Him

He stood shirtless with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, waiting for the electric stove to heat so he could light up. Priscilla, why do you like me? A question that jarred me a bit, and I laughed it off at first until realizing the seriousness of his eyes. Because you make me laugh. It was my first thought. And he thinks me skewed of mind because he says only I find him hysterical. Then I’ve been crazy from the beginning, eight years and counting. Finally the cigarette burned an orange hue, and ashes began to fall. Leaning against the sink, he said nothing, merely inhaling and exhaling.

Outside on the steps, he finally said aloud what I knew he had always felt. You’re better than me. You deserve so much better. Why have you not seen that?

How can I say it all to where he’ll believe. I’ve never judged him on his social class, his choices made all these years. I never see the man who fights addiction. I only see him. My friend. A man I once loved. The first I ever loved. But these months have tested our friendship. Devastated me. Made me crumble. And now we stand on the brink of rebirth, but it is a place where both hesitate to go. Never have we returned to the same wave length. Over the years it is only one at a time willing to venture back to what we had in the past.

I thought I had finally done it. I had lost you. And the thought of doing anything to lose you, our friendship, I just can’t, Priscilla.

And now we remain in limbo. Hearing him feel this, knowing how he holds me so dear, it makes me tremble. I kiss him on the forehead, the cheek, the arm, and I wrap myself around him. Eight years is so long to know a soul. I have seen him at his best, his worst, near death. And it is only now that we can share aloud the extent of the complexities of this strange relationship. I tell him the truth. He devastated me, but only because I had no power to save him. How scared I was that one day I’d be too late to get to him before overdose triumphed. And I see the scars on his wrists, and it terrifies me to think he forgot how precious he is to me and others.

I tell him it is no matter which beast lies within him. Every man I have loved is greatly flawed. Either in need to possess me, control me. To be distant as if across the world from me, to scathe at my emotions and abandon me. No, the beast he fights he is confronting, and he sees me in a way I wish the others could have before they broke me. But now, after so long, I feel loved in a way I’ve never known. We may never venture back to the romantic, but this friendship is unyielding, and has survived tribulations unlike anything either of us could have imagined.

No, I do not always understand him. At times his decisions break my heart. But I am unmoving. Never do I lose faith in the man I’ve known. Never do I think his potential forever lost. I only wish he could believe in himself as much as I do, but I suppose he thinks the same of me. He sees my love choices, my artistic fears, my moments of paralysis from acting, and I see him shaking his head wondering why I can’t see myself like he does me.

I do not always feel beautiful or creative, talented or deserving. There is good chance I am faking it so others won’t see me self questioning. And I am even more surprised when I am found to be these things by others. It perplexes me because I see myself as a paradox, an intellectual mess, a blind woman searching in the dark. At times I feel so alone. Other times overwhelmed by the presence of others. Logical and illogical. Accomplished and a failure. And then I realize, no one is fond of an insecure person. Often if this is sensed, it is only because I am over thinking it, and projecting it. So, I’ve worked on letting it go. Forgetting to worry about the opinions of others. Either they will befriend me or go. Why should it matter?

I wish I could see me like he does. I hope he will realize how much he is loved by those around him. We are two scarred souls that have refused to abandon one another. Though we have failed at being faithful to so much in life, it is this friendship that holds, and I cherish it so much more than others know.

In the Land of Shiva: Part I

Prelude: After two years and the realization I have never accurately chronicled my month in India, I’ve decided to do so. Already, I feel gaps in my memory. I made the error of not keeping a journal during my travels, and now, I’m concerned about losing India. Before it fades, I want it to be scribed in a place it is safe because my mind will be unable to retain it all forever.

Sitting at the Charleston airport, I felt the nausea rising. My stomach soured and the anxiety in my chest closed in. I had waited until seeing my father go before I gave in to these emotions. If he saw me in such a state, he would have crumbled. I thought what a crazy girl. Traveling to such a land by myself, deserting all I knew. The month to come seemed illogically long. Before boarding the plane, I bid my farewell face first in a toilet, purging my anxiousness that had infected my breakfast. Out of all the countries to choose from, I handpicked India for my first transcontinental adventure…my sanity was justifiably questionable.

