A few months ago, I was speaking with an acquaintance--I know his wife has a desire to travel, but neither of them does. I was ripping off cool places they could go and see, but nothing seemed to spark an interest in his eyes. So I asked him where he would like to go. He responded, "Nowhere. I have no interest in traveling."
I'm not found speechless very often, but I kid you not, I didn't know what to say to him. How? Why? Wait, WHAT????
Paulo Coelho, the author of one of our family's book club choices, The Alchemist, said,
"Culture makes people understand each other better. And if they understand each other better in their soul, it is easier to overcome the economic and political barriers. But first they have to understand that their neighbor is, in the end, just like them, with the same problems, the same questions."
Whenever I meet someone from another country, or even another part of our country, I pepper them with questions about their heimatland--I want to know what their childhood was like, why they came to the United States, was it a difficult transition--and if I'm visiting another country, I want to see and visit places that are important to them, I want to eat where they eat, and I want to try and speak their language.
Why? Why do I even care, and why don't I adopt the attitude of my acquaintance?
Because exploring other cultures makes our own lives richer and more colorful. It gives us a depth of character that we wouldn't have otherwise.
Of course, one of the best ways to really understand another culture is to speak another language. Unfortunately, I am now the only member of the core Kennedys who does not speak another language (I would count German if I didn't have three children who can speak and understand it better than I can). But when I see my children speaking their languages with people who speak that language natively, it makes me happy and wistful at the same time. I'm so thankful that I have been instrumental in giving them the opportunities to learn one or more languages, but I wish someone had pushed me to take that opportunity at some point as well.
When Glo was called to California, my heart sank. I felt so badly for her that she wouldn't have the same immersive type of experience that the other kids have had on their missions. However, the Lord knew. He always knows. She loves those Mexicans living the American dream, and I think everyone is jealous of the amazing experiences and sweet, happy life she is living in Northern California.
A bit in honor of her Mexican friends, I took John to see "the world's most famous" mariachi band on Valentine's Day, Mariachi Vargas de Tecalitlán. I thought it would be a nice little concert at Hill Auditorium, but by the time the concert started ten minutes late (in pure Hispanic style as John said), it was more like a rock concert. Every seat was filled, and there was whooping and hollering, and men standing up with soccer scarves, and tone-deaf Hispanics singing along to all of the songs. I don't know that I've ever felt so caucasian as I did then. The band quickly went to speaking all Spanish once they saw the crowd, so anything they said was lost on me, and I didn't know that I was supposed to come knowing all the words to all the songs! ;-) It was wonderful though to see the same dances being performed that Glo saw at her Christmas party in Santa Rosa! I didn't understand most of anything, but I soaked it all in, even down to the broken bow hairs that were flying around like long wigs on the tips of the violinists' bows.
(And as an aside, I can't even begin to believe that we have a president of our country who discourages these people from coming across the border.)
On the flip side, this week our family is reading "The Death of Ivan Ilyich" by Leo Tolstoy, some lighter Russian fare chosen by Mark (thank heavens he didn't choose "War and Peace"). Over the first two pages of the book, names are thrown out that are a football field length, and I wondered why we had to read all three names (with each name containing at least 10 or 12 letters) every single time. Mark explained to me (and to the rest of the club via book club text) that there are so few first names in Russian that they are all the same, so to distinguish between the 15 Ivans in a classroom, they attach the first name of their father to their own first name and add "ovna" for a girl and "ovich" for a boy. In other words, I am now calling Mark "Markie Johnovich" ;-). But isn't that interesting? I always wondered why the characters' names were so long in Dr. Zhivago and now I know.
And as another aside, when John signed the contract for his job at Beaumont in Dearborn, he thought he would be working with mostly Arab women. Nope. 75% of the women he sees are Hispanic. And guess how surprised everyone is that John doesn't just "speak" Spanish like most of the other doctors, but actually SPEAKS Spanish. And imagine even more how much more comfortable those women are, having a doctor who speaks their language.
