Can You Share a Few Words?

“So, is it hard to have your own opinion now?”

I had never been asked this question before.  The previous question was on the mounting trade tensions between the U.S. and China, and the supply-chain impacts for the region.  I prefaced my answer with a clear distinction that my answers were my own and not a reflection of my previous position as a U.S. government official.

I had been invited to address a university-level class on international trade and doing business with the U.S.  I always enjoyed the topic, and regularly spoke on it in my former job with the U.S. Department of Commerce at the University of Washington and other Seattle-area colleges.

The lecture was at one of the top schools in Indonesia and the students were sharp. I was expecting a follow-up question on my trade-tension answer, challenging, agreeing, pivoting, or digging a bit deeper.  I wasn’t expecting a question on whether it was hard not to have an official answer, and need to come up with my own.  Most people who have spent more than a few minutes with me quickly pick up that I have a plethora of opinions on any given topic, more than enough for me and options for anyone else in the room to adopt, as well.  If you don’t know which opinion you’d like to choose, I have an opinion on that too.

Asian culture is generally more consensus-based than the individualistic style of Westerners.  The question made sense in context, and I could see the differences even in the class engagement. I usually enjoy a robust Q&A time when I speak, but noticed that most of the questions were only coming from a few students, two to be exact.  I altered the format, and assigned some discussion questions and exercises in small groups so there could be more internal discussion before speaking up in front of the class.  As I wandered through listening to the different group discussions, several of the young woman stopped me to ask the questions they had been too shy to say in the larger class setting.  After we finished, they all insisted on a group picture with me, cycling through about a dozen phones so everyone could capture the shot.

Dropping into a different community, it took me a little while to get used to being the visitor, interesting because I was new.  I always enjoyed hearing from international travelers anytime they came through my circles in the U.S., but it admittedly felt a little odd to be on the other side of the attention.  Invitations to speak are always an honor, though, reflecting the trust the organizer has that you will be a good reflection on their reputation.  I always try to say yes to any opportunity.

Indonesia presented several occasions to speak and I was happy to do so.  I was asked to share a story at the international church I attended during my stay, and asked to speak at an English language class.  Towards the end of my visit, the request was to share at the Community Dinner event that my hosts put on twice a month.  I wrestled a bit with the topic.  What would be interesting?  How should I present it?  Would my stories translate well cross-culturally?  Since it was November, I thought about telling the story of the first American Thanksgiving, as we would also be enjoying a cross-cultural dinner, with gratitude for the provision.  Then I changed my mind – maybe it would only be interesting to history buffs or people with a focus on American traditions.

I procrastinated preparing my remarks as I kept flipping through options.  This was a mistake, because procrastinating is always the surest way to guarantee an unforeseen event will take up the majority of the extra time you thought you’d have.

Mine was a terrible, no good, very bad bout of food poisoning.  It knocked me out for three days straight, unable to eat and just barely drink anything.  My brain wasn’t interested in any additional work besides staying alive, a feat that at times it was convinced might be impossible.   But I had to prepare something, ready or not.

My situational aversion to food reminded me of when I was about 14 years old.  My family had been invited to a new acquaintance’s home for dinner.  The meal was fish.  I hated fish.  Couldn’t stand the taste, smell, or thought.  But we were guests and had also been taught to eat what was set before us (with grateful heart, to boot!).  This was a dilemma.  There was only one solution I could think of, and it was risky.  My older brother, Justin, was sitting to my right, fairly close by at the round table seating six.  Justin liked fish.  Justin hated germs.  Any food that touched a used utensil was considered contaminated.  (The repulsion is not past tense, just the story.)  I didn’t know if it would work, but I had no other options.  I carefully took a small piece of fish on my fork, waited until no one else was looking, and quickly dumped it on his plate.  He ate it!  I did it again.  Again!  Bless his heart if he didn’t eat the whole fish, and then ask for seconds.  It was a true act of brotherly love in my time of desperate need.

Family is universal.  That’s what I would talk about.  The love, support, and foundation that family gives us as we go through life.  Everyone has a family, good or bad.  I quickly sketched out a talk focused on thanksgiving and family, tying in both themes of the American celebration that translated anywhere.  By the time we arrived at the Community Dinner, I was still feeling drained and exhausted from my illness and didn’t want to risk eating any food.  But as the dinner filled up with students and young adults representing nations around the world, I overheard conversations naturally turning toward family, even when many of these students were far away from home. Family seems more integral to life in the East than most Western traditions.  Friends and acquaintances are called “sister” or “auntie” as a sign of respect.  Cousins are called “brother,” regardless of how distant they are.  Family binds the world together, one small group at a time.

I began my talk, pausing as my hosts reminded me to, “Slow down!!!”  My natural cadence is fairly clipped.  I thought I was speaking slowly, but the polite pace for second (or more!) language speakers of English is much more measured.  I started my talk with the fish story, slowly, enjoying the interactions as I spoke.  one girl in the back started laughing and nodding vigorously when I mentioned contaminated utensils touching other food. “You are the same!” I joked from the front. “Yes!!” I saw more heads nodding, identifying with the stories and applications as I continued.  When I finished, there were smiles and kind cheers, and I felt the last surge of public speaking adrenalin leave as I sunk into my seat to rest.

I thought back on all the stories from international travelers that shaped my childhood and youth.  I remembered the examples from distant countries that still stick with me, informing my opinions or providing insight into how humans work.  Now it was my turn to leave my stories, my examples, my experiences.  They were part of the global experience of humanity, shared with people who would take, dissect, remember, and integrate bits and pieces as part of their own.  Like me, they might start with, “I heard a speaker one time who said…”

Mostly, I hoped they remembered that we are all so alike. Our customs and foods and languages may be different, but so much of who we are and what we do and why we do it are the same. Our differences bring richness, color, and interest to who we are. Our similarities being understanding, empathy, and kindness. That’s the great beauty of travelers telling stories.