Lost & Found

Ummmm...I found my coat!

After losing my beautiful (read: functional and loved) waterproof zip-shell Columbia in October and receiving a new raincoat for my birthday last month, the Columbia returned.

I was working at the group home (for the last time before Costa Rica! hurrah!), bonding with one of the few good staff there by cataloging all the things I have lost this year, when Kaluna, the wonderful woman listening so graciously, stopped me.

-Wait. What color was it?
-Light blue.
-What kind?
-Uh, Columbia I think. (Offhand, in an embarrassed kind of way. Nobody at this job is exactly rolling in dough, and here I am misplacing a fairly expensive article of clothing).
-Wait! Wait just a minute. (Goes to a closet I didn't know existed and pulls out...my Coat!)

Back in October when I asked Brooke, the new supervisor, about the coat in reference to the lost&found location, she wished me luck and told me someone had probably stolen it.

Apparently Kaluna came across it when she was looking for a coat for a resident, but she knew it didn't belong to any of them because there was no name plastered in permanent marker across the tag. There it was, hung in the closet, and it even looked like someone had thrown it into one of the six million loads of wash we do every day. The wolf pin I found on the beach this summer is still attached.

Stolen indeed.

New Year's Resolution: sew my name into all my clothes, in order to assist the goodwilled people of the world in returning my things when I lose them.

Fort Flood

Bad news: the heating system at the Fort has malfunctioned--a pipe broke on Sunday night, flooding the Resident Director's office and a GRACE room with water, flowing from the 2nd floor and hitting the electrical system, which started a lovely chemical-scented sauna of steam/smoke. Fire dept arrived at midnight. At 6am, another pipe burst into a shower over one of the Benincasa guest rooms down the hall. The Fort has been transformed into a wind tunnel lined with furniture and fans. I'm moving out this week--glad to get out in case of mold, to which I am allergic, but sad to leave BC in such disrepair.

though i am heavy

I part the out thrusting branches
and come in beneath
the blessed and the blessing trees.
Though I am silent
there is singing around me.
Though I am dark
there is vision around me.
Though I am heavy
there is flight around me.

-Wendell Berry

Dear Tender Reader,

I'll be taking a vaca from the blog. The end of the semester calls an end to my daily posts, but do not fear, oh faithful readers of cyberspace, these trivial musings will continue in Costa Rica. Read on.

The Dark in the Middle of the Tunnel

Last night we took the tunnel to the Motherhouse and Sister Kathi decided not to turn the lights on. When I came through on my way back to the Fort, I decided to walk it in the dark alone.

What a thrill. I have always loved being in the dark by myself. We used to go on Night Walks at Silver Lake, ten little girls holding hands in a line. I always wanted to let go and hang back, to be swallowed by the silence and the solitude.

I almost got lost in the woods there one summer. Around midnight I was heading back to my cabin without a flashlight. We don't have that much lighting at camp, but the stars are usually enough. When you get into the tree cover, you can usually look up and find the trail's mirror image where the sky shows. Farther back though, the branches grow across to meet each other, and tree roots make a footpath feel like forest floor. No one had remembered to turn on the porch light at Juniper, so I shuffled along deeper into the woods, hoping I was following the curves of the path and not walking in circles, until its dark sides vaguely materialized.

Walking through a dark tunnel is easy. Even if you can't see your feet, you just have to keep putting one in front of the other. One day, I might try running.

Balog Saga

GOOD NEWS:
President Balog and his Cabinet (I have no idea who comprises this governmental body, but it sounds important) fully support the proposal Adam and I submitted to expand Aquinas' non-discrimination policity.

Not only that, but they want to go even farther.

Adam met with Balog yesterday, and said that Balog talked about updating student, staff, and faculty hiring and admission policies to protect gender and sexual orientation issues.

Woah!

Now the Board just has to bite.

The proposed changes will be up for debate in January at the next Board meeting.

Drill

The other day we tested the new fire alarm at Aquinata.

The old one sounded like a doorbell or a mellow cell phone.

The new installment is properly aggravating, but the "ding dong" of the old alarm still rings ironically above it.

During the fire drill, Sister Kathi brought out hot chocolate and a charcoal grill, over which we roasted marshmallows.

Best fire drill ever.

How can I keep from singing

Driving without music is weird for me. Since my car radio is broken, I tend to sing a cappella a lot when I'm traveling. The oddest snippets of songs emerge out of the silence. Today, a few lines of an old hymn that happens to describe this urge to sing:

"My life flows on in endless song...
I hear the music ringing;
It finds an echo in my soul--
How can I keep from singing?"

Lazy Day

Sometimes, instead of doing anything productive, you decide to watch Harry Potter on TV.

You know you might regret it later.

But you probably won't.

Crip Power!

Crip Theory: Cultural Signs of Queerness and Disability by Robert McRuer is a queer reading of disability studies (or is it a disability reading of queer theory?...not sure, but so interesting!).

Here's a quote cited in the first chapter from Gloria Anzaldua, a black feminist, from her 1981 book This Bridge Called My Back:

"We are the queer groups, the people that don't belong anywhere, not in the dominant world nor completely within our own respective cultures. Combined we cover so many oppressions. But the overwhelming oppression is the collective fact that we do not fit, and because we do not fit we are a threat."

Jon has complained about "not fitting." I wonder if he has ever considered this as a form of power.

God Hates Fags?

I think the Sister I see for spiritual direction (a member of the Catholic church who leads me in Buddhist meditations and believes she might meet a Muslim in heaven) is an LGBT ally.

There is hope for this world!

Synchronicity?

On Monday night, I dreamed of ghosts. My dream self, like my real self, puts little stock in the paranormal. While inside a purportedly "haunted" house, my dream self dared the ghosts to prove their existence.

Something physical, I qualified. Make me levitate.

In a split second, I was upside down, suspended by my hair. This vivid sensation remained with me when I woke up.

On Monday afternoon when I started my car, my very-much-demolished casette player spoke. This tape player ate my CD/MP3 converter four months ago. My brother, in taking it apart to fix it, broke the radio too. Unable to extract the tape, he left the entire console disassembled and left for college. I driven hundreds of miles in complete silence since.

Two days ago, when I turned the key, the car meekly surrendered the tape.

Unwilling to challenge anything that might grab me by the hair, I accepted the offering with a "thank you."

I may have heard the faintest echo of a chuckle.

Advent Alive

Yesterday was the beginning of Advent, the 25 day season of anticipation, longing, and waiting before Christmas. At Anchester House (which is named after the street, by the way), we reflected on a passage from Isaiah. My favorite lines: "we are withered like leaves"--which is how I feel in winter at the end of a semester (limp, worn out, sucked dry)--and "we rouse to cling to you." I love the word "rouse," the idea of getting up in the middle of the night, of becoming more childlike, more alive. And "cling"--hold me, God. Hold me together in the busyness. Keep me alive.

Anchester House

I like the idea of naming houses, the way they do in Anne of Green Gables. Growing up, I called my many houses by their street names: Otillia, Merit, Baker Park, Foxchase, Cornelius. The formulaic naming process served a functional purpose, so creativity and meaningfulness weren't factored in. But one day, when I buy a house, I'd like to name it based on its personality.

Tonight I'm going to Anchester House to visit three Grand Rapids Dominicans, and I'm curious to learn the origins of its name.

Unmotivated

By brain is mush.
There is mush sloshing around in my stomach.
The ground is covered with mush.

"Mush!" is a command for sled dogs to get going.

Screw Your Neighbor

Yesterday I beat four Sisters at the game "Screw Your Neighbor."

If you think you know nuns, come over to the Fort...

In Which a Daughter Abandons her Mother on Thanksgiving

I'm having Thanksgiving with the sisters today. My mom gave me a lot of guilt for this, maybe half-jokingly, but I can't help enjoying their company, even if they are always telling stories about people I don't know.

I've decided that key ingredients of community life are stories (repeatedly told...are they tapping into an oral tradition?) and traditions. Today, as a sort of belated initiation, I will experience two traditional rites to which Sister Kathi typically exposes newcomers.

The first is a movie called Brides of Christ, a six-part series about religious sisterhood that Sister Chris and Sister Kathi can recite by heart.

The second is the performance of poetry for multiple voices. (Yes, I'm getting it now...just like minstrels or tribal gatherings--spoken word and song!)

My mom and I always batter the ears of familial guests with a piano duet at holiday gatherings. Maybe this year I'll suggest that we perform a poem.

I tried to teach my mother how to read poetry once. We were in the kitchen, attempting lemon bars. My mom sprung upon the recipe as a found poem, and it was a good one, too. But she couldn't master the dreamy affect it required, the pacing, the flow. When I demonstrated, she grabbed the video camera and tried to tape me. Certain blackmail. We were so loopy that night. I think we ended up as heaps on the floor, sides splitting and the lemon bars unbaked.

Maybe I shouldn't have left her home alone today...

I Want a Velociraptor

Today I'm hunting for dinosaur tattoos.

I want a velociraptor on my left bicep.

