The World Is Wide Enough: the message of "Hamilton" is more relevant than ever

The past few weeks, I have been living in the 18th-century with my non-stop listening to "Hamilton": a new musical by Lin Manuel-Miranda that retells the life of Alexander Hamilton (the first Secretary of the Treasury) with a delightful assortment of rap, hip hop and jazz. Probably one of the most poignant lines comes from Aaron Burr, Hamilton's bitterest enemy due to decades of ranking jealousy, misunderstandings, and vehement political differences. Yet after shooting Hamilton in America's most notorious duel, he mournfully sings:

I was too young and blind to see
I should’ve known
I should’ve known  
The world was wide enough for both Hamilton and me.


The phrase "the world was wide enough" speaks to me on multiple levels. On the obvious note, it rings back to the show's juxtaposition of Hamilton as an impoverished immigrant from the Caribbean who "got a lot farther/By being a self-starter," with Burr's privileged American roots (his father was president of Princeton). When Hamilton and Lafayette proudly rap, "Immigrants! We get the job done," the play is a not-so-subtle reminder of America's indebtedness to foreigners like them. So, as our nation's leaders debate whether to accept Syrians and Muslims into our country, the play's tribute to an indigent, parentless refugee who founded our nation's economic systems is nothing short of powerful. America should be wide enough for the firmly established American Burrs and the Hamiltons desperately seeking a better life in this nation.

But as Aaron Burr laments his former feelings of acrimony towards Hamilton, this phrase also speaks of making room for people--not removing them. It calls us all to recognize that our world's beauty and complexity is rooted in differing--even opposing--opinions. And while we may no longer formally duel our opponents, I do worry that we are taking an increasingly Burr-like approach to ousting or shunning those with whom we disagree. Our love of man seems to be waxing cold.

My concern is largely rooted in the burgeoning student protest culture that focuses on dismissing those who may present challenges to their worldview of diversity. I certainly believe in inclusivity; I loathe racism and prejudice as anyone else. But something is wrong about a mildly-written email about Halloween costumes that warrants a student to scream and curse at their administrator. Something is awry with student activists (and a professor!) imtimidating a student journalist from entering a protest on public space.Whatever happened holding discussions with leaders? Writing op-eds? What lesson does it teach these students when they can simply oust others for having a differing perspective, rather than learning to calmly discuss and work with others toward a solution? While I hope that our nation becomes safer for traditionally marginalized groups, I simultaneously worry just how far my generation will go to maintain their views of "political correctness," which seems to justify sanctimonious bullying.

Indeed, recent student protests only seem to reinforce the Atlantic's landmark article, "The Coddling of the American Mind," arguing how teachers are reluctant to present the less popular point of view--for fear of causing offense. On a similar note, Arthur Brooks cogently argues that academia is increasingly biased against conservatives in his piece, "Academia's Rejection of Diversity," and calls for more ideological diversity. It is a painful irony that our educational system, rather than widening our world, may actually be narrowing it.  

We can all work to make our world a little wider. One can only hope that we don't end up like Burr and realize this lesson too late.

Charleston: A Violation of Sacred Space

I was not alive during the Civil Rights movement. But if I talked to someone who grew up then, it would be unnerving to realize how disturbingly similar our living experiences are. We could talk about conflicts that arise simply because that blacks can occupy the same swimming pool as whites. We could talk about the inexcusable police cruelty on unarmed black men. We could talk about the arrival of the National Guard to quell violence in areas rife with racial conflict.

And now, as of this week, we can now talk about our reaction to a white man, armed with a handgun and unspeakable hatred, who opened fire in a place of black worship.

I have no words to express how I feel about this terrorist event in Charleston (yes, it is a terrorist act) for myriad reasons. There are many directions one can take in response to this event, but for now, I am contemplating on having a sacred space ruthlessly and perversely violated like the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church just experienced this week.

I feel a deep connection to Clementa Pickney, Tywanza Sanders, Cynthia Hurd, Sharonda Coleman-Singleton, Rev. Depayne Middleton Doctor, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lance, Rev. Daniel Simmons, and Myra Thompson. Why? Because while they were sitting in their Bible study class on Wednesday evening, I was also in a scripture study class at my place of worship here in Boston. Like these victims, I understand how uplifting and edifying it can be to worship in a sacred space.

But what is it, one may ask, that creates this sacred space? Part of the answer is that churches imbue a spirit of trust that is quietly disappearing from American culture. Even in the most historically important and visually arresting edifices, there are often no cumbersome security lines. There are no background checks. There is seldom a suspicious glance at a visitor. And, in many cases, there is no entrance fee. Rather, a church building generally seeks to be a visual representation of God's presence and love, as it offers its inhabitants a spirit of respect and impartiality. And in return, the unspoken but expected rule is to treat fellow congregants in a similar manner as you pray and worship to this same God. As a group, we are responsible to ensuring that this space remains holy.

