It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

Speaking while voiceless

The worst part is the feeling of the strain, the empty weight of impotence in your throat.  Your mouth opens again – if you try harder, someone will hear, someone will help.

Most of us know that dream, the one in which you are in mortal danger, trying to scream for help, or in protest, or simply to speak to explain, yet no sound emerges – you are voiceless.

The real-life analogue is less dramatic than the scenarios spun by the horror-writer of the subconscious, but no less disempowering.  And waking up is more difficult.

The disconnect between the instructions we receive and the realities we face rob each of us of our voice – of our right to be heard, to speak, to share, to be understood.

As children we are told, “Speak up so I can hear you,” but also “Don’t be so loud.”  Those of us who are introverted get told, “Get out of your shell, socialize more,” but we often find ourselves faced with confused looks that fade into disinterest when we attempt to reach out, to offer our opinions, because no one really wants to hear the in-depth explanation.  “Vote,” we are told.  “Your voice matters.”  So we cast our ballots.  And nothing changes.  “Be yourself.  Be authentic.”  But, the subtext implies, “Make sure your authentic self isn’t too different from the culturally accepted norm.”

I was hushed in the delivery room.  In labor with my first child, my voice crying out in the primal vocalization of mothers throughout species and millennia, I was hushed.  “You’ll upset the other patients,” I was told.  The natural cry of my body wasn’t acceptable. 

I gritted my teeth, silenced my voice, and retracted the authenticity of my moans.

Women were institutionalized for libido.  The very term hysteria derives from the notion that madness in women is connected to the womb.

When I was small, I made stew from my plastic alphabet letters.  Not soup, which I guess would have made sense in the greater social context, but stew.  I liked stew better.  It never occurred to me that to make soup, or WORDS, with the letters would have been more “normal.”  There were toys, and I was playing.  This moment of random play somehow became family shorthand for “Christy is different.”

I posted a painting of nude faeries.  This simple act – to me, an artistic experiment in pen and watercolor without first sketching in pencil – prompted familial concerns that I was mentally unstable. 

I deleted the painting from my Facebook page, agreeing to censor myself rather than enter into conflict or cause concern to those I love.

Emily Dickinson wrote it well, “Much madness is divinest sense, to a discerning eye.  Much sense the starkest madness, ‘tis the majority.”

A good friend once described me as having a perspective that is “rotated slightly from that of the collective norm.”

We all hold individual perspectives – rotated, spun, warped, askew, inside-out.  Yet there is a pretense that everyone agrees on certain things, that there is a collective consensus on matters of morality, social acceptability, even esthetics.

At the same time, we acknowledge the ills in our society – racism, misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, able-ism, income disparity, relationship dysfunction. 

I submit that those ills are born of the tacit collusion to conform.  The only people who have ever effected real change to society’s sicknesses have been those who speak the truth of their individual experience, those who stand up and paint, write, speak, sculpt, protest, sing, or research from the basis of their unique thoughts, beliefs, and feelings.

Avoiding subject matter that strikes at the viscera buried beneath our collective comfort isn’t sanity, it is mass denial.

A keystone of this pretense of majority standards is one unspoken, yet persistent, rule: “Only those who are famous, dead, or otherwise special may break with the group.  Anyone else who acts as an individual or rebels against homogeny is disturbed.”

It takes courage to stand up and declare oneself “special” enough to break with the flock.  It’s hard not to bend under the shame of the implicit hubris of daring to declare individuality.  For those of us who love our families and friends, there is the added burden of knowing that our individual truths touch on and stem from the experiences of those we love.

Every personal essay I write risks exposing those I love to pain or embarrassment.  Visual art that acknowledges human (or hominoid) anatomy or that pokes into dark or uncertain places of the psyche may break through the comfort zones of my loved ones.

I’m not famous, dead (yet), or particularly talented.  And that is why I write and paint.  I use the “voice” of art in hopes that my doing so will give others some sort of permission to share their own truths.

Sometimes that truth comes about by accident.  My “shocking” painting wasn’t intended as social protest.  The off-scale genitalia resulted from poor technique rather than any sort of fixation.  I hadn’t painted a male nude before, and as an exercise in reducing my perfectionist tendencies, I have been experimenting with sketching in pen rather than pencil and forcing myself to share my imperfect work.

But, I’m going to file this particular imperfection under “Serendipitous Greater Meaning.”  That screwed up painting and its aftermath made me think deeper about what I do and what responsibility art bears.

Only through displaying our individual perspectives and flaws can we ever change the collective norm.

Note: I recognize that my use of the word “voice” is, in itself, a form of ableism.  Word choice and metaphor also need to be examined.  At the moment, it is the metaphor that is lodged in my brain, but I welcome conversation around that and suggestions.

Skirting Safety

A few nights ago, I went with a friend to a club in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco.  I tend to look at clothing as costume – what role am I playing today? – so I’d deliberately chosen an outfit to suit the evening.  Short skirt, knee-high boots, leather jacket, acres of cleavage – basically light-years and numerous personae away from my default soccer/basketball mom uniform of jeans and scoop-neck T-shirt.

I suppose it wouldn’t be shocking for me to say, “The outfit made me nervous.”   After all, I’m a suburban mom cruising rapidly toward 45.  Many of my peers would consider that particular costume ‘daring’ and have an outbreak of nervous giggles.

And maybe that’s part of the problem…

As we got ready to leave, I did have a flash of concern, hearing the sum of decades of internalized voices – books, friends, movies, mother, grandmothers, magazines, news articles…

“It isn’t safe to go out like that.”  “You’re asking to get raped.”  “You aren’t THAT kind of girl.” “Cellulite.” “Sagging boobs.” “Cheap.” “Classless.” “Slutty.” “It isn’t safe.” “You’re asking to get raped.”

The astute reader will notice the repeat of two phrases.

That split second showed how deeply the message that women’s sexuality causes rape runs. 

There isn’t much I can say about the dangers of victim-blaming, slut-shaming, and rape culture that hasn’t already been said more eloquently and with better references by others.  But I think it’s worthwhile to point out the small moments in which this form of misogyny infiltrates our everyday lives.

When a woman has to worry about whether her outfit puts her in danger, something is wrong.  Men – actually, I should say white hetero-cis-men – aren’t put at risk by clothes unless Medea has been involved in the tailoring (Greek myth; look it up, folks.)

When a girl is sent to the office for wearing a top that shows her shoulders but her male classmates are not, something is wrong.

When a woman’s competence in the workplace is measured by the length of her skirt, something is wrong.

Think about it – how often have you said (or heard and nodded) any of the following:

“I can’t believe her mother let her out of the house like that.”

“That top is too distracting for the classroom/workplace.”

“If she didn’t want the attention, maybe she shouldn’t have worn that skirt.”

“Wardrobe malfunction.”

Every time we judge a woman’s worth, virtue, competence, or right to basic safety by her clothing, we contribute to a tacit okay to assault and discrimination.

For the record, I wore the outfit, went out, and had a great evening.  And I was exactly the same person, with the same rights to safety and respect, as I was the next day in my jeans and T-shirt.

Update:
In the original version of this post, I left off a critical classifier for male safety -- white.  Men of color are not given the same privilege of safety and impunity with regard to clothing as their white cohort.  Privilege and associated problems will be another post entirely, but I thought it was important to recognize that men of color are also judged and put at risk by societal attitudes toward attire.

