Saturday Video

It could all be so simple
But you'd rather make it hard
Loving you is like a battle
And we both end up with scars

Tell me, who I have to be
To get some reciprocity
No one loves you more than me
And no one ever will

Is this just a silly game
That forces you to act this way?
Forces you to scream my name
Then pretend that you can't stay

Tell me, who I have to be
To get some reciprocity
No one loves you more than me
And no one ever will

No matter how I think we grow
You always seem to let me know
It ain't workin', It ain't workin' (No, it ain't workin')

And when I try to walk away
You'd hurt yourself to make me stay
This is crazy, this is crazy (This is crazy, uh-huh!)

I keep letting you back in
How can I explain myself?
As painful as this thing has been
I just can't be with no one else

See I know what we've got to do
You let go, and I'll let go too
'Cause no one's hurt me more than you
And no one ever will

No matter how I think we grow
You always seem to let me know
It ain't workin', It ain't workin' (It ain't workin')

And when I try to walk away
You'd hurt yourself to make me stay
This is crazy, this is crazy

Care for me, care for me!
I know you care for me!

There for me, there for me!
Said you'd be there for me!

Cry for me, cry for me!
You said you'd die for me!

Give to me, give to me!
Why won't you live for me?!

Looking for a Sign

One of the largest reasons I was first attracted to the Religious Society of Friends was the life and ministry of George Fox. I’ve told people before that if I ever strike it rich, I want to have a quality film made about Fox, Fell, Nayler, and Penn. It is a shame how poorly documented the English Civil War really is, even with the looming legend of Oliver Cromwell and a lengthy, complicated Civil War. I wouldn’t want the big-budget Hollywood treatment, only a truthful account full of legitimate actors and actresses.

Like George Fox, I wandered when I was depressed. Sometimes I locked myself up in my room for days at a time. Modern-day historians have speculated that Fox had what is now called bipolar disorder. Seeking a cure, he kept moving from place to place, trying to keep his head above water. Nothing much of any substance happened during most of his wanderings, but as we know he did find he was looking for in the end.

I was born a Methodist and remember as a child kneeling on the carpeted, clean altar rail next to my parents and sisters, accepting the blood and body of Jesus. I felt a bit cheated because I had to make do with wafers and grape juice in place of the real bread and wine some of my friends were given for Communion. There was a kind of reverence in taking part, the kind that kept even hyperactive children silent and still for the duration. I make note of this ceremony because this was one of the few times I felt calm and fully in touch with the Spirit. I never doubted that God was present in church, because I felt it keenly.

Many years later, when I was feeling very depressed, and living alone in an unfamiliar city, I attended a liberal Episcopal church. A man who sat next to me knew that I was unfamiliar with the liturgy and showed me the ropes. I will never forget his kindness, though I doubt our paths will ever cross again. Printed on the order of service was an offer to grant special blessings from a priest. I hadn't done anything wrong, but I felt extremely guilty anyway, which is typical of depression. I believed that God was punishing me somehow and I intended to find out what I’d done wrong.

This is how I know a little of what George Fox went through when he was a young man. Like Fox, I wandered from church to church and place to place, shutting myself off in my room for days on an end. I tried every curative imaginable and found myself only disappointed at the end. Returning to how I began this post, Fox’s manic-depression would make my imaginary screenplay that much more poignant, as would a realistic depiction of mental illness.

But in any case, back to my story. The man who had been looking out for me directed to me a priest. I remember that she was blonde-haired, middle-aged, and Australian. Her conduct towards me was gentle and calm. She asked me what had brought me to her. I was too afraid to say, afraid it would make me seem strange. Anointing the sick is a regular practice in the Episcopal Church. I had nothing substantial to ask for, unless that meant that specifically asking meant being free from pain and evil counted. Perhaps I needed a priest’s help to best convey the message.

She gently asked me a couple more times for why I felt so guilty and ashamed. Then she smiled, and retrieved a small container of Holy Oil from the altar behind her. She anointed my forehead with the sign of the cross with all the appropriate words, then bid me on my way.

I didn't wash off the oil for three days afterwards.

At the End of Life

I'm greatly indebted to the Friends Meeting where I became a Quaker. One of the long term members, who has never been anything but polite and cordial to me, is in the last stages of her life. She's been dealing with breast cancer well over a decade. It never kills her, but she knows another bout of treatment is yet to come. The impact of chemo and radiation have transformed her arms and legs, shrinking them to the circumference of birds. To protect her privacy, I'm not going to reveal her name or many other identifying details.

Knowing what I know, I could have easily looked down on this woman. Like Jesus speaking to a Samaritan woman with a bad reputation at the well, it would have been perfectly within my means to ignore her and not incorporate her into my spiritual community. She holds several shocking distinctions: former alcoholic, first woman in the state to have to pay child support, and a bad judge of character, which meant that her only daughter was physically abused by her second husband. She seemingly was incapable of knowing how to be an adequate parent.

Years later, her daughter was fired from her job as a teacher for stealing classroom equipment and having her actions recorded by surveillance cameras, so that there was undeniable proof of her guilt. Her teaching certificate was revoked due to her conviction on a felony offense. Prior to that incident, she stole multiple times from acquaintances and friends who were too embarrassed to press charges. Scars that deep never go away. She never stood a chance, due to her upbringing.

One day, several years ago, her mother received word of the cancer. I'm sure that some who knew her felt that this was karma in action. To them, she deserved nothing less than to be punished. Her very presence reflected badly on the Meeting as a whole. Why would we would welcome someone with such a troubled past? That would have been hypocrisy on our part, because Jesus welcomed everyone to his side. He sat with prostitutes and tax collectors.

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? When Jesus heard this, he said, "Healthy people don't need a doctor--sick people do. Then he added, "Now go and learn the meaning of this Scripture: 'I want you to show mercy, not offer sacrifices.' For I have come to call not those who think they are righteous, but those who know they are sinners."

It's easy to get up on our high horse, believing ourselves to surely be better than some other person with poor odds and little chance for success. When I was in my late teens, I discovered the music of Lou Reed the first time. After plowing through the Velvet Underground albums and Transformer, I cautiously dipped a toe into the super-bleak Berlin. It was morose even for me, but a few songs held up under scrutiny. 

They're taking her children away
Because they said she was not a good mother
They're taking her children away
Because she was making it with sisters and brothers
And everyone else, all of the others
Like cheap officers who would stand there and flirt in front of me

They're taking her children away
Because they said she was not a good mother
They're taking her children away
Because of the things that they heard she had done
The black Air Force sergeant was not the first one
And all of the drugs she took, every one, every one 

And I am the Water Boy, the real game's not over here
But my heart is overflowin' anyway
I'm just a tired man, no words to say
But since she lost her daughter
It's her eyes that fill with water
And I am much happier this way- Lou Reed (1972)

There's another important distinction to be noted. When I was attending Friends Meeting, I had a severe manic episode that made my behavior erratic and deranged for a couple of months. I'm told that I was belligerent and accusatory, even calling up members on the phone at their work to rant about nonsensical concerns. I raved enthusiastically and angrily for reasons I can barely fathom today. I'm told I made the secretary of one Friend cry. I was ready to beg for forgiveness in their eyes, but no apology was needed. That to me is the very definition of love and forgiveness.

Once I was discharged from the hospital, they handled the process with incredible care. When I was still too ill to drive, someone was always there to take me to Meeting. I confessed to another member of the Meeting that I felt extremely embarrassed for my earlier behavior. She said that they knew that my behavior was out of character. I spent nearly four weeks in the hospital, and emerged reborn. That's how everyone feels with a clean bill of health, trying to make sense about what happened.

As is true with many Quaker Meetings, most of the attendance is female. The women who cared for me were extremely maternal. In fact, they all mothered me. That behavior would normally have made me uncomfortable, but under the circumstances it was exactly what I needed. I'm thankful for the Friend who, as I said earlier, drove me from my home to Meeting every First Day like clockwork. She was a social worker by trade and a Hurricane Katrina evacuee. Suffice it to say, she had seen and done everything. Her work on my behalf was impeccably done.

