See and be seen

In the days following hurricane Katrina, Dr. Sue Eskridge did what all good teachers do; she used world events to engage her students in something real, transforming her class in Children’s Literature at the Benerd School of Education at the University of the Pacific into the Katrina Book Project. She charged her students with the task of writing, illustrating and producing books for children from the hurricane zone to help them cope with the loss of families, homes, pets, and the life they once knew. In addition, the class invited other organizations, authors, illustrators, and actors from all over the country to contribute to the project. The books and recordings will be bundled with food and medical supplies and delivered to the children over the next several months.

Sue Eskridge and her students will make a difference precisely because they were personally affected by the enormity of the suffering and then acted on their feelings. Their motivation was not rational. They will probably never know the names of the children who receive their books, never see their faces, never get a “thank you” in the mail. All the better; their offer is genuine and needs no reward beyond the doing.

I wrote and illustrated one of those books and it felt good; I was connected to something larger than myself and believed my work mattered. There was immediacy to the process, as if I was drawing for someone in the next room, desperately ill, and the medicine they required was my illustrated book. Glowing with satisfaction, I mail the finished manuscript to Sue and then caught a bus downtown to do some errands.

While downtown I stopped counting at 18 the number of homeless people that I either stepped over or walked past and pretended that I did not see. Apparently, their suffering was not mine to alleviate; I had no medicine in my pouch, no more drawings to offer. Hadn’t I just done a good deed? My only recourse was to reduce both the homeless and myself to the point of invisibility; I pretended that I couldn’t see them and that they couldn’t see me. My Katrina-book-glow dissipated. Glowing would have made me visible.

What is the difference? The children for whom I wrote and illustrated the book have no faces beyond the media images I have seen, yet their situation is personal to me. I have been overwhelmed with the generosity of the people’s response to this disaster. It inspired creativity; the book project is only one example of many ingenious responses to Katrina. How then, when confronted with human being in similar dire circumstances, a man or woman standing a few feet in front of me with eyes that look directly at me, can I ignore them so completely? Isn’t this disaster also personal? Do I not feel this as deeply as Katrina? (The answer can only be “yes” if I admit to the strength of my need to pretend they do not exist.) Aren’t these people without homes also members of my community, deserving the same concern and compassion?

The difference has nothing to do with who is more deserving of help. The difference is in the story. I know the story of Katrina and have been witness to the horror experienced by the communities devastated and displaced by the storm. I’ve listened to multiple accounts of chaos, survival, courage and perseverance. I have been infuriated at the inept response of my government. I’ve engaged in passionate debate about race and poverty and hypocrisy. As audience to any great drama, this story has become my own. I can see myself in it. It is specific and personal.

It would be too simplistic to say that I step over the homeless people downtown because I don’t know their stories, that it’s “nothing personal.” Why, then, do I avert my eyes? It is easy and safe to assume I know their stories, all of them, bundled together in a tidy stereotype called “homeless.” That way, I don’t have to engage with “them.”

What would I see if I refused my stereotype, if I actually refused to look through them and saw the person standing in front of me? More to the point: whom would I be if I actually let myself be seen? I’d be the person who wrote and illustrated a book; I’d be the person who felt connected to something larger than myself and believed my actions mattered.

The difference is in the story I tell myself about myself. Stories driven by fear are always invested in reduction and are a recipe for staying entrenched in the vicious circle. To see and be seen is not easy. It is, however, a clear path to the virtuous circle of expansion.

--David Robinson