Joyeux Noel

**On Saturday, I made a tortiere. A tortiere is the traditional French-Canadian Christmas Eve meat pie. The filling is made with ground beef, onions, water, bread crumbs, oregano, cinnamon (yes!) and allspice. Some make their tortieres with ground pork or half pork/half beef. The tradition of the tortiere originates from Quebec. When I was a child, the family would go to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, go home and eat tortieres. (The adults would drink beer with it). After that, we went to bed and opened presents the next morning. I have been making them all my life.
Every single woman in my family knew how to make them. 15 aunts, two grandmothers and a mother!

When I was a kid, if it was a "lean" year, they would add a little mashed potato to stretch the meat. If it was a prosperous year, all meat!
And it MUST be served with ketchup. The smell of the cinnamon, oregano and onions is a comfort smell from childhood Christmases. I don’t even use a recipe anymore. I know by sight and taste when the filling is just right.

 

** I just saw a news story about the gift of “health cards.” It seems that one can now place a medical procedure under the tree. The story featured a woman who is giving each of her parents a colonoscopy for Christmas this year. I don’t even know what to say about that, except to say to my children, “Don’t even think about it.”

 

** I am relieved to report that all Christmas packages sent to Brooklyn, Minneapolis, Woonsocket and Newport, have been received. Every year at this time I experience Postal Anxiety, a condition exacerbated by previous experiences with lost packages and late packages. Last year, my Christmas package to my daughter took only three days to reach Minneapolis…where it then sat on a Minneapolis Post Office shelf for two weeks. She was never notified of its existence. In desperation (and probably in exasperation of hearing, “Did you get it yet? Did you get it yet?”) she went to the post office to check. And there it was. Now, my daughter calls immediately upon receiving notice that her package has arrived. She knows that I have inherited her grandmother’s postal paranoia. It is true though, that I am not as neurotic about it as my mother. She thinks that the post office has it out for her personally. I have to admit that I have never known anyone who has had so many cards, letters and packages lost in the mail. One year, many years ago, she sent banana bread to my son when he was in college. Three weeks later, he received a moldy, inedible thing in the mail. Keep in mind the banana bread had only to travel from Rhode Island to Massachusetts.

 

** Here’s wishing everyone who celebrates it, a Merry Christmas.

And if you’re thinking about giving a loved one a colonoscopy, think again.

 

 

Repeat of entry from 12/24/06

Christmas Time is Near...

Happiness and cheer.

Fun for all that children call,

Their favorite time of year.

 

Snowflakes in the air,

Carols everywhere,

Olden times and ancient rhymes

Of love and dreams to share.

                            

                      “Christmas Time is Here,” (Vince Guaraldi-Lee Mendelson)

 

I suppose everyone expects me to launch into a social analysis of Christmas capitalist consumerism, or to attempt to debunk the myth of a young Jewish virgin girl giving birth to a child, but the truth is… I love Christmas. I always have. 

 

Friends and family back in Rhode Island used to (affectionately) call me “the Christmas slut.” It seems a harsh characterization I know, but all it means is that I have no Christmas morals. I shake packages, eat cookies and candy canes off the tree and open presents as they come in not waiting for the 25th to arrive. There are those who maintain strict Christmas ethics and will not, under any circumstances open presents before Christmas Day, and then there are the rest of us, the Christmas sluts. It’s just too exciting and tempting and we Christmas degenerates simply do not have the strength of will to observe such demanding Christmas commandments. When my children were little, I would be the first to awaken Christmas morning and if I grew too impatient waiting for them to arise, I would go into the kitchen and make noise to wake them. What kind of a mother disturbs her children’s sugarplum slumber to satisfy her unquenchable thirst for Christmas surprise? A Christmas slut of a mother, that’s what kind.

 

When I was a child, there was no separating the holiday from the Holy Day. I knew that Christmas was about Jesus and loving him and welcoming him was an integral part of my childhood Christmas ritual; midnight Mass or Christmas morning Mass after the presents had been opened always began with the processional song, “Veni, Veni Emmanuel” (O Come, O Come Emmanuel). It is still my favorite Christmas song. I learned early that “Emmanuel” means “God with us.”

 

And Christmas is ultimately an ancient celebration of the belief of a god who comes to earth, in spite of and despite the season’s modern bastardization. It is an observance of the universal myth of communion of the human with the divine; of earth and heaven joined. It is echoed in the myths of Olympus and Athens united; of Horus, the child of Isis and Osiris (one of the first divine families of three). Even the ancient rituals associated with Bacchus and Dionysus were exploited as justification for orgy and excessive drink. And the Romans complained in their missives to Saint Paul that when the new Christians arrived for the agape, the “feast of love,” some of them consumed too much wine and approached the table a bit too tipsy. My French-Canadian uncles were simply echoing the traditions of the ancient Christians when they went to midnight Mass after having consumed screwdrivers and a keg of beer amongst themselves, consequently singing “Joy to the World!” with a bit too much joy. There is nothing new under the sun. 

 

I love Christmas trees that sparkle with lights. And Christmas carols that move me in tender remembrance of the child I once was who thought that the baby Jesus was just the sweetest present ever. I love sugar cookies and vintage glass Christmas balls that must be handled carefully lest they crash to the floor and splinter into shards so small one finds traces of them in July. I love wrapping presents while watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” for the umpteenth time. I always, always cry when Donna Reed is on the phone with Sam Wainwright and Jimmy Stewart is so close to her he can smell her hair and he grabs her, the phone crashing to the floor and they hug and kiss in tears and desperation (sigh).

 

Doire Christmas tangent: When analyzed theologically of course, the whole premise behind “It’s a Wonderful Life” is false. According to Catholic tradition God only made a  certain amount of angels at  the creation of the universe and that’s all there’s ever going to be. One cannot become an angel. There will never be any more angels, so the whole story line of Clarence and the bell ringing when an angel gets its wings is counter to doctrinal angelology. When one dies one can join the communion of saints, but not the heavenly host of angels.

 

Doire Christmas tangent II: In Catholic angelology there is a hierarchy of angels (of course there is) comprised of seven types of angels on a scale of most illustrious to least. At the top of the list are the Seraphim, those gigantic Amazonian angels with powers we cannot begin to imagine. Second, are the Cherubim who stand at the gates of Eden with "a sword flaming and turning to guard the tree of life." At the bottom of the list are “Ordinary Angels,” which to me frankly, seems an oxymoron.

 

I love Christmas cards and packages; Christmas fudge and candy canes.

I love funny little Santa figurines and golden snow globes.

I love to find surprising presents to give to the people I love.

I enter into the season with joy and good intention.