Where I Worship today, I know that I might not be approached in such a magnanimous fashion. I would probably be farmed off to a particular committee of people, which in theory is efficient, but what is more efficient is not needing to ask permission to help someone, or to seek unity in order to help someone. In my previous location, people spontaneously sprang into action to help. It is the reason why I am thankful for that Meeting and also why I pray for the member who is now clinging to life. She is fortunate to be among fellow Quakers, who have unselfishly taken turns to make sure her last days run smoothly.

In time, people will be asking themselves the same questions. Is nature responsible, or is nurture the real culprit? I would lean more towards the latter. Alcoholism is a disease as is any addiction. But what I think is that the turmoil and trauma of a couple bad marriages made more of an impact on her daughter than anything else. I don't think the total blame of anyone's child who steals flagrantly for the pure sport of it can be lain at the feet of her mother. One may never know the answers to questions like that.

What makes a tax collector or a prostitute, for that matter? Tax collectors colluded with the Roman Empire, who was occupying them. They were seen as traitors as a result. Some tax collectors were unscrupulous and charged more than they were supposed to, pocketing the rest for themselves. This made them extremely unpopular. Prostitutes were judged as harshly as they are today, but they provided a service that men wanted. And yet most Jews of the time felt themselves far above sex workers.

To return to our original topic, many people will need to make their peace when death finally arrives. What I have learned about this Friend comes from outside sources. It was never brought up at coffee hour following Worship. The details shocked me when I learned them because they seemed entirely out of character. She was always honest about dealing with cancer. Some of those who hear news of her death will think that it served her right. Not knowing all the circumstance, I can't say anything for sure.

For a while, she was quite a pariah. Getting herself clean was completed successfully and she never returned to active addiction. She never hung her head in shame or acted as though there was anything about which to apologize. If it'd been me, I'd be much too ashamed to show my face anywhere. Her case can be seen as tragic or as a redemption story, and the decision, dear reader, remains yours.

A Few Words Before College Football Begins

I really enjoy this time of year and wanted to share a story about my own football career. It's rather modest, but I think there's a few worthwhile bits you might like.
_______

When I was in fourth grade, I decided, for the first time, to emulate the football heroes who played for my beloved Alabama Crimson Tide. Alabama is home four and a half million people, and I’d say at least a million of them are young, starstruck kids, who are awaiting their turn. We listened while playing outside to the radio or sat glued to the television screen. The importance placed on this game for so many cannot be overstated. It is what led me to the ballpark to play the game I watched every Saturday in the fall.

I arrived home directly from school, a mile’s walk, then entered my parents’ house. Inside were a variety of pads, guards, and other accouterments. My pants were the most cumbersome. I had to thread in two hip pads, remember to stuff two thigh pants the right side up, and tuck the knee pads last. The pad that protected my tailbone usually came last. I usually walked to practice with my helmet poking through my shoulder pads, holding onto the face mask. Shoulder pads were only put on at the direction of the head coach.

Finally, donning helmets meant the the real challenge was on its way. You could be sure that full-contact drills were scheduled that day, or that we were going to scrimmage. A scrimmage is a more controlled simulation of a full game. I preferred scrimmages, because in all the interminable drills, I could never see the complete picture. It gave me the opportunity to see what moves I could try against a defensive lineman or linebacker by the time the season started. Some of them worked and some didn't.

I walked through the woods to get to practice. No parents were around to take me. They hadn't seen my development over time. Within a few months, my coach took a great fondness to me. He told me that I was the best blocker he'd ever seen, high praise for a shy, introverted kid.

Due to his tutelage, I blocked the old fashioned way, with my knuckles pressed tightly together, my elbows jutting outward. Sometimes I wore thick pads on my forearms, which were cumbersome. I cast them aside, even though at the end of each day my arms were severely bruised due to frequent contact with face masks.

I had perfect form in a three point stance, and if anyone ever asked me later how I came about it, I had no answer to provide. My social anxiety was intense enough that, the only thing I could focus on was my job on the field. As far as I was concerned, I was the only person there. I did my assignment in isolation, even if I was asked to double team an opposing player. I had natural athletic ability, and because I didn't focus on the drama and momentum swings going on before me, I excelled. I rarely talked to fellow players but took the same sort of tongue-lashing everyone else did.

My Pop Warner coach was a Yellow Dog Democrat and well-connected with the Democratic Party. He was currently employed as a lobbyist. When I made a decision to quit playing, for medical reasons, he promptly took my father to a recruiting trip to the University of Kentucky Wildcats in Lexington. A former female governor of the Commonwealth was present, Martha Lane Collins. The intent was extremely transparent. The consensus gathered around the table wanted me to return to football and to play for Kentucky.

I had athletic ability, but I didn't have the size or the raw talent to play for Alabama or any a Grade A school. It was difficult news to choke down, but on one hand, I wasn't entirely surprised. Anyone on my high school team who wanted desperately to go to Alabama walked-on. I had too much pride to be a blocking dummy, and maybe end up with a scholarship my senior year, but still ride the bench. When Auburn came calling, I flatly turned them down. I simply couldn't sign up to play for the cross-state rival, the team I had grown up hating with a fiery passion for my entire boyhood. To this day, I still smile in contentment when Auburn loses. I can’t ever cheer for Auburn, even if by rare occasion it somehow benefits Alabama.

The more affluent, white, middle-class parts of Birmingham are known as Over the Mountain, because one has to drive over Red Mountain to arrive there. Over the Mountain kids rarely produce elite players. They produce solid, intelligent players who are dependable, but their play is unlikely to turn heads or show up during film study. They're also a little on the small size. I was fast for a lineman, and a bit on the small size. Some schools wanted lineman built that way, but playing at an elite school meant going against players substantially larger than me, who made it difficult to move them out of the way.

Many players I've known are aware that their first choice and only chance to start is to head to perennial losers like Vanderbilt or Kentucky or perhaps a Division II school. Another reason I didn't want to play for Kentucky because their combined record was abysmal and it would embarrass me getting destroyed by LSU, Tennessee, or Georgia every year. The only option for me was to focus on myself as an integral part of a team and see if I made enough of a splash that I might qualify for the NFL.

At that time, I was 190 pounds dripping wet, which might have worked in a Division II school and maybe a lesser Division I school. To be considered satisfactory, I needed to put on lots of weight immediately. I because I wasn't placed on steroids or performing enhancing drugs, instead I had to find a natural way. And honestly, I didn't quite get there. I got to 235, but no matter how many weights I lifted I wasn't gaining.

In situations like these, coaches routinely propose a swap between positions. Instead of working out with the offensive lineman, a coach told me that I would be working with the linebackers from now on. I had a raw, aggressive attitude, and another textbook perfect stance but I couldn't completely grasp the required drills or what player had to cover the responsibility of another. It was for this reason that I quit football. It’s very difficult to unlearn what you've learned for years and then have to scramble to pick up six years in a matter of weeks.

My life would have been very different had I gone to Lexington. I would have struggled to stay above water, while watching the elite SEC schools make mincemeat out of us. When I played in middle school and high school, we never lost. Now I'd be a tackling dummy for men in other teams who had 50-75 pounds on me, I'd watch the other side's unreal running back sprint down the field, twice as good as us and three times larger than we were.

I won’t lie that it wasn't demoralizing. I justified it by saying that I’d at least get a college education, and I this was certainly true. I was a conscientious student who fully took advantage of tutoring, but I really was trying to get out with a diploma in hand. The losses would have piled up, one on top of the other, as I began to wonder once again why I was busting my butt for a loser. Some people play for the love of the game, but I play to win. Superstars have it easy, but the rank and file do not.

