Posts in Religion
Earthquakes. And Iran. And Ta-Nehisi Coates.

Note: I wrote this on the plane on the way to #BlogHer15, so this post is already ten days old. After consulting some friends, I decided to publish it anyway. I don't really care if it doesn't win me any popularity contests. This post was springing from my fingers as I was still reading Coates' book, and that hasn't happened to me in a long time.

I didn't know President Obama planned to speak today. I flipped to NPR out of boredom during the hour-long ride to the airport.

Obama talked about a deal America had forged with our "allies and partners" -- I assume "partner" in this sense is less romantic than what some of my friends call their lovers -- in order to keep Iran from getting a nuclear bomb.

I gripped the wheel tighter as my default inner voice asked, "Why shouldn't they have one when we do?"

Because, removing all nationalism from the equation, this hardly seems fair.

Stay with me a moment.

The more I learn about our brains from scientists and our souls from writers and artists, the more I realize what I grew up accepting to be true is a rationalization to benefit whoever is telling the story. They weren't evil in telling it, either -- it's what they were taught or came to believe.

In sitting with my own feelings, I now believe there are no universal truths or common histories, there are only the stories we tell ourselves. Which, in and of themselves, are so divergent no two people witnessing an event ever agree on all the details.

All we can do is take the information, go forward, and try to be a good human.

I got to the airport and started reading Ta-Nehisi Coates' BETWEEN THE WORLD AND ME. It's an extended letter to his son about living in America as a black man, but maybe more importantly, it's about how we came to the concept of "black" in the first place.

This book is perhaps one of the best explanations of white privilege I've seen, but Coates doesn't call it that. He calls it "The Dream."

To awaken them is to reveal that they are an empire of humans and, like all empires of humans, are built on the destruction of the body. It is to stain their nobility, to make them vulnerable, fallible, breakable humans.

The Dream tells white people that when black boys are killed by the police, they must have done something to deserve it, because otherwise holy shit, what kind of police academies are we funding here to pull people over or frisk them or God forbid shoot them for something as antiquated as skin color?

The Dream tells white people that the default of beauty is blonde and blue-eyed and there must be something not good about an all-black school.

The Dream ignores Howard University, where Coates found his Mecca.

I understood The Dream. I've equated the scales falling from my eyes to the moment when the red pill is swallowed in The Matrix. I don't want the world to be stupid or ugly. The Dream can hide that for me, for my white family.

The Dream is tempting for those who can afford to believe in it. As Coates points out, believing you should be able to take without regard has nonracial applications. 

The Dreamers will have to learn to struggle themselves, to understand that the field for their Dream, the stage where they have painted themselves white, is the deathbed of us all. The Dream is the same habit that endangers the planet, the same habit that sees our bodies stowed away in prisons and ghettos.

Coates admits he himself imagines a world where he has The Dream, then realizes he has unintentionally also marginalized others. That helps me believe other white people ensconced in The Dream might be able to let Coates in. We have this thing in common, you see: the human desire to dominate those around us. Having that desire in our bodies doesn't make us bad.

Acting on it makes us bad.

Acting on it brought whites to decimate Native Americans, colonize Africa, sell black bodies as property.

How did we do it? By convincing our white selves that our fellow people were not human. How can we do that? Maybe if they had some identifying characteristic ...

Perhaps being named "black" had nothing to do with any of this, perhaps being named "black" was just someone's name for being at the bottom, a human turned to object, object turned to pariah.

What is "race"? It used to matter what kind of European you were ...

But a great number of "black" people are already beige. And the history of civilization is littered with dead races (Frankish, Italian, German, Irish) later abandoned because they no longer serve their purpose -- the organization of people beneath and beyond the umbrella of rights.

Separating the concept of black and white from American, my mind wandered back to Obama's press conference.

Ignore Obama's race. He's the Commander-in-Chief right now. He's 'Merica. And he's forged an agreement with our allies and partners that say we, America, and they, have the right to make decisions about who should and shouldn't have nuclear weapons.

I'm not going to debate whether Iran is a problem or even whether America is a problem. We're all problems to people who don't agree with us.

The question is how do we make our decisions, which ultimately are made with emotion more often than reason?

We make ourselves, Americans, freedom fighters and protectors of the world when we need to in order to justify our own decisions.

We make ourselves white when we want to live The Dream.

