When I was younger, I was huge fan of the Redwall series. (I still take a bit of pride in having been an active member of the online fanclub Dibbuns Against Bedtime that was integrated into one of the later novels. Even if I haven't read said later novel.)
So, I thought I'd reread Redwall -- why not?
The opening scene is our bumbling little novice friend, Matthias the mouse tripping across the abbey in an oversized tunic and sandals. What's my first thought?
Geez, Abbott Mortimer is certainly failing according to the Rule of Saint Benedict, which specifically instructs the Abbott to ensure that all novices and brothers have properly fitting robes.
Ah -- the joys of being a religions geek!
Showing posts with label memory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memory. Show all posts
Friday, June 27, 2008
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
But I'm a real boy -- look, no strings!
Confession: I was involved, shall we say, in middle school and high school with this youth program affiliated with the Churches of Christ called Lads to Leaders/Leaderettes. And no, despite the misogyny on steroids name, it actually wasn't all bad. I had some great fun at the conventions. I still miss my puppet. (I'm such a geek, but my god, puppetry is FUN! And Carlos - I named my puppet -- and I were together for like four or five years, man.) And, inadvertently LtL had a lot of influence on me. For one thing, I really got my taste for playing with gender from puppetry. See, there was always a shortage of boys (puppets are aimed at kids, boys don't do kids stuff), so I was frequently cross-puppeteering, because I wasn't bothered by it and I had one of the least "girly" voices. And, I not only didn't mind, I outright relished it. So. Much. Fun. I got mad the first year I was sent back to playing a girl character -- incidentally, Carlos and I stayed together, I made him wig. I was even madder the next year, when it was decided that I could handle King David in the skit, but that it was preferable to have the sole male on the team talk to himself rather than having me take over either the voice of God or Moses. But still, fun times, on the whole.
But really, debate was where it was at for me. Oh, I love a debate. I love verbally ripping someone's unsuspecting throat out because no one was expecting that from a little girl. I delight greatly in the fact that due to crossed wires, I -- a lowly, sinful, weak female made it into the guy's debate (these things were strictly segregated, of course, and yes, I probably would have emasculated some poor unsuspecting boy). And, you know, a girl's gotta cut her teeth somewhere.
Soon after we switched churches to the one with the LtL program, my dad took over coaching the debate team at the congregation. He debated in high school and college and actually knew what he was doing. So when the debate resolution for that year showed up worded in such a way that the affirmative team couldn't even argue a case but would have to simply walk in and then walk out, he contacted the national office and explained the situation. They then, of course, put him in charge of fixing it, and next thing we know my dad is in charge running the debate competition: choosing resolutions, organizing the actual competition, formulating a new score card, etc. Groovy, huh?
So for several years, he worked on trying to switch the debate category from an extension of the speaking competitions into an actual debate program. And I spent a few decent amount of time looking over his shoulder. Here's what I can tell you. The main difference between my father and many people in the CofC is that he was interested in having actual debates. My dad was a firm believer in the principle that you can not fully understand your own argument until you understand those of your opponent. Thus, he tried to pick topics for the debate resolution that were not ones the strange powers that be structure in the CofC had already "ruled" on. So we debated things like pacifism, and the ethics of the lottery, etc. Dad's goal was to get something that was timely, but not so much of a hot-button issue that people couldn't see clearly (we are talking about high schoolers for the most part), and never ever should an issue of salvation be debated in the context. The reason being that high schoolers weren't mature enough to handle that type of a debate without everybody coming away hurt.
The vetting process went something like this. Dad was in communication with a number of other debate coaches and interested parties through e-mail (every single e-mail was saved FYI, I can reconstruct the decision-making process). He'd make suggestions, take suggestions, and explain reasons why he would reject certain topics. One topic which was suggested and politely rejected every year was the issue of the necessity of baptism for salvation. Or Resolved: Baptism by immersion is essential for salvation. Their were a couple of reasons for not using that resolution. One, it isn't fair to potentially put high schoolers in the position of having to argue a case that damns them to hell. Second, the adults in the LtL aren't mature enough, for the most part, to admit that a case for salvation without baptism can indeed be made, so it wouldn't be a fair fight.
Then, he died. Whereupon virtually every principle he had tried to put into practice in the debate program was promptly ignored by the new boys in town. The first resolution picked by the new man in charge. Resolved: Baptism, by immersion, is essential for salvation. (Or whatever the wording eventually became, I was so mad I just played semantics to my heart's content.) Mad isn't strong enough. I was livid. I'm still enraged, oh dear people of the Lads to Leaders organization, if you happen to stop by.
Of course, that year my little sister and I were partners. Fran's first draft of her affirmative speech: Hi, my name is Fran, and I'm going to hell. You see, Fran's not baptized. (I'm also going to hell by their reckoning, but for different reasons.) Bad enough, right? Oh, it got worse.
Then, some darlings somewhere became offended that there little ones were being forced to consider negative arguments. That is -- there were parents and elders upset that the kids might have to consider the possibility that you could in fact be saved without being dunked. So, it was passed around by the powers that be, that a statement would be read prior to each debate at competition that it was acknowledged that the truth was that baptism, by immersion, was essential for salvation and that any argument put forth by the negative was incorrect.
I screamed. I had, at least, one complete melt-down at practice after I found that out. I contemplated murder. I contemplated a number of actions. I finally decided that the only thing to do was construct a negative case to end all negative cases. They were wrong, and I was going to prove it, even if no one heard me because the bastards had the girls separated off from the all important young men.
And so, with some help from various sympathetic sources, namely the local congregational coaches (who are both amazing people), I found that beautiful thing know as allegorical exegesis. And it was sweet. By the way, I took first place individual speaker, and my sister and I took home first place team. In part because we were the only team there that had a real negative case, and we also got one of the few female judges who knew enough about debate to understand and appreciate what we were doing. (I'll admit -- judging, incredibly subjective. I recognized the lady in question from past years.) Anyway, I felt slightly vindicated.
