Thoughts on HUQP, plus some literary allusions.

"What would happen if one woman [homosexual] told the truth about her [his/her] life?
The world would split open."-Muriel Ruykeyser

There's been quite a stir at my alma mater, Harding University, over the recent publication of a zine (I guess that's what the kids are calling it these days) which details the experience of 'queer' (LGBT) students at a staunchly conservative Christian university. Read their beautiful work here.

For the record, no one has asked me to comment on this--for the record, I would be flattered if someone did. I know no one is clamoring to hear what I have to say, yet I feel compelled to comment nonetheless. Why? I don't know. It's probably not the most prudent move, considering my current employment. Perhaps, as a proudly identifying feminist, I too feel like an outlier in Christian community. Don't misread me: I by no means intend to the equate the two--it's still less revelatory to declare that God is not exclusively male than to declare that maaaaybe God doesn't want gay people pretending to be straight, or just sucking it up and living lives without love.

The quote I posted above has been something of a lightning rod in my feminist journey, and I believe it serves the same purpose in this sticky, uncomfortable conversation. Like it or not, gay students are telling the truth.

But why is this particular conversation so uncomfortable? I don't have the answers, but to this I can speak my truth. I believe that, deep down, most people--perhaps many, if not most--really don't see anything wrong with being gay. You can answer for yourself if this describes you. We probably all know someone who is gay, if not outwardly so. And we love these people. They are our friends, our fellow worshipers. In my case, they were my fellow chorus members, my costars in the high school musical. They were gay. They just were. You knew it, and I knew it. Maybe they came from broken homes with absent fathers, so you could explain away their orientation to some defect in familial upbringing. Maybe they had two loving hetero parents, who were Christians, even....those were a bit harder to grapple with.

Deep down, you knew they would never be straight. You would not wish for them to marry a member of the opposite sex in some sham of a marriage that would silently kill the souls of both partners.

Neither would you wish for them to live alone. Just as you would not wish this for yourself.

And yet, there it is, in black and white: 1 Corinthians. Romans 1. Plus the Old Testament, but that also has tons of craziness which we don't do anymore, so we leave that out of the conversation. New Testament, though....that sticks. That hurts.

What does Jesus have to say about gay people? Well, where black-and-white speaks, black-and-red does not. Jesus is silent on the issue of homosexuality. He has more to say on the issue of divorce....and yet I do not see any Christians get up in arms over this sticking point, as I do not see the heartbroken condemnation of "divorced Christians" groups which have become something of a trend in more progressive churches. (Perhaps you have, in which case, at least Christians are being consistent). But I digress.

I have a long quote from Walt Whitman hanging up on my classroom wall, which admonishes the reader, among other things, to " re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, [and] dismiss whatever insults your own soul." Considering the school where I teach, it's a bit radical (but it was passed down from another teacher. So perhaps English teachers are just mavericks, or more probably, no one really reads those posters anyway).

Is it blasphemy for me to refuse to condemn homosexuality because doing so "insults my soul"? Is it heretical to deny love to others who are not me because they love someone whom certain passages of Scripture say they should not love (at least not sexually)?
(*Of course, there are different ways of reading Scripture. I don't have the education on this particular issue to outline them here, but many gay Christian scholars who know much more than me have done so. And before you scream heresy, keep in mind--we re-interpret other passages of Scripture which we do not find appealing all the time).

I don't know. Maybe it is. But I just can't. Perhaps this makes me a bleeding-heart liberal heretic; I choose to believe that it just makes sense. I don't want to serve any god which makes me go against my soul, against the very marrow of my bones. Furthermore, I suspect you don't, either.

The whole "gay question" often makes me think of what is perhaps the defining passage of Huckleberry Finn, a passage which is almost universally applauded and championed by readers and English teachers alike (yes, including those at Harding). I can't detail the events leading up to the passage, mainly because I don't remember them. But the crux of it is this: Huck is in trouble, and he reckons that his quandary is God's punishment for his sins, which include among them helping Jim, a black man and former slave--his friend--out of slavery. (I believe it is absolutely worth noting that, not that long ago, the Bible was widely used to justify racism and slavery).

Huck wrestles with his conscience, and even writes a letter to Jim's former owner which would sell him out. In his mind, he has two options: turn in Jim and be clean with God, or obey his soul and help his friend--and probably go to hell. Here are his thoughts after he writes the letter:

I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking - thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And got to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me all the time: in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking and singing and laughing. But somehow I couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. I'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n, 'stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog; and when I come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and suchlike times; and would always call me honey, and pet me, and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had smallpox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the only one he's got now; and then I happened to look around and see that paper.

It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a-trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself:

"All right, then, I'll go to hell" - and tore it up.

Good Lord, that's beautiful.

I know many people who read this will disagree with me. I expect it, and encourage it, even. I know many will wonder at my audacity. If that's you, I suppose we are at an impasse, because neither one of us is going to change the other's mind. Perhaps it's audacious and sinful to post this to begin with. Perhaps I'm just tired of Christian morality, at least in climate of the Bible belt, being almost entirely relegated to the margins of society--i.e., people who are gay and women who get abortions.

Please know that I am not trying to make myself higher than God, or encourage revolt against Scripture. Or maybe I am....I don't really know. I guess I'm just trying to be honest, and trusting that there is grace enough to do so. Because one thing's for sure: this issue will never go away, and we might as well stop wishing that it will. I pray that we can re-imagine the role of gays in God's kingdom in a way that is vital and real, and absent of facades that slowly, slowly rot the soul.

I pray that you, dear reader, will do the same.

Still here.

I haven't posted in a really long time.
I don't really have anything to say now, either.
I did, however, see this band last night. I really like this song. Perhaps you will too.
It's a start.

