When I am lucky enough to teach Verbal Communication, there are usually a half-dozen or so students in the class. I often assign a group exercise in which the class must work together to choose a topic of vital concern to the entire world, propose a solution, and present it to the audience (me and anyone else I can wrangle). The topics usually are environmentally related, but one particularly memorable class stands out in my mind. As I recall, there were three young male criminal justice students in this group. Two of them I was rather fond of: we instructors called them Frick and Frack, two oddballs that became friends by reason of close proximity. The third was loud, opinionated, and oddly charismatic, despite his buzz cut and security guard uniform.
The students chose the topic of illegal immigration. Their contention was that illegal immigrants were taking over America. Their solution: build a 30-foot tall, 30-foot deep fence along the entire border between the U.S. and Mexico.
One of the things I try to teach students in Verbal Communication is to know the audience. If they had taken time to ask, they would have discovered that I am probably the only person in the U.S. in favor of immigration. I support everyone who seeks a better life for their families, as long as they abide by basic principles of human kindness and decency. This group of students failed to ask me my views, and so I was regaled with a litany of selectively chosen and obviously mangled facts, ethnic stereotyping, and offensive recommendations. I sat there and took it. I focused on the delivery, not the message, not the messengers. I listened. And I felt sick.
Truthfully, even if they had asked, and had I been brave enough to answer, they would probably have done their best to convince me that my position was untenable, if not downright insane, and that, after listening to their presentation, I would be persuaded to change my humanistic beliefs for something a little less humanistic. But more American.
You could say I'm not a very good American. I don't fly the flag on holidays. After September 11, I didn't put little flags on the four corners of my Honda CRX and prowl the streets like an embassy diplomat. I don't go to parades, baseball games, or eat apple pie. Don't misunderstand me: I am glad I was born here rather than the Ukraine, Afghanistan, or Somalia. It was just blind chance, though. A geographical blip that put me here rather than there. I don't take my good fortune for granted. (Although I wouldn't mind a little less rain.)
Rather than patriotically proclaiming my fortunate status as an American, I favor the moniker global citizen. Is there a flag? I would put it in my window if there was one. Citizen of the Planet Earth. When the day comes that we have colonies on the moon and Mars, and those colonies rise up, fighting to be free from Earth's evil tyranny, I suppose I'll be required to fly that flag. Or emigrate to the colonies.
I know I'm just barking out my butt on this one. If you knew where I lived, you'd probably have to kill me. Can I claim in my defense that I read too much science fiction? Well, it really doesn't matter, does it? We're all going to hell in a hand-basket sooner or later, if we don't stop destroying our habitat. And in terms of geological time, my life is a speck. In another earth breath, in another earth heartbeat, I'll be dead and forgotten.
