Seeing Art in a New Light

As some of you know, I have a job now that allows me to create paintings and to teach others to replicate them. Along with that, I have also been doing some works for friends of mine (on commission and once in a while as a gift).

What fascinates me most about art is how art pieces develop as a sort of conversation between you as the artist, and your materials. The materials you work with have their own rules and their own ways of working. Sometimes as you paint, elements aren't consistent. Sometimes you can't mix the exact shade you had before, sometimes your brush is wet still and the paint applies thinly. Sometimes you are working with multiple brands (and qualities) of paint.

I have come to discover that no art piece turns out the way I envision it in my head. It used to bother me because I always thought what I had created was worse than the beautiful image I imagined. After several years, I began to see that sometimes I created pieces better than I imagined them being and sometimes worse.

I am finally coming around to recognize that to compare the two is demeaning to the piece you created, to yourself as an artist, and to the creative process as a whole. What the creative process delivers is an art piece that is fully of meaning, intentional and unintentional, conscious and subconscious. What I imagine in my head doesn't ever involve me. I'm not necessary to the process. I like to take a backseat - I don't like to assert myself into my works for the most part. For the longest time, I thought my art could only be good so far as I was completely distanced from what I was creating.

Now I realize that art is art because of the artist. I still don't sign my works. I still don't want a name embedded in my works. I'm happy to get recognition for my work, but I want my art to stand on its own, acknowledging me with a nod or with a deep connection, but no longer subsisting off of me and my name.

I was thinking today about how the relationship of artist to their artworks are like the relationship of parent to children.

Sometimes I look at my art, the way it communicates ideas and what ideas is conveys, either intentionally or unintentionally. It reflects me, but is beyond me. It contains elements of me, but it reaches for something else and contains other elements that I don't possess. Sometimes my art pieces say things that embarrass me. Sometimes they say things that I am astounded they can say, because they are things I've never said before. Sometimes I have to take a second, longer look and wonder, "Is this element a reflection of me or is this reflecting something different?" Sometimes I have ideas of what I think it should say. I have goals and hopes for its purpose. But in the end, it's going to be what it's going to be. And even as I form it, it also forms me.

For example, I just finished a painting called "Easter Sunday". It is a pastel sunrise over rolling hills with a big white church built atop of it. As I was creating it, different things stood out to me.

1. Admittedly, I made this piece because I think it will sell well as an idea. I had no inclination to paint a church and to paint in pastel colors. I had no inclination to paint cartoonishly bright rolling hills. Easter is one of my least favorite holidays. I enjoyed making the painting, but I would not have made this painting for any other reason (at least not at this point in my life).

2. The sky was the most beautiful part of the painting.

3. The church was the most time consuming. I took the most care with it, using varying brush sizes, painting multiple coats of white to make sure none of the sky shone through beneath the church.

4. The hills were exceedingly bright and childish.

________

Given these details, two different interpretations of what I created began to emerge in my mind.

1. This was a childlike view of Easter - exaggerated colors and styles. Innocent. The backdrop existed only to showcase the beautiful church, which took the most amount of time. 

2. This was a critical view of every aspect of the set-up. The most beautiful thing, the sky, took the least amount of effort and it was hidden/obscured by a church. The church was meant to be the centerpiece, but it asserted itself there boldly and distinctly as the sky, the beautiful sky was reduced to a supporting role.

It began in my head as the first interpretation. But I realized that I didn't buy into it. The image I wanted to create was one that would sell. Because I was playing to an idea that I had no draw to to begin with, it turned into satire.

What gave it away? The hills. They were a bright, commercialized Easter green color. Like the color of the plastic grass that people put in Easter baskets. It looked plastic. It looked so  and empty against the complexity of the sky. It all felt so manufactured, created to elicit feelings which I myself didn't feel.

The painting spoke to me, showing me my own cynicism in regard to a "manufactured church", commercialization and consumerism, and the value of a "pretty picture". At that point I responded to what my painting was telling me. It felt disingenuous to begin with, but it wasn't too late to express truth.

I took the image more seriously. I put in more details to the church. The windows were no longer left as black gaping shapes. They were given lines for the window-frames. The roofing was given more texture. It was still no match for the sky, but it was no longer standing as its own satirical representation of a church.

The hills. The last thing I did was to fix the hills. At first I intended to cover up that plastic green altogether. But upon second thought, I wanted that story, that dialogue, and the gradual revelation of truth to be present. I painted a darker, shaded-looking grass color, leaving that bright green on the sides of the hill that the sunlight would reach. I mixed an even darker green and filled in the darkest areas.

And the painting was done. Does it look manufactured now? To me, yes, it does. But it is honest. It no longer mocks the fact that this is the case. It takes itself seriously. It may still have the manufactured appearance, but it's meaning is fuller than that now as a result of the dialogue I had with it. It even looks more beautiful and appealing than it did before. And now it poses questions that it didn't before.

Maybe no one else would see those things if not for this blog. But I do, and that's enough for me. Again, I am formed as I form my work. And had I only been wishing to paint what I envisioned, if I removed myself from the work entirely (if it were even possible), it wouldn't achieve the depth it now has and/or have the effect is has had on me.

