Nori’s Nuggets
Let everything happen to you
Beauty and terror
Just keep going
No feeling is final
–Rainier Marie Rilke
First I have to make one thing perfectly clear: I am not an adrenaline junkie. Roller-coasters terrify me and even water slides give me great anxiety. I won’t even get into my ill-fated attempt to learn to ride a motorcycle (I was turning 41; clearly a mid-life crisis).
Suffice it to say I have never done anything in life purely for the rush it might bring me.
So how did I come to find myself on the morning of September 17 in a small airplane with a snug harness on my body, sitting on the lap of a tandem sky-diving instructor?
What on earth possessed me to make the decision to step out of a perfectly good airplane?
Back when I was in my 20s I had made a bucket list (before the term bucket list was even coined, I might add) of things to do before I died. As years passed and I wasn’t accomplishing any of these five items, I decided a more specific "dead"line might be useful. So I amended it to "Things to do before I’m 50." The five things were: scuba-diving, para-sailing, riding in a helicopter, hot-air ballooning, and sky-diving. Clearly, I needed to make these a list to focus on since none of them would naturally occur in my non-athletic, non-thrill-seeking, somewhat sedentary life.
I accomplished the first three in a single week on the island of Maui, HI when I was 31.
The para-sailing and helicopter ride were both fun; I learned in scuba-diving that I have serious control issues around when and how I get to breathe. But then there was a long dry period of, well, 18 years and as I turned the corner on my 49th birthday this past June I realized it was time to get serious about checking the other two items off my list.
My niece Pam got the ball rolling. She had already sky-dived and was ready to do it again. She posted on my facebook wall, other nieces saw and wanted to join and the decision was made to do it when everyone would be here for Sam’s 16th birthday.
Reservations were made (and reservations were had by me, but I pushed them to the back-burner of my mind; there was too much other fun stuff to focus on: my entire family descending from all parts of the nation for Sam’s birthday; Sam’s party itself, which was epic; the sermon I still had to prepare for Sunday, on the off chance I survived my jump). Suddenly it was the day. We all got up at the crack of dawn and drove to the sky-diving place just outside of Canon City. When we were all assembled it was my brother, Erik; nieces, Pam, Rachael, and Marissa; a friend of Pam’s; and me.
The small plane took us up two at a time; through no planning on my part, Erik and I were to be in the last plane. It was truly beautiful and amazing to see the other four jump out of the plane, two by two, and watch as their chutes blossomed open and they gently glided to land.
Now it was our turn. Erik climbed in first, positioned himself on top of his instructor and my instructor and I followed suit (Erik’s instructor said, jokingly, "I bet this is the first time you’ve paid so much money to sit on a man’s lap." I chimed in "It is for me, too." I’m not sure they got the joke). But for the rest of the 20 minute ride I was mainly quiet. I could sense this growing anxiety in me, even though I knew I had a fairly good chance of surviving this jump (and as one friend said on fb "If not, it’ll only hurt once." Cold comfort, those words) and living to preach the following day. I was trying mainly to just stay in the moment, to take in the beautiful vista of the Royal Gorge, and to ask myself, What am I to learn here? Why am I doing this? I wanted to be open to the lesson, not the adrenalin rush.
Finally, the pilot said, "Door!" My instructor open the door and I did as I had been instructed, following his left foot with mine, placed on the step there; next was my right foot. That was the most terrifying moment and I barely had time to feel it before we were out; tumbling over and over in an incredible bullet-fast rush through the skies. After about 30 seconds, my instructor pulled the chute cord and there we were: gracefully wafting down, the silence even more noticeable after the rushing of air during free fall. It was an amazing experience.
And here’s what I learned from it: that there are many times in life when I am facing something unknown; a new challenge, a stepping off from the norm; and if I wanted to, I could let the terror get the best of me and back away– and often I do remain in the place of terror, fear, anxiety longer than I need to because there’s no one there to make me jump but myself. But really (and this is true as I look back on all my free-fall experiences, mainly metaphorical though they may be) once I let go, once I give in to the moment and just free-fall– I have fun; I find I can do something I wasn’t sure I could; I discover I’ll survive.
As we come into this New Year with new opportunities for growth and change– with all the accompanying terror and uncertainty– this is a lesson I want to take with me into 2012; this is a moment in time I want to remember when it feels as if I’m being asked to step out of a perfectly good plane: the getting there is the scariest part; once you let go and jump out, it’s a fabulous ride. Happy New Year.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Tis the Season
Here is my newsletter article for December. I have also been participating in NANOWRIMO-- National Novel Writing Month-- working on finishing a 50,000 word novel (minimum) so my little brain is fried. New Year's Resolution: Blog more!
Happy Holidays!
There are seasons, in human affairs, of inward and outward revolution, when new depths seem to be broken up in the soul, when new wants are unfolded in multitudes, and a new and undefined good is thirsted for. There are periods when...to dare, is the highest wisdom. - William Ellery Channing, Unitarian Preacher
I must be getting older because I can hardly believe December is upon us with its frenzied excitement; its religious celebrations–from Buddha’s enlightenment to Solstice and Hanukkah, to Christmas and Kwanzaa. I have become one of those people who say “But wait! Where did the year go?” Not in a curmudgeonly manner but in a sense of legitimate amazement that another 12 months has flown by; that another calendar is on its last page and here I am!
The quote above, which I have shamelessly stolen from the facebook wall of our former DRE, Stephanie Sharp, seems especially poignant for this time of the year.
We come to the longest day and the earliest shopping opportunity, we light the festal lights and go to Christmas parties, and it can be so easy to skip over the bigger questions: what do these holidays mean? What am I supposed to be learning here? How can I slow down enough to at least be mindful that another minute, another hour, another day has passed– even if I can’t tell you all the details of the story that went with them?
We call this the holiday season, but Channing refers to seasons as having a broader sense of purpose. Perhaps this year we can look at the Christmas story of a homeless teen giving birth in the Red Cross shelter to a baby who would grow up to challenge the unjust systems and structures of his day, who would couch his revolution in the language of the religion and the language of the law that both governed over and oppressed the peoples of the land. How can that story of inward and outward revolution speak to us? In which areas of our lives– whether personal, professional or spiritual-are revolutions fomenting; under the surface at the moment but sure to erupt soon, and how can we embrace those revolutions as part of our evolution rather than as rabble-rousing that is upsetting our comfortable status quo? What if we looked at the Hanukkah story; the bravery of the Maccabees in fighting the Egyptians for the spiritual and cultural foundation as an outward revolution that also led to new depths being plumbed in the soul; even though there was not enough oil, it lasted as long as it was needed. In what area of our life do we feel as if we can’t succeed, don’t have enough, are on our last legs and how can we find the courage, like the Maccabees, to just keep going back to the jar that should be empty and discovering that in the very act of seeking, we find enough for what we need, we discover new depths in our soul that we would have never known existed if not for going back to a seemingly empty place to seek again. And what if we viewed Kwanzaa, not just as an African American holiday, but as a ritual borne out of multitudinous new wants for a better life, for more respect; a ritual borne out of the realization that at the end of the day it is up to us to define our values and claim our heritage in such a way as to live from our highest self. Finally, what if the anniversary of Buddha’s enlightenment on December 8 (Bodhi day on which some Buddhists celebrate Gautama's attainment of enlightenment under the Bodhi tree at Bodhgaya, India) was seen as that hallmark moment in the Buddha’s life when a new and undefined thirst for goodness brought enlightenment. Where are we simply accepting the injustices of our world, in our own lives, and our own complicity in them. What goodness, if we let our heart open to the possibility of it, could we thirst for– new and undefined, not knowing how it will all turn out, just knowing that we thirst for that goodness and that gives us the courage to see how it can unfold if we let our lives take root in the thirst.
