Here's the thing. As a professional singer who does not measure "up" to our broken culture's ideas of beauty, I've gotten this reaction myself.
"Oh my gosh, you sing so well!', uttered in shocked amazement. Several years ago, I actually had a woman stand in front of me after a concert and repeat, open-mouthed, "I can't believe that voice comes out of you!" She then went, brought back a friend, and they both stood and looked at me for a good long while.
What simplistic belief system allows these people, and the judges on the British Idol show to imagine that only those with culturally sanctioned faces can sing? Are they so lacking in imagination as to not be able to untie that particular pairing: Sings well, looks gorgeous?
And then there's the pity/inspiration aspect. Ugh. While Susan Boyle may be sheltered and innocent enough to find such a response gratifying, I find it incredibly patronizing.
It's the same old magical negro, magical pixie-girl syndrome that infects a culture which cannot seem to accept as equal anyone who is even slightly different. The different are either subjects of ridicule and debasement, or mystic beings who are only around to serve as inspiration for "normal" folks.
Get a grip. We are not here to make you cry, or feel that "God" works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. "Inspirational" is an easy box in which to shove those folks that make us uncomfortable with their inability or unwillingness to conform.
Labeling someone as "Inspirational" conveniently removes sexuality from that person, keeping them in the much more palatable "special" role of other. I understand that one of the British Idol judges is going to go on a romantic "date" with never-been-kissed Susan Boyle. What a gift to her his presence will be! If she's lucky, she'll discover that he's a vacuous empty suit and she'll go home to her cat realizing that she's truly talented and not just another pretty face.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Fable of the Foolish Leader
Once there was a foolish ruler. He was not wise and, because he had become ruler not through his strengths and wisdom but by the underhanded dealings and political machinations of his cronies, he was uncertain and uncomfortable in leadership. He wanted to feel certain and comfortable.
One night he had a prophetic dream. In this dream, he learned that a man named Hussein would be his undoing. He learned that the coming of this man would mean the foolish leader's grip on power would loosen and that he would tumble into much deserved obscurity. The foolish ruler woke from his dream in high spirits, he knew exactly who this man, Hussein was! In fact, Hussein had already moved against his family and the foolish leader was all too ready to retaliate against his enemy. But how? This was a difficult problem since even the foolish leader knew that he could not simply eliminate Hussein without some sort attempt at justification.
Then a great and terrible thing occurred, the country was attacked. The attack was so unexpected and vicious that the entire country felt enormous fear. Although the foolish leader did not see it at once, when his most trusted advisor explained it to him, he saw that this was an ideal opportunity. It was not a great stretch to connect this awful attack to the man Hussein! Here was exactly the justification he needed and the great fear of the citizens opened them to any explanation that quelled their terror and gave them some way to act.
The foolish leader made war. He sent bombs, tanks, and many young people to Hussein's country. They killed thousands and wounded many more others. The deaths and the injuries to the body and mind of the citizens, and to the soldiers on both sides were catastrophic and brutal.
Then, to the foolish leader's great joy, Hussein was found, hiding and cowering. He was captured and killed. The foolish leader smiled at his trusted advisors, and they smiled back at him. It had been accomplished.
He had waged war, he had drained his coffers of money, he had caused his country's name to lose respect in the wide world, the urgent and complex problems that he'd ignored in order to focus on the death of Hussein had grown in scope and danger, and the loss of several thousand lives somewhat dimmed his accomplishment. But he had killed Hussein!
Then one day, with his country deep in debt, and the war, which he had predicted would take little more than a month, raging into it's 8th year, the foolish leader heard something that caused his blood to chill and his poor brain to whirl in confusion. It was the name, Hussein.
Now the foolish leader, because he read little, and listened even less to the voices of the wide world outside his country, had not understood that the name Hussein is a common and revered one in many lands. He did not understand that it is as common, and held by as many different worthy and unworthy people as the name George, for instance. And here it was again.
A name borne by a young man from his own country no less! And it seemed that this young man might become the new ruler. The foolish leader was anxious. He was ready to give up leadership, he'd never particularly enjoyed it, the decisions were never as simple as he liked.
Yet he had hoped to retire with the gratitude and blessings of his grateful people. He looked for his most trusted advisor and finding him only after a long search, asked for his counsel. His advisor turned to him with a cold smile and said, “Fortunes have turned sir, I assume that you have prepared for this day, and that you are as insulated against the coming cold as I am. If you are, we will meet again in a secure place.” And then the advisor vanished through an unseen door. He had always been rather secretive.
