Friday, February 17, 2012

But we say it is out of love.

Recently I watched Louis Theroux’s documentary titled “The Most Hated Family in America”. The film followed the Westboro Baptist Church, which is mainly comprised of the cult-like Phelps family. This particular religious sect functions within a very sheltered patriarchal system led by grandfather and pastor Fred Phelps. While the documentary is absolutely disturbing, to say the least, the WBBC serves as a wonderful example of cultural hegemony as well as the patriarchal system on the micro, meso and macro levels. As I was watching I found myself wondering how so many people, all of which seemed to function proficiently in terms of intellectual capacity, could not only believe such hateful things, but also advocate intolerance with their words and actions on such profound levels.  


All of the group’s power resides with an older, white, christian, male leader who interprets the bible as he sees fit, he also makes the decisions for the entire church community. These decisions made by the very small minority don’t seem to serve the entire group. For example; when the WBBC goes to picket at the funerals of soldiers who have lost their lives in combat, Fred the patriarch and head of the church oddly does not attend. Regardless of his absence the members sing American anthem tuned songs re-written with hateful lyrics. At first you think you have misheard them, based on the way they joyously smile as they sing, there is a light behind their eyes that looks like Christmas morning to a young child. Then you notice the American flags someone has tied underneath a pair of shoes as they walk across the sidewalk. You read the signs they carry that proclaim happiness at the death of these soldiers, judgments on alternative religions, god’s hatred for sinners, even signs using the F-word, and no I don’t mean fuck. But this community says they candidly preach this way out of love.

As I was watching I noticed a few things about the patriarchal system this religious group functions within. While all of the members of the WBBC have been told to listen to the lord, the women in particular have been taught how to be subservient to “the word of god” a word which they believe to be interpreted from the bible through none other than their own pastor and grandfather, Fred Phelps. How fitting. Only the women are made to wear head coverings while they attend service. Women are told it is their duty to obey their fathers and husbands. Women are taught to assimilate and to remain compliant. The women are held to many standards that the men are not held to. It is doubtful any of them feel they have ever fully met these too-high expectations. The women within this community are a classic example of the results of discrimination on the meso-level, discrimination which leaves women feeling constantly inadequate and judgmental of themselves, these feelings fuel self-hatred which expands into the condemnation and hatred of others, this is a marker of an abusive relationship.

When the church was interviewed on Jay Leno, The Tyra Show, CNN, Ellen, Oprah as well as numerous others Fred Phelps was not in attendance. He sent his daughter Shirley and granddaughters to preach the message of the church and withstand the intolerance of the audience, another micro-level example of the subservience women from this patriarchal church culture are taught
Though Theroux attempted to interview Phelps several times during the filming of the documentary, whenever Phelps was asked a question he would snidely reply with mocking comments such as; “don’t bother me with that kind of a silly question.” Statements such as these serve as examples of the manipulation his community is being subjected to.

Phelps is very candid in his treatment of others. He uses blunt language as a way to imply that he serves truth. We live in a society which associates things like honesty and sincerity with goodness and righteousness, thus under Phelps logic the more candidly or “honestly” he speaks the more righteous he becomes and the more he serves his god, in this way his blatant manipulation is able to wear the cloak of righteousness and integrity. The only problem is that he has confused honesty with malice. Phelps has appointed himself a virtuous knight accomplishing honorable work in the name of god; he motivates faith by inspiring fear and painting shame on the faces of others. This is the way that discrimination and hatred is cultivated; under the justification that it is your right, your duty, to oppress or manipulate others for their own good. In this way Phelps has taken away the free will of his community, another example of the meso-level ramifications. But it’s ok, because he says it’s out of love.

