Day 5: Slightly emo musings on the politics of friendship

Last night I got a bit of insomnia and didn't go to bed till I think just before 5am. I didn't wake up this morning till 1. I did not get my blog post written before I had to get ready for work. So here I am at 1:12 am after work trying to write something. Alas, I am not in a particularly writerly mood. I guess this is a good exercise in writing even when you don't feel like it.

Today's prompt is supposed to be what my favorite of the lesser holidays is. But my problem is that I don't feel like writing silly posts like that. On the other hand, I also don't feel like writing something intense and requiring of much thought. 

I guess I'll just share a quandary with you all that I've been mulling over today.

What do you do in a relationship when you find your trust in the other person is called into question? 

One of the core tenets of my life philosophy is a firm belief that there are some aspects of a person's experience where they must choose their truth. I think that the clearest example of this in my life has been my relationship with the church. I chose to continue believing in it regardless of the fact that I never got that spiritual confirmation most people base their belief on.

But should this philosophy apply to relationships? 

I have been trying to develop a new friendship recently. It's so difficult to make new friends and I am so abysmally awkward at it. But I have been working hard to overcome the awkward and, more significantly, my natural assumption that all people everywhere find me unbearably annoying and I should not force them to interact with me. I think that I've been doing pretty well. This person seems to like me. They talk to me, sometimes even initiating the conversation. They share things with me that they know I'm interested in. They appreciate when I share things with them. They have done nice things for me. These are all signs that I have to remind myself indicate a good chance that the person I am trying to befriend does in fact like me.

But the other day I learned something about my relationship with this potential friend that could be interpreted multiple ways. It could be something completely innocuous and insignificant. Or, it could be something that is quite hurtful. Unfortunately, I do not know the person well enough to safely assume one way or the other. 

I keep asking myself...should I just decide to act as though I know nothing? To believe, whether it is true or not, that there is nothing questionable about what I heard? I would have been so much happier if I had never been told. It's too easy a thing for my insecurity to latch on to as a reason to shut down and close off. And I don't want to wonder if this person who I like very much is not a safe person for me to invest in emotionally. 

I decided to continue believing in the church because I decided that even if it wasn't true, I would be happier believing that it was, and doing so would not hurt me or anyone else. Do I decide to believe in my friendship with this person even if doing so opens up the possibility that one day I might get hurt? If someone is doing something hurtful is it better to know and be hurt, or no know and be happy? Is that answer still true if it is only the possibility that the hurtful thing is occurring? Really, I'm asking if it is better to be cynical or to be idealistic. 

I'm sorry, this post is ridiculous. It is vague and adolescent. But it is the question which has been plaguing me all day and I would appreciate perspectives. 

The Road Untaken and the Talk Not Given - musings on spousal selection

A couple weeks ago I was asked to speak in church.  I went through this process of writing out my whole talk, and then at 9 pm Saturday night I decided I wanted to talk about something else.  I mentioned this whilst I was speaking and a couple of my friends told me they wanted me to post my un-given talk on my blog.  So, here it is, more or less, adapted to secular blog instead of theological oration.

I want to talk to you guys about one of my favorite books.  I've written about it before on this blog, in my list of the five books everyone should read, but specifically every girl should read before she turns 20.  I'm rather proud of the fact that that is in my list of top 10 most popular posts, btw.  Anyway, I'm talking of Little Women.  I would like to assume that, as readers of my blog, you have of course, already read Little Women after I recommended it before, or you have already read it on your own because you have superlative taste.  But if neither of those things are true, I shall give a brief and incredibly inadequate summary for you.  Little Women, published in 1868 by Louisa May Alcott, tells the story of Jo March and her 3 sisters as they transition from young girls to women.  Jo, the penultimate child, is the classic tomboy bucking against the restrictions of gentility and societal expectations.  Early into the story she befriends Teddy Lawrence, the boy next door, and he is quickly adopted into the family as a brother.

Ah, wee baby Christian Bale...you did a pretty good job I guess

At this point I supposed I should warn of upcoming spoilers, but guys....the book has been out for 150+ years, not to mention made into at least one major film.  So I feel like you should probably get over it.

So anyway, Jo and Teddy grow up as best friends, sharing the same sense of humor, the same interests, and enjoying the same activities. And as they get older, Teddy starts trying to lay the ground work to take his relationship with Jo to the next level.

Here's the thing guys.  I just finished this book for the first time in many many years, only this time I listened to it as an audiobook.  I don't know if it was the woman reading the book or just my frame of mind this particular go through but for the first time I found I kind of had a thing for Teddy.  I never appreciated how funny and sassy he is before.  But I realized something else, too.  I've conducted 20-odd years of thorough study on this via film and TV and I can tell you definitively....Jo and Teddy are legit made for each other.  They are the text book definition of chemistry.  At least by modern romantic standards.  Think about it.  Isn't that what ever rom com tells you to look for?

Your perfect match.

I love puns so much

Love, and consequently marriage, is about finding that perfect match.  In practical terms that looks like someone who will validate you.  It's like "You watch the Great British Baking Show? OMG, I, too, watch the Great British Baking Show!!   At last I can stop feeling weird and just watch and love the Great British Baking Show with someone....which is all I really ever wanted."

In contemporary society, where long-term monogamous relationships are approved of at all, they are marketed as the ultimate bff validating relationship.  Your spouse is that person who will always be on your side, who likes what you like, and who reassures you of your place in the world because they occupy it with you......But guys.  Jo doesn't marry Teddy.

Teddy goes off to college and when he comes home he asks Jo to marry him.  He, like me this time through, believes in the idea of a perfect match.  But Jo says no.  She breaks his heart.  She breaks his heart because she understands that there is another way of loving and another way to choose a spouse.

Instead of a perfect match Jo wants a perfect complement.

eheheheheheh

She knows this because it is the marriage she has watched her whole life--that of her parents.  Early on Jo's mother talks to her about her hasty temper, explaining that it will cause her so much grief if she doesn't learn to control it.  Young Jo bemoans how impossible it is to remember and her mother makes a confession.  She, too, struggles to control her temper.  But her greatest strength in her efforts is her husband.  He knows her struggle and when she needs help he gives her a small sign to remind her of what she wants.  .

This was another aspect of the book I'd never really appreciated before.  Essentially it was a portrait of a much less common type of relationship, even back then, but it gave a whole different idea of what a marriage could be.  One person loving the other enough to patiently help them when it was needed, and the other person loving enough to humble themselves and accept that help.  In this sort of marriage the goal is not to comfortably validate you, but gently and lovingly push you towards progression and improvement.  In this marriage two people join together to share the work of becoming the best people they can possibly be.

I don't think it is a coincidence that the modern idea of love is the philosophy of matching and validation.  It is easier.  It asks so much less of us.  A complementary relationship takes work.  It requires humility and love and dedication.  But if you put in that effort you will have a partner who is as invested in helping you attain perfection as they are in achieving it themselves.  Can you imagine any greater or more valuable asset in our progression as individuals?

I do not love these actors as these characters, but what can you do?

Jo does eventually find her compliment in a really lovely gentleman named Professor Baehr.  He possesses the strengths she lacks and she provides for his deficiencies.  They form a partnership that is stronger together than  either of them were on their own.  And almost it is enough to help me overlook the creepiness of a 40+ year old man courting a 22 year old girl.  Almost.

The philosophical ramifications of external versus internal perception

Tonight I was told, for about the zillionth time, that I am intimidating.  In this instance the description was used as a compliment, but that hasn't always been the case.  I have been told by a relatively large number of roommates that they found me intimidating, even to the point of frightening, for months of living together.  Bishops, friends, and people I hardly know have all described me this way.

This phenomenon is fascinating to me in a very weird way.  I do not feel intimidating.  I do not think of my self as even slightly scary.  On the contrary, I think of myself as the person being intimidated and the person who is afraid.  I spend my life oscillating gently between anxiety and awkward confusion.