The connection flight was fourteen hours, hovering close to Icelandic territory before returning southward. I divided my time between watching a Bollywood film about an actress torn between two lovers (which I thought quite salacious content for an Indian film, of course it was sans kissing) and another Indian action movie. I struggled not to laugh aloud when each action scene was done in slow motion. Dozens of bullets slowed to snail pace as the actor mimicked Matrix-like limbo dancing movements. Except, the hero lacked stoic Neo attributes, and reflected more of a Rico Suave with a leather jacket made circa 1980.

The vegetarian dishes Continental served terrified me. I thought if this was Indian food surely I would wither to nothing. It was dry or unrecognizable mush. So, I found myself savoring the rolls and butter. It’s an odd silence late at night in a plane, hovering thousands of feet in the air, and feeling an ice cold chill all over from the altitude. At times, I would peek around my seat just to notice the contorted unconscious bodies. The way a mouth sags in deep sleep, count the set of headphones and droolers, and notice if anyone else is a fellow insomniac like myself.

When boredom settled in, I attempted to read the first of two books I brought with me: Ishmael by Daniel Quinn. I had decided that on every great adventure of mine, Ishmael would accompany me. Rereading its pages, I finally began making notes. Writing questions to a book that cannot answer me. Reacquainting myself with the same epiphanies I had several years ago during the first read, and hopefully new ones. Ishmael does well at mapping. Outlining the history and great schism of humankind and the cultures born from that great divide. Consider it the tale of Cain and Abel, each brother a metaphor for two sibling cultures, and it is the dominating culture etched with the mark of god. Only the divine can judge for the sin of killing our brother culture. But that’s not the point of the novel. The murder hasn’t yet been committed, and if our culture can prevent it, it will bring survival to all, including the world.

At the airport, I forgot to change money. And only did I realize this as I found myself walking down a corridor where hundreds of Indian men’s eyes were fixed on me. It felt like a projected force almost stopped me because never had I been such a fixation especially to so many. It was immediately that I felt the “otherness” about me. I stood out with my pallid skin and Western clothes. No daughter of Parvati was I. I skimmed the crowd of plaid dressed men and Tibetan monks in search of a sign. A literal sign that said Cross Cultural Solutions. But nothing. I had been forgotten, and at that moment, I had desperately wished I had bothered to learn some Hindi.

Leaving the airport was not an option. Once out among the taxis, I wouldn’t be allowed back in. I walked to a vendor, a small stand of candies and magazines, showing him the name of Bella Singh and her phone number. He spoke broken English, but I suppose my worried eyes conveyed that I was in need of help. Stepping from a platform, he locked up his store and walked me to a pay phone that didn’t work. He dialed the number several times, but nothing. Staring at the number, he kept his head down, mumbling Hindi. Finally, we walked back to his shop, and he dialed the number on his cell and held out his hand. I gave him two dollars American to make the call.

Bella, yes, it’s Priscilla Thomas and I’m at the airport…yes, the Delhi airport. No one is here. Bella?

I wasn’t expected. There had been confusion in the flights. Another volunteer had the same exact airline and flight times but for the next day. It was thought that I’d be on the same flight. Bella mumbled to wait there. Someone would come in the next several hours. Then a dial tone. I listened to the echo of that hangup for several seconds, feeling something had gone amiss in that call. Surely, Bella didn’t mean I’d be waiting for hours in the airport. Surely, Bella understood the graveness of my situation. I was standing in a foreign land, all these men watching me, staring like I was the Elephant Man, talking to me through these deep, prolonged gazes that somehow managed to make me feel vulnerable, invaded, and quite frankly, made me squirm. I handed the shopkeep’s cell back, and pulled my luggage to a large gray pillar. Leaning against it, I plopped onto my suitcase, and pulled out Ishmael. It distracted me from the stares. At times, I felt like some men walked close to me as if to observe, to see up close the exotic other.

