You Can't Make Mistakes.

I’ve been an avid blog reader for years and years, since before blogs were even called blogs. I used to have a blog on an early site called Diaryland. I am not even sure if Diarylandstill exists, but it got me interested in the genre and I was hooked. I still believe that blogs represent a step forward in internet media and publishing because they allow for quicker and often better vetted publication of information online, but they also encourage and require the use of another skill which is flagging world-wide: reading.

I was reading Laila Lalami’s blog this morning in which she wrote about a recent talk that she gave at a university about her book Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits (http://www.lailalalami.com/blog/archives/004706.html). She identified that it was likely that many of the students attending the talk were not regular readers, but rather just took what they found objectionable about her work and attacking it without regard for the book as a work of literature. They came to the talk with something to say rather than coming prepared to listen and learn something new.

Her discussion of this phenomenon reminded me of a recent string of experiences that I had at public talks, happening about a week apart. The first was a talk given at Western Michigan University by a group called One Voice. This group is made up of Israelis and Palestinians who are working toward peace in Israel/Palestine through dialogue. Their talk was interesting, nothing particularly new, but interesting nonetheless. They have some good things to say, they are positive, but they understand the situation enough to know that the conflict will not go away overnight. I wanted to know more about the organization itself and their involvement in various communities in Israel and Palestine and was excited about the Q&A portion of the presentation.

I was horrified, however, when the Q&A began because it seemed that no one in the audience had listened to the speakers, even for a moment. My friend—who just so happens to be a Palestinian woman who grew up in Jerusalem—and I just looked at each other, sort of dumbfounded. These people were all asking questions which had already been answered in the talks, asking questions which were well outside the scope of the topic at hand, or they were pontificating from a particularly biased point-of-view. It was upsetting, to say the least, but ended up being helpful for me.

I was scheduled, the very same weekend, to give a talk at the First Presbyterian Church in Richland, Michigan on misconceptions surrounding Islam, Muslims, and the Middle East. I had been mildly concerned about the sort of response that I would receive, but had no real idea what to expect. The talk that I had just attended, however, made me terribly anxious. I totally scrapped my talk at this point and rewrote a simple outline handout and off I went.

Rather than beginning the talk by talking, I began by asking questions. I figured that this would be the easiest way to disarm anyone who had come with an agenda. I asked the group before me to define and describe the words “Islam, Muslim, Muslim World,” and “Middle East.” They responded and played right into my hand. It was perfect. Most of the people in the room qualified their definitions by first identifying that they were relatively ignorant about the topics at hand, though they were quite opinionated as well. We started examining their responses as a group and I was able to explain the roots of some of their misconceptions. I felt like we were opening some minds to new ways of conceptualizing something that until that day they had considered strange or intangible.

But, there was that one guy. There is always that one guy. He chimed right in pontificating about how “they” encouraged violence and “we” were currently stuck in a situation which we wouldn’t be able to get out of with even more of a fight. He went on and on about how “they” are different that “us.” Finally, thankfully, the Pastor of the church just stopped him and asked that he allow others to speak and allow me to respond to his concerns. I explained that the majority of the issues which he was concerned with were not actually included in the topic of this talk, but were still valid concerns which might actually be informed by our discussion. The Pastor explained that I was not an expert in war history or anything even remotely related to it and that it would be unfair to put me on the spot about those things, since I was only there to talk about misconceptions and how we, there in that room, could affect change simply by opening our minds a bit.

All in all, it was a great talk, but the mood in the entire room was derailed by one guy who had come with an agenda, prepared to pontificate and who was not satisfied by my answers, so that he had to ask me questions which I had already addressed. The others seemed uncomfortable, almost as though they felt pressured to choose a side: the side of the sympathizer, or the side of the loyal Christian American.

After the talk, he came up to me, shook my hand, and apologized for being so hard on me, saying that he had very much enjoyed the talk, though he still had concerns weighing on his mind. I thanked him for his candor, wondering if he was being disingenuous, or if he had just been posturing throughout the talk, unwilling to move out of his comfort zone like the others had. It is still unclear to me, but I assume that the latter is more likely.

What I wondered as I walked back out into the cold and blowing snow—it was February at the time, and there had been a blizzard since morning—was why it is so difficult for some people to remove themselves from their own concerns, even momentarily, and have compassion and concern for others, even those to whom it seems least possible to relate. I still don’t understand why that is the case.

What I do know is that this experience was only beginning. In the following months, I had opportunities to lecture several friends classes as a guest, to have discussions with groups of undergraduate students, and to share my point-of-view—both personal and professional. What I found time and again is that our misconceptions are powerful and even when there is compelling evidence presented to the contrary, we are often hesitant—if not completely resistant—to changing our points-of-view and relinquishing bias. Sometimes, when faced with those kind of odds, the only thing to do is just shrug and laugh and say a little prayer in hopes that things will change for the better, before they change for the worse.