 

And now, if you'll excuse me, this little Christmas slut has presents to open early…

In a Different Voice

A friend of mine recently purchased a brand new car. A few weeks ago, she walked out to her parking space to find a noticeable scratch and ding on her previously show-room perfect vehicle. There was no one in sight and no note under the windshield. Since I am ever fascinated by the ethical question, I wondered if there exists a fundamental difference between people who would leave a note and those who would not. The difference I suspect is moral maturity.

 

When my brother was in high school he hit a car in a parking lot. He left a brief note on the windshield of the dented car explaining what had happened and included his name and phone number. The owner of the vehicle called our house and reached my father, who wasn’t at all angry. When the phone call ended my father related to me how impressed the caller had been by both my brother’s actions and by how rare it is to find such a sense of right and responsibility in one so young. My father may have told me the story to teach me what to do in this situation, when I began to drive. But I suspect he told me because he was so proud. He was proud that in a moment when my brother could have driven off in secrecy, he chose to do the right thing. It is in these moments I think, when our moral character most reveals itself; in those moments when no one is watching. There is no threat of punishment if discovered. There is no risk of invoking moral judgment by others. These two motivations represent the first two stages of Lawrence Kohlberg’s stages of development in moral reasoning. The most elementary stage (pre-conventional) is represented by those who act according to fear of punishment or hope for reward. One might think of a three year old who will not eat the cookie simply to avoid being sent to the corner but there are many adults who never move past this stage. The second stage (conventional) involves acting rightly in order to win the approval and acceptance of peers exemplified perhaps by the adolescent dynamic of “peer pressure.”  Some adults as well, never move beyond this stage. In the post-conventional stage moral judgments are made through the use of abstract moral reasoning based on universal principles.

 

Doire tangent: The operative word there being “universal.” Many live by moral principles that no one would wish to become universal. Just because a person lives by principles does not mean they are “good” ones. People construct all kinds of little moral precepts in their heads and judge themselves to be virtuous because they live by them. The Mafia code of ethics is a perfect example. The Mafia live principled lives based upon a particular code of morality and yet no one who is not Mafia would wish these to be held universally. Perhaps this is what Immanuel Kant observed (not the Mafia, but the dynamic) when he posited his categorical imperative, “Act only on those maxims that you would desire become universal law.” (Or something like that—I write it from memory).

 

I cannot write of Lawrence Kohlberg’s stages however, without adding that Kohlberg’s research involved only boys and men. Carol Gilligan’s groundbreaking book (published 25 years ago), In a Different Voice, noted that (generally) men and women are socialized to reason through moral problems differently (note: she never suggested that the difference is innate).  In what she described as an “ethic of care” her research showed that women make moral decisions not on the basis of universal principles but on the basis of relationship, or on the basis of empathy for another’s injury. The difference can be illustrated by observing young children at play. Little girls when faced with a playmate’s elimination from a game will alter the rules so that she will not be excluded. Little boys will adhere to the rules and (tough luck) the child is “out.” It is this dynamic through which women have been historically rendered morally inferior. Men have noted that women “cave” in adherence to principle when potential damage to a relationship might be at risk and according to the male standard of moral reasoning, women have been perceived as weak. What you see depends upon where you stand and how you measure moral fortitude depends upon your yardstick. Neither of these modes of moral reasoning is superior to the other. Neither are they exclusively restricted by gender. When I read Gilligan’s book many years ago, so much became clear to me. I began to understand how certain moral acts committed by husbands and male friends, senators and Presidents would elicit incredulity from my women friends and me, “HOW could they ignore the human element of the thing, in deference to some law?” And male friends, “HOW could she abandon the rules because of someone’s feelings?” Strict adherence to one of the two modes may result either in the sacrifice of people to the principle, or conversely the sacrifice of principle in the interest of people. In my opinion, the mark of moral maturity is in the ability to appeal to both and to knowing when the “ethic of care” or the “ethic of principle” is most appropriate. I do not know what dynamic of moral reasoning my brother utilized when he left that note on the windshield years ago. He might have been adhering to a universal moral principle that when one damages another’s property, one fesses up. Or he might have considered how he would feel if someone hit his car and didn’t acknowledge it. Whatever the case, one thing I know: he did the right thing.

Apologies, and Stuff

Has it really been over a month since I've written anything? In the past few days I've received two messages from people who have read my previous entry and thought I was still in the midst of that hopelessness. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to worry anyone. That hoplessness passed quickly. I'm fine.

 

** Since I last wrote the Red Sox won the World Series, Joni Mitchell released her first album of new songs in ten years and I had a birthday. Win some, lose some.

 

** It's a bad sign when, on the way back from work you think to yourself, "Jeez...I wish I'd bought gas this morning."

 

**I had a student today who made an argument that accuracy in accounts of "history" are related to how soon after the events the chronicler "reports" them. Jeez. He was trying to make a case for the Gospels being MORE "accurate" than all other religions stuff because the Gospel writers wrote within 100 years of Jesus' death. What crap. The freaking Buddha was still ALIVE when his disciples were remembering stuff; Muhammad presumably wrote his OWN stuff (from the mouth of God of course). The Gospel writers all wrote on the basis of stories that were told to them by "witnesses." All hearsay if you ask me. I argued against him but want to returnto the issue on Monday with this example:  The war with Iraq is VERY recent "history," and yet, the accounts of the events, reasons, objectives, and outcomes of THAT historical event are all very different and disparate. Which of them is "historically accurate?" And this is an event that occurs NOW and began only four years ago and there is no agreement about the "history" of it!

 

Another example (though admittedly, over the top): The Nazis went to trial right after the Holocaust. They had a direct view of the "history" of that event and yet, would you judge that their perspective and accounts were "accurate" simply because they were offered soon after the event?

 

** OnSunday I am giving a lecture at a Unitarian Church in Myrtle Beach. It's the third time I've been invited to do so. Since my best friend lives there, I'll drive up tomorrow morning, we'll hang out shopping and lunching and then we'll let her husband take us out for dinner. On Sunday morning, I'll go to the 11:00 service, do my thing and then some of the women in the group want to take me out for lunch. Not a bad gig.

 

I usually give them 5 or 6 topics from which to choose. This year they chose "Common Ethical Threads in the World's Religions." I thought this morning how appropriate the title I created for that topic... the world's religions' "ethical threads" sure seem to be unraveling. I'll examine the common ethical foundations in a few religions... and there ARE some believe it or not. Though you'd never think it to "look" at them, they include: an idea of the Oneness of (and interdependence of) all Being and, non-violence (hey, I said it lay in the "foundations," not necessarily the consequent construction), welcoming the stranger (ditto), alleviation of suffering and the protection of the weak and vulnerable.

