The other day, I watched Cinderella for the first time since I was a kid. (Being a full-time baby-sitter has perks such as these, in case you're wondering.) All those stereotypes, those hidden messages that I missed as a child caused the feminist beast in my heart to rise up in terror and hostility.
Cinderella is pretty. And blonde. Of course, blonde. Animals love her gentle, kind spirit (and amazing singing voice)--a sure sign of a good woman. The step-sisters are painted as flat, mean characters. Bradley, the little boy I baby-sit for, asks why they're so mean to her. "Well, because they're jealous of her." "Why?" he asks innocently. "What does 'jealous' mean?" "Um...it means she's prettier than they are and she can sing better, so they don't like her. And they're mean because their mom teaches them to be mean," I say, cringing at the propaganda that has caused misery for countless young girls who aren't singing blonde bombshells by nature. "But why? How did they get so mean?" Brad questions. Why did they get so mean? Well, that would be an interesting question to explore. Unfortunately, movies made in this era like to keep things straightforward. Pretty people are nice and good. Ugly people are mean. End of story. Move on, become pretty, be nice, or shut up and get out of the way. This is part of the reason why girls today are willing to pay countless dollars to look more attractive, to get the guy, to fall in love, to have the fairy tale ending to their miserable, mortal life. I don't say these things, though I think them. After all, a four-year-old shouldn't bear the brunt of my pent-up feminism. Plus, he'd have no idea what I was talking about. Complex scenarios, cause-and-effect, and sarcasm are kind of lost on four-year-olds. But still, I was glad he thought to wonder what makes people act the way they do. If he's still asking that a year from now, maybe I'll try explaining propaganda to him.
As the movie goes on, I get more disgusted. But this time, it's not with the movie or with the makers of the movie and stereotypes. It's with myself. As Cinderella dances around with the prince ("So this is the miracle that I've been dreaming of, so this is love") and as she removes the other glass slipper from her pocket in a surprise ending, ruining all the evil schemes of her wicked step-mother, I realize that the little-girl dreams in my heart to have those things are still alive and well. My heart lurches with its own jealousy as I hunger for a fairy godmother to give me everything I wanted (and always deserved). I desire beauty and a voice that will stop the man of my dreams in his tracks. I want mice to sew my clothes and give me sponge baths because I'm so beautiful and kind. I want grace and gentleness when there's no logical reason that I should have them (except that I'm just inherently good). I want a dream wedding and a father-in-law who adores me. I want to live in a castle. And especially, more than anything, I want those glass slippers and that sparkly blue dress. I want to look like a princess. So badly.
What is this? After great theological training, after countless people telling me that my worth is not dependent on my looks or possessions, after the LORD has redeemed me and shown me that He alone can save me, why do I still chase after empty dreams? Glass slippers, love at first sight, beautiful castles, unearned perfection...is it because I spent so many years of my life not questioning those values? Do I just need to spend more time overtly critiquing the myths of fairy tale? Or is it more sinister than that?
Auden's Lullaby says it better than I could from here. Human loves, human creations, being beautiful, being perfect...they're nice fantasies, and they are rooted in some truth--The Imago Dei in me, the potential for good. But in myself, apart from the LORD, apart from His grace and Spirit working in me, they are lies. Good lies because they are based in truth. Dangerous lies. Abba, deliver me again from chasing these lies. Glass slippers can be broken when Your words never fail. Remind me of Your better, all-consuming, unfailing love. All other loves must be rooted in You, or they prove faithless in the end. Gratifying in the moment, beautiful, desirable, pleasurable...but faithless.
Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.
Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit’s carnal ecstasy.
Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell,
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.
Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of sweetness show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find the mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness see you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
In Memoriam
I don’t remember much, but what I do remember impresses me deeply. Over the past couple of years, I lost touch with you, as was the case with most people I knew semi-well my sophomore year. I remember feeling awkward last year when you and your friend needed a table at Saga and you joined ours until we left. I used to feel comfortable around you, but it had been so long and we had nothing to talk about anymore.
The best memory I have of you is one that I never told you about. We weren’t close enough for me to tell you about it without feeling like a creep. Still, it changed something in my heart, and I’m grateful to you for giving me that moment, even if you didn’t know you had done it.
You used to come to Ben Rey’s WCF prayer group. I don’t remember anything else that took place at the particular prayer group that I’m thinking of…no major breakthroughs or prophetic words from God. Just you. You got up to leave early because you had class. I was sitting on the floor in the corner of Mac/Evans prayer room. My usual spot. I wasn’t particularly focused on the LORD or feeling all that spiritual. But somehow when you stood up, my heart split with how beautiful you were. (I know, creepy, right? I promise I didn’t have a crush on you. Now you see why I never told you.) It was weird and unexpected. All of a sudden, I was looking at you through God’s eyes. I know people talk about that a lot. Heck, I talked about it often, but I never really knew what I was talking about until that moment. I’m still not sure why it happened, but watching you as you left the room left me overwhelmed by God’s love for you in particular and for us as a human race. It’s hard to articulate fully, but I came away from that day with a new understanding of how precious we are in His sight. All the clichés became a reality because of the way you looked then…your gentleness, your humility, the curls on your head, the slight stoop in your back, the bone structure of your face. It was physical beauty and yet deeper. More complete. I sensed His absolute delight in you, and it moves me still. I’m glad you’re enjoying His presence.
The best memory I have of you is one that I never told you about. We weren’t close enough for me to tell you about it without feeling like a creep. Still, it changed something in my heart, and I’m grateful to you for giving me that moment, even if you didn’t know you had done it.