Flying Solo

When I was in eighth grade I wrote a story about a fictional grandmother who traveled the world. This (in the story, my) grandmother, two years widowed, used travel as a means to embrace life after the loss of her husband. I was constantly getting her exotic souvenirs in the mail--a piece of the Berlin Wall, ceremonial masks from Africa, prayer beads from Tibet. I illustrated the story with snapshots from her adventures--Grandma beside the Dalai Lama, waving enthusiastically at the camera; Grandma shading her eyes and beaming before the Leaning Tower of Pisa. My teacher (no spring chicken herself) loved it, and I loved creating her--she was eighty-something and absolutely alive, and I sent her off to places that I could only then dream about.

I've been thinking about that story a lot lately, which has everything to do with the fact that I'm about to travel solo for the first time. I love how--without realizing it, of course--at twelve years old, I fictionalized the woman that I one day hoped to be: bold, adventurous, resilient, and most of all, able to keep company with herself. It's funny and perhaps weirdly prescient that I wrote the grandma without a backpacking buddy. That kind of independence inspired me, yes, but seemed completely alien to me as well, being a) twelve and b) one half of a fertilized egg.

Thus, you see how, with a sister succumbing to love and marriage, that exploring life alone (no, not alone, alone sounds depressing--independently) is a fairly new endeavor for me. And while I admit that I often envy my sister's seamless transition of partners--twin to husband--it is a bit exhilirating, this learning to do life by myself. To be known as Jess, and not part of some package deal. And to figure out what on earth all that means.

I've imagined myself as a lot of different people by now. When I went away to a Christian college, I was going to become the most amazing Christian. I would lose my self-consciousness in worship and evolve past my spiritual A.D.D. I was also going to date a lot, because that's what you do at Christian college, and because my high school awkwardness had to be worth something. When I studied a semester in Italy, I was going to be popular. I was going to make lifelong friends easily and for once feel like I wasn't craning my neck towards the cool kids' lunch table. When I went to Rwanda I was going to become a tanned, earthy goddess. I would feel beautiful, at one with God and nature, and surround myself with laughing orphans.

Life is nothing if not ironic: as I write this now, from the messy room in which I grew up, I feel myself becoming more than I ever did with all those of changes of scenery. But of course, they all played their part too.

I can't explain it, but it is deeply satisfying to know, with so much still up in the air (beliefs, career, etc), that I am different. This limbo in which I find myself is proving quite formative, if not outwardly productive. Uncertainty disarms and recreates, perhaps more effectively than any backdrop change ever could.

It is quietly intoxicating, to feel yourself becoming who you are--even if it's not exactly any of the selves you once imagined. I'm just happy now to bear some resemblance to the old woman I invented when I was twelve.

What Are You Laughing At? No. Really.

Disclaimer: this gets a little preachy. Read it anyway.

The other day, I innocently approached a conversation two friends were laughing over, hoping to join in the joke. Almost immediately, I wished I'd stayed away.

The topic of conversation? Women jokes.

"...why are women's feet smaller than men's? So they can stay closer to the oven."

"Oh, I love women jokes," chimed in the second participant, who was, to my profound sadness, a woman. "You want to hear a funny joke? Women's rights."

They continued in that vein for awhile ("Why did the woman cross the road? Doesn't matter, she shouldn't have been out of the kitchen"; "What do you do if your dishwasher stops working? Beat her") as I awkwardly stood to the side, stone-faced and silent, the dreaded stereotype that I trip over myself to avoid: the Feminist With No Sense of Humor.

The thing is, I like and respect these two people very much. I don't think they would have continued if they knew their jokes honestly upset me. And I understand, from the female perspective, the urge to sell out your own sex, to be in on the joke--to be "one of the guys." I not only understand it; I've done it. I've ignored the sting of these barbs--the iceberg of truth buried beneath the punchline--and betrayed my femininity by one-upping the joke teller in misogyny. And I've cruelly laughed at far too many jabs told at the expense of other races and/or minorities.

But--what to say?--I just don't think I can do that anymore.


This goes far beyond the "woman thing," but that is where my story begins, so I'll start with that. And--hold on to your hat-- I'm going to use a word (again) that makes a lot of people very uncomfortable: "feminist." Over the past six months or so, I have been, with the aide of a few beautiful female trailblazers, reclaiming that particular f-word, and what it means for myself and the planet. (Interestingly, as a little girl I was a very vocal feminist. I stopped when I learned that that was a bad thing). I have surprised even myself at the depth with which this word has resonated in my heart, and befuddled many of those close to me with my ostensibly sudden passion on the subject. (It must be said, though: a number of people--men, even--have cheered me on in this awakening, or whatever you want to call it. To those people, God bless you). I don't know who reads this blog anymore, so I hope what I'm about to say won't give offense, but a lot--a lot--of my baggage concerning women has to do with the church (and I know about a dozen women who could heartily "amen" that). I don't want to get into biblical doctrine, but when little girls grow up digesting that the spiritual heavy lifting is a boy's job, that little boys can lead prayers and little girls can't, that boys grow up to lead and girls grow up to support the boys, something profoundly damaging happens to the female psyche. She grows up internalizing the message that boys are just more valuable to God--God, the King and Father: the ultimate Him. The level to which this subjugation lies buried in the heart of every good church daughter varies, but to any woman who grew up in this paradigm--in which her voice and ideas were relegated to the periphery of the church experience--I don't see how it can't exist.*

And the marginalization of women in church, though damaging, is by far one of the kinder, gentler faces of gender discrimination. Aside from the domestic abuse in our own backyards, the brutal misogyny accepted as standard operating procedure in so much of the developing world is enough to shatter your heart a thousand times over. Girls kidnapped and trafficked into sex slavery, women raped and then killed by their own families in the name of honor, infanticide of value-less baby girls--I could go on,** but you get the idea.