Anyway, just an introduction to my world. I know this makes me sound crazy, but I'm okay with that. I'm an INFJ. Everything we see has worlds of meaning. It's the only way I know, and I hope my art, this blog, and my interactions with others are the better for it.

Phobias, Fear, and Control.

This is a departure from the Story series. Which I will resume sooner or later. Something else have come to mind that I want to write about.

This blog entry is super personal and contains details that I may have never told anyone before. Only my family and closest friends know about my phobia. Only two of my closest friends have any knowledge of how debilitating it was.

Have you ever heard of emetophobia - the fear of vomiting? I didn't know it was a real thing until I was a teenager, though I struggled with it for over half of my life. When I have told some people about it, they say, "Yeah, I hate throwing up too." I just drop it because I don't want to sound crazy. The phobia drove my life for years and years, affecting all aspects of it. It was much more than "hating it".

It started when I was about 10, which is typical for emetophobes. A traumatic experience causes fear and emetophobia develops as a way of coping with (and creating) anxiety for years to come. I don't know how much money my mom and I spent collectively on all the Pepto Bismal I consumed all those years. I used to take it daily. Sometimes multiple times daily. After every meal I felt nauseous. Sometimes I could control myself. Other times it blew up into a full-fledged panic attack, with my body shaking violently because of the surge of adrenaline. It always happened privately. I dragged my mom into it constantly and I will never understand her patience with me. She got frustrated, sure, and she would sometimes make it known. But she always stood by me and never abandoned me when I had those panic attacks.

Violent panic attacks like these happened on a regular basis too. Sometimes everyday, sometimes every week. I began to try to find ways to cope. I always carried around a huge purse. No one knew what I carried in it. If they were to look inside, they would think, "Oh, she's such a kid. I'm glad she's taking her time growing up." But everything inside was a coping mechanism. I had gum, mints, Silly Putty, a Cat's Cradle string, pens, nail polish, lotions, toothpaste, and others. Gum and mints gave me something to focus my attention to. A non-offensive flavor that would provide focus. Silly Putty gave me something to squeeze and to focus sensations on. I tried to ignore the sensations of nausea by filling my mind with other sensations. Feelings, tastes, smells, and mental tasks.

I hated going out to eat. I was terrified of food poisoning. The question I always asked my mom was, "Is this cooked enough? Will it make me sick if I eat it?" After I finished my meal, I immediately excused myself to the restroom to deal with a panic attack (either preventing it or letting it play out, if it was too late) and out came my bag of tricks. I was a skinny kid. I was so afraid that people would assume I was bulimic the way I disappeared after every meal.

It affected everyday life. If you google phobias, almost any phobia in fact, you will find a pseudo-religiosity to it. People form rituals to cope. They fear that breaking rituals will cause their phobia to occur. I'm not sure if I had any like that, per se. But I remember it interfering in ways that go beyond fear and edge into control. Occasionally throughout the day I remember thinking, "If I don't _________, I'm going to get sick". They weren't rituals. There was no regularity to what this phrase was applied to. But things that had nothing to do with being sick were associated with that fear. I felt that I had to do things in a certain amount of time or a certain way or I was doomed.

I remember grotesque would-you-rather scenarios would pop into my mind. Would you rather get sick or (insert something clearly worse here)? I wouldn't know how to answer these in my mind. I refused to answer. I knew what was rational, but if I admitted it, I was doomed to get sick. I remember thinking, "I need to pray for peace and for calm to deal with these panic attacks." But I was afraid to pray. If I prayed, Satan might afflict me with sickness. If I didn't for fear of Satan, God might punish me with it. I couldn't win. It interfered with my faith, giving my false perceptions of God and an overwhelming fear of figurative darkness. In fact, I and other emetophobes, couldn't even say (or type) the word "vomit" or any common euphemisms. It was like Voldemort. You say it, you summon it. The more you think about it, the sicker you feel. It was like Vomiting was a god and you didn't want to anger it.

Strange thing about emetophobia... If you Google it, you will find that research shows that people with emetophobia vomit far less often than most people. I found the average for non-emetophobes to be about 2 times a year. For emetophobes it varies, but I believe the average was around once every 12 years. What's ironic about the phobia is that we have fear because we believe we can prevent it. And guess what? We pretty much can. People used to ask why I would waste time being afraid about something I can't control. Well, I can control it. And if you ask most emetophobes, they would much rather be emetophobic and deal with this crippling fear that interferes with daily life than to not have it and throw up. That's just true.

On another note, something I always used to find really strange about myself is that I couldn't burp. I burped maybe twice a year and before it happened, I thought I was going to be sick. I haven't known anyone else in person who can't burp. I taught others how to make themselves burp, but I couldn't do it. When I googled "inability to burp", I found others who couldn't, and even more strangely... I found a solid connection to emetophobia. Burping and vomiting both involve the same flap of skin over the esophagus or throat or something. Anyway, as it turns out, people who can't burp experience more nausea on a regular basis than the typical population. This is because all of the gas gets trapped inside and has a longer route to be released, which means you are carrying it in you. Eating more food would aggravate it and make it more uncomfortable and nauseating.

