Butterfly Cauldron
Friday, August 07, 2009
First drafts
So. I've been thinking about a new collection of poems. They're really hard for me to write, but I think that's good. Anyway, I have a first draft ready to go.
New Shoes
When I saw them,
I had to have them.
Red plaid flannel, soft and warm.
They don't match anything and
I wear them all the time.
They remind me of the shirts
my father used to wear.
Practical.
Durable.
A wardrobe staple.
Sometimes, I wear my new shoes
and I cry.
He's not so sturdy
Anymore
Not indomitable.
Now, when I see him, he's
tripped by pain.
He talks through tight jaws,
trying to keep the pain from seeping
out to infect me.
He likes to pretend nothing
has changed.
He likes to pretend he'll always be here.
But he hasn't worn red plaid
in years.
New Shoes
When I saw them,
I had to have them.
Red plaid flannel, soft and warm.
They don't match anything and
I wear them all the time.
They remind me of the shirts
my father used to wear.
Practical.
Durable.
A wardrobe staple.
Sometimes, I wear my new shoes
and I cry.
He's not so sturdy
Anymore
Not indomitable.
Now, when I see him, he's
tripped by pain.
He talks through tight jaws,
trying to keep the pain from seeping
out to infect me.
He likes to pretend nothing
has changed.
He likes to pretend he'll always be here.
But he hasn't worn red plaid
in years.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Why my children will never go to church
My mother believes I've never allowed myself to be happy.
She says she doesn't know why that is. She says she doesn't know why I don't always seem to believe she loves me. And, I could explain it all to her, but I'm not sure she'd understand.
I was raised in a very conservative Southern Baptist Church, by parents who were and who remain wholly devoted to their faith. It is their very breath, my mother has said, and she is not exaggerating. Our lives revolved around the church when I was a child. We went at least three times a week: Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday night. Our weekends were generally filled with church-related activities: youth rallies, revivals, prayer meetings. My friends were made at church. The first time a boy actively hit on me was at church. The first concert I attended was a church concert. The first play I performed in was a church play. The church and it's teaching were the core of my life.
So, when the teachers tell you that Jesus loves you, you believe it. And when they tell you that Jesus will also send you to Hell, you believe that too. That these things were incompatible never seemed to occur to anyone else, but they certainly occured to me.
My mother would never understand that the very thing that gives her such great peace is the source of my greatest pains. She'd never understand that being told, repeatedly, that I was not worthy of God's love made me feel I wasn't worthy of anyone's love. After all, if God couldn't love me, how could any human being? If I deserved to die and then to burn eternally in Hellfire, regardless of my sincere desire to be good, to do good, then how was anything I could ever possibly do good enough? How could I ever be good enough? How could I ever try hard enough? I threw myself into Bible study, into prayer. I begged God to love me, to accept me, to tell me I was Good Enough.
But that never happened. No matter how much I tried to assure myself that I had done all the right things, I had prayed all the right prayers, I had opened myself completely to God. That fear never went away. That terror that still wakes me in the middle of the night -- that Jesus has come again and I've been left alone, abandoned, forgotten. Because I wasn't Enough. I could never be Enough. God loves me, but I'm going to Hell. My sins, such as they were, were too great. I was too broken. I was too unlovable, too unsalvagable.
What could an 8-year-old child do that was so horrible she could never be forgiven? I didn't know, but I was sure I had done it. I was 8 when my first phobia manifested. I became terribly afraid of water. Why water? I don't know. But I was stricken with a certainty that something, some demon was going to come up the pipes while I took a shower or a bath. I used to grab my cat and my radio, go into the bathroom and lock the door, run a bath, turn the music up really loud and then lay on the floor, sobbing into my cat's fur, too petrified to actually get into the water. But I knew I couldn't tell my parents. I was certain they'd tell me I was being stupid. I was certain they'd tell me no such thing could happen. But, if demons were real -- and the Bible said they were -- then why couldn't it happen? Why couldn't a demon decide to possess me? It had happened in the Bible, to people who were seemingly innocent. And I, well I was worse than that. I was certain of it. I'd been told. I'd been taught. No one is good enough for God. No one deserves to go to Heaven. We all deserve to burn forever. I deserved to burn forever. So why not a demon?
So I didn't tell my parents and I continued to go to church. Three, four, sometimes seven times a week or more. Year after year, drummed into my head: You're bad. You're broken. You're a sinner. Sin is evil, therefore, you are evil. All the tacked on platitudes that God will save me anyway, if I just do what he wants meant nothing. I was doing what God wanted! So where was my peace? Where my rest? My parents had it. My brother had it. Everyone else around me had it. But it was not for me. Was I one of those the Bible spoke about, the ones whose hearts God would harden? The ones God had given all the chances allowed too, so that even if I begged on my knees, even if I ripped out my hair and gashed out my eyes, he would refuse me? It says that, you know. That God has a limit to the number of chances he'll give a person to be saved. And, I was told, you never know how many you're going to get. You? Maybe you get only one chance. That guy over there? Maybe God gives him 100. No one knows and when your chances are up, they're up. It's Hellfire for you, even if you realize you're wrong. Even if you beg, even if you plead, even if you sacrifice yourself on the altar, God won't care. He won't hear you. Because you're evil, you're rotten, you deserve to burn.
All the other stories? The ones about Jesus loving people, the ones about the shephard leaving his flock to search out one single lost lamb and bring it home to safety? Those stories didn't make sense, not in the face of a God who would randomly cut people off. How could God care so much about one single lamb, when he didn't really give a damn about that other lamb over there? And how could you know which lamb you were? It was impossible!
And they said, God is a Father. An eternal, immortal parent. Parents are supposed to love you, to protect you, care for you. They are not supposed to decide some of their children deserve to burn forever, while others get to loll about Heaven. And if your God Parent can't be counted on to love you, to protect you, to keep you from eternal damnation, how can you count on your human parents? Aren't they much more failable? Aren't they much more fickle? If a single lie told by my 8-year-old self was enough to make God cast me into fire -- a fire where I would not actually die, but live, feeling the fire and the pain and the agony, over and over and over for eternity -- then what would it make my human parents do to me? No. No. I had to try harder, I had to be better, I had to find something, some way to be better, to be worthy. But it was impossible, because the Bible said so.
And this haunts me. No matter how much therapy I do, no matter how much processing or talking it out or reasoning through I do, it haunts me. No matter that I've rejected it all, it's still there. And so, no. I don't always believe my mother loves me. On one level, I know that she does, of course. On one level, I don't doubt it. So long as I do what I'm supposed to do. So long as she doesn't find out about the ways my life differs from what she thinks it is. I doubt anyone really, genuinely loves me -- not once they know who I really am. Not once they find out where I diverge from the path. I am constantly, eternally on edge -- even when I'm not consciously aware of it -- that I may wake up and everyone will Know Me and that they'll leave. The trumpet will sound and *poof* they're all gone, scooped up by that vicious God, leaving me abandoned and alone.
So there it is, why I have such a hard time being happy. Every bad thing in my life, some part of me believes I deserve it for being such a rotten, horrible person. And I blame my parents for it, even though I know they didn't realize what they were doing, for sending me to church, over and over and over, despite my pleas not to go. My parents, whose only answer to the obvious suicidal depression I endured as a teenager was to send me to church MORE often. And I don't think I can tell my mother this, because I know it would break her heart.
She says she doesn't know why that is. She says she doesn't know why I don't always seem to believe she loves me. And, I could explain it all to her, but I'm not sure she'd understand.
I was raised in a very conservative Southern Baptist Church, by parents who were and who remain wholly devoted to their faith. It is their very breath, my mother has said, and she is not exaggerating. Our lives revolved around the church when I was a child. We went at least three times a week: Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday night. Our weekends were generally filled with church-related activities: youth rallies, revivals, prayer meetings. My friends were made at church. The first time a boy actively hit on me was at church. The first concert I attended was a church concert. The first play I performed in was a church play. The church and it's teaching were the core of my life.
So, when the teachers tell you that Jesus loves you, you believe it. And when they tell you that Jesus will also send you to Hell, you believe that too. That these things were incompatible never seemed to occur to anyone else, but they certainly occured to me.
My mother would never understand that the very thing that gives her such great peace is the source of my greatest pains. She'd never understand that being told, repeatedly, that I was not worthy of God's love made me feel I wasn't worthy of anyone's love. After all, if God couldn't love me, how could any human being? If I deserved to die and then to burn eternally in Hellfire, regardless of my sincere desire to be good, to do good, then how was anything I could ever possibly do good enough? How could I ever be good enough? How could I ever try hard enough? I threw myself into Bible study, into prayer. I begged God to love me, to accept me, to tell me I was Good Enough.
But that never happened. No matter how much I tried to assure myself that I had done all the right things, I had prayed all the right prayers, I had opened myself completely to God. That fear never went away. That terror that still wakes me in the middle of the night -- that Jesus has come again and I've been left alone, abandoned, forgotten. Because I wasn't Enough. I could never be Enough. God loves me, but I'm going to Hell. My sins, such as they were, were too great. I was too broken. I was too unlovable, too unsalvagable.
What could an 8-year-old child do that was so horrible she could never be forgiven? I didn't know, but I was sure I had done it. I was 8 when my first phobia manifested. I became terribly afraid of water. Why water? I don't know. But I was stricken with a certainty that something, some demon was going to come up the pipes while I took a shower or a bath. I used to grab my cat and my radio, go into the bathroom and lock the door, run a bath, turn the music up really loud and then lay on the floor, sobbing into my cat's fur, too petrified to actually get into the water. But I knew I couldn't tell my parents. I was certain they'd tell me I was being stupid. I was certain they'd tell me no such thing could happen. But, if demons were real -- and the Bible said they were -- then why couldn't it happen? Why couldn't a demon decide to possess me? It had happened in the Bible, to people who were seemingly innocent. And I, well I was worse than that. I was certain of it. I'd been told. I'd been taught. No one is good enough for God. No one deserves to go to Heaven. We all deserve to burn forever. I deserved to burn forever. So why not a demon?