The cries of these women and girls simply makes it impossible for me to laugh at beating a woman dishwasher.


I read the following quote in a wonderful book*** recently, and it's about the truest thing I can think of right now:

"The quality of our laughter is a measure of our sanctity. It tells us how we feel about others. It tells them, too."

So, I'll ask it again...what are we laughing at? Specifically, whom are we laughing at? And would we still laugh if we considered the subjects of our laughter, in all of their beauty and scars, insecurity and individuality?

Would you tell a woman joke to your sister, your mother, your lover, your friend? And, if she laughed, would the smile reach her eyes?

This isn't about feminism, or racism, or any other ism. This is simply about operating from a place of love and respect for all of our brothers and sisters. For, in the words of the eminently quotable Joan D. Chittister, "Feminism makes humans of us all."

It may not seem like much, but the surest way I know to distance ourselves from each other is to trivialize a fellow human being's experience. And the surest way I know to do that is to laugh at it.

I don't pretend to be perfect, and I certainly don't pretend that residing on the higher plane of empathy will always be easy, or even desirable. But, honestly--what's the other option?


* If any of this strikes a chord with you, please, run don't walk to your nearest bookstore or library and pick up this book. Warning: you will not be the same after you've read it.

**This book does go on. Read it, get angry, get inspired, and get involved.

***Heart of Flesh by Joan D. Chittister. A bit dense, but completely worth the effort.

A Love Letter to Conan O'Brien.

Anyone who's known me longer than five minutes knows about my love for, my adoration for, my--okay, let's just call it what it is--obsession with Conan O'Brien. Not since my second grade love for Matt Medina (a fifth grader who, it must be said, has not aged well) has a redhead so captured my heart. So, as you can imagine, the recent NBC late night drama has captivated me in a way that I'm not particularly proud of, considering that the devastation in Haiti has highlighted the truth there actually is miserable suffering in the world, and the fate of one gangly multi-millionaire comedian is ultimately pretty unimportant. So...there's that.
But.
At the risk of sounding trivial, I want to pay tribute to the man who has kept me up so many nights, and put a huge smile on my face for the better part of the last decade. There really is not a way to say that without sounding dirty.

I can't remember when exactly I began watching Late Night with Conan O'Brien, but I do remember this--it was some time in the 7th or 8th grade, and it was before I knew how to make coffee. Actually, it was before I even drank coffee. A simpler time. I call it B.C. I don't really call it that. Anyways, I know this because I would stare at the remaining dregs in our Mr. Coffee carafe, wishing to God I knew how brew a fresh pot--or better yet, enjoyed the taste--because I needed to stay up another two hours to obsess over some social studies diorama of Ancient Egypt, or something, as was my middle school way. So, without that bitter fuel to inject my decidedly-more-Type-A self with the necessary second wind, I turned on the television. Then, one night, I turned the channel to Conan.

This may seem completely unremarkable to you, but writing this just made me realize: I've been watching Conan longer than I've been drinking coffee. A notable milestone, considering that I now drink, on average, 17 cups of Joe a day, in addition to bathing in it nightly.

Conan came on like a strong gust of wind after what I would come to know as the reassuring banality of Jay Leno--full of manic energy, absurd characters, and disarming wit. He was tall, whip-smart, ridiculous, literary (fun fact: he did his Harvard thesis on Flannery O'Connor and William Faulkner), self-deprecating, and gloriously pale--in short, all of my favorite things. And he drove a '92 Ford Taurus. I don't remember the first bit I ever saw on Late Night, but I do remember the first thing I ever talked about the next day--an absurdist and wholly appropriate take on the then-phenomenon of boy bands in a sketch called "Dudez-A-Plenti."


Dudez-A-Plenti

Susie | MySpace Video

And thus, a personal hero was born. Conan was my first-ever personality litmus test, a role that would later be filled by Christopher Guest, Lord of the Rings, and NPR. Liking him automatically made you cool in my book. Consequently, liking Leno made you stupid.

Throughout the years, Conan would be with me during the hard times...like the night of my first run-in with the law. After leaving a chorus rehearsal very, very disgruntled, I was caught doing 60 in a 35. I was 16, and stupid, and everyone does 50 on that road anyway, but that's not the point. I came home sobbing inconsolably, miserable at the magnitude of my own idiocy. Eventually, though, I mellowed out, and turned on Late Night, because that's just what I did. I don't remember anything about that show, but I do remember laughing hysterically and feeling better almost instantly. It's so silly now, but there it is: Conan just made things better.
A few years down the road, Preparation H Raymond would help me get through those nasty prostitution charges. Ahh, the power of laughter.

As time went on, my love only grew. Characters like Vomiting Kermit, the Coked-Up Werewolf, Pimpbot, the Fed-Ex Pope, the Sports Fan, and The Interrupter; bits like "In The Year 2000" and the "Walker Texas Ranger Lever"--all of these became an integral part of my lexicon. (And yes, that was just an extremely transparent excuse to link those clips. Watch them all, then proceed). I started an innumerable number of sentences with, "Last night, on Conan..." I vividly remember hosting animated discussions on the brilliance of Late Night vs. the comedy graveyard of Leno's Tonight Show in my AP Macroeconomics class. (I had a cool economics teacher). I daydreamed about making it to a taping of Late Night before he wrapped it up and I begrudgingly--but proudly--surrendered him to the big bright lights of Hollywood and the Tonight Show. I more-or-less forced both of my college roommates (and anyone else in my room after 11:30 PM (thank you, Central Time Zone)) into watching, and subsequently loving, Conan along with me (a legacy I can surely be proud of). And yes, on a fundamental level, I suppressed the worry that my immense fondness for a late night talk show host was indicative of some latent personality disorder. Incidentally, a dream that I gave birth to a baby with Conan's head did not do much to allay my fears.

