Life at Starbucks

I am working part-time at Starbucks in addition to teaching.

I need the extra money, trying to save a bit. You know the drill.

Some days I am in more desperate need of a nap than I am in need of a Starbucks shift but I often find that once I am there I rise to the occasion and in fact have fun and become energized. That is until I get home, immediately kick off my Dansko clogs and with a sigh, plop down on my sofa in exhaustion.  I love the people who work with me and sometimes have more fun than one should at work. The work is physically challenging though. I keep telling the young staff to take it easy on me because, “I’m old you know!” but they too seem tired at the end of a shift. I suspect that I have one of the best sets of biceps of any women in my age category in Charleston because of all the coffee server hefting, the ice swigging, the frappuccino pouring, the gallon-milk container hauling.

 

Starbucks really is a culture unto itself. From the people who come in one can sense a loyalty. There exists a camaraderie likened to the inside, private-club membership type. They seem almost honored that we remember what they drink. Some are an absolute delight to see and some, when spotted walking toward the door elicit a sound from us that can only be translated as, “ugh.” Let me introduce you to some of the frequent and not-so-frequent visitors at “my” Starbucks:

 

*Red Sox Harry (Grande Mocha Frappuccino Light).

The first time he walked in wearing his Beantown baseball cap it was friendship at first sight. Every time he comes in he updates me on last night’s score, the standings, who’s pitching tonight. And we both agree adamantly that Johnny Damon is indeed, going to hell.

 

*Jaguar Keith (Grande “Awake” Tea “for Here”).

Keith drives a beautiful, red Jaguar XJ6 (my dream car since about 1976). I am teased by my co-workers because he flirts unabashedly with me and just the other day as we chatted about his Jag, he asked me if I wanted to go for a ride. I just might. But Keith is from the U.K., and I can barely understand a word he says. But he hates George Bush, so who needs to communicate anything else?

 

*Homeless Howard (Short Brewed Coffee).

We don’t really know that much about Howard except that he will always be paid “tomorrow.” He comes in and asks for a “complimentary” cup of coffee. Some of us have given it to him and some have not. When we don’t he goes into the men’s room and pees in the corner. The revenge of the wretched. The local police have issued a “no loitering” warning but I do not know if the request for such an order came from Starbucks or the grocery store near to us. I have seen him panhandling for donuts there. Anyway, we haven’t seen Howard in a while.

 

*The man with the wadded up $20.

This man came in one Sunday morning (by the way…as every restaurant service worker knows, the Sunday morning “Church crowd” is the grouchiest, grumpiest, most unfriendly collection of people of the week…must be all that fire and brimstone rhetoric that puts them in a bad mood). The man ordered and then threw a wadded up twenty on the counter like he was playing Jacks and bouncing the ball. I picked it up, smoothed it out, looked into his face and said an emphatic, “THANK you.” When I returned his change I handed it back to him in his hand with an obvious flourish.

 

*The Woman Who Waited Seven Minutes Dammit (Grande Mocha Frappuccino).

This woman actually approached the register and said to the counter person, “You know I have been waiting SEVEN MINUTES to order.” Oh REALLY? We’re sooo sorry.  But thank you for proving Einstein's Theory of Relativity to me because it seems like so much less than seven minutes when you are behind the counter working your ass off just to get you your drink, you self-serving, precious, spoiled, self-important, how-would-you-know-how-many-minutes-it’s-been-when-you-have-been-talking-on-your-cell-phone-the-whole-time Bitch.

 

*Dr. Porsche, the cardiologist (Grande 2% Toffee Nut No Whip Latte) who is sleeping with his receptionist (Don’t ask me how I know. I just know) and who is always on the phone. One imagines that while he waits for his Grande 2% Toffee Nut Latte he is at that very moment saving lives, approving refills of life-saving prescriptions, talking to patients about the life-saving properties of St. Joseph’s Aspirin for Children. (Hey! Aren’t they orange? Might have to get me some o’ that). 

 

* Woman and, arrggghhh…for the life of me I cannot remember her name right now (Half-Caf Venti Five Pump Sugar-Free-Hazelnut Two Pump Cinnamon Latte) who is wonderfully pleasant and who comes in every day and spends a fortune in Lattes. But, who drops a Five Dollar Bill into the tip jar to cover herself for the week.

 

*After-Work John (Venti Brewed Coffee) whose face absolutely lights up because I remember his drink and ask him, “Can you wait four minutes? I’m about to brew fresh.”

And I know he can because he always sits for thirty minutes and reads the paper.

 

*Brian (Grande Brewed Coffee) Chivalrous Clinical Psychologist. Always gentle, happy to see me. Unexpected friend and champion; Slayer of others' demons; Quixotic dreamer of Impossible Possibilities; Healer of Wounded Psyches; Coffee Lover Extraordinaire.

 

* The Students, both former and present who come in and are genuinely and delightfully surprised to see me. Just yesterday (which was an exceptional day for student encounters), there was David who recently graduated and is going to Medical School. He was meeting a family with whom he was applying for summer employment as mentor and Big Brother to their son. He introduced me to them, told them I had been his religious studies professor and then said, “Doesn’t she look divine?” (Who knew?). And Kelly who I haven’t seen for two years, who adores me and was conducting a business meeting in the café. When she spotted me she could hardly contain herself. I motioned to her with my fingers to my lips to finish her meeting and we would speak later. When her meeting was over she rushed up to me and hugged me so passionately my feet left the floor. And dear Hannah, whom I love and haven’t seen for a year; Hannah, who laughs at all of my jokes, lives in NY city and took five courses with me even though she was NOT a Religious Studies major. And Tim, who will one day win The Masters Tournament, knows I work there, saw my car and just "had to come in to say hi." And Dru (to whom I ran to hug) who took the first course I ever taught at the college and was the first ever "Doire Groupie."