In everything when we find ourselves falling back on a default explanation for the way things are -- we should question that.

I do believe Obama and co. questioned the Iran situation and decided the goal is to prevent Iran from getting nuclear bombs, the end. Who cares if it's fair, really? Because, holy shit. Right? Um.

I do not claim to know the answer to this question. I'm just asking it.

I do believe that many white Americans still live in The Dream and believe it's justified and are honestly befuddled with people like Coates.

To acknowledge these horrors means turning away from the brightly rendered version of your country as it has always declared itself and turning toward something murkier and unknown. It is still too difficult for most Americans to do this.

But, Coates points out, we are also befuddled at earthquakes, and so we insist they are the same, race relations and natural disasters -- impossible to control, hard to blame, something that's always been there and that we are helpless to change.

And no one would be brought to account for this destruction, because my death would not be the fault of any human but the fault of some unfortunate but immutable fact of "race," imposed upon an innocent country by the inscrutable judgement of invisible gods. The earthquake cannot be subpoenaed.

But people are not earthquakes, though we can be disasters. We can wreak havoc. But we also have free will.

People have the capacity to plan for the future and to reflect on the past and to change the present.

In my lifetime, I've watched the majority of American attitudes on LGBT people make, if not a 180, then at least a 120.

Frankly, I'm shocked. Shocked that it happened so fast and shocked that the black/white chasm has yawned in that time, or at least it has yawned more publicly.

I asked myself how the LGBT shift happened. In my summation, it happened through art, literature, movies and television. Storylines emerged on TV shows and in movies. People I knew came out. Commercials showed same-sex couples. YA novels featured LGBT romances and relationships.

We are not at a loss for black art, literature, television and movies.

Why is this so hard for white America?

The Dream.

To move on, we have to be prepared to see the matrix, to wake up, to stop looking the other way.

To shed light.

To not worry what our employers will think if they read our blogs.

To realize that handy identifying characteristic our white ancestors used to dominate others holds no place in modern society. Seeing black skin as anything but black skin kicks back to a dead time, a time we must acknowledge existed and consciously move to work past. We must look slavery in its face and spit.

We must promise to move forward and do no more harm.

We must interrupt the signal consciously, and it must be a constant and conscious override or The Dream will continue to inflict pain on all of us.

Ta-Nehisi Coates is an atheist and would not want to be blessed, so I'll call this a salute. His gift for organizing thoughts and studies and history into a slim book so easy to understand should not be underestimated. He could've used that gift to tell any story, but he used it to tell the story of us.

How will we act on it?

We Didn't Start the Fire

We sat behind a family at the Billy Joel concert. Mom, dad, older sister, her husband, younger sister, her bestie, son, girlfriend. The girls, at least, had clearly grown up listening to their parents' Billy Joel albums, because they kept getting each other's attention and doing dance moves choreographed sometime between size 6x and the juniors section.

I loved watching them. Also, they were almost the youngest people there. Beloved and I, at 41, were bringing down the average age of the crowd in our section all by ourselves, and these glorious children young adults were probably fifteen years younger than we are.

I sat (because you sit when you're old and surrounded by other old people terrified to have another beer lest they have to once again roust the entire row to use the restroom) and thought how nice it must be to be Billy Joel and see your music unite so many generations. Or just to be someone capable of filling stadiums for decades. For DECADES. Props, Billy Joel.

Then he sang a song I'd heard he said he wouldn't ever sing again because he kept forgetting the lyrics: "We Didn't Start the Fire." These are those lyrics:

Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray
South Pacific, Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio
Joe McCarthy, Richard Nixon, Studebaker, Television
North Korea, South Korea, Marilyn Monroe

Rosenbergs, H-Bomb, Sugar Ray, Panmunjom
Brando, The King And I, and The Catcher In The Rye
Eisenhower, Vaccine, England's got a new queen
Marciano, Liberace, Santayana goodbye

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

Joseph Stalin, Malenkov, Nasser and Prokofiev
Rockefeller, Campanella, Communist Bloc
Roy Cohn, Juan Peron, Toscanini, Dacron
Dien Bien Phu Falls, Rock Around the Clock
Einstein, James Dean, Brooklyn's got a winning team
Davy Crockett, Peter Pan, Elvis Presley, Disneyland
Bardot, Budapest, Alabama, Khrushchev
Princess Grace, Peyton Place, Trouble in the Suez

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

Little Rock, Pasternak, Mickey Mantle, Kerouac
Sputnik, Chou En-Lai, Bridge On The River Kwai
Lebanon, Charles de Gaulle, California baseball
Starkweather, Homicide, Children of Thalidomide...