People who are emetophobic control this unknowingly. In fact, after years, they may not know how to relinquish that control. I tried to burp for years and it wasn't able to happen.

I remember starting public high school after being homeschooled. I wasn't afraid of the people. At all. I was terrified of feeling nauseous or having a panic attack or actually being sick at school. Over the years, the daily fear started to go away. It become a bi-weekly or monthly occurrence. I had panic attacks very infrequently. By this point, I knew it was mostly in my head. I still felt nauseous and awful, but I knew I wouldn't be sick, which made it easier to deal with. Only two of my close friends from high school knew about my phobia. Both of them found out by accident. One when I freaked out on her in the middle of a panic attack.

It wasn't until college when I began to feel the fear being erased rather than simply being diminished. Part of it was having multiple times of feeling so sick that I wanted to throw up (something I had never experienced before nor imagined was possible). But the biggest event that happened took place at a University Ministries leadership retreat. I opened up to one of my close friends about my phobia, my regular stomach issues (only loosely related to the phobia), and even my inability to burp.

What happened still doesn't make sense to me. Then again, none of this is "rational". She talked to me about God's love driving out fear. Yeah, I'd known that verse since I was a kid. I'd never thought about it in terms of my phobia though. She talked to me about how easy it is to believe God loves us, so far as we can comprehend it. She talked about how we need to truly trust God's love as incomprehensible. Greater than what we comprehend. Not just know it, but accept it. How much freedom there is in that. We talked in general terms about fear. Of my friends, she's the only one who knew about how my phobia occasionally turned into a battle between God and Satan in my mind. As ridiculous and untrue as I see that being now, it speaks to how much of my faith was influenced by fear.

I tried to control my fear. I could keep myself from throwing up, so I had control. Yet, my phobia controlled me. I didn't know whether I was serving God in my fear or whether I was serving my own phobia. I don't think it's my "fault" that I developed the phobia. I don't think God was angry with me or was thinking, "Why doesn't she just trust me?" It was its own thing that in a way became its own little religion or the lens through which I saw my own God. And man, I saw Him wrongly through that fear.

My friend prayed for me, for my stomach, for my fear, and for my inability to burp (which I had to fight to keep from laughing out loud at). By this point, my phobia was already nearly gone, but its effects on my faith and perception of God still had a residual presence. She prayed that I would truly believe and accept God's love being larger than I could imagine it. That I wouldn't accept only as much as I could imagine, but that I would accept more. I don't really know what happened. But that night I burped. I got excited, then figured "Well, this is probably one of my twice a year burps." Then it happened again the next day. A few times.

I know this is weird. But I can burp now. And it makes a difference in my day to day life. My phobia has slowly dissipated over the years and it hasn't effected my day-to-day life in years. I might even say I don't have that phobia anymore. But being freed to burp has been *huge*. This is one of those stories I don't tell people either. Some don't believe in healing. Some think it's offensive to think of God healing this when he doesn't heal other things. I don't know if God divinely stepped in to heal me in this or not. At the very least, I believe that my trust in Him opened up something in me. Was it physical? Mental? Spiritual? Yeah, something like that.

The whole story of my phobia and my getting over it is so interesting to me. I still don't know when I began to get over my fear. High school was probably the start. It wasn't until my second year of college that I truly began to feel real freedom. It wasn't until that last year that I experienced that healing, if you want to call it that. This whole experience shows me how the physical, mental and spiritual aspects of a person are really closely related. And how closely fear and control are related. There's a whole lot more to examine there. May blog about that another time in more general terms (separate from this story).

I still occasionally have times where I have to fight off what I know could become a panic attack. I still don't swallow pills. I still chew my food way too long and eat too slowly. I still know and occasionally use coping tactics if I think I'm descending to a fear-driven place in my mind. But I know what it is happening. I know what is true. Some of these things may be permanent - like eating slowly. But the fear doesn't have to be. In fact, it is not.
_______________________

Thanks for indulging this blog that is so focused on me. It is a place of vulnerability that I have not shared with people pretty much ever. Again, close friends, roommates who had to know, and my poor wonderful family who stood with me in it (especially my mom - shout out to her, any response but hers I am certain would have made the phobia worse). Here it is, public. Maybe someone with emetophobia will stumble upon it and be encouraged that there is hope. Many people with emetophobia never know life without that crippling fear. And many people have it even worse than I did. I hope they too may find freedom.

Story 4: A Tale of Two Addicts

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times... Yeah, wrong story. I wonder how much that phrase applies to the story I am about to share though.

A couple notes before I dive in. I am a little wary about sharing this story. I mentioned in my last blog that I have learned a lot from eavesdropping. This story is entirely composed of things I heard while eavesdropping during a long public transit commute. The moral grounds for navigation in this story is a little less clear. I don't know the names of the people, which may protect their identities, but may serve as proof that I have no right to share the story either.

The conversation happened in a public place, and it wasn't a hush-hush conversation. I feel that this story is valuable to share because this is a world most of us have no access to. I don't know if this constitutes me being given access or me taking it. I hope that the way I tell this story does not diminish the character of the two people in this story. If it does, I have failed just what I set out to do. With anything else, you can have access to this world or you can deny it. It takes a certain disposition, an openness, to enter. If you continue to read, please keep that in mind and reserve judgement.

