Where’s Pope Joan?

I’d never heard of Pope Joan until today, when I read “Legend of Female Pope Endures as Men Decide Church’s Next Leader.”  I’m not surprised, as history has a way of omitting, forgetting, or re-writing. Think, for example, of Mary Magdalene. Up until 1969, Magdalene was painted as a prostitute that she was not, as opposed to being represented as to whom she truly was: a friend to Jesus and one of the first to see Jesus upon his resurrection. Until the Vatican corrected this error, centuries of people were taught to believe in an inaccurate version of Magdalene.

What I see, when I read about the different colors of smoke that are to emote from the Vatican and alert approximately 6 billion people as to whom their new leader is, is a organized religion that is quite clearly communicating that women are secondary. Since women cannot vote and cannot be priests in the Catholic faith, what we have is condoned sexism. While many of the lay leaders in the Catholic faith are women and certainly many of the saints are, the church stops short of allowing a woman to be a priest. Apparently, she is not Word-worthy.

The stance that women can do the work but not hold the position of leader/priest/minister goes beyond Catholicism. The position of women being second class is prevalent in many other major religions. One of the reasons I found my own church lacking was because the Sacred Feminine was absent. Missing. She doesn’t even exist. Sue Monk Kidd describes this significant missing piece in through her own personal journey, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter . Kidd found her way into a feminine spiritual consciousness that resonates with Christianity. But to get there, she had to leave what she found to be incorrect – a tradition that was patriarchal.

I cannot find a single bit of convincing evidence or argument that makes me believe it is okay for women to be second class. Yet here we are, watching for smoke, spectators to something that needs to evolve and change. I certainly hope that in my lifetime we can have a Pope Joan – and see all faith traditions evolve into ones that honor women by allowing them positions of authority, allowing them to be what they currently and inherently are: Word-worthy.

Woman As

March is National Women’s History Month.  Luckily,  I received an email from a colleague who runs her own business reminding me of this celebratory month.  Quite coincidentally, when I logged onto Facebook this morning, I shared the latest post from One Million Vaginas, who shares posts about accomplishments women have made.  Some are American, some are Russian.  Some are politicians, some are scientists.  The color of skin, the nationality, the talents vary.  Yet all are worthy of being mentioned.  I find it ironic that I am learning more about women in history from a social media site than I ever did in my secondary education.  As I looked back on prominent females whom I learned about in my early school years, I only came up with Betsy Ross and Eleanor Roosevelt.  Both are certainly excellent women to know about, but the list is way too slim.  Both are white, both are related to politics.  Surely my memory has failed me.  But then again, maybe not.

Simone de Beauvoir makes the case in Woman As Other that “women lack concrete means for organizing themselves into a unit which can stand face to face with the correlative unit” (550).  She argues that we, as women, are way too “dispersed” and attached to our male counterparts to make a cohesive stand.  I find this statement to be true and upsetting, as all too often I see debates being dragged up between stay-at-home mothers and working mothers.  I see arguments as to what feminism is, who is one, and way too often, negative connotations attached to that term.  How do we shift our focus from what our differences are and join as a unit?  This question is not easy to answer, especially when the major religious faiths of our world continue to put women in second place—de Beauvoir’s “second sex” we still are, in many ways.  We are paid less than men.  We are prohibited from serving in certain clerical roles, based on various faiths.  While our rights have progressed in first world countries, they are still almost non-existent in developing countries.  Remaining silent when we see inequities is incorrect.  As women, we need to be champions for one another. Even if our political views and values differ, I believe we can find issues that bind us.

If we begin to celebrate women and their various contributions and pass on that knowledge through curriculum, home life, film, and the arts, that unity will continue to build, possibly in ways we aren’t even expecting.  I am quite sure if you celebrate Women’s History Month, you will learn about a woman you’ve never heard of who made a difference.

In celebration of women, I’d like to make a shout out to some of my favorites whose voice, in some way, has resonated with me:  Anais Nin, Pamela Haag, Shelby Knox, Naomi Wolf, Beth Ann Fennelly, Lidia Yuknavtich, Emily Dickinson, Sue Ann Silverman, bell hooks, Toni Morrison, Mother Teresa, Simone de Beauvoir, Sylvia Plath, Joan Didion, Lydia Davis, Anne Carson, and Mary Gaitskill.  I know there are more to come…..Happy Women’s History Month, and feel free to share your favorites below.

