I read two disturbing articles in the New York Times today. The first was really a blurb, not a full article, but it was a story with which I was already familiar because it's happening close to home. The school board in Libertyville, a suburb north of the city, has decided that students participating in extracurricular activities will be required to sign a statement agreeing that postings online describing or documenting inappropriate or illegal behavior are grounds for disciplinary action by the school.
This, folks, is chilling.
As a participant in the blogosphere, I harbor no illusions that the content of this blog, my own personal site, or my U Chicago site are either private or not subject to scrutiny. Any ideas, thoughts or claims I post on any of these sites I am willing to defend. I recognize that each site has a purpose and may be read by different groups of people. That's why I don't disclose everything about myself here or anywhere else in cyberspace. What's more, all three sites are governed by some sort of user agreement and/or terms of service contract (here's the one for Blogger, the service that maintains this site) that stipulates what materials may and may not be included in these sites. And if I'm stupid enough to post pictures of myself participating in illegal activities on the internet for all the world to see, then I shouldn't be surprised if the police track me down and charge me with a crime. It shouldn't make a difference that I put evidence on the web, as opposed to showing a picture to friends or buying a half-page ad in the paper and publishing the picture therein.
The issue in Libertyville, thus, is not that students -- or anyone else for that matter -- should be immune from having their web postings used against them. The problem is that it's not the school's place to impose authority over these kids other than during the time they're on school grounds or participating in school-related activities. If a group of kids in Libertyville has a keg party and posts pics for all the world to see on their MySpace page, then they're a bunch of dumb-asses and they deserve to get caught. But not by the school, only by their parents or (if the cops there are really that bored) by the police. When teachers and administrators complain that they spend too much time disciplining children on the one hand, and school boards purposefully seek out methods that would extend the reach of the school's jurisdiction to discipline students on the other, I wonder what the true motivation of these educational bureaucrats really is.
The second, equally troubling issue is who gets to decide what is inappropriate? The definition of "inappropriate" could be so broadly interpreted as to condemn students for perfectly legal behaviors that the school system, other parents or peers might find objectionable. How does this affect minority and disaffected students in the system? Will GLBT students be disciplined for discussing their sexual orientation online if others find that "inappropriate"? What about students who post political ideas online that might offend others? While in the school building or participating in school activities, the school should restrict what students say so as to promote a healthy, functioning learning environment. However, off school grounds students should be allowed to participate in whatever sort of social and political discourse they wish. Only their parents should be allowed to decide what sort of limits are placed on the media they use to espouse their views.
The other piece that caused me great distress this morning concerns a proposal by the ACLU to restrict the speech of its board members.
Let me say that again so it can sink in. The American Civil Liberties Union, proud defender of every American's first amendment right to free speech, is seeking to institute a policy whereby it restricts the free speech of its board members if they happen to disagree with the leaders or policies of the organization.
To be fair, I believe the policy says that board members shouldn't publicly criticize the policies or administration, but that's pretty well just semantics. Disagreement with policy is, in effect, criticism of that policy. Policy is an extension of the sitting administration. Thus, you disagree with policy, you're criticizing policy and the staff.
What has happened to the ACLU? The representatives from the organization -- of which, in the interest of full disclosure, I am a card-carrying member -- defend the policy by saying that rancor among the board and the leadership, including director Anthony Romero, hurts the organization's fund-raising efforts.
So let me just get this straight. The organization that I feel is the first and best line of defense against the continued erosion of our personal liberties in the name of fueling the corporate machine is sacrificing its own principles at the altar of the Almighty Dollar?
I sincerely hope that the additional thirty pieces of silver that the ACLU raises is indeed worth sacrificing the very freedom that lies at the core of its mission. It's a bit like The Gift of the Magi, only without the nobility of the sacrifice.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Anonymous in the Big City
While living in Nashville, a city of approximately half a million people, I discovered an unpleasant fact. A disconcertingly large number of gay men in Nashville know each other, often because they had at one time dated each other. This pseudo-incestuous existence was made all the more unsettling by the relative paucity of available, decent gay men that I found in Nashville. Thus it seemed that by dating any gay man in Nashville, you were in effect dating every gay man in Nashville.
I attributed this humongous circle-jerk to the fact that Nashville was a fairly conservative city, and many gay men were not comfortable being "out." This meant that many gay men existed in a subculture, meeting other men almost exclusively at bars and online. Many gay men did not -- or could not -- reveal their orientation to their colleagues and families. Finding someone to date in this sea of dysfunction was quite challenging. One rarely had the luxury of quibbling over minor details such as, "Have you dated any of my ex-boyfriends?"
Chicago is a beacon of liberalism compared to Nashville. Although I'm sure there are many gay men in this city who must live in the closet, most of the gay men I've met are out and proud, unconcerned with who knows the true nature of their relationships with boyfriends and partners. Plus Chicago is home to nearly 3 million people, nearly six times as big as Nashville. Surely, I figured, the overall larger population of gay men in this city, coupled with the relative openness of the city towards gay people, would mean that I no longer had to worry about everyone I dated knowing or having dated each other.
Oh, how wrong and naïve I was.
I found out last night that Matt, the man I'm dating, knows the last guy I went out with. I've dated all of three men in this city, literally making the odds that any two know each other a million-to-one. Oh, to have this kind of luck with the Illinois Lottery!
Last night's unsettling realization is not too terribly upsetting -- Matt was a little put off that I had dated this person, but greatly reassured by my entirely truthful assertions that Matt is in every regard superior to the other guy. Yet again, this other guy continues to live up to the appelation by which I often refer to him.
That would be "Dodged Bullet."
I attributed this humongous circle-jerk to the fact that Nashville was a fairly conservative city, and many gay men were not comfortable being "out." This meant that many gay men existed in a subculture, meeting other men almost exclusively at bars and online. Many gay men did not -- or could not -- reveal their orientation to their colleagues and families. Finding someone to date in this sea of dysfunction was quite challenging. One rarely had the luxury of quibbling over minor details such as, "Have you dated any of my ex-boyfriends?"
Chicago is a beacon of liberalism compared to Nashville. Although I'm sure there are many gay men in this city who must live in the closet, most of the gay men I've met are out and proud, unconcerned with who knows the true nature of their relationships with boyfriends and partners. Plus Chicago is home to nearly 3 million people, nearly six times as big as Nashville. Surely, I figured, the overall larger population of gay men in this city, coupled with the relative openness of the city towards gay people, would mean that I no longer had to worry about everyone I dated knowing or having dated each other.
Oh, how wrong and naïve I was.
I found out last night that Matt, the man I'm dating, knows the last guy I went out with. I've dated all of three men in this city, literally making the odds that any two know each other a million-to-one. Oh, to have this kind of luck with the Illinois Lottery!
Last night's unsettling realization is not too terribly upsetting -- Matt was a little put off that I had dated this person, but greatly reassured by my entirely truthful assertions that Matt is in every regard superior to the other guy. Yet again, this other guy continues to live up to the appelation by which I often refer to him.
That would be "Dodged Bullet."
Friday, May 19, 2006
Tales of Public Transit
An organization called AutoVantage recently released a report listing the cities with the rudest and nicest drivers in the United States. They listed Nashville as having among the nicest drivers in the country, which tells me that this survey is completely inaccurate. Having lived in Nashville for 8 years, I learned that Nashvillians are among the nicest people you can meet on the sidewalks, but among the most ornery people you could run into on the highways and byways.
Since I don't drive much nowadays, instead taking public transit, I don't have to deal with rude drivers as often as I did in Nashville. However, public transit has its share of rudeness, and I've experienced or heard about three particular tales of rudeness just this week.
On Monday I got on board the #55 bus to get from the Garfield train station to the UofC. As the bus was a bit crowded, I made my way to the back and found a seat on the bench along the back wall of the bus. I was reading my paper, trying to ignore all around me as is the norm on the bus and train.
I heard a voice say, "250." I ignored this voice, because, well, I'm on the bus and I don't engage the crazies. Unfortunately, I was jarred by someone kicking my foot. I looked up to see an unkempt middle-aged man looking at me. He said to me, "What are you, about 250?" I assume he was referring to my weight. I looked back at him and said, "That's really none of your goddamned business," and returned to my paper, trying not to look as flustered as I was. Perhaps I should have retorted, "What are you, about 75, 76? Oh, I'm trying to guess your IQ." My friend Joel says I should have said "No, around the world is $50 and a blow job is $25, just like downtown." However, had this man then produced either $25 or $50 I would have been forced to use the closest emergency exit and hurl myself out of the moving bus. I think it was easier just to sit there and ignore him.