As we go to the parties; as we do last minute shopping–online or in brick and mortar stores; as we struggle with loss or depression more poignantly felt at the holidays let us resolve not to let this holiday season to pass by in a blur; rather let us take time to seek the wisdom of each of these spiritual events and let go even further: let us dare to be willing to be changed by revolutions within our hearts and in our world; let us dare to plumb the depths of our soul, rather than stopping when we think we’ve gone as far as we can; let us acknowledge our desires and our wants even if they seem unreachable; let us open our jaded, arid spirits up to a thirst for goodness-nascent and unknowable as that might be. Let us dare to live into the wisdom of this season of our human lives. Happy Holidays.
Happy Holidays!
There are seasons, in human affairs, of inward and outward revolution, when new depths seem to be broken up in the soul, when new wants are unfolded in multitudes, and a new and undefined good is thirsted for. There are periods when...to dare, is the highest wisdom. - William Ellery Channing, Unitarian Preacher
I must be getting older because I can hardly believe December is upon us with its frenzied excitement; its religious celebrations–from Buddha’s enlightenment to Solstice and Hanukkah, to Christmas and Kwanzaa. I have become one of those people who say “But wait! Where did the year go?” Not in a curmudgeonly manner but in a sense of legitimate amazement that another 12 months has flown by; that another calendar is on its last page and here I am!
The quote above, which I have shamelessly stolen from the facebook wall of our former DRE, Stephanie Sharp, seems especially poignant for this time of the year.
We come to the longest day and the earliest shopping opportunity, we light the festal lights and go to Christmas parties, and it can be so easy to skip over the bigger questions: what do these holidays mean? What am I supposed to be learning here? How can I slow down enough to at least be mindful that another minute, another hour, another day has passed– even if I can’t tell you all the details of the story that went with them?
We call this the holiday season, but Channing refers to seasons as having a broader sense of purpose. Perhaps this year we can look at the Christmas story of a homeless teen giving birth in the Red Cross shelter to a baby who would grow up to challenge the unjust systems and structures of his day, who would couch his revolution in the language of the religion and the language of the law that both governed over and oppressed the peoples of the land. How can that story of inward and outward revolution speak to us? In which areas of our lives– whether personal, professional or spiritual-are revolutions fomenting; under the surface at the moment but sure to erupt soon, and how can we embrace those revolutions as part of our evolution rather than as rabble-rousing that is upsetting our comfortable status quo? What if we looked at the Hanukkah story; the bravery of the Maccabees in fighting the Egyptians for the spiritual and cultural foundation as an outward revolution that also led to new depths being plumbed in the soul; even though there was not enough oil, it lasted as long as it was needed. In what area of our life do we feel as if we can’t succeed, don’t have enough, are on our last legs and how can we find the courage, like the Maccabees, to just keep going back to the jar that should be empty and discovering that in the very act of seeking, we find enough for what we need, we discover new depths in our soul that we would have never known existed if not for going back to a seemingly empty place to seek again. And what if we viewed Kwanzaa, not just as an African American holiday, but as a ritual borne out of multitudinous new wants for a better life, for more respect; a ritual borne out of the realization that at the end of the day it is up to us to define our values and claim our heritage in such a way as to live from our highest self. Finally, what if the anniversary of Buddha’s enlightenment on December 8 (Bodhi day on which some Buddhists celebrate Gautama's attainment of enlightenment under the Bodhi tree at Bodhgaya, India) was seen as that hallmark moment in the Buddha’s life when a new and undefined thirst for goodness brought enlightenment. Where are we simply accepting the injustices of our world, in our own lives, and our own complicity in them. What goodness, if we let our heart open to the possibility of it, could we thirst for– new and undefined, not knowing how it will all turn out, just knowing that we thirst for that goodness and that gives us the courage to see how it can unfold if we let our lives take root in the thirst.
As we go to the parties; as we do last minute shopping–online or in brick and mortar stores; as we struggle with loss or depression more poignantly felt at the holidays let us resolve not to let this holiday season to pass by in a blur; rather let us take time to seek the wisdom of each of these spiritual events and let go even further: let us dare to be willing to be changed by revolutions within our hearts and in our world; let us dare to plumb the depths of our soul, rather than stopping when we think we’ve gone as far as we can; let us acknowledge our desires and our wants even if they seem unreachable; let us open our jaded, arid spirits up to a thirst for goodness-nascent and unknowable as that might be. Let us dare to live into the wisdom of this season of our human lives. Happy Holidays.
Friday, September 30, 2011
CommUUnity
Again-- this will be my newsletter article for All Souls The Path newsletter.
It goes on one at a time,
it starts when you care
to act, it starts when you do
it again after they said no,
it starts when you say We
and know who you mean, and each
day you mean one more.
- Marge Piercy
I love this poem by Marge Piercy. I often think of it when I feel as if I am not making a difference in the world; when I am feeling alone or lonely. This poem reminds me of two things.
First, it reminds me that every little step forward is progress; it goes on one at a time, every time we act. It continues on when we no longer see ourselves as separate from one another but rather, as all bundled together in the cosmos.
This poem, and indeed, our Unitarian Universalist faith, calls us to deeper and deeper connections. It calls us to daily widen the circle of love in which we stand so that more are included.
Coming out as a lesbian when I was 16 years old was the beginning of ever-widening the circle for me. I suddenly realized that I was part of “the other,” the nameless, faceless assortment of those who did not fit, were not invited into the circle of love for the majority, the “normal,” the comforting sameness of life.
I distinctly remember what it felt like to be on the outside of that invisibly etched circle of inclusion. It was a revelatory moment for me. Or really, more aptly, it was the moment of the “big bang” explosion of my conscious existence. A whole universe filled with galaxies of possibilities burst forth when I came out; when I realized the “other” was just another facet of me I had not yet met.