Also, I will be analyzing bits posing responsive questions to the story afterwards.
______________________________________________

Like two of my previous stories, I was on my way home from classes at my college. I had an hour commute on one bus. The 82. It usually took exactly 56 minutes, sometimes 57, unless there was a major setback. I knew this bus, I knew the route, and I even recognized some commuters who traveled with me (probably unknowingly) on a regular basis.

On one particular day, a girl on the bus who appeared to be just a little older than me sat down a few rows up. She looked to me like a girl in a punk-rock music video with her short, spiky platinum-blonde hair. Her clothing was fashionable and fit the persona she also wore.

A few stops later, a man that was probably in his mid-40s stepped onto the bus. He had tan skin with deep wrinkles in his worn face and he wore non-descript clothes. As he made his way up the main aisle he said "hi" to someone he knew. I was always fascinated when people just randomly ran into people they knew in such a big city. I knew of a few regular commuters and he wasn't one of them. But he knew people. I wondered how. My mind was blown when I saw his reaction upon spotting the blonde as he continued making his way up the center aisle.

His face lit up and once he was standing beside her, he reached forward to ruffle her hair. He sat down and began talking to her. "Ok," I think. "Things just got more interesting and bizarre." I listened to their conversation as best as I could, but I couldn't understand them. I was used to hearing multiple languages spoken in a single day at this point, but their conversation sounded different. Familiar, yet inaccessible. After trying to identify the language, I realized they were speaking English. They spoke faster than I had ever heard English spoken. I'm talking, they put the Gilmore Girls to shame. On top of that, the older man seemed to have speech difficulties. Not an impediment, perse, and certainly not a stutter, but his words never seemed fully formed.

I adapted to what I was hearing and finally made out some of what they were saying. From their conversation, I gathered that they were comfortable acquaintances. They shared details that true friends would have known about each other already, and details that no stranger would tell another stranger.

They were talking about their heroine addictions.

She told him that people always asked her, "Why don't you just stop?" She said, "I tell them to take a hit and see why they can't stop." She said that once you've found something you want to do more than anything else, it's sadistic not to do it. But with drugs, it's sadistic to keep doing it too.

Her addiction began in high school. She said she shot up so much that she started locating veins in her hands and feet because the other veins had become too difficult to locate. She talked about how good the highs felt and the man agreed with her. She told him about one of her friends who took an exceedingly large hit and the man just said, "He didn't want to get high. He just wanted to die. There's a difference. I just do it to get high. I just wanna get a good buzz." She agreed, conceding that sometimes she "overdoes it". He admitted the same.

Easily and matter-of-factly she said, "You know, my friend died last week."

He asked who it was, how, etc. She said, "You don't know her." Through more conversation, he determined that he did know the woman who died. Well, not the woman. But he knew the woman's husband. She went on to explain that she died from a blood infection. He asked her how she got it and what it was. She explained once. He asked again. She answered. Three times this repeated. She asked, "Are you high right now?" He didn't reply. She told him again that it was a bad needle that poisoned her blood. He asked who could get this blood infection. She said that anyone who happened upon a bad needle could.

"Why haven't I gotten it?" He asked.
"Why haven't I?" She echoed.

He reminded her that he'd been using for much longer than she had, implying that it was more shocking that he was still alive.

She nodded and continued. "My mom's a nurse. She keeps telling me to be careful so I don't get it."

Just that abruptly she had to leave. She frantically told him to pull the string to alert the bus that it needed to stop. As she scrambled to leave, she told him that she would probably see him in a few days, and she exited the bus.
_________________________

I don't know who this story is about, really. I also don't know who this story isn't about.

Is it about the man who, without an addiction would have been middle-aged, but who was far outliving the life expectancy for someone with his addiction?
Is it about the young woman who, in her young 20s, was a veteran heroine user?
Or perhaps her mother who, as a nurse, knew the risks and inevitable effects of heroine but could only plead with her daughter to "be careful" because she was otherwise unable to help her? 
Was it about the gravity of addiction and the rift between the life addicts want and the life they can't have?
Was it about the woman who died from a bad needle? Or perhaps the husband she left behind?
Or was it about the semblance of community that addicts naturally form?


Wasn't it about all of those things? I guess the story is about addiction. It's easy to disassociate from statistics and to be weirdly fascinated by those health class images of "before and after" addiction, all while removing humanity from the topic. But here was a girl, not much older than me. And here was a man. They themselves did a fair share of associating with and disassociating from their own stories. But their humanity and their struggle through their stories could not be denied.


"When you can stop, you don't want to. When you want to stop, you can't." -- Candy (2006)

Story 3: The Maple Scones

This small, seemingly insignificant story affected me deeply.

It was my first year at college and I was commuting 1 hour each way to and from school. It kept me from getting too involved in any activities on campus. But on one particular day I was drawn to an evening lecture by an incredible theologian named Christopher J. H. Wright (I recommend The Mission of God). I'm sure the fact that there were refreshments afterwards stood out to me too. At that point, I was not doing so well financially and was mildly concerned about the price of food.

