Off I Go!

I'm about to embark on a journey into the Middle East for 4 months.



I'll be doing my best to chronicle the adventure on a different blog which you can find here:



To Amman and Beyond

Cheers!

Conversation

I think I understand now why sometimes it's hard to communicate with me.

I try to relate to others using things I severely dislike, thinking, "Wow maybe that person hated it too!"

Case in point:

I recently discovered that my neighbor, who is three years younger than me, attended Missouri Girls State (a so-called educational, so-called camp for high school girls to learn about government and civic engagement). I was really happy to learn that she was getting involved since it's somewhat selective at our high school, but what follows is the conversation I envisioned us having about Girls State.

Me: Hey! You went to Girls State! That's really great!
Her: Yeah, I did. It was cool.
Me: (Really excitedly) I hated it! Did you hate it too?!

Alex (another Girls State hater) once wrote a speech about how complaints are so valuable because we can easily bond over mutual annoyance or dislike. Maybe I'm a little bit too enthusiastic about it.

"Why Should the Fire Die?"

There are some things that never change.

When Nickel Creek broke up, I thought I would have to find another favorite musical artist. But they're still my favorite. The Beatles are favorites to some, and hey, two of them are dead.

There's a reason why "Speak" is still my favorite song. (Really, check it out. It's fantastic).

It features writing by Sean Watkins, Nickel Creek guitarist and less-frequent songwriter in the group, along with vocals from all three members. The video is also amazing.
It's amazing how talented people can get together and do wonderful, beautiful things.

My mom took me to see them play at Mississippi Nights when I was 13. They played a medley of one of their songs mixed with what seemed like a billion others, including "Yellow" by Coldplay and some Wilco something. I bought a tank top and Sara and Chris signed my songbook. Happiest 7th grader in the world.

There's something to be said for real raw music.

Things Sarah Palin Has Ruined for Me

In other words, things she has managed to somehow suck all the good out of and replace it with (insert any Palin idiosyncrasy here...lipstick):

1. Alaska. Goodbye beautiful scenery, wildlife sanctuaries, and spectacular seafood. Hello wolf shooting and oil drilling.

2. Hockey moms.

3. Her political credibility (pick your own concoction of witty expressions, vacuous interview answers, or policy choices to blame for this one).

4. Rimless glasses. Seriously. I really considered getting some.

5. A perfectly tailored skirtsuit. Just kidding. That's an institution not even Sarah "I can have more influence outside of my elected office" Palin herself could ruin.

"I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream!"

Call me ambitious, but I have a bone to pick with the generators of public discourse.

That is, I have a bone to pick with almost everyone.

I've been living in this Southern town for about two months now, and I've been hearing and seeing things I have never encountered in my two decades living in the Midwest, and that I have only seen the likes of on particularly provocative days in Washington.

People here are scary. I'll start with a grave illustration.

Every so often on my way to work I pass a handful of protesters decrying the violence of abortion. I knew that most of them probably came from the ultra-conservative Pensacola Christian College community, but I never really understood why they stood where they did, because from the street it looks like they are clustered around a dilapidated furniture store. On one particular morning, I happened to see a police officer trying to talk them down and convince them to take their complaints and their giant grotesque images of abortion elsewhere.

A few days later, I asked my coworker, a young woman who has lived here her entire life, what it was all about.

"Well, there's a clinic somewhere off the street over there," she told me. "A doctor was shot and killed there, oh, about 15 years ago."

I nearly leapt out of her car. She went on to tell me that the man who shot and killed the doctor (and his bodyguard) was put to death a few years ago. Apparently the 1990s protests had been so violent that a group from a nearby Unitarian Universalist church volunteered to protect patients, doctors, and relatives entering and exiting the clinic. All this news came to me on the heels of the murder of abortion doctor George Tiller in Kansas. Read about the connection between the two events here.

I knew that abortion doctors were being killed. I just didn't know it had happened on the very streets of my adopted hometown.

Speaking of streets, let me present to you the less-scary illustration of how scary people can be. On another crowded intersection here in town, just a few blocks from the abortion clinic, Pensacola Christian College students, or Pensacola Christian Academy teachers, or simply those who live in the area and espouse the same beliefs, gather for a different purpose. I hesitate to call them protesters, because it doesn't seem like they have anything to protest, except maybe the demise of the entire human race's moral backbone. Usually they are men in their 30s, well-dressed, waving Bibles and shouting at the top of their lungs. Sometimes they bring their bonnet-clad wives and children, who stand alongside holding signs that claim, "NOW IS THE TIME TO REPENT."

I get it. They're preaching. I do happen to have a problem with their signs that threaten those with different beliefs or lifestyles with eternal damnation. But it's not really their message I'm calling into question here. Ironically, I've driven by these men at least twice, but I have never heard them. Their chosen intersection is one of the busiest, and as a result, one of the loudest in town. Since they compete with dozens of engines and stereos, they have to shout that much louder to be heard.

