saturday snow

“Me dormí esperando el otono;
me encontraron bajo la nieve
tan congelado de blancura
que allí sigo siendo una estatua
sin dirección ni movimiento.”
-Pablo Neruda, La Pasión

What feminism has taught me about Christianity

I’ve recently begun to identify myself as a feminist. And in each conversation that the word comes up (and let me tell you, it comes up a lot since I’m taking 3 classes that deal with gender issues), I get the eye roll and that look. You know, the look. The one that says, “Oh here we go, not another man-hating lesbian. Are you going to start burning bras?” No, and also the bra-burning did not actually occur, that was a false news story, for your information. And in each case, I need to clarify my position. “Just because I’m a feminist,” I say “does not mean that I hate men.” I believe in equality. And by hating men, I am saying that I am somehow superior, and there we are, back at the problem of inequality.

There are a lot of different branches of feminism. And in each branch, I am sure there are some who look at the other branches and shake their heads and say, “they aren’t true feminists.” So we all have our different perspectives. And just because I identify myself as a feminist, does not necessarily mean that I subscribe to every viewpoint that has ever been labeled as “feminist.” I listen. I process. I decide.

This happens with Christianity, too. This is why I hesitate to use that label. Because people hear that you are a Christian, and then they give you the eye roll, then the look. You know, the look. The one that says, “Oh here we go, you’re going to start preaching at me. Are you going to ask me to become a registered Republican.” No. I’m not a Republican. Nor am I a Democrat, so why are we throwing around labels? Anyway, returning from my political sidenote…there are many different denominations, doctrines, ideas, beliefs. I do not necessarily subscribe to all of them just because I use the label of Christian. Allow me to clarify. I do not view Christianity as a menu from which I am free to pick and choose the basic tenents of the faith that I would like to adhere to or the ones that are most comfortable (buffet-style Christianity, as it is sometimes referred to).  However, I listen. I process. I decide. What do I think about social justice? What does it look like to love my neighbor? Do I adhere to the egalitarian perspective of gender roles in the church? Or a traditionalist perspective? What do I think about communion? The sacraments? There are a lot of different decisions to make concerning the practice of my faith, as you see.

So, just because I call myself a Christian does not mean that I subscribe to every idea that has ever been labeled as “Christian.” Because trust me, there were a lot of reeeally bad things done under the “label” of Christianity.

So when people say to you: I am a feminist, or I am a Christian. Don’t just take that at face value. Ask them what that means. You’ll get a plethora of answers. Trust me.

Agar de mi alma, ¿a dónde vas?

Hagar and I do not have a lot in common at first glance. I did not become pregnant by the husband of my mistress, nor have I been physically mistreated by said mistress which led to a flight through the desert. However, I am struck by the similarites in the questions with which we are confronted. An angel came to her in the desert and said, “Hagar, where have you come from, and where are you going?”

Where have you come from, and where are you going?

That question could be taken quite literally. You have come from the household of Sarah and Abraham, and you are going to wherever could be considered “away.” But I think the angel knew those answers. I don’t think he needed to ask. I think that question was for Hagar’s benefit. She needed to ask herself: where have I come from, and where am I going? In this way, I identify with this woman. This sad, seemingly hopeless woman, who had nowhere to go. To understand where we are going, we must first look at where we have come from.

Where have you come from?

I have come from a small town.

I have come from a church with a traditionalist perspective.

I have come from a small Christian high school, which tended to lean toward highly conservative viewpoints.

These statement do not define me, nor do they define my current beliefs, but they are a part of my history, after all. I tend to want to turn my back on these truths. Because I no longer agree with things I have been taught in those contexts, I want to forget the whole thing. Erase that part of my life. Pretend that my life started on August 26th of 2007, when I went to college. But I can’t.

I have come from a family with a history of osteoporosis.

I have come from a family with a history of alcoholism.

Of heart disease.

Of diabetes.

I have come from a stubborn people.

A loud people.

A people of fierce strength and family loyalty.

I have come from a large family.

I have come from a large Mexican-American family.

I have come from a supportive and encouraging family.

And I have come from a broken and hurting family.

Where are you going?

