Definitions and Hidden Convictions

(Written Sunday, December 19^th, 2010)

I’m writing this after spending an amazing day hanging out with extended family on my grandparent’s farm in the backwoods of eastern Ontario (though it won’t be posted till later because…well…it’s the middle of nowhere and my grandpa only has dial-up).  I love my family.  I treasure spending time with them more than I could possibly express. 

And yet… 

Every time that I’ve come here in recent years, I’ve found myself struggling to define myself in the midst of this world.  You see, my extended family (and my immediate family to an extent) defines itself and everyone in it by how well each individual fits into their preconceived definitions.  Are you married?  How many kids do you have?  Are you in the ministry?  Are you preparing to be a wife and a mother?  Are you acting like a young woman?

Women and men are talked about as rigid, immovable categories which define nearly everything that you need to know about a person.  From such mundane (though still patently incorrect) things such as “women like mittens” to more frustrating notions like the instruction that my brother must go help my grandpa do chores outside but I, a girl, do not have to.

In this world, I am defined by these stringent categories.  In my world, I must admit, I am still defined by categories.  I am defined by my GPA.  I am defined by my AU honours status.  I am defined by my major and my career goals.    Except these definitions do not bug me so much.  Because I fit; because I’m comfortable.  I can answer questions regarding these definitions with ease and without agitation.  I never feel the need to suppress my anger or my grief. 

It’s a different story in this place though.  My family doesn’t seem to understand the thought that these definitions, these categories might not perfectly suite everyone.  Yes, they recognize that not every girl gets married (at least not right away).  But women still must play different roles than men in nearly every area of life.  Your gender is still the most defining characteristic of who you are.  It tells you where you can go, what jobs you are and are not expected to do.  It tells you when you can speak or how well your speech will be respected. It tells you what you like and do not like, what you are and are not capable of understanding.

My greatest heartache at this moment is that I cannot be myself in this place.  There is one definition that I must suppress and it hurts me more than I would like to admit.  I cannot be a feminist.  I cannot declare my equality with man.  I must pretend.  Pretend that I’m ok with this constant understanding that women are lesser.  That I am lesser.  I am defined by what I am, and what I am first and foremost is a woman.  So therefore, I am less than.  I am not him.  I am her.  I cannot stand up.  I cannot speak out.  I must pretend.

            This person is not me.  This silent person feeling the need to shrink away to my room so that I can find my voice.  The only comfort that I can find is in knowing that as soon as I get to the hotel in London, Ontario on December 22nd, I can copy and paste this document into my blog and then hit "publish post".  I am clinging to the hope of that button, knowing that nothing can silence this voice in the darkness.

Yet, though I cling to that thought, it is not exactly true.  I am choosing not to be a voice in the darkness of this place.  Out of fear.  Out of intimidation.  Out of love.  I don’t want to upset anyone.  I don’t want to get into a fight or make anyone mad.  Honestly, I just want to relax.  But I’m finding it to be more difficult than I had anticipated.  I’m feeling stressed out and agitated because I have no clue how to interact in this world.

I always know that I’m going to have to hide parts of myself while I’m here.  From simple things like my tattoos to bigger things like my feminism, I know far in advance that portions of me must remain hidden while visiting this farm.  I always forget how stressful it is though.  I never remember the heartache, the headaches, the pain.  I forget the need to rush into a private room and express myself through writing.  I forget the sarcastic comments which rise like bile in my throat.  I forget the clenched teeth and jaw, the furrowed brow, the painful concentration that it takes to simply bite these barbs back.

Don’t get me wrong.  As I said at the beginning, I absolutely love my family.  I love coming here, and I wouldn’t give up my time here for the world.  One of my greatest regrets in life is not being able to get to know my grandparents better.  So please don’t take any of this to think that I’m hating my family or not wanting to visit them.  It’s just hard.  I can’t seem to find a balance.  I need to find a way to love my family and respect their opinions, traditions, and beliefs while still maintaining my own convictions and character.

Home is where the ambition is

So I've been missing for an entire month.  Fail me.

The good news is: I am done with all of my classes for the semester. The bad news is: I still have to write an unholy number of papers and finals before I can go home.

I just realized that I will be graduating from college in one year.  Very weird.  Not sure how I feel about it.  In so many ways, I'm not ready to be done with this place.  I love it here more than I could possibly express, and I honestly can't imagine leaving DC.  I feel like I have found a new home, and it's weird.  Because thinking back on my childhood home, I never could've imagined not feeling at home there.  But as much as I adored spending ten days back in my old house and old room over Thanksgiving break, probably for the first time, I felt like a visitor.  It probably had something to do with the fact that my old room is practically naked.  It still has my paintings on the walls, my bed, and my dresser, but other than that, it's not my room anymore.  No posters, no pictures of musicians that have changed my life, no quotes of influential people, no dozens of Canadian flags (ok, there's still four there, but still).  My bookshelf with all of my books and my stereo and everything that makes my room my room have all been transferred to my apartment here in DC.  I even found myself missing my bed at my apartment while I was home (thanks to no longer being on a crappy dorm mattress).