You used to come to Ben Rey’s WCF prayer group. I don’t remember anything else that took place at the particular prayer group that I’m thinking of…no major breakthroughs or prophetic words from God. Just you. You got up to leave early because you had class. I was sitting on the floor in the corner of Mac/Evans prayer room. My usual spot. I wasn’t particularly focused on the LORD or feeling all that spiritual. But somehow when you stood up, my heart split with how beautiful you were. (I know, creepy, right? I promise I didn’t have a crush on you. Now you see why I never told you.) It was weird and unexpected. All of a sudden, I was looking at you through God’s eyes. I know people talk about that a lot. Heck, I talked about it often, but I never really knew what I was talking about until that moment. I’m still not sure why it happened, but watching you as you left the room left me overwhelmed by God’s love for you in particular and for us as a human race. It’s hard to articulate fully, but I came away from that day with a new understanding of how precious we are in His sight. All the clichés became a reality because of the way you looked then…your gentleness, your humility, the curls on your head, the slight stoop in your back, the bone structure of your face. It was physical beauty and yet deeper. More complete. I sensed His absolute delight in you, and it moves me still. I’m glad you’re enjoying His presence.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
More Time
It's funny. I'm working about 30 hours a week and have more free time than I've had in about a year. I'm dying to write more. Every time I pray, I feel a burden to start writing. I have tons of ideas. And yet, when I actually sit down to write, I feel like there's no time. I need more time. Or do I? Maybe I just need more discipline. Frick.
Monday, June 18, 2007
CCM
I never had much school spirit at Wheaton. I can count on my thumb the number of athletic events I attended. I never wore orange and blue on spirit days. I never hung with the class or volunteered for things that are traditionally Wheaton. In fact, I kind of looked down on/pitied people who love Wheaton in the rah-rah shishkamba kind of way. The types who come back to every single reunion and love the Festival of Faith and actually read the alumni magazine cover to cover.
I was surprised at the desire that bubbled up inside of me after graduation to retain my connection to the cheesier aspects of Wheaton. Suddenly, that SAGA cup I’d been meaning to return for two years was a cherished treasure. I’ll take it back next school year after I’m well-adjusted to real life, after I don’t need it anymore, I told myself, as if my SAGA cup were my trusty security blanket. I would see a car driving in front of me with a Wheaton parking sticker and instead of the usual frustration that this Wheaton employee is driving a Lexus and acting like a worldly jerk behind the wheel, I would feel pride and joy. There’s a fellow Wheatie, I would think in a comforting tone. They understand me. The worst part, though, is when I felt happy and peaceful every time I turned the radio to 88.1. When I was at Wheaton, I very rarely listened to WETN. In fact, most of my interactions with WETN occurred because of chapel. In spite of my condescension toward a lot of Wheaton staples, I always loved chapel. So when I skipped, I watched it or listened to it on WETN. Other than that, though, I thought the radio station was the cheesiest thing this side of the planet. And how the beginning of that David Crowder song plays every time they announce the weather??? What’s up with that?
Anyway, who would have thought that listening to WETN after graduation would make me feel so connected, so remembered? For about two weeks after graduation, I filled most of the time I spent driving and hanging around the apartment with the radio waves of all the CCM your money can buy (except it was free, since it was radio). Then, one Sunday morning I went to church, and I realized that our worship team is a CCM band. There was no difference between listening to the radio for half an hour and sitting in my church on Sunday morning. The band would play the songs, exactly as written (including David Crowder’s “Here we go!” on “There is No One Like You”). Electric guitar solos in place, drums sounding good, backup vocalists looking polished and shined, and there’s our worship of the LORD. Don’t like it? What’s wrong with you? Oh, you wanted to feel like you weren’t just sitting in your car listening to the radio? What on earth for?
I talked this over a bit with my mentor. He thinks that it’s not the church worship bands that have things so wrong. It’s more the fault of Christian radio/entertainment people who have this fetish with turning worship into background car music rather than time that is truly devoted to dwelling in the LORD’s presence and marveling at His character. Now, I realize that sounds very American of me and not holistic enough. I can experience the LORD’s presence in my car, and I can praise Him any time. And it can be good and real. But why the heck do we come to church? I mean, why not just live our lives like everyone else, only with the fruit of the Spirit and hope in Jesus? What’s the point of meeting together, and why does Scripture say not to forsake it?
I have a couple of ideas. One, it’s too easy for lonely sheep to fall away. Here’s the thing…I (and probably most of us) don’t really like people. Sure, we tolerate them, and even enjoy them on occasion. But do most of us really like that agonizing process of building intense, close community with people? Dealing with the tensions, the conflicts, the hurt, the bitterness, the wounds, the brokenness? If we love brokenness and conflict, that’s probably not the healthiest state of mind, right? So, of course, we hate dealing with other broken people, knowing full well that we ourselves are broken too. It’s hard. It hurts. And even if it’s worth it in the end, it’s not something we always willingly give ourselves to. So if left on our own, without that structured expectation to be in community together, are we going to do it consistently? Doubtful.
Two, (and this is where CCM worship really gets to me) the point of worship in community should be and should look different than the point of worship as individuals. When I am alone in my bedroom praising God or alone in my car worshiping the LORD, it is different than when I am in a room with one hundred other people praising God or in a room with one other person worshiping the LORD. If I miss that, I am simply being self-centered and immature. Or perhaps a victim of my culture. That Sunday morning in church, when I realized that radio and church were becoming identical experiences, I was frustrated because it should feel different. A band playing in a studio should feel different than a hundred people who should know each other and be intimate enough to interact with one another as they worship. We are called together to worship so that we can encourage one antoehr, exhort, etc. It’s a two-way street (or however many ways you have represented, actually). It’s not just about a few famous guys spitting out lines that thousands can mimic (and not even mimic back to them, because it’s not as if they come to every church every Sunday). There is no interaction with one another, and I would even go so far as to say that there is limited interaction between us and God when we do communal worship that way. Can I just say, I am tired of singing to God about flowers and mountains and running water? Sometimes I want to tell Him that my heart is heavy and I want to know what it is to trust Him with my future, with the details, with money, with love. Most of the CCM songs don’t really allow for that kind of depth, though, so if I sing with the congregation, I sing about nature. Nature’s fun to sing about. It usually comes with pretty melodies and driving guitar licks.