Phelps is able to act this way, because of the patriarchal society that we currently function within. Phelps leads a life of privilege because society gives him more credibility due to the fact that he is a charismatic white male. McIntosh explains this concept in her article; “White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack” when she states “My schooling gave me no training in seeing myself as an oppressor, as an unfairly advantaged person, or as a participant in a damaged culture.” (McIntosh-1) This system of dominance ensures that we live within a pyramid where privilege is reserved for the few we deem worthy.    
There is an old cartoon I’m thinking of where a husband comes home from work after having a rough day, in order to unload some of his negative energy and frustration about his situation, he yells at his wife. The wife now irritated proceeds to yell at their child, who in turn kicks the dog and passes the negativity onward. A very simplistic view of what some of us call karma. This comic not only clearly depicts the roles of class within our patriarchal society but it also simply portrays the not-so-easy to visualize emotional system that we are all members of. McIntosh explains that “I was taught to see myself as an individual whose moral state depended on her own individual will.” (McIntosh-1) In this way each of us as members of society need not be aware of the oppressive system we live within, or take any real responsibility for our actions. This system perpetuates the idea that individual success is dependant only upon individual ability, or motivation, in reality this is not the case. This mentality fails to acknowledge that often there are factors beyond our control which make life more difficult or far easier for each of us individually. Despite what we tell ourselves we don’t all have access to the same privileges based on education, class, socio-economic status, gender, ethnic affiliation, sexual orientation or ability as those at the top of the pyramid.
In the case of the WBBC and its members, women in particular, are made to feel inadequate and undeserving. They are blamed along with eve for the downfall of mankind; they are made to take on responsibility for things over which they have no control.  It is as if the women of his congregation are servants and not equals. There is a silent manipulation which takes hold of them, the vise-like grip that consumes them under the ruse of “right religion”. In regards to privilege there is a clear parallel here between the women of the Westboro Baptist Church and the privileges denied to many minorities within our society, but they say it is out of love.     
We live in a culture where it’s a weakness to express oneself; we are made to feel shame when we cry, we rarely meet one another in the eye, especially if we are strangers. We don’t greet one another, we mind our own business. If someone asks how we are the only socially acceptable response is “Good.” When in reality how often are we really good? Why don’t we share with one another? More and more I hear the phrase “I’m sorry” for an intrusion into personal space in the hallway instead of a simple “excuse me”. And less and less we hear apologies where they truly belong. We are less self aware and more negative; we are more judgmental and less loving, many of us are looking at the pie only from where we are standing, we may not stop to consider and look at the size others have been given. If we do look, we call one another lazy or we chalk it up to individual incompetence as an excuse instead of acknowledging that we are functioning within a system that isn’t designed to serve equality. Under patriarchy those being served with privileged don’t have to look in the mirror and take responsibility for their actions, because this competitive system implies that there is a best and that not everyone can be that. It implies that only the best get to the top because they deserve to be there. It fuels the idea that some are better than others because they are made that way and not because they have grown in a system that serves them best. It provides privileges to some while withholding from others. We are so caught up on our differences that we forget we should be attempting to level the playing field altogether.
This is a system which fails to acknowledge that I am merely a person stuck within the body of a woman.  

When two of Phelps late teen-aged and attractive granddaughters were asked if they had ever dated or if they would ever marry, they laughed and scoffed, then one replied; “the world is at the end of its days, we’re going to be seeing more and more of these disasters. My mission is to serve god. I won’t dwell on that.” as if her life were already over. Such a rage filled brainwashed upbringing would lead any person to an existence filled with equal amounts of sadness and hatred, and is a befitting reason these community members find endless hateful ways to express some of their pent-up frustration and emotions. These girls are examples of the inequalities faced on a micro-level within a hegemonic patriarchal society. This discrimination is to such an extreme that they will likely never have real careers, marry, have children or enjoy life in the most basic of ways.
  
More than I am astonished and hurt by the WBBC’s hateful actions, I am dismayed at some of the comments people have made about what should be done to these people. There is talk about harming them in some way, as if that would make it better, as we could justify spreading violence to people who “deserve it”. No one deserves that. We want to show these people the “right way” because we are so angry at the way they are spreading hate. During the documentary one of the members of the church group was hit in the head with a cup intentionally thrown from a car speeding by. He was 7 years old with blood running down his head. But we say it is out of love.
These people are in an abusive relationship with life, and they are dealing with it in an unhealthy way because that is all they have been shown. They have been raised in this environment and they continue to live within it because they don’t know any better. Many of the church members were born into this life of hatred. They were never given a choice about their beliefs; they have never known anything else, and they do not seek to become self-aware.
We need to help them, not give them more of an incentive to continue this vicious cycle. If someone slapped you and told you that was love your entire life, you wouldn’t know the difference either. Many of the members of the group are educated lawyers with licenses, proving these people are capable of intelligence. They live in an environment which makes them feel constantly worthless, after all everyone is inadequate when compared to an all-knowing power. These people are so blinded by fear that they can’t even take responsibility for their own actions.  They have been shortchanged in terms of emotional expression and they are being robbed of a happy life full of self-acceptance and joy.
They spread violence with their words and exhibit the only behavior they have ever been shown. But they say it is out of love. We become angry at the way they are so we de-humanize them and fight violence with violence, continuing the vicious cycle. But we say it is out of love. We are all so angry that we feel justified hating right back so we can show them how to hate the right way.
But we say it is out of love.
