So what is it that makes me feel "at home"?  Is it the aforementioned furniture, decorations, and personal effects?  Or does it go deeper than that?  There is that age-old saying, "home is where the heart is."  But my heart is in so many different places.  My heart is here in DC, in this place which houses all of my friends and, perhaps more importantly, all of my passions and dreams.  My heart is also in Chicagoland, with my parents and my brother, Jason, sister-in-law, Laura, one year old nephew, Landon (who I miss quite terribly right now) and unborn niece or nephew (TBD by the beginning of the new year).  My heart is also in Mishawaka, Indiana, with my big brother and best friend Stephen, especially tonight and tomorrow as he performs in yet another show that I can send my heart to, but not my whole self.  My heart is in Camp Lejeune, Jacksonville, North Carolina, with my brother, Phil, the Marine who I am soooo proud of, my sister-in-law, Ashley, my nearly two year old nephew, Isaac (whose parents need to start feeding him more so he's not just skin and very tall bones!), and my unborn baby niece, Harmony Nicole, who doesn't seem to want to listen to anyone who tells her to slow down, just like her beautiful mom.  My heart is spread across Canada, but especially in London and Avonmore, Ontario, with my respective grandparents, who I am unbelievably excited to go visit over Christmas break.

So yes, my heart is torn.  There are so many different places which it resides on a regular basis.  So, getting back to the original question, why is it that I feel that DC, and not Chicagoland or any other place, is truly my home now?  I think that God has given me a passion for this place, these people.  I love the diversity.  I love the fast pace.  I love the politics.

But, more than anything, I love being in a place where I know that there will never be an end to new challenges and passions which will capture my heart.  I love being surrounded by people who have so many ambitions, not just to live inside their comfortable little dream-like bubbles, but to step out and change it.  Change everything.  Change the world.  It reminds of something that my old high school chaplain used to say when asked how my high school was able to raise over a half a million dollars in aid for a little town in Zambia.

"We gave them permission to change the world."  I love that saying.

I don't know exactly what it is about DC that I love so much, but I think it has something to do with this passion for world changing.  I've been to other places where such sentiments, such ambitions, were scoffed at, ridiculed, and considered unbelievably naive.  And maybe the sentiment is naive.  But it was naive high school students who sat around a table one day nearly a decade ago and decided to "do something" to combat AIDS in some random country in sub-Saharan Africa.  That was the catalyst for building an entire k-12 school, a maternity ward in a hospital, supplying food for an entire year, and countless other small projects in some random village in Zambia.  That village no longer needs our help.  It was a group of naive women who thought it would be fun to stand outside the White House with signs calling for women's suffrage.  These women were subsequently jailed and force-fed, all in the name of women's suffrage. We now have the 19th Amendment to the United States Constitution.

I will never listen when someone tells me to temper my ambitions.  I may be young and naive, but I firmly believe that I do have the power to change the world.  And I love that DC has never tried to temper this.  In fact, this place has fostered and encouraged my ambitions beyond what I could imagine.

"Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us, to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations forever and ever. Amen."

Capstone Conundrums

     So, because I'm planning on graduating a semester early, this coming semester, which I just registered for (YAY!) is technically the start of my senior year (weird).  What this means is that I need to seriously start figuring out what I want to do for my capstone.  It also means that I need to seriously get cracking on LSAT studying (eek!), but that's beside the point.

     I really want my capstone to be something important, something that I care deeply about, something that acts as a comprehensive accumulation of my time here at AU, and (perhaps most importantly) something that I won't get bored with. :P  I have so many different thoughts in my head, so many things that I care about.  I really am at a loss as to how to narrow them all down to something feasible.

     I'm a Justice and Political Science Major with a concentration in criminal justice and extensive course work in women's and gender studies.  (As a totally unrelated side note: I'm taking a religion class called "Feminist Theology" next semester.  Get excited!)  My life goal is to become a sex crimes prosecutor.  As such, I'm hoping to get into a prestigious law school.  What would be the appropriate cumulative project for this preparatory life called college?

     Or I could just explore one of the many policy areas which get my blood rolling: underage prostitutes and the fact that their "johns" aren't charged with, at the very least, statutory rape; the idea of life without parole being a de facto death penalty; issues of human rights (or lack thereof) within the prison system; the lack of rehabilitative policy within the American criminal justice system; the direct correlation between the crappy education system here in the United States and poverty/crime rates; and the patriarchal status quo in this nation serving as the basis for most, if not all, sex crimes.

