As my boss Dave talked about the kind of people he and his daughters interacted with in London, I got a craving for palpable diversity. There's something so intriguing to me about people's backgrounds--their stories. Sometimes I love to sit, people watch, and just wonder, "What's his story? What's her story?" That's one of the reasons I want to go into international health--I love discovering stories.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not always the one running out, arms wide open to embrace differences and diversity. Difference also scares me at times. I remember opening my mission call to Bolivia. After all the initial excitement, pouring over a map of South America, and Googling Bolivia and Bolivians, I remember feeling an absolute disconnect as I looked at the images of native Bolivians. They looked so very different from me. They dressed so very differently from me. They must BE so very different from me. And I didn't want to go. I wanted a new call. Those were sad moments for my Christlike attribute quest. I lacked charity and perspective, among a whole list of other things.
A similar experience occurred when I arrived in the Lima Peru MTC. I didn't crawl into bed until 1 a.m. I was tired enough to be anxious for rest, especially knowing that I was on the 6:30 a.m. missionary schedule. I remember crawling under the itchy blanket, vaguely wondering with a touch of anxiety who the other 3 blanketed bodies were in my room, but relegating that issue to the back of my mind until I had to deal with it. In the morning, I found out my companion was Hermana Chacon, from Guatemala City. I climbed down the bunkbed ladder onto the floor where she was standing. Cue the awkward moments. This 5-foot-nothing, Central American, Spanish-speaking, shy girl was my new 24-hour "other half." Not only was our communication hampered because of my lack of Spanish skills and her lack of English skills, but we had nothing TO say to each other. We lacked both tools and material. As we went to the "comedor" to eat our "desayuno," I looked around at 115 unfamiliar, Latino and Latina faces. I felt an inner panic as I realized that this was my new home for 6 weeks. The inability to express the sentiments that were flowing through my emotional veins to all my extremities enhanced the feeling of "apart" and "different." I saw the Latinos as "them," and the North Americans as "us." Theoretically, I knew we were all "brothers and sisters" and all that, but there's nothing like a real situation to challenge mental and spiritual concepts. I didn't even consider that none of them really knew each other either--they came from different countries, speaking different varieties of Spanish. They were all brand new missionaries, embarking on a completely new adventure, most with calls to countries foreign from their own. None of that crossed my mind. All I could think was in terms of "me," "them," "different," and "same." Selfish. Superficial.
3 weeks later, I ate dinner with Hermana Chacon, Hermana Rodriguez, Hermana Shirley, Hermana Allen, and all the other hermanas at our table. I brought over bread for my companion and me. Hermana Chacon brought two drinks to the table. She offered me jugo de papaya and laughed as I made a disgusted face and shook my head. She handed me my watermelon juice, knowing I called papaya juice "jugo de pies." She was such a tease. I looked around. All I saw were missionaries I knew and loved. Missionaries I had learned with, taught with, played soccer with, shopped with, laughed with, and maybe even cried with a bit. Then I hugged my little Hermana Chacon and watched pretty heavy-heartedly as she departed with the other Latinos to the mission field. By then, she and I had a metaphorical trunk full of inside jokes and spiritual ups and downs. I love that Guatemaltequita.
I love the Bolivianos. I love the Peruanos. I love "different." Because when you unwrap different from its packaging, it's really the same. In the marketing world, different packaging means, or is at least meant to imply, different content. That's what we're used to in life--different outside means different inside. A red Starburst wrapper means something different than a yellow Starburst wrapper. But people aren't Starbursts. They're more like novels--the same novel that's been published by different companies with many different covers. Maybe the cover is torn. Maybe the pages are gilt-edged. Maybe there's a new foreward or an extra page. Maybe the publishers have a completely different way of putting together a book. But fundamentally, that book is the same. The content and the ideas within the covers are all the same. Jane Eyre still goes to Lowood School whether the book is falling apart or brand new. She still inherits her uncle's fortune whether the title is in size 60 font or size 12. She still ends up with Rochester whether the book is paperback or leather bound. Fundamentally--in every way that really matters, in every way that truly defines it--it's the same book, regardless of how it's packaged and presented. Just like a Gala apple's fundamental elements are the same as a Granny Smith apple's. They may look pretty different as far as apples go, they may taste different, but they are more similar than they are different. The Thai people use a phrase in English that initially made me laugh because it seemed like a oxymoron. But it has since grown on me. It sums people up perfectly. "Same same, but different."
Same same. But different.
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