So, what was that long-winded story for? Well, the Christian Chronicle has an article up on the loss of the youth from the CofC. As one of the lost boys (um . . . youth), I disagree with the main point of the article. I recognize I'm an exception in a lot of ways, but still. Apparently, the CofC is losing youth because they spend too much time "debating" the issues.
We're smarter than many people think. Many of us know when we're being manipulated, when peer pressure is being used to try and force us into among youth. And that doesn't fly well. Some might leave for other denominations. Some for other religions that give them a better framework for understanding the world. Some have such a bad taste in their mouth from being played like a puppet that they won't go anywhere near God-talk. Some of us have layers of issues built up from being told for so long that we had to destroy everything we were or go to hell. Some of us become Satanic in the sense that we turn our attention to interrogating the layers of metaphors and models that have been built for the Divine in hope of catching some fleeting glimpse of the reality.
So, yeah, I learned a lot of things from Lads to Leaders. I learned to not focus too much people telling me that I'm wrong and to just use that as a motivation to make my point that much louder and that much clearer. They might not listen but at least I know where I stand. More importantly though, I think, I know about puppetry. And I know I am not a puppet to be manipulated. I am a person.
But really, debate was where it was at for me. Oh, I love a debate. I love verbally ripping someone's unsuspecting throat out because no one was expecting that from a little girl. I delight greatly in the fact that due to crossed wires, I -- a lowly, sinful, weak female made it into the guy's debate (these things were strictly segregated, of course, and yes, I probably would have emasculated some poor unsuspecting boy). And, you know, a girl's gotta cut her teeth somewhere.
Soon after we switched churches to the one with the LtL program, my dad took over coaching the debate team at the congregation. He debated in high school and college and actually knew what he was doing. So when the debate resolution for that year showed up worded in such a way that the affirmative team couldn't even argue a case but would have to simply walk in and then walk out, he contacted the national office and explained the situation. They then, of course, put him in charge of fixing it, and next thing we know my dad is in charge running the debate competition: choosing resolutions, organizing the actual competition, formulating a new score card, etc. Groovy, huh?
So for several years, he worked on trying to switch the debate category from an extension of the speaking competitions into an actual debate program. And I spent a few decent amount of time looking over his shoulder. Here's what I can tell you. The main difference between my father and many people in the CofC is that he was interested in having actual debates. My dad was a firm believer in the principle that you can not fully understand your own argument until you understand those of your opponent. Thus, he tried to pick topics for the debate resolution that were not ones the strange powers that be structure in the CofC had already "ruled" on. So we debated things like pacifism, and the ethics of the lottery, etc. Dad's goal was to get something that was timely, but not so much of a hot-button issue that people couldn't see clearly (we are talking about high schoolers for the most part), and never ever should an issue of salvation be debated in the context. The reason being that high schoolers weren't mature enough to handle that type of a debate without everybody coming away hurt.
The vetting process went something like this. Dad was in communication with a number of other debate coaches and interested parties through e-mail (every single e-mail was saved FYI, I can reconstruct the decision-making process). He'd make suggestions, take suggestions, and explain reasons why he would reject certain topics. One topic which was suggested and politely rejected every year was the issue of the necessity of baptism for salvation. Or Resolved: Baptism by immersion is essential for salvation. Their were a couple of reasons for not using that resolution. One, it isn't fair to potentially put high schoolers in the position of having to argue a case that damns them to hell. Second, the adults in the LtL aren't mature enough, for the most part, to admit that a case for salvation without baptism can indeed be made, so it wouldn't be a fair fight.
Then, he died. Whereupon virtually every principle he had tried to put into practice in the debate program was promptly ignored by the new boys in town. The first resolution picked by the new man in charge. Resolved: Baptism, by immersion, is essential for salvation. (Or whatever the wording eventually became, I was so mad I just played semantics to my heart's content.) Mad isn't strong enough. I was livid. I'm still enraged, oh dear people of the Lads to Leaders organization, if you happen to stop by.
Of course, that year my little sister and I were partners. Fran's first draft of her affirmative speech: Hi, my name is Fran, and I'm going to hell. You see, Fran's not baptized. (I'm also going to hell by their reckoning, but for different reasons.) Bad enough, right? Oh, it got worse.
Then, some darlings somewhere became offended that there little ones were being forced to consider negative arguments. That is -- there were parents and elders upset that the kids might have to consider the possibility that you could in fact be saved without being dunked. So, it was passed around by the powers that be, that a statement would be read prior to each debate at competition that it was acknowledged that the truth was that baptism, by immersion, was essential for salvation and that any argument put forth by the negative was incorrect.
I screamed. I had, at least, one complete melt-down at practice after I found that out. I contemplated murder. I contemplated a number of actions. I finally decided that the only thing to do was construct a negative case to end all negative cases. They were wrong, and I was going to prove it, even if no one heard me because the bastards had the girls separated off from the all important young men.
And so, with some help from various sympathetic sources, namely the local congregational coaches (who are both amazing people), I found that beautiful thing know as allegorical exegesis. And it was sweet. By the way, I took first place individual speaker, and my sister and I took home first place team. In part because we were the only team there that had a real negative case, and we also got one of the few female judges who knew enough about debate to understand and appreciate what we were doing. (I'll admit -- judging, incredibly subjective. I recognized the lady in question from past years.) Anyway, I felt slightly vindicated.
