Race and the Body in the Story of the Wounded One
part 5
I paused this series to tell you about running a marathon and book coaching. Want to run? Want to write? Hire a coach! Hire me! (book coach, not running coach - though I am a personal trainer with a nutritional course and chronic pain add-on so maybe we could multitask!)
But, this week it is back to talking about the parable of the Wounded One in Luke.
We talked about the women.
We talked about being the wounded one.
We talked about why I call it the wounded one.
Race and the Body
When I got flat tires in Djibouti (so many flat tires due to thorns, heat, broken glass, harsh off-roading), within thirty seconds, the car would be surrounded by men come to change the tire. Sometimes it could be overwhelming. But, the tire would be changed and God help me if I tried to do it myself.
When I had the accident in Minnesota and I pulled over with an exploded tire and a dented car, without even realizing it, I now look back and understand that I expected people to pull over, to come out of the woods, to step across the road. Except, there were no people in the woods or on the other side of the road and it was a really busy road, difficult and dangerous to stop on. But the thought ran through my mind, “Where are the Somalis?”
Which sounds kind of troubling if you don’t know my history. Like that I somehow expected an African Muslim man to come to my assistance. Well, I did, in a way. Not because of a racial or ethnic identity but because those are the people I’d learned to rely on for help in the daily trials and adventures for my entire adult life.
I had experienced sufficient quick hospitality from Somalis such that my instincts were to look for it in a moment of unexpected need.
If you’ve read me at all for long, you also know I have been assaulted and harassed, too, so this is not a Pollyanna Lalaland idea. But somehow, I’ve learned to hold both as real experiences but not definitive. And I’ve chosen to believe the hospitable, helpful experience is the normative one.
What experiences are we participating in now, for others, that might be formative for them in how they see us? How am I contributing to a particular story about what White Christian American women are like? How am I having influence or an impact without even knowing it?
Every one of the Somali men who have interacted with me have formed my mind and my body, primed me in some way for future responses. This is why when I see a group of young men ahead of me on a sidewalk, I am hyper alert. I’ve been trained to look out for their hands, their feet, their eyes, the stones they might throw. This is also why I expected someone to pull over and help me.
I get to decide how I will frame those formed expectations and yes, sometimes they have been expectations of a rock to my back or a pinch on my ass, but far more often, they have been a car ride, a changed tire, a glass of cold water, a miraculous medical test procured, a word of defense on my behalf.
What story do you want to participate in forming for someone else?
How do you think your mind and body have been formed by the people who have lived their own stories with you inside of them?