When I was 17, I worked in a factory where a young woman was targeted for harassment. Racist notes were left on her car windshield and break room locker. Management seemed blase about the threats, even after the girl’s tires were slashed. Eventually, I joined two other workers (out of a couple of hundred) who demanded action. Two days later, the victim was gone. She was fired, management said, because she wrote the notes herself. I knew that wasn’t true because she was a friend of mine and I hardly left her side after the notes started coming. I met her in the parking lot in the morning, took breaks with her, and left the building with her in the evening. I found several of the notes and the slashed tires with her. I saw her shaking and teary-eyed.

I abruptly quit the job, leaving the President a three-page letter which I copied to the local newspaper. Neither of them ever responded and several of my friends pointed out that I was an idiot for quitting a job on principle, with no back-up plan and no way to pay my rent. My leaving didn’t change anything at the factory, it didn’t change anybody’s mind, and it didn’t do anything to help my now jobless friend. All of that was true, but it felt good — it felt absolutely right — to walk out the door in protest.

Actually, it felt more than right. It felt necessary. At 17, everything that I idealized seemed to be at stake. All the social values that I learned from men and women greater than myself, and that I clung to out of hopes for my own future, informed me that it was better to live on Saltines and water than to be complacent about injustices. The idealists of my generation, having been too young for the protests of the 60s, were supposed to carry the torches of equality and justice forward. It was up to us not to let all those marches and speeches go to waste. We owed our own and possibly brighter futures to those who were doused by fire hoses and taunted on their way to school. We owed a debt of conscience and respect to Martin Luther King, Jr. and John F. Kennedy, not to mention those who were strung up by trees and lynched, or driven out of their homes by mobs with burning crosses.

As young women, we needed to continue the fight for equal rights. To advance the cause of feminism until our sex was constitutionally as well as socially equal. It was up to us to end a culture of second-classdom and the systemic degradation of our minds, bodies, and abilities. As mothers and potential mothers, it was up to us to fulfill our own potential so that our children could fulfill theirs.

Later, as a single mother and a gay woman (first in denial, then in the closet, and finally out) I knew without a doubt that the civil rights of others were tied to my own and my children’s. When one underclass or minority is denied just treatment, opportunity and equality, it becomes easier to deny others based on the same exclusionary thinking that creates a privileged class with immense power and an underprivileged class with virtually none.

So I fought back when men in the casinos thought my skirt was an invitation to cop a feel. I fought back when I was in radio and earning $10,000 a year less than my male counterparts. I fought as best I could against a system that let my ex-husband get away with paying no child support and then penalized me for being one of the working poor. I fought against discrimination, racism, sexism, rape, child abuse, social injustice, sexual harassment, inadequate systems, and inferior schools. When I heard hate speech, I called the speaker out, often times biting back my fear of getting fired or being perceived as a troublemaker.

And then one day, I’m not sure exactly when — maybe it was when celebrities started talking about their own child abuse in droves, or Don Henley wrote “Get Over It“, or maybe it was after Rodney King and the L.A. riots — and maybe it was because a worn society felt a need for some respite after a glut of painful stories — but suddenly people seemed quick to will real problems into virtual nonexistence or turn them into a joke. Stories of injustice became a card to be pulled, an act to be played, or a way to get rich quick. Those who stepped up to point out issues of racism were pulling the race card. Survivors of child abuse and rape were accused of “playing the victim” when telling their stories. Women who complained about unequal treatment or sexual harassment were just out to exploit their employers and make a quick buck. Talking about any sort of social disparity or injustice brought about charges of whining or having an undue sense of entitlement.

Very few people remember the name Stella Lieback, but everyone remembers the story of the 79 year old woman who sued McDonalds for the 3rd degree burns she suffered as a result of their overheated coffee. Almost everyone I’ve ever talked to about the case believes it’s ridiculous — who wouldn’t know that coffee is hot? What kind of idiot sues for that? Can you believe she actually won? Well, yes, I can. I actually followed the story and knew how serious Lieback’s injuries were and how many surgeries she needed. When the documentary Hot Coffee  finally came out in 2011, I thought Lieback (as well as several others featured) would be redeemed from their  place in “frivolous lawsuit” history, but of course the documentary wasn’t cause for the type of sensational media coverage that the lawsuit was.

The backlash against the generations that fought for civil rights has been brutal. The left/right political divide has,unfortunately, become a hunting field rife with fear and hatred. Certainly, not all Republicans are racist, sexist, or homophobic, but no one can logically deny that the right wing has become a convenient place for those who are. The historical event of America’s first minority president alternately confirmed and defied the often adamant conviction that we were living in a post-racial society, where minorities — if only they’d quit complaining and expecting the world to be handed to them on a platter — were really no different or differently treated than anyone else. Barack Obama was a Black man who was voted into the highest office in the land, but he was also a target in a way no white man, let alone the President, could be.

The ugliness of racism hit America like a particularly cold and hard rain after a near-drought thick with labored and uneasy silence. Of course, racism was always there, but an Obama presidency seemed to trigger a more public display of what was, for the most part, being carefully kept behind closed doors or diligently swept under the rug.

The recent murder of 17 year-old Trayvon Martin has unwittingly thrown another magnifying glass over problems that go deeper than the death of one Black teenager. While a few prominent Republicans have called for a full investigation, right wing news pundits seem to have conscientiously chosen to make George Zimmerman their prized dog in this fight, all while denying racism as a factor in Zimmerman’s actions or their own bias. Despite what the majority of the public sees as compelling pre-trial evidence against Zimmerman — at least enough to bring about his arrest — Zimmerman remains free and a significant number of people seem intent on finding ways to blame the victim. They point to the number of Black men in prison as just cause for Zimmerman’s suspicions. They blame Martin for wearing his hood up in the rain, for running, for possibly fighting back against the man who stalked and then chased after him. They’ve pointed to Martin’s suspension from school, his 6’3″ frame, and more in an effort to justify the teen’s death. One of the top news stories today was that of a white supremacist who supposedly hacked into Martin’s email and social media accounts in order to smear the dead youth. “Where did all the liberals go,” the racist hacker taunted. “Did they run off because they can’t handle the facts?”

Undoubtedly, (and perhaps to the chagrin of moderate Republicans, although we rarely hear from them anymore), the right wing has become a harbor for those who are racist, sexist and regressive, often in the name of religion. (In 2011 alone, Republican politicians across the country introduced almost 1000 bills to restrict women’s reproductive rights.)

