The Middle of Everywhere (37 page)

It became clear that while Chia complained about her problems, she didn't want to accept help. When I offered her suggestions, she was oppositional. So, I resolved to stop suggesting ideas and just try to understand her.

Chia's mother had died shortly after she was born. She'd been cared for by an aunt who had also died. Chia and her father had left his mother behind in Vietnam and come to America five years ago. She was learning English, but her father wasn't. He worked as a night watchman at a power plant and Chia cooked and cleaned for him. She said, "When my father comes home he is tired. He watches television and Ms asleep."

Chia and her father had high utility and grocery bills and could barely live on his salary and Chia worried about her grandmother's high cholesterol and blood pressure and about her father's chronic cough. She had nightmares that both her grandmother and her father had died. She said, "Then, Miss, I would be all alone."

I asked gently if she was lonely now.

"Yes, Miss." Chia looked at her hands and for a moment was silent. I asked her about school clubs. She said, "I must go right home and cook for my father."

"Do you and your father have Laotian friends?"

"No. My father is very tired. He doesn't want to spend money. It's better if we are just alone."

I gently noted, "Everybody needs friends."

She pondered this as if it were a truly novel idea. She said quietly, "I am afraid if anyone likes me they might die."

I said, "Let's talk more about that."

Chia lived in a world without relationships. Except for her father, her distant grandmother, and a few kind teachers, she was deeply alone. She had little understanding or empathy for others and few ways to attract others' interest. She was fearful of closeness because closeness meant loss. She'd lost touch with most of her Laotian world, but she hadn't connected to much in our town.

She was struggling to decide when to be Laotian and when to be American. She seemed very traditional in her behavior and beliefs, and yet she dressed like an American girl. Because of her English, she had responsibilities in her family very unlike those of a traditional daughter. She helped her father with everything, including his taxes, his bills, and his INS paperwork.

Chia's life was an odd combination of sad, stressful, and uneventful. I remembered the Jay Haley technique of turning tragedy into musical comedy. I couldn't go that far, but I decided a nickname might give Chia some identity and some hope. I said, "For now, I am going to call you The Lost Lady. That is the name of a beautiful young woman from a book by a famous Nebraska woman named Willa Cather."

She looked at me with interest and asked "Why do you call me that?"

I wrote out the words and handed them to her. I said, "The lost lady had many people telling her who to be. She didn't really know who she was. She was trying to figure out what her life meant to her and to other people."

This small naming ceremony was the beginning of my identity work. I wanted to have an enticing label that described Chia to herself. Chia had few external or internal resources, and small problems became big problems because she had no one to help her with them and no ways to calm herself down.

She needed nurturing, identity building, and help developing some of the attributes of resilience. She needed someone to tell her stories and to encourage her to explore her new environment. The first few months, I told her about our town, about its parks and other beautiful places, about it history and cultural events, and about where to find good Asian restaurants. I told her many stories, of life in America, of families experiencing culture shock, of parents and children working things out, and of teenagers who were stressed finding a path to happiness. Whenever I could, I told her stories of hope.

I asked Chia about college and she said, "It is too hard and it costs too much money." I asked her about her dreams and she said, "I have no dreams." I touched her arm. "Everybody needs dreams."

At the end of the session I praised her for cooking for her father. I said, "That is an important job." I asked her if she wanted to come back. She asked, "How is your health, Miss?"

Session 2

Chia again started with a physical complaint—her shoulder hurt. But I was prepared for this by now and I said simply, "I am very sorry."

Chia said, "My dad still has his cough."

I asked if he'd been to a doctor and she looked worried. She said, "No, Miss. The doctor costs money."

I said, "I'll call for a free appointment at the health department. Let's get this checked out."

Today, Chia brought pictures of her grandmother and her aunt who had died. They were old-fashioned pictures, from another world. Her grandmother looked like she weighed about eighty pounds and her aunt had stooped shoulders and several missing teeth. Both the grandmother and the aunt were barefoot and dressed in traditional silk dresses.

