Liason: Work in Progress

What follows is a portion of a short story I've been working on for the last six months. I'm not going to post the whole thing because I intend to have it formally published. In addition, I doubt all of you have time to read a ten-page story. I hope you enjoy it.
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Liason

She set before me a glass of water and an apple, as though I was a little child. I was her lover, but she associated me in some ways with her teenage daughter. A younger woman might have acted in ways that were sensuous, but maternal became the default for an older one. Some men enjoy being mothered, but I was always too proud to cry out for a nursemaid.

I wasn't the first. One intrepid soul five or so years before me showed up at her front porch with a shotgun. Her long-suffering husband managed to talk his way out of getting a couple good blasts with buckshot. I liked to think of myself as somewhat classier, not behaving like a typical redneck in Clayton County. I had no intention of stealing her away or wrecking her home. Adultery was fun for its own sake. Far from remorseful or feelings of guilt, I enjoyed the secrecy and the sneaking around behind her husband’s back. But mostly I enjoyed the pursuit and the way that dares and impulsive behavior built steadily upon each other.

After the earlier incident, it had been a while since she’d sought a partner, especially one as young as me. Other women her age had found themselves unable to reconcile the years that separated our date of birth. Some had grown sons my age or a little younger, and that fact alone was enough to make them choose total abstinence. I severely doubt a man would draw the same sharp distinctions. Having daughters the same age wouldn't be a similar impediment.

I was raised by women, in a household without a father. The youngest of five, I learned how to behave and analyze the world around me from my mother and my four older sisters. Dad got a rare form of brain cancer shortly after I was born. It took him two and a half years to die, but when he finally passed I was sadly too young to remember him.

Often our present reflects our past. The husband of my latest girlfriend had been diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease, which was slowly robbing him of life. She had barely grieved. She didn’t hate him, but she held him responsible for keeping her hostage. She’d had to live for decades on end in an unfamiliar city, when she’d never wanted to leave her native New York City. In the process, she’d learned to have a healthy respect for Southern culture and Southerners, but knew she would forever be a Yankee.

Where the two had settled was his city, never hers. Mostly she’d resented him in a half-hearted, going-through-the-motions sort of way. Once, she had been very bitter, but time has a way of smoothing out rough edges even if they never go away. They’d stayed married for twenty-five years and over the years she'd devised a thousand rationalizations to justify staying with him. Beyond the one incident of which I was aware, I knew she’d taken other lovers besides me, but I never inquired in detail about them. Everyone finds a way to compensate for a difficult circumstance, some more successful than others.

To her husband and daughter I had materialized out of thin air. But then again, she’d always had her own secret, private life that she never shared with either of them. In reality, I’d been around for a while on the periphery, on the sly. We’d been sneaking around for months. Well before I arrived on the scene, she’d demanded her own space, even partitioning off the house to separate what was hers from what was his. By the time I arrived, he was too impaired to notice or to care. The plan she’d hatched was for me to move in with the family to assist with her husband’s care. Then, when he passed away, I would take his place, kind of like the changing of the guard.

It wasn’t a bad arrangement, all told. He was so ill that we could get away with being a little incautious every now and again. The diagnosis had been terminal from the beginning, so we waited patiently for him to expire. I helped with washing sheets, cleaning bathrooms, and keeping things neat and orderly. He never suspected a thing. He was a quiet sort by nature, like his daughter, and appeared to like me.

Once, I asked her if perhaps we should tell her husband what we were doing. He’d never believe me, she said. I accepted this as truth and assumed that ignorance was bliss. The euphoria of getting away with something was enough that I wanted to preserve the mystery.

She had only one rule. While he was still living, we could never use the bedroom she and her husband shared. Instead, she’d completely remodeled the upstairs attic, installing a reasonably comfortable bed in one corner. The only drawback is that it was unheated in winter and boiling hot in summer. The mattress was a little too small for me so my shins sometimes scraped against the rough, itchy pine boards.

When her husband left this life, I made my way at last into the inner sanctum, a place I’d never been allowed to enter until that very moment. Because of simple curiosity, I was very interested to know what it looked like. We returned from the funeral, energetically casting off our black mourning clothes, having played appropriately pious and grieving until that moment. The transfer was conducted like a coronation, with grave seriousness. She’d gone to the trouble to put clean, smooth sheets on the bed. Now I formally took my place next to her, seated on my throne.

Finally she was ready. The ceremony commenced. The only thing I didn’t like about our lovemaking is that she was a very poor kisser. She had thin, pursing lips, and mine were much more generous in size. Kissing her always felt a little like kissing a Muppet. I’ve always found the act of lip-locking very sensuous, and it disappointed me that we couldn’t seem to strike a balance. By now I knew my efforts in that department were mostly useless, so I decided to explore elsewhere.

I went straight to the source. The labia and all outwards parts of the vagina had completely lost all elasticity with time. They drooped downward so precipitously that it was difficult to know where the opening began. It was as though they had surrendered completely to gravity. Her breasts, lamentably, had taken the same path. They had no remaining definition and elasticity. They sagged. I’d been a touch rough on them the first time we’d had sex, and she quickly corrected me.

You’re going to have to be gentle. She smiled.

I was gentle from then on, but, honestly, she was not gentle with me. She told a story of a sadistic male gynecologist who’d taken pleasure in performing an unnecessary surgery. The procedure had greatly cut down on her sexual sensitivity. Because of this, and at her strict direction, I hunched and twisted my shoulders in a thousand different ways to produce her climax. It was uncomfortable, and her arms always wrapped tightly around my back, pushing hard from below me, side to side against both shoulder blades. It reminded me somewhat of cross-country skiing.

But when it was finished, the result was always the same. I accomplished my intended purpose once again. I was pleased for that. I stared down at her as her eyes rolled back in her head, letting out a heavy sigh. A few second later she regained full consciousness and her glassy eyes re-focused. It was as though she had slowly returned to earth from somewhere else, very far away.

Her paranoia and obsessive behavior knew no limits. I never understood what she was afraid of, really. I thought that if I was the most important person to her, then surely I would be entrusted with a few personal details here and there. But this was not to be. She adopted her moniker as a second skin, as though all vestiges and traces of her given name had been heretofore purged.

None of that mattered at first. For my part, I was strongly attracted to her and always had been. In the beginning, I could barely believe my good luck.

One day, as we were lying together once again, side by side, she spoke her mind. It was the first time she ever talked about us as a unit, as though we were something resembling a couple. She hoped I’d support her in her old age. I said nothing, but the idea did not sit well with me. I was living a fantasy on my own terms, and she had very practical dreams. When in middle age, I would still be reasonably young. She, however, would be a senior citizen. I’d just taken a lengthy part in a caretaker role, albeit not by myself. When it came her time, I might be able to count on her daughter for assistance, but most of the burden of care would fall upon me.

She’d made her sacrifices to keep us together and so had I. For the duration, I'd had to cut ties entirely with my family, who disapproved strongly of my living arrangements. They made their displeasure known loudly, enough that I might well be an orphan. Even with the pain of estrangement, I stayed with her for four long years, because at least there I had some degree of general stability and validation. I had a place to stay, food to eat, and a woman who I assumed loved me. Everything else I was sure I could handle given half a chance.

But after a while, I couldn’t handle the daily third degree when I received came home from work. Where were you? What did you do? Who did you see? She was secretive about every last one of her personal dealings, but mine had to be publicly aired. I couldn’t even pick up items in a grocery store for her. She had to do them herself. Routine errands were out of bounds for me if they involved her in some way. The pursuit and the fantasy were no more. After a year, the novelty was gone and I began to question whether this was really worth it.

All I felt now was hassle. She nixed many plan that I viewed as sensible. I could never learn her real name, real date of birth, and other information she considered private and sensitive. I simply couldn’t understand her fears and she rarely explained them to me in much detail. I chalked everything up to a kind of untreated neurosis and gritted my teeth. She called herself an odd duck, but I am sure I could understand an odd duck. She was something else, something I could never grasp.

After a while, I’d had enough. It wasn’t the looks I got from the faces of her friends and my friends. Those I had long since blocked out entirely. I hadn’t gotten bored with her. It was her daily scrutiny and the lack of transparency on her part that prevented us from having a functional relationship. I’d never gone into this expecting that we would marry, nor had she. 