The foolish ruler walked away sadly to pack. And later, as he watched the young man named Hussein trumpeted into office by an adoring people, and as he flew over his capitol for the last time, he puzzled.
Where had his trusted advisor gone? Who was the real Hussein? What had happened to the pet goat?
One night he had a prophetic dream. In this dream, he learned that a man named Hussein would be his undoing. He learned that the coming of this man would mean the foolish leader's grip on power would loosen and that he would tumble into much deserved obscurity. The foolish ruler woke from his dream in high spirits, he knew exactly who this man, Hussein was! In fact, Hussein had already moved against his family and the foolish leader was all too ready to retaliate against his enemy. But how? This was a difficult problem since even the foolish leader knew that he could not simply eliminate Hussein without some sort attempt at justification.
Then a great and terrible thing occurred, the country was attacked. The attack was so unexpected and vicious that the entire country felt enormous fear. Although the foolish leader did not see it at once, when his most trusted advisor explained it to him, he saw that this was an ideal opportunity. It was not a great stretch to connect this awful attack to the man Hussein! Here was exactly the justification he needed and the great fear of the citizens opened them to any explanation that quelled their terror and gave them some way to act.
The foolish leader made war. He sent bombs, tanks, and many young people to Hussein's country. They killed thousands and wounded many more others. The deaths and the injuries to the body and mind of the citizens, and to the soldiers on both sides were catastrophic and brutal.
Then, to the foolish leader's great joy, Hussein was found, hiding and cowering. He was captured and killed. The foolish leader smiled at his trusted advisors, and they smiled back at him. It had been accomplished.
He had waged war, he had drained his coffers of money, he had caused his country's name to lose respect in the wide world, the urgent and complex problems that he'd ignored in order to focus on the death of Hussein had grown in scope and danger, and the loss of several thousand lives somewhat dimmed his accomplishment. But he had killed Hussein!
Then one day, with his country deep in debt, and the war, which he had predicted would take little more than a month, raging into it's 8th year, the foolish leader heard something that caused his blood to chill and his poor brain to whirl in confusion. It was the name, Hussein.
Now the foolish leader, because he read little, and listened even less to the voices of the wide world outside his country, had not understood that the name Hussein is a common and revered one in many lands. He did not understand that it is as common, and held by as many different worthy and unworthy people as the name George, for instance. And here it was again.
A name borne by a young man from his own country no less! And it seemed that this young man might become the new ruler. The foolish leader was anxious. He was ready to give up leadership, he'd never particularly enjoyed it, the decisions were never as simple as he liked.
Yet he had hoped to retire with the gratitude and blessings of his grateful people. He looked for his most trusted advisor and finding him only after a long search, asked for his counsel. His advisor turned to him with a cold smile and said, “Fortunes have turned sir, I assume that you have prepared for this day, and that you are as insulated against the coming cold as I am. If you are, we will meet again in a secure place.” And then the advisor vanished through an unseen door. He had always been rather secretive.
The foolish ruler walked away sadly to pack. And later, as he watched the young man named Hussein trumpeted into office by an adoring people, and as he flew over his capitol for the last time, he puzzled.
Where had his trusted advisor gone? Who was the real Hussein? What had happened to the pet goat?
Monday, October 6, 2008
'Bout time
The Catholic pope is going to start reading the Bible! I think this is a great idea. That particular book needs a rereading with, one hopes, a more critical eye than has previously been employed by the Catholic church.
Perhaps the pope will latch onto one of the lead characters in the second half of the book, a guy named Jesus who unfortunately dies young. He seems to have some radical ideas about love and acceptance of the "other" which the Catholic church might find a refreshing change.
After reading the Bible, perhaps the pope could move onto the Gnostic gospels. Then, if he wants to dig a tad deeper, he could look at the historical remnants of the many pre-Christian religions from which, to speak delicately, the Christian church "borrowed" their major symbols and rites. If he has any energy or time after these endeavors, he could take a look at some basic texts dealing with conception, the rights of women, the rights of the oppressed to liberate themselves, and many other eye-opening topics.
I wish the Catholic pope luck. I'm hopeful that, given the proper attention, his studies will lead him to walk out on the balcony above St.Peter's square and announce that he's dismantling the Vatican, selling off the art, and taking the money to South America where he will dedicate his life to teaching the poor about birth control.
Perhaps the pope will latch onto one of the lead characters in the second half of the book, a guy named Jesus who unfortunately dies young. He seems to have some radical ideas about love and acceptance of the "other" which the Catholic church might find a refreshing change.