My friend Joel was accosted by a Jesus freak in New York. A guy sat across from him on the 7 train and seemed to be checking him out. Intrigued, Joel made brief eye contact and thought he was initiating some harmless flirting. When the train cleared out a bit, this guy sat down next to Joel and said, "By the way you were looking at me, I'm afraid you haven't accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior, and I'm worried about your mortal soul." When J.F. asked Joel if he talked to God everyday, Joel's response was typically priceless: "Yes, I do, and He asked me to tell you to stop calling Him, because he just doesn't think it's going to work out between the two of you. Now I suggest you get up and get the Hell away from me."
Not 20 minutes after hearing this story, I was sitting on a Red Line train heading south to my apartment from Lakeview. Just south of the Washington St. station, a dude was asking passengers if they had three singles for $3.00 in change. Two girls on the train decided first to give the guy the third degree about his motivation for asking for singles. Then they decided to accost him, asking if he had any heroin or crack.
Wow, people. What's the deal? Let's just all try and get along, shall we? You people are giving public transit a bad name. And that's quite a feat.
Since I don't drive much nowadays, instead taking public transit, I don't have to deal with rude drivers as often as I did in Nashville. However, public transit has its share of rudeness, and I've experienced or heard about three particular tales of rudeness just this week.
On Monday I got on board the #55 bus to get from the Garfield train station to the UofC. As the bus was a bit crowded, I made my way to the back and found a seat on the bench along the back wall of the bus. I was reading my paper, trying to ignore all around me as is the norm on the bus and train.
I heard a voice say, "250." I ignored this voice, because, well, I'm on the bus and I don't engage the crazies. Unfortunately, I was jarred by someone kicking my foot. I looked up to see an unkempt middle-aged man looking at me. He said to me, "What are you, about 250?" I assume he was referring to my weight. I looked back at him and said, "That's really none of your goddamned business," and returned to my paper, trying not to look as flustered as I was. Perhaps I should have retorted, "What are you, about 75, 76? Oh, I'm trying to guess your IQ." My friend Joel says I should have said "No, around the world is $50 and a blow job is $25, just like downtown." However, had this man then produced either $25 or $50 I would have been forced to use the closest emergency exit and hurl myself out of the moving bus. I think it was easier just to sit there and ignore him.
My friend Joel was accosted by a Jesus freak in New York. A guy sat across from him on the 7 train and seemed to be checking him out. Intrigued, Joel made brief eye contact and thought he was initiating some harmless flirting. When the train cleared out a bit, this guy sat down next to Joel and said, "By the way you were looking at me, I'm afraid you haven't accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior, and I'm worried about your mortal soul." When J.F. asked Joel if he talked to God everyday, Joel's response was typically priceless: "Yes, I do, and He asked me to tell you to stop calling Him, because he just doesn't think it's going to work out between the two of you. Now I suggest you get up and get the Hell away from me."
Not 20 minutes after hearing this story, I was sitting on a Red Line train heading south to my apartment from Lakeview. Just south of the Washington St. station, a dude was asking passengers if they had three singles for $3.00 in change. Two girls on the train decided first to give the guy the third degree about his motivation for asking for singles. Then they decided to accost him, asking if he had any heroin or crack.
Wow, people. What's the deal? Let's just all try and get along, shall we? You people are giving public transit a bad name. And that's quite a feat.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Announcing . . .
. . . the launch of my new website!
Take a moment to check out A Tenor for Hire!
Tell your friends! Tell your enemies! Tell anyone who's willing to pay money for a singer!!
Take a moment to check out A Tenor for Hire!
Tell your friends! Tell your enemies! Tell anyone who's willing to pay money for a singer!!
Friday, May 12, 2006
Monday, May 08, 2006
Anatomy of a Long Day of Science
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
My Faith Story, Part III
In the spring of 1994 I finally came to terms with the fact that I was gay. I had suspected as much for a few years, had endured a couple of hopeless relationships with women, and finally accepted that my feelings towards other men were more than just a fascination or a curiosity. The first place I went after coming to this realization was my father's grave. I lay on the ground above my father's interred body and cried, asking for his help and forgiveness. The next place I went for comfort was the church. Unfortunately it was locked -- literally. I went to two different churches near the NC State campus, hoping to find a clergy person to speak with. Instead all I found were empty buildings devoid of anyone willing to listen to my story of confusion and pain.
Over the next year I came out to my close friends and eventually my mother. It would be another ten years before I told anyone else in my family that I was gay. Cowardly though this may be, I figured that being unmarried at 31 and not having brought a girlfriend to a family function since I was 20 might have clued some of my more astute family members in to my "orientation."
In those ten years, I also grappled with what it meant to be gay and a Christian. I spent a lot of time soul-searching, trying to figure out if it could ever be acceptable to engage in sexual acts with other men and still be counted among the righteous. The de jure attitude of mainstream Christian churches was that sex was a gift from God reserved for married people. The de facto situation, however, was that lots of Christians engaged in sex outside of marriage. I figured this meant either that this particular tenet of Christianity wasn't all that important, or that there were a whole wompload of hypocrites running around. Turns out I was probably right on both counts. But that didn't change the fact that, by acknowledging my sexual orientation, I was putting myself in a position to question and perhaps defy one of the central tenets of Christianity with which I had always agreed. I don't mean to say that I always lived up to the expectation of chastity outside of marriage, but I did acknowledge that such behavior was sinful and to be avoided.
Gay men could not marry per se in any mainstream Christian church of which I was aware, at least not 12 years ago when these events in my life were occurring. Even today the list of churches that officially sanction gay marriage is indeed quite small. Could there be a loophole? Could I possibly still find salvation if I reserved myself for a "life partner"? Would God acknowledge such a situation as on par with marriage?
This moral conundrum kept me out of the church for nearly two years after I came out. I was afraid of God, afraid of His judgment, afraid of the judgment of His ministers on this earth. The easiest way to deal with this fear was to avoid it, which I thought meant avoiding church. After all, that's where God lives, right? It turns out God has a way of leaving His house, wandering down the street and catching up to you as you walk down the block minding your own business. Like Noah before me, I would soon learn that fleeing God's calling is about as futile as ice skating uphill.
Over the next year I came out to my close friends and eventually my mother. It would be another ten years before I told anyone else in my family that I was gay. Cowardly though this may be, I figured that being unmarried at 31 and not having brought a girlfriend to a family function since I was 20 might have clued some of my more astute family members in to my "orientation."
In those ten years, I also grappled with what it meant to be gay and a Christian. I spent a lot of time soul-searching, trying to figure out if it could ever be acceptable to engage in sexual acts with other men and still be counted among the righteous. The de jure attitude of mainstream Christian churches was that sex was a gift from God reserved for married people. The de facto situation, however, was that lots of Christians engaged in sex outside of marriage. I figured this meant either that this particular tenet of Christianity wasn't all that important, or that there were a whole wompload of hypocrites running around. Turns out I was probably right on both counts. But that didn't change the fact that, by acknowledging my sexual orientation, I was putting myself in a position to question and perhaps defy one of the central tenets of Christianity with which I had always agreed. I don't mean to say that I always lived up to the expectation of chastity outside of marriage, but I did acknowledge that such behavior was sinful and to be avoided.
Gay men could not marry per se in any mainstream Christian church of which I was aware, at least not 12 years ago when these events in my life were occurring. Even today the list of churches that officially sanction gay marriage is indeed quite small. Could there be a loophole? Could I possibly still find salvation if I reserved myself for a "life partner"? Would God acknowledge such a situation as on par with marriage?
This moral conundrum kept me out of the church for nearly two years after I came out. I was afraid of God, afraid of His judgment, afraid of the judgment of His ministers on this earth. The easiest way to deal with this fear was to avoid it, which I thought meant avoiding church. After all, that's where God lives, right? It turns out God has a way of leaving His house, wandering down the street and catching up to you as you walk down the block minding your own business. Like Noah before me, I would soon learn that fleeing God's calling is about as futile as ice skating uphill.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
How quickly time flies . . .
