Wasn't Don Cheadle in That Movie?

I am, at times, fundamentally blind to the reality that parts of my thought process are rooted in the American culture of egoism.

The most humbling, glaring and resounding example of just how blind I am, at times, happened when I met Paul Rusesabagina. I had traveled to Chicago expressly for this purpose.

What had begun as a love of anthropology born in my youth had become a scholarly interest in the subSaharan countries of the continent of Africa I pursued vehemently throughout college. If I could discuss Rwanda, Uganda, Congo, Burundi, Gabon, Kenya, Tanzania, Mozambique, Zambia, Angola.... If there was a way to get any country crowded around the Equator on the continent of Africa into any discussion, any paper, any new set of academic lenses during my collegiate education, I did it. I wrote papers in every class I could think of about anything involving the area I adored, often refered to as The Great Lakes Region. I used first-hand accounts of the Rwandan genocide's aftermath for source material in performances in my Oral Interpretation classes. 

I spoke about diversity in ethics and gender classes in the context of an essentially nomadic people being forced to settle, create agricultural success in a soil unfamiliar with farming and coexistance between previously violent enemies. We all struggle with identity at one point or another - I had fallen in love with a place where identity wasn't even on the list of Answers Vital To My Survival Today. When diarrhea is a lethal diagnosis, there is not a lot of time for introspection and careful consideration of the labels you accept. Everyone around you says you're a Hutu, you don't have an existential crisis debating the merits of the label. You have a group, you understand the roles that come with the label because your society teaches you quickly what it means, and you get back to the every day business of avoiding death. Thriving is an aspiration, not a commonplace event.

This is the world I carried in my over-eager brain as I bounded up stairs and into a cavernous white set of rooms at Loyola. My compatriot on this adventure and I had taken the train, then quite the walk, to arrive at our destination. Having not anticipated this on-foot endeavor, my kitten heel shoes had seem the most appropriate choice for my suit. Blustering into the adjoining meeting room and throwing my overnight bag down, all I wanted to do was catch my breath. Instead, I was shooed (literally) from the chair into which I had fallen, told rather rudely by a red-faced woman whose name I never caught, "Have you signed in? You must sign in."

After writing my name on the suddenly important white sheet of paper, I did something I always do - I looked around the room. I was standing in a largely Caucasian crowd of about 30 people, milling about in a fairly normal way. Several older white men were gathered, literally in a circle, around a man they all seemed entranced by. My habit of making eye contact and smiling brought me instant concern when the center of the circle, this focus of attention, shook hands with the men around him and said quite clearly, "Excuse me, gentlemen."

Eye contact held, and I was smiling into the face of a man, shorter than I by at least 3 inches, whose dark skin and steady expression I doubt I'll ever forget. His hand extended and I instantly took it, a searching look passing over his features as he said, "Hello. How are you?" I responded with a hello and a quick upward glance. The organizer of the event (a man I knew from reputation, as well as a tangential connection) took the opportunity to guide his guest away from the gathering crowd to get his speakers together for basic panel rules before the discussions began.

I remember the videos of the Truth Commissions. I remember the former Ambassadors and current relief workers' causes, I knew much of the established socio-cultural broad strokes the 3 gentlemen on stage discussed. Mr. Rusesabagina took his time and spoke very clearly, careful in his words. There was passion in his pride of country, and practice in the lecturing as he discussed what happened in his country.

I took the Townhall opportunity to ask about hope. An odd choice, I know, but I wanted to know about the people. The UN has helped initiate a dialogue that will help heal his country's wounds? That is extremely important, I admit it. But tell me about how the people feel. Is hope what gives out after neighbors slaughter neighbors? I'm talking about a place where estimates say around 77-78% of the Tutsi population was murdered within 90 days.

This man I asked about hope looked at me for a moment. I can't tell you what he was thinking, whether he wondered who exactly I was or how he could answer something like that in a way I would understand.

Then, the simplicity of reality fell from his lips. His 2-4 minute answer was wonderful, considering how short a time he'd been given to answer. Time slowed for me; I had a direct answer for a specific question from a man who lived in the shadows of the Virunga mountain chain I'd dreamed about all my life. In the midst of all he said, I will never forget his reaction with one simple phrase. "We will do it."

This place whose geographic topography I had studied, these complex historical interactions I had poured over while my friends were out dancing on a Saturday night, this slaughter I will never forget seeing in the background of an Anderson Cooper report when his hair was dark and we all were so much younger... This man looked at me, understood my desire to hear about his people, and without anything other than a desire to speak honestly handed me understanding on a fundamental level.

There will be rebuilding. There will be success. And the people of Rwanda will do it for themselves.

I realized exactly how egotistical my approach had been. I had dreamed, in the happy veil of youth, that somehow my Western point of view would change everything. I could teach what needed to be learned, I could help lead people out of the dark. Until that day, I had not understood the arrogance of this stance nor did I grasp the destructive possibilities of its pursuit.

I have never lived in Africa. I have never experienced the daily life of a Ugandan village, walked through the savannas of Kenya with a group of others who all understand that death is a maybe-right-now proposition depending on where you place your feet. I have no idea what it feels like to help my sister walk because a croc ate her leg, the fact that she lived through the infection there was no way to prevent a miracle I don't understand. I don't know how to build my own house on ground next to the other homes of my tribe, nor do I understand the types of materials you must use in Mozambique as opposed to the tools available in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

My point of view was forever altered. There are few days where I don't try to understand what my impact is on the causes I want to help most. Somewhere, in the depths of all this, I realized that there are some charges I should lead and others where it's best that I follow. Before you know what's best, you have to know what you're talking about.

I was trying to explain this to someone, and he said something I still ponder over to this day. "I get it. You don't just want to cast a long shadow. You already do that, Jess, whether you know it or not. You want to cast a shadow for people who are grateful for the shade, and need it."