Religious Skepticism

A few hundred years ago, many legitimate critiques could be made of religion. It was often punitive, restrictive, bloodthirsty, hypocritical, and two-faced. Heretics were tortured or burned at the stake, convicted in show trials that would be the envy of Stalin. Some of the more metaphorical and symbolic beliefs of Christianity were criticized roundly for not making logical sense, or discounted for seeming irrational.

Even in a more religious age, burning bushes could not be found, nor could one find undeniable evidence of the miracles Jesus performed during his ministry. Those who believed were said to be adherents to a kind of superstition, nothing more, nothing less. I hear the same things myself today from time to time. The fallacy in these arguments is that no one has bothered to look into my heart before forming their conclusions. God is exceptionally real to me. The means by which I view the Divine might be difficult and complicated. It is impossible to view God through strictly rational eyes. To me, he is not rational and he cannot be proven or disproved by either human perception or scientific proof.

In my estimation, here is where the change begun. With the arrival of the 20th Century, then with four years of bloody, pointless war, the Lost Generation blossomed. Following World War I, the first substantial seeds of Atheism and doubt were sown and spread. A war that killed millions of people and turned the world entirely upside down challenged the traditional beliefs of many. The generation of the 1920's adopted wholesale hedonism, in part due the horrors that had transpired beforehand.

I see nothing wrong with anyone's belief or lack or belief, but Atheism does create many problems. It is a relatively cut-and-dried intellectual construct on its face. But paired with non-belief in God is often a militant brand of complete distaste and anger. This radical skepticism arrives without any comprehension of why and how religion might take hold. It only examines what it is versus what it is not. Atheism may think that it is the only religious option out there, but it sometimes fails to look beyond its lofty ideals to extend tolerance and acceptance to those who do not think as it does. It does not try to see everyone as a child of God and shows little incentive to care for the poor. If Atheists participate in charity work, I apologize for my oversight, but I don't see it through my own life experience.

Many who identify as atheists have often never been exposed to Christian teaching, but some have. If they have, they’ve frequently taken company among faiths that did not always encourage them to think for themselves. They've been indoctrinated instead with a few strategic untruths that have no basis in Scripture. If they took the opportunity to learn a few legitimate religious teachings here and there, and what they really mean, I think their anger would soften. Getting to that stage is the most difficult part altogether, and can only progress when a person is ready. Those who have to build up their spiritual and altruistic muscles find it a difficult, but worthwhile exercise.

I blame the people who teach the evils of faith without giving a fair shake to the other side. Every Christian denomination cherry picks different parts of the book to emphasize its perspective. It should be said that no faith group believes the whole book, regardless of what some conservatives may think. This will be the case forever. I’ve been criticized when those hostile of my religion use truncated and misinterpreted Scriptural passage that seem foolish in when taken in out of context. I am not looking to be right; I am merely seeking reconciliation with the ultimate goal, one where we all might find understanding.

I am asking to be given the benefit of the doubt. Late last week, I got into the middle of a pointless fight over religion with several non-believers. If I had it to go over again, I would not have done it. All it did was make me upset. The reason I even put the time in to an expansive argument is that I really worry that religion and faith are drifting away. I fear that all the worthwhile lessons to be learned will be discarded. Every generation needs to know the Golden Rule. We ought to do unto others as we would have them do unto us. That is not often what I experienced from those who are not religious.

My hope is that those who are entirely opposed to organized religion will see things differently in time. I myself went through a period where I rejected Christianity in my adolescence. I returned to the faith years later, having taken the time to appreciate where I started out. I would not have become a believer if I hadn't wandered in the wilderness. It might take a while longer for others, which is why I pray to God for patience. Paul persecuted Christians for a good long while, but then had a direct experience with God, where he was struck blind for days. He received a direct communication with Jesus, who asked why Paul was persecuting his people.

Paul’s example shows that everyone’s religious beliefs can change with my time. It’s not my place to say how and why that change will occur, or even if it will. I don’t think that everyone should believe exactly as I do, either. But I do ask that we have enough things in common that we can come together in a spirit of sisterhood and brotherhood. Everyone progresses at his or her own rate. I only want activists to recognize that, as I mentioned earlier, patience is a virtue and a frustrating, frantic pace only keeps us upset.

Some think that being unflinchingly tough is the best way to resolve a crisis. There have been times in my life where I’ve felt that I needed to lash out to make my point. But in the end, I’ve recognized that this approach has severe weaknesses. Taking the high ground really is the best way, even if it requires a person to swallow his or her pride.

Quote of the Week

I've had a lot of different experiences in music over the years. And not everything you do can satisfy everybody's idealized version of you.-Elvis Costello

Ask Andrew W.K.: My Dad Is a Right-Wing Asshole

I rarely repost articles that are someone else's work here, but I think in this context I need to.

Hi Andrew,

I'm writing because I just can't deal with my father anymore. He's a 65-year-old super right-wing conservative who has basically turned into a total asshole intent on ruining our relationship and our planet with his politics. I'm more or less a liberal democrat with very progressive values and I know that people like my dad are going to destroy us all. I don't have any good times with him anymore. All we do is argue. When I try to spend time with him without talking politics or discussing any current events, there's still an underlying tension that makes it really uncomfortable. Don't get me wrong, I love him no matter what, but how do I explain to him that his politics are turning him into a monster, destroying the environment, and pushing away the people who care about him?

Thanks for your help,

Son of A Right-Winger

________________________________

Dear Son of A Right-Winger,

Go back and read the opening sentences of your letter. Read them again. Then read the rest of your letter. Then read it again. Try to find a single instance where you referred to your dad as a human being, a person, or a man. There isn't one. You've reduced your father -- the person who created you -- to a set of beliefs and political views and how it relates to you. And you don't consider your dad a person of his own standing -- he's just "your dad." You've also reduced yourself to a set of opposing views, and reduced your relationship with him to a fight between the two. The humanity has been reduced to nothingness and all that's left in its place is an argument that can never really be won. And even if one side did win, it probably wouldn't satisfy the deeper desire to be in a state of inflamed passionate conflict.

The world isn't being destroyed by democrats or republicans, red or blue, liberal or conservative, religious or atheist -- the world is being destroyed by one side believing the other side is destroying the world. The world is being hurt and damaged by one group of people believing they're truly better people than the others who think differently. The world officially ends when we let our beliefs conquer love. We must not let this happen.

When we lump people into groups, quickly label them, and assume we know everything about them and their life based on a perceived world view, how they look, where they come from, etc., we are not behaving as full human beings. When we truly believe that some people are monsters, that they fundamentally are less human than we are, and that they deserve to have less than we do, we ourselves become the monsters.

When we allow our emotions to be hypnotized by the excitement of petty bickering about seemingly important topics, we drift further and further away from the fragile and crucial human bond holding everything together. When we anticipate with ferocious glee the next chance we have to prove someone "wrong" and ourselves "right," all the while disregarding the vast complexity of almost every subject -- not to mention the universe as a whole -- we are reducing the beauty and magic of life to a "side" or a "type," or worst of all, an "answer." This is the power of politics at it's most sinister.

At its best, politics is able to organize extremely complex world views into manageable and communicable systems so they can be grappled with and studied abstractly. But even the most noble efforts to organize the world are essentially futile. The best we can usually achieve is a crude and messy map of life from one particular vantage point, featuring a few grids, bullet points, and sketches of its various aspects and landmarks.

Anything as infinitely complex as life, reality, and the human experience can never be summed up or organized in a definitive system, especially one based on "left or right," "A or B," "us or them." This is the fatal flaw of binary thinking in general. However, this flaw isn't just ignored, it's also embraced, amplified, and deliberately used as a weapon on the very people who think it's benefiting their way of thinking.

Human beings crave order and simplicity. We cling to the hope that some day, if we really refine our world view and beliefs, we can actually find the fully correct way to think -- the absolute truth and final side to stand on. People and systems craving power take advantage of this desire and pit us against each other using a "this or that" mentality.

