To Prevent Any and All Confusion

I am not a Mennonite, but close enough. They are, like us, a long standing peace church. You'll need to click directly on the picture to read it.

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Hangin' Round

The tale of anyone in their early thirties.
___________

Harry was a rich young man
who would become a priest
He dug up his dear father
who was recently deceased

He did it with tarot cards
and a mystically attuned mind
And shortly there
and after he did find

Jeanie was a spoiled young brat
she thought she knew it all
She smoked mentholated cigarettes
and she had sex in the hall

But she was not my kind
or even of my sign
The kind of animal

that I would be about

Woh-woh-woh, you keep hangin' round me
and I'm not so glad you found me
You're still doing things that I gave up years ago

Oh-woh-woh-woh, you keep hangin' round me
and I'm not so glad you found me
You're still doing things that I gave up years ago

Kathy was a bit surreal
she painted all her toes
And on her face she wore dentures
clamped tightly to her nose

And when she finally spoke
her twang her glasses broke
And no one else could smoke
while she was in the room

Hark the herald angels sang
and reached out for a phone
And plucking it with a knife in hand
dialed long distance home

But it was all too much
sprinkling angel dust
To AT& T
who didn't wish you well

Oh, but you keep hangin' round me
and I'm not so glad you found me
You're still doing things that I gave up years ago

Hangin' round, hangin' round

Past Woes, Present Treatments

My apologies for the time it has taken to write a post. This week has been extremely busy with one medical appointment after another. As a means of processing what I have recently experienced, I’ve decided to write about the experience.

_____________

I’ve begun to move beyond the most immediate hurt. For a time, I was momentarily fixated upon a very specific part of my life. That was to be expected. Colloquially, I call those times “the abuse”. Now we confront more sublime memories, each part of the trauma of day-to-day living. These are death by a thousand cuts, the little hurts that pile atop each other.

My early days existed in a state of unyielding isolation. Others made overtures of friendship, but I was too fearful to enter their company. I was a loner, the bookish kid in the corner. I read the way some of my peers chewed gum, constantly and conspicuously. As is often true with children in bad circumstances, I was able to escape my unhappiness by embracing the fantasy that existed in between the pages. My intellect took shape in solitude; my emotional intelligence lagged behind.

Human contact terrified me. This was never truer than when dropped off at school, or on days the family attended church. We arrived as a more or less intact unit every Sunday morning roughly around 9. Each of my siblings and I were dispersed to different Sunday School classrooms. I would stay in a dark, fusty smelling room comprised of whitewashed cinder block walls long enough to escape the eyes of my parents, and then run away.

Fortunately, the church had a graveyard adjacent to it. Ducking down, my knees resting on the immaculately mowed grass, I hid. Crouching down behind to a gravestone, I was hidden from sight. No one could find me there, or so I believed. My hiding place became common knowledge with time, and my parents eventually arrived to energetically and exasperatedly send me on my way once again. Eventually, I found I could tolerate a full hour’s worth of bible stories, warm juice, and other kids my age.

Stories like those come to mind now. Those fears are the ones we attack now. They do not surrender easily. As I follow the fingers of my therapist, tracking, seeking to push my eyes from side to side, they melt away to nothing. These miniature agonies are the most persistent, the kind inclined to reassert themselves between sessions. I try not to be frustrated, but frustration is often the most tenacious feeling of them all. It has attached itself to old wounds in all sorts of ways.

My therapist is a tiny, grandmotherly woman with a pronounced German accent. I believe she has a bit of a speech impediment, but I wonder if the discrepancy I detect is a result of her being foreign-born. Otherwise, I can’t help but notice how much she resembles the sex therapist Dr. Ruth, both in cultural identity and in stature, though she’s a bit less boisterous. Every week we spend ninety minutes reprogramming my brain. That fact might be more distressing if I wasn’t so dissatisfied with its current configuration.

EMDR is designed to activate the brain by focusing on strongly negative feelings. In addition to the eye motion segment, I am asked to frequently rate the severity and intensity of both negative self-talk and positive self-talk. It’s very easy for me to find flaws with myself. A brain accustomed for most of a lifetime to entertain constant insecurity takes a while to be won over to optimism.