I was not disappointed. The lecture was excellent, and Chris Wright had an accent that was an exquisite blend of British and Irish accents; I could have listened to him for hours. I sat quietly, absorbing it all. By the time I left, it was dark and creepy outside and I had a whole hour before the bus dropped me off a good 15-20 minute walk from home.

I got on the bus, which was packed. At the next stop a lady entered the bus and tried to skip out on paying fare altogether. The bus driver yelled at her and, becoming exasperated eventually called out, "Can someone come up here and escort this lady off the bus?"

One man did go up to the front. Not to escort her off, but to pay her fare. He caught my attention.

On public transit I liked to play this game. Chicago is known for being one of the most segregated cities in the U.S. I liked to look at passengers and guess whether they'd be going as far south as I was. This was a middle-aged black man. He had a few plastic bags with him. I figured he'd be going pretty near my final destination. As time progressed, my assumption proved itself true.

The further south the bus went and the later it became, the emptier the bus was. It was finally quiet enough that I could distinguish individual conversations. I have no shame in eavesdropping on public conversations in public places. I have learned a *lot* that way. I am so glad I did this time too. The conversation I heard was between the same man who paid for the woman's fare early on, and the bus driver. They were in the very front of the bus, and I was a far ways back. By then, only the three of us were on the bus and I could hear every word of the conversation. The passenger began talking about dope fiends and quickly ushered the conversation towards a recent movie with Denzel Washington in it about drugs. They couldn't remember the name and it was driving them crazy.

Me, in a full display of creepiness, piped up and called out the title for them, "American Gangster?!" His face lit up and he goes, "Yes, that's the one!" Then I realized how weird it was that I was involving myself in their conversation without being a real part of it. Rather than going back to eavesdropping, or actually minding my own dang business, I thought to myself, "Shoot. If I'm going to be a part of this conversation, I'm going to be a part of it. Why not?"

I stood up, grabbed my stuff and moved to the front of the bus so that I was sitting in a row that allowed me to see and communicate with both men. They didn't seem bothered, so I joined in on their conversation. Again, mostly listening, but throwing in my two cents occasionally. The man actively included me in the conversation, shifting his eye contact between the bus driver and myself. He seemed to be quite eager to have two people listening to him.

As we continued our commute, the man pulled an unopened water bottle out of one of the plastic bags he had stowed on the seat next to him and handed it to the bus driver, who was both surprised and pleased. The man continued talking. I hung onto his words. He was a very charismatic person. He shifted among several topics rapidly. Some were deep, some were silly, but most were quite thought-provoking. More than anything it was the way he spoke that intrigued me, as though everything was of the utmost importance. History, drugs, female circumcision, tribalism, Tazmanian devils... I'm not making this up.

He stopped suddenly, looked over at me and said, "Young lady, I think I have..." He trialed off as he began digging through his plastic bags. I considered stopping him by saying, "Oh, no thanks. I'm good." But I didn't want to be rude. And to be honest, my curiosity got the better of me. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and out of the bag came scones! Three very large scones wrapped together in plastic wrap. He claimed they were from Starbucks, but I wondered. I'd never seen Starbucks 1) use plastic wrap or 2) wrap three things together.

Hesitantly I asked, "Are you sure you don't want them?" He motioned to the cup of coffee in my hand and said, "Naw, you do the coffee thing, you have them." I graciously said thank you as I silently wrestled in my head with what to do. I have a hard time accepting gifts from people. Also, it's kinda common knowledge not to accept food from a stranger. Especially not food that could easily have been handled/poisoned.

I thought for a second about throwing them away to be safe, then I became angry that I would ever consider such a thing. Not only would I not throw them away. Not only would I eat them. I would eat one right then, just to prove to him that I truly was grateful and that I trusted his gesture. And I did, though I wasn't particularly hungry, and though technically it violated the rules of bus-riding. The driver sure didn't mind.

The scone was incredible. It was maple flavored and it was everything an Americanized scone should be. The man who gave it to me looked pleased that I was eating it and he asked how it was.

I wrote about it in my journal. I was amazed by this gesture that, to me, was anything but little. This man chose loss over his gain. Either I accepted his gift, and he missed out on 3 scones, or I rejected it and he feels silly for offering. The gesture crossed boundaries of race, age, and gender. His offer extended a bridge that I could choose to walk across or to reject entirely. Either way, he takes a loss. It bothered me for days. Why would he do that? I was some random girl. Why? Why give water to the bus driver? Or pay fare for the lady who acted entitled to a free ride (or was too broke to afford it, but was too proud to ask for help - which is surprisingly common and supported by commuters in Chicago)?

I understood my motivation for accepting his gift. I wish I understood his motivation for offering it.

A movie I really like poses the question, "Does anyone do something for nothing?"

"Nothing" is not as clear of a term as you might think right away. But if by "nothing", that means "nothing that directly benefits the self", the answer is yes. I found this answer in maple scones from an eccentric stranger.

This man showed me what faith is in a new light. And in that sense, it wasn't for nothing.