So, what was that long-winded story for? Well, the Christian Chronicle has an article up on the loss of the youth from the CofC. As one of the lost boys (um . . . youth), I disagree with the main point of the article. I recognize I'm an exception in a lot of ways, but still. Apparently, the CofC is losing youth because they spend too much time "debating" the issues.
“They’re not interested in debating instrumental music, women’s roles, clapping,” Jones said. “Instead, they’d rather discuss how to help the homeless population in their city, how to minister to homosexual friends, how to battle drug and alcohol abuse,” he said. “They want to know how Christ matters in the real world, not just inside the walls of a church building.”Um, no. They might be losing some of your youth because they don't have enough of an outlet for zealotry. (I've also been to youth programs focused on increasing evangelism. First of all, scary brainwashing events. Second, I'm disgusted at some of the things people are telling these kids about their "homosexual" friends, or pagan friends, or Muslim friends, because most of it is factually incorrect.) But, the Church of Christ is losing most of their youth because no one is seriously debating issues that matter. The rant above explains where my suspicion that many CofC powers that be wouldn't know a real debate if it knocked them in the face. Youth are leaving in droves because rather than debating issues the majority of CofCs would rather just stick to the doctrines handed down seventy years ago than actually engage in any serious inquiry. Youth aren't satisfied with being brain-washed and told that the answer has already determined. Especially when what we are told we must believe contradicts what we have learned in our experiences -- even if they are short ("Let no man despise you for your youth . . ." 1 Tim. 4:12). Our questions are not even respected enough to be given the dignity of an actual debate, they are simply brushed aside.
We're smarter than many people think. Many of us know when we're being manipulated, when peer pressure is being used to try and force us into among youth. And that doesn't fly well. Some might leave for other denominations. Some for other religions that give them a better framework for understanding the world. Some have such a bad taste in their mouth from being played like a puppet that they won't go anywhere near God-talk. Some of us have layers of issues built up from being told for so long that we had to destroy everything we were or go to hell. Some of us become Satanic in the sense that we turn our attention to interrogating the layers of metaphors and models that have been built for the Divine in hope of catching some fleeting glimpse of the reality.
So, yeah, I learned a lot of things from Lads to Leaders. I learned to not focus too much people telling me that I'm wrong and to just use that as a motivation to make my point that much louder and that much clearer. They might not listen but at least I know where I stand. More importantly though, I think, I know about puppetry. And I know I am not a puppet to be manipulated. I am a person.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
I don't want to start any blasphemous rumors...
So, apparently this weekend is Father's Day, a fact I had nicely been managing to repress overlook until today, when I was bluntly reminded twice. Probably helped that I have had neither the time to the inclination to watch television much and be bombarded with ads reminding me how much Dads love a gift from Best Buy.
I saw one of my friends in the UofM parking lot and stopped to chat. (I was in no rush to get to my class.) I asked her if she was doing anything on Saturday, and she said she didn't know, since it was Father's Day this weekend she'd need to spend sometime with her stepdad. I apologized and mentioned that I did my best to pay no attention to Father's Day.
One of the supervisors stopped in at work just now and asked me if I had my schedule for the weekend figured out and if I was going home. I said that I did, I'm only taking Saturday off and will be in to work on Sunday, and I wasn't planning to go home. (I had yet again successfully pushed it into the back of my corner of my cranial cavity that Sunday is Father's Day.) He commented something along the line of "oh, you're not going home for Father's Day." And, unlike my friend, my supervisor doesn't know the back story. So hear we are again. I paused a moment and resorted to my blunt cynicism, "My dad died five years ago, so there's not much of a point." (Actually, we're less than two months away from six, but I'm not so good with dates.) Whereupon I promptly get the awkward pause and the genuine but still awkward, "sorry, I didn't know."
Yeah. Six years. And I'm still not good at handling that with new people. Since I'm young, people assume that my father's still alive. After all, most Americans are still kicking at age 51. It made the first semester of Russian fun. We hadn't learned how to conjugate past tense forms yet, and language textbooks are obsessed with having students talk about their families. The main two Russian professors now know the story and don't ask me direct questions about my father. And I know past tense now, so I don't have to stare blankly and try to decide how to answer. But since we've been getting TAs, at some point it comes up. Or with A. multiple times, cause he kept forgetting.
And of course, Father's Day is a week away from his birthday and falls at roughly the same time he started the chemo treatments that killed him. (Correctly administered chemo is bad enough -- overdoses do funny things to human body.) It's why I hate summers because my brain learned to associate heat and humidity with the plethora of shit of that happened in summer 2001. With all the lies from people who aren't supposed to lie to you, and all the fuck ups from people who are supposedly among the best in their field, and all the idiots who thought I gave a damn if god just wanted him home.
And, frankly, because you knew this would have to take a theological bent, this is why I fly off the handle with persons who try to say that the problem of evil doesn't actually exist. Cause it does: there is pain, there is suffering, and I'll be damned if I can tell you the reason why. This is why nutters who say women don't need to speak in church because they can just ask their husbands or fathers at home get a particularly catty response from me. And this is why I have no patience with people who freak out because of mass tragedies that do not directly affect them. Cause if your sense of immortality is only interrupted by the 24 hour news channel, my god, you are one lucky bastard!
And then there are the people who innocently bumble into reopening old wounds. And I just don't know what to say to them.
I saw one of my friends in the UofM parking lot and stopped to chat. (I was in no rush to get to my class.) I asked her if she was doing anything on Saturday, and she said she didn't know, since it was Father's Day this weekend she'd need to spend sometime with her stepdad. I apologized and mentioned that I did my best to pay no attention to Father's Day.
