I've been meaning to post this for some time now, but it just seems rather fitting that I do it on the anniversary of my Thinking Beyond Borders departure. I'd include an introduction with some catchy hook, but this masterpiece speaks for itself.
(Welcome to my Presentation of Learning)
(Welcome to my Presentation of Learning)
"Could You Repeat The Question?"
Last September I was bombarded with questions.
“Where are you going?”
“Are you sure about this?”
“You realize, you’re crazy right?”
I was asked these questions by everyone I crossed paths with, usually in that order.
However, lately the questions have become a little tougher.
“What was your favorite place?”
“What was the greatest thing you did?”
“What was the hardest thing to see?”
And my personal favorite, “What did you learn?”
What great questions sure, but here I stand, before you even now, at a loss for words.
I am without answers.
But,
what I do have are questions.
What is the significance in asking the right questions, rather than answering the question right?
What I have taken from my journey is that I do not have all the right answers, nor do I think anyone else does for that matter. But I do have some of the right questions, or at least I like to think so.
How was my view of the world made hazy by my American lens?
India is dirty.
Its dusty.
Its chaotic.
Its crowded.
Standing on the street outside of an ATM I clutched my backpack. Suspicious of any and all bystanders as thieves. I was overwhelmed and only wanted to return to my room, and shut and lock the door.
I was seeing culture shock.
Standing before a classroom of thirty-some Hindi children, I yelled in English. I looked to my fellow group member in bewilderment. This was more than I had signed up for.
I was seeing a disordered classroom.
I was sitting in a Seminar debate with my fellow fifteen, when I realized.
We were all of a privileged, elite group.
We were the exception.
And what we were is what we are.
I am blessed with opportunity.
I am blessed to call America my home.
I realize all of these things.
But, what I began to ask was, and is, what does the world look like when I take off my American lens?
I decided right then to take off my shades of red, white, and blue.
There was no hesitation, I only sought clarification.
I wanted to see the world for what it really was.
I needed to see all the flaws and all the beauty in their rawest form.
What I had really seen was culture.
And what I had really seen was a classroom.
What I was seeing was being filtered through what I knew.
I grew up in an oppressive school system.
I was taught how to read and how to write.
I walked in straight lines and followed all the rules.
I raised my hand and treated others as I wished to be treated.
But, most importantly I was taught how to do it all, right.
America, the land of the free and the home of the brave.
We breed college ready, academic scholars.
Students ready for the work force, equipped to be successful in the real world.
We know how to do it right.
Being products of this great system,
we knew these informal schools in the Indian slums were doing it wrong.
Their students were out of control, their teachers were benighted.
They were doing it all wrong.
Well, because after all, we know how to do it right.
Don’t we?
I had let my American lens make my view of India quite hazy.
My thoughts were cloudy.
My ideas, foggy.
But with one quick motion I removed the lens from my eyes
and came to see a clearer light.
India is beautiful.
It’s buzzing.
Its rich.
Its warm.
Seeing the world then, through clearer eyes led me to question:
What hue was I to allow my world to be filtered through?
Maybe a mixture of pinks and blues.
Maybe a little violet with a hint of nude.
A rainbow of color maybe, surely that will do.
I’ll give these shades a name now, to clear things up for you.
Maybe love and courage.
Maybe a little humanity with a hint of empathy.
A sort of overarching, individualized approach maybe, surely that will do.
This approach is something new and unexpected, and widely unaccepted.
The world wants development and progress.
The world wants much more than simple average success.
The world wants infrastructure and network.
But, wait.
All of those things, they’re all assumptions.
And please tell me that you know what assuming does.
Because now I do.
From what I’ve seen through my eyes, people are dying to tell us what the world wants.
The world wants little things, nothing too extravagant by my standards.
The world wants:
Land Rights.
Food.
Medication and vaccination.
Clean water.
Justice.
And Education.
The world really just wants liberation.
Liberation from stigma, biases, and pity.
Maybe what the world wants is what the world needs.
Depending on who you ask.
Was this thought process, this realization, this revelation,
all brought on by the removal of those damn blinding lenses?
What does it mean to be real?
Back down to earth.
Solid ground filled with realism.
Trees are real.
Grass is real.
Animals are real.
People,
are real.
Real.
Its the kind of word that seems to lose its meaning if you say it too many times.
Or is it that by using it so much we have altered its identity entirely?
By definition, real is actually existing as a thing; not imagined or supposed.
Funny, because what I have come to find real to mean is much credit due to the imagination.
As I had come to understand real in my first 18 years of life it was the realm of post-high school.
The land of opportunity.
College, careers, families, and taxes.
I was often told real life was sure to hit you shortly after graduation.
It hits hard.
Real life hit me in the homes of my HIV patients in South Africa.
Real life hit me in the classroom of my students in India.
Real life hit me in the fields of my family in Thailand.
Real life hit me in the rainforest of my community in Ecuador.
I did not come to know real life as finals and pay checks.
It didn’t come in a box with a bow.
It didn’t come in an email to a desk in a row.
I came to know real life, because I came to know real people.
I came to know struggle.
Pain.
Suffering.
Stigma.
Neglect.
And Exile.
I came to know heartache.
I came to know understanding.
Because of these REAL people I came to know real life.