The point is to create unrest, disagreement, resentment, and anger -- a population constantly at war with itself, each side deeply believing that the other is not just wrong, but also a sincere threat to their very way of life and survival. This creates constant anxiety and distraction -- the perfect conditions for oppression. The goal of this sort of politics is to keep people held down and mesmerized by a persistent parade of seemingly life-or-death debates, each one worth all of our emotional energy and primal passion.

But the truth is, the world has always been and always will be on the brink of destruction. And what keeps it from actually imploding is our love for life and our deep-seeded desire not to die. Our love for our own life is inextricably connected to our love of all life and the miracle of this phenomenon we call "the world." We must give all of ourselves credit every day for keeping things going. It's an incredible achievement to exist at all.

So we must protect and respect each other, no matter how hard it feels. No matter how wrong someone else may seem to us, they are still human. No matter how bad someone may appear, they are truly no worse than us. Our beliefs and behavior don't make us fundamentally better than others, no matter how satisfying it is to believe otherwise. We must be tireless in our efforts to see things from the point of view we most disagree with.

We must make endless efforts to try and understand the people we least relate to. And we must at all times force ourselves to love the people we dislike the most. Not because it's nice or because they deserve it, but because our own sanity and survival depends on it. And if we do find ourselves pushed into a corner where we must kill others in order to survive, we must fully accept that we are killing people just as fully human as ourselves, and not some evil abstract creatures.

Love your dad because he's your father, because he made you, because he thinks for himself, and most of all because he is a person. Have the strength to doubt and question what you believe as easily as you're so quick to doubt his beliefs. Live with a truly open mind -- the kind of open mind that even questions the idea of an open mind. Don't feel the need to always pick a side. And if you do pick a side, pick the side of love. It remains our only real hope for survival and has more power to save us than any other belief we could ever cling to.

Your friend,

Andrew W.K.

Saturday Video

I thought to myself, "Why Not?"



I've paid my dues
Time after time
I've done my sentence
But committed no crime

And bad mistakes
I've made a few
I've had my share of sand
Kicked in my face
But I've come through

And we mean to go on
and on and on and on

We are the champions - my friends
And we'll keep on fighting
Till the end

We are the champions
We are the champions
No time for losers
'Cause we are the champions of the World

I've taken my bows
And my curtain calls
You brought me fame and fortune
And everything that goes with it
I thank you all

But it's been no bed of roses
No pleasure cruise
I consider it a challenge before
The whole human race
And I ain't gonna lose

And we mean to go on
and on and on and on

We are the champions - my friends
And we'll keep on fighting
Till the end

We are the champions
We are the champions
No time for losers
'Cause we are the champions of the World

We are the champions - my friends
And we'll keep on fighting
Till the end

We are the champions
We are the champions
No time for losers
'Cause we are the champions

A Word of Thanks

My Daily Kos post of yesterday received nearly 300 comments. Before I get started, I want to thank a couple of people on the boards who came to my aid in the midst of many sarcastic, short-sighted, and skeptical comments. I also want to thank Birmingham Friends Meeting, who provided me moral support when I was trying to put out about eight fires simultaneously. I love you deeply and miss you tremendously.

If I were a first generation Quaker, I'd know immediately that I'd be living a hard life, one where I'd be on trial often and in jail frequently. Systems were in place to supervise children whose parents were in jail. Having stated the history, I pray for the courage and the peace of mind to respond to those who have their own issues with organized religion. If I am to be faithful to the courageous Friends who came before me, I know that I must speak my mind in the face of criticism.

This is my responsibility. The founder of Quakerism, George Fox, deliberately interrupted Anglican church services, convinced that his way was the best and most accurate. Unlike Fox, I happen to believe that no faith or lack of faith is any better or any more superior. But, I take great pride in what I believe. It forms the basis of my identity. Should I share it with others, the intent is never to win converts. Suspicion and fear take us in directions that are not healthy. If all a person knows to do is start punching or criticizing, this leaves no room for mutual understanding.

To some, it seems tough and empowering to flex muscles and fight fire with fire. I'm not out to judge, but what I will say is that no one really ever took the opportunity to make the connection that I was seeking. If it had been up to me, we'd have discussed the link between our very religious First Wave feminists, and the skepticism of organized religion that exists among many today. But being that no one even gave me the opportunity, everyone started projecting their own fears instead. I don't think many of them really understand religion at all, aside from it being some Bogeyman.

The criticism I have received since then is pretty tone-deaf. Some want to pin a transgression or two upon me that isn't accurate. I have no inclination to have a war of words with people who aren't listening anyway. If they ever could look outside of their insular worldview, a dialogue could be opened. But instead, they want to be right. Diplomacy isn't about right or wrong.

Feministe is barely functioning as it is. Sometimes it goes a whole week before being updated. Their approach to me is hardly an insult, but it is a wasted opportunity. Let's really talk. Let's not return fire. I don't think certain people are really capable of being anything more than attack dogs.

Friday Thought

Blindness often creates hyper vigilance, waiting for an attack. Speaking the truth in love is sound and liberating.

When Someone Attacks Your Religious Beliefs

I want to thank readers of my blog for being tolerant and accepting of my posts about organized religion. It is a pleasure to write among fellow Quakers and fellow believers. You have shown a kind of intellectual maturity and tolerance I rarely experience. I have occasional rubbed a few people the wrong way, but it has never been difficult to smooth over rough edges with the right words. Those who paint my readers and friends with the same sarcastic, skeptical brush haven't made acquaintance with the people I have. I'm glad that most readers will give me the benefit of the doubt and know that the very last thing on my mind is to win converts to Christ.

Starting on Tuesday, I began to post about the particulars of my faith, particularly my belief in God and in Christianity. I received some extremely strong criticism and was accused of proselytizing. I faced a tremendous amount of hostility. In reality, I was only sharing the particulars of my faith, in an informative way, but not in a way that implied I wanted people to believe the same way I do. I have made the acquaintance of other people of faith and have even had several diaries rescued and put up on the front page of Daily Kos. I'm thankful for the Street Prophets Kos group, where I have found many like-minded people.

Feministe is a website for young Feminists. My references to organized religion there have been met with extreme suspicion and at times anger. I must admit I do not understand people who assume that religion in any form must be destructive. All I was trying to show was the link between feminism and Christianity, but that opportunity never materialized. I was eventually shut down by everyone, then the moderator. Should you wish to read through this extensive hyperlinked thread, start about a quarter of the way down when I, cabaretic, begin to share my thoughts.

This post is not a way to vent about the way I was treated, but rather it is a plea that we not let our real or imagined issues with organized religion get in the way of teachable moments. To Feministe readers, I was not trying to force feed my Quakerism to a group of people who resisted it and had no interest in the first place. They were not ready to hear it on its own terms. Someday they may, and someday they might not. That's up to them.

I hold no grudges, but I am frustrated by people who believe that religion is automatically evil. As I kept posting, I found that, unlike other venues, the more I tried to define myself and my own beliefs, the angrier and less tolerant comments became.

Should anyone want to better understand the conundrum I found myself in, they can use the link here. In short, I ran into a group of people who would not tolerate my right to religious expression. I found myself besieged on five sides by people who simply would not listen and did not care. I have occasionally discovered comments along those lines in other articles, but I've also read overtly religious diaries that are treated with reverence and respect.

These are some of the comments I received.

1. Many people find your opinions to be proselytizing and obnoxious, and so we have grown to dislike you. That’s not persecution, not matter how much you may wish to model yourself on the central figure of a death cult that has been used as the justification for mass slaughter an extraordinary number of times.

2. Officials what you say about Quakerism is true, I am actually pretty sure that your fellow Quakers would be utterly horrified to hear about your exploits trolling feminist forums, “promoting” their cause even when asked not to, and being completely dismissive of the reasons offered by women here as to why they are not interested in your religion and not interested in hearing more.