I'd rather not have this analyzed.

Admittedly, my viewership has waned in recent years. Graduating college and living in Africa for ten months kind of does that to you. And though, upon my return to the States, I was irrationally proud of little Conesie, all grown-up and hosting the Tonight Show -- not to mention happy to go to bed an hour earlier, since apparently graduating college made me age twenty years-- I also couldn't help feeling that my little secret was now out. I remained fiercely loyal despite the low ratings, and couldn't help but feel that if people actually prefer the Chin to the Hair, then people are actually stupid and terrible. (Prove me wrong, universe).

But the people--or moronic NBC executives--have spoken, I guess. Despite the legions of fans chanting, the vein of Nick Carraway, that O'Brien is "worth the whole damn bunch put together," it's goodbye, for now. So, what else to do, except compose an excessively rambling valentine to the man of the hour, in a forum that he has not the remotest chance of stumbling across, and say...thanks. For staying classy, ridiculous, hilarious, and genuine. Making people laugh ultimately isn't very imporant, after all. But to the people laughing...it somehow is.

And Fox...getsa steppin'.

When words fail

An older woman came by the drive-thru at the Starbucks where I work today. (I work at Starbucks now, if you didn't know). Her eyes were glassy as I took her money, her cheeks flushed, and sadness like gravity pulled down the corners of her mouth. I kept a curious eye on her through the window as her drink was prepared, wondering what was breaking her heart.

As I handed her her drink, I smiled, and hollowly commanded her to "have a nice day," as if that means anything and as if she could, because that's all I know how to do. Her voice cracked as she said "thank you," and she drove away in tears.

I couldn't ask her what was wrong; I couldn't cry with her; I couldn't hold her hand. All I could offer were empty words, and watch her drive away.



Mother God, be near to the broken-hearted.

Gotta be the eyes.

There is a certain running theme to comments about my appearance/behavior made by new acquaintances. That is this: to the casual observer, I appear to be constantly stoned.

This pictures is far too disgusting to display my whole face.

As irony would have it, I've never been high in my life. I attribute this misconception to what I like to call the Merrill Deadeye. Observe:

Brother Paul

and

Sister Jenn, still managing to look sorta high despite the presence of glasses.

I really can't comment on the behavior aspect of this observation. (At least I seem happy...?)

I'm not sure how, but I'm certain I can make this stoner-chick persona work to my advantage.

Waiting for LaMontagne.

How do you come down from a concert high, once the last note has been sung, and the last bow taken?

You buy your tickets months beforehand. You prep for the concert days in advance, via an increasingly-exclusive Itunes rotation. You try on about two dozen outfits, attempting to perfect the adequate balance of hip-yet-effortless; belonging-yet-separateness; in-the-scene-but-not-OF-the scene. (Other people must do this). And for a few short hours, you are hypnotized--in the Actual Presence of the Actual Person, and all is right with the world.

And then, just like that, it's over. The roadies are dismantling the stage, and Ticketmaster is raising evil eyebrows and malevolently rubbing its hands together for managing to charge you 40% of the actual ticket cost in fees (probably).

One needs a transition from the sanctuary of the concert hall to the profane outside world. Theme parks get this; that's why you go through gift shops after you ride roller coasters.

And that's why I and about two dozen other Ray Lamontagne fans stood vigil for close to two hours outside the stage door of the Fox Theater stage door, unable to let go, hoping against hope for the chance to meet our idol.

Okay, "meet" is too strong of a word. Ray is notoriously shy and awkward with fans, and God help you if you try to take his picture. If not for my brother's goading ("sis, you gotta try"), I would never have had the presumption to wait for his appearance in the first place. But as it was, perhaps against my better judgment, I reversed my steps from the parking lot to the stage door, unarmed with autograph-able memorbilia or flash photography, hoping only, as I put it to my fellow waiters, to "bear witness."

I imagine that other music fans have this dilemma. You want badly to connect with the performer in a direct way; you want to cross their radar if only for one moment in time, even if afterwards you are immediately forgotten. You search for the appropriate words to convey the depth of your appreciation while simultaneously maintaining an unflappable, un-freakfanlike demeanor. Or, if you're a drunk middle-aged woman, you shout "Take if off, Raaaaaaaaaaaaay!" in the lull between songs. Whatever. My point: there's a certain amount of intoxication bred from proximity to a favorite artist or band, and the prospect of narrowing the gap even further can be downright impossible to resist.

But back to the stage door. I planted myself by the brick wall of the theater, slumping down and making myself as small as humanly possible. It was an odd reckoning of conscience--if I was going to make Ray nervous with my presence when he emerged from the door, I was going to do it in the least offensive way possible. I would not speak to him, I would not take my camera from my purse; I would relegate myself happily to his peripheral vision.

And if he happened to look at me, I would arrange my face into the picture of dignified gratitude and steely grace. Think Gordon Bombay in a freeze frame from his immortal "Ducks Fly Together" speech.

Fulton Reed from Stillwater, Minnesota gets it.
Seriously, just watch this video right now. You can get back to the blog.

Eventually a camaraderie formed amongst the Stage Door Crew (which, it must be said, was mostly dudes. With cheap imitation beards. And man-crushes). We relived moments of the concert, learned each others names and Other Favorite Bands, and nervously practiced our opening lines.

"Dude, do you think it would be lame if I said this?" the collegiate-looking guy directly in front of me mused to his friend. " 'I just want you to know that you're my hero. ' Would that be too gay?"

"No man, go for it."

As the night wore on into early morning and the crowd thinned, lines were reworked, and ultimately scratched ("Ah, forget it man. I'm just gonna say 'Thanks.' He'd get that, right?")