I don’t know. But in order to even begin to understand, I need to recognize these elements of my past. I need to gather the pieces, even the ones that are sharp, painful as my fingers close around them. The living pieces. The dead pieces, dull and cold. I need to examine, and then discard if necessary. To keep that which needs to be processed, to be preserved. Not to hold on to the past, or to glorify it. It is just to understand.

I cannot answer the question, “where am I going?” until I know where I have come from.

We see our lives through a lens, crafted and formed by our experiences–what we have lived, what we are living. What we have learned, and what we are learning.

hats that have a distinct raspberry flavor

Cafes are conducive to sitting and talking about the world’s problems. Or thinking about them. Or writing about them. And not even the world’s problems, but rather, the problems that exist between my left ear and my right. Because my problems are not the world’s, and the world’s problems are not mine. A cup of coffee is brain juice, stimulating those neural synapses.

I found a cafe near where I live. A French cafe, to be more specific. I decided that Starbucks was too busy and commercialized, so I finally stopped by the place that I have been driving past for years, always saying, “I would like to go to that cafe. It looks nice. Quaint.” And it was nice. And quaint. I got a Raspberry Beret. A beret is a type of hat, I believe, and I am not sure what a hat has to do with coffee, but it sounded French, I ordered it, and it was delicious regardless of the name.

I sat down at a large booth, because I was the only one there, and I exercised my freedom of choice by establishing myself in a large booth rather than at the small uncomfortable looking table. I extracted my journal and my new blue pen that writes incredibly smoothly from my bag, and I began to write–not about the world’s problems or even my own problems. I wrote about the sound of words, the colors of snow, the noise of people: things that make sense, in one form or another. I described my location, and I described the taste of my Raspberry Beret. Essentially, I made small talk with my journal. And it was lovely.

Sometimes the world’s problems cannot be solved, no matter how much you talk, think, or write about them, and I know that my own problems cannot be solved no matter how much I do those things. Sometimes it helps to talk, think, and write about things that make sense; or even if they do not make sense, there is satisfaction in that. It helps to write about things that are not in dire need of being solved. It is not avoidance; it is rejuvenation.

Bookworm

I’ve spent the majority of my vacation thus far buried in one book or another. It brings back the memories of when I was in junior high and I would be practically nonexistent in the world of family functions. My nose was buried in any book I could get ahold of, lost in another reality. Sure, it provoked teasing from my cousins, but that didn’t really matter to me. Who needs cousins when you have good books?

My taste in books has dramatically changed, however, since the times when  I was called “Icky Vicky” (affectionately, I’m sure) by my cousins. I used to only be interested in books that had “good morals, a good message, and perhaps a Mr. Darcy.” I rarely strayed from my prescribed formula for novels. And they HAD to have a happy ending. It wasn’t up for debate. I would flip ahead to the last page, make sure my two favorite characters appeared, and then continued to read, confident that everything would turn out just fine. It’s gotta have the H.E.A endings..(happily ever after, for all you NON-cool people).

Recently, this is not the case. I’ve been learning about “good” books, lately. What constitutes a “good” book? A good story?

We, as humans, are essentially story-tellers. I believe that. We find meaning in the stories that we tell, as well as the stories that we hear–those stories with which we resonate. The ones that we read and say, “That’s like me!” I love to write, and I make sense of my life when I write. But I also make sense of my life when I read what others write. That author might not be going through the same exact situation that I am in, but we all live the human experience, right? We all experience brokenness, pain, heartache, redemption, joy,  and reconciliation in some form or another and in different amounts. And when I read, I can appreciate someone else’s story. Someone else’s journey through those things that shape us.

Now I read books that are real. Books that are true. I still read fiction, but I read fiction that is reflective of the dialetical pulls that we experience-internally and externally. Books that reflect the pain in life, in a truthful way. Books that reflect the beauty in life.

I no longer flip to the back page of books to see how it ends. I relish the uncertainty. I take that journey with the characters. They don’t know the endings to their stories, yet, so why should I? And perhaps, by going through the story, the process, along with them, I will learn something about myself.

The Christmas Shelf

My world is changing.
I’m rearranging.
Does that mean Christmas changes, too?

Candy canes don’t taste the same as they used to. After the initial peppermint taste, they are just too sweet and too sticky. The sugary residue rests in the grooves of your molars, and each time you close your mouth, you have to pry it open again until all of the candy cane remnants dissolve.