One of the supervisors stopped in at work just now and asked me if I had my schedule for the weekend figured out and if I was going home. I said that I did, I'm only taking Saturday off and will be in to work on Sunday, and I wasn't planning to go home. (I had yet again successfully pushed it into the back of my corner of my cranial cavity that Sunday is Father's Day.) He commented something along the line of "oh, you're not going home for Father's Day." And, unlike my friend, my supervisor doesn't know the back story. So hear we are again. I paused a moment and resorted to my blunt cynicism, "My dad died five years ago, so there's not much of a point." (Actually, we're less than two months away from six, but I'm not so good with dates.) Whereupon I promptly get the awkward pause and the genuine but still awkward, "sorry, I didn't know."
Yeah. Six years. And I'm still not good at handling that with new people. Since I'm young, people assume that my father's still alive. After all, most Americans are still kicking at age 51. It made the first semester of Russian fun. We hadn't learned how to conjugate past tense forms yet, and language textbooks are obsessed with having students talk about their families. The main two Russian professors now know the story and don't ask me direct questions about my father. And I know past tense now, so I don't have to stare blankly and try to decide how to answer. But since we've been getting TAs, at some point it comes up. Or with A. multiple times, cause he kept forgetting.
And of course, Father's Day is a week away from his birthday and falls at roughly the same time he started the chemo treatments that killed him. (Correctly administered chemo is bad enough -- overdoses do funny things to human body.) It's why I hate summers because my brain learned to associate heat and humidity with the plethora of shit of that happened in summer 2001. With all the lies from people who aren't supposed to lie to you, and all the fuck ups from people who are supposedly among the best in their field, and all the idiots who thought I gave a damn if god just wanted him home.
And, frankly, because you knew this would have to take a theological bent, this is why I fly off the handle with persons who try to say that the problem of evil doesn't actually exist. Cause it does: there is pain, there is suffering, and I'll be damned if I can tell you the reason why. This is why nutters who say women don't need to speak in church because they can just ask their husbands or fathers at home get a particularly catty response from me. And this is why I have no patience with people who freak out because of mass tragedies that do not directly affect them. Cause if your sense of immortality is only interrupted by the 24 hour news channel, my god, you are one lucky bastard!
And then there are the people who innocently bumble into reopening old wounds. And I just don't know what to say to them.
The return of the snark-o-saurus!
So, when I was a small child, I wanted nothing more than to be an archaeologist. I drove my mother up wall bringing home books from the library with incredibly long and unpronounceable names. Carbon dating. Layers. Depressions in the earth. How to read signs from crops that a wall might be buried under that field. Oh yeah. I was growing up surrounded by a family with a scientific bent, stacks of National Geographics from my grandparents longstanding subscription, and the Discover magazines that my dad never through out. My adopted grandfather, Bracey, had cable and taped me all of a six hour or longer mini-series about dinosaurs. And, better yet, since Tennessee was once under the sea there were tons of little sea creature fossils just waiting in the back pastures for me to dig them up and tote them back home with me. And arrowheads and other fun things. The foundations remaining from the houses of early European settlers in the 'Shire. Ah, these were happy times.
And at some point, I realized that the Bible didn't mention any dinosaurs. (How I loved my menagerie of plastic dinos!) And the first chapter of Genesis disagreed with my science for kids book. So, I did what I normally did when I came across a situation like that -- I asked my dad. Who patiently explained to me the concept of a metaphor and how "day" in Genesis one doesn't have to be read as a literal day, simply as an unspecified unit of time. So, it wasn't that either book was wrong -- there were just just two different ways of describing how the earth as we know it today came to be. So, basically, I've never quite understood the push to believe the earth was created in six, literal, 24 hour days. I also have never quite grasped why the idea of evolution should be seen as hostile to concept of a god. And I will flat out state that Intelligent Design, as currently formulated by the big boys of the Religious Right, is bad theology.
So, I've been watching the reaction to the "Creation Museum" in Kentucky with great fascination. I stumbled upon a post with many a great detail in the blog BlueGrassRoots from a link in Theology and Geometry. Oh my. Incest was okay for Cain and the other youngins back in the day because their weren't as many harmful mutations in the human gene pool? And this is nitpicky, but I have trouble believing any organization who thinks that 1 in 3 equals 30%. Yes, I understand that 33.3 repeating is a bit awkward, but rounding there should be done to 33% thank you very much. They can't do basic math and they expect people to believe their "science." Okay, so I'm a little hesitant to agree with the labeling of creation science as abusive to children -- I do think more malicious intent needs to be there before we bring out the label abusive. But how on earth does this get so far with so many people? I'm not a biology major and I can comprehend the logic holes in this stuff! And then some of the just wrong statements on displays -- since when did all Greek philosophers not believe in the afterlife?
Oh, wait, I'm not supposed to think: Just listen, and believe. Sorry, my bad. Bad brain, bad bad brain, go sit in the corner!
And at some point, I realized that the Bible didn't mention any dinosaurs. (How I loved my menagerie of plastic dinos!) And the first chapter of Genesis disagreed with my science for kids book. So, I did what I normally did when I came across a situation like that -- I asked my dad. Who patiently explained to me the concept of a metaphor and how "day" in Genesis one doesn't have to be read as a literal day, simply as an unspecified unit of time. So, it wasn't that either book was wrong -- there were just just two different ways of describing how the earth as we know it today came to be. So, basically, I've never quite understood the push to believe the earth was created in six, literal, 24 hour days. I also have never quite grasped why the idea of evolution should be seen as hostile to concept of a god. And I will flat out state that Intelligent Design, as currently formulated by the big boys of the Religious Right, is bad theology.