 

*The Italians (Doppio Espresso, Grande Vanilla Bean Frappuccino, Grande Blackberry-Green Tea Frappuccino in “for here” Cups, and a Cup of Ice). This is an entire family of six (two younger men, one old man, a woman, a baby, an adolescent boy and a dog) who recently moved from Italy presumably to open an alleged pizza parlor. They camp out on the patio and sit at the tables and chairs sometimes long after the closing shift has left for the night. Occasionally, when in a celebratory mood they bring a bottle of liquor (hence the ice), a smooth, glistening, creamy, more expensive version of Frangelico. Don’t tell my manager but one day they shared a few inches with my co-worker and me. Whenever they are there and I am working, I change the speaker music to Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. They told me that they love "Frankie."

 

*Alex (Venti Caramel Macchiato) mutual friend of a former lover who told me that the cookies I once baked for said lover were so much better than Starbucks’ cookies.

 

*The man who never smiles (Grande Mild Brewed Coffee), not even on Father’s Day with his adorable daughter in tow.

 

*Jim (Grande Brewed Coffee, Cup Discount) to whom I have given a religious studies “reading list” and who always wants to talk about the Gnostic Gospels.

 

*The woman (Grande Vanilla Latte) who is as tensely wound as a ball of string, agonized by life, closed up, tight-lipped and has the most fabulous handbags I’ve ever seen.

 

*Bill (?) The old man who comes in every Tuesday and Thursday morning and who has told us that his Venti coffee and low-fat blueberry muffin are his reason for living. And because we are such humanitarians and are committed to the promotion of life, we always make sure we save a muffin for him.

 

*Lee (Tall One-Pump Mocha 2% Misto) the gloriously stylish, delightful, gay. black man with whom I share secrets and romantic mishaps. We keep promising each other that we will meet for coffee when I am not working.

 

*The old woman, always alone (Two Venti 2%Milk 120 degree Vanilla Lattes) who spends $8 a day on drinks and presumably takes one home to some other mysterious Venti 2%Milk 120 degree Vanilla Latte lover.

*Patrick (Double Tall Caramel Macchiato) multiple dry cleaning establishment proprietor and hot Latin who last week, as I handed off his drink at the pick-up station looked me straight in the eye and said, “Did you put your finger in that?” I said, “No!” To which he replied, “Could you?”

(sigh).

Four Little Words

In addition to evil and suffering, and feminist theology, I have also been studying the dynamics of forgiveness for 15 years. I have written papers about it. I gave a presentation of a paper on it at a conference on The Cultures of Evil in January. And I have rattled off the following entry this morning in about 20 minutes so I will probably have to come back to edit it. But I feel an urgency to post it. I have to do it now, perhaps before it is ready. Because you may have this experience this morning, or this afternoon, or tonight and I want you to have read this, so that you may be on the lookout. So that you will really listen to what is happening….

I think I could count on one hand the number of times in my life men have said to me those four little words that I would long to hear, if they could only say them. And don’t misunderstand me here. I am not making some kind of sweeping generalization about “men” and “women.” I am referencing only my life; my experience. In fact, those times when men have had the humility to say them have been so atypical and rare that I remember them clearly even though one incident occurred 20 years ago. The women in my life have said them; and they say them with heartfelt sincerity and seemingly without a sense that they are giving away a piece of themselves when they say them. The four little words? Simply this, “I am so sorry.” Period.

So often when an injury is expressed or the other realizes he might have done something to piss you off, there is THE DEFENSE. Most of the time, THE DEFENSE isn’t even preceded by, “I am so sorry,” but he will go into a long explanation of his intentions, or motives. He will attempt to justify, explain away or absolve himself of guilt or offensive behavior by giving it a reason, a meaning. Often his intention will be presented as pure, as in, “I didn’t mean it,” “That’s not what I meant,” “I did it because… blah, blah, blah.”

They dig their heels in and behave as if WW III depended upon an outcome of their successful justification of their actions. THE DEFENSE is as old as The Garden of Eden. Most people think that Adam attempted to blame the woman for his eating of the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. But a careful reading proves otherwise. He actually attempted to place the blame on God. “The woman that YOU gave to be with me, she gave me the fruit, and I ate.” I wonder what the outcome in the Garden might have been if Adam (and Eve) had just been able to say, “I am so sorry, God.”

THE DEFENSE does several things to the one injured. First, it immediately works to deny the hurt or injury that they are feeling. There is NO recognition of that. The rush to THE DEFENSE is so quick and knee-jerk, there is no time to see the other person and acknowledge them. It is so important to free oneself from the responsibility (which is perceived as guilt or imperfection) that the injury is then doubled. The one who is injured is placed in the secondary position of import in the relationship and so injury is multiplied…adding injury to injury.

The second dynamic is THE ATTACK. Almost immediately after THE DEFENSE, THE ATTACK comes into play. This is the ploy that points the finger at the one injured in an attempt to place the blame for their feelings on their false interpretation of the action committed. This can be done very subtly and might even include the four little words, but then the four little words are taken back, as in, “I am so sorry YOU FELT THAT WAY.” This is quite ingenious actually, because one can be duped into thinking that an apology has been issued when in fact, it is a veiled attempt at once again absolving oneself of responsibility. It wasn’t ME who got this wrong, it was YOU. But most times THE ATTACK doesn’t even include, “I am so sorry.” There is a rush to point out all the errors the one injured has made in their response, or their interpretation, or their misunderstanding of the event. “You and your feminist hermeneutic.” “You need to lighten up here, you took it too seriously.” What this ploy serves to accomplish is nothing short of victim-blaming. I am the one who has been hurt, and I am the one who is blamed for feeling it….adding insult to injury.

Another ploy is when the one who committed the injurywill tell you how you SHOULD feel. “You shouldn’t feel like that.” “You shouldn’t take it that way.” So, not only is the injury denied and the victim blamed, but there is also an attempt to dictate HOW you should feel; to make your hurt go away so that they will no longer be held accountable. Make it go away and there is no problem, right? Adding arrogance to injury.

