I saw this sign when I walked into the
library yesterday. I was bogged down with a couple dozen books in canvas
bags, and I quickly headed to the return slot to unload them. Then, after
checking out another couple dozen books for my classroom, I made a beeline for
door. I was ready to get home and enjoy my Saturday. Maybe read a
(non-picture) book? Maybe take a walk and enjoy the sunshine and
(finally) milder temperatures?
I stopped myself. It’s the least
I can do. The very least. I headed to the community room where the
group sponsoring this event had set up information tables and displays about
Islam. They offered pamphlets, books, and food. As I read the
displays, a man approached and asked if I had any questions. We conversed
about some of the information on the signs, and then I continued on my
own. As I finished circling around the displays, he encouraged me to
sample some food. He helped me get a plate of falafel balls, hummus, and
pita bread. I sat down at a table and unloaded my bags on the
floor. We chatted a bit more about our families and jobs. I told
him I'm a teacher, and he mentioned that his wife was the administrator of a
school. He waved her over. She sat down with me. “You look
familiar,” she said. We soon discovered not only that we both
homeschooled our children for many years, but also that we attended the same
homeschool group for a time. We marveled at the smallness of the world.
Nobody had mentioned Christchurch yet,
but it was there with us in the room. I don’t know if this event was
planned previously or was put together in response to the tragedy in New
Zealand. I didn’t ask. But I felt the need to say
something. When the conversation lulled, I tried, “It’s terrible
what happened. Such a tragedy. I’m so sorry for your
community and for the world. It’s so horrible. There
are no words.” She nodded and said she still couldn’t believe it had
happened, so many dead. We sat silently for a while, filled with
emotion. Then she picked up the conversation again. Both
of us had returned to work full-time in the last couple of years, and we
discussed the struggles of balancing family and work. We talked
about schools and education, about our kids in high school and
college. Finally we parted by sharing our names and a warm
handshake.
I returned to my car, thoughtful,
reminded of how similar we are in so many ways. There was a Sesame
Street book called We’re Different, We’re the
Same that I used to read to my children when they were
little. Yes,
we’re different. Yes, we’re the same. It’s hard to know exactly
what to do in the face of such hatred as manifested itself in the massacre in
New Zealand. Certainly we can advocate and rally and speak up to
hatred. We can vote and be politically active in other ways. But I
also think we can be more intentional about sitting with each other. My
experience yesterday definitely reminded me that I need to do more of
this. Let’s be more present to those who are different or who we think
are different from us in some way. Let's constantly remind ourselves of
our common humanity. Let's remember - we’re different, AND we’re the
same.