If you would like to watch the documentary you can do that here:

If you would like to read McIntosh’s article: “White Privilege: Unpacking the Knapsack” you can do that here:

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Just Another Day in the Life

When I moved recently, I decided to do a social experiment: every few days I wanted to do one intensely odd thing. My reasoning being that society needs more exposure in learning how to accept things that don’t fit into norms. Sometimes I feel like people have come to expect instant gratification too much and I for one think that we could all use a few lessons in patience and tolerance. So I decided to make a game out of it, kind of like "the glad game" in Pollyanna, except much less proper, and way more absurd. It typically consists of me intentionally acting like a nut job around people that I don’t know at all and will likely never see again.



DAY 1



The other day I was walking along the sidewalk when I saw a cyclist in the distance pedaling in my direction. Sidewalks are free zones as far as I’m concerned and usually I’m more than happy to share part of the pavement with the other cement users, but for some reason as it happened on this particular day I was feeling a little mischievous and I decided to play this prank. This particular biker was about 50 feet away when an idea just jumped into my head (literally jumped, with some pretty spot on jiminy-cricket-like tendencies; right into my brain). I stopped in my tracks before this biker was anywhere near me and I stood frozen, staring as if I was seeing some kind of imminent and quickly impending doom, like I was witnessing bigfoot dressed in drag angrily tap-dancing my way while he shook a fist at me in time to the music in my head.

(Don’t worry. It’s just pretend; it’s a pretend game.)



I began to scream. And not like one of those uncommitted half-screams, you know the ones I’m talking about, where people don’t fill their lungs up with enough air and they usually roll their eyes so they don’t have to hold eye contact while they’re screaming because they feel awkward about how intense their face must look. I’m talking full on screaming here, like baby raptor meets dying infant. (I may have thrown in some tactful hyperventilating as well, but I can’t be too sure) It was an intense moment. I acted like this cyclist (who was still more than 25 feet away) was absolutely about to hit me. I was completely horrified, people stopped, people turned, people stared. They wondered why on earth I could possibly be howling in such a fashion. They glanced around and saw that I didn’t appear to be hurt, I hadn’t dropped an ice cream cone nor was any dark villain dashing away with my purse clutched tightly in his evil bony hand; nothing seemed amiss.
 

Next I dramatically threw my hand out in front of me, full palm facing outwards as I locked my elbow into place. If my hand could speak it would have been saying:



 “STOP! You there! Cyclist! You are about to cause a head on COLLISION!”



Naturally my biker was a bit perplexed and slowed his pace while he veered slightly to the side of the walkway. He was confused; I know, because he had his confused face on. He wasn’t actually near enough that he may have hit me even if he had wanted to (and I was starting to suspect he may have enjoyed the idea in some form).


I continued my screaming while I mixed in a few short hyperventilated bursts of air (for dramatic effect). At this point bike boy was pedaling pretty slowly and looking at me as if I was insane (understandably) He was CLEARLY not about to hit me, but he had realized that he was the reason for my demonstration. At least seven seconds had passed and I still hadn’t stopped my outburst or stopped staring at him. Within ten feet I minimized my terror-screams to whimpers-of-accepted-discomfort. I covered my face and ears with my forearms and crouched low to the ground; as if I was bracing myself for the smash from his spokes. I imagine that I looked like one of those people that is about to die and has a few split seconds to realize there is absolutely nothing that they can do about it. (like a pathetic, horror filled sad-hag).