My friend tonight tied my aura of intimidation to my utter lack of bothers given, my confidence in my self and my own decisions, and even the way I carry myself.  Bless his heart.  I guess that does imply that I'm not losing my eternal battle with my posture quite as badly as I thought I was.  But aside from that, the rest of his explanation is a pretty constant theme from others I've spoken to.  People tell me I brook no nonsense and put up with no bullshit.  They tell me I'm confident.  So many people tell me this.

I, on the other hand, feel like I am a person who will accept rather a lot of both nonsense and bullshit.  I mean, I like to say that I don't put up with it, but it is one of those "say it and maybe it will come true" situations.  And confident?  I question pretty much every decision I ever make.  Endlessly.  It is exhausting.

So who do I believe?

That I have these feelings is significant.  I create myself, and my thoughts and feelings are the molecules I use for that creation.  I can't exactly experience life any way but the way I experience it...if that statement wasn't so recursive as to implode on itself.  Basically, to see myself as a particular kind of person is to be that kind of person.  

But at the same time, I must distrust my own opinion of myself.  I've talked about my struggles with self-image and confidence and self-love.  I know that I am a sufferer of mental dysmorphic disorder (which is a thing I just made up) wherein the image I see in my mental mirror is not necessarily accurate to the truth.  I'd like to think that there is an intrinsic me that is independent of my awareness and opinion of it.  But are the opinions of the people around me the way to discover that immutable part?  Does the constancy of the feedback lend it credibility?  I suppose it must, at least to some extent.  

Do I want to be intimidating?  My friend told me it was a good thing, and I do strive to live my life accountable to no one but myself--successfully or not.  But shouldn't I be able to do that without frightening people?  

Another friend once told me that he would rather intimidate people than risk not being taken seriously.  I'll admit, there is a certain gratification in knowing that people so far from seeing your insecurities, see the reverse.  But I'm not sure that I agree with my friend.  That is, I certainly wish to be taken seriously, but I don't think that intimidation is the only or even the best way to achieve that goal.  And while I do like to believe in that immutable core of the self existing independently of the conscious and reasoning mind--which sometimes perceives inaccurately--somehow I also believe that that core is capable of change and growth.  Or at least, I can change the way I express it.  

A Woman of a Certain Age...

So today was my 28th birthday.

All my life birthdays have been a big deal.  When we were little my mom would go all out.  You would wake up on your birthday and find the dining room decorated with streamers and balloons and a preliminary present waiting for you at the kitchen table.  Because mom wanted to make sure that we were always excited for our sibling's birthday, she would make sure that whoever's birthday it wasn't also had a small gift at their place setting (this remains to this day one of my mother's most brilliant parenting ideas).  She made us these intricate, amazing cakes that were works of art.  One year she constructed a whole clock tower for me, complete with columns.  I could not tell you a single birthday present I ever received but I still remember those cakes.  Of course we have no pictures.  We were the anti-hipsters before anti-hipsters were a thing...

I'm not even joking when I say that my first birthday at college was a bit of a blow.  Nothing quite made the point that I'd left home like waking up to a sad empty dorm room with no streamers in sight.  To be fair, I'm having a vague memory of a possible party thrown for me later that evening by the girls on my floor.  Maybe combined with other September birthdays?  Idk.  But still, that "first thing in the morning surprise that wasn't actually a surprise" hadn't been there and I'll be honest: I still wake up on the morning of my birthday with a teeny tiny hope that somehow there will be balloons and streamers, and every year that there isn't I am a very small, reasonable adult level of sad about it.

The early college years all were rather underwhelming like that.  It wasn't till I came back to school after my study abroad that birthdays began to regain their former glory.  It's amazing what happens when you start having friends...

When you have friends birthdays become a big deal again, even in the absence of breakfast streamers and balloons.

Fun fact: my first ever blues dance happened to be on my birthday.  I had no idea what a "birthday jam" was and I was terrified; when they announced it I kept quiet and thus missed out on one of the best parts of being a dancer.  Had to wait an entire year for my chance to roll back around.  Tragic.

I was the happy recipient of one not-so-surprise party, and another party that was such a surprise that I didn't even show up till I was called and frantically begged to come to Slab "because".  Both experiences were delightful.

I think it was at 25 that I started planning my own birthday party.  That year I asked everyone to bring me something wrapped.  I didn't care what it was, I just wanted to unwrap things.

that is me about to unwrap a sled and my own butcher knife

enjoying a birthday dance which I have never been so foolish as
to pass up ever again after that first poor decision

The next year I asked for flowers.  Fresh, paper, plastic...I would accept anything but those nasty craft store fabric ones.  I got some really silly ones and some really lovely ones and it was absolutely perfect.

Last year Anneke volunteered to throw my party.  She did such a good job!  All my friends stopped by and even though I hadn't asked for anything at all that year, several of them brought gifts (some less "serious" than others).  After the party we went to Red Robin.  Again, amazing.

But last year also felt a bit like an ending, at least in retrospect.  Between 27 and 28 the last of my closest dance friends moved away.  Other friends graduated and moved, or got married or made babies, or got adult-type jobs.  At 25 I had literally a crowd of people I loved and who loved me and bringing them all together was simply delightful.  I must confess that at 28 the crowd has, with all reasonableness, dwindled.  The currents of life have swept a great number of that crowd down different paths to different places.

So this year I didn't throw a party. It just didn't feel right, as idiotic as that sounds.

Instead I dressed up for work, makeup included. I clocked out early. Kara and I ordered pizza and watched some Gilmore Girls and then went to institute.  I ordered a slice of cake from The Chocolate, ate the cake and left the frosting, and questioned who I even am anymore.

And now here I sit at 12:30 am feeling apparently incurably contemplative and wondering if this is what people mean when they talk about "feeling old".  I've never dreaded old age.  My personality is, in fact, far better suited to an old woman than to a young adult.  No one tells grandmothers that they're wasting their lives because they prefer hot chocolate and a good book to an afternoon's hike.  But "28" keeps running around in my head knocking into the bookshelves and disturbing the cats.  "28" tells me I don't want a party this year because it will just remind me of how few friends I have left and how many I haven't made to replenish the pool.  "28" says that I should have, if not a solid plan for my life, at least a definite direction.  "28" says I should stop talking about being an adult and just go ahead and be one.  "28" says that old age might be something I'll enjoy when it gets here, but that the middle bit that I thought was annoyingly long is perhaps not nearly as long as I thought.

When you're little you experience finite eternity, measured in endless summer days.  I suppose "getting old" is the realization that school will come eventually, and each day, no matter how glorious, is NOT endless, but rather one day less before the end.  And 28 is the year that I am realizing that summer cannot last forever.  The day I thought would never come.

The day when I worry "I'm getting old"

In Defense of Earnestness

How long has it been since I wrote a blog post likening dancing and life?  Too long, I think.  So I think I'll just fix that right now.

So I have this friend Spencer who is known throughout our local dance community for his rather...flamboyant dance style.  Words like "infamous" or "melodramatic" might be used to describe it.  And certainly Spencer's dancing does have more drama than anyone else in our scene--involving a lot more sweeping hands and passionate embraces than you'll see anywhere else.  And much as we love Spencer, I don't think that there is anyone that hasn't made at least one good-humored joke about, or attempted over-dramatic parody of, his style, myself included.

But say you're a person like me who gets the occasional song obsession.  You know, where you hear a song and it feels like it had to have been written specifically for you at just this moment in your life.  You listen to it over and over and when you even try to listen to something else it just feels wrong.  Well, maybe you don't know that feeling.  But it's a common enough experience in my life.  And I just happen to be in the midst of another iteration of it right now.  With this song:


In the midst of my obsession comes ULX, and I get to play my current favorite song during one of the dances.  Dancing a favorite song is serious business because you want someone who will do your song justice.  Who do I want to dance with?

The answer is Spencer.

Why would I want to dance with the drama queen of our scene?  Isn't he just going to turn my song into a big joke?

