True People of the Book

It’s been a crazy week to belong to the People of the Book (a beautiful Islamic term referring to followers of the three major Abrahamic religions). Between the worst attack on Jews in the United States to riots after the release of a Christian woman in Pakistan, there has been ugliness on all sides. It’s nearly an unbroken circle. 

“Christian” man attacks Jewish community.

“Muslims” riot after a Christian is released after being charged with blasphemy (the courts evaluated the evidence and found it contradictory and insufficient). 

All we need is a “Jewish” person to attack some Muslims and the circle of evil will be complete. (Since the internet makes it easy for people to misunderstand... I do NOT want that to happen)

It would be easy to simply put one’s head in one’s hands and hide under a rock. But that would be to miss the other half of the story. 

After the attack on the Pittsburgh synagogue, two Muslim organizations in the USA raised over $200,000 to fund the funerals of the victims. In addition, they have shown support beyond money by offering to protect their neighbors if they felt unsafe. 

Beyond the fact that justice was given to Asia Bibi by the courts, both the government of Pakistan and average citizens have spoken out against the violence. Yes, her situation is not yet resolved, but this is a positive step.

It’s not only Muslims and Jews who have been true People of the Book this week. Christians both in Pittsburgh and across the world have spoken out in support of the Pittsburgh community. In a coincidence that could only be from a higher power, every Catholic Church through out the world will proclaim today, not once, but twice, the words of the Shema, or most important Jewish prayer, from the book of Deuteronomy. How beautiful that our cycle of readings would have this specific text for today. I had the privilege of proclaiming these sacred words during Mass this morning in Guatemala.

"Hear, O Israel! The LORD is our God, the LORD alone! 

Therefore, you shall love the LORD, your God,
with all your heart,
and with all your soul,
and with all your strength. 

Take to heart these words which I enjoin on you today."

This is what People of the Book believe. Whether we call Him Elohim, God, or Allah, we believe He is God, the only God. I am honored to stand with my brothers and sisters, People of the Book, today as we pray for peace and justice.

The long reaching fingers of rape culture

If you haven’t read this post, do that first. Second, I am fully aware of how lucky I’ve been. Yes, these “long reaching fingers” have touched me but so many women have had it so much worse.

The guy who proposed a few weeks ago is back. I took out many of the details from the original post but a few more are necessary now. I’ll call him Lee (not his real name). Lee approached me after Mass one Sunday in Lahore, this spring. I was polite but definitely not warm. Over the next few months, he would frequently try to talk to me after Mass. My body language should have been a clue about my lack of interest. It wasn’t. I didn’t share much about myself or my family. Each time, I tried to walk by hoping Lee wouldn’t notice me and I could get to my car without talking to him. I even started covering my head in church like most of the other women so my blonde hair wouldn’t stick out. None of it worked. I was glad when Ramadan came because it made moot his request to have dinner with me.

Then it was June and I was leaving Pakistan. I figured this would be the end of Lee in my life even though I did agree to his request about being friends on Facebook. Again, I was wrong. For awhile, the messages were short, albeit frequent. Mostly asking I was and how life was going. As in person, I tried to be polite but not encouraging. My short replies and long response time didn’t seem to send any messages to him about my lack of interest.

Around late August, things started getting more intense. First, Lee asked if he could talk to me. I ignored it. Then, he proposed. I was shocked. My response was that I didn’t even know him really and I definitely didn’t feel the same. He then tried to impress me with his research of the town where I grew up. His messages wouldn’t stop despite my constant replies that I wasn’t interested. Eventually, I told him there was no chance and I was going to unfriend him on Facebook since he wouldn’t leave me alone. What followed was five weeks where he was completely out of my mind. Until yesterday.

I’ve woken up the past two days to messages from Lee. Yesterday he asked me how I was and how life was in Guatemala. I didn’t respond. This morning he said, “I know you’re angry with me. I apologize forgive me please rose.” Ironically, I wasn’t angry until he contacted me again.

So what does this have to do with rape culture?! Lee, like so many guys, won’t believe me when I say, “NO.” He believes that because he has feelings for me, I owe him something. Maybe not consciously, but that’s what his actions reveal. If he asks enough times, he thinks I will fall madly in love with him and want to spend the rest of my life with him.