The goal is to eventually feel better about myself internally, without as much need for external gratification. Each of us may require some validation by others to make us self-confidence personified. Neither therapy, nor medication has ever been successful at resolving this problem. At times, I admit I almost have a perverse need to cling to these self-defeating thoughts. Chronic pain can produce symptoms of masochism. Convincing myself of my own inherent value will be the greatest challenge.

Notice

I will not be posting here tomorrow. In a few hours, I will be taking part in an overnight sleep study. Because I have a prominent family history of sleep apnea, the test will determine conclusively whether or not I have it as well. Should a sleep disorder be detected, it is likely that the disorder has exacerbated other health concerns.

Having answers instead of questions would be welcome news. Should I have sleep apnea, soon I'll have my own CPAP machine!

Disability Rights in Faith Communities

The fundamental argument over the past few weeks has been whether government has a right to overrule the practice and beliefs of religious groups. As we know, the Catholic Church has been allowed to restrict access to contraception for a long while. Even though a majority of women use birth control, the Church has refused to bend to popular will. Government sought to step in to provide what would seem to most as commonplace and unspectacular. Instead, an influential institution decided to stir up another skirmish in the culture wars.

If we are to be fair, religious groups and places of worship have long been given sufficient leeway. The Founding Fathers wished for a government that, as historian Ron Chernow put it, “passively tolerated” organized religion instead of directly intervening in its affairs. This decision was itself a reaction to the power, exclusivity, and influence of the state Church of England. The Anglican church long held an especially limited tolerance for other religious groups. Those who formed the United State of America felt a lasting anxiety, due to a peculiarly British dislike of Catholicism, which was often contemptuously condemned as “Popery.”

Returning to where we began, beyond reproductive rights or deep seeded prejudices, faith groups have been consistently allowed to discriminate. In particular, this includes one overlooked segment of the population: people with disabilities. Mark I. Pinsky’s recent book, Amazing Gifts: Stories of Faith, Disability, and Inclusion addresses the problem. “…Small or medium-sized congregations, which are the overwhelming majority of houses of worship in the United States, are effectively exempt from provisions of the Americans with Disabilities Act.” Large gatherings, which include megachurches, are required to fully accommodate the disabled. Most others, however, are not required to make sufficient arrangements and, accordingly, they do not.

This compromise measure in the ADA act has enabled houses of worship to consistently overlook the needs of those with limitations. The act has been the law of the land since 1990, but is long overdo for an overhaul to keep it up to date. Legislation aside, the attitudes of congregations are regularly the primary stumbling blocks. At times, even the mildest of changes has been greeted with open hostility and contempt. Fearful of reform in any form, reasonable requests to accommodate the disabled are often opposed and blocked.

My own Quaker Meeting has recently wrestled with making changes to the main Worship room, a historic, but acoustically problematic space. Friends with hearing problems have long asked that something be done so that they might be able to hear each First Day Worship’s vocal ministry. I feel certain that making a welcoming space for people with disabilities could grow the Meeting. But I have had to recently concede that people can be fixated upon their own dislikes enough that they do not see the greater gain beyond. A few modifications here and there might very well provide the renewed vibrancy and energy that many Friends have long desired.

Still, one cannot overlook one looming impediment: money. Cost alone can be exceedingly prohibitive. Membership among many faith groups is in decline. Often, congregations lose a member for each one they gain. Membership rolls reflect this phenomenon. Even with a sufficient number of frequent attenders and members, often only a small minority contribute money. With limited resources, 20% of the congregation strains to support the demands and needs of the other 80%.

If houses of worship are financially unable to make these needed reforms, then other avenues need to be considered. Soliciting money makes many people queasy, but it may be unavoidable. Depending upon charity alone reminds me of an argument from another time. Herbert Hoover, himself a Quaker, believed that churches, charities, businesses, and relatives ought to aid those out of work. His perspective was that of strict government non-intervention. Franklin Roosevelt, as we know, had a very different approach. The New Deal established a precedent that government must intercede where the private sector fails.

Should houses of worship refuse to make a space for disabled citizens, who or what will step in to ensure that they can? Though the Catholic Church asserts a degree of influence because of its size, wealth, and historic importance, it does not dominate American society. This country is home to multiple faiths, multiple cultural traditions, and very diverse houses of worship. Would it be feasible to expect government to subsidize the very means by which disabled people can be fully integrated into faith communities? Many have been waiting for years and may be waiting much longer.