Sometimes at church, I get so fed up, I sit down and start praying and singing on my own. But even that’s not a great substitute, because then I think, Why am I not just doing this at home? What’s the point of being here? And truthfully, if it weren’t for the amazing, intellectually and spiritually stimulating sermons my pastor gives, I wouldn’t go to church. But now I have another reason to keep going…this has got to get better. We’ve got to learn how to be vulnerable with each other in community. Otherwise, church is pretty much a farce. We might as well stay home and order sermons on CD. Or better yet, our pastor could join up with WETN, preach on Sunday mornings over the radio, and then be followed by some great worship hits. No, no, no, I will not be satisfied with that. So I’m working on infiltrating the system at my church. I’m slowly getting to know the worship leader, joining the choir, and getting in with the young adult ministry. Somehow, someway, there must be a weak spot in this church that I can find and press just hard enough to get some interaction flowing. Being broken makes it a lot harder than it should be…good thing the LORD is pretty generous with redemption and grace.
I no longer feel the need to fill my life with connection to Wheaton through WETN. I got sick enough of CCM to be cured of my Wheaton homesickness. (I still drink from my SAGA cup regularly, though.) And, as I thought about how unoriginal and impersonal Christianity, and more specifically, corporate worship music is becoming, I came up with a plan. What if, instead of complaining about CCM, we started writing our own worship music? My Biblical Theology of Worship class really inspired this plan. We spent most of the class criticizing the ridiculous way church music has become commercialized and dumbed down, but then, at the very end of the class, people who had written their own worship songs got to share them. Not all of them were amazing, but most of them were pretty darn good. And the best part about some of the songs was, they were written by people I knew and loved. I had heard those friends practicing and hammering out the details of their songs, agonizing over the lyrics, going through the process of what they wanted to proclaim about the LORD. I knew their lives and hearts. I knew what the LORD had done in them to bring them to a place where they could sing praises to Him. How beautiful would it be if someone from my church’s worship team shared a song they had written? If someone in the congregation shared a poem? If the electric guitar player played something he had written and shared why it meant something to him? I guess that would be vulnerable, intimate. Scary. But man, it would be fun, and I think it might bring some life into our church community that’s been lacking. So…on to the continuation of infiltrating the system…we’ll see what happens.
P.S. If you complain about CCM (this means you too, Angel), shut up and write a song. If you can’t write music, spend your time learning instead of complaining. Or convince someone else to write a song. Together, we can change the face of church music. I’m convinced. With our powers combined…
I was surprised at the desire that bubbled up inside of me after graduation to retain my connection to the cheesier aspects of Wheaton. Suddenly, that SAGA cup I’d been meaning to return for two years was a cherished treasure. I’ll take it back next school year after I’m well-adjusted to real life, after I don’t need it anymore, I told myself, as if my SAGA cup were my trusty security blanket. I would see a car driving in front of me with a Wheaton parking sticker and instead of the usual frustration that this Wheaton employee is driving a Lexus and acting like a worldly jerk behind the wheel, I would feel pride and joy. There’s a fellow Wheatie, I would think in a comforting tone. They understand me. The worst part, though, is when I felt happy and peaceful every time I turned the radio to 88.1. When I was at Wheaton, I very rarely listened to WETN. In fact, most of my interactions with WETN occurred because of chapel. In spite of my condescension toward a lot of Wheaton staples, I always loved chapel. So when I skipped, I watched it or listened to it on WETN. Other than that, though, I thought the radio station was the cheesiest thing this side of the planet. And how the beginning of that David Crowder song plays every time they announce the weather??? What’s up with that?
Anyway, who would have thought that listening to WETN after graduation would make me feel so connected, so remembered? For about two weeks after graduation, I filled most of the time I spent driving and hanging around the apartment with the radio waves of all the CCM your money can buy (except it was free, since it was radio). Then, one Sunday morning I went to church, and I realized that our worship team is a CCM band. There was no difference between listening to the radio for half an hour and sitting in my church on Sunday morning. The band would play the songs, exactly as written (including David Crowder’s “Here we go!” on “There is No One Like You”). Electric guitar solos in place, drums sounding good, backup vocalists looking polished and shined, and there’s our worship of the LORD. Don’t like it? What’s wrong with you? Oh, you wanted to feel like you weren’t just sitting in your car listening to the radio? What on earth for?
I talked this over a bit with my mentor. He thinks that it’s not the church worship bands that have things so wrong. It’s more the fault of Christian radio/entertainment people who have this fetish with turning worship into background car music rather than time that is truly devoted to dwelling in the LORD’s presence and marveling at His character. Now, I realize that sounds very American of me and not holistic enough. I can experience the LORD’s presence in my car, and I can praise Him any time. And it can be good and real. But why the heck do we come to church? I mean, why not just live our lives like everyone else, only with the fruit of the Spirit and hope in Jesus? What’s the point of meeting together, and why does Scripture say not to forsake it?
I have a couple of ideas. One, it’s too easy for lonely sheep to fall away. Here’s the thing…I (and probably most of us) don’t really like people. Sure, we tolerate them, and even enjoy them on occasion. But do most of us really like that agonizing process of building intense, close community with people? Dealing with the tensions, the conflicts, the hurt, the bitterness, the wounds, the brokenness? If we love brokenness and conflict, that’s probably not the healthiest state of mind, right? So, of course, we hate dealing with other broken people, knowing full well that we ourselves are broken too. It’s hard. It hurts. And even if it’s worth it in the end, it’s not something we always willingly give ourselves to. So if left on our own, without that structured expectation to be in community together, are we going to do it consistently? Doubtful.