Buddy Holly, Ben-Hur, Space Monkey, Mafia
Hula Hoops, Castro, Edsel is a no-go
U-2, Syngman Rhee, payola and Kennedy
Chubby Checker, Psycho, Belgians in the Congo

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

Hemingway, Eichmann, Stranger in a Strange Land
Dylan, Berlin, Bay of Pigs invasion
Lawrence of Arabia, British Beatlemania
Ole Miss, John Glenn, Liston beats Patterson

Pope Paul, Malcolm X, British Politician Sex
J.F.K. blown away, what else do I have to say

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

Birth control, Ho Chi Minh, Richard Nixon back again
Moonshot, Woodstock, Watergate, punk rock
Begin, Reagan, Palestine, Terror on the airline
Ayatollah's in Iran, Russians in Afghanistan
Wheel of Fortune, Sally Ride, heavy metal, suicide
Foreign debts, homeless Vets, AIDS, Crack, Bernie Goetz
Hypodermics on the shores, China's under martial law
Rock and Roller Cola wars, I can't take it anymore

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
But when we are gone
It will still burn on and on and on and on
And on and on and on and on...

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No, we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No, we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

I watched the younger sister dance in front of me, and I remembered memorizing the lyrics to that song as a teenager. But now, it's us in Afghanistan instead of the Russians. And we still have homeless vets. And boy, terror on the airline went bigger than ever since this song was written. Race relations, um, yeah.

But now it's not me and my generation singing that song. It's my generation doing the stuff.

That twirling twentysomething in front of me is who should be singing the song.

I looked around at the Baby Boomers on either side of me and tried to decide whether to be depressed or hopeful. We didn't light it, but the kids didn't, either.

Will it ever go out?

Fred Phelps Died. I Have Some Thoughts.
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Fred Phelps, Sr., former leader of the infamous Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kansas, is dead. He died on Wednesday night in hospice care. Phelps hit the international news scene when he and his church protested Matthew Shepherd's funeral in 1998 bearing signs that reflect their website's URL: God Hates Fags.

 I live in Kansas City. I had never heard of Fred Phelps until I went to a Lipizzaner horse show in Topeka with a friend and was shocked to see a group of people holding up signs saying in ten or twelve different ways that God, and they, hate homosexual people. What that had to do with horses, I have no idea. I asked my friend what was going on, and she sighed and explained who they were, what they stood for, what they'd been doing, what they continued to do and still continue to do on and on for years after I drove past them, my mouth hanging open in shock and my skin tingling with rage.

Please read the rest on BlogHer.

Sarcophagus for Bears

I'm told I should start a Tumblr blog for these pictures. I'm too lazy to do that, so I'm creating a new category: Scenes I Walked in On. I'll try to go back and find all the others and tag them so they're in one place. I can't bear the thought of tracking more than one blog.

A few days ago, I walked into the living room after the little angel had gone to school and found this.

Loveseat
It reminded me of some horrible movie I saw in the eighties in which all the people were wrapped up by giant bees or spiders or something. With more than a little trepidation, I lifted the blanket.

And then I saw this.

Sarcophogusbears

So I did what any logical person would do. I tweeted the Nelson Atkins museum. We were just there. Looking at mummies.

Which is funny, because I always feel so dumb at art museums. While talking to the front desk folks, I forgot the word "sarcophagus." Then I got into an extended discussion  with a docent about a pieta in which I screwed up art terminology. I thought a pieta was any piece of art depicting Mary and baby Jesus. It's so not. It's Mary and dead Jesus, which is really much sadder than Mary and baby Jesus.

But he'd never heard of it either way, so I guess there's that.

Then the little angel asked me if it was okay to think art showing Jesus was really ugly, and I told her I thought the real Jesus would not be upset if she didn't like art created before people discovered foreshortening. She was extremely relieved. I actually remember having the exact same question about her age. They should really go through these things in church.

Lo and behold, the museum tweeted me back!

 

So then, just as I'm securing funding to send my little art genius off on her future career, I learned the truth. When she got home from school, I asked the little angel what up with the bears.