While I could go on (and on and on) about the radicalism of the “new Republicans” there are questions I find more pressing: Will this deep divide bring about a renaissance of ideals that strive to move our country to move forward instead of backwards?

Will the Left and center recover from the battle fatigue of the 60s, and move past the imposed denials and near-silence of more recent decades, in order to usher in a new era of civil rights? Will we finally make real the promises of democracy that Martin Luther King, Jr. spoke so eloquently on:

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we’ve come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy.

Will we push back against those who would make a card, a joke, or a lie out of real social issues? Will we demand, finally, that the checks of justice, equality and liberty be made good?

Will the idealists rise from their slumber in order to fight what is sure to be a protracted battle? Will the mothers and fathers of a new generation rise up to fight for the rights of all children? Will new architects of justice come down from their ivory towers to help restore our crumbling social structures?

I don’t know. But I am standing on the mountainside, ready to ring the bell.

Share this:

I am tired tonight. More tired than I’ve been in a long time and it’s for all the wrong reasons.

You see, a while ago I promised myself that I’d stay out of the hypocritical and often hateful thickets of a society that seems to be growing more perverse every day. Any appreciation for the realness or the great potential of humanity seems to be dwindling at a rapid rate. Everything has become fattened with political, religious and psuedoreligious dogma, under which lies poorly hidden veins carrying the bile of greed, animosity, and prejudices.

It’s crazy making, really, at least for someone like me, who’s slightly left of moderate. I don’t understand how, for instance, the gentle figure of Jesus has been co-opted by a segment of society that’s strangely hoo-rah for mega-millionaires, the personhood of corporations, and the deconstruction of women’s rights — all under the New Testament-defying guise of vaguely defined values like “freedom” or “liberty”. What? Really? Jesus thought the poor should be made to jump through Herculean bureaucratic hoops to get some grain of help? He told the poor to quit complaining and just get (more) jobs? He used his considerable power to humiliate and condemn gays, oppress women, and tell the sick that they’re on their own? I’m not Christian, but I have read the book and, as I recall, Jesus didn’t do any of that and even his most conservative apostles seemed to issue more warnings to greedy rich men, backbiters, and heterosexuals than they did to the poor, the ill, and the disenfranchised.

Tell me again how “freedom” and “liberty” come by way of denying others theirs, because that seems to be the entire platform of the present-day GOP. Prevent women from making their own reproductive choices, make sure gay couples don’t have equal rights, cut services to the elderly, the poor and the sick . . . but make sure you lower the corporate tax rate (do read the link) . . . and eliminate the estate tax so that the children of the rich don’t suffer so much as the loss of a penny (did you can now inherit up to $5M without paying federal taxes? Yeah, that’s a problem most of us won’t have).

On the other side, over 84 million people, largely of the progressive persuasion, jumped on the Kony 2012 bandwagon and made it one of the biggest viral campaigns ever because hey, if celebrities are endorsing it, it just has to be a good cause, right?  Never mind the actual facts of the matter or what Ugandans themselves may feel — here, a video by the prime minister of Uganda detailing the fallacies promoted by Invisible Children has pulled in only 27K views — the important thing seemed to be that it was Hollywood, man. It was glossy and evocative, and so what if Kony doesn’t live in Uganda and his LRA army has shriveled to a couple hundred ragtag troops? The defenders will argue that “at least it got people talking”, but about what exactly?  Does the truth even matter anymore?

There’s all of that, but then there’s Trayvon Martin. Killed by a self-appointed vigilante, not arrested, still free. There’s the cry that this incident  ”couldn’t possibly” be racially motivated because Zimmerman is purportedly part Hispanic — as if no one who is not purely caucasian can be racist. The cops, it should be noted, also listed Zimmerman as “white” on their forms — that’s how they perceived him — and hell yes, it matters.

It matters that this wanna-be cop with a 9mm gun, who had previously made almost 50 calls to 911, pursued a 17 year old Black teenager against police instructions merely for looking “suspicious”.

It matters that Zimmerman first stalked the teenager from his car. Then the frightened boy began to run and Zimmerman went after him on foot, telling police breathlessly that “these assholes always get away.” There may have been a fight, the 240 pound vigilante against the 140 pound teenager, but in the end the teenager was dead and Zimmerman was left standing over the body, gun in hand.

The police didn’t run a background check on Zimmerman, have his wounds examined, or ask him to submit to a drug or alcohol test. They did run a toxicology test on Martin’s dead body, though, which is clearly a preemptive run toward a “blame the victim” defense. However, even if Martin had been high as a kite, he wasn’t the one chasing Zimmerman — he was the one being chased.

I join my name to the millions that are shocked and saddened by the actions of the Sanford Police Department. At no time was Zimmerman’s life or property in danger — he stalked this child, pursued him and then killed him — yet when he claimed self-defense, the police took him at his word, knowing full well who was chasing whom. If anyone had the right to self-defense, it was Trayvon Martin, who can be heard pleading for his life before being shot in cold blood. His family says it’s his voice. There’s no reason to believe otherwise. The screams end as soon as the gun goes off.

I don’t believe that anyone who is on top in a fight is going to be screaming like that. So was the child on the ground and did Zimmerman all ready have him subdued before shooting Martin? This is a question a jury should mull, yet whether or not there will ever be a jury is still in question.

And that’s part of what is making me so tired tonight. That sometimes assholes do get away, even with murder.

The other part, the larger part, is knowing that Trayvon Martin, like so many others before him (James Byrd, Matthew Shepard, Troy Davis, Tyler Clementi and Brandon Teena to name a few) — is destined to become a figurehead for a problem that’s not going away anytime soon, no matter how many people sign a petition, dress in hooded sweatshirts, or march in his name.

Hate is hate and it seems that we’re getting further and further away from communally pulling up the roots of it than ever in my lifetime. The idealistic promises of the 60s — brotherhood, equality, justice for all — seem to have become fodder for cynics and the religious right. Far too many others have buried their heads in the sands of a feel-good, modern-day guruism which preaches that the self is everything and everything is the self, and nothing in the world really matters because somehow everything that happens, no matter how senseless or tragic, was meant to be. There are no accidents, the gurus and their adherents preach. All is as it should be.

