My initial response to hardship is anger. This is a recent realization, although in retrospect I can see that anger has coursed through my veins for years, pulsing with purpose whenever life lets me down. It makes me a perplexing anomaly, since I generally think myself to be a positive, easy-going and happy person. But when life hands me lemons, my first response is not to make lemonade, but rather to load those lemons into a baseball pitching machine and catapult them straight back in life's face while yelling offensive expletives. My anger is a dormant beast awaken very seldom, but when it's lanced with disappointment the beast is ruthless and full of spite. In this regard, I have come to find it more difficult to identify and harness my reactionary anger because it is masked so purposefully by a blanket of happiness. While tragedy has left me raw and self-aware, I am slowly realizing that in some ways, I am moored in a port of adolescent bitterness.
I recently endured an early miscarriage. I was only 8 weeks pregnant-so early that I almost feel silly for having such an emotional attachment to the blueberry-sized sea monkey. I had always been somewhat apathetic towards women who experienced an early loss of pregnancy. After all, I thought, the fetus was still just an amassment of cells and not yet a decipherable human baby. What I didn't take into account was the excitement that inevitably follows a positive pregnancy test- wondering whether it will be a boy or a girl, thinking up possible names, giddily whispering the new secret to your family and closest friends, imagining its face and dreaming about holding its tiny, warm body in your arms. Those thoughts are what bind us to the tiny bean growing in our bellies, regardless of its negligible size or inhuman appearance. Those thoughts cannot be rationalized away with biological explanations of its unachievable future. And then in an instant, those thoughts are purged from your body and you're left with an empty feeling in your stomach where the excitement of new life once lived.
When I realized I was miscarrying, my immediate reaction was not sorrow, but anger. I berated myself, because surely there was something I could have done to avoid this. I was angry at my husband for not having to endure the physical cycle of wholeness and emptiness in his gut. I was angry at the tiny baby for not keeping its heart beating. But mostly, I was angry at God.
It wasn't a logical anger, because had I viewed things rationally I would have understood that 30% of pregnancies are miscarried and my situation was no different from the millions of other women who suffer early miscarriages. But somehow, I felt it was a personal vendetta against me. "Make me grow up watching my little brother suffer through leukemia, then let me watch my father die a slow death, then take away my new future child," I thought as I yelled into my pillow. I was angry at God for allowing bad things to happen, when all I should have been doing was asking him for comfort. But I didn't, and the pain and rage endured.
The sadness came later, as did the realization of my misplaced anger and the knowledge that I have a lot to work on.
In my sporadic moments of anger, I forget that everything good in my life has come from God. I turn my back on him in an instant and persecute him for not making my life perfect. I hate him for allowing me to endure pain. I forget that the greatest lessons I have learned in life- that my growing compassion for others and budding self-awareness- have all been the result of enduring trials. I refuse to see that God has a plan for me, and enduring pain and suffering is ultimately part of life's beauty.
I want my father to be alive. I want to erase the memories of watching my little brother suffer when he was so young. I wish I had never felt the hollow hopelessness of depression. I want the baby back in my body. But to be honest, I wouldn't retract any of the invaluable lessons I have learned from abiding through those difficult times. That is what I need to remind myself whenever I want to punch a wall and curse God for letting life run its course. That is what I must remember when I feel the angry beast stirring in my breast.
In the end, life's beauty is only felt when we know what it means to hurt. And I guess that will make my next baby all the more cherishable.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Memoirs
Just in case you're wondering why I haven't been blogging lately, here is the first few pages of the memoir I've been working on. It might sound redundant considering my prior blog posts, but hey, you have to start somewhere... And just to remind you (and myself): The First Draft is Always Crap. I'm thinking of getting it tattooed on my forearm.
* * * * * * *
I lived my life with the perpetually nagging feeling that I could not be normal. Not that normalcy was an impossibility for me (in fact, I always seemed to fit in quite well), but somewhere along the time line of my life I made a decision to consciously reject conventions on a daily basis with rigor and pride. If I trace my resolution in defiance, its onset would probably date back to 1999, when my first attempts at staving off the norm were made manifest by facial piercings and tattoos. Back then, the gauge of how well I was living against the grain was measured by the amount of punk rock patches and studs I could fit onto my hideous leather jacket, or the visible wear and tear on my over-sized skate shoes from doing ollies and three quarters of a kick-flip, long before Avril Lavigne made skateboarding cool. Yes, everyone, I was a punk rock rebel, and you better have damn well recognized it.
Although I would deny it at them time, my punk rock rebellion was a direct result of my father's passing. It was a slow and painful death, the kind where catchphrases like "at least you had time to say goodbye" and "he's not in pain anymore" are offered as consolation but provide no solace. I was thirteen when he was diagnosed with a rare form of lung cancer, before the childlike admiration one holds for their parents is shattered by adolescent dissension.
We were sitting around the kitchen table on the evening my parents broke the news. I was seated next to my older brother Dave, and across from him sat my little brother. My father was at the head of the table, flanked by my mother and eighteen year old sister. We were all seated in our quotidian six o'clock dinner spots and to a distant observer, this assembly would have appeared to be just another family meal. But being in the room, you would have been able to feel the heaviness that lingered in the air like the suffocating tangibility of Los Angeles smog, as though our family was trapped in a valley of toxic words that spewed out my mother's mouth like fumes from an exhaust pipe.
I studied the outdated maroon and turquoise wallpaper with which my father had covered the kitchen walls while the words "cancer" "terminal" and "chemotherapy" floated through the air, then landed on the floor with heavy lifelessness. I wanted to sweep up those words and throw them in the trash can under our kitchen sink, so we could all forget about them and continue joking about my father's horrible taste in interior decor. I remember thinking that for all of the enviable attributes my father possessed, style was not one of them.
The only time I looked into his eyes that night was by command, when he promised us that he would live to see each of our birthdays over the next year. We had celebrated my thirteenth birthday six days before this fateful family meeting, and I believed if I could avoid turning fourteen, my father might live forever.
When he slipped into a coma on the afternoon of my fourteenth birthday, I was overcome with an unshakable sense of culpability. By waking up on October 19th 1999, I had granted my father permission to die. I didn't want to open my gifts. I didn't want to read my birthday cards, especially the one that was signed "DAD" in an erratic and shaky script, which was so unlike what would have come from the hand of my strong, immovable father of last year. I wanted everyone to pretend it was a normal day, so that we could all go on believing that my father had years of life left and ignore his weakened and gray body.
He died three days later.
I was upset when the coroners left a rose on the bed after they loaded his body into the back of the ambulance. The symbol of life resting on my dead father's pillow seemed to mock the gray and sunken head that had rested on it moments earlier. It was impossible that such a strong, unshakable man could have deteriorated into the hollow corps that lay breathless under the beige fleece blanket in our front room before they put him in a bag and carted him away, as though his life had been readily disposable and traded in for a flower. I hated the rose, but I was glad his body was gone. The lifeless figure had only been an effigy-a tribute to what my father no longer was. He was the father you would be proud to go to the public pool with, not only because of his washboard abs and ripped biceps, but because you could point and say "that's my dad" when he did handstand inverted flips off the high diving board, or when the swim team coach called on him to fill in for the sixteen and older relay team.
And now we had this rose.
I became withdrawn and angry, although it was a silent anger directed mostly at God.
I had been raised Mormon, a religion that teaches children to pray for what they want with earnest faith. At the onset of my father's illness, I held a perfect faith that my prayers would heal him. I knelt by my bedside night after night, pleading with God to restore my father's strength so that he would no longer be a shrunken shell of the man I loved so intensely. Over the months, I saw my prayers and my father's condition adopt a hyperbolic relationship; the more I prayed, the worse he became. When we turned our living room into an at-home hospice for my dad who couldn't make it upstairs, my prayers became sporadic and uttered with less intent. When the cancer spread and rendered him paralyzed from the waist down, and we had to use a lift to get him from bed to wheelchair, I stopped praying. Three days after my father died and five days after my fourteenth birthday, I broke a cardinal religious rule and got drunk. After that, it seemed there was no turning back.
