Letters to America

Pop quiz:

You are writing a letter to someone from Rwanda. How do you address it?

The question is simple enough, but it is one that I would have answered much differently last week than I would today.

 My reality check came during a Senior 6 (12^th grade) English class at Rwamagana Lutheran School. The entire 50 minute class was devoted to writing letters to English speakers: letters to apply to schools, respond to job advertisements, and accept placements. Over the course of the lesson this question arose: How do you address a letter to an American? I was surprised. I didn’t know there was more than one way to address a letter. I assumed everyone slapped a name down, followed it with a street address, city, state/province, country, and boom-done. Nope.

In addition to hanging out with them in class, I also get to help students after school!
Here I am giving guitar lessons to Johnson, an incredibly gifted musician and S3 student.

According to the students, when they address a letter to a fellow Rwandan, they list the country first and work their way down to the smallest organizational level (the cell). Street addresses are rarely included because they rarely exist. Now, with a slight prodding from the teacher, the students in the class started to debate whether or not they would need to change the way they addressed that letter if it was to an American.  “Of course you’d address it differently,” insisted Ornella, “that (points to the board) is the way Americans are most comfortable with!”

There it was. That unwelcome guest that has sidled up next to me so many times during these few short weeks in Rwanda. That elephant in the room that is all too often invisible to me while being fully visible to others. That lingering companion who jarringly makes himself known with the sudden sting of culpability. Privilege.

These students were learning how to address a letter in a way that made me, an American, most comfortable. What had I EVER learned in school to make a Rwandan more comfortable?

I remembered, then, something that the YAGM program director, Heidi, said at orientation in Chicago. She said:

“You can go all around the world, but you can never shake your U.S. passport and everything that comes with that.”

Everything that comes with that: all of the stereotypes and assumptions about you that come with that passport, all of the stereotypes and assumptions you carry because of it, all of the privilege that comes with it.

She was right. I have slowly, painfully, been discovering what an American passport means. It means that, unlike my Rwandan friends, I don’t have to be bilingual to get an education. It means that a basic knowledge of Rwandan culture wasn’t in any way a part of my secondary school curriculum. I didn’t learn how to find Rwanda on a map. It means that I never needed to know how to address a letter in any way but my country’s standard form. It means that I never considered that any other way even existed. THAT is my American privilege: the privilege to not have to know about this culture, the privilege to not have to care.

But (and there always is one). But my privilege to not care is a reality in stark opposition not only to my personal beliefs, but to the message of a God who tells us in Galatians Chapter 6, verse 2:

“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”

There are verses upon verses in the Bible that talk about being called to care for one another, but this is one of my favorites. In this verse Paul, writing to a church in turmoil at Galatia, reminds the people of their call in Christ-to be in relationship. It’s not a verse that allows us to be ignorant of the burdens of others or, conversely, to feel so guilty about our privilege that we self-centeredly try to shoulder our own AND our neighbor’s burdens. Instead the verse calls us to get in the dirt with each other. We are called to walk the road together, to acknowledge the burdens we carry AND the burdens our neighbors carry-and to share the load.

My students help me bear my burden of language by writing down song lyrics they
just memorize so I can be in choir with them.  This is the Kingdom of God. 

Americans, there is a class in Rwamagana, Rwanda learning how to write letters in a way that makes you feel most comfortable. The teachers are knowledgeable and want to give their students the best chance at a bright future-the lesson is an important part of that.

But I have a letter for you, too:

My American friends,

How much we take for granted? That we can attend high school knowing only one language? That an American passport can help get us visas it would be impossible for our neighbors from other parts of the globe to get? That the average income in American households dwarfs those in the vast majority of the world?

Now-of course these privileges vary greatly even inside US borders, but, on the whole, what can we do as Americans to acknowledge the privilege our passport imparts? Can we be humble? Can we, like my Rwandan hosts, be gracious to those who take the time to try to learn our local languages? Can we be gracious to those who don’t? Can we seek out cultures to learn from in an authentic way? Can we work to understand the struggles of others? Can we bear each others’ burdens?

Can we start today?

In red, white, blue, and blessings,

Sav