Sunday, June 30, 2013

Story 5: The time I got yelled at by a judge

After an extended hiatus, I am back to the story series for some undetermined amount of time. Like many of my stories, this one took place in Chicago. The names of my friends have been changed, as I would hope mine would be changed if they wrote a personal story about me. With any "story" like this, true, gritty, and personal, it's important to tread carefully. I hope to write in a way that is respectful to the personal nature of this story. Coming from a consumerist culture, I also want to be careful that storytelling does not become an outlet for me to consume, process, and re-merchandise others' lives. Please, readers, hold me accountable to this, even with my hyper-awareness of the potential for this type of effect.

This story starts with my friend "Keisha". Keisha lived down the street from where I and my flat-mates lived in Chicago. Over the course a several months many of us were very close to her and her family. Keisha was a five-foot-two 38 year-old woman with enough energy and life to light up the entire block. She was feisty and she had a lot of street smarts. She wasn't scared of many things, though she'd seen and encountered plenty. Guns didn't scare her, but butterflies sent her running the opposite direction.

Keisha had a few brothers, 3 that shared a home with her, her daughter, and her grandmother (her mother had passed away many years before). Her grandmother had raised her and her brothers. In her 70s, she was still working a full-time job, despite her deteriorating health. She was a determined woman with incredible strength, but with enough love that my flat-mates and I were welcomed as a part of her family, and were immediately told to call her Grandma.

Of Keisha's siblings, two of her younger brothers were arrested in the year that we knew them. One of them was in for a longer-haul, but the other tended to be in-and-out with minor offenses. Her youngest brother, "Jared", was a good friend of mine. He was just a year younger than me and he might well be one of the most upbeat, fun people to be around that I know. He had such a natural charisma and positive demeanor. Everyone loved to be around him.

But things started to spiral. After some time had passed, Jared was also arrested on multiple offenses. My flat-mates and I visited him in jail a few times. It tore me apart to see him in there for the first time. His front two teeth were missing; he told us the cop bashed them in with a flashlight when he was arrested. Despite his missing teeth, Jared still had a warming smile that offered hope.

More and more time passed. My flat-mates and I went to all of his trials at court that we could make. His public defender almost never showed up to the trials, which led to continuance after continuance. Each time we saw him, his eyes seemed dimmer. He no longer seemed comforted by our presence at the trials. His letters to us became more desperate. When we visited him in jail, he tried to keep the conversation light by talking about the last Bulls vs Heat game, but his eyes told us of things that he kept from us, probably thinking we shouldn't waste our time worrying about him.

On one particular trial, we went with Keisha up to the courthouse. She wasn't doing well. By this point, all three of her brothers were in jail, Grandma was very sick and Keisha was struggling just to maintain her way of life. My friends and I had watched the previous 3 trials and the judge was coming down hard on each of the offenders. The judge was sick and in a horrendous mood - and she didn't seem to try to keep that from affecting her judgements.

Finally it was time for Jared's trial. He shuffled out in his jumper. The judge called Keisha to the front and asked her some questions. I don't remember exactly how it went down, but Keisha seemed nervous. She tried to interact cordially with the judge, but the judge was put off by it and told her to stop talking. The judge then asked her a question which confused Keisha. She tried to answer but she was having difficulty comprehending what was being asked. In response, the judge said something to insult Keisha's intelligence.

From my bench looking on, I was very upset. Who was this judge to treat this incredible, strong, beautiful woman in such a way? The judge was casting judgment not just on Jared, but on his family, on his friends, on anyone who rubbed her the wrong way, and on anyone with less power than her, which happened to be everyone in that courtroom. The trial was postponed yet again, and as Keisha returned to our bench, I was compelled to hug her.

I'm not typically one to initiate physical affection. I know people feel very differently about physical contact and I am cautious not to transgress any boundaries. For Keisha and I, hugging just wasn't something we did. Until that moment. I can't explain it, but for a second I felt what she was experiencing and it was devastating. So I hugged her. And she cried - something I had never seen her do before or since, even though she had more reason to than many.