Two, (and this is where CCM worship really gets to me) the point of worship in community should be and should look different than the point of worship as individuals. When I am alone in my bedroom praising God or alone in my car worshiping the LORD, it is different than when I am in a room with one hundred other people praising God or in a room with one other person worshiping the LORD. If I miss that, I am simply being self-centered and immature. Or perhaps a victim of my culture. That Sunday morning in church, when I realized that radio and church were becoming identical experiences, I was frustrated because it should feel different. A band playing in a studio should feel different than a hundred people who should know each other and be intimate enough to interact with one another as they worship. We are called together to worship so that we can encourage one antoehr, exhort, etc. It’s a two-way street (or however many ways you have represented, actually). It’s not just about a few famous guys spitting out lines that thousands can mimic (and not even mimic back to them, because it’s not as if they come to every church every Sunday). There is no interaction with one another, and I would even go so far as to say that there is limited interaction between us and God when we do communal worship that way. Can I just say, I am tired of singing to God about flowers and mountains and running water? Sometimes I want to tell Him that my heart is heavy and I want to know what it is to trust Him with my future, with the details, with money, with love. Most of the CCM songs don’t really allow for that kind of depth, though, so if I sing with the congregation, I sing about nature. Nature’s fun to sing about. It usually comes with pretty melodies and driving guitar licks.
Sometimes at church, I get so fed up, I sit down and start praying and singing on my own. But even that’s not a great substitute, because then I think, Why am I not just doing this at home? What’s the point of being here? And truthfully, if it weren’t for the amazing, intellectually and spiritually stimulating sermons my pastor gives, I wouldn’t go to church. But now I have another reason to keep going…this has got to get better. We’ve got to learn how to be vulnerable with each other in community. Otherwise, church is pretty much a farce. We might as well stay home and order sermons on CD. Or better yet, our pastor could join up with WETN, preach on Sunday mornings over the radio, and then be followed by some great worship hits. No, no, no, I will not be satisfied with that. So I’m working on infiltrating the system at my church. I’m slowly getting to know the worship leader, joining the choir, and getting in with the young adult ministry. Somehow, someway, there must be a weak spot in this church that I can find and press just hard enough to get some interaction flowing. Being broken makes it a lot harder than it should be…good thing the LORD is pretty generous with redemption and grace.
I no longer feel the need to fill my life with connection to Wheaton through WETN. I got sick enough of CCM to be cured of my Wheaton homesickness. (I still drink from my SAGA cup regularly, though.) And, as I thought about how unoriginal and impersonal Christianity, and more specifically, corporate worship music is becoming, I came up with a plan. What if, instead of complaining about CCM, we started writing our own worship music? My Biblical Theology of Worship class really inspired this plan. We spent most of the class criticizing the ridiculous way church music has become commercialized and dumbed down, but then, at the very end of the class, people who had written their own worship songs got to share them. Not all of them were amazing, but most of them were pretty darn good. And the best part about some of the songs was, they were written by people I knew and loved. I had heard those friends practicing and hammering out the details of their songs, agonizing over the lyrics, going through the process of what they wanted to proclaim about the LORD. I knew their lives and hearts. I knew what the LORD had done in them to bring them to a place where they could sing praises to Him. How beautiful would it be if someone from my church’s worship team shared a song they had written? If someone in the congregation shared a poem? If the electric guitar player played something he had written and shared why it meant something to him? I guess that would be vulnerable, intimate. Scary. But man, it would be fun, and I think it might bring some life into our church community that’s been lacking. So…on to the continuation of infiltrating the system…we’ll see what happens.
P.S. If you complain about CCM (this means you too, Angel), shut up and write a song. If you can’t write music, spend your time learning instead of complaining. Or convince someone else to write a song. Together, we can change the face of church music. I’m convinced. With our powers combined…
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Rejected "Pub" piece
I wrote this for Wheaton's new, hip student publication, "The Pub." It was rejected on account of being too long and rambly, but hey, I liked it.
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I am from a culture of shame. Shame that breeds fear. Shame that breeds silence.
Before I came to Wheaton, I was taught to conceal my home life. My family went to church with smiles pasted on our faces. We always sat in the front row to show our devotion and spiritual maturity. My mom would listen attentively and take notes during the sermon. My parents would cry together and pray at the altar at the end of the service.
Then we would go home. The television would turn back on. Something minor would happen to set my parents off and they would scream at each other for hours. Sometimes they would push each other into walls. I remember how my stomach would knot up then. It was funny—I could handle their screaming without even flinching. But as soon as those scuffling, muffled slamming noises started, fear and anger would numb my entire body.
Often times, my parents fought because my mom is a terrible housekeeper. Our house was always a disaster until my sister and I got old enough to clean. Even then, it was hard to work around the years of clutter that had built up and that my mom refused to part with.
I never brought friends over to my house. I was terrified of their judgment. I grew up in a semi-poor neighborhood. It wasn’t government housing or a trailer park, but it was right next to government housing. Our neighborhood was still home to gangs, a child molester, and plenty of drug-abusing families with deadbeat parents. Kids in our neighborhood were either hard and cruel or ashamed and quiet, like me.
We never had a lot of money, even after we became Christians and my step-dad gave up drinking, marijuana, and crack. Neither of my parents went to college. I was the first person in both my mom and my step-dad’s family to go to college. My step-dad worked as a bricklayer, making sporadic money during the winter months. In Northwest Indiana, winter makes up a good portion of the year. My parents often made our financial situation worse by spending the little money we did have frivolously. My mom is a compulsive spender. I’ve always resented the useless trinkets and pieces of clothing she’s brought home for me, even if they were on sale at Wal-Mart or Good Will.