I have relied on this spirit of trust each time I go to my scripture study class and my Sunday worship services. I place deep confidence in the strangers whom I worship with that we will choose to see each other as God sees us and respect one another's humanity.

So, in the wake of Charleston:

I am deeply angered that someone chose to occupy--and violently destroy--churchgoers' sacred space.

I am infuriated that I was able to leave my church building safely on Wednesday evening, and others in this country cannot enjoy this same privilege.

May we all pray and work harder toward brotherhood, peace, and justice in this country.

Photo by Stephen Melkisethian.

Taking off my rose-colored glasses: my childhood in Baltimore and nearby Ferguson

My siblings and I at Shaw Park in St. Louis, donning our St. Louis Cardinals Christmas hats.

 
I may seem, in the words of some, "unmappable." That may be true: I have lived in Boston, Washington DC, Provo UT, Hong Kong, Glasgow, St. Louis, Baltimore, Los Angeles, Beijing, and New York City. And now that my family lives in the Middle East, I seem to have even less of a homebase.

While living in numerous areas has given me an affinity for different parts of the world, two cities on that list have deeply shaped me: Baltimore and St. Louis, the places of my childhood. When people asked how I could possibly love these cities, I staunchly defend them both. Were they not aware of Baltimore's beautiful Inner Harbor, Forest Park, Baltimore's memorable seafood, Ted Drewes, and everything else that had been integral parts of my idyllic childhood?

But I was not completely shielded from both cities' social problems. When I was growing up in Baltimore,  my sister and I once gleefully pranced down the stairs in our new Easter dresses, ready to go to church. My mother gently, but firmly, told us to go back upstairs and wear something else. We were disappointed, until we saw poverty's ugly face in our congregation: black children my age not wearing shoes. Women wearing faded pants and a t-shirt because they could not afford to wear a Sunday dress. A child with an eye-patch because his parents could not afford an eye operation. And then I understood why I never saw my dad wear a suit on Sunday, and why, in this case, it was not appropriate to wear my new Easter dress. We were far from rich, but even our tiny house in a modest neighborhood looked like a Taj Mahal in the eyes of many.

Then I went to church in St. Louis County for the first time and was shocked at what my nine-year-old eyes saw. "Mom," I said, "Where are the black people?" As a child used to worshipping and interacting with blacks, I could not understand why everyone in our congregation was white and largely affluent. It didn't seem right. But, unfortunately, it was a sad reflection of St. Louis's harsh truth: it is one of the most (if not the most) segregated cities in the nation. We learned early on which parts of St. Louis were safe, and which ones to avoid. Indeed, St. Louis has a checkered sort of character: areas are known as either largely "white" or largely "black."

My high school experience would have largely reflected my church-going experience, had it not been for the inter-city busing program that brought in kids from St. Louis City. When the program suddenly was deemed as "too expensive" by our superintendent, the majority of our high school body marched out to protest. "Homogenize milk, not students," said one sign. Indeed, the sign's witty statement described a sad reality. Without this program, our high school body would have indeed been quite homogenous: 95% white. In my high schooler's eyes, our protest seemed to represent progress and open-mindedness. Not to mention that our actions made a difference: our superintendent agreed to delay the decision for another eight years. 

Yet, the vestiges of segregation still shows its ugly past. I recall remarking to my dad while driving one day of how strange the interstate highways of St. Louis were mapped out. My dad then pointed out that the interstate highways were specifically planned to avoid St. Louis's poorer areas. And history tends to repeat itself: when the Metrolink public transportation system was going to create a stop close to my community of Clayton, dubbed as "the bubble," controversy brewed. In one of the richest areas of St. Louis County, residents protested that creating a stop would increase crime in our area, as now "anyone" could come to Clayton. Our comfortable, yet insular "bubble" now had the potential to be popped.

When the riots exploded in St. Louis and in Baltimore, I was heartbroken. Mike Brown does not look that different from the high school boys that I went to school with. Freddie Gray could have easily been someone I had gone to church with. But was I surprised? Hardly. While we may claim to be in a post-racist society, many of America's cities are designed from urban planning, government policies, and housing projects that stemmed from prejudicial views. And in areas that do not seem to bear any hope for the current generation, what else can they do? While I do not condone looting and violence, I cannot help but see how, in MLK's view, riots are often the voices of the unheard. And I am glad that many Americans are tuning in and listening to those who are stuck in a perpetual cycle of poverty.

I still love St. Louis and Baltimore. I still cheer for the Cardinals, crave Ted Drewes ice cream, and reminisce on my walks on Baltimore's Inner Harbor. But I also understand that I have to take off my rose-colored glasses when I think of these two cities and view them as they really are. I hope and pray that things will change--that we will actually become a "post-racist" society.