Story 2: When I Saw a Drawn Gun

In my last blog I explained why it's important to share true stories from life. In that last one I also refrained from making value judgements, for the most part. This is a little more biased. I took the liberty because in some ways this story is mine. And in some ways it never will be.
_____________________
It was a normal day. I was taking the city bus from my university on the Northside of Chicago to my home on the Westside. Being the compulsive little planner that I am, I decided to take the hour-long commute to plan out my classes for my entire "college career", as they call it. Seeing as I was a second-semester Freshman, I figured I could knock out the task in 45 minutes easy.

I probably could have, had it not been for the jolting interruption. Like any regular commuter, I was comfortable with the route. I was used to the bus pulling over to pick up or drop off my fellow travelers, so I zoned into my little world of college planning. At some point, as I was carefully writing my classes in bold ink under the appropriate, underlined headings, I heard an eery commotion.

I peered up from my pages and was shocked and confused to see a man in the middle aisle of the bus, with a gun pointed at the closest man next to me, who was on the seat parallel to mine across the aisle, no more than 4 feet away. I took a snapshot assessment. I noticed the gun first, then I realized it was a policeman holding the gun, which made me feel better until I realized he should only have his gun drawn for a serious matter. I glanced around. The bus was stopped between its scheduled stops, which means the police flagged it down, indicating further urgency. The front door was wide open as though it was standing open in fear, much like my mouth, which at this point must have been agape.

The cop yelled at the man, ordering him to get off the bus, then another man caught his eye and he ordered him off as well. They both looked confused, but did as they were asked. I heard the bus driver shouting something to the cop, but it didn't register because my eyes were fixed on the two men as they were whisked outside to be searched.

As I looked around again, I realized that the bus had actually been barricaded in. My thought was interrupted as another cop forcefully entered the bus (as though he had to - the door was still wide open). He walked hurriedly up the aisle, asking other patrons about the two men, searching frantically the whole way for weapons stowed underneath the seats. He said something about a man that may have gotten on at Diversey that had a gun.

I heard the bus driver vehemently insist, "Man, these guys have been on the bus," as in long before Diversey. The cop replied, "That's not what they just said to me."

Sure. I think.

I looked out to see the men being searched. One of them had his laptop with him in a nice case. He was the notably younger one. He was also the notably shorter and stouter man of the two. The other was middle-aged, tall, and lean. His bag contained an Xbox and accompanying controllers. The only thing that united them and distinguished them from all the other passengers aboard the bus was the label black male.

The cops let them back onto the bus as they themselves meandered back to their cars to un-barricade us. I was struck by the fact that they must have only operated from the description "black male". These two were the only able-bodied black men traveling with us. Not the only black people. Not the only men. But the only black males at that time. And they looked nothing alike.

I started fuming, wondering what the procedures were for cops pulling their guns. I had always assumed that they had to actually be threatened or in a situation where they know that a person is armed. I kept thinking that what had been done only served to intensify and escalate the potentially volatile situation.

As the men made their way back to their seats, the one across from me sat silently in his chair and with a dignity I was blown away by, he just shook his head and took it.

I was ashamed to be white. I hated that I was a young, white, single female. This man had just been removed from his seat and humiliated by the policemen in front of us all (trust me - we were all watching) with no real warrant, being that they ignored the bus driver who stood in their defense from the beginning, and being that they were clearly racial profiling (would they ever have removed and frisked all the white males on a bus?!). I hated the thought of this man associating me with them, with that mindset.

I hated the idea that he could imagine I supported what had been done to him or that I was now afraid of him. After a moment, I looked over at him and said, "Aren't they supposed to be threatened before they pull their guns?" I don't remember his response. It was dismissive, perhaps no more than a simple shrug. I asked a follow-up question, already knowing the answer, "Has this happened to you before?"

"I'm black... Happens all the time."

Story 1: An Odd Encounter at the Beach

I really believe in the power of Story. I think that we stand witness to our lives and the lives of others through story. We connect with each other and build something new through story. I have decided to intersperse my blog with occasional stories (true stories) that have deeply impacted me. Stories that would be a shame to keep to myself.

That said, these stories are deeply personal to those who they involved. If I use names, I will not use real ones. I will do my best to honor those who are involved and to protect dignity. My biggest fear in sharing stories that involve others (all my best stories do), is the ease at which I could exploit them and their vulnerability. Hold me accountable if anything I write seems exploitative in any way.
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It was a late night. I had just finished watching the final Harry Potter movie at the midnight showing. I was home from college for the summer and was having a blast spending time with some friends of mine from church. A few of us talked in the parking lot for a bit as the group we came with whittled down. Before long, just three of us were left. We had decided that we were going to go to the beach, to talk all night long so that we could watch the sunrise together.

We stopped at a gas station and got snacks: Energy drinks to keep us going and donuts, because apparently our stomachs really wanted a toxic combination of snacks. We found our spot along the shore, down a-ways from a hopping nightclub. A few random couples and individuals showed up along the shore for brief moments, but we didn't think much of it until a man in his late 30's, who was quite drunk, plopped himself onto the sand right next to us. He talked to my friend for a few minutes, then went back to splashing and swimming in the waves.

