A family friend wrote this morning, noting the cryptic nature and confusing 1st and 3rd person presentation of my latest blog posts. Where is Emily the person vs Emily the poet, he asked? Good questions; they make sense. I'm stepping out of poetry for a moment, reluctantly, because poetry has kept me alive the past 6 days. When the "blood and bread" of my life came crumbling, I had description and memory only. My desiring will produced nothing. Couldn't write about my mother: her rapid decline, the emergency procedures, the fear in her face on Christmas Eve, or the tears in her eyes on Christmas Day. Couldn't write about James' love sustaining me through it all. Revelation needs mediation. So I wrote poems about everything else, because there were/are no mediating words to accurately depict what's been revealed. It's apophatic. I scribbled notes in the back of my continental philosophy text while watching her sleep. Perhaps I'll write a poem about it 2 years from now. Maybe 3. All I know is powerlessness. There is nothing on Earth to remind of life's fragility and one's own lack of control like the witnessing of the Other's pain. There was nothing I could do but leave work & drive (fast). Nothing I could do but sing and pray. Nothing I could do but text my friends and ask for help. Nothing I could do but touch her hand and whisper encouragement. Nothing I could do in her empty house but get lost in the poetic enterprise. Please forgive me the abstraction. I needed to get lost in order to show up. It's all I could do.
P.S. Things are, momentarily, looking up. She might just make it. Thank you, all of you, soul-children, faithful friends, for the generosity and kindness you've shared. G-d is what you've given. Please leave comments; I need to read/see/hear you all the more at this time, "for thou art with me."
Selah~Ejoye
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Friday, December 26, 2008
Home of the Free
"People say things happen for a reason, but I say there's a reason things happen. And it wasn't all good way back in the day. Struggle then, struggle now. Still standing." (Blue Scholars)
He wore brass knuckles in 7th grade,
let red hair flame wild from his head.
In High School he fucked the prettiest girls
and never talked about it--they did.
Once we had a class together.
I listened to the stories of his horrific home life
where mom had her head held under water by dad just
for coming home wearing a new perfume.
He thought I was funny and athletically gifted for a girl.
My crush ran deep.
He talked about loving his momma and
being willing to throw down for his friends.
I admired his grit and the way his body
moved without restriction, illustrating his points,
proving his hardness, highlighting his strength.
Probably an Aries.
With a low-pitched voice he'd say "what up girl?"
in the hallway and flick his head back all rugged and masculine.
I watched him like a hawk, learning and sometimes
mimicking intonation, chest-puffing and effrontery
gestures rising up from the guts. Like any young queer,
my gender confusion turned admiration into desire:
I didn't want him; I wanted to be like him.
Eventually he joined a white supremacist gang
like so many of the disillusioned white boys from
poverty stricken neighborhoods ten miles from my
middle class house between Foothill and Baseline.
He no longer gave me head nods and I no longer
wanted to be like him.
Last I heard he'd left gang life,
but alcoholically dismissed himself from giving a fuck
about anything. This Christmas, on an unexpected
trip down South, I drove the city streets of my home town
to find his name flying high on an outstretched banner:
"Claremont salutes its heroes: Thank you _________
for defending our freedom." Army, stationed in Basra.
I could have guessed that when some fool declared war,
he'd go running.
It is, after all, a "voluntary" military now, right?
I'm sure his dad is proud.
He wore brass knuckles in 7th grade,
let red hair flame wild from his head.
In High School he fucked the prettiest girls
and never talked about it--they did.
Once we had a class together.
I listened to the stories of his horrific home life
where mom had her head held under water by dad just
for coming home wearing a new perfume.
He thought I was funny and athletically gifted for a girl.
My crush ran deep.
He talked about loving his momma and
being willing to throw down for his friends.
I admired his grit and the way his body
moved without restriction, illustrating his points,
proving his hardness, highlighting his strength.
Probably an Aries.
With a low-pitched voice he'd say "what up girl?"
in the hallway and flick his head back all rugged and masculine.
I watched him like a hawk, learning and sometimes
mimicking intonation, chest-puffing and effrontery
gestures rising up from the guts. Like any young queer,
my gender confusion turned admiration into desire:
I didn't want him; I wanted to be like him.
Eventually he joined a white supremacist gang
like so many of the disillusioned white boys from
poverty stricken neighborhoods ten miles from my
middle class house between Foothill and Baseline.
He no longer gave me head nods and I no longer
wanted to be like him.
