how to get men to respect you, I guess

I recently discovered that two of my camp friends, whom we'll call P and T, don't like each other.

More accurately, T doesn't like P, and P merely requites the sentiment.

I asked T what the issue was, and he told me that he disagreed with P on some important things, specifically, how P treats women.

P has always treated me well, I told him.

That's because he knows he can't get inside your pants, he told me.

Was that really it?

Men are always thinking about sex, he told me, and with me, sex isn't even an issue. P doesn't look at me and think "how can I have sex with her?" because he knows he can't. He looks at me and thinks "friend."

Are a lot of men like that? I asked him.

They pretty much all are, he told me.

Do you see why I don't want to have sex until I'm married? I asked him.

In order to love anyone--sisters, parents, friends, a specific male--you have to make yourself vulnerable to them. It's like leaning against a wall--you are vulnerable to the wall falling over, but if you're smart, you only lean against walls that won't let you fall over. Likewise, you only make yourself emotionally vulnerable to people who won't toy with your emotions or take advantage of you. "I hate you" is much more bitter coming from a friend than from someone you don't know.

If you're going to have sex with someone, you make yourself pretty much as vulnerable as you possibly can. And if I'm going to make myself that vulnerable to a man, I want to make sure it's a man who has sexual self-control. Someone who looks at me and thinks "beautiful woman" or "friend" or "girlfriend" or "fiance" or "wife"--someone who doesn't look at me and think "sex." My sexuality is a very important part of me, but it's definitely not the only part of me. The only way he can see the rest of me is if he gets his mind away from sex. If he already knows that he isn't getting any, and if he's still hanging out with me, it means he isn't just looking for sex.

Amazing how much respect something as simple as chastity commands.

another creation, inevitably overthought

And God created man to his own image: to the image of God he created him: male and female he created them. (Gen. 1:27)

The first thing God did in relation to us (as far as we know) is create. And I think part of being made imago Dei is our desire to create.

Scarves, tables, birdhouses, collages, ornaments, novels, wreathes, computers, skyscrapers, toilets, bombs, socks, children--we have a creative instinct. It's not a "man thing" or a "woman thing" but a "human thing" to make things. Look:



There are tendencies (though definitely not exclusive) for women to make some things and men to make other things; therefore, both craft stores and hardware stores. What fascinates me here is not our differences but our similarities. In either place, you can find wire, wood, wire cutters, needle-nose pliers, hammers, measuring sticks or tapes, paint, paintbrushes, sealant, string, glue, and hoards of other stuff that I can’t remember because it’s been too long since I’ve been in either store.

While the other little kids were watching the Smurfs and whatever other TV shows I cannot reminisce about, I was making cradles out of kleenex boxes, cameras out of toilet paper rolls, games out of history class, covered wagons out of swingsets, towns out of chalk. "Do you want to do 'make things'?" my brother Paul would ask, and we'd make a mess of beads and string in the downstairs bedroom. He'd end up with a tightly-knotted, well-made bracelet; I'd have a mess I thought was beautiful until my mom wouldn't let me wear it to Mass. I have a stash of cardboard under my bed at school; I keep twine and carabiners handy--often it doesn't occur to me to buy something until I've failed two or three times at making it.

I think this creative instinct in me has grown to the point of obsession. I toyed with an idea through finals week, and when I got home, I started work. I never really wanted to have it, but I wanted to make it, so I told Seth I was making it for him. And he can have it. I just wanted to make it.



It was really strange making it. I'm semi-competent at craft-store-creation and semi-competent at hardware-store-creation and this task required both. I dug through the dresser in the downstairs bedroom where we keep most of the craft-store-stuff (and some of Emily's things); I burrowed into the cellar where we keep most of the the hardware-store-stuff (and our jam and empty jam jars). This intrigued me: clearly a craft-store paintbrush on a shelf in the cellar, just shelves above scads of paint cans.



This is what the kitchen table looked like during part of the operation:



Needle-nose pliers, a hardware-store paintbrush, a knife--also a safety pin, quilting needles, mod podge--also fire!

This is how I made it:

Scrap pine wood from the cellar, power saw, and sandpaper to make the base. Green tissue paper, sparkly white tissue paper (both from gifts from my mom's students), and mod podge to make green and snow for the base. Candle wax to make snow on the base and to hold Gawain in place. Melted red crayon to make blood in the snow and on Gawain's neck.

Wire, wire cutters, and needle-nose pliers to make Gawain. (The wire kept breaking when I didn't want it to, so I had to rework my plans a few times.)

Embroidery floss and knots from a childhood friendship-bracelet-making phase to make the girdle. Quilting needle and gold thread to make the green girdle gleam gold.

Paper sack and hammer to break a bottle. Glass and craft store scouring pad to make a shield. Insignia red enamel paint and craft-store paintbrush found in the cellar to make the shield red. Braided gold thread and mod podge to make a pentangle.



(Seth, if you're wondering, I took this picture while typing "DRY, DARNIT!" into your IM window.)

Match stick to make an ax handle. Lid from an empty jam jar, labeled 2006, marked with a knife blade and cut with scissors, to make an ax blade. Hot glue to attach.

i love my sisters

Door opened.
Name yelled.
Bags dropped.

Feet run.
Bodies collide.
Arms pull.

Reunion.

the semester in review

Dr. Jackson told me that when you get a Ph.D, it's like you've climbed to the top of a mountain. You're there: you know what there is to know. Then you take a couple more steps up, turn around and look out, and see thousands of other mountains yet to be scaled.

