The Heart of Global Citizenship

My brother and I are homeless.

That is what we tell people.

In reality, the world is our home.

In 2012, Steve and I broke loose from our long and eventful but disappointing lives in the United States to become wandering global citizens. Divested of all personal possessions, we carry what we need — clothing and small essentials — in a rugged backpack and a duffel. Like tortoises, or mules. We abide by Steve’s succinctly stated motto: Live Simple. Live Cheap. Live Free. What we do now is travel. Non-stop. Slowly. Deliberately. Practicing present moment awareness.

Location-wise, we qualify as global dwellers.

But vagabonds can be bums. Historically, hoboes did the work. The difference was in application. Point is: wanderers do not automatically become world citizens. And presumably, they may not be the best ones to extol a progressive way of living. There is this notion of application to be considered. There are qualities to assess. Three particular supplications, however, do come instantly to mind. Spoken as a mantra, these are: Be respectful. Be Kind. Be Encouraging.

Applied locally, it becomes a good prescription for inclusion.

Applied universally, it becomes a definition for humanity.

Ultimately, a way to global acceptance.

We met a girl in Cuba. Her first day as a tourist guide trainee. Shy. Not by nature; by inclination. She spoke some English and understood it well, but she was not confident that foreigners would think so. She spoke from lowered lashes, quietly and rarely. Until Steve befriended her. His camera is a buffer for social interaction. “May I take your picture, please?” Her radiant smile spoke every word she had to say, punctuated with soft humility. “I am my daddy’s little Cuban girl.” We spoke with her for three weeks, plus. She became our personal ambassador and guide. Today she is the tour group leader, welcoming foreigners to her beloved home, telling them confidently why they too must love her country.

A matter of application.

We encountered this guy in Nicaragua. In the jungle. Off a river. Our primitive thatched hut featured bats and bugs and tiny frogs. From our hammocks, we watched pigs and goats and horses pass by our porch. In a field cleared of trees, one large mound of dirt rose like a pyramid to the sky. “Marvin’s Folly,” we called the pit from which it came. He was building an Olympic pool. “They will come,” he said. Next day, he filled in the pit, then excavated another. “Wrong shape,” he said. We hope the work goes on, but also that it may not get done. It would be a shame: an Olympic pool, out there in the jungle, off the river.

We met a young Polish woman in Dublin, Ireland. A sassy waitress who gave us loads of good-natured shit. Who sat upon the counter to keep us company while we ate. It was Christmas, after all. We talked almost every day. Eventually, she told us of her dream. “I love to sing,” she said. “We’d love to listen,” we said. “I’m on YouTube,” she said. We were delighted to hear a shy but saucy rendition of Santa Baby, especially with that adorable, self-conscious wink and nod right toward the end. When we parted, she hugged us and confessed, “You made me want to sing again. I have not, for so long. I got discouraged.”

Amazing, because she and her voice are beautiful.

Not only people, however, need respect, kindness, and encouragement.

Global is not just a place. Global is a condition. An attitude.

We know a dog in Guatemala. Named for a Belgian king. We know another in Costa Rica. Named for coffee and a color, of course. We know some cats in Romania. Just not their names. And there was this little crippled parrot in that off-the-river lodge in Nicaragua. “Juanito,” we called him. Who, because he could not fly, crabbed his way up our pants and shirts to lodge upon our shoulders. He seemed thankful, too. Like the trainee girl in Cuba. And the owner of the jungle lodge. And the Polish/Irish singer. All grateful to be acknowledged. Appreciated. Encouraged.

This is how — bit by bit, person by person — we become a global community of souls. Citizens of the world. Not by bordering our locations. Nor solely by expanding our horizons. Nor do we wander idly into another person’s yard. We behave like we’ve been invited. We treat our neighbors with respect. We show them kindness. And always, we encourage them to dream and do.

One last little story.

At the lodge. In the jungle. Off the river.

The youngest daughter, perhaps six years old. Who would saddle up and ride a well-muscled horse masterfully to school. Who commanded with authority the other kids who gathered all around her. Who watched us warily, shyly, reserving judgment of the two gringo strangers who spoke gibberish all the time. Until the day I grabbed a heavy plastic bucket lid — probably from cement meant for the pool — and sailed it across the open area of the palapa where breakfast got served beneath the hail of falling beetles. The daughter’s eyes grew big as saucers. She ran to where the makeshift frisbee skidded to a halt. She picked it up and flung it hard. Like a wheel, on its side. It rolled, then flopped awkwardly to earth. She tried again. And again. She might be trying still.

Of course, the sailing did not matter. She had never thought to fling this kind of thing about, and she was in ecstasy to do so. Thereafter, she was ever and eternally grateful unto me, paying for this new-found fun with a brilliant, trusting smile and friendly wave whenever she rode off to school.

So now, I must add my fourth supplication for becoming a global citizen.

Show respect. Demonstrate kindness. Give encouragement.

And then …

Generously share yourself with the rest of this most beautiful planet.