We are all foreigners. In some way, to some person, we are unbeknownst. The term ‘foreign’ can be described as something strange and unknown to one. People different than us have a strange way of striking confusion and fear within ourselves. But that’s only one dimensional. And as we all know, a single story is dangerous, as we can’t infer any deeper understanding.
So what does this poetic garbage mean?
It’s important that we sometimes see ourselves as foreigners; we’re the ones with unknown traits. This topic has been lingering on my mind for some time now. I’m in a college production of The Foreigner by Larry Shue–a farce comedy set in 1980’s rural Georgia (so probably not the best place to be one.) We meet an Englishman staying with this Southern family for some time, Charlie Baker, a gentleman so paralyzed with anxiety and fear, and as a result of this fear of talking, he is introduced to them as a foreign man who speaks no English.
Through this setup, he overhears the complexities and secrets within this Georgian family, but also helps them grow, and defeat the evil of ignorance.
It gave me a deeper understanding of the mystery, hatred and ignorance so wrongly placed on the word ‘foreigner’ and how we are all foreign in some way, making us not so different from one another after all.
An example of this: When an American visits some European country, and gleefully proclaims their love of the accents. The local then slyly asserts that it’s the visiting tourist with the accent, not them. Two perspectives, two stories, two foreigners.
We are all foreigners, and it’s a very good thing.