The cure for misconceptions
Over coffee in the break room, my friends from D.C. used to ask me how I’d ever mustered the courage to live in Nebraska. The source of their fear on my behalf? Tornadoes. They felt I displayed singular courage, claiming a zip code in Tornado Alley when I knew I could be swept away at any moment by a force strong enough to transport me to Oz.
These were bright, educated individuals who worked at a small daily paper just outside the nation’s capital. They were aware of the modern wonders of meteorology. Yet the television images of twisters sweeping across the plains, which aired often on The Weather Channel in those days, were disturbing enough to make them forget that forecasters could predict severe storms.
Certainly, tornadoes could form quickly and move with tragic consequences through populated areas, but most of the people I knew didn’t spend storm season cowering in their basements. They availed themselves of the best information possible and made proactive decisions to stay safe. Yes, that sometimes meant stepping outside to monitor the path of an oncoming funnel cloud.
When we lived in Panama, I worked for the Canal Commission. I used to ask my friends in the break room how anyone from that country ever mustered the courage to live in the rain forest. The source of my fear on their behalf? Venomous snakes. One day I was working near the banana tree in our back yard on Fort Clayton when my neighbor rushed out to caution me—I shouldn’t work so close to the foliage at the base of the tree. Snakes like the Fer-de-lance, a deadly pit viper, were sometimes found on base, and they liked banana trees. I was oblivious. I had no particular affection for banana trees, and after that day I avoided them like Dorothy avoided the Flying Monkeys.
But a friend I worked with at the commission, a young woman who had grown up in the rain forest, assured me that everyone knew where the snakes lived and what they looked like. They took appropriate precautions around their homes and on nearby paths. They had reliable information and they made proactive decisions for their safety. For her, snakes were just a fact of life, like tornadoes were for me.
It shouldn’t surprise me that when we talk with people, our misconceptions of them and their way of life often change. That’s a wisdom far more foundational than the wonders of modern meteorology.
In D.C., my friends laughed at me for talking so fast. They said I couldn’t possibly hail from the land of cows and bib overalls when I spewed words at a rate to rival any New Yorker. And I laughed at them for being so nice, when I’d been cautioned that everyone on the East Coast was rude and snobbish.
My friends from the Canal Commission educated me about the history of race relations in Panama, dating back to the Canal’s construction. They laughed with me about the complications of living in a Latin American country while being employed by a U.S. commission. They taught me how much to pay a policeman if I was ever pulled over for speeding. After that, I avoided speeding like I avoided banana trees.
I’ve had hundreds of conversations with people, in places far and near, that have deepened my conviction—the world is filled with a lot of fine folks who, given the opportunity, would laugh with us about our shared misconceptions. I suspect you’ve had hundreds of those conversations as well.
When the wonders of modern media, including benign sources like The Weather Channel, threaten to stoke my fears about life on our planet, I try and reflect on all the lovely individuals I’ve known, from places far and near.
And I reason that if Dorothy, as the victim of a deadly twister, chose to make friends in Oz, we can do the same here.