I am amazed at how long it has been since I've put up a new post! The nearly two weeks intervening this post and my previous one were filled with Holy Week happenings and out-of-town visitors, so I have had precious little time to sit down and write. My absence from the blogosphere has not been due to a want for topics. I've had so many ideas for things to write. Since the main reason I keep this blog is to force myself to write more coherently, I've really been doing myself a disservice by failing to keep it better updated. This fails to mention the impact on you, the literally ones of readers who peruse these pages de temps en temps.
I promise, I will prattle on more in the near future. Look for the conclusion of the My Faith Story series, and some interesting insights into just exactly what I do all day at my lab bench. And no, order things from Amazon.com isn't at the top of the list.
I think maybe it's number 17.
I promise, I will prattle on more in the near future. Look for the conclusion of the My Faith Story series, and some interesting insights into just exactly what I do all day at my lab bench. And no, order things from Amazon.com isn't at the top of the list.
I think maybe it's number 17.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Best Fortune Cookie Fortune. Ever.
I'm sure many of you are aware of, and perhaps have participated in, the tradition of cracking open a fortune cookie, removing the tiny slip of paper from inside and reading it to your friends, adding the words "in bed" to the end of whatever sophism or clairvoyant message is printed on the paper. (There's even a web site that will do this for you.) The following is the fortune I shared with my friends and colleagues at lunch today:
A package of value will soon arrive. In bed.
If anyone needs me, I'll be at home, waiting. In bed.
A package of value will soon arrive. In bed.
If anyone needs me, I'll be at home, waiting. In bed.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
My Faith Story, Part II
I entered college in August of 1991.
Hold on a minute, I need to recover from that.
Where were we? Oh, yes: college, August, 1991. My college choir director put me in contact with the music director at First Presbyterian Church in Raleigh who hired me as his tenor section leader. For the next nine months I went to church every Sunday morning, dutifully sang the music placed in front of me, and felt absolutely no connection to the church or God. It was a gig, it paid, that was it.
I had a conversion experience one morning in the shower. I remember distinctly hearing the voice of God that morning. What God said I don't recall; I don't even remember if it happened during my freshman or sophomore year. I just remember being very afraid. If I knew then what I know now about mental disorders I would instantly have assumed I was experiencing a positive affectual symptom of schizophrenia. My fear subsided quickly and was replaced by a feeling of longing. I couldn't say, however, just what I was longing for.
My conversion experience wasn't enough to put me back on the path to faith. Something much more dramatic had to happen in my life to capture my attention and point me towards God.
My father had been diagnosed with emphysema a year before I entered college. His illness had helped me decide to go to college fairly close to home -- the NC State campus is about an hour and a half from my family's home. I anticipated that one day the phone would ring and I would be informed that I needed to come home quickly. When that day came, I didn't want to be dependent on airline schedules; I wanted to know I could hop in my car and make it home quickly.
The phone call I awaited with dread came on October 6, 1992. My father had been taken to the hospital after collapsing in his bedroom. I wanted to come home immediately but my mother told me not to worry, that things would be okay and that I should stay and finish my midterm exams. Fall Break was only three days away, and I'd be home then. Two days later, I could the situation was going from bad to worse and my sister encouraged me to drive home. When my mother didn't object, I knew things were much worse than I had been led to believe.
I limped west on Highway 70, afraid to take my car on the interstate. I remember praying, "God, if it's time for him to die and for his misery to be over, then I am at peace with that. Just please let me get home to see him before he dies." My "Check Engine" light came on, as it was wont to do in those days, but I got home in just about two hours. I dropped off my bags at the house, called my mother in the hospital room to see if there was anything she wanted. (I remember taking up Oreos; I don't recall if they were for her or for me.) I got to the hospital at around 3:00 on the afternoon of October 8, 1992.
My father died at approximately 6:00 that night.
I had requested something of God, and He delivered. In retrospect, I think that's a lousy reason for going back to church. Theologically it seems almost heretical to follow the teachings of Christ only because He has done me a favor (other than the favor of crucifying Himself for my sins, but that was a favor for everyone, not just for me).
In the aftermath of my father's death my yearning for God became more acute. I sought to learn more about the Presbyterian Church since that was where I was spending most of my Sunday mornings. Unfortunately, I didn't get much past the whole Predestination thing. In fact, my last Sunday singing at that church featured a sermon defending that most Calvinist of beliefs. I took it as a sign that it was time for me to move on.
I didn't find a church home the rest of the time I was in college, though in honesty I didn't really try. My longing for God waned over time, but I had permanently regained something in that conversion experience and the death of my father -- I had regained my faith. I no longer considered myself an atheist. I identified as a Christian because that was what I knew how to be. Christianity is a credal religion, and I'm not sure I could have stood up and honestly claimed to believe the tenets of the Nicene and Apostles' Creeds. (To this day bits of both give me pause.)
When my father died two months short of my nineteenth birthday I was put back on the road of faith and restarted my journey towards God in earnest. Two years hence I would seek out both God and my father at a time in my life when I felt no one on Earth could understand my pain, and nothing corporeal could heal my spirit.
Hold on a minute, I need to recover from that.
Where were we? Oh, yes: college, August, 1991. My college choir director put me in contact with the music director at First Presbyterian Church in Raleigh who hired me as his tenor section leader. For the next nine months I went to church every Sunday morning, dutifully sang the music placed in front of me, and felt absolutely no connection to the church or God. It was a gig, it paid, that was it.
I had a conversion experience one morning in the shower. I remember distinctly hearing the voice of God that morning. What God said I don't recall; I don't even remember if it happened during my freshman or sophomore year. I just remember being very afraid. If I knew then what I know now about mental disorders I would instantly have assumed I was experiencing a positive affectual symptom of schizophrenia. My fear subsided quickly and was replaced by a feeling of longing. I couldn't say, however, just what I was longing for.
My conversion experience wasn't enough to put me back on the path to faith. Something much more dramatic had to happen in my life to capture my attention and point me towards God.
My father had been diagnosed with emphysema a year before I entered college. His illness had helped me decide to go to college fairly close to home -- the NC State campus is about an hour and a half from my family's home. I anticipated that one day the phone would ring and I would be informed that I needed to come home quickly. When that day came, I didn't want to be dependent on airline schedules; I wanted to know I could hop in my car and make it home quickly.
The phone call I awaited with dread came on October 6, 1992. My father had been taken to the hospital after collapsing in his bedroom. I wanted to come home immediately but my mother told me not to worry, that things would be okay and that I should stay and finish my midterm exams. Fall Break was only three days away, and I'd be home then. Two days later, I could the situation was going from bad to worse and my sister encouraged me to drive home. When my mother didn't object, I knew things were much worse than I had been led to believe.
I limped west on Highway 70, afraid to take my car on the interstate. I remember praying, "God, if it's time for him to die and for his misery to be over, then I am at peace with that. Just please let me get home to see him before he dies." My "Check Engine" light came on, as it was wont to do in those days, but I got home in just about two hours. I dropped off my bags at the house, called my mother in the hospital room to see if there was anything she wanted. (I remember taking up Oreos; I don't recall if they were for her or for me.) I got to the hospital at around 3:00 on the afternoon of October 8, 1992.
My father died at approximately 6:00 that night.
I had requested something of God, and He delivered. In retrospect, I think that's a lousy reason for going back to church. Theologically it seems almost heretical to follow the teachings of Christ only because He has done me a favor (other than the favor of crucifying Himself for my sins, but that was a favor for everyone, not just for me).
In the aftermath of my father's death my yearning for God became more acute. I sought to learn more about the Presbyterian Church since that was where I was spending most of my Sunday mornings. Unfortunately, I didn't get much past the whole Predestination thing. In fact, my last Sunday singing at that church featured a sermon defending that most Calvinist of beliefs. I took it as a sign that it was time for me to move on.
I didn't find a church home the rest of the time I was in college, though in honesty I didn't really try. My longing for God waned over time, but I had permanently regained something in that conversion experience and the death of my father -- I had regained my faith. I no longer considered myself an atheist. I identified as a Christian because that was what I knew how to be. Christianity is a credal religion, and I'm not sure I could have stood up and honestly claimed to believe the tenets of the Nicene and Apostles' Creeds. (To this day bits of both give me pause.)