After reading the Bible, perhaps the pope could move onto the Gnostic gospels. Then, if he wants to dig a tad deeper, he could look at the historical remnants of the many pre-Christian religions from which, to speak delicately, the Christian church "borrowed" their major symbols and rites. If he has any energy or time after these endeavors, he could take a look at some basic texts dealing with conception, the rights of women, the rights of the oppressed to liberate themselves, and many other eye-opening topics.
I wish the Catholic pope luck. I'm hopeful that, given the proper attention, his studies will lead him to walk out on the balcony above St.Peter's square and announce that he's dismantling the Vatican, selling off the art, and taking the money to South America where he will dedicate his life to teaching the poor about birth control.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Atheistic Gratitude
I bought a lovely 1974 Raleigh 3 speed bicycle a few days ago, from what women my age might call “a nice young man”. And he was nice. He was a bit anxious about my belief that anything I buy can be tied onto the roof of my Prius and successfully driven home, which it was. I don't know why I'm so happy with this old bicycle. Maybe because, after all the years of racing handlebars and scrunching over in the saddle, becoming numb in the nether regions, I'm back to sitting upright as I did on the big clunky bicycles of my childhood. I bought a basket, I bought a helmet. I toodle around the neighborhood to the library, the hardware store, the grocery, to visit neighbors. It's wonderful.
And when I peddled home this evening, in the golden light, gliding in and out of the long shadows and then to my own little house, I felt such gratitude. My garden is a riot of color, the orange rudbeckias clashing with some sort of blue-purple star-like flower that opens from an origami box shape, Queen Anne's lace, and another frondy pink cotton candy thing, and all the nodding heads of the hosta flowers.
I've done nothing to deserve such abundance.
The one thing I miss about being an atheist is where to send my gratitude . I know there is no being, no intelligence to thank. It's all a beautiful accident that placed me here, and it may well be that I will be gone tomorrow, or in sadly different circumstances . But oh, this evening. Visiting friends, bicycling through the cooling breeze, I feel such immediate, profound contentment.
Perhaps the duty of the atheist is to find creative ways to spread this feeling. To go the further step than a simple “thanks” to some imaginary being. I need to spread my sense happiness, how ever long it lasts.
So, it's a challenge I arrive at. A challenge to help some more. To think of those who can't cycle, can't feel the breeze, are not healthy or fed enough to cycle contentedly home. Do not have a home to cycle to.
It feels like a challenge to grow. Must be right.
And when I peddled home this evening, in the golden light, gliding in and out of the long shadows and then to my own little house, I felt such gratitude. My garden is a riot of color, the orange rudbeckias clashing with some sort of blue-purple star-like flower that opens from an origami box shape, Queen Anne's lace, and another frondy pink cotton candy thing, and all the nodding heads of the hosta flowers.
I've done nothing to deserve such abundance.
The one thing I miss about being an atheist is where to send my gratitude . I know there is no being, no intelligence to thank. It's all a beautiful accident that placed me here, and it may well be that I will be gone tomorrow, or in sadly different circumstances . But oh, this evening. Visiting friends, bicycling through the cooling breeze, I feel such immediate, profound contentment.
Perhaps the duty of the atheist is to find creative ways to spread this feeling. To go the further step than a simple “thanks” to some imaginary being. I need to spread my sense happiness, how ever long it lasts.
So, it's a challenge I arrive at. A challenge to help some more. To think of those who can't cycle, can't feel the breeze, are not healthy or fed enough to cycle contentedly home. Do not have a home to cycle to.
It feels like a challenge to grow. Must be right.
Monday, June 23, 2008
George Carlin
Can't wish wonderful Mr Carlin anything, 'cause he's dead. I can just say, watch his stuff on Youtube and laugh for awhile, and think, and laugh some more. He was a brilliant, funny man.
I was having a martini with some friends and one of them told another that I was an atheist. I guess it's like bragging that you have an exotic pet or a rare disease to have a friend who's an atheist. Anyway this newly notified person said in complete sincerity,
"Aren't you afraid of hell when you die?" And I said,
"Okay, you just heard that I'm an atheist and you don't ask me if I feel bereft of God's love, or forgiven of sin, or lonely without God's presence. You ask me if I'm not afraid when I die. What does that say about your belief if the first thing you think of is fear of retribution? And no, I'm not afraid of when I die. I'll be dead, it will be over, that's it."