Counting Carbs, a very short play

Characters:

Mom

Son, recently diagnosed with juvenile diabetes

Waiter

Setting:

Booth next to window, local Mexican restaurant.

Mom (to waiter): Do you know how many carbs are in your chicken soup?

Waiter: (confused look). Sorry?

Mom: Do you know how many sugars are in your soup?

Waiter: Okay! (smiles broadly)

Ten minutes later, the waiter returns.  He places five sugar packets next to the boy’s soup bowl.

Mother and son look at one another, break-out in laughter, and place the packets in the diabetes backpack.

It’s Not Mono

It’s the time of year when people get sick — flu, colds, viruses.  About two weeks ago, my son  placed his head in his hands and cried.  I was about to drop him off at school.  He was so exhausted he couldn’t go.  I drove home and tucked him in.  I made an appointment with the doctor — something I only do if I think things are serious.  Two visits later, we were all working under the assumption he had mono.  After all, he had the signs — lethargy, weight loss, and sporadic vomiting.  At first, I thought we’d just treat the symptoms, as the doctor said. But my husband and I became worried as he grew thinner and thinner.  I called my mom.  She drove up to help.  I  called the doctor and ordered the spot test for mono.  Monday of this week, it came back.  The results: negative.

I felt faint when the nurse said “negative.”  A negative mono test meant something not good — at some level I knew this.    I left the office, skipping lunch, and returned home.  My son’s breathing was labored.  He could barely move off the couch.  My mom had been suggesting the ER, and now I knew we had to go.  We loaded up.  His dad met us there, and eventually our daughter also arrived.  Luke was so dehydrated it took six sticks before an IV made its way into his neck.  Several hours later we found ourselves in Egelston.  This was after the shocking news from the Union Co ER nurses and on-call doctor that our boy likely had type 1 diabetes.  In fact, Luke was in what you call DKA  – a serious diabetic condition in which the pH of your blood becomes too acidic.  Many not-good-at-all things can happen in this state, and that night my husband and I watched as the team of nurses and doctors the pediatric ICU at Egelston kept our boy safe.  

The doctors, nurses, and educators at Egleston are wonderful.  One thing they kept assuring us of was this:  there’s no way we could have prevented Luke’s diabetes.  And the signs were so slow and subtle; I missed them all.  I didn’t know a child could drink as much as he was and continue to release it and be dehydrated.  I didn’t think about the frequent headaches being related to diabetes, or the extra dry skin, or the vomiting.  The extreme sudden weight loss was the most alarming.  That and the labored breathing were two of the main reasons we went to the ER.  How thankful I am.  Diabetes is not in our family; nor did I know anything about it.  Well, I’m a walking resource now, even though I have to double-check every question and answer I have in my diabetes bible from Egleston.  

We are all at home now.  Luke is almost back to being totally normal.  Within the range of Monday to Thursday he went from bedridden and bones to moving around and eating like a normal child.  My spirits fluctuate — from joy to tears.  What made me feel okay were the  constant messages I received from many of you — emails, texts, Facebook messages.  And then all the cards from people already in the mailbox!  To know that my boy was in the thoughts and prayers of so very many people surely made me cope much better, and I have no doubt lifted him from danger.  Thank you.  Life has a new edge now — the depth of fragility has deepened, and the need to be present has grown exponentially — not just physically present, but present in the moment we all have right now — to honor it and be in it.  I know that there’s much to learn and much to deal with in the future, but I’m relieved to know of the caring people around who will help us through it.  Special thanks goes to the Union Co ER nurses, on-call doctor, ambulance driver and EMT; Egelston staff (nurses and doctors); Union Co Elementary admin and teachers; and all of you who visited or sent your positive words and prayers.  Hugs and blessings to you all.  

The Sylvia/Marilyn Syndrome

Sylvia Plath’s birthday was in October, so I re-watched Sylvia. A week later, I watched an overly hyped Netflix documentary on Marilyn Monroe (which failed to deliver). I noticed connections though, in each film/life, that women still battle. I call it the Sylvia/Marilyn syndrome. If you read Plath’s unabridged journals or even The Bell Jar, there’s a clear wrestling of what the main character, Esther, wants to do and what she is expected to do as a woman. In one particular passage of The Bell Jar, Esther confronts her choices in the image of a fig tree. Each fig represents something that the main character can do – and the figs range from homemaker to poet, mother to professor. The great fear is that by the time Esther makes up her mind, the figs will have shriveled and died.