Growing up in public schools, I was ashamed of my off-brand clothes. I was ashamed that my family received food stamps and Medicaid. I was ashamed that we shopped at Aldi for our food instead of more expensive grocery stores where everyone else could afford to shop. I tried to cover up my shame by keeping people at a distance. I rarely allowed my friends to meet my family. I never hosted parties or sleepovers at my house. If people were ignorant about my personal life, I wouldn’t have to experience the shame so intensely.
And so I became a master at concealment. Because I was trained to keep everyone at a distance, it’s still hard for me to open up and trust people. Jerry Root would say that much of the way I am now is the result of the anesthetizing behaviors I formed in order to survive my childhood and become a relatively successful, normal adult.
I couldn’t bring myself to talk to anyone at Wheaton about the details of my family life until sophomore year. It’s still hard for me to own up to the things I’ve been ashamed of for so long. I’m still used to hiding.
Whenever I come home from visiting my family, it takes several days to warm up to my roommates again. I remember sophomore year when I came home from Christmas break, my roommate touched my hand and I flinched. I felt so disgusted by her invasion of my personal, private space. I had reverted back to my safety net of hiding and distancing, and it took several weeks for me to admit to myself that I didn’t need those self-preserving behaviors at Wheaton.
Over the past few years, my journey at Wheaton has included an eye-opening experience of learning about social and racial inequality. I have attended seminars and lectures and movie discussions that have challenged my dormant knowledge of how the past has affected the present. I’ll admit it—I was one of those white kids who came to Wheaton thinking that the Civil Rights Movement solved all of America’s race problems.
As I listened to my non-white friends share experiences with me and as I heard non-white speakers share testimonies, I realized that I had been sheltered in my predominantly white town. I thought race wasn’t an issue because where I’m from, Hispanics are poor, but so are white people. There are certain parts of my town, like the neighborhood I live in, that aren’t nice places to live in. Those are the places where Hispanics live. But those are also the places where white people live. We don’t have visible lines drawn between races. Our lines just revolve around what you have and what you don’t have. Class is a basis for discrimination, but race never seems to come up.
In fact, black kids were the cool kids at our school. The hard and cruel kids I mentioned earlier who come from poorer parts of my town idolized stereotypical black culture. They dressed like gangbangers, used inner-city slang, and would only listen to black hip-hop. If I had any conceptions about race when I was growing up, it was that black people were too cool for me. I was one of the ashamed, quiet kids. I could never bring myself to booty dance at school dances. I listened to hip-hop, but I didn’t carry myself with the kind of attitude that made anyone suspect that I did. I was too timid.
Because of the fetish with black culture that I grew up around, when I came to Wheaton, I was surprised to hear black women talk about feelings of insecurity and inferiority. I was surprised to hear black speakers talk about racial inequality still present in America. But after I got over the surprise, I listened. I cried. I realized that the world was bigger than my little town in Northwest Indiana. I realized that as a whole, white people do have it quite a bit easier in this country and in the world.
But in the midst of my attempt at solidarity with blacks, Asians, and Hispanics at Wheaton, one thing always bothered me. No one seemed to leave any space for poor whites. I heard lots of people say things like, “White Christians want to go from the suburbs to the inner city because they’ve romanticized it. They think they can save the day because they have all the answers. They’re too busy trying to solve problems without really identifying with poor people.” I’ve heard speakers say that minority students bring important, unique issues to the greater white community at Wheaton—issues like poverty, oppression, and social justice.
When I hear these things I feel bitter and almost betrayed. I thought racial reconciliation and social justice involved opening our eyes to the “other.” I thought it meant realizing that the world isn’t a neat package we’ve invented based on our own personal experiences and expectations. I thought it meant acknowledging that people who haven’t had power socially are still worthy of respect, that they still have a valid voice.
And yet in the midst of all of these forums, discussions, articles, and seminars, I found myself being lumped into the rich, suburban, Wheaton community. I found a black girl telling me that I romanticize poverty and that I’m just like all those other annoying white people who think they know what it’s like to have problems but really don’t have a clue. Why? Not because I haven’t experienced poverty or abuse or broken families or gang fights down the street, obviously, because I have experienced those things. So what’s left? I’m white.
After studying ethnicity in my Sociology of the Family class a few weeks ago, I realized that I’ve become extremely ashamed of my ethnicity. I hate being white. I hate being white because it means I can’t have an authentic voice concerning social justice. I hate being white because it gives me an automatic stigma at Wheaton that I’m wealthy, suburban, and ignorant.
My shame over being white has created this odd desire in me to broadcast the things I used to be ashamed of. Instead of trying to cover up the poverty and abuse in my past, I feel like I need to highlight it so I can justify this sin of being white.
In the past, I was ashamed of not having enough. I was ashamed that my step-dad couldn’t make it to the hospital when my little brother was born because he was so strung out on crack. I was ashamed that I fantasized about suicide more times than I can remember. I was ashamed that even when he hit her, my mom refused to leave my step-dad. I was ashamed that their screaming could be heard three houses away in the summer time. I was ashamed of so many elements that make up my life, my experiences, who I am. But I was never ashamed of my ethnic heritage.
Now I’ve also learned to be ashamed of being white. I’m ashamed that my ancestors oppressed the ancestors of some of my closest friends. I’m ashamed that kids who share physical features with me have called my boyfriend names when he was a kid. I’m ashamed because I realize that when a non-white person looks at me, their default assumption is that I didn’t experience the past that I did experience. I’m a poor white kid at Wheaton College, the Harvard of the evangelical world, and we just don’t have a box for people like that.
I don’t usually share my life story with people until they’re extremely close to me. I can count on both hands the number of friends who know most or all of the details of my past. And so to most people, my skin color speaks for me, and my skin color says that I have power and opportunity. My skin color says that I shouldn’t know what it’s like to wonder if the heating bill will be paid next month. My skin color says that my parents should be supportive and educated and loving.
