Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Heathen

I don't go to church. I don't go to a mosque or a temple or any building in which worship occurs. I don't knock people who do so. In fact, in many ways, I understand it. I recognize the need for fellowship, the need for guidance. We live in an insane world in which both horrible and wonderful things happen every day. On any given day… while a person lies in pain from a terminal illness, while someone is being raped, while a violent murder is occurring… parents are taking home their beautiful newborn child, another person comes out of a terrible accident unscathed, someone finds a reason to live.



Several good reasons for my discontent with religion in general are the people I've met throughout my life. I have problems with some doctrines as well. I've read several versions of the Bible, many times, and feel I have the right to question what I read. Mainly because the Bible has been interpreted and translated so many times, I've lost count. And I was raised around Christianity, so it's generally the religion I analyze the most. But that's another topic entirely. In all its denominations, I've found that the persons who claim to be God's chosen ones, true Christians, the most religious (and I stress religious, not spiritual), the ones who go to church every week and sit in the first pew are some of the most preening, sanctimonious, self-satisfied, hypocritical individuals I have ever met. When I was young, we had the "privilege" of having a couple who were missionaries stay with us for a period of time… I have possibly never taken such an instant dislike to people in my entire life. I will call them Larry and Joan. Larry and Joan complained… about everything. Though we (and another family before us) had taken them in, made space for them in our home, fed them so that they could prep for a life of hardship ministering to the godless natives in a foreign land, these two proceeded to speak negatively about their lodging (I had given up my room for them, by the way), the food (they had no money for anything, including groceries) and anything else you could think of. And after all was said and done, they got assigned to the horrific, war-torn land of… St. Lucia...



Yes, they got sent to an island paradise in the Caribbean, a place people choose to take vacations and honeymoons, complete with sandy beaches and water the color of turquoise. Turquoise! They came back to visit us a few years later. After toiling and suffering in a tropical refuge… they decided to come home to the States for a few weeks to see their friends and family. Another missionary couple had returned as well. I had never met them before and didn't have much time to get to know them. I don't even remember their names. However, they seemed nice enough and we all sat down and listened as both couples related their experiences. The second couple had been assigned to… South Africa. They described how they had been preaching in Cape Town when a group of protesters stormed the area… there were shootings and beatings… they had to run for their lives. They had to hide behind a building, waiting for some of the violence to pass so that they could get to their vehicle and escape. People were killed during this protest. People were shot, dragged through the streets, hung. Immediately after this, Larry spoke of the hardships he and Joan had suffered. He told a colorful tale of how he and his wife had been preaching to a family in St. Lucia. While they were talking to the adults, some kids in the yard were playing with a B.B. gun. One of the kids shot the gun at a tree and a B.B. ricocheted off it and grazed Joan on her leg. Larry expressed how he never knew things would be so difficult there.



I wish I was kidding...



But I am not. This is exactly how it went, exactly what was said. Larry tried to compete with a tale of violence and murder by relaying a story in which his wife was grazed on her calf by a B.B. from a B.B. gun. I am not making this up. This conversation actually occurred and was witnessed by several people who are still around to back me up today. I was flabbergasted. I remember looking at my mother during this discussion and attempting to telepathically ask her, "Are they serious?!" I looked around at everyone else to see if anyone else's face was expressing the disbelief I felt. But they were all enraptured by the conversation and nodding. As if this wasn't enough, my parents had planned a cookout in Larry and Joan's honor. I was completely done with them after I walked in on my mother, sad-faced and slightly teary-eyed, in the kitchen. Evidently, Larry told her that when he was visiting some family and other friends the weekend before, they had served steak at that gathering. He asked my mother, "Why are you serving only hamburgers and hot dogs?" I'm sure he said it in the voice of a humble, sincere servant of the Lord. I'm going to assume that if he were present when Jesus multiplied the loaves of bread and fish, he would have asked, "Where's the lobster?!"



If these were the only people I'd ever met like this that claimed to be holy, I probably wouldn't be the person I am now or feel the way I do about organized religion. But I've met many, many people like this my whole life. I know you can find people who are truly good and strive to follow Biblical principles, but why are these other ones the ones you see the most? I see so much hypocrisy that it's almost unbelievable. It's always that charismatic man who everyone loves to see preach the Word that ends up confessing to sleeping with one or more of his female parishioners. It's always that preacher screaming that "homosexuals are going to hell in a hand-basket full of gasoline" that ends up with pictures on the internet walking out of a gay club. There's always, always… something. I hear the excuses for it, I've heard them my whole life, too. No one's perfect, everyone makes mistakes, etc. But I ask, if you are truly a man or woman of God as you claim, shouldn't we expect you to live up to higher standards?