I don’t know what he thought, and it wouldn’t have changed my behavior regardless but I’m assuming as bike boy pedaled by and rolled his eyes his mind was filled with thoughts along the lines of:



“I must have something on my face.” or “I look like her old soccer coach?” or “koeuBunf sidf havha rg figsdju6o phoj dba urgr…eiryrabgb.” or “she’s craaaay-z”



I didn’t cease my crouching until he was a several sidewalk squares behind me (I know because I was watching him upside down through the triangle my stubby legs made with the pavement.) Then I abruptly stood up and continued walking as if nothing at all had happened, if I could whistle well I absolutely would have. I think a few of the people on the street must have questioned if that experience wasn’t just a figment of their imaginations:


“Did that actually happened or was it was just a vivid dream from the most unusual parts of my mind?”
 

 A few blocks later when I got back to my apartment, I laughed about what the extreme exposure to my unusual version of life might cause typical members of society to feel like. At least he had something interesting to share with his wife later when she asked him how his day was:
 

“…her eyeballs were huge…seriously there isn’t anything on my face?!”




I saved a man from the mundane; that basically makes me a superhero.






Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Seizure

You're on the floor,writhing
agony must make you blind
shooting through your adolescent mind
electric shock-filled jolting waves
I wonder how, you are so brave
You squeeze my hand in yours frozen cold
until the medicine takes hold

When it happens,
where do you go?
Do you see fireworks,
like a July fourth show?
Do you "ooh" and "ahh" at the beauty,
that's inside your brain?
Are you really that removed,
from all the pain?

I want to believe
you don't remember a thing
I think it's crazy
hours later, you wake up hazy.
You ask me nicely for Mac n' cheese
and a bedtime story please
you smile and snuggle
never cause one whit of trouble.

I brush your brownish curled bangs back
off your sweaty young boy brow,
tuck you in again
and wonder on earth, how.
Dear boy, you never cease to astonish me
you grin at me mischeviously,
your eyelids flutter sleepily.

I whisper silent, with my eyes
thank up above, that you are mine
kiss your forehead, one last time.

Glancing at the stars on far
I know, I love you
Just as you are.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Alumunum Can-Do

This morning I came to from my sleepiness as I was crookedly standing (I have a tendency to do that; with my bony ankles wrapped around one another) in my too small kitchen, and my eyes fell upon my similarly too small recycling bin. It was piled high with milk jugs, glass jars and aluminum cans; which made me remember something from childhood:

                When I was a kid the neighbors and I used to race the bus from the street stop to our houses. We would run through the ditches in mad attempts to be the first one home before that yellow on wheels screeched past our driveway. It was some bloodthirsty competitive game we all played with each other. I never won any of the races to the bus; let’s face it I was the clumsy buck-toothed one with freckles that was always somehow losing a shoe, but sometimes when the bus would pull past my driveway, my Dad would be standing there, with four rows of aluminum cans; one for each of us kids. We always saved our cans because my parents used the money to fund our “Kid Activities”. It was used it to pay for stuff like Six Flags passes, or garage sale-ing and ice-cream, or roller skating; once my sister and I used some of the money to get pet guinea pigs (both of which promptly escaped somewhere into the freedom of our woodpile on the messy acre called our backyard) other odd activities too if you can imagine. While this fund was certainly a testament to how much soda pop we drank as kids, looking back I can’t help but remember the thrill that I always felt when I saw my dad standing in the driveway with his funny crooked smile surrounded by all of our empty recycling bins. The rims of his glasses were about the size of soda cans, which made me feel like I saw those circles everywhere I looked.  We smashed those cans and laughed until we were sick. Just laughing and smashing.  All I had to do was concentrate on smashing those cans into perfect circles; I’d move down my line of cans and focus so hard. Jump with two feet, move, repeat, jump with two feet, move, repeat, again and again, until suddenly I was at the end of my line. Just like that.

                I was sleepishly remembering it all when I realized it had been years since I’d thought of that particular childhood pastime activity. Even longer since the last time I gave myself permission to just be a kid like that, to smash cans and race the bus like it was the most important thing ever, like it was my job. So I emptied my recycling bin, picked out my roommate’s Pepsi Throwbacks and acted like the hulk at 7:15 this morning. And guess what; I only need one foot to smash dem’ cans now.