I wanted to go to the funeral today.
On Tuesday afternoon, there was a car accident at my high school. The driver survived; the passenger died. Both were students.
I didn’t know the passenger and I only vaguely knew the driver. But I remember another car accident when I was a senior in high school: my classmate Crystal died and the driver survived. I remember how the whole school mourned. I knew my school was grieving, and I wanted to be there with them.
We couldn’t work out rides, so I wasn’t able to come home. Instead I went on with the weekend’s plans: pep band rehearsal and a B-movie on Friday, football game Saturday afternoon.
This morning (Saturday), part of Students for Life made the trip out to Ann Arbor to pray in front of a Planned Parenthood clinic. We met up with students from Ave Maria Law School, and we began a Rosary at 10 o’clock.
The funeral was at 10 o’clock this morning as well. Her teenage body was lying in a casket in St. Pius X Catholic Church in Flint, Mich., and I know the church was packed. It was when Crystal died.
And there I stood, holding a weathered posterboard sign with “Choose Life!” scrawled in black marker. Just 100 feet away was a house of death, where children are killed and never mourned.
May the angels welcome you to paradise.
May the martyrs greet you on your way.
May you see the face of the Lord this day.
Alleluia, alleluia.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace. Amen.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
mile swim
People are often surprised with how much I can carry, how far I can throw a football, how fast I can climb a wall. Granted, I'm not as strong as most people are, but based on my observations, I'm probably stronger than I look. So when I think "I can't" and say it, people believe me and that's the end of it.
Not so much at Camp Tapico. I say “I can’t” and I hear “try.” I was talked into doing several things I didn’t think I could do. I went on the 4+6 mile bike ride (twice, actually). I attempted the eight hilly miles into Kal, didn’t make it but probably could have if it weren’t for the wind and the time crunch (I felt fine on the six hilly miles I biked back to camp). I yelled to Eco-Con and they heard me. I swam a mile.
Kalkaska mornings are cold and water--shower, swimming, rain--destroys my tolerance for cold. I wasn’t going to be able to jump in the lake at 6 o'clock Thursday morning with the rest of the mile swimmers. But I could swim laps in the afternoon.
I had to swim 44 lengths, so down-and-back 22 times. I had to keep track somehow, and numbers are boring and easily mixed up.
There are 20 mysteries of the Rosary if you count the luminous, and adding two afterward wouldn’t be a problem. If I did them in chronological order, I wouldn’t mix them up.
I slid into the waist-deep water off the one dock and began making my way to the three dock, focusing my mind on the Annunciation. I gave up trying to say Hail Marys because all I had to count on were my fingers, and I needed those to swim. I flipped over onto my back before I got to the three dock because I couldn’t breathe.
I touched the one dock again and thought of Mary visiting Elizabeth. When I came back to the one dock, I was about ready to get out of the water. I was exhausted. I couldn’t do this. But I didn’t want to say “I attempted 44 and quit after 4” when everyone was convinced I could make it the whole way. Plus I wanted to be able to say that I swam a mile. Pride countered my “I can’t.”
I kept going: one dock, three dock, one dock, three dock. I was almost entirely elementary backstroking, but every now and then I’d flip over breast stroke. I slammed my head into the dock twice.
The presentation in the temple. My left knee started hurting, so I had to be careful how I kicked. “I can’t do this. I need your strength,” I prayed. Bob and Jam Jam were on the main dock, and when I swam by they moosed me (which, according to the moose game, meant I had to do five pushups). “I’ll do ’em later!” I called. They laughed. I tried to swim by with goggles up (hands shaped like Os around my eyes, which would exempt me from the pushups) but I pushed my face underwater and sputtered to the surface, treading water until I emptied my nose. They moosed me a few more times, and I began thinking about how cool it would be to say I swam a mile, got out and did 20 pushups.
When campers want to do the mile swim, they have to swim a quarter mile Monday, half mile Tuesday, three-quarters Wednesday, then get up Thursday morning for the mile. It was Tuesday, and I was about at the halfway point. I could stop now, I thought, but that first half mile sucked, and if I stopped now, I’d have to swim it again. I may as well finish now. My own suffering countered my “I can’t.”
The institution of the Eucharist. I was nearing the three dock when a gullible camper, also swimming laps, asked me how deep the water was this far out. I told him I didn't know. "Bob told me it was 50 feet deep here," he said. I smiled, knowing twelve feet was more accurate. "Well, Bob's the aquatics director; I'd trust him," I told him.
The agony in the garden. My left arm cramped up and I let it drag, limp, flailing in a pathetic half-stroke. I channeled what was left of my strength into my legs, kicked hard, and tried to massage my arm. It felt like someone had surgically implanted a golf ball in my bicep. But I can’t swim very long without my arms, so I laid back again. Elementary backstroke is slow enough; my one-armed elementary backstroke was even slower.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in so much physical pain--my whole body ached and I could only use some of it. “I need your strength,” I prayed. I wanted to give up, get out of the water, lie in the sun. I hurt.
The scourging at the pillar. To bail out of this because I was suffering would be ridiculous.
"I need your strength." The crowning with thorns. "I need your strength." Carrying the Cross. “I need your strength.” The crucifixion. "I need your strength." His suffering countered my “I can’t.”
The resurrection. I hurt, I hurt bad, but I was on the homestretch now. “I need your strength to finish this. I don’t need to do pushups on the dock. I just want to finish the mile, and I can’t do it without you. I need your strength.” But wouldn’t it be cool to swim a mile and immediately do 20 pushups on the dock? I hurt.
The coronation of Mary. One. A thrill shot through my body: This "I can't" was nonsense, and I knew it.
Two.
I finished. I let out a yell of victory. I touched the one dock, stood up and threw my arms into the air triumphantly--or anyway, that was the plan. I touched the one dock, put my feet on the ground, tried to raise my body up, and splashed into the water. Bob and Jam Jam came over, laughing. “Mary, are you okay?”
