What will they remember?

I’ve recently had the privilege of working with refugee women from around the world. Their stories and even their country of origin are not mine to share, so I’m creating a pseudonym. Let’s say they are from Emerald. Life in Emerald was full of delicious food, rich culture, and large extended families. But many women in Emerald were not allowed to get an education. I don’t just mean that they couldn’t afford college, or that they had to work instead of attending high school. Some of my new friends never learned to read or write.

We communicate through a lovely interpreter. She listens to their heart songs from Emerald, and transforms them into English stories. She listens to my spiel on child development, and echoes it back in Emeraldese. We connect as mothers. We hold each other’s children. We all share and empathize. So far, the work doesn’t feel too different.

But as the weeks accumulate, I start to worry. My colleague asks me about tomorrow’s meeting, and I reach for my phone. I can’t hold any information without writing it down. But I can’t give them handouts with checklists. I can’t ask them to write down “one activity to try with their child”. I know that less than 10% of what we hear is retained, so what can I leave with these women?

Six weeks pass, and we review together. I’m holding my breath, hoping that something - anything - stuck. I’m blown away; question after question, they REMEMBER! The moments we laughed together, the moment Susan shared her birth story, the time I jokingly drew Xian’s brain… they REMEMBER!

We often worry that we’re not getting through. That none of the critical information in our brains is being transferred to others’. And so we review and reiterate, relying on repetition, recognition, application - all the fancy things. But we forget (or at least I forget) that emotion is what creates the strongest memories. 

We couldn’t give them lists, text books, or even handouts. But these women remembered because we could give them connection. We created an environment where they felt valued and heard. Their children were seen and cherished. Tears were shed - both happy and sad. Knowing glances were exchanged, and whole body hugs were given. I like to think that they’ll remember. At the very least, I know I’ll remember.