So Hitler was this bad dude with a neutered mustache who
only liked people who looked like Matt Damon. He didn’t like Jews or gays or
people who watch Dancing with the Stars. He wanted everyone to be like him
(which is strange, because Hitler didn’t particularly look like Matt Damon).
If you were Hitler’s pal, he might pull a gun on you for
suggesting a viewing of your favorite foreign film (not really a fan of Life is Beautiful, apparently). You
should avoid bringing your crippled aunt over for dinner. Or your black friend.
Also, you might want to avoid mentioning the Bonhoeffer biography you’ve been
enjoying.
And though you’ll be sorely tempted, avoid calling him a
“Negative Nancy” or “Debbie Downer.” Hitler hates being compared to anyone named Nancy—and Debbies are
worse.
It’s going to feel like you’re walking on eggshells around
him. But that’s the price you’ll have to pay to be his friend. Hitler’s found
out the kind of person he likes best, and he can’t stand it if even one person
doesn’t conform. His friends are yes men. His co-workers are as uniform as the
uniform they wear. Anyone wanting to get close to Hitler has to play by his
rules. He’s a very strict bouncer, letting few into his disco of
trust.
The thing about Hitler is, he only feels safe when everyone
looks, acts, and thinks like him.
Am I about to compare myself to Hitler?
Yes.
Is that comparison a bit of an exaggeration?
I sure hope so.
Do I sometimes overuse the question/answer format in my
blogs?
Absolutely!
But back to the point: Hitler typifies our human impulse toward sameness. In his case,
this was a brutal ethnocentricity that resulted in millions of deaths.
It’s unfortunate to have to admit, however, that I exhibit this
same tendency, albeit in small, less lethal ways.
(And I’m not alone in this. Why else would so many people find mates who look
eerily like themselves? And why, according to many psychologists, are we
comforted when a person mimics our facial expressions and tone in conversation?)
Let’s admit it: we feel safe around people who have a lot in
common with Numero Uno.
I thought I had a handle on this though. Having grown up
with a Peruvian, a Filipino, and a Ukrainian (is this the opening of a lame
joke?), I like to consider myself foreign-friendly. It is true that I
tend to be fairly welcoming toward people whom others might consider foreign or
strange.
Which might explain why this desire for sameness hasn’t
primarily emerged in my work with the Choe’s, who differ from me in more ways
than I can count. I expect the Choe’s
to be different, so it’s easy for me to remain open-minded and gracious. I began
our relationship with a healthy inquisitiveness which has grown into joy, and I
now find myself at home with these people who use strange toilets.
Surprisingly, the biggest opportunities for tension have
occurred at my full-time job, where I work with white, Protestant Americans—like
me.
That “like me” is very important. How often I’ve expected
these people to be my people, people
among whom I can find a home. Sadly, this expectation has often led me to
offense, bewilderment, and unnecessary difficulty.
If my time working with Koreans has often seemed a baffling experience,
this new role at Every Home for Christ has been more so. Both cultures are
foreign to me, but the foreign nature of EHC was largely unanticipated. I was
caught off guard, and I found myself populated with unforeseen Hitler characteristics.
(Perhaps this would be a good time to drop the Hitler metaphor, lest my
co-workers become anxious.)
When I accepted a full-time position with the ministry, I
thought I was setting out on a journey with like-minded people, all of them
ablaze with the same vision that so excited me. (All those who have worked for
a ministry for any length of time now roll their eyes and say, “Rookie.”)
What I found instead was an assortment of strange
individuals, most of them head-scratchingly different from myself. In the midst
of these foreigners, I must ward off anxiety, a foe that looms larger at EHC
than at the Choe’s. For some reason, although I’m an alien at the Choe’s house,
I rarely feel alienated. I try not to commit any blunders, but even when I do,
I am not crippled with insecurity. I cannot say the same at Every Home for
Christ, where I can easily fall prey to insecurity if I don’t keep a close
watch on myself.
A smile I offer while passing in the hall is not
returned. Conversations I launch with the hopes of generous head nods are
greeted instead with confused stares—or worse, a zombie-like lack of lucidity.
