Stories from Common Ground

May 27, 2019

Greetings from the common ground,

The woman watched the two young men at the edge of her yard.  They were hippies, long hair, tattered clothes.  Probably smelled.  They would be begging or looking for something to steal. She shook her head at the state of the world today.  One of them walked up to her porch, he had a scruffy beard, a dirty t-shirt.  She thought about calling the police, and then decided she would get them off her property, she was capable of that. She called out to her husband and then opened the door.

He had been told that people from Maine were unfriendly, stoic, for some reason, stingy.  He was still forming his own opinion after a few days of being there.  He saw the woman look out the window, older, pinched face, unsmiling.  He sighed, not understanding why people had to be like this, especially the has-been generation.  He knew she would not be sympathetic, but he walked up to the door anyway.

A few days ago I heard a somewhat jaded airline attendant tell the story about how she finally stopped seeing people as ‘the public’, or ‘people from the south’ or ‘New Yorkers’.  She started off by saying that ‘People are awful, ugly’; a response to the flying customers who treat airline staff so poorly.  But eventually she said this: Serving people in a caring way means seeing them not as a collective but as individual stories.  She learned that once she knew their story, she could see the beauty in the individuals she crossed paths with.  It made it possible for to give the way she wanted to.  People are awful, ugly.  And wonderful and beautiful, she said.

For all of human history we have found ways of gathering into groups, sometimes for our own protection, or for more complex, and sometimes ridiculous, reasons.  We divide ourselves into Highlanders and Lowlanders, separate races, castes, languages, ethnicities, religions and on and on.  As the world advanced we made the divisions more complicated, invented more ways to categorize and separate.  Politics, sports teams, Mason Dixon line, generational differences, issues of the day like guns and environment and sexual orientation and gender bias and whatever our position is on high fructose corn syrup.

In the city where I grew up there was a tendency to talk about ‘Those People.’  Sometimes it was the Mexican neighborhood, or the poor, or the Protestants, or the Blacks, or some group that hadn’t learned English, or the families from a different parish.  Those People, I was told to understand, aren’t like us, and that was sometimes followed by some comparison about values or beliefs.  Which made sense until I found out Those People thought we were Those People. 

Through trial and error, all the while struggling with my own bias and racism and fear, I learned that once I knew a person from Those People, knew their story, it was impossible to make generalizations and assumptions about anyone ‘not like us’.

Years ago, someone said to me: “It’s harder to make cruel, uninformed comments about another race when your Asian daughter marries an African American man.  You consider Gay people differently when your own son comes out.”  It changes you when you know ‘Those People’ intimately, know their stories.

There is an organization called ‘Better Angels’ which was started with the hope of finding common ground for people with differing political positions.  They conduct forums around the country to create a place where people can respectfully discuss their beliefs and come to an understanding of the beliefs of those they disagree with.  What has happened is this; respect, empathy, friendships, and the realization that despite the rancor and divisiveness that seems to be the norm today, there is more that unites us than separates us. The truth of this is in our stories.

In a couple days I will be in Ann Arbor at a story telling event.  I’ve been to a few of these and they are always satisfying.  Some of the stories are wonderful, some are awful, some I care about others are forgettable.  But the reason I am drawn to them is that they provide insight into other people’s lives.  They create an understanding, a pact between me and the teller.  When I know their story, however it is told, it tears down some of what separates us and builds up what might bring us closer.

I am sharing this because I think that this may be the core of what will save us, or at least make our time here closer to what our Creator had in mind.  It takes time and attention and patience and the will to be open.  It will not eliminate all bias or preconceived notions or fear.  It is simply the beginning of what I think we are meant to be as humans.

Just so you understand, if I know your story, if I understand where you are coming from, that doesn’t mean I will agree with you.  It doesn’t automatically mean I like you as a person.  But the more I know of you, the less you can be dismissed as a Snowflake or a Socialist or a Muslim or a Gun Nut.  It is a path toward kindness, empathy, and I hope, peace between people who will always be different in some way.

Here is the hard part.  If it is true there is a growing divisiveness in the world, along any of the lines we are creating, it is up to us to change it.  We cannot blame the media or a political party or a religious group or Those People.  We are Those People.  I believe for all of us to live in peace, in spite of, and in glory of, our differences, we have to seek to understand through hearing the stories of others.

The old couple stood at the door and listened to the tattered young man tell his story.  He and his long-haired partner were exploring the country on their bikes, and just wanted a place to rest.  He was polite, kind, respectful, and despite how he looked, they were curious now.  The young man was sincere; they simply needed a small patch of grass to sleep on, and would be gone in the morning.  They would leave no trace.  He stood well back from the door and waited for them to answer.

The young man stood on the porch and waited.  He was sick, trembling with fever.  He knew they were afraid of him, and he wanted them to understand there was no reason to fear.  He also saw compassion on their faces; they were someone’s grandparents, someone’s friend, someone’s brother or sister.  He saw them hesitate, and where once was stony firmness, there was a flicker of kindness.

In the days that followed the four people learned each other’s story.  The hardships of Maine winters, the culture of the Northeast, the history of the early part of this country, the family that grew from Kennebunkport.  The nearly limitless gracious hospitality of the people of the Pine Tree state.  The two travelers learned for the hundredth time that people are beautiful, once you get to know them.

The couple took the young men in.  They were someone’s son, someone’s brother.  They were good boys, hardworking, determined, so brave to be out in the world.  They fed them, took the one boy to the doctor, showed them the coastline, the history of the place they loved.  And when they wheeled their bikes to the street and waved goodbye, they were sorry to see them go.  Neither of them said the words, but they both stopped looking at those people with long hair in the same way.

Hope this finds you open,

David

Copyright © 2019 David Smith