 

 

Just Give Me a Moment

I know. Just yesterday I wrote of hope. I live in hope. Hope is my mojo. And very, very rarely do I give in to despair. But right now, in this moment the sadness overwhelms me. The news gets worse every day; death, violence, disease, brutal governments, torture, oppression of the weak, suppression of truth, a f**king global war against women, Buddhist monks killed as they protest for justice, murder committed in sick appeals to a loving God. If there is a god, She should just come down right now, annihilate us all and proclaim the human race a "failed experiment."

Untitled

In the past week:

 

* I have seen a story on a national news network about sexual trafficking in women’s and children’s bodies. This global “industry” is now the second largest illegal trade in the world. It used to be third.

* I read a story in the NY Times about a 13 year old Egyptian girl who died as a result of her female “circumcision.” The “clinic” where this mutilation was performed was closed down. The men in her village vowed that the practice would continue and that even though the clinic was shut down, the practice would not be. According to the article in the Times,

“For centuries Egyptian girls, usually between the ages of 7 and 13, have been taken to have the procedure done, sometimes by a doctor, sometimes by a barber or whoever else in the village would do it. As recently as 2005, a government health survey showed that 96 percent of the thousands of married, divorced or widowed women interviewed said they had undergone the procedure — a figure that astounds even many Egyptians. In the language of the survey, “The practice of female circumcision is virtually universal among women of reproductive age in Egypt…The challenge, however, rests in persuading people that their grandparents, parents and they themselves have harmed their daughters. Moreover, advocates must convince a skeptical public that men will marry a woman who has not undergone the procedure and that circumcision is not necessary to preserve family honor. It is a challenge to get men to give up some of their control over women.”

* I read a story, again in the Times, about a 16 year old young woman from Syria who was raped when she was 15. In order to protect HER honor, a beloved cousin offered to marry her. He loved her deeply. They were married. A month after their marriage, after her new husband had left the house for work, her brother went into her bedroom where she slept and brutally stabbed her five times. Her murder is traditionally considered an “honor killing.” It does not carry the charge of murder. Typically, the assailant in an honor killing is either acquitted or sentenced to a month in prison, at which point he is released to go home to family and friends who honor HIM for reconciling the family “shame.” The woman was raped by a man and then murdered by a man who presumably redeemed her; her shame and honor, determined by others than herself.

 

How much brutality have women endured throughout history in the name of “protection,” control and definition of their sexuality? It is too much to consider.

 

I can find hope only in the fact that at last there is outrage.

At last, sexual slavery and the “disappearance” of millions of women worldwide are being exposed.

At last, there is opposition to a practice that denies women sexual pleasure, autonomy and threatens their safety and their lives.

At last, there is intolerance for an absurd practice that counts a woman’s virginity as more valuable than her life.

 

The claim to moral relativity is not relevant here. A woman’s life is not negotiable. Murder cannot be defended by appealing to cultural differences or by a reluctance to make moral judgments. And know this: the feminist movement is about many things but at its core it is about liberation and ultimately, the protection of women’s lives from the men who would end them.

Dubyawood

It occurred to me today that this country has a tradition of honoring its former Presidents with Presidential libraries. Somehow though, in George Dubya Bush’s case, a library just doesn’t seem right unless the books contained within it are those most often reserved for the level of reading found in The Children’s Room. I doubt that there are enough Sendaks, Steigs, Dr. Seusses and Shel Silversteins to fill a library worthy of the status of “Presidential.” Think however, how appropriate even this might be, though first we might have to find a way to resurrect these beloved authors to write sequels to some of their most cherished stories. For example:

 

Maurice Sendak would have to write Where the Crooked Things Are. The night George wore his flight suit, and made mischief of one kind, and another, his mother called him “AWOL,” and George said, “I’ll deport you!” so he was sent to bed without reading anything. That very night, in George’s room, an oil rig grew, and grew, and grew until his ceiling hung with money and the walls became the world all around.

 

And Dr. Seuss’  Dubya Hears a Who:

 

On the fifteenth of May, in the jungle of Nool,
In the heat of the day, in the cool of the pool,
He was splashing…enjoying the Texan great joys…
When Dubya the President heard a loud noise.

So Dubya stopped splashing. He looked towards the sound.
“That’s funny,” thought Dubya. “There’s no one around.”
Then he heard it again! Just a very great yelp
As if some great god were calling for help.
“I’ll help you,” said George. “But who are you? Where?”
He looked and he looked. He could see nothing there
But a small speck of dust blowing past though the air.

“I say!” murmured Dubya. “I’ve never heard tell
Of a small speck of dust that is able to yell.
So you know what I think? Why, I think that there must
Be a God on top of that small speck of dust!
The God of the Bible of very small size,
too small to be seen by a President’s eyes…

 

No, I think a Presidential Library is out of the question.

I suggest rather, a theme park, in the manner of Dollywood.

 

Dubyawood. The attractions of Dubyawood will pay tribute to the landmark moments that characterize the Bush Presidency:

 

*Pollution Park- This will represent Dubya’s progress on the issue of the environment. All the trees will be dead or cut down to the trunk. Park goers will picnic inside a specially designed dome. Inside the dome, the temperature will be regulated to reflect the effects of Global Warming. Heat indices will hover between 110 and 120 degrees Fahrenheit but all park personnel will deny what everyone else knows. Outside the dome, the picnickers will have a wonderful view of giant smokestacks, a memorial to the de-regulation of pollutant emissions. The stream that will run aside the dome will glisten with the sludge of toxic waste, oil slicks and dead fish.

 

* Liars’ Lake- Swimmers will be convinced that there is a lake there. Eye witnesses will swear up and down that there really is a lake there. Documents will be forged by engineers who will attest to actually having made the lake there. When swimmers pass through the gates there will be no lake to be seen for miles. But in order not to appear foolish, when they leave the area they too will tell others that there really is a lake there.

 

*The Spinning Wheel- You will only be allowed to play this game if you are a friend of Dubya’s. The player will step up to the wheel and have a chance to win 1) a juicy government contract 2) a Cabinet post 3) an ambassadorship in a sweet place 4) a Supreme Court appointment 5) a week in Kennebunkport, ME 6) a week in Crawford, Texas 7) a trip on an aircraft carrier 8) a suspended sentence for a conviction of a crime

 

* The Wheel of Fortune- Contestants will solve puzzles comprised of the many “Bushisms” that he has spoken over the past seven years such as:

 

“I can only speak to myself.”

“I’m the decider.”

“Jobs will begat houses.”

“Those who enter the country illegally violate the law.”

“Wow! Brazil is big!”

"Nucular war." "Nucular weapons." "Nucular threat." Nucular family." (Any phrase really, that refers to NUCLEAR anything).

“I’ve got eck-a-lec-tic (reading material).”

