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U.S. law for newcomers, courtesy of the experts
By TAMARA LUSH, Times Staff Writer TAMPA -- Vinny Millan strides into the sterile conference room with a swagger, wearing his green-and-white sheriff's uniform and a big grin. He is there to teach. But first, he must make his students comfortable. To do that, he must speak their language. "Me nombre es Vivino Millan. Soy oficial de la oficina de sheriff del condado de Hillsborough," Millan says, telling them that he is a deputy with the county sheriff's office. "Mi papa es cubano," he adds. The five students smile and sit a little less rigidly in their chairs. Millan writes his phone number on the chalkboard. He performs this ritual several times a week at the Lutheran Services of Florida, where refugees gather to learn employment skills and other details necessary for American life. The students -- four young women from Cuba and one older man from Colombia -- carefully copy it down. They might need that number someday. Millan calls himself an apoyo, the Spanish word for support. "A shoulder to lean on," he said. The 36-year-old deputy is part of the Hillsborough County Sheriff's Office Refugee Victimization Services, a program funded by the state Department of Children and Families. Law enforcement agencies in Fort Lauderdale and Miami-Dade County have similar programs. Millan and his counterpart, Deputy Jose Sanchez, are the first deputies here to participate in the $391,114 grant program. They spend their days educating Spanish-speaking immigrants about various aspects of the law, everything from domestic violence to Cuban gangs to child seat requirements. "We're not asking them to erase their culture," Millan said. Millan and Sanchez have helped more than 450 refugees since the program began in February. They have printed brochures in Spanish, helped refugees find translators for their immigration documents and informed Puerto Rican drivers that, yes, they do indeed need to stop for red lights between midnight and 5 a.m. "In Puerto Rico, you don't have to stop for red lights at that time, to avoid getting carjacked," Millan explained. Millan and Sanchez are trying to branch out into the Haitian community, and they have started by printing brochures in Creole. Sometimes the deputies speak to church groups, other times to refugee resettlement agencies, with discussion titles that include "What to Do If You Are Stopped by the Police." Other times, Millan talks about domestic violence to dozens of Mexican women who are migrant workers. What may be legal and acceptable in their home country, Millan tells the women, is illegal here. Millan knows from his parents about the life of a refugee. His mother emigrated from the Dominican Republic. His father fled to the U.S. from Cuba after the 1959 revolution. His grandfather died in a Cuban jail during the first few years of Fidel Castro's rule. Millan was born in New York but moved to Florida when he was a toddler. Some of the questions that come his way are complex: Can I get my original immigration documents mailed back to me? Others are simpler: What is a seat belt? "In Cuba, you have to decide whether to use the rope for the seat belt or to hold the door closed," Millan said. He is only half-joking -- most cars on the tiny island nation are decades old, and because of the U.S. embargo, parts are hard to come by. Two of the young Cuban women at Millan's most recent orientation are dressed in hip-hugging jeans and stylish platform shoes. With their well-manicured nails, they look more like mall-bound American teenagers than women who fled a Communist island just two weeks earlier. Still, their culture shock is apparent when they talk to Millan. "What is the Internet?" they ask, puzzled. Millan worries about these women. There are so many ways they can be taken advantage of, by men, telemarketers and shady business people, he said. He tries to let people know about the dangers of their new country, but sometimes he has to face another hurdle: getting the refugees to trust him. In countries such as Cuba and Colombia, the police are sometimes corrupt -- or worse. Many refugees are under the false impression that all law enforcement are part of a national police force, and that all have the power to deport them. Through the program, Millan hopes the new refugees will come to trust him and any other law enforcement officer they come in contact with. "There is a desperate need," Millan said. "They don't know where to turn."
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