“Everyone share a song from their culture,” Michael read off one of the Diversity Day cue cards in the center of the table. “Okay, so I’ll go first. At the school under the tree I was taught a song called ‘God is so good.’” Michael started singing, “God is so good, God is so good…” I joined in at “He’s so good to me.” But Michael finished a second later, “…to us.” “Why did you say ‘me’?” Michael said, clearly offended. Apparently the singular versus plural pronoun was going to be an ongoing point of contention. “What about me?” he scoffed. “Isn’t God good to everyone?” “No, you’re supposed to say me too,” I said, back-peddling from a cultural difference I was sure was going to end up making me look bad for the second time today. Michael threw down the card. “That’s the same thing I was saying about the truck. Look, in Africa that song would never go with everyone saying me, me, me, me, me, me. No way. We accepted many ideas from the missionaries, but never that one of me, me, me. In Africa it is always us.” He folded his arms with finality. “Okay, sorry,” I said with my palms up, hoping it wasn’t going to ruin Diversity Day. Emilie elbowed me in the ribs. Okay sorry was clearly not a culturally sensitive response. “No, it’s a cultural difference,” Michael sighed. “The very thing we are here to celebrate.” He said with a smile. “In America everyone has their own stuff. But in the village, we don’t have so much things as you have here. So we just have to share everything.” Then he started pointing at us as if he was preaching a short sermon to a congregation of two. “In fact, when they paid me for working in the library, the woman asked me if I had a bank account. But in the desert we don’t have bank accounts. All you have is your cows and your hut. So if people see you saying my hut or my cow or my car, then when your house is burned down and your cows are stolen, no one will help you.” “Amen,” Emilie said. Michael took this as a cue to keep going. “The problem is that life in the desert is just too difficult to do it alone. You need your neighbor. And when everyone starts saying I and mine, the community is in big trouble. In fact, I hope Africans never talk like that.” He said taking a long drink of tea. “Happy Diversity Day,” Emilie said, clinking her cup of coffee against my empty cup, which still rested on the white linen.