The thing about watching Spencer dance is that that is exactly what you're doing--you're watching him.  You're not dancing with him.  And from that outside perspective it is hard to take him seriously when every dance looks like the same.  There's the hands.......there's cheek to cheek connection......there's sharp turns......yep, it's all there...  It's one thing if you see someone who dances "normally" most of the time dancing like that.  Clearly they're having some serious connection and something intense is happening.  But when every dance is like that?  Well they can't all be serious and intense right?  No one has serious intense passionate dances every time they dance.  So he must just be putting it on...

Now I can't know for sure because I'm not in Spencer's brain.  But if ever there was a person who really was having (or at least trying to have) the intense passionate dance every time he dances, it is Spencer.  Or, to put it another way, he is willing to commit himself 100% to any given dance and to feel it with no fear of looking stupid or...melodramatic.  He is earnestly passionate in his dancing.

And that is why I wanted to dance Favorite Song with him.  Because when I dance with Spencer I get to be earnestly passionate, too.  When you know your partner will match you moment for moment, no matter where you go, it is one of the most liberating things you can experience dancing.  It gives you a level of safety and confidence in your dancing that elevates your movement beyond your actual ability.  It makes it possible to have exactly the dance you wanted to have to your favorite song (and anyone who has ever experienced "expectation vs. reality" disappointment will, if they take a moment to think about it, understand how significant that actually is).

Now, I want you to reread that last paragraph, but replace all the dancing words with relationship words:

And that is why I wanted to date him.  Because when I'm with him I get to be earnestly passionate, too.  When you know your partner will match you moment for moment, no matter where you go, it is one of the most liberating things you can experience in a relationship.  It gives you a level of safety and confidence in the relationship that elevates your emotional vulnerability beyond your actual ability.  It makes it possible to have exactly the relationship you wanted to have with your significant other.

It works pretty well, doesn't it.  Try it with anything at all that involves any sort of relationship with two people and I suspect it will still work equally well.  Because the core of why I love dancing with Spencer doesn't actually have anything to do with his specific dancing.  It's about who Spencer is as a person, which is a person who is earnest without fear of judgement.

 Earnest.

When you hear that word you probably think of the delightful Oscar Wilde play "The Importance of Being Earnest".  You should.  It's a great play (the movie with Colin Firth and Rupert Everett is also great).  But that play is actually a satire about the lack of earnestness (earnesty?) conveyed by people of the time.

Because western society has actually been suffering a drought of earnesty (I'm gonna go ahead and use it cause the OED says it's a word...albeit one that hasn't been used since the 1500's) that has gradually been intensifying since around the turn of the last century.  In the wake of the first and then the second Great War society was faced with a crisis of philosophy, culture, and identity.  Faith came under fire as people wondered how any god they had ever heard of could have let these atrocities happen.  Institutions and authority that had previously been inviolable were questioned.  And the continuing progression of time and events has only reinforced the trend.  Looking at all the "isms," from Modernism to Post-Modernism, including absurdism, existentialism, and nihilism, you can see the decay of western society's moral convictions.  That is not to say that morality was lost; rather the infrastructure of morality was lost.  We didn't stop believing that there was a "right" and a "wrong" (well, sort of...) but we lost our conviction that we understood what they were or who made that decision.  I've said before that World War II is a war that could never happen in today's Western World.  We lack the conviction for it.

But as we lost our conviction and our ability to definitively know things we found a great big gaping hole in our collective world view. And as a society we've come up with plenty of things to fill that hole.  You have the rise of the cult of rationalism--"I believe only in what can be rationally and verifiably proven".  You have the obstinately faithful--"the more archaic you prove my beliefs to be the more desperately I will cling to them".  But most of all I think society has filled the hole with apathy--"It was too hard to decide what was right and what to believe in so instead I simply stopped caring."
*Disclaimer: At this point my brain is seething with counter-arguments, exceptions, tangential points to make, and a million other things...but as this is a blog post, not an academic paper, I'm resolutely going to ignore them all.  I just had to acknowledge that they're there*

Somehow caring about things has become unfashionable.  I can think of no better way to describe this than, somewhat counter-intuitively, to invoke this infamous quote

Nerd culture has become strangely in vogue over the last couple of years as people have, much like the quote above declares, realized that it is a society in which it is still acceptable to care about things.  But I can't help but notice a few things about that.  First...why on earth do we have to be told that it is ok to care about things?  Why do we have to proudly (or not proudly) label ourselves "Nerd" before it is ok to be enthusiastic?  Second, even within the world of nerdly enthusiasm we have adopted a sort of reflexive, self-aware lexicon that allows us to distance ourselves from our enthusiasm.  If you're feeling brave, take a brief trek through the wilds of tumblr, imgur, or reddit fandom communities.  Nerds don't talk about feelings, they talk about their "feels".

You don't get excited, you "squee".

You don't care about a relationship between two characters, you "ship" them.

It's like nerds have to prove that they're aware that they care about these things more than they're necessarily supposed to.  Or like their feelings for their nerd-topic of choice are separate from their real, more reasonable emotions about real life.  And lastly, is the compartmentalizing of enthusiasm to "nerdy" things just another attempt to strip passion, enthusiasm, and conviction from the rest of our lives?  If nerds are the ones who are allowed to be "unironically enthusiastic about stuff", then what about the rest of the world--the ones who don't self-identify as "nerds".  Are they not "allowed" to be passionate?  Or must their enthusiams be cloaked in the ubiquitous coping mechanism of our post-modern world: irony.  Things you can't like openly you can like "ironically".  I can't decide if irony is the bane of modern society or its saving grace...

And now...are you ready for it?  Now I'm going to bring us full circle.  Back to my friend Spencer.  Who dances passionately every single dance.  I described him as being earnest.  Because I think that earnestness is the opposite of apathy.  It is certainly the opposite of irony.  Spencer does not dance ironically, though when we watch him we suspect that he does.  He is earnest.  In his dancing, in his conversation, and in his interactions with life and people.  And though I am a part of this nerdy, ironic, post-modern world of apathy and cynicism, when I dance with Spencer I get to let go of my protective shell of never being too invested in anything and be unabashedly passionate.  Not passionate in a nerdy way, that makes fun of itself as it revels in its feels.  Passionate in a completely authentic and up front way.  A way that we can't help but make fun of when we see it because we can't imagine that such simple, upfront and un-nuanced emotion exists anymore in this world.  That is earnestness.  And even if I make the occasional joke at its expense, and I don't think I'll ever be able to claim that I am a perfectly earnest individual, I have to stand up for earnestness.  Because when I dance earnestly with Spencer I am completely happy.  And I think that has to count for something.

My story...

A few days ago I posted a link on facebook to a blog post from the website FreeBYU.org.  As the site was created by and maintained in large part by one of my best friends, I've become more involved in their movement than I likely would have otherwise.  So I came across these two profiles: Travis and Tucker.  I know both of these guys, but I had not previously heard their story in terms of the church.  Reading their stories, so similar to so many other stories I've heard, made me want to try and put my own experience into words.

When I was younger I had this reputation for being quite a scriptorian.  Whenever we'd play games in primary revolving around Book of Mormon stories my team would always turn to me when it was our turn.  And I almost never disappointed.  Clearly I had a deep love of the scriptures.  Or, something neither I nor anyone else around me considered, I might instead just have an amazing ability to recall stories.  Years and classes later, after being the go-to student to summarize the reading we were all assigned for homework last week, I've come to believe it was most likely that latter explanation.  Because one thing I don't remember growing up is ever doing a single thing to deserve that reputation I had.  I mean, I read my scripture with some regularity because my mom made me bookmarks and charts and any number of other devices to remind me to do so.  But I don't recall ever particularly loving them.