     3. Joking, I noted something that I thought was very harmless. 

                    Honestly, you would make an excellent Quaker.

          The response was not what I was expecting at all.

           To me this comes off as super creepy

I spent three hours talking past people who did not want to give me the benefit of the doubt. My entire point was not to convert or win souls to Christ. Rather, I wanted them to see that Quakerism is indeed a feminist religion, and that their automatic fears about any organized religion might be a little paranoid. I see now that this is a conclusion they will have to reach on their own.

But in the meantime, I hope these people make peace with organized religion. We're all aware of the evil that religion has produced, but I tend to fault individual people more than I do a belief system. As George Carlin put it, "There are no bad words. Bad thoughts. Bad intentions. And words." To me it takes a kind of courage to reexamine Christianity and religion with different eyes, eyes that aren't automatically looking to find fault.

I grew up in the Bible Belt, and once I rejected the predominant cultural mindset. And then I looked at what I had been taught earlier in life, and saw that there was much worth there. Any system devised by human hands will be imperfect, which is why there must be constant reform. The challenge for me is recognizing the groups who will hear me, just as they chose to hear or not to hear Jesus, and then share my strategy to bring us together. My motives are a little Utopian, but then again, I care for people enough that I want to bring everyone to the table.

Healing

The next couple of days will be full of doctor's visits, so I won't have the time or energy to post much. As I often do, I want to show an accurate picture of the life of a person with mental illness. This is why I have no problem sharing the particulars of what I go through with you.

Each of us, well or sick, has a tendency to look only through our own eyes and our own perception. As I wake up for another day, my dreaming concluded, I see my blurry bedroom through my eyes and my own thoughts. In an effort to show the best, most accurate picture of my life to the outside world, I periodically turn the focus towards myself.

Last week, a new medication caused severe side effects. Often my energy level is lethargic, but in a matter of a few days, I had more energy than I've had in years. That was my first red flag. Most men I know have more than a passing interest in sex, but mine became an outright obsession. In other times in my life, I would have used this new capacity for the benefit of a partner, since all of that energy has to go somewhere. It was out of proportion to the way it should have been, another red flag.

I have to be careful in introducing stimulants to the already hefty number of medications (13) I take daily. Two of them can cause mania unless I am careful to closely monitor my health. For every medication one adds to the cocktail, the possibility of interaction increases. In this case, my psychiatrist cautiously treated fatigue by adding a chemical stimulant, only as an experiment. In this case, I'll chalk it up to a failed medication trial and be thankful I knew enough to keep it from getting completely out of hand.

The first two or three days were fine, but then I began to experience disturbing side effects. These may seem fanciful. I imagined that a psychic force was seeking to separate me from my friends. This is totally irrational, of course, but at the time it was very real indeed. I believed that I had secret insights and could rely on them for my own benefit. Fortunately, I knew I was experiencing delusional thoughts and quickly eliminated the stimulant from my daily regimen of medication. I have to credit time and experience for keeping me safe.

Years ago, I thought manic episodes were fun. One of my girlfriends, who was significantly older than me, appreciated my prowess in bed. She was a gossip and eager to brag. Shortly after we became a couple, she began to tell to her friends about me and our sex life. Following that, being in their company was embarrassing, because her friends were giggly and silly. Like many men, I'd always wanted to be a good lover, but I never knew how to manage the attention I now received.

Mania can make one feel superhuman. One cannot observe oneself objectively, meaning personal perception is not enough. I need an outside view. I know now that Mania is better off where it is. I do not relish those periods anymore. They are destructive to the brain, far more destructive than depression. I worry sometimes if a very intense manic episode, one that transpired six years ago, has created lasting brain damage. I have no way of knowing for sure, but I have pushed for a brain scan to rule out my deepest fears.

The most prominent reason I'm taking time out for the next couple of days is that two weeks ago something severely triggered me. I've never been granted an accurate picture of what happened to me in childhood, but I get bits and pieces every now and again. Until recently, I wanted to remember all of it.

Now I've changed my tune. Whatever happened must have been traumatic and painful. I was sure that knowing every detail would give me the ability to completely heal, but the triggering was otherworldly and uncomfortable. Now I am trying to avoid feeling that way ever again, which is an about-face from my previous position.

I've wrestled with thoughts that I cannot prove or deny. At times, I wonder if God is mania. For a moment, I escaped my mortal self and convened with a higher power. I could be totally wrong, and I acknowledge it. I'm sure a few prophets here and there have ascribed mania to a burning bush or some otherworldly sign. Needless to say, I do not doubt God now. I appreciate the gift, since I grew up in isolation, feeling separated from my peers. God is a friend who will never desert me, even as he confounds me.

All I Have to Do is Dream

Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream
When I want you in my arms
When I want you and all your charms
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream

When I feel blue in the night
And I need you to hold me tight
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam

I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine
Anytime night or day
Only trouble is, gee whiz
I'm dreamin' my life away

I need you so that I could die
I love you so and that is why
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam

I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine
Anytime night or day
Only trouble is, gee whiz
I'm dreamin' my life away

I need you so that I could die
I love you so and that is why
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream

Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream

What Makes a Gay Icon

The original gay icon, at least the one recorded for posterity, was Judy Garland. Girlish and sweet, but vulnerable, she captured the affections of many gay men. Accordingly, the Stonewall Riots broke out shortly after Garland's death. Though more recent historical research questions how much of a factor her untimely demise really was, it has nevertheless become part of the mythology. Garland's life was tragic, and the lives of many queer men were similarly star-crossed.

In my generation, the eccentric redheaded pianist and alternative rocker Tori Amos was the preferred gay icon. But she was a very different strain, a strong woman with equally strong opinions. Where Garland succumbed to her own tragic back-story, Amos put behind her a brutal rape that occurred early in her career. In part, I have always seen this distinction as an accurate marker by which one can investigate progress. Once suppressed and harassed into submission, LGBTs today experience a fraction of the shame and guilt.  

With this new found freedom, it is now time for a change in mindset. Reforms are always needed. As it stands, gay men sometimes idealize their effeminacy. Some project their attraction to all things feminine upon women, making the assumption that the women in their midst must surely conform to this same standard. A female friend of mine expresses consternation at times with one of her own friends, a gay man. He loves all things silky and embroidered, and those patterns only remind her of a femininity that was never a good fit.

I've always seen drag as an overcompensation, though I think it can be a very effective outlet. Though I've never had any desire to put on makeup and play pretend, I can appreciate the talents of others. When I first came out, I found that I didn't fit neatly into the roles others automatically assigned to me. I was too straight to be gay and too gay to be straight. This is how I personally understand what it is like to have one's perspective negated and ignored, even though most of the time being overlooked is entirely unintentional.

Defining what a gay icon is can be difficult. I'm not sure I understand it myself. It seems to be a moving target, keeping pace with the progress of our society. Women are encouraged to be themselves, rather than emulating breathy, girlish voices and learned helplessness. I've always been attracted to the off-kilter beauties who never fit well into anyone's boxes. I'm a strong-willed individual who finds equally strong-willed people appealing.

I'm also speaking of male privilege. Oversights similar to what I have mentioned are not always intentional. Even queer men have been socialized as male. Any group specifically designated for LGBTs is routinely dominated by gay men. While on a cruise ship two years ago, the group Friends of Dorothy was advertised in each day's events. Friends of Dorothy is slang for a gay man, alluding to Judy Garland's performance as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. It's becoming an antiquated term, but once again no invitation is extended to lesbians.

The writer William Goldman may have defined best the link between gay men and Judy Garland.

Homosexuals tend to identify with suffering. They are a persecuted group and they understand suffering. And so does Garland. She's been through the fire and lived – all the drinking and divorcing, all the pills and all the men, all the poundage come and gone – brothers and sisters, she knows.