Chia also had pictures of herself and her father. He was a skinny, wrinkled man in a dark suit, the same suit in every picture. But whenever he was with Chia in the pictures, his arm was on her shoulder. And Chia always wore pretty clothes that he had bought with his meager wages.

I pointed to his arm on her shoulder and said, "I can tell your dad loves you."

She said, "He is always crabby with me."

I told Chia I had read that Laotian parents didn't praise their children for fear that spirits would hear the praise and steal the children. Especially if parents had a wonderful child, it was good to insult that child. I said, "Your father loves you, but he is old-fashioned."

Chia nodded happily at this interpretation. I suspected that Chia's father wasn't a terribly well-adjusted person, but to criticize him was to criticize the only person who kept her tethered to the world. She needed ways to keep loving her father and yet become more confident and American. Somehow she needed to be able to feel loyal to him and to Laos and yet adopt some new behaviors.

I temporarily forgot my resolve to stop making suggestions and asked Chia if she and her father would consider visiting the Asian Center, a Buddhist temple, or the Catholic church that many southeast Asians attended. She shook her head no. I asked about a pet for her, or even a visit to the zoo. She said, "My father doesn't like animals."

I asked about a school dance that was coming up. Chia looked at me like I was crazy. "My father thinks that is too dangerous."

I paused and reminded myself of my earlier insight. At the very least, I needed to come up with less-ambitious assignments. I showed Chia how to breathe deeply and relax her muscles, and I gave her a relaxation tape to play when she had trouble sleeping. I also gave her a journal and said, "Every day I want you to write down two things you are proud of." She thanked me for the journal. "This is my first present. You have made me very happy, Miss." On the cover, she wrote her name and "The Lost Lady."

I said, "Next time, we'll take your picture for the journal." She smiled in agreement.

"I want you to surprise me by writing that you talked to some students here at school."

Session 8

Over the next few months Chia did begin to make friends, with Miki, a Bosnian boy in her homeroom, and Thao, a Laotian girl from her computer class. She still led a quiet life of school, housework, and sleep, but she smiled more.

We talked about the problems that came up with her new friends. She responded to problems by ignoring them, pretending everything was okay, or by disappearing entirely. In general, she wasn't very flexible, and I worked to broaden her repertoire of responses. When she asked questions about how to handle things, or when she discussed issues openly, I really praised her.

Our sessions were very ritualized. Chia began with a physical complaint. By now I realized this was her way of asking for nurturance and I responded with interest and caring. Then she asked about my health and I assured her it was excellent. I asked if she was doing her breathing and relaxation exercises. Sometimes she was and sometimes she wasn't.

Next I inquired if she had written two things a day she was proud of. Generally Chia pulled out her journal and read what she had written. I praised her for speaking to new people, for exploring our town, for being flexible, or for having fun.

We used the diary to help her define a self. I asked her, "What do you enjoy? How do you make decisions about what to do? What are you good at? What are your favorite books, foods, and flowers? What qualities would you want in a friend?"

At first, Chia struggled with these questions, but as we worked over the months, she began to have short tentative answers. She liked to sing. She liked carnations and roses. Maybe she would go to junior college if her dad had enough money. She liked kind, honest, and healthy people.

Today she was moody. Her father had attended a performance of her school chorus. But afterward he had told Chia, "You can't sing. Forget this chorus."

She was mad at her father and discouraged by his remarks. I reminded her of the old-fashioned Laotian belief that the gods might steal gifted children. I said, "Your dad must be very proud."

She said, "I wish he would act like an American father and give me a hug."

That led into a discussion we often had about America and Laos. Chia was beginning to sort out what she wanted to keep from both cultures. She felt that in most ways her home culture was superior. She respected her elders and she felt American teenagers were too wild. She planned to care for her father forever. She said, "I would never put him in a rest home like Americans do." However, she liked the American ways of joking around and having fun. She envied American kids' conversations with their parents.