I can remember one and a half times in my life when I've ever felt what could be called The Spirit.  The first was on some teenaged birthday (perhaps my sixteenth? I don't have the journal from that time to verify).  It was late enough in my life that my grandma was already starting to show the earliest signs of dementia.  She and my grandpa had given me a card with some money, perhaps $20, and as I laid in bed that night I had one of my first ever panic attacks as I worried over whether or not they could afford to give me that money and what was going to happen to them both as they continued getting older and their lives continued getting harder.  I was so afraid for them, and I felt so helpless to do anything about either their futures or my own current anxiety.  And though I cannot now remember the actual feeling (and I am actually often tempted to discount my memory of what happened), I do know that that night I felt comforted.  I was finally able to stop worrying, trust that my grandparents would be ok, and fall asleep.

The other time, the one I call a "half" time, was when I was about 20.  I was living with my dad and my step mother and my two step brothers and I was, all things considered, not in a great place in my life.  I'd come home from my study abroad completely broke and I made the decision to leave school for a year and try to earn money.  In retrospect I can say without reservation that it was the wrong decision, though a few good things did come from it.  So I spent a year and a half living with family, working at Target, and literally doing nothing else with myself.  I would wake up between 11 and 1 every day and surf the internet till I had to go to work.  I would work from 3 to 11 and then come home and stay up till 3 or 4 or 5 watching movies or TV shows.  I avoided my family and had almost zero social interaction.  Literally the only good things in my life were my cat and my ward.  I loved that ward (and the cat, but that's not relevant to this story).  And it was eventually my ward and my bishop that helped me get back on my feet.  I started thinking about serving a mission.  I was nearing the age and I can't even count the number of times I'd heard that if I wasn't married by 21 it was my duty to serve a mission.  I talked to my bishop about it, and we discussed the preparations I would need to make for a mission to happen.  I knew I didn't feel like I was spiritually "fit" enough for a mission yet, but I was hopeful that I could become so.  But as I considered the mission I kept thinking about school.  I was thinking about all my friends and how I was already a year behind them now.  If I went on a mission I'd be another year and half on top of that.  Basically all my friends would be done by the time I got back.  So one day I was praying about whether or not I should go on a mission or I should go back to school.  Now, depending on who you talk to either I just had a moment of clarity or I received an answer to my prayers.  Either way, I realized that when making my decision it was ok for me to factor in what I wanted to do.  School and mission were both good, worthy choices; this wasn't an issue of right or wrong.  So I wasn't somehow sinning to consider what I wanted to do as I made the decision.  And what I wanted to was to go back to school and all my friends.  Which is what I ended up doing.

If you ask me right now to tell you about all the times I've felt the spirit, those are the two stories I'd come up with.  I would also tell you one more.

The actual decision to come back to Provo was somewhat abrupt and I ended up moving into the first place I could find.  I moved down in the middle of the summer of 2008 and I lived in the place I found through winter semester of 2009.  I can't tell you exactly when this event occurred besides sometime while I lived in that house.  Essentially, one night I had a...spiritual breakdown shall we call it?  It began simply with loneliness.  I've always been susceptible to the latenight lonelies.  But that night it got worse and worse.  I remembered all those New Era articles I read about how other people had felt lonely and then they prayed and they "felt the arms of [their] dear Savior surround them and His love fill them."  So I asked God to let me feel that love.  Let me feel those arms around me.  I didn't feel anything at all.  And as I waited to feel the love I'd been promised was there waiting for me I started to ask myself a question.  It was the question that I think a lot of other people my age are also asking themselves.  What if none of it is true?  What if it is all just a big lie, or manipulation, or even just a well-intentioned wish?  What then?  I think I can say that it was the worst night of my life.  Because as I asked myself that question, I also asked God.  The God who, in all my twenty-some years of life had only had anything to say to me maybe two times.  And all this time I'd been ok with that.  I knew I wasn't good enough or devout enough to warrant the sort of constant spiritual intervention that I'd heard about other people having.  I didn't blame God for thusfar leaving me be.  But that night was different.  I needed something, anything at all.  I would have been content with a brusque "get over yourself" even.  I just wanted the tiniest shred of reassurance that my entire life hadn't been built around the world's greatest self-sustaining con.  I eventually cried myself out and fell asleep exhausted.

I woke up the next day with the the question in my head "What now?"  What was I supposed to do?  I'd been let down by God.  I had asked and He had said nothing.  But on the other hand...I had survived.  I'd made it through that awful night, and, thankfully, in the light of day I didn't feel the same passionate anguish I'd felt the night before.  I was just confused.  I didn't know what was supposed to happen.

A few days later in one of my classes we were assigned to read a book of poetry called The Stream and the Sapphire by Denise Levertov.  In it I found this poem:

Suspended
I had grasped God's garment in the void
but my hand slipped
on the rich silk of it.
The 'everlasting arms' my sister loved to remember
must have upheld my leaden weight
from falling, even so,
for though I claw at empty air and feel
nothing, no embrace,
I have not plummetted.

I have never ever cared for poetry, but that poem practically slapped me in the face when I read it.  There it was.  I had grasped at God's garment that night and my hands had slipped.  But what she said appealed to me.  "For though I claw at empty air and feel nothing, no embrace, I have not plummeted."  Neither had I.  I had made it through my night of pain and abandonment and I came out the other side.

There were many more hours of thought that went into it, but this is where I ended up.  God didn't answer me.  Not even when I was desperately begging Him to do so.  I could interpret that two ways.  God couldn't or wouldn't answer me because He either doesn't exist or doesn't care, or He didn't answer me for reasons of His own that I don't know but trust to ultimately be for my own good.  I have at least one friend who, upon reading this, will quickly point out to me that those two options are actually the exact same thing, except one includes me basically making things up to make myself feel better.  And to him I say yes.  He's exactly right.  Because those two options ended up being a microcosm of my entire attitude toward religion.  Which is this:  Either God doesn't exist and everything I've been taught and believed in my entire life is a lie and I've been wasting all my time and energy on nothing more than really persistent myths.  OR.  It's all true and there are things I don't understand and probably never will and I accept them and try to figure things out as best I can.  Those may not be the options for everyone, but that's what they were to me.

So I made a decision.  I chose to believe.  I chose to tell myself what may well be a straight up lie because when I weighed my options, my life looked better through that lens.  In the church there is a lot of talk about faith.  I doubt a sacrament meeting goes by that doesn't have at least one mention of it.  Faith, we are told, is the foundation of our testimonies, and through it we progress to knowledge.  Well, knowledge is something that I have accepted to be pretty much beyond my reach.  Because I just don't think I could claim knowledge unless God or the Spirit told me something straight out.  And that doesn't appear to be something that's going to happen.  But if I'm being honest, I have to say that I wouldn't even classify what I have as faith.  What I have is hope.  Hope is the very lowest rung on the spiritual ladder in my head.  I have hope that this church I've committed myself to is true (though certainly not perfect).  I have hope that one day I'll understand the world and my place in it.  I have hope that God loves me.

That was five and a half years ago.  Things haven't been easy since then.  I've seen a lot of friends go through similar experiences to mine, but with very different endings.  They couldn't accept hope as a good enough reason to stick with the church.  I don't blame them.  In fact, I often worry that the real reason I stay with the church is simply because I don't care enough about topics that should be much more important to me.  Maybe I just lack enough conviction one way or the other.  It's actually a pretty constant issue in my mind.  But whether that is the case or not, I will say that I have thusfar stuck with my decision.  I may have doubts and questions and hurts and plenty of issues with the church...but I have decided to stick with it.  I think the hardest thing for me these days is jealousy of my time.  Lacking the devout conviction of my fellow saints I find it difficult to sacrifice my time so willingly.  I'm working on that.  But I will also say that having an...academic? reasoned?  well, either way, a far less emotional attachment to the church has had its upsides. I think I have been able to offer a supportive and understanding ear to my friends who have suffered through the disillusionment and pain that comes with a lost testimony (at least I really hope so). I am able to hear a lot more criticism of the church without getting angry or defensive (unless that criticism is idiotic and unfair ;).  And I am able to look at the church more objectively and see places it needs improvement without writing it off entirely.  And that is, I think, the biggest "blessing" that has come from my story thusfar.  Because if the ones with questions and concerns just leave, and all that is left are the devout and unquestioning, then how will anything ever change?  Each side serves it's purpose, and you need both of them.  So I am grateful, I guess, that I can be a questioner.