I thought she knew him, but she didn't. We went back to our conversation, speaking a little more distractedly as we kept an eye on him from a distance. We were a little worried because each time the waves knocked him down, we weren't sure if he was sober enough to get back up. After a few minutes, he returned, asking us why we weren't in the water. My friend told him we weren't dressed for it. He said, "Live life. Just gotta live it."

My friend said, "I feel the most alive, in every molecule of my being, when I'm with Christ." He stopped for a second. I don't remember if he asked her another question or not, but they spoke a bit. Then he addresses all three of us saying, "I am a Christian, believe me. I am just so fucking mad at God." It was out of the blue. It seemed to come from nowhere, but it likely came from alcohol-induced vulnerability and honesty. Just as unexpectedly, tears began to fill his eyes until he could not hold them in.

Then he began to share his story. He told us that one of his friends had been murdered. A young woman, just 25 years old. He told us how beautiful of a person she was. She was a "good Catholic girl", he said, who'd been going to law school and had been studying to pass the bar. She was murdered in a most gruesome way. Her limbs had all been cut off and she had been decapitated.

He talked in circles, telling parts of the story between parts of his own life story, including his faith, and his anger with God resulting from this murder.

We found out that he was in his late 30's, that he literally was a rocket scientist and that earlier in his life had had planned to become a Lutheran pastor. He knew a good deal of Koine Greek and was familiar with a little Hebrew.

He told us those details of his life, told us about his friend's murder, and kept returning to the biblical story of Job, paraphrasing it, making it reflect his own experience more acutely. He talked about how Job went on and on, asking all these questions of God. He told us that when God showed up He told Job, "You're a fucking idiot. You don't know anything!" He continued, "Okay, I get that God has infinite wisdom and shit, and I'm just a fucking idiot, but I just don't get how God could let her get her fucking head chopped off. He could've stopped it. God already had me. He didn't have to do this to get me. He already had me. "

He paused and we waited silently, letting the gravity of that be felt fully. With desperation he finally said, "I don't even need to know the answers. I just need God to fucking show up. He may've called Job a fucking idiot, but at least he showed up to say it. ...I know he's here with us now. I know that. But..."

After a while, he turned back to the broader topic of faith. "You'd have to be a fucking idiot not to believe God exists. And once you believe he exists, you have to be stupid not to believe in Jesus."

He vacillated between clarity of faith and doubt of the very nature of God, between rage and tears, and between topics, all without warning.

He said to us, "This is the first time I've cried about any of this, and it's with strangers. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He continued, saying that he had had to be the rock for all of her friends. "I tell them 'God has a plan' and all that shit. And I know he does, but..."

He turned to look at the moonlight dancing on the surface of the ocean waters. Then he looked up at the sky with fierceness and tears and yelled, "You know what? Fuck you, Motherfucker! Fuck you for taking her!"

A few silent moments passed. "And I know I shouldn't be angry, 'cause I don't know what God knows. He took the heat 2,000 years ago on the cross. He's still sitting here taking it and I'm cussing him out. And in front of his sheep, apparently."

He returned to the story of Job and to his own longing for God to show up. Then he chuckled a sad, heavy chuckle and said, "I get it. I mean, you guys are here. I came out here on a business trip, it's my last night here, I had 7 shots of rum, and here you are. I tell you... That Asshole really knows what He's doing. Doesn't mean I'm happy about it - I'm still fuckin' pissed, but... He's here."

We talked longer and we each prayed for him with him. He kept saying how amazing it was that people prayed for him and that he had brothers and sisters there, in that random part of Florida. We chatted longer and shared our donuts with him. It was a communion more real than I had ever been served before. He invited us to the condo he rented so that we could get drunk with him and we declined. We didn't stay much longer on the beach, and we didn't see the sunrise, though we were up until the wee hours of the morning. No regrets.
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I'm not going to wrap this up with a pretty bow. I couldn't if I tried. I'm not going to try to explain why this held so much meaning. Not in this venue. If you want to ask me about it, I'd be glad to share, but I think there's no less value in just letting this story be what it is. It is true, it is life, it is struggle. It involves a lot of questions and few, incomplete answers.

I will say though, after the whole thing happened, it almost seemed like a dream. I wondered if he was for real or if he was a bored tourist who really just wanted to screw around with a couple of young adults who were way too gullible and impressionable. Immediately after this encounter, I went home and googled the story. Everything he said checked out. The name, age, and occupation of the girl, the city and state it occurred in (which is where he lived), the gruesome details of the murder... All confirmed.

I was shocked though to see that the news report I had found came out just a mere two weeks before this encounter. I assumed it was years prior. And here he was and there we were, right in the thick of a recent tragedy.

I even tried to look the man up on facebook, but his name was so generic that I was unable to find him. I guess sometimes brief encounters have incredible impact on their own.

The Low Rung of the Ladder, Camels, Needles, and Other Eschatological Meanderings.

I'm a little worked up right now. I haven't allowed myself to be worked up enough to write a new blog post until now. So I'll seize it while I can! I suspect it will come out more frankly than it might normally because I've allowed it to build up for a while now.

