Skipping Church

Honest, this not a bait-and-switch, I will talk about why I think a person who attends church sometimes should skip it. If you don't usually attend a house of worship (on Sunday), I encourage you to enjoy CBS Sunday Morning; it's a lovely show to watch over a leisurely brunch.

Going to church as a child meant Sunday School. My mother dropped us off, went home for an hour, then came back to get us. Neither of my parents attended church at that time, but they thought it best their children did, largely out of commitment to middleclass values I suppose (something about learn all the basic Christian stuff and then you will fit into our culture as we expect).

Leaving out the journey that got me there, I continue to attend church regularly as an adult. I have moved to three different states since my childhood and have sought out a parish home each time. There are plenty of Sundays I have lots to do or would rather goof around for the morning, but on most occasions I get myself into the shower, clean clothes, my car, and then a pew.

A secret of mine: when I meet someone who describes themselves as an atheist I often think to myself, "Wow, all those free Sundays."

I will refrain from saying much about why I do go other than to say that I find I benefit from the experience in the long run, I enjoy being part of a community of people (which improves my general well being), and I value the regular commitment to something bigger than myself (largely the same reasons others do things having nothing to do with organized religion). I go for other, deeper, theological reasons as well, but the list above captures the most me-centered components.

Why then, if I so value and enjoy going to church on Sundays (and other occasions), do I sometimes skip it? Outside of days when I'm traveling, ill, or finally get some good sleep (this meaning even more to me these days) that takes me through my alarm, I do sometimes skip church for the sake of skipping.

A Tale of Two Truancies

One Sunday, a dozen years ago or so I found myself rushing to get out the door and to church on time. Running nearly late is par for the course with me, but on this day, for reasons I cannot remember and don't really matter, I got stressed about it. I found myself aggravated at the hubbub of trying to get out the door; I became stressed at throwing myself together and worrying about how close I would cut it to being late; then I began to resent "having" to go. At that, turning the deadbolt to my apartment door, I stopped. "Why am I going?," I asked myself. It occurred to me I needed a break. In my insistence to be at church I had worked myself into a lather that became counter productive. Between whatever else was going in my life that day and the anxiety about getting out the door well groomed and on time I had gotten myself to bad place. It seemed the most beneficial experience that morning would be to sit down and put my feet up. Going to church had become a stresser, not exactly the goal of attending.

Another time, about six years ago, I attended the Great Vigil on Holy Saturday (the evening before Easter). For those not familiar, the service lasts about three hours and includes a number of readings and multiple sermons—it's not called the Great Vigil for nothing. The Great Vigil includes a celebration of Christ rising from the tomb (thus ending Lent and beginning Easter). The next morning, contemplating the crowds at church and having been the night before, I skipped Easter Sunday. The morning held out sun and blue skies, so I leashed my dog and took a walk with her. I enjoyed the morning air, felt a sense of relief from the business of the preceding week, and looked forward to a lunch with friends that afternoon. Not going made me happier and grateful for the day.

There are times I would like to stay home from church, but then I go, often being glad I did because of the benefits I find from going. I think it must be much like not wanting to exercise but doing it anyway and then finding you are rather glad you did. Sometimes though, for me, just staying home—giving myself permission to take a break—helps me avoid resenting church for impinging on my life rather than enhancing it. Often, after I missed for missing's sake, I look forward to the next Sunday.

Of course, the recurring theme here comes from my being frazzled, hardly a problem with church. True. The problem is me, and skipping church can be a helpful reset to return being glad to engage. I could go on those cranky days and try to force myself into a better mood, but sometimes, like a child's tantrum, I say you just let it play itself through.

Why I Call My Wife My Partner

[WARNING: This is a love letter involving vomit]

I call the woman I married, "my partner." If you know me, you will know I do refer to her as my "wife" sometimes, but I really prefer to think of and call her my "partner." I suppose many times my decision to refer to her as either one is a matter of code switching. If I find myself in a place and a mood where I can use language however I want without looks or explanations, I call the person I spend my life with my partner; it just seems to make the most sense.