And, in a twisted way, he could even try to blame me. After all, I was nice to him (because I don’t like to be rude). I dressed attractively (because the lose, lightweight traditional clothes in Pakistan are so darn comfortable). I kept going to church where he would see me (because the time was most convenient for me). I let him find me on Facebook (because, again, I can be too nice for my own good). Despite the message sent by my body language, short replies, long response time, trying to avoid him in person, multiple messages saying I’m not attracted to him, blunt demand that he not contact me, and unfriending him on Facebook, Lee STILL doesn’t believe that I mean it when I say, “NO.”

Rape doesn’t happen out of nowhere. It doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It comes from an attitude that because a guy has feelings for a woman or girl, she owes him something. It comes from the attitude that “No doesn’t really mean no.” It comes from the attitude that “If I ask/bother/pressure her enough, no will become yes.” It comes from the idea that if a woman is seen living her life - be it wearing a shalwar kameez in a Pakistani Catholic Church or getting drunk in a miniskirt - she is “available and
willing” for whatever a guy wants. I don’t expect that Lee would go so far as to rape me even if he wasn’t thousands of miles away. The same cannot be said for every guy.

Lee’s not the first guy who has acted this way to me. Chances are highly likely , he won’t be the last. Yes, I’ve been blessed to have been barely brushed by these “long reaching fingers.” But why do they  have to touch any of us at all?

“But, but, but...” you might splutter, “I/my son/brother/etc would never rape someone.” Good. I hope not. However, do you accept no as an answer? Do you push (past a reasonable persistence... if you’re not sure, you’ve probably gone too far already) for a different response? Do you defend women when other guys are talking about us as if we owe them something? Do you believe women when say they’ve been assaulted or raped? Do you try to put the blame on the victim? Do you tell people it’s, “a scary time to be a guy,” because there is a chance that a few of the actually reported rapes (remember, the significant portion are never reported) are false despite the fact that, statistically
speaking, at least one of myself or my three sisters will be raped in our lives?

At the end of the day, I can talk or write until I’m blue in the face. So can every woman. It won’t make a difference. There is no appropriate way for us to act to avoid unwanted contact or pressure. The change must come from men. Until men accept that women don’t owe them anything, nothing will ever change. If you are a man who truly wants to support the women in your life, change starts with you. Stand up for us when others are discussing us as objects or we’re the topic of all too common “locker room talk,” no matter where it happens. I know there are good men out there. You can make a positive difference. For me. For my sisters. For my friends. For every woman who wishes it was possible for us to affect this desperately needed change.

PSA

No, I'm not starting up my blog again. At least not right now. I just had to post this here because it is the only place that a certain person from my past might come in contact with me. This person refused to accept that I could not explain what a panic attack feels like. He may never see this and I'm fine with that.

If you ever see this (you know who you are), please know that, while I am eternally thankful that you are not part of my life anymore, I hope that you find the very specific person you are looking for.


What anxiety and panic attacks really feel like:


http://blog.relationshipsurgery.com/after-seeing-these-9-images-anxiety-and-panic-attacks-all-make-sense/

Why I'm glad I skipped 6th grade

Extreme Makeover Home Edition has a profound ability to clear my sinuses. I don't watch it very often but it seems that every time I watch it, I tear up, if not outright cry. Today was no exception. The family getting the new house this week suffered something I can't even begin to imagine. Two years ago, the sixth grade son killed himself as a result of terrible bullying at school. The rest of the family - mom, big sister, younger brother, younger sister, and aunt - have been unable to move on because of this horrific memory which is so deeply associated with their house.

Sixth grade is rough. Things are changing that you don't understand. Old friends may be making new ones and leaving you in the dust. Someone may decide that you're "not cool" and convince the rest of the class to avoid or bully you. That can make all the difference in the world between being happy and miserable at school. Middle school is brutal even without additional problems.

As the title of this post suggests, I never was a sixth grader. I was homeschooled through fifth grade and then begged and begged my parents to let me go to a tiny charter school as a seventh grader the next year. Despite this, I've seen the ugly side of 6th grade. Last year, when I was teaching in Hungary, one of my classes was the 6a class at the bilingual primary school. I saw them twice a week for music and English class. While there was a little bullying in the 5a class and the 7th graders were getting into teenage angst, the 6th graders were well known as the worst class in our program and for good reason. They were wild and uncontrollable, loud and disrespectful, crass and bullying. There was one favorite target; I'll call him Aaron. Aaron is the son of one of the other English teachers and was not adjusting well to living in Hungary. In a lot of ways, he made an easy target for them. The only one in the room who didn't speak Hungarian and so could only participate in half of the classes, he was also quiet, reserved, and unmotivated.