One more tactic that is very much like THE DEFENSE are the words, “I was only kidding.” Be very wary when you hear these words. It’s like James Bond’s license to kill. “I was only kidding,” allows anyone to say anything they want about anything and get away with it. “I was only kidding,” is like one of those crumb gatherers that busboys use to pick up bread leavings from a tablecloth. It puts the offense, the insult, the bad joke out there and then attempts to wipe it all away as if the bread had never been eaten.

People really don’t seem to understand where those four little words will get them.

And saying "I am so sorry," is really not so difficult. The challenge comes with saying, "I am so sorry," and then SHUTTING UP.

They don’t understand that saying them may mean the difference between dismissing someone and acknowledging them; between diminishing them and affirming them; between apathy and neglect, and compassion.

It may mean the difference between growth in a relationship or its dissolution.

They don’t understand that they actually don’t end up winning World War III.

They don’t end up defending the wall of their perfection.

They don’t end up exonerating themselves of responsibility by attacking.

They simply end up shooting themselves in the foot because if you can recognize the strategy then you see a truth about that person; that they are intractable, stubborn, unwilling or unable to be compassionate; to really see another's pain; and that they are incapable of humility.

PS… a cautionary word to women readers. Be careful that you are not TOO quick to say the four little words, because often we say them in RESPONSE to THE DEFENSE, or THE ATTACK, or YOU SHOULDN’T FEEL THAT WAY, or I WAS ONLY KIDDING. We fall for it all. And we compound our own injury by buying into the idea that our own hurt was in fact our fault.

A Noble Prize

I sit on the beach

And watch the seagulls

Hover over those with food.

They seek a convenient solution

To their hunger.

Satisfaction is hard work.

But, wouldn’t a fish

Be a more noble prize? 

And yet, they are content

To settle.

A tossed piece of bread,

A stale potato chip, a bit of apple.

It would seem that the time

They spend waiting upon

The generosity of a species not their own,

Would be better spent

With wings spread over the sea.

Their dignity, if not their food supply

Would be better served.

 

Ah! There is one!

One lone gull flying over

The surface of the water

In search of a fish.

I cannot hold back my smile.

Back and forth, back and forth,

Tirelessly scanning from above.

He is relentless.

I say a silent prayer.

That the sea shall be generous.

 

The Children of Babel

Rapid-fire semi-automatic bullets

Explode into the air, sound by sound.

Power hidden in the breath.

Cracks and fissures in the stagnant walls

Of thought and stubbornness.

Fracture the delicate panes of tradition

Into a thousand shards sparkling.

“Love your enemies.”

 

Feathery whispers, sighs on the tongue

Dropped gently on the currents of a breeze.

Entreat and cajole and entice.

Come with me into the story.

Come into the story with me.

Soft beckoning, inviting as the snake.

The ones that make you bite at the first.

“Call me Ishmael….”

 

Brutal, harsh glare-into-the-light reality.

Naked truth unveiled. Darkness exposed. 

Touch the brain that disbelieves and resists.

And suspends disbelief. Catch-your-breath disbelief.

Brilliance puts them together on a string.

And the beauty is remembered forever.

“I have a dream…”

 

Watercolors of the imagination,

Oils, clay and bronze castings,

Color the novelist prose. Spin the Old Woman myth.

Rhyme the lyricist refrain. Glorify the psalmist verse.

Soothe a child hurt. Make tender the poet’s sonnet.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?”

 

Children conceived in hate or violence.

Or carelessness. Or love.

Once loosed upon the world,

They bruise, annihilate. Or heal.

There is no retrieving; no taking back.

The arrows of Artemis or Eros,

Signal death or wondrous love.

“In the beginning…”

 

Tease and tempt me into bliss

The chosen that make of a sentence, perfection.

Chill the bones. Make the flesh shiver.

Bring the world to my door.

Show me love, rage and unspeakable suffering.

Make me laugh with delight.

Bring me to my knees in awe.

Come with me into the story.

Come into the story with me.

“Once upon a time…”

 

Pinking Shears

I awakened this morning to a thought and a smile,

“I want pinking shears.”

Those scissors that cut an edge with jagged points.

I always felt the need. Just in case.

Pinking shears ease the anxiety of fraying,

Of threads pulling away from the body.

I weigh the extravagance against the security.

A new pair is always a good pair.

The cuts are sharp and clean.

The swoosh of the blades, steady and sure.

The close friction of metal on metal,

Power in the hand, creating.

Possibility suspended between two blades.

Decision made, the cut, and no turning back.

 

Their purchase always seemed unreasonable.

Before.

At House of Fabrics, nineteen dollars.

A luxury denied, I'd sneak covetous glances at them

As I browsed the bolts of fabric and sewing notions.

And walked away. There are other strategies one can employ

To ward off the unraveling. 

 

My mother had a pair.

Vintage, cold, stainless steel and heavy.

No orange plastichandles then.

She knew when to use them and

What fabrics would unravel if she didn’t.

I’d watch the results as they cut through

Calico and muslin. And lavender dotted swiss.

Ingenious invention to a child.

Simple precaution in the face of disaster.

 

I turn the argument in my mind even as

I turn into the House of Fabrics parking lot.

In twenty years they will be dull.

Can pinking shears be sharpened?

No matter. They are only nineteen dollars.

It is a small price to pay.

To guard against coming apart at the seams.

 

Interview

A few months ago a student interviewed me for a project he was doing for an Education course. The questions concerned my approaches to teaching and my general understanding of the dynamics of education. The following are my responses. The questions are missing but I think you'll be able to figure those out, based on the responses.

Interview…

 

#1  The first move is to actually convey to my students that an academic approach to the study of religion is very different from what they might be accustomed. The hope is that right from the beginning they will be prepared for something different. To treat religion from a perspective of critical analysis begins with understanding what critical analysis is, so I do that too. In the RELS department we treat all religions without regard to claims of “truth” and this requires as much of an objective view as is possible. This allows for a methodology that brings students outside the parameters of their own faith to a place where hopefully they can appreciate others.  Historical, cultural and literary criticisms provide the tools for this objectivity.

