Cross Cultural Divides

Cross Cultural Divides

Note: The women in Jane Austin’s books fascinate me. Especially when they are blinded by their own faulty judgments and opinions. I identify with those who eventually see their mistakes and change their minds—and hearts. Perhaps that’s because my own first impressions and responses aren’t always right. Like many of Austin’s heroines, faulty vision has choked not only truth and reality, but also kindness. It has stopped my abilities to relate and to accept others just as they are. These three true stories are about times when God showed me that my own biases, prejudices, tastes and opinions were wrong. I hope this learning and growing process never stops. Criticism, judgments and condemnation kill relationships. Acceptance, forgiveness and mercy feed them. One reason Jesus taught His followers not to judge is because our judgments quite clearly interfere with giving and receiving love. The Bible records Him saying,

Do not judge others, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn others, or it will all come back against you. Forgive others, and you will be forgiven. Luke 6:37 NLT

 

Homogeneity vs. Diversity – One

I once loved living in Southern Indiana hill country. It was comfortable. My upwardly mobile father’s father came from Kentucky and most likely had hidden bootlegging southern poor white trash in his background. The Hoosier Uplands fit right into a buried part of my genetic psyche. But life there straddled two worlds. According to students at Indiana University, a line runs across Route 37 somewhere south of Bloomington and somewhere north of Bedford. North of the line it’s reputed to be civilized and safe; south of the line it becomes Frankie and Johnny Country and is said to be dangerous.

We lived south of the line, in redneck country. It was not unusual to see mothers hit their children or siblings bullying one another in public. Violence was common. I’d grown up in a heavily populated Northern Illinois area where families reared children more gently. In my old hometown, only one murder had jarred our community during my lifetime. But our sparsely populated Indiana county newspapers reported many murders during the few years I lived there.

Oh, there were enclaves of restraint, culture and kindness— but they were enclaves. The county was a network of diverse cultures. Underneath the smiling face of an urbane college educated Methodist professional who wouldn’t smoke or drink and could charm the ladies with endearing smoothness might lurk the macho-heart of a basketball fan who displayed photos of Bobby Knight on his office walls and emulated his idol (when he could get away with it) in disrespectful language, bullying and volatility.

A kindly shop owner might come from a family with KKK ties that went back for generations. We knew a local farmer, trusted by absentee landlords, who would chuckle at his horse-trading values; he skillfully inflated prices and felt quite justified about pulling the wool over his absentee owner’s eyes by using chemicals on the land after signing an agreement promising not to.

In other enclaves, the Amish lived apart; they knew their friends and choose them wisely. The John Birchers also knew one another. The Holiness people, who were decent, God-fearing-honest and true, had their own network and would call upon each other for plumbing, electrical and other repairs. Oh there were lots of decent kindly folks there—but the cultural diversities were great and differences in values were wide. Both Purdue graduates and their parents and the descendants of poor Appalachian farmers who’d never risen above the poverty of their ancestors salted the county.

I drove North to Bloomington for groceries because healthier choices were not available locally. But from time to time, we’d need milk, lettuce or a can of something or other and I’d stop into the local market. Given such varied cultures, you’d expect diversity in both food and dress. Not so. The food was mostly mass-market starch, sugar and additives and the dress was scary in uniform conformity.

I’ll never forget one warm summer afternoon when I entered the large grocery store expecting to see women wearing comfortable shorts, sundresses or linen slacks to shop in. Every woman in the store was wearing blue jeans. Yes. I counted. I toured up and down the aisles to be sure. Fat and baggy women, trim and skin tight women, women who looked like they needed a shower and women who appeared to be fresh from the hairdresser after spending half an hour putting on makeup all wore blue jeans. The young girls wore them and so did the old ladies. Even the clerks wore blue jeans. I didn’t. After that, it became a determined point not to. I didn’t even see my attitude until I described the uniformity to a son. He said, “I’d be comfortable there.”

 

Cross-Cultural Misunderstandings – Two

Almost forty years ago now, when I was in my early forties, I attended a small Bible College and quickly became both their librarian and a teacher. In my multi-faceted role, a very special and beautiful relationship, less than a friendship and more than an acquaintance, developed with a fellow student. He was a tall, slender handsome East African man about thirty years old. He reminded me of my own twenty-two year old son and I nurtured a motherly affection for him. I’d a profound respect for his convictions; it was easy and natural to honor and defer to him and God’s call on His life. He carried himself like royalty, he was set apart by grace, reserve and a seriousness of purpose uncommon even at a Bible College that was very serious about the souls of men. He was so extraordinarily dignified that I imagined him the son of a tribal chief. Mutual respect characterized our conversations.

One week, he asked with utmost formality, if he might talk with me. Intensely, with controlled agitation, total seriousness, and careful speech that I don’t exactly recall to replicate, he said something like, “This is very difficult for me. It is time for me to marry. I do not know how to do that. If I were in my own country, I would go to someone who would arrange a marriage. Here, I have no one to arrange a marriage for me. It is impossible for me to do this for myself. I have thought and prayed much about this. Will you please become my wife? If you cannot do this, then could you please find a wife for me and arrange a marriage?”

I was stunned. Earlier that very week a close friend and I had prayed that if God had a husband for me. He would bring him and keep all others away. (True!) Was this the answer to my prayer? My consternation bordered on shock. All I could think was, “But I don’t want to marry him.” All I remember answering is something vague about having a mother’s heart and although he honored me greatly, both answers must be “No.” Maybe we prayed together for God’s will. I do hope so.

