The Teachers All Around Us

Do you see them?

I was beginning my way from New Orleans to Chicago. In New Orleans, I spoke with a group convened by the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation on compassion-centered care. In Chicago, I would speak to graduates of Garrett Theological Seminary at their commencement. There was a lot between those two places, including my transit.

I sat in my Uber—a Jeep Wrangler—and started talking with my driver. I complimented his cool ride, we exchanged a few niceties, and as we drove by the Superdome, I mentioned to him that this was my first time seeing it. This opened up a conversation about his life in New Orleans—I was born and bred here baby!—and how much his life had been affected by Hurricane Katrina.

He told me that everything changed for him that day. That everything he owned in this world had been destroyed. That he had to start all over then.

Everything I have in my life now is what I’ve been able to build since the age of 35. I had already been working hard and building a life before then. But once I lost it, I began from scratch.

Uncle Chris is now 55, and he’s still hustling daily. He struck me as a jovial, authentic person, who had faced hardship and come out tougher. But he shared his sadness with me too. His entire family fled after Katrina, but unlike him, none of them returned. They resettled in Atlanta. Chris resettled in New Orleans.

And this, truly, was where he really felt the loss.

If I could go back and change anything, it wouldn’t be the money or the property or the comfort. I’d just want my family to be near me again. I miss being around them, I hate that my nieces and nephews know who I am but don’t really know who I am. Family’s all we got, man. Everything else comes and goes.

Every word that came out of Chris’ mouth was so real. I don’t mean that there’s a chance he was lying. I mean that he was speaking from a depth of personal experience. Everything he said, he said from his bones. And having been through so much—far more than I ever have—I felt like a child, trying to see life through his mature, experienced eyes.

This feeling is so uncomfortable at first. I feel a wave of shame for not knowing, for not having experienced, for having so much privilege that I haven’t lost in the ways others have lost. But then, I let that shame go and embrace the moment, recognizing how fortunate I am to have interactions like these.

I seek them out now, I yearn for them, aware that anyone I meet can be a teacher in some way. And I love seeing people in that light, even those who I never even talk to. I’d like to say that I’m always in the right frame of mind to appreciate people’s wisdom, but the truth is that I forget it too often.

But I notice from time to time, when I remember to look for it, I learn from these stories and lessons, and so much to gain when I’m aware that everyone has something to teach me.

And all of this makes me wonder—How different would our world be if we all learned to see one another in this way?