A new generation of LGBTs can more easily avoid living a life of tragedy as a persecuted group. I appreciate the hard work of those who came before me, but I admit I have little patience for angst and doom-laden persecution fantasies. I'm ready to step into the sunlight, in spite of past experiences. If it had been my decision to make, I would not have selected the attitudes of my parents and family. Otherwise, this is simply how I am and I make no apologies for it.

I can count many women in my life who have become my own icons, those I respect and love deeply. I am thankful that they are present. I recognize that my icons are not perfect, but I don't expect them to be. I hasten to use the term, because to me that connotes complete adoration and worship. Few people wish to be placed on a pedestal and held to an impossible standard. I only asked for equal footing with everyone, where I might never have to live somewhere over the rainbow, in the world of unfulfilled dreams.

Quote of the Week

"The rainiest nights, like the rainiest lives, are by no means the saddest."-Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward

Saturday Video

So he's lying on top again
Just like Gepetto and his doll.
And he's running around again,
And I can't get him out of this house.

And if you bore him,
You lose your soul to me.

So that kid from the bad home
Came over to my house again,
Decapitated all my dolls.

And if you bore me,
You lose your soul to me.

Hey Gepetto,
Where'd you put it?
Oh Gepetto, poor boy.
Hey Gepetto, where'd you put it?
Oh Gepetto, poor boy.

And if you bore him,
You're gonna lose your soul.

Hey Gepetto, where'd you get to?
Oh Gepetto, poor boy.
Hey Gepetto, where'd you get to?
Oh Gepetto, poor boy.

Hey Gepetto, what'd you get me?
Oh Gepetto, poor boy.
So he's lying on top again,
Just like Gepetto.

Greed, Avarice, and the Inevitable Doctor's Bill

I spent yesterday in futile pursuit of a psychiatrist. After filling out an hour's worth of paperwork, I met with a rushed, rude doctor who acted like the only reason he was even talking to me is that his arm had been twisted into it. He was willing, reluctantly, to be a referral service, but not to treat me himself. If this was his normal behavior, I wouldn't have wanted to be under his care. There were no open slots available and so I left, frustrated and confused.

One might think that in a large city where I live, substantial coverage gaps like these would not exist. Finding any provider other than in the field of mental health is usually not difficult. Most psychiatrists in private practice, which is to say most of them, don't accept anyone's insurance plan. Because of this, they can charge upwards of $700 for an initial examination and then $200 for every follow-up visit.

The Affordable Care Act was designed to increase the number of Primary Care doctors. The issue it sought to correct was a shortage of PCPs, especially in rural areas. The problem, as often is the case, is mostly economic. Specialists make more money. My Primary Care doctor, by contrast, charges $75 for each visit. A Specialist, like my Urologist, charges twice as much. This doesn't include inevitable testing and other fees, which are always tacked on later.

In a spirit of fairness, I seek to better understand the system and to take into account the positions of doctors and patients alike. It's difficult, especially at first, not to see the matter as simple greed and selfishness. That being said, in a city where owning a home in an affluent area requires a minimum income of a quarter of a million dollars, I can understand why some want to conform to a particular cultural standard.

DC is an expensive city and the cost of living must first be taken into account before anything else. Keeping up with the Jones is no easy feat. Renting space for an office and paying secretaries and other workers is an additional expense, which is why my psychologist, for example, uses her house as an office. Buying insurance to address malpractice suits is another factor.

But in the end, I think the issue really comes down to a question of ethics and morals. One of my doctors has chosen to work at a clinic for low-income residents and in the process makes much less in yearly income. He has no plan to move on up someday, and feels that his calling is in service to the poor and needy. His is a minority view, but it does exist.

Obamacare has largely been a success, in my eyes, but I don't think there's any way that government intervention can fully short-circuit the twin forces of capitalism and acquisition. As a person of faith, I happen to believe strongly in the lessons that religions teach us about looking out for the less fortunate and leading a life of humility. A focus exclusively on the self at the expense of others isn't illegal, but I do think that it is wrong. Legislating morality, as we learned from Prohibition, is not enough. It requires we change a toxic mindset, which is no easy feat.

As the saying goes, the rich get richer and the poor get children. Even faith-based programs ought to be predicated upon the free choice of the believer. Evangelicals believe that their duty is to win souls, and though some consider proselytizing unwelcome attention, the goal is to make sure people make it to heaven. Good intentions motivate many decisions, which is why we get so indignant when our views are rejected by some higher authority.

We should respect the rights of the individual, but we shouldn't flatly deny access to coverage by any means and for whatever reason. Here's the crucial distinction. Hobby Lobby turned away business that would have made it more profitable. The specialists I've mentioned never turn anyone away who can pay for their time. The two are absolute standards and neither will be easily or swiftly corrected. We are only left with right and wrong, with either winners or losers.

Argument aside, like many, I am left searching for a solution. A report will be drafted and sent to me, specifying other doctors and clinics to try next. I may need to go through this exasperating process two or three more times before any satisfying resolution is reached. My condition is genetic, purely a matter of inherited genes. I did nothing to create it and I do everything now to treat it. When the argument subsides and the words we speak conclude, solutions are what should come next.

The Religion of Love

When I first started writing, I took a very narrow focus because I was finding my own voice. For a while, I wrote almost exclusively about politics. As part of a collective, the same fifty of us shared our thoughts as if we were the only other ones online. We were nurtured and our profiles boosted by a fellow writer who had used her Ivy League credentials to gain a plum position in the blogosphere. These were heady days for a bunch of honors roll students turned citizen journalists.

That seems like a thousand years ago now, though it is really only eight. Back then, no one could have predicted the rise of Twitter, or a brand new website my girlfriend at the time implored me to join. Only other college students could take part, I was told. When everyone was given access, a little later on, we were sure the end was nigh. I'm speaking of Facebook, of course. There was a time before social media. I wonder what another decade's worth of technological advances will reveal.

This only proves that yet again, conventional wisdom can be entirely wrong. Entirely and completely wrong. Thoughts and fears are, often times, fanciful or manipulative constructs created by people to suit their own private agenda. Another battle rages in the Holy Land, and we adopt the same worried posture and furrowed brow that came before it. I predict there will be many more. Regardless of who we are or where we live, we must always be wise to cloak and dagger mind games.

Few constructs of the collective imagination scare me as much as groupthink. We imagine ourselves to be individuals with the right to our own opinion, but it is remarkably easy to cast those aside when everyone else is, too. According to some religious fundamentalists, Armageddon beckons ever closer like nuclear war, and they use their own preferred text as justification. Once again, we fear for the worst, much as we have prior to the outbreak of another round of hostilities.

If we can only change ourselves for the better before we take a stab at anything else, we might want to begin here. Many religions, including my own, implore the believer to become the total and complete personification of love. I don't mean sticky Valentines and romantic comedies, I mean that I believe in the healing power of love. I'm sure I've said this a time or two before now. Putting ourselves and our own designs last is the only way we will ever live in peace.

Forget everything you've ever been taught and look again with fresh eyes. Regardless of who you are, believer or non-believer, think about the radical implications. Christianity, an influence on Jews and Muslims alike teaches that God loved every single one of us, as he loves us today, enough to take our form and to be the lowliest of the low in a forgotten, cursed corner of the world. If any lesson holds primacy over another, it is that our selfish designs must be cast aside for everyone's benefit.

This sounds simple, but nothing could be harder or more complicated. When we get it right, peace will no longer become an empty slogan or an evolutionary step yet to be achieved. Say what you will about the amoral, sadistic impulse of humanity. Violence is not our natural state, I assert, even if our leaders believe otherwise. The only thing we can do is keep diplomatic channels open, with the understanding that we should expect to win as much as we lose. Doing nothing is not an option.

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

Apologies for the video quality.