While some people turn to God in death's wake, I ran from Him in vehement spite. If God existed, I wanted no relationship with the entity that taught miracles and compassion but had no time for a young girl's earnest prayers. If He didn't exist- which at the time seemed a more viable explanation for my fruitless pleas- then there was no point in maintaining communication with a lie. And so I began my purposeful yet subconscious crusade to defy every law and guideline that had been established by society and religion.
Fortunately for my deliberate image of abnormality, being Mormon gave my rebelliousness some added credibility. The main form of rebellion that Mormons tend to celebrate is in their rejection of alcohol, tobacco, freak dancing and consequently, premarital sex. In that sense, Mormons are pretty bad ass in terms of their steadfastness against societal pressures. I hadn’t lived my teenage years living in that particular avenue of societal revolt, and in that sense I was a Mormon dissident, while paradoxically adhering to the norm of teenage rebellion. Mormons also tend to stray away from any outward appearance of rebellion (other than rebelling against sexiness through modesty). That means tattoos, body piercings and patched leather jackets are generally frowned upon. As a result, not only was I rejecting mainstream society by being a punk, I was simultaneously dissenting from my religious culture, making my insurgence the Inception-style ‘rebellion inside of a rebellion’.
* * * * * * *
I lived my life with the perpetually nagging feeling that I could not be normal. Not that normalcy was an impossibility for me (in fact, I always seemed to fit in quite well), but somewhere along the time line of my life I made a decision to consciously reject conventions on a daily basis with rigor and pride. If I trace my resolution in defiance, its onset would probably date back to 1999, when my first attempts at staving off the norm were made manifest by facial piercings and tattoos. Back then, the gauge of how well I was living against the grain was measured by the amount of punk rock patches and studs I could fit onto my hideous leather jacket, or the visible wear and tear on my over-sized skate shoes from doing ollies and three quarters of a kick-flip, long before Avril Lavigne made skateboarding cool. Yes, everyone, I was a punk rock rebel, and you better have damn well recognized it.
Although I would deny it at them time, my punk rock rebellion was a direct result of my father's passing. It was a slow and painful death, the kind where catchphrases like "at least you had time to say goodbye" and "he's not in pain anymore" are offered as consolation but provide no solace. I was thirteen when he was diagnosed with a rare form of lung cancer, before the childlike admiration one holds for their parents is shattered by adolescent dissension.
We were sitting around the kitchen table on the evening my parents broke the news. I was seated next to my older brother Dave, and across from him sat my little brother. My father was at the head of the table, flanked by my mother and eighteen year old sister. We were all seated in our quotidian six o'clock dinner spots and to a distant observer, this assembly would have appeared to be just another family meal. But being in the room, you would have been able to feel the heaviness that lingered in the air like the suffocating tangibility of Los Angeles smog, as though our family was trapped in a valley of toxic words that spewed out my mother's mouth like fumes from an exhaust pipe.
I studied the outdated maroon and turquoise wallpaper with which my father had covered the kitchen walls while the words "cancer" "terminal" and "chemotherapy" floated through the air, then landed on the floor with heavy lifelessness. I wanted to sweep up those words and throw them in the trash can under our kitchen sink, so we could all forget about them and continue joking about my father's horrible taste in interior decor. I remember thinking that for all of the enviable attributes my father possessed, style was not one of them.
The only time I looked into his eyes that night was by command, when he promised us that he would live to see each of our birthdays over the next year. We had celebrated my thirteenth birthday six days before this fateful family meeting, and I believed if I could avoid turning fourteen, my father might live forever.
When he slipped into a coma on the afternoon of my fourteenth birthday, I was overcome with an unshakable sense of culpability. By waking up on October 19th 1999, I had granted my father permission to die. I didn't want to open my gifts. I didn't want to read my birthday cards, especially the one that was signed "DAD" in an erratic and shaky script, which was so unlike what would have come from the hand of my strong, immovable father of last year. I wanted everyone to pretend it was a normal day, so that we could all go on believing that my father had years of life left and ignore his weakened and gray body.
He died three days later.
I was upset when the coroners left a rose on the bed after they loaded his body into the back of the ambulance. The symbol of life resting on my dead father's pillow seemed to mock the gray and sunken head that had rested on it moments earlier. It was impossible that such a strong, unshakable man could have deteriorated into the hollow corps that lay breathless under the beige fleece blanket in our front room before they put him in a bag and carted him away, as though his life had been readily disposable and traded in for a flower. I hated the rose, but I was glad his body was gone. The lifeless figure had only been an effigy-a tribute to what my father no longer was. He was the father you would be proud to go to the public pool with, not only because of his washboard abs and ripped biceps, but because you could point and say "that's my dad" when he did handstand inverted flips off the high diving board, or when the swim team coach called on him to fill in for the sixteen and older relay team.
And now we had this rose.
I became withdrawn and angry, although it was a silent anger directed mostly at God.
I had been raised Mormon, a religion that teaches children to pray for what they want with earnest faith. At the onset of my father's illness, I held a perfect faith that my prayers would heal him. I knelt by my bedside night after night, pleading with God to restore my father's strength so that he would no longer be a shrunken shell of the man I loved so intensely. Over the months, I saw my prayers and my father's condition adopt a hyperbolic relationship; the more I prayed, the worse he became. When we turned our living room into an at-home hospice for my dad who couldn't make it upstairs, my prayers became sporadic and uttered with less intent. When the cancer spread and rendered him paralyzed from the waist down, and we had to use a lift to get him from bed to wheelchair, I stopped praying. Three days after my father died and five days after my fourteenth birthday, I broke a cardinal religious rule and got drunk. After that, it seemed there was no turning back.
While some people turn to God in death's wake, I ran from Him in vehement spite. If God existed, I wanted no relationship with the entity that taught miracles and compassion but had no time for a young girl's earnest prayers. If He didn't exist- which at the time seemed a more viable explanation for my fruitless pleas- then there was no point in maintaining communication with a lie. And so I began my purposeful yet subconscious crusade to defy every law and guideline that had been established by society and religion.
Fortunately for my deliberate image of abnormality, being Mormon gave my rebelliousness some added credibility. The main form of rebellion that Mormons tend to celebrate is in their rejection of alcohol, tobacco, freak dancing and consequently, premarital sex. In that sense, Mormons are pretty bad ass in terms of their steadfastness against societal pressures. I hadn’t lived my teenage years living in that particular avenue of societal revolt, and in that sense I was a Mormon dissident, while paradoxically adhering to the norm of teenage rebellion. Mormons also tend to stray away from any outward appearance of rebellion (other than rebelling against sexiness through modesty). That means tattoos, body piercings and patched leather jackets are generally frowned upon. As a result, not only was I rejecting mainstream society by being a punk, I was simultaneously dissenting from my religious culture, making my insurgence the Inception-style ‘rebellion inside of a rebellion’.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Loving as Religion
We spent the past weekend in St. George, Utah for Rivs' Iron Man 70.3 race. A few years ago, I would have been self-conscious and resentful about entering the heartland of conservative Mormon culture; self-conscious about my visible tattoos (thanks a lot 17 year old punk rock Steph), and resentful towards all the faceless Mormons who would undoubtedly make me feel like an outsider. I had never been to Utah before, but I was sure it was seeping with beautiful, stylish, self-righteous Mormons who had the innate ability to look into my soul and see that I was (gasp)... A LIBERAL! And I thought that they would judge and treat me accordingly. It's taken me a few years of introspective humility to understand the irony and hypocrisy of my reasoning. I was judging an entire geographical state of human beings to be judgmental. In thinking I was so "open minded", I was closing myself off to those I deemed bigoted before ever having met them. Wow, way to go, Steph.
I've grown very comfortable with the fact that I have visible tattoos, and I'm slowly learning that political ideology does not define a person. It can, but it doesn't have to. With that mindset, accompanied with the new found self-realization of my aforementioned hypocritical thinking, I went to Utah with no expectations, no pre-conceived judgement (other than the hypothesis that I would see a lot of heels, blonde hair and fake eye lashes), and with just a minor inferiority complex.