We were more friends with benefits than anything else. Neither of us wanted to be tied down. I’d thought I could handle it, but after a time it began to drive me crazy. She pleaded with me to stay, but I couldn’t do it any longer. I missed my family and I wanted my life back. Negating all her insecurities had worn me out.

Quote of the Week

"We take, and must continue to take, morally hazardous actions to preserve our civilization. We must exercise our power. But we ought neither to believe that a nation is capable of perfect disinterestedness in its exercise, nor become complacent about a particular degree of interest and passion which corrupt the justice by which the exercise of power is legitimatized."-Reinhold Niebuhr

Saturday Video

Goodbye Mama goodbye to you, too Pa
Little sister you'll have to wait a while to come along
Goodbye to this house and all its memories
We just got too old to say we're wrong

Got to make one last trip to my bedroom
Guess I'll have to leave some stuff behind
It's funny how the same old crooked pictures
Just don't seem the same to me tonight

There ain't no use in shedding lonely tears, Mama
There ain't no use in shouting at me, Pa
I can't live no longer with your fears, Mama
I love you but that hasn't helped at all

Each of us must do the things that matter
All of us must see what we can see
It was long ago you must remember

You were once as young and scared as me
I don't know how hard it is yet, Mama
When you realize you're growing old
I know how hard is not to be younger

I know you've tried to keep me from the cold
Thanks for all you done, it may sound hollow
Thank you for the good times that we've known
But I must find my own road now to follow

You will all be welcome in my home
I got my suitcase, I must go now
I don't mind about the things you said

I'm sorry, Mama I don't know where I'm going
Remember little sister look ahead
Tomorrow I'll be in some other sunrise
Maybe I'll have someone at my side

Mama, give your love back to your husband
Father, you have taught me well, goodbye
Goodbye Mama, goodbye to you too Pa

When Parents Retire

My parents planned out their retirement methodically, much like Josef Stalin, with their own five-year plan. The did it the way the television commercials say you’re supposed to go about it. Mom went first in August of last year. Dad retired at the first of this summer. Now they've been hard at work fixing twenty-five years of repairs that had been pushed off for this very moment.

This is a momentous occasion for both of them, but their responses have been more muted than I expected. I suppose if you've worked for fifty years or so, the combined labor has a way of making you tired and footsore. The end for both was not an exuberant sprint, but a weary and obliging trot across the finish line. They deserve to live out the rest of their days in relatively calm, even though having reached this stage in their lives reminds me once more that life is finite. The ultimate biological machine, at least so far as we know, is the human body. It tends to wear out after a while.

I want to keep my focus upon them, not myself, but I admit I’m having some serious reservations. Much of my life is tied up in that house and the city in which it is located. My folks will be leaving both behind, retiring to the beach, as so many retired couples do. If I peer out of the front door, my attention focuses briefly, inevitably on the bus stop where I waited for middle school and half of high school. We waited by a storm drain, every morning, at the spot where the concrete met the asphalt of the road.

My bedroom had many configurations, much like an art gallery, one of which showcased a large CD player against one corner. It blared the music of the time, and my latest album purchase. Every inch of the walls, in those days, was covered by store-bought posters of musicians and movie stars. After I left for parts elsewhere, I remember how sparse and bare it seemed when it all had been taken down. My sister moved home for a while, taking my room for herself, scattering clothes across the carpeted floor. She owned several vinyl LPs and a decent player, though her purchases always came from thrift stores and garage sales.

From recent conversation with my parents, I’ve gathered that their fondness for the house is not my own. My father felt that it was too expensive to maintain. He criticized the workmen who built the house, feeling they rushed through the job. But I have to be pragmatic in my nostalgia. Being that two people now inhabit a space designed for five, it is clearly more house than they need. Moreover, it seems that my folks don’t have the same strong sense of ambivalence that I have.

My mother’s childhood home has been visited probably once in twenty years. Her father died after a severe bout of cancer, and the home reminds her of those awful final months and days. After my aunt died, Dad never had much reason to visit his parent's house, either. He might have even been ashamed of it, showing, as it did, the extreme poverty of two career textile mill workers, his own parents, who never passed 9th grade. Dad got out at 17 and never looked back. We regularly visited when my sisters and I were small children, but conditions on the ground changed.

Childhood is difficult regardless of circumstance, but I was an imaginative child. I could escape into my books and later play my guitar with a single-minded focus. As I walk through the house in my mind, I recall a million tiny confrontations and words exchanged. Every corner has a memory, even with a fresh coat of paint or an elaborately re-designed sundeck. I remember my grandmother, an unfiltered cigarette smoker, staking claim to one corner. I remember, years later, her being shocked when I picked the opposite corner to light my own cigarette.

The driveway and basement became a service station to many a car. I knew nothing of automobile repair. Dad would patch together the once-dead until I created a new problem for him to fix. On my teenage trips to Atlanta, two and a half hours away, he would make sure my turn signals were functioning properly and my windshield was clean. He didn't have to do it, and I know many parents would not. Though we've had our differences, I recognize the gesture was one of love, and I am finally willing to take it on its own terms.

The notion of shrines and monuments has never been foreign to me. Some people stare at them uncomprehendingly, briefly. They move on to the next, displaying the same reaction. To me, at least, the house is a monument to lots of things. It was where I first kissed a girl. Until they got run down, both of my father’s parents were present, housed in a basement apartment we had specially built for them. It was, outside by the mailbox, where my rebellious sister sneaked away late at night, arriving at school the next day sleep deprived.

A surprise blizzard in Birmingham dumped 18 inches on an incredulous, uncomprehending public. After the ominous green lightning subsided, around 5 am, I walked out into snow that reached my kneecaps. The scene was pristine, as no one else had yet woken up and sullied the landscape. That image has been seared into my brain, one I know to be uniquely my own.

It will probably be easier than I’m anticipating. Though I’m usually not much of a sentimentalist, here my secret romantic side shines through. Unlike my parents, I will make a silent pilgrimage to the house from time to time, if only to see what the new owners have changed. Much of me exists at that house and I measure my progress using it as a thermometer. I much don’t like the notion of my folks passing away someday, but I know they will. Maybe this can be my own silent ritual, to preserve the memories for myself and my younger relatives.

A Feminist Statement or a Bizarre Nude

This picture has been heavily photoshopped and cropped from its original state, which was more or less a traditional nude. Notice what is left out and what has been kept as is. Sometimes I enjoy playing with art. I hope you enjoy it. I feel inclined this way about once every five years or so. May it liven your Friday.

A Quaker Post for Friday

Part of being granted scholarship money to attend a Quaker conference requires writing up a synopsis. This summary will be presented at Meeting with a Concern for Business, which is the means by which we conduct formal business.

YAFCON 2014 Synopsis

From June 6 to June 11, 2014, approximately 45 Young Adults convened for YAFCON 2014 at Pendle Hill. The focus of the conference was Leadership and the Testimony of Community. Past conferences have highlighted other Quaker Testimonies, as will next year’s YAF con. 

Each day’s scheduled activities included intensive workshops. It should be noted, however, that participation was not one-sided. Group participation was integral to every program, to prevent them from becoming dry, dull lectures. In addition to a variety of Friends who hailed from all across the United States, speakers and participants also came from as far away as Rwanda and Kenya.

Most attendees had specifically Quaker jobs. For example, many worked for AFSC, FCNL, and Quaker Voluntary Service. Their employer provided them the time and the money to attend. Many attenders had known each other for years, through their Yearly Meeting and now their occupation. However, they were no less warm and accepting of newcomers. Regrettably, several Friends were unable to stay for the entire conference due to work demands. 

YAFCON 2014, though enjoyable, was a serious, intense affair. Participants were told that taking part in every activity was likely impossible and that practicing self-care was important. Many found themselves thoroughly drained halfway through each day’s activity, needing to take naps to rest and decompress. Each structured activity lasted for two hours and two sessions were scheduled each day, one in the morning and a second in the evening.

But in the meantime, there was plenty of time for fun. The second full day concluded with a campfire, s’mores, and singing. For those who had energy left, each day, a silly community building activity was scheduled shortly before dinner. While on the topic, dinner offered a variety of food options for all diets. The food was uniformly excellent. The first day we ate Indian food from a local restaurant, but the rest was prepared by the kitchen staff.  

By the end, many had made fast friends with each other. An Excel document was circulated among us, providing contact information of each of us, encouraging us to continue the connections we had made during the week. The atmosphere was pleasant and we learned quite a lot, both about the topics covered in workshops and ourselves.   