It’s the lies that break my heart, tear at my mind, and make me tired in a way that even the worst truth never could.

“The profoundest instinct in man is to war against the truth; that is, against the Real. He shuns facts from his infancy. His life is a perpetual evasion. Miracle, chimera and to-morrow keep him alive. He lives on fiction and myth. It is the Lie that makes him free. Animals alone are given the privilege of lifting the veil of Isis; men dare not. The animal, awake, has no fictional escape from the Real because he has no imagination. Man, awake, is compelled to seek a perpetual escape into Hope, Belief, Fable, Art, God, Socialism, Immortality, Alcohol, Love. From Medusa-Truth he makes an appeal to Maya-Lie.” — Jack London, The Mutiny of the Elsinore

Share this:

My Mennonite neighbor Dawn exudes a manner of calm acceptance. She hugs me when I meet her, and doesn’t seem to mind when I block her attempts to talk to me about Jesus, or when I shoo her away so I can have a cigarette.

“It doesn’t bother me, really,” she says, “I kind of like the smell of smoke.” I laugh because Dawn often challenges my assumptions in gentle ways, and I like that — I like when my apprehensions turn out to be groundless. Dawn knows I’m gay; she doesn’t judge. She knows I haven’t had much success with quitting my vices; she offers only encouragement. She knows I have no interest in her religion; she just continues to be Dawn. She lets her 12 year old daughter talk to me about anything under the sun, and doesn’t feel the need to remind me what is and isn’t in the realm of their beliefs. I check my own speech out of respect, but occasionally slip with a damn or a Jesus that seemingly goes unnoticed.

Almost every day, particularly when it’s warm, I see Dawn outside. Sometimes she just walks in circles in the gravel parking lot, wearing a jean skirt, a baggy sweatshirt and a cap of lace, praying to herself or meditating on scripture. Sometimes her husband joins her and they hold hands as they go for longer walks. On sunny days, her daughter Becky rides a bicycle while her mother tests her on Psalms or history.

Becky is a girl who laughs easily and who can tell me her entire life plan in under five minutes. She wants to go to college early, get her Master’s, and become a teacher. She wants to get married at 21 and have babies. For now, though, she likes glittery toenail polish, learning to play the harp, and eating sweets. She favors M&M’s, milkshakes, and cookies, which she makes in batches for home-school credit. The last batch was oatmeal raisin. “I know you’re on a diet,” she smiles, bounding over to where I sit outside, “so I only brought you three.” She’s wearing jeans and an Abercrombie t-shirt and her smile is contagious. She reminds me of a young gazelle—grace in the making—but for now she’s all arms and legs, and completely unaware of her own beauty.

One time, she ran over to me with a big bag from Old Navy. “Forty-nine cents each!” she exclaimed. The bag was filled with summer thongs, in every color. “Pick a pair,” she said. “We got all sizes and are giving them away as gifts.” I picked a purple pair, size 9, and she seemed pleased. “I have polish to match those,” she told me. Her mother joined us and the talk turned to mountains and balloon rides, Amish cooking, and the difficulty of losing weight past a certain age.

Whenever I leave the company of Dawn and Becky, I feel happy by some trick of osmosis, and I want to dwell in the innocence surrounding me for as long as I can. Dawn is not a naïve woman—she has held crack babies and seen lives destroyed by drugs, alcohol, and other vices—but she is eternally hopeful. She was reared in sunlight and the belief that God has a purpose for everyone and everything, and that the hardest times are only tests of faith and endurance. She would quickly tell me that she is imperfect, but strives daily to make herself a better person. She walks and prays and when she falls short, she finds a teachable moment and comfort in scripture.

After a lifetime of pleading, searching, questioning, falling and standing up again, I know God is not the answer for me. I find myself in need of something concrete—something I don’t have to guess at, with motives I don’t have to wonder about or question. I have taken too many long, prayerful walks of my own, and railed too many times against an expanse of sky that has never offered more than an echo back.

I yearn for brick and mortar, bone and soul, stable and touchable miracles.

There are no such miracles on the horizon.

When I fall, as I do often these days, it feels like there should be something to lean against or hold onto, but there’s nothing there. There are only hints of where something foolishly optimistic and ultimately futile tried to exist—leaving behind stains that taunt and reprimand: Not yours, not yours, not yours, never yours. Stand up, stop crying, be tough, be strong.

Refuge, like so many things, like life, is fleeting and always temporary.

I fall to my knees and pray to the god inside of me, the one that has a history of keeping me resilient, if only with well-worn promises. Tomorrow’s another day, anything can happen, you’ve come this far, you’ll get there one way or another.

I plead to my higher self. I am overflowing, I say. There’s just been too much, too many lifetimes lived in this one, and there’s no release—no matter how many words I write or cages I invent to hold the excess. No matter how often I try to make sense of the senseless. Take some of this away, I beg, any part of it—take away the thousand triggers, the broken dreams, the failures, the endless anxiety and fears, the mind that never rests, the spirit that has been inflated and deflated so many times that it’s left sagging and vulnerable to attack, even from the blindest and most thoughtless of people.

Let me sleep. God, I need to sleep.

Eventually, I leave my impotent god in a puddle on the carpet and get up to wash my face. My Mennonite neighbors have slipped a belated holiday card under my door. Smiling pictures and a church tract reminding me that Jesus is Lord.

I find myself happy for them all over again, not only because they find solace in an untouchable savior but because they believe so strongly that all in life has a purpose and that anyone can be saved, including me.

Stand up, be tough, be strong. Make wiser choices, and wear blinders when necessary.

And when all else fails, buy a king-sized packet of M&M’s for a sweet little girl and watch her green eyes sparkle with joy.

Share this:

After writing, The Invisible Jesus in Psychology, I had an idea I wanted to test. To help me do that, I invited readers to ask me any question they’d like. Nothing was off-limits.  Here are the questions they asked, and my answers.

1. Do you have regrets? What is one? Do you believe that regrets have a valuable place in our life, or do they distract us from moving forward? – Danielle

I do. One of them is marrying at 19. There were years-long consequences to that, even though the marriage did not last long. Yes, I believe regrets are valuable. I think if we never regretted anything, we’d not only lack a conscience, but be more likely to repeat mistakes. I don’t see how having regrets would prevent anyone from moving forward, unless they stemmed from something long-term, such as having children or getting into a certain career, but even then we can only move forward.