TODAY

I am overwhelmed. A semester's worth of work--making miniscule changes to computer programs, running subjects eight hours a day in the frigid AB basement, crunching and recrunching numbers--will culminate next Monday.

But today, I did not add to my report, begin my powerpoint presentation, or prepare in any way.

Instead, I meditated, napped, and won a poetry slam.

Even if the rest of the week is killer, living in the present is sweet.

[When Monday, Dec. 1st becomes the present, you can hear about "The Role of Religious Orientation in Attitudes Toward Homosexuality" at 1:30 pm in the Donnelly Center!]

For Now

First real snowfall.
Yep, you're allowed to be excited.
For now.

Fakesgiving 2.0

Jon and his roommates are having Thanksgiving today. Last night, they covered the walls of apartment H1 with Pocahontases and pumpkins, hung autumn leaf tinsel from the ceilings. They worked on Tessie the turkey, making an emergency call to a friend to find out that the lump of flesh dangling from her body was a head, and that they would have to pull it off. At first, with rubber gloves, they looked like surgeons. Later, after they cocooned their heads in plastic wrap (a hole poked out for a mouth), it was hard to say.

Leggings

From age 6 to age 12, I wore leggings. Black, burgundy, stirrups or no, topped with a too-big t-shirt.

I remember waiting in line to leave the cafeteria once, when a boy in my class asked me (not unkindly), "How come you never wear jeans?"

Jeans were stiff and uncomfortable, too hard to unbutton. Leggings hugged me, moved with me, a soft safe feeling.

Yesterday, I wore leggings for the first time since sixth grade. I was going to a wedding and wanted to show off a dress I got this summer, but the 30 degree weather demanded additional fabric. Leggings were the answer.

I had some vague recollection that leggings were back in style, though my fashion sense is limited to my not-so-savvy observation skills and the accidental glance at Sunday ads for Kohls and Kmart.

So I hopped over to the mall and hit up TJ Maxx. Six bucks. 96% spandex.

Putting them on was like a blast from the past, an "aha" moment as I reunited with a former life, my younger self. No wonder I loved leggings so much. The sensory feedback--the pressure--is calming. They are like a second skin. Nothing like the flimsy itchiness of nylons. If it were socially acceptable to wear one of those full-body leotards--a whole suit of the stretchy stuff--I would.

Elements

As often as I can, I steel myself against the elements to travel by foot. So much of the world is lost when viewed through a car window: the smell of winter coming, the softness or hardness of the ground, the sounds of other life forms--mutterings of sparrows and squirrels, the click click click of a bicylcle chain, phrases of small children.

Today I took a different way home, a path through the MaryWoods behind the Mother House, which snaked along a creek and over a wooden bridge. Longer, but more interesting...papery layer of ice balanced on the water, frosted mud crunching under my feet like rice crispies.

When I came inside, I pressed my tongue between my teeth and the inside of my lower lip to find that the pocket had been refrigerated by the air outside. I am becoming the elements!

Twenty One

How do I explain why I won't be drinking on my 21st birthday?

It's not that I morally object to alcohol.

I'm not opposed to the consumption of the brain-altering barbiturate, in moderate doses.

I probably won't spend my whole life, or even my 21st year, abstaining from this substance.

But today, the day on which I have been offered free booze from basic strangers, I will not be drinking.

Call it a "sit-out," a sort of protest in objection to the way society pushes alcohol. It's a cure-all and an instant entertainer. It's a magical elixer that erases stress and manufactures happiness. It's a requirement for social interaction.

If I had to choose one person with whom to drink a birthday toast, I think it would be my friend Holly. She knows me well enough to grasp, intuitively, that getting trashed would not be exciting or enjoyable, and would not question or attempt to change my point of view. Instead, she would understand the significance of the drink--a symbol of the passage from one stage into another, the celebration of this continued journey to maturity.

But today, I will drink life as a toast. I will perceive with utmost alertness the surprise of streamers fluttering in my doorway, a rose floating on my windowsill, a room with filled with the glow of candles and celebration prayers.

Relaxed, happy, silly in my own skin. Sober.

Poetry Hall of Fame

Tomorrow, my birthday, I will be inducted into Lambda Iota Tau, or LIT, the national honors society for English majors and minors (or Writing Minors, in my case).

Sr. Kathi has dubbed this The Poetry Hall of Fame, which is deceiving, since I may be the only one out of the three inducted this month to read poetry at the event. And even if my poetry was really terrible (which some bigwig at the LIT office five states away might think it is), it wouldn't matter, because admission is based on GPA, not writing quality.

But "Poetry Hall of Fame" has a good ring to it, and Sr. Kathi's enthusiasm flatters me. I think I'll keep it.

First Flesh

After a solid six years, I have decided to start eating meat again.

Last night I ate three bites of chicken. My body seemed to tolerate this first flesh, although its texture was oddly foreign in my mouth.

It's not officially the first meat I've eaten after six purely meatless years. I've tolerated bits of pepperoni stuck under pizza cheese, sampled meat dishes served to me by well-meaning hosts, and surely consumed a large amount of beef fat and chicken base disguised in Taco Bell burritos and Wege soups.

But it was the first meat I ate intentionally--on purpose, for the sake of eating it. The first time I relinquished my self-specified identity as a Vegetarian.

And who am I now? An ordinary meat eater, I suppose, at least for the next few months. One Who Eats Turkey at Thanksgiving. One Who Seeks Not to Be Seen as a Picky Eater in Another Country.

As for this summer, when I return from Costa Rica?

It's probably back to the Boca burgers for me.

On the Desk of President Balog

Adam Hii and I wrote this yesterday, and today Adam got it into Balog's hands. It's on the agenda for his Cabinet meeting tomorrow.

I will keep my expectations low. It's something to do, to console myself I'm not just sitting on my hands. I will not let my voice be silenced, even if I must speak the red tape language of bureaucratic institutions.

But when I'm 90 and this finally goes through, I'm throwing a party.

Proposal to enhance the Aquinas College non-discrimination policy:

Aquinas College, a community rooted in the Catholic commitment to human dignity, embodies a diverse population of students and staff. Currently, the Aquinas College non-discrimination policy appearing in the student handbook and the Course Catalog does not protect against all forms of discrimination. In order to demonstrate value for all those who attend, live, and work at Aquinas, we encourage the expansion of the current non-discrimination policy to address gender, gender identity and sexual orientation. The changes we propose aim to promote a more inclusive and safe environment for all members of this community. Many other Catholic universities acknowledge the importance of protecting gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender students and staff. The three colleges collaborating with Aquinas through the Dominican exchange program—Barry University, St. Thomas Aquinas College, and Dominican University—include gender, gender identity and sexual orientation in their non-discrimination policies. Adopting these changes, in keeping with the example set by our partner schools, will solidify Aquinas' commitment to diversity and inclusion.

Megachurch Mystic

Who knew my latest prayer practice, an ancient no-frills form of meditation, would be touted by Modern Megachurch Mars Hill?

Centering prayer is a form of imageless, nearly wordless focus. Breathing slowly, per meditative practice, one silently repeats a name of God (or a phrase, such as "Be still"), examines distractions that arise, and then releases them. The practice can be simultaneously calming and energizing.

Although Rob Bell did not lead his hundreds of followers in centering prayer, he mentioned it several times and opened the sermon with an exercise that scraped its surface, a high-tech multi-media introduction to the rudiments of meditation. Using a "breathing belt" to track the rate of his breaths on a video screen, Bell reduced his audience's breathing pace from the typical American's 20 breaths per minute to 6.

Breathe in.

Wait.

Breathe out.

Alive

Last night, the rain softened the silver bark of the beech trees to brown skin.

This morning, I saw three live giants bending and stretching outside AB--like humans, only more alive.

"a moment so long-drawn-out all time pauses"

When you take a minute--five, ten, twenty minutes--to stop everything and become connected with yourself, with God, with the universe, Time stretches out and expands.

When I use those twenty minutes I might spend aimlessly wandering Facebook or staring at my books thinking, "I should start that paper," to focus, really focus--everything else becomes easier to focus on.

When I center myself, things tend to fall into place.

Cento: A Poetry Experiment

The Cento is an ancient form of poetry collage in which one selects lines from existing poems and cobbles them together to create a whole new poem.

I admit, my poet ego was a tiny bit offended at the idea of writing a poem without any of my own words in it. Plus, after years of anti-plagiarism propaganda pounded into my head by various teachers, it was weird to be handed an assignment actually encouraging me to rip off other writers.

But it was a fun experiment, and all you English geeks out there should give it a go.

Here's what I came up with:

The Meaning of Life (our assigned topic)

A favorite child:
a kid skipping rope
in the sun,
singing out within the passing crash of the sun.

Running out in the snow for the morning paper,
potatoes for breakfast,
ten cents.

Pillowcases and blue jeans,
that red shirt,
that printed dress you had,
those glowing socks.

The same person in two places,
two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

The very rare green deer,
the horses who moaned like oceans,
a kind lion,
flank of a tiger in mid-leap.

