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It's something I've thought about a lot lately.

Not that that is anything unusual--it's often in my thoughts, either subliminally or as a flicker when something happens to arouse it, sometimes more as a conscious thought pattern. I think recently it has been pushed to the forefront by moving back to the United States (no offense, Americans. . .)

Racism came to my life early. In the area of the northeastern United States that I grew up in, it was a tension that split our culture in two. Ever-present, nobody that I knew would acknowledge it openly. It was just there, evidenced in the way that blacks and whites did not live together or do things together. In my circles, when someone who was not of a white skin colour was spoken of, it was obligatory to mention that he or she was black. Dark-skinned people lived in separate colonies (everyone knew where the "black section" of town was); worshipped at separate churches, and had separate social lives. When people of different skin colours did meet, it was nearly always in the public sphere: at work, in the store. The worlds did not mesh but only touched and stayed apart. The order of the day when it came to feelings between the two cultures was one of suspicion and sometimes open hostility.

My parents, I know (though I love them) had, and I think still have, some racist feelings, deeply-entrenched. This is probably largely due to the fact that they grew up in a generation one removed from mine. My father, to do him credit, had several work colleagues who were black, and frequently commuted with one of them. I know he was as friendly with black folks as white. Yet, when it came to the issue of inter-colour dating (I won't use the term "interracial" because I believe it is inaccurate at best), he was vitriolic, as he was on many topics: white girls who went out with black guys "were just looking for a sensation, looking to cause attention."

My mother, when I asked her what she would think if I married a black guy (as a teenager, I wanted a black boyfriend), responded, "We'd rather you married someone from your own culture." How a fellow American of a darker skin colour could possibly be said to be from a different culture still mystifies me. (I don't dis-acknowledge the existence of different ethnic and cultural roots--I know they affect me just as much as anyone else).

One of my most uncomfortable memories is of being twelve years old and seated in the back seat of our family car as a work colleague of my father's, an intelligent, cultured black woman, leaned into the window to talk to my parents. "Oh, hi, Anne," my mother said, in a high, quick, too-polite tone that I knew meant that Anne was BLACK. I squrimed inwardly, hoping against hope that Anne didn't notice but fearing she couldn't but.

As children, I think we had little racism, as children do: they see with open eyes and have not generally been taught the prejudice that exists among their elders. We had fewer black friends than white, simply because the cultures did not collide; but we had some. One of my earliest friends was a dark-skinned girl called Marianne; however, the friendship ended abruptly when she decided to do an experiment to see whether my rescued baby squirrel could swim and tricked my brothers and me into leaving while she did it. I came back to see the poor blind thing feebly and futilely stroking away at the water, and my rage ensured the end of Marianne's visits.

Later in our next childhood home, a black church met in a property almost directly behind our backyard. Playing in their parkinglot, which offered a wonderful paved space for countless games, we couldn't help but meet our peers when they were released from the seemingly endless services. One boy in particular became a friend and others, frequent playmates.

As a preteen I underwent a brief and embarrassing feud with a girl from the "black" apartment just up the street; we'd meet for pre-arranged insult matches, cheered on by our respective groups of friends. I think that our skin colours were an incidental excuse for a rivalry that in reality our gender and emotional problems fueled. It never escalated to physical violence; and later with more maturity the girl and I enjoyed a cordial relationship of "hellos" and smiles as we passed on the street.

At the age of nineteen, I had the privilege to move to what by informal accounts ranks as the most multi-cultural city in the world: Toronto. There, at my college, at church, in my wider circles and in encounters on the street, I had what I count as the inestimable privilege of being able to meet, talk to, and befriend people from literally almost every culture and major country in the world. Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Africans, Indians, West Indians--you name it, I met and talked and ate with them and became close friends with many of them. What that experience taught me, not to mention hard evidence (more of that later), is that all people, no matter what culture, what country, what skin colour, what facial features, are just the same inside: people. Same thoughts, same feelings, same loves, same sorrows, same experiences, same humour, same soul that's been created in the image of the eternal God, same proneness to depression and emotional problems, same hopes and dreams of falling in love or having a good career, same need for a love that goes beyond them. THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE.