So, I've been watching the reaction to the "Creation Museum" in Kentucky with great fascination. I stumbled upon a post with many a great detail in the blog BlueGrassRoots from a link in Theology and Geometry. Oh my. Incest was okay for Cain and the other youngins back in the day because their weren't as many harmful mutations in the human gene pool? And this is nitpicky, but I have trouble believing any organization who thinks that 1 in 3 equals 30%. Yes, I understand that 33.3 repeating is a bit awkward, but rounding there should be done to 33% thank you very much. They can't do basic math and they expect people to believe their "science." Okay, so I'm a little hesitant to agree with the labeling of creation science as abusive to children -- I do think more malicious intent needs to be there before we bring out the label abusive. But how on earth does this get so far with so many people? I'm not a biology major and I can comprehend the logic holes in this stuff! And then some of the just wrong statements on displays -- since when did all Greek philosophers not believe in the afterlife?
Oh, wait, I'm not supposed to think: Just listen, and believe. Sorry, my bad. Bad brain, bad bad brain, go sit in the corner!
Saturday, June 9, 2007
I'm just a voice in your earpiece...
...telling you no, it's not alright.
You know, you could have it so much better.
Franz Ferdinand
Now, switch bands from the UK with heavy accents.
The lyrics to "Eleanor Rigby" have stood out to me with a certain personal significance that I'm positive has nothing to do with Paul McCartney's intention. "Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name -- nobody came." Perhaps it came from the combination of having the Beatles singing in my head while the congregation was singing "None of Self, All of Thee." It always seemed to me to be describing the fate that the church I was at back in high school seemed to be pushing me towards. I was supposed to lose myself in the search for a husband, spend my time now becoming the perfect godly woman, eventually change my name to fit his, have babies, raise them in a church, devote my life to them, and (this wasn't in the plan I added it) probably wind up in a mid-life crisis resenting my hypothetical children and then doing more damage to them than if I had just kept up a career and life outside the home. Well, actually, I wasn't supposed to do that last bit. You see, if I lost enough of myself, if I died and in the church and was buried with my name in marriage, there wouldn't be anything bit of a self left to do the resenting. That might not be the intention, but that's what I experienced as the message, the goal of the socialization. Any other goals or aspirations were suspect, considered grounds for comments from other girls about whether I was a lesbian or not (oh, how I wish I could go back in time, kiss them on the cheek and tell them: sorry, sweetie, you're just not my type!) or perhaps whether or not I actually possessed a heart. Or from the teachers -- well-intentioned women, neither of whom I would describe as underdeveloped, unfullfilled or even particularly silent -- comments that I just need to calm down, that I probably will in five years. (FYI, It's been four and half, and I'm still as weird as ever, if not stranger.)
Anyway all of that leads to today's commentary on Focus on the Family, simple my mostest favoritest organization in all the Republic of Gilead. It's been a while sense I let my trainwreck fascination loose, and I'm bored today. But Fate, one visage of that Eternal Feminine, smiles down upon me, and I stumble over an article directed at my stunning demographic (the female undergrad) with the title: Faith For the Man He'll Become. Oh, it's too sweet. More! More! More! *breaks into Rocky Horror*
First, an Aristoltilean gem on dating:
Beacuse, that's right, folks, the female, being inert matter requires a male logos principle to give shape to it's substance. Women don't really exist independently of a man. You don't take interest in a woman, you prepare to find some formless woman-matter and shape it with your reason and your rationality.
But, see, now days, young (and older) members of the class of female are less likely to see themselves as woman-matter in need of a male sculptor. So, there's a learning curve for wives:
Oh, oh, teacher, I forgot, I don't actually have qualities of my own, any qualities I have must first be filtered through a relationship with a properly masculine entity. I don't actually serve, I encourage masculine friends to serve the Bride of Christ. I don't actually grow in my relationship with God, Jesus, or the Holy Spirit because I want to be closer to him, him, or it (because find me the hardcore evangelical who will personify the Holy Spirit as specifically feminine), silly me -- there is no me. I cultivate that so I can encourage a hypothetical future husband to be more Godly, that way I (oops! there I go again with first person subjectivity) won't feel so bad about destroying the last vestiges of myself in order for him to be fulfilled as a husband in his God defined role of Biblical masculinity (despite the fact that Paul explicitly states it is better to remain unmarried). I love being a tool. Use me, please!
Yes, I do realize that most marriages don't actually work like that, and no, this isn't a condemnation of guys looking to be godly, or of young women who do want to marry a godly man. There's nothing wrong with either goal. This is a mock of rhetoric that intentionally or not posits that females don't actually exist, or shouldn't actually exist, independentally of a male.
(In a twisted way, Focus on the Family is quite functional for me. All this sarcasm just builds up and builds up. At least they give me a target.)
You know, you could have it so much better.
Franz Ferdinand
Now, switch bands from the UK with heavy accents.
The lyrics to "Eleanor Rigby" have stood out to me with a certain personal significance that I'm positive has nothing to do with Paul McCartney's intention. "Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name -- nobody came." Perhaps it came from the combination of having the Beatles singing in my head while the congregation was singing "None of Self, All of Thee." It always seemed to me to be describing the fate that the church I was at back in high school seemed to be pushing me towards. I was supposed to lose myself in the search for a husband, spend my time now becoming the perfect godly woman, eventually change my name to fit his, have babies, raise them in a church, devote my life to them, and (this wasn't in the plan I added it) probably wind up in a mid-life crisis resenting my hypothetical children and then doing more damage to them than if I had just kept up a career and life outside the home. Well, actually, I wasn't supposed to do that last bit. You see, if I lost enough of myself, if I died and in the church and was buried with my name in marriage, there wouldn't be anything bit of a self left to do the resenting. That might not be the intention, but that's what I experienced as the message, the goal of the socialization. Any other goals or aspirations were suspect, considered grounds for comments from other girls about whether I was a lesbian or not (oh, how I wish I could go back in time, kiss them on the cheek and tell them: sorry, sweetie, you're just not my type!) or perhaps whether or not I actually possessed a heart. Or from the teachers -- well-intentioned women, neither of whom I would describe as underdeveloped, unfullfilled or even particularly silent -- comments that I just need to calm down, that I probably will in five years. (FYI, It's been four and half, and I'm still as weird as ever, if not stranger.)