The black birds at gravesites,
one black-haired tree
talking in the wind,
a hundred wheels tearing like time.
The words broken bones,
jagged stories of storms—
our common fear.

A diamond blind in the black belly of coal,
how a diamond comes into a knot of flame.

The ongoing drone of a star—
blue-white delight—
sacred and anonymous.
Tidal creeks sweeping out to sea,
this old, beautiful ritual,
a moment so long-drawn-out all time pauses.

Your breath inside its own hollows,
full of vaporous hope.



(Each line comes from a different poem. In order, they are: "The Earth is a Living Thing"-Lucille Clifton, "The Base Stealer"-Robert Francis, "Beer Bottle"-Ted Kooser, "Coal"-Audre Lorde, "The God Who Loves You"-Carl Dennis, "Green Chile"-Jimmy Santiago Baca, "Small Wire"-Anne Sexton, "After Polio"-Scott Hightower, "Power"-Corrine Hales, "On the Table"-Andrew Motion, "Ode to My Socks"-Pablo Neruda/tr. Robert Bly, "Explaining a Husband"-Alberto Ross, "The River Merchant's Wife: A Letter-Rihaku/tr. Ezra Pound, "Ode to My Socks" again, "Ice Horses"-Joy Harjo, "Sekhmet, the Lion-headed Goddess of War"-Margaret Atwood, "Green Chile" again, "Relations"-?, "The Starry Night"-Anne Sexton, ?, "Power" again, "Heft"-Richard Jones, "IX, part 6"-Jimmy Santiago Baca, "Theology"-Tara Bray, "The Earth is a Living Thing" again, "Coal" again, "The Deaf Dancing to Rock"-Liesel Mueller, "Silenced"-Tara Bray, "Unholy Sonnet"-Mark Jarman, "If Only"-John Balaban, "Green Chile" again, "The Bay at West Falmouth"-Barbara Howes, "Portrait"-Pattiann Rogers, "The Best Cigarette"-Billy Collins).

PMS: Pretty Much Stressed

Major upset: I misplaced my mitten.

During a day packed with classes, I found myself racing back and forth between campus and the Fort...no time for lunch, late to class, forgot to save a file on my flash drive.

Then, as I was about to head home for the final time, I reached my hand into my righthand pocket and found it empty of the righthand mitten that resides there.

Panic.

Why is it that I can't keep track of my belongings? It should be simple thing. Mittens, for instance: most people graduate from their mom clipping mittens to their sleeves after age eight.

But there I was at 5:45 pm, late for dinner at the Fort, frantically retracing the last three hours of my steps. Classroom, hallway, stairwell, lobby, classroom, stairwell, classroom. After the fourth time I obsessively scrutinized the floor of my Journalism classroom, eyeballs ricocheting like pinballs at a speed too frenzied to register any coherent object, I was nearly in tears.

Why cry over a mitten?

First of all, because it's not just any mitten. It's MY mitten, my toasty warm beautiful mitten, and part of the only pair I have aside from a some well-loved gloves with holes growing in the fingertips. Second, because it's part of the recently-cursed winter ensemble I meticulously assembled before my first year of college: high tech brands at brilliant clearance prices. Now, the hat and coat have disappeared in a manner of weeks, and all I have left are the mittens.

By the time I made it to the third floor of the Academic Building, I was nearly hyperventilating (granted, this may have been more a product of running up three flights of stairs than of my increasing anxiety and frustration). But when I stormed into the Computer Lab, coming unglued, there it lay, limply upturned where it had fallen from my pocket, illuminated by a pool of light from heaven.

I snatched it up, pulled it on, chastised my mitten and myself, and headed back to the Fort for a drink.

My beverage of choice in times of stress?

Chocolate milk.

We never buy it--I'm sure no one else in the house is that keen on it, and I believe it too frivolous to request on the shopping list. But there in the refrigerator when I finally reached home, was a half-gallon on the first shelf, waiting for me.

Unprepared

My shoes--Merrells I got for $8 at Mel Trotter five years ago--have holes in them.

I lost my waterproof coat.

And my warm winter hat.

Oh, snow.

No.

Where's the logic behind this one?

Fun fact of the day: 64% of Republicans polled Friday say they would support Sarah Palin for President in 2012.

Although I could probably come up with some psychological justifications for this overwhelmingly odd response, I am still left with one question:

What?

I Helped a Ham Hank

Helped out at the YWCA crisis center today. After getting a tour of the house and learning everything there is to know about the domestic violence shelter there, we got to work. We were, of course, behind the scenes: sorting clothes, breaking down boxes, and organizing the freezer. I helped coral ham hanks from chicken chunks and ice cream bars. All the pork steaks are piled in one area now. I think they'll be happy together.

XO: Hugs and Kisses to a Lovely Friday Out

Jon and I went to XO Asian Cuisine yesterday after hearing it mentioned all around. I was very pleased with the ambiance and, more so, with the green curry, which Audria suggested in Journalism. Nice and spicy, sweet and coconuty, and I enjoyed mushrooms for the first time (shitake!).

We hopped into Little Bohemia after dinner to visit Clark, their cash register cat. As usual, I only allowed myself to eyeball the fun shoes and hats and other artsy things...easier on the budget.

Overall, it was a charming evening on Monroe Center.

Dangling Modifiers

We saw two rattlesnakes driving through the desert.

(The adaptive vehicle allowed them to steer with their tails.)

Election Logic

If McCain / Palin wins = Kyla moves to Canada,
then does Obama / Biden wins = Rush Limbaugh moves to Canada?

No...the equation does not seem so tightly parallel. Sister Kathi suggests a modification:
Obama / Biden wins = Rush Limbaugh moves to Iran.

She's getting him a one-way ticket for Christmas, before he can make any comments that might get her golden boy pres elect assassinated.

Besides, she says, he'll be more comfortable there.

Dwain Reynolds the Third

A kid from my hometown is running for State Board of Ed. Qualifications? Day care teacher, and a degree in progress at Western.

But I voted for him. For old times sake. For the times he jacked off in Intro Spanish and theater rehearsal. For the day he pronouced the word epitome "ep-i-tohm."

Because he's running with the Green Party and probably won't make it anyway. Because I wasn't brave enough to write in a candidate for the Big Shot spot. Because I voted even though I have no faith in the governmental system.

What the hell. Go Dwain.

Advertising Ethics

"Attend one of the most open-hearted, open-minded colleges in America."

This is the slogan that greeted me on the Aquinas website when I logged out of my school e-mail account today...

...plastered, no less, next to Jeeps' sunbathed face, a guy who still couldn't get my name right after we both worked as RAs for a year. And I'm pretty sure this whitebread kid is not the shining example of open-mindedness.

I know, I know--tell that to the webpage designer or the marketing specialist. Who cares about Jeeps' personal diversity ethic.

But what about Aquinas?

Maybe if the tagline read, "one of the most open-minded private colleges in West Michigan"...

But in America?

Sure, one could amass a list of institutions that are far more snobbish, bigoted, and single-minded. Just look up any Ivy League school, or take a drive down the East Beltline, for that matter.

And I did originally come to Aquinas because it seemed so much more welcoming than some of these.

But in light of recent events, a new policy, and a diversity statement with glaring silences, I'm not so sure. This statement, with which I once might have mildly agreed, now seems to whitewash the truth, to carry a hidden seed of hypocrisy I find unsettling.

Philanthropy

Today I sat in a room with a twelve year old and made silly faces at her for an hour.

Yes, my volunteer hours will change the world.

Fatalistic

Talking to people in the army about our country's wars always makes me wonder whether we really live in a democracy or are just very well brainwashed.

My friend tells me his unit is packing up and pulling out of Iraq in the next two months. He also is certain his next deployment, within the next few years, will be to Afghanistan.

If the military is already planning the course of these never ending wars, how meaningful is all this debate about it? How much of a mystery is it, really?

I have a feeling that people in politics, when they are debating something like diplomatic strategy, already know how it's going to go down. They may make it seem like they're not sure what will happen--they say they'll do this or that if such and such does end up happening--and then, when that day comes: oops, Iran DID move its left pinky finger; guess we'll have to bomb everyone to hell. Surprise! But that was the plan all along.

So what's the use? We The People don't really have any say, unless you count Big Business as a people. Maybe the only reason Bush was such a bad president is that his disguise slipped and we realized what government has been all along.

Voting pacifies the masses.

And will I vote?

Yes. God bless Democracy.

Going Back

This weekend I return to my hometown--not just to say hello to my dog or sleep in my childhood bed, but to reunite with old friends. After two and a half years of being away (and skulking around the smalltown grocery trying not to be seen on my short visits back), it's the first time I return for this purpose.

I will attend a hometown gathering, a sort of informal high school reunion. A bonfire. Most of the people who will be there are probably people I don't know or care to see.

However, since it is being held in honor of a formerly close friend on leave from the fabulous Armed Forces, I will attend. I will smile, stand around, and leave.

