I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
--"The Invitation", Oriah
This poem, which has been circulated around the world since Oriah first shared it with her students in the late 1990s, shook something loose in me when I first read it. Tears ran down my face as I read stanzas like:
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
She wrote this poem after one of those dismal parties where everyone natters on about shallow, soul-destroying subjects. Where people exaggerate that little bit to make themselves sound better than they are. Where they try oh-so-hard to sound like intellectuals, and sound like pretentious prats instead. Where they exaggerate the number of people they slept with and how their exes are all still pining after them. Where, of course, they couldn't possibly mention their shortcomings, wonder about the nature of the universe, admit that someone else is better at something than they are or laugh at themselves, because that would make them look weak. Human.
And God forbid they should ever use the words "I don't know."
The kind of party that, if you have any desire to really connect with people, makes you want to slit your wrists.
She got home and wrote the poem using a simple technique she learned at a workshop: pair a sentence beginning with "It doesn't matter to me..." with one that starts "I want to know..." And she turned it into something that touched the hearts of people around the globe.
The first stanza I quoted made my breath catch when I first read it. What fascinated me even more was that it made people *furious*. Many wrote her and told her that she meant faithful, and would list the reasons why. Instead of exploring how you could be "faithless and therefore trustworthy", people wanted to change it to fit their comfort zone. How could you possibly be *faithless* and trustworthy?
One of the first examples that sprung to mind was the Catholic clergy, not least because in a recent lunch with a clerical friend, he had said, with great vehemence, "I hate the ones that leave. I think they're traitors." I questioned whether he meant the priesthood or his particular group, and he said, "Both." I was struck by his vehemence and inwardly wondered, "Are you turning your anger outwards onto those who dare to do what you wish you had done?"
I thought about clerics I knew who had left their orders, congregations, etc. to become secular priests or to get married. The ones who had dared to face down the institution and say, "Enough. I won't lie; I won't pretend; God is calling me to something/somewhere else. I'm leaving." The ones who bore the anger, scorn, hatred, accusations of betrayal, questions about their sanity to be true to who they were and what they felt God was asking of them (sound like the Via Dolorosa, anyone?). The ones who showed those around them that you can be true to yourself and that they needed to stop seeking approval and start seeking love and truth.
I realised that I trusted them with my heart and my life. That I could talk to them at length and depth without fear of scorn or attempted emotional manipulation to get me to follow a certain way. I can feel the Spirit of God in them loud and clear and their essence sounds as true as a crystal note.
Faithless, and therefore trustworthy.
I also know those who stayed because it was expected, because they needed approval, because they were afraid. I watch them dismember themselves and become less of who they truly are as they sink into busyness, power-seeking, glib superficiality, people-pleasing, alcoholism, drugs to numb the pain of amputation after amputation. One of the saddest and most disturbing statements I ever heard was, "He told me that at first, your vows make you stay. Then eventually, you want to stay." My heart broke on those words.
That isn't truth. That is fear, comfort and the death of the spirit within you - both mundane and holy. Even God will stop whispering when He knows it falls on deaf ears:
Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.
--"Houses" from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran
Over time, I realise that I tell them less and less - the breadth and depth of conversation lessens; I won't go to them for confession; I don't trust them with my real thoughts and feelings.
My heart whispers, "You lie to yourself, to your Church, to all those who are close to you. Your entire life is a lie. How can I trust you?"
Faithful, and therefore untrustworthy.
But even as I use them as examples, I know that as I point one finger at them, I'm pointing three back at myself. The truth is that those lines hit me because *I* am guilty of being faithful and untrustworthy:
I am not a Catholic.
Saturday, 31 March 2007
Wednesday, 28 March 2007
Barely able to watch the Cricket World Cup...
On March 18, just as the Cricket World Cup was bedding in, Bob Woolmer, Pakistan's coach, died. I had just sat myself down in front of the cricket on telly after a lovely afternoon with friends when Mark looked over at me from the kitchen sink and said, "Did you know? Bob Woolmer is dead."
I stared at him, uncomprehending. "WHAT?" "Bob Woolmer is dead," he repeated. I must have still looked like a gormless foreign teenager who had spent two hours, tops, at any of the schools of English in the city, because he said it *again*.
Stunned, I think I asked how. At that point, the prevailing wisdom was that it was a tragic death due to natural causes such as a heart attack or a diabetic coma. My heart went out to his family and all those who knew him - he seemed like such a lovely man, with such a passion for the game. When I read that blood and vomit had been found at the scene, my heart sank. I knew he'd been murdered.
That was confirmed on Friday, when the autopsy results were revealed. When Chris B. popped by the library, he told me that his Indian friend who runs the corner shop had said to him early last week, "He has been murdered and there's a lot more to come out." Apparently, Pakistan television had announced that Bob Woolmer had been murdered and an arrest had been made on TUESDAY, days before the autopsy results were available. Things that make you go hmmmm.
I've barely been able to watch the cricket since.
But I haven't missed all the coverage and speculation in the press...and some journalists, such as Mark Marqusee in the Guardian, are claiming 'stereotyping' of the Pakistani team and 'hysterical' reactions in the press.
Political correctness irimtates me no end - especially the "we can't say this b/c they're not white" crap rampant in the press. Had the coach of a white team been murdered, the team would have been under the microscope and no one would have turned a hair. (No Darryl jokes, please) If you'd say it about a white team, you can say it about a black or brown team - not doing so is just another form of condescension and racism.
The reaction isn't 'hysterical' - Pakistani cricketers - and Pakistani men in general, really - *are* temperamental and refuse to take responsibility for their actions, because *no one ever holds them accountable*.
Let's call a spade a spade and not give in to 'political correctness'. Bob Woolmer, God rest his soul, most likely opened the door to his killer. Thus, he must have known and trusted him. That puts the team, whatever its nationality, firmly in the frame.
I stared at him, uncomprehending. "WHAT?" "Bob Woolmer is dead," he repeated. I must have still looked like a gormless foreign teenager who had spent two hours, tops, at any of the schools of English in the city, because he said it *again*.
Stunned, I think I asked how. At that point, the prevailing wisdom was that it was a tragic death due to natural causes such as a heart attack or a diabetic coma. My heart went out to his family and all those who knew him - he seemed like such a lovely man, with such a passion for the game. When I read that blood and vomit had been found at the scene, my heart sank. I knew he'd been murdered.
That was confirmed on Friday, when the autopsy results were revealed. When Chris B. popped by the library, he told me that his Indian friend who runs the corner shop had said to him early last week, "He has been murdered and there's a lot more to come out." Apparently, Pakistan television had announced that Bob Woolmer had been murdered and an arrest had been made on TUESDAY, days before the autopsy results were available. Things that make you go hmmmm.
I've barely been able to watch the cricket since.
But I haven't missed all the coverage and speculation in the press...and some journalists, such as Mark Marqusee in the Guardian, are claiming 'stereotyping' of the Pakistani team and 'hysterical' reactions in the press.
Political correctness irimtates me no end - especially the "we can't say this b/c they're not white" crap rampant in the press. Had the coach of a white team been murdered, the team would have been under the microscope and no one would have turned a hair. (No Darryl jokes, please) If you'd say it about a white team, you can say it about a black or brown team - not doing so is just another form of condescension and racism.
The reaction isn't 'hysterical' - Pakistani cricketers - and Pakistani men in general, really - *are* temperamental and refuse to take responsibility for their actions, because *no one ever holds them accountable*.
As the Daily Telegraph says,
"The impression is that many of the players, like the male-dominated society they come from, are a law unto themselves with allegiance only to Islam and their family. That could be why democracy has failed in Pakistan and the reason military dictatorships seem to be the only effective form of government."
In my experience, that is the truth - except that they hold to Islam b/c it justifies their male-dominated, tribal society, and as for allegiance to their families - well, there have been enough bride burnings and 'family honour' murders and acquittals when a sister was raped or married out of her own choice to show a very...unique sense of family allegiance. So really, Pakistani men's only allegiance is to themselves and eachother - as long as you're from the same tribe.
So let's look at the facts. Have Pakistani cricketers tampered with the ball more than most? Yes. Have they been involved in match-fixing? Yes. Taken drugs? Yes. Have they refused to accept responsibility for how they play and/or behave? Yes. There is evidence for *all of these*. Hence, no one is stereotyping, they're basing their comments on past experience and evidence.Let's call a spade a spade and not give in to 'political correctness'. Bob Woolmer, God rest his soul, most likely opened the door to his killer. Thus, he must have known and trusted him. That puts the team, whatever its nationality, firmly in the frame.
And let's not forget that Pakistan Television (PTV) reported Woolmer's death as a murder on Tuesday, 20 March. Before the autopsy results were out. So somebody over there knows something.
My cousins in Pakistan are probably wondering out loud if the team had anything to do with it. They won't be offended by the thought; they're considering it as a very real possibility. If *they* can, why not the international press?
If Pakistanis don't have a problem considering the team members as possible suspects and match-fixing as a motive, neither should anyone else.
Tuesday, 20 March 2007
Blogthings...
On lunch hour, having a bit of fun. Apparently, I'm an agnostic - go figure. Loved this one though, thought it was spot on:
and the 5 factor value test was pretty spot on as well - I value loyalty, but not *blind* loyalty. It needs to be earned:
| Your Theme Song is Beautiful Day by U2 |
 "Sky falls, you feel like It's a beautiful day Don't let it get away" You see the beauty in life, especially in ordinary everyday moments. And if you're feeling down, even that seems a little beautiful too. |
and the 5 factor value test was pretty spot on as well - I value loyalty, but not *blind* loyalty. It needs to be earned:
| Your Values Profile |
 Loyalty: You don't really value loyalty. In your opinion, friendship should be earned. If you don't agree with someone, it doesn't matter how close you are. You'll let them (and everyone else know) exactly what you think. Honesty: You value honesty highly. You're unflinchingly honest, even when it's not easy. For you, integrity is very important - in yourself and others. People may not always like what you say, but they know they can trust it. Generosity: You value generosity highly. So much so that you often put your own needs last. There's nothing wrong with having a caring heart... But you may want to rethink your "open wallet" policy. Humility: You value humility highly. You have the self-confidence to be happy with who you are. And you don't need to seek praise to make yourself feel better. You're very modest, and you're keep the drama factor low. Tolerance: You value tolerance highly. Not only do you enjoy the company of those very different from you... You do all that you can to seek it out interesting and unique friends. You think there are many truths in life, and you're open to many of them. |
Friday, 16 March 2007
Nobody expects...
...the Spanish Inquisition or what Dominicans get up to once the laity have left. Grand Inquisitors they may be, but they need just that little bit more rhythm.
Yes, working in a priory really is like this.
And I can't help but think that since St Dominic was Spanish, they might have moved more smoothly to Ricky Martin's "Living la vida loca".
Luminox review
Luminox was magic. I stepped into Broad Street and entered a fire garden...one almost expected to see salamanders (the fire elemental, not the animal) whizzing through the air. From a fire chandelier held up by a crane to streamers of fire descending to the Bodleian to a Rube Goldberg-like fire and water feature, it was a sensory delight. (And a pyromaniac's one, of course.)
Suddenly, the strong smell of burning coal took me back to winter nights in Pakistan, walking down a dark Bahawalpur street or sitting on a roof in Sahiwal...for a moment, I could feel the dust beneath my feet. As I walked down the darkest part of Broad Street by firelight, I half-expected a Juma'a bazaar to appear and to hear the Friday night haggling on a chilly subcontinental winter evening.
Fire is primal. It exerts great power in our lives and in our imaginations, bringing us comfort and fear, light and heat, life and death. It has been considered one of the four elements, alongside water, earth and air. People were drawn to it like...erm, well, I was going to say, 'moths to a flame'. The street was crowded, and faces flickering past me were smiling, engaged and enchanted, something so rarely seen in these days of post-technological ennui.
And all because of fire - as part of various structures, granted, but the structures were simple in form - a chandelier, a sphere, streamers...magnificent to behold and hypnotic, nonetheless.
As per the Orange cinema advert about the New York blackout:
Sometimes things need to switch off for people to switch on.
Suddenly, the strong smell of burning coal took me back to winter nights in Pakistan, walking down a dark Bahawalpur street or sitting on a roof in Sahiwal...for a moment, I could feel the dust beneath my feet. As I walked down the darkest part of Broad Street by firelight, I half-expected a Juma'a bazaar to appear and to hear the Friday night haggling on a chilly subcontinental winter evening.
Fire is primal. It exerts great power in our lives and in our imaginations, bringing us comfort and fear, light and heat, life and death. It has been considered one of the four elements, alongside water, earth and air. People were drawn to it like...erm, well, I was going to say, 'moths to a flame'. The street was crowded, and faces flickering past me were smiling, engaged and enchanted, something so rarely seen in these days of post-technological ennui.
And all because of fire - as part of various structures, granted, but the structures were simple in form - a chandelier, a sphere, streamers...magnificent to behold and hypnotic, nonetheless.
As per the Orange cinema advert about the New York blackout:
Sometimes things need to switch off for people to switch on.
Luminox
Just a quick note post-coffee break: this week, to kick off the celebrations of Oxfordshire's 1000th birthday, they're setting Broad St on fire! The show is called Luminox, and it began last night and ends tomorrow night. In honour of a happy medium, I'm going tonight - and I can't wait. The picture to the left is from flickr, and there are 21 more from last night here. Enjoy, and those of you who are in town, hope to see you there - by firelight, of course!
Wednesday, 14 March 2007
Becoming Jane...and the four millisecond rule
I've just gotten home from watching "Becoming Jane". Lovely film, even though it was a bit odd to see one of the current villains in "24" as Jane's loving father. Casting was excellent, with only an occasional vowel of Anne Hathaway's giving her away. And very brave of Hollywood to go for the (look away now) unhappy ending.
In the film, Jane is in love with Tom LeFroy, a young barrister dependent on his uncle's purse. They decide to run off together, but Jane thinks better of it when she realises that Tom sends his parents a share of the allowance he stands to lose if they marry.