It's also worth noting for this article that when I use the term "women" I refer to cis and trans women inclusively since we are all judged and targeted.  Masculine privilege is a more complex thing, hence the use of specific identifiers to denote the group given sartorial immunity.

The Other Side

I am a child of the 70s, a child of equal rights, of feminism, of the era of sensitive males.  I grew up believing that anything boys could do, girls could do better, that women could compete with men, toe-to-toe and head-to-head, but that men still were supposed to open doors and that boys couldn’t hit girls.

My sister and I were the only children and the only grandchildren.  We learned (with varying degrees of success) to cook, clean, sew, shoot, whittle, fish, sail, row, woodwork, and dig really deep holes in really hard clay (ask about the swimming pool debacle of 1990 sometime.)  There was no “men’s work” or “women’s work” in our childhood home; there was just work.  There were chores to be done and whoever was best suited or was free at the time did them.  We played with dolls and with Tonka trucks, had tea parties and waged battle in forts.  In our day, there was still a term for girls who “played like boys” – tomboy.

I married a man who could cook and clean, who would be an equal partner in child-rearing, not (as I told my mother-in-law early on) because I was lucky, but because in my mind, these things were required.  I entered a profession, once dominated by men, at a time when the pendulum was swinging the other direction.  Today, roughly 90% of graduating veterinarians in the U.S. are female.

This trend in veterinary medicine mirrors educational trends throughout the country – more and more women are holding higher and higher degrees.

In general, I applaud all of these societal shifts.  I’m female.  I have never had any desire to be defined by my gender or my reproductive capacity.  Yet, I can’t help wondering – as our societal expectations for men and women have evolved, what are we leaving behind.

For those of you who are parents, think of your children’s classes for a moment.  What is the gender breakdown of kids who are considered “difficult,” “challenging,” or “hyperactive?”  I’d be willing to bet that the percentages skew heavily toward the boys.  Now think back to your own childhood.  How many of the men among you (or brothers, neighbors, or cousins of the women) played with toy guns, owned a BB gun, set things on fire, or played with illicit explosives?  Come on, don’t be shy.  Raise your hands. 

I’ve been taking the same informal poll for the past 20+ years, and so far the results have been unanimous.  Ever adult man of any generation I have questioned has admitted to lighting something on fire or blowing something up as a kid.  Most of them played army or war.  Many admit to “near misses” and “close calls” – brushes with mortality of which they still hope their mothers are unaware.  Many report getting in the odd fist-fight or two – over name calling, a toy, a girl.

Now, jump back into the present.

How often do kids roam the neighborhood in packs – on foot, bicycle, or skateboard?  We tether them to electronic leashes (cell phones) or shuttle them from one supervised activity to another.  Homemade explosives of any sort tend to attract the attention of federal law enforcement.  Kids are helmeted, padded, and sunscreened to the extent that they may as well be placed in plastic hamster balls.

Historically, the classroom setting – despite the complaints of my generation that teachers “favored boys” – has had a female bias.  Since the late 1800s, teaching has been one of the more feminine professions, and the virtues of the classroom (sit still, wait to speak, focus on one task at a time) tend (though not always) to come more easily to the girl-child than the boy.  But, boys had recess.

Again, think back.  Who dominated your childhood playground?  Where did the exuberance and aggression of youth happen?

My kids are fortunate – their classroom setting provides opportunities for active as well as passive learning.  Boys and girls alike are taught skill such as handwork, cooking, gardening, and woodworking.  They are allowed to wrestle and to climb trees.

Yet, I see a trend that troubles me.  Increasingly, parents are demanding a crackdown on “aggressive play” on the playground – a banning of sticks as “weapons,” a ban on “war games.”  Ok, so I don’t want kids whacking each other with sticks, and I’m generally opposed to war and killing in real life.  But, when did we become so afraid of our innate aggressions that we grew terrified to let our children playact?

I’ve heard people say that kids can’t distinguish between the world of imagination and that of reality.  This may be true for the 3-4 year old, but for the grade-schooler, I call Bullshit.  I’ve seen young kids, immersed in a fantasy world, look derisively at a parent who attempts to join in.  “It’s just make-believe, Mom,” they say.  “Duuuuhhh.”

It isn’t PC nowadays to say it, but men and women are not the same.  Equal is not alike.  Boys and girls have different parts, different hormonal influences, and different evolutionary drives.  Yes, nurture impacts nature.  But we dismiss our nature at our peril.

I’m reading an advance copy of a terrific non-fiction book called Zoobiquity.  This book, written by a human cardiologist, looks at the correlations between diseases and conditions across species.  One chapter is devoted to adolescents and adolescent risk.  Across many species, one demographic stands out in the fields of risk-taking and aggression.  You guessed it: the young male.

Think about it from an evolutionary standpoint.  Which males are most likely to survive and to reproduce their genetics?  Sorry, not the sweet, sensitive, cautious ones.

No, I’m not advocating a return to the era of the cave man or even to disco.  But I do worry that we are systematically stripping away behaviors, mores, and character traits associated with masculinity without replacing these traits.  We have created a world in which women and girls expand well beyond traditional or evolutionary roles, while at the same time narrowing the world of men.  You can nurture, we tell our men – but most primary caregivers are still female.  We honor your service, we tell our soldiers, but we chide our sons for playing army.  Even in the bedroom, we women have taken an increasingly assertive role (and I say yay), but what have we left as “appropriate” for masculine sexual expression?  (I’m only qualified to speak to heterosexual interactions.)

My son turned ten yesterday.  I worry about him sometimes – sandwiched between two sisters, raised by a mother with no brothers and a father who never knew his own dad.  I wonder if we are giving him enough of a sense of his own identity and place, as a male and as a person.  I don’t want him to grow up “masculine” in the misogynistic, hyper-aggressive, insecure-hiding-behind-macho sense, but I do want him to have a strong identity and a place of his own in the world.  I don’t want him to grow up afraid of his own strength, of his darknesses, and of his power.  I don’t want that for him, or for any of his generation.

Right now, Aidan knows who he is.  He will shake his hips to Lady Gaga or wield a Nerf Gun with the best of them.  He’s fine playing “Pretty Pretty Princess” with Sierra (with the indulgent sighs of an older brother humoring his baby sister) or with leading her on an armed assault against an unknown enemy.  He will cuddle into our laps for snuggles or try to burp the alphabet. 

It should (though in deference to the black and white nature of modern society and the internet, I’ll say it anyway) go without saying that I’m not a fan of fighting, war, sexual violence, objectification of women, arson, or risk-taking-induced injuries.  But, the fact that I don’t like these things doesn’t eliminate them from the species.  I wonder what we are losing when we consistently strip away opportunities to test boundaries and to find identity.  Thanks to modern agriculture, technology, and medical advances, we no longer need men to fill the roles of hunter or protector.  But what are we giving our boys in return?

Amazonian fantasies aside, no good will come of a society of ill-educated, insecure, or submissive men.  We need to either find new ways for our boys to test and challenge themselves or to loosen the reins of political correctness and fear.  Shifting the pendulum to a female-centric society will do no more good than a history of patriarchy has done.  Women lose when they are denied the opportunities to work with, compete against, and partner with men equally.  When we are denied the chances to work through our darkness, how are we supposed to fully develop our light?