"Oh," she said. "They're sleeping. The light hurts their eyes."

Damn.

Stopping the Bad Dreams From Forming
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[Editor's Note: This is political. I understand if you don't want to read it. My politics have always been very clear here -- someone once tried to get me fired from my job because of them. But I have to write this, because to say nothing might be interpreted as disinterest or agreement.]

 

The little angel appeared before my side of the bed. I didn't look at the clock.

"Mommy, I'm trying to stop a bad dream from forming," she said.

This has happened several times in the past few weeks.

I climbed into her bed with her and put my arm around her. We both fell asleep.

I woke up this morning thinking about my girl and how much I wish to protect her from everything scary in the world. I just read Margaret Atwoods' The Handmaid's Tale this past weekend. The daughter Offred loses would be eight. The little angel is eight.

"What's the matter? he said.

I don't know, I said.

We still have ... he said. But he didn't go on to say what we still had. It occurred to me that he shouldn't be saying we, since nothing that I knew of had been taken away from him." - p. 182

I'm not pro-abortion. I've never had one. I never wanted to have to make that choice. I understand the pro-life stance, maybe not some of the methods used to drill the message, but the message. In a perfect world, no one would ever need to have an abortion. Being pro-choice doesn't mean thinking all pregnancies should be aborted willy-nilly for whatever reason. Being pro-choice means wanting safe, affordable options for pregnant women who were made that way against their will or who will not be able to provide adequate care for a child or for whom a pregnancy is a health risk. Being pro-choice means wanting pregnancy to be avoided in the first place via safe, affordable birth control and sex education. Being pro-choice, to me, means wanting to ensure girls and women can avoid that, the most horrible choice there can ever be, from ever arising in the first place.

We're humans. The women have the babies. If it were any other way, if instead of genders we had blue and green and sometimes blues had the babies and sometimes greens had the babies, I don't think there would be this issue. The way it stands, the women ALWAYS have the babies; it's just the way our anatomy works. And because of that, it makes individual rights very, very tricky. There really is no comparison for the other gender, and I don't blame men for that -- it's not their fault they don't have the babies any more than it is women's fault that we do, or we can. That we are capable of doing so.

But we are not vessels.

There is no way an egg can get inside a man to be fertilized with the sperm, leaving its existence or nonexistence up to the man or to a government that wants to have a say in that fertilized egg's existance.

If a man is raped -- because that totally happens, too -- the government has no say in how he deals with the fallout. A man can get a disease from rape -- all sorts of horrible things can happen to a man -- but the government can't pass an amendment to the Constitution to force him to keep a pregnancy resulting from abuse against his will. I'm not even talking about a child -- I'm talking about a pregnancy. At a certain point one becomes the other, and we can agree to disagree on when that is, but the government is not trying to make amendments about born babies, so to me, it's a moot point.

I realize completely there is really no point in arguing about whether you are pro-life or pro-choice, because such stances are deeply personal and all we can do is disagree civilly and vote to support politicians who we believe will treat us with respect.

It is the respect part I keep getting stuck on this week, any week, when it comes to this issue. My uterus is in early retirement. I don't plan on using it again, have taken steps to insure against accidents. I'm not worried about the government legislating my uterus, because I benched it.

The Handmaid's Tale is a book about a society in which women are valued only for their fertility due to depopulation and a government takeover by a highly religious society. Atwood, in her ending "A Note to a Reader," wrote this, in 1986:

"The roots of the book go back to my study of the American Puritans. The society they founded in America was not a democracy as we know it, but a theocracy. In addition, I found myself increasingly alarmed by statements made frequently by religious leaders in the United States; and then a variety of events from around the world could not be ignored, particularly the rising fanaticism of the Iranian monotheocracy. The thing to remember is that there is nothing new about the society depicted in The Handmaid's Tale except in time and place ... It is an imagined account of what happens when not uncommon pronouncements about women are taken to their logical conclusions. History proves that what we have been in the past we could be again."

I am a spiritual person. I have my relationship with my God. But God isn't writing human laws, people are -- people who are interpreting God. We don't know. We won't know until later. People are fallible, can take things too far, can take their beliefs to unwanted logical conclusions.

I sat in bed for a while this morning, thinking about everything I've seen and read in the past 48 hours regarding abortion and women's health and women being denied services and "legitimate rape," and I, too, wanted to stop the bad dream from forming.