In between, I hope to reach through the crowd swarming around this year-absent man and touch the hem of his garment. Perhaps some small charge of recognition will go out from his clothes, and our malnourished friendship will get up and walk.

But how much going back can one do, really?

Well Endowed

I went to a poetry reading last night at Grand Valley's downtown campus. Two famous poets--Paul Muldoon, an Irish rocker, and Natasha Tretheway, born in the South to parents prohibited to marry in Mississippi--read fantastic poems, told jokes, and shared wisdom.

The highlight?

Refreshments afterward. Open bar (of which I did not partake, but which my classmates enjoyed), assorted cheeses (not just cubes of cheddar and moterrey, but smoked gouda, fresh mozz, and baby swiss), strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, and tiny plates of berries and honey drenched lemon pastry with tiny matching forks.

Here's to big schools with big money: oh, to be well-endowed.

Frozen River

So instead seeing of Hair last night, I ended up going to Frozen River, an indie film about two women who smuggle illegal immigrants into the U.S. from Canada via a river on the border. It was suspenseful, thought-provoking, and somewhat hopeful at the end (although, like all good indie films, it did not wrap up into a neat conclusion). I reccommend seeing it.

One element I thought was most interesting was the comparison of the Native American and United States justice systems. The smugglers, both single mothers seeking desperately to provide for their families, represent an unlikely collision of two worlds: the Mohawk reservation and rural White New York.

Although the women are at first reluctant to work together, in the end they become interdependent and other members of their worlds begin to interact. At the end of the movie, a member of the Mohawk Tribal Council, which confronts crime on the Reservation, meets with the White woman's son, who deceived an elderly Mohawk woman to steal her credit card number. Instead of punishing him (as the U.S. justice system would do, with jail or some sort of fine), the council member acknowledged the teen's circumstances and provided the opportunity for him to meet the woman he had wronged and apologize.

This approach seems to have the same ideological underpinnings as the Restorative Justice model my friend Katherine recently introduced me to.

Behaviorist B.F. Skinner emphasizes that punishment is not the most effective way to change behavior. If that is the case, why do we favor punishment so much in our homes and court systems? Skinner proposes that punishment is rewarding to the punisher.

Retribution may be sweet, but in the end it does not satisfy, and it will not improve society.

Movie on a School Night

Tonight I will study sociology and history, immersing myself in a cultural phenomenon from before my time.

This intense study session will take place at Celebration Cinema, watching the 1979 movie Hair.

Forget my upcoming psychology exam or the poem I have been assigned to write about a one-armed man shoveling snow. Forget that I will not have time to focus on either of these things tomorrow, since all day I will be learning how to deescalate aggressive behaviors in group homes. Forget that I also ditched homework yesterday night to go bowling at The Clique downtown (not that it was for entertainment: I took my Insignis mentee; it was community service, I swear).

My studies can wait for Hair. This is a serious academic endeavor.

You're a Grammar Geek When...

You know you're an official Grammar Geek when you create a tree diagram to display the reduced relative clauses in all eight verses of the song "The Green Grass Grows All Around."

When you bring a guitar to your college grammar class to sing the song to your students--then...well, you're just a geek.

More power to you, Dr. Brooks. I sang along.

Seven Passages Film

Seven Passages: The Stories of Gay Christians debuted last October at Spectrum Theater. The play, written and produced by Calvin College professor Stephanie Sandberg, is based on hundreds of interviews with gay and lesbian people in West Michigan.

This year, Sandberg worked with eight actors to produce a film based on the same interviews. Unfortunately, I missed its screening this month at Celebration Cinema. Although I'd love to see the video, I don't have 30 bucks to throw down for it, which seems to me like an excessive amount for a DVD.

I also watched the trailer and wasn't that enthused. I really think it's meant to be performed onstage. At the Spectrum performance, Sandberg did a great job with the costumes and set, all of which were completely white, very simple. She integrated live video screens, which gave it a documentary feel. She also worked with the words of the scripture passages the play discusses: the projected words sometimes fell directly onto the actors, as if imprinting them. The stage allowed some distance from the actors, and since they rotated through many different characters, it also gave the voices some anonymity. The stories could belong to a friend, a brother, or even yourself.

The play, which is gradually debuting worldwide, has been performed at Western and is slated to appear at Grand Valley this January.

Why I Hate Vacation

Here's another mood recipe for the book:

Lack of routine = dismal mood.

At least for me, anyway. I guess I just can't handle unstructured time. I neither relax nor accomplish anything.

In addition to not having classes, Sr. Kathi was in Denver this week. When she's gone, I miss her presence and her conversation, but even more I miss her organization. She provides the momentum for all the gears of our community life to turn--prayer, meals, recreation... Without her, the Fort is just a hallway where I am coming and going. An amorphous empty space.

Now everything is back in place. Laundry is spinning in the dryer. The Regina Hall front desk is up and running again, and I worked my normal shift today, counting quarters and monitoring vacuum usage. With classes beginning tomorrow, deadlines once again have a motivating effect.

Bring on the 2nd Quad. All is well.

Mood Recipe

An article in the GR Press yesterday reported that raising the temperature of your hands--for instance, by holding a cup of something warm--tends to increase your warmth towards others. So, coffee dates are a good call.

What other environmental factors affect my emotional state? If it can be influenced so easily, perhaps I can concoct a recipe for the perfect mood. Never again will I put up with blue days or irritability...

To counteract 1 wet, grey October day, collect the following ingredients:
1 warm muffin
1 upbeat playlist
1 hilarious story by David Sedaris

Eat, dance, laugh, and try not to look outside...

Very Special Arts

Frosted graham crackers, clay tiles, popcorn shakers--kids kids kids!
Fun night at school.

Live Plensa

Jaume Plensa was very cool in person--that is, his sculptures were. After browsing through some of his work online, it was exciting to see his exhibit. I was disappointed that it didn't include the room of hanging letter poems, but one that we did enjoy was "Jerusalem," which features gongs inscribed with passages from Song of Songs...mostly because we were allowed not only to touch it, but to beat on it with a stick. Ah, the beauty of art.

Buddha Feet

Today, I pledge to be mindful of all things.

Too long have I lived in an intangible, pixelated universe of Word Documents and internet searches.

Today, I awake to the physical world around me. Instead of writing a to-do list, abstracting action, I will simply do.

I desire to feel everything. I seek to understand not just with my mind, but through my body.

Today, I meet the morning with bare feet:
Here is the quiet carpet in the hallway.
Here is the cold sement of the sidewalk.
Here is the damp, packed earth ready to freeze.
Here are the drops of night air clinging wet to my feet.
Here are the blades of grass warm in the sun.
Here are my feet, aching with cold.
Here is my body--in the air, in the sun, touching the earth.
Here am I.

Half-Pipped

Gay people are my favorite people.

I can't say why, really. Maybe because, I, like them, feel like a live-pipped sea turtle: stuck halfway out of my shell, present in this world but not quite part of it.

A gay home is the happiest thing. Photos of life partners arm-in-arm at 1 year, 5 years, 10 years crowd dressers and coffee tables like war medals on display.

It is the safest thing. Stacked and scattered in the open, books with titles like When I Knew, Becoming Visible, and The Gay Metropolis, books by David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs, books with pink covers and unabashed photo spreads, affirm the reality of their story--their ancestors, their struggle, their triumph, their love.

Two names on the mail. Arthritic pets. A son.
Lights strung on the deck for summer parties. Receipts piled on the dresser. Clothes mixed together in the closet.
All of this normality left neatly behind each morning, erased when the front door closes, tucked silently into a band on the fourth left finger (which no one asks about and is not mentioned)--because in the real world, it isn't normal. It's Unnatural, Unconstitutional, Unbiblical, Wrong.

It can be the saddest thing, as a secret. It is seen by the world as a shell that clings to the turtle's weak legs, dragging him down as he struggles through the sand.

But I know the true secret:
The world is a shell, and this love is the widest sea.

I Heart House Sitting

This weekend, my pet-deprived state will be remedied by two rolly-poly dogs and a queenly cat. I can't wait to watch Sarah Palin face Tina Fey on SNL with my new friends: Zoe, Bozz, and Jezebel.

Prop 2

If you haven't educated yourself on Proposal 2, I'll give you a short synopsis:

Today, in Michigan, parents seek the help of fertility clinics to have children. In vitro fertilization (IVF) is becoming more common--I happen to know quite a few "test tube" babies, and they're just as cute as the other ones.

However, many eggs fertilized during this process, which grow into embryos, cannot be implanted.

Guess what happens to them?

Extra embryos which are still viable are frozen and can be used for implantation at a later date, although not all of them survive the freezing and thawing process.

However, those considered inviable are simply disarded (down the drain).

Although these embryos are not healthy enough to be implanted into a woman's womb and grow into a child, they are still valuable to the search for alternative treatments of spinal cord injuries, Parkinson's, diabetes, and more.

Proposal 2 would simply allow PARENTS another option: donating these embryos to scientific research. Again, the parents decide what happens to their embryos.