Baby, do you understand me now?
Sometimes I feel a little mad
Well don't you know that no one alive
Can always be an angel
When things go wrong I seem to be bad

I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

Baby, sometimes I'm so carefree
With a joy that's hard to hide
And sometimes it seems that
All I have to do is worry
And then you're bound to see my other side

I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

If I seem edgy, I want you to know
That I never mean to take it out on you
Life has it's problems and I get my share
And that's one thing I never mean to do

'Cause I love you
Oh, oh, oh, baby, don't you know I'm human
Have thoughts like any other one
Sometimes I find myself long regretting
Some foolish thing, some little sinful thing I've done

I'm just a soul who's intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

Yes, I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

Yes, I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

Yes, I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

Two Faces of Poverty

The civic duty of every citizen, I have decided, is to kill three hours a year re-certifying or signing off on some new regulation or another. This is how I spent my Monday morning. The service center is located in a part of town that went from wealth to dire poverty and back. Now it is home to loft apartments and trendy coffee shops. Streets are regularly paved these days, the way only capital can.

Residents being pushed elsewhere at once wish they'd held onto properties and houses that could once be had for nearly nothing. At the back of the room, they talk about old times, the way Washington used to be. Conversations focus on soul singers and long-shuttered venues. Sooner than I might care to think, I'll be having my own conversation about the good old days when everything made sense.

The real face of poverty are a young mother and her ten-year-old daughter. Because I was the only other white face in line, she struck up a spontaneous conversation. I couldn't help but notice the way she'd treated her body over the years. Drug addiction had left her skin leathery, her facial features slightly off-center like a shattered window pane. I wanted to look away because the spectacle pained me, but wanted to be polite enough to grant friendly eye contact. My best friend growing up had an alcoholic father, and I watched the years of drinking finally catch up with him.

Mother and daughter were inseparable. They were more like sisters, a curious dynamic that could be both beneficial and harmful to the younger of the pair. They had each other and I got the feeling there were few other people in the lives of either. It was them against the world. Now they had embarked on a great adventure, driving halfway across the country to settle in Washington, DC. When asked for the reasons why, she noted with a straight face that she intended to help President Obama out with the job.

I didn't realize at first that she was actually quite serious. This was the stuff of delusions, but I hoped that it was harmless enough. I hoped she'd recognize the folly of her ways and make different plans. She was enough of a trusting soul that I could see how someone might take advantage of it. This is what concerned me most. Likely, many already had. Washington, DC, can be a very unfriendly place without a guide, and it certainly isn't Colorado Springs.

The daughter addressed me very innocently, believing that if I'd just spent the last twenty minutes talking to her mother, she could be comfortable in my company. I'm usually very uncomfortable around kids, never knowing what to say or what not to say. In a survivors' group, I remember a seventy-year-old woman talking about her own uneasy relationship with children. It was different with her own, she noted, but she was never going to volunteer to supervise or spend much time with anyone else's genetic contribution to the free world. Nods were seen in many of those sitting across the room.

When it was my time in line, the female workers behind the counter smiled at me. To them, I was fatherhood material. The news quickly spread across the center. For the rest of my three hour stay, I was treated with incredible politeness by every female worker. Children usually like me, and yet I push away from them as quickly as I can. I wondered what I truly represented to mother and child, or the women who saw me as paternal in a good way.

Lives like I have described above are not uncommon. I enjoy observing people from the other side of town, a reminder to not intellectualize who the poor and needy really are. They are a young mother and her daughter uprooting and replanting with few resources, no friends, a roof over their heads, but not much more than that. In a way, it's the immigrant experience made over again for our times. We provide a few basic services here and there, but fathers and caregivers cannot be measured in dollars and cents.

Quote of the Week

"I never care that [my characters] are "strong". I never care that they're even affirmative. I look for that thing that's human and recognizable and emotional. You know, we're not perfect, we're not heroic, we're not in control. We're our own worst enemies sometimes, we cause our own tragedies ... that's the stuff that I think is really compelling."-Julianne Moore

Saturday Video

You say I only hear what I want to
You say I talk so all the time so.

And I thought what I felt was simple,
And I thought that I don't belong,
And now that I am leaving,
Now I know that I did something wrong

'cause I missed you.
Yeah, I missed you.

And you say I only hear what I want to:
I don't listen hard,
I don't pay attention to the distance that you're running

Or to anyone, anywhere,
I don't understand if you really care,
I'm only hearing negative: no, no, no (bad)

And so I, I turned the radio on, I turned the radio up
And this woman was singin' my song:
The lover's in love and the other's run away,
The lover is cryin' 'cause the other won't stay.

Some of us hover when we weep for the other who was
Dying since the day they were born.
Well, this is not that:
I think that I'm throwing, but I'm thrown.

And I thought I'd live forever,
but now I'm not so sure.

You try to tell me that I'm clever,
But that won't take my anyhow,
or anywhere with you.

You said that I was naive,
And I thought that I was strong.
I thought, "hey, I can leave, I can leave."
Oh but now I know that I was wrong, 'cause I missed you.

You said, "I caught you 'cause I want you
and one day I'll let you go."

You try to give away a keeper,
or keep me 'cause you know
you're just so scared to lose.
And you say, "Stay."

You say I only hear what I want to.

Who are the Next Generation of Prophets?

What follows is my own story. I include it to heighten awareness of what often goes unsaid and unspoken. The problem is as old as the human race itself, but like war, it continues. Everyone with an opinion must write with an audience in mind, and must form one's arguments accordingly. Every story like the one to follow takes the same relative trajectory, yet is unique and different.

The twin problems of rape culture and sexual assault may seem minimal, but with time I've realized how truly prevalent they are in our society. Forgive my boldness. This a harsh topic for many who do not daily confront it, but I bring it up one more time to serve my cause. Since many rapes and sexual assaults go unreported due to shame and intimidation, it's impossible to have definitive numerical understanding at our fingertips. But even if we had that hard data, would numbers and statistics alone serve anyone's greater purpose?

I've never shared this account before now. Until a particularly instructive therapy session in the recent past, I never knew it for what it was. As it commonplace with survivors, I had rationalized away what this act really was, minimizing and blunting its impact. It's a very common coping mechanism. Now I must keep myself focused on reality and linear time, which is to say that my brain lies to me, daily and constantly. It transforms what really happened to something less painful, softer, and maddeningly evasive.

I was a impressionable sophomore in college, newly out, and nowhere near full acceptance. Queer students had few resources at my college, with the exception of Gay/Straight Student Alliance. An LGBT center was being planned for construction, but was completed after I graduated and I could not benefit from it. I took the options available to me. The group was more social than instructional, a fundamental lacking that always bothered me. It could have been much more, but it often became a hook up point for gay men, another issue that stuck in my craw.

Now I know him for what he was. He was an opportunist, having heard about our group somehow, intending to benefit from his presence there. The organizers and sponsors had been too nice to turn him away, as he was not a student and had no reason to be there. He sat right next to me, stealthily but obviously to whomever might be watching closely. His legs touched mine frequently, deliberately. That was my first sign as to what he was up to, but I ignored it. Maybe he'd get the hint that I wasn't interested and leave me alone.

I remember his face well. He had a lazy eye and wore a baseball cap. That baseball cap would rather dramatically be burned two days later, as he had left it in the backseat of my car. The collective attitude of both of my parents was not sympathetic. To them, what I had done had served me right. So when I set the hat afire with lighter fluid in the driveway, my father asked me why I'd done such a stupid thing. I told him precisely why and he backed off, uncomfortable, and never raised the subject again.

The man in question broached my boundaries a little at a time. His hands moved further and further down my back, eventually moving other places. He built upon his gains, keeping the ultimate destination in mind at all times. The whole time he was chatting me up and feeling me up as we sat alongside a park. At his request, he suggested we move a couple blocks away, so that what we were doing was less conspicuous. I cranked the car and we pulled onto the curb of a remote stretch of roadway at the top of a mountain.

