When I was in 8th grade, I went to a coed party. There was a girl whose friendship I was desperately seeking. So desperately, that I made a loud show to get her attention. She finally turned to me and said, “Shut up!”
In an instant I became the “other,” the social misfit, the one who didn’t belong.
Several things this past week have reminded of what that painful moment felt like.
I went to see “Almost Equal To” at the Pillsbury House Theatre by Swedish writer Jonas Hassen Khemiri. The play is a commentary on the consequences of capitalism. The characters constantly measure themselves against each other in an attempt to gain or retain power, status, and wealth. Their greed and suspicions propel them to treat people differently while justifying their own behavior.
The recent election in Germany has seen the rise of a third party, the Alternative for Deutschland (AFD). Its stance is anti-immigration, particularly anti-Muslim. But behind the party’s rhetoric I hear a broader narrative. Anyone who isn’t “German” isn’t welcome. When asked to explain what it means to be “German,” a party spokesperson mentioned, among other things, punctuality, as if Germans have exclusive rights to this trait. (Here I thought the Swedes owned it!)
Research done by Cecilia Conrad, the head of the MacArthur Fellowship Program, reveals that immigrants are overrepresented in receiving MacArthur Genius Grants. The immigrants who come here, she explains, are “risk takers. And their thinking and discoveries are nourished by the experience of dislocation, of navigating a new culture and a new set of norms. They come with a sort of hunger and a kind of gaze that don’t subtract from what those of us already here have but, instead, add to it.”
Even Ken Burns’s documentary “The Vietnam War” shows the grim affects of colonialism, arbitrary divisions of a country, trumped up rhetoric about the threat of communism—all resulting in an us vs. them, good guy-bad guy situation that drew the U.S. into a protracted, ultimately failed conflict.
All because we insist on creating “the other.”
And then there’s Eloise, who I am fostering. She is one of a dozen golden retrievers rescued from the streets and forests around Istanbul. Organizations in Turkey and Minnesota coordinated efforts to fly the dogs here, where they will have permanent homes. I won’t forget the moment when they emerged from their crates after 22 hours of being transported across the ocean to a whole new world. They were all wagging tails, curiosity, and hope.
Finally, and poignantly, I heard this notion of “the other” touched on at the memorial service for an elderly woman who deeply valued a sense of home yet lost that secure feeling as a result of her dementia. “At some point in our lives,” the pastor said, “every one of us is displaced in some way.”
The “other” go by many names: refugees, immigrants, people displaced by flooding, widows and orphans, veterans, people who don’t look like you or me, the person lost in the confusion of her mind, the retiree questioning his purpose, the abandoned animal, the insecure 8th grader.
But, like Eloise, we also all have names. Names that link us to each other. Names that at once remind us of our uniqueness and our rightful place in the world.