This tallies with what the Apostle Paul said in what is one of the theme verses of my life:

From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us. 'For in him we live and move and have our being.' As some of your own poets have said, 'We are his offspring.' Acts 17:26-28, emphasis mine

Certainly culture exists. Certainly differences that are caused by growing up Asian or African mean that people will perceive things differently, think differently, act and react differently. But no matter the differences in the expression of culture, the cliche remains true: our basic similarities are greater than our differences. Some of my most cherished memories are of time shared around a meal with people from two or three or more different cultures, bonding, sharing experiences, and learning from one another. Why is that possible? Because in spite of our divergent experiences, we are the same race and are enriched by our discussions with each other.

One of the things I personally can't wait for is heaven. One of the things that I most can't wait to experience is this:

After this I looked and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and in front of the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. Revelation 7:9

This comes about because, as we are told earlier in Revelation:

And they sang a new song: "You [Jesus] are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, because you were slain, and with your blood you purchased men for God from every tribe and language and people and nation." Revelation 5:9

I can't wait. Jesus' whole purpose for dying was to bring a people to God, a people who are completely united in thought and purpose and love. And these people are going to come from every race, every nation, every language, every tribe, every people group: and we will meet and worship as one at Jesus' feet in total rapture and grateful abandon forever, all differences still gloriously present yet beautifully harmonized as one. Racism gone, prejudice gone, hatred gone, the curse erased, no longer even a memory--just as God created it to be. Wow. Makes me long for heaven even more. And in the meantime, for our churches, which are little outposts of heaven on earth, to look like this.

Check out this great article for a scientific perspective on the myth of "race" (popular level read, non-technical)

Last night, I took part in the Global Night Commute, organized by Invisible Children. The purpose of the event was to raise awareness of the nearly 20-year-long rebel war in Northern Uganda and the horrific toll it has taken on the civilian population, of which 1.7 million people are displaced; 20-50,000 children have been abducted and forced to serve as soldiers and sex slaves; and 130 people die each day due to violence.

Each night, thousands of children commute on foot for miles from their homes in rural areas and sleep in city centres and "safe" areas to avoid abduction, only to repeat the commute the next morning. By doing the same for one night, thousands of people across the US, Canada, and several other countries including Ireland and Singapore, hoped to draw attention to the issue and force the hand of their governments to act.

I took part in the march in Durham, New Hampshire, on the University of New Hampshire campus. We met in a parkinglot on the west edge of town. As the time approached, busloads and carloads of people began accumulating, clutching backpacks and sleeping bags. By 7:00 we'd gathered the 200+ who'd signed up for the event. Most were UNH students; some were from local high schools; a few stragglers showed up from elsewhere, including the four from my church who took part. A couple of people had walked all the way from Dover, a distance of ten or twelve miles, starting their walk at 1:00 that afternoon.

After a few organizational remarks and a reminder about why we were all there, nine slow shots from a starter pistol set us off, and we started walking. The two-mile route mapped out for us wound around the centre of Durham. Two hundred plus people walking attracts a lot of attention; we made a long parade. People in passing cars stared, waved, yelled, honked their horns; a few asked what we were doing. A police escort watched over us and blocked off traffic till we passed.

Once we'd arrived at the designated spot, a grassy lawn in front of one of the UNH buildings, we threw down our sleeping bags and marked out our spots. The sun was going down and it rapidly grew chillier. Volunteers handed us each a stapled bunch of papers including instructions and three blank sheets: one for a letter to be written to President Bush; one for a letter to our Congressman; and one for an art project to be included in a yearbook-type of publication about the event. My two friends and I wrote our letters but opted out of the art project, for lack of enthusiasm and lack of light.