So within a matter of three or four days, the horizons of my mind have been expanded. I have learned more about people and who they are and why they are than I knew a week ago. I cannot understand why someone would not want that in their lives. It seems like a very boring life to live in the same place, eat at the same places, and never leave that area for a lifetime. And what a narrow view of humanity.
I'm not found speechless very often, but I kid you not, I didn't know what to say to him. How? Why? Wait, WHAT????
Paulo Coelho, the author of one of our family's book club choices, The Alchemist, said,
"Culture makes people understand each other better. And if they understand each other better in their soul, it is easier to overcome the economic and political barriers. But first they have to understand that their neighbor is, in the end, just like them, with the same problems, the same questions."
Whenever I meet someone from another country, or even another part of our country, I pepper them with questions about their heimatland--I want to know what their childhood was like, why they came to the United States, was it a difficult transition--and if I'm visiting another country, I want to see and visit places that are important to them, I want to eat where they eat, and I want to try and speak their language.
Why? Why do I even care, and why don't I adopt the attitude of my acquaintance?
Because exploring other cultures makes our own lives richer and more colorful. It gives us a depth of character that we wouldn't have otherwise.
Of course, one of the best ways to really understand another culture is to speak another language. Unfortunately, I am now the only member of the core Kennedys who does not speak another language (I would count German if I didn't have three children who can speak and understand it better than I can). But when I see my children speaking their languages with people who speak that language natively, it makes me happy and wistful at the same time. I'm so thankful that I have been instrumental in giving them the opportunities to learn one or more languages, but I wish someone had pushed me to take that opportunity at some point as well.
When Glo was called to California, my heart sank. I felt so badly for her that she wouldn't have the same immersive type of experience that the other kids have had on their missions. However, the Lord knew. He always knows. She loves those Mexicans living the American dream, and I think everyone is jealous of the amazing experiences and sweet, happy life she is living in Northern California.
A bit in honor of her Mexican friends, I took John to see "the world's most famous" mariachi band on Valentine's Day, Mariachi Vargas de Tecalitlán. I thought it would be a nice little concert at Hill Auditorium, but by the time the concert started ten minutes late (in pure Hispanic style as John said), it was more like a rock concert. Every seat was filled, and there was whooping and hollering, and men standing up with soccer scarves, and tone-deaf Hispanics singing along to all of the songs. I don't know that I've ever felt so caucasian as I did then. The band quickly went to speaking all Spanish once they saw the crowd, so anything they said was lost on me, and I didn't know that I was supposed to come knowing all the words to all the songs! ;-) It was wonderful though to see the same dances being performed that Glo saw at her Christmas party in Santa Rosa! I didn't understand most of anything, but I soaked it all in, even down to the broken bow hairs that were flying around like long wigs on the tips of the violinists' bows.
On the flip side, this week our family is reading "The Death of Ivan Ilyich" by Leo Tolstoy, some lighter Russian fare chosen by Mark (thank heavens he didn't choose "War and Peace"). Over the first two pages of the book, names are thrown out that are a football field length, and I wondered why we had to read all three names (with each name containing at least 10 or 12 letters) every single time. Mark explained to me (and to the rest of the club via book club text) that there are so few first names in Russian that they are all the same, so to distinguish between the 15 Ivans in a classroom, they attach the first name of their father to their own first name and add "ovna" for a girl and "ovich" for a boy. In other words, I am now calling Mark "Markie Johnovich" ;-). But isn't that interesting? I always wondered why the characters' names were so long in Dr. Zhivago and now I know.
And as another aside, when John signed the contract for his job at Beaumont in Dearborn, he thought he would be working with mostly Arab women. Nope. 75% of the women he sees are Hispanic. And guess how surprised everyone is that John doesn't just "speak" Spanish like most of the other doctors, but actually SPEAKS Spanish. And imagine even more how much more comfortable those women are, having a doctor who speaks their language.
So within a matter of three or four days, the horizons of my mind have been expanded. I have learned more about people and who they are and why they are than I knew a week ago. I cannot understand why someone would not want that in their lives. It seems like a very boring life to live in the same place, eat at the same places, and never leave that area for a lifetime. And what a narrow view of humanity.
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