“I’m a commander guy.”

“You got to keep repeating things over and over and over again for the truth to sink in, to kind of catapult the propaganda.”

“Who could have possibly envisioned an erection, uh…an election in Iraq at this point in history?”

 

OK. Enough. Needless to say, Pat Sajak will not be wanting for material.

 

* Dunk the Clowns: This fairway game will place mannequins of Rumsfeld, Cheney, Wolfowitz, Condi Rice and Ashcroft in the “dunk the clown” seat. Anyone who dunks one of the clowns will win a talking Dubya doll who will repeat one of the Bushisms mentioned above when the string on his back is pulled.

 

So, that’s my suggestion. Dubyawood.

I’m open to other ideas for rides, attractions, concession stands and fairway games. 

After all, we have a little bit of time before ground breaking needs to begin.

But not much.

 

 

Dark Night of the Soul?

Last night, I finally read Time magazine’s recent cover story on Mother Teresa.

The principle subject of the piece is not Teresa’s canonization, life story, nor even her great work among the poor but rather, her doubt. Papers and letters recently made public, paint a portrait of a woman of faith who had none; a woman the world thought close to God whose God was abysmally and chronically absent. Teresa’s torment is evident in her writings and one is struck by the stunning irony of it all. She was the saint without faith.

 

One has to question the motivation (not to mention the morality) of the Church and of trusted advisors who against her expressed wish to destroy the papers upon her death have instead chosen to publish them. The papers are startling in their revelatory descriptions of the state of Mother Teresa’s interior castles; bereft, hollow and tortuously empty:

So many unanswered questions live within me afraid to uncover them — because of the blasphemy — If there be God — please forgive me — When I try to raise my thoughts to Heaven — there is such convicting emptiness that those very thoughts return like sharp knives & hurt my very soul. — I am told God loves me — and yet the reality of darkness & coldness & emptiness is so great that nothing touches my soul. Did I make a mistake in surrendering blindly to the Call of the Sacred Heart?

In the Time article the previous passage is followed by a notation, which reads “addressed to Jesus, at the suggestion of a confessor, undated.” It seems less a prayer than a desperate experiment suggested by an advisor; that if she pretended God was there, He might actually appear.

In almost all of the world’s religions there is the acknowledgement of a phenomenon which affirms that emptiness and darkness may serve as vehicles to spiritual fulfillment. This phenomenon has many names in the many traditions; kenosis, sunyata, the Via Negativa. Simone Weil, the 20th century Christian mystic maintained that through affliction, the experience of abandonment by God may indeed work towards bringing God more sharply into focus; may in fact result in the experience of divine intimacy. Like the beloved who is on vacation and whose qualities become more vivid and more endearing in the memory of the lover, the memory of an absent God induces greater longing and invokes a more intimate divine presence. But ultimately, even for Weil, the beloved does return. For Saint John of the Cross who first used the phrase “dark night of the soul,” the “night” is a phase of spiritual growth, a phase that is marked by suffering, but a phase that passes. The experience of the absence of God in Teresa’s life spanned a period of almost 50 years and seems not to have changed even before death. Her Beloved never returned.

When does one concede that almost 50 years of spiritual desert, absence of faith, doubt in the existence of God, and the presence of Christ signify no longer a “dark night” but rather a perpetual condition of the soul? Night passes. Dawn comes. A fifty year night is hardly a night at all. It is an existential nightmare, particularly for one whose appearance in the world is in direct contradiction to her internal reality; the nightmare, which in Teresa’s own words was marked by the terrible realization of her own deceptive persona:

 

"The smile," she writes, is "a mask" or "a cloak that covers everything." Similarly, she wonders whether she is engaged in verbal deception. "I spoke as if my very heart was in love with God — tender, personal love," she remarks to an adviser. "If you were [there], you would have said, 'What hypocrisy.'" Time magazine

I am not without sympathy for Teresa’s spiritual torture. That she obviously suffered arouses pity and compassion. I am however, not sympathetic to, nor am I convinced by those who would nonetheless interpret Teresa’s spiritual emptiness as a further indication of her “holiness,” and “sanctity.” I am not convinced by those who would insist that the absence of God in her life is ironic evidence of the presence of God in her life. I am instead reminded of the post-Holocaust theologian who argued that God’s “hiddenness” at Auschwitz was proof of God’s existence. And of Karl Rahner’s famous (or infamous) “anonymous Christian,” the title given to his claim that everyone is a Christian, they just don’t know it yet. I am very much aware of the presence of paradox in the field of religion, but in order for a paradox to be accepted it must somehow have the capacity to clear the hurdle of absurdity. It must somehow fill in the space where the contradiction might be held in believable tension, if not suspension.

 

Neither would I deny that the continuation of her work in the midst of such spiritual destitution was heroic in its persistence and determination. But if one would argue that the absence of God, while yet ministering to the poor are indications of holiness and saintliness, then how different is she from the thousands of others who commit their lives to a cause, who sacrifice body and “soul” in the service of others and who do so in living conditions from which most of us would flee? How different is she from those who also do so without the presence of faith and the experience of God (and yet, who do not claim God as their inspiration)? If a life of service in the absence of faith is grounds for beatification and canonization, then the litany of saints must surely be increased a hundred-fold.

And if, in the final stages of canonization the  requisite miracles needed forsainthood indeed be confirmed, upon whose faith did the miraculous events depend? Upon Teresa’s? Or upon those who had faith in Teresa?

 

I have never known of a saint whose principle spiritual characteristic was lack of faith. Perhaps it is time for one. Such a canonization might just crack the door open for the rest of us.

Kinda Got a Feeling, I'm Not in Brooklyn Anymore

It’s been so long since I’ve written I don’t think anybody checks anymore.

My first two weeks of August were spent in Brooklyn. My son, who lives there was on vacation elsewhere, but he allowed me to camp out.

 

I discovered that the secret to surviving 12 days in NYC is to live them as if you live there. Tourists burn themselves out. So… like most working New Yorkers, I went out during the day and stayed home at night. I spent 5 days in NY by myself and then a friend from Charleston joined me for the remaining week. My reputaton as the meteorological kiss of death played itself out once more. I was not settled in Brooklyn for more than a few days when the first tornado touchdown in 113 years struck a Brooklyn neighborhood. Good thing I'd brought my red shoes... the Wicked Witch might have been lurking around any corner or subway stop.