I should add, there are lots of good reasons I use the word "partner" over wife/husband. To be brief about it, lots of people are in a committed relationship with someone they cannot or have chosen not to marry. Given the realities of couples, straight and queer (or however they may define themselves), who build lives together without filing papers at a courthouse or who are in a pretty serious relationship and want a term that sounds less adolescent than boyfriend/girlfriend (which always sounds to me like you are passing notes in class), the term "partner" seems more inclusive; I use it often in my classroom as a way of modeling language choices that respect the broadest range of persons. Good reasons those are, they are not the true reason I call my wife my"partner."

Word choices matter to me, despite my sometimes careless and unfortunate use of them. The importance of word choices explains why I rarely can be heard to use "God" of "Jesus Christ" as an exclamation, owing to issues of my faith, which I will spare you from reading.

I have observed to my partner many times, "we are at our best when we're a team." Some of the moments when I have felt our bond strongest have been those moments when a problematic situation arose and we had to divide and conquer: "You grab the X, and I'll get the Y taken care of"; "OK!" I have always felt life contains such doses of chaos and doubt, a person needs support to get through it (My respect, by the way, to those who disagree). For me that's my partner, the one I experience life with.

http://www.spreadshirt.com

Two nights ago we were woken by our twenty-month old crying. When I went up to her room I found her covered by her own vomit—pretty picture, I know. Taking advantage of the baby monitor in the room I paged for back up: "I'm gong to need your help. She's thrown up." In a minute it was now a two-on-one situation. The child had to be washed and the bed stripped and cleaned, so we divided and conquered. Two hours later and a fussy, sick toddler to tend to, I went back to bed while my partner stayed up to sit with the little one. After three hours, we switched places.

It reminded me of the days of our daughter as a newborn. We worked as partners in shifts through the day, generally doing two feedings and then sleeping through the next two. The work left you exhausted, but, even now, my partner refers to that as some of the happiest days together; we worked together as a family for eight solid weeks, further forging our bond as partners.

Whether it's a sick child or the hectic hour before dinner guests arrive, some of the times I feel most the love between my partner and me, occurs when we work together. Fear not, I'm overcome by the love I have with my partner when we enjoy quiet times together, have the same response to an event or moment, support one another through a difficult spot, or get a good laugh from a silly movie. In the moments of stress, though, when being alone can be the hardest, I find myself feeling the strong connection to the one with whom I want to face the challenges and joys of life, my partner. 

The Time I Gave Up Pepsi for Lent

http://www.prices4antiques.com

I love Pepsi. I just want to get that out of the way. I find it comforting and refreshing. The way some people talk about coffee, which I don't drink, I talk about Pepsi. When I met a woman whose father worked for Pepsi I knew it was kismet: I married her.

Several years ago I decided to test my dependence on Pepsi and my ability to sacrifice for the sake of personal and spiritual growth by going without the elixir of my well being for the season of Lent, all 46 days of it.

I was raised Baptsit, as in the Baptist church was the only Protestant house in town so that's where my mother dropped us off for Sunday school every week—except in summer because nobody goes to school in summer (I make no claims to the soundness of this theological line of thinking). Lent meant nothing. Ash Wednesday meant nothing. Good Friday meant nothing (though it seemed to me all Fridays possessed an inherent goodness by dent of being the end of the school week). 

Long story short, I became an Episcopalean during graduate school. Turns out, my church now had all kinds of fancy days of the week leading up to Easter that I had never heard of: Maundy Thursday, Shrove Tuesday, Holy Saturday, and some others whose names I still forget. 

Father Patrick, the priest under whom I was confirmed, very patiently explained Lent to me. I had expressed my concern that it sounded like sacrifice for its own sake. He explained to me that Lent can be different experiences: giving up a pleasure as a way of dying to the self in a small way (the idea being to focus less on your own wants all the time) or the opportunity to start a new discipline for one to grow spiritually, emotionally, and so forth.