But leaving the angst aside for the moment, let's go to the delightful scene reminiscent of the ball scene from the definitive "Pride and Prejudice" from 1995 (Colin Firth, a man I wouldn't kick out of my bed for eating jam doughnuts), where the sexual tension was so intense, I snapped open my fan. In this film, Jane and Tom, each with other partners, meet in a diagonal cross during a country dance.
Reading between the lines, here's how I reckon the conversation *really* went:
Jane and Tom see eachother - their eyes widen, they blush, they grin like hyenas.
Jane: Tom! How lovely to see you!
Tom: Jane...why, you know, I never noticed what a lovely bosom you have.
Jane: Yes, this housekeeper really knows how to fit one into a corset. But, love, I have never noticed you breaking the four millisecond rule before.
Tom (blushing): Well, my darling, we do, actually. We're terribly beastly. I just didn't want you to catch me looking...you're the one woman whose good opinion ever mattered...
Jane (blushing): Well, now that you mention it...
Tom: Yes, my sweet?
Jane: I've been looking too. And those trousers...
Tom: Yes?
Jane: Well, I expect you'd have a hard time finding the proper size cricket box...and...
Tom: Why, Jane! Such hidden depths. And...
Jane: That coat makes your bum look fabulous.
Tom: Why, darling, it's getting warm in here. And my heart is beating faster... would you consider...
Jane: Yes?
Tom: Spending your life with me?
Jane: Well...
Tom: I'll have £2500 a year.
Jane: Ah. In my novel, "First Impressions", Mr Bingley has £5000. Mr Darcy, £10,000.
Tom: I see. A bit of pride and prejudice over my situation, perhaps?
Jane: (Thoughtful silence) Those figures are a bit excessive. I can dispose of myself for £2500 and affection.
Tom: Such sense and sensibility...shall we, my love?
Jane: Indeed.
I hope I've convinced you with my powers of persuasion.
*The four millisecond rule states that every man, straight or gay, looks at a woman's chest for four milliseconds on meeting her. Breaking the four millisecond rule means staring for five milliseconds or longer.
In the film, Jane is in love with Tom LeFroy, a young barrister dependent on his uncle's purse. They decide to run off together, but Jane thinks better of it when she realises that Tom sends his parents a share of the allowance he stands to lose if they marry.
But leaving the angst aside for the moment, let's go to the delightful scene reminiscent of the ball scene from the definitive "Pride and Prejudice" from 1995 (Colin Firth, a man I wouldn't kick out of my bed for eating jam doughnuts), where the sexual tension was so intense, I snapped open my fan. In this film, Jane and Tom, each with other partners, meet in a diagonal cross during a country dance.
Reading between the lines, here's how I reckon the conversation *really* went:
Jane and Tom see eachother - their eyes widen, they blush, they grin like hyenas.
Jane: Tom! How lovely to see you!
Tom: Jane...why, you know, I never noticed what a lovely bosom you have.
Jane: Yes, this housekeeper really knows how to fit one into a corset. But, love, I have never noticed you breaking the four millisecond rule before.
Tom (blushing): Well, my darling, we do, actually. We're terribly beastly. I just didn't want you to catch me looking...you're the one woman whose good opinion ever mattered...
Jane (blushing): Well, now that you mention it...
Tom: Yes, my sweet?
Jane: I've been looking too. And those trousers...
Tom: Yes?
Jane: Well, I expect you'd have a hard time finding the proper size cricket box...and...
Tom: Why, Jane! Such hidden depths. And...
Jane: That coat makes your bum look fabulous.
Tom: Why, darling, it's getting warm in here. And my heart is beating faster... would you consider...
Jane: Yes?
Tom: Spending your life with me?
Jane: Well...
Tom: I'll have £2500 a year.
Jane: Ah. In my novel, "First Impressions", Mr Bingley has £5000. Mr Darcy, £10,000.
Tom: I see. A bit of pride and prejudice over my situation, perhaps?
Jane: (Thoughtful silence) Those figures are a bit excessive. I can dispose of myself for £2500 and affection.
Tom: Such sense and sensibility...shall we, my love?
Jane: Indeed.
I hope I've convinced you with my powers of persuasion.
*The four millisecond rule states that every man, straight or gay, looks at a woman's chest for four milliseconds on meeting her. Breaking the four millisecond rule means staring for five milliseconds or longer.
Saturday, 3 March 2007
Purim Sameach
Tonight, the night of the 13th of Adar, the day that Haman chose for the extermination of the Jews, the night they were saved by G-d through Queen Esther, begins the joyous holiday of Purim. This year, with a total lunar eclipse of the full moon on its way, there is just that extra touch of magic.
On this night, when Queen Esther dared to appeal directly to the king himself for the saving of her people, Jews are commanded to drink until they cannot tell the difference between "Blessed be Mordechai (Esther's cousin)" and "Cursed be Haman." To see a world turned on its head, you need to be off yours.
This past Thursday, I was looking forward to reading from the Book of Esther during mass. It is one of my favourite chapters of the year, Esther 14 - and not least because my secret pleasure is that it always falls on the Thursday nearest Purim:
Then Queen Esther, seized with deadly anxiety, fled to the Lord. 2She took off her splendid apparel and put on the garments of distress and mourning, and instead of costly perfumes she covered her head with ashes and dung, and she utterly humbled her body; every part that she loved to adorn she covered with her tangled hair. 3She prayed to the Lord God of Israel, and said: ‘O my Lord, you only are our king; help me, who am alone and have no helper but you, 4for my danger is in my hand. 5Ever since I was born I have heard in the tribe of my family that you, O Lord, took Israel out of all the nations, and our ancestors from among all their forebears, for an everlasting inheritance, and that you did for them all that you promised. 6And now we have sinned before you, and you have handed us over to our enemies 12Remember, O Lord; make yourself known in this time of our affliction, and give me courage, O King of the gods and Master of all dominion! 13Put eloquent speech in my mouth before the lion, and turn his heart to hate the man who is fighting against us, so that there may be an end of him and those who agree with him. 14But save us by your hand, and help me, who am alone and have no helper but you, O Lord.
Unfortunately, this lovely, amazing, courageous woman got bumped by that peevish travel agent for guilt trips, St Paul, because it was the feast of St David (I'm sure the Welsh would have preferred to hear Esther). And of course, the disappointment was all the sharper because it meant that I didn't even have the smallest share in Purim this year.
I love the wild abandon and sheer joy of Adar. When I taught at the Hebrew Academy, Adar was the month teachers remembered to lock our doors, otherwise you were likely to find all your desks shoved together in the centre of the room. The laughter that rang through the hallways from good-natured practical jokes made us all grin during the bleakest of Februaries. There's an unrestrained passion and fearlessness to it that I miss in Catholicism, which feels so sanitised - an acceptance that G-d is as much in the letting go as He is in the rigid self-control. More so, perhaps.
Purim's topsy-turviness draws me in like a magnet - nothing is quite as it seems. What seems assured can disappear; what was hopeless materialises; what is hidden is revealed. It's like stepping into the chaotic realm of the trickster. Stay awake and stay alert - but step into it knowing that with G-d, anything is possible.
It is a day that has given me, a Catholic, unexpected gifts since sundown. A moment of profound sharing with someone I often see, but rarely speak to. A vision where I sat in my childhood bedroom with myself at seven and told her how proud I was of her and thanked her for allowing me to become who I am. A bus ride seated behind someone most people might avoid, probably homeless and with an unusual view of reality - but he made me laugh and dropped two comments that made me wonder how 'mad' he really was:
I commented that I was only "visiting planet Earth." He responded, "As long as you're visiting, Earth will entertain you. When your body dies and your spirit leaves Earth, you take the good you've done with you to another world."
Just before I got off, he put his hand out for me to shake, and I took it. He held onto it, looked at me and said, "Don't fall in love until your lover deserves you."
Welcome to Purim and a full moon. I wonder what the second half will bring, so I will step out courageously into Loki's land: awake, alert, fearless and hopeful.
I wish the same for you. Purim sameach, everyone.
On this night, when Queen Esther dared to appeal directly to the king himself for the saving of her people, Jews are commanded to drink until they cannot tell the difference between "Blessed be Mordechai (Esther's cousin)" and "Cursed be Haman." To see a world turned on its head, you need to be off yours.
This past Thursday, I was looking forward to reading from the Book of Esther during mass. It is one of my favourite chapters of the year, Esther 14 - and not least because my secret pleasure is that it always falls on the Thursday nearest Purim:
Then Queen Esther, seized with deadly anxiety, fled to the Lord. 2She took off her splendid apparel and put on the garments of distress and mourning, and instead of costly perfumes she covered her head with ashes and dung, and she utterly humbled her body; every part that she loved to adorn she covered with her tangled hair. 3She prayed to the Lord God of Israel, and said: ‘O my Lord, you only are our king; help me, who am alone and have no helper but you, 4for my danger is in my hand. 5Ever since I was born I have heard in the tribe of my family that you, O Lord, took Israel out of all the nations, and our ancestors from among all their forebears, for an everlasting inheritance, and that you did for them all that you promised. 6And now we have sinned before you, and you have handed us over to our enemies 12Remember, O Lord; make yourself known in this time of our affliction, and give me courage, O King of the gods and Master of all dominion! 13Put eloquent speech in my mouth before the lion, and turn his heart to hate the man who is fighting against us, so that there may be an end of him and those who agree with him. 14But save us by your hand, and help me, who am alone and have no helper but you, O Lord.
Unfortunately, this lovely, amazing, courageous woman got bumped by that peevish travel agent for guilt trips, St Paul, because it was the feast of St David (I'm sure the Welsh would have preferred to hear Esther). And of course, the disappointment was all the sharper because it meant that I didn't even have the smallest share in Purim this year.
I love the wild abandon and sheer joy of Adar. When I taught at the Hebrew Academy, Adar was the month teachers remembered to lock our doors, otherwise you were likely to find all your desks shoved together in the centre of the room. The laughter that rang through the hallways from good-natured practical jokes made us all grin during the bleakest of Februaries. There's an unrestrained passion and fearlessness to it that I miss in Catholicism, which feels so sanitised - an acceptance that G-d is as much in the letting go as He is in the rigid self-control. More so, perhaps.
Purim's topsy-turviness draws me in like a magnet - nothing is quite as it seems. What seems assured can disappear; what was hopeless materialises; what is hidden is revealed. It's like stepping into the chaotic realm of the trickster. Stay awake and stay alert - but step into it knowing that with G-d, anything is possible.
It is a day that has given me, a Catholic, unexpected gifts since sundown. A moment of profound sharing with someone I often see, but rarely speak to. A vision where I sat in my childhood bedroom with myself at seven and told her how proud I was of her and thanked her for allowing me to become who I am. A bus ride seated behind someone most people might avoid, probably homeless and with an unusual view of reality - but he made me laugh and dropped two comments that made me wonder how 'mad' he really was:
I commented that I was only "visiting planet Earth." He responded, "As long as you're visiting, Earth will entertain you. When your body dies and your spirit leaves Earth, you take the good you've done with you to another world."
Just before I got off, he put his hand out for me to shake, and I took it. He held onto it, looked at me and said, "Don't fall in love until your lover deserves you."
Welcome to Purim and a full moon. I wonder what the second half will bring, so I will step out courageously into Loki's land: awake, alert, fearless and hopeful.
I wish the same for you. Purim sameach, everyone.
Saturday, 24 February 2007
By the pricking in my thumbs...
I stood apart, a few yards away, whilst they looked at the dead animal on the ground. Though very fond of the younger friars, something held me back from joining their circle. Deeply uneasy, I watched their white habits swirl about them as they changed angles and rapid-fired comments and questions like machine guns: "Oh my G-d." "What could have done this?" "Look at that." "Why kill it and not carry it off to eat?" "It looks like it just killed for the sake of it." "What do you think?"
I kept observing. One piped up, "It was probably a wolf." "Yeah, it looks like a wolf did this." "A wolf." "Yes, definitely, no question. A wolf." "What was that Our Lord said about a wolf in sheep's clothing?" "You're right." "Mystery solved." They started to walk away.
Horrified by this example of groupthink, I tried to shout, "No. This is *wrong*, evil. Wolves DON'T BEHAVE LIKE THIS. THEY DON'T KILL FOR PLEASURE. LISTEN TO ME," but no sound came out. I knew I was partial to wolves, since friends had once coined me an alpha female wolf, but I was certain not all was as it seemed.
Suddenly, I found myself walking quickly along a country lane, flanked by shoulder-high golden wheat. I was thinking, "We have to get to the bottom of this. I'm sure it wasn't wolves. *WHAT* kills for pleasure? Weasels? Hmmm. That's very 'Dark is rising'." As I thought, I looked down and saw a fox hidden in the wheat at the side of the road and nodded to him; a few yards later, I did the same to a rabbit. "Where are the wolves?" I wondered. Suddenly, a mangled, bloodied animal appeared at my feet. I stopped, went to move it with my toe, then knelt, and looked carefully. "Those don't look like wolf bitemarks," I thought, relieved. "The teeth are smaller and sharper...and...*weasels*? Is that right?"
Suddenly, a sinuous, black form crossed my path and stood over the body. I looked into its unnaturally red eyes and said, "Clever. Do the killing, let the wolves take the blame, since everyone sees them as an enemy already.The only thing that would make it perfect would be if you were where no one will ever look - the hierarchy."
"Who says I'm not?"
I sat up in bed and looked at the clock. Nearly ten. I leaned back, fully awake, aware that sleep wasn't going to happen and probably shouldn't. I showered, poured my Special K, and sat in front of Hallmark's House, M.D. weekend, letting the analysis percolate in my subconscious.
Wilson: That smugness of yours is a really attractive quality.
House: Thank you. It was either that or get my hair highlighted. Smugness is easier to maintain.
Advert.
