And this situation is far from an anomaly. "There are waiting lists all across the metro area, and that's been going on for quite some time now," says Eric Nesheim, executive director of the Minnesota Literacy Council. Nesheim says that his organization and others lobbied the Legislature last year to increase funding for adult language classes, citing the influx of refugees, but their efforts proved fruitless.
"This whole system was devised by people who know nothing about refugee resettlement or language acquisition," Meyer says. Students often tell her that they'd rather be back in the refugee camp. "It's cold here, they don't speak the language, and they live in the same crowded conditions as in the camp," Meyer notes.
Jayme Halbritter
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When the subject of Mary's Place is brought up during her class, several students indicate that they have heard of the place. One of them wants to know if there is a similar shelter in St. Paul that they can go to and live for free.
Cha Vang, one of the students in class today, arrived in Minnesota in October of 2004 with his wife and five children, all under the age of 10. Prior to that he'd lived in various refugee camps in Thailand since he was eight years old. Relatives helped him find a two-story house to rent in St. Paul, near Oakland Cemetery, just west of Interstate 35E. The cost: $1,350 per month, not including utilities. "It's more than my entire income," Vang says, speaking through an interpreter. In fact, with six children, the family is entitled to an MFIP grant of exactly $1,350. (The couple had another child after arriving in the U.S.)
In addition, Vang owes money for the plane tickets that brought his family to Minnesota, roughly $3,000, payable in monthly installments. Last January, four additional family members, including his mother and his brother, joined the household, bringing total occupancy to 12. None of them has a job.
After class the 30-year-old refugee provides a tour of his home. It's a dilapidated two-story yellow structure with no shutters and peeling paint. Inside the furnishings are extremely sparse. A Clinton-era computer sits in one corner of the living room. An old 12-inch TV is on the floor. The only furniture is a well-worn two-person couch. The six kids sleep in one bedroom, split between three mattresses. Vang and his wife, Pa Hang, sleep in the other downstairs bedroom. The remaining four relatives share the upstairs.
Vang is obviously embarrassed by the humble surroundings, but he hopes that things will eventually improve. "Right now I go to school, study English," he says quietly, without aid of an interpreter. "I want to go to work."