To me, the answer seems obvious. I believe this fits into a "pro-life" perspective: this life, which would otherwise be "allowed to die" with no ceremony, could instead be given a purpose and contribute to the greater good.

Either way, know what the proposal is about before you vote next month. It's not about money, it doesn't allow cloning, and it's no different than the laws in 45 other U.S. states.

Irreversible

I'm so used to the "undo" button, erasable pencil lead, second chances.

But when something dies it is dead. I am learning this.

And when you say something, it is said. You can't take it back. Oh, you can say other things on top of it, try to bury it in phrases of regret, but it's still right there underneath everything.

And if what you say kills something, causes death, that can't be undone either.

It all happens so fast, warm breath on a snowflake and everything has changed--
The melted drops are splattered all over the floor, and I can't hold them.

Art from Art

My grandma directed me to The Bittersweet Art of Cutting Up Books, a cool web posting about recycled book art of all varieties, from functional shelves and lamps to aesthetic sculptures. As a lover of books and of art, I was impressed.

Here are a few of my favorites:

Mystical books come to life in the hands of Cara Barer.














Brain Dettmer dissects books to reveal their organs and inner workings in his "Altered States" project.
















These functional "boeklampen" light up the room. You can get your own for 300 euros from Dutch BomDesign, which also offers other unique items crafted from recycled materials.
















And finally, a project in which no books were harmed: Chris Cobb arranged a bookstore in San Francisco by color.

Ode to Ordinary Things

Here are the things which I am celebrating today:

mailboxes with letters inside
dark chocolate wrapped in foil
the kitchen table at the Fort
warm beds
beech trees
Michigan apples
my bike
good books
grilled cheese
recliner chairs

Could financial aid harm retention rates?

When almost our whole journalism class raised our hands to say our decision to come to Aquinas was based on financial aid, I started thinking about how this might affect campus culture. If AQ wasn't your first choice, but you're here because it's the easiest to afford, how long can you stay here wondering if you've sold out?

When I worked in ResLife last year, retention was a buzz word. It still jumps out at me, and I've heard a lot about various efforts at AQ aimed to increase retention: the new midterm grades, more funding for student research, etc. Even though the college boasts bigger and bigger incoming classes each year, the number shrinks significantly with drop-outs and transfers. As a junior, I've passed the pivotal two-year mark, but a lot of people I know didn't. Several of my friends transfered, and more have a move in mind.

I, too, have probed the pros and cons of transferring, although I decided the game of chance wasn't worth the effort (or the risk of being unhappy somewhere else). For the most part, Aquinas lacks the academic rigor I crave. It's not diverse, in terms of ethnicity or worldview--it's filled with preppy white kids (and un-preppy white kids, like me), and even the few international students here try to blend in.

So why did I come here in the first place?

First of all, for a program I didn't end up studying in. High schoolers get so much pressure to decide on their career before they even apply to college. Scholarship applications ask what you will major in. If you're thinking of something obscure, you have to apply to schools that have that option.

I was planning a career in special ed. Now, I'm shooting for a related field, but it's landed me in a psychology department with a total of two (2) full-time profs and no research resources, which may make getting into grad school (the required Next Step if I really want to practice clinical psych) a tricky task.

And what was it that clinched my decision to stay at Aquinas?

The money. Why transfer somewhere else when I can graduate for free?

But for many, the benefits of leaving outweigh the cost. More interesting classes. Better resources. A well-known name. Profs with contacts. More unique program areas. A diverse social climate.

Students who decide on a school because of the money, sacrificing their more important hopes and dreams, are more likely to leave eventually.

So. Is it really great that Aquinas offers so many scholarships, such an abundance of financial aid? In the end, does it help or hurt?

S U!

A week or two ago, the provost informed faculty (without asking for input) that they are required to sift through student work before Fall Break and submit midterm grades. No, not grades--that might actually be useful information--just a letter: S for Satisfactory, or U for Unsatisfactory. "S U!" some faculty have replied, refusing to post the grade.

The letter, posted on CourseConnect, indicates whether you have a chance of passing the class in the last eight weeks of the semester. What percent of a chance? 100%? 50%? No way to know.

The move could encourage profs to do some overdue grading, or maybe it will just make them crabby. Apparently it's aimed to improve retention, with the idea that it will keep students from flunking out.

To drop or not to drop--freshpeople get warning letters if they're flunking a class, but don't you upperclassmen have a sense of when you're in over your head?

What do you think? Is the S/U worth it?

Float: Part 2

Spent yesterday afternoon rafting down White River. No white water, as its name would suggest, just big logs to ignore and get stuck on...too lazy to paddle around in the first place, but expending more energy in the end.

With temps in the 70s, it was a pretty peachy day. Last year in October, we were ankle-deep in snow. Won't it be a Monday when the weather changes for good.

Nunless

Sister Kathi is in Kentucky for a conference, and I miss her. No one to watch "The Office" with on Thursday night. No one one to stay up for Tina Fey tomorrow.

And which nun will eat my Coming Out Day cookies?

Come On Out for Coming Out Day

National Coming Out Day is officially this Saturday, but festivities begin tonight. Stop by the Moose at 8:30 to hear (or share) stories of coming out. Tomorrow afternoon, come out through an archway in the Wege Mall and grab a ribbon to support GLBT friends or family. In the evening, hit up the Regina lounge for a movie to wrap up the day.

Whether you're gay, straight, or somewhere in between, the day is for everyone. Celebrate being yourself!

No Controversy Over Controversial Issues Policy?

On Monday, the new policy concerning "controversial" events on campus was unveiled.

So far, I have heard no outcry, but perhaps few have slogged all the way through the policy's vague, legal wording, or have missed, among procedural tedium, its broader implications.

Here's the line that sent up a red flag for me:
"...such controversial issues are to be engaged during, prior to, or subsequent to, the presentation, in light of Catholic teachings..."

The hammer comes down. No ifs, ands, or buts. Doesn't matter what the topic is. The discussion must include religion.

I had a problem with this last year during the Corvino controversy, and I still do. What will this entail? A religious authority coming in as a kind of tag line...there's a lot of gray in this issue, but here's what you should believe? That was what was proposed with Corivino.

I suppose that at least with some forewarning of this requirement, the event planners will at least be allowed to choose who represents Catholic teaching and how.

I'm curious to see it in action, and I wonder what its first test run will be.

In the meantime, I'm still pushing for protection of gay students on campus, another necessary action made obvious last year by the Corvino event. Sexual orientation and gender identity remain conspicuously absent from our non-discrimination policy.

Change

These days balance on a tipping point, wavering between two seasons, ready to spill any moment into change.

I'm stewing in an odd contemplative funk this week, some kind of melancholy longing. Nostalgia.

Maybe it's the weather.

I heart dysfunctional psych profs

Meek, shuffling, soft-spoken Dr. Frayman was lecturing on learning theory yesterday when he chose to offer a personal anecdote related to the material. This in itself was surprising, since he usually sticks to the text of vague overheads displayed on a rusting projector.

As an example of the concept that one behavior can reinforce another behavior, Frayman described how he motivates himself to grade papers. After grading three papers, he said, he allows himself to listen to two songs on the stereo in his office.

"Of course," he added, "when I'm at home, I reward myself with a shot of Jack Daniels."

The only downside to this reinforcer is that he has to go back and correct papers he graded after the second or third shot.

Frayman wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. "I think I have a notice in my file somewhere stating that I'm not allowed to use this grading method on campus.

"Something about role-modeling."

But role-modeling is a form of observational learning, and that would be an entirely different lecture.

Harvey-7, Kyla-3

I played "Apples to Apples" with a dog and lost.

Harvey, a Paws with a Cause service dog, scored seven points to my three, choosing his cards gently with his teeth.

I am the ultimate failure.

The Gals in KZoo

My favorite musical lesbians will be onstage tonight, and I'll be right there in the audience.

After 20 years of growing up with The Indigo Girls, my mom blasting their folk-rock guitar sound in the car while she chaperoned school field trips, or burning nag champa incense to their sweet harmonies in our house, I finally will see them in concert.

When I taught myself to play the guitar, their "Closer to Fine" was one of the first songs I mastered, and it's still one of my favorites to play. This summer, I jammed to the bold proclamations of feminism and social justice in "Pendulum Swinger."

Tonight, I'm excited to hear some of their newer stuff, but I hope they throw in some oldies-but-goodies, a few picks from the early 90s...those were the days.

Rach On!

I don't get into sporting events, but watching Garrick Ohlsson play Rachmaninoff's Concerto No. 3 was kind of like one: my awe at his physical stamina and technical skill may be similar to the way you gush over your favorite quarterback or worship swimming master Michael Phelps. The mouth gaped open, the impulse to cheer..."Yes!" "Oh my God!" "Did you see that?"

Ohlsson deserved his standing O. He dominated the piano in a way I could never dream of.

