Sarai Jimenez and her family escaped the chaos of Venezuela in 2021, sought refuge in Colombia then, when things got bad there too, fled north, trekking through Central American rainforests, across mountain passes, clinging to ropes at the edge of cliffs, crossing rivers, wading through mud up to their knees.
They were captured by guerrillas, held hostage, robbed. Then Sarai, now 17, had to wait for months in Mexico before crossing the border, legally, allowed to apply for asylum, arriving here in July only to confront a prospect that really frightened her: going to a Chicago high school.
“I thought it was dangerous,” she said, in Spanish. “I’ve seen the movies, and I was scared. I would think, ‘I’m going to get bullied in school.’”
Instead she found herself in the warm embrace of Sullivan High School in Rogers Park, where some 40 languages are spoken by the most diverse student body in the city, a school with a track record of absorbing every immigrant group arriving in Chicago.
“Afghans, Syrians, Nepalese ... no one is special at this school because everyone is unique,” said Sarah Quintenz, whose formal title is English language learners leader, but really is just “Ms. Q” or “mom,” the omnipresent source of comfort and rebuke for Sullivan’s 360 or so foreign-born students — about half the school population.
I ran into Quintenz at Sullivan’s seventh annual Thanksgiving dinner last week and saw a chance to talk about the latest group of newcomers to roil the city.
“Immigrants plan to come here. They apply for a visa, save money, say goodbye to everybody,” said Quintenz. “Refugees flee. They don’t have any of their stuff. They leave everything behind. They flee to another country, so they take their anger and hostility and sadness to that country.”
Emotions that complicate the usual teenage angst.
“They walked. They rode buses,” said Quintenz. “That’s a long time to be thinking, ‘I just left home. I have only the clothes on my back. I hate this. I’m hot. I’m getting eaten by mosquitoes.’ Then they get here, and they’re sleeping in the airport or a police station, or the Leone Park Field House — that’s where most of ours were for the longest time. The kids ask: ‘Is this any better? We’re safer here, but we still don’t have anything. We still don’t have any opportunities. My parents can’t get a job.’”
When these students almost inevitably act out, Quintenz isn’t reluctant to use their parents’ hopes as leverage.
“When they make poor decisions, I tell them, “Hey, is this what your parents had in mind when they packed you up and moved to this country? Did your mom give up all of her baby pictures so you could come here and do this?’”
That’s surprisingly effective.
“My specialty is making teenage boys cry and say, ‘You’re right, that’s not why we’re here,’” said Quintenz.
The first words Annmarie Handley teaches in her English class are “good morning” and “welcome.”
“Words to make them feel it’s not a scary thing,” she said. “And it’s not a scary thing. This is a place where you can fail and it’s fine. Who cares? This is a safe environment where we can say it wrong, say it right, and we just keep practicing every day.”
While refugees tend to face their difficulties with similar tenacity, the 40 or so Venezuelans now at Sullivan stand out.
“The Venezuelans, as much as they suffered, all they have is joy here,” said Handley. “That is one thing I noticed about Venezuelan culture. I suspect because of their family-oriented culture, how close they are. [Trouble] just slides right off them. It’s more resilient than I’ve seen any culture that comes here. Their resilience is unbelievable, their gratitude is unbelievable. It’s impressive.”
Sarai Jimenez certainly told her story with a mix of faith and gratitude.
“God places good people on your journey that help you when you’re in need,” she said. “I’m so grateful to all the people that God put on our journey.”
A journey that continues. She and her family have been living in a shelter since they arrived, but last week were about to move.
Where? I asked.
“Harvey,” she replied.
The city is among the poorest and most badly run towns in the Chicago area. I was going to say something, but didn’t, figuring, she’ll find out soon enough.