The first time I went to Mexico, I was rearranging and reorganizing a closet with a few of my friends, and there was one shelf that we designated as the Christmas shelf. The garland, lights, and ornaments that had no other home were placed on this shelf, perhaps to be found around the holiday season, or perhaps to simply collect dust until the closet is once again reorganized. The leader of our service-learning trip offered a few of us the challenge to write/blog about “The Christmas Shelf.” For no particular reason, other than the fact that it made a nice title, perhaps. At the time, I had nothing to write about. I must have started half a dozen blog entries all entited “The Christmas Shelf.” But all I could come up with was some mediocre narration of the meaning of Christmas.

Fast forward to 18 months and a whole lot of life experience later…

My attitude about this Christmas can only be characterized as “bah, humbug.” Christmas music sounds like noise (I do recognize the irony in using one of said Christmas songs to illustrate my point), and decorating will more than likely seem a tedious chore. The entire idea of Christmas (in the commercial sense) seems like nonsense, and even going through the traditional motions of putting up lights, decorating trees, and gift-wrapping makes my soul ache.

You might say, “but Christmas is a season of joy, a time to remember Jesus’ birth.” And I would agree. I will celebrate the arrival of the one who came to bring reconciliation to our broken world. But I will attempt to celebrate that every day. But December 25th will not be a “happy” day for me.

Everything in my life is being rearranged. My definitions of family, home, tradition–they have crumbled–strings of stale popcorn disintegrating in my hands. Some items are placed neatly on a shelf–a “to be continued” shelf, on pause for the time being. Other items are thrown haphazardly on the top shelf, with no intention of being retrieved any time soon–strands of garland ridden with cobwebs and the smell of last year’s holiday-scented candles. The Christmas shelf–The items that no longer have significance–or at least the significance is too painful to remember. Along with the other radically changing values in my life, so change my views on Christmas.

So, in answer to the eternal question–does that mean Christmas changes, too?

Our fake, pre-lit tree might say otherwise, but yes…yes, I believe it does.

a rant inspired by your facebook status and meetings with philosophers

Diversions, distractions.

Play with your toys so as not to think about your own mortality.

Our culture is obsessed with diversions. In fact, our entire economic system is based on the fact that people want to buy more stuff, more frivolous, trivial stuff to keep them occupied. AND if people don’t go and buy more stuff, our economy will collapse. Completely. Talk about a recession!

An excuse to be materialistic?

I must buy that purse, that pair of boots, that iPhone, that plasma screen tv. If I don’t, the world as we know it will end.

The world as they know it will end.

How many other nations are dependent on OUR materialism. It’s grotesque. Utterly and completely grotesque. Sickening. Depressing.

We are creating this reality. It is perpetuated by our constant need to consume. And it appears that we can do absolutely nothing about it.

Of course, I can boycott American Eagle or Coca-Cola, but if everyone in the US decided to follow suit, then we would be screwed, so to speak.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing…everyone back at square one. Then perhaps we could rethink our capitalist system? But something gives me the impression that even if we had to start all over, we would still choose the same thing, because after all, how can we live without our iPhone?

We would be bored. There would be silence. We would need to think about our spiritual condition. About the human condition. And we would be forced to look at what our consumerism does to people. We would be forced to deal with our own destructive tendencies. Our own sad, sad state. Our own death.

Diversion, distraction.

Keep playing.

the dandelion garden

I was enthralled with my garden for about a week. When I say “my garden,” I mean the small patch of dirt, approximately the size of a large textbook fringed with dandelions, that Michelle and I dug behind the shed. We went out every day with our small spade and hand rake to dig up and rotate the soil, with grandiose dreams of a vegetable garden, a flower garden, a fruit garden? We could use the watermelon seeds from yesterday’s family picnic to make a watermelon garden! (Never mind that the size of our dirt patch would only permit about half of a watermelon.) But that’s all it ever was, a dream of a garden. Because just as quickly as we came up with the idea, we abandoned it for a far greater scheme. Our dirt patch became just a tiny discolored square in our otherwise green yard.

Next project: a tree house.

Scratch that. Too expensive.

An igloo! We could use the plastic rectangular box to create the ice blocks. All we have to do is pack it with snow, pour water over it, wait until morning, and then repeat 3897 more times!