One of my co-workers greets me at my cubicle with a
friendly, “What’s up?”
“Nothing much,” I say.
His smile wanes. “Well that’s not good! You should be busy
working hard.”
I nod awkwardly, unsure of a response. “…What’s up with
you?”
I can’t seem to find my way in this culture! These people
were supposed to be like me, but they’re not. The disappointment is familiar.
I’ve experienced the same with good friends. There’s a stage in which it seems
we have everything in common, but over time I start to recognize glaring differences, and I think, Maybe they’re
not like me after all.
I feel betrayed. I feel like people are failing me. But the
truth is, I set them up for failure when I imposed my unrealistic expectations.
Among strangers, foreigners—Koreans—I make no such claim.
Every interaction is a game show—“What’s behind curtain number one?” Furthermore, my role in
this community is clear. I’m the white guy whose fingers cramp when holding
chopsticks. My differences are substantial, and because of that, I am able to find
my role with relative ease: I’m the American tutor.
At EHC, I expect to find “my people,” which is why it’s so
jarring when I find that here too I must find my own way.
The difficult truth is that each person is an entire
universe of unforeseen possibilities. I must avoid the temptation to lash out against others' differences (pride), as well as the temptation to isolate myself behind thick walls (fear). At every juncture, I can
choose to welcome the people in my life like that mysterious bidet, finding myself unexpectedly
cleansed in the process.
When I look to each interaction with a spirit of
inquisitiveness and intrigue, I let go of hurt and offense. Through this
disposition, I’ve found an exciting new world at the Choe’s. But this new world is
equally available at EHC.
At the Choe’s, Daniel may stop a story mid-sentence
if Bella enters the room. At EHC, a front desk conversation may similarly stop
if a third party approaches.
At the Choe's, heated arguments in Korean grind to a halt the moment I ask
for translation, and the only thing I know for sure (I think?) is that the
disagreement had to do with card tricks. At EHC, dealings may just as well be
in Korean, for all the insight I’ve attained.
The withering looks I receive at the Choe’s for committing an unknown faux pas may be turned to me at EHC for saying the name Barack Obama.
Whether I like it or not, Every Home for Christ is run on a
series of unspoken guidelines and intricate, unwritten systems that I am only
beginning to comprehend. I can ask for translation, but most understanding will
come only with passing time.
If I’m to make a home among my community, I must allow my
co-workers and friends the individuality they deserve. Historically, rulers
have committed awful crimes whenever expectations of “sameness” become too high
an ideal. Although my sphere of influence is small, I commit a comparable
injustice whenever I expect those around me to conform to my molds.
We are all marooned in our own bodies and thoughts, aliens
to one another. The only way we can get along is by acknowledging the vast
spaces between us, finding our place as aliens among aliens, sojourners among
sojourners.
Oddly, it becomes easier to find my role when I admit that I
am different. In a clique, every difference is a threat to acceptance. No such
threat exists where differences are honored and cherished.
At the Choe’s, I catch little glimpses into the lives of
this ragtag group of Koreans: Prisca quietly dreams of becoming a worship
leader. Josh feigns illness when he and Elisha
can’t resolve an argument. Bella prides herself on coming from Gangnam, of the
famed “Gangnam” style.
At EHC, a co-worker boasts about Rascal and Cutie, and when
I ask who Rascal and Cutie are, she points to two beagles embossed on the
shoulders of her jacket. I tell another co-worker that I’m having a bad day,
and she gives me a ten minute pep talk, along with a book on how to overcome grief.
Let me close with a quote from My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Toula’s father, Gus, is making a wedding
speech. He compares his family’s last name, which translates to “orange,” to
the groom’s family name, which translates to “apple.” Gus ties it all together
by saying, his wisdom accentuated by his accent, “We all different, but in the
end, we all fruit.”
Which is cute and funny and makes us all feel good. Because
it’s true. We are all fruit. In spite of our differences, which can never be measured,
our shared humanity is as familiar as the sun and moon. We want so badly to be
known, but not figured out; understood, but not solved. We want to be
ourselves—with each other.