Suddenly, she pulled back, apologizing profusely. I was confused for a second, until I regained awareness outside of that moment. I heard the judge's voice and I turned to her seat. She was yelling, "No, I'm talking to that young lady!" And she was pointing at me. I was so confused. I said, "What?" She replied hotly (and just as loudly), "You do not hug in my courtroom! You do that at home! You don't do that in my courtroom!"

I was taken aback. My face flushed with rage. I have only been that angry maybe a total of 5 times in my life. Stunned and angry, I said, "Sorry." But I clearly didn't mean it. My heart beat faster, I was shaking with adrenaline, and I could feel the blood pumping in my ears. Two thoughts ran through my head of what to do. In the best wisdom I could muster in my anger, I opted to storm out of the courtroom rather than to turn and flip her off. Clearly that was the better way to go, though I suppose she could have held me in contempt for storming out too.

The whole ride back to our place, about an hour to an hour and half commute, I was shaken. My friends who were there asked me if I was okay. They know I cry at a moment's notice and tend to be sensitive. But I was just livid.

Yet Keisha didn't seem phased at all.

I realize that because of my position in the story, because of white privilege, because of my class, because of a flurry of factors, this story was significant to me. Anger was the only natural reaction to have. I felt like I could storm out of the courtroom. I didn't feel the need to make a heartfelt apology to the judge. Whereas Keisha, who is much stronger than me, does not have white privilege, comes from a rough socioeconomic background had been submissive to the powers that be. Not out of acquiescence, but out of wisdom. For little old me, this was one of my first big realizations that justice doesn't necessarily always have a place in the courtroom. Keisha knew. It's the life that she's seen and the life that she's lived. I learned a lot that day.

I am glad I was open to loving her shamelessly. If I regret anything, it is that I apologized to the judge and stormed out. Though I have played out the other option I considered in my mind multiple times, I think I wish I would have calmly nodded and said "Ok." Not apologizing, but not allowing my anger to fight against the beauty of what I felt happened there.

I am so grateful for Keisha. And I am grateful for the ways this story changed me. I wish I could put it into words. But for now, this will have to do. 

I'll close with a poem I encountered a few years later, which seemed to resonate with me after this experience (and others like it).

Justice    by: Langston Hughes

That Justice is a blind goddess
Is a thing to which we black are wise:
Her bandage hides two festering sores
That once perhaps were eyes.

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Communion of the Tangible and Intangible.

I am a very sentimental person. Physical objects very quickly become like the physical presence of the one they represent.

At 18 years old, I felt like my high school Senior Prom was a significant event. I coordinated my jewelry appropriately - one piece of jewelry from my mom, one from my dad, and one from my grandparents. And that's how it went. My family doesn't even know I did that. Even if they did, it may not mean as much to them as it did for me. I did the same jewelry-combo for college graduation (and probably high school graduation). I still do this for events I consider significant, to some degree. On job interviews, I might wear a necklace my mom gave me, or a ring my dad gave me, or a bracelet my grandmother gave me. It varies.

At my current job, on the days I assist in surgeries, I wear my dinosaur socks. Because of our weird affinity for dinosaurs and what that insider joke has meant for my friendship with one of my very best friends, these socks (which were a 6-pack that we split between us) have come to mean something to me. They remind myself to not take myself so seriously and to enjoy life. This is especially important at my job since we switched to a new computer system; surgery days scare me because I am still trying to figure out how to input all the surgical information).

I had a sweatshirt from my dad that was even dearer to me. One of the things that bothers me any time I think about it is that I once loaned out the sweatshirt to a friend on a cold night in Chicago and I never got back. This my dad's Squadron sweatshirt from the Air Force. It was so special to me. I have tried to retrieve it, but I no longer have it and my friend doesn't remember borrowing it. When he gave it to me, I remember him saying that he was just going to get rid of it and thought I might want it. My having lost it probably doesn't bother him much or at all, but it bothers me any time I think about it because of what it represented to me.