After awhile, I finally was able to laugh a bit at my situation. Here I was, first night in Delhi, stuck in the airport and surrounded by more men than I could count. And I just started laughing in the airport thinking of course it would me that would be forgotten. Of course something problematic would have to arise from the start, and it would be the accurate foreshadowing of things to come. It taught me immediately not to expect what I expected to come to fruition. And of course, this pale woman from the West, laughing almost hysterically only made more take notice, but never did anyone approach me or say hello. And I thought, jeez, if they just had introduced themselves perhaps I wouldn’t find them so perverse for staring.

Two hours later, a short Indian man walked feverishly through the lounge, each a quick step of purpose. And setting eyes on me, he knew I was Priscilla, the girl who messed up her flight. Lalit talked quick, and almost didn’t bother to stop for me. He talked and walked simultaneously, and expected me to know to keep up. It took me five tries to get his name right because he said it fast. Finally he broke down the syllables like I was a child, versing them slow, because it seemed to irk him to hear his named botched by English tongue. I thought his glasses were too shiny, but I liked his laugh and smile.

The next volunteer’s flight was delayed, and being impatient, Lalit decided it best to take me to the flat. I haphazardly followed him through the throngs of people and vehicles, struggling with my one large bag to maneuver through the crowd. The Delhi night was unkindly hot, and the air seemed heavy, unfresh. Finding himself a dozen paces ahead of me, Lalit shook his head, waited for me to catch up before finally taking my bag over his shoulder and pushing me along through the people. The parking lot was like a tightly pieced puzzle. There were no driving paths, just cars lined up in any position possible. And it seemed enough men were around with keys to move cars. Lalit was talking to several drivers, helping them move, and organizing the shift in the puzzle in order for our taxi to get out.

The vehicles in India are much smaller. Compact cars and slim short vans. I never witnessed side mirrors. They’d be useless in the streets of Delhi where lanes seemed just as absent. Cars seemed to attract each other, staying close, and had a side mirror been attached, would have a life span shorter than a fly. The taxi driver spoke poor English, but enough to talk to me. Lalit was on his cell, perhaps with Bella. I think I had become a troublemaker from the beginning.

Small printed icons of Hindu deities were taped at the top of the windshield. The driver was delighted when i could name each one correctly, and not even ten minutes of knowing me, he already wanted to know if I liked India. YES! I said excitedly, and at the time, I was lying. I wasn’t sure what to think, and after a bit, he turned up his music of high pitched voices and talked to Lalit. Being a passenger in India is tricky business. Having faith in a driver is like faith in god because your life is definitely in those wheel holding hands. Each sharp turn sent me against a door or lifted me several inches from the seat before plopping back down. I quickly learned to press a hand on the roof, a foot on the floorboard, and the other foot against the backing of the center console. It wasn’t always effective, but it prevented slamming into metal. And all the honking. The noise fills the mind, these loud obnoxious horns. Honks if cars get to close. Horns if one is switching lanes. They took the place of middle fingers and profane insults, but their degree of irritation was much greater. I don’t believe the driver ever looked right or left; he merely honked his horn and began merging. Perhaps he figured it was complimentary to even honk, at least his neighbor had been made aware. But it oddly didn’t jostle me too much, I just tried to laugh it off, knowing I just had to trust he wouldn’t kill me my first night.

Even at night, the streets of Delhi captivated me, but not in a nostalgic way. Buildings seemed products of war, either completely abandoned, falling apart, crumbling to lack of care and age. But what was even more odd is that several decrepit buildings would lead to a beautiful site, a well kept hotel with large vibrant lights or a small cafe that conveyed a hint of European style. And all the trash, the plethora of litter and garbage just settling upon the streets. In certain parts, Delhi was a wasteland.

A cow was eating out of a dumpster and a hundred feet away was a late night food vendor where a dozen or so men ate and chatted. It was then that I wondered where all the women were. Men and cows, that is what is out at night. And that realization struck me as odd. Like I had witnessed a weird phenomena, the disappearance of thousands of women, and not a cow or man found the absence warranted of worry.

Reflections on “Conversations with Anti-Abortion Protesters”

I seem to possess an insatiable urge to know, to understand, to feel and yet go unnoticed if possible. I’ve been awestruck by the human condition. So often I find myself slightly removed, as if watching a Discovery documentary on the tele. I can’t help but notice their habits, choice of words, how one reacts in the context of the situation at hand. I’m eternally studying.