The first thing we did on our way to Utah was drive through Colorado City, which is famous (or infamous) for being a Polygamist settlement. For those of you who are not Mormon, let me clarify that members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints do NOT practice polygamy. Just as Protestants broke away from Catholicism due to a divergence of beliefs, a faction of Mormons broke off from the official LDS church and formed their own religion in 1890 when then-LDS president Wilford Woodruff officially terminated the practice of polygamy. From this schism was born the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (or FLDS), a religion that holds faith in the same Book of Mormon as the official LDS church, but believes that the practice of Polygamy should have never been dissolved.
I guess I expected to see bonneted women hoeing wheat in the field as children ran down dirt roads chasing large wooden hoops with sticks in the their hands. What I saw instead were extremely modern mansions, outdoor pools and SUV-lined driveways. I saw a teenage boy walking down the road with school books in his hands, presumably on his way to Mojave Community College down the street. Sure, his Levis were riding pretty high around his waist, and he held a Walkman in his right hand and a TI-89 calculator in the other, but he wasn't the posterchild for polygamist depravity I had envisioned.
I began to feel guilty about gawking at these "different" people as we drove down the street. I felt I was making a spectacle of a people who were just living a life they believed to be right and true, just as much as I believe my way of life to be.
We left the compound and continued on our way to St. George. At the back of my mind, a thought began to form like a word on the tip of my tongue. I knew it was there, but I couldn't quite bring it to fruition. It wasn't until the end of our trip that I understood the scope of my budding epiphany.
Our weekend in Utah was pleasant. The scenery was beautiful, Cafe Rio was dangerously delicious (I may have gained 5 pounds derived solely from pulled barbacoa pork) and although I did see a plethora of heels, perky fake boobs and perfectly styled hair, I also saw lots of genuine smiles and met some sincerely friendly people. I have never been in a place where strangers are so excited to strike up a conversation, give a compliment or make a passing joke. It occurred to me that despite the cultural and political viewpoints with which I disagree, the sense of community and family emphasis is truly wonderful and unique within the Mormon culture. My budding epiphany was slowly reaching the surface.
We were sitting in Sunday school on our last day in St. George, surrounded by grey-haired couples who were following the lesson from their shiny new iPads, when my thoughts finally came together. I began to feel the intoxicating sentiment of self-consciousness creep in as I imagined how "ungodly" my nautical star neck tattoo must appear to the conservative generation of Mormons surrounding me. For all of the non-judgment and warmth I had felt from the people of St.George, I began to think that perhaps this 'final frontier' of senior uber-conservative Mormons would be the ones to make me feel out of place. Perhaps their liberal-radar was more in tune. Rivers was wearing flip flops, blue corduroys and a beige button down and was sporting a beard (well, a Fu Manchu mustache, but I think that may be even worse). I was wearing an Urban Outfitters bird T-shirt and the stretchy skirt I had worn the day before. My neck tattoo was clearly visible. Just as I was beginning to get lost in feelings of insecurity and diffidence, the elderly lady sitting behind me tapped my shoulder and whispered "I just love your blouse!" I thanked her warmly and went to turn back around so as not to disrupt the Sunday school lesson, but the kind lady was keen on carrying a conversation. We tacitly spoke about the weather, the Iron Man competition and where I had bought my "blouse". Her husband, hearing of Rivs' accomplishments in the race, reached forward and gave him a firm pat on the back, as a proud father would give his son. After the lesson there were smiling elderly faces waiting with kind smiles and hand shakes for me, and lots of proud back pats for Rivers. Sure, there had been culturally conservative Sunday school comments throughout the lesson, but I felt utterly at home. And that is when my epiphany was made manifest.
It occurred to me that it isn't our beliefs that define us, rather it's the way our beliefs translate into the way we treat other people that makes us who we are. We can be proud of our nationality, religion, political views or sexual orientation and use it as a means of identification. "I am American." "I am Mormon". "I am a Republican". "I am Gay". I don't believe there is anything wrong with feeling burning pride for our religion, or any other identifying factor. In fact, as human beings we need identities in order to feel self-worth and understand our place in the world. But what I came to find on my weekend in Utah, as trite as it sounds, is that our true identities are found in our ability and willingness to love others.
It's too often that our terrestrial identities keep us from recognizing our potential to love unconditionally, just as my 'liberal' ideology led me to write off the entire state of Utah. When we are so entrenched in our views, it becomes easy to pass judgement on those who think differently, and to treat them accordingly. I am supremely guilty of this.
This is not to say that it is inherently bad to be passionate about ideologies and beliefs. I wouldn't be writing this blog if I wasn't zealous in my worldview. But in a state of introspection I came to find that in comparison to love and charity, most of my other beliefs are quite trivial.
As this thought sequence unfolded, the Bob Marley lyrics "Love is my Religion" came to mind. Although these words are stigmatized as a free-loving left-wing hippie slogan, they are quite similar to the Christian mantra "Love one Another". Unfortunately, these polarized groups are often at odds with each other due to differences in belief, lifestyle and culture. In their polarized disagreements, they come to forget (myself included) that their basic core value is the same: just love.
Another song that came to mind as I was mulling over these thoughts were lyrics from a Church hymn:
"By this shall men know, that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another"
These words adopted new poignancy for me. The hymn doesn't say "by these white shirts and ties", or "by your clean-shaven face" that others would recognized followers of Christ. It simply says that our ability and propensity to love others is the greatest indicator of true discipleship.
And so, on my Utah vacation I came to learn that whether we're old or young, liberal or conservative, polygamist or monogamous, the only thing that truly matters is love.
I've grown very comfortable with the fact that I have visible tattoos, and I'm slowly learning that political ideology does not define a person. It can, but it doesn't have to. With that mindset, accompanied with the new found self-realization of my aforementioned hypocritical thinking, I went to Utah with no expectations, no pre-conceived judgement (other than the hypothesis that I would see a lot of heels, blonde hair and fake eye lashes), and with just a minor inferiority complex.
The first thing we did on our way to Utah was drive through Colorado City, which is famous (or infamous) for being a Polygamist settlement. For those of you who are not Mormon, let me clarify that members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints do NOT practice polygamy. Just as Protestants broke away from Catholicism due to a divergence of beliefs, a faction of Mormons broke off from the official LDS church and formed their own religion in 1890 when then-LDS president Wilford Woodruff officially terminated the practice of polygamy. From this schism was born the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (or FLDS), a religion that holds faith in the same Book of Mormon as the official LDS church, but believes that the practice of Polygamy should have never been dissolved.
I guess I expected to see bonneted women hoeing wheat in the field as children ran down dirt roads chasing large wooden hoops with sticks in the their hands. What I saw instead were extremely modern mansions, outdoor pools and SUV-lined driveways. I saw a teenage boy walking down the road with school books in his hands, presumably on his way to Mojave Community College down the street. Sure, his Levis were riding pretty high around his waist, and he held a Walkman in his right hand and a TI-89 calculator in the other, but he wasn't the posterchild for polygamist depravity I had envisioned.
I began to feel guilty about gawking at these "different" people as we drove down the street. I felt I was making a spectacle of a people who were just living a life they believed to be right and true, just as much as I believe my way of life to be.
We left the compound and continued on our way to St. George. At the back of my mind, a thought began to form like a word on the tip of my tongue. I knew it was there, but I couldn't quite bring it to fruition. It wasn't until the end of our trip that I understood the scope of my budding epiphany.
Our weekend in Utah was pleasant. The scenery was beautiful, Cafe Rio was dangerously delicious (I may have gained 5 pounds derived solely from pulled barbacoa pork) and although I did see a plethora of heels, perky fake boobs and perfectly styled hair, I also saw lots of genuine smiles and met some sincerely friendly people. I have never been in a place where strangers are so excited to strike up a conversation, give a compliment or make a passing joke. It occurred to me that despite the cultural and political viewpoints with which I disagree, the sense of community and family emphasis is truly wonderful and unique within the Mormon culture. My budding epiphany was slowly reaching the surface.