I don't have a Ph.D but I know what he means. I'm at the top of a mountain right now.

I learned crazy amounts this semester. I learned that wife-beaters are shirts, not belts. I learned that you can fold bedsheets like American flags. I learned that I can function quite well on 5 hours of sleep. I learned that I can do a heck of a lot more than I think I can, and that sometimes endurance is all you need when deadlines fly into your face and go plaid.

I learned that nothing is too marvelous for God to do, and that if I pray about something, he will rush to help. During the summer, his strength allowed me to a mile in under two hours. This year, his strength allowed me to forgive someone in under two years--a much greater feat for someone like me.

I hit on Marine recruiters, and they know my name now.

I learned how to be a woman. I learned that knitting and football are irrelevant to my femininity, and there's no reason to get caught up trying to figure out whether it's okay that I don't enjoy shoe shopping. I learned that being a woman is a stupid reason not to snow sumo.

I live with my woman friends now, not down the street but down the hall. And I love them. I've never been good at having woman friends but I'm getting better at it. I want to have woman friends now, which is important. C. S. Lewis was wrong when he said friendship must be "about" something (e.g., stamp collecting). I have friends who knit and they can talk about knitting but knitting isn't the basis of their friendship. I have friends who love languages and we can lament together that English doesn't have an ablative, but language isn't the basis of our friendship. We don't need a common interest to have a friendship. We need to love each other and goof off. That's all. Most of what strengthened my woman-friendships were things like barging into each other's rooms, tattooing each other's arms with less-than-beautiful sayings, laughing about being half-dressed. The important thing was spending joyful time together, and it didn't really matter what we did.

I don't go out of my way to dress sloppily like I did last year.

I give hugs, and real hugs, not those lame side-hugs. Physical affection between friends doesn't scare me anymore. I'm willing to admit that the "I don't like people touching me" I spewed last year was a lie. (Don't tickle me, though.)

I danced.

My instinct still wonders what the attractive male two tables away thinks of what I'm wearing, but I now have a hand that can slap that instinct and tell it to shut up, because it's God's opinion that really matters.

I carry my own things, books and trumpet and such, not to show off my strength and not to spite the men who offer to carry them for me, but because they're my books and there's no reason I can't carry them myself.

I learned that people aren't as stupid as I tend to assume, at least proportionally. I'm just as dumb as everyone else, and there's probably a whole heck of a lot I'm completely oblivious to.

I have flaws, and there's no sense in getting frustrated over not being perfect. Virtue shields, but when virtue fails, there is mercy. I don't want people to think I don't have flaws, anyway, because when I find people who seem flawless, I usually don't like them.

I learned that showing off is utter nonsense. No matter what, no mere human can understand me as I am. I don't understand myself as I am, so who am I to know what to show off? Keep myself right with God. Then, everything will fall into place, and if it doesn't, I have him.

That's most important. I have him.

addendum

Addendum to mob. I was thinking about this later.

I remember when I was a little kid, my dad was watching the news and I saw people walking. The reporter said they were forced to stay on the path because of land mines, and I saw them huddled cold and with their children, walking, pressed forward. Kosovo. How old was I? I must have been very young.

I cried.

My mom took me up to her room and hugged me and talked to me and I don't remember what she said, all I remember is crying.

I didn't cry for the mob I saw today. Things are different now. I've grown older--wiser? more foolish? Have I grown out of being childish or childlike?

mob

I sat in Grewcock typing my annotated bibliography. Christmas music floated from the speakers. Amanda’s pink and blue striped socks wiggled against the arm of the couch. A crackling-less fire warmed the fireplace. Fox News played in AJ’s.

I glanced up at the widescreen and saw a fire above the words MOB SCENE. The top left corner of the screen said LIVE.

A friend lives near Dearborn, Mich., and my immediate thought was of her worry of riots after the election. A moment of panic. Mobs setting things on fire? I typed “fox news, mob” into google.



Overseas. I relaxed.

It was a disconcerting experience. Mobs are mobs; fire is fire; death is death whether here or overseas. An Israeli daughter who loses her brother sheds no fewer tears than I would.

Why am I so unconcerned?

Amanda said it could be the ocean--we're so separated, geographically, from the Middle East that it creates an emotional separation as well.

I'd like to think nobly and say that, as a finite human, I cannot be concerned with every horror in the world, else I would burn out. But I don't know if I'm as concerned as I ought to be.

Just yesterday I told a friend--lightheartedly, no less--that abortion would inevitably die out because pro-lifers have more babies than pro-choicers, and eventually we'd vote them out. But what about all the children who are dying before then? Is their pain nothing to me? Distant, too.

Before I overthink this as I often do (and perhaps already have)--I have class at two o'clock--perhaps it isn't so important where I am now.

Perhaps the important thing is where I go. There will never be a time (here, anyway) when I am perfect in charity. So perhaps instead of examining my wretchedness--chief of sinners!--and dwelling in it, I should work to improve.

Does the mob on TV merit wailing that interferes with my schoolwork?

Well, no. But perhaps a brief moment to pray for them and recognize them as human--as made imago Dei--as alteri Christorum.

And the king answering shall say to them: Amen I say to you, as long as you did it to one of these my least brethren, you did it to me (Mt. 25:40).

That much I can do.

For him.

[addendum]

What I Think Of When You Call Someone Retarded