Last I heard he'd left gang life,
but alcoholically dismissed himself from giving a fuck
about anything. This Christmas, on an unexpected
trip down South, I drove the city streets of my home town
to find his name flying high on an outstretched banner:
"Claremont salutes its heroes: Thank you _________
for defending our freedom." Army, stationed in Basra.
I could have guessed that when some fool declared war,
he'd go running.
It is, after all, a "voluntary" military now, right?
I'm sure his dad is proud.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Julian Diaz Brown
It'd been a long time,
long enough for her to deem it ironic
when the numbers of his home telephone
came popping up in her head while she drove east
to visit her sick mother.
It'd been a long time,
long enough for both of them to move away:
move to places like Berkeley and Los Angeles,
move to places like North Carolina and Chicago,
move to places that kept them distant--places
like resentment and misunderstanding.
He frequents the scenes of Hollywood, polishing production
and brushing shoulders with large egos and egos trying to grow.
She frequents the halls of hospitals and parishes, touching pain
and pushing prayer while questioning the validity of it all.
It'd been a long time, long enough for them
to lose contact, lose interest, even to lose memory.
So when his phone number popped back into her mind,
along with an idea to return where they'd always gone on Christmas Eve,
she figured in a time when uncertainty reigns and fear abounds,
why not return to rituals of old?
She could see it: driving to 375 E. Julliard Dr to pick him up,
where his family would be winding down from seasonally appropriate
festivities. He'd be wearing a sweater and jeans, moving quickly
with a rapid hug that seemed desperate and rushed. She'd drive
them downtown where C&E Christians, mostly white upper class
locals with returned college students in-tow, would be posted
outside the historic Church listening to the Claremont Brass Band
play "Noel" and "Hark the Herald." Too cold to linger, they'd move
inside to behold the poinsettias and liturgical banners suggesting
subtle worship in winter. Hushed solitude would fill the air.
The service would begin and unfold while he doodled comic strips
on the bulletin and made irreverent, yet honest, remarks about the service.
She would sing and read from the Bible, taking particular note
when all congregants raised their candles in the air
to mark the apex of advent: yes, we will wait one more night
for this miracle to be born. When the gay baritone,
a companion of her late father, hit the crescendo of "O Holy Night,"
year after year a friendship christened when he reached across the pew,
touching her hand, making spirit-in-flesh move beyond myth.
It'd been a long time.
Too long. No answer of the phone.
No cellular number to supplement.
He stopped calling on the anniversary of her father's
death. She quit trying to break through his silence,
quit trying to reach into the comfort places he once provided.
It'd been a long time, long enough for them to move away.
When her mother returned from the
4th surgery in 14 days, pale and pain-stricken at
10:00 p.m. in a ghost town hospital, the girl looked at the
clock, knowing the Midnight Candlelight Service began shortly,
thought of him briefly, thought of him lovingly,
and even though it'd been long enough for them to move away,
the girl called on his compassion, buried her head in her mother's cheek
and hummed "O Holy Night" attempting to move spirit-in-flesh beyond myth.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Ekklesia
Upon waking,
Christmas party make-up collateral
gathers in the corner of my eye,
while rain pours softly on sidewalks two stories down.
Oakland.
Sunday Morning.
They come,
so many come
from far reaching places.
Some drive.
Others get driven by worn out family just trying--
though they feel nothing to speak of--
to carry out grandma's wishes while she's still alive.
Others get picked up by the associate pastor's van.
Young ones wonder why they must miss football games
and sleeping in just to be bored and pinched on the cheek
by womyn wearing huge purple, red, black and blue
hats with fishnet webs
and lavish jewels on top.
They come, still,
hands held by, or perhaps held together by,
a commitment to something unspeakable, ever speaking,
something unnameable whose name invokes the
holiest of posture and pleasure.
This morning,
they get wet journeying from car to pew.
They risk soaking through and being cold,
just to stand together, just to clasp hands in reverent signification,
just to sing, say amen, hug one another, just to gossip about the sermon
when it's over.
Last night,
some of those well-dressed, verbally pious men
were fucking womyn who weren't, and won't ever be, their wives.
Last night, that pastor drank too much vodka
at the Rotary Club Christmas celebration.
Last night, those kids punched each other playfully for
making jokes about each other's mothers.
Last night, the older ones prayed hard
and heard nothing in return.
Rain falls on their heads, especially those without hats.
For this kind of devotion, You better be paying attention.
Christmas party make-up collateral
gathers in the corner of my eye,
while rain pours softly on sidewalks two stories down.