We talked about her friends. Miki wanted to come to her house after school and study. Her father didn't want anyone to come over, but especially not a boy. He didn't believe in dating until age twenty. Then he thought Chia should only date the man she would marry. After struggling with the issue, Chia decided to tell Miki that she could only be his friend at school and that she couldn't be his girlfriend. She said, "I will marry a man from my country."

Her Laotian girlfriend Thao had invited her to a birthday party. Chia was afraid to go and she didn't have any money for a gift. After much discussion we decided she could afford a two-dollar carnation and a handmade card. I gave her copies of pictures I'd taken of her. I said, "Give one to Thao with her card and send one to your grandmother."

As we parted, I said, "Take a chance. Go to the party." It was a sign of real progress that she agreed to think about it.

Session 9

For the first time since we met, Chia came in without any physical complaints. I greeted her and asked if she had brought her journal. She proudly handed it to me. She had written, "I am proud that I told Miki I couldn't be his girlfriend. I am proud that I went to Thao's party. I am proud that I cooked noodles for my father and that I wrote my grandmother a letter."

I hugged her and praised her for her kindness and for taking some risks. She smiled happily. Chia liked American-style affection. She brought me pictures from Thao's party. It had been a small party, with just Thao, her brother, and her brother's best friend. They'd had birthday cake, the first Chia had ever tasted, and they'd walked over to the Sunken Gardens. In the pictures Chia looked almost playful.

Chia confessed she had been very nervous and had hardly spoken. I said, "That's all right. It was your first party. Next time you will talk more."

I said, "Don't worry if you aren't perfect in everything you try. Celebrate your victories."

She said proudly, "My father and I went to a free concert in the park."

I looked surprised and she said, "I told my father what you told me, Miss. I said we need to have fun."

I reflected how much Chia had changed in the three months I had known her. She was no longer so oppositional with me. She talked more to her classmates and she no longer seemed afraid that if she liked someone they would disappear. She asked more questions and admitted she needed help with her problems. She had developed a few ways to calm herself down—writing in her journal, talking to her Laotian friend, even going out with her dad. She had developed a few interpersonal skills. She slept better and was more energetic. She had a sense that she had some strengths. We were just beginning to sort out what she did well and what she enjoyed. I wanted to help her plan a future.

Working with Chia reminded me of something Fred Rogers once said: "There is a space between the needy and the person who is asked to help. That space is holy." I was grateful I had been allowed to listen to the problems of this quiet, decent person who was lost in our complex city. As we put away the party pictures, I said, "When I met you, you were The Lost Lady, but you have changed. You talk more in class. You enjoy your friends. You are more courageous. You are The Strong Lady."

She said, "Thank you, Miss. I am glad you have good health."

Psychologist Barry Schwartz has researched the problems of choice. He grew interested while shopping for a stroller for his grandchild. Instead of the two or three choices he'd had when his own children were young, he encountered several dozen models. Far from the additional choices being liberating and exhilarating, he felt confused, uncertain, and anxious. Schwartz realized that he had too many choices and he decided to explore this idea scientifically.

His stroller dilemma occurs in all areas of life. All domains—work, school, religion, entertainment, and clothes—have choices where once choice didn't exist. Parenthetically, while there are more things to choose from, our options are more alike. Travel agents offer ten tropical island vacations, but they are all at Club Meds. There are fifty pizza joints in town, but the pizza is all made from the same prefabricated ingredients.

Choice is a good thing, but only up to a point. Beyond an ideal number of options, people are paralyzed. The situation is too confusing. They don't choose carefully but rather give up and pick impulsively. Also, with many choices, people are more likely to experience regret. People are more likely to feel badly about a lackluster meal if they selected it from a menu with sixty items. They are more likely to second-guess their vacation choice if they chose from a hundred places instead of deciding between the Black Hills and the Ozarks.