So from that moment, my universe has been expanding to include ever more diverse peoples and cultures as part of my “We.” First I reached out to the feminists, the pro-choice and included them in my “We.” Then I reached out in solidarity – or rather reached back– to the poor, those living at or below the poverty line, whose lives echoed my beginnings in this world. I reached out to people of color, begin to educate myself about my own inherent racism; how merely by dint of my skin color, I belonged to an oppressive, systemic racist culture. I included, then, people of color into my “We” and those of the dominant culture who were trying to healing racism into my “We.” I went on to include other ways of being in relationship into my “We” as well; those whose hearts and loves didn’t fall into the neat and tidy categories of monogamous, life-time partnerships of two people (regardless of gender), and of course, gender-variant people as well are now a part of my “We.”
I’ve got to be honest here: every time my universe expanded to include more people, I felt uncomfortable. I felt resistance to the idea of stepping outside of my comfort zones of who could possibly be “in” and then, of course, those who were left out. And I’m certainly not to the point where my “We” leaves no room for an “other.” I keep expanding still; not always easily or gently, but it does go on one at a time when I care to act, when I care to learn about those who are different from me, rather than judging them; when I intentionally participate in diversity in community rather than insist on division and commonality.
It seems as if October is a month for continuing to increase the circle .
First, we will gather in all our diversity as the Mountains and Desert District at our annual meeting next weekend, where I will preach at the closing worship service on the 9th.
That same afternoon, at 2 pm, back at All Souls, I will be celebrating my fellowship status as a UUA minister with an Affirmation of Call service, in which Rev. Meg Riley will be preaching.
Finally, on Saturday, October 15, at the 2011Colorado Springs NAACP Freedom Fund Gala I will be presented with the Religious Affairs Award. This is awarded to a member of the clergy/faith community who has made a difference in the causes of diversity and inclusion and has offered unwavering support of the programs and mission of the NAACP (for more information on this event go to ColoradoSpringsNAACP.org).
I am honored and humbled to receive such an award. In my mind, I haven’t done much more than to step into the NAACP circle of love and expand mine to include them. All these events are so meaningful to me and remind me again that if we can just say “We” and mean one more each time, there is nothing that can stop us from over-turning systems and structures of injustice, insuring all people have their basic needs met and that the planet is a safe place in which to live and grow. This will become easier when we realize “we” are saving ourselves; that there is no “other,” for we are all one, we share in our common unity as sojourners on this planet.
It goes on one at a time,
it starts when you care
to act, it starts when you do
it again after they said no,
it starts when you say We
and know who you mean, and each
day you mean one more.
- Marge Piercy
I love this poem by Marge Piercy. I often think of it when I feel as if I am not making a difference in the world; when I am feeling alone or lonely. This poem reminds me of two things.
First, it reminds me that every little step forward is progress; it goes on one at a time, every time we act. It continues on when we no longer see ourselves as separate from one another but rather, as all bundled together in the cosmos.
This poem, and indeed, our Unitarian Universalist faith, calls us to deeper and deeper connections. It calls us to daily widen the circle of love in which we stand so that more are included.
Coming out as a lesbian when I was 16 years old was the beginning of ever-widening the circle for me. I suddenly realized that I was part of “the other,” the nameless, faceless assortment of those who did not fit, were not invited into the circle of love for the majority, the “normal,” the comforting sameness of life.
I distinctly remember what it felt like to be on the outside of that invisibly etched circle of inclusion. It was a revelatory moment for me. Or really, more aptly, it was the moment of the “big bang” explosion of my conscious existence. A whole universe filled with galaxies of possibilities burst forth when I came out; when I realized the “other” was just another facet of me I had not yet met.
So from that moment, my universe has been expanding to include ever more diverse peoples and cultures as part of my “We.” First I reached out to the feminists, the pro-choice and included them in my “We.” Then I reached out in solidarity – or rather reached back– to the poor, those living at or below the poverty line, whose lives echoed my beginnings in this world. I reached out to people of color, begin to educate myself about my own inherent racism; how merely by dint of my skin color, I belonged to an oppressive, systemic racist culture. I included, then, people of color into my “We” and those of the dominant culture who were trying to healing racism into my “We.” I went on to include other ways of being in relationship into my “We” as well; those whose hearts and loves didn’t fall into the neat and tidy categories of monogamous, life-time partnerships of two people (regardless of gender), and of course, gender-variant people as well are now a part of my “We.”
I’ve got to be honest here: every time my universe expanded to include more people, I felt uncomfortable. I felt resistance to the idea of stepping outside of my comfort zones of who could possibly be “in” and then, of course, those who were left out. And I’m certainly not to the point where my “We” leaves no room for an “other.” I keep expanding still; not always easily or gently, but it does go on one at a time when I care to act, when I care to learn about those who are different from me, rather than judging them; when I intentionally participate in diversity in community rather than insist on division and commonality.
It seems as if October is a month for continuing to increase the circle .
First, we will gather in all our diversity as the Mountains and Desert District at our annual meeting next weekend, where I will preach at the closing worship service on the 9th.
That same afternoon, at 2 pm, back at All Souls, I will be celebrating my fellowship status as a UUA minister with an Affirmation of Call service, in which Rev. Meg Riley will be preaching.
Finally, on Saturday, October 15, at the 2011Colorado Springs NAACP Freedom Fund Gala I will be presented with the Religious Affairs Award. This is awarded to a member of the clergy/faith community who has made a difference in the causes of diversity and inclusion and has offered unwavering support of the programs and mission of the NAACP (for more information on this event go to ColoradoSpringsNAACP.org).
I am honored and humbled to receive such an award. In my mind, I haven’t done much more than to step into the NAACP circle of love and expand mine to include them. All these events are so meaningful to me and remind me again that if we can just say “We” and mean one more each time, there is nothing that can stop us from over-turning systems and structures of injustice, insuring all people have their basic needs met and that the planet is a safe place in which to live and grow. This will become easier when we realize “we” are saving ourselves; that there is no “other,” for we are all one, we share in our common unity as sojourners on this planet.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Slutwalk Colorado Springs
Nori’s Nuggets (My September newsletter article...advance copy!)
Rape exists, in part, because society continues to support most myths which condone the act itself and place the blame and responsibility upon the victim. These attitudes can be seen in our literature, religions, laws, music, science, advertising, and daily conversation - all aspects of our culture. — from http://www.domesticviolenceservices.com/rapemythsandfacts.html
Sadly, the above assertion is all too true, as was spotlighted on January 24, 2011 in the case of a representative of the Toronto Police who asserted: “women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized”.
In a galvanizing response, Slutwalks have been organized in many countries and here in the United States, many cities. I am the co-organizer of such an event that will be held on Sunday, September 18 at 6 pm. While the final route is yet to be determined, I am encouraging as many of you as possible to attend this important event. As the above website notes, it is a myth that women provoke rape by the way they dress; that they ask for it:
Fact: No woman's dress or behavior gives someone the right to sexually assault her. According to the Federal Commission on Crimes of Violence, only 4% of the reported sexual assaults involved any participative behavior by the victim, and most of this consisted of nothing more than dressing or walking in a way that is socially defined as attractive. Even in a situation where a woman is flirtatious or clearly interested in sex, she is not asking for rape. Rape in an attack in which the victim's life is controlled by the attacker. No person asks for or deserves such an assault. A hitchhiker is asking for a ride, not a violent attack. Part of the problem also lies in the interpretation men put on women's behavior. When women are cheerful and friendly, which they have been taught to be, some men interpret this as a "come-on." Again, this myth forms a part of the "good woman's" defense against a sense of vulnerability.
