I was coming back from the rez two years ago when I started thinking about the importance of questions. I didn’t really think about it purposefully, it was just something that started milling around in the back of my mind. I’d spent an intense, emotional summer on my own as a volunteer at a shelter for abused women. I’d been there before, but as a missionary. A kid on a short-term church trip which was great fun, of course, but barely engaged with the people we were ministering to, and certainly not in terms of their suffering. As a long term volunteer, I began build relationships with women and children suffering in all sorts of ways. And to watch the mission trips come and go all summer without engaging the people I had come to love stirred something up in me.
Several months ago I attempted to analyze the issues surrounding these thoughts in earnest. And the more I studied and wrote, the more I realized that what I came up with was full of anger. My role as a white missionary didn’t happen by chance, you see. Over the years I learned that from my ancestors and predecessors, I had inherited a culture of colonization, westernizing, and “fixing” the undeveloped world. The lives and work of these people—which a large part of my life, my identity was built upon—had been driven by a sense of superior responsibility, the “white man’s burden” as Kipling called it. I looked at what had gone wrong in the work of these people, and focused increasingly on the refusal of missionaries and government officials to give the opinion of Native Americans highest priority regarding their own suffering. I was angry because I had become convinced that this mentality was still prevalent today. I posited all kinds of solutions, but the more I developed them, the more I got the sense there was something wrong. After some time I realized what that was: all these ideas were themselves based on my own opinions, not directly on the opinions of my friends on the rez. I had fallen into the trap of my ancestors.
That is the struggle I brought with me to the Dominican Republic: the search for the ability to place the opinions of others about their own lives above my own. They don’t teach this kind of thing at universities; Kipling’s arrogance still permeates much of the culture I come from. So I looked for it here wherever I could.
Lesson #2: Talk to Chocolate-Makers
Lesson #3: Eat Rice and Beans with a Spoon
I have to believe this is only the start. What I want, what I really want, is to understand suffering through the eyes of those who suffer, but this takes something I haven’t gotten to yet. At the dump, there was little chance for discussion with locals, and it was all too easy to overlook the people whose homes we walked through like tourists. I nearly overlooked a chance for discussion at the chocolate factory, but even in discussion I couldn’t separate my Kipling mentality from my understanding of the answers I got. But living with a family, a much-needed self-awareness began to grow in me, the awareness that I was out of place; I was the weird one. As the stay went on, this awareness began to permeate my thinking more and more, allowing me to connect with my family. And the more questions I asked, you see, the more deeply they were answered, and the more I began to think my preconceptions weren’t so useful after all. I began to believe in the value of those answers on their own merit.
I am hoping now that if I can see myself through someone else’s eyes, perhaps I can begin to see other things through their eyes as well. Perhaps I can understand someone else’s life through their own eyes. I’ve come to believe this is the heart of social justice. We start by getting out of our comfort zone, and the next step is asking good questions. But what I’ve realized now is that questions themselves are not enough—we have to allow a shift in perspective, allow ourselves to accept the validity of answers. If, for instance, we ask good questions of abused native women, understanding can begin. But if we can begin to place more importance on their opinions than on our own, relationships built on mutual respect can be cultivated. And perhaps then the good intentions of outsiders will not prove so unfruitful. This is one of the most important reasons I’m glad I’m doing the fall program. I was able to get through step 3—seeing myself through their eyes—this summer, but step 4—getting to a real shift in worldview—will take more time.
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