 

The Gender Line

I don’t much follow celebrity news, but Ashley Judd recently wrote a beautiful essay discussing the harm done by the objectification of women.  Harm done not just to women, but by women as well as men, and the harm done to men as well.  This essay keeps being labeled “feminist.”  [Side note: as I was finding the link for the essay, I noticed the title.  “Ashley Judd Slaps Media in the Face for Speculation Over Her ‘Puffy’ Appearance.”  “Slaps Media in the Face” – really?  The editors at the Daily Beast couldn’t find words to headline an essay about the dangers of stereotyping and objectification that didn’t involve a metaphor that conjures the most stereotypical image of female celebrity?  Shame.]

My own relationship with feminism is an uneasy one.  I don’t even like the word, not because I’m somehow opposed to the philosophical ideal of female strength and equality, but because it is a word that divides.  I don’t believe that men and women are the same.  I like feeling feminine, and I like doing many of the things that are considered “masculine.”  I prefer to exist beyond the labeling of my reproductive organs.  Can I be a humanist instead, please?

Misogyny, sexism, chivalry, feminine oppression, patriarchy, gender-bias – it doesn’t matter what terms are used.  There is an ugly undercurrent to each, a thread that says “We are different members of humanity, our differences and complexities scare the hell out of us, and we can only resolve them by assigning roles and expectations.”  In a world where physical strength conferred a distinct survival advantage, these labels may have made sense.  However, as technology and education have leveled the career (survival) playing field, our expectations around gender serve only to confuse, to enhance conflict and distrust, and to prevent us from celebrating – yes, celebrating – the very real differences that exist between us.

We all contribute to the problem of separation and expectation.  Daily.  The strident feminist who shuns makeup, refuses to buy guns or trucks for her son or dolls for her daughter is as guilty as the middle-aged man who states outright that no woman “can do that job as well as a man.”  And, the mother who pushes makeup on her adolescent daughter “just to cover up that blemish” is as guilty as the father who tells his son to “toughen up; don’t cry.” We all do it.  Don’t pretend you can’t see yourself here.

 What about the mothers whose default is to call the other mom to set up a playdate, even though the father is picking the child up from school?  What about that time you looked at a woman and thought (or said), “There is no way she should be wearing that.” When was the last time you had an opinion, really any opinion, about a man’s attire?  How often do we excuse a man lashing out in anger when we know that he is really frightened or hurt?  Why do we make the excuse?  Oh, well, because that’s just how men handle these things.  Why aren’t we angry at a society that refuses to allow men emotional expression beyond anger or fucking?  Why aren’t we angry that we set separate parenting standards for men and women?  We do.  Don’t deny it.  A man can be a good father just by showing up.  What about the mother who lets her son go off for an overnighter without clean socks or underwear?

Yet, we run around claiming that all is equality and fairness.  We tell our daughters “You can do anything a boy can do.”  Yet, we raise our sons with the expectation that they need to somehow treat women differently than they do other men.  We tell them, “Don’t hit girls.  Well, don’t hit anyone, but especially don’t hit girls.”  We train them to hold the door open for women.  Are they supposed to let it slam shut in the face of the guy behind them?  We tell our daughters, “You can have any career you want.” But we don’t give them the tools for that career.

A man is expected to state his needs and expectations in the workplace.  A man is expected to speak up when he sees someone underperforming.  A woman who speaks her mind professionally risks being classified as a bitch.  Yes, this phenomenon is real.  I have heard male colleagues yell and curse at clients with dangerous horses.  I have had those same clients call the office to complain about how rude I was when I suggested that the horse was dangerous and needed some training.

This isn’t an example of the poor, oppressed woman.  This sort of gender divide harms everyone.  Women lose (obviously) in terms of self-esteem, performance, and career advancement.  Men lose the input and experience of half of their colleagues.  And they lose the opportunity to put their own egos to the side and hear an alternate view.  Whenever we are allowed to entrench deeply within our own experience and self-expectation, we lose.

It starts so early.  Walk onto an elementary school playground and look at the first grade.  In kindergarten, those same children mingled, irrespective of gender. The active children rolled around in the grass and mud like puppies on caffeine while the more sedate children built castles of blocks and dreams.  By first grade, though, the lines begin to be drawn.  Girls clump together, trying on tiaras and cloaks, while the boys wield sticks and charge across the yard.  They still blend their games, but often the cross-over is gender-specific: the girls need a groom for the wedding or a king for the kingdom; the boys need someone to rescue. 

Earlier this year, I had an odd experience.  I was picking Sierra up from school, and as my whirlwind child tore through the classroom and out into the yard with a pack of boys, a mother of one of the other girls smiled and said to me, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but Sierra reminds me a bit of Ramona (from the Beverly Cleary books) – I mean in terms of her…of her physicality.”  The other mother trailed off as though she wasn’t certain that she hadn’t said something inappropriate.  She didn’t look critical; she looked almost half-envious, as though she wished that she had been that exuberant child.  But, that physicality wasn’t, and still isn’t, considered quite the norm for girls.  Sierra is Ramona in many ways.  Thirty years ago, she would have been branded a “tomboy.”  It isn’t unusual to see her, resplendent in princess gown and tiara, chasing her brother through the neighborhood armed to the teeth with Nerf gun and sword.

I hope that she will maintain this balance.  But, I’ve already seen the pressures of society begin to bend her older siblings.  Aidan, by default a sweet, sensitive, cuddly people-pleaser, has begun working on his “cool” act.  He’s always had an affinity for sports, guns, and cars, but he is less and less willing to let any side of him other than the sport/gun/car/class clown face be seen around his peers.  Caitlin struggles socially as she and her peers enter their teens.  “Most of the girls just want to talk about makeup and hair and clothes and music,” she complains.  Caitlin loves to shop, will play with makeup a bit because she likes things that are pretty, even herself, but she doesn’t see the point in talking about these things.  She’d rather hold lengthy discussion about the merits of Marvel vs DC comics, or the more subtle points of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, or compare and contrast Star Trek and Star Wars, but already, those conversations are the purview of the boys.  When we separate, sort, and label, everyone loses.

I don’t have a fix.  I wish I did.  I think that the only solutions to the big problems are the small ones.  What if each of us stopped, paused before allowing a judgmental thought on a woman’s body to be fully articulated?  What if we stopped before saying, “Don’t cry” to our sons?  What if we took a breath before leaping to the “bitch” label for a woman stating her case, or before brushing off the rudeness of an angry man?  What if we gave each other small spaces in which to move beyond the labels?  What if we quit blaming clothing, makeup, beer commercials, or politicians for our societal woes?

What if we ditched words like misogyny and feminism and moved toward one label?  I’d like to be a humanist, please.

Finding the Thread -- Fear in the News

Readers of this blog may have noticed that I’ve never attempted the sort of “weekly round-up” posts seen in other, more focused blogs.  This is a technique that works great for blogs that cover one topic or niche, but since this blog is essentially a reflection of my brain (scattered), I’ve generally felt that trying to tie up bits of news from the week that stuck out for me would be like trying to string a bunch of random beads into a pattern.

Yet, there are weeks when certain news items stick to the brain, and it seems as though there should be a thread that joins them.  Perhaps this is simply a reflection of my current thoughts, but it seems as though I may have found a thread for the events and issues that have stood out for me this week.

Here are my “beads” of news, in no particular order.