That this myth is being perpetuated in 2011 undermines the sad facts of rape: 90% of group rapes are planned; 58% of single rapes are planned; 75% of all rapes are planned. Also, one important emotional payoff for the rapist is to be in control, not out of control. The primary motive displayed by most convicted rapist is aggression, dominance, and anger, NOT sex. Sex is used as a weapon to inflict violence, humiliation, and conquest on a victim.
Here are more facts from the domestic violence website: Rape is the fastest-growing and most under reported crime. Over "one-third" of all women in this country will be sexually assaulted or abused in their lifetime. An estimated 4-5 out of every 10 of all American children (under 16) are sexually molested. 50% are males. Studies show about 90% of these involve someone the child already knows. Only about 1 in 10 rapes of adults is reported, and fewer assaults of children are reported.
Additionally, although women between the ages of 15 and 25 are at somewhat higher risk of sexual assault than any other age groups, victims of reported rape in this country range from 3 weeks old to 93 years old. Clearly, these fall outside the purview of those “who ask for it.”
Sexual assault of any kind is wrong. It can be particularly shameful for those who work in the sex industry as prostitutes, strippers or exotic dancers. These, too, are innocent victims. A person’s work or dress does not mean anyone asks for rape. I invite you to join me and others in the SlutWalk Colorado Springs on September 18, following our 5 PM First Source service (which will be a service of healing and solidarity for those who have been victims of sexual assault). Together, we can make a difference. In the meantime, I invite you to remember these fool-proof
tips to avoid sexual assault:
Don’t put drugs in people’s drinks in order to control their behavior.
When you see someone walking by themselves, leave them alone.
If you pull over to help someone with car problems, remember not to assault them.
NEVER open an unlocked door or window uninvited.
If you are in an elevator and someone else gets in, don’t assault them.
USE THE BUDDY SYSTEM! If you are not able to stop yourself from assaulting people, ask a friend to stay with you while you are in public.
Always be honest with people! Don’t pretend to be a caring friend in order to gain the trust of someone you want to assault. Consider telling them you plan to assault them. If you don’t communicate your intentions, the other person may take that as a sign that you do not plan to rape them.
Don’t forget: you can’t have sex with someone unless they are awake.
Carry a whistle! If you’re worried you might assault someone “accidentally” you can hand it to the person you’re with so they can blow it if you do.
Don’t assault people!
The reality is this: no one of any gender, sexual orientation, age, race or social status asks for rape, no matter what they’re wearing or where they’re walking. Let’s join together to take a stand in solidarity with victims of rape and say no more to the mindless stereotypes that perpetuate further victimization. Go to http://slutwalksprings.com for more information about this upcoming event and others like it.
Rape exists, in part, because society continues to support most myths which condone the act itself and place the blame and responsibility upon the victim. These attitudes can be seen in our literature, religions, laws, music, science, advertising, and daily conversation - all aspects of our culture. — from http://www.domesticviolenceservices.com/rapemythsandfacts.html
Sadly, the above assertion is all too true, as was spotlighted on January 24, 2011 in the case of a representative of the Toronto Police who asserted: “women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized”.
In a galvanizing response, Slutwalks have been organized in many countries and here in the United States, many cities. I am the co-organizer of such an event that will be held on Sunday, September 18 at 6 pm. While the final route is yet to be determined, I am encouraging as many of you as possible to attend this important event. As the above website notes, it is a myth that women provoke rape by the way they dress; that they ask for it:
Fact: No woman's dress or behavior gives someone the right to sexually assault her. According to the Federal Commission on Crimes of Violence, only 4% of the reported sexual assaults involved any participative behavior by the victim, and most of this consisted of nothing more than dressing or walking in a way that is socially defined as attractive. Even in a situation where a woman is flirtatious or clearly interested in sex, she is not asking for rape. Rape in an attack in which the victim's life is controlled by the attacker. No person asks for or deserves such an assault. A hitchhiker is asking for a ride, not a violent attack. Part of the problem also lies in the interpretation men put on women's behavior. When women are cheerful and friendly, which they have been taught to be, some men interpret this as a "come-on." Again, this myth forms a part of the "good woman's" defense against a sense of vulnerability.
That this myth is being perpetuated in 2011 undermines the sad facts of rape: 90% of group rapes are planned; 58% of single rapes are planned; 75% of all rapes are planned. Also, one important emotional payoff for the rapist is to be in control, not out of control. The primary motive displayed by most convicted rapist is aggression, dominance, and anger, NOT sex. Sex is used as a weapon to inflict violence, humiliation, and conquest on a victim.
Here are more facts from the domestic violence website: Rape is the fastest-growing and most under reported crime. Over "one-third" of all women in this country will be sexually assaulted or abused in their lifetime. An estimated 4-5 out of every 10 of all American children (under 16) are sexually molested. 50% are males. Studies show about 90% of these involve someone the child already knows. Only about 1 in 10 rapes of adults is reported, and fewer assaults of children are reported.
Additionally, although women between the ages of 15 and 25 are at somewhat higher risk of sexual assault than any other age groups, victims of reported rape in this country range from 3 weeks old to 93 years old. Clearly, these fall outside the purview of those “who ask for it.”
Sexual assault of any kind is wrong. It can be particularly shameful for those who work in the sex industry as prostitutes, strippers or exotic dancers. These, too, are innocent victims. A person’s work or dress does not mean anyone asks for rape. I invite you to join me and others in the SlutWalk Colorado Springs on September 18, following our 5 PM First Source service (which will be a service of healing and solidarity for those who have been victims of sexual assault). Together, we can make a difference. In the meantime, I invite you to remember these fool-proof
tips to avoid sexual assault:
Don’t put drugs in people’s drinks in order to control their behavior.
When you see someone walking by themselves, leave them alone.
If you pull over to help someone with car problems, remember not to assault them.
NEVER open an unlocked door or window uninvited.
If you are in an elevator and someone else gets in, don’t assault them.
USE THE BUDDY SYSTEM! If you are not able to stop yourself from assaulting people, ask a friend to stay with you while you are in public.
Always be honest with people! Don’t pretend to be a caring friend in order to gain the trust of someone you want to assault. Consider telling them you plan to assault them. If you don’t communicate your intentions, the other person may take that as a sign that you do not plan to rape them.
Don’t forget: you can’t have sex with someone unless they are awake.
Carry a whistle! If you’re worried you might assault someone “accidentally” you can hand it to the person you’re with so they can blow it if you do.