Them that's got shall get
Them that's not shall lose
So the Bible said and it still is news
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own

Yes, the strong gets more
While the weak ones fade
Empty pockets don't ever make the grade
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own

-Billie Holiday

The Southern Belle Ideal

Regional identity may not hold the same prominence it once did, but its distinctions are often extremely pronounced. Since I’ve lived elsewhere, I’ve been able to attain some needed distance and perspective. I still feel as though I am a foreigner, living in a strange land, one with very different societal priorities.

Though it has been years since I lived close to the place of my birth, I find I still carry with me a particular way of looking at the world. Over the past few weeks, my thoughts have returned to the particular mix of gender roles and gender expectations commonplace to a part of the country I will always call home.

Where I grew up, the roles of women were frequently stratified and closely governed. It was unusual to observe much overlap between social groups. The popular girls, for example, were held accountable to a set of very specific rules. Many of these had to do with educational achievement. They could be smart, but not too smart. They could make passing grades in school, but were careful to never make all A’s.

Intelligence and intellect came second to cosmetics pursuits like wearing fashionable clothing, flawlessly applying makeup, and other behaviors that placed a particularly emphatic priority upon outward appearances.

Girls who couldn’t inhabit this world felt like second best, shunned and ignored. Some focused on their studies in defiance of the system of priorities that had been long established. This attitude barely disguised a frequent anxiety caused by not belonging and not being good enough. Some young women saw outside the world of mean girls, competition, and power grabs. They went about their lives accordingly.

Others were forever resentful that they were not included and were made to feel shame because of it. Sometimes a profound fear of rejection and inadequacy were lasting side effects. It was my experience that these beliefs rarely stopped at high school. Often they were carried forward for years.

I didn’t need to look far to observe prominent examples of these traditional attitudes. Yet, I rarely observed gendered opinions and life stories that didn’t often include conflicting points of view. My grandmother, for example, in many ways defied the stereotypes of her age. Raised by four brothers in the middle of the Depression, she’d had to be tough in order to survive. To many, she was seen as the dictionary definition of a strong woman.

However, her opinions towards gender roles were extremely indicative of the time in which she came of age. My sisters, in addition to all existent female cousins, were regularly given two especially questionable pieces of advice and commentary. Her attempts towards indoctrination, if you will, began at a very young age. Each of her female progeny were told that to get a man, all a woman needed to do was dress up and act dumb.

And, rather frequently, they were belittled about their supposedly oversized hips and thighs. All of this was part of the Southern Belle ideal. Men were not supposed to have their intelligence threatened or challenged. Beauty standards were an element of a similarly unreachable ideal of body image.

I’m sure that cultural standards like these are not entirely unknown elsewhere. It’s been my observation that, elsewhere, overlap within identity groups was quite possible. I’ve been told that in other cities, states, and regions, it was entirely possible to be both a cheerleader and a valedictorian. As I listen to the stories and anecdotes of others, I wonder how and where things are changing, and for the better. Every hierarchical social system, in adult life and in adolescence, elevates a few and leaves out many others.

The examples learned early in life make a powerful impact upon young women. These formative years often determine the direction of future interpersonal decisions and ideas about the self. The challenges that lie before us vary considerably. Some of them are true more or less everywhere, and some of them are very specific to location. Any strategies adopted will have to take both into account.

Quote of the Week

"I never expect to see a perfect work from imperfect man. The result of the deliberations of all collective bodies must necessarily be a compound, as well of the errors and prejudices, as of the good sense and wisdom, of the individuals of whom they are composed."-Alexander Hamilton

Saturday Video

This is the one and only story I have of significance regarding a close brush with music fame. Verbena were Birmingham, Alabama's, closest thing to rock fame. The album from which this song is found, Souls for Sale, was released in 1997. As an aside, I was in high school hell at the time and used my albums as a kind of salve. In a very small, extremely incestuous music scene, Verbena rose to the top. Souls for Sale was at least released on Merge. This gave it indie cred, which built enough of a buzz for the group to be noticed.