1. The debt ceiling talks collapsed (again.) In other words, the president and Congress began tattling on each other and John Boehner took his ball and went home.
2. Though we are having a mild summer in CA, worry about friends, family, and colleagues has me following the heat wave in the Midwest and East.
3. The bombing and shooting tragedy in Norway is made even more horrific by the age of so many of the victims and the choice of disguise of the murderer.
4. A breastfeeding doll popular in Europe causes some controversy in the U.S.
5. School board members decide to un-ban a book after they actually read it.
6. A study indicates that modern playground safety modifications may actually be detrimental to children.

There they are, snippets of world events from catastrophic to idiotic.  What is the thread that ties these things together?  Here’s a clue.  When I took the above picture this morning, I was afraid to use it.  The beads are kind of blurry, and the whole photo is shadowed weirdly.  Then it hit me – those are the aspects that make the picture perfect for this post.  My beads, these bits of news, stood out from the media storm randomly and kind of blurry.  But, the whole picture is tainted by something unpleasant and shadowy.  Fear.

Yesterday, I posted about fear on the personal level.  Today, societal fear seems to be the thread that connects these issues – at least in my mind. 

Wait.  What about the heat wave? Fear didn’t cause summer heat.  Yeah, I hear you.  Inserting the heat wave into the list reminds me of the old Sesame Street game, “Which of these things is not like the others?”

The thread of fear is pretty obviously strung through some of these events.  This morning, I found it interesting to note that NPR, not generally an alarmist news outlet, used the words “fear” and “afraid” in the blog post on the debt-ceiling crisis.  Should the public be afraid?  Probably.  The potential global economic impact of a failure to raise the debt-ceiling is pretty awful.  But, what struck me is how fear is affecting the process.  Why do politicians lock into a “my way or the highway” mindset?  Fear.  For humans, the loss of ability to compromise, to be flexible, indicates a loss of our higher brain functions.  The more we are driven by fear (fear of losing power, fear of losing face, fear of losing money, elections, etc) the more rigid we become.  Posturing to show “strength” is the human equivalent of puffing up our feathers or spines to look bigger to the predator.

“Terror” was prominent in the headlines referencing the bombing and shooting in Norway.  An apt adjective, for sure.  While the bombing in Oslo is horrific enough, I can’t imagine anything more terrifying than what the kids at that summer camp must have endured.  The thought of them seeing someone they believed to be a police officer – a person sent to keep them safe—open fire on them is nauseating.  But here, fear seems to be not only the result of the murderer’s actions, but the cause as well.  News reports refer to the suspect as an extremist who believes that immigration, multi-culturalism, and particularly Islam are destroying Norway.  A man acting from fear creates fear.

Now we drop into the seemingly banal.  However, in my mind at least, fear breeds fear.  The more we close our minds, bodies, and hearts, in self-protection, the more we make room for the truly dark things. 

Playgrounds – remember metal slides?  Do you remember the really tall ones, with their tight corkscrews and rickety ladders?  Do you remember how the metal burned your legs below the hem of your shorts on a summer day?  Do you remember the metal merry-go-rounds?  Do you remember trying to keep your legs moving as fast as those of the older kids, until you screwed up the courage for that jump and then landed on the spinning platform?  Do you remember the pit of fear in your stomach just before you took that leap?  My kids won’t.  And if you are a member of my generation or those that follow, neither will your kids.  As parents, we have clamored for freedom from fear for our children.  We have smoothed the edges, lowered the peaks, and softened the landings for our kids.  We are one step away from bubble-wrapping them into incompetence.  And, in our desire to protect our children from the scrapes and fractures of life, we have taught them that life is to be feared.  We are creating adults who will not have the skills to stand against the darkness of fear.

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, by Sherman Alexie is on my to-read list, so I’ll admit that I am not yet qualified to speak intelligently about it.  (There are those who would say that I’m not qualified to speak intelligently about a number of things, but why let fear stop me?)  However, I was intrigued by the news that the Richland, WA school board had reversed a decision to ban Mr. Alexie’s book after two of the members originally voting for the ban decided to actually read the book.  The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian tends to spark controversy due to the “dark” nature of its subject matter.  The semi-autobiographical story of a boy raised in poverty on a Native American reservation attending a mostly-white high school deals with themes that middle class parents often fear exposing their children to.  The book was one of those listed in the recent rant against YA fiction in the Wall Street Journal.  I’ve already written my thoughts on the article and its implications, but for anyone uncertain as to my views on book banning, here they are:

1. If you don’t want your kids to read a book, fine, tell them.  However, your fears do not get to dictate what books my children can find in their bookstore, classroom, or library.
2. If you fear a book, read it.  Don’t make judgments based on hearsay and supposition.  Know what you fear.
3. The most famous book censor in history was Hitler.  Talk about a guy with fear issues.

I have to applaud the members of the Richland school board for having the courage to revisit their decision, and to look societal fears in the face.  Good job, guys!

Now we move on to what is, to me, the weirdest item on the list.  Sure, you say: “Breastfeeding doll, pretty darn weird.”  Nope, don’t misunderstand me.  I don’t think the doll is weird at all.  I think it’s weird to object to a doll that gives children a more accurate picture of the way babies are meant to be fed.  I think it’s weird that we began by making dolls that nursed out of plastic bottles.  I think it’s weird that modern society (and particularly American society) has such a dysfunctional, fear-based relationship with the bodily function that defines us as mammals.  What sort of self-loathing drives us to reject a fundamental aspect of our humanity?

My youngest child is now six, but I’ve never really gotten over some of the strange incidents that stuck out over a collective 6-7 years of breastfeeding my children.  (The breastfeeding resume extends over three kids; do the math before you freak out.) 

• My mom urging me to “go to the ladies’ lounge” to nurse Caitlin while we were in a mall restaurant.  “And do what,” I asked.  “Sit on the sink counter?”  Let’s face it, modern restrooms distinctly lack a space for actual “rest.”  But, more critically, I never could understand the logic behind socially isolating a woman who was feeding her baby the way it was meant to be fed.  No one would tell a woman with a bottle to go into seclusion to feed her infant.  I like intelligent lunchtime discourse.  Babies may be cute, but they are not great conversationalists.
• The same elderly women in a shopping mall who had cooed over Caitlin in her stroller giving me dirty looks a short while later as I sat on one of the padded benches nursing her.  For the record no “private parts” of my anatomy were on public display.  But, judging by the reactions of these women, you’d have thought I was doing a pole dance in a nursery school.
• The confused and paranoid responses of TSA agents to my breastpump as I prepared to board a flight to a conference.  Really, what’s the tricky concept here?  How are basic medical devices not a part of their training?
• The couple who pulled back the folds of my baby sling to see the “adorable baby” and who recoiled with horror as they realized that “the adorable baby” was having lunch while I pushed my cart through Costco.  Now, I think they should have been embarrassed for assuming that it was okay to touch me or anything on my person without my permission.  However, I wasn’t the least embarrassed about feeding my kid.   A screaming baby in the middle of a big-box store would have been more disturbing to me.

Our societal views on gender, sexuality, and reproduction are so fear-ridden as to be nearly completely dysfunctional.  It’s amazing that the American middle-class hasn’t become an endangered species.  Why do we refuse to talk to our children about reproduction until they are so deeply confused by their hormones that they are incapable of listening?  Why do we assign euphemisms to some body parts but not others?  How confusing must it be for children to hear a penis called “pee-pee” or “wiener”, but to know that an elbow is always an elbow?  Why do we permit our children to watch cartoons and play with toys that emphasize costumes sexualizing the female breast, but freak out at the concept of a doll who uses the breast for its intended purpose?