2. Have you ever been attacked by cyber-bullies and how did you handle the situation? – Palestar

I have, and I didn’t handle it as well as I should have. I took it much too personally. In retrospect, I should have done more to ignore it and understood that as personal as people get on the internet, they have no way of really knowing you, or you them, on the internet.

3. If you could live your life over, choosing the location, your profession, etc., what would you change and why? – Debbie

I would have started with different parents, never left California, completed my degree, and remained a technical writer unless my literary career took off. In reality, a restless spirit, combined with some incredible hopes and a love for adventure, took me many places, some good, some not. Now that I’m older, I wish I’d managed to be a little fonder of stability in my 20′s and 30′s.

4. And for you: Pizza, steak, Mexican, or Chinese? – Laurie C.

Chinese food, steak, then Mexican food. Pizza way, way far down on the list.

5. If a person could read your tea leaves, and the tea leaves of others accurately without knowing you or them, how would you explain it? – Ann Parker

As a fluke or a set-up, because I don’t believe in such things and have seen too many other similar things, like astrology, seances and psychics, roundly debunked.

6. If you had no choice and could choose, which would you rather lose, your sight or your hearing and why? – Marcie

No doubt, my hearing. You can still “hear” people through their body language, expressions, and writing and you can “hear” things like wind and thunder through sensation…but it’s much harder to see people and things without vision.

7. What is your favorite aphorism? If you were given the choice to learn your date of death would you choose to know? Have you ever seen the movie School of Rock? – Elaine

“Highly developed spirits often encounter resistance from mediocre minds” – Einstein. This became a particular favorite this past election season. And yes definitely to #2, and yes oddly enough to #3 (I’ve seen about five movies in the last six or seven years).

8. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be and why? – Tammie

Hawaii. It’s beautiful, warm, lush, surrounded by the ocean I love, and there are no slithering things.

9. I am a total foodie…so I need to know…what one comfort food do you turn to when you are blue? – Jeanne

Do I have to be blue? I’m a latte fanatic everyday. Chocolate is something I don’t eat often anymore, but I crave it when my energy is low. As far as a comfort meal, I’d have to go with chicken and dumpling soup.

10. Do you lust after the new Mac Airbook for just it’s beauty and style and wow factor and if so wouldn’t the new super slim Dell be just as cool, or are there other internal differences about the Macs you love? – Susan S.

I had a Mac a number of years ago and remember it as being intuitive, fairly problem free, and easy to remedy when there was problem, which has not been my experience with PC’s. I am frustrated by how long it takes to end a program that has quit working, and the number of times that happens even when the memory is nowhere near capacity. I’m frustrated by the updates that seem to almost always cause something else to quit working, and by Windows built-in preferences for its own substandard other services.

11. Why are you important? – Woodrow

I don’t feel I am in the context of self, or what I presently give to the world at large. When I was raising children whom I was solely responsible for, I felt important in the sense that other lives and futures depended on my own. My children see me as important to their lives even though they are grown and competent, and there may be others who find me important in their lives for other reasons, but I think if death was imminent, I’d be at peace knowing I’ve loved, nurtured, and given to my best capacity.

12. Do you have any true friendships with people who’s opinions regarding religion and politics strongly oppose yours? If you don’t, do you believe it’s possible? – Chris

Yes to religion and no to politics. I have among my friends a Lutheran, two Catholics and one Mormon, but none of them are staunchly, wholly conservative. I think my friends tend to take what’s best or most meaningful for them from their religion and apply it to their personal lives without expectation that others should do or feel the same. I have friends who are anti-abortion, for instance, but who wouldn’t want a law that denied abortion for others. They view religion as personal, not political. I don’t think I could be friends, or want to be, with neo-conservatives, because their beliefs are not just personal, but societal and often global. They want their beliefs, including their personal religious ones, to inform government, law, science and more.

13. What really pisses you off… makes you so mad you could scream…? – Theresa

Purposeful ignorance. Someone who is so intent on holding onto a certain belief, philosophy, or way of being that they absolutely refuse to process or understand any other information.

14. Why do you write? I know what rankles and activates you. What brings you: joy? peace? serenity? Describe your ideal Friday night. – Kate

I write for different reasons. Sometimes because I don’t understand something until I’ve laid out my thoughts and questioned them, sometimes because I’m excited, outraged, or heartbroken and sometimes, oftentimes, because I see or hear something I totally disagree with and I want my perspective put out there as a balance. What brings me joy-peace-serenity isn’t an absolute unless we’re talking about the well-being of my children. Where I’m at now, I take those things wherever and as often as I can find them. My ideal any-night is being “in the zone” and writing something that I think is meaningful and that others will enjoy.

15. My question: We all have defining moments in our lives. Moments that shape us, our ideas, our writing, our outlook. Name one defining moment in your life and how it shaped you. – Corina
& When did you know you were a writer? – Sharon

This is not a lovely answer, but true. It was when my mother choked me into unconsciousness when I was in the 4th grade. It was field day at school – we were given permission to wear shorts  – but my mother wouldn’t hear of it, so I put the shorts on under my dress. She had been violent before, but never that deadly. I realized my own mortality then, and on some level finally understood that my mother’s violent outbursts and hatred had to do with something other than who I was or how I behaved. After that incident, I became less of an inward child and began to write in order to find my voice.

16. Who was your biggest influence and why? – LBJ

For better or worse, my mother. The one who gives us life and then nurtures — or not — is the one who sets the foundation from which all else springs. That’s not to say that we can’t build anything we want from there, but the influence from childhood is lifelong, even if it becomes our life’s work to do everything quite the opposite way.

17. What are the things that have made your heart soar to unfathomable heights never reached before? – Tash

Three things: 1) The birth of my children – more than anything in the world. 2) Making love to someone I really loved – the second most-high experience. 3) An article I wrote that seemed to touch a lot of women, but this last one was kind of a fluke because it was something that was linked to from a celebrity site, and so it was her fans that commented. It made it difficult to know if they liked the piece on its own merits, or because she did. A famous person could start using a grocery bag for a purse, and many people would think that was cool. That doesn’t really make grocery bags cooler than they were before the celebrity started wearing them.

18. All that is left of the great artist is: A painting she has done of the cat and the cat itself. You must save one. Which will it be and why? – Laura

The cat, of course, because it is a living, feeling creature.