A video clip was shown; an informational presentation; a couple of people spoke; and in the end the Invisible Children documentary was played again. At one point the organizer of the event got up to warn us that the temperature was forecasted to drop below freezing that night. Did any of us want to sleep on an indoor track that was made available to us? A few tentative hands went up; the body elected to stay where we were. The feeling seemed to be that we'd committed ourselves; we might as well go the whole way.

As the night came and the chill grew deeper my friends and I cuddled down into our sleeping bags and snuggled together for warmth. A kind friend from another group lent us a tarp to spread under us, warning that the ground would get very wet. We struggled with our sleeping bags, tried to find the most comfortable and warmest position, talked and laughed, and eventually, as it grew late, fell asleep.

The best of us slept lightly. It is never comfortable sleeping on the ground or in a constrictive sleeping bag at any time. The high school and college kids laughed, talked, played baseball and guitars loudly till very late. I woke up a few times during the night and opened my eyes only to realize with chagrin that it was still dark and there were more hours to endure. My toes froze. My hips grew alternately sore as I rolled from side to side. It's a wonder any of us slept at all. It was a long night.

But we endured it. As the sun came up the next morning and the sky lightened from black to blue we woke groaning with cold, stiffness, and tiredness. We realized that frost was covering our sleeping bags, our backpacks, and even our pillows where our heads hadn't lain. Eventually the whole mound of people other than us had gotten up, packed up their sleeping bags and tarps, and sleepily stumbled off home. Finally Kyle, the lone guy in our number, bravely got up, sprinted back to his house, got his car, and drove back to give us a ride back to the parkinglot where we'd left our cars. We drove off our separate ways to shower and change and (in my case, at least) sleep another couple of hours before meeting up again for church.

And that was that. If it makes a difference, I'm glad I slept out one night in weather far too cold for any sane person to do so out of choice. One night of discomfort is nothing compared to what the kids in Northern Uganda suffer every night; and we had no fear of being abducted or marauded by any but rowdy college students. I'm thankful to have had the chance to take part, and I hope and pray it makes an impact that is felt permanently and significantly in Uganda.

Top: Frost on my backpack

Bottom: Frost on my pillow

It's amazing how lonely it is possible to be even in the middle of a friendly community; how possible it is to outwardly belong to a group and yet not find anyone whose "innerness" corresponds to yours.

I've lived here in the States for almost a year, and I have yet to find anyone whom I would consider a real friend. I don't mean a friend with whom you get together once in a while for coffee or dinner; or the casual group with whom you spend at least one evening a week; or the people you see every Sunday at church. I mean a real friend, the kind you can tell anything to, the kind you can call at anytime, the kind who never tires of your presence or you of theirs, the kind with whom you feel completely comfortable being yourself.

I have a few old friends, more or less approaching that description, with whom I talk regularly on the phone. But such is not a substitute for proximity: the companionship I crave.

Not long ago I tried mentioning this to an acquaintance, one of the "hang-out" crowd. "You know what I've noticed here," I began. "People are really social, but there don't seem to be many deep relationships."

He was all over me in an instant. "What do you mean? I have no idea what you're talking about." I mumbled a retraction and gave up.

But I do think it is partly down to American culture. It seems to be characterized by shallow relationships and few deep roots. People in many other cultures value friendship, the true knowing of another. They're willing to take time to develop it. Here, at least in my experience, people value social interaction over substance.

My church is very social. Most Sunday afternoons, I'm with a group for lunch. At least two evenings a week, I can count on my calendar being filled by some celebration or get-together. But I still don't feel like I know any of these people. Witty banter, laughter, and gentle ribbing are as deep as it gets. We hold each other at arms' length, and if there is anything going on beneath the surface, none of us reveals it.

I know part of it is me. A loner and an outsider since childhood, I've always had the sense that I inhabit a hidden world known only to myself. I've only ever met one other inhabitant of that world; it seems like all others are strangers to it and I, a stranger to them and theirs. When meeting people I search them hungrily for clues of citizenship: a cast of face, a turn of speech. But almost always in vain. It's a bit like being stranded in the desert and gasping for water; only in my case, the water is friendship.