I believe Sylvia tried her best to “do it all.” One scene from her journals is played out well in the film – Sylvia and Ted go to the beach to write and instead of writing, Sylvia bakes at least 10 pies, perfecting her ability to be a homemaker. It’s almost as if she wanted to check that box off and move on.  Marilyn took a similar approach in one of her marriages, trying to be the domestic when she was not.  I certainly can empathize. In fact, over the holidays my own daughter asked me, Is it okay that I like to bake? Her question was a direct response to my parenting model (as seen in the kitchen). I dislike cooking (most  of the time). So, not seeing me engage happily in the culinary arts, she’s asking if there’s something not okay. I told her it was wonderful that she liked to bake (and offered for her to make supper!). When I have time off, I do enjoy cooking.  However, when I walk in from work all I want to do is sip a beer, mull over a passage in a book or poem, or scribble my own words.

And that’s the thing. We all need the space, time, and respect to do our art.

Women before me (some of you my good friends and readers) have made huge strides for me and others. I can work outside the home without being looked down upon. I can wear pants. I can nurse in public. I can stay at home and go back to work when the kids are older. I can vote. I can make choices about my body. I can have my own bank account.  I can represent myself.  In her essay “Metamorphosis From Light Verse to the Poetry of Witness” (GA Review, Winter 2012), Maxine Kumin writes that as recently as the 1950s her husband had to write a letter “certifying” that her poem was original. Can you imagine?  Because she was a woman, her husband had to certify her work as authentic.

The key is, though, for those of us who reap the many options, is how do we balance ourselves? We have more options, but I’ve found this doesn’t mean I should try and do it ALL, although at times I think I am attempting just that. When I cease the daily grind of what I’m “supposed” to do, I often feel guilt. Can I write now? Or should I be cleaning the puppy stains off the carpet? Or working on my syllabus? Or planning supper for the remainder of the week? How do I honor my art so that I do NOT feel guilty about the time I allow for it?

Do I find myself baking pies because I’m expected to, or I obtain joy from the act of creating? Which fig do I choose, and can I choose more than one? If so, how do I manage?  Just as importantly, how do I ensure that my daughter has the same rights and options as I do, along with further equality (such as equity in pay)?

What I do know is this: to live in a lifestyle that does not meet your essence or reason for being, then there will be a painful payoff. It may come in physical illness, psychological illness, or a mix. It is easy to spot (in hindsight) in points of both Sylvia and Marilyn’s lives where a brief point of balance occurred, the bulk of their time being devoted to their gifts, not things they were expected to do. However, finding your gifts is only part of the life act – how you balance your gifts, your art, and your duties is an ongoing process.  Learning to turn off the noise from society may very well help strike it.

Roots

Root gazing

When I was in my early 30’s and fighting the heavy foot of postpartum depression that guaranteed a sinking of some sort, I decided I needed to do something to jerk myself out of the darkness.  There are many ways we give ourselves a jerk, and luckily this was one of the less harmful ways.  I bleached my hair.  I had stayed away from all hair color while pregnant, as I was suspicious of it harming my baby.  I also used all natural soap; I ate breakfast every morning.  But even though I was healthier than I had been for a few years, I didn’t like my “natural” color, which I called field-mouse brown.  So, when I got my hands on the color, I didn’t hold back.

I remember the mirror-shock.  Who was that?  I was somewhat traumatized, but I assured myself I’d alleviated a bit of darkness, if only symbolically.  On that very self-conscious debut day of the new head of hair, one of my dear male colleagues/friends said to me, You look like Faye Dunaway!  What a beautiful lie it was.  The only way I looked like Faye Dunaway was if the lights were out and Faye was playing a character with brittle, over-bleached hair.  I look back at photos of myself back then and cringe.

Hair coloring, though, is not a recent invention.  Even the Egyptians dyed their hair, and some wore wigs.  The dark hair was a status symbol.  You see, I often think of former societies as struggling to survive but this is not the case, even if history books help to uphold the hubris we in modern society have so much of.  No, these folks weren’t just trying to make it day by day, they also did things to beautify themselves (at least the well-off did).  If it wasn’t dyeing their hair, it often involved wearing a wig.  There are numerous points in history where we can point to wig wearing, even with men.  Look at the founding fathers who carried over a culture of wig wearing.  Hair is power and status.  There’s a reason  so many of us dye our hair blond.