 

#2a  See above and…. a) I make a point of telling stories to illustrate philosophical or theological concepts. I understand the storytelling to operate in much the same way as a lab experiment helps a science teacher convey a theoretical concept concretely. b) I use analogy as well, in much the same way. c) asking students to critically reflect on readings both secondary and primary allows for them to exercise their use of critical analysis d) group discussion is a good tool for the expression of personal or academic questions or issues the students might raise as a result of the study of religion. e) I share with students my own personal narrative which I hope will provide an atmosphere of honor and trust.

 

#2b  I most certainly draw upon the example of my own best teachers; their methods and styles.  As a former Director of Religious Education in a ministerial setting I am well aware of the power of the role of teacher and am very self-reflective of how I utilize that power in the classroom. That lecture material be comprised of the best scholarship available and not my own opinion is crucial to my understanding of responsibility in the classroom, especially given my former ministerial role where persuasion was part of the job!

 

#3  Through my study of feminist theology and a general study of the philosophy of religion, I came to understand how vital the critical analysis of religion is for engendering peace and justice in the world. When I discovered how intimately the emergence of a religious tradition is tied to political (institutional power), social (domestic power), and cultural (public power) concerns, I realized that human influence (and so, human flaw) in the construction of religion had set up inequalities that had become a part of the very fabric of those religions. The idea of deconstructing venues of power which had always been considered to be divine revelation became a way for me (however small) to contribute to the dismantling of those structures of ideology; to attempt to bring a word of liberation and to try to ease some of the suffering that patriarchal religions support and indeed uphold within the context of patriarchal society.

 

#4 I was a Director of Religious Education for 8 years while pursuing a Bachelor’s degree part-time  (and while raising a family). After the degree I pursued a Master of Divinity degree. I taught for four years in the theology department of an all-girls Catholic high school before teaching on the college level where I am now in my 7th year of teaching. Since I was a “non-traditional” student I brought many life experiences to my studies, i.e. I approached my studies in theology and in the feminist critique of religion always with an eye to their practical application in the world and not merely for intellectualism’s sake.

 

#5   Basically, I subscribe to the old saying, “When the student is ready, the teacher will come.” All I can do is present the material. What “happens” in terms of growth, or change or awareness is entirely up to them. The hope of course is that their knowledge of and tolerance for other religious traditions will increase.

 

#6  The most difficult task is the realization that my teaching may create occasions for very real confusion and doubt. It is true that these are the initial breakthroughs to a more mature approach to religion, but nevertheless the process is painful. The easiest (and most pleasurable) is interacting with and getting to know my students as individuals. Very simply put, they are a joy to me. They make me laugh. They make me cry. They give me hope.

 

#7 I think it is important for students to know their teacher on a personal level, whether that occurs as a result of interaction outside of class (the minority to be sure) or as a result of the teacher’s sharing of self in the classroom. When I interject my own narratives into the lecture material, I think the students get a glimpse into the life and growth of a real person and this resonates with them in many ways; they are able to relate my experiences to their own; we are able to establish a relationship of mutual trust (I trust them, so they trust me…and each other); they see that I honor them as human beings so a relationship of mutuality is established rather than one in which they feel hindered by the power of a professor/teacher relationship.  In truth, I am able to risk sharing myself with them because it is the only way I know how to teach.

 

#8 Oh my. Education is important for so many reasons. It is important because it broadens one’s world and one’s world view. It encourages introspection and self-reflection, and in getting to know oneself one acts through response and not through knee-jerk reaction. It teaches rationality which allows for action based on deliberation and not on emotion. It reveals the creativity, the joy and the suffering ofhuman history and in that revelation there may be hope that the same errors of history will not be repeated. Education has the potential for opening a student to the world of the “other” and in that there is hope for compassion and understanding. Education ironically (and if done well) will offer to the student a world of questions (and hence, possibilities) rather than close-minded adherence to definitive answers (which may not “work” at all)….I could go on and on here, but I think you got enough!

 

#9 I am always surprised by my student’s willingness to struggle and wrestle with what may prove to be some of the most difficult questions of their lives; questions of faith; of good and evil; of the possibility that “truths” upon which they have always depended may not be “true” at all. Their courage to face the fears of uncertainty that questioning brings is always an inspiration and a delight to me.

 

#10 My favorite courses are 1) Approaches to Religion, my “evil and suffering” class because of my own conviction that how a religious tradition explains human suffering, is directly related to how they will respond to suffering. The task of critiquing traditional understandings of suffering is such important work in the alleviation of suffering in the future.  2) Comparative Religious Ethics because in this course we explore what the world’s religions hold in common rather than how they are different. When this is done through the topic of ethics there can be the possibility for realizing that there really are universally held ethics and that perhaps we all aren’t so different after all. 3) Women and Religion because it offers the opportunity for me to explore, throughout an entire course, a feminist critique of religion. It allows me to express my passion for an issue that led me  to study religion/theology in the first place; the liberation of all those who suffer from systems of oppression and domination.

 

My passion for these is boundless.

 

J'accuse!

I loved church. I loved everything about it. The music, the majesty, the stories of saints, the candles, the incense, God, everything. And I was a child who was profoundly touched by it all. I never really questioned or challenged until my 30s. Mostly, if I judged something about church law to be unjust, I'd rationalize it or seek the theological meaning that justified it. I'd ignore the "law" and cling to the "spirit of the law." Finally, I realized that Jesus of Nazareth and his teachings were constantly betrayed by the men who interpreted them (and Christian doctrine) to suit all kinds of flawed human motivations. I understood that human beings construct religion and that since religions emerge within particular social and historical and political environments, the men who shaped religion instituted their own views and taught them as if they were God's.

 

When I began to read feminist theology and feminist biblical analysis there was one name that was ubiquitous. Over and over again she would be referenced, so I began to read her books.