After various Lenten sacrifices, and skipping the practice of Lent sometimes, I decided to give up Pepsi for Lent. I had been asked a couple of times before if I would ever do it, usually a jest meant to mock how much I enjoy the bubbly corn syrup drink.

It seemed to me that an emotional attachment to any substance did not sound particularly good and that to temporarily give up a pleasure in the pursuit of reminding myself life is not all about my own gratification could have some positive impact. Thus, I waved Pepsi bye-bye along with all other sodas, because to drink other sparkling beverages would seem like cheating.

Happily the first weeks (there's six and a half of them in Lent) went pretty well. I had no physical reaction, making me happy to know I did not have a caffeine addiction. I missed a fizzy beverage, especially after a meal, but I got used to it. In the mornings I drank cranberry juice. I drank more water during the day, inviting a healthier lifestyle. I felt temped a few times for sure, but I took great pride in holding strong. Yes, I took on a challenge and proved my mettle. I never discussed it with anyone, yet I felt very smug knowing the depth of my self-discipline. Ha!

Then the day came. I cannot tell you what happened, for I do not remember. I recall the day did not go well. Not a I-dropped-my-lunch-on-the-floor day, more like what-the-hell-am-I-doing sort of day, a day when you question life choices, feel incompetent and overwhelmed, and generally find yourself lost at sea.

With a dollar in my hand I stood before the Pepsi machine in my building. "If I do this," I thought, "I will ruin my perfect record." It occurred to me in that moment I had missed the point of Lent. I made a time for self-reflection and development into a feat of strength.

At that, I slipped the dollar into the machine, pressed PEPSI, and cracked open a cool bottle of fizzy nectar. First, let me say, it was good; it provided the small pleasure to really bouey my day. Second, I learned about myself in that moment. I learned that I thought of myself as somehow stronger than you, which clearly needed some correcting. Further, I saw my feet of clay; I had to face the fact that I needed: I needed help, support, comfort, succor, or whatever else you call being human and struggling. As silly as it sounds, I humbled myself by admitting, "I need."

I suppose the story might be brighter if I said in my moment of distress I found comfort in prayer, meditation, or a close friend. Alas, I took strength from a Pepsi. I did, however, have to face a corrupted view of myself and a spiritual practice. Embracing the weakness of my humanity seemed like an important lesson to learn in that moment. I reflected on the point of my weakness a lot in the remaining weeks of Lent and beyond; I think of it now, though perhaps not often enough. I cannot remember all Lenten disciplines I have attempted, but that year sticks. Thankfully, that year, a season of discipline made the most impact in its failure.

My Daughter Is Cute, but She's Other Things, Too

Baby toes. My friend, Christina, told me to be sure to take

pictures of baby toes. "Why?" I wondered. Then I saw them.

Even her little toes, which I otherwise think are sort of gross,
are adorable. Again, I am totally biased.

I have a very cute little girl. You may disagree, and you certainly do not have to care. Her little smiles, her belly laughs, and the way her already-long hair falls in her face warm my heart in ways surpassing words, but, as her father, what would you expect from me? I have no objectivity when it comes to my daughter's cuteness because I'm her dad. I do wish others would stop commenting on it, though.

Just the other day I took my 20 month old daughter with me to the bank. In the ten minutes we were in the place, with only a handful of employees around, she must have been complimented by the staff about ten times on how cute she is ("cute," "a cutie," "cutest little thing," "adorable," "a doll," etc. [I swear I should conduct a study on personality types represented by the adjective used; I have a large enough subject pool.]). Later that night when my partner and I braved a dinner out with our daughter, our toddler received similar compliments from multiple strangers, helped by her propensity to walk by tables smiling and waving. It's hardly a new experience, but it's also a little troubling for me.