 

We were really attracted to the Brooklyn Heights promenade. What a wonderful gift to the residents of Brooklyn. There’s an incredible view, which I've mentioned before; the Statue of Liberty to the left, the Manhattan skyline directly in front and the Brooklyn Bridge to the right. By the way… I LOVE the Brooklyn Bridge. It is my second most favorite architectural creation (Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, the first). Court Street and Montague Street in Brooklyn became my “hangout.” The promenade is a great place for people to congregate, walk, bring their dogs and children. One day my friend and I walked to DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass) and explored. We found the famous Grimaldi's Pizza house but it was a Saturday so the line to get in was thirty deep. We walked around the corner and went to another pizza place named after the street it's on. First Street Pizza, maybe? We started out at a restaurant I’d frequented before named “Rice” but I had forgotten they only take cash and we had cards (sigh). We walked some more through the Fulton Street Park and ended up with ice cream at the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory.

 

One of my friend’s favorite things was to just sit outside at night in front of the Brooklyn brownstone and watch the foot traffic to the subway station and talk. I enjoyed it too. We drank vodka and told stories of our lives.

 

Another day we walked around Greenwich Village and SoHo and got cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery. There was a line there too! What's THAT about?

 

On Friday we went into Manhattan (one day in Manhattan, one day in Brooklyn was our routine) and it was 55 degrees and drizzling! We couldn't believe it. The day before it had been 85 and the day after as well. We were FREEZING! We shopped on Broadway and stopped into several Starbucks just to warm up a bit.

 

The last day of our stay we walked 5th Avenue. I'd never done that; the Plaza, Empire State Bldg., Central Park. It was a beautiful day. I walked so much during my stay in NY (not to mention the subway stairs) that I LOST three pounds!

 

On the flight home I sat next to an eight-year old girl named Rachel who was traveling alone. Across the aisle, a one and a half-year old baby boy. I would be entertained or entertain whether I wanted to or not. Rachel and I chatted on and off during the flight. Towards the end of our flight she said, “I’m so glad you don’t live in my neighborhood. This boy, Cameron _______ tortures me every day.” I said, “Well you should never let boys torture you.” She said, “I don’t. I have a restraining order out on him so that he can’t come into my yard.” In that moment I felt a little sad for Rachel. Given the short life story she'd shared with me, I knew that no eight year old child uses the words "restraining order" unless they'd had experience with the term. Then she said, “There are only two boys allowed to come into my yard.”

 

And in solidarity with her, I said, “That’s OK. There are only two boys allowed to come into my yard.” The old woman sitting in front of us turned her head, looked between the seats, caught my eye and laughed her head off.

 

All too soon, school has begun. But I’m ready and loving it, as usual.

 

 

A Spirit Grows in Brooklyn

I had such a good day. The weather finally broke and I awoke to cool, dry breezes and a lovely summer day. I took my coffee in my son's and daughter-in-law's beautiful courtyard garden behind their brownstone.  I called my Mom as is our usual Sunday morning routine. At 11:00 I walked the half  block to the nearest subway station (they're lucky that way...or smart to have chosen this location) out to the Century 21 store deeper into Brooklyn. I took the subway to 86th Street. As I emerged from the underground, I took the wrong turn towards 3rd Ave when I should have turned towards 5th (what else is new?), but quickly noticed my mistake. I shopped for a while, spent $61 dollars. I got four articles. At the bottom of my receipt is printed the following, "You saved $421.61."  Don't you just LOVE it? Then I wanted to head towards my "hangout" at Court and Montague so I entered the subway in the direction of Manhattan. The only glitch of the day occurred when the "voice of the subway" announced that the R line is under construction and would not stop at the Court Street station so I had to go as far as Canal Street into Manhattan, get out of the car and cross the platform back into Brooklyn for the Court Street stop. (I'm getting good at this.. OK, maybe not. But at least I don't panic anymore). By this time it was 3:00 so I went to Connecticut Muffin and got a Chicken Curry sandwich, crossed the street and ate half of it with my Starbucks iced coffee (purchased with my discount). I'll have the other half for dinner. I lingered there and read a while. When I left Starbucks, I ventured further down Montague and came upon a wondrous sight. I discovered what perhaps half of Brooklyn already knows; one of the features of Brooklyn Heights is "The Promenade," a walkway along the river that offers one of the best views of Manhattan I have ever seen. To my left was the Statue of Liberty, as close to her as I have ever been. Directly front and center, the island of Manhattan and off to the right, the incredible Brooklyn Bridge. I sat on a bench and soaked up the sun and the view. I came "home" and between the two of us, Time-Warner cable's robot telephone voice and I managed to get my son's cable picture back up on screen (it had been out for 24 hours. By the way, have I mentioned? They're not here. They are on vacation somewhere else.!). The cable is back. WhooWoo!! Today, I LOVED New York.

On Hiatus?

I haven't written about my trip to Maine and Rhode Island. To do so would entail my writing about the members of my family, people I love very much. I respect their privacy too much to write about them in a public journal. I am now in NYC until the 13th, at which time there will be little less than a week and a half before school begins again. I find myself thinking, "Where did the summer go?"

The sounds of Brooklyn streets are so different from those of South Carolina. At home I hear no one rifling through the bottles left on the street for the recycling truck. There are no barking dogs where I live. Here, children cry and shout. Boom boxes play loud salsa, or rap as they pass the window on the way to the subway station. An ice cream truck parks in front of the house for fifteen minutes, its singsong, bell-like music repeats the same refrain. The many languages heard in the subway cars offer a rich cacophany of diversity. The sounds of traffic here in Brooklyn do not only come from the cars that pass before the window. The sound of traffic is an echo that fills the night; a groan that emerges from the depths of the city miles away. It is the sound of seven million people who create a constant drone, imperceptible to those who live here, but ever present to the visitor.

Since I arrived on Thursday the heat in NYC has been stifling, despite a surprising breeze that somehow manages to make its way between skyscrapers. The cool of the night promises to last through the day tomorrow.

For all my visits to NYC I have never had a celebrity sighting until yesterday. In a salad and sandwich place off Broadway, I stood in line behind Debra Messing as we told a white-aproned server what to include in our "create-your-own-salad" bowls. I ordered dried cranberries and feta and mushrooms. She passed on all three.

I have found a place to "hangout" in Brooklyn; the Court/Montague Street area. For the past three nights I have walked these streets, stopping into little restaurants for dinner, topping that off with espresso at Starbucks and making one last stop into Key Foods. I haul  the little grocery bags underground to take back home on the subway.
It is an exhausting enterprise to live in NYC without a car.  To actually drive one, I should think, would be stressful.

Life...One Damn Gift After Another

* Just weeks ago in this journal, I was lamenting the lack of a personal washer/dryer, which necessitated many undesirable trips to the Laundromat. I am happy to report the delivery of my new washer/dryer on July 4th at approximately 2:35 in the afternoon. A friend of mine who moved on the Fourth of July had a set, only a year old that could not be accommodated in her new place. She offered them to me on a “payment plan.”  Her two mover men brought them to my house, but of course there was a glitch. The dryer had a four-pronged plug. I have a three-pronged outlet. They offered to install the washer while I ran out to Lowe’s for a new cord. I paid them and gave them beer.