Mother Earth

A tribute to Washington, DC

You may highhand me all the time
Never go my way
But dirt is waiting for you
There's a debt you have to pay

I don't care how great you are
Don't care what you're worth

'Cause when it all ends up
You're going to go back to mother earth

You may own a city
Get all the girls
You may have an aeroplane
Flying all around the world

I don't care how great you are
Don't care what you're worth

'Cause when it all ends up
You're going to go back to mother earth

You may play the race horses
Even on a track
You may have enough money baby
To buy anything you like

I don't care how great you are
Don't care what you're worth

'Cause when it all ends up
You're got to go back to mother earth

A Queer Controversy in Worship

Before I write another word, I need to qualify my remarks. What follows is not an attempt to retaliate or to prove my superiority. I'll use my exact words from a listserve post that appears to have upset many people. Truthfully, I have probably read the entire page-long passage at least fifteen times by now and still cannot find any fault with it.

I began like this.

Today’s First Day’s Worship in the largest room began auspiciously. An older man talked first, speaking in mournful, doleful terms about how, much earlier in life, he had prayed to ask God to take away his homosexuality. The effort had failed him and now, late in life, he still held severe reservations about being gay. I must admit I wasn’t entirely sure how to best understand his message, which was certainly confessional, though I wished he could have better conveyed his intent by making it twice as long.

The Friend's messages usually take similar form. He laments his homosexuality or his advanced age, or both, and how God has seemed far too distant for comfort. I am not unsympathetic with his message, but without further direction from the Holy Spirit, what comes across is not unlike psychotherapy. By contrast, when it is my turn to speak, I challenge myself to listen for God's implicit direction, a direction that may begin with me, but speaks to everyone gathered. It has been my understanding that all who give vocal ministry have a great responsibility to enhance everyone else's Worship.

Sometimes I wonder if many Friends have forgotten this, or perhaps they never learned in the first place. A wise Friend once told me that a connection with God is like building up the strength and flexibility of a muscle in a gym. I believe this to be an accurate metaphor. My next challenge is how to motivate and lead others to their fullest potential. Those who did not grow up a Christian like me are often ignorant of the terminology, though I have found many commonalities when we've spoken at length.

My post continued.

For those of you who know me, my bisexuality should come as not much of a surprise. I’ve made no pretense of hiding it and I’ve been open about who I am. I recognize I came of age in a more tolerant time than today’s first speaker. The churches in which I spent my time seemed to think that my sexual orientation was not worth getting upset about and was none of their business in any case. No one told me I was going to hell or told me I was committing a grave, unpardonable sin. I recognize I was lucky to have not necessarily been fraught with years of guilt.

And yet, if I said that I wasn’t bothered by my own sexual orientation from time to time, then I would not being speaking truthfully. That being said, neither does it knock me to my knees. Living a defeated life full of unresolved misery may not be the best solution for anyone with any problem. A transgender friend of mine does not intend to make her life’s example a bleak Shakespearean tragedy. Instead, she tries to live boldly as she is, even though her family background is that of Fundamentalist Christianity, even though they do not accept her as she is. Life doesn’t need to beat anyone down into perpetual pain.

This particular passage was interpreted in a manner I never intended. Those of my own generation probably would understand it best and know that I wasn't implying that he should just get over it. What I meant was that there's no reason to harbor such self-hatred, at any time, for any reason. Many of us who are LGBT have reached greater understanding, finding a piece of comforting mind in the process that to the Friend still seems to be elusive. This is a tragedy, but fortunately one that is becoming less and less of a cultural issue.

My transgender Friend will not allow herself to be a dark tragedy.

I am quite fond of a movie released in 1970 entitled The Boys in the Band. As the movie reaches its traumatic conclusion, a character speaks defiantly to the entire room. "Not all faggots bump themselves off at the end of the story!" And this was what I mean, in totality. I'm not sure heterosexuals understand this, or understand the nuance that runs alongside it.

I have accepted the way that I am, for the most part. I have not lain prostrate before God, begging for a reversal of fate. Each of us learns to accept ourselves as we are, at our his or her own pace. Important as it was, I eventually believed that God had better, more important issues on his docket that were pertinent to myself, beyond that of my sexual orientation. I'm not sure what role God plays in my bisexuality, but then again I see God as mystery.

Correcting that I wasn’t straight wasn’t, in my mind, a red alert with all hands on deck. Being bisexual for me is a nagging sort of affair, nothing I would consider horribly painful. This is true for others, of course, but not everyone's coming out experience is identical. As I said just now, who I am still remains a constant nagging worry, not a catastrophic illness. But those who know me personally and intimately have observed for themselves that more self-work is to be done and that my work is not yet concluded.

At a different era, I probably would have lived a closeted life, one where my equally genuine desire for women would deflect attention from same-sex attraction. This is the privilege that many bisexuals have. The Friend who spoke this morning seemed to wonder if God has any real place in his own private anguish and whether he had simply assigned the need out of his own desire for healing power of the Divine. That seems to be a bleak, sad place for me, one in which I hope no one remains any longer than necessary.

God is everywhere, just as he stayed with Jesus as he sweated drops of blood in the Garden of Gethsemane. We are never abandoned, but we need to be guided to the proper questions.

Quakers and Native Americans

This article comes from a Native American author who uses the pen name Ojibwa. Here she discusses the unvarnished truth about the Religious Society of Friends' dealings with Indians. As you will see, much of it is positive, but some of it is not. Spanning the gap between old ways and new ways in changing times was, as you will see, quite a challenge. Every age provides difficulties, and here was one of ours.

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A new religious movement began in England in the late 1640's. The Religious Society of Friends, commonly known as Quakers, felt that it was possible for individuals to have a direct experience of Jesus Christ without the mediation of clergy. In addition, they believed in the spiritual equality of women. These two things made it easier for Native Americans, with a shamanistic and egalitarian background, to accept the Quakers among them as missionaries.

In 1681, King Charles II of England granted a land charter to William Penn. The friendly relations between the Quakers and American Indians began when William Penn signed a peace treaty with Tammany, the leader of the Lenni Lenape (Delaware) nation.

In 1755, the Quakers established the Friendly Association for Regaining and Preserving Peace with the Indians by Pacific Measures. In establishing this charity, the Quakers hoped to return to the Indian-European relations that had been established by  William Penn. Unlike other European charities at this time, the new Quaker charity spent its funds on Indians. This caused many non-Quaker Europeans to resent the association. The new charity was intended to be as conspicuous as possible—to both Indians and Europeans—and therefore serve as a shining example of how intercultural relations could be conducted.

In 1760, the Munsee prophet Papounhan and 30 of his followers visited Philadelphia and asked to see the Friends (Quakers) about religion. Unlike other Christian groups, the Quakers did not condemn Indian religions. While in the city, the Indians regularly attended meetings for worship in the Quakers’ Greater Meetinghouse.

In 1765, Quaker missionary John Woolman preached to the Munsee and Delaware. He felt that the Delaware were already communing with the divine light inside them and he sought spiritual tutelage from the Indians.

He wrote, "in mine own eyes I appeared inferior to many amongst the Indians.”

In 1795, the Quakers appointed a committee for the civilization and welfare of Indians. The plan was to introduce among the Indians what the Europeans felt were the necessary arts of civilization, including animal husbandry and the mechanical arts. The following year, the Quakers began their Indian plan by sending tools to most of the Indian nations of the eastern United States.

Following their Indian plan, five Quakers arrived at the Seneca town of Jenuchshadago in 1795. The Seneca, under the leadership of Cornplanter, were hungry because floods and frost had damaged their corn harvest. After consideration of the Quaker request to live among them and teach them, Cornplanter told them:

“Brothers, you never wished our lands, you never wished any part of our lands, therefore we are determined to try to learn your ways.”

Unlike other Christian missionaries, the Society of Friends was willing to accept the theological validity of Indian religious experiences.  The Quakers concentrated on teaching some of the young people how to read and write in English and to teach men and women modern farming techniques. They incorporated moral advice into their practical instruction. In this way, the Quakers attempted to persuade the Seneca to be sober, clean, punctual, industrious: in other words, to take up the Protestant ethic without, necessarily, becoming Protestants.

In 1808, the Quaker missionary William Kirk supervised the Ohio Shawnee as they cleared 400 acres and planted new crops such as potatoes, cabbage, and turnips. The Shawnee purchased breeding stock hoping that hogs and cattle would eventually supply them with the meat they used to get through hunting.