Don’t assault people!
The reality is this: no one of any gender, sexual orientation, age, race or social status asks for rape, no matter what they’re wearing or where they’re walking. Let’s join together to take a stand in solidarity with victims of rape and say no more to the mindless stereotypes that perpetuate further victimization. Go to http://slutwalksprings.com for more information about this upcoming event and others like it.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Taking a Chance
Here is my August newsletter article for the All Souls newsletter.
(with a special shout-out to Rev. Meg Riley, senior minister of Church of the Larger Fellowship, whose recent video on turning fear into love inspired this. You can view it at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rK2Z2uc7qM4&feature=mfu_in_order&list=UL)
Someday I am going to ask my friend Paulus,
the dancer, the potter,
to make me a begging bowl
which I believe
my soul needs.
And if I come to you,
to the door of your comfortable house
with unwashed clothes and unclean fingernails,
will you put something into it?
I would like to take this chance.
I would like to give you this chance.
To Begin With, the Sweet Grass –Mary Oliver
Is it just me or do you some days feel as if the world is spinning out of control? We are on the brink of economic disaster on a national level that many of us already feel in our personal lives. A gunman hunts down and kills scores of young people on an island in Norway after setting off a car bomb in Oslo. And many of us feel as if we, too, face frightening things out of our control: a looming divorce, or the long wait for biopsy results; a significant loss. The temperature seems to rise as folks dismiss global warming, our level of anxiety and stress keeping pace with this precipitous climb.
In times like these it seems as if our default is to isolate. To burrow into our cocoon of fear and anxiety as if we expect transformation can happen in such an environment. Or else we posture and eye the opposing sides to see which one can give us the illusion of safety, creating an “us” and “them” mentality which also, conveniently, gives us someone to blame. Someone whose fault it is. It’s the Democrats! It’s the Republicans! It’s the undocumented citizens! It’s the border patrol.”
All of this and more has been eddying in my own mind for weeks, months. Who is right? Where will this all end? And into these questions comes Mary Oliver’s tender words. What if I came to the door of your comfortable home, with the filth of poverty and despair, of uncertainty and need like a halo around me, begging bowl in hand asking you to see me, to see me and not turn away? Would you put something in it?
What if we each did this with one another, open and vulnerable in our need. What if we broke through the isolation of our pain and fear and showed up in one another’s lives.
Now, in this time of uncertainty, is not the time for pointing fingers or placing blame. Now is not the time to isolate or draw up the moat to our souls.
Now, more than ever, is the time to take a chance in our humanity, to knock on one another’s doors, bowl in hand; begging, not for pity, but for compassion; for the opportunity to be seen rather than catalogued. So I invite you this month, to take that chance, to knock on someone’s door.
And if someone knocks on your door, begging bowl in hand, bow to the gift and take a chance by opening up and letting them in. That is, I believe, the only way we ultimately can survive this adventure called life, in good times and bad.
(with a special shout-out to Rev. Meg Riley, senior minister of Church of the Larger Fellowship, whose recent video on turning fear into love inspired this. You can view it at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rK2Z2uc7qM4&feature=mfu_in_order&list=UL)
Someday I am going to ask my friend Paulus,
the dancer, the potter,
to make me a begging bowl
which I believe
my soul needs.
And if I come to you,
to the door of your comfortable house
with unwashed clothes and unclean fingernails,
will you put something into it?
I would like to take this chance.
I would like to give you this chance.
To Begin With, the Sweet Grass –Mary Oliver
Is it just me or do you some days feel as if the world is spinning out of control? We are on the brink of economic disaster on a national level that many of us already feel in our personal lives. A gunman hunts down and kills scores of young people on an island in Norway after setting off a car bomb in Oslo. And many of us feel as if we, too, face frightening things out of our control: a looming divorce, or the long wait for biopsy results; a significant loss. The temperature seems to rise as folks dismiss global warming, our level of anxiety and stress keeping pace with this precipitous climb.
In times like these it seems as if our default is to isolate. To burrow into our cocoon of fear and anxiety as if we expect transformation can happen in such an environment. Or else we posture and eye the opposing sides to see which one can give us the illusion of safety, creating an “us” and “them” mentality which also, conveniently, gives us someone to blame. Someone whose fault it is. It’s the Democrats! It’s the Republicans! It’s the undocumented citizens! It’s the border patrol.”
All of this and more has been eddying in my own mind for weeks, months. Who is right? Where will this all end? And into these questions comes Mary Oliver’s tender words. What if I came to the door of your comfortable home, with the filth of poverty and despair, of uncertainty and need like a halo around me, begging bowl in hand asking you to see me, to see me and not turn away? Would you put something in it?
What if we each did this with one another, open and vulnerable in our need. What if we broke through the isolation of our pain and fear and showed up in one another’s lives.
Now, in this time of uncertainty, is not the time for pointing fingers or placing blame. Now is not the time to isolate or draw up the moat to our souls.
Now, more than ever, is the time to take a chance in our humanity, to knock on one another’s doors, bowl in hand; begging, not for pity, but for compassion; for the opportunity to be seen rather than catalogued. So I invite you this month, to take that chance, to knock on someone’s door.
And if someone knocks on your door, begging bowl in hand, bow to the gift and take a chance by opening up and letting them in. That is, I believe, the only way we ultimately can survive this adventure called life, in good times and bad.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Somehow We Get There
Tonight I joined a couple of friends to see the Springs Ensemble Theatre production of Welcome Home, Jenny Sutter. It was an intense, incredibly well-cast play about the struggle of Marine Jenny Sutter to come to terms with where she’s been (Iraq) and try to find a way back home. A story about wondering if home is where it was when she left, if anyone could see the scars seared into her soul and her body, if people could look at her and ever see her as beautiful again.
It was a poignant, honest portrayal of what it’s like for some soldiers coming home from hot zones, trying to make sense of their lives, trying to interpret what they’ve been through in that surreal war zone that sometimes seems more real than the wonder bread context of "home."
And though Jenny is the main character– and the only one who has been to war- the other characters are dealing with their own trauma, they each have their own scars–external and internal that they intermittently try to control or deny, with only sweet moments of vulnerability in which the frightened, scarred person within them makes a desperate bid for connection with another.
It was a really well done performance and, laudably, there was information available for vets of wars from Iraq and Afghanistan to Vietnam and a list of resources to help veterans of any war come to terms with a reality that includes a past most of us can’t even begin to comprehend.
After sharing a few post-show comments with my friends and hugging them goodbye, I got into my car and drove out of the parking lot and turned right. Being directionally impaired, I quickly realized that I was probably going a longer route home than I needed to. So I opened up the nav screen of my car’s GPS, selected destination and punched on the tab that said, simply, home. Quickly the GPS consulted some satellite flying thousands of miles above and showed me the quickest way home.
