What Would Emily Post Do? What Would Saint Francis Do?
Lincoln, Nebraska – 4:00 a.m. Monday
It’s 4 a.m. Monday morning, and I’m in a hotel room in Lincoln, Nebraska. I can’t sleep. Maybe it’s the jet lag from Taiwan. Maybe it’s the tea I shared with my Yazidi friends late into the evening.
I’m here to commemorate the 11th anniversary of the beginning of the Yazidi genocide. Everyone around that table—everyone—was a survivor. Some had lost their entire families. Their villages are gone.
They welcomed me into their home with quiet warmth. I brought the granddaughter two gifts: The Phantom Tollbooth, my favorite book as a boy, and a book bag to carry it in. The grandmother poured the tea. The grandfather and I sat across from each other. My Yazidi sister, Shireen—her name means “sugar”—sat beside me.
We sat in silence.
The cups warm in our hands.
Tears welled, but none fell.
They welled because the father of the daughter,
the husband of the wife in the kitchen,
the son of the grandfather across from me,
and the one for whom the grandmother now poured tea—
a handsome man,
always smiling,
always serving.
My friend.
Was not with us this year,
As he was last.
He succumbed to the pain of this world,
and passed.
I found myself thinking:
What would Emily Post do?
Sit upright. Be gracious.
What would Saint Francis do?
Fall to his knees. Weep. Serve.
I sipped thoughtlessly,
trapped in my mind
trying to figure out how to act properly—
How to be present
without intruding,
How to honor
without breaking the silence.
Then it hit me.
“Iraqi tea!” I blurted.
Everyone laughed.
I looked down at the glass—
brown, hot,
sweet like the tea from Bojangles.
I asked,
“Where did you get the tea?
Is the sugar from cane or beets?”
Still smiling, they answered with their eyes.
The heaviness shattered—
if only for a while.
After the tea, we drove to the Yazidi cemetery.
We walked among names spoken in prayers
and carved into stone.
We joined the community
in remembering who was taken,
and in holding onto what cannot be taken.
On the drive home,
the sun was setting low,
casting gold across Nebraska.
The car was quiet.
The air heavy.
And again, I blurted out a thought:
“Whoa—it looks like Iraq.”
Grandpa smiled.
Then he laughed,
and in Kurmanji said,
“You know because you have been there.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Didn’t know what to do.
But I was grateful.
Grateful I had been there.
Grateful to have tasted the tea,
to have seen their sunset.
Grateful I could be with them yesterday.
It wasn’t just tea.
It was a memory.
It was solidarity.
It was survival,
poured into a glass.