It doesn't help that I read an article recently regarding several televangelists/leaders of mega-churches who advocate this teaching called "prosperity theology" which in a nutshell means that God blesses preachers with money to buy mansions, Bentleys, etc. I find it hard to imagine Jesus in a Bentley or even a Benz for that matter. I don't have a problem with a "person of God" accumulating riches… I have a problem with what they do with those riches, or rather what they don't do with those riches. Maybe I'm wrong for believing that a person who claims to be spiritual should have more humility, more empathy, more regard for humanity. Maybe I will go to hell for doubting that God endows his "favored" followers with mansions and jewels and money and luxury cars and private planes when there are children starving in every country, people living on sidewalks, scientists begging for money for research to cure diseases that kill millions of people every year. I wouldn't knock a regular person for this. If I had millions of dollars, I might buy myself a luxury car or two… but I'm not claiming to be a chosen one. I'm not claiming to be blessed by God. I'm not even claiming to be a Christian because I don't label what I am. I haven't really decided yet. But I would think that any person who says they are a Christian would attempt to emulate Jesus Christ. But considering that some people who embrace Christianity have never actually read the Bible in its entirety for themselves, maybe they've never read the parts where Jesus condemned the Pharisees for their holier-than-thou attitude or turned over the money tables in the temple. Apparently, Jesus took offense to these men turning a profit on people who wanted to hear the word of God… I wonder how he'd feel about the preacher flying in on a private jet…


Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Cover

I love high heels. I wear them almost every day. Three inches, minimum, most of the time. Of the dozens of shoes I own, I might own one pair of sneakers. I don't really wear jeans too much, either. I mainly stick to dresses, skirts, halter tops… I love being dressed up. I love fashion. I love all the big fashion houses and name brands… Prada, Marc Jacobs, Balenciaga, Tory Burch… I also love to… read...



I'm a nerd. I'm sure this comes as no surprise to the people who grew up with me and have the proof in the form of yearbooks which show me as a member of almost every academically-inclined club or activity imaginable. I was in the National Honor Society, on the Literary Magazine staff, in the Computer Club, etc. In fact, if any of them are reading this, I'm sure when they read my nerd-status proclamation, they said, "Duh." I own (and this is possibly an understatement) over a thousand books. I have more books than shoes. I have read every one of them, most of them at least twice, some way more than that. I read everything from suspense novels to science fiction to memoirs to classic literature. I get more excited by a book release by one of my favorite authors than shopping for shoes, any day of the week. In fact, if you see me out shopping or at a party and I'm toting my big red Marc Jacobs purse, it probably has a couple of paperbacks in it, maybe a hardback if I can fit it. Speaking of parties…



I love them. I love hanging out with my friends. I love joking with them, having glasses of wine or mixed drinks with them. I love people. I love seeing them, meeting them, talking to them. I love smiling, laughing, flirting. I love dance music because I love dancing. If the DJ throws on a certain song by Beyonce, I might just jump up and do all her moves. But I also love… opera...



Turandot is my favorite. I love Puccini. Truthfully, I love most musical genres. My stepfather influenced that a lot because he is a musician. He mainly plays percussion instruments, but can pretty much play anything he puts his hands on and his mind to. He stuck with mostly Latin-jazz and fusion and some reggae and Afro-beat, but was also in a rock band for a time. He was an artist-in-residence for several years in multiple school districts. He also made his own instruments. I grew up with gourds and dried animal skins strewn all over our house. I came to love all his favorite artists which included Sade, The Police, Chick Corea, Stanley Clarke, Irakere, Talking Heads, Sly and Robbie, Bob Marley, Queen. My uncle was also an influence. He has been the director of a multi-award winning high school band for over twenty years and also plays numerous instruments. Additionally, he was the leader of an R&B group that played gigs for years and has a recording studio in his house. He and my stepfather both performed in pit bands in theatres, judged band contests, judged solo and ensemble performances and gave private lessons. I tagged along a lot. I sat in the audience at plays ranging from Oklahoma to Phantom to Once on This Island. My mother was a huge influence, too. She loves music mostly from the 60's and 70's… Fifth Dimension, the Mamas and Papas, the Carpenters, anything Motown, Earth Wind and Fire, Newbirth, the Stylistics, the Spinners, Tommy James and the Shondells. All of that stuff…my mom loves it. So I grew up exposed to every bit of it. Plus, I played piano and trumpet as a child, the trumpet a little longer. Everything they listened to… I listened, too. I came to love it. But I also grew up in the 80's and 90's… so my musical taste is possibly even more eclectic than theirs… if on shuffle, my iPod might flip from Everyday Struggle by the Notorious B.I.G to Don't Worry Baby by the Beach Boys…



I write all of this because I keep running into people who can't seem to reconcile the many sides a person may have to them. My friends and I may appear to be socialites, beaming in photos, having a great time on the party scene, but there are also nights when we sit quietly at home watching foreign movies… yes, the ones with subtitles. We might wake up the morning after a party and go to a museum to fawn over pieces of art and sculpture. My friend Kerry may have the face and wardrobe of a supermodel, but she is one of the kindest, most down-to-earth creative persons I have ever met in my life. I may not be a dreadhead or wear broom skirts and flip flops, but I actually know who Peter Tosh is. I have friends who never went to college who are more well-read than some people I know with Master's Degrees. I know people who look like they would appear on a Black Panther poster and they never read the Autobiography of Malcolm X or even saw the movie version! I know people who never step a foot into a church and are more giving, more spiritual and more enlightened than a lot of preachers in pulpits.