Fear.  Fear drives us.  Fear limits us.  Fear was meant to help us survive in a harsh, unpredictable natural world.   When the lion leaps from the grass, fear is a pretty good response.  This brings me to the last, and rather oddly shaped, bead.  How does extreme summer heat fit onto our fear necklace?

Two thoughts come to mind here:

1. Fear for the safety of the people and animals affected by abnormal or extreme climate conditions.  This is probably a ‘healthy’ fear as long as it doesn’t become incapacitating.  Fear of natural disaster can inspire us to plan and prepare; concern for others can pull us out of ourselves into a greater good.
2. Climate change.  The science is solid.  Climate change is real.  We are experiencing its effects, and will continue to do so.  Without action, we could really have something to fear.  However, an issue of fact continues to be a subject for debate, with substantial numbers of people denying the evidence.  Why?  Fear.  Humans don’t like to contemplate a reality that forces change.  We fear the unknown.  We fear loss of comfort, jobs, convenience.  We fear change.

Like climate change, the cycle of fear is real and prevalent.  And as with climate change, until we learn to look fear in the face and recognize it for what it is, it will continue to grow.  A friend posted a link to a podcast by author Tara Brach in the comments section to yesterday’s post.  Ms. Brach’s book Radical Acceptance (recommended to me a few years back by another friend) is one of my favorite tools for identifying and processing the fears that cripple me, and the podcast has some wonderful insights.

Closing with some of the best words ever on the subject.  Enjoy!

 

One Lab Accident Away...

It’s a poorly guarded secret that our household is one of geeks.  Actually, given that my two oldest children have been known to harmonize the Imperial March from Star Wars, it’s not much of a secret at all.  We are geeks.  We embrace geekdom.  The family joke is that our oldest is “one lab accident away from becoming a supervillain.”  For anyone who has ever watched Caitlin’s hazel eyes go black as her brother pushes her too far, this doesn’t seem like much of a stretch.  But, she has a saving grace – humor.  For Caitlin, a joke from the right person or a funny chapter in a book is the “undo” button for anger.  “Undo” is a critical function, and one that we often seem to overlook. 

Think of your prototypical villain – Lex Luthor, Two-Face, Green Goblin, Darth Vader.  What distinguishes the supervillain from an ordinary, flawed person?  Evil?  Well, in many cases, the villain starts out as an okay guy.   Sometimes he’s a slimy political type or a petty criminal, but where does he start to devolve into supervillainy?  I’m not trying to be sexist here; the example holds for female villains as well – Catwoman, the evil queen from Snow White – not so much Cruella De Ville (what was up with that whole Dalmatian fetish anyway?).  The trigger is usually quite simple – a painful incident from which the villain is unable to let go.  The bad guy clutches the pain -- and its associated anger -- to the chest like a teddy bear, repeating the grievance as he falls asleep at night: nursery rhymes for evil doers. 

What our friend the villain fails to realize, is that the pain is a parasite.  When held close, the parasite burrows tentacles of anger into the victim, each tentacle releasing toxins.  The toxins begin to alter the victim’s mind, rewarding each negative thought with a surge of energy.  And the villain’s brain rots from within. 

Comic book hyperbole?  Sure.  But, the metaphor is pretty transparent.  And pretty pertinent.  Anger is tied to the release of chemicals within the body, epinephrine and norepinephrine.  Think about it.  How do you feel when you are angry?  Strong, right?  Powerful.  Nobody’s gonna hurt you and get away with it.  Well, of course.  Epinephrine in particular is the same chemical that gets released when you need to fight for your life.  That surge of power is a survival tactic.  Great response if you are being chased by a lion.  Crappy response for dealing with other humans.

Is anger natural?  Yep.  Can it be a productive catalyst?  Sure – moral outrage has led to some of the greatest changes in society.  And to some of the worst.  So when does anger lead to the Civil Rights Movement, and when does it lead to the Holocaust?  (Okay, before the outraged comments begin, yes, I deliberately picked extreme examples.) 

Here’s the thing about anger: it is often fear in disguise.  Remember our friend epinephrine?  It gets released when someone insults you and when someone threatens you.  Our brains aren’t always able to tell the difference between fear and anger.  In my opinion, this is where we need to find that “undo” button.  Call it what you will: humor, forgiveness, acceptance, grace.  The ability to let go of the pain, to unwrap the tentacles of anger from around our hearts, and to look openly into the face and the cause of the pain is what separates us from the supervillains.  It doesn’t take a lab accident or a volcano planet to corrode our hearts and minds – it only takes unresolved anger.  That surge of power is a trap.  It is the zombie virus that destroys our brains and bends us to its will.

Don’t let anyone fool you – not even me.  In the short term, letting go of pain doesn’t feel good.  It feels lonely and scary.  You feel weak, vulnerable without the iron mask of anger.  You miss the kickass power surge.  You miss the feeling of moral certainty.  When you put the pain down and look at it with honesty, you are forced to see how much of it was your own creation.  That sucks.

So why bother?  Why let go of the pain and anger?  After all, someone else caused this, right?  Why should you feel bad?

Well, for one thing, the cycle needs to break somewhere.  As it stands now, we are heading toward a society of villains.  And, besides, what happens to the villain in the end?

Co-Creating

“All things by immortal power,/Near or far,/Hiddenly,/To each other linked are,/That thou canst not stir a flower/Without troubling of a star.” – Francis Thompson

“No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;” – John Donne

“For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” – Newton’s Third Law

I could go on with the quotes, but I think you get the point.  We are all connected.  No action exists in a vacuum.  No choice, no word is without consequence.  We know this.  We see with incredible clarity the effects of the choices of others upon our lives.  But how often do we own our own actions and the ramifications of those actions, for good or ill?

In this era of instant connectivity, we need more than ever to be aware of the so-called “butterfly effect,” that gem of chaos theory.  The butterfly effect is a metaphor stating that the flap of a butterfly’s wings in South America can change the weather in Central Park.  It was used in reference to the predictability (or lack thereof) of long term weather patterns, referencing the incredibly complex equations upon which these patterns rest.  In life, the metaphor can be stretched a bit further.  Small, seemingly localized actions can take on tremendous consequence.  Sometimes these events are benign or amusing: a video of a laughing baby goes “viral,” a snake goes missing and within a few days has over 200,000 followers on Twitter.  Yet, other choices speak to a darker side of humanity. 

Speech is good.  I’m a writer; by default, I am a huge fan of open communication.  As a recovering, conflict-avoidant introvert, I also recognize the danger of keeping words buried within.  Yet, words have power.  The effect of language to inspire, wound, and persist is evident throughout documented history.  Through the internet, and particularly social media, we have developed a 10 second attention span (perhaps less, did you just blink?  Oh look, a kitty!) and an infinite presence.  The words that we publish with a single click last.  Forever?  Until the machines take over?  I don’t know, but they are out there.  Google yourself.  Go on, I dare you, just this once.  That comment you posted on a forum last year, it’s there.  It may even be on multiple sites.  You can’t undo it – no takebacks. 