I have a vote, and I have a blog, and this is all I can do. As Atwood also wrote in an interview in the back of my library book:

"After all, this is the United States and it is North America and it is a pluralistic society and we have many people with differing points of view. A number of people would not take this lying down."

We have to keep talking about it. It's important. My daughter is only eight, and she has a whole life of experiences -- good and bad -- ahead of her. I want her to have her rights intact to move forward through life as she sees fit. She is the best thing I've ever produced, but I am more than just her mother. She is more than her someday fertility.

Women are more than that. We are more than one-half of the population. We just happen to be the half that has the babies.

I'm Going to Write About Sex (But Not the Way You Think)
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My friend AV blogs about sex. She's a sex blogger. SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX SEX

It doesn't seem like a job for the faint of heart, and fortunately, she isn't. She mentioned to me once that her family had asked her to adopt a pseudonym for writing because her writing embarrassed them. This week, AV wrote about it on BlogHer.

She wrote:

And if one thing I write makes one person feel less isolated, then my mission is complete.

Know, too, that I don't write about these things because I think it's safe or because I live with my head in the clouds and think it's perfectly acceptable to do so, but because I know it's not safe and it's not acceptable in this or any other society. This isn't a popularity contest -- it's a call to arms. This is the resistance.

In telling my stories I am liberating others to do the same, whether privately with me in my inbox, or in their own lives.

She wrote this and a lot more on her Facebook wall, in response to family members telling her they were embarrassed by her actions, telling her they felt sorry for her parents.

Then her mom responded:

Having said all this -- what do we think about our daughter? Allow me to express with pride that my husband and I find ourselves extremely satisfied in how she shares her own experiences and thoughts. You think we should feel ashamed but we fail to find reason to do so. We raised a daughter who stands firmly on her beliefs and values despite strong opposition. There is no shame in that.

Writing and family -- it's always a tightrope that every writer walks, and maybe more so every blogger. In telling our own stories, it's very difficult to not share someone else's. But AV is only writing stories of her own experiences -- if anyone should be upset, it should be the other individuals who were in the room, not her family.

I've had disagreements with my family over whose stories were whose, over whether or not I curse too much or have unpopular politics. I've often wondered if I embarrass my family on a regular basis with my words.

I think -- at least in American culture -- someone who writes about sex, not pornography, not erotica, but the actual act of sex as a physical, emotional, spiritual or not experience -- is literally and figuratively getting naked in a way few other writers do. Parenting bloggers write about guilt and walls streaked with poop. Food writers describe burning things, falling souffles, embarrassing mistakes. The ability to feel and express sexual desire is almost caricatured in modern society -- it often feels like there is only porn or tantric soul rocking -- nothing in between, but it is in the between that the rest of us live. Are we loved? Do we love properly? Is there a properly? If we don't have sex often enough, are we undesirable? Is sex as important as we thought it was? Is it more important than we thought it was? What is sex past twenty, past thirty, past when you look hot doing it? What is sexiness after the body starts to decay? What is sexiness when you're young and not yet comfortable with yourself?

I don't write about sex, other than the How to Get a Happier Marriage posts I did for BlogHer last year. It's not something I'm comfortable blogging about. But I did write about it a little in my novel, and in doing so, I started asking myself all those questions above. Sex is more and less than what we think it is. Perhaps it's the most vulnerable we can be.

I think as a people we're afraid to talk about actual sex for all of these reasons. We're comfortable with hinting at it, commoditizing it, using it to sell beer, acting as though we get it all the time, pretending we don't need it or we live for it, but heaven forbid we ever talk about it as the inherent part of the human experience it actually is.

 

 

 

What to Say About the Easter Bunny?
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Yesterday, some kids told my daughter that Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny are all frauds. She asked the lunch lady, and the lunch lady told her that her sons still believed.

The little angel cried a little bit and decided she didn't want to play with those friends just then.

My husband told me this story after our girl went to bed. I asked him what he said. He had told her that people believe all kinds of different things, from religion to politics to bunnies. You can still like other people even if they didn't believe the same as you do. I thought this a brilliant response.

I personally can't stand the Easter Bunny because Easter is the most important Christian holiday -- there is no Passover Chick, and I don't see why we need a bunny. I've never really leaned on the bunny and would be relieved to just tell her it's us, man, it's us. We know you like chocolate.

So she still believes. For now.