The beat of oneness

Last week and, again, today, I felt as if I were transported somewhere exotic as I finished up my morning laps. Conversations in Cantonese revved up just as I was winding down.

I had heard a lot of loud talk in another tongue as I was showering, but a later summer schedule makes me personally privy to the two Chinese couples catching up as they warm up. I love the international flavor the pool unexpectedly brings.

Thursday, I had an extended conversation with Lisa as we shared a lane. She’s been in this country over 30 years. Her daughters, all in medical fields, live together in Columbus, where they graduated from Ohio State. I think she said one is a family practitioner, one a nurse and the other a physical therapist. She beamed as she spoke of Holly, Joyce and Helen with VERY American names. Lisa confided that she had trouble finding a job when she first arrived. Sewing was all she qualified for. Eventually she went to work in a local Chinese restaurant and advised her daughters to get an education so they were employable.

I told her about my Russian friend, Svetlana, an economist (and fellow swimmer) who lost her job during Perestroika, immigrated and could only dip ice cream at Graeter’s. Both of these women are intelligent, yet I believe Americans can’t often hear past the accent to understand they are speaking fine English. All it takes is a little patient listening.

I was annoyed several years ago when some white Caucasian at the gym suggested “they, these Asians, don’t know our swimming etiquette here.” Have you ever even smiled or greeted them, I wondered

Lisa mentioned another woman swimming in the outside lane was her neighbor, though they’ve never conversed at the gym. It’s no wonder the conversations between the two Asian couples seem so lively. No one else talks to them.

I don’t even really remember how Lisa and I got acquainted. I think I told her I’d be happy to share a lane with her once and we gradually began to greet one another. She welcomes me like an old friend. I’m a little more shy with her husband, although, when Lisa was absent several weeks, I enquired about her. His placid face lit up as he excitedly said she was in Hong Know visiting family.

I believe diversity is the spice of life and I embrace it in my lily white suburb. A year or so ago, I saw what appeared to be an Indian family walking down the street. I wanted to chase them down, welcome them and ask where they lived. I was afraid I’d scare them off.

I learned the diversity lesson well as part of Neighbor To Neighbor, a local group that formed in response to the 2001 Cincinnati riots. I was distraught and sitting home with an infant when the Enquirer encouraged residents to organize and host a conversation. That, I can do, I thought. Little did I know 12 years later the group would still be meeting. I bowed out after a few years, but treasure the lessons and friendships that grew there. Frank taught me that racism can be transformed one heart at a time. He’s so very right. Any hatred can be conquered that way. Curly insisted that bigotry is rampant, just undergound these days. They and others patiently and, sometimes, angrily shared their stories. As they did, I began to see my complicity and legacy of silent, white privilege. The experience really opened my heart. I believe it planted the stirring for Artsy Fartsy, the arts exploration I host for kids in Milford’s only family subsidized housing. Last night someone mentioned I could make money if offered it to families who could and would pay dearly for these sessions. Not interested … it’s just not where my heart calls me.

I prefer to hang at the edges, meeting folks marginalized and welcoming them into a kinder, gentler world as well as my heart. I think that’s would Jesus would do.

• How do I greet people some consider foreigners?

• What makes someone a stranger and another a friend or neighbor?

• When have I been the Good Samaritan?

• How does my heart call me to the marginalized?

• How do I respond to Jesus, the Inner Teacher?

setting my own

pace, gliding

through the

warm liquid

giving up

that autonomy

when another

needs a space

together, we

refind our

rhythm,

not an easy

task

but, as

we merge,

our hearts

discover

the beat

of oneness

Listen to this post:

Eight [young] ladies waiting

Listen to post:

The concept of white privilege haunts me. How blind am I to my own? When do I fail to see how it derails others?

           

It was hard not to wonder after one of the absolute BEST days of my life Saturday hanging out with an incredible rag-tag but gifted bunch of volunteers God has called together as well as joyful, eager kids awaiting us in a subsidized-housing complex in my neighborhood.

Those of us planning this Artsy Fartsy event are all white, well educated and live pretty comfortably. What we share is a love of children and making sure that those with less opportunity get some extra nurture and creativity in their lives. We are teachers and ministers.

This complex is mostly white, but more racially diverse than the surrounding community. I am the one who targeted this particular development and my group has supported that decision. I chose it because it is part of my neighborhood – one I have heard others say they wish were more removed. I know, firsthand, how creative expression is such a leveling factor. It teaches us to move inside, explore and get to know who we are without the trappings of judgment, skin color, socio-economic status or anything else. I want these children to taste what those of us who have grown up in different circumstances have often taken for granted. I want them to shine. To create. To be themselves. To make choices. To dream. To dare.

I don’t want them to feel limited because of where they live, what their parents may or may not do for a living, whether they have two parents, whether they have many extras in their lives. I want them to feel valued for who they are as fellow children of God.

I want them to know somebody else cared if even only through nine months of art exploration. I keep thinking of them, smiling as I put away the stash of Saturday’s aftermath we all unloaded, then quickly headed to my best friend’s for feasting and fellowship after the afternoon’s work.

I remember Layla, whom I first met last week as I was dropping off yard signs. She was the first to sign up and so proud of that. Also of Emijah, whose grandmother I spent an hour getting to know. This grandmother wants something better for this generation. She’s lived in the development 30 years and seen it all. We laughed when we discovered we’d been neighbors for over 20 years and hope we bump into each other Krogering. One mother we visited in her apartment because she’d just returned from jail, exhausted. Nevertheless, she was delighted to enroll her daughter.

Last week when I was explaining to a gaggle of fourth-graders what Atrsy Fartsy is, one looked to the ground and quietly said she had no way to get there. Another admitted they were afraid of the woods because a five-year-old the know had been raped and stabbed to death, though several counties away. I explained that we arranged for adults volunteers to walk them to and from the monthly sessions and their eyes lit up. That would be great, they chimed in.

I still struggle with the cultural voice [of white privilege] whispering that I should be looking for a paying job and saving for college since my kids are getting more independent. Fortunately God drowns out that whisper and I have dedicated, caring volunteers, a faith community and three grants to tell me otherwise.

And, so far, eight young ladies waiting for Atrsy Fartsy to begin in a few weeks. We’re hoping to add some boys to that mix and are open to prayers in that direction!

• Where can I see privilege in my life?

• How does that open me to those without it?

• How/where am I called to use my advantage to help others?

• Can I do that out of love and not pity, seeing the other for the child of God they are?

• How do I respond to the cultural voice?

months of effort,

preparation,

prayer and help

opened with

perfect weather,

the bright sun

shining on us

as we popped

open the tent,

hung the signs

organized the

crafts and began

slowly,

they crossed

the parking lot

and, with big

eyes, they

began to draw,

finger knit,

fold paper

into Yodas

and open

their hearts

God could

not have been

happier than

I