 

Part of the journey to Harvard Divinity School began when I enrolled in a Special Topics course at the University of Rhode Island (affectionately known as "U-R-Hi" by its alums). I didn't need it to complete my Bachelor's degree, which I was pursuing part-time, but I took it anyway because the topic was women's issues in theology (at URI no less!). The teacher was a woman in her 60s who had recently (this is 1989 we're talking about here) received her Masters in Theology at HDS. Annie listed one of that woman's books in her required reading list; Elisabeth Schussler-Fiorenza, an internationally recognized feminist theologian and New Testament scholar. I cannot describe how brilliant this woman is, how I devoured her work, how I admired her courage and her scholarship.

 

Elisabeth Schussler-Fiorenza teaches at Harvard Divinity School. I decided to apply. I applied to only one school and I decided that if I did not get in, well THEN I would begin to look at the other schools in Boston. The unthinkable happened. I was accepted. I would actually be able to study with one of my "she-roes.' And not only that, but the summer before I was to begin classes, I received a letter from HDS that Elisabeth had been assigned to me as my advisor. I began my three-year program in 1991.  

 

Her influence on me is immeasurable and indelible. What she taught me, I teach my students. To study with her was an honor and a tremendous gift.

There were other professors there also whose example and wisdom I will always hold in my being because they have shaped who I am; Richard Niebuhr, Ralph Potter, Elizabeth Spellman, Helmut Koester, Margaret Miles, Francis Fiorenza.

 

But Elisabeth was something special.

And it all began with a simple and generous sentence uttered by a woman in a dusty office at the Providence extension of the University of Rhode Island. She is a constant reminder to me of how a single word or gesture can completely transform or change another's life.

 

Through that education and through an examination of myself I came to understand the teachings about women in the church and many other things that seem to me to be a contradiction to the life of Jesus of Nazareth and his message; the very opposite stance from a commitment to justice. I find it a constant source of irony that ultimately it IS the Catholic Church that taught me about love and compassion, justice and divine things and ultimately is has been my Catholic upbringing that has allowed me to turn, to point my finger at IT and to shout, "J'accuse!"

 

poem/Kamikaze Pelican

Kamikaze pelican nose-dives,

Headlong, bullet-down straight,

Beak crashes the surface

Of water, promising pelican delights.

Does it hurt them?

Every plummet into the

Dark, cold unknown waves

Of hope, swimming silver underneath?

 

Bird body stopped in flight

Taut for the hunt

Risk playing the fool,

And coming up empty.

 

Kamikaze woman nose-dives,

Headlong, bullet-down straight,

Spy the object of desire

And plummet, heart first.

That pink and white polka-dot dress,

That Haagen-Dazs mango sorbet.

That man over there, sweet,

Dark, silvery delight hiding underthe surface.

 

Does the pelican regret a dive?

There, where shiny, bright flash

Proved not to be prey,

But sunlight glistening on a wave.

The pain of diving, breaking surface,

Exhilaration on the way to hunger resurrected.

Rising to the sky, to begin again.

Cheers, Dad

I am reading The Tender Bar. It is a memoir written by J.R. Moehringer, a young man who grew up in Manhasset, NY, south of Manhattan on Long Island. His father left him and his mother when he was a baby and so he lacked and craved male company and relationship. Eventually he would go to Yale, become a Pulitzer Prize winning columnist for the NY Times, screw up that job (don’t know how yet. I haven’t gotten that far) and now he works for a paper in LA. Anyway, as a boy he attached himself to the neighborhood bar where the regulars took him in, became his surrogate fathers and shared with him their life experiences and most importantly, their masculinity, their wisdom and their love. It's a beautiful book; a lot of wisdom here.

 

But for me it is especially poignant because my dad owned a neighborhood corner bar in Rhode Island and so, as a little girl, I spent many moments seated on a bar stool. When I could barely reach the door handle, I’d punch that screen door open in the summertime like I owned the joint.  My father would spot me and say, “Well now, what will it be today young Lady?” And I’d shimmy up the stool and eat my cheese popcorn and drink my orange soda while the old regulars threw back their shots. They needed no justification for drinking but just in case, they rationalized that beer cooled them off in the summer and whisky warmed them up in the winter. I would try to avoid looking at the questionable delicacies that sat in jars behind the bar; lambs’ tongues and pigs’ feet and the hard-boiled eggs, cooked and pickled by String every week. I’d watch my father pour from the taps and learned how to pour a beer with just the right amount of head when I was 6. There were no Cosmos or Mojitos or Frozen Strawberry Daiquiris ordered there. This was beer, whisky, high ball and screwdriver territory.

 

Most of the time when I strutted in, there would be just me and THE MEN. And I felt no shyness or discomfort in being the only girl there or the only child. They might have been a little annoyed that once I entered they had to watch their language or their topics of conversation, but they didn’t seem  to hold it against me. In some ways I felt more valued and honored there than in church. Though I loved both bar and church equally and felt safe in either one, when the men at the bar would say to someone who had not met me before, “That’s AL’S daughter,” they said it as if they might have been saying, “That’s the Queen of England,” or “That’s Nefertiti.”  So, they were a bit gentler with me and stumbled over their words to try to say things to me. And they were generous with me, I think in part, because my father had been generous with them so the kindness was not so much a kindness extended to me but to my father. They’d slide nickels and dimes my way along the bar and I realize now that they were sharing with me what probably would have been my father’s tip money. I’d pick up the nickels and dimes with my greasy little orange fingers and slip them into my pocket with a smile and a “thank you.” Then, I’d shimmy back down the bar stool and out the door to play hopscotch or jacks.