19. When are you gonna come for dinner and let me cook for you? Red or White…whats your fav kinda wine? – Loony

If I’m ever in that part of Canada, Shoeless Acres will be my first stop, and I’d love a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.

20. What is your favourite curse word? – Peggi Jean

Fuck. Hands down.

21. Miracle whip or mayonnaise? – Caron

Mayonnaise, preferably homemade or organic.

22. Why are people [so willing to ] turn over the control of their lives so easily to an unknown force? – Jeff

The world can be frightening, unjust, and unforgiving. I think people seek to give “control” to an unknown force because it not only lessens their fears and anxieties, but also gives them some hope for all that the unknown force usually promises — which is usually centered around blessings, redemption, and peace. Of course, the ultimate control is always an individual’s, but a belief that one will ultimately be rewarded for being good, and others will be punished for being bad, helps many people get through their days.

23. If you had to pick a single word to guide you through the next year, what would it be and why? – Sandi

Change. Obama’s campaign slogan is also mine — I would like to make and see many changes in 2009, none of them easy or easily accessible, but I’m going to push as hard as I can to make this year really count.

24. What’s your ultimate dream/goal/fantasy as a writer–meaning what would your ideal writing life look like? – V-Grrrl

One bestselling book that will buy me a small house in a beautiful place, and the rest of my years spent writing whatever I wanted with no concern about ever needing or wanting to sell it to a publisher. I think JD Salinger did it right. Unfortunately, it’s the rare writer who can now be both published and a hermit.

25. What do you wish people knew or understood about you that they do not? – Julia

That despite everything I have known and seen, I have a deep core of innocence, and am still easily amazed, affected, and moved by even small, simple gestures, words, and situations.

26. How is the you of 5, 10 years hence going to be different to the you of today? – Karen

I likely wouldn’t be much different 5 or 10 years from now, unless one counts having additional experience as a substantial change.

27. Why is it you, and other female writers, such as Annie Proulx and Amy Bloom, start out life as wives and mothers and then change their sexual orientation? – Carol

I can only speak for myself, but I was bisexual as a child, I just didn’t have a name for my attraction to girls. There were no discussions, no role models, no people I knew who were gay. When I was a teen, I went out with boys because that’s what all the girls did. I married when I was still a teen, at 19, and it was very brief. Afterwards, grown up and on my own, I felt freer to explore my feelings and be honest with myself. I realized that while physically I could be attracted to either sex for the short-term, my long-term desires, physical and in every other way, were for women. I would not say I changed, but grew more self-aware and more comfortable with who I was.

28. Do you believe in God? – Suzanne / What defines you as Jewish? – Neil

I suspect, or want to believe, that there was some intelligent force behind the creation of life, but I also believe the science for evolution is well-proven — which is at odds with the Biblical version of God. I have problems with the great leaps of logic apparent in all the the religions of men, because I believe that any force capable of creating life would not be illogical. Outside of a few very minor species, it takes a female and a male to procreate, meaning if there were a God he would have had to have a mother. It is irrational to believe that God would be born alone from the vapors of the Universe, yet a taboo question in religion is “who created God”. I also believe that human beings have the brains that we do so that we can evolve and reach our highest potential — something that organized religion often seems to want to undermine in favor of blind faith, dogma, and tradition. I find comfort in liberal Judaism not as much for the traditions but for the spiritual, emotional, and practical aspects, such as community, service, self and global awareness, progressive beliefs, inclusion, and a strong belief in education.

29. Huge fan of food network so….you’re given zucchini, pineapples, dried dates, maple syrup, and polenta, what would you make having to use all these ingredients? – Steve

I would make a mess! I was curious, though, so I googled your combination, and discovered that I could make a breakfast polenta of sorts, although the zucchini would be a rather odd ingredient.

30. Why is the desk in the room of your own vision great and big and mahogany? – Tre

I have absolutely no idea! I may have seen something like that as a child and been impressed, but if so I don’t remember where or when. Mahogany has always been my favorite color/grain of wood.

31. What is the one piece of advice, over all others, you would give to someone who wants to be a writer? – Lucie

To try to look at the people, situations, and circumstances around them as writer — a recorder of physical, factual, emotional, and contextual detail. I think most writers begin by writing through a self-reflective lens, which helps them explore hidden parts of themselves, and find their own rhythm and voice. The evolution is in being able to look at something through multiple lenses while not losing your individual vision.

32. What do you think is the next step for feminism? Or is this as good as it gets in a patriarchy? – Callie

First, thank you for acknowledging that we still live in a patriarchal society. I’ve been stunned by how many people deny this is true, despite the continuing imbalance of power. We still live in a time when language like “the state’s first female governor…” is spoken with peculiar pride or surprise. I believe feminism, as a self-sustaining concept, was lost in the mire of several other causes it attached itself to in order to gain more supporters, build solidarity, and present itself as a stronger political force. Those other causes, such as ending racism and gaining LGBT rights, have not been as inclusive of, or outspoken about, womens’ rights as the cause of feminism was to theirs. The brightest and most passionate feminist voices seem to have slipped away to the ivory towers of academia, leaving an entire global generation with only a dim knowledge of domestic inequalities, and the horrors that millions of girls and women face around the world. The only thing feminism can do to revive itself, in my opinion, is step back in the fight. Not with more studies, not with more panels — but as they did it in the glory days — by gathering the tribe, screaming into megaphones, expressing their rage at podiums in college auditoriums, picketing in the streets and demanding to be heard. Without that kind of passion, I don’t think feminism will evolve or be revived.

33. With all that we have at our fingertips in the late-20th and 21st century I think we are lucky to live in the time we do, especially for women, but we do have a long way to go. If you could pick a time period (of the past, of course) to have lived, when would it be and why? – Shelley

I would have liked to have been born fifteen or twenty years earlier so that I could have been there when so many of the people I admire were at the peak of their expression. To hear Adrienne Rich or Gloria Steinem in person? Listen to the beat poets? To see Janis Joplin in concert or Joan Baez at a coffee shop? I would have loved that. I also would have loved to have lived in Berkeley or San Francisco then, and to have contributed something to that spectacular mix.