When my father died two months short of my nineteenth birthday I was put back on the road of faith and restarted my journey towards God in earnest. Two years hence I would seek out both God and my father at a time in my life when I felt no one on Earth could understand my pain, and nothing corporeal could heal my spirit.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
My Faith Story, Part I
I attended a wonderful program at my parish last night that featured the Rev'd. Jim Adams, founding director of The Center for Progressive Christianity. Father Adams spoke for a couple of hours on what it is to be a progressive Christian, and how we have largely abdicated our claim to the truths of the Bible to the Christian Right. Among the points discussed last night, the one that struck me as being most accurate and most worrisome was the notion that many of the people in the pews of Progressive Christian churches. such as my church, cannot readily articulate why it is that they choose to be Christian, and why they choose to go to church. In contrast, it was said, people going to Fundamentalist/Evangelical churches, especially of the "mega-church" variety, can often tick off a list of reasons they follow Christianity and why they attend their particular church. In short, Progressive Christians are either uncomfortable or unfamiliar with the idea of sharing their faith stories.
The only way I know to begin to change that is by sharing my faith story in this forum, where literally fives of people may read it.
I was baptized into the Body of Christ as a young child. I was old enough to remember bits of the ceremony -- the chill of the water, the white cloth used to mop the Holy Water from my newly Christened head, the anxiety of my parents -- but not old enough to remember exactly when this occured, neither the date nor my age nor even the season. The baptism took place at Friedens Lutheran Church in Gibsonville, NC, the church in which I grew up.
As a child, I don't remember particularly liking or disliking church. Much like school, it was a regular activity in which I had to participate. As with school, I figured at some point that if I had to be there I might as well put my best foot forward and get as much out of the experience as I could. In church I sang in the children's choir and served as an acolyte. In my church the acolyte's sole job was to light and extinguish the altar candles, as opposed to acolyting in the Episcopal Church which is much more involved and choreographed.
The normal "path" for children in the Lutheran Church, at least when I was a child in the Lutheran Church, was to start catechism at around 6th grade, join the youth group, and eventually make a mature statement of faith, a process known as confirmation. At about the time in my life that this would have occurred, my parents separated. My mother, sister and I moved too far away from Friedens to make it practical to continue attending services there. We talked for a couple of years about finding a Lutheran Church near our new home. We never went, even once.
I found myself drawn towards atheism as a teenager. I can't remember when I first heard the word, but I remember that I was shocked to learn such a belief system -- that is, the absence of a belief system -- existed. It seemed instantly comforting and familiar. Corporate worship was a distant memory by this time, and my only connection with Christianity was Christmas and Easter presents. Most years I was shocked when Easter Sunday arrived and the presents showed up on the couch.
In high school my atheism was prominent. During my sophomore year my English teacher did a unit on the Bible as literature. Days before our exam, and only as an afterthought, she polled the class to see if we were familiar with certain passages from the Bible not covered specifically during our classroom sessions or assigned as homework. She assumed we would have learned about these passages in Sunday School. There were three of us in the class who didn't know these unassigned texts. My teacher seemed genuinely shocked, and my classmates were quite obviously surprised to learn that there were non-churchgoers among them.
You see, in the South, after someone asks you who you are and where you're from, the next question is always, "Where do you go to church?" Usually, what is meant is, "Which Baptist Church do you go to?" There are plenty of folks in the South who don't understand that the Catholic Church is a Christian organization. I'm not lying.
I remember getting into arguments with people I sang with in high school over my lack of faith. A big part of that was my own damned fault -- I once spoke ill of Christianity, although I think I actually expressed disdain over all organized religion. One boy, a minister's son, said that he just wanted to hit me until I converted. That's the most warped example of Evangelism I've ever run across, even to this day. Another boy I sang with, whom I admired because of his beautiful tenor voice, argued vociferously with me over the concept of evolution. He asked me, "So you're telling me that if I put a fish in a pond for a million years it'll become a person?" My response was, "No, it'll become a very dead fish." Creationism arguments are rarely more poignant or insightful than this.
The summer after I graduated from high school I was hired by my high school choir director's wife to be a paid singer at the Presbyterian Church in downtown Greensboro. I dutifully showed up each Sunday, put on the itchy polyester choir robe and sang whatever music was put in front of me. I felt no connection to the music -- I sang sacred texts a lot during high school and assigned them no more significance than musical settings of texts from Shakespeare or John Donne. When the service was over I hung up my robe, got in my car and went home.
When I entered college in the fall of 1991 I was still an avowed atheist. I also considered myself to be heterosexual. By the time I graduated in the winter of 1994 I had rediscovered my identity in the Body of Christ, and understood that I was something I feared being all my life -- gay. Perhaps no other revelation about myself was more important in guiding me down the path towards faith, although it was a tragedy in my life that really caused me to start on that path in the first place. In my next entry, I'll talk about what happened in college that changed my life.
The only way I know to begin to change that is by sharing my faith story in this forum, where literally fives of people may read it.
I was baptized into the Body of Christ as a young child. I was old enough to remember bits of the ceremony -- the chill of the water, the white cloth used to mop the Holy Water from my newly Christened head, the anxiety of my parents -- but not old enough to remember exactly when this occured, neither the date nor my age nor even the season. The baptism took place at Friedens Lutheran Church in Gibsonville, NC, the church in which I grew up.
As a child, I don't remember particularly liking or disliking church. Much like school, it was a regular activity in which I had to participate. As with school, I figured at some point that if I had to be there I might as well put my best foot forward and get as much out of the experience as I could. In church I sang in the children's choir and served as an acolyte. In my church the acolyte's sole job was to light and extinguish the altar candles, as opposed to acolyting in the Episcopal Church which is much more involved and choreographed.
The normal "path" for children in the Lutheran Church, at least when I was a child in the Lutheran Church, was to start catechism at around 6th grade, join the youth group, and eventually make a mature statement of faith, a process known as confirmation. At about the time in my life that this would have occurred, my parents separated. My mother, sister and I moved too far away from Friedens to make it practical to continue attending services there. We talked for a couple of years about finding a Lutheran Church near our new home. We never went, even once.
I found myself drawn towards atheism as a teenager. I can't remember when I first heard the word, but I remember that I was shocked to learn such a belief system -- that is, the absence of a belief system -- existed. It seemed instantly comforting and familiar. Corporate worship was a distant memory by this time, and my only connection with Christianity was Christmas and Easter presents. Most years I was shocked when Easter Sunday arrived and the presents showed up on the couch.
In high school my atheism was prominent. During my sophomore year my English teacher did a unit on the Bible as literature. Days before our exam, and only as an afterthought, she polled the class to see if we were familiar with certain passages from the Bible not covered specifically during our classroom sessions or assigned as homework. She assumed we would have learned about these passages in Sunday School. There were three of us in the class who didn't know these unassigned texts. My teacher seemed genuinely shocked, and my classmates were quite obviously surprised to learn that there were non-churchgoers among them.
You see, in the South, after someone asks you who you are and where you're from, the next question is always, "Where do you go to church?" Usually, what is meant is, "Which Baptist Church do you go to?" There are plenty of folks in the South who don't understand that the Catholic Church is a Christian organization. I'm not lying.
I remember getting into arguments with people I sang with in high school over my lack of faith. A big part of that was my own damned fault -- I once spoke ill of Christianity, although I think I actually expressed disdain over all organized religion. One boy, a minister's son, said that he just wanted to hit me until I converted. That's the most warped example of Evangelism I've ever run across, even to this day. Another boy I sang with, whom I admired because of his beautiful tenor voice, argued vociferously with me over the concept of evolution. He asked me, "So you're telling me that if I put a fish in a pond for a million years it'll become a person?" My response was, "No, it'll become a very dead fish." Creationism arguments are rarely more poignant or insightful than this.
The summer after I graduated from high school I was hired by my high school choir director's wife to be a paid singer at the Presbyterian Church in downtown Greensboro. I dutifully showed up each Sunday, put on the itchy polyester choir robe and sang whatever music was put in front of me. I felt no connection to the music -- I sang sacred texts a lot during high school and assigned them no more significance than musical settings of texts from Shakespeare or John Donne. When the service was over I hung up my robe, got in my car and went home.
