Optimism II

It is Sunday night. There is a long list of things that I could have, should have, would have (if only the [blank] hadn't gotten in the way) completed, things that are probably more important to be working on right now than this.

In my fourth year of medical school I participated in an amazing--truly, amazing--elective called HEART. Loosely, this spells "Humanistic Elective in Alternative Medicine, Activism, and Reflective Transformation." (A week ago was my five-year reunion, and the first reunion I've missed in these five years.) This elective marked my first formal exposure to the idea of nonviolent communication, or NVC.

Among other things, NVC encourages taking responsibility for one's own feelings and actions. To restate my first paragraph, I chose to do other things instead of the items on the "long list." I don't regret any of the things I chose, just as I don't regret doing the things I chose to do the previous weekend instead of going to the HEART reunion. At the same time, I did really want to go to that reunion. And I did really want to get to the things on my ever-evolving list.

The truth is that right now I am struggling.

I am struggling to try to keep up with things I want to do, things I said I would do, things I have hoped to do, things I've chosen not to do yet because I've chosen to do other things.

Years before the HEART elective, I had another amazing opportunity, namely to serve in the Peace Corps in South Africa. After several months working with township grade schools my job description was pretty clear in my mind. It was to get the teachers to stop hitting the students. This seemed fundamental. Yet the application of it was so complex, nuanced, daunting. How does one maintain order in a 30-minute class crammed with 60 students and armed only with a textbook in Afrikaans from 1952? How does one contend with parents' expectations that a classroom should be run as they experienced it, with a sjambok? How does one reverse the mental effects of Apartheid? How quickly can they be reversed?

One afternoon, after a particularly disheartening schoolday, I returned home only to find my normally pacific host mother stormy and my 8-year-old host brother crying. I can't recall the offense. Only the punishment. After briefly comforting 8-year-old Zama I recognized in myself the need for air, breath, wide open space, something, anything to escape the choking anger and hurt that threatened to cut off my airway.

I walked. Out of the township and back up the hill towards the railroad and the open veldt. Crying. Overwhelmed.

Halfway up I heard a familiar voice. I turned to find my best friend, 17-year-old Jeffrey Nkosi, running after me. His bright voice was tinged with concern. "Hey, my man! Why are you crying, my man?" In sobs and starts my responses, my story, my frustration and sense of helplessness at taking on this enormous task, found their way out. As they did, ever so slowly, the edge to the day softened. By the time we crested the hill and turned to walk along the coal-strewn railroad tracks, my tears were gone, and Jeffrey was inviting me home to share a loaf of bread with tea. "A half a loaf is better than none, you know?"

The answer is that one doesn't reverse 50 years of Apartheid, hundreds of years of poverty and oppresion. That task, as do most things worth pursuing, takes at least two. Just as there are few things more overwhelming than taking on a struggle alone, there are few things more empowering than finding comrades with which to share the struggle.

Remembering that I am not alone, I feel better. The list will still be there in the morning. Jeffrey, wherever you are, thank you.