The funny thing is that many of the people who make uninformed assumptions are the very people who claim to be anti-establishment or unconventional thinkers to the highest degree, rebels with and without causes. I guess we are all supposed to look our parts… but what is a person who loves to read fiction and non-fiction from classics to political exposes, who listens to opera, hip hop, reggae and jazz, who watches French films and loves Star Wars, dances to pop music, watches CNN and the Cartoon Network, loves shopping at Nordstrom, writes poetry and loves the paintings of Salvador Dali supposed to look like?




One of my all-time favorite songs... thanks to my mother...

Monday, June 15, 2009

Exotic

I blame my mother. She taught me to read when I was three. And what was I to do after reading of Alice and Dorothy, of alternate realities in which animals talked, of flying elevators, of worlds where doors in closets opened to kingdoms ruled by witches… but wish I was from anywhere but from where I actually was? A small town in South Carolina. Not a talking animal to be found, no witches or warlocks hiding in my closet, no chocolate factories, no yellow brick roads. The most exotic creatures I ever saw were chickens and cows… who definitely didn't speak, at least not any language I ever learned. The only people I ever saw were neighbors who doubled as cousins… and cousins who doubled as cousins. We called our factories "plants" and the workers in them produced items as provocative as rubber tubes and t-shirts. And most of our roads were made of dirt, so whether you were walking or riding your bike, the only result of traveling them was kicking up more dust than you could ever ask for… as far as the eye could see.



My dream was to be from an exotic land. Why couldn't I have been born on an island surrounded by blue dolphins? I was at the library devouring books almost every day because I couldn't bear how ordinary my life was. Why sit around swatting mosquitoes when I could daydream about tesseracting to other galaxies or secretly observing Mrs. Frisby and her rats who learned to generate electricity or teleporting deodorant off my dresser like the girl with the silver eyes? Why couldn't I live out of a boxcar or go where the wild things were or be one of Mufaro's beautiful daughters? Where was my phantom tollbooth, my bridge leading to Terabithia, my big red dog?




By completely abandoning the outdoors for my bookwormish tendencies, I was taking for granted the beauty of what I considered humble surroundings. I could walk to the tree in my grandparents' backyard at any time and pluck off an apple juicier than any I've ever purchased at a grocery store. I may not have lived in a giant peach, but I could walk down the road and pick one, along with blackberries and plums and other wild fruits. I had a series of adventures with my gang of cousins every day and while we may not have found secret doors to fantasy kingdoms, we had the time of our lives. Taking our bikes to the top of the hill that led to my grandparents' house and racing down it at top speed, playing games we had to have made up, wandering into the woods and imagining things to be afraid of...




I also discovered that many of the people in my life might have been the basis for characters in the stories I read. My grandmother might have been a queen in some faraway land. As physically beautiful as any woman I have ever seen to this day, she had a regal bearing, a quiet calmness that could not be shaken while raising eleven children (ten of which were girls). I have eaten at four star restaurants, but I would joyfully toss any of those meals in the garbage disposal just to have one of my grandmother's biscuits. My grandfather might have been an adventurer in a Rudyard Kipling tale, traveling the world, rescuing people in foreign lands. Usually reserved and doing whatever he had to do to provide for his family, it was only when I was older that I realized what it truly meant that my grandfather had been a soldier. In the army during World War II, my pah-pah (as all his grandchildren call him to this day) fought at the Invasion of Normandy. He can tell his stories far better than I, so I will resist. My mother and my aunts might have been a collection of sprites from Shakespeare, fairy princesses from the world of Hans Christian Andersen and the evil stepsisters from Cinderella… and which ones were which depended on the day of the week… The rest of the ensemble of characters included a neighbor who might as well have been a troll under a bridge, a great-aunt who certainly would have been inspiration for the Wicked Witch of the West and a distant cousin who bore a striking resemblance to Toad.



As an adult, I have become happily resigned to the fact that I am and always will be a small-town Southern girl, heart and soul. No matter where I travel, no matter what big city life I am exposed to, I will actually go up and speak to people to whom I have been introduced. I will always believe that sweet tea is the best drink in the world (and the best sweet tea has about a half a cup of sugar for each bag you use). I'm quite positive I will always address a collective as y'all. And I have come to the realization that as exotic as I always dreamed of being, Southern women are exotic in their own way. Full of what may seem to be contradictions, we can be as sweet as peaches but as strong and stubborn as magnolia trees (an ancient genus, they've been around for millions of years). We can be genteel and still be as spicy as cayenne pepper. We have a sharpness of mind that may be hidden behind an accent full of twangs. We can encompass a full spectrum of characteristics, making us as colorful and plucky as any of my childhood heroines. I love our strength, our wisdom and the stories we hold through our very existence.