in a year and a half in another country (to my recollection) no one ever called me a stranger.
as I work to change the names we call migrant people in my ‘home’ country,
as I hear the words people wish were not associated with them,
as I hear the pain that comes from illegal, alien, other, and even the mild stranger,
I am reminded of a time when I was an other – but I was claimed in a strange land.
my first day of work at Bula Monyako my now friend Patty took me on a tour and introduced me to everyone. she would say proudly (and not fully understanding who I was) “this is Hannah, our missionary.”
somedays I may have had to struggle with my American identity and everyday I was welcomed into a different reality.
but no one ever called me a stranger.
the perspective of my work today in the land of freedom and opportunity is much different. It has been a painful week of learning the good words of inclusion and diversity have boundaries with much bigger walls than I realized. Some days I would rather go back to being a stranger.
No comments:
Post a Comment