     I also have to write a 20-30 page paper for my Justice Stories class.  Maybe I can treat that as a sort of mini-capstone to get some of my more minor ideas out of the way so that I can focus on one major idea in my capstone.  Or maybe I could actually challenge myself and force myself to do something creative for the project...  I doubt that'll happen, but I'll at least force myself to consider it.

Since when did school start involving important life decisions?  Didn't freshman year just start?  Can I just go back to taking classes for fun and not thinking about the implications of those actions?

There is hope in the world.

So I had a 9-5 training session with DC rape crisis center today, and it was "isms" day (as in sexism, racism, etc.). This has by far been my favourite session so far, and I just wanted to tell a quick story told by the executive director of DCRCC which I thought was really cool:

First, background: Denise, the executive director, is a Caucasian woman who's partner, Donna, is an African-American woman. Donna has a daughter from a previous relationship whom they both raised. Now the story: When this daughter was about 5 years old, she was sitting on both Denise and Donna's laps, kind of in between them. Denise and Donna were holding hands across the lap of the daughter. Donna asked her daughter, "Which hand is Mommy's and which hand is Denise's?" The daughter accurately identified their respective hands. Then Donna asked, "How did you know?" Pointing to her mom's hand, the daughter said, "Because this ring is yours and this ring," pointing to Denise's hand, "is Denise's."

This five year old girl was so blessed to be able to live a life entirely oblivious to the idea that someone might be identified by the colour of his/her skin. To her, it was just as mundane as a person's shoe size, eye colour, or birthday. They are all just things which you are born with, but which do not, in any way, make you who you are.

Denise's hope, and mine as well, is that soon we will come to a day where most seven year olds don't yet see skin colour as a defining characteristic. And then eleven. And then 16. And maybe somewhere down the line, our great, great, etc. grandchildren will be able to live in a world where not a single person (or at least not the vast majority of people) will look at a person and see first their skin colour and then the rest of them.

Maybe one day the same will happen with the rest of the "isms" which we talked about: Sexism, Classism, Ageism, Heterosexism, Cisgenderism, Ableism, Faithism, Nationalism, and Lookism.

Maybe that's too much to hope, but I'm not giving up.

Double X's

These two little x's

So tiny

Even microscopic

Yet they seem to make all the difference

These tiny little x's

Seem to decide so much about me

What clothes I'm allowed to wear

What positions I can hold

In the church

In the workplace

In the home

On the street

On the bus

Late at night

All alone

But I can't ever go alone

I am lesser

I am her

I am not him

They say there is no difference anymore

That we live in a post-gender world

But they don't see

They can't know

The looks that I get

When I speak of my ambitions

When I say I don't want kids

They tell me I'll change my mind

That I don't know what I'm talking about

Or even that I'm wrong

Would you say those same things to him?

No, of course not.

Because I am not him

I am her.

What is it about these double x's?

To insult a man,

They call him a woman.

To degrade a woman,

They tell her she is not a man.

Because I was born with these double x's,

I must not act like a man

For fear of being degraded.

Questioning my womanhood,

They call me a dyke

Or tell me to return

To the comfy and unconfusing little world

Of these two little x's.

I want to be judged,

Not by my chromosomes,

But by the ideas inside my mind,

The passion in my heart,

And the character of my life.

If that's too hard,

If you can't see past these gender roles and sexual lines,

Then don't bother judging me at all.

Old Revelations and New Commitments

So I think three major things happened on retreat:

1. I broke down and realized that I can't follow my life's calling on my own; I need to rely upon the strength and love of God.
2. I'll never be able to hear God's voice if I'm not regularly listening.
3. I need to stop focusing so much on myself and where I'm at with God, and instead focus on how I'm serving, ministering to, and loving others.

Now, in light of that last point, the whole idea of blogging about my thoughts seems kind of counter-productive, but I think it's important for me to solidify what I believe God is teaching me by allowing this semi-public forum to hold me accountable.

Well, I think the biggest (as in most overwhelming) thing which happened on retreat is that I finally got to a point where I knew that I couldn't volunteer at DCRCC on my own. The last time I tried to tangibly tackle these type of issues, I was consumed by the fight. I became depressed, started cutting and became suicidal. And I know for a fact that, if I try to counsel and advocate in my own power, I will return to that place. And that thought terrifies me. But silence isn't an option; apathy isn't a choice. After laying this issue on my heart again, God asked me, "Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?" My heart and mind, voice and whole body cried out: "Here I am. Send me!" This fight has already captured my heart, my soul, and my future, and I can never turn away. These two realizations (my inability to fight on my own and my inability to turn away from the fight) was overwhelming and heart-breaking. But I think that it was a necessary place for me to get to. Because once I got to that place, I was able to realize that, although I cannot fight this battle on my own, as my verse of this year says, I have the Spirit's very power, love, and mind within side me. If I rest in Him, if I let God's love and not my own flow through me and into these broken people, instead of consuming me, this fight will make me soar.