In the 90’s, there was a great animated series called The Animaniacs.  This deliciously snarky show had a recurring short feature called “Good Idea, Bad Idea.”  The premise was simple.  A skeleton in a bowler hat enacted two similar sounding, yet disastrously different concepts.  “Good idea – climbing a mountain.  Bad idea – climbing a mountain lion.”  There are days when looking through Facebook, Twitter, etc, leads me to believe that either many people did not watch enough 90’s television, or that we integrated the wrong lessons. 

Good idea – posting a well-thought-out comment, correction, or critique below an article.  Bad idea – indiscriminately bashing the author for his views, choices, lifestyle, and hair color.

Good idea – honestly discussing an argument, misunderstanding, or other pain with a friend, spouse, etc.  Bad idea – trashing that person on your Facebook wall, their wall, or the walls of unsuspecting friends or strangers.

Good idea – posting a single correction to an error in a review of your book.  (Better idea, privately communicating that correction to the author; or just leaving well-enough alone.)  Bad idea – posting a nuclear meltdown series of rants on the reviewer’s blog.

Good idea – engaging members of other faiths in discussion about the similarities and differences of your religion.  Talking about fears, concerns, and hopes.  Bad idea (Tragically disastrous idea) – burning the holy text of another faith.

The examples could go on almost as long as these words will bounce around whatever electronic trampoline the internet provides, but I think you get the point.  Recently, I interviewed a life coach for an article I was writing.  In our discussion, she said something that stuck.  She mentioned the importance of recognizing that we “co-create” our circumstances.  This concept is fundamental.  It goes back to childhood.  Come on, say it with me… “It takes two to start a fight.”  Indulging in a culture of victimhood serves no one.  Occasionally, as with certain violent crimes, we may be true victims of circumstance.  However, we choose our circumstances more often than they choose us, and failure to acknowledge our ownership of our lives denigrates not only ourselves but humanity as a whole.

When we speak, we choose to release words that others may not want to hear.  Just as it is our right and choice to speak our “truth,” it is the right of others to disagree with or to be offended by that truth.  When I write, I force myself to pretend that I am writing in an impenetrable bubble.  I can’t put my thoughts into words if I imagine a world looking over my shoulders and being hurt or offended.  But, before I seal the envelope or hit send, I must imagine every one of those people, and admit to myself that even my most benign words may give pain or offense.  When the comments come, I have to be prepared for the reality that I will be misunderstood, that I will be judged.  Here I have choices:  lash out in pain; retreat into my hole and never type another word; or look again at my words, making corrections or accepting that my truth may not be the truth of others.

With the evolution of the ever-present, but somewhat ersatz support network of social media, it is easy to succumb to the lure of airing every emotion publicly in our search for understanding.  I’ve done it. I bet you have too.  But, how much do we have the right to share?  When it is no longer just our pain, but that of another person, does the dirty laundry get to go out on the line?  Speaking of lines, where is that line?  What is the distinction between venting about a rough day with my unruly children and exposing the growing pains of my kids to the world?  Where is the line between bitching with the girlfriends about “men” and releasing a private beef with one’s spouse to all?  And, do you really want to put that argument out there?  How long will it be before others see your role?  Can you look in that mirror?

All of these things pale before the horror of religious warfare.  Even I can’t blame modern culture for this one.  Humans have destroyed one another in the name of God or of gods for millennia.  But I was struck by the words of one of the pastors responsible for the Quran burning in Florida.  “Wayne Sapp, a pastor at the church, called the events "tragic," but said he did not regret the actions of his church.

"I in no way feel like our church is responsible for what happened," Sapp said in a telephone interview on Friday.” – NPR

If you feel strongly enough about another faith to burn its holiest text, shouldn’t you own your view enough to accept that members of that faith may have a violent or outraged reaction to your act?

One last quote to close:

“Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.” Max Ehrmann, “Desiderata”

 

 

 

The Wrong Sort of Ride

Up and down, round and round.  Horses flash, faces flicker through mirrors, a clown leers with gaping mouth at the brass donuts tossed his way.  Although I am, in essence, a roller-coaster girl, I’ve always been fascinated by merry-go-rounds.  From such a simple premise – wooden animals revolving on a platform – we receive a host of emotions.  The merry-go-round is the quintessential ride of childhood.  Picture proud parents standing next to a strapped in infant, barely old enough to sit upright, a lollypop clutching child, giggling teens leaning toward each other, or – in defiance of gravity – out over the edge of the platform.  Yet, for all its candy-coated pleasure, the merry-go-round holds an air of menace.  How many of us have lost track of our spinning child as the music stops?  Think of the scenes in TV and movie thrillers – the flashing face of menace flickering through the mirrors, the suddenly empty horse.

Amusement park rides are easy metaphors for life.  You stand in line, pay your ticket, and embark with the rest of humanity on the ups and downs.  When the ride stops, you get off – no choice.  Here I choose rollercoasters.  I prefer the wild exhilaration of a car hurtling through peaks and valleys so fast that it’s impossible to catch my breath.  The thought of circling sedately, returning to my start point over and over, exhausts me.  Life on the circle is tempting, predictable, and it tantalizes with the elusive promise of the brass ring.  For most of us, however, the ring bounces off the nose of the clown, or maybe his ear, no matter how many times it is thrown.  Yet, we try again, and again – stuck in the same act, the same argument, the same message, pounding our heads against the same wall – as we revolve in an endless, tail-chasing circle.

A few months ago, I published an article entitled Extremism? over at Blogcritics.  Upset by current events and an exchange with a friend, I wrote an opinionated piece calling for those who espouse hate and violence to be held accountable for their words.  I wasn’t the first to do this, and as the last few days have shown, certainly won’t be the last.  I stand by each of the beliefs listed in that piece.  Yet, today, I can’t help wondering if I missed something, if I, like so many before and since, fell into the trap of the brass ring.  If I throw it enough times, I’ll hit the clown’s mouth.  If I yell loud enough, my point will be heard.

That this country is angry seems undeniable.  Anger begets violence, and violence anger.  Anger is not always a bad thing, and sometimes, even violence can catalyze the best in humanity.  But, only if we can step off of the merry-go-round.  Today the calliope shows no signs of droning to a halt; the up-and-down exchange echoes without rest.  Perhaps the accelerating punditry grows from our now 24 second news cycle.  It is impossible to pause for breath or a nod of understanding when everyone from blogger to newscaster can broadcast an instant headline.  And this is the change our last decade has wrought.  For a moment, however brief, following 9/11, there was a pause, a collective inhalation, a nano-second of unity.

A little girl born on that day lost her life in this most recent national tragedy, and our nation has lost the bitter lesson of her birthday.  To be fair, the moment of national unity crumbled shortly after the attacks of 9/11, before the smoke could clear or the rubble could settle, but there was a moment of pause.  Fast forward to this week, opinion pieces hit the ether concurrent with the news of the bullets sprayed in Tuscon.  Liberals blame Conservatives for incendiary speeches.  Conservatives accuse Liberals of politicizing tragedy.  Gun sales spike as fears of government control are waved like battle flags.  Gun control lobbyists point fingers lax firearms laws.  And the merry-go-round spins.

The universal question echoes.  Why?  Why do bad things happen?  There must be a cause, an inciting event, someone or something to blame.  We must know why.  This is human nature; somewhere, we believe that if we can understand events, we can control them.  And so we spin, pointing fingers, throwing ring after ring.  To this point, no one knows the synapses that fired in Jared Loughner’s brain as his finger hit the trigger.  It is doubtful that even he understands the full series of thoughts and emotions that led to his actions.  How many of us know why we do anything?