I told my bishop an abbreviated version of this story a few weeks ago.  It is something I've mostly kept to myself.  I've been ashamed of the fact that I can't claim to have faith or knowledge.  It is hard not to think that, if I was a better person--a better Mormon--I would have those things.  But my bishop, instead of calling me to repentance, said "I think that is a great story."  Small as it was, that little bit of acceptance was so comforting to me.  It inspired me to try and look at my story in a different light--to recast it from a failure to a success.  It's hard to even write that.  And maybe I'm not quite at success level.  But as I've gone back through it all and written it all out, I have been able to see more goodness in my story than I ever have before.  Enough that I can hope to call it a success one day...

Because learning without creation is pointless

I've been trying to write a story for the last couple of weeks.  On a good day I write about 1,000 words.  Prolific I am not.  It's because, surprisingly enough, I find fiction writing to be exhausting in a way that writing here is not.  Writing on my blog is casual--just me spitting out whatever is rattling around in my head.  Writing a story is different--it needs to be "right".  And finding the right words to explain the right actions in the right way leaves me exhausted after just a scene or two.  Which is ok.  Because there isn't actually a time line on anything and if I it takes me till October of 2015 (which is what the NaNoWriMo website is predicting based off my current rate of writing) then...ok.  Why not?

oh, it's actually November of next year...hooray!

But, it also means that today I just wanted to take a break and do some writing that wasn't quite so difficult for me.  Perhaps later I will write another scene in my story.  But for now, it is the mental equivalent of sweatpants and chocolate time for my brain.

Miley...I think you're doing that wrong...

So let's talk about the usefulness of education.  In my last post I mentioned how I'm adjusting to adult, non-married life.  I talked about my recent interest in researching fairy tales and how I questioned whether or not reading arcane academic articles was a better use of my time than perusing facebook and buzzfeed.  I left it open ended, implying I wasn't completely sure about the answer.

Well, inasmuch as I am capable of being completely sure of anything (I'm not), I will say that I am sure.

With qualifications.

Whether it is my Mormonism or just me, I have to say that educating myself, even about the most obscure and useless of topics is an improvement over entertainment-grazing the internet for babies and kittens (which is not to say that there isn't a place for babies and kittens and gif-fests).  If for no other reason than that the latter requires absolutely nothing from your brain.  And if my primary pass-time is something that I can do equally well when I am literally half asleep, there is something wrong with my pass-time.  Hence, I declare obscure research a winner!

But frankly, it's not actually a huge step up to go from facebook to obscure research.  There's a last step missing.  And that is where my qualifications come in.  (guys.....I'm sorry, but I'm having a really hard time focusing on the rest of my post with that gif repeating above me over and over...)

Ok, refocusing.  What I'm talking about is synthesis.  This is a thing that, ideally, you learned about in high school.  If you didn't learn about it in high school then I am praying that you learned about it in college.  But since I've been a college TA, I know that many many people did not, so I will give a quick summary, though I'm pretty confident that none of you, my 12 lovely readers, are these people.  Anneke, if you're reading this, bear with a non-education major as I try to explain this.  There are different levels of learning, each one implying a certain depth of understanding.  Because understanding is not the same thing as knowing.  Think of it....think of it like acting.  Imagine a scale, and on one end you have Antonio Banderas learning his first Holywood part phonetically because he didn't speak English at the time.  He knew his lines, but he didn't understand them.  All he could do was repeat back exactly what he had memorized.  On the other end of the scale you have, um...someone like Robin Williams or Anthony Hopkins.  These are men who know their lines, know their characters, know the story, understand all those things, and using them, they riff and improvise and actually create more than what is in the script.  This is synthesis, and this is what is necessary to make education worthwhile.

hey look! A little picture about exactly my topic!

It is a hard lesson to learn, especially for those students who made it to college without learning it.  So many kids would email me or approach me in class to ask "Why didn't I get an A?  I covered all the study points."  Even setting aside my feelings on grade inflation, the most basic answer is that simply regurgitating a list of facts is not demonstrative of complete education.  It's Antonio Banderas speaking out sounds whose meanings he couldn't comprehend.  To show me that you actually understand what those facts mean you have to synthesize them into something greater than the constituent parts.  Tell me why those facts were significant.  Tell me why we're studying that story.  Tell me anything, as long as it shows that you've not just memorized the information, but actually digested it and comprehended its significance.  Be Anthony Hopkins disappearing into his character so that you forget that he isn't actually a terrifying madman in real life.  Be Robin Williams riffing so much during the making of Aladdin  that they could have made three movies on his material alone.

Which brings us back to research for research's sake.  It's true, pumping my brain full of facts is better than turning it off entirely and tucking it away in a corner.  But better still than that is taking all those facts and doing something with them.  In my case, right now, I am using my research to write my own version of one of my favorite fairy tales (I hope to adapt more in the future).  Sometimes I write quasi-scholarly analyses of stories or movies or books here on my blog.  Maybe I just tell my boss about how strange the stories are.  Whatever I do, about not just fairy tales but any other topic I research, the point is that once I've put the information in my brain I need to work with it.  If I don't, it might as well not be there in the first place, taking up space.  Because not only does synthesizing your knowledge demonstrate a deeper and more thorough understanding of it...it actually creates that understanding.

Synthetic thinking is a..."higher" level of thinking than consumptive.  It takes more work.  In practical terms that means that you just don't really do it without making yourself do it.  And you don't make yourself do it without a reason.  Now that reason may be simply because you enjoy it (that is why I write this blog).  But until I sit down and write a blog post about the importance of College Girl literature I don't actually fully understand that importance.  The bits and pieces of my thoughts are all floating around in my head but I've never taken the time or energy to straighten them all out and organize them and make something of them.  This is actually exactly what is happening when you're talking to someone and you explain something and they get all excited and exclaim "Exactly!  That's exactly what I think, you just put it so much more clearly!"  What they're actually saying is "I had all those bits of idea drifting around in my head, too, but I never sat down and put them all together like you have just done and I can recognize the idea all put together there in your words!"

If only more people understood the principle of synthesis I think the world as a whole would be a much better place.  Synthetic thinking leads to an understanding of and ability to both articulate and support one's own beliefs and ideals rather than a blind defensiveness.  It leads to developments of philosophy and art and science.  And the thing is, everyone is capable of it.  It's not a "smart" vs. "dumb" thing.  If you want to be that reductive you could, I suppose, argue that it is a "disciplined" vs. "indulgent" thing.  But even then, you can't expect someone to discipline their mind in a certain way if they have no understanding of what that way even is.

But maybe I've managed to explain it successfully here.  And maybe someone who didn't quite understand it will read this and then they will  (or maybe not...I'm not so optimistic about my writing/explaining abilities).  And then, just maybe, they will have the discipline to start trying to think this way.  And I suppose that if I can manage to inspire that series of events with my blog for just one person then that will be a good day's work.

A REALLY Uncomfortable Truth

Historically, I am a total sucker for a good chick flick.  Anyone who has seen my movie collection can tell you that.  But lately I've found my enjoyment of them to be tainted.  Cynicism, mocking, and yes, even a little bitterness have crept in.  This is because chick flicks are a bunch of lies.  

Now, I'm not talking about the relationships themselves.  I am still enough of an idealist that I do believe that two people can fall crazily in love and have a great, soul-mate-esque relationship.  Sure, I don't think it happens in one to seven days, and I think it takes a hell of a lot more work than the movies imply.  But I still believe in love, though that belief has been somewhat abused of late.  