I sought them out without knowing what I’d unearth. Waking up late, I assumed it’d be trying to find protesters out in midmorning, but there were the Gardners on a congested street corner next to a Burger King and Carta bus stop. Kathy pushed baby dolls in a stroller, and John toted a laced bonnet plastic baby across his chest. At the sight of them, I felt compelled to know them. It didn’t matter that I’m Pro-Choice. There was no intent for debate or quarrel. Something in me wanted to be witness to their story, and if they had not wanted ears to listen, surely they wouldn’t be such public advocates for their beliefs. So I grabbed a small notepad, pen and my camera, and walked to Kathy to shake her hand. And so the hour began…

John is the fire, all consuming is his passion for this cause and his lord. Kathy the quiet woman of few words that concedes the spotlight for him. She’s heard these stories for years. Seen John trial and error for seventeen years. And he barely stops for breath as he speaks, trying to get out the stories and memories as if time is dying away. They stand in the heat, and drivers honk in concurrence to their signs or yell for choice. And now I’m seeing the documentary from another perspective, I have treaded on the ground of the other, and to strangers, I am automatically affiliated with the Gardners.

My plight, my purpose in this was to expand my horizon of knowledge. I no longer wanted to stop at the black and white line of Pro-Life and Pro-Choice, two sides that speak through painted signs. I wanted to crack the visage of stereotypes and propaganda from all facets in this complex social issue and see those that hide beneath the umbrella terms of these stances.

What I found was a man of dedication and passion. He is no couch potato advocate, cursing at the socio-political world through the safety net of a house and a glass fronted box. Three days a week he is out, he is active, he hopes to change the minds of a world he thinks is lost, even if it’s one person at a time. I was more concerned of Kathy, who’s short history of active participation with her husband surprised me. I waited thirty minutes for John to rest his tongue so I could delve into her story. Where had she been for fifteen years while he attended protests, wrote letters, and stood on town corners? Why so invisible for so long? But I could get so little from her. All she spoke of was killing babies is wrong, and the pictures, and the women who changed their mind, her family. She told me that she has a niece who is addicted to drugs but decided abortion is wrong and had her children, though they no longer speak to a mother whose bond is best with alcohol and highs. It seems her mission stops at having the babies, but who helps raise those babies up to women and men? What resources are they promised and actually given? There is so much entailed with the idea of not just “giving” life but “sustaining” life, “nurturing” life.

I tried to play with that idea awhile, hoping she’d bite. Why no other avenues for this activism? But she only cited counseling onsite at clinics, hoping women changed their minds at the last minute. I thought, “What about pregnancy prevention? Free birth control for women?” It seemed the only prevention of importance was abortion prevention, as I found adoption is somewhat looked down upon as well, though still preferable to the alternative.

And the Feminist in me was wanting to shake her. I wanted her to think beyond John, beyond biblical. What do you, as Kathy Gardner, think of this situation? But asking a person to strip herself of the contexts that link to her identity and thus, analysis and understanding of the world, is somewhat impossible. She organizes her cosmos around her marriage and religion, and it is the functions of her life, it is the story she is a part of, and I wonder if she realizes she could write another tale to be protagonist of.

When my friends asked what I did with my Saturday, I got various reactions to sharing that I interviewed and photographed anti-abortion protesters. My Pro-Life friends seemed surprised, but I think more so in the fact that I didn’t debate especially since I’ve likely debated the issue with these friends. And I do not deny that I get quite impassioned…excessively analytical…irked…loud…sometimes resorting to name calling and hanging up the phone. Other friends have enjoyed being audience to me in full debate mode, never seeing me more on point and countering with well thought reasons. My Pro-Choice friends were equally surprised and more so perplexed. I did get some automatic detesting responses directed at the protesters, but like I’ve stated, the point was the go beyond the idea of them being the “other” and seeing who they are, putting names to the faces, hearing the lives of the people that hold the signs.