I laughed, too. “Yeah. I’m fine. I think my muscles turned into lead.” I got up slowly, leaned on the dock, and stood there for a minute, resting, aching, remembering the gravity I hadn't dealt with for the past hour and a half. They asked if I needed help getting up, but somehow I flipped myself onto the dock, feet in the water. I sat. The pushups weren't going to work out, but I just swam a mile.
Somehow I got a towel and a lifejacket--maybe I got them from the blockhouse; maybe someone brought them to me. The horn blew to close the lake, and Scott took me back to the boathouse in the crash. I changed in the Letts and stumbled to the gazebo. Good thing I had the night off.
Saints write all the time about suffering, uniting your suffering with Christ’s,and joy through suffering. They still baffle me, but I caught a glimpse of what they’re talking about. I know full well that I can’t swim a mile, but somehow I did --it was his strength, not mine, that pulled me through.
Not so much at Camp Tapico. I say “I can’t” and I hear “try.” I was talked into doing several things I didn’t think I could do. I went on the 4+6 mile bike ride (twice, actually). I attempted the eight hilly miles into Kal, didn’t make it but probably could have if it weren’t for the wind and the time crunch (I felt fine on the six hilly miles I biked back to camp). I yelled to Eco-Con and they heard me. I swam a mile.
Kalkaska mornings are cold and water--shower, swimming, rain--destroys my tolerance for cold. I wasn’t going to be able to jump in the lake at 6 o'clock Thursday morning with the rest of the mile swimmers. But I could swim laps in the afternoon.
I had to swim 44 lengths, so down-and-back 22 times. I had to keep track somehow, and numbers are boring and easily mixed up.
There are 20 mysteries of the Rosary if you count the luminous, and adding two afterward wouldn’t be a problem. If I did them in chronological order, I wouldn’t mix them up.
I slid into the waist-deep water off the one dock and began making my way to the three dock, focusing my mind on the Annunciation. I gave up trying to say Hail Marys because all I had to count on were my fingers, and I needed those to swim. I flipped over onto my back before I got to the three dock because I couldn’t breathe.
I touched the one dock again and thought of Mary visiting Elizabeth. When I came back to the one dock, I was about ready to get out of the water. I was exhausted. I couldn’t do this. But I didn’t want to say “I attempted 44 and quit after 4” when everyone was convinced I could make it the whole way. Plus I wanted to be able to say that I swam a mile. Pride countered my “I can’t.”
I kept going: one dock, three dock, one dock, three dock. I was almost entirely elementary backstroking, but every now and then I’d flip over breast stroke. I slammed my head into the dock twice.
The presentation in the temple. My left knee started hurting, so I had to be careful how I kicked. “I can’t do this. I need your strength,” I prayed. Bob and Jam Jam were on the main dock, and when I swam by they moosed me (which, according to the moose game, meant I had to do five pushups). “I’ll do ’em later!” I called. They laughed. I tried to swim by with goggles up (hands shaped like Os around my eyes, which would exempt me from the pushups) but I pushed my face underwater and sputtered to the surface, treading water until I emptied my nose. They moosed me a few more times, and I began thinking about how cool it would be to say I swam a mile, got out and did 20 pushups.
When campers want to do the mile swim, they have to swim a quarter mile Monday, half mile Tuesday, three-quarters Wednesday, then get up Thursday morning for the mile. It was Tuesday, and I was about at the halfway point. I could stop now, I thought, but that first half mile sucked, and if I stopped now, I’d have to swim it again. I may as well finish now. My own suffering countered my “I can’t.”
The institution of the Eucharist. I was nearing the three dock when a gullible camper, also swimming laps, asked me how deep the water was this far out. I told him I didn't know. "Bob told me it was 50 feet deep here," he said. I smiled, knowing twelve feet was more accurate. "Well, Bob's the aquatics director; I'd trust him," I told him.
The agony in the garden. My left arm cramped up and I let it drag, limp, flailing in a pathetic half-stroke. I channeled what was left of my strength into my legs, kicked hard, and tried to massage my arm. It felt like someone had surgically implanted a golf ball in my bicep. But I can’t swim very long without my arms, so I laid back again. Elementary backstroke is slow enough; my one-armed elementary backstroke was even slower.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in so much physical pain--my whole body ached and I could only use some of it. “I need your strength,” I prayed. I wanted to give up, get out of the water, lie in the sun. I hurt.
The scourging at the pillar. To bail out of this because I was suffering would be ridiculous.
"I need your strength." The crowning with thorns. "I need your strength." Carrying the Cross. “I need your strength.” The crucifixion. "I need your strength." His suffering countered my “I can’t.”
The resurrection. I hurt, I hurt bad, but I was on the homestretch now. “I need your strength to finish this. I don’t need to do pushups on the dock. I just want to finish the mile, and I can’t do it without you. I need your strength.” But wouldn’t it be cool to swim a mile and immediately do 20 pushups on the dock? I hurt.
The coronation of Mary. One. A thrill shot through my body: This "I can't" was nonsense, and I knew it.
Two.
I finished. I let out a yell of victory. I touched the one dock, stood up and threw my arms into the air triumphantly--or anyway, that was the plan. I touched the one dock, put my feet on the ground, tried to raise my body up, and splashed into the water. Bob and Jam Jam came over, laughing. “Mary, are you okay?”
I laughed, too. “Yeah. I’m fine. I think my muscles turned into lead.” I got up slowly, leaned on the dock, and stood there for a minute, resting, aching, remembering the gravity I hadn't dealt with for the past hour and a half. They asked if I needed help getting up, but somehow I flipped myself onto the dock, feet in the water. I sat. The pushups weren't going to work out, but I just swam a mile.
Somehow I got a towel and a lifejacket--maybe I got them from the blockhouse; maybe someone brought them to me. The horn blew to close the lake, and Scott took me back to the boathouse in the crash. I changed in the Letts and stumbled to the gazebo. Good thing I had the night off.