Key dream points:
1. The group was made up of young religious, but it isn't about those particular individuals. They symbolised how I feel about many of the Catholics who surround me: not looking deeply enough, going with the crowd, unquestioning, naive, unable to think out of the box, measuring their 'goodness' by the rules they follow, and believing, "It's all soooooo perfect!!"
It's a mindset incapable of seeing danger on the horizon and one that will look in the wrong direction for danger once it is impossible to ignore.
2. I knew them all well, consider them friends, but I hung back. That is very much how I feel about Catholicism - there is much about that I love: the sacraments, the core story - but I have never felt fully part of it and expect that I never will. I suspect that would surprise most people who know how involved I have been at church, that my day is spent working in a priory and how fond I am of the respective communities. Knowledge, awareness and affection doesn't equate with a sense of belonging to the institution as a whole.
3. I feel alone in my questioning, in my need to get to the truth of things, in my hatred of glib, easy answers. I'm not, as evidenced by the fox and the rabbit hiding in the wheat, and the wolves I sensed nearby, but I often feel it.
4. As per the tornado dream around Christmas, I will take on danger alone, and perhaps I need to learn to trust someone enough to take them with me.
5. I identify with the 'wolves' being accused of tearing the Church apart - questioning liberals. The problem is, Catholicism attracts those who need certainty and who want easy answers. They want someone to tell them what to do. These are people who *need* to feel "We're the best. It's us against the world," because they're unable to hold on to a solid sense of identity whilst someone disagrees with them. They're threatened by a point of view different from theirs that is *equally valid*, so they need to ridicule, bully and threaten. Anyone who dares to poke questions at that safe, neat worldview will always be seen as a threat.
6. The real threat is within the Church, well-hidden behind 'orthodoxy' and deeply entrenched. I've always believed that, and part of the proof comes in how the hierarchy handled child molestation in the States: protect the institution at all costs. You cannot try to protect the institution at the expense of what is right. Once you start worshipping the institution as all-important, you're doing the weasels' work for them - creating something hollow and easy to take down.
Hmmm. That's it for now, I think. Comments welcome. Back to House, M.D.:
House: Well, there's the fever that Cameron was looking for.
Cameron: We knew if it was myelitis there had to be an -itis. This must be the infection that set it off.
House: Yeah. Except in this universe effect follows cause. I've complained about it, but...
I kept observing. One piped up, "It was probably a wolf." "Yeah, it looks like a wolf did this." "A wolf." "Yes, definitely, no question. A wolf." "What was that Our Lord said about a wolf in sheep's clothing?" "You're right." "Mystery solved." They started to walk away.
Horrified by this example of groupthink, I tried to shout, "No. This is *wrong*, evil. Wolves DON'T BEHAVE LIKE THIS. THEY DON'T KILL FOR PLEASURE. LISTEN TO ME," but no sound came out. I knew I was partial to wolves, since friends had once coined me an alpha female wolf, but I was certain not all was as it seemed.
Suddenly, I found myself walking quickly along a country lane, flanked by shoulder-high golden wheat. I was thinking, "We have to get to the bottom of this. I'm sure it wasn't wolves. *WHAT* kills for pleasure? Weasels? Hmmm. That's very 'Dark is rising'." As I thought, I looked down and saw a fox hidden in the wheat at the side of the road and nodded to him; a few yards later, I did the same to a rabbit. "Where are the wolves?" I wondered. Suddenly, a mangled, bloodied animal appeared at my feet. I stopped, went to move it with my toe, then knelt, and looked carefully. "Those don't look like wolf bitemarks," I thought, relieved. "The teeth are smaller and sharper...and...*weasels*? Is that right?"
Suddenly, a sinuous, black form crossed my path and stood over the body. I looked into its unnaturally red eyes and said, "Clever. Do the killing, let the wolves take the blame, since everyone sees them as an enemy already.The only thing that would make it perfect would be if you were where no one will ever look - the hierarchy."
"Who says I'm not?"
I sat up in bed and looked at the clock. Nearly ten. I leaned back, fully awake, aware that sleep wasn't going to happen and probably shouldn't. I showered, poured my Special K, and sat in front of Hallmark's House, M.D. weekend, letting the analysis percolate in my subconscious.
Wilson: That smugness of yours is a really attractive quality.
House: Thank you. It was either that or get my hair highlighted. Smugness is easier to maintain.
Advert.
Key dream points:
1. The group was made up of young religious, but it isn't about those particular individuals. They symbolised how I feel about many of the Catholics who surround me: not looking deeply enough, going with the crowd, unquestioning, naive, unable to think out of the box, measuring their 'goodness' by the rules they follow, and believing, "It's all soooooo perfect!!"
It's a mindset incapable of seeing danger on the horizon and one that will look in the wrong direction for danger once it is impossible to ignore.
2. I knew them all well, consider them friends, but I hung back. That is very much how I feel about Catholicism - there is much about that I love: the sacraments, the core story - but I have never felt fully part of it and expect that I never will. I suspect that would surprise most people who know how involved I have been at church, that my day is spent working in a priory and how fond I am of the respective communities. Knowledge, awareness and affection doesn't equate with a sense of belonging to the institution as a whole.
3. I feel alone in my questioning, in my need to get to the truth of things, in my hatred of glib, easy answers. I'm not, as evidenced by the fox and the rabbit hiding in the wheat, and the wolves I sensed nearby, but I often feel it.
4. As per the tornado dream around Christmas, I will take on danger alone, and perhaps I need to learn to trust someone enough to take them with me.
5. I identify with the 'wolves' being accused of tearing the Church apart - questioning liberals. The problem is, Catholicism attracts those who need certainty and who want easy answers. They want someone to tell them what to do. These are people who *need* to feel "We're the best. It's us against the world," because they're unable to hold on to a solid sense of identity whilst someone disagrees with them. They're threatened by a point of view different from theirs that is *equally valid*, so they need to ridicule, bully and threaten. Anyone who dares to poke questions at that safe, neat worldview will always be seen as a threat.
6. The real threat is within the Church, well-hidden behind 'orthodoxy' and deeply entrenched. I've always believed that, and part of the proof comes in how the hierarchy handled child molestation in the States: protect the institution at all costs. You cannot try to protect the institution at the expense of what is right. Once you start worshipping the institution as all-important, you're doing the weasels' work for them - creating something hollow and easy to take down.
Hmmm. That's it for now, I think. Comments welcome. Back to House, M.D.:
House: Well, there's the fever that Cameron was looking for.
Cameron: We knew if it was myelitis there had to be an -itis. This must be the infection that set it off.
House: Yeah. Except in this universe effect follows cause. I've complained about it, but...
Sunday, 18 February 2007
Steel magnolias
Sunday night is television night - chores are done, time to unwind, unbreakable date with "24" at 9pm. At about 7pm, I was sitting down to dinner and decided to flick through the Sky channels...and came across what Sky info rightly described as "the Rolls Royce of all chick flicks" from 1989 - "Steel Magnolias".
It's the story of a tightly knit group of women friends in Louisiana. The main characters are: Truvy Jones (salon owner and all-round nurturer), Clairee Belcher (a well-to-do, easily amused Southern belle in her late 50s), Ouiser Boudreaux (a crotchety old Southern belle), M'Lynn Eatenton (Shelby's mum and all-round warm, hospitable Southern girl), Shelby (lively, funny, pink loving girl) and Annelle Dupuis (shy girl to party animal to religious fundamentalist).
The main storyline begins with Shelby's wedding and covers the next few years, peaking around her decision to have a child against medical advice (she's a diabetic) and the consequences. Parallel storylines include the unlikely closeness between Ouiser and Clairee, Annelle's metamorphosis, and Truvy's relationships with her husband and sons.
I've seen it at least four times, and it still makes me laugh till my sides ache and cry like a baby.
From Thelma and Louise to Beaches to Steel Magnolias and Sex and the City, there's something mesmerising about women's friendships. One might suspect that even men get sucked in (I have a male friend who admits to loving Beaches). Yes, we know they can be bitchy, competitive, and co-dependent, but there's nothing like the bond between women friends who've laughed with, listened to and supported eachother over years. Shelby's inclusion in that tight knit circle reminds us how much women pass on to eachother down the generations, and how much of that we've lost - a theme also touched on in How to make an American quilt.
One may scoff and say that the bond between female friends is often romanticised in the media, and that's probably true - they do the same with romantic love, much to our detriment - no one can live up to THAT expectation. But there's more than a kernel of truth in their portrayal of our friendships: that's why most women I know cried at the scene in Sex and the City when the girls surrounded Samantha after they'd heard the news that she had breast cancer - it didn't matter that it was in the middle of Miranda's wedding reception; she was right there with them. Most of us *know* that feeling; we've been on both ends of it.
Just like we understand the scene in Steel Magnolias where M'Lynn is standing by Shelby's grave after the funeral. Her husband Drum goes to the car with the boys, looks back and waits a few minutes before driving off, expecting that someone else will pick her up. The camera pans to the set of friends one by one, each going off with her man. They look back to M'Lynn, and every one of them shoos her man off and goes to stand with her by the grave. No man could have been in that scene.
It is there, with these women, after months of nursing Shelby in her coma, pushing Drum away and being strong through the funeral that M'Lynn finally gives way when Clairee asks her how she is:
I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm fine! I can jog all the way to Texas and back, but my daughter can't! She never could! Oh God! I am so mad I don't know what to do! I wanna know why! I wanna know *why* Shelby's life is over! I wanna know how that baby will *ever* know how wonderful his mother was! Will he *ever* know what she went through for him! Oh *God* I wanna know *why*? *Why*? Lord, I wish I could understand! No! No! No! It's not supposed to happen this way! I'm supposed to go first. I've always been ready to go first! I-I don't think I can take this! I-I don't think I can take this! I-I just wanna *hit* somebody 'til they feel as bad as I do! I just wanna *hit* something! I wanna *hit it hard*!
At this point, Clairee grabs Ouiser and suggests M'Lynn punches her, since the entire parish has wanted to for years. They all dissolve into laughter amidst their tears, and M'Lynn goes on more reflectively:
They turned off the machines. Drum left. Jackson left. They couldn't take it. I find it amusing. Men are supposed to be made out of steel or something. I just sat there. I just held Shelby's hand. There was no noise, no tremble, just peace. Oh god. I realize, as a woman, how lucky I am. I was there when that wonderful creature drifted into my life and I was there when she drifted out. It was the most precious moment of my life.
That comment crystallises something about that special bond between women friends: women *stay* - through the laughter, the tears, the endless analyses, the darkness, when the angel of Death comes to do her job - and we are capable of considering those moments the most precious of our lives. On the Via Dolorosa, Jesus meets his mother, Veronica wipes his face, he comforts the women of Jerusalem and women stand at the foot of his cross. Women are also the first to see the tomb empty, and Mary Magdalene is the first to see him. Precious moments, every one.
We're always there - and as women, *how lucky we are*. Let's race up those ladders, ladies, but remember - *be yourself*. You become a priest or a CEO or a creative director or anything you want to be because of WHO YOU ARE. Even if you're in a male-dominated field, don't change yourself to become more like the boys. Be yourself, and bring your wonderful, unique qualities to bear - and change that field for the better.
And boys, we love you. And sometimes, we love being one of you. But right now, we could do with you changing a nappy or two...
It's the story of a tightly knit group of women friends in Louisiana. The main characters are: Truvy Jones (salon owner and all-round nurturer), Clairee Belcher (a well-to-do, easily amused Southern belle in her late 50s), Ouiser Boudreaux (a crotchety old Southern belle), M'Lynn Eatenton (Shelby's mum and all-round warm, hospitable Southern girl), Shelby (lively, funny, pink loving girl) and Annelle Dupuis (shy girl to party animal to religious fundamentalist).
The main storyline begins with Shelby's wedding and covers the next few years, peaking around her decision to have a child against medical advice (she's a diabetic) and the consequences. Parallel storylines include the unlikely closeness between Ouiser and Clairee, Annelle's metamorphosis, and Truvy's relationships with her husband and sons.
I've seen it at least four times, and it still makes me laugh till my sides ache and cry like a baby.
From Thelma and Louise to Beaches to Steel Magnolias and Sex and the City, there's something mesmerising about women's friendships. One might suspect that even men get sucked in (I have a male friend who admits to loving Beaches). Yes, we know they can be bitchy, competitive, and co-dependent, but there's nothing like the bond between women friends who've laughed with, listened to and supported eachother over years. Shelby's inclusion in that tight knit circle reminds us how much women pass on to eachother down the generations, and how much of that we've lost - a theme also touched on in How to make an American quilt.
One may scoff and say that the bond between female friends is often romanticised in the media, and that's probably true - they do the same with romantic love, much to our detriment - no one can live up to THAT expectation. But there's more than a kernel of truth in their portrayal of our friendships: that's why most women I know cried at the scene in Sex and the City when the girls surrounded Samantha after they'd heard the news that she had breast cancer - it didn't matter that it was in the middle of Miranda's wedding reception; she was right there with them. Most of us *know* that feeling; we've been on both ends of it.
Just like we understand the scene in Steel Magnolias where M'Lynn is standing by Shelby's grave after the funeral. Her husband Drum goes to the car with the boys, looks back and waits a few minutes before driving off, expecting that someone else will pick her up. The camera pans to the set of friends one by one, each going off with her man. They look back to M'Lynn, and every one of them shoos her man off and goes to stand with her by the grave. No man could have been in that scene.
It is there, with these women, after months of nursing Shelby in her coma, pushing Drum away and being strong through the funeral that M'Lynn finally gives way when Clairee asks her how she is:
I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm fine! I can jog all the way to Texas and back, but my daughter can't! She never could! Oh God! I am so mad I don't know what to do! I wanna know why! I wanna know *why* Shelby's life is over! I wanna know how that baby will *ever* know how wonderful his mother was! Will he *ever* know what she went through for him! Oh *God* I wanna know *why*? *Why*? Lord, I wish I could understand! No! No! No! It's not supposed to happen this way! I'm supposed to go first. I've always been ready to go first! I-I don't think I can take this! I-I don't think I can take this! I-I just wanna *hit* somebody 'til they feel as bad as I do! I just wanna *hit* something! I wanna *hit it hard*!