Anyway all of that leads to today's commentary on Focus on the Family, simple my mostest favoritest organization in all the Republic of Gilead. It's been a while sense I let my trainwreck fascination loose, and I'm bored today. But Fate, one visage of that Eternal Feminine, smiles down upon me, and I stumble over an article directed at my stunning demographic (the female undergrad) with the title: Faith For the Man He'll Become. Oh, it's too sweet. More! More! More! *breaks into Rocky Horror*
First, an Aristoltilean gem on dating:
He found he had a pattern of presuming upon his interest in a specific
woman (before courtship), instead of preparing himself to lead and serve a
wife.
Beacuse, that's right, folks, the female, being inert matter requires a male logos principle to give shape to it's substance. Women don't really exist independently of a man. You don't take interest in a woman, you prepare to find some formless woman-matter and shape it with your reason and your rationality.
But, see, now days, young (and older) members of the class of female are less likely to see themselves as woman-matter in need of a male sculptor. So, there's a learning curve for wives:
So here's what I want to impart to you: There is a learning curve to a man's
leadership as a husband and father. The qualities you can see in a 50-year-old man's life were developed over 50 years. There are 25 more years of growth ahead for the 25-year-old man before it's fair to compare them. While you are called to be discerning about the characters of the men you befriend or court/date, you also have a part in encouraging these men to grow. In fact, that's part of your learning curve as you prepare for being a wife.
Oh, oh, teacher, I forgot, I don't actually have qualities of my own, any qualities I have must first be filtered through a relationship with a properly masculine entity. I don't actually serve, I encourage masculine friends to serve the Bride of Christ. I don't actually grow in my relationship with God, Jesus, or the Holy Spirit because I want to be closer to him, him, or it (because find me the hardcore evangelical who will personify the Holy Spirit as specifically feminine), silly me -- there is no me. I cultivate that so I can encourage a hypothetical future husband to be more Godly, that way I (oops! there I go again with first person subjectivity) won't feel so bad about destroying the last vestiges of myself in order for him to be fulfilled as a husband in his God defined role of Biblical masculinity (despite the fact that Paul explicitly states it is better to remain unmarried). I love being a tool. Use me, please!
Yes, I do realize that most marriages don't actually work like that, and no, this isn't a condemnation of guys looking to be godly, or of young women who do want to marry a godly man. There's nothing wrong with either goal. This is a mock of rhetoric that intentionally or not posits that females don't actually exist, or shouldn't actually exist, independentally of a male.
(In a twisted way, Focus on the Family is quite functional for me. All this sarcasm just builds up and builds up. At least they give me a target.)
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Sir and Ma'am
I grew up in the rural south. I went to a school in a farming area. Heck, I took some shop classes in high school, and after I got into them I loved them. (Oxy-acetylene cutting torch = feelings of empowerment.) I even belonged to the FFA. I was drafted for extemporaneous speech and parliamentary procedure because I could talk a blue mile, or as the shop teacher put it -- he "needed my mouth."
Another thing we were taught, both in shop class and in general 'Shire society, is to say sir and ma'am as a general rule and always to our elders. Not nessecarily every time a phrase exited our little mouths, but reasonably often within a conversation. It's stuck. I say sir and ma'am to anyone who might possibly be five minutes older than I am, and to almost anyone with whom I'm engaged in a formal interaction with. (e.g. Any cashier is a sir or ma'am. Even if he or she is probably younger than I am.) It's just a part of my scripted interaction with the world.
So, recently, I've noticed that folks are starting to react to sir or ma'am with a comment along the lines of -- What? You just called me sir? -- or -- Don't call me ma'am. I'm not that old. -- Not everyone I encounter, but a decent number of people seem to be mildly offended by sir or ma'am. Terms I view as the closest equivalent to the Russian вы or French vous in the English language. I've been informed reactions will grow increasingly hostile if I move up North.
So, sir and ma'am, have they somewhat shifted from a sign of formality and respect in language to something derogatory? It confuses my little shop class brain. Shall adherence to the rules of ma'am and sir go the way of avoidance of "barnyard" terms?
Another thing we were taught, both in shop class and in general 'Shire society, is to say sir and ma'am as a general rule and always to our elders. Not nessecarily every time a phrase exited our little mouths, but reasonably often within a conversation. It's stuck. I say sir and ma'am to anyone who might possibly be five minutes older than I am, and to almost anyone with whom I'm engaged in a formal interaction with. (e.g. Any cashier is a sir or ma'am. Even if he or she is probably younger than I am.) It's just a part of my scripted interaction with the world.
So, recently, I've noticed that folks are starting to react to sir or ma'am with a comment along the lines of -- What? You just called me sir? -- or -- Don't call me ma'am. I'm not that old. -- Not everyone I encounter, but a decent number of people seem to be mildly offended by sir or ma'am. Terms I view as the closest equivalent to the Russian вы or French vous in the English language. I've been informed reactions will grow increasingly hostile if I move up North.
So, sir and ma'am, have they somewhat shifted from a sign of formality and respect in language to something derogatory? It confuses my little shop class brain. Shall adherence to the rules of ma'am and sir go the way of avoidance of "barnyard" terms?
Friday, June 1, 2007
Faces Come Out of the Rain
You know, I think I might have managed to become stranger than I was previously.
Oh well, nothing wrong with that. Have I mentioned I like cats?
This handsome young fellow is named Bernard. Because it occured to me one morning that he should be named Bernard. And you don't question random morning recognitions like that.