No.  The lie isn't the relationships.  It's the story arc.  The "happily ever after."  The thematic assumption that people are "meant" to be together or that things will "work out in the end."  As the delightful Miss Prism says, "The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily.  That is what fiction means!"

Years of watching these movies, beginning with Cinderella and continuing with He's Just Not That Into You, have taught me one thing: if you want something to work out reeeeeeal bad and you have the patience to wait through all of the (pardon my language) shit then eventually it will happen.  He'll fall in love with you; you'll get exactly the job you've been wanting; your relationship with your mother will suddenly improve without you having to give up your habit of bitterly sarcastic witty banter.  Notice I said "wait" not "wade".  Through little to no effort on your part these miraculous blessings will fall into your lap as a reward for your...what?  Your patience?  Your blind, stubborn stupidity?  

Because guess what people; if you wait long enough the good aren't going to automatically end up happily and the bad unhappily.  That's not the way life works.  Sometimes, no matter how badly you want something and how much you think you deserve it, the world doesn't bend to your will.  He doesn't ever "wake up" and realize you're the girl he's been looking for right here in front of him; Scholastic doesn't discover your resume at the top of the pile and call you up to offer you a job as their editor in chief; and your mother doesn't learn to get over those pesky hurt feelings of hers and appreciate how dang funny you are. 

A lot of my life has been spent waiting for those rewards to come.  Waiting for God or the universe or whoever it is who metes out cosmic justice to notice that I've put my hours in and it's time for things to work out.  Working out is a lie.  It's ironic, really, since I just had a debate with a friend of mine about how much I hate the "it was/wasn't meant to be" philosophy.  As Aunt Woo says to Aang, "you create your own destiny."  Things aren't meant to be or not be.  They just are.

I think the key is recognizing which destiny is which.  Waiting for things in my life to "work out"; suffering through the misery while they were distinctly un-worked...that seemed like me trying to create my own destiny.  But it was just waiting.  Waiting for a destiny I'd picked out for myself and thought I deserved to happen.  Hoping that my "patience" in enduring things that I couldn't actually control would be counted as effort and that I could will my way into the happily ever after that I really wanted.  Picking circumstances isn't quite the same thing as picking destiny.  I can choose to be happy and I can work towards that happiness, but I don't get to pick exactly how it's going to happen.  Wanting it to be this way real bad doesn't mean that it is the way it's going to be.

So I guess it is time for me to give up waiting for things that I may want, but can't actually control.  My circumstances are never going to be changed by my wishing they were different.  And tenaciously hanging on to hopes that have no reason to exist doesn't earn me metaphysical brownie points to eventually be cashed in for karmic prizes.  My life is as it is right now.  I shouldn't resent some of my greatest blessings simply because they aren't quite the ones that I wanted.  Instead I'm going to work on changing myself rather than waiting for the world to change to fit me.  All that energy I put into enduring I'm going to try to redirect into growing.  It's going to be hard, but I'm hopeful.

More thoughts on Batman and morality and stuff...

When The Dark Knight came out, there were a lot of people who quietly said "hmmm...this movie is too much for me."  However, the overwhelming popular response to the film (of which I was very much a part) was one of unabashed adoration.  It's difficult to express your opposing opinion in the face of that much passion, I understand.  But with the Aurora shooting these people have, I think, felt empowered.  Here is a tangible (and horrible) act that validates how they've been feeling all along: movies about violence beget violence.  

I wrote a blog post a couple of days ago defending the Dark Knight as one of my favorite movies of all time. I tried to explain why I personally did not feel that it was too dark.  I should have made that statement more clear--I acknowledge that the movie absolutely has darkness, a great amount of it.  The point I was trying to make was not that the movie isn't dark, but that the darkness serves a purpose.  A purpose that, to me, is worthwhile.  

I have a couple of friends who have been very vocal about the reasons that they dislike these movies.  One friend, in particular, has shared with me a lot of quotes from LDS General Authorities about the need to keep the spirit present at all times, partaking of good things, and watching what we let into our lives.  If you are interested in reading these quotes, and they are certainly worth reading, you can see most of them here.  

However, as much as I have heard people speaking out against the Batman movies, I have heard just as many, if not more, very vocally opposing them.  Arguments that "guns don't kill people, people kill people" and "bad people will do bad things regardless of the media they watch and the laws we enact".  I had a conversation with a good friend of mine who pointed out that James Holmes was clearly insane and trying to argue that his behavior has anything to do with the behavior of a sane person is absurd.  People make their decisions and trying to control them with gun control laws and censorship is pointless.

I have generally been in the latter group.  My reasoning has been fairly simple.  I have watched the Batman movies, or even Taken, a film that I find much much more disturbing, and I have not taken my .22 rifle and shot anyone with it.  Nor have the majority of the thousands of other people who have also seen those movies, or movies infinitely worse.  The evidence of all the people out there watching movies and not shooting people suggests that violent films do not lead to violence.  

But...sometimes they do.  The fact is James Holmes was "inspired" by the Joker.  Now, you can say "Hey, he made a choice.  The movie didn't make him kill anyone, he chose to kill people."  Yes, technically that is true.  And frankly, I am as enthusiastically opposed to attempts at regulating people's lives as I can be about anything political.  I think trying to fix problems by passing laws is ineffectual and idiotic.  But I can't help but feel like American society has become addicted to ideas of individuality and independence to an unhealthy degree.  The cult of Live and Let Live has taken a choke-hold on our society, right down to the way we raise our children--"I just need to let little Sally and Johnny be who they are!"  Nevermind that who they are is a screaming hellion who will later grow up to make my life and many others miserable.  

Society is growing ever more isolated and we are losing our connections to our neighbors.  Partially this is because it is human nature to bristle against people "telling me what to do!"  But I think there is also another reason.  People don't want to feel responsible; they don't want to feel guilty.  If everyone can do what they want and no one is the boss of me then when something terrible like the Aurora shooting--or the Columbine shooting, or any one of the great host of horrible things that have been done in the history of the world--happens, I don't have to feel guilty.  I can feel sad for the victims, and I can feel horrified at the brutality, and I can feel angry at the perpetrator, but I don't ever have to feel responsible.  I don't ever have to feel as though such a thing, whatever the thing may be, was in any way my fault.  

How does a man become so delusional that he pretends to be the Joker and decides to kill innocent, random strangers without anyone noticing? 

Reality argues that no matter what we do there will always be crazy people doing crazy horrible things.  And honestly, I agree with my friend who said "I admit, I don't feel at all responsible for the Aurora shooting.  I didn't make him pick up a gun."  I don't think that the fact that I love The Dark Knight and the Dark Knight Rises means that it was my fault that a man 500 miles away from me lost the distinction between reality and fiction.  Nor do I think that the fact that I own a gun and would vote against gun regulation places blame on me for people I've never met deciding to kill.  

But maybe it should?

I don't know.  I really don't.  I wish I had some sort of conclusion to this post.  

But I wanted to write it to say that I understand.  I understand why my friends feel sick after watching movies full of violence.  I understand why the leaders of my church preach against violence and immorality and the desensitization such things can cause.  I agree with them.  I feel that society, as a whole, needs to realize that sometimes you DO have to take responsibility for the bad things that individuals do because, like it or not, human beings are social beings.  

As for my life, and the incongruities and contradictions that, perhaps, it exhibits, maybe I am wrong, or maybe I am living as best I can right now.  I don't know which of those is correct.  I know that I hate being told what to do just as much as anyone (possibly more than a lot).  I know that I truly do love the movies The Dark Knight and The Dark Knight Rises and see legitimate moral values in them.  I know that I'm trying to be a good person.  So...wherever that leaves us...is up to you I guess...