Saints write all the time about suffering, uniting your suffering with Christ’s,and joy through suffering. They still baffle me, but I caught a glimpse of what they’re talking about. I know full well that I can’t swim a mile, but somehow I did --it was his strength, not mine, that pulled me through.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
...and occasionally ACUs
The Marine recruiters were here again today. Louis and one other recruiter were wearing ACUs (desert camo) and one other recruiter was wearing charlies.
I thought about trying to hit on them again, but when I saw that Louis was there again, decided against it. (Chickened out, really.) I told them the story about last time the recruiters were here. I told them my friend said he heard from basic that "women drop their clothes when they see Marines in their blues." The recruiter in charlies gave an "oh" that sounded like "aw, what a rude thing to say to someone who looks as sweet and innocent as you." (I was hoping they would laugh.)
I thought I'd take this occasion to tell the second half of the first story.
Later on that day, I saw the other recruiter, not Louis. He held the door for me, and I said "I have a friend in the Marines who said I should tell you that you should have worn your blues."
He looked at me.
He looked at me again.
Then he said, "Yeah. Yeah, I should have."
I thought about trying to hit on them again, but when I saw that Louis was there again, decided against it. (Chickened out, really.) I told them the story about last time the recruiters were here. I told them my friend said he heard from basic that "women drop their clothes when they see Marines in their blues." The recruiter in charlies gave an "oh" that sounded like "aw, what a rude thing to say to someone who looks as sweet and innocent as you." (I was hoping they would laugh.)
I thought I'd take this occasion to tell the second half of the first story.
Later on that day, I saw the other recruiter, not Louis. He held the door for me, and I said "I have a friend in the Marines who said I should tell you that you should have worn your blues."
He looked at me.
He looked at me again.
Then he said, "Yeah. Yeah, I should have."
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Hillsdale, Camp Tapico, and the telos of women
A Need to be Needed
I discovered C. S. Lewis's Mere Christianity at some point during high school, and afterward began devouring everything the man wrote. In a book whose title I can no longer remember, he wrote that we (people in general) ought to get over our need to be needed, and he said he sees this desire "specially in women." I agreed with him for a while.
On a therapy walk to the Academy, a male college friend told me that he felt he wasn't needed. I started paying attention to men's need to be needed, and I found that it was just as extant as women's, but unlike women's, it was fed.
Women need men. We know that. At our dorm meeting at the beginning of the year, our house mother told explained opposite-sex visiting rules in our (women's) dorm. "I love when boys visit," she told us. "I think they're the greatest thing in the world, especially when they're moving furniture." Carry this heavy box. Open the door for me. Walk back to my dorm with me after dark. We need your strength. We get emails about this all the time: St. Anthony's needs help setting up for the picnic, and there are tables to move so we need men.
Do men need women? I paid attention and found two different answers: one from camp (where staffers shower four or five times a week and let the Kalkaska dust stick to our sweaty skin) and one from Hillsdale (where well-groomed students study "the higher things").
At camp, it's obvious that women are needed. There are rosters to fill out for every class and blue cards to fill out for every scout in every class, and every week the program director lectures program staff about bad paperwork. Nobody enjoys paperwork, but but the female staffers are significantly more competent at getting everything filled out legibly and accurately. In addition to this, we have a power over campers (all boys ages 11-17) that the men don't have. Put a girl at the candy window at the trading post and everything sells like hotcakes. Put a girl in charge of a merit badge class and even large crowds of first-years will pay attention. This year, we were specifically told to have a girl in the truck on equipment moves. Why? She's probably smaller and there are already too many people in the truck. She will remember to write down numbers and will write them legibly. And when she gets out of the truck and throws a grill into the bed, scoutmasters and scouts spring into action. Gets them out of the campsite faster. At camp, women are necessary. Women are vital. And it's our femininity that's so important. Camp is a place where boys can do all sorts of crazy things (thirty-two feet in the air on ropes is perfectly safe, Mom) without their mothers telling them not to, but camp can't run without women. Everybody knows that. And everybody appreciates us.
But a Hillsdalean view on femininity is more likely to be accurate, because we study the higher things and go to church. I looked and looked but couldn't find any reason for us to be here. We have men to carry books, open doors, and walk us back to our dorms after dark. And as long as men are moving tables for us, we don't really have to do anything. We aren't really needed. We just sit there and look pretty.
I shared this with a male friend at Hillsdale. I told him:
We don't need women. So what if we're pretty. We're superfluous. We're only here because heterosexual men want something to look at. Anyway that's what it feels like at Hillsdale...Are women more attractive when we're terrified, weak, helpless, incapable, and cold?
He told me he had to sleep on it, then never got back to me with an answer. I searched all over Hillsdale for an answer, and it appeared to me that, according to prevalent Hillsdalean philosophy, my initial conclusion was accurate: women are pretty but essentially superfluous. Therefore, women shouldn't move tables or lift anything heavy or set things on fire or (corollaries) otherwise be helpful or have fun. It isn't feminine. Few Hillsdaleans will actually argue this point, but I couldn't find anyone to argue against it, and it's exactly how I felt among Hillsdaleans.
I had a question: are women needed? I had two answers: camp's absolutely and Hillsdale's well, no, not really, but you are pretty. If I had a question about square lashing or dutch oven cooking, I would ask my camp friends. This question, however, is about "the higher things," about philosophy. Thus, Hillsdale is the authority on the matter.
Therefore, women are beautiful but essentially superfluous. Problem solved, or, question answered, anyway. I felt awful.
Look at Genesis. God creates earth, God creates man, man asks God for woman, God creates woman. We weren't part of the original design. We're only here because Adam wanted something pretty to look at. And how many times have men asked God stupid questions? ("Everyone else has a king. We want one, too.")
Fully convinced of my sex's (and, therefore, my own) ontological superfluity, I longed to be back at camp, where at least I didn't feel superfluous.