Oh well, nothing wrong with that. Have I mentioned I like cats?
This handsome young fellow is named Bernard. Because it occured to me one morning that he should be named Bernard. And you don't question random morning recognitions like that.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
I got a Rejection Slip!
And it was a rejection slip with ink! Which means someone actually read the story before deciding not to publish it! Woohoo! I feel like a "real" writer now.
(Isn't sad that I'm happy about a rejection slip?)
(Isn't sad that I'm happy about a rejection slip?)
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Books
I have 60 books tagged as "commentary" at LibraryThing.
They're all my dad's.
I found that a number had notecards or other bookmarks at points discussing the proper role of women within the church.
Has anyone else even tried reconstructing a person from his or her library? Silly me.
They're all my dad's.
I found that a number had notecards or other bookmarks at points discussing the proper role of women within the church.
Has anyone else even tried reconstructing a person from his or her library? Silly me.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Inherited Heretical Psychosis
This is the ancestral home of the Hampshire crazies. Built just after the Civil War. Pretty, ain't it?"Now Uncle Gene was never an inside member of the church, he just attended." Granddaddy
I've grown up hearing about Uncle Gene -- one of those crazy bachelors of which my family tree seems to be full. Uncle Gene was my great, great uncle on my father's side, and he was a blacksmith -- big, big man. I don't think he had a scary beard like the great-grandfather on that side, but maybe I should check. I've seen the remains of his blacksmith shop; today it seems to be a popular place for 'Shire youth to hang out and get wasted while munching on Doritoes, if I were to speculate based on the amount of trash. There's a handful of knives and other gadgets he made being passed about the family according to who's in favor with whom. I learned today that when the family hosue started to settle back in the day and they were afraid that it would fall off the hill he rigged some iron bars and drove them through the house to hold it up. Legendary member of the clan, Uncle Gene.
Heard another story about him today as well. Back in the 1930s when folks in the 'Shire were starting to get cars -- my grandfather reckons that there were three families with cars, and yes, my family was one of those -- the elders at Cathey's Creek Church of Christ became all bumfuzzled by the existence of cars. Someone was going to get run over. Horses were getting spooked. Things were liable to blow up. In other words, Church of Christ elders don't deal well with change and this extends to modes of transportation.
Well, one of the elders decided that it'd be a good idea -- in order to keep the cars away from the church building -- to drive a bunch of oak posts into the perimeter of the church yard. And the elder goes ahead with his plan.
The next Sunday morning, Uncle Gene arrives at the church with the rest of the clan, in their spiffy new car, and he's not too happy to see the posts. So Uncle Gene, who is most likely past sixty by this point -- he was born in 1871 according to familysearch.org -- and walks with a big stick, hops out of the car, pulls the oak posts out of the ground by himself, sets them to the side of the church building, walks in the building, and sits down in the back row like always.
Now, this reminds me of a story about my great aunts, Alice and Anna, who were twin sisters, and a force to be reckoned with. According to my cousin, one Christmas, probably in the sixties, Alice and Anna both had new pantsuits. And it was cold. So they decided that they were going to wear their pantsuits to church at the Cathey's Creek Church of Christ. Mind you, people today will still glare at a member of the female sex if she shows up at Cathey's Creek on a Sunday morning in pants. Anna and Alice put on their pantsuits and Revlon Love that Red lipstick and they went to church, with Alice's husband and two daughters in tow. They stepped in the church building. The elders looked at Anna and Alice. Anna and Alice looked at the elders. The elders looked at them. The elders backed down. And Anna and Alice became the first two women to wear pants to the Cathey's Creek Church of Christ and unknowingly became heroines to future feminist members of the clan.
My family has a long history of challenging church authorities it seems. My madness is in the genes! Teehee!
I've grown up hearing about Uncle Gene -- one of those crazy bachelors of which my family tree seems to be full. Uncle Gene was my great, great uncle on my father's side, and he was a blacksmith -- big, big man. I don't think he had a scary beard like the great-grandfather on that side, but maybe I should check. I've seen the remains of his blacksmith shop; today it seems to be a popular place for 'Shire youth to hang out and get wasted while munching on Doritoes, if I were to speculate based on the amount of trash. There's a handful of knives and other gadgets he made being passed about the family according to who's in favor with whom. I learned today that when the family hosue started to settle back in the day and they were afraid that it would fall off the hill he rigged some iron bars and drove them through the house to hold it up. Legendary member of the clan, Uncle Gene.
Heard another story about him today as well. Back in the 1930s when folks in the 'Shire were starting to get cars -- my grandfather reckons that there were three families with cars, and yes, my family was one of those -- the elders at Cathey's Creek Church of Christ became all bumfuzzled by the existence of cars. Someone was going to get run over. Horses were getting spooked. Things were liable to blow up. In other words, Church of Christ elders don't deal well with change and this extends to modes of transportation.
Well, one of the elders decided that it'd be a good idea -- in order to keep the cars away from the church building -- to drive a bunch of oak posts into the perimeter of the church yard. And the elder goes ahead with his plan.
The next Sunday morning, Uncle Gene arrives at the church with the rest of the clan, in their spiffy new car, and he's not too happy to see the posts. So Uncle Gene, who is most likely past sixty by this point -- he was born in 1871 according to familysearch.org -- and walks with a big stick, hops out of the car, pulls the oak posts out of the ground by himself, sets them to the side of the church building, walks in the building, and sits down in the back row like always.
