Sidewalk University

0 comments | Dec 3, 04:56 PM | | by Earl Creps

Berkeley is a center of learning. In fact, one of our city’s nicknames is “The Athens of the Pacific.” The reference is not to the book of Acts, but to the golden age of Greek philosophy.

A number of surveys identify Cal as the top-ranked public university in the United States. Sierra magazine even places it among the nation’s top ten “cool” schools.

We understood the university’s reputation when we moved to Berkeley, but were unprepared for how much learning we would have to do just to become naturalized citizens. If life in the east bay could be thought of as a school, some of our recent classes might be something like this:

APOLOGY 101: Jan and I often reflect on how many times in California we have been rebuked by store staff for standing in the wrong place for a check out line. Either there is no sign or we never saw it. The Midwest had fewer protocols for queues, we think. But then back there we had less of a sense of all competing against each other for limited social assets, like getting out of a store faster.

The practice of apologizing over and over and over (for parking in the wrong place, for not knowing how to order pizza, for forgetting that lots of stores are cash only, for almost running over another bicyclist, etc.) has had an impact on us.

Perhaps part of cross-cultural adaptation, of really becoming part of a community, is developing the art of expressing regret. Saying, “I’m sorry,” keeps me mindful of the fact that I am the outsider here. I am the guest. I have no rights, so I can make no demands. The community is not in my debt. I am the debtor here. I owe my neighborhood and my campus compassion, love and truth.

ADVANCED CROSSWALK NEGOTIATING: In Berkeley, crossing the street is supposed to be easy. Pedestrian right of way is as close to an absolute truth as my post-everything town will likely ever come. It is our eleventh commandment. The crosswalk is as sacrosanct as the confessional, cordons of white paint sheltering pedestrians from almost certain death at the hands of the anarchy we call vehicular traffic.

Yet, while the crosswalk confers an inalienable right of way to pedestrians in theory, the reality of getting to the other side is much more of a negotiated experience. The deal is supposed to be simple: I won’t step into the crosswalk late enough to force you to slam on your brakes, and you won’t run me over even though it’s inconvenient to stop.

In reality though it works like this: the pedestrian makes tentative eye contact with an onrushing driver. If the car can stop without skidding, he or she will walk out into the street and the driver will stop…usually. Even then, we tend to maintain eye contact for our own safety.

This fragile link between walker and driver reflects the fact that cross-cultural work is a constantly negotiated experience. It is never over, never settled. In my Culture of Origin (COO), I know what’s going on because I’m from there, so I live by the rules. In my Culture of Adoption (COA), things are not so simple. Adapting its patterns doesn’t come from doing Google research, but from working out social arrangements one day at a time.

INTRODUCTION TO POLICING: One evening when I was traveling, Janet called to inform me that the Berkeley police where in our living room. Apparently, in a search for an armed suspect they needed to access our backyard by going through our house. Carrying what she described as “big guns,” the officers apologized for leaving boot prints on our floor, then searched our yard with flashlights and thankfully found no one.

We live on the border between middle-class and almost-middle class neighborhoods. Generally, we feel safe enough there, but we have become more familiar with local law enforcement than ever before in our lives. Driving home from a hardware store one day I saw the street behind ours barricaded by police cars and yellow crime scene tape. Friends who visited the scene saw shell casings on the street encircled by little chalk lines. A drive-by shooting had occurred just hours before.

These events are sobering. And while we are in no particular danger, they symbolize the fact that grace may be free but mission is not. We like our home and our neighborhood, but they do not represent an entitlement to tranquility. There is nothing heroic about what we do, especially when compared to many others, but urban life does feature a constant reminder that Jesus paid a price to be among us, and that we have to be ready to pay, too. (As I write this a drug addicted woman screams at my wife on the sidewalk outside our house.)

The world is a university for anyone who looks, listens, and thinks. Our education these days takes place in the classroom of the sidewalk.

What better way to learn about reaching people than to walk among them?

I love this place.