I will say that this is likely territory that will never be resolved though. There is so much diversity in both the Pro-Life and Pro-Choice worlds in regards to advocates and people. I barely dabbled into the schisms within Pro-Life activists and groups when Kathy discussed her disappointment with another group in Columbia. But what is likely the decisive factor is the perspective in which both sides come from. Pro-Lifers usually take their view based on religious beliefs and texts. Pro-Choicers, I think, attempt to remove religion as a “rational” framework to determine if things like abortion are right or wrong.

Personally, I believe all social issues are not conducive to a black or white mentality. There is too much room for the gray, too many variables that cannot be controlled. I made the decision to be Pro-Choice because I believe there should be options, especially to be more adaptable to the myriad of scenarios that can result in pregnancy. I think about what rights I feel I deserve, and why would I deprive anyone of those rights? The answer is, I wouldn’t. And I dislike that often it is misconstrued that Pro-Choice is Pro-Abortion because it’s not. Pro-Choice just has to heavily advocate for an option that Pro-Life denies, but in the end, each choice should be considered thoughtfully, and each choice deserves equal consideration. And each choice will lead to a series of consequences and emotions that often aren’t focused upon with birthing, adoption, and abortion. I fear that it is to often considered the end of the situation when the choice is made and executed, but in reality, the choice made is only the beginning to whatever that decision entails. And that is a part of the process that seems seriously neglected after all this time.

Abstract Self

Conversations with Anti-Abortion Protesters

Walking along the sidewalk of Hwy 61, Kathy and John Gardner silently advocate their Pro-Life message. She pushes a stroller of two baby dolls and a lamb stuffed animal with a sign attached stating, “Stop Abortion Now.” Her husband carries the same sign, and has a baby doll adorned with a lace bonnet and an inked tear drop on its left eye.
Drivers honk as they pass, some in agreement, others roll down a window and yell, “Pro-Choice!” before speeding away. “These girls threw eggs at us one time,” Kathy said, “But a car got hit instead.” These reactions no longer unnerve the Gardners. John’s seventeen years of activism have resulted in a myriad of reactions. “A cop lied on him once,” Kathy started, “In court. Lied in court.” Mr. Gardner recalled the incident saying the officer said he had leaned too much of his body into a person’s car and was walking in the middle of the street protesting, but John claims none of it was true. Another time, a person fired a BB gun on him, leaving small welts for months. There have been other memorable reactions, such as a man that slipped five dollars into his pocket one day. “I know he didn’t agree with the cause,” said John, “but I think he liked my dedication. And I didn’t want to preach too much because that’d just push some away. I don’t want to turn a soul away from one day being saved.”