Here's my most recent though. I've been thinking about what I desire in my life, specifically what I think holds meaning for the ultimate ethic (an idea I nabbed from an author named Webb). In my dream life as it relates to the ultimate ethic, or the Kingdom ethic (which is probably more of a loaded statement, but really means the same thing), here's what I envision.

1) To live life alongside the poor, the disinherited, and the rejected. There are ways to stratify this to each rung of the ladder of success. But I'm talking about the low-rung. The rung that people climbing the ladder skip because they don't even need it to step up. The rung that is slippery and grimey. The rung that they are afraid to step on because they are afraid the "scum" on it will make them slip off and break a foot on the fall.

Jesus said, “Therefore I tell you that the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people who will produce its fruit. He who falls on this stone will be broken to pieces, but he on whom it falls will be crushed.”

I hope to find myself on the lowest rung because that's where I find Jesus.

In a practical sense, this means living at a lower standard of living. This means living in neighborhoods that most people think of as "dirty" and "dangerous". The kind that they "wouldn't want to raise a family in". The kind that they do service to once in a while before eventually returning to their homes away from it all.

My biggest issue with that is the feeling of isolation that almost necessarily accompanies it. Which leads to the second point of what I envision in the ultimate ethic, the Kingdom ethic.

2) To live in community - real, authentic community. Fair or not, I feel that living on the lowest rung would exclude me from the majority of community life in many (though not all) of the churches I grew up in and have gone to. I have seen intentional Christian communities that get the idea of living community right. Reba Place Fellowship in Evanston, IL is an incredible example. They live life in a way that is beautiful and stunning and life-altering.

I would love to see a marriage of these two principles. I think the lowest rung is where we find Jesus. He is in community with members of various social stratospheres, but he dines with those on the lowest rung. Sometimes providing physical needs, but just as often being their guest. And not because he imagines he is doing them a favor by doing so. Just because he wants to be with them. And apparently they wanted to invite him.

In the end, I don't think that the rich are excluded from the Kingdom because they can't fit through the narrow opening to it. I think it's because those who are rich don't truly want to be a part of that Kingdom. They don't know how to view themselves or their world without their privilege and inheritance defining it for them. Their riches tell them who to be and they use their riches to become it.

I don't exclude myself from the "rich". Despite being unemployed, unattached, and all of that jazz, I am privileged.

I was convicted the other day, thinking about the videogames I have enjoyed playing (which are a luxury that may be okay to have, but a luxury nonetheless). Among the top of the list are Animal Crossing (for the Nintendo Game Cube) and The Sims (for the CPU). I thought about why those games are fun. They are fun because of the idea of self-improvement. You can earn the money you want (which takes a lot of work and effort) in order to revamp, renovate, and redesign your entire lifestyle. You can build fancier things, which in The Sims actually increases your happiness meters, which makes it easier to earn money and to fund an even higher standard of living.

With Animal Crossing, it's all about decorating and redecorating.  At some point you have so many items that you can't keep them all within your household. But you want to be able to change things out at will. The only way you can manage that is to drop your items outside your house. You can drop them along the lawn or in some far away field or along the shore. It really doesn't matter. But at some point you begin to realize that the land has become cluttered and gross because of your accumulation. But you can't just sell or get rid of things because they are limited commodities.

I thought to myself how adept these games are at describing the consumeristic life I, and most of you reading this blog, have been able to live. Our "privilege" that allows us to climb up these rungs of the ladder has enslaved us. We don't know what's at the top of the ladder, nor do we care as long as there's a rung above us.

What if these games had no money? What if Animal Crossing and The Sims didn't have any means of trading or any means of accumulation? There would be no ladder to climb. I would send my Sims to the shower for no reason in particular. They shower so they can feel better so they can work so that they can get paid so that they can get more stuff so that they can be happier so that they can get a promotion at work so that they can be paid more so that... You get the idea. Animal Crossing is the same. At some point, the neighbors you have in the game, this cat, that cow, so-and-so boar... They all become means to an end. You stop conversing with them to converse. Who has the time for that? You communicate with them so that you can do them a favor in the hopes of making some cash or in order to make a good trade that benefits you.

Those games are nothing without money or the possibility for "advancement" (which is defined almost exclusively monetarily). I was convicted because I thought, "Real life is so much like those games. What would life be without money? What would even be my purpose for living?" I never knew how closely I identified with my privilege, my richness, my consumerism, until this question caused me to hesitate.

Could life have meaning on the "bottom rung"? People in the lowest rung know the value of money. They know they need it to survive, but they also know that it doesn't make life worth living. I have a lot to learn from them. I don't consider it a charity to want to live among the vulnerable. I consider it a need that many of us ought to examine carefully. Who is really needy in this scenario?

I'm painting quite a black and white picture. I live by extremes and values determine how I view myself and the world around me. Sometimes that paints a picture that's not entirely accurate. But it is honest and it is hopeful. I don't think it's as clear as I've laid it out.

I hope though, that this entry has provided you with questions that you have hesitated at. May we band together in honest humility, recognizing our brokenness and our desire of how and who we want to be. Would we find our identity in Jesus and would our identity reflect him and our Father in every way.

Amen.