I have a term paper due in 16 days. As I write this, I am perched on the edge of my creaky steno chair. A space heater is cooking my feet. My laptop is situated in the half-square-metre of space available on my desk. Finn McMissile and Mater are grinning at me from among the broken toys awaiting repair. There are crumpled tissues of unknown provenance. And the user’s manual for a George Foreman Grill….
My paper is meant to explore evidence of cosmopolitanism in ancient Rome, and then hopefully draw some parallels between now and then. Possibly shed some light on the social construct of race, in all its arbitrary and divisive mystery. And maybe break it down, just a little bit more, in this slow and precarious progress toward an “us” without a “them”. But I did not expect to be confronted with the vitriol of two hundred years of scholarship. Of black scholars fighting for voice. A white scholars fighting for silence. And the well-meaning of all races writing and rewriting and then vehemently protecting their
personal empirical interpretation statement of history.
Emphasis on the ‘story.
I chose this topic because Kwame Anthony Appiah’s explanation of cosmopolitanism makes such perfect sense to me. We don’t need cultural homogeneity. We don’t need for all of us to be the same. We need to accept that we are all different people, with different traditions, and different values. We need to suspend our judgement unless and until people are getting hurt. And we are obligated to educate and to become educated. To say, “Hey, man. I don’t understand why you’re doing that. Maybe if you explain it to me, we can work out a better solution.” This learning before judging, this conversing before condemning – imagine the world we would have if all of us could work that way.
It’s the sort of idealism I teach my children. And I do that because I believe it to be possible. I believe that choosing to learn in the face of ignorance, anger, fear, and condemnation is the bravest act that anyone can commit. Second only to protecting others from harm.
Perched on this chair in this space surrounded by tasks not completed, obligations not fulfilled, projects not initiated; my head is spinning with the implications of these words:
“History is not about fact. It is about interpretation.” – Maghan Keita
In this space with the detritus of my life stacked all around me, on a continent where fear kills minds and boys with brown skin and women in black robes and thousands of other faces I will never know or see or love….
It is very, very hard to feel brave.
I’m a mother, corporate refugee, grad student, quiet activist and child care provider. I live in Canada and write about grace, joy, hilarity, leg hair, living healthy, and learning with kids over at The Valentine 4: Living Each Day.