I band-aided the problem by talking to one of my camp friends who insisted over and over that "women are amazing." I would tell him something awful I did (gossip? talk too much? complain? take too long to get ready?), then say women do this all the time, and therefore we're horrible people. He would nod and say yes, women do that, and I love you for it. "Everything about ya'll is pretty amazing. Cept the whole bleeding thing, that just sounds like a cruel joke," he told me. "You're the most beautiful thing on man's black earth," he said. Finally I asked him what, specifically, he finds so amazing about women.
"You want everything?" he asked.
"Yes," I told him.
"How long do you want to be up?"
I always felt better after talking to him, but I didn't think I ought to. Women are superfluous, and I was (transparently) manipulating him into feeding my ego.
Rules On How to Treat Men
I watch people. Paying attention to common themes running through behavior makes it easier to be kind to people. If I can understand why someone is acting in a particular obnoxious way, it's less obnoxious. So I form rules on how to treat people.
Once I have rules, I experiment. I try them out on people and see what sort of reactions I get, then I try and figure out where those reactions are coming from. (She talks way too much, and it's really annoying. But she's doing it because she doesn't think anyone's paying attention. So I'll listen to her. Mmm? Yup. She looks like she's happier.)
I've tested my rules on how to treat men, and I have quite a list. Don't hit him in the crotch. Don't call him a coward, even if you think he is one. Don't even joke about cowardice. When you see his strength, tell him. Say thank you when he offers his strength (carrying books, holding doors, etc.). Don't tell him he failed. If he's not sure he can do something, tell him you know he can do it, even if you aren't sure yourself. If he's trying to accomplish something (putting the star on the Christmas tree, for example), and he's having trouble, obviously failing, and getting really frustrated, don't waltz in and do it for him and don't ask if he needs your help. Be willing to help if he asks, but don't expect him to. Don't rearrange his desk, room, walls, etc. Don't take too long to get ready. Use the bathroom really, really fast. Don't fuss about how you look. Don't complain. Don't talk too much. Don't scream. Don't giggle. If you haven't seen him in a while, don't run out and hug him in front of everyone. Don't manipulate him. Don't force him to do anything for you, but ask for his strength (walk me back to my dorm, carry this box) if it looks like it won't bother him. If he offers, accept and say thank you. If he offers to carry the box and you wanted to carry it yourself, let him carry it. Walk through doors that he opens for you. If the box is too heavy for you, don't just tell him to come over and help: tell him you need his strength. Don't tell him he is scared or weak. Most importantly, don't step on his pride.
A few of us were hanging out in a male friend's dorm room. I told him he should put his other poster up, and he said there was no wall space. I did a very small amount of rearranging and within about thirty seconds, there was plenty of room. "That's what you get for bringing women in," his roommate said. "They come in and rearrange all your stuff." So I moved everything back to its original location.
Little things like that happen all the time. I do something feminine, it's shot down, and I decide not to do it again. No one intended to insult me, but I could tell I was being annoying--in fact, that my femininity itself was annoying--so I added it to my rules list.
Any time I heard a man say "I hate when women do X" or "it bugs me when women do Y," my rules list was automatically updated. Let men do things the way they want them done. Don't step on his pride. Those were key to my rule book.
Masculine Pride and the Necessity of Women
I think, though, that my rule book was not based entirely on kindness, as I originally intended, or at least thought I intended. It was based also on fear: I wanted to be liked and I was scared I wouldn't be. If you walk around stepping on people's pride all the time, nobody's going to like you. I was scared to step on men's pride.
Men don't whine the way women do, but the complaint I hear most often from them is that women step on their pride. But as much as they hate it, they need their pride stepped on. Look at any war in history. It could have been solved faster and with fewer deaths if pride weren't an issue.
It's often said that women are a pacifying force on society. I originally had this epiphany at a Students for Life meeting: there were probably twenty or so women and three men. I thought, if abortion is ended in this country, it's going to be because of the women. Dr. Jackson told our Anglo-Saxon and Medieval British Literature class at least twice that Anglo-Saxon women often had a role of "peaceweaver" between men. Last year, a Hillsdale friend decided that when he was president, I would be his Secretary of Preventing him from Committing War Crimes. Fyodor Dostoevsky said (and I first heard this in a CCA lecture, of all places) that "beauty will save the world."
Women are better at seeing people, too. It's a lot easier for us to see how our actions affect other people. We understand other people's pain better. I think this is true, anyway: it certainly seems that way. How often is there a video of someone getting injured, and the men laugh, and the women are utterly horrified? And both sexes are subsequently disgusted with each other? I don't think this is impossible for men, but I think it comes more easily to women.
G. K. Chesterton wrote "the true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him." If men have nothing behind them to love, then they will fight because they hate what is in front of them, and hate ruins everything. Our mere existence prevents (some of) this.
I read on a male friend's facebook profile that "true strength lies in gentleness." As a woman, I have no authority to make claims about what is manly and what isn't, but I can say this: the man who smashes something beautiful to prove his manliness looks like a coward next to the man who admires its beauty, confident in his own strength, knowing he can smash it but also that he doesn't have to.
Gentleness, it seems, doesn't come as easily to men as it does to women. But I've noticed in a lot of men a strong desire not to hurt women. A camp friend sprained his ankle jumping off a pavilion; the same friend told me he feels horrible if his girlfriend jams her finger catching a football. My biggest fears are all selfish; a male camp friend told me that his biggest fear is that I or one of his other female friends will be hurt and that a man will be to blame. I've often been frustrated playing football with my male friends, because they won't shove me out of the way, won't even touch me, and they pour out copious apologies when they step barefoot on my shod toe. I tell them I grew up playing tackle football with between two and four brothers, depending on how you count, and that I'm not going to break, but they are still too careful. I don't think it's entirely their fault. I think it's built somewhere deep in men not to hurt women. And I think part of our telos is so that men can learn to be gentle.