While Kirk was successful in teaching the Shawnee the European methods of farming, he was lax with his paperwork. Having failed to file financial statements with Washington, his mission was terminated by the government. When Kirk left, the Shawnee lost their primary source of technical advice and their experiment in agriculture waned.

In 1827, Seneca leader Red Jacket traveled to New York City to talk with the Quakers about providing aid for his people. Red Jacket trusted few persons other than the Quakers, who could not be intimidated and who were quick to expose a fraud. However, the Quakers were involved with helping the Onondaga and did not have any resources with which they could respond to the Seneca request. Two years later, Red Jacket repeated his request and this time the Quakers provided the Seneca with both farm equipment and sound advice.

The heyday of Quaker involvement with Indians came with President Ulysses Grant’s 1869 Peace Policy in which the federal government turned over the administration of Indian reservation to Christian missionary groups.

In Oklahoma, the Comanche and Kiowa were assigned to the Quakers and the army was removed from the reservation.

In Nebraska, the six reservations were placed in the care of the Hicksite Quakers, the liberal branch of the Society of Friends. A part of the Quaker plan to destroy the political and social structure of the Pawnee was the elimination of the Pawnee scouts, a group which had a long history of serving the United States army. As pacifists, the Quaker brotherhood made no allowance for the Pawnee culture, traditions, or experiences in which war experiences were glorified. Ignoring the reality of drought and grasshoppers, the Quakers saw farming as the way to convert the Pawnee.

The first Quaker Indian agent for the Big Blue Reservation (Otoe-Missouria) in Nebraska and Kansas, found 450 Otoe living in a 25-acre village which contained 30 earthlodges. The Otoe continued to use their traditional agricultural practices and to do some hunting. While the Quaker agents came with good intentions, they failed to understand the organization of the tribe. Therefore they disrupted the traditional leadership pattern, and contributed to tribal factionalism.

In Nebraska, the Quakers assumed control of the Omaha reservation. The tribal chiefs asked that the funds for the Presbyterian boarding school be withdrawn and that two day schools be established. The Quakers treated the Indians as spiritual equals but cultural inferiors who must learn European ways or perish. They stressed allotment of tribal lands and the creation of individual farms.

Overall, the Quaker experiences with the Indians during the 18th and 19th centuries were good with regard to religious tolerance. Many of the Indians, particularly those in the east, found it easy to incorporate Quaker spiritual concepts into their own religion. The Longhouse Religion, founded by Seneca religious leader Handsome Lake, for example, seems to have incorporated a number of Quaker teachings. On the other, the emphasis on war honors among the Plains tribes created some problems for the pacifistic Quakers.

During the 19th century, the Quakers were hampered by an ethnocentrism which saw the Euro-American way of life as superior to the Indian way of life. While Indian religious practices were tolerated, there was an emphasis on changing other aspects of Indian culture, including government and family.

You Have Yet to Win

Don't know where you been
I don't know what you do
But I'm so tired of lies
Why should I keep track of you?

If you won't be
True to me
Then feel free to leave

But don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again
You have yet to win
My heart, my friend

Don't know where you go
I don't know who you see
But I'm so tired of lies
What do I have to believe?

If you say you're mine
One more time
I'll know your lying to me

And don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again
You have yet to win
My heart, my friend

Don't know where you go
I don't know what you do
But I'm so tired of lies
Why should I keep track of you?

If you won't be
True to me
Feel free to leave

But don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again

Don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again
Don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again

Don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again
Don't forget I let you in
And now I let you out again

Hobby Lobby and Quakers

Most of the time when I hear or read about something offensive a Christian group has done, I almost never have to worry that Quakers have somehow been to blame. That is until now. Right on the heels of the controversial Hobby Lobby Supreme Court ruling, George Fox University, a politically conservative Quaker school in Oregon, will prohibit a transgender student from being able to live on campus. Fellow Quaker writer Daniel Borgen has written about the issue in depth.

A little Quaker 101 is in order. The Religious Society of Friends is divided into branches. I’m deliberately oversimplifying a little in my description, but Evangelical Friends form one branch. Conservative Friends form a second. Pastoral Friends are the third. And unprogrammed Friends, like me, form the fourth branch in this description. Unprogrammed Friends are probably the most liberal group. Evangelical Friends are often the most conservative.

I often use the example of Judaism to illustrate my point. Some Jews are Reformed, some are Conservative, and some are Orthodox. Each has very different religious practices and rituals. Though Friends seek to minimize rituals and creedal requirements in our daily dealings and Meetings for Worship, we have our own unique peculiarities from branch to branch. Many Evangelical Friends would not seem out of place among any Evangelical group like Conservative Presbyterians or Southern Baptists.

Many Friends from other branches are dismayed that liberties like these were taken. Not everyone within George Fox’s denomination thinks that George Fox University’s actions throughout the process are in line with their stated theological stance. Two local Oregon pastors, Dr. C. Wess Daniels, Pastor at Camas Friends Church, and Mike Huber, Pastor at West Hills Friends Church, disagree with the college’s position:

“As pastors in NW Yearly Meeting, we urge George Fox University to provide safe housing for Jayce M,” they write. “It is our understanding that our ‘Faith and Practice’ provides no theological grounds whatsoever for excluding transgender students from housing consistent with their gender identity. As Quakers, the biblical teaching that men and women are created in the image of God convicts us that ‘… all persons have equal value and are created in the image of God’ (Vision, Mission and Values: 1). The theological framework of our Faith & Practice affirms the inherent dignity of all people, regardless of their gender identity.

What is shocking to many of us is that any Quaker school would resort to such punitive, exclusionary behavior. This has been as much of a shock to us as it is to others outside the faith. Petitions decrying the action have already been drawn out and signed. Next comes whether those opposed to this heavy-handed action can manage to apply enough pressure to reverse the school’s policy and transphobic attitudes.

The most offensive aspect of this entire sordid affair is how it was conducted, in secret and without input from anyone else.

This week, the U.S. Department of Education closed (and ostensibly denied) Jayce’s complaint, granting George Fox college an unusually speedy “religious exemption,” and for the time being dashing any hope Jayce had of living on campus with the rest of his friends and classmates. Religious exemptions, it seems, are becoming the new normal. Exemptions, however, historically take years to get, according to Southwick. George Fox got theirs in just a few months. They applied for it–in secret–while meeting with Jayce and–at the time–seemingly negotiating in good faith.

“George Fox University (GFU), without telling us, requested a religious exemption to the Title IX regulations regarding housing, restrooms and athletics as they apply to transgender students,” Southwick explains. “GFU requested this exemption from the U.S. Department of Education (ED) a mere three days before denying Jayce’s final appeal to the university and a mere four days before Jayce filed his complaint with the ED. The ED granted the request for the religious exemption with surprising speed–only two months, rather than the years it has taken historically to get an exemption. GFU continues to ignore requests from PQ Monthly for comment.

One wonders if the sneaky, duplicitous manner by which George Fox University obtained an exception will become more prominent by institutes of higher learning in times to come. It flies in the face of our Testimonies, specifically the Testimony of Equality, which was used to justify Civil Rights activism on behalf of African-Americans. Equality has been used in recent years to speak to LGBT rights and marriage equality. Once again, the split between branches in Friends shows itself painfully, revealing the difficulties in what we call cross-branch work.

The Hobby Lobby Supreme Court decision, still festering, has set in motion a thousand other legal actions and forthcoming court cases. The justices who voted in favor may have sought to bring an end to the issue, but they’ve only stirred the pot. Other schools, probably those of a conservative bent, may try to restrict enrollment or housing towards transgender or gender non-conforming students. This is far from the end of the issue, far from the end of ceaseless litigation and brinkmanship.

“To my knowledge, this is the first Christian college to ask the federal government for a permission slip to discriminate against transgender students,” Southwick says. “This is worse than Hobby Lobby because George Fox is largely funded by taxpayer money.

The so-called culture wars strike again. I am reminded that our country can be a very ideologically conservative one, enough so that some members of the Supreme Court may feel they must guard against what they deem as too much liberal intrusion. This decision, in addition to being atrociously bad policy, has opened Pandora’s Box. I foresee those of us on the Left having to put out an endless procession of small fires. On this issue, litigation is the only option available to us, one that is expensive and slow as molasses. We must and we will carry on, but at great expense and expenditure of time. It shouldn’t have to be this way.