The crowd easily fell into two camps: Those Who Had Ray's Best Interests at Heart vs. Those Who Were Holding Cameras. Those of us from Camp A disdainfully cast judging glances at Camp B, which broadly consisted of women with spray-tans, high-heels, and noticeably dyed hair. Obviously, these exploitative opportunists had no right to be there.

"Guys," Camp A ventured to caution, "he reeeaaallly doesn't like cameras. Those will just make him nervous."

Warnings like this made it hard not to feel like we were waiting for the emergence of Punxsutawney Phil. If Ray pokes his head out and sees a camera, he will retreat into the womb of the backstage labyrinth. And there will be six more weeks of winter.

Groundhog Ray
I don't have Photoshop.

I waited with mixed feelings as the night wore on and the crowd dwindled. There was an air of holiness to us who would be found faithful long after the casual fans headed home, yet the narrowing numbers thinned the insulation I was counting on for anonymity if and when he finally materialized.

Around 1 AM, I gave it up for good. Whether or not the stagehand who told us that Ray had pulled a fast one and left through the front door was telling the truth, I'll never know.

But my efforts weren't totally in vain. Twice the opening of the stage door framed Ray Lamontagne in all of his bearded, gaunt-faced glory. Just standing there, existing. Occupying the same block of 50 yards as me.

And that, believe it or not, was worth it.

Because I Can.

Everyone should watch this video. Yes, it's over two years old. No, I don't care. I saw him and his band in concert last night and there's a chance it changed my life. Thus, I'm forcing everyone back through the annals of youtube time. If this isn't one of the most perfect songs you've ever heard, I'll eat my foot.

Networking.

With no foreseeable end to my unemployment, I try to give my life the illusion of meaning by taking small steps in a progressive direction. Examples include daily exercise, cleaning off counter tops, making my bed, and, in the surest sign of the end times, making dinner. So it was in the name of progress that I did something unprecedented in my jobless stint: I woke up at 6:30 AM, left the house at 7, and a attended a Job Seekers meeting at a local church.

I'd heard good things about this great "networking opportunity," so I figured, meh, why not? Upon arrival, I refused to let the fact that I was by far the youngest person there daunt me as I turned in my resumé and filled out a name tag. After a few minutes of small talk and coffee, things got off to a rousing start: a devotional thought by an impassioned, dynamic speaker who, against all odds, followed God's will when He told him to buy a piece of real estate. Not kidding. I don't doubt his sincerity (delusion?), and I know I should have gleaned something more profound from his rapid-fire emotional shifts and homegrown axioms. But what it all amounted to in my estimation is that a) God led him to buy a beach-front property, and then b) courageously emboldened him to sell it for over three times its market value. Who knew God was such a bloodthirsty capitalist?

And on the 8th day, God created Wall Street.

After that altogether cringeworthy start and some roundtable networking introductions ("Hi, I'm Jessica Merrill. I'm a teacher. My background is teaching at an international school in Rwanda. My biggest accomplishment this past week was making a mixed-bean salad"), it was time to get down to the morning's lesson.

Previous weeks' topics have included headers such as "Preparing for an Interview" and "How to Make Your Resume Stand Out"--in short, things I actually want to know more about. Unfortunately for me, I happened to visit on "Evaluating and Negotiating the Job Offer" day. Which might have interested me, if we lived in a world where I got job offers, and tossed around acronyms like "POS" and "CRT" (Position Objective Statement and Comp, Relo, and Travel, if you're interested). Oh yes, phrases like "stock options" and "personal net worth" were bandied about with ease, and I felt, on the whole, very uncomfortable.

In the vein of "Deal or No Deal," we were given a group exercise in which several job offer scenarios were presented, and we were to decide collectively if we would take the job, based on consistent variables. For example:

"Your target annual salary is 72,000, and you want to work on the southside of Atlanta. A company in Buckhead (northside, for out-of-towners) is willing to offer you a job for 66,000. You negotiate the salary to 69,000. For the past two interviews you've been on, you have been one of the top three candidates for the job. Deal or no deal?"

I'm sure this is a real head-splitter for some, but as my table debated this quandary it was all I could do not to shout, "I was an ENGLISH MAJOR." (Okay, English education, but still). As soon as I read "target salary 72k" I officially entered the realm of fantasy. For me, the scenario might as well have read like this:

You are walking in a magical woodland when and old peddler approaches you with a satchet full of magic beans. The beans are very pretty and could be turned for a huge profit (if you're not so into beanstalks). However, your target prize is a pot of gold, given only to sharpwitted passerby cunning enough to solve the cryptic riddles of the mercurial leprechaun who guards the pot. You're pretty good at riddles. Also, gold is cooler than beans. You can't have both. You can take your chances with the leprechaun or grab the beans. Deal or no deal?

What would YOU do?

I hate feeling like my particular brand of skills is utterly worthless in the world of the business bottom line. This job hunt, ultimately, feels like a lot of middle-aged men in suits laughing at me. Or looking...bemused. While smoking giant cigars and drinking scotch. Or, let's be honest, just ignoring my resume altogether.

So the moral of the story is....take the beans? Or...keep truckin', tiger? Something like that, I guess. I, however--always the delusional optimistic--have decided to hold out for a genie.

You Asked For It (or Didn't): My Completely Unsolicited Opinion on "Twilight"

A number of people have recently asked my opinion on the ever-so-broody, glitter-soaked, rabidly-adored phenomenon known as "Twilight," seeing as how I am an expert on all things literary. Okay, fine, by "a number of people," I mean one or two. And by "literary expert," I mean I have an English degree. For whatever that's worth, I am happy to give my thoughts on the series, generally limiting them to two words:

it's horrendous.