 

* Psssssst (she said, whispering). There are running water noises and hammering noises coming from the apartment next door. It’s been empty for a month. I wonder if it’s just a work crew or if someone’s moved in under my nose. It could happen. I’m so busy doing laundry.

 

* Several weeks ago when I was teaching the Religion and Feminism course, I went to “my” Starbucks before class to get my usual morning double tall soy latte and as I stood in line, dressed more professionally than usual, my co-workers and friends shouted from behind the coffee bar, “Hey Louise! Where you going all dressed up?”

And I responded, in a voice loud enough to hear across the five feet to the espresso bar, “I’m off to save the world…one feminist at a time.” The atmosphere changed- to a hush.

 

* I was at my hair salon the other day. It's a very intimate, small place. There was only one other woman there along with my hair stylist (who is also my friend). The other woman having her hair done was...uh, ok, I'll say it- she was as redneck as anyone I've ever seen. Her beloved daughter (about whom she is very possessive) has just gotten engaged to a Muslim man. Of course, the woman knows NOTHING about her own religion, let alone Islam. She just wants him to "believe in God and Jesus. They believe in them don't they?" I tried to explain in the simplest language I could about Islam. (I WANTED to say, "You know... there are BOOKS."). Anyway, I really do have tremendous patience and tolerance with ignorance, but THEN she said that sometimes she sneaks pork into her future son-in-law's food "to see if he'll notice." Yes, I can tolerate ignorance but NOT deceit and mean-spiritedness. I said to her, "Would you step on a Cross? Would you smash a Cross with your feet?" She said of course not. I said, "Well sneaking pork into that man's food is like someone sneaking a Cross under your rug to MAKE you step on it." And I THINK I saw a night-light size bulb go off. I think she understood. Like Nathan confronting King David (OK...not quite), she understood her actions when she was placed in the center of the story. When she left she touched my arm and thanked me saying, “There was a reason why we were here today.” Well, I don’t know about her, but  I was there was for a trim and highlights.  My friend needless to say, almost bust a gut trying not to laugh out loud.

 

* I went to the beach yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. I am drawn to it like iron to a magnet. It is my place of peace and calm. I walk and think. I think and sit. I write poetry here and ask questions. Odd, that someone who suffers from hypo-phobia should love the presence of the ocean so much. I don’t go in the water. I never go in the water. I will walk on the shore and feel the coolness of the water on my feet but that is not my greatest pleasure there. My greatest pleasure is the sound. There is no other place on earth that has quite that sound. And smell. And feel- the sand on the body and under the feet. The beach is a sensual place. I cannot wait to be back to the Rocky Coast of New England; to visit First Beach in Newport, so different from the South Carolina beaches.

 

* I can’t help it. I hate that the 7th inning stretch of Major League baseball games has become the “God Bless America moment,” instead of the “Take Me Out to the Ball Game moment.”

 

* I had a weird dream this morning. My daughter (she was a child again, not the age she is now) and I were in a two story, brown tenement house on the second floor. I don’t know why the color “brown” is important to mention except that I noticed it in the dream so it seems to be. We were awakened by a noise. The noise came from the complete collapse of HALF of the house; like someone took a knife and sliced it down the middle and one side of it began to fall. We found ourselves standing on the edge of the wide open, gaping hole of a second floor staring across at our kitty, still perched on the side about to crash down. Just before this significant part of the collapsing side finally went down, my daughter leaned precariously over the edge and grabbed the kitten to safety. My she-ro.

 

* This time next week I will be in Maine and three days later, in Rhode Island.

I cannot wait to see my family.

Note to Paulette and Roger: Fire up the hot tub and the blender!

Note to Ben and Sue: See you at Buddy’s!

Note to Bert and Liz: Don’t even TRY to get me on that golf course.

Postscript to "What's New About Terror?"

I am forever a student, even in my own classroom. It is an “epistemological irony,” through which, if the teacher allows it, she learns as much or more than her students. These moments are sometimes joyful surprises, on-the-spot revelations of understanding, creative connections that occur as one speaks, or crystallized awareness of the relationship between culture and religion. Teaching this summer course on Religion and Feminism provided many such moments for me. I learned as my students learned. I grew as my students grew. 

 

Through the course readings and class discussions I developed a greater understanding and appreciation of many things with these students but nothing can compare to the awakening I have experienced since exploring the historical reality of women’s terror. In the classroom, through my own reflection and in the words of this journal, I have begun to discover profound truths about how women and men experience the world and each other:

 

1) I am not alone. I am not hyper-paranoid, excessively anxious or fearful. My experience of terror has been affirmed repeatedly by my female students, by friends who have read my journal entries, by female co-workers with whom I discussed the issue, with relatives, and a young woman whom I consider to be fearless, who admitted to me that even she is not free of it. Over and over again the women in my life have confirmed it: they too walk about the world in terror of sexual assault and rape. It is ever near the surface of consciousness. It invades us, disturbs our peace and alters our behavior. One young woman, in her critical reflection wrote the following:

 

         A large part of my life includes fear. I recognize that every decision

         I make is informed by the understanding that I have to do everything

         I can to avoid being a victim of violence or rape. It is horrifying that

         as a strong woman who is relatively secure in herself, I have become

         so used to living my life in fear, always watching out, keeping the lights

         on, checking behind my shower curtains and in my closet before bed,

         feeling that drop in my stomach as I open the door to my apartment

         late at night, almost braced for the worst...

 

And another:

 

        While I have never been attacked in a dark alleyway walking home

        at night, I feel I am prepared for it. I put my keys in my hand and

        ball up my fist, waiting for someone to step my way. I never realized

        why I did it except that I was trying to protect myself… I have also

        been told throughout my life that I must dress in such a way as to not

        make men sin, by lust.

 

And another:

 

        Yesterday in class, we began talking about how we adjust our

        lifestyles to prevent or avoid any form of violent crime or victim-

        ization. After class, I drove home thinking about how it affects my

        life. I fear going to sleep at night because I have a horrible fear

        of waking up to someone standing over my bed. I do not go to

        the mall or grocery store at night by myself because of the horrific

        stories one hears of abductions. The list goes on and on…

 

I am not alone. The experience of terror is a universal, female one. What is amazing too is that (to a greater or lesser degree) women walk around with this terror, but never speak of it.