So I didn't tell my parents and I continued to go to church. Three, four, sometimes seven times a week or more. Year after year, drummed into my head: You're bad. You're broken. You're a sinner. Sin is evil, therefore, you are evil. All the tacked on platitudes that God will save me anyway, if I just do what he wants meant nothing. I was doing what God wanted! So where was my peace? Where my rest? My parents had it. My brother had it. Everyone else around me had it. But it was not for me. Was I one of those the Bible spoke about, the ones whose hearts God would harden? The ones God had given all the chances allowed too, so that even if I begged on my knees, even if I ripped out my hair and gashed out my eyes, he would refuse me? It says that, you know. That God has a limit to the number of chances he'll give a person to be saved. And, I was told, you never know how many you're going to get. You? Maybe you get only one chance. That guy over there? Maybe God gives him 100. No one knows and when your chances are up, they're up. It's Hellfire for you, even if you realize you're wrong. Even if you beg, even if you plead, even if you sacrifice yourself on the altar, God won't care. He won't hear you. Because you're evil, you're rotten, you deserve to burn.
All the other stories? The ones about Jesus loving people, the ones about the shephard leaving his flock to search out one single lost lamb and bring it home to safety? Those stories didn't make sense, not in the face of a God who would randomly cut people off. How could God care so much about one single lamb, when he didn't really give a damn about that other lamb over there? And how could you know which lamb you were? It was impossible!
And they said, God is a Father. An eternal, immortal parent. Parents are supposed to love you, to protect you, care for you. They are not supposed to decide some of their children deserve to burn forever, while others get to loll about Heaven. And if your God Parent can't be counted on to love you, to protect you, to keep you from eternal damnation, how can you count on your human parents? Aren't they much more failable? Aren't they much more fickle? If a single lie told by my 8-year-old self was enough to make God cast me into fire -- a fire where I would not actually die, but live, feeling the fire and the pain and the agony, over and over and over for eternity -- then what would it make my human parents do to me? No. No. I had to try harder, I had to be better, I had to find something, some way to be better, to be worthy. But it was impossible, because the Bible said so.
And this haunts me. No matter how much therapy I do, no matter how much processing or talking it out or reasoning through I do, it haunts me. No matter that I've rejected it all, it's still there. And so, no. I don't always believe my mother loves me. On one level, I know that she does, of course. On one level, I don't doubt it. So long as I do what I'm supposed to do. So long as she doesn't find out about the ways my life differs from what she thinks it is. I doubt anyone really, genuinely loves me -- not once they know who I really am. Not once they find out where I diverge from the path. I am constantly, eternally on edge -- even when I'm not consciously aware of it -- that I may wake up and everyone will Know Me and that they'll leave. The trumpet will sound and *poof* they're all gone, scooped up by that vicious God, leaving me abandoned and alone.
So there it is, why I have such a hard time being happy. Every bad thing in my life, some part of me believes I deserve it for being such a rotten, horrible person. And I blame my parents for it, even though I know they didn't realize what they were doing, for sending me to church, over and over and over, despite my pleas not to go. My parents, whose only answer to the obvious suicidal depression I endured as a teenager was to send me to church MORE often. And I don't think I can tell my mother this, because I know it would break her heart.
Labels: childhood memories, childhood trauma, depression, family, fundies, mothers, pain, parents, religion, sadness
Friday, February 06, 2009
I'm getting married!
Emmy and I have decided to get married -- so throw the confetti already!
I'm beginning work on the immigration paperwork this weekend. As soon as we can get it filed -- and pay the $500 it costs to apply! -- it should take about four months to process and, barring no problems, she could be in the country by July. That gives us four months to get married on a fiance visa, so we're planning for the end of September/first of October. Exact date will be posted as soon as it's pinned down.
We've decided on getting married in New Orleans, because we both love it so. I've tracked down a little chapel in the Quarter. For $300, you get the chapel for an hour, a violinist at your disposal and a celebrant to do the ceremony. We're thinking morning weeding, then a nice brunch at a nearby restuarant. We'll rent the courtyard for a few hours, have food, dancing, some presents and just general happiness. Then, the rest of the afternoon can be spent rummaging around the Quarter having fun in New Orleans.
That's the good stuff.
Now, for the bad.
I have to tell my family. I told my brother via IM this morning. He's not terribly happy. He says that this 'makes my heart hurt a little'. Because he didn't expect me to marry someone like Emmy. Well, neither did I. I didn't go looking for an Australian trans woman, but when you meet someone you can build a life with, that loves you and supports you and understands you, that shares your values and makes you feel like all those things you'd given up on are possible again -- what kind of idiot turns their back on that? It's uncommon and when you find it, you hold on to it.
He says that my niece Kadyn will not understand this, and he worries about her because she loves me so much. Well, I love her too. I didn't think I could actually love a child as much as I love her. It's a strange, strange bond. But it's not going to be hard for her. How hard is it for her to know that Aunt Suzan's friend Emily lives with her now? We won't be making out in front of her, you know. Regardless of who I was partnered with, I wouldn't do that. She's not going to care. She's going to go 'Oh. Okay. Can we go play with all your paints now?' Emmy's just one more person to shower her with love and presents. It's not going to be weird for her.
He kept saying 'You're my sister and I love you' -- which is very strange, because my brother hasn't told me he loved me in...ever, probably. I don't know how my parents are going to take the news either.
I'm calling my mother tonight. I've decided I'm just going to tell her. This is the plan. You can be involved if you want to be, that's entirely up to you. They're going to have to take some time to get used to the idea, I know. I'm pretty sure my mother will come around and I'm pretty sure my brother will too. My dad? I have no idea. I mean....if they don't want the rest of the family to realize we're married, fine. Whatever. If they just want people to know that we're living together, fine. We won't be making out in front of people, for gods sake. But I love her and frankly, I'm tired of feeling so exhausted and worn out over something that is GOOD NEWS!
Emmy's entire fracking family wants to come to our weeding! Her mother, father, two brothers, sister and at least one cousin are already coming. They're going to come up with $12k to get the whole family over here. They're all really excited for us. My family? They feel like it's a horribe tragedy.
So, here's the thing. I'm not letting my happiness get stolen. I'm GETTING MARRIED! I have to plan a weeding! I have to file out immigration paperwork! I have to find a caterer in New Orleans who will make me a bunny-shaped cheesecake for the weeding! I have to find a restuarant with a nice courtyard for us to rent! I have to find a dress! And shoes! And pick an attendant! We need announcements! We need to compile registries! I have six, maybe seven months to plan a fun, unconventional weeding! Screw everyone who cannot get on-board with my happiness.
I'm beginning work on the immigration paperwork this weekend. As soon as we can get it filed -- and pay the $500 it costs to apply! -- it should take about four months to process and, barring no problems, she could be in the country by July. That gives us four months to get married on a fiance visa, so we're planning for the end of September/first of October. Exact date will be posted as soon as it's pinned down.
We've decided on getting married in New Orleans, because we both love it so. I've tracked down a little chapel in the Quarter. For $300, you get the chapel for an hour, a violinist at your disposal and a celebrant to do the ceremony. We're thinking morning weeding, then a nice brunch at a nearby restuarant. We'll rent the courtyard for a few hours, have food, dancing, some presents and just general happiness. Then, the rest of the afternoon can be spent rummaging around the Quarter having fun in New Orleans.
That's the good stuff.
Now, for the bad.
I have to tell my family. I told my brother via IM this morning. He's not terribly happy. He says that this 'makes my heart hurt a little'. Because he didn't expect me to marry someone like Emmy. Well, neither did I. I didn't go looking for an Australian trans woman, but when you meet someone you can build a life with, that loves you and supports you and understands you, that shares your values and makes you feel like all those things you'd given up on are possible again -- what kind of idiot turns their back on that? It's uncommon and when you find it, you hold on to it.
He says that my niece Kadyn will not understand this, and he worries about her because she loves me so much. Well, I love her too. I didn't think I could actually love a child as much as I love her. It's a strange, strange bond. But it's not going to be hard for her. How hard is it for her to know that Aunt Suzan's friend Emily lives with her now? We won't be making out in front of her, you know. Regardless of who I was partnered with, I wouldn't do that. She's not going to care. She's going to go 'Oh. Okay. Can we go play with all your paints now?' Emmy's just one more person to shower her with love and presents. It's not going to be weird for her.
He kept saying 'You're my sister and I love you' -- which is very strange, because my brother hasn't told me he loved me in...ever, probably. I don't know how my parents are going to take the news either.
I'm calling my mother tonight. I've decided I'm just going to tell her. This is the plan. You can be involved if you want to be, that's entirely up to you. They're going to have to take some time to get used to the idea, I know. I'm pretty sure my mother will come around and I'm pretty sure my brother will too. My dad? I have no idea. I mean....if they don't want the rest of the family to realize we're married, fine. Whatever. If they just want people to know that we're living together, fine. We won't be making out in front of people, for gods sake. But I love her and frankly, I'm tired of feeling so exhausted and worn out over something that is GOOD NEWS!
Emmy's entire fracking family wants to come to our weeding! Her mother, father, two brothers, sister and at least one cousin are already coming. They're going to come up with $12k to get the whole family over here. They're all really excited for us. My family? They feel like it's a horribe tragedy.
So, here's the thing. I'm not letting my happiness get stolen. I'm GETTING MARRIED! I have to plan a weeding! I have to file out immigration paperwork! I have to find a caterer in New Orleans who will make me a bunny-shaped cheesecake for the weeding! I have to find a restuarant with a nice courtyard for us to rent! I have to find a dress! And shoes! And pick an attendant! We need announcements! We need to compile registries! I have six, maybe seven months to plan a fun, unconventional weeding! Screw everyone who cannot get on-board with my happiness.
Labels: family, good news, happyhappy, immigration, marriage
Friday, December 28, 2007
Separation anxiety
I'm mulling over things, figuring out what I want to do with my life and some of the decisions I'm contemplating are going to seriously upset my family. Not that I'm contemplating doing anything really awful, but my family has a certain....notion of what life is supposed to be like. So far, I haven't gone so far afield that there have been serious problems. (Partially because while they know I no longer attend church, they don't know about the whole pagan thing. Or the bisexual thing.) I'm not married, but that's not so strange. They can content themselves with thinking that my life is going pretty much according to (their) script.
I have a regretable, paralysing fear of rejection. Not by most people, but by people I care about. Frankly, I'm ashamed of it. I'm far too old to care too much about what my parents think of me and yet, there it is. On the whole, I have an amazing family. Very loving, very supportive. But there are places where, if you step out of line, well. And I think that often they don't realize how the things they do hurt me. Particularly my mother. Gods, my mother.
