May 1, 2006

Dear Colleague,

    My roommate Kevin read me a Swahili poem about a guest who outstayed his welcome. The first day he was treated royally, the second day he was treated as an honored guest, the third day as a welcomed guest, the fourth day as just a guest, and so on, to the tenth day, when he was unceremoniously thrown out.

    I made two comments. The first was that Kenyan hospitality clearly exceeded American hospitality, which allowed a guest to stay three nights and no more if he was not to wear out his welcome. The second comment was about one of my more interesting experiences in Panama. In the summer of 1959, I found myself on a sand bar, watching a village festival until I was so sleepy that I just laid down on the ground and slept. Someone shook my shoulder and said in a language I could not understand that I was to go with her. I did, and found that she took me to her house and showed me a large bed on which she clearly indicated that I was to rest. I was most grateful, stretched out on the bed, and fell once more into deep sleep. Again, someone shook me by the shoulder. It was the same woman. I had overstayed my welcome. As I rubbed my eyes, struggled to get up, she showed me the door and rudely shoved me into the night.

    These incidents lead me to think how two human beings ought to treat each other. One way is the giving of self--giving another person something you possess. The other way is to welcome someone into your home, world, and self. Both can result in a feeling of loss. Obviously, if you give someone your lawnmower or book, you will sooner or later feel a lack of these things: a part of you is gone. To get around this feeling of loss and, indeed, acquire a feeling of gain and enrichment, you must truly give--give with the understanding that the lawnmower or book is put to better use in your neighbor's hand. You won't miss it then. You will feel pleased that a part of you has escaped the iron bars of selfhood to increase, however minutely, the well-being and happiness of another. In practice, what does true giving entail? It entails not lending. "Never lend!" is a Tuanian categorical imperative, one—needless to say—I do not always follow.

    The second feeling of loss is paradoxical. How can receiving—taking someone into your life—be felt as a loss? Well, the obvious answer is that you lose your privacy. You get the feeling that cracks are developing in your carefully-constructed world of habits and routines. The cure is two-fold. One is to understand that your carefully-constructed world needs shattering. Being made aware of that need is one great service that the person who enters your life can perform. The other is to see all the riches the other brings in, riches that unfold slowly over time.

    So, dear Kevin, you are never my guest. Your are not even my roommate. You are family, a young person I am fond of—a surrogate grandchild—who opens the window a bit, allowing the May air to recharge my December self with the wonders of life.

Best wishes,

Yi-Fu