Oakland.
Sunday Morning.
They come,
so many come
from far reaching places.
Some drive.
Others get driven by worn out family just trying--
though they feel nothing to speak of--
to carry out grandma's wishes while she's still alive.
Others get picked up by the associate pastor's van.
Young ones wonder why they must miss football games
and sleeping in just to be bored and pinched on the cheek
by womyn wearing huge purple, red, black and blue
hats with fishnet webs
and lavish jewels on top.
They come, still,
hands held by, or perhaps held together by,
a commitment to something unspeakable, ever speaking,
something unnameable whose name invokes the
holiest of posture and pleasure.
This morning,
they get wet journeying from car to pew.
They risk soaking through and being cold,
just to stand together, just to clasp hands in reverent signification,
just to sing, say amen, hug one another, just to gossip about the sermon
when it's over.
Last night,
some of those well-dressed, verbally pious men
were fucking womyn who weren't, and won't ever be, their wives.
Last night, that pastor drank too much vodka
at the Rotary Club Christmas celebration.
Last night, those kids punched each other playfully for
making jokes about each other's mothers.
Last night, the older ones prayed hard
and heard nothing in return.
Rain falls on their heads, especially those without hats.
For this kind of devotion, You better be paying attention.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The Flames of Transference
"I have only what I remember."
--W.S. Merwin
He is just like you,
re-minds of you.
You: deep voice, dark skin, white tee, blue sweats.
You: love I cannot lose.
He sits and builds model air crafts,
in the day room where television monitors
cover the crass silence accompanying surrender.
You coach football in a home town
where everyone knows everyone--and everyone
prefers it that way.
He went to Afghanistan.
You stayed in North Carolina.
He hears voices.
You bbq with friends.
If he were you,
if you had gone somewhere far away
to provide medical care to countless severed limbs
and racist white men who slurred hate in between
cotton swabs while wearing the American flag,
if you came back on a bus one day,
receiving "dishonorable discharge" status,
leaving your entire unit behind
because schizo affective disorder and PTSD
impaired your once-clear now-clouded mind,
if you looked at me, your chaplain,
in the psych ward, with those eyes,
with his eyes, and I knew it was you underneath--
Babylon would burn.
--W.S. Merwin
He is just like you,
re-minds of you.
You: deep voice, dark skin, white tee, blue sweats.
You: love I cannot lose.
He sits and builds model air crafts,
in the day room where television monitors
cover the crass silence accompanying surrender.
You coach football in a home town
where everyone knows everyone--and everyone
prefers it that way.
He went to Afghanistan.
You stayed in North Carolina.
He hears voices.
You bbq with friends.
If he were you,
if you had gone somewhere far away
to provide medical care to countless severed limbs
and racist white men who slurred hate in between
cotton swabs while wearing the American flag,
if you came back on a bus one day,
receiving "dishonorable discharge" status,
leaving your entire unit behind
because schizo affective disorder and PTSD
impaired your once-clear now-clouded mind,
if you looked at me, your chaplain,
in the psych ward, with those eyes,
with his eyes, and I knew it was you underneath--
Babylon would burn.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Particularity
What I learned while rotating in the Dialysis Clinic
Even blood
comes in different shades
of red.
Even blood
comes in different shades
of red.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Never The Twain Shall Meet??
Remember when John Kerry quoted James 2:20 in his debate with George W. Bush back in October of 2004? I'll never forget what it was like to hear a politician quote the Bible in a presidential debate. Excitement, nervousness, hope--all together. When asked about womyn's right to choice, Senator Kerry talked about the importance of connecting thoughts to actions, belief to choices, etc. He said:
"My faith affects everything that I do, in truth. There's a great passage of the Bible that says, 'What does it mean, my brother, to say you have faith if there are no deeds? Faith without works is dead.' And I think that everything you do in public life has to be guided by your faith, affected by your faith, but without transferring it in any official way to other people."
When we act in the name of faith, like say writing a blog post about the exhaustion of false dichotomies in society, our time set apart for reflection must increase, not decrease. Faith without works is dead. Yes. Faith without brain is deadly. So let's engage in a little mental gymnastics, shall we?
People in politics, anyone in civil democratic service, must pay verbal heed to the fine-line between faith works and proselytizing. John Kerry, in proper debate fashion, called out that fine line by intentionally ending his sentence: "without transferring it in any official way to other people." Transferring.
Trans, in Latin, means: across, beyond, through, changing thoroughly.