Now before you get all "Team Edward" on me, let me assure you that yes, I have read the books--all of them. And no, it wasn't the worst experience of my life. I'll even admit that by book three, I was ostensibly engaged. And, granted, like the Harry Potter books before them, the Twilight series has elicited a fever pitch of insatiable reading and book-swapping amongst teens, as any English teacher can attest. But unlike Harry Potter, however, I have (sub)zero desire to re-read Twilight in all of its melodramatic glory. Because unlike Harry Potter...Twilight is horrendous.

It's difficult to know where to begin in dissecting my distaste for Meyer's books. But you have to start somewhere, so here goes:

1) They're not funny.

Oh, come on Jess, be fair. The Brothers Karamozov isn't exactly a knee-slapper, either. Okay, fine, but in defense of this critique: if you are going to drag the reader down the path of Supernatural Emodom, you could at least infuse it with some semblance of humor. J.K. Rowling sure did. Plus, she had the added decency to make the plot and characters compelling to begin with. The nerve!

Sample funny line from Harry Potter:

"Percy wouldn't know a joke if it danced naked in front of him wearing Dobby's tea cozy."

Oh, J.K. That is both hilarious and adorable. How very British of you. By contrast:

Sample funny line from Twilight (according to a Google search):

Edward: "Do I dazzle you?"
Bella: "Frequently."

Oh, Steph. That is equal parts nauseating, unfunny, and vaguely homoerotic. Go ahead and take that brilliant Rowling line and slap it on Meyers. Or feel free to change it up: "Meyers wouldn't know wit if it bit her in the freaking neck."

SM: Do I nauseate you?
Reader: Frequently.

Of course, I'd be more forgiving if not for this:

2) Bella is the most boring female protagonist ever created.

Bore-a--woops, my bad, Bella--is constantly amazed by her ability to enthrall the ice-prince Edward. Frankly, so am I. From what I can gather, Bella is good at two things:

1) cooking for her equally boring father Charlie, and
2) almost dying.

"Bella, babe...if I bite you, will you promise to bore me for all eternity?"

The latter is particularly useful, as it allows Edward ample opportunity to swoop in and save her. Which in turn gives him ample opportunity to dictate her every move (I'm not kidding. The feminist inside you will die a slow death with the turn of each page).

But that's okay, because...

3) Edward is really, really hot.

Like, really hot. As Bella will tell you. With her every. waking. thought. I mean, every now and then, Bella takes a break from contemplating her boyfriend's glittery hotness/her own inadequacy-at-being-hot to almost die, but after that, she quickly redoubles her ogling efforts. If there was something tantamount to a drinking game for books, the one for Twilight would go something like this: "Drink every time Bella elaborates on the utter physical perfection of Edward." And in five minutes, you would be completely smashed. Which would probably be a better use of your time than actually reading the book.

4) Conflict, schmonflict.

Last time I checked, conflict was, like, kind of fundamental to good storytelling. Below, I give you an abbreviated summary of Bella's-perceived-conflicts/their-awesome-resolutions. If you're mid-series or anxiously awaiting the gory details onscreen, two things: first, re-evaluate your tastes. Then, proceed to number 5.

"Ugh, moving from Phoenix to Forks, this sucks. I guess I'll have to be the awkward new girl at school. Wait a minute...why does everyone love me? Cool, whatever. That hot pale guy sure hates me though. HOLD THE PHONE...he's actually psychotically in love with me? Why? Okay, sweet. Cool. Let's date. Ah, he's gorgeous but he's some kind of societal outcast--he probably lives in some shack in the woods. Or NOT. What the he---this is your house!??! No way. Hot, and RICH. But a vampire. mmm. This could cause some probs, as he's immortal and I'm a just a stupid, boring human....*kicks a can down a street.* Bah, what else to do but also be a vampire? Huh, Ed? Bite me. No? Not till we're married? Cool, I can wait. But first let's have sex--umm, get married. Done. Well, this could end badly, as you have Hulk-like strength and are technically marble--waaaaait, no...awesome. Of course. Bite me. Yes, I'm aware that I'm going to be a walking murderous rampage and never see my parents again. Do it anyway. Ya see, I kiiiiiiinda don't have any thoughts or goals outside of you, so....if this doesn't work out, I'm screwed, got it? Ouuuuuuuuuchh--'k, done. Rad. Hey, now I'm almost as hot as you! And really super fast and strong! And vampire-vampire sex = TOTES better than vampire-human sex! Heh, who knew? Wait...what's this?!?! I have some godlike self-control which instantly gives me the restraint towards mortals that you've been honing for CENTURIES?!?! So I DON'T have to say goodbye to Ma and Pa? And NO ONE really has to make any real sacrifice of ANY KIND?!??! Awesome. I love you. Make out with me.

THE END.

Okay, granted, it's not all butterflies 'n' rainbows in Bella's world. At times things get a little turbulent. You may feel bad about not caring, until you remember that the characters are one-dimensional snoozefests.

5) Enough. With. The Vampire. Spin-offs.

It seems that any phenomenon, no matter how horrible, becomes the vanguard through which related/rip-off media floods the cultural consciousness.

Exhibit A.

...and B.

and dear God, why: C.

While the first two might be chalked up to a strange confluence of vampire interest, that last one troubles me. At least Stephanie Meyers had the ingenuity to spew out her own crappy series. Now it looks like some talentless/shameless Christian writers will whore out her series, de-Mormonify it, and cloak their efforts in righteousness. In a word: ugh.


*Pshew. I think I'm done. And I've barely scratched the surface of feminist critique, which could fill a book. But on an effort to end on a light-hearted note, I leave you with this...

a hilarious mash-up of shirtlessness and Kristen Stewart's horrible acting, also known as the "New Moon" trailer. Enjoy.

Sing out loud. Sing out strong.

