Ref-u-gee Refugee. What a harsh, ugly word, branding like a scarlet letter.

Ive heard it spoken, spat, with revulsion. Ive heard it murmured, with pity, with compassion. People who seek refuge. Three syllables that speak of disassociation, and far away, defining people a degree removed from our reality. Refugees were those poor people in Africa, for whom we wore Save Darfur wristbands, and automatically said a prayer as we watched the occasional news bulletin. How distant I was before, how unknowing. This summer I had my first face-to-face encounter with refugees, not on a mission trip to a faraway, war-torn country, but right here in Houston where I had lived for twelve years, comfortable, and as I now realize, cloistered. The refugees were originally from Bhutan. When their government passed measures that discriminated against their ethnic group, they protested, and were tortured or imprisoned. Over a hundred thousand, forced to leave, fled to United Nations camps in Nepal. Some remained in these refugee camps for eighteen years before being granted political asylum. My mothers friend Margie gave up her job to help these refugees resettle in Houston, find work, get medical treatment, and register for food stampsI never realized the logistics of trying to piece a life back together. She told me their story, and I started making trips to the apartments with her, helping teach ESL. I taught. I learned. I visited a couple who had arrived the night before with only a single suitcase between the two of them. Their apartment was bare containing a card table, two fold-out chairs, and a mattress. We brought a box of Ramen noodles, toilet paper, clothes, and shoes, unfortunately in the wrong size. How could we expect to replace a lost home, a lost way of life? Ive always had compassion for those with no home and little to eat. I was raised to be thankful for all I had. Yet in the past, sorry was about as deep as my activism ran, and gratitude was an automatic thank you. To many teenagers, volunteering is a basic transactionputting in hours so they can claim membership in the National Honor Society on a college application. After this summer, seeing the refugees as the very real people they are, the cruelty of this attitude stuns me. Ive come to understand their perspective. Yes, theyre new to the country, and dont all speak English, and cant find jobs. But no, they dont want your throwaway clothes, your pitying stares, or, worst of all, your ridicule. Ive met girls my age; we once spent an afternoon watching and laughing at Indian movies. The easy interchangeability of my life and theirs hits me: I could be them. I used to think that maybe, someday, Id work with refugees. Id be a doctor, a journalist, a missionary. Always, always, it was I who traveled, stepped into their world. I never thought that here at home, and so soon, our separate spheres would overlap. Even writing this, I hesitate when calling them refugees. Im not trying to purchase them instant sympathy. I dont want to conjure up images of blurred, indistinct faces faded into the background of unending poverty or create the stereotypical of desperate people driven into the dirt. When will we see them for the unique individuals they are? It seems we need to change the connotation of the word or maybe, just change the attitude towards people labeled Refugee.