An example: Someone mentioned (Lilo? Geo? I don't remember, sorry!) she had dyscalculia . It sounded suspiciously like the problems I've had with math all my life, so I looked it up. And gods help me, but reading that site was like reading a checklist for me. And, while I'm no expert, I'm pretty comfortable in my self-diagnosis. So, over Christmas, I mention this to my Mom. Now, understand, that I was an /excellent/ student in any subject you put in front of me -- except math. I could not, not matter how hard I studied, no matter how much help I had, no matter what I did, I could NOT do math. As it stands, I can barely add. (And no, that's not an exaggeration. Though I wish I it was.) I'm feeling pretty damned relived to find out that ya know, it's entirely possible that I had a learning disablity this entire time.
So, I tell my mom about it. And what does she do? She laughs. Just smirks and shakes her head.
Do you have any idea how awful that made me feel? My entire life I have felt profoundly stupid because of this. I've felt beyond stupid. Like the dumbest person to ever grace the face of the planet. Like one-celled sea slugs was smarter and better and more worthy than me. I literally had fucking panic attacks in college because I was forced to take pre-cal. I didn't get into a gifted boarding school because of my mathematical inability.
And my mother, who has seen all this and should know better, laughed when I said it could have all been caused by a learning disability. Oh, I called her on it and my Dad, bless him, he understood. But my mother has done things like that to me all my life. I don't think she means to. I honestly think she just doesn't think about what she's doing. I mean, she's still in denial about my illness!
And I know, there's the responsiblity to live my own life, for myself, no matter what my decisions mean to my family. I get that. But I just.....I just wish I could be accepted the way I really am, with no judgements or pressure to change. *sigh*
I have a regretable, paralysing fear of rejection. Not by most people, but by people I care about. Frankly, I'm ashamed of it. I'm far too old to care too much about what my parents think of me and yet, there it is. On the whole, I have an amazing family. Very loving, very supportive. But there are places where, if you step out of line, well. And I think that often they don't realize how the things they do hurt me. Particularly my mother. Gods, my mother.
An example: Someone mentioned (Lilo? Geo? I don't remember, sorry!) she had dyscalculia . It sounded suspiciously like the problems I've had with math all my life, so I looked it up. And gods help me, but reading that site was like reading a checklist for me. And, while I'm no expert, I'm pretty comfortable in my self-diagnosis. So, over Christmas, I mention this to my Mom. Now, understand, that I was an /excellent/ student in any subject you put in front of me -- except math. I could not, not matter how hard I studied, no matter how much help I had, no matter what I did, I could NOT do math. As it stands, I can barely add. (And no, that's not an exaggeration. Though I wish I it was.) I'm feeling pretty damned relived to find out that ya know, it's entirely possible that I had a learning disablity this entire time.
So, I tell my mom about it. And what does she do? She laughs. Just smirks and shakes her head.
Do you have any idea how awful that made me feel? My entire life I have felt profoundly stupid because of this. I've felt beyond stupid. Like the dumbest person to ever grace the face of the planet. Like one-celled sea slugs was smarter and better and more worthy than me. I literally had fucking panic attacks in college because I was forced to take pre-cal. I didn't get into a gifted boarding school because of my mathematical inability.
And my mother, who has seen all this and should know better, laughed when I said it could have all been caused by a learning disability. Oh, I called her on it and my Dad, bless him, he understood. But my mother has done things like that to me all my life. I don't think she means to. I honestly think she just doesn't think about what she's doing. I mean, she's still in denial about my illness!
And I know, there's the responsiblity to live my own life, for myself, no matter what my decisions mean to my family. I get that. But I just.....I just wish I could be accepted the way I really am, with no judgements or pressure to change. *sigh*
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Family
I know you've all just been *dying* to meet the people who produced the amazing woman who is me. I know, I know. You never said, but I understand. You all want to meet my family, doncha? Well, ok. If you insist.
I was at my gorgeous, beautiful, amazing Kady's 3rd birthday party yesterday. So, let's meet her first, shall we?
You see now why I adore her? Of course you do. It's readily apparent. A quick story from the party: Kady got her first *shudder* Barbie Doll. A pack of two, actually. A Snow White Barbie and a Cinderella Barbie. Not from me, of course. Still, being the good Aunt, I unpacked 'em for her and handed 'em over. Her mother and my mother were cooing over the dolls and I was inwardly cringing. Barbie? Nooo!! Then, Kady looks at me, offering me one of the dolls and says, "Wanna go play with 'em in the dirt?"
At which point, any fear I had of Barbie underminding my Kady's sense of self-worth was instantly demolished. And I laughed. Oh, I so laughed. And we plotted to bury Barbie in the sandbox, much to my mother's horror.
Next up? My Dad (with Kady, of course):
You can't really tell from this photo, but my father is a giant. He's six foot nine and well, you can see he's not small in any other way. And he's a marshmellow. Kady gets anything she wants and she looooves her Papa. Yesterday, when she was showing me her bright red My Little Pony, she said that Papa was going to buy her a real one when she gets big and she's gonna ride it. I told Dad she said this and he, for a moment looked puzzled, then shrugged and nodded. "I am." Of course he is. That child is irresistable.
Next, my grandmothers. Both of my grandmothers are still living and have always been very much a part of my life. My Grandma West (in the blue shirt) is the one who raised five children on her own, after dumping my abusive, adulterous grandfather at a time when women did not do such things. All five went on to get an education and to raise families of their own, being decent citizens who are nothing like their father. My Grandma Manuel (in the pink) has reinvinted her life following my grandfather's death 20 years ago. She had spent all her life focused on her family and home. Now, she's one of the "Crazy Old Women" who do whatever the hell they want. Each year, she and her friends get into her minivan, pull out the map and decide where they're going. They've been all over the country and they're toying with going to Mexico. They give me hope that life always gets better, even when it gets hard.
I was at my gorgeous, beautiful, amazing Kady's 3rd birthday party yesterday. So, let's meet her first, shall we?
You see now why I adore her? Of course you do. It's readily apparent. A quick story from the party: Kady got her first *shudder* Barbie Doll. A pack of two, actually. A Snow White Barbie and a Cinderella Barbie. Not from me, of course. Still, being the good Aunt, I unpacked 'em for her and handed 'em over. Her mother and my mother were cooing over the dolls and I was inwardly cringing. Barbie? Nooo!! Then, Kady looks at me, offering me one of the dolls and says, "Wanna go play with 'em in the dirt?"
At which point, any fear I had of Barbie underminding my Kady's sense of self-worth was instantly demolished. And I laughed. Oh, I so laughed. And we plotted to bury Barbie in the sandbox, much to my mother's horror.
Next up? My Dad (with Kady, of course):
You can't really tell from this photo, but my father is a giant. He's six foot nine and well, you can see he's not small in any other way. And he's a marshmellow. Kady gets anything she wants and she looooves her Papa. Yesterday, when she was showing me her bright red My Little Pony, she said that Papa was going to buy her a real one when she gets big and she's gonna ride it. I told Dad she said this and he, for a moment looked puzzled, then shrugged and nodded. "I am." Of course he is. That child is irresistable.
Next, my grandmothers. Both of my grandmothers are still living and have always been very much a part of my life. My Grandma West (in the blue shirt) is the one who raised five children on her own, after dumping my abusive, adulterous grandfather at a time when women did not do such things. All five went on to get an education and to raise families of their own, being decent citizens who are nothing like their father. My Grandma Manuel (in the pink) has reinvinted her life following my grandfather's death 20 years ago. She had spent all her life focused on her family and home. Now, she's one of the "Crazy Old Women" who do whatever the hell they want. Each year, she and her friends get into her minivan, pull out the map and decide where they're going. They've been all over the country and they're toying with going to Mexico. They give me hope that life always gets better, even when it gets hard.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Best. Soup. Ever.
Welcome to Zan's Kitchen. All recipes, all the town. Apparently, I'm taking the cauldron portion of my name a bit too literally lately. Because I cooked again and since I loves you all, I'm sharing the recipe. It's a pretty basic veggie soup, but I cannot get enough of it. Yum! I've got some put up in the freezer for later and already ladeled out a bowl for tomorrow at work. And yet, I've still got a HUGE pot left. Anyone wanna come over for lunch?
2 lean steaks, cut o'your choice. Mine came from my Mom's freezer :)
1 can beef broth
1 can tomato sauce
Some tomato bullion
Pasta o'your choice
1 can whole kernel corn
1 can diced potatos
1 can sliced carrots
Onion
Sage, Thyme, Crushed red pepper, Basil, Sea Salt, Black Pepper, Tony's seasoning, Oregano, whatever other seasonings you have in your cabinet.
Cut steak into bitty cubes. Toss in the stock pot with beef broth, tomato sauce, tomato bullion, plus buncha water. (Can you tell my Mom never put much stock into measuring? This is how I learned to cook. Just eyeball it, stop when it looks right.) Add chopped onions and seasoning, heat over low to medium heat until slowly boiling. Heating it slowly gives the meat time to soak up the seasonings and get really tender. Stir occassionally -- but seriously, I was online and downloading music the whole time I was cooking, so it doesn't need a lot of attention. So long as the heat isn't really high.
When you get a nice slow boil, toss in some pasta. I used elbow mac, but whatever you got. I don't think spigetti would work, but hey, who knows? Have fun with it. Let this all keep slow boiling until the pasta is done. Add in veggies. I drained all the water off mine, but you can leave it on if ya like. Or you can use fresh veggies. Or frozen. Whatever.
Let everything simmer for awhile, giving the veggies time to get tender and absorb some seasoning. When they're tender to your liking, dish up and eat. Makes more than I'll be able to eat in a week! Yum.
-----------
I think I'm cooking like this as a sort of comfort measure. I'm not feeling terribly well. My head is seriously dizzy and I'm stuffed up like crazy. And so, since I am resisiting the urge (and do not have the money) to go buy myself a gallon of ice cream, I'm cooking the things I remember my Mom making. Huge pots of soup and chickeny goodness, things that have good memories attached to them. I don't know what people do who don't have parents who cooked. I can't remember my childhood without that memory. Something was always cooking. Might not have been much, but we had something. I made myself pancakes last night. My mom used to make pancakes for dinner when my dad was offshore at work. Dad always wanted a meal-meal for dinner, but when he wasn't home we'd have whatever we wanted. Pancakes or waffles or oh! She used to make the most awesome yeast bread cinnamon rolls. They were HUGE and we'd have them, just them, for dinner. Cinnamon rolls and cold, cold milk. *sigh* I may have to call her and get the recipe. Hrm....