Avoiding the Perpetually Dour

Something I wrote today for Quaker Meeting.
__________

Today’s First Day’s Worship began auspiciously. An older man talked first, speaking in mournful, doleful terms about how, much earlier in life, he had prayed to ask God to take away his homosexuality. The effort had failed him and now, late in life, he still held severe reservations about being gay. I must admit I wasn’t entirely sure how to understand his message, which was certainly confessional, though I wished he could have better conveyed his intent by making it twice as long.

For those of you who know me, my bisexuality should come as not much of a surprise. I’ve made no pretense of hiding it and I’ve been open about who I am. I recognize I came of age in a more tolerant time than today’s first speaker. The churches in which I spent my time seemed to think that my sexual orientation was not worth getting upset about and was none of their business in any case. No one told me I was going to hell or told me I was committing a grave, unpardonable sin. I recognize I was lucky to have not necessarily been fraught with years of guilt.

And yet, if I said that I wasn’t bothered by my own sexual orientation from time to time, then I would not being speaking truthfully. That being said, neither does it knock me to my knees. Living a defeated life full of unresolved misery may not be the best solution for anyone with any problem. A transgender friend of mine does not intend to make his life’s example a bleak Shakespearean tragedy. Instead, he tries to live boldly as he is, even though his family background is that of conservative Christianity. Life doesn’t need to beat anyone down into a state of perpetual pain.

What has caused me problems are when I feel a need to conform to a particular standard of masculinity. Though I had athletic ability and excelled as part of my school's sports teams, I could never be male enough for comfort. I’m still more comfortable around women, with whom I can fully relax, feeling no need to respond in uncomfortable ways and without the nerves I always feel otherwise. For all I know, I may in some ways see the world more as a woman does than as a man does.

I have accepted the way that I am, for the most part. I have not lain prostrate before God, begging for a reversal of fate. Each of us learns to accept ourselves as we are, at our own pace. I suppose one might say that I thought God had better, more important issues on his docket. Correcting that I wasn’t straight was not, in my mind, a high priority. Being bisexual for me is a nagging sort of affair, nothing I would consider horribly painful. It was and still remains a constant worry and anxiety, but not a catastrophic illness.

At a different era, I probably would have lived a closeted life, one where my genuine desire for women would deflect attention from same-sex attraction. This is the privilege that many bisexuals have. The Friend who spoke this morning seemed to wonder if God has any real place in his own private anguish and whether he had simply assigned the need out of his own desire for healing power of the Divine. That seems to be a bleak place for me, one I hope no one remains any longer than necessary. God is everywhere, just as he stayed with Jesus as he sweated drops of blood in the Garden of Gethsemane. We are never abandoned, but may we be guided to the proper questions.  

Quote of the Week

"That Amendment requires the state to be a neutral in its relations with groups of religious believers and nonbelievers; it does not require the state to be their adversary. State power is no more to be used so as to handicap religions than it is to favor them."-Hugo Black

Pearls Before Swine

This is a response to a vocal ministry I gave this past week. I would very much like to know your thoughts and life experiences. I'm sure there are some very rich, very enlightening stories that would encourage everyone's comprehension and contribution.

First of all, here are the two Scriptural passage to which I made reference. Both are from the Gospel of Matthew.

1. While Jesus was having dinner at Matthew's house, many tax collectors and sinners came and ate with him and his disciples. But when the Pharisees saw this, they asked his disciples, "Why does your teacher eat with such scum?"

2. The next comes from the Sermon on the Mount. Don't waste what is holy on people who are unholy. Don't throw your pearls to pigs! They will trample the pearls, then turn and attack you.

How do we reconcile both passages? The Jesus of the first passage deliberately places himself in the company of swine, of unholy, unredeemable people. He believes that salvation is for everyone, especially those who are social outcasts. The Jesus of the second passage issues a warning for those who would try to heal or enlighten those with nefarious intentions. As Quakers, we often give people the benefit of the doubt and pride ourselves for the work we do for those who society often deems wasted effort. This has left us open for criticism that we're little more than naive do-gooders.

In a film released in the early 1960's called Viridiana, the Spanish director Luis Buñuel uses the character of an idealistic nun to advance his narrative. She seeks to feed and provide for the poor of her village, only to find that they take advantage of her good graces time and time again.

Does our good work depend only on circumstances and proper discernment? How much control do we really have over our fate? Many of us work in helping professions, with lofty and idealistic intentions. I know many Peace Corps alumnus, or those who have spent lots of time overseas in pursuit of helping the poor or underprivileged.

It seems that our life experiences make a great deal of difference in how we separate potential harm from the opportunity for service. Should we be cautious of who we intend to help while at the same time using our intuition to know where our services are needed? If so, how do we learn this sort of insight?

Saturday Video

The sweet pretty things are in bed now of course
The city fathers they’re trying to endorse
The reincarnation of Paul Revere’s horse
But the town has no need to be nervous

The ghost of Belle Starr she hands down her wits
To Jezebel the nun she violently knits
A bald wig for Jack the Ripper who sits
At the head of the chamber of commerce

Mama’s in the fact’ry
She ain’t got no shoes
Daddy’s in the alley
He’s lookin’ for the fuse
I’m in the streets
With the tombstone blues

The hysterical bride in the penny arcade
Screaming she moans, “I’ve just been made”
Then sends out for the doctor who pulls down the shade
Says, “My advice is to not let the boys in”

Now the medicine man comes and he shuffles inside
He walks with a swagger and he says to the bride
“Stop all this weeping, swallow your pride
You will not die, it’s not poison”

Mama’s in the fact’ry
She ain’t got no shoes
Daddy’s in the alley
He’s lookin’ for the fuse
I’m in the streets
With the tombstone blues

Well, John the Baptist after torturing a thief
Looks up at his hero the Commander-in-Chief
Saying, “Tell me great hero, but please make it brief
Is there a hole for me to get sick in?”

The Commander-in-Chief answers him while chasing a fly
Saying, “Death to all those who would whimper and cry”
And dropping a barbell he points to the sky
Saying, “The sun’s not yellow it’s chicken”

Mama’s in the fact’ry
She ain’t got no shoes
Daddy’s in the alley
He’s lookin’ for the fuse
I’m in the streets
With the tombstone blues

The king of the Philistines his soldiers to save
Puts jawbones on their tombstones and flatters their graves
Puts the pied pipers in prison and fattens the slaves
Then sends them out to the jungle

Gypsy Davey with a blowtorch he burns out their camps
With his faithful slave Pedro behind him he tramps
With a fantastic collection of stamps
To win friends and influence his uncle

Mama’s in the fact’ry
She ain’t got no shoes
Daddy’s in the alley
He’s lookin’ for the fuse
I’m in the streets
With the tombstone blues

The geometry of innocence flesh on the bone
Causes Galileo’s math book to get thrown
At Delilah who sits worthlessly alone
But the tears on her cheeks are from laughter

Now I wish I could give Brother Bill his great thrill
I would set him in chains at the top of the hill
Then send out for some pillars and Cecil B. DeMille
He could die happily ever after

Mama’s in the fact’ry
She ain’t got no shoes
Daddy’s in the alley
He’s lookin’ for the fuse
I’m in the streets
With the tombstone blues

Where Ma Rainey and Beethoven once unwrapped their bedroll
Tuba players now rehearse around the flagpole
And the National Bank at a profit sells road maps for the soul
To the old folks home and the college

Now I wish I could write you a melody so plain
That could hold you dear lady from going insane
That could ease you and cool you and cease the pain
Of your useless and pointless knowledge

Mama’s in the fact’ry
She ain’t got no shoes
Daddy’s in the alley
He’s lookin’ for the fuse
I’m in the streets
With the tombstone blues

Dream

This is a dream I have every now and again. The dream is true, but the details are not. If you can figure it out, please leave a comment or e-mail, because I don't have a clue.
______________

I wake up in the morning with a song stuck in my head most every morning. It dovetails well with the same reoccurring dream I've been having for years. In it, I’m waiting to perform at a very small venue with a backdrop of bricks and mortar, sitting on the front row, my guitar in hand. A woman takes a place next to me. One can tell through body language that she finds me attractive, but before long I recognize she has some unexplained, severe medical problems. I’m not sure whether it’s periodic epilepsy, a severe bodily tremor, or some other short-term neurological disorder.