And even when I try to justify myself and say that I have a heart for reconciliation and social justice because I know what it’s like to feel like I’m at the bottom of the barrel, I still have this suspicion that my words don’t matter all that much. My skin color is louder.
I’m poor and white. I still struggle with feeling shame about my past. I still struggle with praying for my family members, all of whom have renounced Christianity over the past four years and have entered back into their old patterns of drinking, drugs, promiscuity, and intense poverty mingled with horrible financial decisions. It’s hard for me to admit these things to people at Wheaton. It’s harder that I feel like they would be more significant and easy to talk about here if I had a black face to go along with them.
I’m not bitter. I don’t want to keep this battle of blame between whites and non-whites going. I’m just sad. Sad that I have to hide. Sad that I have to justify. I’m tired of feeling ashamed. I’m tired of hiding.
Love. I like love because it’s so personal. I don’t want you to love me because I’m white. I don’t want you to love me because I care about social justice. I don’t want you to love me in spite of my whiteness. I just want you to know me and to love whatever you find there, even if it’s not what you expected.
And I want to love you. Not because you’re white or black or Asian. Not because you agree with me and understand me. I want to love you because you’re human and you’re made in God’s image. I want to get past the bitterness, past the shame, past the anger and see what really matters. I want to see you. If you’re bitter, I want to see that part of you, but it can’t stop there. Love. Joy. Peace. Patience. Kindness. Gentleness. Faithfulness. Goodness. Self-control. These aren’t unattainable fantasies, are they? I have to believe and pray that someday when you look at me and I look at you, the lenses of the Spirit will take precedence over any other lenses.
“Now we see but a poor reflection, as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” --1 Corinthians 13:12-13
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I am from a culture of shame. Shame that breeds fear. Shame that breeds silence.
Before I came to Wheaton, I was taught to conceal my home life. My family went to church with smiles pasted on our faces. We always sat in the front row to show our devotion and spiritual maturity. My mom would listen attentively and take notes during the sermon. My parents would cry together and pray at the altar at the end of the service.
Then we would go home. The television would turn back on. Something minor would happen to set my parents off and they would scream at each other for hours. Sometimes they would push each other into walls. I remember how my stomach would knot up then. It was funny—I could handle their screaming without even flinching. But as soon as those scuffling, muffled slamming noises started, fear and anger would numb my entire body.
Often times, my parents fought because my mom is a terrible housekeeper. Our house was always a disaster until my sister and I got old enough to clean. Even then, it was hard to work around the years of clutter that had built up and that my mom refused to part with.
I never brought friends over to my house. I was terrified of their judgment. I grew up in a semi-poor neighborhood. It wasn’t government housing or a trailer park, but it was right next to government housing. Our neighborhood was still home to gangs, a child molester, and plenty of drug-abusing families with deadbeat parents. Kids in our neighborhood were either hard and cruel or ashamed and quiet, like me.
We never had a lot of money, even after we became Christians and my step-dad gave up drinking, marijuana, and crack. Neither of my parents went to college. I was the first person in both my mom and my step-dad’s family to go to college. My step-dad worked as a bricklayer, making sporadic money during the winter months. In Northwest Indiana, winter makes up a good portion of the year. My parents often made our financial situation worse by spending the little money we did have frivolously. My mom is a compulsive spender. I’ve always resented the useless trinkets and pieces of clothing she’s brought home for me, even if they were on sale at Wal-Mart or Good Will.
Growing up in public schools, I was ashamed of my off-brand clothes. I was ashamed that my family received food stamps and Medicaid. I was ashamed that we shopped at Aldi for our food instead of more expensive grocery stores where everyone else could afford to shop. I tried to cover up my shame by keeping people at a distance. I rarely allowed my friends to meet my family. I never hosted parties or sleepovers at my house. If people were ignorant about my personal life, I wouldn’t have to experience the shame so intensely.
And so I became a master at concealment. Because I was trained to keep everyone at a distance, it’s still hard for me to open up and trust people. Jerry Root would say that much of the way I am now is the result of the anesthetizing behaviors I formed in order to survive my childhood and become a relatively successful, normal adult.
I couldn’t bring myself to talk to anyone at Wheaton about the details of my family life until sophomore year. It’s still hard for me to own up to the things I’ve been ashamed of for so long. I’m still used to hiding.
Whenever I come home from visiting my family, it takes several days to warm up to my roommates again. I remember sophomore year when I came home from Christmas break, my roommate touched my hand and I flinched. I felt so disgusted by her invasion of my personal, private space. I had reverted back to my safety net of hiding and distancing, and it took several weeks for me to admit to myself that I didn’t need those self-preserving behaviors at Wheaton.
Over the past few years, my journey at Wheaton has included an eye-opening experience of learning about social and racial inequality. I have attended seminars and lectures and movie discussions that have challenged my dormant knowledge of how the past has affected the present. I’ll admit it—I was one of those white kids who came to Wheaton thinking that the Civil Rights Movement solved all of America’s race problems.
As I listened to my non-white friends share experiences with me and as I heard non-white speakers share testimonies, I realized that I had been sheltered in my predominantly white town. I thought race wasn’t an issue because where I’m from, Hispanics are poor, but so are white people. There are certain parts of my town, like the neighborhood I live in, that aren’t nice places to live in. Those are the places where Hispanics live. But those are also the places where white people live. We don’t have visible lines drawn between races. Our lines just revolve around what you have and what you don’t have. Class is a basis for discrimination, but race never seems to come up.
In fact, black kids were the cool kids at our school. The hard and cruel kids I mentioned earlier who come from poorer parts of my town idolized stereotypical black culture. They dressed like gangbangers, used inner-city slang, and would only listen to black hip-hop. If I had any conceptions about race when I was growing up, it was that black people were too cool for me. I was one of the ashamed, quiet kids. I could never bring myself to booty dance at school dances. I listened to hip-hop, but I didn’t carry myself with the kind of attitude that made anyone suspect that I did. I was too timid.
