Lately
I have been teaching argument-based research. Before now I hardly
realized almost everything in life has an argumentative edge, but
lately I have learned to be less assuming and dismissive.
When
I see a traffic or warning sign I now become more alert and critical
to the argument it holds up. Commuting to work, I bring a greater
sense of judgment to my driving as I constantly watch out for the
hidden assumptions of fellow road users. Generally, I try to be more
evaluating and increasingly mindful of opposing perspectives. This
results in my making fewer snap judgments.
My
new job even offers me a refresher course at being a better father
and husband because it has made me more sensitive and open-minded. I
attentively listen to claims of family members and especially love it
when such claims are substantiated. Making concessions to others —
especially if the evidence supporting their argument is convincing —
and changing my opinion now comes easily, so am no longer averse to
critically reexamining even long held assumptions and modifying them
if I find they are unsustainable.
Sometimes
the claims to an argument are implied. Every school day I help get my
first grade daughter ready for school. Her school bus leaves by 6: 45
a.m. That means I have to wake her, get her through the bathroom,
dress her up and see her to the bus. As we were going through these
motions one recent morning, the phone rang.
The
call that early was inconvenient and my first impression was to let
the caller leave a voicemail while I got my daughter off to school.
But when the phone screamed “Out of Area” twice, I
changed my mind. As I rightly intuited, it was a call from Nigeria.
Although
it was early morning here, it was already midday over there. My
caller, a close friend, knew I had no business lying in bed at 6 a.m.
But what he did not know was that I was at the service of one who
staked complete claim on me at that time and therefore resented
intruders.
From
her body language when I asked her to continue alone in the bathtub,
I sensed what to expect after the call. Calls from home usually mean
some family member is sick and dying or dead and that I should
wire some money. As I steeled myself for the bad news, I picked up
the phone and with trepidation, signaled I was ready for the
heartbreak.
I
have been away from home for the past five years, and those who
depended on me for sustenance have been dying off. Unable to come to
terms with my long absence or why I left hurriedly without a word or
providing for them, they felt abandoned. They have no idea why I left
them and my life work behind. They, who taught me that when the chief
limps all his subjects also limp, now have no clue that the heartache
is mutual.
They
do not know the deadly sting of exile. But how would they not know?
Have they not been exiled their entire lives (though their exile has
been internal economic displacement)? From what filters through, they
think I took my family and “escaped to the Whiteman’s
land and turned my back on them.”
Nothing
cuts to the quick faster than this charge of selfishness. Because of
the pain of separation, my loved ones no longer concede to the folk
wisdom that, “The warmth of a rock is known only by the lizard
which lies upon it.” Although they seem convinced that I
deliberately left them in the lurch, I know better.
Fortunately
my caller did not have news of another death or a dire situation that
needed my support. Since May, I had enlisted him in the chore of
getting a local university to send my academic transcripts to an
evaluating firm in the U. S. It is easier to ride a bicycle to Mars
than to get universities back home to release my transcripts and
those of my children.
After
several months of accustomed foot dragging, the graduate school told
my friend it had located my file — which contained only grades
and course numbers without the corresponding course titles. If I
remembered the course titles, he would read out the course numbers
for me so that the school could match them with the records they had.
I was as bewildered as I was bemused at such witchery.
Having
already missed a postdoctoral program due to the inability to obtain
my transcripts on time, I suppressed my frustrations and forced my
memory to recall courses I took more than a decade back. Eventually
getting back to my daughter, I confronted the kind of calm that is
usually the harbinger of a storm. She wanted to know who called and
why I couldn’t tell him to call back.
While
addressing her concern she exploded: “Who’s more
important, the caller or your girl?” Though I managed to cajole
and send her off to school, I felt sorry for her teacher that day
because when she left she was as volatile as a ticking bomb. She had
made a claim and I knew she would support it later.
Nothing
sways me more than arguments that are unified and strengthened by
evidence and facts. A winning argument is one that persuades and
convinces with sound, critical reasoning. This was the kind of
presentation the LDS missionaries used to power home their points
when they contacted me.
Unlike
the shouting contests other sects tried to sweep me off to their
faith, the missionaries faced me with an appeal I could not resist.
They presented a just and embracing plan of happiness spanning
pre-mortal existence and the eternities.
It
addressed fears that had nagged me persistently. For long the fate of
my ancestors who never heard of the gospel agitated me. The idea was
that they were idol worshippers with no hope for redemption outside
an assured place in the mist of darkness. From what I knew about the
nature of God, however, such argument lacked depth and credibility.
My
ancestors knew and worshipped gods. Their religion was based on the
light they had. Many were good men and women who desired the best for
humanity and lived devoutly. How then could a just Heavenly Father
consign them to damnation without giving them a chance to choose or
reject His gospel? Shutting the door of salvation against those who
needed it most was contrary to divine logic.
The
missionaries who proselyted me put paid to centuries of fallacies and
apostate assumptions. Their argument made the scales fall off my eyes
and quickened my perception of how sublime the Atonement is. If all
are the children of God and the gospel is the power of God unto
salvation for all believers, then there was a discrepancy and deficit
in logic in denying hope to those who never had a chance to hear the
gospel and therefore needed the saving grace of the good news.
More
than that, they once more riveted my mind on my ancestors. For long
we had been fastened on doctrines that were based on shallow
premises. But with the light of the restored gospel, we happily
shifted from exclusion to gratitude for encompassing love.
Imo Ben Eshiet was born in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. Raised in his village, Uruk Enung, and at
several cities in his country including Nsukka, Enugu, Umuahia, Eket and Calabar, Eshiet is a
detribalized Nigerian. Although he was extensively exposed to Western education right from
childhood in his country where he obtained a PhD in English and Literary Studies from the
University of Calabar, he is well nurtured in African history, politics, culture and traditions.
Imo is currently a teacher in the high priests group in the Summit Ward of the Greensboro North
Carolina Stake.