At this point, Clairee grabs Ouiser and suggests M'Lynn punches her, since the entire parish has wanted to for years. They all dissolve into laughter amidst their tears, and M'Lynn goes on more reflectively:
They turned off the machines. Drum left. Jackson left. They couldn't take it. I find it amusing. Men are supposed to be made out of steel or something. I just sat there. I just held Shelby's hand. There was no noise, no tremble, just peace. Oh god. I realize, as a woman, how lucky I am. I was there when that wonderful creature drifted into my life and I was there when she drifted out. It was the most precious moment of my life.
That comment crystallises something about that special bond between women friends: women *stay* - through the laughter, the tears, the endless analyses, the darkness, when the angel of Death comes to do her job - and we are capable of considering those moments the most precious of our lives. On the Via Dolorosa, Jesus meets his mother, Veronica wipes his face, he comforts the women of Jerusalem and women stand at the foot of his cross. Women are also the first to see the tomb empty, and Mary Magdalene is the first to see him. Precious moments, every one.
We're always there - and as women, *how lucky we are*. Let's race up those ladders, ladies, but remember - *be yourself*. You become a priest or a CEO or a creative director or anything you want to be because of WHO YOU ARE. Even if you're in a male-dominated field, don't change yourself to become more like the boys. Be yourself, and bring your wonderful, unique qualities to bear - and change that field for the better.
And boys, we love you. And sometimes, we love being one of you. But right now, we could do with you changing a nappy or two...
Saturday, 17 February 2007
A brief plug...
Hi - a real blog entry to follow, I promise. But first, I'd like to take a moment to ask y'all to sponsor me online on the 5k Race for Life Walk/Run for CancerResearch UK. It's an all women's Walk/Run held at many venues all over the country in June/July. The focus may seem to be on breast cancer, but it's for everyone - our parents, our siblings, our men, our children, our friends.
It's a good cause, so please click on "sponsor me online" above to be taken directly to my webpage - it's fast, easy, secure, and for those of you who work in the UK, it's Gift Aided!
If you have trouble with the above link, cut and paste the address below into your browser's URL line. And yes, some of you will be getting emails. Sorry for 'cross-posting'.
http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/irimsarwar2007
We will now resume our regularly scheduled programme. Thank you.
It's a good cause, so please click on "sponsor me online" above to be taken directly to my webpage - it's fast, easy, secure, and for those of you who work in the UK, it's Gift Aided!
If you have trouble with the above link, cut and paste the address below into your browser's URL line. And yes, some of you will be getting emails. Sorry for 'cross-posting'.
http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/irimsarwar2007
We will now resume our regularly scheduled programme. Thank you.
Friday, 9 February 2007
A cricket fanfare for the common man
Well, it's been a while since the last cricket blog...the Ashes were so traumatic, I couldn't talk about England v Australia till last week, when we beat them in an ODI (one day international), after a start to the triangular tournament (3 teams, 3 matches twixt each [3 possible] team combination, best of 3 final - very trinitarian) that was reminiscent of the first day slaughter at the Gabbatoir. We lost to Australia twice, beat New Zealand once, then lost to them once - badly enough so the Kiwis got a bonus point. It looked like the boys would be home early to rest up for the World Cup next month. Then I stepped into a Salvador Dali painting...
First, we beat Australia. By enough to get the bonus point. Australia took it out on the Kiwis. THEN we beat the Kiwis by 14 runs. And we were in the final after having been in last place the entire tournament. We've just won the first game of the best-of-three final - against the best team in the world. Most of that is due to the superb fielding and smart batting of the man in the England shirt in the bottom picture: Paul Collingwood.
As Rach said in one of her blog entries, Colly makes being ginger sexy. Leaving aside his playing, there's a warmth, openness and intelligence to his face that makes him very attractive. He is a brilliant fielder (probably the best in the world), a decent bowler and a good batsman. Never flamboyant like KP and Flintoff, he constructs his innings using his strengths - singles and twos gained by intelligent choices - where to place the ball and when to run between the stumps. Performances like this win matches and "Man of the Match" awards. Colly is an excellent role model for the world today: he proves that humility, teamwork, hard work, going all out and playing to your strengths rather than trying to be someone else, is how big things happen. Substance, not style, is what counts.
Add to that his happy, easy temperament - aside from the occasional flare and unwise sledging - and you've got a definite dish.
Now, I've always liked Colly. But in the last few weeks, an Aussie (quelle horreur!) has been sneaking up the list of favourites. Even more embarrassingly, it's an Aussie I took the piss out of by using rhyming words (his own lyrics, mind you, so fair enough) like Indy, Hindi and bindi. Desperately wanting to unearth a Crocodile Dundee caricature, I looked him up...and my heart melted.
Brett Lee is a peroxide blond Aussie, true. He was the second option for man of the match yesterday, taking 3 wickets for 41. He has a ready smile, and if he *ever* hits a batsman with one of his 95 mph balls, he's the first one over to put a hand on their shoulder. Like Colly, he's a hard worker with a sunny disposition and a ready, open smile. Unlike Colly, he's at home in a tailored suit. When he's not playing cricket, he can be found working at Barclays Menswear pinning suits to customers and promoting his own clothing line. He fell into "gentlemen's outfitting" six months after getting his CA jacket fitted at Barclays, when the owner rang him up out of the blue and offered him a job. On his first day, he was cornered by a haranguing, fussy businessman who wanted a single-breasted suit with a notch lapel. Lee was flabbergasted; happy sadist that I am, I cried with laughter reading about it.
Lee had the sense to admit he didn't know and called his boss over. His boss, grinning broadly, introduced Lee to his best friend. Brett had been well and truly stitched up. In his words from 13 November's "Australian":
"I love [the menswear business]. I think if someone gives you an opportunity in life you should always stick with them, and I made myself a promise that I would stick by Richie the whole way. He didn't teach me only about suits, he taught me about life and how to deal with people.
"It's just a great reality check. I remember after the South African Test series I flew in at 11.30pm on a Sunday night and on Monday morning at 9am I was in there working. And after about an hour this South African came in and starts looking at me. 'Weren't you bowling last night (Saturday) in Jo'burg?' he says.
"I said, 'yeah mate, but it's back to the real world now.'
"But he couldn't believe it. 'Don't you need a rest?' he asks.
"I said 'no, this is what I like to do. It gets my mind away from cricket and puts some balance in my life'.
"I was talking to him in Afrikaans. He said, 'I can't believe this', but that gave me another edge to make the sale. I love the challenge of making a sale and look at a customer in much the same way as I look at a batsman when I'm preparing to bowl. You study him walking through the door, size him up and work on his weakness and try to take his wicket and make the sale."
Love him - not only for the sense of balance, genuine sweetness, humour and cheekiness that emanate from him, but also because he understands, in the words of ZZ Top:Clean shirt, new shoes - and I don't know where I am goin' to.
Silk suit, black tie: I don't need a reason why.
They come runnin' just as fast as they can:
Cos every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.
Spot on, Brett. Give us a bloke with a heart of gold in a sharp suit, and even tough
girls like me melt like ice cream on a summer day in Lahore. Substance over style,
every time, but substance AND style, well... With a Timex deal (Gold watch, diamond
ring, I ain't missing a single thing), the accessories are sorted(see picture above Colly).
Cufflinks, stick pin: when I step out, I'm gonna do you in.
You already have. We'll all come running just as fast as we can...
Cos every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.
Tuesday, 6 February 2007
Shadow puppet theatre presents: Jung and fowl play
As a Jungian carnivore, I'm with the chicken, not the tofu, on this one.
Savage Chickens: Barry White 4 Cartoon
Savage Chickens: Barry White 4 Cartoon
Thursday, 1 February 2007
In the name of love...
It has taken me nearly a month to write this. A month ago, almost to the day, a good friend of mine sent me this story. He can appear nonchalant and very controlled, but he feels things deeply, and he warned me that the story had left him in floods of tears. "Read it," he typed in the IM window. "I'll wait." I'll be eternally grateful that he did.
Forewarned, I clicked on the link with trepidation and read. And wept - initially, for the same reasons he did: the tragedy of true love lost, rent asunder by the apparently unresolvable tensions of the Muslim-Hindu divide. For the pain that never died, the dark tunnel that never ended that drove her to suicide. For the children who lost their mother and the others left behind. But when I wept again - and I did, more than once - my reasons and emotions were more complex...less sure, more textured, perhaps a touch darker.
Even as I read the story through the first time, swept along by the current to the inevitable tragic ending, noting the beautiful descriptive language along the way, I recognised the tightening in my solar plexus - the twisting tension that signals emotional dissonance, that tells me what I'm seeing is NOT what, or all, I'm getting. I looked more closely. On a second reading, the tragedy no longer seemed inevitable. His mother loved her, and his father even gave the couple his blessing before he died; her parents liked him, but family honour won the day and they arranged a match. Unsurprisingly, torn between her beloved and a seemingly inescapable loveless marriage, she sank into a deep depression.
Parnesh acknowledges this inevitability: "Such conflict - a constant strain on her heart - would tear the strongest to pieces." But he forgets this when they're arguing because he's pushing her to choose him. Suddenly, she is "emotionally fragile," and the depression becomes a character flaw, not the result of an unbearable situation. He creates of her a burden, and of himself a martyr:
"But there were also other demons, mood swings from exquisite contentment to deepest depression. She fought these with my help, and, increasingly, the help of medication. There were nights of tears, of comforting, of visits to doctors. And one dreadful night, a pointless argument, a threat from me to leave, an overdose. I was frantic and rushed her to hospital, promising, and crying, never to hurt her again...But I, too, despaired as the realisation slowly came that it was beyond my abilities to help. I struggled to help, not to give up on her, to continue fighting the depression that, though infrequent and kept in check by medication, would surface now and then."
Parnesh, of course there were mood swings. One moment, she was with you and wanted nothing more; the next, the spectre of an arranged marriage loomed over her and you were threatening to leave. Where could she go but between those two extremes? There was no way out, especially when a heinously irresponsible GP thought *DRUGS* were the answer to a clearly situational depression. Medication at the beginning, perhaps, so that therapy could take hold. She needed someone to talk to: a strong, compassionate counsellor to show her a third option - walking away from her parents and walking away from *you*. The way out of the trap was learning who she was and what she wanted. You and her parents fought over her as if she was a prize doll, not a living, breathing person with emotions and a story of her own. None of you thought about what was best for her. She needed someone to help her work that out for herself. No one did.
Then, Parnesh, you show narcissism and ability for self-deception beyond belief to state, "But my love, though severely tested, did not falter." Indeed. Considering that love is action as well as feeling and words, I presume that was demonstrated when you...pressured her to choose you and forsake her parents instead of supporting her? When you decided that she was defective because she was depressed? When you said goodbye, went to Cambridge and left her? When she rang you *the day before she was dragged to her arranged marriage, begging you to say you wouldn't leave her, so she could come to you and you said you couldn't promise that*? Tell me, Parnesh: WHEN DID YOUR LOVE "NOT FALTER"?
As you can see, I'm very angry. Knowing I was too close, that the story pushed too many triggers, I sent the link to another good friend who has excellent insight into people and relationship patterns. He found it odd that you couldn't promise not to leave her, and thought that your choice was revenge for her initial rejection of you. He wondered, and I did too, if your obsession with her wasn't born of that first 'no'. Was this, in fact, simply an infatuation born of the chase and the drama of the unresolvable, rather than love? Thus, when the going got tough, there was nothing to make you unselfish, nothing to make you care for her more than you cared for yourself, nothing to make you want what was right for her.
But I want to give you the benefit of the doubt. I want to believe you loved her, but that you didn't know how to show it, that you felt helpless and lost too. You tell us you heard news of her over the years, that you shut it out. She rang you last summer to tell you of her life and to hear about yours...and you said you sensed an "unfathomable sorrow", that she wept.
Then, a few months later, she died by her own hand.
I have worked on a suicide prevention hotline. I have had a friend commit suicide. I have been suicidal. Over and over again, from so many angles, I have told people that someone's suicide is *not* their fault. I am about to say something to you that goes against every fibre of my being to say. It's one of the reasons I waited so long to write this entry, because it verges on the unbearable to say these words, but I feel I must: because of the choices you made, the support you didn't give, your hand was on that bottle with hers. I'm sorry, but the four words, "I'll never leave you" would have written a completely different ending for you both.
How do I know? Sit down, Parnesh, and let me tell you a story:
Once upon a time, twenty-two years ago, a young Pakistani woman and an American boy from the Midwest fell in love. She was about to enter her junior year of college, and they had two years of unshadowed bliss. Just before her college graduation, she made the heart-wrenching decision to break up with him because she felt it was unfair to her parents. After a month of misery, she decided she couldn't live without him, and asked him to take her back.
Shortly after her graduation, as expected, her parents presented her with a prospective groom. She took a deep breath and told them about her American boy. They agreed to meet him on the long weekend of 4th July, 1987. After that meeting, her parents took her money, cards, and car keys and forbade her to leave the house without them or meet anyone except for a few high school friends; I believe they even took her house keys, vetted her mail, kept a close eye on the phone bill.
But love wouldn't give up. Those close friends rang him for her. Box by box, she shipped her belongings to him. Then one day, in the middle of August 1987, one of those trusted friends picked her up and drove her to the Greyhound bus station, where she bought a ticket to the Midwest and a certain welcome but an uncertain ending.
They married in February 1988; her parents relented and they had a Muslim wedding that summer and moved back East, where they've lived ever since. They're celebrating their 19th anniversary with their 3 gorgeous sons, and he still thinks she's the most beautiful woman he's ever met. She still thinks he's not half-bad...
Her parents? They adore him; apparently, her mum takes *his* side in their arguments now.
And so, yes, "life being what it is," nothing is certain. Neither was going to Cambridge, but you did. Love, too, is a risk. You have to step off the edge of the cliff in trust to win. Had you given her that reassurance, the ending to the story of my cousin and her husband could have been yours.