Men need women to step on their pride now and then, but they're often too proud to say so. Men need women to do something they hate having done and often don't know they need. We're like dentists.
This doesn't mean we should go tromping all over his pride whenever we get the chance. As a woman, it's easy to get really worked up about a minor problem. Often, I'm perfectly aware that it's not a big deal. I can't understand why I'm so upset about it, and I get frustrated. When this happens, I talk to a male friend, because he can think clearly for me. (My women friends usually sympathize with the problem and I get even more upset about it.) Pride, I think, similarly blinds men, and, similarly, when this happens they need women to think clearly for them. But tears more than pride are conducive to asking for help.
This doesn't mean that men are horrible, uncivilized animals. They're absolutely not.
This new conclusion makes sense of everything. It explained why I felt more comfortable being a woman at camp than I did being a woman at Hillsdale. It explained why men's need to be needed is fed and why women's isn't--and this explains why C. S. Lewis sees the needed to be needed "specially in women."
It doesn't explain why God made men and women this way, but that's his business and not mine.
It doesn't explain why I found the answer at camp and not at Hillsdale. I don't think that many Hillsdaleans actually believe what I called the Hillsdalean view, but it certainly felt that way.
I've revised my list of rules. I won't hit him in the crotch. I won't even hint that I think him a coward. When he offers his strength, I usually accept, and when he doesn't offer, sometimes I'll still ask. I won't tell him that he failed or that he's a failure. If he isn't sure he can do something, I tell him I know he can do it. If he's trying to accomplish something and obviously failing and getting frustrated, I tell him I'm willing to help, but won't jump in without being asked. I tell him "we need your strength" whenever I get the chance.
But hiding my femininity?
It's off the list.
I discovered C. S. Lewis's Mere Christianity at some point during high school, and afterward began devouring everything the man wrote. In a book whose title I can no longer remember, he wrote that we (people in general) ought to get over our need to be needed, and he said he sees this desire "specially in women." I agreed with him for a while.
On a therapy walk to the Academy, a male college friend told me that he felt he wasn't needed. I started paying attention to men's need to be needed, and I found that it was just as extant as women's, but unlike women's, it was fed.
Women need men. We know that. At our dorm meeting at the beginning of the year, our house mother told explained opposite-sex visiting rules in our (women's) dorm. "I love when boys visit," she told us. "I think they're the greatest thing in the world, especially when they're moving furniture." Carry this heavy box. Open the door for me. Walk back to my dorm with me after dark. We need your strength. We get emails about this all the time: St. Anthony's needs help setting up for the picnic, and there are tables to move so we need men.
Do men need women? I paid attention and found two different answers: one from camp (where staffers shower four or five times a week and let the Kalkaska dust stick to our sweaty skin) and one from Hillsdale (where well-groomed students study "the higher things").
At camp, it's obvious that women are needed. There are rosters to fill out for every class and blue cards to fill out for every scout in every class, and every week the program director lectures program staff about bad paperwork. Nobody enjoys paperwork, but but the female staffers are significantly more competent at getting everything filled out legibly and accurately. In addition to this, we have a power over campers (all boys ages 11-17) that the men don't have. Put a girl at the candy window at the trading post and everything sells like hotcakes. Put a girl in charge of a merit badge class and even large crowds of first-years will pay attention. This year, we were specifically told to have a girl in the truck on equipment moves. Why? She's probably smaller and there are already too many people in the truck. She will remember to write down numbers and will write them legibly. And when she gets out of the truck and throws a grill into the bed, scoutmasters and scouts spring into action. Gets them out of the campsite faster. At camp, women are necessary. Women are vital. And it's our femininity that's so important. Camp is a place where boys can do all sorts of crazy things (thirty-two feet in the air on ropes is perfectly safe, Mom) without their mothers telling them not to, but camp can't run without women. Everybody knows that. And everybody appreciates us.
But a Hillsdalean view on femininity is more likely to be accurate, because we study the higher things and go to church. I looked and looked but couldn't find any reason for us to be here. We have men to carry books, open doors, and walk us back to our dorms after dark. And as long as men are moving tables for us, we don't really have to do anything. We aren't really needed. We just sit there and look pretty.
I shared this with a male friend at Hillsdale. I told him:
We don't need women. So what if we're pretty. We're superfluous. We're only here because heterosexual men want something to look at. Anyway that's what it feels like at Hillsdale...Are women more attractive when we're terrified, weak, helpless, incapable, and cold?
He told me he had to sleep on it, then never got back to me with an answer. I searched all over Hillsdale for an answer, and it appeared to me that, according to prevalent Hillsdalean philosophy, my initial conclusion was accurate: women are pretty but essentially superfluous. Therefore, women shouldn't move tables or lift anything heavy or set things on fire or (corollaries) otherwise be helpful or have fun. It isn't feminine. Few Hillsdaleans will actually argue this point, but I couldn't find anyone to argue against it, and it's exactly how I felt among Hillsdaleans.
I had a question: are women needed? I had two answers: camp's absolutely and Hillsdale's well, no, not really, but you are pretty. If I had a question about square lashing or dutch oven cooking, I would ask my camp friends. This question, however, is about "the higher things," about philosophy. Thus, Hillsdale is the authority on the matter.
Therefore, women are beautiful but essentially superfluous. Problem solved, or, question answered, anyway. I felt awful.
Look at Genesis. God creates earth, God creates man, man asks God for woman, God creates woman. We weren't part of the original design. We're only here because Adam wanted something pretty to look at. And how many times have men asked God stupid questions? ("Everyone else has a king. We want one, too.")
Fully convinced of my sex's (and, therefore, my own) ontological superfluity, I longed to be back at camp, where at least I didn't feel superfluous.
I band-aided the problem by talking to one of my camp friends who insisted over and over that "women are amazing." I would tell him something awful I did (gossip? talk too much? complain? take too long to get ready?), then say women do this all the time, and therefore we're horrible people. He would nod and say yes, women do that, and I love you for it. "Everything about ya'll is pretty amazing. Cept the whole bleeding thing, that just sounds like a cruel joke," he told me. "You're the most beautiful thing on man's black earth," he said. Finally I asked him what, specifically, he finds so amazing about women.
