Haiti in Retrospect pt 2.

I've been back at "normal life" now for six days. I'm astonished at how quickly all the details of LIFE grab at my attention, pushing my meditations from the forefront of my mind like football players jockeying for position. Suddenly tasks like getting a job or finishing this assignment become more urgent than wrestling with what has been shown to me a week ago. As the infamous "tyranny of the urgent" grows stronger in this "Me, Now" culture, I struggle even to sit and focus on my notes from the week and grasp at something to take away. God, I know emotions come and go, but please don't let me leave this experience unchanged. 

So that's where I find myself today... Now, for, what I actually sat down to write...

The Liberty of saying "I can" 

I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I caught myself repeatedly wanting to speak for my handicapped friend as we traveled down to Haiti. I've known this dear and inspiring woman since college and I'm no longer surprised when she does things that others estimate as beyond her ability. (I even find it humorous, seeing the fascination and surprise on people's faces when my friend feeds herself without hands or climbs stairs without legs.) But something about pushing someone around in a wheel chair triggered in me the instinct to speak for her. At the hotel counter, in the airport, on the bus and with our team members..."She wants this, We'll take that, It'd be best if we go here or there." Being the more mobile one made me feel "in charge," as if I temporarily forgot that my friend is an adult, capable of making her own decision, expressing her own desires. I didn't mean to belittle my friend; I simply found it easier to speak before listening, to act on my assumptions because I was the one in control.  Thankfully my patient friend lovingly reminded me of this fact when I overstepped my role.

I guess it goes to show, sometimes when our help is needed, we can "help" too much. 

I'm needed and able to contribute one piece, but that does not mean I am needed to take over, even if I am able. I'd go so far as to say that my taking over in these instances was actually dehumanizing to my friend, if even in a small way. These micro-invalidations add up over a lifetime to strip someone of personhood, and over time they limit and cripple a person's perceptions of their own self and capabilities. In addition, when I take over I silence my friend, and thus lose the valuable perspective she brings to the situation. 

There were times on the trip when I was mildly embarrassed to be reminded of this. Then there were other times when I was intensely relieved and grateful. I don't have to juggle all these things while pushing the wheelchair; Minda can carry something. If I needed a nap, she wasn't completely stranded without me. There is so much that she can do, and both of us were freed by that assertion.

The same is true in our treatment of the poor.

Do we see the need and rush to fill it? If we're honest, giving out of our abundance is not difficult for those of us who have been handed more than our basic necessities. It's true, the need will always be present somewhere. But in our ability to "help," do we overlook the other's assertion of their own ability? Our eagerness to be helpful is combined with our refusal to be inconvenienced, and we overstep our role and invalidate those we seek to build up. In these cases, our "gifts" are as considerate as handing out quilts to the blind on a July afternoon in the Caribbean. We may have good intentions, but we overlook the Person when we're so focused on the deficit. In addition to dehumanizing the one we're trying to help, we then loose all opportunity to gain from their valuable perspective and contribution. So what do we do instead?

It's about Presence and Listening. 

 I am becoming increasingly convinced that, in a world full of demands on your time, attention, and wallet, your full and undivided presence is the most precious thing you have to give to another human being. The children we served last week are all wicked smart. Some spoke about half a dozen languages, played musical instruments, and had dreams of a career, as well as complaints about schoolwork, just like American kids. We were NOT needed to come teach or correct or hand out our leftovers. We did not come to give pointless stuff, or to change them to look or live like us. The art we brought was instead an opportunity for them to express those life-giving words, "I can do this." Poverty and disability want to beat those words out of a person. Presence and listening have the potential to stitch up the wounds and hand the opportunity right back.

The Hatian airport staff displayed the single most helpful response as they brought out the wheelchair before Minda and I could exit the plane. Instead of jumping in and doing what they thought was needed, they simply asked, "How may we assist you?" I felt ashamed that in all my years of being her friend, I can't recall a time I've sought to listen so respectfully, to wait to hear her express her needs in her own terms before stepping in to assist. Maybe this world would be different if we learned to do that for each other. Maybe our definition of poverty would change if we listened respectfully to those we served. If we took a position of Empowering, rather than simply providing; if we desired liberty over the comfort of things, then together we could make a difference.

You can visit Minda's Blog, read about her book, or purchase her artwork at www.mindacox.com