2 lean steaks, cut o'your choice. Mine came from my Mom's freezer :)
1 can beef broth
1 can tomato sauce
Some tomato bullion
Pasta o'your choice
1 can whole kernel corn
1 can diced potatos
1 can sliced carrots
Onion
Sage, Thyme, Crushed red pepper, Basil, Sea Salt, Black Pepper, Tony's seasoning, Oregano, whatever other seasonings you have in your cabinet.
Cut steak into bitty cubes. Toss in the stock pot with beef broth, tomato sauce, tomato bullion, plus buncha water. (Can you tell my Mom never put much stock into measuring? This is how I learned to cook. Just eyeball it, stop when it looks right.) Add chopped onions and seasoning, heat over low to medium heat until slowly boiling. Heating it slowly gives the meat time to soak up the seasonings and get really tender. Stir occassionally -- but seriously, I was online and downloading music the whole time I was cooking, so it doesn't need a lot of attention. So long as the heat isn't really high.
When you get a nice slow boil, toss in some pasta. I used elbow mac, but whatever you got. I don't think spigetti would work, but hey, who knows? Have fun with it. Let this all keep slow boiling until the pasta is done. Add in veggies. I drained all the water off mine, but you can leave it on if ya like. Or you can use fresh veggies. Or frozen. Whatever.
Let everything simmer for awhile, giving the veggies time to get tender and absorb some seasoning. When they're tender to your liking, dish up and eat. Makes more than I'll be able to eat in a week! Yum.
-----------
I think I'm cooking like this as a sort of comfort measure. I'm not feeling terribly well. My head is seriously dizzy and I'm stuffed up like crazy. And so, since I am resisiting the urge (and do not have the money) to go buy myself a gallon of ice cream, I'm cooking the things I remember my Mom making. Huge pots of soup and chickeny goodness, things that have good memories attached to them. I don't know what people do who don't have parents who cooked. I can't remember my childhood without that memory. Something was always cooking. Might not have been much, but we had something. I made myself pancakes last night. My mom used to make pancakes for dinner when my dad was offshore at work. Dad always wanted a meal-meal for dinner, but when he wasn't home we'd have whatever we wanted. Pancakes or waffles or oh! She used to make the most awesome yeast bread cinnamon rolls. They were HUGE and we'd have them, just them, for dinner. Cinnamon rolls and cold, cold milk. *sigh* I may have to call her and get the recipe. Hrm....
Friday, January 12, 2007
Who Am I? -- On Being Zan Malkovic
I was told by a therapist that I'm the type of person who defines herself not by who she is, but by who she is not. This is a spot-on diagnosis. As long as I can remember, I've shaped my self-concept by those things which I am clearly NOT.
I am not Southern Baptist
I am not conservative
I am not Republican
I am not skinny
I am not straight
I am not extroverted
I am not good at math
I am not comfortable in the spotlight
I am not good at taking orders
I am not stupid
I am not a pretty girl (ya know what I mean by that, right? I mean attitude, not appearance.)
I am not a dog person
And so on and so on, ad nasaum.
But what I've never been really good at is defining myself by what I am. I'm doing better at it, thanks to my bout of therapy. I had to start out making myself make lists of what I AM.
I am smart
I am funny
I am a good friend
I am bisexual
I am spiritual
I am pagan
I am liberal
I am fat
I am happy
I am a cat person
I am a writer
I am an artist
You know, that stuff. And so, I'm getting much better at shaping myself by the positive -- that is, the things that apply in actuality. Defining myself by myself, not by other people. Being the measure of my own woman, as it were. And so, in some ways I've come a great way forward. This is evidenced by the fact that I'm not longer suicidal and that I'm blessedly hopeful about the future.
And yet, in other ways, I still see that Lack to be a defining characteristic and I'm jealous of those people who don't have that lack.
I am beginning to know myself, but where does this Self belong? Where is her community? Her chosen family?
I was not raised with any sense of ethnic identity. I longed for it, in ways I didn't understand then, but I didn't have it. I am, simply, a bland white girl. My family is Irish/Scots/Cajun biologically, but culturally? Eh. We're just bland, no really ties to any particular place, white folks. This is not, in and of itself, a bad thing. It is simply something that I wish were different.
I've noticed that the blogs I read most often are those by people of color/defined ethnicity. I confess, I am horribly jealous. In spite of all the baggage that comes with being a POC in this white-washed society, you have a sense of community. You have a network of people who have common cultural markers. You have somewhere to go where people go "Yeah. I get that."
And I realize, of course, that it's not so simple. I realize there are countless problems within communities, however they are constructed. I realize that my outsider eyes don't see everything or really much of anything. But it seems nice to me to have somewhere to go where you're understood.
The closest I have ever come to that is the Christian culture I was raised in. You know, the one that drove me to the brink of suicide, made me think I was damned eternally and left me with panic attacks and anger issues that required intensive therapy? Yeah, that one. And yet, as bad as it was, there was also a certain sense of belonging there. True, these people didn't really know me, and they probably would have kicked me out (or prayed over me real good) if they had realized some of those things I was keeping hidden, but it was nice to have somewhere I could at least pretend to fit in.
I don't do good in cages (and really, who does?) but I'd like to have some sort of vague definition, some set of parameters that I could see in the distance, to help me get my bearings. The church ritual, as much as I hated it, helped me do that. They saw me and said: "Ah, yes. Zan. The smart one, the stable one, the dependable one." I was called, routinely, wise. Imagine, for a minute, being a 15 year old and having adults tell you that you're wise. People who extolled wisdom as a virtue, gift from God sorta thing. I don't know that I agreed with them, but it was nice to have that place. It was frustrating as hell too, because who wants to be WISE at 15? I wanted to be fun and free and the bad girl. Alas, I never have been. (See, there I go again: self-definition by denial).
I keep thinking I should have done more, been more by this point. A pointless thinking. Everyone thinks that, don't they? But I take stock of my life and think -- where's my story? I haven't suffered greatly, not in the ways that we think are worthwhile. I am sick, it's true. I feel isolated, that's true. But isn't that everyone's story? Isn't that everyone's role? So, I have survived repeated suicide attempts. So, I have survived an immune system that is trying to kill me. So, I have managed to keep sane against the odds. And yet. . .those "bad" things you're 'supposed' to do? I've never done them. No run-ins with the law, no bouts of drugs or alcohol, no inappropriate sex with inappropriate people. Not so much as a fucking one-night stand. My obstacles are all internal. The only enemy I have is myself and she's not that much of an enemy most days.
(And see? Again, that paragraph. I cannot help it. My default position. Zan is not...)
What stories will I tell my grandchildren? The grandchildren I'll never have because I have no children. When I'm old and finally gray, sitting in the nursing home, what is it about me that's going to stand out? Because even though I hate being center stage, I have to stand out. I have to be different somehow, otherwise how will I know who I am in the crowd? (And yes, my therapist made a note about that need to be different too.)
Who am I, then? I work to try to keep from defining myself as what I am not, but lately I'm beginning to think that all I am is boring and unexceptional.
I am not Southern Baptist
I am not conservative
I am not Republican
I am not skinny
I am not straight
I am not extroverted
I am not good at math
I am not comfortable in the spotlight
I am not good at taking orders
I am not stupid
I am not a pretty girl (ya know what I mean by that, right? I mean attitude, not appearance.)
I am not a dog person
And so on and so on, ad nasaum.
But what I've never been really good at is defining myself by what I am. I'm doing better at it, thanks to my bout of therapy. I had to start out making myself make lists of what I AM.
I am smart
I am funny
I am a good friend
I am bisexual
I am spiritual
I am pagan
I am liberal
I am fat
I am happy
I am a cat person
I am a writer
I am an artist
You know, that stuff. And so, I'm getting much better at shaping myself by the positive -- that is, the things that apply in actuality. Defining myself by myself, not by other people. Being the measure of my own woman, as it were. And so, in some ways I've come a great way forward. This is evidenced by the fact that I'm not longer suicidal and that I'm blessedly hopeful about the future.
And yet, in other ways, I still see that Lack to be a defining characteristic and I'm jealous of those people who don't have that lack.
I am beginning to know myself, but where does this Self belong? Where is her community? Her chosen family?
I was not raised with any sense of ethnic identity. I longed for it, in ways I didn't understand then, but I didn't have it. I am, simply, a bland white girl. My family is Irish/Scots/Cajun biologically, but culturally? Eh. We're just bland, no really ties to any particular place, white folks. This is not, in and of itself, a bad thing. It is simply something that I wish were different.
I've noticed that the blogs I read most often are those by people of color/defined ethnicity. I confess, I am horribly jealous. In spite of all the baggage that comes with being a POC in this white-washed society, you have a sense of community. You have a network of people who have common cultural markers. You have somewhere to go where people go "Yeah. I get that."
And I realize, of course, that it's not so simple. I realize there are countless problems within communities, however they are constructed. I realize that my outsider eyes don't see everything or really much of anything. But it seems nice to me to have somewhere to go where you're understood.
The closest I have ever come to that is the Christian culture I was raised in. You know, the one that drove me to the brink of suicide, made me think I was damned eternally and left me with panic attacks and anger issues that required intensive therapy? Yeah, that one. And yet, as bad as it was, there was also a certain sense of belonging there. True, these people didn't really know me, and they probably would have kicked me out (or prayed over me real good) if they had realized some of those things I was keeping hidden, but it was nice to have somewhere I could at least pretend to fit in.
I don't do good in cages (and really, who does?) but I'd like to have some sort of vague definition, some set of parameters that I could see in the distance, to help me get my bearings. The church ritual, as much as I hated it, helped me do that. They saw me and said: "Ah, yes. Zan. The smart one, the stable one, the dependable one." I was called, routinely, wise. Imagine, for a minute, being a 15 year old and having adults tell you that you're wise. People who extolled wisdom as a virtue, gift from God sorta thing. I don't know that I agreed with them, but it was nice to have that place. It was frustrating as hell too, because who wants to be WISE at 15? I wanted to be fun and free and the bad girl. Alas, I never have been. (See, there I go again: self-definition by denial).