To be honest, this Catholic friend admitted that it was interesting that her first thought was about hell. We seem to be at the point with atheism where African Americanism was 20 years ago, and where being gay was 5 years ago; you can be an atheist as long as you're clean, polite, and shut-up about it until a believer kindly brings it up. Then wan smiles all around, a timid question or two, and it's back to "normality"
I was having a martini with some friends and one of them told another that I was an atheist. I guess it's like bragging that you have an exotic pet or a rare disease to have a friend who's an atheist. Anyway this newly notified person said in complete sincerity,
"Aren't you afraid of hell when you die?" And I said,
"Okay, you just heard that I'm an atheist and you don't ask me if I feel bereft of God's love, or forgiven of sin, or lonely without God's presence. You ask me if I'm not afraid when I die. What does that say about your belief if the first thing you think of is fear of retribution? And no, I'm not afraid of when I die. I'll be dead, it will be over, that's it."
To be honest, this Catholic friend admitted that it was interesting that her first thought was about hell. We seem to be at the point with atheism where African Americanism was 20 years ago, and where being gay was 5 years ago; you can be an atheist as long as you're clean, polite, and shut-up about it until a believer kindly brings it up. Then wan smiles all around, a timid question or two, and it's back to "normality"
Thursday, May 22, 2008
TM
In 1976, having saved $250, I waffled between going to England and learning Transcendental Meditation. I chose the latter. Good thing, since even back then, $200 wouldn't have gotten me back from England after I'd found out that the Royal Shakespeare Company didn't need my Desdemona. And back then, TM cost a marigold, an orange, a clean white handkerchief, and $250. Cool.
I arrived on the appointed morning to join 10 other very crunchy granola folks at the ground floor of a rundown triple-decker house in the college housing part of town. We gave the large smiling photo of Guru Maharishi Mahesh Yogi our oranges and marigolds, I can't remember what happened to the handkerchiefs. Our group had two teachers, one of whom I honestly never saw fully awake during the 3 days of training. This made me a little worried that TM might at as a permanent soporific.
The training was exceptionally easy, even boring. We were each given mantras by the more alert trainer. We were told that our mantras were assigned for our very specific needs, though it was a mystery as to how those needs were determined, since I literally walked into a separate room, sat down, had a mantra whispered into my ear, and left. I've since learned that mantras are assigned by the age of the trainer and the gender of the recipient (huh?). We were also told never to divulge our mantra, that it would not "work" if we shared it around. I kept mine secret for many years, then told my then husband, and my 2 children. It still works fine.
You're supposed to meditate twice a day. I tried that and really felt a sort of door mat passivity come over me. I became mellow to a dangerous degree. I've since met other twice-a-day practitioners who seem like they need a good dope slap, or maybe judicious application of a bull horn beside the ear. Wake-up! No, once a day suits me fine.
I never bought the mystical side of TM. I view my meditation as a daily mechanical brain floss. Cleans me out, settles me down, tunes me up. It can make up for one night of poor sleep, but could not make any real headway against the sleep-deprived insanity of new motherhood. It is really great for passing exactly 20 minutes of time waiting for a root canal or other minor, slightly frightening medical procedure. Yes, 20 minutes. And after all these years, I don't need a timer, I just open my eyes when I feel "done" and am usually within 1 or 2 minutes of the allotted time.
A year or two ago, I thought it would be nice to give each of my two high achieving children TM lessons to help them manage stress. Turns out the lessons are about 10 times more expensive than when I bought mine. Oh well. I heard that the yogi died a billionaire. That's okay with me; if all the folks who've learned TM have benefitted as I have, then I'm fine with the guy who "invented" or just marketed the technique getting rich. Still, it would be nice if students and those less financially able could also enjoy a reliable relaxation technique that doesn't involve drugs, machines, or putting up with mornings after.
I arrived on the appointed morning to join 10 other very crunchy granola folks at the ground floor of a rundown triple-decker house in the college housing part of town. We gave the large smiling photo of Guru Maharishi Mahesh Yogi our oranges and marigolds, I can't remember what happened to the handkerchiefs. Our group had two teachers, one of whom I honestly never saw fully awake during the 3 days of training. This made me a little worried that TM might at as a permanent soporific.
The training was exceptionally easy, even boring. We were each given mantras by the more alert trainer. We were told that our mantras were assigned for our very specific needs, though it was a mystery as to how those needs were determined, since I literally walked into a separate room, sat down, had a mantra whispered into my ear, and left. I've since learned that mantras are assigned by the age of the trainer and the gender of the recipient (huh?). We were also told never to divulge our mantra, that it would not "work" if we shared it around. I kept mine secret for many years, then told my then husband, and my 2 children. It still works fine.