The story might have ended here, but an unexpected face entered the picture. Dave Grohl, who had by now started up the Foo Fighters, took an interest in Verbena. He even produced their second album, Into the Pink. With the former Nirvana drummer pushing this unknown act, Verbena promptly signed up to Grohl's label Capitol. Despite having a big name pushing it, their sophomore effort was still mostly a dud. It resembled, as many noted at the time, a kind of poor man's Nirvana.

_______________

Hey, yeah, come on get in the car
This song goes out to no one but me
But I'll try just to sing a little harder

Hey, come on get in the car
Don't you wish that we could go for a ride, well
Hey, come on get in the car
Do you wanna bet?

It's the same your words
You get addicted I'm free

Another guess that you're gonna get smarter
This song goes out to no one but me
But I'll try just to sing a little harder

Hey, come on get in the car
Don't you wish that we could go for a ride, well

Hey, come on get in the car
Do you wanna bet?
Hey, yeah, come on get in the car
Hey, yeah, come on get in the car

A Child's Claim to Fame

There goes another day
and I wonder why

You and I
Keep telling lies

I can't believe a word you say
'Cause tomorrow's lullaby

Can't pacify
My lonesome crying

Make believe is all you know
And to make believe is a game

A child's reign
You've changed your name

So sadly I watched the show
As I see what you became

Truth is the shame
Too much fame

Cultural Narcissism and Toxic Fame

Mental illness often has a biological, inherited component. Though I am not usually a person inclined to self-promote, my own personal story of disability has been featured in a recent book. In it, four pages are devoted to the intersection of bipolar disorder and religious belief. While the book was being compiled, I wrote out, and then submitted a summary of my life. About half of it was used in the final version. As a society, the way we perceive of mental illness shows up in truncated fashion, often because we haven’t felt comfortable connecting the dots.

Much of our popular understanding of mental illness comes from works of narrative fiction. Authors like Ken Kesey and Sylvia Plath documented their own symptoms and struggles in novel form. Their books were emotionally powerful because they lifted the shroud of secrecy and shame. In their time, honesty on this scale was profoundly shocking and often disturbing. Mental illness was never to be mentioned in public for any reason. One side of my own family has regrettably taken this same approach.

I’d much rather confront a different sort of brain disorder, one not necessarily confined to depressive episodes and histrionic displays of mania. Most people who do not have mental illness, or who don’t have family members with it find it harder to completely understand. I’d rather shift the focus to an illness upon which we might all be able to relate. Namely, I’d like to talk about the long term psychological impact of a life spent in the public eye.

Periodically, our attention is consumed by another celebrity coping inadequately with substance abuse. More recently, it was Whitney Houston. In time, it will be someone else. Rather than referencing an underlying psychiatric diagnosis like depression or bipolar disorder, I’d like to propose that celebrity itself is toxic and unhealthy. We’ve given that idea lip service for a long time, but have never really examined the problem in the detail it deserves. The amount of money and number of basic livelihoods involved in a billion-dollar industry likely extinguishes any debate before it even has a chance to get started.

What follows is a very real personality disorder, one which is a learned behavior, not an inherited biochemical disease.

Acquired situational narcissism (ASN) is a form of narcissism that develops in late adolescence or adulthood, brought on by wealth, fame and the other trappings of celebrity.

ASN differs from conventional narcissism in that it develops after childhood and is triggered and supported by the celebrity-obsessed society: fans, assistants and tabloid media all play into the idea that the person really is vastly more important than other people, triggering a narcissistic problem that might have been only a tendency, or latent, and helping it to become a full-blown personality disorder.

"Millman says that what happens to celebrities is that they get so used to people looking at them that they stop looking back at other people."

In its presentation and symptoms, it is indistinguishable from narcissistic personality disorder, differing only in its late onset and its support by large numbers of others. "The lack of social norms, controls, and of people telling them how life really is, also makes these people believe they're invulnerable," so that the person with ASN may suffer from unstable relationships, substance abuse and erratic behaviour.