I've increasingly accepted it, or at least accepted the fact that it may be the way it is. But I'm feeling lonely, starved for real relationship. It's getting discouraging that in a year I haven't found it and don't feel likely to. I miss the widely multicultural environment of Toronto. And I'm feeling restless, ready to travel the globe again. Maybe I need a vacation. Or maybe, I need just one friend.

This is something I wrote on New Year's Day, 2006. I found it this new year, and could not believe what a difference a year has made. I could not write this anymore. I post it here just to show what my life and my thinking was like a year ago, what it was for years, and how profoundly changed it is now. This was not written for publication, obviously, but since I'm not living it anymore I can publish it without fear:

Alone. I’ve been alone all day, since coming home from church. I left early. It’s to be questioned if I really wasn’t alone there either. I went, took in the service, talked to a few people and said the expected “happy new years”. The profound sense of not belonging, not fitting in, finally became overwhelming enough to make me walk out, long before the social hour afterward ended.

The service was jubilant. The church was celebrating those who’d come to Christ in the previous year, and showed a video with highlights of 2005. The worship was exuberant, excited, and many people were dancing uninhibitedly, clearly enjoying God. I watched, the acute pain of feeling like an outsider in the midst of the celebration overridden in moments, but coming back with twisting sharpness just as inevitably. I watched with a smile on my face as Russell and his brother jumped, whirled, and clapped with fists raised in the air, totally abandoned to God’s worship at the front of the church, completely unconscious of what anybody thought. I watched as Megan worshipped God with arms spread outward and a smile of pure joy on her face. I watched as Seth received prayer from a group so large they were jockeying for position to lay hands on him. His hands were upheld and a peaceful smile of bliss was on his face as he received from God. How God must love that, I thought, and the whipping pain of realizing, “I’m not like that,” hit sharp as a fist. Why can’t I be like that? I wonder. How do some people sustain that? Why do some people have such tender hearts? Why do they have no problem allowing God to penetrate them? Why do they so easily bear fruit when I don’t? Hidden and shut away in loneliness and pain, I weep silently and nobody sees. I cry out to God but it seems to make no difference. Hidden from my sight, any prayers for help seem to be met with answers that cause only more pain and don’t bring the solution. Why, I wonder? Why?

And I know the answer is nothing. I don’t know what the answer is. I bear this pain with a silent grimace and cries inside too stifled to be heard or even felt. I buckle under my pain and settle for enduring it because it seems no help is to be found, no answer is to be had, no solution is at hand. Wretched and hopeless endurance of what I feel that I cannot endure is my life. No amount of prayer, no amount of prophecy, no amount of “inner healing” seems to make a difference. I know that the problem lies with my stubborn will and my refusing to allow God in. But even realizing that makes no difference. I can’t overcome it.

I live in pain. My days are spent in misery. I am eaten up with loneliness, with the longing for someone to see me inside as I am and care. I wish that someone could help me. I fear utter abandonment, total loneliness. My social encounters are meaningless and bored. I can’t recall the last real or memorable conversation I had with anyone. Glib exchanges focus on appearing as normal and happy as possible. Never do they dip beneath the surface because my highest value is self-preservation, my worst fear being found out. I keep polite conversations as short as possible, to minimize the length of time I have to make the effort to pretend. I hate parties, groups of people, and conversations where people ask about myself. Which is most of them, since all of us are polite enough to play that game.

Whatever. Even writing this provides no catharsis. I will go to bed alone, in sodden and sullen pain, and wake up in the morning, and go to work at my meaningless job, and come home and go through the routines of eating and cleaning and checking email and talking on the phone and getting ready for bed and going to bed and I’ll get up again the next morning and do it all the same. No light breaks into this darkness, no respite from the pain. Where this will go or I will go nobody knows. Stay tuned.