Aaron frustrated me. He was so unmotivated. I could be standing right next to him translating the Hungarian part of the lesson using simple language (fast, slow, etc) and he would blankly stare at me while saying "I just don't know anything about music." Well... with an attitude like that, it's unlikely that you ever will. Despite my frustration, I had immense empathy for him as the odd one out in the class because that was me ten years ago. I was the one American girl in an all Hungarian school. He had it easy compared to that. My classmates weren't nearly fluent in English. I could barely communicate with them. And, yes, I was bullied. While my class was a seventh grade class, there were many of the same problems. Name calling, reading a book during the break only to have the boys slam it shut, it wasn't fun. In fact, that semester was one of the darkest of my life. Although the year before when I was at a "Catholic" high school back in the States was worse at school, the combination of bullying with hating where I was put me the closest that I've ever been do doing something drastic. I don't know why my parents ignored the morbid notes that I left on their bed multiple times, but it's a good thing that I never did anything more than pray I wouldn't wake up the next morning. I know what it's like to be Aaron. The difference was when I accepted that I was stuck in Hungary whether or not I liked it and that I might as well make the best of it. Despite my happy ending (I fell in love with Hungary and have been back twice since that disastrous beginning), it could have been much different and I sincerely hope that things turn around for Aaron too.

Watching Extreme Makeover today, what hit home the most for me was the fact that my baby brother is in sixth grade. When the big sister was asked what she missed most about her brother, she remembered his jokes. Every time I am home, he's got at least a new joke or two. And when one of my sisters hears one, I get texts/facebook messages sharing the newest. John's not in school so bullying there isn't a concern right now (This is NOT a push for homeschooling! If I ever had kids they would not be homeschooled unless that was the absolutely only option) but bullying can take place anywhere. There are enough dangers and diseases harming kids, this is one that is completely preventable. And must end.

Respect

Would you tell your boss that, while business casual is the standard in your office, you will only wear sweat pants to work? Or how about using your phone for personal calls all day at work? Extending your lunch break into time allotted for meetings? If so, would you expect to keep your job in this economy?

NO!

These questions probably seem ridiculous and rightly so. When you apply for a job, you find out what it entails and then agree to fulfill your duties to the best of your ability. Certainly, there are deadbeats in every field, unfortunately. But... suppose you had studied for years to be qualified for your job. Suppose you had sacrificed time, money, and countless other things for this job. Suppose you were, somehow, amazingly, being paid (however little... remember - YOU accepted the job) to do what you love most. Would you respect it any less than the average entry-level worker fresh out of school and thrilled to have any job?

Of course not... one would think.

As crazy as it sounds, this is exactly what I see way too much when I go to work. Some of the YAAPs (members of the Young American Artist Program here at GGO) have so little respect for what they are doing. Refusing to wear costumes, purposefully neglecting to remove personal jewelry, going onstage with cell phones in their costume pockets, ignoring requests about things like not playing frisbee in costume, and, my personal "favorite", wearing costume pieces home.

As an aspiring singer, I find the attitudes sported by some of these talented young performers to be nothing short of offensive. Out of probably close to a thousand applicants and hundreds of auditions, this small group of 20-30 was chosen. If you consider the additional numbers of people like myself who know they have years of study remaining before attempting to apply, there are thousands of people who would give almost anything for the opportunity these singers have been given.

Obviously, not all of the YAAPs fall into this category! There are some singers I am working with and have worked with at GGO who are not only talented performers but also wonderful people. These are the ones I hope go far. These are the singers I would love to work with in the future. These are the people from whom I hope to learn something.

The rest, I would love to give a piece of my mind. And, in the words of Mrs. Cratchit, "I hope they have a good appetite for it!" I wish I could shake them and ask "How do you not realize the opportunity you have? Do you know how many people would trade places with you in a heartbeat? How can you be doing what you love and have so little respect for it? Why even bother taking the job if you won't do what's asked of you? Isn't singing worth taking out your earrings or carefully checking that you return your costume pieces and props? What's the use of scoffing at the people whose job it is to make you look good?"

In the end, I doubt they would hear me, even if I had the opportunity to ask.