My friend and fellow musician, second on the bill, points this out, as if I ought to be cautious. I think she’s harmless. I try to be kind and receptive to fans, because as a fan myself, I have been treated coldly by members of bands or by solo artists. I introduce myself in between set changes. She smiles, looking me in the eye, but says nothing. I wonder if I should try again, but decide against it. Her eyes now focus deliberately forward, seeing nothing and everything at once.

She wears a short dress while sitting awkwardly on her chair. I can’t help but manage to easily look up her skirt, but the same would be true for anyone nearby. Once I knew a woman privy to the same accidental problem, someone who had such low body fat that her knees did not completely meet. I used to worry that she had an eating disorder, but I soon learned that her medical issues were more complex than that. It was easy for her to succumb to the same inadvertent problem with modesty.

My fan followed me everywhere that night, with great loyalty. It’s difficult for me to turn people away because I’m an intrinsically lonely person by nature. I wish I hadn’t spent an isolated childhood largely by myself. If I was more well-adjusted, I might be more discriminating in a healthy sort of way. My fellow musician friend learned over again, speaking directly into my right ear. Concerned, he told me to cut her loose immediately, but I responded that she wasn’t a problem to me, at least. She’d asked only to sit next to me. It’s difficult to be irritated by someone who never talks.

I picked up the guitar for lots of reasons. Blessed with musical ability, I never found my instrument until later in life. My mother started me on piano as a young child, but I was unable to integrate the left hand and right hand parts enough to be proficient. Almost every Americans wants to play the guitar, but most of them languish inside closets, once their owners find the challenge too daunting. I was one of the few who picked it up and kept at it.

At the end of every set, I worked the crowd. Specifically, I gravitated towards those in the back of the room who were clearly impressed, showing their thoughts plainly. The more disciplined musicians had small flyers and business cards printed up for situations like these, advertising other shows scheduled in the future. These they dispersed to anyone who might show half an interest. I was much less focused, likely to my own detriment. My interest was on whatever I could get. And before I write a single word further, let me say that finding a partner for later is much more challenging than one ever might think. Even so, I enjoyed the chase, even if the odds were steep.

My fan did not change position the whole show, through three separate acts. It was as if she expected me to return. Flattered at the single-minded devotion, I returned to my seat and patiently waited for amps and keyboards and snare drums to be brought in from the cold and set down strategically on the stage. She grabbed my hand in hers and held it there in my lap. I was shocked, but not unpleasantly so. It seemed so out of character that I couldn’t help but marvel that she’d had the courage.

I’ll concede that my first thought was to shake loose from her, since I wanted to play the field a bit longer. But as that old idiom goes about a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, I began to take her more seriously.

I’d been the opener on the bill with three other local acts with slightly bigger names following me. Nothing kept me here aside from hearing the sets of other groups, most of whom I knew well because we always played the same venues. I estimated that the last band might play another hour and that would be it for the evening. I’d heard these songs multiple times before. If I ducked out the backdoor into the late autumn chill, it wouldn't matter.

C’mon. Let’s go. I motioned for the exit.

She smiled, keeping silent. She grasped my hand in hers, like before. I rarely ever opted for pure adventure, for any situation where I wasn't reasonably sure of the outcome. There had been no discussion of any sort, not where we were going, not what expectations had been set, not her thoughts, desires, or potential reservations.

She was pretty in an unusual sort of way. Her blonde hair was kept fashionably short and her clothes had clearly been purchased at a thrift store. On occasion, she seemed to have an involuntary case of the shakes or tremors, the same I'd noticed inside. During these episodes her facial expression turned momentarily frustrated and upset. But when they subsided, she resumed smiling at me.

Should we have a late dinner at a diner? This was often how I spent late evenings on nights where I was gigging. I kept obscenely late hours and they were the only places open at those times. She gave no indication of preference, and I supposed I’d need to make the decision for the two of us.

My eyes opened at that exact instant. I felt disappointed. Some dreams leave you desperate for escape. Others make you feel as though you were more than halfway done with an interesting book, only to learn that the rest of the pages weren't enclosed. The latter was true here. But the music remained, as though someone had pressed play, then repeat. At least I had that much.

Candy Says

Candy says I've come to hate my body
And all that it requires in this world
Candy says I'd like to know completely
What others so discretely talk about

I'm gonna watch the blue birds fly over my shoulder
I'm gonna watch them pass me by
Maybe when I'm older

What do you think I'd see
If I could walk away from me?

Candy says I hate the quiet places
That cause the smallest taste of what will be
Candy says I hate the big decisions
That cause endless revisions in my mind

I'm gonna watch the blue birds fly over my shoulder
I'm gonna watch them pass me by
Maybe when I'm older

What do you think I'd see
If I could walk away from me?

Queer Activism: What I Left Out

On Monday, I wrote a post I entitled "Queer Activism: When We Are Our Own Worst Enemy" Since then, I recognize that I may need to hash out a few points in greater detail.

If the LGBT community has reclaimed terms once thought to be very hurtful, why should we stop at "queer" or "dyke"? In the foreseeable future, could the same standard be applied to terms like "tranny" or "fag"? One answer might be that it's only a matter of time. "Queer" works well for everyone and is a term I assign to myself more readily than LGBTIQ or whatever it will be next year. And this leads to an overdue argument about Freedom of Speech rights.

And on the subject of "tranny", as much as I recognize the severe stigma assigned to it, we live in a country supposedly predicated on the First Amendment. Freedom of speech is important and I grit my teeth and tolerate hateful attitudes as long as mine are given the same weight. Arguments advocating for a greater good, by which everyone ought to adhere, have their place but must be considered more delicately.

Queer theorist Jack Halberstam wrote the original column I referenced. He provides additional context to what I've written.

Much of the recent discourse of offense and harm has focused on language, slang and naming. For example, controversies erupted in the last few months over the name of a longstanding nightclub in San Francisco: “Trannyshack,” and arguments ensued about whether the word “tranny” should ever be used. 

These debates led some people to distraction, and legendary queer performer, Justin Vivian Bond, posted an open letter on her Facebook page telling readers and fans in no uncertain terms that she is “angered by this trifling bullshit.” Bond reminded readers that many people are “delighted to be trannies” and not delighted to be shamed into silence by the “word police.”

Bond and others have also referred to the queer custom of re-appropriating terms of abuse and turning them into affectionate terms of endearment. When we obliterate terms like “tranny” in the quest for respectability and assimilation, we actually feed back into the very ideologies that produce the homo and trans phobia in the first place! 

Additionally, the equally contentious concept of triggering and trigger warnings should be put in proper perspective. I'll use myself as an example. From time to time, particular environmental stimuli can cause a panic attack so powerful that I want to crawl out of my skin. For reasons therapy has never been able to explain, I can't watch the body-switching movie Freaky Friday.When it was shown in front of my fifth grade class one dull Friday afternoon, I had to flee and sat quietly in the hallway by myself.

This doesn't happen all the time, thankfully. If it did, I wouldn't be able to live a normal life.

This is Halberstam's take, for better or for worse.

And so, while in the past, we turned to Freud’s mystic writing pad to think of memory as a palimpsest, burying material under layers of inscription, now we see a memory as a live wire sitting in the psyche waiting for a spark. Where once we saw traumatic recall as a set of enigmatic symptoms moving through the body, now people reduce the resurfacing of a painful memory to the catch all term of “trigger,” imagining that emotional pain is somehow similar to a pulled muscle –as something that hurts whenever it is deployed, and as an injury that requires protection.

Triggering is either a real ailment or often a feigned one. It occurs to me that we've never really heard the stories of those who are susceptible to triggering and the forms that triggering takes. Until then, we're chasing at shadows. Talking past each other is no way to find common ground, which is what we need. There's too much mistrust and too much paranoia present, which has kept us in shackles for what seems like eons. It's time to act like adults.  

Speaking Plainly

The last couple of days I’ve been privy to the middle of an lengthy academic debate. Each argument is full of so many arcane terms that making it through it is painful. Truthfully, it gives me a headache. Recognizing that, I understand why Quakers placed such an emphasis on speaking plainly and with Truth. Specious arguments sound good, but they collapse after enough careful analysis.

Matthew’s Gospel addresses the lack of humility and mistaken priorities common to the time, and perhaps ours?

And when you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words.