We were sitting in Sunday school on our last day in St. George, surrounded by grey-haired couples who were following the lesson from their shiny new iPads, when my thoughts finally came together. I began to feel the intoxicating sentiment of self-consciousness creep in as I imagined how "ungodly" my nautical star neck tattoo must appear to the conservative generation of Mormons surrounding me. For all of the non-judgment and warmth I had felt from the people of St.George, I began to think that perhaps this 'final frontier' of senior uber-conservative Mormons would be the ones to make me feel out of place. Perhaps their liberal-radar was more in tune. Rivers was wearing flip flops, blue corduroys and a beige button down and was sporting a beard (well, a Fu Manchu mustache, but I think that may be even worse). I was wearing an Urban Outfitters bird T-shirt and the stretchy skirt I had worn the day before. My neck tattoo was clearly visible. Just as I was beginning to get lost in feelings of insecurity and diffidence, the elderly lady sitting behind me tapped my shoulder and whispered "I just love your blouse!" I thanked her warmly and went to turn back around so as not to disrupt the Sunday school lesson, but the kind lady was keen on carrying a conversation. We tacitly spoke about the weather, the Iron Man competition and where I had bought my "blouse". Her husband, hearing of Rivs' accomplishments in the race, reached forward and gave him a firm pat on the back, as a proud father would give his son. After the lesson there were smiling elderly faces waiting with kind smiles and hand shakes for me, and lots of proud back pats for Rivers. Sure, there had been culturally conservative Sunday school comments throughout the lesson, but I felt utterly at home. And that is when my epiphany was made manifest.
It occurred to me that it isn't our beliefs that define us, rather it's the way our beliefs translate into the way we treat other people that makes us who we are. We can be proud of our nationality, religion, political views or sexual orientation and use it as a means of identification. "I am American." "I am Mormon". "I am a Republican". "I am Gay". I don't believe there is anything wrong with feeling burning pride for our religion, or any other identifying factor. In fact, as human beings we need identities in order to feel self-worth and understand our place in the world. But what I came to find on my weekend in Utah, as trite as it sounds, is that our true identities are found in our ability and willingness to love others.
It's too often that our terrestrial identities keep us from recognizing our potential to love unconditionally, just as my 'liberal' ideology led me to write off the entire state of Utah. When we are so entrenched in our views, it becomes easy to pass judgement on those who think differently, and to treat them accordingly. I am supremely guilty of this.
This is not to say that it is inherently bad to be passionate about ideologies and beliefs. I wouldn't be writing this blog if I wasn't zealous in my worldview. But in a state of introspection I came to find that in comparison to love and charity, most of my other beliefs are quite trivial.
As this thought sequence unfolded, the Bob Marley lyrics "Love is my Religion" came to mind. Although these words are stigmatized as a free-loving left-wing hippie slogan, they are quite similar to the Christian mantra "Love one Another". Unfortunately, these polarized groups are often at odds with each other due to differences in belief, lifestyle and culture. In their polarized disagreements, they come to forget (myself included) that their basic core value is the same: just love.
Another song that came to mind as I was mulling over these thoughts were lyrics from a Church hymn:
"By this shall men know, that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another"
These words adopted new poignancy for me. The hymn doesn't say "by these white shirts and ties", or "by your clean-shaven face" that others would recognized followers of Christ. It simply says that our ability and propensity to love others is the greatest indicator of true discipleship.
And so, on my Utah vacation I came to learn that whether we're old or young, liberal or conservative, polygamist or monogamous, the only thing that truly matters is love.
Monday, April 22, 2013
A Tender Balance
Lately I feel as though I've been drowning in a sea of self-imposed pressure to 'do something' with my life. I seem to be clumsily treading in the waters of 'just making it', never able to lift my head high enough to take a breath of satisfaction. Where there once lived an insatiable drive to pursue every opportunity handed to me, I find myself eating cookies and reading Glamour magazine in my spare time. My justification is "what could I possibly accomplish in this hour I have to myself?" When my answer is "nothing productive", I get out the Costco tub of Pillsburry cookie dough and sit on the Lazy Boy. "I deserve this", I tell myself. But don't I deserve more?
I peruse Pinterest and the blogosphere and encounter women who are mothers of 4 with successful careers and beautifully decorated homes, who just happen to have made homemade Gatorade for their sick children. And I feel wholly inadequate.
I am a waitress.
My house looks like a Goodwill poster.
And I can't even keep it clean.
Now don't get me wrong, I absolutely love being a mother, and I have found more satisfaction in the calling of motherhood than any other job or degree could offer me. I look at my daughter's sleeping face and know that if I did nothing else with my life, having loved and raised her would be enough. Still, I can't help but shake this pervasive feeling that I could be more productive with my time, and that my window to seize the moment is quickly coming to a close. Women are becoming more successful at a younger age, and it leaves me feeling as though my prime is slipping into the periphery.
This self-inflicted sense of persecution contrasted against my lack of ambition follows me around everywhere I go. It seeps into my pores, leaving me feeling unsatisfied in the happiest of moments. I see resentment creeping into my veins. I hear my voice growing curt and abrasive with Harper. I am unable to be in the moment, because I'm always thinking about what more fulfilling things the moment could bring. And so, in the pursuit of 'something more', I end up with less.
Today, I woke up with renewed resolve, and a new perspective on what it means to be accomplished. I proverbially shook myself by the shoulders and shouted "You're not past your prime. You're not getting too old. You're not a Pinterest perfect mom. But you have a beautiful, happy family. Be okay with it."
I have decided to enjoy each moment, whether that means making Play-Doh pizzas on our scuffed wood floors, or writing a book, or eating a chocolate chip cookie while watching New Girl, or analyzing current affairs, or laying in bed with my husband and daughter on a sunny Sunday morning. I will no longer allow myself to give in to the choking anxiety that accompanies the thought "what more could I be doing?"
I will allow myself to believe that there is a season for everything, and that opportunities and 'success' will come in time. I will not give in to the counter-productive logic that an hour isn't enough. I will strive to use those sporadic hour sessions to do something fulfilling while still allowing myself guilt-free magazine and cookie sessions. Because I deserve to relax. But I also deserve feeling accomplished, productive and satisfied.
Most importantly, I will remember that raising my child in love and peace is more meaningful than having a blog-worthy home, or being published in the New York Times, or any other temporal gauge of success.
Today I have come to believe that it is in the sacrificial act of motherhood that we come to find the tender balance between selflessness and self worth.
I peruse Pinterest and the blogosphere and encounter women who are mothers of 4 with successful careers and beautifully decorated homes, who just happen to have made homemade Gatorade for their sick children. And I feel wholly inadequate.
I am a waitress.
My house looks like a Goodwill poster.
And I can't even keep it clean.
Now don't get me wrong, I absolutely love being a mother, and I have found more satisfaction in the calling of motherhood than any other job or degree could offer me. I look at my daughter's sleeping face and know that if I did nothing else with my life, having loved and raised her would be enough. Still, I can't help but shake this pervasive feeling that I could be more productive with my time, and that my window to seize the moment is quickly coming to a close. Women are becoming more successful at a younger age, and it leaves me feeling as though my prime is slipping into the periphery.
This self-inflicted sense of persecution contrasted against my lack of ambition follows me around everywhere I go. It seeps into my pores, leaving me feeling unsatisfied in the happiest of moments. I see resentment creeping into my veins. I hear my voice growing curt and abrasive with Harper. I am unable to be in the moment, because I'm always thinking about what more fulfilling things the moment could bring. And so, in the pursuit of 'something more', I end up with less.
Today, I woke up with renewed resolve, and a new perspective on what it means to be accomplished. I proverbially shook myself by the shoulders and shouted "You're not past your prime. You're not getting too old. You're not a Pinterest perfect mom. But you have a beautiful, happy family. Be okay with it."
I have decided to enjoy each moment, whether that means making Play-Doh pizzas on our scuffed wood floors, or writing a book, or eating a chocolate chip cookie while watching New Girl, or analyzing current affairs, or laying in bed with my husband and daughter on a sunny Sunday morning. I will no longer allow myself to give in to the choking anxiety that accompanies the thought "what more could I be doing?"