I still believe that we are responsible for our words.  The right to free speech comes with a price.  Freedom has consequences.  But, we are all responsible for our words.  The anger that I have seen fly from my cohorts to the left of the political spectrum fuels the merry-go-round just as much as any invective from the right.  Whether the tragedy in Tucson was the detached unhinging of a single mind or the result of a turbulent national feud is almost irrelevant.  Why doesn’t matter if it won’t change the what.  The gun was fired.  The wounded will bear scars forever.  The dead are dead.  The what can’t change.  We may never know the why.  Groups and interests will continue to scream into the void.  That is the nature of our mixed and mixed-up nation.  But, on an individual level, each of us can make the choice to step from the merry-go-round, to stop throwing useless trinkets at an impossible target, and to listen to others, and to ourselves.  Perhaps if enough of us tune out the calliope of the howling mobs and ask, “what do I really feel, believe, want” the ride will slow down a bit.

Orders of Magnitude

Numbers fall out of my brain.  I sometimes picture it: a sprinkling rain of dripping digits, tumbling through the sieve holes of my mind.  Monetary amounts, dates, inventories, miles per gallon, even on occasion my own phone number – they drift mirage-like past my awareness.  “Math is haarrd,” comments my husband in a facetious falsetto, mimicking an ill-conceived Barbie from the ‘90’s, whenever my number-block rears its head.

Math isn’t really my problem.  I wouldn’t have made it (albeit kicking and screaming) through college calculus if I were unable to grasp mathematical theory.  It isn’t the theory, so much as it is the numbers themselves that I am incapable of holding.  Numbers, those little Arabic squiggles, have no intrinsic meaning for me.  They are place fillers which inadequately describe sets of individuals.  I need the shapes, the colors, the textures, the faces in order to give form to the quantities.

Glancing around the islands of the Arco station (a BP subsidiary) while I fill my gluttonous pickup, I begin to suspect that I am not alone in my abstraction of numbers.  How many barrels?  I’m an NPR junkie; numbers wander through the news.  Yet, while an interview with a Gulf fisherman or a marine biologist may hold me captive with despair, horror, and guilt, the instant statistics are given on the order of magnitude of the BP oil spill disaster, my emotional slate is wiped clean.  Numbers sanitize.  The black and white impenetrability of a large number acts as an anodyne.  The mind calibrates the degree of emotional response appropriate to the number, filters the response through the equation, and produces said response with the detached efficiency of a supercomputer.  No mess.  No fuss.

This numeric anesthesia isn’t limited to the hydra of an oil well.  Look at any disaster:  earthquake, war, storm, flood, fire, bombing, job losses, genocide, epidemic.  The greater the numbers, the more detached we become.  The individual faces of the suffering are lost in the incomprehensibility of place value.  Thousands dead hit the brain and stop.  The heart cannont comprehend orders of magnitude beyond double digits.  Nine die in international waters and the world erupts.  Hundreds face poverty, disease, homelessness, and the absence of basic freedoms in the destination of the boats, and the world continues about its business. 

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one.” Spock’s Vulcan logic is incontrovertible, yet – for humans – the one garners the emotional response that we cannot muster for the many.  I’m not decrying the need for numbers.  They are valuable place holders for the intangible.  We need to know how many homes were burned, how many have fallen in battle, how many feet of water cover the streets, how many have succumbed to disease, how many no longer have paychecks, how many face deportation, how many birds have oil caking their feathers.  We need to know how many.  But, even more, we need to know how and who.

NPR (did I mention that I’m an addict?) recently aired a segment profiling an Iraq-born artist.  In an attempt to bring comprehensibility to the order of magnitude of the war in his home country, Wafaa Bilal is having individual deaths tattooed on his back.  A map of Iraq engraved across his shoulders, he has the tattoo artist place one dot for each war casualty.  Red dots represent fallen American soldiers, and, in ultraviolet ink, one dot is placed for each of the myriad “silent dead” – Iraqi civilians – invisible until displayed under black light.  One could argue that the dots are simply another form of place holding, but Bilal holds the place of each individual beneath his own skin.  And, as the dots are placed, the numbers are given faces.  Volunteers read the name of each soul lost.

I’m not advocating that we brand ourselves with each victim of fate, but, as a society, we must delve behind the crawl-screen statistics; give air time and page space to the stories of individuals; give faces to the numbers.  “All statistics lie and all liars are statisticians.”  The platitude bounced so often through various college science classes that I have no idea to whom it can be attributed.  But it underscores an important truth:  numbers are tricky little devils.  Deceptive in their absolutism, numbers lead us to forget that they are only as objective as those who measure and present them.  Numbers blind us to the faces, allow us to forget that the “them” is comprised of individuals with lives much like our own.

Maybe I'm Stupid, But...

...I just don't get it.  I've heard all of the arguments, seen all of the presumptive Biblical support, and -- nope, I don't get  it.  What on earth does it matter whom, or if, another person loves?  Does the presence or absence of a relationship change one's talents, personality, intelligence, or gifts?  I suppose one could argue that love has a reputation for enhancing some and diminishing others of these traits, but I don't think the intrinsic traits are changed.  Priorities shift, yes, but the person is the same.

I recently reviewed a gorgeous novel (please note: novel, as in fiction) for Blogcritics.org. http://blogcritics.org/books/article/book-review-the-marien-revelation-by/

. The Marien Revelation, by Miguel Santana is a beautiful piece of writing. It is primarily the tale of two parallel lives: that of a modern Mexican-American woman named Marien, and that of a young Jewish girl of two thousand years ago named -- you guessed it -- Mary.

Now, in Santana's story, he touches on the premise that Jesus had a lover, the disciple referred to in the Gospels as "the one whom Jesus loved." Now, while judging by Santana's Facebook page and blog, he does appear to be a gay rights advocate, this particular subplot is a minor component of the book. I think this was clear in my review. In the only two comments on the review, what did people get agitated about? Yep, Jesus' sexuality.

First, The Marien Revelation is a work of fiction! Neither I, nor the book's author had actually contended that Jesus was gay. Second, what would it matter? Ignore the dogma for a moment: what would change if Jesus had had a lover -- male or female? Would his good deeds be somehow lessened? Would miracles (for believers) suddenly be non-miraculous? Would the teachings of the Gospels be void?

This is the same logic that confuses me so badly in the modern debate over gay marriage. Opponents of gay marriage use the argument that they are protecting the institution of marriage. Huh? Is my marriage somehow jeopardized by the fact that my children have classmates with two moms or two dads?

Now, there are plenty of factors that can put marriages at risk. I would argue that most of these factors arise from inside the marriage. However, I'll concede that external forces can play a role in the disintegration of a marriage. But, I fail to comprehend how the marriage of two other consenting adults can possibly diminish or threaten an existing union.

Will I somehow forget to kiss my husband goodbye if I see matching bands on the hands of a gay couple? Will he decide that he doesn't need to come home at night if two men are permitted to marry? Will we separate because one of our kids has a playdate at the home of a lesbian couple? Nope, I still don't get it.

I don't get the use of a string of nonsense and meaningless dogma to heighten fear and deprive people of what should be a pretty basic civil right. But, maybe I'm stupid...