Skeltonic

Caribou Barbie Shoots to Kill

If Palin wins
and sweetly grins
I’m out of here
to the stratosphere.
I’ll buy you a beer
to take me away
across the border;
I can’t afford her
ruining my name,
a woman the same
as her, but not—
I know it’s hot
from global warming,
not God’s love forming
a giant hug.
So pull the rug
from under her feet
before we eat
the marrow and meat
of caribou
that look just like you!

It's Here

I declare that it is officially Fall.
Not because of the steely skies or sudden drop in temp.
No--because today, shuffling through leaves, I smelled it.

I am an All-Terrain Vehicle

I am an all-terrain vehicle. I go where no bike, no truck, no self-respecting SUV can go.

I climb steps, tiptoe down slopes, jump over creeks. I step easily over cracks in the sidewalk, blaze through undergrowth in the backwoods, breeze with grace over grass.

I compute the location of obstacles and avoid them, follow bends in the road, step down at curbs.

No robot, no computer, no oil-fueled wheel-restricted vehicle, can do what I do so effortlessly.

Gay Project Gets Going

When I am working on a project, I focus. It consumes me--my time, my energy, and my concentration--until its completion.

I've started collecting data for my independent research project, and now it's real. The key was in the ignition before, but now sparks have been released and I'm peeling out, full throttle.

Yes. One subject down, fifty-five to go.

Let's Teach Old Lies!

Conservatives want to take university education backward, proposing Western-centric curriculum based on the classics and the "triumphs" of America's history.

Financial backers of the initiative believe that universities have been corrupted by upsetting liberal ideas such as multiculturalism and America's history of oppression.

In institutions structured around the concept that it's all about You--your choices, your interests, your talents, your career--a focus on the rest of the world provides some balance. I consider it unfortunate that only the Honors section of Humanities here at Aquinas incorporates a variety of non-Western literature. College should broaden one's perspective, not narrow it.

Universities shouldn't be about spoon-feeding students an ideology--conservative, liberal, or otherwise. My favorite class at Aquinas so far has been Doc Durham's "World in Crisis," an intro to international relations I took during my first semester here. Although Doc's views are evident during his lectures through the material he selects, the books he assigns, and the direction in which he steers discussion, his most important lesson to students is to think critically. He challenges students to question everything he says and to research their own views.

To me, that's more education than any reading list can offer.

(more info in today's edition of the Press or at the NY Times online)

Big O Overload

If you haven't been to Big O's on Ottawa downtown, get on the bus or hop on your bike (or, if you must, turn on your car) and go! It's a laidback local place in a cool spot, set a little below the street in a restored meat-packing building that was part of original Grand Rapids.

And when you go, get the breadsticks.

But don't eat too many. After 3.5 cheese-filled breadsticks plus 2 pieces of four-cheese pizza with garlic plus 1 brownie a la mode, my gut took revenge.

Ohhh, it was worth it!

Donate Your Life to Science...

Can one truly love the sinner and hate the sin? Is there a difference between a gay guy and the gay lifestyle?

Want to help me find out?

Donate 20 minutes of your life to the cause...it's pain-free, I promise! I'm studying the relationship between religious personality and attitudes towards homosexuality.

Here's what you'd do: Brave the AB Dungeon (aka basement) and come on out to our current psych lab, which may look like a maintenance closet, because that's mainly what it's being used for. Then complete a survey and a computerized matching task. Presto: science. Count it as volunteer hours or chalk it up to karma.

If you're interested in helping out, nab me before or after class sometime next week. Both staff and students are welcome, espcially those who value faith/religion/spirituality.

If you want to hear the results, stay tuned in December.

Naughty Puppets

I'm going to see Avenue Q at DeVos tonight. I heard from a friend that some of the jokes have fizzled like damp fireworks over a conservative West Michigan crowd.

Maybe they should install some canned laughter in the back...or offer free tickets to the college crowd. Yeah. That's a marketing stragety I could go for.

School is a snake eating its tail

The education process sometimes feels...might I say...repetetive. I'm stuck in this cycle of beginnings and endings, which are never really endings afterall. I graduate from kindergarten, eighth grade, high school, et cetera, only to re-enroll and start all over again come August.

I started my college search early, investigating options as a 9th grader (although Aquinas never crossed my mind until senior year, and even then, it was an unlikely pick). But still, my search was finished by that November. By then, I never wanted to see another college brochure, take another standardized test, or list my volunteer activities on one more form.

Now, it's starting all over again.

Float

My motivation has fizzled into apathy. I have been pressing ahead, getting up at 8am on Saturdays to read textbooks and churn out poetry before walking to work for 8 hours of folding laundry, washing bodies, serving casseroles, and passing pills.

I am running out of steam, and it's only September. I'm a sprinter. I don't run marathons.

And why use my legs? I'd rather float. I'll dream my way from class to class. I'll be a dream.
I'm growing thin around the edges, fuzzy, out of focus, and soon you won't see me.

I'll be the memory of sleep. The warm-bread smell of sun. The lazy breath of wind.

I'll let the end of summer soak me up, and when it leaves this week, I'll go with it, wherever the gone things go: the mysterious way of lost socks, unspoken words, and faded days.

My Pastor's Name is Sigur Ros

I believe that church should be based in community. I don't like traditional church hierarchy. I don't think it's healthy for a faith group to be represented by a single person: Pastor, Priest, Head Honcho, etc. Even trendy "Preaching Teams" create an us/them mentality. Not only is this divide disempowering, it breeds stagnancy. Some people are the spoon feeders and the rest of us consume.

So why was I so unnerved last night when, at my church, no Head Honcho stood up to deliver a neat, compact "Message"?

The evening's food for thought was far from concrete. Instead of getting answers, we got questions. A bunch of them. From a bunch of different voices.

On top of that, we soaked up a music video from Sigur Ros, the band with their own beautiful and mysterious language. Talk about ambiguity.

At first it was like being thrown into the deep end without my swimmies.

But after letting this radical new concept nibble gently away at the tradition to which I subconsciously cling, I like the idea. Church isn't about one guy (or gal, if your church is that daring) handing out answers.

It's all of us, together, on a great and frightening quest.

Inventory

Living Situation: Benincasa, House of Discernment

Name: Of Italian origin. Literally "house of welcome." The surname of St. Catherine of Siena, Dominican Saint.

Location: -Marywood Campus, home of the Grand Rapids Dominican Sisters
-Aquinata Hall, former nursing home for elderly nuns, connected to other Marywood buildings by a series of underground tunnels
-Fort Benincasa, a 10-bdrm hallway in Aquinata with magnetic locking doors. Keys necessary both to enter and to exit. Includes two lockable suites for psychiatric patients and a pharmacy where we store our Hamburger Helper and Cream of Broccoli soup.

Residents: 2 and 1/2 nuns:
-one fan of basketball, beer, and free software downloads from the internet,
recently relocated to Goshen, Indiana to teach at a Mennonite College
-one bubbly and highly political Obama supporter who enjoys camping, Skip Bo, and
talking to strangers
-one enigma who has moved in rugs and a dust-covered keyboard but not yet her
body

1 Aquinas Alum, currently enrolled at U of M online, who loves to bike and hates all social interaction
1 non-Catholic Aquinas student, figuring out what in the world to do with her life
1 fiber optic angel named Angelica

Community Activities: Praying in our La-Z-Boy recliners, eating blueberry pancakes, biking around Reed's Lake, stealing tomatoes, bowling in the hallway, watching SNL.

Mission Statement: Women will one day rule the world!

A Soul of Words

In my History of Psych class, we've been reading about early science-philosophers who searched to find a physis: the element which composes life.

Heraclitus said fire. Thales said water. Hippocrates described four humors. Democritus proposed the atom.

But I think Jaume Plensa, contemporary Spanish sculptor whose work is displayed at the Frederik Meijer Gardens, is the closest.

What is life?

Words.

OBSESSION

Mysterious Clarion Fund drops undisclosed amount of cash to insert hate/scare DVD in over 70 papers nationwide. Bloggers have been searching the net for info on the Clarion Fund, since they provide incredibly little on their website.

I finally got around to watching this feature-length film delivered with the GR Press last week. Obsession: Radical Islam's War Against the West pretends to be a balanced, educational look at terrorism throughout the world, voicing disclaimers that most Muslims are peaceful people and even including Islamic spokespeople in the video.

However, the voice-over does little to deter the psychological effect of the movie, which constantly juxtaposes images of ordinary Muslims at prayer with seething crowds of radical extremists burning American flags or blowing up buildings. (The majority of this footage, by the way, is dated after the U.S. invaded Iraq in 2003).

Like all propaganda, Obsession encourages suspicion and fear. One "expert" in the movie warned that it is difficult to know exactly how many Muslims hold anti-American beliefs. With billions of Muslims worldwide, it is surely a dangerous number.

In a particularly revealing line in the movie, Itamar Marcus of the Palestinian Media Watch states, "[T]he purpose of the Islamists' propaganda is to make the people angry, fearful against the West, to be willing to fight them."

Obsession eerily mirrors this intention.

Author Steve Almond: Just a guy

So today I met the Candy Guy and he signed my book.