Since I see something more than the obvious in almost everything, I see my return to my roots as a return to being more authentic.  More of who I really am.  Ironically, I feel less depressed with darker hair.  Why?  Because maintaining the champagne fizz hair I had was depressing.  It’s initial wow! wore off too quickly.  Whenever I looked in the mirror there was the critic in my left ear:  how many more days till you can’t stand it?  “It” being those dark little beginnings of un-dyed hair.  When I’d ignore the voice, I’d look in the mirror weeks later to see what looked like an oil spill on my head.  My hairdresser back then called it the “line of demarcation.”   Well, I’ve erased that line.  I’ve gone back to my roots, and I feel free.  I feel as if I’m honoring something true about myself in a physical way.  Like setting in a story – the manifestation of something inner made outer.

As for when the gray comes out?  Well, that’ll be another blog post.

Capers

The first time I ever consumed capers was at a restaurant that has since closed.  It was a small shack-like place that fooled you from the outside, located in rural eastern South Carolina.  I recall railroad tracks and a beat-up building.  Crossing the threshold was like stumbling into a place found in one of those chic magazines, where shabby met quality and it all somehow worked – the ladder back chairs that squeaked, thick crème-colored linens, scratched wood floor, and heavy unmatched silverware.

Being a preacher’s family, we often ate out, but at other people’s homes, not at restaurants.  How we ended up here was by a recommendation and by the fact that my mother, whom I sometimes address as Queen Helene (and love dearly), relishes the finer things and places in life.  She knew this would be a hit, and it was.  Even for a naïve and timid child like myself.  I cannot remember my specific meal, only the capers.  Maybe it was chicken saltimbocca.  Maybe it was veal.  Doesn’t matter.  What mattered was that there was an actual (and perfect) shell  (I took it home) on my plate with the food and these little gray, round things I kept chasing with my fork and eating as if my they were the substance I’d been missing from my diet for my entire brief life.  What were they?  I asked the chef and his wife when they came over to our table to inquire as to our dining experience.  Capers, he said.  What’s a caper? I wanted to know.

Pickled flower buds. 

Who knew a flower bud could be pickled, eaten, and so incredibly satisfying?  That night was such a luxury that I abstained from buying capers for years.  At that age, I didn’t even cook for myself and had no idea I could even purchase them (if I had known, I may have participated in creating the grocery list).  I wrongly thought capers were a luxury that only restaurant owners had access to.

Why is it when we experience something amazing, we want to put some distance to it?  It is as if the experience we remember (although altered whether we admit it or not), will be ruined by re-enacting it again.  We know if we try to re-live the experience, it will never meet the sublime of the first time.  I think this is why I have not bought capers until recently, at least 25 years since that exquisite dining experience.   I have a similar, rather odd, personal issue that relates to all this:  if I leave a room full of people after saying adios, I do not wish to return.  In fact, if I’ve left something or find I need to walk through that same room again for some reason (such as reaching the actual EXIT), I DON’T WANT TO.  I feel as if I’m jinxing something, as if I’m in some movie and now I’m going to screw it up when I replay my scene.  Why is this? From where does this oddity arise?  (Bigger question: how do I replay such need for control in my life in other ways?)  I think my issue has to do with the unrealistic need for perfection.  Having to walk back through a room I’ve said goodbye to means I’ve messed up.  My ending wasn’t clean.  It means I have to admit some type of minor “failure,” if failure even works in this scenario.  Maybe I should just start walking into a room and saying Goodbye! instead of Hello!  Maybe all this means I need to let go of the need for control, and be okay laughing (wildly, but not too loudly) at my foibles.  Hell, maybe I should be excited that the walk back through the room may glean a connection I would have missed otherwise.

There’s also this little fact:  I’ve bought my second jar of capers in one week.  Oh how I love to crunch those little salty buds, to lick the brine off the tines of the tiny fork with which I scoop up these delicious buds.  Guess what?  I’ve not tired of them.  The luxury of eating them has not altered at all.   Nor has the additional meaning of caper escaped me.  I’m up for a capricious escapade.  Are you?