You're supposed to meditate twice a day. I tried that and really felt a sort of door mat passivity come over me. I became mellow to a dangerous degree. I've since met other twice-a-day practitioners who seem like they need a good dope slap, or maybe judicious application of a bull horn beside the ear. Wake-up! No, once a day suits me fine.
I never bought the mystical side of TM. I view my meditation as a daily mechanical brain floss. Cleans me out, settles me down, tunes me up. It can make up for one night of poor sleep, but could not make any real headway against the sleep-deprived insanity of new motherhood. It is really great for passing exactly 20 minutes of time waiting for a root canal or other minor, slightly frightening medical procedure. Yes, 20 minutes. And after all these years, I don't need a timer, I just open my eyes when I feel "done" and am usually within 1 or 2 minutes of the allotted time.
A year or two ago, I thought it would be nice to give each of my two high achieving children TM lessons to help them manage stress. Turns out the lessons are about 10 times more expensive than when I bought mine. Oh well. I heard that the yogi died a billionaire. That's okay with me; if all the folks who've learned TM have benefitted as I have, then I'm fine with the guy who "invented" or just marketed the technique getting rich. Still, it would be nice if students and those less financially able could also enjoy a reliable relaxation technique that doesn't involve drugs, machines, or putting up with mornings after.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
"Mystery" loves company?
The mystery plays of the middle ages were yet another way to spread the good news. And the church powers that be, or were, were happier to think of the peasants watching tableaux of Bible stories rather than stories about the lusty maiden and the cowherd. Then and now, the church and it's adherents just can't seem to leave a nature-loving, going-about-their-business person alone. "Must Push Christ, Must Push Christ!"
I have good Christian friends, who know I'm an atheist, who even like me, I think, but who insist on using every happy coincidence, every serendipitous sign, as a wink and a nudge from the man upstairs. Why? I do not speak of atheism unless I am in a discussion where the subject is apt. It is not part of my daily discourse. Yet, when I'm with certain good friends, they "lovingly" remind me of "his" guiding hand. Even some of my wiccan and pagan friends like to point out that the universe is bestowing natural blessings on our every plan. Why?
I was a believer, now I am not. I understand the urge for support and solace, for validation, I just don't need it. If you need to, go for it. Rationalize your every whim. Imagine that the big guy, or Gaia, or the force, or the universe is gazing benignly on little you and your brief wink of a life. I would rather not.
But while you are pointing out to me how God planned for me to call you, just as you were thinking of me, please ask yourself why you need me to believe. Surely, if he/she/ it exists, it can take care of my non-belief itself. And if you are an appointed agent of this uber-life, trust me, you are going about my conversion in entirely the wrong way. Let me admire your silent confidence in your god. Let me be moved to ask you about the amazing coincidences which support your life. Believe me, should anything strike me as miraculous, or even out of the ordinary, I won't be afraid to ask. And, anytime you want to know about the lovely, happy-to-be-in-this-moment, integrated life of atheism, feel free to ask.
I have good Christian friends, who know I'm an atheist, who even like me, I think, but who insist on using every happy coincidence, every serendipitous sign, as a wink and a nudge from the man upstairs. Why? I do not speak of atheism unless I am in a discussion where the subject is apt. It is not part of my daily discourse. Yet, when I'm with certain good friends, they "lovingly" remind me of "his" guiding hand. Even some of my wiccan and pagan friends like to point out that the universe is bestowing natural blessings on our every plan. Why?
I was a believer, now I am not. I understand the urge for support and solace, for validation, I just don't need it. If you need to, go for it. Rationalize your every whim. Imagine that the big guy, or Gaia, or the force, or the universe is gazing benignly on little you and your brief wink of a life. I would rather not.
But while you are pointing out to me how God planned for me to call you, just as you were thinking of me, please ask yourself why you need me to believe. Surely, if he/she/ it exists, it can take care of my non-belief itself. And if you are an appointed agent of this uber-life, trust me, you are going about my conversion in entirely the wrong way. Let me admire your silent confidence in your god. Let me be moved to ask you about the amazing coincidences which support your life. Believe me, should anything strike me as miraculous, or even out of the ordinary, I won't be afraid to ask. And, anytime you want to know about the lovely, happy-to-be-in-this-moment, integrated life of atheism, feel free to ask.
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