 

2). Men have no idea we experience the world thusly. Men have no point of reference for this experience even IF we shared it with them (which we don’t). One incredulous young man in my class expressed it best when he asked, “Y’all really walk around like that?” My female students and I confirmed it, “Yes. Yes, we really do.”  And perhaps this has been the most stunning element of exploring this issue in the classroom- that one half of the human beings in this country have a common experience that the other half of the human beings in this country  knows nothing  about. How does this affect our ability to know each other? To be relational? HOW can we possibly be loving, compassionate and understanding of each other if one half of humanity is ignorant of a fundamental way of being in the world experienced by the other half of humanity? How influential, important and crucial is the experience of chronic terror? And how does our silence contribute to the space between us?

 

3). The irony of this reality is that men are the source of this terror and they have no idea. And we have no idea that they have no idea. They know that they are fearful for sisters, girlfriends, mothers and women friends; they know the dangers to them, but they do not have intimate knowledge of the pervasive, internal terror itself. It was appalling to the young men in my class (gentle spirits all) that they might be the source of such terror as they sit at a bar or appear unexpectedly on a street corner. That, I would imagine might be a source of consternation to any decent man who is aware of women’s terror, i.e., that they might trigger it. One young man, in a remarkable moment of clarity asked, “What can I do to alter my behavior so as to appear less threatening, less fearsome?” And his question took my breath away with its potential and its compassion.

 

I am fond of quoting the ancient Chinese proverb, “When the student is ready the teacher will come.” As a result of this summer course, I am inclined to reverse the order. And so, the course officially ends, but I will continue to reflect upon its lessons. Its impact will continue to affect the person I am and the person I will become. And for this, I have one more thing to say to that bright and delightful group of young men and women: Thank you. Thank you for being my fellow and sister students. Thank you for “hearing me into speech.”

 

What's New About Terror? Part III

We are instructed at airports to report “any suspicious behavior” and to be on the alert for any suitcase that is left alone. That is terrifying, isn’t it? A suitcase, left in the middle of the airport terminal, or on a seat in a subway car? A woman is taught to be on the alert when she is alone. And for many of us, this is often. We are taught to be suspicious of a man alone, or men in groups. The anxiety is particularly heightened on a secluded street, a park, a bar, a parking garage, a freaking Laundromat. We are taught not to GO OUT in the dark alone. NO place is “safe,” because every place has men in it and every man who is a stranger is a potential threat. And in many ways, for many days and nights, these cultural lessons curtail our activities.

 

But our activities are not the only things that get “altered.” Two young men recently moved into my apartment development. They sit on their stoop to smoke. Before reading Margaret Miles’ essay and before reflecting on this female condition of terror I didn’t realize how much I alter my behavior when they are outside. It is only through analytical hindsight that I see what I do; how differently I behave when they are there from when they are not there. And the alteration in my behavior is based on two facts; they know where I live and I do not know what kind of men they are. I find that as soon as I turn my car into my parking space I look to see if they are there. When they are not, I am glad. When they are, I walk like a “schoolteacher,” or how I imagine one to walk. The joyous lilt in my stride is gone lest it be interpreted as flirtatious. My walk is purposeful, with determined direction. I do not toss my hair, even if it is in my eyes, lest it be interpreted as provocative invitation. I say a quick “Hello,” but my eyes do not linger upon theirs, lest it be interpreted as interest. I must walk a tightrope between not-too-friendly, and cordial, lest I piss them off and they think me stuck-up and haughty. After all, if they turn out to be harmful, it will be my fault. When my door is closed and locked behind me, I breathe. I understand the risk of the confessional nature of these words; that there are those of you who will yet think I am paranoid. I exaggerate. I am nuts. But I assure you, this anxiety and these behavioral modifications are enacted by women in countless apartment complexes, in countless neighborhoods throughout this country (throughout the world) every day. As I think back to my interactions with female students and former students I cannot list all the reports shared with me of sexual harassment by male employers, of physical violence by building maintenance workers, fathers of childhood friends and boyfriends; of rape, physical brutality and intimidation. Failure to report is based in the same terror; that there will be violent retaliation.

 

And just in case we forget to fear; just in case we forget that international terrorists may lurk behind every bus stop or subway station or airport terminal, Homeland Security or the media will remind us. All of a sudden, without evidence for the need made known to us, National Security Alert will be elevated to “orange,” and the terror is in front of us again. Just in case we women forget that we live in an insecure and threatening environment, we are reminded. The majority of victims of the top rated cop/forensic/FBI television shows in this country are female. They are raped, mutilated and murdered every night in our living rooms. There is one program entirely devoted to “Special Victims,’ a euphemism for victims of sexual assault. Just in case we forget, we receive emails that contain in graphic detail the latest ploys and tactics of kidnappers and rapists who now lie under our cars, like  mechanics performing oil changes. They wait until we approach and grab our legs from beneath. They lie in wait between cars. They stalk in “unmarked” police cars, sirens ever ready to stop a woman driving alone. These emails invariably end with a plea, “Send this to all the women you know and love. It could save their life!” And the message is clear: you need only send this to the WOMEN in your life. Whether these emails  contain the stuff of urban legend or not, they perform the cultural service of inducing yet more internal anxiety and fear, if not for yourself than for your mother or daughter or sister. The fear might only present itself on the surface for just that moment, but it has done its job. And then there are the real stories, the ones that are not urban legend, but truth; of young women who are abducted in full daylight in Target parking lots and found days later in shallow graves; of pregnant wives who disappear, also found days or weeks later. The legends, the fear, the terror have their basis in fact. These all contribute to a culture of violence against women that Margaret Miles has called, “foundational in that they are built into the assumptions and institutional structures of American culture.” And they serve to ensure that I remember my vulnerability and so remember, “My place.”

 

And yet, we deny. We delude ourselves into thinking that these crimes are committed by individual men with abnormal psychological pathologies. We never see the violence as rooted in a systemic, institutionalized, cultural evil grounded in an ideology of national and global misogyny. But we must awaken from our sleep, like Snow White from the poison apple. My future and my daughter’s and the futures of any granddaughters I might have, depend on it.

 

So the man seized his concubine and put her out to them; and they raped and abused her all night until the morning. And as the dawn began to break, they let her go. As the morning appeared, the woman came and fell down at the door of the man’s house where her master was, till it was light. In the morning her master got up, opened the doors of the house, and when he went out to go on his way, there was his concubine lying at the door of the house, with her hands on the threshold. “Get up.” he said to her, “We are going.” But there was no answer. Then he put her upon the ass and the man set out for his home. When he had entered his house, he took a knife and grasping his concubine he cut her into twelve pieces, limb by limb and sent her throughout all the territory of Israel.   Judges 19:25-29

 

And he sent her throughout Israel in outrage, that the men had been so disrespectful to him and to his property. He dismembered this body that had served him and sent the pieces throughout Israel because he had been insulted. Had he loved her, he would have bathed her body in oils and wrapped her in a shroud of linen. Had he loved her, he would have buried her in the tradition of his elders. Had he loved her, he would have wept. Of course, had he loved her, had he even considered her a human being, he would not have handed her over to be gang-raped and murdered.