When I entered college in the fall of 1991 I was still an avowed atheist. I also considered myself to be heterosexual. By the time I graduated in the winter of 1994 I had rediscovered my identity in the Body of Christ, and understood that I was something I feared being all my life -- gay. Perhaps no other revelation about myself was more important in guiding me down the path towards faith, although it was a tragedy in my life that really caused me to start on that path in the first place. In my next entry, I'll talk about what happened in college that changed my life.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Best Day Ever
Topsy-turvy was the order of the day. Several fantastic bits of news and events were tempered by one incredibly tragic story.
At church this morning I found out that my buddy Matt was finally released from the hospital. As I was leaving church I peeked in at the folks attending the 11:15, and saw that Matt had actually made it to church! I stayed through the service just so I could speak with him and tell him how excited I was to see him outside of a hospital room.
I was also gratified to learn that there is hope for the next generation. Admonishing one of the members of our treble choir, our choir director warned a young woman that she would wind up singing like Britney Spears if she didn't adjust her posture. A young boy, about ten years old, raised his hand and asked, very simply,
"Who's Britney Spears?"
Alleluias were widely exclaimed, Lent be damned.
Sadly there was a bit of terrible news that overshadowed these bits of good news. One of our parishioners lost her nephew and niece in a house fire, and another nephew is in critical condition in the burn unit.
Today humor and continuing life were intertwined with tragedy.
This is life, kids.
At church this morning I found out that my buddy Matt was finally released from the hospital. As I was leaving church I peeked in at the folks attending the 11:15, and saw that Matt had actually made it to church! I stayed through the service just so I could speak with him and tell him how excited I was to see him outside of a hospital room.
I was also gratified to learn that there is hope for the next generation. Admonishing one of the members of our treble choir, our choir director warned a young woman that she would wind up singing like Britney Spears if she didn't adjust her posture. A young boy, about ten years old, raised his hand and asked, very simply,
"Who's Britney Spears?"
Alleluias were widely exclaimed, Lent be damned.
Sadly there was a bit of terrible news that overshadowed these bits of good news. One of our parishioners lost her nephew and niece in a house fire, and another nephew is in critical condition in the burn unit.
Today humor and continuing life were intertwined with tragedy.
This is life, kids.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Corporal Acts of Mercy
Here's a quick quiz . . .
Do you know what the corporal acts of mercy are, and have you ever performed any of them?
The corporal acts of mercy are directives to Christians pertaining to living out the Gospel of Jesus Christ through performing kindnesses to the needy in our midst. The specific acts are the following:
1. Feed the hungry.
2. Give drink to the thirsty.
3. Clothe the naked.
4. Shelter the homeless.
5. Minister to the sick.
6. Visit the imprisoned.
7. Bury the dead.
As for the second part of the question, well, only you can know the answer to that.
I was struck recently by the starkly different examples of living out the gospel presented by two prominent Roman Catholics, Roger Cardinal Mahoney of Los Angeles and Thomas S. Monaghan, founder of Domino's Pizza and supporter of right-wing politics and politicos.
In a recent address to parishioners, Cardinal Mahoney assailed H.R. 4437. The Border Protection, Antiterrorism, and Illegal Immigration Control Act would not only cruelly curtail immigrants' rights in this country but would also criminalize activities of charitable organizations that provide meals and shelter to needy persons who happen to be illegal immigrants.
A bedrock of living out the gospel is to minister to anyone in need, regardless of their immigration status. I have heard many fundamental Christians stomp their feet and complain that their right to freedom of religious expression is being abridged by laws preventing them from discriminating against gay men/lesbians/bisexuals/transgendered persons (in their language, "ho-mo-sex-shuls" and "queers") or forcing them to fill the legally obtained prescriptions of women obtained from licensed physicians. Curious that these same folks are deafeningly silent now that a law would particulary and directly discriminate against Christian religious expression.
Jesus tells us that the greatest commandments are to love the Lord our God with all our heart, and to love our neighbors as ourselves. In fact, we are actually called to love our neighbors in the same way that we love God. Believe it or not, there is no biblical injunction commanding us to deny housing and employment rights to GLBT persons, nor is there an order telling us not to sell birth control pills to women.
That brings me to the topic of how dear old Tommy Monaghan is living out his baptismal covenant. He has decided to focus on #4 above -- sheltering the homeless -- by building expensive shelter for upper middle-class families who are seeking to live a purely Catholic existence in sunny Florida. Mr. Monaghan is building a Catholic community and university, both called Ave Maria. His utopian village will be centered around a Catholic university, a very large Catholic church, and what is purported to be the largest crucifix in the world.
Oh, did I mention that the town won't stock condoms or birth control pills in the drug stores, will disallow X-rated television stations and pornography will not be sold anywhere in the community?
Admittedly the last few interdictions, if not exactly laudatory, may not seem worthy of disdain. But let's get real, folks. Denying people access to birth control is ridiculous and, frankly, dangerous. (Anyone ever heard of Griswold v. Connecticut?) If this municipality can disallow pornography, then disallowing anything deemed unseemly when viewed through the lens of strict Catholic teachings -- gay and lesbian literature, feminist writings, perspectives from other religions and sects -- is likely to follow.
This is censorship, plain and simple. It is decidedly un-American, and should make anyone who cherishes the First Amendment shudder.
Cardinal Mahoney called on his clerics to defy H.R. 4437 should it become law (note -- it has passed the House and is headed for the Senate). His actions make me proud to be a Christian. Monaghan's ridiculous real estate development initiative disguised as an act of religious piety ("I believe all of history is just one big battle between good and evil. I don't want to be on the sidelines," Monaghan, who sold Domino's Pizza in 1998 to devote himself to doing good works, said in a recent Newsweek interview. -- from CNN.com) makes me proud to continue boycotting Domino's Pizza.
Do you know what the corporal acts of mercy are, and have you ever performed any of them?
The corporal acts of mercy are directives to Christians pertaining to living out the Gospel of Jesus Christ through performing kindnesses to the needy in our midst. The specific acts are the following:
1. Feed the hungry.
2. Give drink to the thirsty.
3. Clothe the naked.
4. Shelter the homeless.
5. Minister to the sick.
6. Visit the imprisoned.
7. Bury the dead.
As for the second part of the question, well, only you can know the answer to that.
I was struck recently by the starkly different examples of living out the gospel presented by two prominent Roman Catholics, Roger Cardinal Mahoney of Los Angeles and Thomas S. Monaghan, founder of Domino's Pizza and supporter of right-wing politics and politicos.
In a recent address to parishioners, Cardinal Mahoney assailed H.R. 4437. The Border Protection, Antiterrorism, and Illegal Immigration Control Act would not only cruelly curtail immigrants' rights in this country but would also criminalize activities of charitable organizations that provide meals and shelter to needy persons who happen to be illegal immigrants.
A bedrock of living out the gospel is to minister to anyone in need, regardless of their immigration status. I have heard many fundamental Christians stomp their feet and complain that their right to freedom of religious expression is being abridged by laws preventing them from discriminating against gay men/lesbians/bisexuals/transgendered persons (in their language, "ho-mo-sex-shuls" and "queers") or forcing them to fill the legally obtained prescriptions of women obtained from licensed physicians. Curious that these same folks are deafeningly silent now that a law would particulary and directly discriminate against Christian religious expression.
Jesus tells us that the greatest commandments are to love the Lord our God with all our heart, and to love our neighbors as ourselves. In fact, we are actually called to love our neighbors in the same way that we love God. Believe it or not, there is no biblical injunction commanding us to deny housing and employment rights to GLBT persons, nor is there an order telling us not to sell birth control pills to women.
That brings me to the topic of how dear old Tommy Monaghan is living out his baptismal covenant. He has decided to focus on #4 above -- sheltering the homeless -- by building expensive shelter for upper middle-class families who are seeking to live a purely Catholic existence in sunny Florida. Mr. Monaghan is building a Catholic community and university, both called Ave Maria. His utopian village will be centered around a Catholic university, a very large Catholic church, and what is purported to be the largest crucifix in the world.
Oh, did I mention that the town won't stock condoms or birth control pills in the drug stores, will disallow X-rated television stations and pornography will not be sold anywhere in the community?
Admittedly the last few interdictions, if not exactly laudatory, may not seem worthy of disdain. But let's get real, folks. Denying people access to birth control is ridiculous and, frankly, dangerous. (Anyone ever heard of Griswold v. Connecticut?) If this municipality can disallow pornography, then disallowing anything deemed unseemly when viewed through the lens of strict Catholic teachings -- gay and lesbian literature, feminist writings, perspectives from other religions and sects -- is likely to follow.