Among other things, I have flowers preserved from two of my close friends' weddings and corresponding wedding invitations. I have a decorative prop from my high school Freshman year Homecoming dance which was particularly memorable given that I had been homeschooled before that point. I have movie ticket stubs from my 16th birthday, which would have been my worst birthday yet, had my best friends at the time not intervened. I learned then that I could trust even people outside of my own family to have my back.

Each of these sentimental objects (and vast arrays of others I didn't mention) hold meaning. They remind me who I am, what life is truly about, who my close friends/family are, and they remind me of worlds that are created through love. They remind me to be present to physical realities while being aware of existence that reaches beyond what is presently physical - and that awareness somehow reminds me how to be present fully. It's like something intangible is beckoning me to live well in the life that is immediately tangible and present. I don't know if I am being clear, but I'm not sure it can be stated too clearly unless you have ever experienced anything similar.

Because this is how I am wired, I connect easily with what are called "sacraments" in my faith. Baptism and communion being of particular importance in my faith tradition and to me personally.

I understand and accept that what follows may bother some folks. I hope that what I write brings life and a different perspective to those who are not wired similarly to me, to those who don't share my faith, and to those who disagree with my views. I also hope that it brings affirmation and joy to those who do share those things with me.

Two days from now is the "anniversary" of my baptism. June 14, 2002. Ironically, since my baptism, I have given up on many of the beliefs that I held then. I do not believe that it was at the moment of baptism that I received forgiveness for my sins. I do not believe that I "received the Holy Spirit" when I was raised from the waters. I do not believe that if I had died without baptism that I would go to hell - at least not as a result of my not having been baptized. The three things that at the time I thought were the most important... Now I find it laughable to think that I was as rigid in those beliefs as I was, given that the Bible itself has a more varied approach to baptism, less clear reasoning for it and less description of the results of it.

One of the things I was most excited about after baptism was communion. I was finally allowed to share in the life of Christ through Memory and through Sentiment with other believers. My thoughts about communion have also radically shifted since then. I don't think communion (in the way churches practice it) is necessary. I don't think it tends to reflect the idea or practice of communion in the Bible. I think the preparation to take communion in many churches is harmful rather than life-giving.

All that said, both practices are meaningful to me. I cherish them. I saw a baptism of a friend of mine a week ago. It was the second baptism I think I've seen since my own. And it caused such an emotional stir in me that I cried (admittedly, that's not hard to do). I still remember my baptism very fondly and hold it dearly. I remember the night I decided to be baptized. I remember the storm, I remember the worship, I remember some of the specific songs that we sang... I don't remember the first communion I had, but I know I remember feeling like once I could take it, I knew my identity in a new way. Did the water cause that? Did the crackers and grape juice cause it? No. But they were physical, tangible symbols that reached beyond my present reality, teaching me how to be present in a fulfilled, life-giving way in my physical reality.

Are these sacraments "special"? Yes! And no... "No" in that I think that the life lived in Christ (whether by nominal Christians or not) are lives that recognize the so-called "sacramental" nature of life itself and of each moment as it comes. "Yes" in that for me, these regular physical symbols ground me, reminding me who I am, what life is truly about, who my close friends and family are, and they remind me of worlds that are created through love. They teach me how to live a "sacramental" life.

That, I believe, is a goal of all humans everywhere. I hope and pray to be more united to those living in this way, regardless of faith, age, sexual orientation, race, ethnicity, location, addictions, etc. This is my journey and the journey of countless others. I hope that each of us can commune with others who have different stories, different hopes, and different understandings, that each of use would be the better for it individually, and that we would be shaped into a more whole and fully-functioning community.