No one is born with ASN. Though a person might be inclined to some of these symptoms beforehand, celebrity makes them much worse. We shoulder some of the blame. Though we do not sell drugs to those in the public eye, nor encourage their worst qualities, we are nevertheless their enablers. Every time we placate people who have an already inflated and exaggerated sense of themselves, the problem gets worse. Don’t get me wrong. We should hold sympathy in our hearts. Still, efforts to make needed changes are limited unless we back them up with accountability.

Lashing out verbally or in written form is a popular form of civic discourse. That is not what I mean. All we’re really doing is taking part in a cultural version of Orwell’s Two Minute Hate. Celebrities often only exist as a popular, easy means to project our own hopes, desires, and frustrations. We might feel better afterwards for having vented, but the cycle never ends. A celebrity does something foolish or says something foolish, an outpouring of boos and cat calls are heard, and we’re right back where we started. Entirely rethinking the idea of fame is the boldest proposal of all.

For all of the hate and disgust they produce, we allow celebrities to act recklessly because they stand in for us. Daily life for most of us is full of relatively bland responsibilities like a job, children to raise, and bills to pay. Our criticism is as much envy as it is disgust. Ours is a love/hate relationship, and the pendulum swings freely and frequently.

Even with all the wealth spent every year for promotion, even with the constant rumors about pregnancy, even with the massive speculation about sexual orientation, even with spurious rumors in the tabloid press, even when great opulence and financial gain completely eviscerate someone’s privacy, we have no reason to take the bait. This conduct of ours feeds a dual addiction. The mass of us live lives of quiet desperation. Our co-dependent beliefs must come to an end. Until then, we’ll be burying another star who was overwhelmed by the pressure cooker of fame.

Funny Mostly for Birmingham Natives (Like Yours Truly)

Shameless Self-Promotion

At long last, now in publication! The book includes 64 separate stories. Mine happens to be number 20. The book was set up like this. I was first asked to write a more or less narrative summary of what life is like with a disability. I began it early in life and concluded in adulthood. The summary ran around 1,000 words in length. About half of my words are preserved in the final draft. Present also is the perspective of my mother, who contributed her own account.

In the book, I represent my faith, Quakerism, and my Monthly Meeting in Washington, DC. A Friend who until recently clerked (led) the committee of which I am a member kindly sent along her remarks. These are also enclosed in the final draft.

The anthology's author, Mark I. Pinsky, was respectful in his questions and skillful in combining different perspectives into a compelling whole. From start to finish, the draft proof I approved took the form of published book in about six months. At a little over five pages in totality, mine is one of the most lengthy in the collection. I'm glad to be a public face of bipolar disorder and I hope it inspires others to seek treatment.

Amazing Gifts: Stories of Faith, Disability, and Inclusion is published by the Alban Institute.

My Apologies

I simply didn't have the time to post today. Try me back tomorrow.

Welcome to the Working Week

Now that your picture's in the paper
being rhythmically admired
and you can have anyone that
you have ever desired.

All you gotta tell me now is
why, why, why, why?

Welcome to the workin' week.
Oh, I know it don't thrill you,
I hope it don't kill you.

Welcome to the workin' week.
You gotta do it 'till you're through it
so you better get to it.

All of your family had to kill to survive,
and they're still waitin'
for their big day to arrive.
But if they knew how I felt
they'd bury me alive.

Welcome to the workin' week.
Oh I know it don't thrill you,
I hope it don't kill you.

Welcome to the workin' week.
You gotta do it till you're through
it so you better get to it.

I hear you sayin', "Hey, the city's all right
when you only read about it in books.
Spend all your money gettin' so convinced
that you never even bother to look.

Sometimes I wonder if we're
livin' in the same land,
Why d'you wanna be my friend
when I feel like a juggler
running out of hands?

Welcome to the workin' week,
oh, welcome to the working week.

The patience and persistence of activism

Every now and again, as in the birth control debate still smoldering, glaring examples of inequality come before us. The sight of a male-only religious panel arguing against contraception before Congress is one of these. Without the addition of even a single female voice, the spectacle makes it clear that we are still living in a man’s world. With such damning evidence, even men can no longer deny the fact. It should not take something so blatant to reveal an otherwise long standing truth. We often arrange our priorities wrongly.