Down With Lemmings

Greetings!  We interrupt this week’s previously scheduled thoughts on the school year to bring you a rant.  This rant has been brought to you by the conservative wing of the Republican Party which appears to be suffering from a collective delusional paranoia.  I’ll have to check with my sister on the specific diagnosis, but a break with reality has obviously occurred – either that, or they’re just mean.

In case you enjoyed a media free weekend, here’s a brief recap on the latest controversy.  Today, President Obama will brainwash thousands of schoolchildren with a diabolically masterminded scheme in which he subliminally imprints upon their impressionable young minds the virtues of – GASP! – education, hard work, and personal responsibility.  That’s right, folks.  Obviously, the man has gone too far.  He actually wants children to learn.  Well, we can’t have that!  An educated populace – can you imagine?  Picture it, a world in which children are active and curious participants in their educational experiences, a world in which the next generation becomes a horde of informed, critical thinkers.

Well, gee, I wonder why Conservatives are scared.  Why on earth would they not want children to grow up with the ability to think critically, to choose their own paths and ideas, to not be lemmings?  Oh, right.  It’s much harder to base a society on close-minded intolerance when the society is lemming-free.  So, instead, I have an idea.  Let’s clamp down as hard as possible; let’s break out the terror words; let’s appeal to the primal fears of the most vulnerable in society.

Let’s tell the working and middle classes that a focus on environmental preservation will cost them their jobs.  Let’s tell the elderly (who, by the way, are participants in a National Health Care program) that Health Care Reform will result in their premature euthanasia.  Let’s tell parents that the president is trying to go behind their backs to foist his socialist agenda on their children with a super secret speech that will be delivered nationally and that has been posted in advance on the White House web site.  Oh, yes, and in case you missed it, let’s call the president a socialist while we’re at it.  But, if one of his advisers had the temerity to make disparaging remarks about the Republican Party before he held his position, well, we’d better run that guy out of town on a rail.

Come on, people!  Americans are smarter than this.  I hope so, anyway.  If our country falls for this propaganda, then we are doomed.  No one can prevent a future of resource depletion, environmental disaster, poverty, violence and despair.  Personally, I think better of humanity.  Maybe I’m naïve, but I think that humans are capable of overcoming lemming-hood. I’ll leave you with a quote that my high school U.S. history teacher (obviously a diabolical socialist plant) posted in our classroom (Thanks, Mr. Guerra!).  Sadly, I don’t know the source, so the quote will have to be unattributed.

“That knowledge is better than ignorance, that the mind that is informed becomes the mind that understands, that the mind that understands becomes the heart that cares about beauty and goodness and about human beings.”

"Through a Glass."

We look through narrow windows.  On the countertop we see the detritus of a long day: eggshells, a drift of flour, crumpled paper, the slithering drip of candlewax.  We draw a conclusion; the room is a mess, the life is a mess.  We forget the restrictions of our view.  Our window doesn’t show us the well-laid table: the golden tower of a soufflé, the gleaming crystal and china, the glowing candles.  Someone else peers in through the dining room window; he sees only the feast, none of the labour.  He surmises a life of privilege and elegance.  Neither view is whole.

I forget this sometimes.  I forget that we only see into the lives of others through small windows.  Sometimes the other person restricts the view, sometimes we forget to walk around to see if another window is open.  I forget that even with the people closest to me, those whom I believe I know best, I am granted only a limited view.

I think that as a society, we’ve been fooled into believing that the window through which we peer represents the entire view.  A tabloid photograph, the image of a moment, has come to represent an entire person, as though we could distill a complete and complex life into one frozen millisecond.  The thirty second sound-bite purports to give us all the information we need.  One sentence becomes emblematic of an entire career.  I wonder how much this problem is exacerbated by our constant, yet cursory feed of information.  How do text messages, Facebook, Tweets, and blogs influence our views into the rooms of others?

I am an admitted text junkie, have a mild Facebook problem, and obviously I blog.  I haven’t found a use for my Twitter account yet.  As much as I find these methods of communication compelling and addictive, I wonder about the effect on my relationships.  I know firsthand how easy it is to narrow the window to an arrow-slit via text message.  I wonder what anyone would conclude about my life by reading my Facebook status – probably that some form of medication is definitely in order.  I use these media regularly, and I enjoy their use by others, but I know that I manipulate my windows to suit my needs and I’m sure others do as well.  I think the danger lies when we are seduced into believing that the fragment we see is the whole.

The danger is real.  For too long now, as a collective, we have been far to willing to be fed the picture.  We don’t walk around the house, look for the other view, check to see what’s hiding in the corner.  As long as we stay glued to our narrow window, those with designs on power, or interest in manipulating a situation can feed us whatever picture they desire.  Look at recent events:  senators, entrusted with selection of a Supreme Court Justice, base arguments not upon her record, but upon one sentence in a speech; town hall debates on health care are disrupted by cries of "SOCIALISM!"– insurance companies claim that they are sending “talking points”; senators cleared of any ethics violation are admonished by the Senate for failure to avoid the appearance of misconduct.  In high school, I had a history teacher who used to tell us “perception is more important than reality.”  Perception has become the all.  Even when presented with the reality, people cling to an initial perception.  Seriously, are folks still debating President Obama’s citizenship and religion??

“Talking points,” bullet points, slogans, and rallying cries have supplanted informed debate.  In California, a cry of “no new taxes” has snarled the budget into a hairball of previously unseen dimensions.  Now, I will admit that I do not love giving chunks of my paycheck to the government.  I don’t know anyone who looks at the withholdings on a paystub and smiles.  (If someone is out there who does this, get help, get help now.)  However, I recognize that an economy is like a biological system.  Each component depends upon the function of the others for survival.  In a body, a deficit – of red blood cells for instance—results from two factors: increased consumption and decreased production, basically from the inability of the supply to meet the demand.  The fix for a low red cell count is two-fold:  find the source of the loss and stop/slow it, increase production.  Now, if I were to look only through my own window at the state budget, I might see a place of excessive spending, where more of my income than I would like is diverted to services that I will never use.  I hope.  And this is why I walk to the next window.  How far are my worries about giving more of my income to the government removed from worries about not having an income with which to feed, house, or clothe my family and thus relying upon the government?  The distance between views is shorter than we would like to think.  Additionally, when services are cut to the most vulnerable, the overall economy suffers.  If a family receiving medical assistance is suddenly forced to divert a greater percentage of their income to medical care, that money will not be spent in the larger economy:  they won’t buy those back-to-school clothes, forget eating out.  In turn, the store clerk loses a job, the restaurant loses income, and the server loses tips.  The government loses sales tax revenue.  And the health care system?  The family will pay what they can; when they can pay no more, hospitals will be forced to eat the bill, and the burden on emergency rooms will increase.  For a system to function whether it is a body, a society, or a government, all organs must be healthy.  We can’t afford to narrow our view to our own interests.  John Donne had it right.  We are “each a part of the whole a piece of the main.”

What can we do?  For my part, whenever I catch myself thinking, ‘why would anyone do that?’ I’m going to try to remember that that person has portions of his or her room that I cannot see.  When I listen to a news article, I will ask myself what lies in the corners of the room.  I will try to look through even the windows that make me uncomfortable, that may prove me wrong.  And, I will try to pay more attention to the views that I give to others.  Maybe I’ll pick up some glass cleaner and new curtains.