Because of the fetish with black culture that I grew up around, when I came to Wheaton, I was surprised to hear black women talk about feelings of insecurity and inferiority. I was surprised to hear black speakers talk about racial inequality still present in America. But after I got over the surprise, I listened. I cried. I realized that the world was bigger than my little town in Northwest Indiana. I realized that as a whole, white people do have it quite a bit easier in this country and in the world.
But in the midst of my attempt at solidarity with blacks, Asians, and Hispanics at Wheaton, one thing always bothered me. No one seemed to leave any space for poor whites. I heard lots of people say things like, “White Christians want to go from the suburbs to the inner city because they’ve romanticized it. They think they can save the day because they have all the answers. They’re too busy trying to solve problems without really identifying with poor people.” I’ve heard speakers say that minority students bring important, unique issues to the greater white community at Wheaton—issues like poverty, oppression, and social justice.
When I hear these things I feel bitter and almost betrayed. I thought racial reconciliation and social justice involved opening our eyes to the “other.” I thought it meant realizing that the world isn’t a neat package we’ve invented based on our own personal experiences and expectations. I thought it meant acknowledging that people who haven’t had power socially are still worthy of respect, that they still have a valid voice.
And yet in the midst of all of these forums, discussions, articles, and seminars, I found myself being lumped into the rich, suburban, Wheaton community. I found a black girl telling me that I romanticize poverty and that I’m just like all those other annoying white people who think they know what it’s like to have problems but really don’t have a clue. Why? Not because I haven’t experienced poverty or abuse or broken families or gang fights down the street, obviously, because I have experienced those things. So what’s left? I’m white.
After studying ethnicity in my Sociology of the Family class a few weeks ago, I realized that I’ve become extremely ashamed of my ethnicity. I hate being white. I hate being white because it means I can’t have an authentic voice concerning social justice. I hate being white because it gives me an automatic stigma at Wheaton that I’m wealthy, suburban, and ignorant.
My shame over being white has created this odd desire in me to broadcast the things I used to be ashamed of. Instead of trying to cover up the poverty and abuse in my past, I feel like I need to highlight it so I can justify this sin of being white.
In the past, I was ashamed of not having enough. I was ashamed that my step-dad couldn’t make it to the hospital when my little brother was born because he was so strung out on crack. I was ashamed that I fantasized about suicide more times than I can remember. I was ashamed that even when he hit her, my mom refused to leave my step-dad. I was ashamed that their screaming could be heard three houses away in the summer time. I was ashamed of so many elements that make up my life, my experiences, who I am. But I was never ashamed of my ethnic heritage.
Now I’ve also learned to be ashamed of being white. I’m ashamed that my ancestors oppressed the ancestors of some of my closest friends. I’m ashamed that kids who share physical features with me have called my boyfriend names when he was a kid. I’m ashamed because I realize that when a non-white person looks at me, their default assumption is that I didn’t experience the past that I did experience. I’m a poor white kid at Wheaton College, the Harvard of the evangelical world, and we just don’t have a box for people like that.
I don’t usually share my life story with people until they’re extremely close to me. I can count on both hands the number of friends who know most or all of the details of my past. And so to most people, my skin color speaks for me, and my skin color says that I have power and opportunity. My skin color says that I shouldn’t know what it’s like to wonder if the heating bill will be paid next month. My skin color says that my parents should be supportive and educated and loving.
And even when I try to justify myself and say that I have a heart for reconciliation and social justice because I know what it’s like to feel like I’m at the bottom of the barrel, I still have this suspicion that my words don’t matter all that much. My skin color is louder.
I’m poor and white. I still struggle with feeling shame about my past. I still struggle with praying for my family members, all of whom have renounced Christianity over the past four years and have entered back into their old patterns of drinking, drugs, promiscuity, and intense poverty mingled with horrible financial decisions. It’s hard for me to admit these things to people at Wheaton. It’s harder that I feel like they would be more significant and easy to talk about here if I had a black face to go along with them.
I’m not bitter. I don’t want to keep this battle of blame between whites and non-whites going. I’m just sad. Sad that I have to hide. Sad that I have to justify. I’m tired of feeling ashamed. I’m tired of hiding.
Love. I like love because it’s so personal. I don’t want you to love me because I’m white. I don’t want you to love me because I care about social justice. I don’t want you to love me in spite of my whiteness. I just want you to know me and to love whatever you find there, even if it’s not what you expected.
And I want to love you. Not because you’re white or black or Asian. Not because you agree with me and understand me. I want to love you because you’re human and you’re made in God’s image. I want to get past the bitterness, past the shame, past the anger and see what really matters. I want to see you. If you’re bitter, I want to see that part of you, but it can’t stop there. Love. Joy. Peace. Patience. Kindness. Gentleness. Faithfulness. Goodness. Self-control. These aren’t unattainable fantasies, are they? I have to believe and pray that someday when you look at me and I look at you, the lenses of the Spirit will take precedence over any other lenses.
“Now we see but a poor reflection, as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” --1 Corinthians 13:12-13
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Grateful
Last night, on a whim, I went into the city with David and Ashley.
It's funny...I was reminded of how I always felt about Suhail's prayer groups. When I would first hear of them, I would get so excited and adamant about wanting to go. Then an hour before and up until I was literally sitting in Suhail's living room, I would think, "This is so stupid. Why did you want to do this? You don't know any of these people. This is awkward and vulnerable and crazy. Why are you here????? You should have just stayed home and read a book or hung out with people you're comfortable with."
I read a post that Butz put on xanga recently...about relational anxiety that's weird and unexplained, but powerful and detrimental. I get the same thing. I don't want to feel this way, but I always get scared before social situations, especially if I don't know the people I'm going to be with or if I haven't seen them for awhile.