I was thinking, as I drove, how cool it would be if there were some kind of soul GPS, some kind of heart guidance, into which we could simply push the tab that said home and it would navigate the easiest route for us, the route that would get us there the quickest. How amazing it would be if for veterans and those scarred by abuse or incest or other trauma; those who got seemingly irretrievably lost on a road we thought led to love, fulfillment, security, only to find ourselves instead blind-sided by pain and betrayal; orphaned by loss.
The British voice on my GPS confidently told me when to turn left and when to turn right– even gave me warnings as to how far before the next change would be. "In a quarter of a mile, turn right." I could get into the right lane, check the street name also helpfully shown on the display.
As I pulled up to my house the voice in the GPS said in a soothing voice, as if singing a lullaby, "You have arrived at your destination. Your route guidance is complete."
And yes, there was my house, with the lights blazing and the always smiling lawn gnome to welcome me home.
And as the voice stopped speaking the next song on my iPod queued up: Somehow We Get There by Melissa Ferrick. Stunned at the synchronicity of the moment, I turned off the engine and listened in the silence to the words of this home–sick song. The chorus reminded me that
But you know
Somehow we get there
Through the blind night
We got the white lines flashing past the tip of our headlights
Somehow we get there
From wherever we are
Somehow we get there
No matter how far
The reality of it is, there is no GPS for the soul, no heart guidance to get us to home, to tell us when we’ve arrived so we don’t pass by, thinking it only a rest area. There is no simple way for us to navigate our realities, to traverse the wide and rocky terrain that waits before us when we get lost. Still, I took comfort from the words of this song. That if we just keep traveling, if we just keep stumbling along. If we feel the pain of the moment and live fully into that without trying to deny or repress it, if we can welcome with open arms the joy that shows up, the unexpected graces that bless us on the journey, somehow we will get there, we will find our home. We will, if we pay attention, know when we’ve arrived without some artificial voice telling us.
Maybe, we don’t have GPS, but we do have a compass. The compass of love and compassion, the compass of hope and faith– faith in ourselves, in the road, in the reality of a home we have not yet seen or can only distantly remember. And, if we can just follow the true north of our beating heart, I really do believe that somehow we will get there. Blessings on your journey.
Somehow We Get There
by Melissa Ferrick from CD Willing to Wait, 1995
Well I'm searching for somethin'
That I can't reach
So I whisper your name
In my sleep
N' time it isn't giving me
The space that I need
But you know at this pace
I don't think
I can
Pull into the lead
Forgiving myself is too simple too hard
There's got to be another way
To stop this car
But you know
Somehow we get there
Through the blind night
We got the white lines flashing past the tip of our headlights
Somehow we get there
From wherever we are
Somehow we get there
No matter how far
'Cause I can't Carry this around anymore
It's getting heavier with age
It is the boulder in my stomach
It's the avalanche in my veins
So let's leave it behind
I want to bury it beside the road
I will sit there until it comes out of me
I'll be freezing in the summer desert cold
But you know
Somehow we get there
Through the blind night
We got the white lines flashing past the tips of our head lights
Somehow we get there
From wherever we are
Somehow we get there
No matter how far
So hold my head
While I rock
Myself back to sleep
And I tell you that I am not easy
And you tell me that I am
Sweet
It was a poignant, honest portrayal of what it’s like for some soldiers coming home from hot zones, trying to make sense of their lives, trying to interpret what they’ve been through in that surreal war zone that sometimes seems more real than the wonder bread context of "home."
And though Jenny is the main character– and the only one who has been to war- the other characters are dealing with their own trauma, they each have their own scars–external and internal that they intermittently try to control or deny, with only sweet moments of vulnerability in which the frightened, scarred person within them makes a desperate bid for connection with another.
It was a really well done performance and, laudably, there was information available for vets of wars from Iraq and Afghanistan to Vietnam and a list of resources to help veterans of any war come to terms with a reality that includes a past most of us can’t even begin to comprehend.
After sharing a few post-show comments with my friends and hugging them goodbye, I got into my car and drove out of the parking lot and turned right. Being directionally impaired, I quickly realized that I was probably going a longer route home than I needed to. So I opened up the nav screen of my car’s GPS, selected destination and punched on the tab that said, simply, home. Quickly the GPS consulted some satellite flying thousands of miles above and showed me the quickest way home.
I was thinking, as I drove, how cool it would be if there were some kind of soul GPS, some kind of heart guidance, into which we could simply push the tab that said home and it would navigate the easiest route for us, the route that would get us there the quickest. How amazing it would be if for veterans and those scarred by abuse or incest or other trauma; those who got seemingly irretrievably lost on a road we thought led to love, fulfillment, security, only to find ourselves instead blind-sided by pain and betrayal; orphaned by loss.
The British voice on my GPS confidently told me when to turn left and when to turn right– even gave me warnings as to how far before the next change would be. "In a quarter of a mile, turn right." I could get into the right lane, check the street name also helpfully shown on the display.
As I pulled up to my house the voice in the GPS said in a soothing voice, as if singing a lullaby, "You have arrived at your destination. Your route guidance is complete."
And yes, there was my house, with the lights blazing and the always smiling lawn gnome to welcome me home.
And as the voice stopped speaking the next song on my iPod queued up: Somehow We Get There by Melissa Ferrick. Stunned at the synchronicity of the moment, I turned off the engine and listened in the silence to the words of this home–sick song. The chorus reminded me that
But you know
Somehow we get there
Through the blind night
We got the white lines flashing past the tip of our headlights
Somehow we get there
From wherever we are
Somehow we get there
No matter how far
The reality of it is, there is no GPS for the soul, no heart guidance to get us to home, to tell us when we’ve arrived so we don’t pass by, thinking it only a rest area. There is no simple way for us to navigate our realities, to traverse the wide and rocky terrain that waits before us when we get lost. Still, I took comfort from the words of this song. That if we just keep traveling, if we just keep stumbling along. If we feel the pain of the moment and live fully into that without trying to deny or repress it, if we can welcome with open arms the joy that shows up, the unexpected graces that bless us on the journey, somehow we will get there, we will find our home. We will, if we pay attention, know when we’ve arrived without some artificial voice telling us.
Maybe, we don’t have GPS, but we do have a compass. The compass of love and compassion, the compass of hope and faith– faith in ourselves, in the road, in the reality of a home we have not yet seen or can only distantly remember. And, if we can just follow the true north of our beating heart, I really do believe that somehow we will get there. Blessings on your journey.