I did not want to do this. The thrill of doing something this risky and dangerous was perversely appealing, on one hand, but this was not what I wanted. Had sex been removed entirely from the equation, I would have been pleased, but this sequence of events was all about sex. This was not just about having a conversation. To this day, I do not know exactly why I didn't resist. I do not understand why feeling terrified was such a sexual high but just as repelling. I may never.

I saw him later at next year's Pride parade. He even bothered to introduce himself to me. Shocked that he would even dare contact me again, I nervously uttered a few incomprehensible words and then got as far away from him as possible. Male rape survivors are treated differently. Women are thought to have inferior physical strength to their male attackers and unable to prevent sexual assault. When I shared what had happened to me with male friends, they felt that I should have physically overpowered him. Few were understanding.

Over the years, I've learned that stories like my own are not uncommon. Because I am a man, I have a different set of variables at play than would be the case for a woman. Adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse tend to respond to their sexuality in one of two ways. The first way is to be afraid of sex. The second, which is my own, is to become promiscuous and hyper-sexual. I recognize promiscuous is a loaded term, one used to blame and guilt, but in this context, I think the word choice is apt.

To see this as a moral failing on everyone's part doesn't ring true. That is not enough. We must develop true community and a communal spirit. We cannot criticize injustice when we do not know our neighbors and do not take an active part in their lives. This is a problem as ancient as Moses' who came down from the Mount with his Ten Commandments in hand. In the meantime, I see another generation's bumper crop of prophets descending from the bluffs, coming directly behind my own.

Something Different

I had a busy day of medical appointments today, so I had no time to post.

Before I say another word, I want to preface my reason for posting the video below. Once, I, too, was a teenager and a college student. But I am now a man in his mid-thirties. I'm just not there anymore. Quite by random, I ran across a video of a high school or college aged young woman talking on her cell phone, and I must admit it makes me cringe.

Do not misunderstand. People like her will someday form the next wave of activists and planners to follow me. I am conscious of feeling marginalized and having my words to not be taken seriously because of my youth. But for the sake of good old fashioned curiosity, I found a video taken of a young woman talking on her cellphone while seated on a park bench. She will not talk like this when she is my age. (I hope)

I Don't Want to Spoil the Party

I don't want to spoil the party so I'll go
I would hate my disappointment to show
There's nothing for me here so I will disappear
If she turns up while I'm gone please let me know

I've had a drink or two and I don't care,
There's no fun in what I do if she's not there
I wonder what went wrong I've waited far too long
I think I'll take a walk and look for her

Though tonight she's made me sad
I still love her
If I find her I'll be glad
I still love her

I don't want to spoil the party so I'll go
I would hate my disappointment to show
There's nothing for me here so I will disappear
If she turns up while I'm gone please let me know

Though tonight she's made me sad
I still love her
If I find her I'll be glad
I still love her

I've had a drink or two and I don't care
There's no fun in what I do if she's not there
I wonder what went wrong I've waited far too long
I think I'll take a walk and look for her

Trigger Warnings: You'll Know Them When You See Them

I experienced substantial trauma early in life. Piecing together the few memories I have of those times has produced a skeletal narrative, one that has frequently frustrated me. From time to time, mild side effects of what is probably PTSD crop up. Sometimes I experience spontaneous panic attacks that mercifully subside quickly but since that time, I’ve always been unusually highly-strung and jumpy. Fortunately, each of these symptoms has its life-cycle, from start to finish. Until the past few days, I could always count on them to be temporary.

Saturday afternoon I watched a movie, alone in my apartment. The theme was innocuous enough, one of those black and white film noirs full of witty dialogue, dames, and a rapidly unfolding mystery. Before I knew it, and all at once, I was experiencing substantial psychological pain. Dealing as I do with depression, which is to say regularly, I knew this wasn’t it. I felt dirty and anxious. My hands shook for hours. For most of a day, I was not a sexual being. The very thought of sex in any form with any person disgusted me.

Taking all of this in, I thought to myself, this sounds like something a rape survivor would say. And then I realized, I AM a rape survivor. And I may never know what produced this response. It could have been a subtle thing like certain sounds or even the way a room was lit on the set of the movie. The cause could be one of ten-thousand things, which is one of the most exasperating things of all. During this experience, one is not in control of one's body or one's brain. Subtle and unsubtle reminders of this lacking on your behalf show up as uninvited guests.

I had read the symptoms of what I was now experiencing a time or two before, but without direct experience, I could have never prepared for it. I used to say that I wanted to remember it all. Now I’m not so sure. There may be a reason why my brain has clamped down on past memories like sutures. I thought that knowing every detail would finally create full healing, that I could have blessed resolution forever. In this circumstance, I realize now that it might be best to give my brain the benefit of the doubt henceforth.

One of the debates raging among feminists is the concept of trigger warnings. Skeptics feel that these experiences are more hysteria, more psychosomatic, more Salem Witch Trial than anything else. Others point to survivors of one form of trauma or another, intending to protect them from pain and discomfort whenever possible. I’ve always been wary of how quickly useful terminology can become a parody of itself, cheapening the altruism and intention that went into it in the first place. Yet I do try to be sympathetic when I read another stomach-churning first-person account of a rape and sexual assault.

This doesn’t mean that I ever thought that triggering and trigger warnings were patently false. On the subject of obscenity, Supreme Court justice Potter Stewart famously noted that, for him, he knew it when he saw it. Regarding the after-effects of trauma, I can now say that I, too, know it when I see (or experience) it. I can no longer deny what I am feeling, nor can I take for granted the length of time this episode may last.    

True empathy is difficult for each of us without direct experience. Until Saturday, I was certainly sympathetic towards those who were victims of rape and incest, but there were limits to my compassion. I wasn’t intending to overlook anyone’s private struggle, but I simply did not understand and did not know how to understand. There are genocidal wars currently raging in our world and many humanitarian crises, but beyond my computer and television screen, these are only abstractions. I am not there. I do not know them. And I won’t pretend that even the struggles of my life make me an expert activist. What I can do is to listen. We do too much talking in the First World and not enough introspection.

While a large crowd was gathering and people were coming to Jesus from town after town, he told this parable: “A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path; it was trampled on, and the birds ate it up. Some fell on rocky ground, and when it came up, the plants withered because they had no moisture. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up with it and choked the plants. Still other seed fell on good soil. It came up and yielded a crop, a hundred times more than was sown.”

When he said this, he called out, “Whoever has ears to hear, let them hear.”

 His disciples asked him what this parable meant. He said, “The knowledge of the secrets of the kingdom of God has been given to you, but to others I speak in parables, so that,
“‘though seeing, they may not see;
    though hearing, they may not understand.’

“This is the meaning of the parable: The seed is the word of God. Those along the path are the ones who hear, and then evil comes and takes away the word from their hearts, so that they may not believe and be saved. Those on the rocky ground are the ones who receive the word with joy when they hear it, but they have no root. They believe for a while, but in the time of testing they fall away. The seed that fell among thorns stands for those who hear, but as they go on their way they are choked by life’s worries, riches and pleasures, and they do not mature. But the seed on good soil stands for those with a noble and good heart, who hear the word, retain it, and by persevering produce a crop.

I include this parable for the benefits of activists of every treasured cause. Some of us will hear us. In the best case scenario, we will produce a hefty crop enough to feed a thousand people. Others may have good intentions at first, but their roots and commitment are not deep enough to sustain their initial devotion, so they wither and die. When times become painful or rough, they will not remain. Still another group will sprout and grow, but they’ll find worldly pleasures like money and immorality more compelling and rewarding.

Until Saturday, though seeing, I did not see. Though hearing, I did not understand. I nodded my head up and down in cadence, intending the best, but somewhat blind. I will not pretend to be smart enough to undo the ways of people, though I pray that my words be amplified by the Holy Spirit. I am a healer by nature. I am a fixer. For those who count themselves as the same, read these words if they give you comfort. Some will hear your message and some will not, but for their own reasons, not yours. It had to be their idea first, even if it really was yours. Being an activist requires humility as much as it requires initiative.