Ambiguity and the Writing Process

Ambiguity has been my arch nemesis throughout my life.  Since the earliest phases of elementary school, I have consciously avoided the ambiguous.  Give me 100 pages to read, but please don't ask me to clean my room.  I know when a book is finished, but when, exactly is a room "clean?"  And now, I find adulthood is a series of ambiguities.  And worse, yet, that my job is to confront the ultimate embodiment of ambiguity--the blank page.  To date, I the implicit task in my mind was figuring out what is supposed to be on a blank page and trying to write that.  Consequently, I wrote from an insecure place, and it manifested in my writing.  Now, I am transitioning from asking "what is supposed to be on a page" to simply delving into myself and representing whatever thoughts I have on the topic.  And that is a far superior project because what is in my head, in my mind, in my spirit, is not ambiguous.  It is sharp, clear, and valuable...And I know when it is finished...  :)

What if the Senate Represented People by Race, Income, and/or Gender?

This is a great article by Annie Lowry, in which she speculates about a new way to organize the Senate.  She points out that having senators represent states creates strange incentives for senators to shape laws that are clearly discordant with national interests.  In contrast, she considers a Senate in which people are represented by race, income, and/or gender.  The legislative benefits are obvious.

Speaking for myself, the Senate alone is enough to call into question our national commitment to democracy.  The Senate has no democratic purpose.  It represents lines on a map, not people.  Democracies are about representing people, not square miles.  Consider that 50% of the U.S. population lives in 10 states who have 20 senators.  The other half of the population lives in 40 states with 80 senators.  The fact that the Senate completely violates basic tenets of democracy--e.g. one person, one vote--is obvious.  That the Senate has historically slowed legislation to produce a more equitable society (e.g. civil rights acts in the 1930s), further supports my assertion that it is more than a non-democratic body; it is anti-democratic.  (See also Kevin Drum's post, demonstrating that the more money people have, the more Senators support their legislative interests.  Not only so, but the more poor people want something, the more likely the Senate is to act against their interests.)

Blessed Circle (cont....Finally)

Hi, everyone.  Two posts (and two months!) ago, I wrote about the blessed circle I was fortunate enough to be a part of with some wonderful activist friends here in Texas.   At that time I promised reflections on my own experience.  I had planned a longer, blow-by-blow narrative, but as is so often the case, responsibilities and indecision force me to boil it down to the bare (and more readable) core.  So here goes...

For some unknown reason--force of personality, ignorance, biography, delirium, gifting--I generally find myself in the more spiritually knowledgable and aware portion of a social group.  Considering the circle began with a brief (if rambling) discussion of some of my academic work which led to one person reflecting on his own spiritual history, I felt pretty sure of myself as a knowledgable participant.  The traditional patriarchal man in me still feels a sort of confidence, leadership opportunity and responsibility even, arising from the sort of social space in which I am well grounded.  It's a tacit thing, but it informs my sense of self and interactions in those kinds of settings.  I believe masculinity produces this kind of confidence, which generates blinded domination, in nearly every western man in nearly every social setting.

Returning to the point, it didn't take long for the group to disabuse me of my masculine confusion.  Early in the conversation, one of the Afro Caribbean women asked what happens to people when they die (this is an oversimplification of her question).  The question catapulted us into the conversation which was the backdrop for our connection and experience.  What got me was that the range of answers people had corresponded to a range of experiences and knowledge bases far greater than any I have ever experienced.  Most circles with southern people of color will be dominated by traditional protestant Christian frameworks, maybe a little agnostic skepticism thrown in.  In this group, traditions ranged from protestant Christianity to indigenous traditions and creole religious traditions across centuries and continents.  I am not knowledgable enough to trace each tradition and idea back to its roots, but the presence and power of strong and well-developed spiritual roots undergirding every statement was palpable to me.  No statement could be dismissed as mere speculation or musing.  Everyone's comments were born of old knowledges whose legitimacy and worth are well beyond question.

Not only did everyone's comments come out of long traditions, acknowledged or not, but each contribution was generally linked to a person's experiential story.  The stories mixed clear spiritual perception with empirical evidence, grounding seemingly unique events in our universal experiences.  In a few stories, multiple members of the group had experienced the same events, sometimes in different locations.  Normally, the triangulation of "sources" would add credibility, but every story was so powerful and connected so clearly to universal experience that veracity was a given.

For me, the entire experience was wonderful, in large part because I--and my particular knowledge/experience base--became so small.  I felt like a child, a spiritual child, in the presence of these great spiritual teachers and practitioners.  I was learning, though there was no atmosphere of conversion or compulsion, as my Christian training usually generates.  We were simply sharing and tapping into truths that govern and organize our lives, but usually remain beyond view and discussion.  The women of the group were the clear leaders.  The depth of experiences and power of the circle owe much to the fact that women collectively drove the experience.  We men were happy and frequent participants, but the character and development of the circle were womanist.  I have never had a womanist experience like that before.  It's something I will seek like the holy grail from this point forward.