Ferre, in Latin, means: to bear, to carry.
Transfer: to bear across? to carry beyond? to carry and bear through? to change, thoroughly, in the act of carrying and/or bearing?
Religious transference: to carry across in G-d's name? to hold up, spiritually, during times of thorough change?
Is the distinction, between proselytizing and the impact of faith works, so different? Conversion is conversion, whether it comes from the impact of words or an internal shift in response to someone's kindness and care. John Kerry asks us to think about the "official" distinctions between religious and political acts, and surely what's done in the name of G-d and what's done in the name of country/state/city must be safely measured, guarded, set apart and re-examined again and again. However, acts of faith, official or unofficial, have enormous impact that cannot be controlled, foreseen or safeguarded against. Further, when you break down the essentials of religious acts and political acts there's very little structural difference; they co-create one another through the mediating hermeneutical culture(s) that run through, impact and construct them. The persons, symbols, texts and languages of politics and religion may contain differences of note, but the similarities warn us against falsely dichotomizing them and pitting one against the other. They both have their place. For those of us in religious service, and those in political service, there's a need for acknowledgment of how our enterprises bleed into one another instead of hour long debates denying the relationship. Good job Senator Kerry. I often hear partisan banter and religious sound-byte rhetoric shutting down complex discussions about how religion and politics mingle. Who, what movements, what communities, in the public square, besides mocked and dissmissed John Kerry and evangelical Jim Wallis, will give voice to this contentious marriage in our society? Will you?
"My faith affects everything that I do, in truth. There's a great passage of the Bible that says, 'What does it mean, my brother, to say you have faith if there are no deeds? Faith without works is dead.' And I think that everything you do in public life has to be guided by your faith, affected by your faith, but without transferring it in any official way to other people."
When we act in the name of faith, like say writing a blog post about the exhaustion of false dichotomies in society, our time set apart for reflection must increase, not decrease. Faith without works is dead. Yes. Faith without brain is deadly. So let's engage in a little mental gymnastics, shall we?
People in politics, anyone in civil democratic service, must pay verbal heed to the fine-line between faith works and proselytizing. John Kerry, in proper debate fashion, called out that fine line by intentionally ending his sentence: "without transferring it in any official way to other people." Transferring.
Trans, in Latin, means: across, beyond, through, changing thoroughly.
Ferre, in Latin, means: to bear, to carry.
Transfer: to bear across? to carry beyond? to carry and bear through? to change, thoroughly, in the act of carrying and/or bearing?
Religious transference: to carry across in G-d's name? to hold up, spiritually, during times of thorough change?
Is the distinction, between proselytizing and the impact of faith works, so different? Conversion is conversion, whether it comes from the impact of words or an internal shift in response to someone's kindness and care. John Kerry asks us to think about the "official" distinctions between religious and political acts, and surely what's done in the name of G-d and what's done in the name of country/state/city must be safely measured, guarded, set apart and re-examined again and again. However, acts of faith, official or unofficial, have enormous impact that cannot be controlled, foreseen or safeguarded against. Further, when you break down the essentials of religious acts and political acts there's very little structural difference; they co-create one another through the mediating hermeneutical culture(s) that run through, impact and construct them. The persons, symbols, texts and languages of politics and religion may contain differences of note, but the similarities warn us against falsely dichotomizing them and pitting one against the other. They both have their place. For those of us in religious service, and those in political service, there's a need for acknowledgment of how our enterprises bleed into one another instead of hour long debates denying the relationship. Good job Senator Kerry. I often hear partisan banter and religious sound-byte rhetoric shutting down complex discussions about how religion and politics mingle. Who, what movements, what communities, in the public square, besides mocked and dissmissed John Kerry and evangelical Jim Wallis, will give voice to this contentious marriage in our society? Will you?
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
This Is The Way G-d Works...