I will allow myself to believe that there is a season for everything, and that opportunities and 'success' will come in time. I will not give in to the counter-productive logic that an hour isn't enough. I will strive to use those sporadic hour sessions to do something fulfilling while still allowing myself guilt-free magazine and cookie sessions. Because I deserve to relax. But I also deserve feeling accomplished, productive and satisfied.
Most importantly, I will remember that raising my child in love and peace is more meaningful than having a blog-worthy home, or being published in the New York Times, or any other temporal gauge of success.
Today I have come to believe that it is in the sacrificial act of motherhood that we come to find the tender balance between selflessness and self worth.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Gay Marriage and the Huntsman
Instead of searching for something to write about, lately I've been waiting for a topic to jump out at me rather than writing for the sole purpose of producing a blog post. Now don't get me wrong; even if I wasn't innately passionate about a subject prior to writing, the process of research, contemplation and analysis always pivots me into a temporary obsession with whatever issue I am discussing. Don't believe me? Watch...
Apples. Yeah, apples are alright I guess. They're round and glossy. Crunchy and sweet. I eat them regularly. They're full of nutrients and loaded with health benefits. In fact, they're absolutely delicious. In fact, I love apples. Actually, I need an apple. Now. Where are all the apples? Did someone eat the last apple? I CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT APPLES!
See that thought process? It happens with my blog posts every time. Even so, I've been making it a point to write only when I'm extremely passionate about a subject matter, which brings me to this post.
Gay marriage. I know, I know... I'm a raving liberal that can't keep my political orientation in my pants. Sorry. I'm not ashamed to admit that the topic of civil gay marriage is one closest to my heart. In my opinion, the right for two consenting adults to marry one another is so starkly a civil right that cannot be marred by the blurring of church and state.
That is why I was both excited and relieved when the 2012 Republican Presidential candidate Jon Huntsman (who happens to be Mormon)recently declared his support for gay marriage outside of church institutions. In an op-ed piece for The American Conservative, Huntsman wrote:
"conservatives should start to lead again and push their states to join the nine others that allow all their citizens to marry. I’ve been married for 29 years. My marriage has been the greatest joy of my life. There is nothing conservative about denying other Americans the ability to forge that same relationship with the person they love."
He went on to assert that religious institutions should not be forced to accept gay unions within their respective churches.
This bold statement, made by a Republican nonetheless, was so poignant for me not because it will revolutionize the way members of the church perceive gay marriage (it won't), but because it marks a clear delineation between religion and politics.
I am well aware that the official stance of the LDS church will never waiver concerning gay marriage within its institution. I understand that this position is backed by eternal beliefs of gender, family and procreation. My intention was never to challenge eternal principles or to infer that our religious belief system is faulted. My only concern and consequent argument is that religious beliefs should not permeate into political legislature. Religion should not attempt to force those who do not accept our system of truth to live within the confines of our beliefs. Just as religious institutions are given the freedom to autonomously practice their rituals, rites and beliefs, so should political decisions be made free from the constraints of religious conjecture.
A prominent argument I've found in opposition to gay marriage is that it will degrade the sanctity of marriage. Really? I'm sorry to say, but when the divorce rate is sitting at around 45%, domestic abuse runs rampant, extramarital affairs are commonplace and swinging is the new cool thing to do, I'm pretty sure straight people have already degraded the inherent godliness of marriage. It is harsh and somewhat naive to say that two women who have been in love for years would further the downward spiral of marriage. And I don't want to be naive. I'm sure gay people will get divorced, abuse each other, have affairs and put their watches in a bowl for a swinging good time as well. But shouldn't they be allowed the opportunity to debauch what was once so divine, just as much as us straight people?
Okay, I don't want to be a Debbie Downer. I do believe that marriage can still be sacred, especially when faith and God are in the equation. But the sacredness of marriage is not dependent on civil law or constitutional amendments. It is contingent upon individual couples upholding their vows and covenants to ensure its sacramental meaning. But civil society should not be expected to comply with our belief that marriage is consecrated by God. Like it or not, a lot of 'Mericans don't even believe in God, and as beloved freedom entails, we are constitutionally banned from forcing others to adhere to any religion, creed or code.
This is the way I see it. I have been married for nearly 5 years. I was married by sacred ritual in an LDS temple. When I was married, I promised to keep faith and God a part of my marriage to ensure its sanctity and success. I believe that the success and sacredness of my marriage is contingent upon me and my husband's ability to maintain a relationship with God. I don't believe that allowing two men to marry would have any effect on my personal relationship with God or my husband. If it did, well that wouldn't be saying much for my marriage or my faith.
"But what will we teach our children?" I've heard people ask. Teach them that when two consenting adults love each other, they get married. Teach them that when two Mormons love each other, they get married in the temple, which does not (and never will) allow same-sex marriage.
So tip of my hat to you, Jon Huntsman, for being a real American through and through. Not only are you a Republican in support of gay marriage, but by asserting that religious institutions should not be forced to accept prospective changes to civil marriage, you were able to uphold your religious devotion, all while observing the tenets of the First Amendment to the United States Constitution. That, my friends, is a taut tightrope to walk.
Thought? Disagreements? Opinions? You know I always like to hear what you have to say...
Apples. Yeah, apples are alright I guess. They're round and glossy. Crunchy and sweet. I eat them regularly. They're full of nutrients and loaded with health benefits. In fact, they're absolutely delicious. In fact, I love apples. Actually, I need an apple. Now. Where are all the apples? Did someone eat the last apple? I CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT APPLES!
See that thought process? It happens with my blog posts every time. Even so, I've been making it a point to write only when I'm extremely passionate about a subject matter, which brings me to this post.
Gay marriage. I know, I know... I'm a raving liberal that can't keep my political orientation in my pants. Sorry. I'm not ashamed to admit that the topic of civil gay marriage is one closest to my heart. In my opinion, the right for two consenting adults to marry one another is so starkly a civil right that cannot be marred by the blurring of church and state.
That is why I was both excited and relieved when the 2012 Republican Presidential candidate Jon Huntsman (who happens to be Mormon)recently declared his support for gay marriage outside of church institutions. In an op-ed piece for The American Conservative, Huntsman wrote:
"conservatives should start to lead again and push their states to join the nine others that allow all their citizens to marry. I’ve been married for 29 years. My marriage has been the greatest joy of my life. There is nothing conservative about denying other Americans the ability to forge that same relationship with the person they love."
He went on to assert that religious institutions should not be forced to accept gay unions within their respective churches.
This bold statement, made by a Republican nonetheless, was so poignant for me not because it will revolutionize the way members of the church perceive gay marriage (it won't), but because it marks a clear delineation between religion and politics.
I am well aware that the official stance of the LDS church will never waiver concerning gay marriage within its institution. I understand that this position is backed by eternal beliefs of gender, family and procreation. My intention was never to challenge eternal principles or to infer that our religious belief system is faulted. My only concern and consequent argument is that religious beliefs should not permeate into political legislature. Religion should not attempt to force those who do not accept our system of truth to live within the confines of our beliefs. Just as religious institutions are given the freedom to autonomously practice their rituals, rites and beliefs, so should political decisions be made free from the constraints of religious conjecture.
A prominent argument I've found in opposition to gay marriage is that it will degrade the sanctity of marriage. Really? I'm sorry to say, but when the divorce rate is sitting at around 45%, domestic abuse runs rampant, extramarital affairs are commonplace and swinging is the new cool thing to do, I'm pretty sure straight people have already degraded the inherent godliness of marriage. It is harsh and somewhat naive to say that two women who have been in love for years would further the downward spiral of marriage. And I don't want to be naive. I'm sure gay people will get divorced, abuse each other, have affairs and put their watches in a bowl for a swinging good time as well. But shouldn't they be allowed the opportunity to debauch what was once so divine, just as much as us straight people?