You live in my city and walk along my river. I have chastised you, tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, let you be the focus for issues you brought roaring to the surface. What would I say to you if we met tomorrow?
You say, "But she remained always in my thoughts, as do memories of the long journey to the confluence of the North and South Thompson, and those wild and distant places we once visited. I can no longer travel those roads. And never will. Sometimes even the vaguest wisp of the familiar brings back her world. But no matter how much I hide from any evocation of her, she is always there..." I would tell you that you *must* travel those roads, you must turn around and face the memories, the evocations, face the darkness and forgive her and yourself. You can never hide; you will always be found. Meet the demons at your chosen time on your terms. Never regret loving her, and never stop.
I'm not sure I know what else I would do, my feelings towards you are so mixed. Do I want to yell at you and shake you until your teeth rattle? Yes. Do I want to comfort you in your grief? Yes.
Do I hope that every night for the rest of your life, you think of her and dream of her and weep - just a little - for her?
I do.
Forewarned, I clicked on the link with trepidation and read. And wept - initially, for the same reasons he did: the tragedy of true love lost, rent asunder by the apparently unresolvable tensions of the Muslim-Hindu divide. For the pain that never died, the dark tunnel that never ended that drove her to suicide. For the children who lost their mother and the others left behind. But when I wept again - and I did, more than once - my reasons and emotions were more complex...less sure, more textured, perhaps a touch darker.
Even as I read the story through the first time, swept along by the current to the inevitable tragic ending, noting the beautiful descriptive language along the way, I recognised the tightening in my solar plexus - the twisting tension that signals emotional dissonance, that tells me what I'm seeing is NOT what, or all, I'm getting. I looked more closely. On a second reading, the tragedy no longer seemed inevitable. His mother loved her, and his father even gave the couple his blessing before he died; her parents liked him, but family honour won the day and they arranged a match. Unsurprisingly, torn between her beloved and a seemingly inescapable loveless marriage, she sank into a deep depression.
Parnesh acknowledges this inevitability: "Such conflict - a constant strain on her heart - would tear the strongest to pieces." But he forgets this when they're arguing because he's pushing her to choose him. Suddenly, she is "emotionally fragile," and the depression becomes a character flaw, not the result of an unbearable situation. He creates of her a burden, and of himself a martyr:
"But there were also other demons, mood swings from exquisite contentment to deepest depression. She fought these with my help, and, increasingly, the help of medication. There were nights of tears, of comforting, of visits to doctors. And one dreadful night, a pointless argument, a threat from me to leave, an overdose. I was frantic and rushed her to hospital, promising, and crying, never to hurt her again...But I, too, despaired as the realisation slowly came that it was beyond my abilities to help. I struggled to help, not to give up on her, to continue fighting the depression that, though infrequent and kept in check by medication, would surface now and then."
Parnesh, of course there were mood swings. One moment, she was with you and wanted nothing more; the next, the spectre of an arranged marriage loomed over her and you were threatening to leave. Where could she go but between those two extremes? There was no way out, especially when a heinously irresponsible GP thought *DRUGS* were the answer to a clearly situational depression. Medication at the beginning, perhaps, so that therapy could take hold. She needed someone to talk to: a strong, compassionate counsellor to show her a third option - walking away from her parents and walking away from *you*. The way out of the trap was learning who she was and what she wanted. You and her parents fought over her as if she was a prize doll, not a living, breathing person with emotions and a story of her own. None of you thought about what was best for her. She needed someone to help her work that out for herself. No one did.
Then, Parnesh, you show narcissism and ability for self-deception beyond belief to state, "But my love, though severely tested, did not falter." Indeed. Considering that love is action as well as feeling and words, I presume that was demonstrated when you...pressured her to choose you and forsake her parents instead of supporting her? When you decided that she was defective because she was depressed? When you said goodbye, went to Cambridge and left her? When she rang you *the day before she was dragged to her arranged marriage, begging you to say you wouldn't leave her, so she could come to you and you said you couldn't promise that*? Tell me, Parnesh: WHEN DID YOUR LOVE "NOT FALTER"?
As you can see, I'm very angry. Knowing I was too close, that the story pushed too many triggers, I sent the link to another good friend who has excellent insight into people and relationship patterns. He found it odd that you couldn't promise not to leave her, and thought that your choice was revenge for her initial rejection of you. He wondered, and I did too, if your obsession with her wasn't born of that first 'no'. Was this, in fact, simply an infatuation born of the chase and the drama of the unresolvable, rather than love? Thus, when the going got tough, there was nothing to make you unselfish, nothing to make you care for her more than you cared for yourself, nothing to make you want what was right for her.
But I want to give you the benefit of the doubt. I want to believe you loved her, but that you didn't know how to show it, that you felt helpless and lost too. You tell us you heard news of her over the years, that you shut it out. She rang you last summer to tell you of her life and to hear about yours...and you said you sensed an "unfathomable sorrow", that she wept.
Then, a few months later, she died by her own hand.
I have worked on a suicide prevention hotline. I have had a friend commit suicide. I have been suicidal. Over and over again, from so many angles, I have told people that someone's suicide is *not* their fault. I am about to say something to you that goes against every fibre of my being to say. It's one of the reasons I waited so long to write this entry, because it verges on the unbearable to say these words, but I feel I must: because of the choices you made, the support you didn't give, your hand was on that bottle with hers. I'm sorry, but the four words, "I'll never leave you" would have written a completely different ending for you both.
How do I know? Sit down, Parnesh, and let me tell you a story:
Once upon a time, twenty-two years ago, a young Pakistani woman and an American boy from the Midwest fell in love. She was about to enter her junior year of college, and they had two years of unshadowed bliss. Just before her college graduation, she made the heart-wrenching decision to break up with him because she felt it was unfair to her parents. After a month of misery, she decided she couldn't live without him, and asked him to take her back.
Shortly after her graduation, as expected, her parents presented her with a prospective groom. She took a deep breath and told them about her American boy. They agreed to meet him on the long weekend of 4th July, 1987. After that meeting, her parents took her money, cards, and car keys and forbade her to leave the house without them or meet anyone except for a few high school friends; I believe they even took her house keys, vetted her mail, kept a close eye on the phone bill.
But love wouldn't give up. Those close friends rang him for her. Box by box, she shipped her belongings to him. Then one day, in the middle of August 1987, one of those trusted friends picked her up and drove her to the Greyhound bus station, where she bought a ticket to the Midwest and a certain welcome but an uncertain ending.
They married in February 1988; her parents relented and they had a Muslim wedding that summer and moved back East, where they've lived ever since. They're celebrating their 19th anniversary with their 3 gorgeous sons, and he still thinks she's the most beautiful woman he's ever met. She still thinks he's not half-bad...
Her parents? They adore him; apparently, her mum takes *his* side in their arguments now.
And so, yes, "life being what it is," nothing is certain. Neither was going to Cambridge, but you did. Love, too, is a risk. You have to step off the edge of the cliff in trust to win. Had you given her that reassurance, the ending to the story of my cousin and her husband could have been yours.
You live in my city and walk along my river. I have chastised you, tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, let you be the focus for issues you brought roaring to the surface. What would I say to you if we met tomorrow?
You say, "But she remained always in my thoughts, as do memories of the long journey to the confluence of the North and South Thompson, and those wild and distant places we once visited. I can no longer travel those roads. And never will. Sometimes even the vaguest wisp of the familiar brings back her world. But no matter how much I hide from any evocation of her, she is always there..." I would tell you that you *must* travel those roads, you must turn around and face the memories, the evocations, face the darkness and forgive her and yourself. You can never hide; you will always be found. Meet the demons at your chosen time on your terms. Never regret loving her, and never stop.
I'm not sure I know what else I would do, my feelings towards you are so mixed. Do I want to yell at you and shake you until your teeth rattle? Yes. Do I want to comfort you in your grief? Yes.
Do I hope that every night for the rest of your life, you think of her and dream of her and weep - just a little - for her?
I do.
Wednesday, 31 January 2007
The last video of the Bollywood trinity
Ok, I've given you the Bad Brett Lee video, Bole chudiyan and the link for the video to the title song of Kabhi Khushi Kabhi gham. Here, I post the video to the song that rocked my world when I first saw it 3 1/2 years ago. And not just because I wanted those saris...
Bollywood does sexy...and yes, there is a momentary male equivalent to the 'wet sari' scene.
Equal opportunity eye candy. Hold onto your hats, boys and girls...
(And yes, I've just posted this so I can watch it a million times without too much effort.)
Sunday, 28 January 2007
Bollywood redeemed
Hi, this is Smeeta Smitten, Shobiz kitten...sorry. I just couldn't leave everyone with the impression that yesterday's grim video is what Bollywood is all about.
I grew up watching Bollywood films; my father owned at least 250 and could have started a video shop of his own on the side. My weekend memories are of sitting in front of the India of the 40s and 50s, with Dilip Kumar and Madhubala onscreen, and songs sung by Mohammed Rafi and Lata Mangeshkar or Asha Bhosle (see Brett video below).
Tragic, funny, happy, angry, religious - but always big: in scope, in feeling, in dance numbers. That's what Bollywood is for me. Camp? Of course. It grew up during the time of big musicals, and it was trying to imitate the West. But it always had passion.
Since my parents gave modern Bollywood movies short shrift and scorned most current actors and playback singers, my post-1965 Bollywood awareness is sparse: "Khubsoorat" (Beautiful), "Silsila" (Conflict) and "Muqadar ka Sakandar" (Sakandar's fortune/fate). I spent a lot of my young adulthood turning my back on my subcontinental heritage, hating the arranged marriages, oppression of women, petty arguments between Muslim and Hindu. I wanted nothing to do with it - ever.
About 5 years ago, this film "Khabhi Khushi Khabhi Gham" (Sometimes joy, sometimes sadness) hit the bigtime, not just in India, but around the world. I walked past posters for it, rolling my eyes, thinking, "Oh for God's sake," in the tone I reserve for people who take 15 items in the checkout lane expressly marked for 5.
"White boy" (see "Racism on the cricket ground") was the first to talk it up to me. I knew and trusted him, but wasn't sure yet. He was praising it to the high heavens (still does), but... Finally, CJ and Ali invited me round to their college, sat me down and made me watch. All the elements were there: the unsuitable love match, the parents not giving in, the younger sibling searching, big dance numbers. I laughed, I cried, I complained about pastel coloured saris and the lack of a male equivalent to the trademark "wet sari" scene... and I loved it. This was *my* Bollywood, not my parents'. *MY* actors, actresses, playback singers, not theirs. On that night, I began to claim Bollywood - and my heritage - for my own.
And so, I give you a taste of the real Bollywood. Camp, with a big heart. I love the cheeky actress in red - Kajol - who dismisses the boys when they compare her beauty to the moon. The three main men are all hot, and, by Rama, can they dance (especially Hrithik, the *really* hot one)...and they're straight. Indian dress, Indian dancing, and not a bad Aussie hairdo in sight.
Mashallah.
Saturday, 27 January 2007
*Exclusive* Bollywood shame
And let me tell you, Brett Lee's Hindi is worse than certain priests' Latin (I've heard 'brand' in 'celebranda' pronounced like 'brand' in English. It's enough to make you give up on mass). Combine that with the usual Bollywood camp, the Hindi lyrics (no, I won't - they lose too much in translation) and subcontinental women pretending they can wear yellow - I have to tell you, I haven't laughed and cringed so much in months.
Brett, yeah, you're Bondi Beach blond and you caught her attention. You're not Indie, but you're willing to learn some Hindi. Bonus point, mate. Maybe you should get a bindi too. Just some friendly female advice - sort out the scarecrow hair, stay with English and stick to good bowling - it's a lot sexier than a bad Bollywood song.
Aussie readers, please note that I avoided posting this on Australia Day. I do have some mercy.
And Ashaji, Ashaji...after giving us so many years of such joy...but you looked like you were laughing too. After such sterling service to the Indian music industry over more than half a century, you deserve to.
Uh oh. I can feel it growing on me...maybe all they needed was a group of men and women to come out in full Indian dress and dance for us...maybe it really isn't that bad...no, I will resist!!
*pause*
Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated...
Friday, 26 January 2007
And yet more self-tests...
| Your Dominant Thinking Style: Visioning |
 You are very insightful and tend to make decisions based on your insights. You focus on how things should be - even if you haven't worked out the details. An idealist, thinking of the future helps you guide your path. You tend to give others long-term direction and momentum. |
What's Your Thinking Style?
and one that CJ HASN'T done yet...
| You Belong in Fall |
 Intelligent, introspective, and quite expressive at times... You appreciate the changes in color, climate, and mood that fall brings Whether you're carving wacky pumpkins or taking long drives, autumn is a favorite time of year for you |
Wednesday, 24 January 2007
Racism on the cricket ground and beyond...
Last week, Herschelle Gibbs, a South African cricket player, was suspended for making racist comments to the Pakistani crowd. Likely, little would have come of it if the stump microphone hadn't picked up his words and broadcast them around the world. His hearing is today, with the well-respected and much-loved Richie Benaud, commentator and ex-captain of Australia, at the helm.
Now, to be fair, there's NO question in my mind that Gibbs was sorely provoked: some Pakistani fans had been shouting abuse at one of his teammates throughout the day. I went to three of the Pakistan v England Tests last summer, and I know how difficult Pakistani fans can be even to their own, such as calling Sajid Mahmood a 'traitor' because he plays for England. Heck, *I* was tempted to throttle a few. Ask Rach how nervous she was when we were surrounded by Pakistani supporters and I'd get irimtated enough to say something less than charitable about Pakistani men in a stage 'whisper'. Ok, shout, more like. Travelling fans of any nationality can be a nightmare. Gibbs had EVERY right to go over to security and ask for them to be removed.