I may have always been a Quaker writer in the way I phrased my thoughts. My father impressed upon me the economy of words and a compelling desire to get immediately to the point. I wish I could show some that their conversation is predicated upon mistaken motives and ego-driven intentions. Identifying the futility of what to them is the most impressive-sounding, footnoted, fourteen-page polemic ever constructed is only wasted time.

Friends can rely upon an economy of language, one that is easily comprehensible to others, but not dull. The books, essays, and memoirs I enjoy reading these days never forget to broaden their audience while preserving the power of the written word. Academic discourse continues onward in its own self-limited universe. I’ve stopped trying to engage certain speakers, because I have learned that they cannot and will not understand. I seek to convey ideas for all, but they do not and likely will not.

What follows next in the Gospel of Matthew is the first telling of the Lord’s Prayer, a perfect encapsulation of Christian faith in which every single word packs a punch. Though it could have been written by a Quaker, I know it influenced several for similar reasons. Where do we use economy of words in our own lives?

Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name.

Your kingdom come,

your will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread,

and forgive us our debts,

as we also have forgiven our debtors.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

You're a Heart Breaker

You're a heartbreaker
You're a love faker
A heartbreaker playin' with fire

You're a tear snatcher
You're a poor attacher
But you can't break my heart anymore

For I've just found someone else
Who's sure to take your place
Someone I can always trust
And to fill this empty space

You're a heartbreaker
You're a love faker
But you can't break my heart anymore

You're a smooth talker
You're a real cool walker
But now you have talked out of turn

You're a high stepper
You're a eye catcher
But you won't catch my glances anymore

For I've just found someone else
Who's sure to take your place
Someone I can always trust
And to fill this empty space

You're a heartbreaker
You're a love faker
But you can't break my heart anymore

You're a heart breaker
You're a love faker
A heartbreaker playin' with fire

You're a tear snatcher
You're a quarrel patcher
But you can't break my heart anymore

For I've just found someone else
Who's sure to take your place
Someone I can always trust
And to fill this empty space

You're a heartbreaker
You're a love faker
But you can't break my heart anymore

Queer Activism: When We Are Our Own Worst Enemy

Two years ago, I attended a three-day long conference for queer Quakers. The name of the festivities was a typically awkward acronym, one that made sure to use L, G, B, T, I, and Q in sequential order. As much as I appreciated the gesture and with it a desire to be radically inclusive, it was my opinion that the sheer length of the umbrella term was getting ridiculous. When I questioned it openly, many people nodded their agreement, but just as many opposed me. The issue remains unresolved.

Queer theorist Jack Halberstam writes a recent column on this subject and others. He titles the work “You Are Triggering me! The Neo-Liberal Rhetoric of Harm, Danger and Trauma." Unlike George Will’s hurtful and clueless dismissal of trigger warnings and rape, written earlier this summer, Halberstam actually has several interesting key points to add to the discussion. Will writes out of ignorance, Halberstam writes out of personal experience and insight.

Early on in his essay, he states some substantial problems within many queer groups.

Recent controversies within queer communities around language, slang, satirical or ironic representation and perceptions of harm or offensive have created much controversy with very little humor recently, leading to demands for bans, censorship and name changes.

Debates among people who share utopian goals, in fact, are nothing new. I remember coming out in the 1970s and 1980s into a world of cultural feminism and lesbian separatism. Hardly an event would go by back then without someone feeling violated, hurt, traumatized by someone’s poorly phrased question, another person’s bad word choice or even just the hint of perfume in the room.

I experienced this flummoxing conundrum as well, wondering if I was caught in a time warp or an alternate universe. A well-meaning, kind, older black woman had been hired to gingerly take charge of the anti-racism and anti-oppression programming for the event. A good number of us were of a generation later than hers. The woman’s approach, which at times resembled finding the best way not to detonate a hand grenade, was only one aspect of the dysfunction.

I found it was depressingly easy to observe how the same flawed standards and counter-productive attitudes were adopted eagerly by young adults. One woman with a chronic illness made a point of putting her arm in a self-made splint for all to see. It reminded me of how Jesus criticized the way that the Pharisees said their prayers loudly in the streets, a gesture done only for show. They placed rules on top of rules, those that were deeply unnecessary and not for anyone's benefit but their own.

People with various kinds of fatigue, easily activated allergies, poorly managed trauma were constantly holding up proceedings to shout in loud voices about how bad they felt because someone had said, smoked, or sprayed something near them that had fouled up their breathing room. Others made adjustments, curbed their use of deodorant, tried to avoid patriarchal language, thought before they spoke, held each other, cried, moped, and ultimately disintegrated into a messy, unappealing morass of weepy, hypo-allergic, psychosomatic, anti-sex, anti-fun, anti-porn, pro-drama, pro-processing post-political subjects.

This describes the LGBT conferences I’ve attended with pinpoint accuracy. Though I met lots of interesting and friendly people, these sorts of behaviors are the reason I have no desire to ever return. What I saw displayed is the opposite side of victimhood, the narcissistic nightmare of pity. I’ve never wanted anyone to feel sorry for me and I’ve never demanded it of anyone else.

Though for three months one long summer I was kicked out of my house due to a confluence of bisexuality and homophobic parents, this is a detail I feel no desire to share with every passing stranger. I am not ashamed of it, but I question why I should always need to call it out into the open.

One particular activity asked us to define ourselves as either Caucasian or a Person of Color. We were to form a great continuum stretching from one end of the room to the other. In the act of separating out our own identities, someone decided that Jews should be categorized separately from white people. To him or her, being Jewish lent itself to inherently less white privilege than ordinary white people like me. In my opinion, Jews pass as white very easily, and are usually seen as Caucasian in a way that no black person (aside from someone very light-skinned) ever can be. This was Malcolm X's view, at least.

Furthermore, I’m not sure if opening the opportunity to rank oppressions is to anyone’s benefit. It caters too easily to baser prejudices and leaves little room for more noble sentiments.

Halberstam continues, with no small controversy,

The controversy about the term “tranny” is not a singular occurrence; such tussles have become a rather predictable and regular part of all kinds of conferences and meetings. Indeed, it is becoming difficult to speak, to perform, to offer up work nowadays without someone, somewhere claiming to feel hurt, or re-traumatized by a cultural event, a painting, a play, a speech, a casual use of slang, a characterization, a caricature and so on whether or not the “damaging” speech/characterization occurs within a complex aesthetic work.

At one conference, a play that foregrounded the mutilation of the female body in the 17th century was cast as trans-phobic and became the occasion for multiple public meetings to discuss the damage it wreaked upon trans people present at the performance. Another piece at this performance conference that featured a “fortune teller” character was accused of orientalist stereotyping. At another event I attended that focused on queer masculinities, the organizers were accused of marginalizing queer femininities.

And a class I was teaching recently featured a young person who reported feeling worried about potentially “triggering” a transgender student by using incorrect pronouns in relation to a third student who did not seem bothered by it! Another student told me recently that she had been “triggered” in a class on colonialism by the showing of The Battle of Algiers. In many of these cases offended groups demand apologies, and promises are made that future enactments of this or that theater piece will cut out the offensive parts; or, as in the case of “Trannyshack,” the name of the club was changed.

Part of me understands that transgender men and women might see the word “tranny” as offensive. But in our rush to judgment, we forget that individual expression must be equally weighted to group preference. I will say this, LGBTs know how to pitch effective boycotts. I count no fewer than five products and companies I personally avoid buying because of their stance against same-sex marriage. 19th Century Quakers boycotted the products of slave labor, and in this regard I am no different. Even so, this is a very personal choice on my part and one I would not force anyone to take on against their will.

LGBTs have enough genuine problems to deal with due to centuries of persecution, persecutions that are blessedly growing fewer and far between.  I don’t understand why we wish to invent oppressions or have a compelling need for an excess of positive gratification from the world. I often cite a quote by the poet T.S. Eliot. "The last temptation is the greatest treason: To do the right deed for the wrong reason."

I see the worth and the intent of conferences and gatherings like these, but a culture based upon attention-getting devices and extremely self-centered drama is the worst antidote imaginable. I wouldn’t begin to know how to make things saner and enjoyable. We may need to re-invent our own safe spaces, pushing away old ways that can’t be changed and couldn’t be modified in the first place.

