Hi there!

I've told this story before in this newsletter, but it's been a few years—and I've had a lot of new subscribers since then. Plus, it's been on my mind this week.

I grew up with two major cultural influences that shaped my morality: Christianity and Star Trek. The core messages meshed surprisingly well: Care for your neighbor, Do unto others, The needs of the many outweigh the need of the few.

These influences have driven me my entire life. They drive me today. They drive my need to write, and shape the stories I tell.

Because each story we experience is a chance for us to connect with our fellow humans and walk a mile in their shoes. Each story builds our empathy and helps us become better people.

So, thank you for being a proud reader of stories. :)

I hope that wherever you're at, you're doing well. And if you want to chat just hit reply. I read every email personally, and try to respond to everyone.

—JK

How to Eat an Arepa

Hunger lured me out of the safety of the bus.

We were on hour two of a twenty-two hour bus ride, and I even though the driver hadn’t said a word when he pulled over on the side of the road and walked out the door, no one else seemed worried. Through the window I could see the word “baños,” and I was starting to smell the mouth-watering aromas from the roadside stand.

This must be a pitstop.

I was the one gringa on a bus full of Venezuelans. My Spanish was passable, but hardly fluent. I was reasonably sure I was on the correct bus from Caracas to Santa Elena de Uairén, but other than that I was completely lost.

I stepped cautiously out of the bus and studied my fellow passengers as they ordered their dinner.

I thought I understood: First you held up a finger to indicate how many arepas you wanted. The grilled corn cakes—imagine a half-inch thick corn tortilla—filled an entire paper plate. One would be plenty for me.

Then you choose a filling from the unlabeled pots on the stove. The one on the right seemed to be shredded chicken in some sort of red sauce. It was the most popular; I went for it.

I hit a snag when I tried to pay—turns out you paid after you ate, which seemed suspiciously trusting—but either way I had food in hand. I turned around, looking for a place to sit and eat.

All the little tables alongside the highway were full.

I stood awkwardly for a moment, plate in hand, until I noticed an older man beckoning for me to join him at his table.

I hesitated.

I hadn’t spoken to anyone in Venezuela yet, beyond transactional conversations with the hotel staff, the bus company, waiters—and it wasn’t just because of my shaky Spanish. I was visiting Venezuela from the US. It was 2006, and our presidents at the time (Bush and Chavez) were fanning flames with each other.

I’d been told Venezuelans hated US citizens. I’d been told I should sew a Canadian flag on my backpack, and not let anyone hear my accent.

This old Venezuelan man was being kind. But how would he react once he knew where this gringa was from?

I took a deep breath and sat.

I don’t remember his name. I vaguely recall him mentioning that he was on his way to visit his grandchildren. But I will never forget the very first exchange we had in that conversation.

“¿De dónde eres?” he asked me; Where are you from?

I hesitated, considering a lie. “Soy americana,” I finally said. I’m American.

The old man shrugged. “Todos somos americanos,” he replied kindly. We’re all American. “Bienvenido a Venezuela.”

He meant it partly as a reminder that there are a lot more residents of the Americas than those of us with a US passport (technically I should have said “Soy estadounidense”)—but mostly he meant it as a welcome. He wanted me to know that I wasn’t as far from home as I thought I was.

He was reminding me of one of the great lessons of travel: We are all more alike than different.

I love travel. It helps us see the world from a different angle, through a different set of lenses. It helps us build empathy with other points of view, to realize that the way we’ve always done things isn’t the only way—or even the best way.

It builds our sense of empathy.

I grew up as a white kid on the Yakama Indian Reservation in Washington State. I was one of a handful of white kids in my elementary school, though in middle and high school I went to a district with a slightly larger percentage (maybe 10%). The rest were a blend of Hispanic (some first gen, many whose ancestors had arrived long before my own), Asian, and—of course—Natives.

My friends were from everywhere. They had traditions I didn’t. They ate things I didn’t. And it was an awesome way to grow up—sharing tables with people whose ideas and backgrounds and languages and cultures were different from mine. It made me curious about the possibilities in the world.

After experiencing the richness of a multi-faceted, multi-cultural world, I’ve never want to live in a place where everyone looked like me, talked like me, and thought like me.

Imagine being able to see in vivid technicolor and choosing to view the world in grayscale instead. Imagine listening to the most exquisite harmonies of a symphony and deciding you prefer listening to a child playing Hot Cross Buns on a recorder forever, into eternity.

Why would you turn down the dial on the full joy of humanity?

The old man on the bus had every right to view my presence in his country with suspicion, or to make assumptions about my prejudices and politics, given my nationality. He had every right to ignore me and enjoy a peaceful meal without trying to wade through my barely-conversational Spanish.

But I imagine he experienced his own moment of empathy, putting himself in the shoes of the nervous gringa who’d gotten a bit over her head.

So he invited me to his table.

I eventually made it to Santa Elena de Uairén, and although the old man didn’t speak with me again, I noticed him watching out for me. He caught my eye when I was trying to find the bathroom at another pit stop, and pointed in the right direction. At a military checkpoint, he said a few words to the young men with automatic rifles, and they glanced my way then left me alone. He waved at me when he got off in one of the little no-name towns that came before our final stop.

I think about him a lot. I think about the many, many people who have shown me kindness on my travels—especially now, when my own country is becoming increasingly hostile to foreign visitors and immigrants.

Some days, sharing stories seems woefully ineffective (and indulgent) in a world that seems damaged beyond repair.

But.

I firmly believe that the root cause of that damage is a lack of basic empathy for our fellow humans.

More than that, empathy is what makes us human.

Stories develop our sense of empathy. They offer us glimpses into the lives of others, and give us the gift of being able to live (and learn from) hundreds—thousands—of lives. Honestly, sharing stories might be the only way to access that gift.

I have only a spark to offer in this dark time, and it’s this:

Continue building your empathy by immersing yourself in the stories of people not like you.​
​Continue sharing the hard stories that the world must hear.​
​Continue telling your own story.

And continue sharing your table with those around you. We need community more than ever.

Cheers,
Jessie

(P.S. There are no buy links in today's newsletter in support of the general strike. Be good to each other, friends! We'll talk again soon.)