Kathy Gardner

Asked about his initial motivation to begin Pro-Life activism, Mr. Gardner says he’s never personally known someone whose had an abortion. Before becoming a born again Christian, John was an alcoholic, facing the same problems his father had. “I wasn’t fit to be a woman’s husband,” he said, “But then I got saved. And I felt a call to preach.” He began his plight on the steps of the State House in Columbia, South Carolina. After a rally on the anniversary of Roe VS Wade in 1991, Mr. Gardner felt he was called to the cause. He returned several days later with a simple anti-abortion sign, and his mission has persisted ever since. Branching out from their hometown of Columbia, the Gardners travel every Monday, Thursday and Saturday to another location in Charleston, Greenville, or Florence. When not on the road, John spends time trying to gain support from government representatives. He had an ally in House representative Ralph Davenport, who attempted to push two bills through. The first bill was the Right to Life Act, and the second was to construct a monument for unborn children. Legislative details and a drawing of the monument are included in Mr. Gardner’s newsletter from his organization Voice of the Unborn, which he hands out to drivers during red lights. The purpose for the monument is outlined in the newsletter: “We will never outlaw abortion until we become repentant and sorrowful for the awful sin we have committed. This monument will express our remorse and sorrow for allowing these murders to go on for years. People will come from all over the world to see this monument as a result. Many children will be saved from murder.”
When asked about other possible methods to go about their cause, Kathy and John discussed previous ties to other Pro-Life organizations and counseling women on-site at clinics. Mrs. Gardner conveyed her frustrations with a Catholic activism group who she felt were pursuing “Band-aid fixes, but nothing ever got done.” After the director of the organization spoke out against the monument bill, the Gardners severed ties with the group. As for counseling, the majority of women still decided to terminate their pregnancies, which Mr. Gardner expressed pained him greatly, but the small amount who changed their decisions gave him great joy. Kathy described a neighbor whose daughter had become pregnant, and originally intended to seek an abortion, but learning of John’s activism, changed her mind. Mrs. Gardner said they bought several outfits for the newborn; happy to see they had made a change. Mr. Gardner remembered another occasion when he was out on the corner of road protesting. He said one young woman waved him over to her car and had a toddler in the backseat. She told him that several years ago she had seen him on the street with his message, and it was because of him that her daughter was born.
In the beginning, John focused on protesting at clinics where Dr. Jessie Floyd worked. One day, Dr. Floyd was sideswiped by another vehicle. He was killed on impact, but his grandson survived. Mr. Gardner said he didn’t take joy in Dr. Floyd’s death, but that he took joy in the fact that no more babies would be murdered. He estimated that Dr. Floyd performed over 30,000 procedures in the time John knew him. Mr. Gardner said he thought the wreck had a message, “God saved the grandson. He saved the child.” Since Dr. Floyd’s death, Kathy says four of his five clinics have shutdown that he started.
Throughout Mr. Gardner’s activism, he has predominately worked alone. It is only within the last couple of years that his wife, Kathy, has joined him. When asked about her motivation to be a part of John’s message, she said for her it’s about saving babies. “Have you ever seen pictures of babies after abortions? The babies look like they been torn to pieces. Arms and legs pulled off.” This is an image she reverts back to repeatedly when discussing their mission. She makes a point to wear a shirt with a picture of her three year old grandson ironed onto the front; so people will see the child in her life.
Whether or not one agrees with their beliefs, the Gardners’ method of activism is nonviolent and is protected by the First Amendment. It is surprising the aggressive reactions such passive activism has received, which brings to light a concerning facet within the divide between Pro-Life and Pro-Choice groups and individuals. Since when has taking a side caused a wall prohibiting communication and dialog to emerge?

John and Kathy Gardner

Sacrificial Lamb

Explain it. Justify it. Will you?

These are the demands I make to a god I know longer believe in. I stare up at a sky, peaceful and blue, how can a calm heaven be? Do angels not weep? Shake the air and clouds in their fits of rage and tears.

Seizures, blindness, pain. Tumors taking refuge in her brain. Two surgeries and then a slip into half slumber. A limbo state between coma and conscious. A woman I have never seen, will never know, but I have heard her voice. Gentle and soothing, how she raises him up, the lord of her life, the savior she holds first in her heart. She is beauty in the pure. But now she rests even before mid-age, leaving the life she bore and the hand she wed.

And she is everywhere. In their hearts. In the mouths whispering a thousand prayers. The dreams of her son.

I look up and demand an answer. Silence.

As she lays in waiting, he writes of her, the man she left behind. And in the hours since her death he has rationalized this soul mate stolen from him. Her death was needed. Through her death many will come to know god, renew a relationship with the almighty.

She has become the sacrificial lamb. Martyr. The Christos in feminine form. One death to save hundreds.

Such logic scares me. It elevates death to divine status, justifies it in terms that one can hold to, mold a reality from it. I think I forget too often the underlying necessity of religion for many. It explains.

So his heart is wounded, but content. He knows god’s hand was behind it. And now he can settle on what is to come. The hundreds that will seek god through her inspiration. But she bled on no cross, her pain was not held in her heart alone. And she left amongst kneeling bodies and tears, lifted up by the prayers, dozens of tongues wishing her home so that her soul may know peace, may see the face of her creator, and smile.

Breathe.

Praise.

Lift on high.

But I find myself undeterred.  My eyes on the sky.  Still waiting for the answers. Still waiting for it to be justified. I thought all that was needed was the original sacrifice, but you come for more. To me she is not a lamb for your slaughter.

I am not at peace. I am not at peace.