And this is the bone I have to pick. In the end no one hears what these "protesters" are saying. All we know is that they are screaming. Merely adding to the din of public debate that never seems to quiet down long enough for us to extract an ounce of intelligent conversation. Regardless of the message, people seem to believe that if it is said loudly or forcefully, it is persuasive and true. Consequently we have watched our discourse decay into a glorified shouting match, perpetuated by a 24-hour news cycle.

Not that my input matters much, but here's what I'd like to see: more face-to-face talks between leaders of interest groups, members of Congress, and other important public figures. If these meetings are going on, let the public see them instead of the constant demonization of those with opposing views.

I'd also like to see more genuine displays of public interests. Demonstrations is probably a better word for these than protests. Last year I noticed a small group of students seated quietly on the ground next to a celebration of Israel's 60th anniversary. They were silent, some with green tape over their mouths, merely holding small cards. I don't have a strong opinion on the issue, but I was moved enough to refuse to patronize the celebration, despite the free food. I was similarly moved on a rainy day when I saw thousands of tiny pink and blue flags strewn across our university lawn. As I passed a representative from the Catholic Student Association handed me a small flyer telling me that a flag was placed for each baby aborted in the US each day. Thousands. No shouting. No grotesque images. I took notice.

I'm not sure how we go about fixing our public discourse. It almost seems a laughable ambition. Maybe the best place to start, though, is with a kitchy mantra (isn't that always the best place to start?). So I'm asking, no, I'm begging you: If you don't have anything nice to say, at least say it quietly.

I need to blog more.

So let me start my newly-motivated blogging streak by commenting on an eyebrow-raising experience I had today.

My dad and I decided to go down to the YMCA to play racquetball (ha. ha.) because it was way too hot to play tennis, and racquetball means a significantly smaller area for chasing stray balls.

We were crunched for time as we left home, so I figured I'd just throw together some tennis shoes and running shorts and change in the bathroom of the locker room at the Y. It's usually pretty quiet and my dad would have to change too so I knew I'd have time. When we arrived I unassumingly went down to the locker room and made a bee line for the bathroom. In two minutes I was ready to go and washing my hands at the sinks. Then it happened.

In the giant mirror I glimpsed an old lady in a towel (there are usually several of these in the locker room). I didn't need to take a second glance to know that the towel was only covering her up to her waist. On top she was wearing - you guessed it! - NOTHING.

Call me weak, say I'm whining, or tell me that eventually I will look just like her, but old lady breasts are not something anyone really wants to see. As I stood there trying to wash my hands a quickly as possible, at least five other women walked by. Old boobs lady was totally unmoved. I just wonder what goes through her head, and that of every woman who prances around the locker room naked. Is this a vestige of a bygone era in which women were comfortable enough with their bodies to display them in this (admittedly) completely non-sexual setting?

Or is it just that I'm missing out on some sort of feminine tryst? Am I uber-modest? Is it strange that I don't feel exceedingly comfortable bearing it all in a large unfamiliar room? I think when it comes down to it, personal taste prevails. If she wants to let her boobs breathe in the locker room, more power to her. But the next time I see a semi-naked elderly woman, I will look away - awkwardly, uncomfortably, and very VERY quickly.

8:00pm Mass, Palm Sunday

All my friends go to 8:00pm Mass at Dahlgren Chapel. It's kind of like a club. I don't always go, but when I do I recognize almost all the people there. The same two violinists, my friend Colin on piano, and the same group of about 20 singing the hymns.

At 8:00pm they do this thing where they sing the Lord's Prayer, and everyone knows it's coming, and we all hold hands. It's confusing not to just rattle off the prayer, but to have to SING it, but I'm getting used to it.

Father Pat Rogers, one of the younger Jesuits on campus (he's in his early forties, whereas Father King, mentioned in a previous post, has got to be 120 years old) was the principal celebrant today. He gave this very short homily about sitting with Jesus during Holy Week in his humanity. As if Jesus was someone very dear to us and it really did confuse us greatly and cause us grief as the events leading up to his death unfolded. It's nice to be reminded that all of this is personal, after all.

At communion, which I took even though I think I am not supposed to, I drank the wine for the first time ever. I usually think it's gross that dozens of people drink out of the same cup, but the girl holding the wine was directly in my path so I thought I'd go for it instead of awkwardly making my way around her.

I'd forgotten what church wine was like. It's pale and bitter and it sticks to your throat. I felt it still burning after five minutes of silence in my seat. I think maybe it's supposed to stick there, maybe it's supposed to remind you that God's promise, much like the wine, doesn't just go away once you've used it up. I sat in the front row, listening to Father Pat, and decided I liked that image.

Afterward, a few of us gathered in the quad and Drew helped me fold my palm fronds into a cross. It turned out pretty well. Father Pat came over and said there was a "sin vortex" around our group of friends and he just had to call people out on it. It took me a few minutes to figure out he was joking. He's an interesting priest. Elyse says he swears a lot.