This is censorship, plain and simple. It is decidedly un-American, and should make anyone who cherishes the First Amendment shudder.
Cardinal Mahoney called on his clerics to defy H.R. 4437 should it become law (note -- it has passed the House and is headed for the Senate). His actions make me proud to be a Christian. Monaghan's ridiculous real estate development initiative disguised as an act of religious piety ("I believe all of history is just one big battle between good and evil. I don't want to be on the sidelines," Monaghan, who sold Domino's Pizza in 1998 to devote himself to doing good works, said in a recent Newsweek interview. -- from CNN.com) makes me proud to continue boycotting Domino's Pizza.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Instincts
I should learn to follow my instincts more often. If my gut tells me to avoid a situation, then I should probably just heed the advice of my innards and avoid that situation. Unfortunately I ignored my instincts last night, and I paid the price. I wound up in a very uncomfortable place, just squirming to get out. Next time, I will pay greater heed to my all-powerful, all-seeing, all-knowing gut.
Fortunately today has been much better. Having left work early yesterday because of my back -- yet again -- I was nervous that my back was getting worse instead of improving. However, from the time I got out of bed this morning I have felt as close to well as I've felt in 10 days. I noticed hardly a twinge of pain all day, and walked about 8 blocks going to and from work, which is approximately 1 mile. I think I'll be hitting the gym tomorrow for a light cardio workout. Having been without my comforting workouts for over a week I'm really jonesing for a good sweat session.
Tonight I had a lovely dinner with my choir buddy Brian and his partner Joe. They live on the northwest side of the city, an area I am not altogether familiar with. Unfortunately, because I was gabbing on the phone with my friend Joel, I turned two blocks too early and got completely turned around! I was already running late, which always annoys me, so the extra 10 minutes I spent driving around West Rogers Park just did wonders for my mood.
Brian and Joe were magnanimous hosts and accepted me, despite my tardiness, with grace and charm. They had cooked up a wonderful spinach and cheese soufflé, braised squash and a delectable New York cheesecake for dessert! I picked out a nice Chardonnay -- Maryville Starmont 2004, as recommended in this review. I was quite pleased with the wine, and it complemented the menu beautifully.
Now I'm home; I wasn't sleepy when I started this entry, but I find my eyelids are getting heavier with each passing minute. I think my new 400 thread count sheets are calling me . . .
--------
15.088
Fortunately today has been much better. Having left work early yesterday because of my back -- yet again -- I was nervous that my back was getting worse instead of improving. However, from the time I got out of bed this morning I have felt as close to well as I've felt in 10 days. I noticed hardly a twinge of pain all day, and walked about 8 blocks going to and from work, which is approximately 1 mile. I think I'll be hitting the gym tomorrow for a light cardio workout. Having been without my comforting workouts for over a week I'm really jonesing for a good sweat session.
Tonight I had a lovely dinner with my choir buddy Brian and his partner Joe. They live on the northwest side of the city, an area I am not altogether familiar with. Unfortunately, because I was gabbing on the phone with my friend Joel, I turned two blocks too early and got completely turned around! I was already running late, which always annoys me, so the extra 10 minutes I spent driving around West Rogers Park just did wonders for my mood.
Brian and Joe were magnanimous hosts and accepted me, despite my tardiness, with grace and charm. They had cooked up a wonderful spinach and cheese soufflé, braised squash and a delectable New York cheesecake for dessert! I picked out a nice Chardonnay -- Maryville Starmont 2004, as recommended in this review. I was quite pleased with the wine, and it complemented the menu beautifully.
Now I'm home; I wasn't sleepy when I started this entry, but I find my eyelids are getting heavier with each passing minute. I think my new 400 thread count sheets are calling me . . .
--------
15.088
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Just Cut the Fat
I turned on my analytical pathways as I was reading the Science Times section of Tuesday's New York Times when I saw this article. In her piece on a recently published set of studies from the Women's Health Initiative, Gina Kolata provides a synopsis of the findings, interviews the investigators and their critics, and gives some historical tidbits about the "you are what you eat," better health through diet movement that started in earnest in the Western world in the 19th century.
In a series of articles published in the Feb. 8 edition of the Journal of the American Medical Association, the investigators of the Women's Health Initiative report a surprising finding that has already drawn extensive criticism. In short, the investigators find that reducing dietary fat intake to currently recommended levels (approximately 30% of daily caloric intake) offers no protection against breast cancer, colorectal cancer or heart disease.
This study looked at a large population of older women and asked whether dietary changes could prevent them from developing specific diseases that in prior studies had been linked to dietary fat intake. To me, the nature of these diseases -- cardiovascular disease and cancer -- makes them somewhat unsuitable for such an analysis. These are diseases that often develop over many years, so even a relatively long-term study (average 8.1 years in the study) may be unable to show any benefit. Instead of looking at these data and concluding that fat intake is unimportant, I would instead hypothesize that changing dietary fat intake at a younger age, or more drastically reducing fat intake in later years, is imperative for improving health.
Colorectal cancer, breast cancer and heart disease have a much higher incidence in Western cultures. This could be explained by environmental factors like diet and sedentary lifestyle. It could also be the result of pollutants. Genetic factors may also be involved. Even in the Western world, certain racial groups are more likely to be afflicted with heart disease. Of course, these racial groups also tend to be disadvantaged and less likely to seek out (or be able to afford) preventative care. There's environment rearing its head again. So what is the right answer? Can we eat ourselves healthy? Or should we just eat what we want and let the chips fall where they may based on our genetic makeup?
It's important to remember that science is an evolutionary process. We chip away at the data, trying to excavate the truth lying underneath. Sometimes we hit veins of pure gold; more often we hit pyrite. Can we stay alive forever by eliminating fat from our diets? Unlikely. Are there centegenarians who have eaten and continue to eat bacon and eggs every morning of their lives? Probably. Not knowing the absolute truth, however, is no excuse to ignore our own common sense. The best any of us can do is eat sensibly, get some exercise a few days a week, and face up to the fact that we're all mortals and will one day face the grim reaper.
But now, if you'll excuse me, I have to run to McDonald's to pick up an Egg McMuffin and some Hash Browns. Oh, and maybe I should grab some Krispy Kremes on the way . . .
In a series of articles published in the Feb. 8 edition of the Journal of the American Medical Association, the investigators of the Women's Health Initiative report a surprising finding that has already drawn extensive criticism. In short, the investigators find that reducing dietary fat intake to currently recommended levels (approximately 30% of daily caloric intake) offers no protection against breast cancer, colorectal cancer or heart disease.
This study looked at a large population of older women and asked whether dietary changes could prevent them from developing specific diseases that in prior studies had been linked to dietary fat intake. To me, the nature of these diseases -- cardiovascular disease and cancer -- makes them somewhat unsuitable for such an analysis. These are diseases that often develop over many years, so even a relatively long-term study (average 8.1 years in the study) may be unable to show any benefit. Instead of looking at these data and concluding that fat intake is unimportant, I would instead hypothesize that changing dietary fat intake at a younger age, or more drastically reducing fat intake in later years, is imperative for improving health.
Colorectal cancer, breast cancer and heart disease have a much higher incidence in Western cultures. This could be explained by environmental factors like diet and sedentary lifestyle. It could also be the result of pollutants. Genetic factors may also be involved. Even in the Western world, certain racial groups are more likely to be afflicted with heart disease. Of course, these racial groups also tend to be disadvantaged and less likely to seek out (or be able to afford) preventative care. There's environment rearing its head again. So what is the right answer? Can we eat ourselves healthy? Or should we just eat what we want and let the chips fall where they may based on our genetic makeup?
It's important to remember that science is an evolutionary process. We chip away at the data, trying to excavate the truth lying underneath. Sometimes we hit veins of pure gold; more often we hit pyrite. Can we stay alive forever by eliminating fat from our diets? Unlikely. Are there centegenarians who have eaten and continue to eat bacon and eggs every morning of their lives? Probably. Not knowing the absolute truth, however, is no excuse to ignore our own common sense. The best any of us can do is eat sensibly, get some exercise a few days a week, and face up to the fact that we're all mortals and will one day face the grim reaper.
