exactly what she’s trying to convey, handing the woman two red square passes. There are only a few basic accents to learn, Kate explains. Once you have these down, communication is infinitely easier. She makes it sound almost simple! Then a woman who appears to be African shuffles over. “Hello,” I say. She nods and beams a warm, Maya-Angelou-esque smile. The withered lines of her face speak of the tribulations she’s endured. I look at her dress, wondering if she knows what its repeating phrase means. Then an epiphany: she doesn’t care about dress pattern, nor does she concern herself with dress length! And this woman has triumphed in battles far greater than fighting with a mascara wand. This woman–like each of these immigrants and refugees–is just thankful this organization is here to help her assimilate.
Considering the adventures within my first hour at the Institute, I can’t wait to discover what my next eight weeks will bring.