Many issues pertaining to women are segregated, compartmentalized, and assumed to only be of importance to exactly one sex. When news stories break that are much more visually subtle (and they often are), these topics are usually discussed in a relatively small circle of discourse. Books about Feminism, women’s rights, and the like find themselves relegated to a tiny corner of a bookstore. Unless you knew precisely where you were looking, it might be entirely possible to walk right by. This ghettoizing effect has long been present, to the complete consternation of those who would bring these discussions to a much larger audience.

Those who tirelessly push the discourse upon what often seems like an apathetic world have my respect and my sympathy. I myself seek to enlighten others along the same lines. Because I am a man, I sometimes have the ability to affect the attitudes and perception of other men. If I am successful, others keep what I’ve said in mind, at least for the short term. But once they’ve gone to work, watched television, or slipped back into traditionally male assumptions and patterns of belief, my hard work is blunted. It’s now time for me to try again.

My Great-Grandfather was a minister. He was once asked why he consistently preached sermons that referenced the same several passages of Scripture. His response was that, in his mind, people needed a constant reminder of the lessons contained within them. He conceded that it was easy for everyone, with time, to arrange their priorities incorrectly. Religion, for him, was an essential corrective to get people back on the right track. He expected that people would routinely stray, and he structured his sermons accordingly.

Persistence may be our strongest ally. We expect much of other people, just as we expect much of ourselves. When we cannot make the immediate, measurable impact we desire, we become frustrated. I don’t believe that our sights should be set lower, but rather that we understand a core truism. The process of reform and progress is unceasing. What we accomplish today may only be truly visible with the passage of time.

Establishing equality must continue, but we may need to begin with the understanding that humans can and will sometimes disappoint us. Believers will backslide. Politicians will pander for the sake of their office. People will quickly forget the lessons they once claimed to revere. Hypocrisy will take the place of sincerity. The same crowds singing Hallelujah on Sunday will yell for crucifixion on Friday.

We may need to periodically modify our plans and goals. None of that which stands before us should discourage from our greater goal. Embrace the challenge.

The Civil Rights era folk song “Eyes on the Prize” was originally a hymn named “Gospel Plow”. The title of the latter is adapted from the Gospel of Luke. The specific verse reads—“But Jesus told him, anyone who puts a hand to the plow and then looks back is not fit for the Kingdom of God."

Its lyrics were later adapted by activist Alice Wine in 1956. Two stanzas summarize the devotion, passion, and drive that must be the mainstays of all who would further the state of humanity.

Now only thing I did was wrong
Stayin' in the wilderness too long
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on

The only thing we did was right
Was the day we started to fight
Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on

Quote of the Week

“You wouldn't worry so much about what others think of you if you realized how seldom they do.”-Eleanor Roosevelt

Saturday Video

I'm so happy 'cause today
I've found my friends
They're in my head
I'm so ugly, but that's okay, 'cause so are you
We broke our mirrors

Sunday morning is everyday for all I care
And I'm not scared
Light my candles, in a daze
'Cause I've found God

I'm so lonely, but that's okay, I shaved my head
And I'm not sad
And just maybe I'm to blame for all I've heard
But I'm not sure

I'm so excited, I can't wait to meet you there
But I don't care
I'm so horny, but that's okay
My will is good

I like it - I'm not gonna crack
I miss you - I'm not gonna crack
I love you - I'm not gonna crack
I killed you - I'm not gonna crack

I like it - I'm not gonna crack
I miss you - I'm not gonna crack
I love you - I'm not gonna crack
I killed you - I'm not gonna crack

I'm so happy 'cause today
I've found my friends
They're in my head
I'm so ugly, but that's okay, 'cause so are you
We broke our mirrors

Sunday morning is everyday for all I care
And I'm not scared
Light my candles in a daze
'Cause I've found God

I like it - I'm not gonna crack
I miss you - I'm not gonna crack
I love you - I'm not gonna crack
I killed you - I'm not gonna crack

I like it - I'm not gonna crack
I miss you - I'm not gonna crack
I love you - I'm not gonna crack
I killed you - I'm not gonna crack

Room Enough for Both at the Table: Reason Rally

At the end of March, many prominent atheists plan to march on Washington, DC. Among them is famed firebrand Richard Dawkins and MythBuster Adam Savage. Both of these names, plus other scheduled speakers have one very large area of commonality. They are skilled in science, math, and technology. So-called left-brained individuals have a tendency to favor conclusions that can be either convincingly be proved or disproved. That is the logic upon which their thoughts are often based.