But now, if you'll excuse me, I have to run to McDonald's to pick up an Egg McMuffin and some Hash Browns. Oh, and maybe I should grab some Krispy Kremes on the way . . .
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Is My Black Outfit at the Cleaners?
Every year on February 14th I wear black to protest Valentine's Day; that, and, black is slimming. I have found it a difficult proposition to be opposed to Valentine's Day without coming across as bitter or jaded. This is made all the more difficult for me since I am unabashedly both bitter and jaded. But neither my bitterness nor my jadedness explains my absolute disdain for Valentine's Day. Why, then, should I be so opposed to such an innocent little holiday? To find out, let's take a little stroll through the dark catacombs of my mind. Oh, but could you take off your shoes first? I've just mopped in here.
Picture adorable little me as a senior in high school. I have my first real girlfriend (if you just fainted, then I heard you hit the ground, and I will find you and smack you across the face.) I'm in a tizzy because, being new to this whole girlfriend thing, I haven't even given the first thought to buying her a Valentine's Day gift. For one thing, Valentine's Day in 1991 was on a Thursday (I didn't remember that; I looked it up) so it should be close enough to the weekend that I get a bye until Friday night, right? Wrong.
Cut to me going out during lunch period to buy a crappy single rose for my girlfriend, and then interrupting her English class -- which was, coincidentally, taught by my English teacher, who was not thrilled that I interrupted her class -- to give my girlfriend said rose. Awkward hug, "Ahhs" and snickers emanating from classmates, etc., etc. At the end of the day, a fairly humiliating experience.
Is this pitiful but otherwise pedestrian little story from my adolesence the real reason I hate Valentine's Day? No. That would be just pathetic. So what's the skinny on why I hate Valentine's Day? You want the truth, the honest, unabashed truth? Well, here it is.
Valentine's Day is hogwash.
Valentine's Day is yet another stolen holiday, meant to lure the pagans away from their polytheistic roots and into the monotheistic Christian fold. (See also: Christmas, Halloween). In Roman times the feast of Lupercalia was celebrated on the ides of February (February 15th). It was a lottery where the boys would draw the name of a girl who would be their "sexual companion" for the next year. In an attempt to rescue the newly minted Christians from this temptation away from chastity, the powers that be decided to celebrate St. Valentinus by turning this misogynistic expression of Roman paternalism into a joyous romantic festival where good little Christians could draw the name of a saint whom they would emulate for the next year, and perhaps, if there was enough time between self-flagellation sessions, make admissions of romantic yet purely asexual love towards other good little Christians (of the opposite sex, of course).
What a crock.
The only purpose that Valentine's Day serves now is to help greeting card retailers, florists and jewelers get into the black a little earlier in the fiscal year. It's not even a Catholic feast day anymore, so I won't even dignify the day with the title of "St. Valentine's Day."
I have experienced (and hated) Valentine's Days with and without romantic partners, so this is not sour grapes about being alone. That being said, Valentine's Day is yet another holiday that places coupled persons on a pedestal and makes it seem even less socially acceptable to be single, although, in fairness, most major holidays do that. One could argue that, unlike other major holidays, the entire premise of Valentine's Day rests on this notion of the supremacy of couplehood, but that is not the thesis I wish to extoll.
At the end of the day, my major vexation with Valentine's Day is that it is all shine and no substance. It has no intrinsic value, and extols no higher value than lustfulness. Don't get me wrong -- a little lust can be a good thing, but I don't think we need a national holiday for it.
So, for everyone who is rushing around buying flowers and jewelry, and who will be waiting for inordinate lengths of time to eat at restaurants that would be half-empty on any other Tuesday evening, I can only say, be thankful that you have been blessed with someone to share this day with. Be sure that February 14th is not the only day out of the year that you do something to show that person how much you care.
Because Sweetest Day is coming up on October 21st, and you'll want to be getting those romantic plans taken care of as soon as possible.
Picture adorable little me as a senior in high school. I have my first real girlfriend (if you just fainted, then I heard you hit the ground, and I will find you and smack you across the face.) I'm in a tizzy because, being new to this whole girlfriend thing, I haven't even given the first thought to buying her a Valentine's Day gift. For one thing, Valentine's Day in 1991 was on a Thursday (I didn't remember that; I looked it up) so it should be close enough to the weekend that I get a bye until Friday night, right? Wrong.
Cut to me going out during lunch period to buy a crappy single rose for my girlfriend, and then interrupting her English class -- which was, coincidentally, taught by my English teacher, who was not thrilled that I interrupted her class -- to give my girlfriend said rose. Awkward hug, "Ahhs" and snickers emanating from classmates, etc., etc. At the end of the day, a fairly humiliating experience.
Is this pitiful but otherwise pedestrian little story from my adolesence the real reason I hate Valentine's Day? No. That would be just pathetic. So what's the skinny on why I hate Valentine's Day? You want the truth, the honest, unabashed truth? Well, here it is.
Valentine's Day is hogwash.
Valentine's Day is yet another stolen holiday, meant to lure the pagans away from their polytheistic roots and into the monotheistic Christian fold. (See also: Christmas, Halloween). In Roman times the feast of Lupercalia was celebrated on the ides of February (February 15th). It was a lottery where the boys would draw the name of a girl who would be their "sexual companion" for the next year. In an attempt to rescue the newly minted Christians from this temptation away from chastity, the powers that be decided to celebrate St. Valentinus by turning this misogynistic expression of Roman paternalism into a joyous romantic festival where good little Christians could draw the name of a saint whom they would emulate for the next year, and perhaps, if there was enough time between self-flagellation sessions, make admissions of romantic yet purely asexual love towards other good little Christians (of the opposite sex, of course).
What a crock.
The only purpose that Valentine's Day serves now is to help greeting card retailers, florists and jewelers get into the black a little earlier in the fiscal year. It's not even a Catholic feast day anymore, so I won't even dignify the day with the title of "St. Valentine's Day."
I have experienced (and hated) Valentine's Days with and without romantic partners, so this is not sour grapes about being alone. That being said, Valentine's Day is yet another holiday that places coupled persons on a pedestal and makes it seem even less socially acceptable to be single, although, in fairness, most major holidays do that. One could argue that, unlike other major holidays, the entire premise of Valentine's Day rests on this notion of the supremacy of couplehood, but that is not the thesis I wish to extoll.
At the end of the day, my major vexation with Valentine's Day is that it is all shine and no substance. It has no intrinsic value, and extols no higher value than lustfulness. Don't get me wrong -- a little lust can be a good thing, but I don't think we need a national holiday for it.
So, for everyone who is rushing around buying flowers and jewelry, and who will be waiting for inordinate lengths of time to eat at restaurants that would be half-empty on any other Tuesday evening, I can only say, be thankful that you have been blessed with someone to share this day with. Be sure that February 14th is not the only day out of the year that you do something to show that person how much you care.
Because Sweetest Day is coming up on October 21st, and you'll want to be getting those romantic plans taken care of as soon as possible.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Too Twisted for Color TV
SPOILER WARNING: Avert your eyes if you don't want to know information about last night's episode of Grey's Anatomy!
Thank you, Shonda Rhimes and the writers of Grey's Anatomy for causing me nearly to have a heart attack during last night's episode, As We Know It. This was the second of a pair of episodes that first aired last week, the earlier episode appropriately titled It's the End of the World. If you missed either episode, let me direct you to the recaps on the Television Without Pity website.
First off, I find it amazing how good writing can cause us to suspend our disbelief. That mortar round in the guy's chest? We all knew it was gonna go boom. But did anyone seriously think it would go off while Meredith was touching it? Come on! If she (conservatively) only lost her hand, what do you think that would do to her chances of becoming a surgeon? Lose a hand, lose the show. And of course, since the show is named after her character, I doubt she's gonna get offed any time soon. Burke is too important to the story line, so he's not going anywhere. This left only one possibility, and I saw it coming about 20 minutes into the show.
Kyle Chandler had to die.
It was fate. He may as well have put on a red shirt sporting an ensign's insignia and beamed down to a hostile planet with Captain Kirk, Commander Spock and Dr. McCoy. When I saw him walking out of that OR carrying that live round, I thought, Oh, boy, I hope as a responsible member of the bomb squad you have all of your affairs in order. (I also sort of wondered why they didn't have some sort of containment apparatus a little closer to the site of the bomb extraction. I guess for dramatic purposes one must take the mountain to Mohammed.)