But that's the key. He had every right to *have them removed from the ground*. Not hurl abuse back at them. Telford Vice writes an excellent letter to Gibbs, beginning with the quintessentially South African greeting, 'Howzit, Hersch...'
In his letter, he nails a point I've never been able to articulate when trying to explain to my friends why I've suspected certain verbal attacks were racist, even when nothing overt had been said:
"I have to tell you that when I heard for myself what you said, I was disgusted. It's not the swearing. Bloody hell, I'm a reporter - we were born effing and blinding, and I'll continue to do so until I b****r off this mortal coil at the age of 112. So swearing doesn't scare me. Instead, it was your harsh tone that struck me most.
There was something close to hate in your voice, Hersch, and that's not a pretty sound."
He's spot on. It's not the words; it's the tone, the look in the eyes, the near foaming at the mouth - the difference between my father calling a driver who has cut him off "a b****rd" and his talking about Partition and referring to Indians as "b****rds". The words are the same, but when he says the latter, his voice has that kind of hatred in it. The hatred that generalises, that depersonalises, that makes it easy to kill.
If we're honest with ourselves, we're all racist in some way, shape or form. Every last one of us is prejudiced against certain classes of people, and the real struggle is to meet each person where they are, no matter what they look like, what group they belong to, or where they're coming from.
I am a racist. Every time I generalise about Muslim/Middle Eastern/subcontinental men - and I do it a lot - I am being racist. It doesn't matter that I was born Muslim, that my parents are Pakistani, that I have experience, so 'I can say it'. I often go on about 'white wannabes' who want to wear Indian clothing, get henna tattoos, and immerse themselves in Indian culture because it makes them 'ethnically aware', 'spiritually in tune' and it's so 'exotic'. I'm right to be annoyed by the falsity of some of them: I know one woman who likes to greet people who are linked to the subcontinent by bowing and saying 'namaste'. When I wore a shalwar qamiz to an ordination, she squealed, "I didn't recognise you, you're in fancy dress!" (Americans: fancy dress = costume. Yes, she's blonde. Yes, she lived - just.) But when I project that insincerity onto *everyone* interested in Indian culture or sneer, "White women can't wear saris", I'm being racist. I am only right, probably only partially, about those *within the realm of my experience*. Everyone deserves to be judged as an individual, with a unique story and personality. When you first meet them, everyone deserves a clean slate.
When one of my closest friends initially introduced himself to me, he spoke to me in Urdu. My first thought? "Who do you think you are, white boy?" Racist. But this time, I chose to *listen*. Turns out he'd spent several years in Pakistan and his Urdu is better than mine. He knows Pakistani culture, good and bad, and truly *loves* it, warts and all, which reminds me why *I* love it. Because of him, I no longer turn my back on my heritage and am free to open the gifts it has given me, rather than stashing them in a dark closet somewhere.
All because I chose to give 'white boy' a chance.
That's the point, Hersch. We all have these prejudices within us, but we are in control of how we choose to act, even under the stress of an international level sporting event. Even when we're provoked. Someone has to take the responsibility to defuse a tough situation, and in this case, that lay with you. You could have chosen words to calm the situation rather than inflame it. When that didn't work, you could have asked security to remove them from the cricket ground. There were other options. You chose a different course.
Choosing that course means you need to accept the consequences: being broadcast around the world, branded a racist and banned for two matches. One does not admit guilt and then appeal. Take your punishment like an adult and show your fans, especially your young ones, that actions entail consequences, and we must accept and learn from them. Chris Broad made the right decision when he banned you. Make sure you learn from it and come out the other side a better man. Then something good will have come of all this.
And next time you're thinking in the prejudice box, poke your head out and look over the top. Maybe even stop and listen, or if the fans are being a bit intense, try to tone it down with some *friendly* sledging.
Who knows, you could even come out with a new best friend - eh, white boy?
Now, to be fair, there's NO question in my mind that Gibbs was sorely provoked: some Pakistani fans had been shouting abuse at one of his teammates throughout the day. I went to three of the Pakistan v England Tests last summer, and I know how difficult Pakistani fans can be even to their own, such as calling Sajid Mahmood a 'traitor' because he plays for England. Heck, *I* was tempted to throttle a few. Ask Rach how nervous she was when we were surrounded by Pakistani supporters and I'd get irimtated enough to say something less than charitable about Pakistani men in a stage 'whisper'. Ok, shout, more like. Travelling fans of any nationality can be a nightmare. Gibbs had EVERY right to go over to security and ask for them to be removed.
But that's the key. He had every right to *have them removed from the ground*. Not hurl abuse back at them. Telford Vice writes an excellent letter to Gibbs, beginning with the quintessentially South African greeting, 'Howzit, Hersch...'
In his letter, he nails a point I've never been able to articulate when trying to explain to my friends why I've suspected certain verbal attacks were racist, even when nothing overt had been said:
"I have to tell you that when I heard for myself what you said, I was disgusted. It's not the swearing. Bloody hell, I'm a reporter - we were born effing and blinding, and I'll continue to do so until I b****r off this mortal coil at the age of 112. So swearing doesn't scare me. Instead, it was your harsh tone that struck me most.
There was something close to hate in your voice, Hersch, and that's not a pretty sound."
He's spot on. It's not the words; it's the tone, the look in the eyes, the near foaming at the mouth - the difference between my father calling a driver who has cut him off "a b****rd" and his talking about Partition and referring to Indians as "b****rds". The words are the same, but when he says the latter, his voice has that kind of hatred in it. The hatred that generalises, that depersonalises, that makes it easy to kill.
If we're honest with ourselves, we're all racist in some way, shape or form. Every last one of us is prejudiced against certain classes of people, and the real struggle is to meet each person where they are, no matter what they look like, what group they belong to, or where they're coming from.
I am a racist. Every time I generalise about Muslim/Middle Eastern/subcontinental men - and I do it a lot - I am being racist. It doesn't matter that I was born Muslim, that my parents are Pakistani, that I have experience, so 'I can say it'. I often go on about 'white wannabes' who want to wear Indian clothing, get henna tattoos, and immerse themselves in Indian culture because it makes them 'ethnically aware', 'spiritually in tune' and it's so 'exotic'. I'm right to be annoyed by the falsity of some of them: I know one woman who likes to greet people who are linked to the subcontinent by bowing and saying 'namaste'. When I wore a shalwar qamiz to an ordination, she squealed, "I didn't recognise you, you're in fancy dress!" (Americans: fancy dress = costume. Yes, she's blonde. Yes, she lived - just.) But when I project that insincerity onto *everyone* interested in Indian culture or sneer, "White women can't wear saris", I'm being racist. I am only right, probably only partially, about those *within the realm of my experience*. Everyone deserves to be judged as an individual, with a unique story and personality. When you first meet them, everyone deserves a clean slate.
When one of my closest friends initially introduced himself to me, he spoke to me in Urdu. My first thought? "Who do you think you are, white boy?" Racist. But this time, I chose to *listen*. Turns out he'd spent several years in Pakistan and his Urdu is better than mine. He knows Pakistani culture, good and bad, and truly *loves* it, warts and all, which reminds me why *I* love it. Because of him, I no longer turn my back on my heritage and am free to open the gifts it has given me, rather than stashing them in a dark closet somewhere.
All because I chose to give 'white boy' a chance.
That's the point, Hersch. We all have these prejudices within us, but we are in control of how we choose to act, even under the stress of an international level sporting event. Even when we're provoked. Someone has to take the responsibility to defuse a tough situation, and in this case, that lay with you. You could have chosen words to calm the situation rather than inflame it. When that didn't work, you could have asked security to remove them from the cricket ground. There were other options. You chose a different course.
Choosing that course means you need to accept the consequences: being broadcast around the world, branded a racist and banned for two matches. One does not admit guilt and then appeal. Take your punishment like an adult and show your fans, especially your young ones, that actions entail consequences, and we must accept and learn from them. Chris Broad made the right decision when he banned you. Make sure you learn from it and come out the other side a better man. Then something good will have come of all this.
And next time you're thinking in the prejudice box, poke your head out and look over the top. Maybe even stop and listen, or if the fans are being a bit intense, try to tone it down with some *friendly* sledging.
Who knows, you could even come out with a new best friend - eh, white boy?
Thursday, 18 January 2007
Priestly panache, episode 2
Having mentioned Donatella's clerically inspired menswear for the Winter 2007-2008 season, I assiduously scoured the web for pictures and met success at this excellent fashion site for men. I found two clerically inspired (if it were 1965, we'd be calling them "Nehru jackets") suits. From behind curtain #1:
Nice clean lines, a bit different, simple and elegant...not bad at all. Tough to wear, however, and not just because you'd need a neck slightly shorter than a giraffe's (or Petunia Dursley's, for HP fans). "But wait," I hear you wail, as you frantically scroll down to the Priestly panache pilot episode..."You said it was dead easy to look sexy in clericals!"
Indeed I did. In the first instance, I'm saying that it's tough to wear because I've seen so many of my clerical friends tug at their collar, and in some cases, shift it off to the side or take it out so they can unbutton that top button - which you can't do with a jacket collar. That makes me think that, after a while, it can feel claustrophobic (in the case of the priesthood, in more ways than one, I suspect.) Second, with clericals, the jacket is the traditional single-breasted, V-neck cut, which lengthens and slims the upper body and offsets the buttoned-up, neck-shortening collar. In this case, the suit *jacket* is high-necked, making the entire torso one large area . If you're well-toned, great. A bit of a beer belly/man boobs starting to develop? Steer clear.
The version behind curtain #2 makes the single-breasted, single-vent version look as forgiving as a saintly priest:
Double-breasted and double-vented make this doubly unforgiving for the same reasons listed above. Carrying off a double-vented, slightly shorter back requires 'buns of steel', which means that there is NO scope for a spare ounce of fat, even on the usually well-hidden male bum. Seeing that fashion can be as hard on men as on us gives me a shneaky shenshe of schadenfreude. (No, I'm not drunk, I just couldn't resist the alliteration. So sue me.)
But let me tell you, put a well-toned man in jacket #2 near a group of women, and he won't be wearing it long. Whilst it exposes bodily flaws, it accentuates the toned male body like nothing else. Jack, my ex-housemate, well-known for his daily trips to the gym, 'naughty boy' cheekiness, and coming down from the shower through the lounge in nothing but a towel (result!), once walked INTO the lounge in a double-breasted suit jacket. There was momentary ice-skating in hell as I was rendered absolutely speechless due to a fleeting Lynx effect (which, by the way, has nothing to do with Lynx, as the stuff reeks like cat pee).
Fantastic.
Having said all that, I still want to make the sartorially unwise move of wearing a mid-thigh length, feminine version of jacket #1 (and probably earning the nickname "Twin Peaks" in the process) to work - with a pencil skirt, fishnets and heels. Just once.
Not to raise eyebrows or scandalise the Catholic establishment. At all.
Honest.
Nice clean lines, a bit different, simple and elegant...not bad at all. Tough to wear, however, and not just because you'd need a neck slightly shorter than a giraffe's (or Petunia Dursley's, for HP fans). "But wait," I hear you wail, as you frantically scroll down to the Priestly panache pilot episode..."You said it was dead easy to look sexy in clericals!"
Indeed I did. In the first instance, I'm saying that it's tough to wear because I've seen so many of my clerical friends tug at their collar, and in some cases, shift it off to the side or take it out so they can unbutton that top button - which you can't do with a jacket collar. That makes me think that, after a while, it can feel claustrophobic (in the case of the priesthood, in more ways than one, I suspect.) Second, with clericals, the jacket is the traditional single-breasted, V-neck cut, which lengthens and slims the upper body and offsets the buttoned-up, neck-shortening collar. In this case, the suit *jacket* is high-necked, making the entire torso one large area . If you're well-toned, great. A bit of a beer belly/man boobs starting to develop? Steer clear.
The version behind curtain #2 makes the single-breasted, single-vent version look as forgiving as a saintly priest:
Double-breasted and double-vented make this doubly unforgiving for the same reasons listed above. Carrying off a double-vented, slightly shorter back requires 'buns of steel', which means that there is NO scope for a spare ounce of fat, even on the usually well-hidden male bum. Seeing that fashion can be as hard on men as on us gives me a shneaky shenshe of schadenfreude. (No, I'm not drunk, I just couldn't resist the alliteration. So sue me.)
But let me tell you, put a well-toned man in jacket #2 near a group of women, and he won't be wearing it long. Whilst it exposes bodily flaws, it accentuates the toned male body like nothing else. Jack, my ex-housemate, well-known for his daily trips to the gym, 'naughty boy' cheekiness, and coming down from the shower through the lounge in nothing but a towel (result!), once walked INTO the lounge in a double-breasted suit jacket. There was momentary ice-skating in hell as I was rendered absolutely speechless due to a fleeting Lynx effect (which, by the way, has nothing to do with Lynx, as the stuff reeks like cat pee).
Fantastic.
Having said all that, I still want to make the sartorially unwise move of wearing a mid-thigh length, feminine version of jacket #1 (and probably earning the nickname "Twin Peaks" in the process) to work - with a pencil skirt, fishnets and heels. Just once.
Not to raise eyebrows or scandalise the Catholic establishment. At all.
Honest.
Tuesday, 16 January 2007
Priestly panache...
Ah, afternoon coffee break...and I shamelessly confess to stealing a story from Rocco Palmo's blog and putting a female slant on it.
It is *very* hard to look sexy in a cassock - in clericals, it's dead easy (as a friend of mine discovered when a model told him as much) because it's very similar to wearing a suit; but in a cassock, or even worse, a habit, it's bloody near impossible. You need broad shoulders, narrow hips and a well-fitted cassock - there's a seminarian up the road who has all three and looks like a fashion plate. The Dominicans, bless them, are handicapped by colour (white, bleargh!) and cut of habit. They do, however, look fab between All Souls' and Easter, when they wear their black cappas over said habit.