Little Miss Sunshine: Real Life Sucks

I've always been intrigued by Greg Kinnear's carier.  These are the Greg Kinnear movies I've seen:

Ghost Town
Little Miss Sunshine
Robots
Stuck On You
Someone Like You
Mystery Men
You've Got Mail
As Good As It Gets
Sabrina

Since I'm sure you didn't click on that link, I feel it important to let you know that those eight films come from a 49 title body of work that is really pretty impressive.  Which is to say that my impression of his career may not be at all accurate.  But the impression that I've gotten from Greg Kinnear is that, when he's not playing a little bit of a jerk: Sabrina, You've Got Mail, Ghost Town, Little Miss Sunshine, Someone Like You, Mystery Men, Robots...dang...I never realized how he's a bit of a jerk in, like, virtually ever movie I've ever seen him in...anyway, when he isn't playing that character he is playing really nice guys who gets a bit taken advantage of.  A little like James Marsden (I was so happy to see him finally get the girl in 27 Dresses...finally he got to play someone other than the nice guy who gets screwed!).

Look at him...bein' so nice!

His two personas overlap in the movie Little Miss Sunshine.  I just watched it again today.  I love that movie so much.  I mean...so much.  So much that I'm writing a blog post about it.  And why do I love it so much?  Because of the way Greg Kinnear's two personas overlap, and how that is representative of the entire film.  That is to say, I love Little Miss Sunshine because in that movie every single character's life goes completely to hell, and those series of events and the characters' reactions are so exquisitely true to life.

If you haven't seen the movie then I guess....spoilers?  It's not really a film you can spoil, but whatever.  I'll put a break and you can make your choices...

A Declaration of Self

I debated for a long while whether or not I wanted to post this, and then whether or not I wanted to post all of it.  But, obviously, in the end I decided to share it exactly as I wrote it because most of the time I choose not to say the thing I want to say and I don't know if that is the right decision always.  So this time I'm saying it and we'll see what happens.  This post is dedicated to a good friend of mine, that he may do with it what he wishes:

I have amazing friends.  Amazing, brilliant, ambitious friends who plan to go out into the world and set it on fire.  I have friends who plan on going and putting out those fires when they get out of control.  I look at my friends and I know that the future of this world is in good hands. 

But that’s not me.  When the time comes for that conversation and everyone is laying out their Lives of Awesomeness I am content to let them talk.  Because I plan on living a small life. 

A small life, not to be confused with an unimportant life, is one concerned with small things.  It is not a life that takes in the grand sweep of politics and the swirling world-governing laws of science.  It is a life centered on people.  A life centered on my future family.  A life that may travel the world, but will never move it—at least, not overtly. 

Perhaps the most inflammatory essay I ever wrote centered on the two different types of civic involvement.  I referenced the schools of thought of W.E.B. Dubois and Booker T. Washington from the Civil Rights Era (I was, at the time, applying these philosophies to issues of feminism).  Dubois was a staunch advocate of aggressive and even violent change.  If the world isn’t right then you scream and kick and shove until it is.  Make people notice you.  Make people notice the problem.  Make people change!  Washington, on the other hand, espoused almost the polar opposite policy.  If the world isn’t right then tuck in and do the best you can.  Work hard, live right by yourself, and eventually people will notice.  Right comes out in the end. 

Then and now I unabashedly align myself with Washington.  I am so glad that we have Duboisians and I am so glad that I do not have to be one of them.  Both are, I think, required to change the world and it is for that reason that I feel no embarrassment, shame, or guilt for my lifestyle.

And what, exactly, is my lifestyle?  It is a life in progress.  I am not perfect, in fact I am so far from it that I don’t think I could see perfect with one of those telescopes that they use to look at planets in other galaxies. 

But I am trying to, and mostly succeeding in, being happy.

I live a life that revolves around books and movies and jokes and thinking and most importantly of all, my life revolves around the people I love.  Those of you who know me the best hopefully know that that is true.  I live life on an individual basis, not a grand scope. 

These are all broad, practically generic statements.  I’m struggling to express myself adequately without getting caught up in unnecessary detail but I feel that doing so is reducing my thoughts to truisms.  I can only assure you that I mean what I say. 

What do I most want to say? 

I know who I am and I am happy with that person.  I have chosen the life that I am leading and I am satisfied with that choice.  I love so many things in this world and I am happy that I get to experience them all and live this small life of mine.  I am so glad that I have the luxury of forming my own future and growing slowly into the person I want to be.

And if my small life doesn’t seem up to par with yours, then you can go to hell. 

It Aint Fair...

I should 100% be going to sleep right now, but instead I'm writing this post.  Once again I am faced with a topic far too vast to be addressed in a small, insignificant blog, but again I feel impelled to put my thoughts into words for my own sake if for nothing else.

I would not have thought that my young adult fiction class would be the class to provoke most of my "deep thinking" for the semester.  "Deep thinking" is the name I gave just this instant to what I consider to be the very best part of my academic career--the thinking I do beyond, above, around, and through my assignments.  It's when I take ideas and carry them through and really explore them.  Usually it has nothing to do with actual class work or credit.  And I repeat, I did not expect my YA fiction class to be the one to spark it.

But I have been lucky.  My professor has assigned us, thus far at least, some truly superb books.  This week's was Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry.  I read it today.  I think I read it once before years and years ago, but apparently it was one of a very small list of books that I don't remember very well at all.  So today was an essentially fresh and new reading.

Somehow, inhumanity and cruel treatment of others has become a theme in my life the last couple of weeks.  Last week I read the Hitler Youth book, about which I posted.  Then the Holocaust and WWII seemed to keep coming up in various disparate points in my life.  Then there is this book, which fits right in to the theme.  And now, after two weeks of stories about people hating, hurting, and dehumanizing other people, I am starting to chafe and feel raw.

The fact is, when I read these stories about Nazis beating and murdering Jews without remorse, or white men slapping and kicking black children who happened to look at them wrong, the fact is that I am flooded with righteous wrath.  I want to take the fear those poor people experienced and I want to take it right into the hearts of their tormentors.  I want them to know exactly what they put their poor victims through.  I want to cause them the same pain they cause to others because I feel like that is the only way they could ever understand what they'd done.  And it is the only way to make things right and even and square...

Even as I'm writing this I'm brimming with emotion--utter fury that a human being could treat another in such a way, wringing sympathy for those who suffered such vindictive treatment, and embarrassment that I should presume to pity these people as though I can even begin to comprehend their experiences.  I mean, I can read this book, or To Kill A Mockingbird or Hitler's Youth, or any other book, but I can never really fathom what it was like to live in the same world as the actual people.  So who am I to be angry on their behalf or sorry for them?  Who am I to read their stories and then write a blog post as though I have something important to say?

But I must.  Because as I was sitting here on my bed, wondering how things like Slavery and the Holocaust could exist, I suddenly had a bright shining realization that had the gleam of truth about it.

To understand I will take you on somewhat of a tangent.  I'm sure you all remember the movie Taken.  The Liam Neeson movie that came out a year or two ago that everyone just loved.  In it an ex-CIA operative has retired to be closer to his daughter.  She goes on a holiday to Europe and is kidnapped by sex-traders.  Her father then goes on a bloody rampage through Europe to rescue her, killing brutally, mercilessly, and without the slightest remorse anyone who happens to stand too close to him.  Everyone loved this movie because we all loved seeing Liam Neeson circumvent laws that so often seem more a hindrance than a help, and get bloody, efficient results.  I walked out of that movie deeply disturbed as I realized that I had just watched literally hundreds of people die and I had relished it.  I can't tell you how many people responded "yeah, but they were horrible people!  They deserved it!"  Be that as it may, I couldn't help but feel that a movie like Taken played to an unhealthy place in human nature which ought not be cultivated.

Because the fact is, the moment you start rationalizing cruelty by any sort of reasoning, you are on the dangerous slope.  One of the great tragedies of something like the Holocaust or of Slavery is the scarring left in its wake--the mental and emotional backlash.  You take a group of people and categorically demean them to a point where their lives hold no value...what could you possibly expect would happen to those people once they're finally released from your power?  The hatred of the Jews for the Nazis or the blacks for the whites is a horrible thing.  Their lives and their children's lives for generations are warped and mutated by a hatred that is just as blind as the hatred that they experienced.

What I'm trying to say so unsuccessfully is that these terrible points in history often lead to reciprocation.  That righteous anger I feel, that desire to hurt the tormentors as their victims were hurt, those same feelings are felt by others and we try to punish the tyrants somehow.  They need to suffer because they made others suffer!

But what does that make us?  What does that make the victims?  Suddenly the roles are reversed.  And just because you were once a victim doesn't mean that you cannot become a bully.

The epiphany that I had as I was sitting here on my bed was this:

If you cannot possibly find any way to value yourself besides setting yourself up over another person  by stripping them of their humanity...how low...how little must you value yourself?  And how immensely must you loathe yourself?

That was my epiphany.  And along with it came the realization why righteous wrath simply will not work.  Why you cannot punish away that kind of bad behavior.  If you hate yourself that much--that the only thing that can make you feel good is to compare yourself to something you consider less than human--no amount of punishment or pain will fix that.  Indeed, it will but add fuel to the fire.

What can fix that?  The horribly beautiful or beautifully horrible truth is that love is the only thing that can fix that.  Love and forgiveness and acceptance.  If you hate me and I hate you back, that does nothing but create an endless cycle of hate.  But if you hate me and I love you and forgive you back...even if you hate me till the end of time, by removing my own hatred I have managed to decrease the net hatred in the world even just by a little.

My righteous wrath isn't gone.  In fact when I think about forgiving someone in a situation like that a large part of me revolts.  Where is the justice in that?  How can I possibly suggest that such a thing is even possible?  Honestly, it may not be possible for many people.  Maybe their suffering passed the point of no return beyond which they cannot come back without some recompense being paid.  And maybe that's good.  But just try to imaging for a moment a world where everyone loved others--and more importantly, everyone felt well and truly loved.  Imagine a world where everyone knew who he or she was, the value they had, and that they were loved by those around them.

Can you imagine a Holocaust in that world?  Because I cannot.

Forgiveness and love are the way to that world.  Not hatred or vindictive punishment or retribution.

Swing Heil

In the memorandum, Himmler also warned the police about young people who ignored German culture and preferred jazz music and swing dance.  These resisters were called the Swing Youth, due to their taste in music.  According to Himmler, the teenagers said, "Swing Heil," instead of "Heil Hitler."  He noted that the boys wore their hair long and the girls wore makeup and painted their fingernails.

Today I read Susan Campbell Bartoletti's Hitler Youth: Growing Up In Hitler's Shadow.  It was a fascinating read.  I hesitate to try and write a post about it because I don't think I could do justice to the topic without much more time and research, but at the same time I felt an overwhelming wish to voice some of my small thoughts.  Frankly, most of my mind is focused on the war more than the actual book.  That being said, I must briefly mention that, as a person generally uninterested in non-fiction, I was very impressed.  Ms Bartoletti created an incredibly well-crafted book that presented difficult information in a very engaging manner.

Hitler's plan for training the youth of Germany is a fascinating and terrifying thing.  As I read this story of indoctrination and peer pressure I just kept looking at the world in which I live.  The climate of fear and reactionism that allowed Hitler to successively strip Germans of their freedoms with no opposition (indeed, each new breach of their freedom was often celebrated as a victory) seems so like the one in which we live today.  SOPA created an international outcry that roused people from their somnolent apathy and their outrage has, at least for now, been acknowledged.  But where was that same outrage when Congress passed the National Defense Authorization Act which, among I don't even know what else, allows the government to detain Americans "suspected of terrorist activity"?  This law was signed off by the president this month and is now in effect (insofar as I am aware...).  Setting aside the issue of detaining anyone without basic rights because I can only address so much here, the fact is that under a new and frighteningly broad definition of "terrorist activity" our government can now detain us, it's own citizens, indefinitely and without trial.  It may seem reactionary and extreme to imply this comparison, but I can't help but worry...is "The War on Terror" a good enough reason for us to sit quietly while our civil liberties, such an enduring hallmark of this nation (even as its reputation has suffered ever more tarnishing from the hands of outsiders and insiders alike), are chipped away one by one?

Ironically, I found a bitter sort of comfort even as I mused on these frightening ideas.  Bartoletti begins her book with a quote from Hitler himself

I begin with the young.  We older ones are used up...But my magnificent youngsters!  Are there finer ones anywhere in the world?  Look at all these men and boys!  What material!  With them I can make a new world.

Hitler understood the importance of the rising generation in the success of his war machine.  Bartoletti's book describes the activities the Hitler Jungen (HJ) orchestrated to get all the children involved.  She describes hiking and camping and summer camps.  She talks about the patriotic propaganda that played to the fervor of young minds.  Hitler had an immense gift for speaking, and with his nation's youth he used it to terrible effect.  Bartoletti includes several first-hand accounts of boys and girls in their teens who heard him speak.  They talk about how inspiring he was and how his words went right to their souls and captured their hearts and minds.  My bitter comfort as I read these accounts was a knowledge that the youth of my generation are immune to such insidious tactics.  The fact is, mine is a generation defined by apathy.

I cannot be proud of this safeguard. After all, apathy is just as dangerous as misguided fanaticism.  It was the apathy of others that allowed families to be dragged from their homes and put into concentration camps.  With enough apathy, fear, and carefully placed manipulation bad men can create a world all of their own making.  The fact is everyone wants their world to be ok.  They don't want there to be problems and trouble and issues.  It is frightening to think that something is wrong because that means that it must somehow be fixed.  Bartoletti interviewed actual members of the HJ and they talked to her about their inability to face what they had done.  So many of them simply could not accept that the man they had believed in with religious fervor was a madman and a murderer--not even when they saw the evidence with their own eyes.  People don't want to believe that the world is gone awry and that they have been a part of it, no matter how inadvertently.

But most of all this book overwhelmed me with the horror of violence and war.  Hitler took an entire generation and raised them up to be perfect soldiers.  Boys and men capable of the most horrifying atrocities towards their fellow men with little or no immediate remorse.  As I read Bartoletti's accounts of "mercy killings" and then the Holocaust I kept trying to understand how such programs could exist...and keep existing.  It wasn't just the insanity of Hitler; somehow hundreds of other people were pulled into complicity with it.  He was just one man.  Somehow he took living, feeling human beings and turned them into something less, something that was capable of looking others in the eye and inflicting every imaginable kind of torture on them.  How did he do that?

And yet this is not an isolated example.  To our shame, the history of human cruelty is as long as the history of human existence.  The worst part of this is the fact that it continues to exist today.  The fact that after witnessing something so appalling as World War II there still exists places like Guantanamo Bay.  That there are still terrorists and extremists and people filled with hate (or even more terrifying--people filled with militant zeal).  That people are still capable of taking another human being's life in his or her hands and snuffing it out because someone told them to...or because they told themselves to.  How?  How are we still doing this to one another?

I wish I had answers to any of these questions or solutions to even just one of these problems.  How does one abolish apathy while staving off misguided zealotry?  How does one subdue the demon within Man that strips from him his Humanity?  How do people conquer their wills and learn to interact with each other civilly and reasonably?  I don't know.  All I know is that even without solutions we have to keep trying.  Bartoletti told the story of various young men and women who rose up in rebellion under Hitler's regime.  In every instance they were quickly found and executed, their voices silenced, leaving what appeared to be little or no change in their wake.  It was difficult to hear their stories without bitterness as I wondered what it was for.  But I had to remind myself that the simple fact that I could read their stories all these years later means that they had some effect.  I cannot find the words to explain what their sacrifice means to me, a privileged and ignorant girl some 70 years later.  All I can say is that I am so grateful that they made it.  And perhaps, with that example to inspire me, if one day I find myself called on to sacrifice something of my own to protest against injustice, hatred, violence, or cruelty I will be able to make the right decision.  Even if I don't think it will make a difference.