For this reason, I'm contemplating getting "Love" tattooed on my forearm (in cursive, white lettering), right underneath my scars. This is not my love, but the love of my Saviour which will stop me from picking up that knife again, no matter how inadequate I am to love these people.

The second thing which God has really been teaching me over the past several weeks, months, and even years, is that He can never talk to me if I'm not listening. It's when I read and know His Word that I have any chance of growing in knowledge of God and following the call of His Spirit. Yes, my life is insanely busy right now. I am mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted; the very thought of waking up one hour earlier or staying up one hour later to truly connect with God seems to drain me. Even though I know how much more refreshed I feel when I do, especially in the morning. I have to learn to be disciplined.

Finally, I need to stop complaining about not hearing God's voice, stop spending all my time trying to muddle through the convolution of my brain instead of focusing on serving and evangelizing those around me. I am rarely one who talks about or even, in all honesty, thinks about evangelism. But, certain people (cough, cough, Kera, cough) have truly gotten to me by bringing one simple fact to my mind: if I truly believe that some of the people around me are going to hell, then, how much must I hate them to be perpetually silent about my faith? Now, I have no clue what this looks like. I will never be one of those fire-and-brimstone, "let's go burn a Koran for fun," wack-o Christians. It will just never happen. But I do know that it looks like more than what I'm doing. I need to truly figure out where my convictions lie, and then stick with them. I also need to not shrink back from the awkward conversations, the difficult discussions. I don't know how to have those discussions organically. I'm very new at this whole being bluntly open about my faith thing. But I really am going to try. And I ask anyone who interacts with me regularly, whether you share my convictions or not, whether you think I'm crazy or not, to hold me accountable to what I'm saying. I will be no where near perfect. I'm sure I will fail much more than I succeed. But I am publicly committing to changing, empowered by the overwhelming power, love and disciplined mind of Jehovah Jireh.

My Justice major is showing...

For 150 years, the Louisiana plantation known as Angola has been worked, toiled over, and broken by the sweat of forced labour. The bloodiest and most dangerous war in American history was fought to stop the use of humans as cattle, people as slaves. Until recently, Angola plantation was known as the bloodiest and most dangerous prison system in America. So yes, circumstances have changed, but I would bet that if you took a picture of the fields of Angola in the mid-1800s, it wouldn't look too different from the fields today.

77% of Louisiana's maximum security state penitentiary is African American. I wonder if some of these boys can trace their lineage back to these very fields? Angola is their prison, their plantation, their ancestry, their heritage, their nation.

This brutal land is covered in the blood, sweat, and tears of African-American slaves. Burl Cain may claim the title of warden and may be bankrolled by the state, but just as in days gone by, he is a plantation owner looking down on his forced labour like cattle, like chattel, like children. Maybe one day the land can be put to rest, can stop bleeding, sweating and crying out the suffering of its slaves.

The preceding paragraphs came out of my Justice Stories class. We've been looking at the writings of American prisoners as well as watching films and learning about prison conditions. We've also looked a little bit at the solitary confinement policy of prisons.

Throwing inmates in "the hole" is not widely considered to be a violation of any rights. But if it truly isn't torture, why was solitary confinement the primary method of breaking the souls of inmates at Abu Ghraib, Gitmo, and other torture strongholds? Humans are meant to be social creatures. It is psychological torture to entirely cut them off from all communication with other humans.

Another policy which we have been examining in a couple of my classes is the death penalty and life without parole. Every time we look at these policies, the question always pops into my head, "Why do we deny the possibility of redemption?" When it comes to theories of punishment, the idea of rehabilitation has largely been discarded in favour of retribution and deterrence. Over the past couple decades, the United States has largely eliminated the education programs within her prisons, despite the fact that education in America is the one proven way of getting people out of poverty and a life of crime.

Furthermore, the people who have the largest stake in punitive policy are cut off from voicing their opinions on punitive policy! Why do we deny ex-convicts the right to vote? We cut these people off from society for years on end, and then deny them an ability to ever life a normal life again. They can't vote. They have little to no education. Very few legitimate employers will hire them. The only landlords which will house them are in very shady places. And then we act surprised at the high recidivism rate. There are so many people which claim that America is a "Christian nation," and yet they deny the very possibility of one of the most basic tenets of the Christian faith: redemption.

Why is it again that I'm pursuing a career in prosecution?