Being a spiritual child felt so natural and comfortable.  At the time, I accurately said it felt like I was a boy who had been forced to be "the man of the house" for a long time, and finally got to just be a boy again.  The release was beyond words.  It was Atlas putting down Earth.  Even more, taking up my actual role as novice was so enjoyable because it finally felt like I was living in truth.  That's not to say that I am lying when I work out of the strengths of my own place in my own Christian tradition--I know what I'm talking about, technically and experientially.  But being the ultimate Christian, in terms of knowledge, behavior, and Christian maturation, only takes a person so far.  To use Christian parlance, Paul said that in this life, we see partially as through a dark glass.  John tells us that the great majority of the things Jesus said and did are excluded from the gospels.  There is no way to know it all, even if we master our tradition.  Orthodoxy says we'll get a complete picture in the next life.  I believe we can gain a fuller, if still partial, picture in this life by listening to and benefiting from other traditions in addition to mastering our own.  Non-Christians are competent people, too.  Their spiritual lives, beliefs, and experiences reflect God's interaction in their lives and tell us something about God, God's self.  Those outside our religious tradition are not delirious; they are seers, like us.  If we respect that, we will grow.  I enjoyed the Blessed Circle because it exposed this truth to me and put me in my accurate place.

Thurgood Marshall Tribute

I know I promised a personal reflection on the Blessed Circle, but let me interrupt that flow with this link to a brilliant tribute to Justice Thurgood Marshall, perhaps the only Supreme Court jurist truly worthy of the title, "Justice."

The article is by Stephanie Jones of the Washington Post.  If this article reflects her quotidian work, she has made herself a fan in me.  See the article here.

A Blessed Circle, A Blessed Evening (Part I)

Yesterday was my friend, Rose Pulliam's birthday.  [Happy Birthday, again, Rose!]  If you don't know Rose, she is a beautiful woman, in every sense imaginable.  Hers is a gathering and nurturing soul; the kind that keeps communities together.  She totally dispels the notion that activists, of which she is one of the finest, only throw bricks and don't build anything.  Rose can throw a brick, but through her stories, comedy, outreach, and just force of personality, she constantly edifies individuals and communities in the deepest, most profound and elemental ways.  

So, we gathered to celebrate her birthday.  Overtime, as the crowd ebbed and flowed, about of dozen of us--all queer people of color, mostly activists, many with Bible-based religious backgrounds of various denominations--formed a large circle and began to talk about religion and faith.  In the circle were 4 men and 8 or so women, people in their 20s through 50s, including African Americans, Latin@s, and women from the Caribbean.  We covered a lot of ground as the conversation flowed from an academic look at religion and politics to how religion played in people's coming out stories and a host of other angles.  Eventually, one of the sisters in the group asked the pivotal question that launched us into the meat of the night.  She asked, "what happens to the soul when we die?  Where does the soul go?"   

I cannot do justice to the following events, nor can I completely recount every word (or even highlight) of the blessed conversation that followed.  There was too much wisdom in the group to even imagine capturing it in words.  We simply vibed together.  As the Bible says, "deep calls to deep," and that's where and how we met each other.  The energy in the space was so holy (for lack of a less loaded word), built on the trust and safety we recognized and built in each other.  And it was as much recognized as created.  The secret price of entry to the circle, demanded by the Spirit that brought us, was years of deep and intense personal reflection on who we are in the world and how our religious histories had both revealed and hidden aspects of the spiritual realities we are called to share.  It was the evidence of that pursuit of truth beyond dogma--an uncommon spiritual maturation--that we silently recognized in one another.  Everyone brought some truly spiritual gift to the collective, and we recognized that gifting in each other as well.  Upon those spiritual recognitions and connections, we experienced our circle.  

Like I said, there was far too much wisdom in the circle for me to recount it here.  Truthfully, so much happened beyond the aural that even a perfect transcription of the night would give but a fraction of the experience.  So let me touch on just a few things to give a sense of the conversation.  In the next post, I want to talk about my experience in the circle.  

So, the pivotal question was, "Where does the soul go when we die?" People offered a range of answers, generally speaking of our souls and essences as collections of energy that may or may not (or may also) remain as a self-identified unit after bodily death (as opposed to breaking up into fragments, given away in life and/or recycled in death back in to the whole).  We related stories of speaking to people who had passed, whether directly or through mediums.  [[I'll note here that even the Bible says this is possible; remember Saul speaking to Samuel through the Witch of Endor and Abraham's acknowledgement that it is possible for the dead rich man go back and talk to his brothers though it would be useless.]]  We spoke of dreaming other people's dreams and receiving and conveying supernatural messages...and the awesome responsibility that entails.  We spoke of visions; some viewed alone, others shared.  We wondered how all this is possible.  What truths about now and the next epoch do our experiences reveal?  Conversely, we did not try to fit our experiences into the orthodoxy boxes of our various traditions.  Nor did we doubt one another.  We did not all have identical experiences, but we've all had experiences that were similar enough and far enough beyond the fringes of orthodoxy to know that everyone was speaking of "reality."  Every story was more than sincere; it was accurate.  