We were both embarrassed, found eye contact difficult, and stuttered about for words. Did I blush? Did he? Was the agitating awkward anxiety his or mine? I was distressed. My heart beat uneasily. Thoughts bombarded me. Many at once. I truly did honor him. But was I to blame for this misunderstanding? Had he taken my reserved affection and deference as encouragement? Had I enjoyed our pleasant conversations selfishly, to meet my own needs? Was it foolish to feel secure with the students just because I was older and on the staff. Was I blind? I was flustered. Did he actually desire me or did he ask me out of courtesy, anticipating I’d refuse marriage but accept matchmaking?

There were other glitches. I see marriage as the culmination of specific courtship patterns. It involves building a relationship of increasing closeness that leads into love and seals monogamous bonding in the eyes of God and community. I didn’t have the words to explain it to him back then. I also had opinions—and biases. Lots of them; so many that I didn’t even stop to ask God what He wanted.

I thought arranged marriages were inconceivable—universally barbaric (I’ve since changed my mind on that.) Although he was more mature than most forty-year old North Americans, I counted the years; he was too young. (I’m less stuck on age differences now too.) The contrasts between our cultures were vast. I could not imagine my sons accepting a young African stepfather—closer to their age than mine. All I felt was disbelief when he told me that if I decided to be his matchmaker, he didn’t want to be personally involved in picking out a wife. He would accept my choice of whom ever would agree. He would trust me. He didn’t say anything about love.

After that, our friendship became awkward. I heard that after Bible College he returned to Africa and found a wife. All that was decades ago now, but remembering his grace, I wish I’d had sensitivity enough to talk with him more openly about our differences. I wish I’d sought God for the words to explain myself. I wish I’d been more guided by God’s love for us and less bound by my cultural preconceptions.

 

Following the Crowd – Three

I was a snob. Outwardly, my Better Homes and Gardens lifestyle looked like a comfortable fit into our local suburban culture. But inwardly, I pictured myself above the stifling limitations of the white, Anglo-Saxon, Suburban, Protestant box I’d been born and raised into. I honestly believed that I’d been poured from a different mold, a more educated, accepting, and tolerantly flexible mold than those neighbors and family, who long ago once said—and not always as a complement—that I was “different”.

My attitude received a corrective blow in May 1993 during an international conference in Jerusalem. At first, I felt ashamed. Later, humbled.

The delegates dined together in a reserved section of the hotel dining room. Twice I was seated at a table of eight with George, an unusual man from Great Britain.

George talked a lot. He told us that he was nearly eighty, but he looked sixtyish. His skin was remarkably pink, from both the Middle Eastern sun and exertion.  He wasn’t a well man. The blotches on his forehead—he said they were skin cancers—blended with his pink skin. His white hair caught attention. It was always awry—wind blown and hand combed like a boy just in from cycling.  George was a bit awry too. He was rarely in repose; his animation was unpredictable—not quite gawky, but his hands and arms were all over the place, as talkative as he was. His social skills were uniquely his own.

If British reserve or self-conscious melancholy had ever restrained him, he’d thoroughly repented. No grim control flickered under his mobile, wearily watchful face. He laughed, aloud. Frequently. Freely. And he laughed without any obvious external reason. His face was constantly in motion, responding to all around him or reflecting the currents of his inner man. He wanted to connect with others. At conversational pauses he interjected anecdotes with generous guffaws. His was often the only laughter, but it did exude enjoyment, kindliness of spirit and a zest for life.

My interest and fascination were mingled with apprehension of the unknown. He was odd. Hopefully he was harmless. Seated with Americans, American Israeli’s and Australians, our entire table seemed to feel a bit uneasy about him. The rest of us were quieter, more constrained. The social temperature at the table registered courteous tolerance, not acceptance. His disjointed stories were discouraged by slow responses. The conversations often flowed around him, and he was given a bit of space.

Following the conference, I joined a group of touring Brits, including George. How different it was. His countrymen loved and honored him. They affectionately enjoyed his jokes and stories. They accepted his differences; they respected his age and history. They asked dialogue-opening questions about his life and experiences and listened to his stories with eager intelligence. Not Jewish himself, he had been in the British Army and either had stayed or returned to Israel when the Brits pulled out in 1948. He had chosen to fight with the Israelis.

In this setting, I enjoyed George fully and was stunned to see that my social safety in both places had been governed by group norms (“When in Rome…”). With the Brits, I was grateful to sit beside him and visit in a more hospitable climate. He was a “character,” a very kindly one.

As a child, my family noted all eccentricities except our own and kept them at arm’s length. Since I had suffered for making choices outside my family’s norm, I thought I had shed and overcome the conformities of my childhood. I had not.

To draw out the moral— which may not be necessary:  although I intellectually preferred and valued the British acceptance of differences above my own American mistrust of non-conformity, I originally acted according to the value system of my childhood and not my adult values or impression of myself. Self-deception is tricky. I hope I have repented thoroughly enough to be changed.

Jesus tells us that we are to love others and treat them like we want them to treat us. In these three incidents, He bared my religious hypocrisy—and showed me much I needed His Holy Spirit and how far I was from His perfect love.