33. If you could produce a TV show, what would be the premise? Do you feel truly accepted? If you won the lottery, what would be the first thing you would buy for yourself? – Pat (was funny and asked 17 questions, I answered three)

1) I would like to see the return of a network Phil Donahue type show, or Oprah before she got the feel-good “discover your spirit” format. Serious issues that used to be given focused air time aren’t getting but a fraction of that now and when they do, they pile on the guests until the stories are diluted. 2) No. 3) A small, cozy house near the ocean.

34. How would your writing and life be different if the internet and blogging had never been invented? Would your writing be altered or take a different path? – Lisa

Given my minor publication history, and my lack of effort or interest in submitting work during the last few years, I can reasonably guess that without the internet my writing would be less public. I also think I would not have written on as many topical things subjects, such as current events and politics.

35. If you could have one super power what would it be? if you had one last thing to say to the world, what would it be? – Kris D.

The ability to be invisible because the possibilities in that are nearly endless. As for the last thing I’d say to the world, it would probably be a repeat of one of the first things I ever said, Why?

36. Favourite character on Happy Days? – T. Fraser

None! I really didn’t like anything about that show.

37. Do you fear death? – Nikki

No, only any pain that might lead up to death.

38. Do you possess enough rage to take a human life? – Doris

No, but I think if I needed to defend my life or the life of someone else, I wouldn’t hesitate.

39. What is your Meyers-Briggs type if you know it? – Melissa

The last time I took the test, which was about 1998, I was an INTP.

40. When you are feeling lost, and down, and depressed, and you don’t know what to do, and you can’t write, and it feels like everything is wrong everywhere in every dark depressing corner of your head … what do you read? What author do you pull off your shelf, knowing that it’s going to lift your soul? What can you read, over and over again, and just know that it’s going to inspire you, or at the very least make you laugh a little and realise that things aren’t that bad? – Tamara

It’s not a book I reach for, but cards and letters that people have given me over the years, including my daughter, who has written me beautiful notes since she could hold a pen.  I’ve kept every card and letter that’s ever moved me, and when I need an infusion of sun or a way to revive my spirit, I open that box.

_ _ _

Part Two: What impressions might my answers give a group of strangers? How much might those impressions differ from the results of the personality test recently discussed on this site? Stay tuned! I also asked readers questions, and got some fascinating answers!

Share this:

Universities in the “Show-Me” state of Missouri seem to like studying blogs and the characters of those who write them.  Last year, the Missouri State University in Springfield asked me to participate in a student study on media ethics and the “Wild West” of the internet. Yesterday, Tal Yakoni and Dr. Simine Vazire of the Washington University in St. Louis sent me an email soliciting my participation in a personality test to help them study the link between a writer’s personality and the “content and style” of their writing.

I had my choice between a 10 minute, 100 question test or a longer 300 question version.  I’m impatient, so I chose the option that took the least amount of effort.  I’m pretty sure that psychology would give me a demerit for that, since its a subjective science that seems to use Jesus as a role model — and we all know that Jesus wasn’t a slacker.

As a school of thought psychology, like Jesus’s Christianity, seems to value a sense of altruism and sacrifice in its adherents.  It advances a pseudo-religious creed of love for all mankind, unselfishness, and an unbridled spirit of empathy and compassion.  It wants disciples who will strive to maintain a happy, positive attitude no matter how wretched or difficult a situation might be.

But are the ideals and expectations of psychology rational?  Do the terms and labels employed by psychology work toward better understanding and social enlightenment, or are they simply a convenient way to exclude in some way those who don’t fit the mold?

One of the agree/disagree statements on the personality test was:  “You have a good word for everybody”.  This is a question meant to measure one’s level of “agreeableness” — the value an individual places on getting along with other people.  The higher your score, the more “considerate, friendly, compassionate, generous, helpful, and willing to compromise” you are considered to be.  In other words, you’re that much closer to Jesus.

The problem with the “good word” question is that it’s illogical. Jesus might say there’s no such thing as an illogical question, but how rational was a man who believed he could walk on water and rise from the dead?  Jesus today would have been locked up or put on some heavy doses of anti-psychotic medication yet the school of psychology, perhaps unwittingly, relies on a role model very similar to Jesus to inform its beliefs on what constitutes the most positive and desirable individual traits.

As a rational person, I don’t have a good word to say about murderers, child abusers, rapists, suicide bombers, white collar thieves, war mongers, wife beaters, and baby slayers.  Jesus might have felt a calling to dig into the dark souls of the wretched and pluck out a ray of light — but I don’t see the point.  While it pays to understand the why and how of society’s predators so that we can work on prevention, I feel no particular compassion, empathy, or mercy towards the who that committed the crime.  A person who can rape a child, beat a woman to death, kill dozens in a bombing — or who revels in the high life after stealing millions of dollars from others — does not, in my opinion, merit empathy, but disdain.

Another unqualified test statement was “You like to make people happy”.  I know there are some people who might rejoice (such as neoconservatives and child abusers) if I never wrote another word, but I don’t really care about their happiness.  I’m also sure it thrills my neighbor when I clean up his dog’s shit from the communal lawn, but I don’t do it to make him happy. I do it because I have a dog and don’t want the condo association to change its pet-friendly policies.

Jesus would probably clean up after the lazy neighbor as a good deed.  Jesus liked to do good deeds even if they weren’t rewarded — but of course they usually were.  In fabled stories, the wicked would see Jesus’s good example,  have an epiphany, and fall to their knees in gratitude.

In real life, I resent picking up basketball-sized mounds of German Shepherd shit, and the only epiphany my negligent neighbor seems to have had, despite letters and conversations, is that someone else will eventually take care of the mess.  I don’t delight in Sunday mornings hunched over piles of dog poop with rubber gloves, but I might feel quite differently if my neighbor was incapacitated or actually needed my help.

Like most people, I also enjoy making those I love, admire, or otherwise value happy.  There’s gratification in giving to friends and family members, as well as to those whom I see as deserving but less fortunate. So do I like to make people happy? It depends on who they are and whether or not their happiness is important to me.

The test asked if I agreed or disagreed with the statement: “I am not interested in abstract ideas”.  Again, it depends. I met a philosophy student once who insisted that a Pepsi can only existed because I thought it did. He did not believe that material reality could exist outside of one’s own beliefs.  I wasn’t interested in his abstract (nonsensical) theory at all.  Carl Sagan, though, has put out some abstract theories that are fascinating — and so did Jesus — which is what I believe is at the root of psychology’s odd mix of mysticism and studied rationales.