"You want everything?" he asked.
"Yes," I told him.
"How long do you want to be up?"
I always felt better after talking to him, but I didn't think I ought to. Women are superfluous, and I was (transparently) manipulating him into feeding my ego.
Rules On How to Treat Men
I watch people. Paying attention to common themes running through behavior makes it easier to be kind to people. If I can understand why someone is acting in a particular obnoxious way, it's less obnoxious. So I form rules on how to treat people.
Once I have rules, I experiment. I try them out on people and see what sort of reactions I get, then I try and figure out where those reactions are coming from. (She talks way too much, and it's really annoying. But she's doing it because she doesn't think anyone's paying attention. So I'll listen to her. Mmm? Yup. She looks like she's happier.)
I've tested my rules on how to treat men, and I have quite a list. Don't hit him in the crotch. Don't call him a coward, even if you think he is one. Don't even joke about cowardice. When you see his strength, tell him. Say thank you when he offers his strength (carrying books, holding doors, etc.). Don't tell him he failed. If he's not sure he can do something, tell him you know he can do it, even if you aren't sure yourself. If he's trying to accomplish something (putting the star on the Christmas tree, for example), and he's having trouble, obviously failing, and getting really frustrated, don't waltz in and do it for him and don't ask if he needs your help. Be willing to help if he asks, but don't expect him to. Don't rearrange his desk, room, walls, etc. Don't take too long to get ready. Use the bathroom really, really fast. Don't fuss about how you look. Don't complain. Don't talk too much. Don't scream. Don't giggle. If you haven't seen him in a while, don't run out and hug him in front of everyone. Don't manipulate him. Don't force him to do anything for you, but ask for his strength (walk me back to my dorm, carry this box) if it looks like it won't bother him. If he offers, accept and say thank you. If he offers to carry the box and you wanted to carry it yourself, let him carry it. Walk through doors that he opens for you. If the box is too heavy for you, don't just tell him to come over and help: tell him you need his strength. Don't tell him he is scared or weak. Most importantly, don't step on his pride.
A few of us were hanging out in a male friend's dorm room. I told him he should put his other poster up, and he said there was no wall space. I did a very small amount of rearranging and within about thirty seconds, there was plenty of room. "That's what you get for bringing women in," his roommate said. "They come in and rearrange all your stuff." So I moved everything back to its original location.
Little things like that happen all the time. I do something feminine, it's shot down, and I decide not to do it again. No one intended to insult me, but I could tell I was being annoying--in fact, that my femininity itself was annoying--so I added it to my rules list.
Any time I heard a man say "I hate when women do X" or "it bugs me when women do Y," my rules list was automatically updated. Let men do things the way they want them done. Don't step on his pride. Those were key to my rule book.
Masculine Pride and the Necessity of Women
I think, though, that my rule book was not based entirely on kindness, as I originally intended, or at least thought I intended. It was based also on fear: I wanted to be liked and I was scared I wouldn't be. If you walk around stepping on people's pride all the time, nobody's going to like you. I was scared to step on men's pride.
Men don't whine the way women do, but the complaint I hear most often from them is that women step on their pride. But as much as they hate it, they need their pride stepped on. Look at any war in history. It could have been solved faster and with fewer deaths if pride weren't an issue.
It's often said that women are a pacifying force on society. I originally had this epiphany at a Students for Life meeting: there were probably twenty or so women and three men. I thought, if abortion is ended in this country, it's going to be because of the women. Dr. Jackson told our Anglo-Saxon and Medieval British Literature class at least twice that Anglo-Saxon women often had a role of "peaceweaver" between men. Last year, a Hillsdale friend decided that when he was president, I would be his Secretary of Preventing him from Committing War Crimes. Fyodor Dostoevsky said (and I first heard this in a CCA lecture, of all places) that "beauty will save the world."
Women are better at seeing people, too. It's a lot easier for us to see how our actions affect other people. We understand other people's pain better. I think this is true, anyway: it certainly seems that way. How often is there a video of someone getting injured, and the men laugh, and the women are utterly horrified? And both sexes are subsequently disgusted with each other? I don't think this is impossible for men, but I think it comes more easily to women.
G. K. Chesterton wrote "the true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him." If men have nothing behind them to love, then they will fight because they hate what is in front of them, and hate ruins everything. Our mere existence prevents (some of) this.
I read on a male friend's facebook profile that "true strength lies in gentleness." As a woman, I have no authority to make claims about what is manly and what isn't, but I can say this: the man who smashes something beautiful to prove his manliness looks like a coward next to the man who admires its beauty, confident in his own strength, knowing he can smash it but also that he doesn't have to.
Gentleness, it seems, doesn't come as easily to men as it does to women. But I've noticed in a lot of men a strong desire not to hurt women. A camp friend sprained his ankle jumping off a pavilion; the same friend told me he feels horrible if his girlfriend jams her finger catching a football. My biggest fears are all selfish; a male camp friend told me that his biggest fear is that I or one of his other female friends will be hurt and that a man will be to blame. I've often been frustrated playing football with my male friends, because they won't shove me out of the way, won't even touch me, and they pour out copious apologies when they step barefoot on my shod toe. I tell them I grew up playing tackle football with between two and four brothers, depending on how you count, and that I'm not going to break, but they are still too careful. I don't think it's entirely their fault. I think it's built somewhere deep in men not to hurt women. And I think part of our telos is so that men can learn to be gentle.
Men need women to step on their pride now and then, but they're often too proud to say so. Men need women to do something they hate having done and often don't know they need. We're like dentists.