My mom is scheduled to have surgery this morning. When she first told me about the upcoming procedure I had to negotiate whether I'd be with her before and during her surgery or afterward for a few days. Federal employees get accumulated annual leave and since I've only been doing Chaplaincy at the VA for three months, I don't have enough paid-time-off saved up to leave for entire week. She said she'd rather have me there afterward, so I agreed to spend Thursday, Friday and the weekend in Southern California. Last night I prayed for her over the phone and it was the most powerful prayer experience I've had in my life, bar none. This morning I woke up with a sinking feeling in my stomach knowing she'd be rolled into the operating room without a kiss from me. I prayed and prayed, but something didn't quite feel right. Alas, "your beloved patients need their Chaplain" I told myself; I resolved to drink coffee, get dressed, and headed on to the hospital where I am employed. After a quick round in the Spinal Chord Injury Unit and the Traumatic Brain Injury Unit (where I rotate on Wednesday mornings) I took refuge in the VA Chapel. Silence for 10 minutes. All of sudden it dawned on me: Call the Chaplain Services at the hospital where you're mom is staying. Duh. I grabbed my coat and ran to my office, certain that the 'still small voice' would guide with compassion and mercy. I looked up the hospital website, got on the phone with Chaplain Services and asked "Rev. Amy" to see my mom in post-op. Rev. Amy and I talked a little bit; like any good Chaplain, Rev. Amy asked about my mom's spiritual life and history. And like any good family member, I asked about Rev. Amy's spiritual life and history. Here's the kicker: My mom and Rev. Amy are both members of Claremont United Church of Christ. Rev. Amy is a UCC ordained minister in the Southern California Nevada Conference (where I am currently in-care), she grew up in the Bay Area, is a CPE Supervisor and knows well my CPE Supervisor Sue Turley. I know my mom is in good hands.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
The Threat(s) of Narrative
About six months ago PSR's Seminarians to End War group co-hosted with The Beatitudes Society a panel discussion on Sports, Religion & Social Justice. My friend Audrey DeCoursey organized the event which included recruiting speakers. She asked students within the GTU to represent: James Ryan Parker talked "sports & hermeneutics"; Mike Beckman spoke on "Green Bay Religion"; my friend Tai Amri spent his time discussing "sports and identity construction"; I concluded the panel by reflecting on "Women & Sports" (though it was less systematic than that). The speakers brought different styles of presentation and vastly different content. Tai Amri and I reflected from personal his/herstories, making connections between personal experience and systemic issues. James brought critical theory to his presentation and put forth a brilliant constructive proposal for reading sports through religion and reading religion through sports. Mike talked about local economic strategies in Green Bay that result in shared ownership of the Packers. Each presentation brought fascinating ideas and issues to the forefront. I will admit my presentation was the weakest by far; I came in ill-prepared and somewhat disinterested in the overall theme. I agreed to present because Audrey wanted a female voice on the panel and couldn't find anybody else. The evening proved worth my time though; I sure did learn a lot! Okay...so what?...you ask.
After the panel, I sat outside my apartment on Le Conte as one of my fellow panelists walked by with his girlfriend. I had changed clothes and put the hood of my sweatshirt over my head so he didn't recognize me. As he came walking down the hill he was mocking the use of narrative in the night's event. He said "maybe I should have just told stories about my experience playing T-ball when I was six." His girlfriend recognized me at the last minute and could tell I heard his belittling remarks. She leaned into his shoulder and whispered "wasn't that the girl from PSR that presented?" It was all so 7th grade but for some reason the experience stayed with me.
When people tell their stories, the safety-guards and niceties of "theory" fall away. Stories break-through bullshit abstractions. Stories reveal the potential for wickedness and grace lingering in each human heart. Stories challenge generalizations and foster ambivalence. Stories make plain the nuance and complex messiness of relationships and development. Stories challenge stereotypes. Stories illuminate, uniquely, the diversity of life, the differences between peoples, communities, continents, religions, etc. They also illuminate similarity and continuity. Stories keep it real. Stories shouldn't be the only way information gets exchanged. I too have, at times, gotten nauseated when narrative didn't come balanced with a healthy dose of book learning. And let me be clear: critical theory is of/from G-d. I do though find the resistance to personal narrative, especially by persons well-versed in academic theory, revealing when it comes to the role of education privilege in emotional distancing and silencing. Is it surprising that this white heterosexual male found the stories of an African American male and queer female below performance standards??
Many of you know I work in a hospital with Vets. I listen to stories all day, 5 days a week; stories about war, fear, death, injury, victory, camaraderie, patriotism. Some of these men open up and what comes out challenges every idea I've had about masculinity, mental-health, religion, combat, militarism, colonialism, faithfulness in marriage, strength, courage, ad infinitum. Their story telling invites me into a deeper awareness of reality. It challenges me to get beyond narrow understandings of war and peace, male and female, healing and wholeness, etc. Sometimes I think this country would drown in tears if our soldiers (current and past) told the truth about their lives. But we don't let them. We ask them to "man up," to "shape up or ship out". And it's not just vets who get silenced in this way. I think my GTU colleague's response that night exemplifies a general unease underlying the current power structure that if people outside the power center started talking, all things vulnerable might appear. He's right. We shame the revelation of truth through narrative. It's not tidy enough, not systematic enough, not controlled enough. It doesn't confirm the "naturalness" of white supremacy, the tyranny of masculinities; narrative aggravates logocentrism, deconstructs modernist "Truth", gives way to alternative world views and epistomologies. It's all so...liberating.