Religious Ill-Literacy

The U.S. is simultaneously saturated with religion and ignorance of religion. A paradox that isn’t to be worn like a medal of honor. In a country where religion is an undercurrent in a myriad of political issues and even practitioners’ swing votes cause presidential nominees to gravitate to Evangelicals and their ideologies, it is inexcusable that knowledge of religions is absent or greatly distorted. Even Christians seem to lack information about the historical origins and development of their religion. In fact, many Christians I know hardly peruse the Bible that adorns their nightstand or coffee table. Typically, they site ‘faith’ as the foundation of their religion, and because of that, the history and study of Christianity is viewed as irrelevant. The past isn’t applicable to their present. What happened in 2 C.E. is insignificant in comparison to going through a divorce, having to raise a teenager, or figuring out how to manage all the household bills.

If Christians do little to delve into the history of their own tradition, then it isn’t surprising that their religious illiteracy is pervasive, but that just brings to light the graveness of the situation. There is no critical analysis of the nation’s leading religion. Why do Christian practitioners not notice Jesus’ inclusion of women as his followers but not questions the oppression women have had socially in their societies? Why are the edits of the Bible not discussed? Changing words, excluding passage, and including passages alter biblical texts and their interpretations drastically. Why is cultural context never a thought in passage analysis? How has Christianity changed over its years of existence? These are all pertinent questions, but ones that don’t seem to be of importance to contemporary Christians. Social issues and the interpretation from a pulpit standing leader seem to have drawn focus away from individual thought and action.

Post 9/11, there were reports of attacks on immigrants who were thought to be Muslim. In actuality, the victims were Sikh. In no way is malicious and violent action condoned, but that simple distinction in headdress alone is absent in religious knowledge in the U.S. I once had a relative ask me if the word ‘love’ is to be found anywhere in the Qur’an, and it was difficult to swallow my disgust. The term Islam translates into “submission” or “surrender” to God. It does not mean hijack planes and attack the U.S. The 5 Pillars of Islam do not include jihad (and even then, the interpretation of jihad extends beyond mainstream views). The foundation of Islam is based on these pillars: profession of faith, ritual prayer, tithing, fasting particularly during Ramadan, and a pilgrimage to Mecca. No where is violent means mentioned at the heart of this tradition. People fail to realize that interpretations on the fringe are what gain most media exposure and command attention. I am always inclined to remember a phrase, “the silent majority.” The small group of Muslims who caused 9/11 should not be held as a blanket definition for their tradition. Just like there are numerous Christianities, there are numerous Islams. And when people associate violence and oppression with Islam, I ask that they turn to their own tradition and site the Inquisition, the witch trials, the Crusades, etc. How many lives were slaughtered? Christian deaths by Christian hands. Non-Christian deaths by Christian hands. For a succinct Christian history, I suggest the following: Christianity.

Considering ourselves the melting pot of the world, and being a primary force in international relations, it should be considered a responsibility for people to be knowledgeable of other traditions, especially their own! The separation of Church and State has awarded the religious freedom that the U.S. possesses, but it has not yet found a way to compensate for its absence in institutions that greatly influence citizens, particularly in the public school system. Here in the south, courses involving teaching the Bible as literature are being developed and introduced into public schools, but it’s being taught by teachers not educated with a Religious Studies background (preferably from an academic standpoint, not theological).

Religion can be included in academic environments without a theological agenda, but this has never been supplemented since extracting religious education from the public school system. The absence of religious education hasn’t replaced the multifaceted existence of religion in people’s lives and in societies. Obviously, the ignorance of such is resulting in grave consequences.

It can no longer be ignored that the world is a pluralistic place, and the responsibility entailed with living in a multicultural, multi-religious world should no longer be shirked by people.

Disoriented

A Vision Blurred

The Lotus Uprising…

This new blog is meant to be the unapologetic expressions of an artist, a young woman, a human being. Raw. Emotive. My Truth.

It is an uprising in thought. To awake minds. Foster a schism. Introspection on public display.

Here, I will lay it all down. To sleep. To grow restless. To birth inspiration. All in hopes that I am a lotus rising, through the muck, to find myself, to find what is purifying to my soul. A mere spotted reflection, but I’m polishing the mirror as we speak. Beneath the distortion is all I seek. To have the veil lifted. To SEE.

Darshan…