A couple days before we made our last move, we had to burn a couple hours at the park while the new owners came by to measure for carpet.
I took the dog along and we traipsed around the lake and enjoyed the sunny spring morning and our Chik-fil-a sandwich biscuits.
Soon we noticed parties forming in two covered gazebos. Families dressed in some middle-eastern garb gathered together, kids on swings and slides in beautiful, jewel-colored clothes.
It was the end of Ramadan. I knew this because our family once attended school with a little Muslim girl named Fatima. One day my husband went to volunteer as a Watchdog Dad and he met all our kids’ classmates. He stuck his hand out to shake theirs, but Fatima carefully kept her hand behind her back.
“I can’t touch a man,” she explained, matter-of-fact.
She also wasn’t allowed to eat school lunch during the day. I’d learned this the year before when I was volunteering in class. Muslims fast during daylight hours for an entire month while observing Ramadan. In the cafeteria she sat patiently next to the other students as they unwrapped and devoured sandwiches and chips.
I wasn’t surprised to see the segregated parties of men and women at the park. Yet it didn’t occur to me in the moment, but much later. As I stood watching my own kids play and admiring the beautiful clothes around me one of my kids came up with a couple young boys. He pointed at the dog and announced it was his, then he urged them to pet it.
“She’s nice. She’s a good dog. She loves kids,” he told them. “She loves it when you scratch her belly.”
The dog grinned and rolled on her back, tongue lolling as if to extend the invitation.
The new friends stood there with frozen smiles and eyes darting. The older one leaned down and whispered in the younger’s ear.
“We…can’t!”
Then I realized what my seven year old didn’t–what I barely knew myself.
“You know what?” I said aloud. “You don’t have to pet the dog.” I kneeled down and smiled at all three kids.
“You can just look at her. Plus, we didn’t come here because of the dog–we’re here to play!”
I scooted them back off to the playground.
I’ve thought a lot about this encounter and our Muslim friends back in Denver.
We were in a strange land, learning new things, sometimes by the seat of our pants. We found ourselves in awkward situations all the time. Life was full of backpedaling and circling cultural roundabouts, looking for the proper exit. We were country bumpkins. But we could still be kind.
If I were to flip the script, I am sure our Muslim friends would assume we were the oddballs, not celebrating Ramadan, but eating greasy sandwiches and parading our dogs around on leashes near people having picnics. But they were still kind.
We accommodate one another’s differences by being kind. We don’t have to be experts on other cultures; we can just be respectful and leave it at that.
To further the conversation–when we moved away, it had nothing to do with how we felt about Muslims, or any other culture. Our departure wasn’t based on rebalancing or desegregating or any racial strife. It wasn’t because we hit a diversity limit or felt stifled as white people. One of the reasons we moved back to Missouri was because we were drawn to our original upbringing. We missed the comfort of familiar lands and people. We wished to reinforce values that made sense to us.
I think it’s fair to say that people do this all the time.
Folks resettle near familiar territory, even in a new place. Muslims will likely be drawn to other Muslims. Pick your nationality, your traditions, foods, language. Customs are not so easily traded in for new ways.
These things struck a deep chord in me in Covid times when we were so very isolated. I’m used to feeling isolated, but through pandemic times it leveled up. Common interactions were frowned upon, so I naturally turned inward and yearned more for the comfort of my original Home.
It’s interesting that this has all happened to my family personally at the same point in American history when politicians are trying to evaluate and correct social climate.
I’ve seen the updated “maps” of cities and counties that brag on being the most diverse. I think there is some sense of urgency these days to rush to the scene and populate it with an equal smattering of dissimilar humans, as if we were sprinkling jimmies on a sugar cookie. Not too many of this color, or it tips the scales. Even things out till the playing field feels level.
Have you ever asked yourself, why?
I’ve even noticed this in the evangelical church. I’ve heard people preach on finding a more diverse community of believers, as if a variety of skin tone and age demarcate a holier picture of the church.
Have you asked yourself, why?
Locally–and more rurally, it probably ain’t gonna happen.
You won’t walk into old German Lutheran midwestern territory and see too many English language learners. You’ll see trucks and dogs and mullets. And that’s actually nothing to be ashamed of (though I will reserve the right to fight against mullets should my own boys stumble off the straight and narrow).
These things are not shameful and bad. They are simply pockets of culture. Those colorful favelas I visited in Rio de Janeiro were exclusively carioca. Most of those kids had never even been to a beach before, even though they lived less than an hour from the best waves in the world. A cultural pocket, zero shame.
My friends who’ve adopted internationally? They bring home traditions and clothing to remind their sons and daughters of the places they were born. Another special cultural pocket.
God sees us, and He sees the separate, He sees the pockets. I think He loves seeing us together, too, but the ends of the world are pretty fantastic on their own.
It might be the American way, to declare equality and fairness by making Diversity the highest goal–but the genuineness of it has been terribly skewed. The majority of folks aren’t declaring equality from a benevolent spirit. There is a loud, ferocious attempt to even things out, but those who think they know best ignore their own tendency to cherry-pick compadres.
Look who is still popular: the wealthy. The richest guy in Nigeria is black, believe it or not. Hugo Chavez was worth $1 billion when he died in Venezuela. North Korea, China, Russia–every country has their king, so to speak. Jeff Bezos isn’t hanging around with any trailer park folk, and neither are his diverse buddies on the Forbes list.
America and its so-called racial tension is a smoke-and-mirrors coverup for the divide that will never be breached– classism. And I don’t hear many people promoting a down-to-earth, blood-sweat-tears existence. The rich are immortalized and given the proverbial keys to the kingdom. The poor are swept under the rug, indentured to their own misfortune. And somewhere between the two most of us Americans fit in, living in the 8th richest country in the world, but a nation divided, forever arguing about who was here first and if FOX news and/or CNN is trash.
None of it is fair, especially the bit where we get to live in this wonderful nation.
It’s a statement of fact.
So the question for the every-person is this: can you turn off the news and find a home in any old pocket?
I think you can–and I think this should encourage you. The majority of Americans have a lot in common.
Isn’t it funny how a body can feel at home among strangers when we have nothing more in common than our common-ness? I’ve had more in common with common people every place I’ve ever lived, if that makes sense–and not many of them ever talked, lived, or looked like me. But there has been understanding. And kindness.
Moms and dads trying to raise their kids, struggling sometimes to make rent, worrying about grades, cheering at the school Christmas concert. Men and women who work day or night shifts and celebrate birthdays even when they’re dog-tired.
Every place has been a joy. It’s been thrilling to me to fumble and learn and fumble in the heavier-sprinkled places, where the playground has hijabs and pathani suits, and little boys slowly back away from unclean, slobbery dogs.
But it’s also been wonderful to find home right where I’d left it, mullets and all.