I keep thinking I should have done more, been more by this point. A pointless thinking. Everyone thinks that, don't they? But I take stock of my life and think -- where's my story? I haven't suffered greatly, not in the ways that we think are worthwhile. I am sick, it's true. I feel isolated, that's true. But isn't that everyone's story? Isn't that everyone's role? So, I have survived repeated suicide attempts. So, I have survived an immune system that is trying to kill me. So, I have managed to keep sane against the odds. And yet. . .those "bad" things you're 'supposed' to do? I've never done them. No run-ins with the law, no bouts of drugs or alcohol, no inappropriate sex with inappropriate people. Not so much as a fucking one-night stand. My obstacles are all internal. The only enemy I have is myself and she's not that much of an enemy most days.
(And see? Again, that paragraph. I cannot help it. My default position. Zan is not...)
What stories will I tell my grandchildren? The grandchildren I'll never have because I have no children. When I'm old and finally gray, sitting in the nursing home, what is it about me that's going to stand out? Because even though I hate being center stage, I have to stand out. I have to be different somehow, otherwise how will I know who I am in the crowd? (And yes, my therapist made a note about that need to be different too.)
Who am I, then? I work to try to keep from defining myself as what I am not, but lately I'm beginning to think that all I am is boring and unexceptional.
Labels: community, family, relationships
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Sexual resolutions
Seventeen and strung out on confusion. . .
I've found out what it takes to be a man
And mom and dad will never understand
What's happening to me.
-- Green Day, Coming Clean
In my listing of bisexual celebs, I somehow missed Billie Joe Armstrong. And I don't know how, since 1.) he sings for my favorite band and 2.) he's gorgeous and I.Want.Him. He wrote Coming Clean about realizing he was bisexual, which is pretty apparent to anyone whose gone through it and heard the song. So, add him to the (woefully short) list of publically out bisexual celebs.
So, I'm thinking about sex. Again. I find I do that far, far more than I'm supposed to. Because, ya know, we womens. We never thing about Teh Sex. But more specifically, I'm thinking about sex in context of relationships.
In my perfect world, I'm a happy little slut. No shame, no hangups, no problem finding lovers. A guy or girl catches my eye? I saunter up, flirt a bit, pass out the digits and suggest we go somewhere more private. The sex is always good, the orgasms always intense, the afterglow always beamy. Nice world, huh?
In reality, of course, it is far from a perfect world. I'm got more hangups than there is blog-space to blog about 'em. Shame? Well....I think I'm actually over the shame part. (Yippee!! Score one for therapy. Now, to tackle the 1,999,999,999,999,999 more. . .)And finding lovers? Ha. Yeah. As I said, I'm taking applications, but. . .no takers.
And sex is not always good, is it? Physically, I mean. We all know, emotionally there are more hidden mines than you can imagine. But, you'd think, physically at least, there should be some kind of guaranteed payoff. Orgasm should be a given and they should come easy. I mean, I can make myself cum in 45 seconds, why can't everyone else? (Yeah, I admit. I timed it once. So sue me.)(And granted, it's not /always/ that fast. But come on, what woman can't make herself cum in three minutes or less?) (Or, uh, am I a freak that way?)So, anyway, the lack of guaranteed orgasm or skilled partner is why I'm not a one-night stand kinda girl. I mean, if I'm getting undressed and naked, I want the Happy, ya know?
In a relationship, it's different. Sure, maybe it's not good today. Maybe it's just okay. Maybe you'd really rather just turn over and go back to sleep. But you don't, usually, because you're in a relationship and you care about your partner. And you know that it will be good again, next time. Or later on you can take your time. Or you can agree to try out what you want in the future. There are payoffs, dividends, lots of Happy Happy Joy Joy.
So I'm faced with this problem -- I don't do one-nighters and I'm not in a relationship. And, being human, I'm needing more contact than with my trusty Rabbit. I need the weight of another person, the sound of someone else breathing in the night. Picking up the phone to call someone in the middle of the day to see if they can pick up Chinese food on their way home from work. Someone to share a bottle of wine with, to take vacations with, to do the damned laundry with. I need the physical presense of someone else in my life.
This need is becoming more intense lately. It makes a certain amount of sense, really. I've spent the last six years doing a lot of work on myself, a lot of putting things in order, dealing with some issues that doomed my last relationship. Being a good partner just wasn't possible for me before. I was too depressed, too sick, too impatient and needy. I was too in need of being the center, of having someone to support me and too unwilling to embrace a partner's quirks without judgement. I don't think there's any shame in admitting I would have been a very bad girlfriend. It's just a process of evolution. I know I would have been toxic, and so I didn't date anyone. I didn't draw anyone into my mess, because I knew I had to fix it.
So now, now that I've got my health under control and I've got my career on a stable, non-stressful path. Now that I've wrestled with those issues that kept me slightly ashamed -- of myself and of my partner, no matter how great they really were -- I find myself growing increasingly in need of someone. Not just anyone, of course. I'm certainly not desparate.
I think I have this great life to share. Sure, it's good living it myself, but it would be better if I had someone to go on with me. I've gotten to the point in my life where I can see my strong points and my weaknesses and not hate myself for either. And I think I can do the same for a partner, should I find one.
I used to think, if I fell in love with a woman, it would be near impossible to be open with my family about it. And, truthfully, I'd still be hesitant. But it's not something that truly terrifies me anymore. The fear comes from the thought of losing them. And I fear that, not just because I deeply love them and count on their support, but because losing them would leave me alone. And, until now, I haven't felt that I could truly, honestly survive on my own. I haven't felt, well, like an adult. It felt like I was still stuck in college-kid mode. But now it's different. I had a goal - find a new job that has promotion potential, that allows me to save for retirment, that will let me pay off my student loans. And I found it. On my own, with no help from my family. Did it, embraced it and gods help me, and totally in love with it.
I used to feel that, if my family couldn't love me enough to accept me in all my shades of being, there must be something wrong with me. I spent so very much of my life thinking their must be something very wrong with me, for any number of reasons. Too fat, too weird, too queer, too goth, too depressed, too smart, too angry, whatever. And now, it occurs to me, that there's nothing wrong with me. That if they can't accept me, they're the ones with the problem. And eventually, I think they'd come around. My mother, at least. My dad? Gods, I think it would break my dad's heart and I can't stand that thought. Who knows what my brother and sister-in-law would do. It's a scary thought, my terribly Baptist family finding out. They'd think that I betrayed them somehow, when the truth is they'd be the ones doing the betraying.
Part of me is angry that I even have to consider this. Should I fall in love with a woman, I have to weigh the pros and cons -- to tell the family or not to tell the family, to risk that lose or not. Falling in love shouldn't break your heart and it shouldn't have to be a secret.
I've found out what it takes to be a man
And mom and dad will never understand
What's happening to me.
-- Green Day, Coming Clean
In my listing of bisexual celebs, I somehow missed Billie Joe Armstrong. And I don't know how, since 1.) he sings for my favorite band and 2.) he's gorgeous and I.Want.Him. He wrote Coming Clean about realizing he was bisexual, which is pretty apparent to anyone whose gone through it and heard the song. So, add him to the (woefully short) list of publically out bisexual celebs.
So, I'm thinking about sex. Again. I find I do that far, far more than I'm supposed to. Because, ya know, we womens. We never thing about Teh Sex. But more specifically, I'm thinking about sex in context of relationships.
In my perfect world, I'm a happy little slut. No shame, no hangups, no problem finding lovers. A guy or girl catches my eye? I saunter up, flirt a bit, pass out the digits and suggest we go somewhere more private. The sex is always good, the orgasms always intense, the afterglow always beamy. Nice world, huh?
In reality, of course, it is far from a perfect world. I'm got more hangups than there is blog-space to blog about 'em. Shame? Well....I think I'm actually over the shame part. (Yippee!! Score one for therapy. Now, to tackle the 1,999,999,999,999,999 more. . .)And finding lovers? Ha. Yeah. As I said, I'm taking applications, but. . .no takers.
And sex is not always good, is it? Physically, I mean. We all know, emotionally there are more hidden mines than you can imagine. But, you'd think, physically at least, there should be some kind of guaranteed payoff. Orgasm should be a given and they should come easy. I mean, I can make myself cum in 45 seconds, why can't everyone else? (Yeah, I admit. I timed it once. So sue me.)(And granted, it's not /always/ that fast. But come on, what woman can't make herself cum in three minutes or less?) (Or, uh, am I a freak that way?)So, anyway, the lack of guaranteed orgasm or skilled partner is why I'm not a one-night stand kinda girl. I mean, if I'm getting undressed and naked, I want the Happy, ya know?
In a relationship, it's different. Sure, maybe it's not good today. Maybe it's just okay. Maybe you'd really rather just turn over and go back to sleep. But you don't, usually, because you're in a relationship and you care about your partner. And you know that it will be good again, next time. Or later on you can take your time. Or you can agree to try out what you want in the future. There are payoffs, dividends, lots of Happy Happy Joy Joy.
So I'm faced with this problem -- I don't do one-nighters and I'm not in a relationship. And, being human, I'm needing more contact than with my trusty Rabbit. I need the weight of another person, the sound of someone else breathing in the night. Picking up the phone to call someone in the middle of the day to see if they can pick up Chinese food on their way home from work. Someone to share a bottle of wine with, to take vacations with, to do the damned laundry with. I need the physical presense of someone else in my life.
This need is becoming more intense lately. It makes a certain amount of sense, really. I've spent the last six years doing a lot of work on myself, a lot of putting things in order, dealing with some issues that doomed my last relationship. Being a good partner just wasn't possible for me before. I was too depressed, too sick, too impatient and needy. I was too in need of being the center, of having someone to support me and too unwilling to embrace a partner's quirks without judgement. I don't think there's any shame in admitting I would have been a very bad girlfriend. It's just a process of evolution. I know I would have been toxic, and so I didn't date anyone. I didn't draw anyone into my mess, because I knew I had to fix it.
So now, now that I've got my health under control and I've got my career on a stable, non-stressful path. Now that I've wrestled with those issues that kept me slightly ashamed -- of myself and of my partner, no matter how great they really were -- I find myself growing increasingly in need of someone. Not just anyone, of course. I'm certainly not desparate.
I think I have this great life to share. Sure, it's good living it myself, but it would be better if I had someone to go on with me. I've gotten to the point in my life where I can see my strong points and my weaknesses and not hate myself for either. And I think I can do the same for a partner, should I find one.
I used to think, if I fell in love with a woman, it would be near impossible to be open with my family about it. And, truthfully, I'd still be hesitant. But it's not something that truly terrifies me anymore. The fear comes from the thought of losing them. And I fear that, not just because I deeply love them and count on their support, but because losing them would leave me alone. And, until now, I haven't felt that I could truly, honestly survive on my own. I haven't felt, well, like an adult. It felt like I was still stuck in college-kid mode. But now it's different. I had a goal - find a new job that has promotion potential, that allows me to save for retirment, that will let me pay off my student loans. And I found it. On my own, with no help from my family. Did it, embraced it and gods help me, and totally in love with it.