Okay, I don't want to be a Debbie Downer. I do believe that marriage can still be sacred, especially when faith and God are in the equation. But the sacredness of marriage is not dependent on civil law or constitutional amendments. It is contingent upon individual couples upholding their vows and covenants to ensure its sacramental meaning. But civil society should not be expected to comply with our belief that marriage is consecrated by God. Like it or not, a lot of 'Mericans don't even believe in God, and as beloved freedom entails, we are constitutionally banned from forcing others to adhere to any religion, creed or code.
This is the way I see it. I have been married for nearly 5 years. I was married by sacred ritual in an LDS temple. When I was married, I promised to keep faith and God a part of my marriage to ensure its sanctity and success. I believe that the success and sacredness of my marriage is contingent upon me and my husband's ability to maintain a relationship with God. I don't believe that allowing two men to marry would have any effect on my personal relationship with God or my husband. If it did, well that wouldn't be saying much for my marriage or my faith.
"But what will we teach our children?" I've heard people ask. Teach them that when two consenting adults love each other, they get married. Teach them that when two Mormons love each other, they get married in the temple, which does not (and never will) allow same-sex marriage.
So tip of my hat to you, Jon Huntsman, for being a real American through and through. Not only are you a Republican in support of gay marriage, but by asserting that religious institutions should not be forced to accept prospective changes to civil marriage, you were able to uphold your religious devotion, all while observing the tenets of the First Amendment to the United States Constitution. That, my friends, is a taut tightrope to walk.
Thought? Disagreements? Opinions? You know I always like to hear what you have to say...
Thursday, January 31, 2013
The Right to Bear 8 Arms: what are you, an octopus?
What is usually assumed when I tell people that I majored in Peace and Conflict studies in undergrad and grad school, is that I am a pacifist. (Actually, lots of assumptions are made ie. feminist, anarchist, loves Birkenstocks, vegetarian, loves The Greatful Dead, hates country music, etc... But I digress.) The term 'pacifism' ranges on a spectrum from the promotion of resolving conflict through peaceful means to a belief in complete abstinence from violence, even for self defense. From my experience in somewhat heated political debates, 'pacifist' is often used as a derogatory term attempting to insult us 'liberal, dove-loving, peace-sign waving, hairy armpitted hippies', as though calling someone a 'pacifist' would negate any rational or logical argument they might have. I guess this is similar to calling someone a 'War Monger', which I may have done in my angsty teens, thinking that I had dominated an argument from the use of that single term alone. In truth, although I advocate for peaceful resolutions to geopolitical conflict, I would consider myself a moderate pacifist. I do think that violence is sometimes (but rarely) a necessary means to achieve peace, when all other diplomatic attempts have been exhausted, or if a group of people are being tyrannically oppressed. I think that global foreign policy is much too hasty in deeming military action as the most effective means of resolving conflict, and I definitely believe a major paradigm shift is needed in the way world politics deal with conflict. Still, it is my personal belief that there are instances when violence is a necessary evil. Phew. That was hard for me to write.
So, why the lengthy preface to a blog post about gun control? Well, I just wanted to state my stance on nonviolence before delving into my opinion on the subject of guns, just so you don't assume that I'm someone who wouldn't roundhouse kick a sexual predator in the face. Because I would. So hard. I'd even sucker punch a kidnapper in the jewels, and not even feel bad about it. And just so you know, Rivers sleeps with a machete under the bed. So there.
That being said, let me tell you about my views on gun control, since it's a topic that's been blowing up the social media sphere like Walter White in an underground meth lab. ( Didn't get that joke? No? Breaking Bad, anyone? Season 3? No, I guess that show is a little too rated R for my target audience...)
The major argument I've heard in opposition to tighter gun control laws is the good old 2nd Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America written in 1791, deeming that the people of America have the right to "keep and bear arms". Before dissecting the reasoning behind the amendment, let's take a look at the mechanics of a 1791 gun...
For starters, a 1791 gun was a single-fire weapon that needed to be reloaded through the muzzle after each shot. They had horrible aim, often misfired and did not have even close to the velocity or range that a modern firearm possesses. In other words, every shot had to count. People bearing arms back in 1791 were able to hit one target at a time (if they were 'lucky') with vast intervals of time in between shots, and were often stabbed or wrestled to the ground while trying to reload their musket in battle. In actuality, most militia men relied on more old school 'arms', like bayonettes, swords, sabres and bows. Modern assault rifles, on the other hand, have the ability to take down crowds of people in a matter of seconds with precision and ease, as we have regrettably learned through the recent onslaught of mass shootings plaguing the United States. As opposed to the bearer of a cumbersome musket who could conceivably be 'taken down' by an unarmed opponent, citizens bearing assault rifles have virtually no opposition. I doubt that the founding fathers could even fathom such destructive weapons when they bestowed upon the People the right to bear arms. If the arms debate was pitted around how many crossbows, cannons and Excalibur swords a citizen could posses, I think I would be more understanding of the opposing argument. But the fact that Americans are up in arms (pun) about the possibility of losing their semi-automatic assault rifles (which are only meant for one thing-killing multiple people in a short amount of time) baffles me.
The 2nd amendment was ratified in order to ensure that "A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed." In essence, the right to bear arms was ratified as a safeguard against tyrannical rule, so that if the People felt their government was oppressive, they would be adequately armed for rebellion. Can you imagine what would happen if a group of extra-governmental militia people banded together to take out the president? Yeah, I'm pretty sure we call that terrorism, and there's actually a whole war going on to try and stop that, if ya didn't know. I think we can all agree that the original reason behind the right to bear arms is outdated. Citizen-organized militias are virtually illegal and I'd be willing to bet that any modern-day revolution would be quashed and quickly marked as treason. As a result, in 2008 the Supreme Court ruled that citizens unaffiliated with militias could still maintain their right to bear arms. In reality, it is no longer the 2nd amendment that is upholding this inalienable right to own guns (how many people do you know as part of a militia?). So let's not use that as an argument, k?
All this being said, I have to be clear that I am not completely opposed to gun ownership. I think that if having a handgun in your house makes you feel safer, and you've passed an extensive background check along with proper gun wielding and safety training, why not? Like I said, we sleep with a machete under our bed. If you like venison and a sweet deerskin loincloth, why not have a hunting rifle in your shed? Sure. No problem. What I can't understand is the debate over the right to own a semi-automatic assault weapon, or an arsenal of guns at that. A survey conducted by the Injury Prevention center at the US National Library of Medicine journal showed that gun owners own an average of 7.9 guns each. Please tell me the point of owning 8 guns. Unless you're an octopus,or have been watching too much Walking Dead and are preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse, I really don't get it.
Since 1982, there have been over 60 mass shootings in the United States, and, according to a recent study by Mother Jones magazine, most of the shooters obtained their weapons legally. The weapons used were predominantly assault rifles and semi-automatic handguns. I have heard the pro-gun argument that if a potential victim of a mass shooting had been armed, he or she could have shot the perpetrator before too many lives were lost. But as this study shows, there have been zero mass shootings stopped by armed civilians, although some victims were armed at the time of the shooting.
I guess my point in writing this blog is my ever present message of moderation and balance. I see no problem with a law-abiding citizen having a safely stored handgun in their home to protect against intruders. I know a lot of people whose minds are put at ease going to bed at night knowing that they have a weapon to protect them. But what I really can't wrap my mind around is how people can rationally argue the 'right' to own their own personal stockpile of assault weapons, or those who feel they're living under a communist government when they see a sign outside a store that reads "No Weapons Allowed".
There are tons of other disarming (pun) statistics that I could use in this post, but I don't want to bore you. Here are some links to the studies I've referenced, just so you know I'm not just pulling these statistics from thin air.
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2610545/
http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2012/07/mass-shootings-map
http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2013/01/pro-gun-myths-fact-check
And I'd really be interested to hear your opinion on the subject. So please, go ahead. Shoot.
So, why the lengthy preface to a blog post about gun control? Well, I just wanted to state my stance on nonviolence before delving into my opinion on the subject of guns, just so you don't assume that I'm someone who wouldn't roundhouse kick a sexual predator in the face. Because I would. So hard. I'd even sucker punch a kidnapper in the jewels, and not even feel bad about it. And just so you know, Rivers sleeps with a machete under the bed. So there.