This doesn't mean we should go tromping all over his pride whenever we get the chance. As a woman, it's easy to get really worked up about a minor problem. Often, I'm perfectly aware that it's not a big deal. I can't understand why I'm so upset about it, and I get frustrated. When this happens, I talk to a male friend, because he can think clearly for me. (My women friends usually sympathize with the problem and I get even more upset about it.) Pride, I think, similarly blinds men, and, similarly, when this happens they need women to think clearly for them. But tears more than pride are conducive to asking for help.
This doesn't mean that men are horrible, uncivilized animals. They're absolutely not.
This new conclusion makes sense of everything. It explained why I felt more comfortable being a woman at camp than I did being a woman at Hillsdale. It explained why men's need to be needed is fed and why women's isn't--and this explains why C. S. Lewis sees the needed to be needed "specially in women."
It doesn't explain why God made men and women this way, but that's his business and not mine.
It doesn't explain why I found the answer at camp and not at Hillsdale. I don't think that many Hillsdaleans actually believe what I called the Hillsdalean view, but it certainly felt that way.
I've revised my list of rules. I won't hit him in the crotch. I won't even hint that I think him a coward. When he offers his strength, I usually accept, and when he doesn't offer, sometimes I'll still ask. I won't tell him that he failed or that he's a failure. If he isn't sure he can do something, I tell him I know he can do it. If he's trying to accomplish something and obviously failing and getting frustrated, I tell him I'm willing to help, but won't jump in without being asked. I tell him "we need your strength" whenever I get the chance.
But hiding my femininity?
It's off the list.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
ekphrasis theology
My Anglo-Saxon and Medieval British Literature class is amazing. We read Genesis B, an Anglo-Saxon retelling of the story of the Fall. Most of the class was made up of juniors and seniors, and I, a sophomore, observed more than participated in the class's discussion. It was crazy amazing how many connections people made in class, and I remembered why I love poetry so much: because it fits. Somehow, even at the end of a poem, the poet remembers exactly how things are supposed to work and makes every metaphor, every level of the poem fit and tie together neatly at the end.
I left the class with this:
Man ate what was hanging from a tree. In Genesis, man died. At mass, man lives. So of course the Eucharist is the Real Presence of Christ. It doesn't make sense any other way.
Poetry--good poetry, anyway--is full of stuff like this: similes, metaphors, double meanings, more layers than a wedding cake. I remember in the Iliad, the incredible ekphrasis (a work of art within a work of art) describing the shield of Hephiastos. Everything fit perfectly.
Dr. Weaire, my Latin professor, told our class that "poetry is your language on drugs." Initially I thought he was right. You look at poetry and you see a bunch of crazy weird nonsense, and not all of it is actually there. You get this giddy, wonderful feeling and somehow you can't stop coming back to it.
But theology isn't poetry. Theology is truth. Poetry is beauty. So how is it that man can eat what hangs from a tree and either live or die?
My AS&MB Lit professor, Dr. Jackson, told me that he often thinks of poetry as language sobered up. Poetry is language trying to get at the truth.
I think he's right. It makes the connection between theology and poetry much simpler.
One can read Genesis and the gospels--or the entire Bible, or all of human (salvation) history--as a historian, as a philosopher. But one can also read it as a poet. Theology is poetry. All of human history is a poem, an epic poem full of love, hate, joy, suffering, fighting, nobility, defeat, courage, cowardice, deceit, adventure, heroism. God is the greatest poet. We are his characters.
And our poetry? The Iliad? The Bells? The scawls on stall doors of public restrooms?
Ekphrases.
I left the class with this:
Man ate what was hanging from a tree. In Genesis, man died. At mass, man lives. So of course the Eucharist is the Real Presence of Christ. It doesn't make sense any other way.
Poetry--good poetry, anyway--is full of stuff like this: similes, metaphors, double meanings, more layers than a wedding cake. I remember in the Iliad, the incredible ekphrasis (a work of art within a work of art) describing the shield of Hephiastos. Everything fit perfectly.
Dr. Weaire, my Latin professor, told our class that "poetry is your language on drugs." Initially I thought he was right. You look at poetry and you see a bunch of crazy weird nonsense, and not all of it is actually there. You get this giddy, wonderful feeling and somehow you can't stop coming back to it.
But theology isn't poetry. Theology is truth. Poetry is beauty. So how is it that man can eat what hangs from a tree and either live or die?
My AS&MB Lit professor, Dr. Jackson, told me that he often thinks of poetry as language sobered up. Poetry is language trying to get at the truth.
I think he's right. It makes the connection between theology and poetry much simpler.
One can read Genesis and the gospels--or the entire Bible, or all of human (salvation) history--as a historian, as a philosopher. But one can also read it as a poet. Theology is poetry. All of human history is a poem, an epic poem full of love, hate, joy, suffering, fighting, nobility, defeat, courage, cowardice, deceit, adventure, heroism. God is the greatest poet. We are his characters.
And our poetry? The Iliad? The Bells? The scawls on stall doors of public restrooms?
Ekphrases.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Semper Blues, Numquam Charlies
Most of my "hitting on" experience comes in the passive voice: I'm hit on by scoutmasters and fifth-grade boys at summer camp more often than I hit on anyone. So I'm not really "experienced" at this, not really "good" at this. But Marine recruiters were on campus, and I was on a dare (of sorts).
I saw them in the cafeteria at lunch, and when I was done eating I went to the computer lab to print some things out for my two o'clock class. I logged onto gmail and noticed that Jason, my Marine friend from camp, was online. "Tan shirt, blue pants, red stripe. Is that you?" I asked him. He confirmed that yes, these were Marines, and I could see him nodding proudly. He told me I should tell them they should have worn their blues.
Blues, he told me, were the dress uniform for the Marines. "In basic, they told us that women drop their clothes when they see Marines in their blues." I figured that either they looked really nice or really awful. I asked. "Are you kidding?" he asked. "Blues are sexy as hell!"
My mission, I realized, was not merely to pass on an inside message from one Marine to the next, but to hit on the Marine recruiters.