I now know happiness.
Love.
Empathy.
Courage.
Hope.
And Thanks.
Being real is the opposite of real life.
Being real is full of life.
Its full of sadness and suffering.
Its full of laughter and satisfaction.
Being real is full.
And real life is empty.
Reality is sometimes related to real life.
Being realistic is something we are taught.
I’ve learned that being realistic protects you from disappointment and failure.
However, being realistic also shields you from dramatic journey and great risk.
Being realistic is really a component of real life.
A hindrance to growth, adventure, and understanding if you ask me.
How are we to create radical revolution and colossal change
if we are stagnant in the comfort of realism?
Do you see the picture I am painting for you?
It may be quite hazy if you are still sporting those wave-fairs tinted in USA protection.
It is REAL people who create REAL change in this world.
You can not have one without the other.
No lack of prospective or apprehension.
No mild approach.
No holding back emotion.
Real people give ever essence of their being.
They donate anything and everything they have, selflessly.
All for a cause they simply believe in.
Have no fear.
I’ve met these people.
Shook their hands.
Hugged their necks.
Held their gaze.
And heard their cries.
It was in these people I saw real, raw beauty for the first time.
It was in humanity I found the world’s greatest treasure.
Something scientists and engineers simply can not measure.
The light I found in all the hearts and in all the faces,
I found it again, in myself, of all places.
What am I loving for?
I have loved an array of things over the years.
I’ve fallen in love with people.
And I’ve fallen in love with places.
But, what I wanted to fall in love with more than anything, was life.
In order to love something so intangible I needed to analyze how I love.
I’m definitely caring.
I’m passionate but I wouldn’t consider myself affectionate.
I’m forward, but not aggressive.
I’m usually open, but not always vulnerable.
I struggle with being emotional.
But there are so many varieties of love.
The love I have for my siblings and parents.
The love I have for friends.
The love I have for sports and teams.
The love I have for materials.
Each with their own level of importance.
But to love life, what kind of love is that?
The kind that arouses the soul and captures the heart.
The kind that risks it all and doesn’t hold back.
The kind that is free and full of desire.
That is the love that life deserves.
And that is how I have come to love.
I owe this realization to a dear friend of mine.
Lindy Wei.
She lives in Kwanokuthula.
An informal settlement on the outskirts of Plettenberg Bay, ZA.
The first time I met her was in her pink kitchen.
She wore a yellow floppy hat and a contagious smile.
She swept me into a hug without hesitation,
it was a scene I couldn’t have even dreamt in my imagination.
We sat on her couch.
She asked my name.
And in the same breathe,
She said, “I’m HIV positive, an example of living with AIDS.”
What a bold statement to share.
How vulnerable she was, tugged on my heart until it began to tare.
I was heartbroken, this poor soul.
Pitiful.
Sick.
Hopeless.
No.
Lindy shared her journey with me that day.
The troubles and trials she had come to call her own.
The love she had given, and eventually always been turned away.
The struggle she faced to raise her son.
But she was a fighter, and knew there was still much toil to be done.
She had faith in her medication, and faith in God.
And the day I prayed with her,
she hugged me and replied:
“You make me strong.”
What a statement to have shared.
What a statement to have heard.
I was simply at a lose for words.
Lindy Wei loved me.
From the very first day in her pink painted kitchen.
To the last hug we shared on the sidewalk in Kwano.
This great woman,
her passion I can not put into words.
She taught me to love with every ounce of my soul.
A lesson I couldn’t have been taught in any desk, in any row.
I’ve learned to love life.
With happiness and passion.
No eloquent language or poetic voice could explain it any better.
Or so I thought.
Last night I was standing on a street corner.
Debating on dinner.
I was overwhelmed with exhaustion.
I was drained from acting like I was fine all afternoon.
I was tired of being who I wasn’t.
I watched people walk by.
Some by themselves,
Some in pairs,
Some in groups.
But with each person passing by, I was taken by surprise.
I had love for all these people.
All these strangers, whom I knew not even their name.
But, still I found myself loving them all the same.
Is it that by some chance,
By some once in a lifetime trip to South Africa,
By some woman named Lindy,
By the power of some God named Christ,
I had come to love all these people?
My heart overflowed,
And it was all I could do to keep the tears from overflowing as well.
I had my realization.
Love wasn’t something I had to learn to do.
It was something I had to find in every person.
And eventually it became my go to emotion.
How do I feel about going home?
After all of these lessons I’ve learned.
They tell me now, its time to go home.
Back to confusion.
Back to stereotypes.
Back to fighting.
Back to struggle.
Which might not be so bad if I hadn’t completely changed the person I am.
I’ve questioned my beliefs and assumptions.
I’ve made bold statements, and touched on touchy subjects.
I’ve disappointed people and also made them proud.
But the thing is….
I see much clearer now.
The world in all its color.
I understand humanity now.
People in all their diverse beauty.
I love much deeper now.
The world and all its people.
I’m blind to lines that forge separation.
I’ve turned from ignorant minds who urge segregation.
I can see what is ahead.
A great endeavor no doubt.
My doubts about church.
My take on religion.
My grasp on love.
My acceptance for the whole.
My hope for the future.
My longing for change.
All of my questions.
All my opinions.
I’m bringing them home.
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