I used to feel that, if my family couldn't love me enough to accept me in all my shades of being, there must be something wrong with me. I spent so very much of my life thinking their must be something very wrong with me, for any number of reasons. Too fat, too weird, too queer, too goth, too depressed, too smart, too angry, whatever. And now, it occurs to me, that there's nothing wrong with me. That if they can't accept me, they're the ones with the problem. And eventually, I think they'd come around. My mother, at least. My dad? Gods, I think it would break my dad's heart and I can't stand that thought. Who knows what my brother and sister-in-law would do. It's a scary thought, my terribly Baptist family finding out. They'd think that I betrayed them somehow, when the truth is they'd be the ones doing the betraying.
Part of me is angry that I even have to consider this. Should I fall in love with a woman, I have to weigh the pros and cons -- to tell the family or not to tell the family, to risk that lose or not. Falling in love shouldn't break your heart and it shouldn't have to be a secret.
Labels: bisexuality, family
Thursday, November 23, 2006
I can't believe I ate the whole thing...
Well, no. Not really. It just seemed an appropriate title for Turkey Day. It was a very quiet day on my end. Drove home to see the folks, had dinner, did some laundry. (I have yet to acquire a washer and dryer for my new place.) Felt like I was in college again.
Just me, mom, dad and one grandmother. I have so many leftovers in my fridge...yum! Turkey and pork sandwiches for days!
So, it was a nice calm day and all. My mother mentioned something my brother had told her about my cousin, A. Now, A is gay. And by gay I mean, if the boy flamed any brighter they'd see him from space. It has always been apparent that he was gay, even when he was very young. So, when he decided to come out to a few relatives a few years ago, no one was very surprised. Upset, but not surprised.
So, my mom told me that A has a myspace page and some pictures up that are 'disgusting'. Apparently he's a 'full-blown' homosexual. (Do you have ANY idea how hard it was not to laugh when she said that? Full blown? ARG!) So, anyway, I did not know he had this page. My brother didn't give my mom any details about the pix, but said they were just wretched and awful and it was horrible he was SO gay.....because apparently, if he was gay but like a hermit that would be okay or something. Anyway, I went in search of that page, dammit. I wanted to see! Alas, I could not find it. I have only that he's going by the name Star and no more. I am saddened. I have a feeling my cousin has some lovely drag pix of himself up and dammit, I wanna see them!
I think he'd be lovely in drag. He's got a very femme face, even though he's about seven foot tall. Terribly skinny, with lots of piercings and tats. You know, the kinda boy I'd find attractive if he wasn't my cousin and well, gayer than the Castro at Pride Week, ya know? Anyway, I just really wanna know what's on the damned page! I'm so insanely curious.
It's funny, ya know. A never bothered to come out to me, he just kinda didn't worry much about how I would react. (I have no idea why he'd think that I'd be cool with it. Nope. None. At all. Just like I have no idea why he knew I'd be cool with his pagan ways. None at all. It's a mystery to me. I must have one of those trustworthy faces or something.)
So, here's my thing -- my parents were all, not exactly okay with him before, but they weren't making a big deal about him being gay. Now my mom's like so disappointed, like she thinks it's this horrible thing. I think she blames his mother, totally. Of course, this is probably because my Aunt P divorced Uncle G this year, after they were together for almost 30 years. Shocked everyone, 'cept me really. I mean, I wasn't waiting on it to happen, but anyone with eyes could see that marriage was not so great. My uncle spent most of his time home out in the woods hunting, never seemed to want to be around his family too much. He was stunned when she left but they seem to have come to some reasonable understanding. She's living down south with A -- so she's clearly come to terms with his gayness. I mean, they fucking live together and all.
Anyway, I can't help but think my mom is upset that Aunt P isn't more upset. Like maybe if she'd been a better wife or mother or whatever, this wouldn't have happened. Which makes me wanna look at her and go -- well, you know, YOU raised a bisexual daughter. You think you did a bad job as a mother?
But, I won't because I don't need that kinda drama at this point in my life. Also -- I'm thinking I'm doomed to be single and sexless forever. Dear gods! Seriously, this year? Send me someone. I so very much need to get laid it's not funny. And someone to hang out with would be good too :)
So, anyway that was T-Day at my place. I've got leftovers to sandwich together and then I'm going to watch Grey's Anatomy. OOOH! And the DirectTV guy will be here Saturday! I'll get my cable back! Yes! I'm considering starting a second blog where I can write about music and television and that alone. Hrm.....
Just me, mom, dad and one grandmother. I have so many leftovers in my fridge...yum! Turkey and pork sandwiches for days!
So, it was a nice calm day and all. My mother mentioned something my brother had told her about my cousin, A. Now, A is gay. And by gay I mean, if the boy flamed any brighter they'd see him from space. It has always been apparent that he was gay, even when he was very young. So, when he decided to come out to a few relatives a few years ago, no one was very surprised. Upset, but not surprised.
So, my mom told me that A has a myspace page and some pictures up that are 'disgusting'. Apparently he's a 'full-blown' homosexual. (Do you have ANY idea how hard it was not to laugh when she said that? Full blown? ARG!) So, anyway, I did not know he had this page. My brother didn't give my mom any details about the pix, but said they were just wretched and awful and it was horrible he was SO gay.....because apparently, if he was gay but like a hermit that would be okay or something. Anyway, I went in search of that page, dammit. I wanted to see! Alas, I could not find it. I have only that he's going by the name Star and no more. I am saddened. I have a feeling my cousin has some lovely drag pix of himself up and dammit, I wanna see them!
I think he'd be lovely in drag. He's got a very femme face, even though he's about seven foot tall. Terribly skinny, with lots of piercings and tats. You know, the kinda boy I'd find attractive if he wasn't my cousin and well, gayer than the Castro at Pride Week, ya know? Anyway, I just really wanna know what's on the damned page! I'm so insanely curious.
It's funny, ya know. A never bothered to come out to me, he just kinda didn't worry much about how I would react. (I have no idea why he'd think that I'd be cool with it. Nope. None. At all. Just like I have no idea why he knew I'd be cool with his pagan ways. None at all. It's a mystery to me. I must have one of those trustworthy faces or something.)
So, here's my thing -- my parents were all, not exactly okay with him before, but they weren't making a big deal about him being gay. Now my mom's like so disappointed, like she thinks it's this horrible thing. I think she blames his mother, totally. Of course, this is probably because my Aunt P divorced Uncle G this year, after they were together for almost 30 years. Shocked everyone, 'cept me really. I mean, I wasn't waiting on it to happen, but anyone with eyes could see that marriage was not so great. My uncle spent most of his time home out in the woods hunting, never seemed to want to be around his family too much. He was stunned when she left but they seem to have come to some reasonable understanding. She's living down south with A -- so she's clearly come to terms with his gayness. I mean, they fucking live together and all.
Anyway, I can't help but think my mom is upset that Aunt P isn't more upset. Like maybe if she'd been a better wife or mother or whatever, this wouldn't have happened. Which makes me wanna look at her and go -- well, you know, YOU raised a bisexual daughter. You think you did a bad job as a mother?
But, I won't because I don't need that kinda drama at this point in my life. Also -- I'm thinking I'm doomed to be single and sexless forever. Dear gods! Seriously, this year? Send me someone. I so very much need to get laid it's not funny. And someone to hang out with would be good too :)
So, anyway that was T-Day at my place. I've got leftovers to sandwich together and then I'm going to watch Grey's Anatomy. OOOH! And the DirectTV guy will be here Saturday! I'll get my cable back! Yes! I'm considering starting a second blog where I can write about music and television and that alone. Hrm.....
Labels: family, homosexuality
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
My family doesn't believe they're fundamentalists
That's another little gem I gleaned from my visit with them this weekend. They're not fundamentalists, because there are other people more fundy than they are.
Apparently there's a church in the neighborhood that's been becoming popular and they refuse to go, because those people are fundamentalists. And, they probably are. But that doesn't mean my family isn't as well. They're just not as rigid as other sects are. Frankly, Southern Baptist by definition are fundamentalists.
I've got a lot of problem with the SB church -- as anyone whose read here knows. Some people interpret that to mean I'm hostile to Christianity. I'm not, necessarily. I do oppose certain forms of the religion because I believe it does a great deal of harm. Of course, I'm also opposed to certain forms of other religions for the same reason. Any belief system that tells it's adherents it's okay to hurt others is not an okay system. It's not okay to feel justified in inflicting emotional, social or physical harm on another human being because your god told you it was ok. Any belief system that is predicated on the idea that humans are unworthy, broken creatures is not ok. Any belief system that denies the inherent dignity of humanity is no ok.
I take issue with reading any holy book as literal and inerrant. To do that is to raise the book, which was written and edited by human beings, to the level of diety. And, no matter how much I adore the written word, it's not on the same level with god. It's become a tenent of the SB church that the Bible is literal and inerrant -- which breaks the commandment not to create any idols. Because by elevating the Bible to such a level -- isn't the only perfect truth supposed to be God? -- they're turning it into an idol, placing it on equal footing with god. Which is a no-no by their own teachings.
Futhermore, this insistance on literal meaning strips layers of meaning and history from any text. It dumbs down the population and kills critical thinking skills. A literal understanding is a surface understanding, its the sort of understanding you'd expect from a child who hasn't developed more nuanced reasoning skills yet. For a child, that's fine. A child is going to grow and develop and obtain the ability to reason and think critically. But for adults to reject any nuanced reading of a text in favor of a strictly literal one? That's madness.
It suggest to me a weak faith. How strong can your faith be if you must have everything literal? You're setting yourself up for a huge fall -- and cause thinking people to reject you out of hand. Plus, you're creating a very, very fragile basket for your faith. If Jesus has to literally be born of a virgin, what happens to your faith when someone comes along and proves it didn't happen? Or not even prove it, but just gives you enough alternate possiblities that you doubt it? If there has to be a literal, physical ressurection, what are you going to do if someone finds Jesus' bones?
