If I went to my bedroom, what do I expect? My bed. If I go to a war-zone, death; If I go to a prison, prisoners; if I go to a hospital, sick people and doctors trying to cure them; if I go to a palace, kings and queens; in churches, clergy and laity; in a school, teachers and students. If I go to homes I find families.
What do I mean by this platitude? If I come to the U.S., I find “Americans.” If I’ve come to a post-industrial society, I expect bureaucratic migratory grinding as a first welcome, from the cubicles of their human assembly line. I wish the random checks randomly got not-so-random–checking me every time because of me. But precisely there’s the beauty of it: it’s nothing personal. Precisely there is the catch: it’s not because of you, you brown, black, yellow, South American, Arabic, Indian, African, you; … Read more