So, I was driving home the other night, flipping through the radio, when I happened across an old Broadway show tune station. Hearkening back to my high school musical theater days, I enthusiastically--some might say dangerously (my right foot tends to get a whole lot heavier when I sing in the car)--sang along. Whilst doing so, I had an epiphany:

I really, really love to sing.

Now, this should come as no surprise to anyone who's known me longer than five minutes. By most estimations, I sing a lot--for the most part, unconsciously (it's just something I can't really help). But singing in the car, it struck me just how much I'd been neglecting this part of myself. I couldn't remember the last time I just sang, to the cars in my garage or to my shower wall, because I can, because I'm not dead, because it gives me more joy than just about anything else. And I could only ask myself...why not?

Why do I need to be reminded to do something that I love?

Before I was an esteemed scholar of the English language, I was a childhood subscriber to Highlights magazine. Highlights is proabably best known for introducing the world to the cartoon Goofus and Gallant, contrasting Gallant, the paragon of manners and tact, with Goofus, his belligerent, socially retarded counterpart. I, however, was especially fond of the advice section on the magazine's last page. Highlights to me represented the sum total of all wisdom, and I drafted many a frustrated query that never quite made it to the mailbox. Anyways, one question in particular from a mixed-up childhood contemporary has always stuck with me. It went something like this:

Dear Highlights,

I want to sing, but I don't know any songs. What should I do?

That question just breaks my heart, for several reasons. First of all, it's hard to believe that anyone is ever so young and innocent that their most pressing concern for an advice columnist is tips on what songs to sing. But secondly, and more importantly...isn't that kind of where everyone is stuck?

We want to express ourselves, and we don't know how. We want to tell our story, and we don't know the words. We want to dance, and we don't know how to move. We want to do so. many. things. And the fear of the unknown just stops the song.

I don't know a lot. I think it's a twentysomething rite of passage--or probably, just a human one--to question everything you've ever believed and to re-evaluate everything you've ever wanted to be. At least, I hope it is. But I do know this: I need to sing more. I've never been good at focused or regimented prayer, like I've never been good at sticking to anything. But I'm beginning to think that focused, active time spent in song could be the truest thing I could offer of myself, and therefore the best possible prayer I could give. I don't know. Maybe. It's not much, but it's the surest step in the right direction that I know to take right now.
I just pray I have the resolve to follow my song.

You Are Cordially Invited to a Pity Party.

Ugh. I got online today with such good intentions. I brought a pad of paper to the computer desk to write down job options for which I am qualified. I was going to spend some more quality time with Craigslist and idealist.org, but this time, with gusto and purpose. I was going to look up the definition of "vivisection." (Wait, just because I'm feeling sorry for myself doesn't mean my vocabulary has to suffer- 1) the cutting of or operation on a living animal usually for physiological or pathological investigation; 2) minute or pitiless examination or criticism. Ah ha. Knew it). I was going to blog about something not-depressing, for a change.

Instead, I inadvertently tripped over about a dozen emotional landmines reminding me that my entire world from the past year is going back to Rwanda, and I am not.

I mentioned before how the trail of circumstance leading up to Me Not Going Back has left me feeling a bit like a jilted girlfriend, confused and wanting answers. I'm beginning to wonder if I similarly should treat Rwanda+all-that-that-entails as an ex-boyfriend who's holding me back. Make a clean break. Don't look at his facebook pictures, or read his blogs, or listen to his music--no, anything but music to maintain emotional equilibrium--or try to remember, or write down, or ask for updates about his life, or see who else he's been romancing, and how it's all getting on without you just fine. At least, not until you're in a secure relationship of your own.

But then, if you lose all of that...what's left? Do you lose a part of yourself, too?

There are bigger problems in the world. Children are dying of AIDS, and being sold into the sex trade, and people are dying of cancer, and dolphins are being mutilated, and bad people are getting things they don't deserve. The "why" of all that is intensely more profound than any narcissistic vivisection (I swear I wasn't planning that, it just worked) I can muster for the embarrassingly-small semi-tragedy of me not going back to Africa.

So. I'll let you know when I've evolved past self-congratulatory whining. Till then, I should probably just avoid the internet altogether.

An Open Letter to the Gainfully Employed.

Dear You,

If I see you,

and you ask what I'm doing these days,

and I say "looking for a job,"

please, for the love of God,

don't scoff, say "good luck!," then proceed to tell me how everyone you know just got laid off.

Really? The economy's down?

Employer's aren't hiring?

Surely, you jest!

Well, I guess that explains a lot. Wow. Thanks for your enlightenment of the situation.

Now, go back to your job and enjoy being insured.

And really, you don't have to bother talking to me again.

Peace,

Jess

Ready, Aim....Hire!

That's right, my friends, I am on the job hunt. After careful review, I've decided that I: a) need employment to finance all of the concerts I want to attend, and b) am bored out of my mind.

Admittedly, there are several factors working against me in this endeavor. Number one being, of course, the economy. Potentially more devastating, however, is my methodology when it comes to job applications. I somehow think that perusing Craigslist automatically qualifies me for hire. While viewing all my potential employers, I get so overwhelmed with all the jobs I could have that I mentally shut down and forget to...umm...apply. Hey, it's tough work juggling so many imaginary jobs.

In other news. I'm a little sick of being Africa Girl. I'm proud of what I did there, but for the love of Mike, people, I didn't go to Mars.

That being said, if my overseas experience at all gives me an edge over fellow job hunters, you better believe I'm showing up at interviews looking like this.

Don't forget me.

4 days. yahoo!

Baffling Trends: Engagement Photos

You're getting married, not modeling for Marc Jacobs.


What's with this?

Limbo.

"I have become a name; for always roaming with a hungry heart..."