A literal faith doesn't have room to grow or expand. It's trapped by the box it's built in. It's also more likely to be suffocated by collapsing under its own weight. The belief that everything in the Bible has to be literally true -- or it's all false -- makes no sense to me. Why? We don't expect that of anything else in our lives. If we have a best friend who is honest and trustworthy, but one time -- one time -- they tell us a lie, we don't assume that everything they've ever said to us was false. If your child does something out of line, you don't assume that everything they've ever done was equally out of line, do you? It doesn't make any sense to do that, because we understand that one event does not necessarily reflect badly (or well) on any other event, unless those events are specifically related.
When I stop and think about it -- when I'm not pissed off by something they've said or done -- I genuinely feel sorry for people bound in this type of thinking. How much of their lives are bounded off because they insist upon literal, black-n-white meaning? How much of the nuances and colors of life to they miss out on? I'm sure they don't want my sympathy and doubtlessly think I'm lost and hopeless, but the further away from this sort of thinking I stay, the happier and saner I am.
Apparently there's a church in the neighborhood that's been becoming popular and they refuse to go, because those people are fundamentalists. And, they probably are. But that doesn't mean my family isn't as well. They're just not as rigid as other sects are. Frankly, Southern Baptist by definition are fundamentalists.
I've got a lot of problem with the SB church -- as anyone whose read here knows. Some people interpret that to mean I'm hostile to Christianity. I'm not, necessarily. I do oppose certain forms of the religion because I believe it does a great deal of harm. Of course, I'm also opposed to certain forms of other religions for the same reason. Any belief system that tells it's adherents it's okay to hurt others is not an okay system. It's not okay to feel justified in inflicting emotional, social or physical harm on another human being because your god told you it was ok. Any belief system that is predicated on the idea that humans are unworthy, broken creatures is not ok. Any belief system that denies the inherent dignity of humanity is no ok.
I take issue with reading any holy book as literal and inerrant. To do that is to raise the book, which was written and edited by human beings, to the level of diety. And, no matter how much I adore the written word, it's not on the same level with god. It's become a tenent of the SB church that the Bible is literal and inerrant -- which breaks the commandment not to create any idols. Because by elevating the Bible to such a level -- isn't the only perfect truth supposed to be God? -- they're turning it into an idol, placing it on equal footing with god. Which is a no-no by their own teachings.
Futhermore, this insistance on literal meaning strips layers of meaning and history from any text. It dumbs down the population and kills critical thinking skills. A literal understanding is a surface understanding, its the sort of understanding you'd expect from a child who hasn't developed more nuanced reasoning skills yet. For a child, that's fine. A child is going to grow and develop and obtain the ability to reason and think critically. But for adults to reject any nuanced reading of a text in favor of a strictly literal one? That's madness.
It suggest to me a weak faith. How strong can your faith be if you must have everything literal? You're setting yourself up for a huge fall -- and cause thinking people to reject you out of hand. Plus, you're creating a very, very fragile basket for your faith. If Jesus has to literally be born of a virgin, what happens to your faith when someone comes along and proves it didn't happen? Or not even prove it, but just gives you enough alternate possiblities that you doubt it? If there has to be a literal, physical ressurection, what are you going to do if someone finds Jesus' bones?
A literal faith doesn't have room to grow or expand. It's trapped by the box it's built in. It's also more likely to be suffocated by collapsing under its own weight. The belief that everything in the Bible has to be literally true -- or it's all false -- makes no sense to me. Why? We don't expect that of anything else in our lives. If we have a best friend who is honest and trustworthy, but one time -- one time -- they tell us a lie, we don't assume that everything they've ever said to us was false. If your child does something out of line, you don't assume that everything they've ever done was equally out of line, do you? It doesn't make any sense to do that, because we understand that one event does not necessarily reflect badly (or well) on any other event, unless those events are specifically related.
When I stop and think about it -- when I'm not pissed off by something they've said or done -- I genuinely feel sorry for people bound in this type of thinking. How much of their lives are bounded off because they insist upon literal, black-n-white meaning? How much of the nuances and colors of life to they miss out on? I'm sure they don't want my sympathy and doubtlessly think I'm lost and hopeless, but the further away from this sort of thinking I stay, the happier and saner I am.
Monday, September 04, 2006
The nature of belief
I think there are basically two types of people in the world -- those who believe people are essentially good and decent and those that believe people are inherently flawed and evil. I tend to fall into the good and decent category, which makes it difficult for me to have conversations with people who fall into the other category on the topic of faith and religion. I don't look at the world as black and white, as one extreme or the other. In nearly every situation, circumstance has a large bearing on meaning and morality. Things do not have to be literal to be true, they can be literal and quite false.
I spent most of the day with my family today. I love my family, but we disagree on matters of faith. Not so much on matters of morality, but faith. Here's a secret most people don't seem to know: You can be pagan and believe in Jesus. You can be pagan and attempt to live your life by Jesus' teaching. We let you do that, it's cool. You cannot, however, be a 'Christian' and embrace parts of paganism. (Which is really funny, considering how much Christianity 'borrowed' from paganism.) So, I, personally, really like Jesus. He had some really great ideas and they got him killed, which is often the case with enlightened beings. I don't even have a problem with claims of Jesus' divinity -- I believe we are all part of God, all born with a spark of divinity inside us. Some of us are just better at developing and honoring that divinity than others. Some of us never develop or honor it at all, but that doesn't mean it's not there. So, Jesus and me? We're cool. It's the idiots who've come along and twisted his very simple teachings into...whatever the hell is passing for Christianity these days that I have a problem with. And I ran smack into an example of that today at lunch.
First, a little more background. My brother is a youth minister, my uncle is a preacher, my father is a deacon and my mother is a Sunday School teacher, all Southern Baptist. Okay. So, my brother is talking to my uncle about this woman at his church. Apparently, she's one of these controlling type of people, you know, the sort that always needs to be in charge, that doesn't like any idea unless it's hers, that sort of thing. Well, she's been causing problems at their church. He didn't say what exactly, just that she was insisting on being in charge a lot, trash talking church programs in public -- if she wasn't allowed to be in charge. Which isn't cool, but still....So, my brother and one of the other church leaders was going to go talk with her about it, because it had become a serious problem. Except, the day before they were going to talk to her about it -- she had a stroke. Now, to me, this seems like a horrible thing, but it hasn't got anything to do with God. The woman had a stroke. She was an older woman and well, people have strokes all the time. She's in the hospital, going through rehab and will be out of commission for quite awhile. Which means she won't be able to be really involved in church leadership for quite some time. Which is sad for her, but again, what does that have to do with God? Ah, well, according to my brother, "God took care of it for us."
Yes, that's right. My brother and uncle and, apparently, my mother believe that God caused this woman to have a stroke, because she was being controlling. Their God is apparently a bully, who smites down people who get in His way. (Although, was she really in his way? Maybe She was right and my brother was wrong. Maybe she wasn't struck by God, but by Satan!!)
There's a little bit of conversation about problem people in the church and more comments about how "God will take care of them." And them my uncle, who had always seemed rather reasonable to me, said "I wouldn't mind conducting a few more funerals for them."
No. Shit.
He basically said he wouldn't mind if God KILLED the people in his church who give him grief.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. What???
I just kind of looked at him and shook my head. And they wonder why I won't go back to church? (My mother did try to get me to go to church THREE times today. THREE times in maybe six hours!)
See, this is what I mean. My family is on the people-are-basically-nasty side of the fence. They see people as inherently sinful and broken, intentionally trying to do bad and cause trouble. Or, they see people as victims of Satan, used to thwart God's will. And so, those people, God can remove from this world and well, that's just what happens, see?
I always want to ask them, what if you're wrong? What if it's you that is thwarting the will of God? They're so certain they're not, but how do they know? No one goes around (not anyone with a true belief in God, anyway) actively thinking "Hey, I'm gonna fuck up God's will today!" Everyone just assumes that what they're doing is the right, good thing to do. But if they are right, and other people are doing things differently, then those people must be wrong. And if they're wrong? Well, God can just kill them.
See, this pisses me off. It does a disservice to humanity and to God. How can you possibly love your fellow man if you believe, in any way, that it's okay for him to be killed at random? How can you possibly love God if you believe he/she is the sort of diety what would do that? You cannot love someone you fear and you'd have to fear a god you believed not only capable of such action, but one who has no reservation about doing so. That belief reduces God to an ordinary abusive parent.
And really, if a behavior is wrong in a human -- no parent would get away with killing their child just because they did something that displeased them. We throw those people in jail. -- how can a behavior be acceptable in a Diety? Isn't God better than humans? Doesn't he/she adhere to a higher standard?
I think part of the reason they believe this is because they believe they, themselves, are capable of vile deeds. After all, they believe they were born flawed and evil, unworthy of love or acceptance. (This is literally what I was taught as a child in my parents Southern Baptist Church.) And, if man is made in the image of God and they are capable of such horror, then it stands to reason that God too is capable of such things. The problem is, they got it backwards. (In my, not terribly humble opinion.) God/dess is capable of much, much better things than most of us can imagine. And, because we are all born with Her spark inside us, so are we. Because we are born good and decent, we are capable of love and compassion and empathy and connection. I think Diety grieves when we forget that -- but she's not about to strike us dead because of it.
I spent most of the day with my family today. I love my family, but we disagree on matters of faith. Not so much on matters of morality, but faith. Here's a secret most people don't seem to know: You can be pagan and believe in Jesus. You can be pagan and attempt to live your life by Jesus' teaching. We let you do that, it's cool. You cannot, however, be a 'Christian' and embrace parts of paganism. (Which is really funny, considering how much Christianity 'borrowed' from paganism.) So, I, personally, really like Jesus. He had some really great ideas and they got him killed, which is often the case with enlightened beings. I don't even have a problem with claims of Jesus' divinity -- I believe we are all part of God, all born with a spark of divinity inside us. Some of us are just better at developing and honoring that divinity than others. Some of us never develop or honor it at all, but that doesn't mean it's not there. So, Jesus and me? We're cool. It's the idiots who've come along and twisted his very simple teachings into...whatever the hell is passing for Christianity these days that I have a problem with. And I ran smack into an example of that today at lunch.