People who work in the sciences and in mathematics often think in terms of purely correct and purely incorrect. This is a somewhat crude rendering of a complicated truth, but I seek to make an argument. People who excel at numbers and figures can always take pride and comfort that every equation works out perfectly, should one first discover the proper series of steps. Likewise, the same thing is true if one wishes to balance a chemical equation or calculate precise quantity. Left-brained people intuitively gravitate towards resolutions which contain an element of perfection.

Right-brained people, however, live in a much messier world. For them, many inherent and indisputable truths exist in shades of grey. They are believers in a kind of world without cut-and-dried solutions. Right-brained creativity takes a theme and expands upon it, instead of working within the close confines of a system. To them, it is unrealistic to expect outcomes so easily solved. Every metaphorical math problem upon which they work always leaves a remainder. Each scientific discovery has a hidden flaw or even multiple flaws.

The STEM (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) fields are usually where atheism is most popular. To some, the concept of a mysterious, unpredictable, sometimes confusing God does not compute. However, merely because brain function strongly differs from person to person does not mean that a Higher Power is a fiction. I have met left-brained people who have a strong belief in God. Often, this is the result of having survived some crisis like a severe illness or a personal tragedy. A universe of indisputable evidence and methodology is not much help when no answers can be found.

In the South, where I grew up, atheism was often a protest against the predominant religion of the Bible Belt. Rural areas, in particular, are mainstays of conservative Christianity. Foremost among these groups are the Southern Baptists, who hold a strong majority of church-going believers even today. Those who rejected what they saw as a limiting and a very narrowly defined view of individual liberty often flipped to the opposite end of the spectrum. I’ve seen many a copy of British philosopher Bertrand Russell’s 1927 essay “Why I Am Not a Christian” in their personal collection.

I’m not fearful of the growing scourge of the unbelievers. Those who would receive the message are those to whom I speak. People who would push it away are entitled to their own views. Atheism, much like Theism, takes many forms. Sometimes it’s a temporary way to contradict past hurtful teachings. Other times, it arrives and is practiced for the rest of one’s life. Predicting inevitable outcomes along one’s Spiritual journey is a futile gesture in the end. None of us truly know the direction our life will take. No system shaped by our hands provides a satisfying answer.

Until that day, all of us can learn from each other. The muddy, messy, inexact world of the right-brained can learn from the precise, conclusive, and pinpoint reality of the left-brained. And in the middle one finds God and the limits of human understanding. God is both comprehensible and infuriatingly difficult to fully realize. Theology and scientific knowledge need not be mutually exclusive. We ought not form opposing camps, digging in for the bombardment to follow. Instead, we should acknowledge the mystery of systems beyond any telescope or any collection of moral teachings.

Today's Placeholder

I submitted this to GOOD Magazine over two months ago and received no word. I assume this means I didn't pass muster. Even so, I'm quite proud of this story and am pleased to share it with you. Be forewarned. It is much more lengthy than most things I post.
__________

She Had a One-Track Mind

I met her at a house party that began in the early evening and lasted late into the night. After my share of them, I’ve begun to notice a pattern. Attendance seems to arrive in waves, spaced periodically throughout the evening. People arrive, alcohol arrives, alcohol is consumed, people excuse themselves, and alcohol may or may not depart with them. Another wave goes through shortly thereafter.

 

Like me, she showed up early by herself, not part of any group invasion. Knowing only one other person, I found myself, as I always do, in search of interesting conversation and appealing company. As it turns out, I did most of the talking that night. There was enough of an attraction present between the two of us to keep me there longer than normal. Usually, I am among the first to excuse myself for home. 

I remained in her company until well after midnight. She did nothing to dissuade me from leaving.  Sometimes I don’t mind being the sole center of someone else’s attention. As evening turned into early morning, we exchanged contact information and then went our separate ways. Following that, I waited the requisite but cliché two to three days before contacting her. And I waited. And I kept waiting.