For a comedian of sorts, sections of Steve Almond's writing can be downright depressing. Black moods of loneliness and self-loathing seep in between zany descriptions and politically-packed zingers.

He managed to be just as depressing in person as he is on paper.

But at least he's honest.

Not all writers are willing to enumerate their countless rejections by magazines and book publishers. Not all human beings are willing to admit that they have been confused or depressed or lonely in long stretches.

I think that's what's attractive about Almond. He holds nothing back, or at least he convinces his audience he's letting it all hang out. He tells all, even what we didn't ask to know, as the title of his latest collection of short stories, (Not That You Asked), acknowledges. He exposes himself for our benefit. His brutal introspection dredges up questions we've avoided facing.

Maybe he's a little egocentric. Maybe he's arrogant. Perhaps it is true that he called his students at Boston College names like "whore" and "goatf*cker"...before he quit teaching in protest of Condoleeza Rice's recent guest appearance at the school.

(As an interesting sidenote, while he was teaching, he offered extra credit to students who gave him mix CDs... Rob, what is it with writing profs bribing students for music?)

We like to think that writers are quirky and eccentric, infinitely more interesting than ourselves. And maybe some of them are. But they're real people too.

Yeah, Steve Almond is a published writer (which, for unpublished writers, is pretty big stuff). But maybe he's just a guy. Some guy who started as a journalist at a paper in Texas, who writes because he likes it. Somebody who spends twelve hours a day staring at a blank screen or writing bad sentences before he writes something good.

You could do that.

[See Steve Almond read tonight at 7:30 in the Wege Ballroom.
Visit his website here.]

Hurricane: A Hard Birth

Hidden in the woods, a creek presses against its banks. It swells like a pregnant woman: ankles puffed up like balloons, veins ready to burst. The earth tosses back damp hair, grits her teeth. Water pushes up from underground to meet the sky, bursts over dams, rushes forth from every corner, swirling in muddy eddies of meconium and blood.

In Cuba, the sea rises to swallow a wooden house. In Texas, the highway disappears. That long black scar in the earth is erased, smoothed out into a gray field of tree limbs, guard rails, and mud. In Michigan, two men paddle through roads turned to rivers, canoe slipping smoothly beneath a red light. In India, the earth is a lotus flower floating on the sea, constantly created and destroyed.

We have tumbled out naked and dazed, tossed headfirst into the blinding sun. It is quiet now. Blinking, we hug our cold, bloody bodies and long for home.

Hello

(She said hello. I said hi first, not slowing, not stopping, to warn her I was coming down the steep stair hill. She was halfway up and halfway down, her back to me, bleached blonde hair hunched down, cigarette pointing out like an arrow.)

"Hi," I say, and she looks up as I march down the steps, an object in motion.

"Hello," she says as I pass. "How are you?"

"Good, thanks." No time for reciprocal small talk. I've got the beat. There's a song playing in my head and my feet stomp out, dance out, stride out the beat. Past the playground, past the cars, past the sticky smashed pears rotting on the sidewalk, past the lady smoking on the steps.

"You scared me," she calls, not giving up. "I thought you were a big squirrel."

She lets out a little burst of nicotine-charged laughter, quick and bunchy. I laugh too, without looking back. I imagine her sucking a little on her cigarette and peering at me as I charge away. There's music in my head and my feet must follow. Tap, tap, tap down the steps, breaking into long strides when I hit the bottom.

She laughs.

"A very tall squirrel at that!"

Moving Day

It's back through the tunnels to the Fort tonight. No longer will I be forced to live in luxury. Tomorrow, I'll have to cook again. Rats.

Sister Nancy, founder of AQ Women Studies program

Lunch with the nuns--a cafeteria.

Sr. Theresa: I taught kindergarten and then I was a school principal. I just retired.
Sr. Mary Rosaire: I taught French and Spanish for fifty years.
Kyla: Wow.
Sr. Mary Rosaire: Nancy, did you teach language?
Sr. Nancy (hard of hearing): What?
Sr. Theresa (louder): Did you teach language?
Sr. Nancy: No.
I taught bullshit.

Mock your socks off!

It's easy for documentaries, especially those aiming for social commentary, to get over-the-top. Let's face it: Al Gore's animated polar bears, Michael Moore's dramatic vignettes, the invasive footage in Jesus Camp...sometimes it's just hard to take seriously.

So why not make it intentional? I loved the "mocumentary" A Day Without a Mexican. Its melodramatic details, from the pink fog cutting off California to the dripping water faucet showing the passage of time, set a hilarious tone. Its characters, dressed to the hilt in stereotypes, aren't necessarily believable. But the movie still manages to make a point.

The statistics sprinkled throughout Without A Mexican caught my attention without seeming invasive. The gears in my head were able to turn while I was still laughing.

The next time Al Gore makes a movie, maybe he should "mock it."

Since when is being crippled an advantage?

Oscar Pistorius of South Africa--aka "Blade Runner"--was banned from the Olympic Games in January his prosthetic legs were deemed an "unfair advantage". The decision was overturned in May, but Pisotorius didn't qualify for the 400 race.

However, Pistorius is competing in the Paralympics, which last until the 17th. He won the 100 meter Gold Medal this week.

In which I romance a piano

There are pianos in my life and everything is beautiful.

I finally got up the courage to try the mahogany Baby Grand in the Health Center lobby. It had a warm, familiar sound, the way mahogany should--not polished and glitzy like those gleaming black Yamahas. I played into the quiet sunshine and life continued as usual, as if I were in my own living room, as if wanderers sat down to pick out Schubert and Debussy all the time.

When I let go of the pedal and released the last chord back into the warm wood of the piano, the quiet reabsorbed me, a little more alive.

An Archaic Analogy

Writing poetry is like shooting a roll of film. It's great if two or three turn out.

After the Beep

If friends have to schedule appointments to talk, is it possible I'm too busy? If you'd like to offer input, I'd appreciate it: Please leave a message after the beep.

Reality TV Gets Real

Thought geese flew in gaggles? Think again. Those V-formations are really gangs. Today I saw two gangs of geese face off on the Health Center lawn. Discovery Channel met Reno 911 out the picture window when two huge groups of geese swooped in and got vicious. A couple of cops (gobble gobble) came out of the woods and tried to break it up, but they were only brave enough to pace around the perimeter and thrust a few threatening head-bobs in the direction of the melee. I had to leave for class before I learned who claimed Southside Marywood.

Small Town Grudge

How do you tell a sweet old Dominican nun that her nephew is the Antichrist? This is the kid who ridiculed my newly acquired driving skills on an 8-hr trip to Canada, pawed through my backpack, and told my friends I was a loser. He was my little brother's best friend from 5th to 8th grade, but they parted ways in high school at about the same time when a hate club for the highly conservative, bigoted sleazeball began to form. The club still exists as a Facebook group, but its members have dispersed from our small town and have little reason to remain an official operation except as revenge for bitter memories. I, on the other hand, must now face the fact that he lurks in the hallways of my small, small college. When Sister asked if I knew him, I nodded, gritted my teeth, and smiled. Thank God he's not a psychologist or a writer.

You know you’re in West Michigan when…

Celebration on the Grand stayed dry last night, and another year of impressive fireworks exploded over the river on schedule. We camped out on the bridge early and were joined by a mob of college students, bubbly fresh-people on their first downtown outing. I listened to their giddy attempts to impress each other with false confidence, straining to appear interesting. The opposite-sex pairs were especially amusing. One girl talked animatedly to her male neighbor about the fascinating aspects of pyrotechnics, who agreed emphatically with everything she said. Later, she related the pacing of the fireworks display to the elements of a Christian Reformed church service. After a particularly impressive series of fireworks—a Grand Finale-esque moment towards the beginning of the event—she would squeal, “That was the offertory!” or “Ooh, the Special Music!”

I won’t name the college they had plastered on their persons (not only on t-shirts, but also written in their blonde ponytails and hip cross necklaces). If you’re from West Michigan, you can probably guess.

Where's the hermit hut?

The Marywood Health Center isn’t quite my Home Sweet Home, but I have to admit, it’s a pretty sweet setup. These blue-hair nuns have got it pretty good: high ceilings, huge windows, and finger-licking food. There’s even a whirlpool tub next door to my bedroom, which is enormous, by the way. I feel like I’m in a hotel. This isn’t exactly helpful on my journey to asceticism.

Fake Nun Gathers Bad Karma

There's a priest in my bed! Or there will be, for the next 11 days. The Fort is packing up and relocating to accomodate for a 10-priest retreat. I can't say I'm celebrating the move, which is why I'm not sure I could ever be a Real Nun. Or a successful Hindu. I'm stuck in samsara, unable to relinquish my worldly possessions, even if those are only a desk, a closet, a dresser, and a sink--the tiny space I've called mine for a whopping two weeks. How American.

Tempting the Fates

Campus Safety is cracking down on parking. Or buffing up its image, anyway. Maybe all the new signage ("ALL VEHICLES MUST BE REGISTERED"..."THIS LOT REQUIRES A PERMIT"..."FACULTY ONLY") is meant to convince students they're getting their money's worth on parking permits.