We did manage to complete one half of an igloo foundation. Success!

I wanted to scrapbook. I went to the craft store with my mom and bought stickers, paper, and prettily colored pens so that I, like her, could immortalize my memories.

I finished 4 pages.

I’ve started many scrapbooks over the years: one from junior high and high school (4 pages done, 16 left to go, at least), one for my Dominican Republic trip in 2005 (someday I will finish that), one for my trip to Mexico (that is also on my to-do list), one for my second trip to Mexico (this is at the end of my to-do list), a scrapbook for a friend (I’ve got a whole year to finish that).

I have a short attention span. I am constantly thinking of things that I would love to do, things I would love to create, but before I have time to finalize that idea, another more appealing idea sweeps it aside.

We are created to create, I believe. So I cannot help but feel discouraged that I never wrote that novel with Nicole, or that I never even started that painting that I sketched out.

So what do I do with that somewhat suppressed creativity? If we are created in God’s image, and God is the Creator, then we are, in essence, creative beings.

So why do I not feel creative? I feel distracted and unoriginal.

OH…epiphony! Just now, actually. As I was trying to figure out how to end this blog and make it have some point, some wonderfully profound point, I thought about creating. What do I create? How can I relate this to my faith and not seem like a Debbie Downer. Well, I create every day, right? We create meaning (thank you, Marcia and Coordinated Management of Meaning), we create conversations, relationships, blogs, papers, sentences, words, concepts, ideas.

Create, create, create.

Perhaps my attempts at tree-houses, igloos, and gardens were just a desperate stab at trying to understand this idea of creation. I think I just hit a piece of it. The tip of the iceberg, so to speak. I think I’m understanding it a teensy bit more now…a more complex understanding of what it means to be made in God’s image, and what it means to create.

the smell of innocence mixed with chihuahua cheese

The smell of tortillas fills my nostrils as I run through the kitchen on my way out the back door. Run towards the climbing tree. The wind catches my hair, and I turn to see the rest of my cousins swiftly overtaking me. (I am always the slowest).

I can only get about halfway up the tree. Everyone else gets so much higher, but where I am is just fine. It is an accomplishment.

Let’s go fishing in the woods, in the creek. A stick. A hook. An earthworm that we dug up from the soft spring earth. I hike through the tall grass onto the trail that is so familiar. Mike running along beside us, in front of us, behind us. (She disappears sometimes in the woods, but she always reappears when we hear the cowbell.) Walking along the trail, our fishing “rod” has transformed into a hiking stick. Watch out for the barbed wire that runs across the path, right before the hunting tower and the “No Trespassing” sign.

We spend hours at the creek: making dams, catching minnows and crawfish, watching the water stream around the green beer can that is sitting at the bottom. Isn’t it funny how there is always an unopened beer can at the bottom of the  shallow creek every time we go? (We never seemed to noticed the Uncle Julius brought it with him.) Is that the cowbell? It’s hard to hear, but it’s getting late. The sun is setting. Time to head back.

Wet jeans folded up from muddy tennis shoes. It’s always colder walking back. I think that shadow is a bear, and what is that sound? Twigs cracking? At the edge of the clearing, the house is in sight. We run full speed, through the tall grass, around the pine tree, through the yard (Mike is already curled up next to the house, sleeping), up the crumbling stairs (don’t touch the rusty handrail), and into the house, the door bangs shut behind us.

The smell of tortillas and beans fills my nostrils.

Remember when we were kids? Remember when we didn’t use the word “hate?”

Do you remember when we never heard our mother use it? Do you remember when we wouldn’t even dream about using it when we talked about our family?  Remember when we didn’t know what it felt like? Remember when it wasn’t true?

Sometimes I don’t remember.
But sometimes I smell tortillas…

it has poem-like qualities

I want to love.
I want to love people the way that Jesus loves people.
But I also love to hate.
I hate to hate, but I must love it, since I so frequently use the word, doing nothing to change it.

I hate to love, and love to hate.
But I also hate to hate and love to love.
I am a contradiction.

Hate is easier.
It requires no effort.
My soul is black, black, black.
Darkness obscures the mirror of your face.
“We are the same,” it will say.
Murderer, murderer.

 

Hate is easier.
I do not have to face my own sin.