Prior experience usually states that receiving no communication within a week is usually not a promising sign.  But I really liked this girl, so I tried to stay patient. By ten days I was beginning to feel abandoned. Had she merely been humoring me? I had given up ever hearing or seeing from her again when I received a brief e-mail. Approximately two weeks after my initial communication, her response was Spartan and to the point.  It also contained what I thought was a heartfelt apology, this for the extended period of no contact.  She had, she said, been overseas and busy with work. 

I proposed a date at a trendy coffee shop frequented by young professional types. Her reply was surprisingly prompt this time and we set a time. My expectations were high, perhaps more than they ever had any right to be. Even so, I’m afraid I could never have foreseen the outcome. Here is what I mean.  On the occasion of this, our first date, I started several usually interesting discussion topics. Most people who I encountered immediately caught on, contributing their own opinions and experiences. She stared at me blankly with each one. 

So I was forced to improvise and try different options. Nothing was making as much as a dent at first.  I began to get a little worried. Working the topic eventually around to what she did for a living, a decision made nearly in desperation, she became instantly animated and talkative.

After fifteen minutes or so of conversation exclusively centered on her occupation, I realized something as revealing as it was disheartening. Work wasn’t just a fixation; it was her only real interest and passion. The effect was robotic and dull. 

In Washington, DC, people of this make and model are not uncommon. Type A overachievers, they are experts in precisely one specific area of their lives, and often surprisingly underdeveloped in many others. Still, I had to hand it to her. After listening to her happy chatter, I had to concede that she was obviously very good at what she did.  

But when I threw out a pop culture reference, something fun and seemingly popular, like 30 Rock, I was told that she’d never seen it. She probably would eventually see an episode, that is, once she was a little less busy. An hour’s worth of conversation had already let me know that this was an event unlikely to ever occur.

Not certain what to think, I made sure to take my traditional survey of at least three female friends. This is my normal means of achieving dating insight. Their consensus opinion was that perhaps she was afraid of anything that involved emotional intimacy, work being a relatively safe outlet. This I tried to understand.  I generally do seek to be sympathetic.

Having been granted advice that was so consistent and uniform, I decided to take a different tact during our next meeting. I prepared for our next encounter with much deliberation and preparation. I again aimed for something classy, a Thai restaurant that had received high marks with all to whom I’d mentioned this outing.   

I went into our second date the same way that I readied myself for exams in college. There must be some way to reach her, I mused. I must be overlooking something obvious. Unfortunately, for all of my preparation, this date was to be even worse than the one before it. She was in a strange, hyper-competitive mode all night, acting as though every action or thought of mine was somehow intended to attack her self-esteem.

In a way that was a touch condescending, she corrected my grammar and pronunciation when I made the slightest of missteps. By doing so, she seemed to be trying to prove that she knew more than I did or that she was more precise. 

Typical of this was how I innocently asked her what time she arose in the morning. I had casually mentioned that I often woke up around 7:30 am every morning to begin writing. Merely curious, I asked her what time she began her day. Her response was, “Well, 8 to 8:30.  But I’m not surprised that you would get going earlier than I do.” 

The words themselves can be interpreted as matter-of-fact and harmless, but it was how she said it that mattered. Her tone of voice was darkly sarcastic, needless caustic, I thought. To be honest, I never really believed that the time one rubbed sleep out of eyes and poured the first cup of coffee mattered all that much.  How was I intimidating or threatening? I didn’t even work in her career field. 

To be blunt, I found myself mostly bored, frankly, with her work stories. They were always different, but also always the same. I now no longer believed that she was simply not comfortable enough with herself to focus on anything other than work. Work was her sole interest and the only aspect of life she focused upon deeply and cared to entertain. She was really that one-track and monolithic.     

Excusing myself from the table, I headed home. I knew that I had tried, at least. Disappointed, I tried to picture where she would be soon. I could see a bright future ahead with pay raises and upward mobility.  Maybe she just didn’t know how to be in a relationship. Never once in several hours’ conversation did she ever ask me about what I did or even who I was. Relationships are give and take, and even the first night I talked her ear off, she never indicated then anything I said was more than amusing distraction. I know I deserve better than that. 

Opinion

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Now there seems to be a problem here
The scale of emotions seems too clear
Now they rise and fall like Wall Street stock
And they have an effect on our peace talk

My opinion.