First, a little more background. My brother is a youth minister, my uncle is a preacher, my father is a deacon and my mother is a Sunday School teacher, all Southern Baptist. Okay. So, my brother is talking to my uncle about this woman at his church. Apparently, she's one of these controlling type of people, you know, the sort that always needs to be in charge, that doesn't like any idea unless it's hers, that sort of thing. Well, she's been causing problems at their church. He didn't say what exactly, just that she was insisting on being in charge a lot, trash talking church programs in public -- if she wasn't allowed to be in charge. Which isn't cool, but still....So, my brother and one of the other church leaders was going to go talk with her about it, because it had become a serious problem. Except, the day before they were going to talk to her about it -- she had a stroke. Now, to me, this seems like a horrible thing, but it hasn't got anything to do with God. The woman had a stroke. She was an older woman and well, people have strokes all the time. She's in the hospital, going through rehab and will be out of commission for quite awhile. Which means she won't be able to be really involved in church leadership for quite some time. Which is sad for her, but again, what does that have to do with God? Ah, well, according to my brother, "God took care of it for us."
Yes, that's right. My brother and uncle and, apparently, my mother believe that God caused this woman to have a stroke, because she was being controlling. Their God is apparently a bully, who smites down people who get in His way. (Although, was she really in his way? Maybe She was right and my brother was wrong. Maybe she wasn't struck by God, but by Satan!!)
There's a little bit of conversation about problem people in the church and more comments about how "God will take care of them." And them my uncle, who had always seemed rather reasonable to me, said "I wouldn't mind conducting a few more funerals for them."
No. Shit.
He basically said he wouldn't mind if God KILLED the people in his church who give him grief.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. What???
I just kind of looked at him and shook my head. And they wonder why I won't go back to church? (My mother did try to get me to go to church THREE times today. THREE times in maybe six hours!)
See, this is what I mean. My family is on the people-are-basically-nasty side of the fence. They see people as inherently sinful and broken, intentionally trying to do bad and cause trouble. Or, they see people as victims of Satan, used to thwart God's will. And so, those people, God can remove from this world and well, that's just what happens, see?
I always want to ask them, what if you're wrong? What if it's you that is thwarting the will of God? They're so certain they're not, but how do they know? No one goes around (not anyone with a true belief in God, anyway) actively thinking "Hey, I'm gonna fuck up God's will today!" Everyone just assumes that what they're doing is the right, good thing to do. But if they are right, and other people are doing things differently, then those people must be wrong. And if they're wrong? Well, God can just kill them.
See, this pisses me off. It does a disservice to humanity and to God. How can you possibly love your fellow man if you believe, in any way, that it's okay for him to be killed at random? How can you possibly love God if you believe he/she is the sort of diety what would do that? You cannot love someone you fear and you'd have to fear a god you believed not only capable of such action, but one who has no reservation about doing so. That belief reduces God to an ordinary abusive parent.
And really, if a behavior is wrong in a human -- no parent would get away with killing their child just because they did something that displeased them. We throw those people in jail. -- how can a behavior be acceptable in a Diety? Isn't God better than humans? Doesn't he/she adhere to a higher standard?
I think part of the reason they believe this is because they believe they, themselves, are capable of vile deeds. After all, they believe they were born flawed and evil, unworthy of love or acceptance. (This is literally what I was taught as a child in my parents Southern Baptist Church.) And, if man is made in the image of God and they are capable of such horror, then it stands to reason that God too is capable of such things. The problem is, they got it backwards. (In my, not terribly humble opinion.) God/dess is capable of much, much better things than most of us can imagine. And, because we are all born with Her spark inside us, so are we. Because we are born good and decent, we are capable of love and compassion and empathy and connection. I think Diety grieves when we forget that -- but she's not about to strike us dead because of it.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Big Church vs. Little Church -- One wants to stone me, the other wants to set me up with their single nephews
As I'm getting ready to venture home for the Easter holidays, I'm thinking about the difference between the Fundamentalist Church and Fundamentalists as people. My whole family are fundamentalists, of the Southern Baptist variety. There are varying degrees of fundy, but essentially, they all fit the mold pretty well. The problem is, they don't fit the stereotypical view of fundamentalists.
There's a huge difference between the Church proper and the church in reality. (Otherwise known as the people in the Church.) I grew up in a very Fundamentalist Southern Baptist church. For me, it was a damaging, horrifying experience that has taken me years and years to recover from. I'm still not fully recovered, but I'm functional. My family, on the other hand, find that belief system a perfect fit. Does that make me, or them, somehow flawed or twisted or is one of us better than the other? I don't think so. We're just different. Because, really, the only difference between us is how we concieve of the Divine. Our morality, for the most part, is the same. The basics, anyway. No killing, no stealing, avoid lying when you can, treat people the way you want to be treated -- even when you think they don't deserve it, let people make their own decisions so long as what they're doing isn't hurting you -- those are pretty basic values. Those I learned from my family. And my family derives those values from their faith. But their faith, and my faith, are not the same. And yet, on one level, they are.
While the Church was a very damaging place for me to grow up, the people in the Church were some of the kindest, most generous people I've known. If my family needed anything, we knew they'd be there for us. No one in our Church was going to go hungry, no one was going to go without shelter if they lost a job or had a fire or some tragedy befell them, no one was going to have to deal with death or illness alone. The Church was very much a family and, believe it or not, was very welcoming of outsiders. The problem was, while the people on an individual level were, for the most part, welcoming and kind, the Church as a whole was not. It taught (and continues to teach) things that can seriously fuck up people. (Something I cannot get my family to understand to this day, so we just don't talk about it.) And, here's the thing a lot of people don't seem to understand, there are many people within the Fundamentalist Church who DISAGREE with many of their teachings. I know fundamentalists who are opposed to the Church's teachings about homosexuals or abortion or war or the death penalty. The idea that you can paint all Fundamentalists with a single brush bothers me.
When I hear people talk about Fundamentalists in disparaging tones, I'm torn. On one hand, I agree with them. I know from personal experience just how dangerous the teachings of the Church can be. I know what being told you're not good enough, or worthy enough, that you're a disappointment to GOD, that you're damned and can never change (so why bother trying, right?) can do to a person. I was horribly suicidal for most of my teenage years. It's a miracle I'm still alive. (And I am actually serious about that. My father had guns all over the house, unlocked, with bullets just lying around. Plus, there were sleeping pills and other very lethal prescription meds in the cabinet I could have taken. I was openly suicidal and no one was listening, because to admit I was sick, and not just lost and in need of prayer, would have upset their belief system. That took lots of therapy to let go of, too.)
I suppose I'm trying to find a way to make sense of two very different truths here. On the one hand, I believe that the Fundamentalist Church is evil. It may not have started out that way, I don't know. But I believe now, in it's present incarnation, it is truly, wholy evil. The people in it, however, are not evil. Oh, some of them may be. But for the most part, the people in the pews are just looking for some way to make sense of the world. They're motivated, in many cases, by fear. The world can be very scary and the Church offers them a sense of safety and protection. That's a very alluring thing and it's hard to walk away from if you're not being traumatized by it. Honestly, I can't say I'd have ever left if I hadn't been so badly hurt. If I was the sort of person who could just tune out the parts I didn't like? Who knows? Maybe I'd still be there. I like to think not, but I don't know.
I like to think this restlessness I have, this inability to tune out the bad parts is actually a gift. That it's not just being stubborn, as my mother likes to think. I like to think it's a blessing, even if it did get left out of the Beatitudes :)
There's a huge difference between the Church proper and the church in reality. (Otherwise known as the people in the Church.) I grew up in a very Fundamentalist Southern Baptist church. For me, it was a damaging, horrifying experience that has taken me years and years to recover from. I'm still not fully recovered, but I'm functional. My family, on the other hand, find that belief system a perfect fit. Does that make me, or them, somehow flawed or twisted or is one of us better than the other? I don't think so. We're just different. Because, really, the only difference between us is how we concieve of the Divine. Our morality, for the most part, is the same. The basics, anyway. No killing, no stealing, avoid lying when you can, treat people the way you want to be treated -- even when you think they don't deserve it, let people make their own decisions so long as what they're doing isn't hurting you -- those are pretty basic values. Those I learned from my family. And my family derives those values from their faith. But their faith, and my faith, are not the same. And yet, on one level, they are.
While the Church was a very damaging place for me to grow up, the people in the Church were some of the kindest, most generous people I've known. If my family needed anything, we knew they'd be there for us. No one in our Church was going to go hungry, no one was going to go without shelter if they lost a job or had a fire or some tragedy befell them, no one was going to have to deal with death or illness alone. The Church was very much a family and, believe it or not, was very welcoming of outsiders. The problem was, while the people on an individual level were, for the most part, welcoming and kind, the Church as a whole was not. It taught (and continues to teach) things that can seriously fuck up people. (Something I cannot get my family to understand to this day, so we just don't talk about it.) And, here's the thing a lot of people don't seem to understand, there are many people within the Fundamentalist Church who DISAGREE with many of their teachings. I know fundamentalists who are opposed to the Church's teachings about homosexuals or abortion or war or the death penalty. The idea that you can paint all Fundamentalists with a single brush bothers me.
When I hear people talk about Fundamentalists in disparaging tones, I'm torn. On one hand, I agree with them. I know from personal experience just how dangerous the teachings of the Church can be. I know what being told you're not good enough, or worthy enough, that you're a disappointment to GOD, that you're damned and can never change (so why bother trying, right?) can do to a person. I was horribly suicidal for most of my teenage years. It's a miracle I'm still alive. (And I am actually serious about that. My father had guns all over the house, unlocked, with bullets just lying around. Plus, there were sleeping pills and other very lethal prescription meds in the cabinet I could have taken. I was openly suicidal and no one was listening, because to admit I was sick, and not just lost and in need of prayer, would have upset their belief system. That took lots of therapy to let go of, too.)
I suppose I'm trying to find a way to make sense of two very different truths here. On the one hand, I believe that the Fundamentalist Church is evil. It may not have started out that way, I don't know. But I believe now, in it's present incarnation, it is truly, wholy evil. The people in it, however, are not evil. Oh, some of them may be. But for the most part, the people in the pews are just looking for some way to make sense of the world. They're motivated, in many cases, by fear. The world can be very scary and the Church offers them a sense of safety and protection. That's a very alluring thing and it's hard to walk away from if you're not being traumatized by it. Honestly, I can't say I'd have ever left if I hadn't been so badly hurt. If I was the sort of person who could just tune out the parts I didn't like? Who knows? Maybe I'd still be there. I like to think not, but I don't know.
I like to think this restlessness I have, this inability to tune out the bad parts is actually a gift. That it's not just being stubborn, as my mother likes to think. I like to think it's a blessing, even if it did get left out of the Beatitudes :)
Labels: family, relationships, religion