I come back to my GTU colleague in mind and heart quite often. I wonder what stories he listens to, what voices ring in his head: something tells me they rigorously echo the maxims of control so deeply rooted in white, masculinist, academic culture(s). If he has little space for the spoken struggles of others, it tells me he has little room for his own struggles. How sad. My prayer is that one day he makes room for stories about 6 year-old T-ball as enthusiastically as he theorizes strategies for cooperative economics.
After the panel, I sat outside my apartment on Le Conte as one of my fellow panelists walked by with his girlfriend. I had changed clothes and put the hood of my sweatshirt over my head so he didn't recognize me. As he came walking down the hill he was mocking the use of narrative in the night's event. He said "maybe I should have just told stories about my experience playing T-ball when I was six." His girlfriend recognized me at the last minute and could tell I heard his belittling remarks. She leaned into his shoulder and whispered "wasn't that the girl from PSR that presented?" It was all so 7th grade but for some reason the experience stayed with me.
When people tell their stories, the safety-guards and niceties of "theory" fall away. Stories break-through bullshit abstractions. Stories reveal the potential for wickedness and grace lingering in each human heart. Stories challenge generalizations and foster ambivalence. Stories make plain the nuance and complex messiness of relationships and development. Stories challenge stereotypes. Stories illuminate, uniquely, the diversity of life, the differences between peoples, communities, continents, religions, etc. They also illuminate similarity and continuity. Stories keep it real. Stories shouldn't be the only way information gets exchanged. I too have, at times, gotten nauseated when narrative didn't come balanced with a healthy dose of book learning. And let me be clear: critical theory is of/from G-d. I do though find the resistance to personal narrative, especially by persons well-versed in academic theory, revealing when it comes to the role of education privilege in emotional distancing and silencing. Is it surprising that this white heterosexual male found the stories of an African American male and queer female below performance standards??
Many of you know I work in a hospital with Vets. I listen to stories all day, 5 days a week; stories about war, fear, death, injury, victory, camaraderie, patriotism. Some of these men open up and what comes out challenges every idea I've had about masculinity, mental-health, religion, combat, militarism, colonialism, faithfulness in marriage, strength, courage, ad infinitum. Their story telling invites me into a deeper awareness of reality. It challenges me to get beyond narrow understandings of war and peace, male and female, healing and wholeness, etc. Sometimes I think this country would drown in tears if our soldiers (current and past) told the truth about their lives. But we don't let them. We ask them to "man up," to "shape up or ship out". And it's not just vets who get silenced in this way. I think my GTU colleague's response that night exemplifies a general unease underlying the current power structure that if people outside the power center started talking, all things vulnerable might appear. He's right. We shame the revelation of truth through narrative. It's not tidy enough, not systematic enough, not controlled enough. It doesn't confirm the "naturalness" of white supremacy, the tyranny of masculinities; narrative aggravates logocentrism, deconstructs modernist "Truth", gives way to alternative world views and epistomologies. It's all so...liberating.
I come back to my GTU colleague in mind and heart quite often. I wonder what stories he listens to, what voices ring in his head: something tells me they rigorously echo the maxims of control so deeply rooted in white, masculinist, academic culture(s). If he has little space for the spoken struggles of others, it tells me he has little room for his own struggles. How sad. My prayer is that one day he makes room for stories about 6 year-old T-ball as enthusiastically as he theorizes strategies for cooperative economics.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Diane Thomas
I give thanks to The Beloved for the life of my dear mentor and friend Diane Thomas who lured me into bold places. She was an activist and a pastor, modeling possibilities for the marriage of justice and religious faith. She was a white anti-racist activist, challenging those of us with white skin to admit and recover from our addiction to privilege. She laughed at herself and never blinked an eye before calling authority into account. She talked the language of spiritual surrender and showed up in friendship (a type of subtle surrender itself). May those of us who were lucky enough to know her cherish her in the ways that make us more human. Infuse our ritual remembrance of her with lessons of humility and hard-work. The world could use more just like her, but we know there will never be another. G-d I just loved this womyn. Thank you for her life.
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