Somehow We Get There
by Melissa Ferrick from CD Willing to Wait, 1995
Well I'm searching for somethin'
That I can't reach
So I whisper your name
In my sleep
N' time it isn't giving me
The space that I need
But you know at this pace
I don't think
I can
Pull into the lead
Forgiving myself is too simple too hard
There's got to be another way
To stop this car
But you know
Somehow we get there
Through the blind night
We got the white lines flashing past the tip of our headlights
Somehow we get there
From wherever we are
Somehow we get there
No matter how far
'Cause I can't Carry this around anymore
It's getting heavier with age
It is the boulder in my stomach
It's the avalanche in my veins
So let's leave it behind
I want to bury it beside the road
I will sit there until it comes out of me
I'll be freezing in the summer desert cold
But you know
Somehow we get there
Through the blind night
We got the white lines flashing past the tips of our head lights
Somehow we get there
From wherever we are
Somehow we get there
No matter how far
So hold my head
While I rock
Myself back to sleep
And I tell you that I am not easy
And you tell me that I am
Sweet
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Liberty and Justice for All
Today I joined a group of maybe 30 individuals at a rally on the steps of City Hall here in Colorado Springs. This weekend we will celebrate our 21st Pride Celebration for the queer community. For the past several years a very conservative mayor had refused to sign a mayoral proclamation honoring Pride Day and recognizing the gifts the queer community brings to Colorado Springs. So at the rally, a new resolution was put forth– introduced to the city council meeting today that asks that the Mayor and City Council sign a resolution condemning hate crimes– more specifically the alleged hate crime perpetuated against two gay soldiers here in the Springs who were jumped and assaulted while getting a late night snack. Homophobic epithets were hurled at them with the same force as fists that were thrown.
All of the usual suspects showed up to speak in support. Rev. Wes Mullins, minister of MCC, Chuck Bader, local union activist, and Carolyn Cathey– whose passion and instinct for activism have made her an honorary minister in my book (I call her Rev.– she does minister to the queer community in Colorado Springs, faithfully and without denominational prejudice). Others involved in politics, Nancy-Jo Morris, one of the more outspoken transwomen. It was inspiring, powerful. I felt the reassuring blanket of community–of queer folks and our allies– covering us, protecting us, swaddling us in love.
Following the rally, most of the folks there headed inside to participate in the City Council meeting. At the beginning of each City Council meeting –after an invocation by a local minister (I always love getting asked to do this) and the Pledge of Allegiance (for which I stand respectfully, but can never say, and will never say, until it’s true) there is a time for citizens to speak on subjects not listed on the agenda. Many of the supporters outside the rally had filled the halls and several had signed on to speak.
Queers of all ages and from all walks of life spoke about the importance of acknowledging the diversity of our community. Straight allies also stood up to urge support of our Pride celebration. Others urged the council to seriously consider the resolution against hate crimes that they will probably vote on next week, to not let silence be permission for other hate crimes to occur.
I spoke as did my colleague, Rev. Roger Butts from High Plains Church. Shawna Kemppainen, executive director of the local queer youth service provide, Inside/Out Youth Services, spoke movingly and, at times, tearfully, about the abuse she hears about from queer kids all the time; the sense the youth have that nothing will change and no one will care.
The council members and the mayor had a chance to respond. Most of the remarks were short-sighted, even scolding us. One council member suggested we were the ones causing division by not letting this issue go away. She said it was just an event and that’s not where the City Council needed to be focused. Another said that every crime was a hate crime (oh, how I weary of that retort– always given by someone who has never been in a marginalized group). Another insisted that as a Council that wasn’t their job but individuals could certainly support Pride. It’s interesting to note if that were their only recourse, to sign a statement of support as individuals, that only two councils members have actually done so: Scott Hente, President of Council, and Jan Martin, President Pro-tem.
Then the mayor spoke. (Was I the only one there who noted the irony of him saying in one breath he would never sign a proclamation celebrating/honoring Pride and in the next breath talking about the “Spirit of Colorado Springs” initiatives?? Did anyone else see the disconnect???).
Our newly elected (and first “strong mayor”) Steve Bach had run for office on a platform that said he wouldn’t sign any proclamations with “political connotations” (as was confirmed in John Hazelhurst’s article in the Colorado Springs Independent this week). Yes we knew this, and still there is something so heart-wrenchingly infuriating about the smugness behind that comment.
“Political connotations??” I guess celebrating the time when queer folk– namely drag queens and bull dykes– decided enough is enough! And boldly, fearlessly fought back against the police brutality and injustice of laws targeting queer folk had political connotations. Kind of like Juneteenth when Africans in Texas who had been kept as slaves 18 months after the Emancipation Proclamation had been signed and put into effect by President Lincoln on January 1, 1863, had political connotations– certainly economic connotations for their “owners” who were, shall we say, reluctant to let them know of their liberation. I guess Pride has political connotations in the same way in which Labor Day has political connotations– spotlighting the need for better, fairer labor laws. Or while we’re at it, let’s talk about the political connotations of Mothers’ Day which was started as an anti-war movement by Julia Ward Howe and other women alarmed at having sons of mothers kill other sons of mothers in war.
Frankly, I’m at a loss. I can’t think of a single secular holiday we celebrate that doesn’t have political connotations. Memorial Day? A day to remember the great loss of both sides in the Civil War– to decorate the graves of soldiers from both sides killed in the conflict, to look at our incredible shadow square in the face and recognize that, at the end of the day, we are all Americans– North and South, Yankee and Rebel.
Veterans Day–which honors the cessation of fighting in World War I, aka the Great War on November 11, 1918– even though the war was not officially over until the Treaty of Versailles was signed seven months later on June 28, 1919. What a twist of fate that 50 years to the day after official end of that war, on June 28, 1969, the Stonewall Rebellion occurred and the LGBTQI, etc. movement was begun.
A day, which had started so well, so joyously and determinedly with a rally and with citizens speaking out in City Council ended with the queer folks and our straight allies feeling, once again, misunderstood– actually not heard at all, invisible, demoralized, the lines of demarcation drawn more clearly than ever between those with power and status and standing and those without.
We walked out of that meeting in pain, in anger, in despair, for some of us. When I spoke to City Council this afternoon I started by saying at All Souls Unitarian Universalist Church we don’t just celebrate diversity– we flaunt it! And I told the story, from the Jewish tradition, of a person who had heard that a particular city was evil, corrupt, greedy, not caring for the outcast or marginalized. So this man had traveled to this city and stood with a sign by the city gates that said “Repent!” And day after day he would stand there and implore the city to repent of its selfish ways, to stop being corrupt, to care for those in need. And the people passing by would laugh or jeer at him, or spit on him, or– maybe worse– just ignore him.
This went on for ten years. Finally a passer-by who had witnessed this happening day after day, took pity on the man and went over to him and said, “Buddy! It’s been 10 years. They’re clearly not going to change. Why not just give it up.”
And the man replied. “At first I stood here and made my statement in hopes that this city would change. Now I do it to make sure that this city doesn’t change me.”
And I said, after sharing that story, that maybe that’s all I was doing now. Making sure that I don’t get drawn into the cynicism of things never changing and so changing into an apathetic person who doesn’t care. I said I will keep showing up and saying "Repent!" If for no other reason, than I not be changed.