The “think positive” movement is a prime example of mixing magical thinking with academic study.  “Think it and be it” and other reality-defiers are buoyed by massive studies that lead to such sterling conclusions as “happy people are happier”.

The feeling of happiness, despite the reality of circumstances, (think Job, think Jesus on the cross) has, in tides and trends, been sold like a mandate to the masses, and this mandate has diluted even our language — there are no obstacles, only challenges.  We don’t have problems, but issues.  We don’t have realities, but perceptions.  What would Jesus do?

Jesus likely wouldn’t have invented electricity, the telephone, the automobile, or the  MacBook Pro that I covet.  While I disagree with much of the criteria that psychology professor Dean Keith Simonton used to define genius in his recent book,  I agree with his general conclusion that geniuses tend to be “open to experience, introverted, (and) hostile. . .”.  In other words, not very Jesus-like at all.

What label, besides “hostile”, does psychology put on those who are emotionally reactive and therefore more likely to experience “negative” feelings such as anger and frustration?  Psychology calls them neurotic.  The old testament God would have scored very high in this category but the softer, gentler Jesus would have scored low.  According to psychology, the mythical God, creator of the world — the one who was emotionally reactive, moody, and easily irritated –  would have a diminished ability to “think clearly, make decisions, and cope effectively with stress”.  Jesus, by contrast, would be “calm and emotionally stable”.

If Simonton’s personality theory of genius is to be believed, then shouldn’t we be concerned with how much potential is being thwarted in classrooms when non-conforming smart children, who are easily bored and irritated, are taught a curriculum that’s geared towards the average and not the exceptional?  What about adults with above-average intelligence who find themselves frustrated by slow thinkers, outdated methods, and irrational beliefs?

The Jesus-model of psychology would have everyone believe that they are special and unique — but no more special or unique than anyone else –  which really gives “special” a whole new meaning, one that’ s not quite sameness, but more like same worth.  To feel that you may have more intrinsic or social worth than someone else, (no matter how base, unethical, or irrational that someone might be),  is considered by psychology to be arrogant, narcissistic, grandiose –  even delusional.  It’s just not very Jesus-like.

Jesus died on the cross for the sins of others, and didn’t whine enough about it to be considered a martyr or someone suffering from persecution complex, therefore it stands to (psychology’s) reason that people should be selfless enough to see the positives in their own adverse circumstances.  It’s not what happens to you, it’s how you feel about it.  You choose your own feelings.  No one else and no other circumstance can dictate the way you feel — it’s a choice — so think positive.

Try to keep that in mind the next time someone slams your finger in a car door or empties your retirement account. What would Jesus do? He’d forgive, of course, and then find a way to make it a positive, life-affirming experience because, after all, happy people are happier. And happier people are just a whole lot more fun to be around than those who are always questioning reason and authority and letting themselves be bugged by facts or circumstances that are not in their milieu or immediate power to change.

Yet no change occurs in a vacuum, and every grassroots social cause begins with disgruntlement or unhappiness over a certain situation — whether or not it is our own, or even on shared soil.  Positive changes, in other words, often stem from “negative” feelings and thoughts.  While joy is certainly a preferred feeling for its euphoric qualities, this doesn’t lessen the validity or rationality of other emotions, such as frustration, anger, or sadness.  That some people might feel these “negative” emotions more often than others might not indicate neuroses, but a heightened sense of awareness of the world outside their own front door.

Another flaw in personality tests is that questions are often asked in slightly different ways in order to measure truthfulness, but for many people, including myself, a change in wording is a change in meaning. “Do you feel that you have had more bad experiences than most other people” is, to me,  a totally different question than “Do you feel that you are cursed”.  One may be an arguable fact, while the other indicates a belief in the mystical concepts of blessings and curses.

The storied Jesus, while hanging on a cross, went through a range of emotions, at first blaming his father for forsaking him, then believing that he was being tortured so that others could be forgiven. I believe Jesus’s MMPI scores would have fluctuated dramatically given the day. In the end, though, it’s the feel-good story of Jesus — as a simple, self-sacrificing, loving, humble, calm, altruistic forgiver of all wrongs — that seems to inform psychology’s definition of social harmony and mental health.  There is no doubt that many people, particularly the religious, find this not only acceptable but somehow perfect.  After all, who wouldn’t want to be more like Jesus?

There’s a disparity between Jesus and mere mortals, though, that many seem to forget.  Jesus could turn water into wine, heal the sick, stop a storm, and drive the evil spirits out of the wicked and possessed.  Is it any wonder he was such a calm, affable guy?  I know I’d be much less stressed out if I was capable of pulling off a miracle or forty-seven.  I’d definitely be a lot more agreeable.

If psychiatry is to psychology what science is to art, (and I believe there’s truth in that), but both rely on the Jesus model to some degree, then both would seem to be less rational, less tolerant of difference, more bent on conformity, and ultimately much more limiting to the advancement of humanity, than they make themselves out to be.

How many employers are now using personality tests to decide who gets a job and who doesn’t?  How many “introverted” people or “hostile” geniuses are being excluded from consideration due to these supposedly undesirable traits? In schools, how many extraordinarily bright but “easily frustrated” children are being labeled with ADD or personality disorders?   How many potential “beautiful minds” have we lost by insisting that they are not socially harmonious or agreeable enough for our schools, our workplaces, our institutions?

How many potential  Galileos and Van Goghs would the modern day world of psychology have us abandon to the mythical, invisible role model of Jesus?

Share this:

In the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountains, we abandoned Eloise’s Suburban and walked the wet, rutted road that led to her house. It was lightly raining, and there was an orange tint to the sky that made even the sagebrush look beautiful. There was a rainbow forming to the North, and a pair of desert cottontails bouncing in and out of a lone patch of grass.

The laughter in my throat was stilled by the heavy clomp of her boots in the mud. She was angry at her truck for running out of gas, angry at the rain, and angry at the whole world it seemed. She muttered and cussed, and insisted that I thought she must be a real fuck-up. What I was really wondering was how an empty gas tank could trigger what amounted to a self-flagellating tantrum.

“What a great start to your trip, huh? You must think I’m a real idiot.
“That fucking gauge was above E. You saw that right? That it wasn’t below E?
“I bet you’re regretting being here.
“I’m tired of shit like this always happening to me.”

