"Why do Americans have such nice backpacks?"

The internet is pretty stinkin' awesome.

We have a finite amount of time and energy, which means that- whether consciously or not- every day we have to decide in what and, more importantly, in whom we are going to invest that time and energy. Realistically, statistically, we can only have so many friends. But with the magic of the internet, now we can actually keep tabs on all those people with whom we never had the time or inclination to invest in an actual relationship but that we really did like or find interesting. Or just attractive, whatever. No judgment here.

The point is, while my parents' generation would've had to work really hard to keep up with everyone they knew in college, I can find almost anyone I've ever known in a matter of minutes. Sometimes I read their blogs. That's what brought on this post.

See, there was this guy who was kind of peripheral to one of my two core groups of friends in college (the one I had in common with my husband); he'd hang out with us sometimes, but I hardly ever saw him, much less had deep conversations with him. He did, however, have a reputation for being a great writer, so I was all over it when I happened to notice several months ago that he was entering the Peace Corps in Cameroon and keeping a blog. I've loved reading it even though I hardly know him because he's a fantastic writer and is living something that I can only dream of doing. His most recent entry, though, left me a little disappointed.

Quick disclaimer: Barrett, I can't imagine you'll ever read this. If you do, no offense intended. You just made me think. Thanks!

K. Onward. I swear I'll make my point soon.

While he's there he's teaching a technology class. One day one of his students raised his hand to ask a question- a rare thing- but his question had nothing to do with the subject of the class. Instead of asking how to make his document double-spaced or how to spell a word in English, his student asked, "Why do Americans have such nice backpacks?"

Talk about a sucker punch.

Now, as I was reading this I thought, "Yes! I'd love to read what he has to say about a question like that." But no. One of the three Americans the student mentioned by name is a new girl in his town, and the post transitioned smoothly into talking about her and then into talking about teaching there in general. I felt like he'd put in this great hook for his post and then completely ignored it.

So I guess this is what I wish he'd talked about. Why do Americans have such nice backpacks?

One of the things I've been thinking about lately is how we- we, anyone from the predominantly white, richer-than-most-of-the-world, colonial super power that is the United States- can ever hope to go anywhere or serve anyone without coming off as completely paternalistic. How do we name our own power and privilege and still express our honest and heartfelt desire to press our palms against the wounded places of the world, as Don Miller so beautifully puts it? How can we ever look someone in the eye without immediately hanging our heads in shame? How do we say, "I know that this is my fault, but I want to help you make it better?"

How do we try to share an education that could change the course of someone's life for the better when the backpack we carry to class probably cost us more than our students will see in a year?

When I posed these questions to my good friend at Wesley his response was simply, "We can't."

Ugh. I'm too optimistic for that. And maybe in this case that's unreasonable, but it still grates on me.

Maybe he's right. Maybe I do have to just suck it up, accept the awkwardness, apologize, and if they want to accept me, wonderful; if not, the thousands of years of colonialism that make up my ancestry don't give me the right to beat them over the head with my helping hand.

But something in me says no. There has to be more than that apology, critical as it is. There has to be a way for me to meet the people who are so distinctly "other" on ground that is level nevertheless. And I think that means two things- it means humbling myself and seeing the other with love and respect. Really, it means one thing. It means a relationship, one where each of us sees the other as nothing more or less than a human being, a child of God, a creature of unimaginable beauty and complexity.

And really, that's all I've got. I don't know what steps to take to make that happen. Maybe it's too much for me to ask after all. I'm hoping that it'll be something I'll learn when I go on my immersion through Wesley next winter break. But I suspect that, as it always seems to be, it's about respect and love. That's what keeps us human.



(As always, but especially today- please, share your thoughts!)