Hear Me Out

Today, something truly horrific happened in Connecticut. So much pain and sadness has been sown, and so much fear and hate has surfaced and bubbled over. Hearts have been moved, and voices are shouting.

Mostly, I have been inundated with social media messages about gun control. Don’t get me wrong; I am 110% behind that; gun control will vastly decrease the ease with which such atrocities can be committed, but that is only half the story.

Everyone’s hearts are breaking for the innocent victims, the children in particular, but they are not the only ones to be mourned. People need someone or something to blame when tragedy strikes, a vessel for the negative emotions. Sometimes, we forget that the man who committed this crime was that: a man. 

We’re always told to hate the sin, not the sinner, in the Christian faith. That is what it means to walk in the image of God. Yes, this man did something unspeakably evil. Yes, it is perfectly valid to react to that with fear and anger and hate for the action. But the man himself, we ought to love.

So what is the other half of the story, if gun control is only a part? How can we love someone so broken that he would massacre children? We can start by examining something else that is broken in our world: the way we treat those who are mentally ill. Obviously this man was sick. Mentally healthy individuals do not commit mass murder. I don’t pretend to know what precisely in this man’s brain chemistry didn’t add up, but I would be willing to bet he was not receiving adequate treatment for it. So, yes, we do need better gun control, but on the other side, we also need better mental health care. Prevention is not just making it harder for sick people to obtain weapons. Prevention is trying to heal the sick, make it so that they do not feel compelled to use weapons. We’re not all doctors and we’re not all politicians. We don’t all have the power to pass laws and give therapy, but we all have one thing we can use to make this world a better, safer place: Love.

Let’s start loving one another, through and through. Let’s remember that we’re all imperfect people, no matter how hard it is to do so. 

So I Was on the Six Train...

Good stories never start that way, and this story doesn't start well, although it ends brighter than anticipated. This is a story of sexual assault, and fear, and a few very brave, very kind men who helped me out of a terrifying situation. 

I was on the 6 train, headed downtown to the Flute Bar for a friend's concert. My roommate and I were dressed up, a rare occasion for make-up (though we couldn't bring ourselves to travel in heels, so we carried them in our hands) and fancy clothes. A middle schooler gave me a once-over and I was amused. She was sitting, and I was standing, holding the bar over her head.

We were two stops away from our destination when it happened. A burly man, reeking of beer, his eyes rolling around disturbingly in his head, tugged at my sleeve.

"You look so beautiful."

"Uh, thanks!"

"None of the other girls here even compare."

I smiled, flattered, but a little wary. Then he stood up, lurched towards me with his hand out, offering a slurred, incomprehensible version of his full name. Marcello? Mark? Marmaduke? Hard to say. He asked for mine.

"Uh, Lars."

"Where are you from?"

"Uh...here. New York." 

I started to wish I had lied more about my name, given an alias rather than a nickname.

"What's your last name? You're from here?"

My roommate stepped in, trying to deflect attention. "She's from this subway car. The very one." He didn't even react to her.

Then time slowed to a crawl while events escalated. The drunk lurched forward again and kissed me, putting an arm across my back. Instinctively I began to back away, now terrified where I had been only creeped out. His arm held me in place, though. I was shooting panicked looks around the train, from my roommate to other people on the seats, but no one seemed to know what to do. When the drunk realized I was trying to back away, he began whispering threats in my ear.

"I'm an ex-marine, you know. You can't run away from me." He started fumbling in his jacket, and suddenly I was worried he might have a gun; he could certainly over power me, particularly in my current state, literally paralyzed with fear, so scared I couldn't even cry.

At that moment, two men who had been conversing urgently behind me sprang into action. The first, a short but broad-shouldered middle-aged man hustled his way under the drunks arm, pushing me back and breaking the hold, letting me free. At the same time, a tall, lanky man in his late 20s or early 30s began ushering me and my roommate towards the door as the train approached a station.

"Don't touch her. Get away from this creep, girl, just go. Don't you put your hands on her. I will fucking punch your face in if I have to, you stay away."

I heard myself yelling "This is my stop!" as though I had just had a friendly encounter with a kind person, then bolted from the train. The drunk tried to follow, but the first man held him back, the second stepping onto the platform to make sure we got into the next car ok. 

I was shaken; my legs were trembling, and my heart was racing. I thought I was one of those girls who could stand up for herself, protect herself from creeps and crazies, but when the moment came, I forgot everything I ever learned about how to handle the situation. The only thought running through my head was "Don't make him mad, don't give him a reason to hurt you," like I somehow owed it to this man to be nice, as though his advances were a consequence of my behavior. I don't like it. I didn't like feeling that way. I never want to feel that way again. I never want to be in that situation again. But instead of feeling completely disgusted, totally disheartened with men, I feel an immense gratitude. The heroes in this story out number the villain. Two total strangers were willing to stick their necks on the line to help a scared girl out of a scary moment. Two people who know nothing about me were brave enough and strong enough to fight a battle I couldn't. In a city where so many blind eyes are turned, how grateful I am that those two were watching.