"I'm gonna go do it. I'll be right back," I told Jason. And I signed off.
One of the recruiters was sitting at a table having what looked like a serious conversation with a student; the other was leaning on a chair and chatting with a couple girls. I couldn't approach either one right now with something like this. I stood across the way and glanced over my Latin flashcards.
Finally, the one who had been chatting with the girls left them and wandered over to the table they had set up. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and went over.
"Hello," I said. An innocent way to begin a conversation.
"How's your brother doing?" he asked.
I looked again. It was Joe's friend Louis.
Mission failed.
I saw them in the cafeteria at lunch, and when I was done eating I went to the computer lab to print some things out for my two o'clock class. I logged onto gmail and noticed that Jason, my Marine friend from camp, was online. "Tan shirt, blue pants, red stripe. Is that you?" I asked him. He confirmed that yes, these were Marines, and I could see him nodding proudly. He told me I should tell them they should have worn their blues.
Blues, he told me, were the dress uniform for the Marines. "In basic, they told us that women drop their clothes when they see Marines in their blues." I figured that either they looked really nice or really awful. I asked. "Are you kidding?" he asked. "Blues are sexy as hell!"
My mission, I realized, was not merely to pass on an inside message from one Marine to the next, but to hit on the Marine recruiters.
"I'm gonna go do it. I'll be right back," I told Jason. And I signed off.
One of the recruiters was sitting at a table having what looked like a serious conversation with a student; the other was leaning on a chair and chatting with a couple girls. I couldn't approach either one right now with something like this. I stood across the way and glanced over my Latin flashcards.
Finally, the one who had been chatting with the girls left them and wandered over to the table they had set up. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and went over.
"Hello," I said. An innocent way to begin a conversation.
"How's your brother doing?" he asked.
I looked again. It was Joe's friend Louis.
Mission failed.
Monday, September 1, 2008
marriage material
story
I'm nineteen years old, and this is an interesting age to stumble across this article. I'm not married, but I go to school with people who are and, chances are, if I marry it will be in the next few years. A reflex in my brain automatically files all the men I know into "marriage material," "give him a few years," and "definitely not marriage material." I like to think I know what I'm looking for: is he a a Catholic who takes his faith seriously (so we see things the same way)? Can he hold a job? Is he courteous? Is he going to embarrass me in front of my parents? My mom gave me advice on finding a husband: "marry someone who's going to help you get to heaven" and "marry a man who's as nice to you as your dad is to me." I never thought about genes.
And I don't see why it's necessary to check out genes before accepting a proposal. Track record, reputation, and character have been enough to sort the good eggs from the bad. I don't think it's fair to men to do a background check into something they can't control.
It reminds me of criminal trials. A certain prosecuting attorney I know once mentioned how frustrating trials can be when jurors don't want to give a guilty verdict if there isn't any DNA evidence. He has to remind jurors that trials were fair before we had technology to do DNA testing.
Here's an interesting excerpt:
About 15 percent of the men without the allele reported serious marital discord in the past year, compared with 34 percent of men with two copies of the allele. Wives and partners of the men with two copies of the allele reported lower levels of satisfaction, affection, cohesion and consensus in the relationship than women married to men who had one or no copies of the allele.
It doesn't seem to me that 15% and 34% really make up a significant difference. Another point not made in the article is this: stable, two-parent families often raise kids who value stable, two-parent families and will grow up to have stable, two-parent families. Chances are, the parents in the stable, two-parent families will pass on their genes to their kids. The gene trait maybe be entirely coincidental. Now, I'm not a scientist and I will freely admit that I really don't know what I'm talking about. But the article doesn't address this issue at all.
"What this means is that some people will go into marriage with a stronger deck of cards," Fisher said. "But there are people genetically prone to alcoholism who give up booze and make a good marriage. No one is saying biology is destiny."
This paragraph, the penultimate, is buried at the end of the article. And there's some truth here. We are greater than the sum of all our genes.
I'm nineteen years old, and this is an interesting age to stumble across this article. I'm not married, but I go to school with people who are and, chances are, if I marry it will be in the next few years. A reflex in my brain automatically files all the men I know into "marriage material," "give him a few years," and "definitely not marriage material." I like to think I know what I'm looking for: is he a a Catholic who takes his faith seriously (so we see things the same way)? Can he hold a job? Is he courteous? Is he going to embarrass me in front of my parents? My mom gave me advice on finding a husband: "marry someone who's going to help you get to heaven" and "marry a man who's as nice to you as your dad is to me." I never thought about genes.
And I don't see why it's necessary to check out genes before accepting a proposal. Track record, reputation, and character have been enough to sort the good eggs from the bad. I don't think it's fair to men to do a background check into something they can't control.
It reminds me of criminal trials. A certain prosecuting attorney I know once mentioned how frustrating trials can be when jurors don't want to give a guilty verdict if there isn't any DNA evidence. He has to remind jurors that trials were fair before we had technology to do DNA testing.
Here's an interesting excerpt:
About 15 percent of the men without the allele reported serious marital discord in the past year, compared with 34 percent of men with two copies of the allele. Wives and partners of the men with two copies of the allele reported lower levels of satisfaction, affection, cohesion and consensus in the relationship than women married to men who had one or no copies of the allele.
It doesn't seem to me that 15% and 34% really make up a significant difference. Another point not made in the article is this: stable, two-parent families often raise kids who value stable, two-parent families and will grow up to have stable, two-parent families. Chances are, the parents in the stable, two-parent families will pass on their genes to their kids. The gene trait maybe be entirely coincidental. Now, I'm not a scientist and I will freely admit that I really don't know what I'm talking about. But the article doesn't address this issue at all.
"What this means is that some people will go into marriage with a stronger deck of cards," Fisher said. "But there are people genetically prone to alcoholism who give up booze and make a good marriage. No one is saying biology is destiny."
This paragraph, the penultimate, is buried at the end of the article. And there's some truth here. We are greater than the sum of all our genes.
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