And I want to say to those activists who stood with me today. Those who have been making this same impassioned plea for justice for years and years, and those for whom this was their first act of justice-seeking, don’t give up. No matter the outcome, if we can stand united, if we can refuse to change, refuse to give in to complacency and numbing despair, if we can continue to be a bright light of justice overlooking the valley of inequity, then we are accomplishing something. We, in our subversive refusal to give in to an unjust reality can create a future of equity and peace, with liberty and justice for all. Then I will proudly stand next to you and pledge allegiance to a flag, to a nation, to a state or city that offers that. Until, then, my dear activist friends, my dear beleaguered queer community, my beloved straight allies, I place my hand on my heart, and I pledge allegiance to you, and to continuing the struggle with you. May it be so.
All of the usual suspects showed up to speak in support. Rev. Wes Mullins, minister of MCC, Chuck Bader, local union activist, and Carolyn Cathey– whose passion and instinct for activism have made her an honorary minister in my book (I call her Rev.– she does minister to the queer community in Colorado Springs, faithfully and without denominational prejudice). Others involved in politics, Nancy-Jo Morris, one of the more outspoken transwomen. It was inspiring, powerful. I felt the reassuring blanket of community–of queer folks and our allies– covering us, protecting us, swaddling us in love.
Following the rally, most of the folks there headed inside to participate in the City Council meeting. At the beginning of each City Council meeting –after an invocation by a local minister (I always love getting asked to do this) and the Pledge of Allegiance (for which I stand respectfully, but can never say, and will never say, until it’s true) there is a time for citizens to speak on subjects not listed on the agenda. Many of the supporters outside the rally had filled the halls and several had signed on to speak.
Queers of all ages and from all walks of life spoke about the importance of acknowledging the diversity of our community. Straight allies also stood up to urge support of our Pride celebration. Others urged the council to seriously consider the resolution against hate crimes that they will probably vote on next week, to not let silence be permission for other hate crimes to occur.
I spoke as did my colleague, Rev. Roger Butts from High Plains Church. Shawna Kemppainen, executive director of the local queer youth service provide, Inside/Out Youth Services, spoke movingly and, at times, tearfully, about the abuse she hears about from queer kids all the time; the sense the youth have that nothing will change and no one will care.
The council members and the mayor had a chance to respond. Most of the remarks were short-sighted, even scolding us. One council member suggested we were the ones causing division by not letting this issue go away. She said it was just an event and that’s not where the City Council needed to be focused. Another said that every crime was a hate crime (oh, how I weary of that retort– always given by someone who has never been in a marginalized group). Another insisted that as a Council that wasn’t their job but individuals could certainly support Pride. It’s interesting to note if that were their only recourse, to sign a statement of support as individuals, that only two councils members have actually done so: Scott Hente, President of Council, and Jan Martin, President Pro-tem.
Then the mayor spoke. (Was I the only one there who noted the irony of him saying in one breath he would never sign a proclamation celebrating/honoring Pride and in the next breath talking about the “Spirit of Colorado Springs” initiatives?? Did anyone else see the disconnect???).
Our newly elected (and first “strong mayor”) Steve Bach had run for office on a platform that said he wouldn’t sign any proclamations with “political connotations” (as was confirmed in John Hazelhurst’s article in the Colorado Springs Independent this week). Yes we knew this, and still there is something so heart-wrenchingly infuriating about the smugness behind that comment.
“Political connotations??” I guess celebrating the time when queer folk– namely drag queens and bull dykes– decided enough is enough! And boldly, fearlessly fought back against the police brutality and injustice of laws targeting queer folk had political connotations. Kind of like Juneteenth when Africans in Texas who had been kept as slaves 18 months after the Emancipation Proclamation had been signed and put into effect by President Lincoln on January 1, 1863, had political connotations– certainly economic connotations for their “owners” who were, shall we say, reluctant to let them know of their liberation. I guess Pride has political connotations in the same way in which Labor Day has political connotations– spotlighting the need for better, fairer labor laws. Or while we’re at it, let’s talk about the political connotations of Mothers’ Day which was started as an anti-war movement by Julia Ward Howe and other women alarmed at having sons of mothers kill other sons of mothers in war.
Frankly, I’m at a loss. I can’t think of a single secular holiday we celebrate that doesn’t have political connotations. Memorial Day? A day to remember the great loss of both sides in the Civil War– to decorate the graves of soldiers from both sides killed in the conflict, to look at our incredible shadow square in the face and recognize that, at the end of the day, we are all Americans– North and South, Yankee and Rebel.
Veterans Day–which honors the cessation of fighting in World War I, aka the Great War on November 11, 1918– even though the war was not officially over until the Treaty of Versailles was signed seven months later on June 28, 1919. What a twist of fate that 50 years to the day after official end of that war, on June 28, 1969, the Stonewall Rebellion occurred and the LGBTQI, etc. movement was begun.
A day, which had started so well, so joyously and determinedly with a rally and with citizens speaking out in City Council ended with the queer folks and our straight allies feeling, once again, misunderstood– actually not heard at all, invisible, demoralized, the lines of demarcation drawn more clearly than ever between those with power and status and standing and those without.
We walked out of that meeting in pain, in anger, in despair, for some of us. When I spoke to City Council this afternoon I started by saying at All Souls Unitarian Universalist Church we don’t just celebrate diversity– we flaunt it! And I told the story, from the Jewish tradition, of a person who had heard that a particular city was evil, corrupt, greedy, not caring for the outcast or marginalized. So this man had traveled to this city and stood with a sign by the city gates that said “Repent!” And day after day he would stand there and implore the city to repent of its selfish ways, to stop being corrupt, to care for those in need. And the people passing by would laugh or jeer at him, or spit on him, or– maybe worse– just ignore him.
This went on for ten years. Finally a passer-by who had witnessed this happening day after day, took pity on the man and went over to him and said, “Buddy! It’s been 10 years. They’re clearly not going to change. Why not just give it up.”
And the man replied. “At first I stood here and made my statement in hopes that this city would change. Now I do it to make sure that this city doesn’t change me.”
And I said, after sharing that story, that maybe that’s all I was doing now. Making sure that I don’t get drawn into the cynicism of things never changing and so changing into an apathetic person who doesn’t care. I said I will keep showing up and saying "Repent!" If for no other reason, than I not be changed.
And I want to say to those activists who stood with me today. Those who have been making this same impassioned plea for justice for years and years, and those for whom this was their first act of justice-seeking, don’t give up. No matter the outcome, if we can stand united, if we can refuse to change, refuse to give in to complacency and numbing despair, if we can continue to be a bright light of justice overlooking the valley of inequity, then we are accomplishing something. We, in our subversive refusal to give in to an unjust reality can create a future of equity and peace, with liberty and justice for all. Then I will proudly stand next to you and pledge allegiance to a flag, to a nation, to a state or city that offers that. Until, then, my dear activist friends, my dear beleaguered queer community, my beloved straight allies, I place my hand on my heart, and I pledge allegiance to you, and to continuing the struggle with you. May it be so.
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