Something I don't have.

I park my car at the commuter lot once or twice a week, so getting a permit wouldn't even cost me anything. I'm just lazy. Every week I expect to see a slip of paper fluttering from my windshield. 10 bucks, I think. No biggie.

But today when I saw Officer Tom's bald head and bristling beard barring Wednesday-nighters from the faculty lot, I thought again.

Maybe I should get one of those.

But Where Have All the Fritos Gone?

I don't typically buy food from vending machines. But recently on a rare binge, I fed a dollar into the machine on the newly renovated 2nd floor of AB. I was hungry between a cancelled class and the long stretch before dinner, and cheap gratification caught my eye.

Scanning the rows of Snickers and Kit Kats, something else caught my eye too--a bag of "Better Made" corn chips. A Frito by any other name still has the same greasy crunch, and with only three ingredients (corn, oil, salt), how much could an off-brand screw it up? So I chanced it on the unfamiliar yellow bag.

It turns out "Better Made" is made better in Detroit. From what I gather, the company is a non-conglomerate, and it claims to use Michigan potatoes during the 8 months of the year that they're in season. I wonder if someone made a deliberate choice to stock AQ's snack supply with more friendly food, or if Better Made filled a slot that would have otherwise required an expensive contract or overhead with a Big Brand.

I'll take them over Fritos any day!

Hike Naked, It Adds Color to Your Cheeks

Who says mother-daughter bonding involves shopping sprees or pedicures? My mom and I caught up on a backpacking trip, comparing the capabilities of our Swiss Army knives and reveling in my sweet new stove: The Raptor. Weighing in at a whopping 5 ounces, the stove is smaller than a digital camera and fits in the palm of my hand. Unfold its metal claws and the Raptor is born--simple, sharp, and ready to boil water in 4 minutes flat. $55 at Apex Outdoor Gear, a small independent store on 29th.

We hiked the Manistee River Trail and camped between the river and a creek. The trail was moderately challenging and offered varied terrain and a good view of the river. The only downside was the high river traffic--I respect those who canoe and kayak, but tubers are, indisputably, idiots.

It was good to spend a couple days letting my body breathe, sweat, and shit naturally. Communication was face-to-face and not by phone. Now I'm back to civilization with sore hamstrings and little regret for taking a long hot shower. One foot out and one foot in is fine with me.

Pointing a Gun at God

Last night I watched the movie Blood Diamond (2006). Solomon Zandy (Djimon Hounsou), a man separated from his family by the brutal civil war struggle of Sierra Leone, meets Danny Archer (Leonardo DiCaprio), a white African-born diamond smuggler. One might argue that the film represents typical Hollywood sensationalism, an exploitation of human suffering as ethically inappropriate as selling a “conflict-diamond,” and the movie itself even admits this possibility. However, Blood Diamond managed to stir me significantly. The film, directed by Edward Zwick, cries out for an awareness of our complicity in bloodshed and slaughter, an indirect consequence of capitalism. Beyond this theme, however, Blood Diamond touches a universal question: having wronged our fellow human beings so deeply and so thoroughly, will God ever forgive us?

Perhaps, if God is anything like Solomon Zandy. The plot embeds the age-old story of the prodigal son within its arc through the character of Dia, Solomon’s son. Dia, when separated from his father, is taken into the rebel army and becomes a child soldier. Solomon searches for his son untiringly, endangering his own life, but when he finally finds him, Dia denies him angrily. Later, the boy trains a gun on his father. It is the only form of power he has left to fight the deep pain of abandonment and to demand the love he so desperately desires.

Why did you let this happen? his eyes ask, and I cry out the same question to God. Where have you been? We lash out in our pain and anger and then blame the consequences on the absence of the Divine, hoping, perhaps, that if we wound each other deeply enough it will draw God out of hiding. Wrath, at least, would be better than silence; discipline would remind us who we really are.

“You are Dia Zandy,” Solomon says to the boy behind the gun. “You have been made to do bad things, but you are not a bad boy…. You are my son…. I love you.”

Just Like Hillary...but with Guns!

If it turns out this presidential election was really just a badly type-casted B-movie shot in Big Brother's basement, I won't be surprised.

First there were the primaries. Toss issues out the window; the real question seemed to be whether you'd rather pity a minority or a woman. Well, the minority won out--after all, he has the necessary sexual apparatus, and at least he's half White, anyway, which is closer to being a White Male than Hillary will ever get. (Probably. Damn, sex changes are expensive.)

Still, Obama's got the media buzz and MLK Jr. behind him, and those tired old Republicans realized that this year the tried and true White Male gag just won't cut it. They needed a mascot. What better than someone with boobs? That's an attention-getter. Plus, with that Naughty Librarian look, McCain can just pretend she's one of his secretaries.

Go ahead. Call me a cynic. It's true.

I Don't Take Shit from Vegetables

I'm a big fan of A Softer World by Joey Comeau and Emily Horne . I love Emily's photography, and once in a while, Joey writes a slogan for my life. I lost touch with it over the summer in the land of dial-up internet, and now I'm catching up on all the strips I missed. This is one I particularly enjoyed.

"The time has come," the Walrus said...

I can't believe it.

The walrusy man who lumbered energetically from one end of the blackboard to the other, booming out case studies in a New York accent--dead.

What will they do with his 10-pound binders stuffed with yellowing pages of the giant scrawl that narrated his lectures?

Who will scare the shit out of undergrads hoping to get into grad school?

How will non-Jewish students know when it's Rosh Hashanah if he's not around to cancel class?

On which other multiple choice exam will I be able to select the answer "I don't know and I don't care"?

It was startling to see the news between announcements about college band, carpooling, and trips to the beach. Ozarow, good man, it wasn't your time.

Wish You Were Here

Walking back to the Fort today, I noticed a chopper overhead. It was low enough that I felt its roar in my fingertips and far enough away that I couldn't make out the writing on its army green side, a veritable springboard for my imagination. My mind leaped to an image of ceaseless government patrol, a country overrun by foreign soldiers, tanks and bombers as familiar as bicycles and UPS trucks. I pictured the convent exploding into bricks and broken glass.

Maybe it was something about the sun in my eyes. Or maybe it's a million people sending me ESP, the terror of humanity bursting through the neat seams I've stitched to separate myself from our collective consciousness.

I think of my secure 12x12 existence in the Fort, my daily stroll through quiet leafy neighborhoods, my blueberry pancake world where my biggest worry is the workload of my 20 Grand education.

I think of the places I'd rather not be today--Afghanistan, Gaza, Georgia, Tibet.

Wish you were here.

The Battle Begins...Again

The trees have eyes.

Or so it seemed last night when I stepped back onto campus for the first Mass of the year. For most Bukowski veterans, it's an event at which to see and be seen, to reunite with old pals over Cheezits and thin mint cookies. But I found it impossible to concentrate on the high-pitched back-to-school chatter. Nor could I relax and enjoy the contorted face of the visiting priest as he struggled, eyes closed and nose wrinkled, to remain piously reverent through the hand clapping and piano pounding of our traditional Hallelujah.

No, I was wound up like a paranoid schizophrenic, eyes darting from one suspect to the next, ears tuned to hear words unspoken. Ever since the John Corvino blowup last year, I've been waiting for the hammer to come down, a new policy to be announced, and the Pope to arrive and personally escort every gay student off campus.

Of course, it won't happen that obviously. I'm on the lookout for a gradual takeover, the rule of conservative Catholic hierarchy imposed in small phases. As an admitted Harry Potter devotee, I think of the way the Ministry of Magic commandeered Hogwarts, toad-like Umbridge nailing increasingly unreasonable restrictions onto the wall, and I listen for her "hem hem" at every turn. I can see it now, scrolls tacked to the walls of AB:

Educational Decree #1: John Corvino postponed.
Educational Decree #2: Controversial viewpoints may only be presented on campus if students are also spoon-fed Catholic propaganda determined by those in power.
Educational Decree #3: In light of Decree #2, John Corvino cancelled.
Educational Decree #4: New policy must be written...
Educational Decree #48: Gender Studies' annual drag dance no longer to be permitted...
Educational Decree #119: GLBT student group the Alliance to be refused funding...
Educational Decree #271: Health Center strictly forbidden to offer contraceptives...
Educational Decree #399: Women Studies Center must limit speakers to topics approved by a (male) priest...
Educational Decree #451: Aquinas joins Calvin and Cornerstone to forbid actively gay students from its learning community.

Everyone seems to have forgotten about this new policy-to-be, and in my paranoid state, I suspect the administration may employ subterfuge to slip something through quietly. Last night's homily, a cold and stern lecture on the Seven Deadly Sins, offered no reassurance.

In the meantime, I've staked a lookout from Fort Benincasa, a stronghold of liberal Catholicism equipped with an armory of dangerous guns--oops, I mean Nuns.

And when the battle begins, we'll be ready.