 

The litany of men’s names rolls off my tongue like a litany of saints; String (who pickled the eggs), and Pat (at one time sought by the New England mafia…his whereabouts known only by my father); JP (Jean-Paul) the French-Canadian who couldn’t be bothered to speak English and who, upon my father’s death 19 years ago was so aggrieved that he could not attend the services. There was Gus the cop whose services and squad car would one afternoon be commandeered by my father to transport my toddler son and me to the hospital emergency room where he received his first stitches from a fall. And then there was Gene and the other Gene and my Uncle Gene, the quiet bachelor (who eventually married) who would tend bar some evenings and into the early morning, and Mr. Rondeau, one of my friend’s uncles (Diane was an only child who was not allowed to enter the bar even though her father went there every day after work). There were one or two of the men who scared me a little, but I suspect it is because they had no idea what to say to a little girl and were as afraid of me as I of them.  We lived across the street from the bar and sometimes I’d sit on the front porch steps and peel my orange with a spoon (I liked to eat orange things then)and watch the men as they went in and out. I thought some of them were very, very handsome.

 

To my mind, my father’s generosity was legendary. I suspect that his tendency to lend money to the indigent without expecting repayment, or to extend a bar tab until all lost track of the sum were major issues of contention between my two parents. I imagine that my mother could visualize her grocery money sliding down the throat of a thirsty patron. One day, as I was about to punch the screen door open a huge, bear of a man stopped me in my tracks. He stood before me. I could not pass. I looked up into the face that towered over me. I’d never seen him before. But he knew who I was. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Your father would give a man the shirt off his back.” And even in my child’s innocence and ignorance of adult things, I knew that my father had just done something remarkable for this man.

 

On Sunday afternoons there would be marathon games of pitch and pinochle taken so seriously that every Sunday the seals would ceremoniously be opened on new decks of cards. It was the stuff of Sunday afternoon male-bonding rituals.  And I pity the man (if ever there was one) who was caught cheating. There were ethical standards inside my father’s bar that were uncompromised. 1) You didn’t cheat at cards. 2) You didn’t betray a friend. 3) If your wife called and asked if you were there, my father would not lie for you.  4) The secrets that were shared at the bar, stayed at the bar. 5) Everyone was welcomed. 6) You never went away thirsty.

 

I realize that I have alluded to a church/bar analogy throughout this little memoir of mine. And perhaps I have stretched the analogy too far. But there are some similarities that cannot be denied. For the men who frequented my father’s bar sought and found the things that the faithful seek in church, without perhaps the fear of Judgment Day. The bar was a welcoming place for the stranger; a friendly place for the lonely; a place of belonging for the estranged; a comforting and predictable familiarity for those whose lives were in chaos; a place to lay one’s head and rest. It was a place where a little girl could see her father’s face light up as she entered and a place where she would receive a different and orange kind of Communion.

poem/The Green Gift

The Green Gift

(for my son)

 

sweet boy who wouldn't nap,

looking into your eyes

one cannot but speak the truth.

you broke my heart one day.

 

this sick, tired mother of yours,

took a moment's rest

on an ugly, brown sofa

closed her eyes,

but did not sleep.

 

to your toddler eyes

mommy was dreaming.

so away you went,

every footstep heard and counted.

upon your return, you brought a gift.

 

ever so quietly and gently,

you covered this body

in a blanket of green.

child offering of comfort and love.

she knew then, you would feel

the pain of the world.

but there would be no green blanket

for comfort.

 

sweet boy who wouldn't nap,

looking into your eyes

one cannot but speak the truth.

you broke my heart that day.

poem/Remnants

Remnants

 

Remnants of her are left behind.

Cheerios in a box

larger than her torso

Lime green tennis balls

forgotten in a corner.

Or neglected purposely.

The added ounces just enough

to make her cases unbearable.

Hair gel, abandoned in the bathroom.

Gooey, pink concoction.

Teenage finger paint.

 

Dirty items in my laundry basket.

Years of her clothing stained with blood and dirt

from sliding into Home.

The inevitable, tiny spots

of spaghetti sauce, she could

not eat without wearing.

Freshly folded sheets she loves.

Humble offerings from silent,

domestic rituals of purification.

 

Less tangible are other gifts she leaves behind,

in echoes of these empty rooms.

Child-like giggles that betray

the woman she has become.

Goodnight kisses when we sanctify

each other’s day and night.

Walks side by side on cobblestone streets;

Hand-holding, no longer allowed.

Sounds of words that hold meaning

only for us. A private mother-daughter language.

Defying translation.

Magical, bewitching moments

Of recognition and awe.

 

The tennis balls and goo are packed in tissue paper.

Shipped to that mysterious, alien Minnesota

that envelops her in its cold and snow.

But these other gifts she leaves behind

are sheltered by hands that guide the moon;

The tides of ocean and blood.

Endless ages of mothers and daughters

Giggling until attacked by spasms in the belly.

Kissing at bedtime; invoking a kindly spirit

To bless her sleep.

Holding hands, act of pure trust.

Protection against the crossing of streets in time.

Sweet words, language transcending vowels and voice.

Touch, and a glimpse into the heart,

Necessary for understanding.

 

These gifts of my daughter cannot be contained

By brown wrapping paper and sticky tape

sealed with a prayer against loss.

They are bestowed by divine favor,

And wrapped in a ribbon of ancient memory.

 

The truth shall set you free...

The truth shall set you free…

 

But first it will piss you off.

 

That’s not my quote. I wish it was. It’s Gloria Steinem’s.

I sometimes start a semester off with that quote on the board. My students chuckle when I write the second phrase and I suspect they’re not quite sure what it means. That comes later. I never understood it when the Bible was quoted, but I understand it when Gloria Steinem is.

 

It is true that I have already lived a lifetime and have been through many cycles and phases of a woman’s life; little girl, adolescent, maiden and mother. And now I enter the stage in life that would mythically be referred to as the crone (still reluctant to admit I have already arrived).

 

It has been a while since I have been so sure about truth. But I remember when and how the arrogance began to lift. It began with books. I read three books that changed my life. Never again will I underestimate the power of an idea. The books were Beyond god the Father by Mary Daly, Women’s Spirituality edited by Joann Wolski Conn and Beyond Power: On Women, Men and Morals by Marilyn French. And there was no turning back. The first is a critique of patriarchal religion and theology in the biblical tradition. The second is an anthology of essays dealing with everything from psychology to mysticism. The third is simply a history of patriarchy and an examination of the rise of the pervasive, global assumption that women are inferior and require restraint. These books opened the door to understanding a history, a theology and an ethical world view that explained who I was and how I was shaped and how I understood my place in the world. And all of it, my history, my theology, my ethical world view were all based on a biased untruth; the untruth that I am an inferior being.

