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.