That being said, let me tell you about my views on gun control, since it's a topic that's been blowing up the social media sphere like Walter White in an underground meth lab. ( Didn't get that joke? No? Breaking Bad, anyone? Season 3? No, I guess that show is a little too rated R for my target audience...)
The major argument I've heard in opposition to tighter gun control laws is the good old 2nd Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America written in 1791, deeming that the people of America have the right to "keep and bear arms". Before dissecting the reasoning behind the amendment, let's take a look at the mechanics of a 1791 gun...
For starters, a 1791 gun was a single-fire weapon that needed to be reloaded through the muzzle after each shot. They had horrible aim, often misfired and did not have even close to the velocity or range that a modern firearm possesses. In other words, every shot had to count. People bearing arms back in 1791 were able to hit one target at a time (if they were 'lucky') with vast intervals of time in between shots, and were often stabbed or wrestled to the ground while trying to reload their musket in battle. In actuality, most militia men relied on more old school 'arms', like bayonettes, swords, sabres and bows. Modern assault rifles, on the other hand, have the ability to take down crowds of people in a matter of seconds with precision and ease, as we have regrettably learned through the recent onslaught of mass shootings plaguing the United States. As opposed to the bearer of a cumbersome musket who could conceivably be 'taken down' by an unarmed opponent, citizens bearing assault rifles have virtually no opposition. I doubt that the founding fathers could even fathom such destructive weapons when they bestowed upon the People the right to bear arms. If the arms debate was pitted around how many crossbows, cannons and Excalibur swords a citizen could posses, I think I would be more understanding of the opposing argument. But the fact that Americans are up in arms (pun) about the possibility of losing their semi-automatic assault rifles (which are only meant for one thing-killing multiple people in a short amount of time) baffles me.
The 2nd amendment was ratified in order to ensure that "A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed." In essence, the right to bear arms was ratified as a safeguard against tyrannical rule, so that if the People felt their government was oppressive, they would be adequately armed for rebellion. Can you imagine what would happen if a group of extra-governmental militia people banded together to take out the president? Yeah, I'm pretty sure we call that terrorism, and there's actually a whole war going on to try and stop that, if ya didn't know. I think we can all agree that the original reason behind the right to bear arms is outdated. Citizen-organized militias are virtually illegal and I'd be willing to bet that any modern-day revolution would be quashed and quickly marked as treason. As a result, in 2008 the Supreme Court ruled that citizens unaffiliated with militias could still maintain their right to bear arms. In reality, it is no longer the 2nd amendment that is upholding this inalienable right to own guns (how many people do you know as part of a militia?). So let's not use that as an argument, k?
All this being said, I have to be clear that I am not completely opposed to gun ownership. I think that if having a handgun in your house makes you feel safer, and you've passed an extensive background check along with proper gun wielding and safety training, why not? Like I said, we sleep with a machete under our bed. If you like venison and a sweet deerskin loincloth, why not have a hunting rifle in your shed? Sure. No problem. What I can't understand is the debate over the right to own a semi-automatic assault weapon, or an arsenal of guns at that. A survey conducted by the Injury Prevention center at the US National Library of Medicine journal showed that gun owners own an average of 7.9 guns each. Please tell me the point of owning 8 guns. Unless you're an octopus,or have been watching too much Walking Dead and are preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse, I really don't get it.
Since 1982, there have been over 60 mass shootings in the United States, and, according to a recent study by Mother Jones magazine, most of the shooters obtained their weapons legally. The weapons used were predominantly assault rifles and semi-automatic handguns. I have heard the pro-gun argument that if a potential victim of a mass shooting had been armed, he or she could have shot the perpetrator before too many lives were lost. But as this study shows, there have been zero mass shootings stopped by armed civilians, although some victims were armed at the time of the shooting.
I guess my point in writing this blog is my ever present message of moderation and balance. I see no problem with a law-abiding citizen having a safely stored handgun in their home to protect against intruders. I know a lot of people whose minds are put at ease going to bed at night knowing that they have a weapon to protect them. But what I really can't wrap my mind around is how people can rationally argue the 'right' to own their own personal stockpile of assault weapons, or those who feel they're living under a communist government when they see a sign outside a store that reads "No Weapons Allowed".
There are tons of other disarming (pun) statistics that I could use in this post, but I don't want to bore you. Here are some links to the studies I've referenced, just so you know I'm not just pulling these statistics from thin air.
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2610545/
http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2012/07/mass-shootings-map
http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2013/01/pro-gun-myths-fact-check
And I'd really be interested to hear your opinion on the subject. So please, go ahead. Shoot.
Monday, November 19, 2012
The Grey: Israel and Palestine
Oh, hello there. It's been quite a while. Yes, I still exist. The last few weeks of campaign warfare repulsed me from all thing political and/or opinionated, rendering me unable (or unwilling) to hunker down and write anything of substance. I couldn't even stomach Facebook, which was rife with partisan slander and self-righteous bigotry. Obama won. Romney lost. The world is not ending. Obama is not the anti-Christ. America, if it truly is the land of the free, home of the brave and God-blessed, will not be run to the ground by a single person. So go ahead, relax. See Breaking Dawn Part 2. Eat a Twinkie while you still can. Support 'Merica.
What has compelled me to pick up the proverbial pen and start blogging again is the recent conflict escalation between Israel and Palestine. My mother called me the other day regarding recent Facebook posts I had made in support of Palestine. "Didn't Hamas (the Palestinian government) launch the first rocket?" she asked, wondering why I would support the alleged conflict aggressor. Yes, the first attack was, this time, committed by Palestine. If we attain all of our information regarding this event from major news media sources, we would be led to believe that this attack was an isolated and unwarranted event, fueled by illogical hatred. We would see Palestine as a warmongering people hellbent on destruction and chaos. We would see a rogue state provoking our Ally. In this light, it is understandable how many Americans unhesitatingly side with Israel against a seemingly radical, terrorist Palestine. As with most conflicts, without the proper historical context (which is rarely found in the news)we are left with a very narrow view of complex situations. Making judgment calls on right and wrong or good and evil is very dangerous without a comprehensive understanding of events.
If we were to do a little research into the historical context of Israel and Palestine, chances are our understanding of the conflict wouldn't be so starkly black and white. When it comes to this decades-long (or millenia-long) conflict, there is a whole lot of grey.
This isn't to say that I have all the answers, or that I have a complete understanding of what is going on in Israel and Palestine. However, I hope that subjecting my life to 5 years of conflict studies gives me a little cred. If nothing else, it's given me a (perhaps false) sense of confidence to talk about these things. And so here I go...
In the early 1900s, Palestine was inhabited by Arab Muslims. At the time, there was a negligible Jewish population, most of whom had fled Russian pogroms against the Jews in Eastern Europe. For the most part, Arab Palestinians and Jewish settlers got along, although the influx of Jews stirred a Palestinian nationalist movement as well as anti-semetic sentiments. As Jewish persecution mounted in Europe in the 1920s and 30s, an increasing amount of Jews illegally migrated to Palestine, although they were still a small minority. Many Jews escaped the Holocaust by being smuggled into the Palestinian territory. At the time, Palestine was an autonomous region under the British Mandate. Israel did not exist as a geopolitical state, although there was a collective aspiration among many Jews that a Jewish homeland would one day be created. Zionists debated where Israel should be located. Some suggested Argentina, while others thought Ethiopia would be an ideal spot. But the most coveted location for the Jewish homeland was the Arab-inhabited Palestine.
After WWII and the deplorable Jewish Holocaust, the push to find a homeland for displaced Jews was brought to the United Nations. With the dissolution of the British Mandate, in 1947 Palestine was 'up for grabs', as the inanity of post-colonialism goes. The United Nations cut out a little part of Palestine and gave it to the Jews, declaring it the new Israel. But there was a problem. What to do with all the Arabs who had been living there for centuries?
