I have been thinking about stories recently, with good reason: story telling has become a big part of my life. I have become quite comfortable with telling the story of my journey into global health from the crowded pediatric clinics in the Nigerian Sahel to the bustling health department in Newark. I have had the privilege of sitting with bright-eyed students in the Princeton Philanthropy Fellowship. I have also stood before a diverse crowd in the Social Innovation Summit 2012. Numerous other opportunities have presented themselves in between. Each time I felt immensely grateful that I was listened to, that my story could be heard, and that the listener could act upon my message within his sphere of influence, perchance to reduce health disadvantage for some other.
But many times I felt I had to take on the stories of others, and herein lay my dilemma. Particularly in April, I joined a few other Global Health Corps fellows and hundreds of advocates from around the country in the Save the Children’s Summit to ask for commitments from the US Government to support front-line health workers, invest in child health and education, and protect children from violence. I sat down in my team of three with staff of members of congress from New Jersey speaking largely for front-line health workers in sub-Saharan Africa. These are often the only source of acutely-needed care for the world’s poorest, and need local and international support to continue to serve. On the one hand, I felt incredibly privileged to be heard and to speak on their behalf. I was grateful for the power to create tangible change for millions of Africans. On the other hand, I did not feel credible. I had lived my life and so I owned my story. What qualified me to tell the stories of other health workers or Africans or women? These labels by which I was identified often seemed to extend me some responsibility to represent people that I honestly felt I did not know, even if I cared deeply for them. I recognized how unique my journey had been so far and how each step had defined who I had become. So I continued to struggle with telling the story of their journeys knowing that this uniqueness did not apply solely to my life. It applied to theirs as well.
So when I sat in the just concluded Q3 retreat and listened to Mary Fisher talk of her journey to becoming an advocate for people living with AIDS, I was particularly impressed by her visit to Zambia. She spoke of crossing the room from where the foreign guests were and sitting with her Zambian sisters. That symbol of identification, the subsequent sharing of her story with them, and her listening to theirs, gave her the courage she needed to speak up whenever she could to ensure that they would not continue to suffer. I got closure from that encounter. And yes, it was an encounter: Mary Fisher is one of the most open and beautiful people I have had the privilege of listening to. At this point, I felt that I could find the credibility to tell the stories of others by listening with empathy. I knew all the same that I may not be able to capture the uniqueness of each tale, but was there a way to leave that podium or classroom or bus ride feeling I had done right by the people I sought most to serve?
I found my answer in a Technology Salon on social media and poverty porn in New York City. The lively discussion looked at the graphic and often negative ways in which the poor or otherwise socially disadvantaged were portrayed in the media (referred to as poverty porn), and how these images and articles often did not do them justice. They did not speak of the strength of the mother who broke her back in the sun daily to feed her malnourished children and send them to school. They declined to tell of the resilience of a village almost wiped out by natural disasters and should have lost hope but chose to come together and rebuild. They refused to show the world how the victim of gender-based violence had turned her suffering into salvation for other women, showing them how to protect themselves. I realized that I had to find a way to tell the ‘complete’ story or not tell it at all. The world needed to see their suffering so I could not downplay their pain. The world also had to see their strength and decide whether or not to stand in solidarity, working with them to create the bright future they deserved. I also realized that because I cared and would be listened to, there was an even greater responsibility. I now know that everyone has a voice and should have the opportunity to tell their own stories. So ultimately, I could not just aim to make the complete story known but to empower each one to find their audience and tell their own unique stories.
At this point, I have come full circle. I realize that I will tell many stories in the years to come before diverse audiences, and I choose to make them all mine. I am committed to connecting distant audiences to previously unheard voices, thankful for the privilege I have through telling these stories to foster partnerships that will continue to confront the world’s toughest health challenges. Consequently my thoughts have shifted to partnerships, but that is a story for another blog post.