The Canyon

My grandmother says the Canyon used to be less of a chasm and more of a crack in the sidewalk, but that’s hard to believe. Canyons don’t form in a generation. Mom never contradicts her though, just sits there with her eyes on the hem of her shirt, looking sad. I’m not supposed to go near the Canyon, but everyone does it. I’ve even caught Grandma there a few times, but neither of us can accuse the other one without incriminating ourselves, so we don’t. We just walk to the edge and feel the strange sucking sensation, like the wind at the bottom is pulling all of the energy out of your body. I can’t imagine a crack in the sidewalk doing that.

            According to Grandma’s mushed-up brain, when she was a little girl, our town was a city, with a government and everything. She tells me about how there was a Mayor who was in charge, and a Cabinet who helped him keep things organized and running smoothly. There were parks, and a town swimming pool, and libraries, and people to look after all of those things. No curfew, either, and school five days a week. There must have been a lot more people back then. Grandma never says. I don’t think she liked the Mayor much because talking about him pinches her eyebrows together.

            Elizabeth says her great uncle Dan was part of the Cabinet, and he got sucked into the Canyon entirely, that whatever the Canyon sucked out of him was all he was made of, so it took his whole being away. The same thing happened to the Mayor. Most of the Cabinet survived, but none of them were able to speak after their encounters. Dan was important, I think. He had a lot of responsibilities. Elizabeth’s mom says not to worry about that because it won’t happen anymore, yet that doesn’t stop me from lying awake some nights and wondering if Dan maybe just stood too close to the edge and fell. I don’t stand too close to the edge, just enough to feel the rush while Elizabeth stands guard. She never ever stands by the Canyon, because she’s frightened of the force inside that gap. She thinks it’s full of evil. I disagree; I can sense something wonderful about it, if only I could get a hold of the wind, instead of the wind getting hold of me.

            I’m going to the Canyon tonight to think about growing up. It is a little ritual I perform. Without a trip to the Canyon, tomorrow won’t feel like a birthday. The thing is, tomorrow is also the 50^th anniversary of the Canyon’s appearance in the sidewalk, so it might be crowded. That’s a big anniversary. It’s a big birthday too: ten. That’s why I didn’t invite Elizabeth this year. Grandma says that in her day, the Canyon was guarded by policemen on anniversaries to keep people from visiting. They were supposed to protect the people, she says, but most of the time they used their jobs to protect themselves. The Canyon took most of them, too. The Canyon only takes certain kinds of people. What those kinds of people are is a mystery to me though, because no one will tell me. Apparently I’m too young. Maybe I’ll be old enough to know tomorrow. Sharing a birthday with it sometimes tricks me into thinking I have some sort of privilege, like I get to know things about it that other people don’t, just because of when I was born.

            When I go to the Canyon, a few hours after Mom has shut off the lights, and Grandma is snoring on her cot, I find I’m entirely alone. It’s just me, and this giant hole that pulls on your insides. It’s a little scary, and a little exhilarating. I’m fascinated by it. It makes me feel strong, energized. On the rim of the Canyon, I’m in control; I can do anything I want.

            Stepping closer to the edge than I’ve ever been before, I stare down into it, trying to see the river that carved it. There is no river.

            “What are you?” I whisper. It’s tugging a little more than it used to. I jump back because I swear the Canyon laughed at me. Just a chuckle, but it was there. “You can’t hear me, you’re a canyon.”

            There’s another chuckle. “Of course I can hear you.” It sounds smooth with a tangy after-taste, like a cough drop.

            I sit down. My legs feel like they’re being erased, hot and rubbery and distant. I’m not afraid. At least that is what I’m saying, even if that is not quite what I’m feeling. I’m feeling like there’s nothing I can do unless the Canyon thinks it’s okay for me to do it. I’m feeling like if the Canyon tells me anything, I have to do it. I don’t like it. I’m starting to understand that face Mom makes when Grandma tells stories about the old days, that defeat and resignation. I’m feeling—

            “Powerless.”

            And it’s right. I want to move away from the edge, to run home and hug my mom and never go near that Canyon again, but I can’t. It won’t let me. So I sit there, my knees shaking on the dirt in front of me, my fingers gripping at tree roots as the ground slowly runs away from my body. My nose is full of mud and there are goose bumps on my arms. I’m being sucked into the Canyon, and there is nothing I can do about it. I guess power destroys you in the end, if you’re not careful with it.