Ok, fair enough...these are men vowed to celibacy and chastity, and they're not - and shouldn't be - trying to turn heads. However, when one does manage it, he's overcome such odds that I feel it is worthy of mention. Fr Gaenswein, private secretary to the Pope, is one such man. So much so, in fact, (as per Rocco) he has inspired Donatella Versace to include a clerically themed suit in the Milan menswear show for winter 2007-2008. Here's a picture of the man himself in cassock:
Trinny and Susannah would be proud: posture, attitude, a lack of self-consciousness all come together to make this one priest who will send every woman to Gammarelli's for her boyfriend's/husband's next outfit. Also present here are the self-awareness and confidence that make men so much sexier in their 40s and 50s than in their 20s. For example, Mark Harmon, voted People Magazine's "Sexiest man alive" at 35, blows his younger self *out of the water* at 56. It's a standing joke in my house that if I'm watching NCIS, you have to say my name about 3 times before I'll look away from Mark and look at you. Either that, or wait for an advert break.
However, Gorgeous Georg Gaenswein does not win THE top prize for looking good in robes. That, I'm afraid, goes to Judge John Deed...
...who manages to look dead sexy in red robes and a wig - at 62. I have to say, I wouldn't kick him out of my bed for eating crackers - and I wouldn't say that about Fr Gaenswein, cleric or no.
It has occurred to me that this post is the sort of thing that makes people refer to me as a "dark horse" - something my housemate Mark did just this weekend.
I responded, patting his knee as I walked by, "Is that because I'm so 'sensible' and 'mumsy'?"
He tactfully replied, "That might have something to do with it..."
Sounds like it's time to head into town to buy that cardigan...and those knee-high, black leather boots.
[Out of the gutter, darling, you're standing on my snorkel. You *know* who you are...]
It is *very* hard to look sexy in a cassock - in clericals, it's dead easy (as a friend of mine discovered when a model told him as much) because it's very similar to wearing a suit; but in a cassock, or even worse, a habit, it's bloody near impossible. You need broad shoulders, narrow hips and a well-fitted cassock - there's a seminarian up the road who has all three and looks like a fashion plate. The Dominicans, bless them, are handicapped by colour (white, bleargh!) and cut of habit. They do, however, look fab between All Souls' and Easter, when they wear their black cappas over said habit.
Ok, fair enough...these are men vowed to celibacy and chastity, and they're not - and shouldn't be - trying to turn heads. However, when one does manage it, he's overcome such odds that I feel it is worthy of mention. Fr Gaenswein, private secretary to the Pope, is one such man. So much so, in fact, (as per Rocco) he has inspired Donatella Versace to include a clerically themed suit in the Milan menswear show for winter 2007-2008. Here's a picture of the man himself in cassock:
Trinny and Susannah would be proud: posture, attitude, a lack of self-consciousness all come together to make this one priest who will send every woman to Gammarelli's for her boyfriend's/husband's next outfit. Also present here are the self-awareness and confidence that make men so much sexier in their 40s and 50s than in their 20s. For example, Mark Harmon, voted People Magazine's "Sexiest man alive" at 35, blows his younger self *out of the water* at 56. It's a standing joke in my house that if I'm watching NCIS, you have to say my name about 3 times before I'll look away from Mark and look at you. Either that, or wait for an advert break.
However, Gorgeous Georg Gaenswein does not win THE top prize for looking good in robes. That, I'm afraid, goes to Judge John Deed...
...who manages to look dead sexy in red robes and a wig - at 62. I have to say, I wouldn't kick him out of my bed for eating crackers - and I wouldn't say that about Fr Gaenswein, cleric or no.
It has occurred to me that this post is the sort of thing that makes people refer to me as a "dark horse" - something my housemate Mark did just this weekend.
I responded, patting his knee as I walked by, "Is that because I'm so 'sensible' and 'mumsy'?"
He tactfully replied, "That might have something to do with it..."
Sounds like it's time to head into town to buy that cardigan...and those knee-high, black leather boots.
[Out of the gutter, darling, you're standing on my snorkel. You *know* who you are...]
Date a Swede
To the male (clerical) friends who think of me as being a bit bolshy - that would be the man, not the vegetable...
In the spirit of avoiding personal responsibility, I'll blame CJ for sucking me back into my self-test addiction...those who know me can decide if they think this is accurate, even though my taste runs to dark-haired, pale men, rather than blonds:
In the spirit of avoiding personal responsibility, I'll blame CJ for sucking me back into my self-test addiction...those who know me can decide if they think this is accurate, even though my taste runs to dark-haired, pale men, rather than blonds:
| You Should Date A Swede! |
 You're a romantic, albeit an understated and practical one. It's more about a steady partnership for you, not unrestrained falling. Your Swede will give you the unwavering love you crave, while making up some mean pancakes and meatballs on the side! |
Saturday, 13 January 2007
Gender neutral language
Gender neutral language is a big deal in Catholicism. There are some who feel that the Church needs to make amends for millenia of patriarchy and that gender neutral language is a first step. Others feel that this would undermine tradition and male authority in the Church and is the thin end of the wedge. Still others feel that it would ruin the translation of the mass, the Bible, etc. There are many factions, and since language is the tool we use to communicate our beliefs, ideas and who we are, it tends to get very heated.
Me? Hmm. Well, I love a beautiful translation - the King James Version (KJV) is top of my list for its Shakespearian language and poetic feel. I love the language of the Book of Common Prayer, and should I ever get married, I'd push as hard as I could for the inclusion of these words, "With this ring, I thee wed; with my body, I thee worship; with all my worldly goods, I thee endow." The language is powerful, and it expresses a deeper bond than the insipid, "Take this ring as a token..." of what? A token marriage? A token love? The language we choose, the language we hear, is paramount in shaping our perceptions, our beliefs, our culture. So I am keenly aware that hearing "he", "sons", "brothers", "fathers", "men" week after week, year after year, can be alienating for women.
But I'm also aware that, in English, gender neutral language is as awkward as a seal on land. We don't have neuter pronouns, and I'm guessing (I expect Ari may have more to say on this) that because society developed as a patriarchy, male pronouns rushed to fill the gap. As a native English speaker, I think of "man", "mankind", "brethren" in a neutral way, at least consciously. I'm more worried about women not having a voice than I am about the words, "Pray, brethren..." Let's make ourselves heard, and in using our language to express our experience, the pronouns will follow.
Another part of me feels - and this is going to get me in trouble from several directions - that religions are really male institutions, with their cabals, hierarchies, inter- and intra-group politics, jockeying for power and rulebooks. That part of me wants to pat the boys on the head and say, "Run along to Rome, dears, and fiddle with the fine print. Meanwhile, women will give birth to Jesus; speak to Him honestly and directly at the well and when our brother is dying or our sister sitting on her arse whilst we cook; anoint Him with oil; go out to meet Him publicly on the road to Calvary after you deny Him three times and go into hiding; stand at the foot of the cross; see Him first after He has risen. We will pass it on; we will teach people what it is to *live* it. He entered into relationship with us. Your language can hide that, but it can never take it away."
So I guess I fall in the "not thrilled, but if we treat the disease, the symptoms will disappear" camp.
However, there are times when I feel that using gender neutral language might be the only way forward, such as in the following exchange my friend had at school [you'd think he'd have learned from the "Daily Telegraph" story (see earlier post) that any of his good anecdotes would make it into my blog...]:
Teacher: I made a massive faux pas today
Irim: go on
Teacher: we were talking about miracles
Teacher: I mentioned the case of the man given the severed hand of a Catholic martyr
Teacher: they were horrified
Teacher: so i said something about execution
Irim: ...
Teacher: what is the difference between being hanged and hung?
Teacher: they thought both meant execution
Teacher: so then I said
Teacher: ............erm.........
Teacher: "What does it mean for a man to be hung?"
Gender neutral language. When nothing else will do.
Me? Hmm. Well, I love a beautiful translation - the King James Version (KJV) is top of my list for its Shakespearian language and poetic feel. I love the language of the Book of Common Prayer, and should I ever get married, I'd push as hard as I could for the inclusion of these words, "With this ring, I thee wed; with my body, I thee worship; with all my worldly goods, I thee endow." The language is powerful, and it expresses a deeper bond than the insipid, "Take this ring as a token..." of what? A token marriage? A token love? The language we choose, the language we hear, is paramount in shaping our perceptions, our beliefs, our culture. So I am keenly aware that hearing "he", "sons", "brothers", "fathers", "men" week after week, year after year, can be alienating for women.
But I'm also aware that, in English, gender neutral language is as awkward as a seal on land. We don't have neuter pronouns, and I'm guessing (I expect Ari may have more to say on this) that because society developed as a patriarchy, male pronouns rushed to fill the gap. As a native English speaker, I think of "man", "mankind", "brethren" in a neutral way, at least consciously. I'm more worried about women not having a voice than I am about the words, "Pray, brethren..." Let's make ourselves heard, and in using our language to express our experience, the pronouns will follow.
Another part of me feels - and this is going to get me in trouble from several directions - that religions are really male institutions, with their cabals, hierarchies, inter- and intra-group politics, jockeying for power and rulebooks. That part of me wants to pat the boys on the head and say, "Run along to Rome, dears, and fiddle with the fine print. Meanwhile, women will give birth to Jesus; speak to Him honestly and directly at the well and when our brother is dying or our sister sitting on her arse whilst we cook; anoint Him with oil; go out to meet Him publicly on the road to Calvary after you deny Him three times and go into hiding; stand at the foot of the cross; see Him first after He has risen. We will pass it on; we will teach people what it is to *live* it. He entered into relationship with us. Your language can hide that, but it can never take it away."
So I guess I fall in the "not thrilled, but if we treat the disease, the symptoms will disappear" camp.
However, there are times when I feel that using gender neutral language might be the only way forward, such as in the following exchange my friend had at school [you'd think he'd have learned from the "Daily Telegraph" story (see earlier post) that any of his good anecdotes would make it into my blog...]:
Teacher: I made a massive faux pas today
Irim: go on
Teacher: we were talking about miracles
Teacher: I mentioned the case of the man given the severed hand of a Catholic martyr
Teacher: they were horrified
Teacher: so i said something about execution
Irim: ...
Teacher: what is the difference between being hanged and hung?
Teacher: they thought both meant execution
Teacher: so then I said
Teacher: ............erm.........
Teacher: "What does it mean for a man to be hung?"
Gender neutral language. When nothing else will do.
Wednesday, 10 January 2007
Oddly moved
My sausages were in the oven; Suzanne, Mark and I were having a cosy housemate conversation in the kitchen; I was about to start making mash. I grabbed my bag of potatoes and went to open them. I was having a bit of trouble and was just about to put them down to grab the scissors when Mark silently came over, took the bag, opened them, and handed them back.
There are so many possible reactions to that moment - from offended to grateful to amused. The one I had was one I didn't expect - I was so overcome by that small act of unsolicited kindness, I had to blink back tears.
As a friend of mine wisely said when I told him about it, "A lot goes on, even in the smallest exchanges and seemingly trivial interactions." Without question, the naturalness and the simplicity of the act was what made it so moving - it's something that Mark just *does*, and it was a reminder that simple acts often mean more than grand gestures for that very reason - they're indicative of a person's real character. But it's also about receiving, which is often much harder to do. I suspect most of us don't really *receive* very well, as being taken care of isn't often something we allow ourselves - we're taught that it's a guilty pleasure, a luxury: hence the fortune being made off of 'pampering yourself'. And being given something unasked, well, sometimes it can be overwhelming.
And a lot more soul-reviving than a day at the spa. Well, I can only guess, since my closest brush with a spa has been the Sanctuary product line from Boots. I think I might need to go on a research trip to test my hypothesis...
There are so many possible reactions to that moment - from offended to grateful to amused. The one I had was one I didn't expect - I was so overcome by that small act of unsolicited kindness, I had to blink back tears.
As a friend of mine wisely said when I told him about it, "A lot goes on, even in the smallest exchanges and seemingly trivial interactions." Without question, the naturalness and the simplicity of the act was what made it so moving - it's something that Mark just *does*, and it was a reminder that simple acts often mean more than grand gestures for that very reason - they're indicative of a person's real character. But it's also about receiving, which is often much harder to do. I suspect most of us don't really *receive* very well, as being taken care of isn't often something we allow ourselves - we're taught that it's a guilty pleasure, a luxury: hence the fortune being made off of 'pampering yourself'. And being given something unasked, well, sometimes it can be overwhelming.
And a lot more soul-reviving than a day at the spa. Well, I can only guess, since my closest brush with a spa has been the Sanctuary product line from Boots. I think I might need to go on a research trip to test my hypothesis...
Tuesday, 9 January 2007
Aurora australis...
Congratulations to Australia on their well-deserved Ashes whitewash - we played poorly for the most part with the odd purple patch - but Australia played consistently superb cricket, with the self-confidence and sheer joy in the game that meant you had to smile, even as they were qiqqing your qarse. They played like a *team* who took real pride and pleasure in their own and eachother's achievements and who knew how to work as a well-oiled unit, not like eleven individuals each playing to his own drummer, no matter what the team needed. However well we played, the Aussies were playing for the team and their country as well as themselves, so they were always going to raise the game that extra notch. Hats off to you, boys, even if they aren't baggy greens!
Their 20/20 performance today was testament to that love of the game - not only did they play this 'kickaround', as Mark called it, as if it were the world championship, they played it with the intensity and cheek of kids on a playground - their shirts all had their nicknames on the back - Punter, Church, Huss (I agree with the folks who think Hussey's nickname ought to be 'Brazen') but they still went out there and knocked a record 15 sixes and 221 runs off of 120 balls...all for a 'kickaround'.
In doing that, they gave us a few lessons about how to live our lives - like we're playing the world championship, but with all the love and joy of kids on the playground. Match practice makes you match fit. Play every match to the best of your ability - even the kickarounds - and the series will take care of themselves. Never give up hope, no matter how unwinnable the match appears to be. Know when to take risks and when to bide your time. To have a swing, you have to stay at the crease. Take every opportunity, no matter how small, and the big ones will follow. Remember that it's a team effort: stop to nurture and applaud others along the way, and when something needs doing, work as a unit.