I felt that way last night, and I was regretting my decision to go, but knowing myself, I had a pretty good idea that it would turn out well in the end. I don't know that I would call it a fun time, really, but I was glad I went.
I miss the city. Not because it's attractive, but because it makes me more myself.
Since I stopped doing CET at the end of sophomore year, I have spent a ridiculously large amount of time in the suburbs. I stopped going into Chicago for ministry once or twice a week in exchange for working in amazingly nice subdivisions in Naperville and Wheaton two or three times a week. I noticed the change in my attitude and happiness almost immediately when I came back from China. I felt more cranky, more dissatisfied, more...suburban.
Then I forgot about it. Now I spend about 50 hours a week working in really nice areas, far from the crowded, dirty city. People I work for have Hispanic cleaners come in once a week. I always wonder how they feel cleaning for rich, white people who waste so much. And I work for nice people. Good people. I wonder how much worse it would be to work for mean, rich suburbanites. Still, in spite of my ability to question the social order out here, I've become accustomed to nice, huge houses and easy comfort. I hadn't been in the city for so long until last night.
When we first got into Chicago, I felt uncomfortable. I even felt a little scared. The crowds of diverse people, the crazy city driving, the lights, the buildings packed close together...it all overwhelmed me. I felt so different from the way I used to feel going into the city. Before, I loved all that stuff. I thrived on it. Last night, I felt overwhelmed and reluctant. We walked into McDonalds to meet with the guys David and Ashley know from CET, and I felt so small and scared.
And then time passed. I started to remember. This isn't so hard. It isn't so weird. It's actually relieving to sit and talk to someone and ask them deep questions 15 minutes after meeting them. It's nice to get to know people who don't have everything they want whenever they want it...who get excited about Tuesday $5 movie days with unlimited popcorn. Because that's me...I'm not suburban. I've never had money, and I don't want money. Endless comfort might feel nice to my flesh, but honestly, it doesn't make me feel happy. Last night reminded me of that.
I was also so blessed by the example of David and Ashley. They know this guy, George. He's the most cantankerous old man I've ever met, and they said he was being good last night. If he hadn't been good, he probably would have made me cry. He's extremely critical and particular about everything. We agreed to take him to Walgreens to pick up some groceries and prescriptions and then to his apartment. Halfway through, I was ready to leave him stranded at Walgreens. David and Ashley were so patient with him, so willing to endure criticism, so willing to be nice and kind no matter how many hours we spent with him. I saw with new eyes what the gifts of mercy and hospitality are supposed to look like. It convicted, challenged, and encouraged me.
It's funny...I was reminded of how I always felt about Suhail's prayer groups. When I would first hear of them, I would get so excited and adamant about wanting to go. Then an hour before and up until I was literally sitting in Suhail's living room, I would think, "This is so stupid. Why did you want to do this? You don't know any of these people. This is awkward and vulnerable and crazy. Why are you here????? You should have just stayed home and read a book or hung out with people you're comfortable with."
I read a post that Butz put on xanga recently...about relational anxiety that's weird and unexplained, but powerful and detrimental. I get the same thing. I don't want to feel this way, but I always get scared before social situations, especially if I don't know the people I'm going to be with or if I haven't seen them for awhile.
I felt that way last night, and I was regretting my decision to go, but knowing myself, I had a pretty good idea that it would turn out well in the end. I don't know that I would call it a fun time, really, but I was glad I went.
I miss the city. Not because it's attractive, but because it makes me more myself.
Since I stopped doing CET at the end of sophomore year, I have spent a ridiculously large amount of time in the suburbs. I stopped going into Chicago for ministry once or twice a week in exchange for working in amazingly nice subdivisions in Naperville and Wheaton two or three times a week. I noticed the change in my attitude and happiness almost immediately when I came back from China. I felt more cranky, more dissatisfied, more...suburban.
Then I forgot about it. Now I spend about 50 hours a week working in really nice areas, far from the crowded, dirty city. People I work for have Hispanic cleaners come in once a week. I always wonder how they feel cleaning for rich, white people who waste so much. And I work for nice people. Good people. I wonder how much worse it would be to work for mean, rich suburbanites. Still, in spite of my ability to question the social order out here, I've become accustomed to nice, huge houses and easy comfort. I hadn't been in the city for so long until last night.
When we first got into Chicago, I felt uncomfortable. I even felt a little scared. The crowds of diverse people, the crazy city driving, the lights, the buildings packed close together...it all overwhelmed me. I felt so different from the way I used to feel going into the city. Before, I loved all that stuff. I thrived on it. Last night, I felt overwhelmed and reluctant. We walked into McDonalds to meet with the guys David and Ashley know from CET, and I felt so small and scared.
And then time passed. I started to remember. This isn't so hard. It isn't so weird. It's actually relieving to sit and talk to someone and ask them deep questions 15 minutes after meeting them. It's nice to get to know people who don't have everything they want whenever they want it...who get excited about Tuesday $5 movie days with unlimited popcorn. Because that's me...I'm not suburban. I've never had money, and I don't want money. Endless comfort might feel nice to my flesh, but honestly, it doesn't make me feel happy. Last night reminded me of that.
I was also so blessed by the example of David and Ashley. They know this guy, George. He's the most cantankerous old man I've ever met, and they said he was being good last night. If he hadn't been good, he probably would have made me cry. He's extremely critical and particular about everything. We agreed to take him to Walgreens to pick up some groceries and prescriptions and then to his apartment. Halfway through, I was ready to leave him stranded at Walgreens. David and Ashley were so patient with him, so willing to endure criticism, so willing to be nice and kind no matter how many hours we spent with him. I saw with new eyes what the gifts of mercy and hospitality are supposed to look like. It convicted, challenged, and encouraged me.
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