 

I do not know how this woman felt as she was betrayed by her master. I do not know how the women of the enemies of Moses felt when they became the spoils of war. I do not know how it felt to be a virgin of Shiloh, abducted and raped as strangers in a strange land. I do not know the terror of the captive woman who mourned the death of mother and father wrought by the hands of her captor who became her rapist. But I do know what it is to be a woman living among a people who consider the treatment of these women to be a part of their glorious and holy inheritance.

 

So what’s new about terror?

Ask any woman and she’ll tell you-absolutely nothing.

 

 

 

What's New About Terror? Part II

In 1985, Elayne Boosler recorded a stand-up comedy routine entitled “Party of One.” I didn’t remember the year (I looked that up), but I remembered her and I remembered the title of the TV special, because I have never forgotten a joke she told that night. Of course, I don’t remember the joke verbatim, but it went something like this. She and her live-in boyfriend were living in New York City. Very late one night, he suggested they go for a walk in Central Park. She asked, “Are you crazy? Don’t you know how dangerous that is?” He said, “Don’t worry. Don’t bring your purse. Leave your wallet and keys here. If you don’t have anything valuable with you, you’ll be safe.” She paused dramatically, looked to her audience as if to her boyfriend and shouted, “But I have a vagina!”

 

Jokes “work” best when there is an element of truth to them. In Elayne Boosler’s Central Park joke there is a truth that the women in the audience understood in a New York second. It is a truth that her boyfriend had not even considered; a truth that probably took the men in the audience longer to “get.”

It is a truth conveyed in Margaret Miles’ statement, already cited in this journal’s pages, that “the threat of assault and rape is enough to make us rearrange our lives, reflecting our constant state of terror.”

 

Margaret Miles did not exaggerate. As I reflected on her statement and her particular choice of the word “terror,” I could not help but find analogy in the atmosphere of rhetoric and control that has gripped this nation (indeed, the world) since September 11, 2001. What the men of this nation have just begun to experience, women have always known; lives characterized by the vulnerability to unexpected assault; lives subtly haunted by terror.

 

It is a difficult analogy to express out loud. I discovered this when I began in my classroom to explore and articulate women’s experience of terror. I was very hesitant to describe this rearrangement of life; the things we will or will not do; the places we will go and not go, and the psychological rearrangement as well. I was hesitant because no one speaks of it. I was hesitant because although I suspected my own interior experiences are common, I did not know that they are. I was hesitant because I feared that the way I experience the world is unusual and unique, and that I would be judged hyper-paranoid, or neurotically anxious and suspicious. And yet, I know that I am not any of these. The experience of terror from the threat of rape and sexual assault does not consume or obsess me. I do not walk around in the world in a heightened state of panic or fear. The suspicion and anxiety surface only when I receive certain signals from the world around me. As I tentatively began to express this experience, slowly the young women in my class began to nod; one by one they each affirmed what I suspected- that we do indeed walk about the world in a constant state of terror, women alone, in a hostile environment. And to echo Nelle Morton’s oft-quoted dynamic, they “heard me into speech.”

 

In the aftermath of 9/11 this country’s government invested manpower and monetary resources in the cause of internal security as never before. The number of casualties was a little less than three thousand. The fatalities were human, but the targets were symbolic; the symbols of American culture, economic and political. Need I supply here the national statistics of domestic and sexual assault against women? According to the FBI, every day 4 women are murdered in this country by partners or spouses. The total number is higher than the number of soldiers killed in Vietnam. In 2005, there were 93,934 reported forcible rapes, not counting those unreported, not counting unsuccessful, attempted rapes and not counting consentual sex with a minor, or statutory rape. One in five women will experience attempted or completed rape in their lifetime. Twenty years ago, when Miles wrote her essay, a woman was raped every 6 minutes in this country. Today, rape occurs every 4 minutes. And yet, rape crisis centers and shelters for women and children must beg, borrow, write grants for funding, sell purses at auction and hold fundraisers to stay in business.

 

The behavioral tactics of international terrorists are unpredictable and often arbitrary. There is no discernible, attainable goal. The acts are fueled by hatred and rage and self-righteous rationalization. Rapists are unpredictable, though often their victims are not arbitrary. Most occurrences of domestic and sexual violence against women are committed by someone they know. The goal of rape is not sexual, though its weapon is. Rape is fueled by hatred and rage and self-righteous rationalizing of entitlement.

 

The Department of Homeland Security instills a false sense of security. Airport searches, clearly visible to the public, allow us to feel that diligence is in charge, that the terrorist is being weeded out and identified. We hand over our Bic lighters and shaving creams and hair gels and buy into the illusion that we are “safe.” When in reality, there is no such thing as security against terrorism and we are already its victims, because its purpose is fear. And we as Americans are willing to sacrifice more and more of our civil liberties in the face of that fear. Women and men set up a false sense of security against the potential occurrence of rape. We make ourselves believe that rape happens only to certain types of women, in certain places, at certain times of day. And we think that if we don’t dress “that way,” or go to bars alone at night, or walk in the dark, or in stairwells, or enter elevators that contain only one man, or lock our car doors from the inside, etc., etc., etc., then we will be “safe.” Unfortunately this misconception is a double-edged sword because when a woman does get raped, we jump to the conclusion that it was her fault because after all, she didn’t follow the rules. Women give up liberties and freedom of movement, living captive in a “free” society. And when a two year old baby or 90 year old woman is raped we console ourselves by thinking they are the exceptions.

 

We prepare for travel in an airport, or train station and we are asked, “Have you been in sole possession of your luggage since you left your house this morning?”  Who will say “no?” One knows that the result of answering this question negatively will only bring delays and extended searches. Unfortunately for us, women are always in possession of our vaginas. Much to Elayne Boosler’s chagrin, we cannot remove them and place them on the dresser when we leave the house.

 

We are instructed repeatedly over loud speakers bellowing throughout the terminal, “Do not leave your luggage unattended.” I suppose the fear is that some terrorist will slip something into my bag that will be detonated in the air. The science and technology of terrorism has become more and more advanced; tiny detonators hidden in cell phones, bombs no bigger than a hip purse, plastics that avoid metal detection. Women are instructed not to leave our drinks unattended. Let me say that again- we are instructed not to leave our DRINKS unattended.  The rapist too has concocted new ways to make his task easier. And what he will slip into our drinks has a name; it is called “the rape drug.”