And don't forget to enjoy eachother and have a few beers when you get a chance - because friendship, joy and love is what it's really all about.
Their 20/20 performance today was testament to that love of the game - not only did they play this 'kickaround', as Mark called it, as if it were the world championship, they played it with the intensity and cheek of kids on a playground - their shirts all had their nicknames on the back - Punter, Church, Huss (I agree with the folks who think Hussey's nickname ought to be 'Brazen') but they still went out there and knocked a record 15 sixes and 221 runs off of 120 balls...all for a 'kickaround'.
In doing that, they gave us a few lessons about how to live our lives - like we're playing the world championship, but with all the love and joy of kids on the playground. Match practice makes you match fit. Play every match to the best of your ability - even the kickarounds - and the series will take care of themselves. Never give up hope, no matter how unwinnable the match appears to be. Know when to take risks and when to bide your time. To have a swing, you have to stay at the crease. Take every opportunity, no matter how small, and the big ones will follow. Remember that it's a team effort: stop to nurture and applaud others along the way, and when something needs doing, work as a unit.
And don't forget to enjoy eachother and have a few beers when you get a chance - because friendship, joy and love is what it's really all about.
Saturday, 6 January 2007
Male logic
I know, I know...it's my week for conversations ranging from the bizarre to the hilarious - and the two aren't mutually exclusive.
I got a unique insight into the male mind (eat your heart out, John Gray and Deborah Tannen) when my friend SL regaled us with a classic story about her brother. Years ago, when he was 20, he was dating a 15 year old. As law-abiding citizens, they were waiting for her 16th birthday before going all the way. As the time approached, the girlfriend got nervous and approached SL with her concerns about the upcoming event. She said, "We're both really nervous..."
SL, puzzled because she knew her brother wasn't inexperienced in that area, said, "Nervous?"
Brother's girlfriend: "Yes, since we're both virgins."
SL nearly sprayed her drink across her dad's restaurant. She grabbed her brother, who was working that night, and said, "J. Kitchen. NOW."
J: Wot?
SL: You told her you were a VIRGIN?
J: Well, ya, it's technically, innit?
SL: Ok, tell me how it's 'technically' when you've slept with several other girls.
J: Well, they was all slags, wasn't they? So, technically.
When it comes to male rationalisation, I no longer see through a glass darkly...
I got a unique insight into the male mind (eat your heart out, John Gray and Deborah Tannen) when my friend SL regaled us with a classic story about her brother. Years ago, when he was 20, he was dating a 15 year old. As law-abiding citizens, they were waiting for her 16th birthday before going all the way. As the time approached, the girlfriend got nervous and approached SL with her concerns about the upcoming event. She said, "We're both really nervous..."
SL, puzzled because she knew her brother wasn't inexperienced in that area, said, "Nervous?"
Brother's girlfriend: "Yes, since we're both virgins."
SL nearly sprayed her drink across her dad's restaurant. She grabbed her brother, who was working that night, and said, "J. Kitchen. NOW."
J: Wot?
SL: You told her you were a VIRGIN?
J: Well, ya, it's technically, innit?
SL: Ok, tell me how it's 'technically' when you've slept with several other girls.
J: Well, they was all slags, wasn't they? So, technically.
When it comes to male rationalisation, I no longer see through a glass darkly...
Thursday, 4 January 2007
Foot in mouth disease...
Earlier today, the subject of gay men dating women came up whilst I was speaking to a (straight) male friend. I went on about how annoyed it made me and how they should just be themselves and be honest, because they were *really* going to destroy someone's world one day. Whilst we were watching telly, I pointed out two men on an advert for a programme on internet dating and said, "Well, of course you're not getting on with the women, lads. They're not your type."
I noticed what I thought was an unusual reluctance to engage in the conversation, so I paused. At which point he piped up, "My dad is gay."
Cue embarrassed silence and what my IM male friend calls 'the truncheon up the a*se smiley'. (That's the one on MSN with the raised eyebrows, wide eyes and straight smile. When IM friend first christened it, I said in mild shock, "I just think of it as the surprised/stunned smiley." IM friend's response: "Well, wouldn't YOU be stunned if someone shoved a truncheon...?" I had to concede the point.) I immediately tried to make things better, erm, inasmuch as you can after a moment like this:
"Look, this is going to sound like what I call the 'black friend' excuse, but I do have gay friends, including the organist at church, and that's not my issue."
"Oh, it's not a problem," he replied. "It's just that I have more insight and I think it's possible not to know or to be confused."
Now I have to admit I've never quite gotten that, but that's because I had a crush on Bob McGrath on "Sesame Street" when I was 2, followed by various male muppets, and Brendan Pelarski in the first grade, Nicky in the second, and Bryan Price for two years after that. I liked Katy McNally, but only b/c I wanted to be as pretty (blonde curls and blue eyes) and self-assured as she was by the time we were in third grade. I *knew* I was heterosexual very young, and I just assumed homosexual (once I discovered it existed) kids were the same. Certainly interviews with KD Lang and others seemed to confirm that. I think I just need to remember that sexuality is most likely a continuum, and that there are as many experiences in discovering it as there are people.
I replied, "I have no problem with that, and I understand being confused about wanting to have a family, or what you really feel. And 30 years ago, it was completely different. I have issues with gay men *now*, when it is so much easier to be honest about who you are, watching a woman walk down the aisle, knowing he's gay and he doesn't - and will never - fancy her, and thinking about his trysts with men in taxis. (And though I didn't add this, gay priests who slag off homosexuality from the pulpits make me even angrier. I'm sitting there thinking, 'Your hip swing is better than mine and you'd look more at home with a Prada handbag than Kate Moss. You know, I know, you know that I know. Just stop. NOW.')"
He recoiled in disgust. "That's just...adulterous. That's beyond horrible."
Having agreed, there was a companionable silence this time. After a few moments, he said wickedly, "That would explain my gay flings then."
Without missing a beat, I said, "Do your men follow type and have long blond hair and use good conditioner?"
He laughed and responded, "And what would you do if I brought one round to yours for tea?"
I pondered. "Bon Jovi? I'd shag him."
He grinned, "You mean you'd talk and laugh with him. That's not what you said, but it is what you meant."
"Erm, yeah. Absolutely."
And for further, though unrelated, breaking news on gender identity, check this out.
I noticed what I thought was an unusual reluctance to engage in the conversation, so I paused. At which point he piped up, "My dad is gay."
Cue embarrassed silence and what my IM male friend calls 'the truncheon up the a*se smiley'. (That's the one on MSN with the raised eyebrows, wide eyes and straight smile. When IM friend first christened it, I said in mild shock, "I just think of it as the surprised/stunned smiley." IM friend's response: "Well, wouldn't YOU be stunned if someone shoved a truncheon...?" I had to concede the point.) I immediately tried to make things better, erm, inasmuch as you can after a moment like this:
"Look, this is going to sound like what I call the 'black friend' excuse, but I do have gay friends, including the organist at church, and that's not my issue."
"Oh, it's not a problem," he replied. "It's just that I have more insight and I think it's possible not to know or to be confused."
Now I have to admit I've never quite gotten that, but that's because I had a crush on Bob McGrath on "Sesame Street" when I was 2, followed by various male muppets, and Brendan Pelarski in the first grade, Nicky in the second, and Bryan Price for two years after that. I liked Katy McNally, but only b/c I wanted to be as pretty (blonde curls and blue eyes) and self-assured as she was by the time we were in third grade. I *knew* I was heterosexual very young, and I just assumed homosexual (once I discovered it existed) kids were the same. Certainly interviews with KD Lang and others seemed to confirm that. I think I just need to remember that sexuality is most likely a continuum, and that there are as many experiences in discovering it as there are people.
I replied, "I have no problem with that, and I understand being confused about wanting to have a family, or what you really feel. And 30 years ago, it was completely different. I have issues with gay men *now*, when it is so much easier to be honest about who you are, watching a woman walk down the aisle, knowing he's gay and he doesn't - and will never - fancy her, and thinking about his trysts with men in taxis. (And though I didn't add this, gay priests who slag off homosexuality from the pulpits make me even angrier. I'm sitting there thinking, 'Your hip swing is better than mine and you'd look more at home with a Prada handbag than Kate Moss. You know, I know, you know that I know. Just stop. NOW.')"
He recoiled in disgust. "That's just...adulterous. That's beyond horrible."
Having agreed, there was a companionable silence this time. After a few moments, he said wickedly, "That would explain my gay flings then."
Without missing a beat, I said, "Do your men follow type and have long blond hair and use good conditioner?"
He laughed and responded, "And what would you do if I brought one round to yours for tea?"
I pondered. "Bon Jovi? I'd shag him."
He grinned, "You mean you'd talk and laugh with him. That's not what you said, but it is what you meant."
"Erm, yeah. Absolutely."
And for further, though unrelated, breaking news on gender identity, check this out.
Tuesday, 2 January 2007
"Why did they build Windsor Castle on the flight path of Heathrow?"
...and other stupid tourist questions: see here. I have to admit, I have a sinking feeling that most of those questions come from my fellow Americans - not only because I have heard them during tourist season here, but also because I once watched a programme where a family brought a fortnight's worth of food with them after someone at home told them that the British eat *chipmunk*, and they were really upset at the thought of accidentally eating an animal not native to the British Isles. I was excruciatingly embarrassed and turned to Catherine, who was laughing hysterically, and apologised for Americans everywhere. I'm still not sure she heard me, though; I suspect she was too busy trying to breathe.
On a more serious note, I want to know who thought this study was necessary:
"Physically abused and neglected children are much more likely to grow into severely depressed adults, a finding that researchers said on Monday points to an urgent need to test abused children for depression early on."
As a scientist, I can understand the need to determine causality as opposed to correlation. But I can accept that the horrors of abuse lead to depression without paying for a study. But wait, they'll cry. That isn't all - we'll throw in a second Time-Life conclusion for the same price:
"In addition, these findings reveal that onset of depression began in childhood for many of the children," the report said.
No sh*t, Sherlock.
They needed to waste precious money on a study to prove that being beaten, sexually abused, viciously verbally abused or emotionally/physically neglected was *CAUSALLY* related to depression? Hello? OF COURSE THEY'RE DEPRESSED - THEIR LIVES ARE IN DANGER EVERY DAY, YOU ACADEMIC ADDLE-PATES. THEY'RE GETTING BEATEN, THEY'RE SHUT IN CLOSETS, THEY'RE EMOTIONALLY AND PHYSICALLY VIOLATED - OR ELSE NO ONE TAKES CARE OF THEM. THEY'RE NEVER SAFE, SECURE AND LOVED. WHAT'S NOT TO BE DEPRESSED ABOUT? And considering that we've known since the dawn of time that our childhood forms the template for our lives, of course they're more at risk when they get older. For the love of God.
Instead of wasting our money on studies like this, why don't we give our money to associations like the NSPCC who are actually DOING something for these children: finding them places where they are safe, secure and loved and giving them the resources they need to start healing from a start in life none of us would wish on our worst enemies. They may still be at a higher risk for depression, but they're now safe and in a place where they can start to learn to love and be loved, to trust, to hope. What better way to cut that risk of later depression and to give them the tools to cope, should it arise? Wasting funding on coming to the obvious conclusion that they are 59% more likely to suffer from depression and 'testing them' when places that save their lives are struggling for resources is beyond criminal. If I were one of those academics, I'd have to go to confession without passing 'Go' and without collecting £200. Please, support the places near you that help these children - everyone deserves to be safe and loved. We don't need expensive studies to tell us that.
Why blog about these two stories in the same post? Well, although one is amusing and the other infuriating, they both demonstrate a common principle - to quote Albert Einstein:
"Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the the universe."
Amen.
On a more serious note, I want to know who thought this study was necessary:
"Physically abused and neglected children are much more likely to grow into severely depressed adults, a finding that researchers said on Monday points to an urgent need to test abused children for depression early on."
As a scientist, I can understand the need to determine causality as opposed to correlation. But I can accept that the horrors of abuse lead to depression without paying for a study. But wait, they'll cry. That isn't all - we'll throw in a second Time-Life conclusion for the same price:
"In addition, these findings reveal that onset of depression began in childhood for many of the children," the report said.
No sh*t, Sherlock.
They needed to waste precious money on a study to prove that being beaten, sexually abused, viciously verbally abused or emotionally/physically neglected was *CAUSALLY* related to depression? Hello? OF COURSE THEY'RE DEPRESSED - THEIR LIVES ARE IN DANGER EVERY DAY, YOU ACADEMIC ADDLE-PATES. THEY'RE GETTING BEATEN, THEY'RE SHUT IN CLOSETS, THEY'RE EMOTIONALLY AND PHYSICALLY VIOLATED - OR ELSE NO ONE TAKES CARE OF THEM. THEY'RE NEVER SAFE, SECURE AND LOVED. WHAT'S NOT TO BE DEPRESSED ABOUT? And considering that we've known since the dawn of time that our childhood forms the template for our lives, of course they're more at risk when they get older. For the love of God.
Instead of wasting our money on studies like this, why don't we give our money to associations like the NSPCC who are actually DOING something for these children: finding them places where they are safe, secure and loved and giving them the resources they need to start healing from a start in life none of us would wish on our worst enemies. They may still be at a higher risk for depression, but they're now safe and in a place where they can start to learn to love and be loved, to trust, to hope. What better way to cut that risk of later depression and to give them the tools to cope, should it arise? Wasting funding on coming to the obvious conclusion that they are 59% more likely to suffer from depression and 'testing them' when places that save their lives are struggling for resources is beyond criminal. If I were one of those academics, I'd have to go to confession without passing 'Go' and without collecting £200. Please, support the places near you that help these children - everyone deserves to be safe and loved. We don't need expensive studies to tell us that.
Why blog about these two stories in the same post? Well, although one is amusing and the other infuriating, they both demonstrate a common principle - to quote Albert Einstein:
"Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the the universe."
Amen.
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