As more displaced European Jews began arriving in Palestine (or Israel, as it was now called), many Palestinians were forced from their land and homes. A Civil War erupted between Arab nationalists and Zionist militant factions. Many lives were lost, and tens of thousands of Arab Palestinian fled their homeland for neighboring Arab nations. An Arab-Israeli war ensued, fought between those defending their homeland and others fighting for their newly-gifted land. Over the years and subsequent wars, the Arab-inhabited Palestine has diminished into a few pockets of land and a couple of permanent refugee camps.
This is a map of the hyperbolic relationship between Palestinian and Israeli land.
The land given to the Jews by the UN for the creation of Israel in 1948 consisted of a very small portion of Palestine. Israel's acquisition of Palestinian territory since 1967 is officially contrary to international law. Palestinians have been quite literally forced from their homes, and made to flee to other Arab countries, or to live in the underdeveloped and overpopulated Gaza strip, which was initially a refugee camp. Meanwhile, Israel continues to acquire more Palestinian land.
While I do not condone aggression or violence, having this historical context of Israel and Palestine makes the recent Palestinian attack on Israel a bit more understandable. With no true infrastructure or natural resources, Palestinians living in the Gaza strip have no means to pursue economic development. Many people in Gaza hold University degrees, but have no professional jobs available to them.
Imagine having been unlawfully evicted from your homeland and forced to live in a refugee camp. Over the years, do you not think you would become desperate, watching others profit off of the land that once belonged to you, your parents and your grandparents? Do you not think you would be persuaded to pick up arms and try to take back what you believe is rightfully yours?
This isn't to say that Palestine isn't partially to blame for the intractable conflict in the region. Launching rockets into a city isn't going to solve anything, but only escalate an already corrosive situation. I have heard people blame Palestine for not wanting to engage in Peace Talks. But tell me, what motivation would Palestine have for talking with Israel? Palestine is obviously in no position of power, with no organized military, weapons or resources. They have no bargaining chips. To talk "peace" would mean, to them, giving up the land which was unlawfully acquired through war and illegal evictions. "Peace" as we see it in the West, which is the cessation of violence, would mean to concede to the fact that Palestine is no more.
In Hawaii, I worked in a coffee shop for 5 years. Over the years, I came to know Gebron, a Palestinian man who sold decorative sea shells by the side of the street. Gerbon had a degree in architecture from university in Palestine. One day I started to tell him about my studies in Peace and Conflict, and how we had been learning about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Being young and presumptuous, I started to tell him about my ideas for peace in the area. His teary-eyed response to my inexperienced rambling was one of the more humbling experiences of my life.
"My dear friend. What is peace if there is no justice? And what is justice without our land? There can be no peace without justice, and without our land, we have nothing."
What has compelled me to pick up the proverbial pen and start blogging again is the recent conflict escalation between Israel and Palestine. My mother called me the other day regarding recent Facebook posts I had made in support of Palestine. "Didn't Hamas (the Palestinian government) launch the first rocket?" she asked, wondering why I would support the alleged conflict aggressor. Yes, the first attack was, this time, committed by Palestine. If we attain all of our information regarding this event from major news media sources, we would be led to believe that this attack was an isolated and unwarranted event, fueled by illogical hatred. We would see Palestine as a warmongering people hellbent on destruction and chaos. We would see a rogue state provoking our Ally. In this light, it is understandable how many Americans unhesitatingly side with Israel against a seemingly radical, terrorist Palestine. As with most conflicts, without the proper historical context (which is rarely found in the news)we are left with a very narrow view of complex situations. Making judgment calls on right and wrong or good and evil is very dangerous without a comprehensive understanding of events.
If we were to do a little research into the historical context of Israel and Palestine, chances are our understanding of the conflict wouldn't be so starkly black and white. When it comes to this decades-long (or millenia-long) conflict, there is a whole lot of grey.
This isn't to say that I have all the answers, or that I have a complete understanding of what is going on in Israel and Palestine. However, I hope that subjecting my life to 5 years of conflict studies gives me a little cred. If nothing else, it's given me a (perhaps false) sense of confidence to talk about these things. And so here I go...
In the early 1900s, Palestine was inhabited by Arab Muslims. At the time, there was a negligible Jewish population, most of whom had fled Russian pogroms against the Jews in Eastern Europe. For the most part, Arab Palestinians and Jewish settlers got along, although the influx of Jews stirred a Palestinian nationalist movement as well as anti-semetic sentiments. As Jewish persecution mounted in Europe in the 1920s and 30s, an increasing amount of Jews illegally migrated to Palestine, although they were still a small minority. Many Jews escaped the Holocaust by being smuggled into the Palestinian territory. At the time, Palestine was an autonomous region under the British Mandate. Israel did not exist as a geopolitical state, although there was a collective aspiration among many Jews that a Jewish homeland would one day be created. Zionists debated where Israel should be located. Some suggested Argentina, while others thought Ethiopia would be an ideal spot. But the most coveted location for the Jewish homeland was the Arab-inhabited Palestine.
After WWII and the deplorable Jewish Holocaust, the push to find a homeland for displaced Jews was brought to the United Nations. With the dissolution of the British Mandate, in 1947 Palestine was 'up for grabs', as the inanity of post-colonialism goes. The United Nations cut out a little part of Palestine and gave it to the Jews, declaring it the new Israel. But there was a problem. What to do with all the Arabs who had been living there for centuries?
As more displaced European Jews began arriving in Palestine (or Israel, as it was now called), many Palestinians were forced from their land and homes. A Civil War erupted between Arab nationalists and Zionist militant factions. Many lives were lost, and tens of thousands of Arab Palestinian fled their homeland for neighboring Arab nations. An Arab-Israeli war ensued, fought between those defending their homeland and others fighting for their newly-gifted land. Over the years and subsequent wars, the Arab-inhabited Palestine has diminished into a few pockets of land and a couple of permanent refugee camps.
This is a map of the hyperbolic relationship between Palestinian and Israeli land.
The land given to the Jews by the UN for the creation of Israel in 1948 consisted of a very small portion of Palestine. Israel's acquisition of Palestinian territory since 1967 is officially contrary to international law. Palestinians have been quite literally forced from their homes, and made to flee to other Arab countries, or to live in the underdeveloped and overpopulated Gaza strip, which was initially a refugee camp. Meanwhile, Israel continues to acquire more Palestinian land.
While I do not condone aggression or violence, having this historical context of Israel and Palestine makes the recent Palestinian attack on Israel a bit more understandable. With no true infrastructure or natural resources, Palestinians living in the Gaza strip have no means to pursue economic development. Many people in Gaza hold University degrees, but have no professional jobs available to them.
Imagine having been unlawfully evicted from your homeland and forced to live in a refugee camp. Over the years, do you not think you would become desperate, watching others profit off of the land that once belonged to you, your parents and your grandparents? Do you not think you would be persuaded to pick up arms and try to take back what you believe is rightfully yours?
This isn't to say that Palestine isn't partially to blame for the intractable conflict in the region. Launching rockets into a city isn't going to solve anything, but only escalate an already corrosive situation. I have heard people blame Palestine for not wanting to engage in Peace Talks. But tell me, what motivation would Palestine have for talking with Israel? Palestine is obviously in no position of power, with no organized military, weapons or resources. They have no bargaining chips. To talk "peace" would mean, to them, giving up the land which was unlawfully acquired through war and illegal evictions. "Peace" as we see it in the West, which is the cessation of violence, would mean to concede to the fact that Palestine is no more.
In Hawaii, I worked in a coffee shop for 5 years. Over the years, I came to know Gebron, a Palestinian man who sold decorative sea shells by the side of the street. Gerbon had a degree in architecture from university in Palestine. One day I started to tell him about my studies in Peace and Conflict, and how we had been learning about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Being young and presumptuous, I started to tell him about my ideas for peace in the area. His teary-eyed response to my inexperienced rambling was one of the more humbling experiences of my life.
"My dear friend. What is peace if there is no justice? And what is justice without our land? There can be no peace without justice, and without our land, we have nothing."
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