How Social Media is Ruining My Higher Education

That title makes it look like this is a post about how I spend all my time on Facebook instead of studying.* In truth, it is a post about how the existence of social media has made applying for scholarships incredibly difficult, for all the wrong reasons. I miss the idea of scholarships being applied for by writing essays about how you learned things, or how you plan to change the world, or how college benefits society, you know, pull-it-out-of-your-butt essays that barely skid under the absurd 500 word limit but sparkle with the brilliance only attained by writers accustomed to cranking out 1400 word chunks on the daily. Now, all you can find are contests where you make a video about how you recycle really well, or make a plan to recycle and follow it, or make a multi-media presentation about copyright law, or write several thousand words about the single most important political issue involved with the 2012 Presidential Election and pray to the Almighty that the judges are on the same end of the political spectrum as yourself. Or, my favorite type of all (dear, faithful 4 blog followers, and random blog stalkers in the Ukraine): the popularity contest. That's right. The existence of Facebook/Twitter/Tumbler/Blogger(uh. yeah.) has made it possible for the following exchange to take place.
Scholarship Coordinator: Gee, thanks, Mr. Money-Haver. It's sure nice of you to offer this large sum of money to college students. What stunt shall we have them perform to compete for it?
Mr. Money-Haver: Let's ask them to write some dumb essay about learning, or how they love the world.
SC: Do you think they'll do it?
MMH: Of course! Kids love that crap! There'll be thousands upon thousands of entries!
SC: Thousands?!?!?!?!?! How ever will we judge them all in a timely manner? This is so difficult!
MMH: Let's narrow the playing field a little, shall we? Pick a top percentage and then judge only those.
SC: How will we ever manage that? That involves some amount of judgement, doesn't it?
MMH: Aw, shucks, you're right! We could always pawn that off onto their peers. Whoever bullies the most people into voting for their work regardless of its quality will obtain the honor of us reading their essay.
SC: Sounds perfect!

So here's a scenario: A quiet kid who was home schooled for a lot of her elementary school career has never really made friends in high school, and doesn't spend much time on Facebook because she doesn't have many friends. She's got the requisite close pals, because quality means more than quantity for her. She's brilliant, completely genius, and if she can scare together enough money for college, she has the potential to go Ivy League and discover cures for cancer, or rebuild Africa's infrastructure, or fix the United States economy. So, she decides to apply for scholarships. Our friends SC and MMH have totally screwed her over, so when one of them gets diagnosed with liver cancer, he's going to be sad, and not even know why.
Now, down the block lives the most charismatic guy around. He's got like 5,000 Facebook friends because he adds everyone whose name he ever learns, and even just some people who are friends with his friends whom he has never met. He went to several different high schools so his base of acquaintanceship is wide. He's nothing too special, goofed off for all of high school and doesn't have the grades to get any merit-based aid from the state school, nor does he qualify for need-based, but his daddy cut him off for crashing the family car. He applies for the same scholarships, but thanks to his charisma and uncanny network of friends, he manages to get enough popularity votes to make it into the final percentage, and is smart enough to beat out the other charismatic individuals. He'll grow up to be a miserable accountant who misses the glory days of high school football, and very few people will care. They'll all have died from cancer.

So, even though this is entirely fruitless...vote for my essay? Please?

http://www.wyzant.com/scholarships/v2/essay51868-New_York-NY.aspx





*Not that I don't do that too...a lot...

Unresolved Issues With the Animal Kingdom: The Monsanto Link

Every once in a while, I get an additional glimpse into the world of evil that is the deer. Their plans are not always clear to me, and rarely do they give themselves away, but sometimes, I get some insight.

Last week, my mom, sister and I packed up our belongings and drove across the entire country. Yes. The whole thing. Well, all but Nevada and California, but I feel we've driven that stretch enough times that it counts. Back to the story.

Everything was going swimmingly until we got to the end of Nebraska. Iowa, it turns out, was full of construction, detours, and closed roads. So we spent several days winding our way down rather pleasant country highways through Iowa cornfields and soybean patches. All this pleasant country life seems, well, pleasant from the outside. But I know better. And not in the crazy Deer-and-pigeons-are-evil way that many of my friends frown upon. No, in the well-researched, people-who-are-not-me-believe-this-also-because-it-is-a-fact way. (Not that deer and pigeons aren't evil.) You see, the life of the American farmer kind of sucks because our government favors corporations over the individual, and corporations, as it happens, can be really evil. Don't believe me? Watch Food Inc., stop eating for a week, cry, wail at the injustice, get hungry and try to grow your own food, then return to this blog. Done? Good. Now, back to my Iowa story.

There's a particularly evil corporation, Monsanto, that is doing it's best to monopolize soybeans. As Food Inc. will tell you, there is either corn or soybeans in pretty much everything Americans eat these days. Monsanto copyrighted a gene.Why is that even legal??? Ugh. Anyway. Their soybean crops have to be treated specially- farmers cannot reseed their fields with their own crop-they have to return it to Monsanto and buy new seed. It's expensive and wasteful, and frankly, I think it's wrong. But can you get soybeans without this Monsanto gene?Yes, yes you can. It's difficult, and many have tried. But there's this little snag-if ANY of your beans have the gene, you're out of luck. It's just like having all Monsanto genes.

By this point, you're probably wondering what on earth this has to do with deer, and why I went off on such a tangent. On the Iowa/Missouri border early last Sunday morning, I saw two deer in a soybean field. Eating the crop. You know what that means? They have soybean poop. My brain started working and I realized with a jolt the deer are inadvertently helping Monsanto spread their evil. If a deer eats a Monsanto bean, then goes over to a non-Monsanto field and takes a nice Monsanto-laden crap, Farmer Joe's Pure Unadulterated Field is suddenly tainted by Monsanto impurities and indiscretions. Joe's life is ruined, all thanks to Bambi & Co.

I hate deer. I really do.