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

The Nobility of Twisting Scripture

It has become a regular thing now to have a Monday Movie Night with my girlfriends. We take turns cooking and picking movies. Great way to battle the Monday Blues. The movie that was chosen most recently was "Machine Gun Preacher". I know, I laughed at the title too until I realized Gerard Butler was in it - then I took it more seriously. Though strangely I had the opposite reaction when I saw that Patrick Dempsey played Jeremiah in the movie cleverly titled "Jeremiah".

I didn't know what to think of the movie at first. Even now I don't know if I like the main character. What is disconcerting to me as how much I relate to him. Essentially in the movie he is a new Christian who ends up taking an interest in missions. He goes to a war-torn part of Sudan and witnesses events that change him.

He invests more and more of himself in what's going on there. At this point, subtle changes in his approach take place. Eventually he begins to shoot back at those of the rebel army who are trying to capture the children and destroy the villages that he is trying to protect. More time passes and he is less active at his home in the states, becoming less and less involved in his own family. When he preaches from the pulpit, he preaches from anger. Slowly the messages he preaches begin to change as he becomes more and more enraged at the great divide between his own culture and the culture of those he lived among in Sudan. Trying to stir up action among his church congregation in the U.S., he preaches, "God doesn't want sheep; he wants wolves to fight his fight, men and women with teeth to tear at the evil out there."

And it all seemed so noble. It seemed right. All the other people from his hometown were wrapped in their "regular lives". His daughter was concerned about getting a limo for some high school dance while he was concerned about how to buy a truck to transport more children to safety so they would not face mass murder. His associates hosted lavish parties while only contributing chump change to his cause.

I found his character so easy to relate to. After my time in Mission Year (www.missionyear.org), I became easily embittered. People talked about their normal lives and I could only remember stories, glimpses of moments I was a part of in Englewood. I remembered my friends who were targeted by systemic injustice. I remembered the neighborhood that I had considered my own - a neighborhood that was gripped by fear. I remembered my friend who lost a family member to a stray bullet through the window at her very own birthday celebration. I remembered a vast array of stories that seemed worlds away from the lives of my close friends.

I relate to the almost schizophrenic mindset that at one moment talks about Jesus as a Shepherd and us being his sheep, only to quickly shift to the language of dominance and forcing change no matter the cost. And it feels so damn noble. We don't do it to make ourselves look good. We really don't. We do it because if we don't, who else will? The thing about believing in a God who is living and active in this world is that we become quickly disillusioned when 1) We see true suffering, and 2) We recognize that we are God's physical presence on earth now as the Body, the Church, and we see inaction on the part of others when we feel so impassioned.

As we continue in those feelings, fighting the battle seemingly alone, we become deeply bitter. We know longer see the people we serve, we see the principles that we are fighting against, and we enact justice as we define it rather than how Jesus would define it. And the words we speak "on behalf of God", change dramatically till they reflect our own bitter, broken hearts rather than bearing the presence and image of Jesus, who was the lamb of God.

It can be so easy to make scripture bolster our agendas, even without realizing we are doing it. It is easy to make justifications for our way of coping with injustice that sound scriptural and noble. This movie moved me on a deep level. It concerns me how much I connected with the main character, especially given that I still don't know whether I like him or not. I disagreed with many of his methods, all while feeling kinship with him.

We are all inconsistent in our beliefs and actions. We are all prone to preach our own version of the gospel while thinking what we preach is the One True gospel. We all tend to surround ourselves with a tight-knit group of like-minded friends who affirm what we already believe (even when it's wrong). I hope and pray that I am a part of a community that is varied enough to challenge me where I need to be challenged. That I am exposed to people with differing understandings of who God is, how God works in the world, and how God works through us. I pray that I would hold what I "know" with open hands, allowing some ideas to be sifted between my fingers. And I hope that love remains, no matter what.

May we not grow weary and cynical. I pray this for myself and for us.