I have now been back in the States a little over one week, after a near ten-month absence. A number of things have changed while I was away: a black man became president, the economy went down the proverbial toilet, Twitter became an obnoxiously ubiquitous force in popular culture, and, most notably, my beloved Conan moved west to L.A. and an hour up into television primetime.

Also, my sister has been married nearly a year. This isn't a change so much as a cold hard indicator of time that makes me sweat a little, and sad a little.

Overall, I don't feel quite like the alien I imagined myself being in the transition from Africa to Suburbia. I'm not sure if I should be comforted by that, or disgusted. Occasionally, an incredibly-mundane-yet-forgotten element of American life will catch me off guard, and I'll shout out nouns like interjections--"Paper TOWELS!" "Water Fountains!" "FAT People!" American/summertime life in general, though, has lazily resumed its pace from August 2008--a morning run, followed by black coffee, followed by nothing-in-particular, really.

As for my future plans--well, that is the topic over which I am simultaneously internally-obsessing and cerebrally-avoiding. To make a long, strange story short: I won't be returning to KICS next year, nor will virtually any of the 08-09 staff. However, nearly all of my colleagues/friends WILL be returning to Rwanda, via a new school that is opening in September. Due to low enrollment in the secondary program, however, this new school does not have a position to offer me. Without sounding too melodramatic, it feels a bit like being dumped by my life--my most current life, anyways--one that I had fallen in love with. Or that I didn't get an invite to some hip new secret club. It's no one's fault, and I don't want to sound like a child, or overly bitter. I'm almost through feeling sorry for myself now, but I'm not too proud to admit that I spent many of my last days in Rwanda feeling adrift, and irrelevant, and more than a little heartbroken.

So. The future. There's a chance that enrollment will increase, and I'll have a job, but it's kind of a pipe dream, and nothing to bank on. I could theoretically return to Rwanda and find a lesser-paying job somewhere else, but part of me wonders if this is the universe's way of nudging me elsewhere--no, not nudging; slamming a door. Which makes me more than a little peeved at the universe, or God, or whatever it was that brought me to Rwanda in the first place. (Pardon my passive voice construction. I'm fully aware that I need to evaluate my locus-of-control). I know I gained more than I can now realize from the past year, and I'll cherish the friendships I've made forever, but with "the next step" so indistinct there is the nagging question of "what it all meant." I'm terrified of losing it, of forgetting; of the past year fading like the dream it so often felt like. I feel a bit like a character in some sci-fi movie, who enters some weird parallel universe, undergoes some life-altering reality, then returns years later to his previous existence to discover that he's only been gone a few hours. Or like Ulysses in Tennyson's poem. After years of pining for Ithaca and Penelope, battling gods and monsters, sailing the world with his men, and feeling utterly exhausted but alive, he finally returns home, only to find himself. . .well, older and bored. An "idle king," administering law to a "savage race, that hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me." Only, I never wanted to go home that badly in the first place.

It's strange--this summer is in so many ways identical to last summer that at times I feel like the last year didn't happen at all. Which terrifies me. I'm certainly not the exotic, tanned, toned, benevolent orphan-cradling "back-from-Africa" Jess that I imagined at one time I'd probably be (should be?) by now (but then again, when have I ever transformed into my expectations?) If possible, now I only feel even more confused and anxious about the future.

Oh, and now I can drive a stick shift.

A Mighty Fortress

Last Saturday, during umuganda (the monthly requisite community service day for Rwandans; the monthly sleep-in-and-do-nothing day for mzungus), my roommates and I were languidly enjoying a morning of no responsibility and horrible television when I mused aloud:

"We should build a fort."

Now, I tend to think of myself as something of an "idea person"--I'm good at conceiving, but not so much at birthing my brainchildren into existence. Fortunately, I live with some practical midwives who know how to get things done.


Minutes later, Fort Chunately was erected.



Fort Chunately (get it? say it out loud) is stocked with amenities to relieve the overworked teacher--mattresses, pillows, blankets, books, candles, and--the pièce de résistance--four cans of Play-doh. My roommate Shannon magnanimously volunteered her mattress to the cause of the fort, and has taken up temporary residence within its billowy walls. I've joined her for all but three nights since the fort's materialization.

Perpetuating the existence of Chunately is not the most practical of endeavors, as she usurps all of our furniture and makes dining at a table impossible. However, we are happily obliged to simply dine inside the fort, as we did with two friends we had over for dinner last night. In fact, we're happily obliged to do everything inside the fort, and rue the inevitable date when practicality will outweigh sentimentality, and Chunately will stand no more.

In the meantime, however, we are celebrating her one-week birthday tomorrow night (or Fort-night, as we've dubbed it).

Long live Fort Chunately.

You got any better ideas?

Exhausted from trying to make important decisions about my future, I’ve decided to do what any good leader/educator does best: delegate.

My students’ next assignment: a persuasive essay entitled “What Should Ms. Merrill Do With Her Life?”

All good writers consider their audience when writing. For this assignment, the audience is incredibly simple and specific--me. For each proposed life path, students will have to determine the short term benefits and long term effects. Basically, they will engineer my five year plan. Those wishing to go above and beyond may research 401K’s and Roth IRA’s for my paltry sum of cash, ensuring that I won’t, one day, die broke. I’d rather leave number-crunching and finance-dissecting to the math types, anyway.

Sure, I expect a large number of puerile responses--”join the circus,” or “breed golden retriever/poodle hybrids” or “never set foot in a classroom again,” or what have you. But when it gets right down to it, I’m starting to suspect that thirty-six 13 to 18 year olds have as good an idea as I do (or better) about the direction my life should take.

The best essay will receive a 348% and my undying gratitude. Plus, bragging rights and a rare sense of fulfillment--it’s not often that a student gets to choose the trajectory of an “adult’s” life.