Let’s call an end to the finger snapping moralism, let’s question contemporary desires for immediately consumable messages of progress, development and access; let’s all take a hard long look at the privileges that often prop up public performances of grief and outrage; let’s acknowledge that being queer no longer automatically means being brutalized and let’s argue for much more situated claims to marginalization, trauma and violence; let’s recognize these internal wars for the distraction they have become.

Once upon a time, the appellation “queer” named an opposition to identity politics, a commitment to coalition, a vision of alternative worlds. Now it has become a weak umbrella term for a confederation of identitarian concerns.

Hence the reason LGBTIQ etcetera always strikes me as obsessive. I’ve always had such mixed feelings about being queer that I rarely feel any reason to hold fast to my sexual orientation or even my disabilities as some strange badge of honor. By contrast, many folks have devoted lots of head space to that very concern, which is where the internal wars that become distractions are allowed to germinate. Once, this was a liability, and now it is almost a privilege.

I don’t have a lot of patience for hair-splitting and pity parties, and I don’t understand why we allow them to take over when we face a new chapter and frankly, exciting era in LGBT activism. We have benefited from roughly fifty years’ worth of activism and hard work, but we live in a very different time, one now our own. We have great promise ahead of us.

Quote of the Week

"Don't waste what is holy on people who are unholy. Don't throw your pearls to pigs! They will trample the pearls, then turn and attack you."-Jesus

Saturday Video

Well I've been to Meat City to see for myself
Well I've been to Meat City to see for myself
Been Meat City, been Meat City
Just got to give me some rock 'n roll

People were dancing like there's no tomorrow
Meat City
Finger lickin' chicken pickin'

Meat City shook down U.S.A.
Pig Meat City

Well I been to the mountain to see for myself
Well I been to the mountain to see for myself
Been the mountain, been the...
Just got to give me some rock 'n roll

Snake doctors shakin' 

like there's no tomorrow

Freak City
Chicken suckin' mother-truckin' 

Meat City shook down U.S.A.
Pig Meat City

Well I'm goin' to China to see for myself
Well I'm goin' to China to see for myself
Goin' to China goin' to
Just got to give me some rock 'n roll

People were jumping like there's no tomorrow
Meat City
Finger lickin' chicken pickin' 

Meat City shook down U.S.A.
Pig Meat City

Well I'm goin' to China
Yes I'm goin' to China
Well I'm goin' to China
Yes I'm goin' to China

I'm goin' to China
Yes, I'm goin' China
Alright

On the Question of Patriotism

When I rose to write this Fourth of July, I found I was unable to find proper words to suit my purpose. As is often the case in these times, I began to read the words of other writers and journalists I consider influences. All of this searching on my part was in the hopes my own research might provide me some inspiration. Inspiration wasn't all I found. In fact, I found a short, but powerful column far better than I could ever have done myself.

The writer's name is Ann Friedman. She has entitled her most recent work, Merriam-Webster on the 4th of July. I enclose it here in its entirety. Quakers and liberals both have issues with a war of combat and an unquestioning devotion to any government that acts wrongly or exceeds its power.

__________

Last year a non-American asked if I consider myself patriotic. After many ums and ahs and caveats, I said yes. I told him that I feel about America the way I feel about family: I didn’t choose it, I can’t control or endorse everything it does, but I do love it.

This is an important 4th of July distinction:

pa·tri·ot·ism:

love that people feel for their country

na·tion·al·ism:

a feeling that people have of being loyal to and proud of their country often with the belief that it is better and more important than other countries

jin·go·ism:

the feelings and beliefs of people who think that their country is always right and who are in favor of aggressive acts against other countries

Patriotism doesn’t ask that you establish a hierarchy and rank your country above others. Patriotism doesn’t demand your pride or even your loyalty. Patriotism doesn’t require aggressive demonstrations of your power. Patriotism is just love. And that, for all of America’s flaws, is something I feel.

Movie review: Pretty Baby

The 1978 film, Pretty Baby, was a controversial study of sex work and underaged sexual conduct set during the early 20th Century. These days, it has become something of a late Seventies curiosity, rarely seen and infrequently critiqued. Because in time more severe sexual mores have developed regarding depictions of childhood sexual abuse in the media, it would be difficult to make a film on this subject today. Child prostitution is considered an extreme societal problem, especially in the Third World, but it afflicts our own society in sufficient numbers. Pretty Baby lays its scene at the gorgeously trashy New Orleans red light district circa 1917.

A twelve-year-old Brooke Shields plays her part as Venus flawlessly, opening the way for other major studio roles and eventual great fame. Only two years before, Martin Scorsese’s 1976 blockbuster Taxi Driver featured another underage hooker in a prominent role, this time played by Jodi Foster. Unlike Venus, Foster’s Iris is not cloistered in the relative security of a whorehouse by a woman how at least tries her hand at motherhood. She’s a teenage runaway under the sway of a pimp. Venus’ existence and steady employment are preserved by a more-or-less permissive climate where prostitution is legal and where she is in control over her own life to some extent.

Scorsese’s film paints the role of Iris, the prostitute, as the victim of a sleazy, decaying, filthy system over which she has no control. In contrast, director Louis Malle makes fewer moral judgments with his work, showing Brooke Shields’ character as more resigned, unapologetic, and indebted to her chosen occupation. Some of the men are in her orbit are slimeballs, but the nature of their business does not need to resort to violence before conflicts can somehow be redeemed. Venus embraces the system unquestioningly, but the film makes us question whether if she is fully aware of the overlap in her life roles, those of the adult, the child, and the somewhere in between.

Venus falls in love with a local photographer E. J. Bellocq (Keith Carradine), who has been taking pictures of prostitutes to make money. At first, he resists her numerous advances, due to her young age, but later he concedes that he’s fallen in love with her. Bellocq wonders from the outset whether the relationship would really work and whether he’d be seen as violating propriety, even though a very different standard of acceptable feminine attitudes apply to any so-called fallen woman. That said, the two lovers certainly aren’t held to the same standards of purity. Venus comes to his house late one night unannounced, whereupon the two finally consummate their relationship.

He finds, quite quickly, that the idea of a nubile lover might be arousing in fantasy, but that Venus is quite a handful. Bellocq grows frustrated with her childish acts of rebellion and rethinks if whether having a child for a lover is really worth the strain. She pours out expensive photographic chemicals for spite and destroys glass negatives as a way of acting out, costing him money. In his company, she is half-child and half-woman, much as the moment strikes her.

Controversial in addition were graphic scenes and depictions of Brooke Shields, who at 12 was still several years under the age of consent and could not even be considered a teenager. In one, Venus poses in an almost completely nude setting, the section of the reel that caused the most critical histrionics and outrage. Some critics at the time called these scenes “child pornography” and others felt the film was a mashup of Stanley Kubrick’s Lolita and Roman Polanski. In any case, Pretty Baby made Shields a star, and as for whether these sections are gratuitous or not. I’ll leave the matter up to the viewer.

Questions remain. What is the theme of the picture? We know somehow that its star is Venus, who due to her age is not quite an adult but still very much a child. Nevertheless, to reiterate, she lives in an environment that rewards adult sexual behavior. We observe that many men want to buy her services for the sheer novelty of it. They bid for her virginity, and the winning contestant ponies up $500 for the privilege. Only the photographer Bellocq appears to love her as she is, or at least as he imagines her to be.

Though beautifully photographed, Pretty Baby has a tendency to meander. Its plot rambles, unsure whether to fully incorporate interesting, but secondary players like Hattie (Susan Sarandon) or Madam Nell Livingston (Frances Faye). Halfway through we are treated to an extended interlude of Venus and her destructive nature. Does the director believe that all young girls possess this same destructive impulsiveness, or is this behavior only unusual to the character?

Bellocq’s interest in her may largely be because of her photogenic propensities, a mere academic study. Earlier in the film, he resists repeated sexual advances from other prostitutes, begging that he is married to his work. Venus may merely be a subject, a muse of a sort, and his affection may be scientific rather than heartfelt. While what we do certainly see is easy boredom and frustration from Venus, as she misbehaves and destroys some important object or another to him.

French director Louis Malle tried his hand at American cinema for the first time with Pretty Baby. Taken through a typical French perspective, the sexuality would be less shocking. But with a mostly American cast, criticism was intense and forceful. It must be said that it is a little creepy to auction off a young girl’s virginity, and it might be objectionable as to whether or not a twelve-year-old girl has any business with a boyfriend more than twice her age. The film is worth a look, if only for the scandalous content, but must be taken first with several grains of salt.