 

Reading these books explained for me the reason why I always seemed to feel as if I had to walk around apologizing for my existence. As if everything I said and did had to be prefaced with, “I’m sorry but may I say something?” “I’m sorry but I have a thought.” “I’m sorry but I have a desire.” “I’m sorry but I have a need.” “I’m sorry that I breathe.”

 

My students often ask, “Why have women been so complicit in their own silencing? In their own oppression?” The indoctrination begins before one can even think. It begins because every single adult that one loves and trusts has also accepted the lie. They are not malicious. They are not evil. They do not intend to make you feel as if you are simply not enough, but it begins when one is 7 years old and asks, “Why can’t I be an altar boy like my brothers?” “Why can’t I be a priest?” And the all-encompassing and totally defeating response is given, “Because you are a girl.”  And somehow that response is supposed to be the necessary and sufficient cause. It’s supposed to explain it all. I am a girl, so I can’t. “I am a girl,” made me understand that there was something inherently wrong or defective or lacking in the fact of being a girl. So wrong and defective in fact, that not even God found me worthy of approaching Him. 

 

Not all the messages are so overt. Most are quite subtle; sermons that glorify passivity and obedience in Jesus’ mother and that find in you not a reflection of God but a reflection of the mythical Eve whose actions stand as the most grievous and sinful of all time. There are the social and institutionalized barriers that leave you with four options for a future; secretary, teacher, nurse, wife and mother (yes, counted as one). And you put on the sex role expectations of your adult models and of your culture like a tightly buttoned coat. But you find that the coat won’t let you breathe, it won’t let you think, it won’t let you even discover who you would be if allowed to explore.

 

And you live this way for 20, 30 years.

And then some blessed, blessed woman writes a book. And you pick it up.

And the world explodes and presents before you a truth that lay hidden for centuries and you think that the very earth itself will open up to swallow you if you deny all that has been your former truth, your former life, your former self.

 

It is an epistemological leap of epic proportions and you don’t know if you have the courage. It is a crevasse. It is an earthquake crack. It is a mile wide. But already there is no turning back. Because the truth has already set you free and you are pissed off. But it is a life-affirming, creative, sweet and pregnant anger.

 

But still, it took me five years to take the baby steps that would become a leap.

I turned the old truths over and over again in my hand, reluctant to let go and I wondered if somehow I could fit them into this new me, this new world. I remember the exact moment when I knew I couldn’t. I made one last ditched attempt to make the two truths into one; one last time in which I would try to go to Church as an equal; as a God-reflecting human being. I brought my twelve year old daughter with me. When the second reading for the day began, “Wives, be submissive to your husbands,” I leaned over to her and whispered, “When everyone stands for the Gospel, we’re leaving.” And that’s what we did, though I made sure to grab her hand in the event that she hadn’t followed and I’d have to go back to get her. I realized then that I would not allow my daughter to hear one more time the message that would make her feel the way that I had, “women shall be silent in the churches,” “let a woman learn in silence,” for “she is saved through childbearing.” Woman was created for the sake of man (not for their own sakes); and man is the head of his wife like Christ is the head of the Church; it was the woman who was deceived because she was the weaker of the two; and God said to the woman, “Yet your desire shall be for your husband and he shall rule over you.” I didn’t have the Divinity School education to understand the political and historical and cultural contexts of the biblical passages when I was 12, and neither did she. When one is 7 or 10 or 12 and the priest reads “women shall be silent in the churches,” one does not understand the bias of Paul of Tarsus, a first century Jewish-Christian whose baptism could not even yet dismiss the gendered assumptions of his time. A child only understands that God tells her to be silent.

 

There are those who don’t want you to find your voice and they resist it in you. It is threatening because if you change, it means that they must. And they don’t want to. But there are others, the ones who love you, who are like cheerleaders. They rejoice in your self-discovery; they egg you on; they wouldn’tdream of silencing you or of squelching such enthusiasm; there are some who say, “you MUST go to divinity school,” even if there is no money. There are others who watch and listen and learn from your transformation even when you don’t think they are paying attention.

 

They know that this is truth you have found for yourself and it is setting you free. So they don’t mind so much, if sometimes you are a little pissed off.

poem/ I Shall Move to Paris

I Shall Move to Paris

 

If ever you should leave me,

I shall move to Paris.

I shall live in the shadow of Notre Dame.

Her gargoyles and grotesques

will cast their magic upon my pain.

And in return for their comic grimaces

I shall smile. 

And be healed.

 

I shall walk the length of her nave

Hand in hand the ghosts of my Christian past.

The fleshy, ink-stained fingers of Thomas,

The fragile, mystical palm of the Maid of Orleans,

The pious, bejeweled glove of Louis, king and Saint.

Courage and spirit

shall flow through the centuries,

And ease my tightly fisted anguish.

 

I shall gaze upon her Rose window,

And rising toward her spires,

the sun of a thousand years,

shall cast color and light upon

my wound.

Red and green and gold

shall seek the circumspect glisten of tear.

And warm the cold, Gothic stones

Of ache.

 

I shall enter her cavernous chapels,

where once the peasant lit a votive.

The sound of centime,

and whispered, daring entreaty;

a hushed chorus arising.

The bell tower shall catch my prayer.

And mingled with the peasant's,

It shall ring the tarnished bronze chords

Of hope.

 

If ever you should leave me,

I shall move to Paris.

I shall live in the shadow of Notre Dame.

And there, where pilgrim and king

laid their burden before the feet of angels,

I shall place the tender mercies of our love.

And I shall be healed.

 

PS... He left me. I didn't move to Paris. And still, I healed.

