The first time we sat at a table together, I admit -- it was painfully awkward. They were so tall and so very black. From my perspective, it looked like their heads could hit the top of our door frames if they weren't careful. Their faces had strange scars in distinct patterns and it took all of my precocious twelve-year-old-self to keep from blurting out; "WHAT ARE THOSE FROM?" while my fingers were itching to see if they felt anything like my prepubescent zits.
My sister had invited her class of English Learner students over for a dinner and game night at our parents house in rural South Dakota. I was homeschooled and accustomed to only seeing people who matched my parents beliefs. This household invasion of Africans was entirely new and foreign and exciting! I didn't know what to do or say at first. But then I remembered: I had read somewhere that the game of mancala originated in Africa, so I asked them if they knew how to play. Turns out - I was the one playing it wrong! They taught me the right way to play their native game and it was a far more complex and interesting version than the boring one printed on the white paper with instructions in english only.
I was twelve. My memories with these guests are only ones of playing games, laughing a lot, feeling awkward, and learning that the capital city in their country is Darfur and a few Sudanese words they taught me. I quickly forgot about the scars adorning their faces, and the fact that we were so different. I remember thinking that my sister had the coolest students ever. At the time, I knew nothing about the Darfur Genocide that they survived.
My sister introduced me to many more of her students over the next several years...incredible people from places I didn't know anything about: Sudan, Kenya, Ethiopia, Ukraine, Russia, Uzbekistan --to name a few that I distinctly recollect.
Fast forward ten years to my life in Chicago. My brother worked with World Relief in assimilating new refugees. One day, he brought one of his clients to my apartment because they both needed hair-cuts and since his client had a job interview, my brother thought I could help. So I said, "okay" and gave them both hair cuts. I learned that this young man who looked no older than me --had a wife and a young son with severe disabilities. They had fled the genocide in Burma. They left behind all their family members. And his wife was now pregnant again and scared. He was learning English, his wife spoke only a few words. He was so grateful for the haircut that I gave him in my living room, that he invited me and my brother over for dinner. We went. We sat on the floor of their teeny-tiny one bedroom apartment off the Argyle stop on the redline. They served us a rice dish on a paper plate with "other stuff." I didn't ask about the contents in the "other stuff." There were large cock-roaches running across the floor in daylight. They were so happy to host us in their home. They were so grateful to be living in freedom. They offered me seconds to fill the empty spots on my plate. They made me tea. I invited them to our home for dinner the next week. I made spaghetti and meatballs. We became friends. At the time I knew nothing about the ongoing Genocide in Burma that they survived.
The stories of the women have inspired me most of all. I have shared meals with two different women who have survived similar horrors in their respective countries of Somalia and Rwanda. I have learned that to be a woman in the midst of a genocide is a curse in itself. Their stories of survival, assimilation, and resilience in Chicago and Seattle have influenced me deeply. They lost their husbands, their sons, and risked their own lives - but never lost their internal dignity or purpose. They both now work as caregivers for the elderly and developmentally disabled. And they fully embody what it means to give care. They are unglorified saints. They work the long shifts and the late nights - primarily with joy. They genuinely love their clients. They are grateful. They are free. Until recent years, I knew nothing about the genocides they survived in Somalia and Rwanda.
I cannot imagine the realities that any of these brave people I have mentioned continue to face with the traumatic history they have survived and the resources they continue to lack. My worst nightmares have been their realities. When I have faced brief seasons of hardship and grief in my own life, their resilience has inspired me to keep going and to keep perspective. They are my real life Hebrews 11 heroes, and they shape my faith in God because their very lives are miracles. I have always been grateful and proud of the fact that they are a welcome part of our nations fabric.
Until this week.
This week: I am not proud to be an American. It is my personal opinion that we as a nation are no longer the "land of the free". We are now the land of "America First" as our new leader has so brazenly declared.
To Be First - or - To Be Free? Those two just don't go together. They are mutually exclusive agendas. History keeps the score. To be first, somebody else has to be last, and in that economy there is not room for "liberty and justice for all."
My thoughts this week have been consumed - NOT WITH HYSTERIA - but with real relationships and stories of the incredible people who have sought refuge here. I don't know what else I can do, so I sit here and write. I write and call my local legislators and I write this blog. I feel compelled because I have the PRIVILEGE of white skin, immigrant blood, and a voice on this little blog that gets read by several hundred people.
The vulnerable and the oppressed are not heard in a society that values an "America First " agenda. And so I write while I have this freedom. It's not the preservation or power of my voice I'm concerned about here. You are welcome to disagree with my personal opinions, those are minor.
But the people who I mentioned here are not minor. And neither are the lives of millions of refugees worldwide. I plead with you to please hear the voices of those who are different from yourself. Just listen to their stories and open your heart to their perspective. It's greater than America can ever be.
Please hear their voices.
The resilient survivors who have so much to teach us about values and priorities.
Please hear their voices.