We wondered.  We spoke of the power of this wonder and of faith and doubt and fear.  One sister shared a valuable lesson.  She said, "fear haunts.  Truth does not haunt.  Truth always manifests itself."  And she is right, truth comes to pass.  Fear dogs people, but the fearful possibilities cannot and do not all come into being.  In another exchange, a brother spoke of doubt and faith.  Relating his coming out story, he said he learned to have as much faith that God created him as gay as others have that being gay is sin.  We spoke of how doubt creates much opportunity--to expand beyond dogma, to receive others, to experience spirit.  

We spoke of how death is a simultaneously individual and collective experience.  Even birth is a collective experience (just ask your mother), as is every subsequent experience until death.  No one experiences death per se with you; we all face it individually.  Yet, we can experience it collectively.  Several sisters recalled being together when a loved one passed, in the very house where we were talking.  Everyone recounted the different experiences, in at least three locations, that marked the instant of the person's passing.  A sleeping baby sat up to witness the moment, people pulled close in immediate anticipation, one woman spoke in words and a voice unrecognizable to herself.  

We spoke of shared energies.  How we miss the experience of collective worship, especially the songs.  We hummed the Old 100; that classic set of moans and ancestral hymns that welcome the Spirit and make the Black church so powerful and comforting.  We spoke of how the songs put us on the same wave length and how our bodies and essences feel that.  How that collective energy is so strong it can become visible.  

We laughed.  Uninhibited, joyful laughs.  We truly enjoyed each other and all the people, present and past, whose spirits and other remnants, were in the place.  It was a blessing.  It was healing.  We all held hands, felt a powerful warmth, and gave thanks.  

Death

I have recently grown to despise death.  Since you all know me well, you know that I have oscillated between being very emotionally expressive in my youth to increasingly emotionally stilted only to return to a much healthier place lately.  The catalyst for the recent change was my grandfather, Leslie Durant, passing December 14, 2004.  I simply cannot get over it.  I miss him all the time.  There appears to be no honor great enough to offer him, so I continue my Sisyphus-esque task, heaping small tribute upon small tribute, trying to create something worthy of him.

In the process, I have become profoundly sensitive to others' pain concerning death.  I cried for nearly half an hour listening to Dan Savage tell the story of his mother's passing on This American Life.  Only this morning, a NPR correspondent's tribute to her late father had me in tears getting out of the car.  The pain of losing someone to death is incomparable and universal.

And it's not so much the loss of immediate, corporeal access to loved-ones that is so gut-wrenchingly agonizing about death.  It is how pathetically most of us die.   Most of us don't go out in a blaze of glory.  We slowly slip away.  Actually, our faculties slowly abandon us.  We return to dust while we are yet living.  We have to sit patiently and watch it happen to ourselves.  The commentator this morning spoke of congratulating her father during his final years for attempting the herculean tasks of getting out of bed each morning, after he had slowly lost first the ability to speak, then hear, then walk over the previous several years.

God have mercy.  Lord have mercy.  Selah.

Gay Men and Blood Donation

So, you may not know (as I didn't until a few years ago), but the government forbids accepting blood donations from gay men.  See a background story here.  Actually, if you've ever read the questions before giving blood, you know that the restriction is on any man who has had sex with another man at any point in life.  Compare that restriction to the fact that heterosexuals who are knowingly having sex with HIV/AIDS positive people are allowed donate a year after their last sexual intercourse with the HIV positive partner.

This blood donation restriction makes no sense!  It's just a way to stigmatize the gay community.  It's biggotry, plain and simple.  Obviously, if preventing HIV/AIDS contamination in the blood supply was the issue, heterosexuals would also face lifetime bans if they slept with an HIV positive person at any point in their lives.

The obvious, and utterly ridiculous, basis for this anti-gay restriction is the outrageous and totally outdated idea that all gay people have AIDS.  I'm old enough to remember when people thought AIDS was exclusively a gay disease.  (Actually, my evangelical friends, we're all old enough as the Rev. Jerry Faldwell and his bretheren continued to espouse that view until his death, if memory serves.)  But that thinking has been completely disproved in every way imaginable!  At this point, believing gays are diseased--with HIV/AIDS or  homosexuality itself--is silly, and more indicative of personal prejudice than anything else.

Like all forms of bigotry, this ban injures the people who support it.  Just as whites are damaged by racism (via limited social relationships, deep seated fears, subjugation to laws designed primarily to control people of color, etc), so anti-gay heterosexuals are willing to risk their own lives by decreasing the emergency blood supply just to stigmatize gays.

I used to donate blood regularly on campus during college.  But it's been more than 4 years since I last did that.  I am unwilling to participate in the national lie that 1) gays don't exist -- thus all male donors certifying they haven't had gay sex, and 2) gays are universally HIV/AIDS carriers.  Recently, I wanted to donate bone marrow.  If you don't know, there is a desperate need for African Americans to donate bone marrow.  I don't know the science, but for some reason, having racially similar donors reduces rejection rates in marrow transfusions.  Again, I volunteered to help meet the desperate need, but the center rejected me because of the anti-gay ban.  I seriously doubt the potential beneficiary of my marrow donation would have made the same decision.