Now, this reminds me of a story about my great aunts, Alice and Anna, who were twin sisters, and a force to be reckoned with. According to my cousin, one Christmas, probably in the sixties, Alice and Anna both had new pantsuits. And it was cold. So they decided that they were going to wear their pantsuits to church at the Cathey's Creek Church of Christ. Mind you, people today will still glare at a member of the female sex if she shows up at Cathey's Creek on a Sunday morning in pants. Anna and Alice put on their pantsuits and Revlon Love that Red lipstick and they went to church, with Alice's husband and two daughters in tow. They stepped in the church building. The elders looked at Anna and Alice. Anna and Alice looked at the elders. The elders looked at them. The elders backed down. And Anna and Alice became the first two women to wear pants to the Cathey's Creek Church of Christ and unknowingly became heroines to future feminist members of the clan.
My family has a long history of challenging church authorities it seems. My madness is in the genes! Teehee!
Monday, March 12, 2007
Ironically placed Chick tracts
Or, how my dad continues to manage to brighten my bad days.
I'm going through cataloging my dad's books on LibraryThing. I'm going through the stacks of Bible commentaries (we have three complete multi-volume studies and numerous other one-volume studies) and noting where he left bookmarks and notes scribbled on index cards. I find a Chick Tract hiding out in one book explaining in graphic detail why the King James Version is the only English translation that you may use unless you want to burn for eternity in hell with the Catholics, the Wiccans, the homosexuals, and well, virtually everyone, I guess. What book had this Chick tract taken up residence in? -- The King James Debate: A Plea for Reason, which, according to the back material, is a refutation of KJV only arguments.
I'm amused. And, yes, Mr. Chick's tract will continue hanging out between pages 68 and 69 of The King James Debate. Because the irony is too fun. It's like modern art in my library!
I'm going through cataloging my dad's books on LibraryThing. I'm going through the stacks of Bible commentaries (we have three complete multi-volume studies and numerous other one-volume studies) and noting where he left bookmarks and notes scribbled on index cards. I find a Chick Tract hiding out in one book explaining in graphic detail why the King James Version is the only English translation that you may use unless you want to burn for eternity in hell with the Catholics, the Wiccans, the homosexuals, and well, virtually everyone, I guess. What book had this Chick tract taken up residence in? -- The King James Debate: A Plea for Reason, which, according to the back material, is a refutation of KJV only arguments.
I'm amused. And, yes, Mr. Chick's tract will continue hanging out between pages 68 and 69 of The King James Debate. Because the irony is too fun. It's like modern art in my library!
Thursday, February 1, 2007
In the presence of the Divine.
Triggered by the combination of a conversation in my "Method and Theories in the Study of Religion" class and this Queen of Wands strip.
When I very little, at the Cathey's Creek, there were two chairs at the front of the auditorium -- one on either side of the pulpit. As a small child (six or sevenish), I was convinced that one chair was for Jesus and one chair was for God. (Holy Spirit? What's that? Church of Christ, darlings, they won't touch the Holy Spirit with a ten foot pole. I didn't figure out what the Holy Spirit until I was eleven or twelve, at least, possibly older.) No one ever sat in them and the chairs actually had upholstery. It made sense that Jesus and God were present and they got to sit in the better chairs.
Then there was a gospel meeting, or a youth rally, or something, and some speaker sat in the chair.
Was my little self upset? Yes.
After this event, even though I knew that the chairs were for speakers and not deities, I still liked to think of them as being chairs for God and Jesus. Maybe this sheds some light on my attractive to iconography. If there isn't an official physical manifestation of the spiritual presence, I'll apparently intuitively make a symbol out of some object.
Don't know why I felt like sharing that, but there you go.
When I very little, at the Cathey's Creek, there were two chairs at the front of the auditorium -- one on either side of the pulpit. As a small child (six or sevenish), I was convinced that one chair was for Jesus and one chair was for God. (Holy Spirit? What's that? Church of Christ, darlings, they won't touch the Holy Spirit with a ten foot pole. I didn't figure out what the Holy Spirit until I was eleven or twelve, at least, possibly older.) No one ever sat in them and the chairs actually had upholstery. It made sense that Jesus and God were present and they got to sit in the better chairs.
Then there was a gospel meeting, or a youth rally, or something, and some speaker sat in the chair.
Was my little self upset? Yes.
After this event, even though I knew that the chairs were for speakers and not deities, I still liked to think of them as being chairs for God and Jesus. Maybe this sheds some light on my attractive to iconography. If there isn't an official physical manifestation of the spiritual presence, I'll apparently intuitively make a symbol out of some object.
Don't know why I felt like sharing that, but there you go.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Jessie's Pet Skunk: A Sordid Tale of Jealousy
My great-aunt used to tell me a story, when I was little, about her sister's pet skunk.
Jessie had adopted a baby skunk they had found in the woods. She feed it. She washed it daily, and it was generally a good little pet. During the summers, their father used to set up a cot on the porch to sleep on. He decided that he would let the skunk sleep with him.
Now my great grandfather had a little hound dog, who became jealous of the skunk. He'd sit on the front doorstep and stare at the skunk curled up next to my great grandfather.
One day, everyone left to go into town, and the skunk and little dog were left at home. When they got back, the skunk was gone and the little dog was sitting on the doorstep. Jessie went around the house looking for her pet skunk and finally came back to the front porch.
Jessie stared at the little dog. The little dog wouldn't look at Jessie.
Jessie had adopted a baby skunk they had found in the woods. She feed it. She washed it daily, and it was generally a good little pet. During the summers, their father used to set up a cot on the porch to sleep on. He decided that he would let the skunk sleep with him.
Now my great grandfather had a little hound dog, who became jealous of the skunk. He'd sit on the front doorstep and stare at the skunk curled up next to my great grandfather.
One day, everyone left to go into town, and the skunk and little dog were left at home. When they got back, the skunk was gone and the little dog was sitting on the doorstep. Jessie went around the house looking for her pet skunk and finally came back to the front porch.
Jessie stared at the little dog. The little dog wouldn't look at Jessie.
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