“Not again,” I think to myself, desperately trying to shake the thought out of my head before it takes hold. Too late. For the tenth time this week, I am thrown back in time and land with a thud, picking myself up in the dusty streets of Haiti or Cameroon. What happens next is a little different each time. Sometimes its pulling water up from the well behind the house in order to take a shower. Other times it’s just walking down the street and greeting people in French, admiring the vibrant colors in people’s clothing. Still other times it’s hopping into the flatbed of Rebuild Globally’s silver pickup truck and absorbing the sights, sounds and smells of Port-au-Prince as we pull out of the workshop and merge into mid-afternoon traffic.
“Not again…”
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It’s been over two months since I finished up my world travel marathon to Haiti and Cameroon, and yet, if you stepped inside my head, you might think I just got home yesterday. For two months, I’ve sought to stay busy, throwing myself into re-establishing friendships, taking 24 credits of classes, applying for scholarships and researching internships… anything to keep my mind off the fact that I am back in the US, and no matter where I go, this will always be my world.
The thing is, nothing can prepare you for this. Returning home and reconciling yourself to the world you once inhabited is no cakewalk. You are different, and although you may be surrounded by encouraging family and friends, you have to undertake this journey by yourself. What’s more, its not something that will wear off without putting in significant effort. You can ignore it, for a time, but it always catches up to you, oftentimes in the most inopportune times and places. Sure, it helps to stay busy, but that merely delays the inevitable.
This past week I finally broke down. For the first time since coming back, I ran out of things to distract me, and I had to face the hard fact that I am living in a reality I can barely call my own anymore.
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The problem is, my experiences in Haiti and Cameroon feel completely disconnected from my life back here in the US. I feel disoriented, as if part of me never left while other parts of me feel like they never quite made it back. Trying to gather these disparate parts of myself is exhausting, and oftentimes it feels like an exercise in futility. My mind can’t wrap itself around the wholeness of my experiences in Haiti, Cameroon, and the US simultaneously… one always crowds out the others. And now that I am back in the US, my ability to preserve the intensity and omnipresence of those other parts is giving way. That scares me. I fear they will evaporate slowly, and one day they will vanish indefinitely into the darkness of forgotten memory, leaving me to act like nothing ever happened. Perhaps this is irrational, but I feel like I’m trying to hold sand in my hands, helplessly watching it slip through the cracks when I’m not paying attention.
I don’t want to re-assimilate back here in the US, because doing so threatens to minimize these experiences, and there are important lessons I learned in Haiti and Cameroon that have shaped the way I am. Not only that, but these lessons fly in the face of everything that I’ve learned here at home, and I hate being immersed in an environment that (by and large) doesn’t understand these parts of myself.
That is why when people ask me if its good to be back, I have a difficult time answering them. Spending time with family and friends, taking warm showers, and savoring the taste of clean tap water and the fresh chill of a cold winter day are all quite nice. But on the other hand, there are aspects of being back that I dread. I hate the unstated assumption that the “American Way” is the best way. I find it frustrating that we are told to be individualist and materialist by thousands of ads and marketing messages every day. I don’t like talking to people about surface level things like food, sports teams, and celebrities. And more often than not I tend to sit quietly and contemplate everything I no longer take for granted as people complain the internet is too slow or that traffic is bad.
But perhaps most of all, I get angry thinking about the human cost of maintaining our high-flying American culture. Business and government officials wheel-and-deal around the world in order to protect our interests abroad. We brazenly defend our military interventionist policies by spouting rhetoric about democracy and freedom. And we assume that whatever is good for America is, by extension, good for the world, because without America, the world would be in deep trouble. We need to stop kidding ourselves. We’re not “The greatest nation on earth”; we’re just “The biggest bully on the block”, and we mistake people’s desire to come to America as tacit approval of our modus-operandi, instead of what it really is: a self-interested desire to be on the winning side of a rigged geopolitical game.
Some people might say I’m being pretty harsh and ungrateful for the opportunities I’ve received. To them I say this: I am thankful for the opportunities I have been given, but I am ashamed of what it means to be an American, and I think we need to get to work fixing it. We claim that “might makes right”, and that it’s our right therefore to determine what is best for the world. We allow multinational companies to exploit, pillage, and plunder underdeveloped countries by politically strong-arming their leaders, and then we throw them pennies with development aid that indebts them and enriches American contractors. We ensuring our self-interest above all else, without realizing that this strategy isn’t in our best interest long term. In many discussions I had with people in Cameroon, America stood for individualism and excess, not freedom and democracy. I don’t think I’m wrong for thinking we need to change that.
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As I was thinking about this last night and stressing myself out, I picked up Confessions of An Economic Hitman by John Perkins and I flipped to one of my favorite passages in the book to ease my mind. It’s 1971, and John is speaking with a group of Indonesian college students in a coffeehouse in Bandung about how they perceive America, and what can be done to change it:
“The English major looked me directly in the eyes. ‘Stop being so greedy,’ she said, ‘and so selfish. Realize that there is more to the world than your big houses and fancy stores. People are starving and you worry about oil for your cars. Babies are dying of thirst and you search the fashion magazines for the latest styles. Nations like ours are drowning in poverty, but your people don’t even hear our cries for help. You shut your ears to the voices of those who try to tell you these things. You label them radicals or Communists. You must open your hearts to the poor and downtrodden, instead of driving them further into poverty and servitude. There’s not much time left. If you don’t change, you’re doomed.’” (52-53)
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The only thing that keeps me going is the thought that I can use my experiences to change the way people act, and that by extension we can change the world. We need to reorient ourselves away from material wealth and turn towards spiritual wealth. In essence, this means leading a life that demonstrates you hold certain virtues as priceless, such as love, justice, equality, freedom, sufficiency, etc.
At the end of the day, I don’t want to assimilate back into American culture. I want to take the lessons I learned abroad and integrate them into the culture around me, transforming it into a more holistic, life-promoting social construct. If America truly wants to be the greatest country on earth, we must strive to encourage all people to pursue spiritual wealth, moving beyond economic idolatry towards the notion that every person is priceless and worthy of love, justice, equality, and freedom, regardless of race, religion, nationality or creed.
Call me a radical, an outlier, a dreamer… that’s fine. But by living my life in this way, I plan to leave the world just a bit more caring, just, and equitable, and if you agree with me, I hope you’ll join me too.
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