After the third or fourth reassurance, I realized it didn’t matter what I said. Eloise was determined to be miserable. Her hostility was easily tapped, and there was a black hole to her being that she catered to as if it contained the only precious truth left in the world.

A mile-long walk left us standing on her porch, rain soaked and muddy, and I couldn’t help but think that with someone else, this might be a fun occasion. Leah would run for the wine glasses, Sheila would challenge me to wrestle in the mud, Jen would tell jokes, and then laugh so hard she’d have to stop walking. None of them would have done what Eloise did next –- which was to take off her boots and throw them against the garage wall.

“Never mind that those were my favorite boots,” she seethed to the mud-streaked plaster.

Later, I sat on a couch in her living room, listening to a litany of trivial, wine-soaked complaints. Her parents loved her, but not well enough. She had a stellar education, but not Ivy League. She had many friends, but no one who really understood her deep complexity. She had a trust fund, but it wasn’t enough to quit working. There were lovers that used, and lovers that left, and a sense of never being appreciated.

“It would be nice if even just once I got back 10% of what I gave to others, but I guess I’m screwed on that. Everybody I ever meet is so selfish.”

For four nights, I sat like a cypher in Eloise’s smoky living room, willing myself into stillness as I watched the stars through the skylights. She was an unlikely Scheherazade, a steely, bitter-eyed woman who seemed to have spent her life creating conflict so she would have an outlet for her combativeness. With every story, she seemed to grow fresh scars, counting and recounting the wrongs committed against her until there was no good will, and no right thing left in the world.

Instead of bolting, I found my curiosity turning morbid. There was a sour aftertaste to our one-sided conversations that was all at once revolting and intriguing. My incredulousness was stretched but not yet sated, not even when she told me the story about driving drunk, and the massive damages done to her lover’s face when she drove into a ditch going 80 mph. Even in that story, Eloise reigned as the ultimate victim. The lover sued, Eloise received a suspended jail sentence, and when the story hit the local newspaper it was humiliating.

“So her face – did they manage to fix it?”

“What? Oh. She lost most of her lower jaw and lower lip, but had lots of reconstructive surgery. Between the insurance company and me, she made out pretty well. I ended up having to go to treatment, though, which was stupid because I wasn’t an alcoholic — but who cares, right? I paid through the nose for that night. There are still people in this town who hate me…”.

On the morning I left, I woke up early and walked through the house, and for the first time noticed how beautiful it really was. Stained glass French doors led to a wrap-around patio. The floors were a dark walnut wood, and there was an exquisitely patterned red Persian rug in the living room. Abstract art hung neatly from clean white walls, lit from below with key lights. In four nights, I hadn’t noticed the antique chairs, covered in cobalt blue velvet, that framed the fireplace, or the soft white chenille of the couches. Either Eloise’s misery had sucked all the color and light out of the room, or I was so enchanted by it that I turned blind to everything else. In the pale yellow light of morning, I was reminded of a song by Sara McLachlan – “you live in a church where you sleep with voodoo dolls, and you won’t give up the search for the ghosts in the halls”. Eloise’s home was like a tainted church, a sanctuary lost to the cause of both old and ongoing wars.

In front of the airport terminal, Eloise handed me a folded up piece of paper and told me to read it on the plane. It’s just a poem I wrote, she said, something I wanted you to have.

Nobody heard her, the dead woman,
but still she lay in the abyss moaning.
I was much further out than you thought, she said,
and not waving, but drowning.

As if there were not enough reams of torment in her own life, Eloise resorted to stealing the tragic words of others. The poem was written by British poet Stevie Smith, and only slightly changed by Eloise’s interpretation.

I might have never known, but I discovered Not Waving, But Drowning in the county library when I was nine years old, and ran home to read it to my mother –- a woman who was drowning in an unhappiness I was powerless to change. I was always looking for words she would recognize –- that would move her in some way, or that let her know that while I didn’t understand everything, I did understand that she felt I was to blame in some way, and that I was sorry, sorry, sorry. For three decades, I waited for the day my mother’s secrets would spill, and we could forgive each other for the darkness. The right combination of words were never found. There was no grand rescue, no heroic act of forgiveness, no chance of saving either one of us from wanting what we could never have.

Yet, years after her death, I found myself drawn to sitting silently in the darkest shadows of other women, waiting for a hint, a revelation, or some epiphany. When I wasn’t actively seeking out the most brooding people I could find, they seemed to find me.

And the only thing I ever really learned from all those years of shadow sitting is that misery can travel beyond time and circumstance, and become a black hole that voids all light and swallows any possibility of good. There really is no mystery to the the forever-lost, the fucked-up, the hateful, or the chronically bitter. We move in this universe on differing parallels –- some paths are rife with danger and difficulty, and some are so easy that they seem supernaturally preordained, but most are a mix of challenges, habits, and celebrations. Sometimes there are choices, and sometimes there are unmitigable circumstances. We fall as often as we get pushed. We embrace each other, or we stand apart. We scar, berate, and rail against each other, or extend our compassion and love. We kick each other, or help each other up.

We are the secret, the key, the magical, elusive meaning of things that we search for in the clouds, ancient books, and new-age gurus. There is really no major mystery to who we are. We are what helps creates the other. In the largest picture, we are the source of each other’s love, misery, happiness, anger, regret, support, hope, longing, and despair.

Eloise and my mother were partially created by others on their path, as surely as Beethoven, Curie, and Van Gogh were.  But instead of gathering love, they nurtured grudges. Instead of striving for happiness, they chose to lash out in anger and bitterness.

The worst monsters and tyrants in the world only exist by collective permission, as do the greatest thinkers, pianists, artists, and inventors. We don’t always agree with the collective, and often lack the power to enforce our differing will, but many of us accede our personal ethics as if our singular thoughts, ideals, or dollars had little value at all. We sit in the shadows of corruption, perverse politics, bad will, unjust laws, and miserable people until we are numb and feel them as inevitable.

And perhaps they are, at least until the collective masses experience a new call to enlightenment, but we don’t have to sit in the shadows and wait. We don’t have to sleep with voodoo dolls, or taint our sanctuaries with totems of death and misery. We can, instead, consciously choose to live in a way that honors our highest ideals.

We can stand and speak clearly instead of moaning. We can wave, and refuse to let ourselves be drowned.

Share this: