The #MeToo movement was used today as a tool to feed
into the media's never-ending and ever-failing quest to prove Hillary Clinton an
enabler and protector of abusers. And so today there are hundreds of stories
floating titled things such as - - "Who is Burns Strider?" and
"Five Things You Need To Know About Burns Strider." Well, I know Burns
Strider have ten things for you to know about him. To know Burns is to know a
true friend.
Canoe in the Rapids, by Winslow Homer
1.) Loyal and available to his friends, Burns Strider is a guy who will stay on
the phone with a childhood friend until 4:00 am when she is suffering from a
life crisis and needs support.
2.) Burns is the friend who will invite you
for coffee at his office and tell you stories about growing up in Grenada, Mississippi.
You’ll enjoy the stories. They are colorful and vibrant and you'll walk away not
exactly sure what any of those stories had to do with anything. You will go to
sleep. You will wake up in the morning with your eyes as big as the planets and
understand that the point was to live authentically. To tell the truth. To tell
your own truth. To live your own truth. To be proud of your
truth, warts and all. And you will carry this message with you wherever you go.
And you will think of the words “lemony yellow aura,” forever, with great meaning.
3.) He is the guy who will meet you for dinner on a Tuesday night between
dropping his kids off at sports practice and picking them up because you had a
panic attack at work and are afraid of the future and are forgetting to
breathe.
4.) Burns does not let his friends off the hook. He tells us he loves us and
worries about us and that he better get a call back and when he knows
everything is not ok we are not allowed to say that everything is ok.
5.) Burns is a guy who might not tell you
that a piece of kale is stuck in your teeth during a lunch because he knows
there is a wall of mirrors that the two of you will pass as you exit and you
will see it and try to remove it with a fingernail. When you do this, he might
encourage you to just leave it. After all, it is important to be authentic.
6.) When confused, a friend can text Burns
at 10:30 pm on a Saturday night and ask, “Why is my boyfriend hiding copious
amounts of Kings Hawaiian bread rolls up high in the cupboards of our kitchen?”
Promptly, he will respond: “Because they make the best sandwiches. They really
do.”
7.) Burns loves his children (even more
than he loves Mississippi State Bulldogs sports). His sons are his life.
He is devoted to documenting nearly everything they do around town in DC, on
road trips, and on charmed adventures. He invites the rest of us to witness the
love and the celebrations of their life together.
8.) The relationship Burns has with the
Clintons is a sacred one. He will tell funny stories about diet cheating on the
campaign trail with former President Bill Clinton, or when Secretary Hillary
Clinton scolded him about procrastinating on a health concern. He will let you
know how and what they are doing, but that’s it. He is like that with all of his
friends. He protects us all from whatever we need protection.
9.) He wears a Make Mercy Great Again hat.
#MMGA
10.) His southern accent allows you to enjoy it when he is
making fun of you. I was once complaining about paying for my storage unit back
in Ohio - and within the context of my very nomadic life - Burns suggested that I make one of those interactive maps with blinking lights to
show all the cities where my possessions reside and he said, "And over
here, in Ohio, this is where I keep my books and grandparents’ furniture, but
if you want to hear about the emotional
things I have stored here, you will have to pay extra.”
Lastly, Mary Oliver, a poet both Burns and Secretary Clinton enjoy
wrote, “I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing—that the light is everything—that it is more than the
sumof each flawed blossom rising and
falling. And I do.”
On a blustery Friday evening in Dupont Circle, I had some time before meeting friends for drinks so I popped into Kramer Books, meandered around for a bit and grabbed what I considered a sure way to escape for an hour: Selected Writings of Truman Capote. I headed to the narrow cove of a bar for a quick dress rehearsal drink.
Overlapping voices echoed in a symphonic cacophony.
That was how all of Washington sounded in those winter months. The election of Barack Obama had lifted something off the city's shoulders. I eased into the embrace of the fine prose of Capote, who would have described that crisp, renewal of our spirit in those months, - - the relief and community that we shared too - - for a moment in time, we could be who we really are.
In the essay "Bobby," Capote described Bobby Kennedy's sweetness and charm. The parties at Marilyn's house. The long nights of laughter in Hollywood. The essay may have been titled "Bobby," but it may as well have been called "Truman". Special note was made at the conclusion of the essay -- when Bobby was assassinated, Capote cried. That's how powerful this little runt of an Irish Catholic on Marilyn's couch was. -- powerful enough to make Himself cry.
Motioning for a second glass of wine, balanced on my lonely perch at the bar, I thought of what an anti-social, alcoholic, son-of-a-bitch Capote truly was. Eye-roll. Glance at cell phone.
In remembering reading about Capote remembering Bobby, my mind scanned images -- not of a murdered family in Kansas or of Audrey Hepburn in black and white -- but to Philip Seymour Hoffman's surrender on screen when he truly became Truman Capote. That's the type of work Philip Seymour Hoffman created in film. He surrendered to the role of the tormented, in Capote, the otherwise forgotten, as the hospice nurse in Magnolia, and in the role as the critical liaison between Mr. Lebowski and Mr. Lebowski, - - a voice for those who just want a rug back because it ties the room together. I think it is safe to say that Philip Seymour Hoffman gave us a chance to find our own redemption in the experiences of his characters. But most of us will never kiss Marky Mark.
I read on a blog yesterday that we won't find George Clooney or Matt Damon dead in an apartment with a syringe piercing their arms. We don't have to worry about losing most of today's mainstream actors to the fatal disease of addiction, it said. Even Matt Damon's stellar performance in Team America can't earn him a place in the same category as Hoffman. Those guys just aren't made of the stuff Philip Seymour Hoffman was made of.
He was made of something different.
And after a rush of euphoric sensation, Philip Seymour Hoffman peacefully went to sleep for good. He will never again draw out of us our own need for self-forgiveness. He needed a remedy on Sunday, and we needed the redemption we received from him through the years. I guess we've all gotten that for which our essence begs. Thank you for that, Philip Seymour Hoffman. May you now rest in peace, forever separated from your broken heart.
The Last Sermon (March 1980) Archbishop Oscar Romero
Let no one be offended because we use the divine words read at our mass to shed light on the social, political and economic situation of our people. Not to do so would be unchristian. Christ desires to unite himself with humanity, so that the light he brings from God might become life for nations and individuals. I know many are shocked by this preaching and want to accuse us of forsaking the gospel for politics. But I reject this accusation. I am trying to bring to life the message of the Second Vatican Council and the meetings at Medellin and Puebla. The documents from these meetings should not just be studied theoretically.
They should be brought to life and translated into the real struggle to preach the gospel as it should be for our people. Each week I go about the country listening to the cries of the people, their pain from so much crime, and the ignominy of so much violence. Each week I ask the Lord to give me the right words to console, to denounce, to call for repentance. And even though I may be a voice crying in the desert, I know that the church is making the effort to fulfill its mission....
Every country lives its own "exodus"; today El Salvador is living its own exodus. Today we are passing to our liberation through a desert strewn with bodies and where anguish and pain are devastating us. Many suffer the temptation of those who walked with Moses and wanted to turn back and did not work together. It is the same old story. God, however, wants to save the people by making a new history....
History will not fail; God sustains it. That is why I say that insofar as historical projects attempt to reflect the eternal plan of God, to that extent they reflect the kingdom of God. This attempt is the work of the church. Because of this, the church, the people of God in history, is not attached to any one social system, to any political organization, to any party. The church does not identify herself with any of those forces because she is the eternal pilgrim of history and is indicating at every historical moment what reflects the kingdom of God and what does not reflect the kingdom of God. She is the servant of the Kingdom of God.
The great task of Christians must be to absorb the spirit of God's kingdom and, with souls filled with the kingdom of God, to work on the projects of history. It's fine to be organized in popular groups; it's all right to form political parties; it's all right to take part in the government. It's fine as long as you are a christian who carries the reflection of the kingdom of God and tries to establish it where you are working, and as long as you are not being used to further worldly ambitions. This is the great duty of the people of today. My dear Christians, I have always told you, and I will repeat, that the true liberators of our people must come from us Christians, from the people of God. Any historical plan that's not based on what we spoke of in the first point-the dignity of the human being, the love of God, the kingdom of Christ among people-will be a fleeting project. Your project, however, will grow in stability the more it reflects the eternal design of God. It will be a solution of the common good of the people every time, if it meets the needs of the people.... Now I invite you to look at things through the eyes of the church, which is trying to be the kingdom of God on earth and so often must illuminate the realities of our national situation.
We have lived through a tremendously tragic week. I could not give you the facts before, but a week ago last Saturday, on 15 March, one of the largest and most distressing military operations was carried out in the countryside. The villages affected were La Laguna, Plan de Ocotes and El Rosario. The operation brought tragedy: a lot of ranches were burned, there was looting, and-inevitably-people were killed. In La Laguna, the attackers killed a married couple, Ernesto Navas and Audelia Mejia de Navas, their little children, Martin and Hilda, thirteen and seven years old, and eleven more peasants.
Other deaths have been reported, but we do not know the names of the dead. In Plan de Ocotes, two children and four peasants were killed, including two women. In El Rosario, three more peasants were killed. That was last Saturday.
Last Sunday, the following were assassinated in Arcatao by four members of ORDEN: peasants Marcelino Serrano, Vincente Ayala, twenty-four years old, and his son, Freddy. That same day, Fernando Hernandez Navarro, a peasant, was assassinated in Galera de Jutiapa, when he fled from the military.
Last Monday, 17 March, was a tremendously violent day. Bombs exploded in the capital as well as in the interior of the country. The damage was very substantial at the headquarters of the Ministry of Agriculture. The campus of the national university was under armed siege from dawn until 7 P.M. Throughout the day, constant bursts of machine-gun fire were heard in the university area. The archbishop's office intervened to protect people who found themselves caught inside.
On the Hacienda Colima, eighteen persons died, at least fifteen of whom were peasants. The administrator and the grocer of the ranch also died. The armed forces confirmed that there was a confrontation. A film of the events appeared on TV, and many analyzed interesting aspects of the situation.
At least fifty people died in serious incidents that day: in the capital, seven persons died in events at the Colonia Santa Lucia; on the outskirts of Tecnillantas, five people died; and in the area of the rubbish dump, after the evacuation of the site by the military, were found the bodies of four workers who had been captured in that action.
Sixteen peasants died in the village of Montepeque, thirty-eight kilometers along the road to Suchitoto. That same day, two students at the University of Central America were captured in Tecnillantas: Mario Nelson and Miguel Alberto Rodriguez Velado, who were brothers. The first one, after four days of illegal detention, was handed over to the courts. Not so his brother, who was wounded and is still held in illegal detention. Legal Aid is intervening on his behalf.
Amnesty International issued a press release in which it described the repression of the peasants, especially in the area of Chalatenango. The week's events confirm this report in spite of the fact the government denies it. As I entered the church, I was given a cable that says, "Amnesty International confirmed today [that was yesterday] that in El Salvador human rights are violated to extremes that have not been seen in other countries." That is what Patricio Fuentes (spokesman for the urgent action section for Central America in Swedish Amnesty International) said at a press conference in Managua, Nicaragua.
Fuentes confirmed that, during two weeks of investigations he carried out in El Salvador, he was able to establish that there had been eighty-three political assassinations between 10 and 14 March. He pointed out that Amnesty International recently condemned the government of El Salvador, alleging that it was responsible for six hundred political assassinations. The Salvadorean government defended itself against the charges, arguing that Amnesty International based its condemnation on unproved assumptions.
Fuentes said that Amnesty had established that in El Salvador human rights are violated to a worse degree than the repression in Chile after the coupe d'etat. The Salvadorean government also said that the six hundred dead were the result of armed confrontations between army troops and guerrillas. Fuentes said that during his stay u l El Salvador, he could see that the victims had been tortured before their deaths and mutilated afterward.
The spokesman of Amnesty International said that the victims' bodies characteristically appeared with the thumbs tied behind their backs. Corrosive liquids had been applied to the corpses to prevent identification of the victims by their relatives and to prevent international condemnation, the spokesman added. Nevertheless, the bodies were exhumed and the dead have been identified. Fuentes said that the repression carried out by the Salvadorean army was aimed at breaking the popular organizations through the assassination of their leaders in both town and country.
According to the spokesman of Amnesty International, at least three thousand five hundred peasants have fled from their homes to the capital to escape persecution. "We have complete lists in London and Sweden of young children and women who have been assassinated for being organized," Fuentes stated....
I would like to make a special appeal to the men of the army, and specifically to the ranks of the National Guard, the police and the military. Brothers, you come from our own people. You are killing your own brother peasants when any human order to kill must be subordinate to the law of God which says, "Thou shalt not kill." No soldier is obliged to obey an order contrary to the law of God. No one has to obey an immoral law. It is high time you recovered your consciences and obeyed your consciences rather than a sinful order. The church, the defender of the rights of God, of the law of God, of human dignity, of the person, cannot remain silent before such an abomination. We want the government to face the fact that reforms are valueless if they are to be carried out at the cost of so much blood. In the name of God, in the name of this suffering people whose cries rise to heaven more loudly each day, I implore you, I beg you, I order you in the name of God: stop the repression.
The church preaches your liberation just as we have studied it in just as we have studied it in the holy Bible today. It is a liberation that has, above all else, respect for the dignity of the person, hope for humanity's common good, and the transcendence that looks before all to God and only from God derives its hope and its strength.
My friend Fred has spent more than half of his life in prison and was on death row for seven years, and is currently serving a life sentence at Riverbend Maximum Security Institution. We met two years ago when I was going to Riverbend weekly and have corresponded ever since. I've previously blogged about my classes there. Anyway, I just received a letter from him that I want to share. As a friend of Fred's, my heart aches. Please keep Fred in your prayers.
". . . I am sorry for the delay but things have not been pleasant for me. There is a force greater than I and the energy from that force keeps me going. My oldest son was murdered. While visiting his aunt who lives next door to his grandmother, the unthinkable happened. An older guy - 56 years old, was visiting his aunt as well. This guy visited quite often. His aunt and the guy sats around the house and drink alcohol as a hobby. My son and this guy got into a verbal confrontation. Outdoors right in front of the house. My son decided to walk away and went back inside. The guy decides to leave. He goes home and return at the door with a knock. My son's aunt answers the door and the guy announced, "I come back to kill him." He is referring to my son. He walks over to the sofa where my son is sitting. He pulls out a 38 revolver and points it at my 19 year old first born. My son gets up off the sofa and slowly backs away. My son repeatedly ask the guy, "so man you're gonna kill me??" Before he could utter it again, the guy pulls the trigger and shoots him in the chest killing him as the bullet goes through his lungs. The guy sats down on a stool near the door and sats the gun down on a coffee table. He tells his aunt, uncle who was also present in the home that, "I came to do what I planned to do. He's dead and won't be coming back. You all can do whatever you want with me." No one made a move and my son's uncle preceded to continue drinking. The guy is currently being held on murder charges in the state of Mississippi... I am deeply sad, hurting and feel helpless... Kate my friend, you stay strong and I am here for you. When you feel like the world is against you remember that God is always with you."
In Port-au-Prince during the summer of 2008, I sat down next to a man and his daughter for a meal. When white people encounter one another in Haiti, the first question is, “so what brings you to Haiti?” His name was Geert Van Der Kolk, a Dutch novelist, living in Washington, DC. He was in Port-au-Prince after a visit to the south to Les Cayes and the small island off the coast, Il a vache. I, having spent two previous summers in Les Cayes, and having done research on Il a vache (the tiny island where I met Dr. Chris), my interest was spiked. I assumed he was interested in humanitarian work, Pwoje Espwa, or church twining, and therefore he and I would know the same people. I was wrong.
Geert had plans of moving to Il a vache to build a sail boat entirely by hand (with the locals help) with only a hammer and a machete, made from local wood, palm trees and bamboo, in the tradition of Haitian fishermen. He intended then to sail this boat to Florida in a reenactment of sorts of the thousands and thousands of journeys of “Haitian boat people” who risk their lives to illegally migrate to the US where there is food, clean water, jobs, and health care for them and their children. This would become the topic of his next book. I remember thinking, “Wow, Haiti really does attract all kinds.” But then Geert continued, and shared that in 1999 he had been sailing with his family in the Bahamas and there was a call of distress and he was involved in trying to rescue Haitians from a capsize. Twenty Haitians died. An all too common story.
I shared my thoughts about the United States “Wet Feet Dry Feet” policy and realized in our conversation that Geert’s sailing dream was not one only of healing to honor this experience ten years ago, nor was it mere adventure, - - but one of social criticism and love of the Haitian people. I never saw Geert again after that dinner.
About a month ago, my friend Dan called me from New York. He had recently returned home after three years working in Haiti. Dan and I met in 2006. We have had hours upon hours of conversation, as well as numerous shared adventures in 2007 when I was conducting my thesis research; (I consider a boat ride home to Cayes from Il a vache to be one of those adventures.) He tells stories like no one I know. So Dan called to tell me that I needed to stop by my undergrad Alma Mater American University here in DC to see Geert’s boat. The guy really did it! And unbeknownst to me, Dan knew Geert and had been going out to Il a vache to hang out with him and the boat builders. Dan witnessed the boat from start to finish.
This afternoon I visited the boat “Sipriz” - - Haitian Kreyol for “surprise” - - as well as the beautiful exhibit at the Katzen Art Center at American University. The boat is outside on the lawn, exposed to all diplomats and policy makers who drive through Ward Circle from their million dollar homes to the halls where the destinies of Haitians are decided. I walked around the boat, touched it, and stood in awe that something so fragile could survive so much. Inside the exhibit, the beautiful bird on the sail was displayed on the wall as if it were one of those large Monet canvasses at the MET. As I watched the video a woman asked me if I knew anything about Haiti, and if it was really as poor as she heard it was. She asked me questions like “do the children pee and bathe in the same water?” We talked for a bit and I told her I had met Geert once, and that I had been to Il a vache, and I told her she should try to visit Haiti.
I own only one sharp knife. It is small. Tuesday night I was told of its formal name: “a paring knife” and I was also notified that such a knife would by no means be sufficient for a “normal person’s kitchen”. My disinterest in all things culinary is nothing new. I’ve baked no-bake cookies and made 10 Minute Rice in three minutes. One boyfriend joyfully noshed on raw cauliflower after an earnest attempt to serve him baked eggplant for dinner, and another asked in his annoying Afro-British accent, “Have others tried to domesticate you, and they’ve failed?” - - Making me sound less like a woman who prefers to have food prepared for her and more like a feral beast. Somehow though, I have survived in the United States sans the ability to cook, and also without a television or an alarm clock, for what it is worth.
The controversy surrounding my paring knife and the frustration it caused Ben really got me thinking about the things people do in their own lives that cause me such distress when I am in their space. You know, those things that just amaze me that somehow they too manage to survive. Things like the oh-so-common Hansel and Gretel sort of trail of shoes and dirty clothes through the apartment that so many boys seem to be fine with. Or how my friends in the burbs choose to drive their two tons of steel every time they need something from the CVS around the corner. Or the fact that people say they don’t have enough time to exercise or write notes. How do these people survive, I wonder?
But emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. and being found in human form. - Philippians 2:7
During Lent, for Christian sub-communities - - specifically converts (pre-baptismal catechumens), new christians (neophytes), and penitent apostates (atoning sinners)- - and the community as a whole there exists a season of abstinence, discipline, self-restraint, and contemplation. Therein lays flesh filled optimism, turning toward the resurrection of Christ. Lent, therefore, provides the church with a unique opportunity to be active contrarians to the norms and ways of our sick, scarce culture; it is a time to live over and against the selfish and unequal mainstream values of modernity.
One way in which this can be activated is through fasting, as recommended by Paul in Acts 14:23. Fasting activates a bodily attempt to “die” of self in order to live for Christ. This self-denial resides in union with Christ’s sacrifice not only of his life, or in his resistance of temptation in the desert, but in his humiliating experience as a smelling, pained, tortured body, hanging on the cross.
St. Leo the Great said that Lent was a time to prepare for salvation. Those awaiting baptism, the church-going, and those returning to the church can engage in a communal fast as preparation for salvation, and a “rebaptism” in Easter. Lent presents spiritual struggles, and fasting is a tool to assist in working through those struggles. It is also an act of social justice. When I consume less, I leave more for others to consume. When I take in less food and water, there are gleanings for the needy as commanded by scripture.
In the same vain that hunger strikes are a means of non-violent resistance to oppressive conditions, fasting speaks truth to power. In pre-Christian Ireland, hunger strikes were used to publicly bring attention to injustice. During the early 20th century, hunger strikes were used by Gandhi in India against the British. Suffragists, Caesar Chavez, and Guantanamo detainees have fasted in opposition to inequality in gender, labor, and justice, denying ones body of bread, speaks over and against the system and the worldly emptiness that pervade society, hoping for a new bread of life in Christ.
The story of Elijah reveals the power fasting has in connecting with God. Elijah goes into the desert to hide after great violence. He asks God to end his life, takes nothing in, and then gives his life over to God entirely. Soon food is delivered, and not by the Sala Thai delivery guy: BUT BY AN ANGEL! Then comes revelation and courage. Elijah may return to Israel. Fasting may help us all return to Israel. Caution however, after Moses fasted, he received the Ten Commandments. With self-denial comes wisdom, followed by responsibility in a world of irreversibility.
A Ritual To Read To Each Other By, William Stafford
If you don't know the kind of person I am and I don't know the kind of person you are a pattern that others made may prevail in the world and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.
For there is many a small betrayal in the mind, a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood storming out to play through the broken dyke.
And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail, but if one wanders the circus won't find the park, I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy, a remote important region in all who talk: though we could fool each other, we should consider-- lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.
For it is important that awake people be awake, or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep; the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe-- should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
On the eve of the inauguration of Barack Obama, the ghost-like presence of my need to write lingered in my space. For three days I partied until 4:00 am; there was a Bush effigy, visiting with Ohio 2004 folks, early morning meals and a large concert on the mall. DC had briefly morphed from a culture of professionals tackling structural unpleasantries to well, just a big party. But on Martin Luther King Day, the eve of the inauguration, in the air circulated quietness. An absence of anxiety. A blatant peace. It seemed as if the laborious commitments that led this movement to this moment had gone on Sabbath. It was lovely.
While reading a book about the Historical Jesus and the Cult of Mary, something quietly appeared to me, something that I had never realized or probed before. According to Luke chapter 2, each man owed Augustus taxes and in response, Joseph fled and left Nazareth for Bethlehem. My defiant grandfather apparently didn’t pay taxes for years. When he died, my father received a bill from the IRS, (gulp). In a day and age where a woman making $60,000 a year is taxed at 25% by a country selling arms to Israel and invading sovereign nations, Joseph’s plan sounds good to me! Where shall we go? Bethlehem? Port-au-Prince? Philly? Shall we take the Acela train there? Anyway, when I die, I certainly hope someone will read the barbarically highlighted portions of my books for it will remain as only one of my two legacies.
While reading this marvelous account of the myth of Mary, I listened to Nina Simone in the background as she sang about the tragedy of love, and the devastation and responsibility of being born black. On Saturday, the Obamas move into the Hay-Adams (on my street!) for two weeks proceeding the inauguration. The beautiful Hay-Adams (where I have had tea in the parlor and drinks on the roof). Who would’ve thought the off-spring of willing and also forced African diaspora could reside at the Hay-Adams, the Blair House, or even, the White House.
My blog was originally intended to be a place to tell some of my “crazy stories” that my friends insist I write a book of (ehhmmm, Jeremy). The blog, however, has morphed, unfortunately and most recently, into a true blog: an online journal. The tragic sensibilities of my Irish heritage and the story of the year have taken this blog hostage, but in 2009, I am determined to reverting it into a place for social commentary and the sharing of old stories.
January: A rapid detox from Ethics class can be achieved with immediate lunch with the guys.
February: Sometimes you can feel very small while standing by the ocean, or anywhere in Dubai.
March: If a guy you are interested tells you that he knows all the words to Les Miserables, take it as a red flashing light.
April: A Masters Thesis is an invitation, not a bookend.
May: Never presume you are locked out when a door shuts unexpectedly; but if you drive over the river to get your key, enjoy the sunset on the bridge.
June: Haitians live by the hand of grace, at the mercy of a few individuals and a system with only gleans of redemption and hope.
July: Hoosiers love basketball. And for street signs? Not so much.
August: There’s nothing that can’t be cared for while sitting in an Adirondack chair on the porch.
September: Like life, the cholla cactus may at first appear to be one animal, but it is really another.
October: Even while dressed in Notre Dame gear, it is ok to start cheering for UW half way through the game: loyalty always surfaces.
November: The wealthiest county in the US, Fairfax County, can still be capable of great things - - such as being responsible for the first use of the words “President-Elect Obama!”
December: Unlike intestinal parasites, the gesture of hospitality can make you a victim of the host’s pathology, but in loving friendship all things can be conqured.
My friend Lynnette and I were born during the same week in 1978. She messed with Texas while I threw off the equilibrium of the Keystone State. Savvier than myself, Lynnette recently made a list of 30 things she intends to do during her 31st year; one commitment is to take a photograph a day. I, a day late and a dollar short, decided to think about 30 things I would like to do during my 31st year.
Number one: I aspire to ask more questions. As open and extroverted as I tend to be, I could use some improvement in the area of inquisition. Academia is driven by questions, and I thrive in that environment. But when it comes to my personal relationships, I think I tend to tell people how it is or ignore how it is rather than going ahead and asking how it is. Maybe that is a means of protecting myself. So, ok Lynnette, I will show your thirty things with one thing: As a thirty year old woman, I aspire to push myself to ask questions everyday.
Another thing I was thinking about, is the notion of accepting where people are, outside of any relation to me, really and truly. When my Dad turned 50 in 1992 he told me, “I no longer give a shit.” I am pretty sure that with getting older certainly life is getting easier. Of course, more problems seem to appear, and there are certainly moments of utter devastation, but I have to say, life is a lot easier than when I was, like, 22. But, still, betrayal is an animal without definition. And the world is full of peoples' pain.
According to Dr. Bart Ehrman, there are three sorts of premises in Christianity: 1) God is all-powerful; 2) God is a loving God; 3) There is suffering. In friendships and relationships, I think only one of these tenants reigns true: 1) Neither party is all-powerful; 2) Both parties are capable of behaving in unloving ways; 3) And well, yes, suffering plagues us all.
But what if we had a rapprochement, and what if we assumed - - about one another - - that even when unloving acts are committed that there is an intention to be ultimately loving. How would that help to inform responses to our own suffering? Would suffering built upon suffering cease? Would yielding one another a grace of real forgiveness - - even for that which is unconscious and unconfessable or inexcusable- - help with our own happiness? Is that what it means to no longer “give a shit”? Unconditional forgiveness? Is it better to just disappear rather than acknowledging – you’ve gotten too close to me – I’ve told you too much – you’ve hurt me here’s your bag in a punitive manner; here’s a formal email about the weather; here’s me disappearing. See, I have disappeared.
I’d like to think that any option is ok.
After all, people need to take care of themselves.
The world is broken and we must cope in order to live.
But I can’t think that way.
I just think it is much better to stay in the messiness. The only way out is through, and as I travel on my own path of suffering, my inclination is to stay in the mess with others.
But then again, I think my inclination is probably wrong.
Sometimes it’s ok to let people go away.
Sometimes that’s easier. Well, it is always easier.
In many cultures, I have already turned 30. And for the past year or so, I have gotten used to (although preemptive) referring to myself as “a thirty year old.” I remember after 2004 when my friend Bolla flashed a badge to me from her work in Ohio on the Presidential Campaign. She said casually to me as an Ohio Kerry alum- “here’s my street cred.” I think turning 30 this Tuesday is a bit of street cred for me. Maybe I should print myself a badge. And put it around my neck.
I think that I have I’ve survived a lot. So I am proud of turning 30. On the other hand, I do feel a death of a certain life. By no means do I expect my 30’s to be tired or without travel. Ethiopia and El Salvador are next on my list, and as spiritual pilgrimages. I do not expect to have less sex or become more conservative politically, I simply imagine that in this next age, I shall be better. I want to be kinder, and more empathetic. I want to wear lipstick regularly, and go by my nicknames more frequently. I want to find a good PhD program, and pour my heart into my research. I want to commit to a life partner whom I admire beyond words. I want to visit my parents more, because I miss them. And I want to love Luke in ways that I never imagined.
This is all I want.
Because I am so lucky, I have so very little to want.
On the evening of Election Day, Barack Obama spoke in front of half a million people in Chicago, while others all over the world huddled around radios or were watching on TV. At 4:30 pm in a cold garage in Fairfax County, Virginia I spoke to the final group of canvassers, many of whom had been out in the rain all day, all of GOTV weekend, or all election season.
The group was diverse. An elderly white woman stood next to a young black woman. The gay middle-aged man shared his umbrella with the pregnant immigrant. They were all neighbors in the precincts in which they were about to talk to voters for the final time in this election. I looked at these eighteen volunteers and thought about what they needed to hear. They eagerly looked at me for direction. Throughout my life, I have been part of the democratic process at various levels in different places. On Tuesday, with very little sleep, and while dressed in a strange Norwegian sweater donated to me by one of the canvassers, I rededicated myself to the bread & butter of the political process, and of this campaign: the effectiveness of neighbors talking to neighbors.
I told them that the 21 months of voter registration, identification, persuasion, financial donations, stress, and dedication in the field - would all be for naught if Getting Out The Vote failed. And the only way - the ONLY way - GOTV will not fail in Virginia, would be if we cranked it up and turned it out in Fairfax County. The next two and a half hours of their lives came down to the answer of one question: would there be a President McCain or a President Obama? Therefore, I told them, it was time to do one thing and one thing only, to get bodies to the polls. I told them not to come back to see me with any information until 7:00pm, and that I only wanted a number of people who had definitively delivered a vote for Obama. I said I don’t want you coming back here to tell me about how many yard signs or dogs a house has even though you couldn’t find away to get a hold of the people living inside. I want you to be married to your turf for the next two and a half hours because this is your last chance. This is not about ANYTHING other getting voters to immediately go and vote for Barack. The people on your list are your responsibility. And mark my word, we will lose Virginia if we do not turn out Fairfax County at a historical margin. If we win Virginia we don’t need places like Florida and Ohio. So, it’s all you. Keep your head in the game. You don’t get to redo these 2.5 hours tomorrow.
Before I knew it, it was 9:30 pm and I was at a fancy cocktail party at The Willard in downtown DC. The TV said we were losing Virginia, and I knew that Fairfax had not reported yet. When Virginia went blue for the first time in 44 years, I received calls and texts from a couple of those canvassers exclaiming things such as, “wow! You were right about Virginia! I am so glad I was out there this weekend!”
In my mind, the most invigorating thing about politics and of this campaign in particular, is that all the experts and operatives in that room at The Willard would be nothing without the labor of people like those whom I spoke to in the cold garage.
A couple of weeks ago, I called my friend Uzma for the first time in many months. While Uzma is someone I greatly admire and feel quite close to we do not speak frequently. She and I were catching up about all the things women talk about in these sorts of conversations. (And she always makes time for me when I call.) Uzma is going to be a Mom, so we talked about that. Having finished her Masters in Public Health at Johns Hopkins, she has a new job in North Carolina, so we also discussed that. During this conversation, I realized she was at the same time running errands for her husband, Nadim. First she went to the drug store to get him a prescription for heartburn. Then she went through the Arby’s drive-thru. Then to another place to retrieve a specific type of freedom fries. Nadim, a heart surgeon, was at home watching the Redskins with a friend.
Realizing it was about 7 pm on the east coast I asked Uzma, “Are ya’all breaking fast now or something?”
“Yes! And I am running all over the place to get Nadim what he wants!”
“Happy Ramadan, I guess?”
“Ha ha ha- thanks,” she said.
Today, I watched an A&E special on Queen Noor (Lisa Hallaby) of Jordan. And I remembered Uzma driving through the drive-thrus. And I also recalled Sarah from Austin in Bangladesh telling me of her arranged marriage and the early struggles with it as the commitment she and her husband made grew stronger - endured the test of time and ultimately celebrated an irreplaceable bond.
I envy these women.
In a day and age where my favorite Presidential candidate Barack Obama marches around asserting that he is “not a Muslim” I sometimes wish there was place for me in the Muslim culture. Islam means “surrender,” and at risk of sounding pathetic, I must say, as a single woman, I would love nothing more than to give, surrender, and love with all of my being, in choice and devotion like my Muslim friends do in their marriages.
I missed my friend Iram’s wedding in August, but she was gorgeous and I am sharing a photo.
During the Duvalier regime and the turmoil after, Father Jean-Bertrand Aristide was a renegade priest, delivering homily after homily calling for the economic and political liberation of the Haitian people. Consequently, on September 11, 1988 his little church in La Saline, Port-au-Prince was burned during a massacre killing thirteen parishioners, injuring at least seventy-seven others.
Amy Wilentz’s book The Rainy Season gives an authoritative and eye-witness account of this attack.Reading the section on St.Jean Bosco requires a strong stomach; she was there during the massacre.First, the thugs shot through the wall protecting the church, while church children hurled rocks back over it, in defense.Aristide continued mass, but told people to leave if they wished.The assailants shot the lock off the gate and stormed the front of the church, shooting people and causing mayhem and screaming.Victims were being held down and stabbed to death.Machetes were used to slash the tops of heads off congregants.A pregnant woman was stabbed in the stomach. Aristide fled through the sacristy, and was soon to face down another assassination attempt.(He has survived many in his life.)As a grand finale, gasoline was poured all over the grounds of the church and it burned.
Haitian army officers stood by and watched all of this.Not one person from the police station across the street stepped in.The fix was in.According to all accounts, each thug was paid seven dollars and a bottle of three-dollar rum by the government for the attacks. Thirteen people were killed, and seventy-seven were injured. The local Catholic Bishops did not even comment on the massacre for two full weeks
For my first pilgrimage to St. Jean Bosco, my tour guide and friend was Bobby Duval, a longtime friend of Aristide’s. Bobby, held for years as a political prisoner and was released upon Jean Claude Duvalier’s departure in 1986, was intimately involved in Aristide’s work at the time of the 1988 massacre.Like many others, Bobby has lost several friends in the name of liberation theology, in the name of fighting systemic poverty and oppression.
Bobby’s celebrity as a leader and hero for the poor allowed an easy entrance through the gate.Upon exiting the vehicle, I thought the grounds looked like an overgrown grave yard, and I was surprised by how small everything was.I suppose that is how it is sometimes, when we visit places where big things have happened.We keep them sort of frozen in our minds in the time and condition they once were at their time of historical importance.
The armed guard had a million questions for me.“You know about this place? Why do you want to come to this place?Do you know about Father Aristide?”It has probably been a while since a white American woman set foot within those walls.Needless to say, as a student researching and passionate about liberation theology and Haiti, this visit was a very powerful experience.Bobby quietly guided me along the grounds of the church.There is no roof, and the walls are covered with bullet holes, and graffiti of phrases such as “Titid Returnay,” and “Pep Ayisyen se Titid." My research of the place allowed me to point to places and ask – “This is the rectory, isn’t it?” Or to suggest, “Let’s around the back to see the courtyard.”
The remains of St. Jean Bosco serve as a monument for justice and peace. Standing on the decrepit altar, I looked around and thought of the martyrs.The parishioners came to church that day acutely aware of the danger.Many wore white to honor the new (and government ignored) Constitution that was being ignored by the violent government, and residual Duvalier thugs.The people in white were the first to be shot.The brave parishioners peacefully prayed and sang hymns, standing in resistance to the violence of political oppression. It is difficult to imagine what they must have felt as they heard the gunshots beginning to sound outside.
Aristide was ultimately blamed for causing political trouble like the September 11 massacre, and later expelled from the Salesian Order. He mixed theology with politics. As if there is a difference. Aristide wrote, “The Vatican sides not with an entire people defending these values at risk of life and limb, but with the men of the old regime trained to bury them.”