I cried so much during last night's episode I don't even remember when I started blubbering. When George confronted Dr. Bailey, nearly shaming her into giving birth to that baby, and then climbed up onto her bed to help her with the birth? Tears. When Meredith was looking at Kyle Chandler and thinking of McDreamy? Tears. When Kyle Chandler became "pink mist"? I got up to get a sandwich and a beer. WHAT, ARE YOU CRAZY?? TEARS LIKE CRAZY, MAN, TEARS LIKE CRAZY!
I missed the previous episode because I was at a dinner party with some friends, and heard about it second-hand from co-workers. I therefore read the recap on Television Without Pity as I was watching last night's episode, and I'm glad I did. I think I would have otherwise missed the significance of the Dr. Burke/Dr. Shepherd exchanges. I can't wait to see the re-broadcast of this episode this summer.
If you're not watching Grey's Anatomy, shame on you. Fortunately, I think there's only 10 people in this country who aren't (It's the End of the World was fourth in the Nielsen ratings). This is the best written show on TV since -- wait for it, wait for it -- Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Oh that's right. I went there.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
A Reminder
There comes a point in all of our lives when we realize that we are mortal, that we are susceptible to the arrow of death and are limited by the fragile nature of our imperfect human bodies. It's a rite of passage, really.
That moment came for me when I was 28-years-old, in early 2002. A pain in my right leg that made my sleep progressively more uncomfortable gave way to such an extreme claudication that I could no longer go to work. In the ensuing nine months I would submit to three epidural steroid injections, weeks of often painful physical therapy and two discectomies. I became one of the millions of individuals in this country who succumb to radiculopathy secondary to lumbar disc herniation. In layman's terms, I had a slipped disc; two, really.
Other than a few isolated incidents, I had led a relatively pain-free life prior to my back surgeries. In 2002 pain became a daily part of my life. It was always with me, like a shadow in daylight. I could sit down to partially alleviate the symptoms of my underlying orthopedic pathology, but even that was uncomfortable. Sleeping in a supine position was practically impossible; walking was torturous.
Since my surgeries I've recovered a lot of my mobility, although I doubt I will ever return to my pre-2002 self. I must always be vigilant against re-injuring my back. I no longer move my own furniture, I limit the amount of time I spend in any one position and I avoid activities that require me to keep my back bent for prolonged periods of time.
On Wednesday I noticed that my back was bothering me as I got ready for work. I laid down for a while, actually falling back asleep (something I rarely do). When I awoke, I found it difficult to get up. I spent all day in bed. The next morning my situation had little changed. By the evening, I could get up and down from the chair in my living room with some difficulty. I was better the next day, but walking and standing were still difficult and painful. Several mega-doses of naproxen later, I have greater mobility and was able to go to church today. I will go to work tomorrow, and hopefully will be able to stay the entire day.
These episodes of debilitating back pain are rare, thankfully, but they serve as a reminder that I am a fragile human being, despite my tall and powerful-looking frame. They are reminders I could -- and would much prefer to -- do without. Wishing away my infirmities is a fool's errand. Instead I am learning to live with pain, the actuality of pain and the constant threat of pain. Unfortunately, no one can live like this without changing, and I know that living under the constant threat of pain has fundamentally changed me.
That moment came for me when I was 28-years-old, in early 2002. A pain in my right leg that made my sleep progressively more uncomfortable gave way to such an extreme claudication that I could no longer go to work. In the ensuing nine months I would submit to three epidural steroid injections, weeks of often painful physical therapy and two discectomies. I became one of the millions of individuals in this country who succumb to radiculopathy secondary to lumbar disc herniation. In layman's terms, I had a slipped disc; two, really.
Other than a few isolated incidents, I had led a relatively pain-free life prior to my back surgeries. In 2002 pain became a daily part of my life. It was always with me, like a shadow in daylight. I could sit down to partially alleviate the symptoms of my underlying orthopedic pathology, but even that was uncomfortable. Sleeping in a supine position was practically impossible; walking was torturous.
Since my surgeries I've recovered a lot of my mobility, although I doubt I will ever return to my pre-2002 self. I must always be vigilant against re-injuring my back. I no longer move my own furniture, I limit the amount of time I spend in any one position and I avoid activities that require me to keep my back bent for prolonged periods of time.
On Wednesday I noticed that my back was bothering me as I got ready for work. I laid down for a while, actually falling back asleep (something I rarely do). When I awoke, I found it difficult to get up. I spent all day in bed. The next morning my situation had little changed. By the evening, I could get up and down from the chair in my living room with some difficulty. I was better the next day, but walking and standing were still difficult and painful. Several mega-doses of naproxen later, I have greater mobility and was able to go to church today. I will go to work tomorrow, and hopefully will be able to stay the entire day.
These episodes of debilitating back pain are rare, thankfully, but they serve as a reminder that I am a fragile human being, despite my tall and powerful-looking frame. They are reminders I could -- and would much prefer to -- do without. Wishing away my infirmities is a fool's errand. Instead I am learning to live with pain, the actuality of pain and the constant threat of pain. Unfortunately, no one can live like this without changing, and I know that living under the constant threat of pain has fundamentally changed me.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
What can one person do?
I was walking from my lab to a dinner and presentation at Brent House, the Episcopal center on the U of C campus. As I strolled through campus I was overwhelmed with a multitude of thoughts, mostly about me and my life. I felt completely disconnected from the world around me. In all honesty, I've felt rather disconnected for a couple of weeks now, this being one reason for the relative paucity of new posts. But tonight it was particularly acute.
The presentation was by the Rev'd. Michael Kinman, the director of an organization called Episcopalians for Global Reconciliation. Their main interest is in alleviating global poverty, and they are very interested in the fulfillment of the Millenium Development Goals. The facts that the Rev'd. Kinman presented were astounding. For instance, for $10 billion we could provide education to every child on the planet. That's half of the amount this nation spent on ice cream last year.
Let me say that again. We could educate every child on earth for half our nation's ice cream budget.
It's really astounding how little it would take to bring people out of poverty. It's even more astounding how unwilling society is to make even the smallest sacrifices to make the dream of alleviating poverty a reality.
Please visit the website for the Millenium Development Goals to see what you can do. Contact your elected representatives and ask them to support the United States' commitment to the Millenium Development Goals. If you want to give money, consider giving 0.7% of your income to Episcopal Relief and Development. For every dollar you give ERD more than 90 cents goes to the beneficiaries. Most importantly, learn about the problem of global poverty. It's a huge problem that's easy to shrug off, but everyone has the power to do something.
The presentation was by the Rev'd. Michael Kinman, the director of an organization called Episcopalians for Global Reconciliation. Their main interest is in alleviating global poverty, and they are very interested in the fulfillment of the Millenium Development Goals. The facts that the Rev'd. Kinman presented were astounding. For instance, for $10 billion we could provide education to every child on the planet. That's half of the amount this nation spent on ice cream last year.
Let me say that again. We could educate every child on earth for half our nation's ice cream budget.
It's really astounding how little it would take to bring people out of poverty. It's even more astounding how unwilling society is to make even the smallest sacrifices to make the dream of alleviating poverty a reality.
Please visit the website for the Millenium Development Goals to see what you can do. Contact your elected representatives and ask them to support the United States' commitment to the Millenium Development Goals. If you want to give money, consider giving 0.7% of your income to Episcopal Relief and Development. For every dollar you give ERD more than 90 cents goes to the beneficiaries. Most importantly, learn about the problem of global poverty. It's a huge problem that's easy to shrug off, but everyone has the power to do something.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Science Sux
After 6 weeks, I finally got a decent DIG-labeled riboprobe yield. Hallelujah!
The quote from my lab notebook page is, "I have soundly pummeled the bitch goddess Science today. . ."
The secret? Keep your reagents at room temperature. Here's the math:
Spermidine + DNA + cold = precipitated DNA = lousy riboprobe = upset postdoc
The quote from my lab notebook page is, "I have soundly pummeled the bitch goddess Science today. . ."
The secret? Keep your reagents at room temperature. Here's the math:
Spermidine + DNA + cold = precipitated DNA = lousy riboprobe = upset postdoc
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