        

 

Postscript to "Insanity is..."

As a postscript to yesterday's blog, I want to encourage you to do something. I want to ask you to inform every young man you know under the age of 18 that when they register for the draft they can register as "conscientious objector," which means that if they are drafted, they cannot be sent into combat. They can still be drafted but if they declare that their conscience does not allow them to kill they must be assigned a duty away from battle lines. But they must do this when they register. Conscientious objector status cannot be added or changed later. Tell your brothers, your sons, your cousins and your friends. Perhaps if enough young men do this then the next time they hold a war, no one will show up.

Insanity is....

Someone once said that a sign of insanity is the tendency to do the same thing over and over again and expect different results. So, since I do not want to be considered insane, I have stopped listening to George W. Bush. I have stopped watching him when he holds State of the Union addresses. I don’t watch his special messages to the nation. I don’t watch the press conferences. I stopped listening and watching because I discovered that I expect him to be presidential. I expect something intelligent to come out of his mouth. I expect that he will do the right thing. I have been watching him for 6 years and I have repeatedly seen and heard breathtaking ignorance, deceit, self-service and immorality.  I have decided that to expect anything else but these would surely indicate a sign of my own insanity. I have decided to get my news from sources which don’t require that I  look at his arrogant swagger or petulant face.

 

But George, as it turns out, is a fairly accurate moral compass. I say this in the tradition of George Costanza, who one day decided that since his first impulse always ended in disaster he would do the exact opposite of what he thought he should do in a situation. I say this in the tradition of the Christian mystic’s via negativa, in which life is found in death; light is discovered in the darkness and all is revealed in the nothingness. If you want to be on the “right” side of an issue, then just stand in opposition to that of George Bush and the chances are excellent that you’ll be standing on higher moral ground. George Bush lacks all the qualities that I most seek and admire in a human being; compassion and magnanimity, humility and grace, generosity of spirit, the seeking after social justice and the alleviation of suffering.

 

In my Ethics course, we briefly discuss the “classical” epistemology of ethics; how do we come to know what is right or wrong, good and evil, what ought to be and what ought not to be? Some of the classically affirmed ways of knowing include experience, reason, and revelation. Added to this list now is the narrative; the understanding that we come to know what is right through storytelling, for it is in the narrative that we are able to empathize with another’s suffering or situation and be moved to compassion and perhaps, to action. That this is indeed the case is no “new” insight to the greatest teachers and religious traditions of history. The myths that direct our particular worldview are constituted by story and narrative. The Buddha, Confucius, Jesus of Nazareth all told stories to illustrate and to inspire. As a teacher myself, I know that there is no better way to illustrate a theory or a concept than by telling a story. And if it is a good story, it can lead to true “education;” to the expansion of perspective, to questions, to growth and to change.

 

This blog entry has been motivated by one person’s story, the story of a person I do not know.

 

This past Saturday I spent the day with my best friend who lives 80 miles away. As we recounted to each other all that has been happening in our lives she told me that last week she had attended a collective, expanded group of local book clubs of which hers was a part. So there were people there she had never met before. In the course of discussion the war with Iraq came up. There was a woman there whose son had served two tours of duty in Iraq. She told a small group within the group that he would write letters home asking that they send food, because he was always so hungry. He wrote a letter home in which he asked that his family send him a pair of boots because the soles of his were threadbare and worn out. And now that he is home and requires psychiatric care he has been told that the local VA that services this need can only accommodate one therapy session a month. As an aside here, I would ask the question that relates to sanity/insanity. Why would humanity think that sending people to war would not have profound effects on them? Why do we continue to do this same thing over and over again and expect different results? Have not the veterans of WWI, WWII, Korea, Vietnam and the Persian Gulf taught us that war is NOT a “natural” human activity? If it were natural, would we not retain psychological health in the midst of it? Have we not come to understand that if we send people to war they come back (if they come back at all) irreparably damaged psychically if not physically? Why did this story affect me so? Because I have a son. I have a daughter. And it is through the story of this woman that I understood the evil. Even more so than before. Jimmy Carter, in his Nobel Peace Prize address said the following, “War may sometimes be a necessary evil. But no matter how necessary, it is always an evil, never a good. We will not learn how to live together in peace by killing each other’s children.”

 

Do I hold George W. Bush responsible for that young man’s hunger? For that young man’s inadequate shoes? Yes, I do. The leader of a nation that sends its young men and women to battle has a moral obligation to assure that they are tended to, that they are cared for, that they have everything they need to survive and to be well. He has a moral duty to ask every day, “How do they fare?” The first questions on his lips when he rises and the last before bed should be, “How are they? Do they have everything they need? Are we doing all we can to bring them home? And once they are home, are we taking care? Are we taking care? Are we taking care?”

 

Do I think that George Bush asks these questions? Do I think that he is tortured by his unthinkable decisions? Do I think that he is plagued by concern for the young lives he risks everyday? Do I think he asks, “Do our soldiers have shoes?”

 

No, I do not. Because I am not insane so I do not expect him to be other than the person he has consistently proven himself to be.

poem/Joan's Voices

Joan’s Voices

I am Decadence. Pure Indulgence.

I went to the beach today. Again.

When it is beach season in Carolina,

the sea calls like Joan of Arc’s voices.

I cannot resist the beckoning.

I cannot wait to get there.

The sound of wave echoes my own heartbeat.

The air on the salt breeze matches my breath.

Monday afternoon, and all the world

is at their work. Except me,

and the few other hedonists who

dot the sand.

I watch the babies as they chase the gulls.

Little arms raised high and flapping

Like the very wings they pursue.

They never catch them, but it never occurs to them,

that they won’t.

At what age, I wonder,

do we stop believing we can catch birds?

Back home, I shower.

There is enough sand on the porcelain

to build a German castle.

Well, a Swiss chalet.

A little shed, then.

I am so full.

Whatever else happens in my life,

I have had today.

But the voices that might have been Joan’s

tell me that tomorrow,

there will be plenty of birds to chase.