I admit this might all sound like a roundabout way to brag about my daughter; truly, that's not my intent. We welcomed first compliments we received on our daughter's cuteness, which came from her NICU nurse. My partner and I beamed as the compliments continued through her early infancy. The simple sweetness of my daughter literally brought tears to my eyes, and to hear that others saw some joy in her as well swelled my heart even more. With time the charm of "cute" wore off; I often force smiles now to thank people for the compliment.

The "cute" issue has a lot to do with gender. It seems to me that boys stop being "cute" much sooner than girls. For the boys we focus on other adjectives, but with girls we seem to stay in the realm of cute. The research on gender abounds with examples of us all concentrating on women's appearance in ways we don't for men, both interpersonally and in media.

My fear, then, is that from an early age my daughter will learn exactly what she hears, that people appreciate her cuteness most. Between her inclination to be a ham and people telling her how cute she is, my daughter has already learned to be cute to be praised. I have a social child, but I also see her waving and smiling at strangers has to do with the inevitable, "how cute you are!" to which she grins wider and waves some more.

I'm hardly the first person to worry about this. Lisa Bloom mentioned the long term effects of complimenting girls and the need to move to other conversation starters than their dress or curls (she suggests asking about their favorite book). As Bloom admits, we naturally want to speak to a child's cuteness (perhaps more so for a girl), so the change takes some awareness of the issue.

I fully trust every kind word offered comes from a place of kindness to my daughter and me. I also think of my niece and nephews as children. Any picture of them in my hand or in my mind makes me smile; I see how cute they are. There's that cuteness of children that comes from seeing them through the lens of your love for them. We've all experienced that in one context or another, children or not. When my daughter's grandparents or aunts and uncles talk about her cuteness, I don't bristle for a second, because I hear it as an expression of their love for her. My angst comes from the well meaning friends and as well as strangers who, in a spirit of generosity, tell me how cute she is.

Of course, sometimes "cute" as a compliment refers to things other than looks; a small child sweetly waving is cute. Even then, can we be more creative than "cute"?

When my daughter was nine months old I asked a friend, who had raised a child into college, about my concern that people only comment on my daughter's looks. "It's all people really have to say; they can't compliment her math skills," she explained. True, I thought and then, later, how uncreative!

Our daughter's pediatrician has always shown ways to compliment a child without ever once mentioning cuteness. From the time our child was a week old and every visit after, the pediatrician has commented on our daughter's quickness to study a face, her ability to focus and keep attention, or her verbal expressiveness: I trust children unlike my daughter hear about their inquisitiveness, curiosity to see everything, or quiet, reflective nature.

My daughter, like every child, has many wonderful traits having nothing to do with her physical appearance; let's focus on those. Here are some ides for what to say to my, or any, toddler you see out in public that moves away from "cute":

• Wow, you've got lots of energy.
• Aren't you social?
• You like to read? That's great.
• How friendly you are.
• It looks like you take good care of your monkey (or whatever the stuffed animal is).
• What a nice child you are.
• Do you like to talk?
• You play so quietly.

Ok, the list isn't great, but you get the idea; in a given context you can compliment a child saying nothing about appearance.

Please, if you know my child and me, don't feel you have to avoid speaking to her when I'm around or that I am wanting to control your interactions. I'm not angry that you have called her "cute." Instead, know that I am trying to raise a confident, strong daughter in a culture that—from where I sit—makes women check themselves in the mirror three times before they can go out in public (sometimes afraid to not wear make up), that tells women that for all their talents and accomplishments their looks will always be on the table for discussion, and that their bodies are their most important assets if they want to truly succeed socially and professionally.

I am trying to raise a smart, kind, responsible child, and I need all the help I can get.


PS Are you tired of the word "cute" now (I used it 26 times)? Well, if so, join the club.

Don't Hate Thomas Too Much

Tonight, we watch the season finale of Downton Abbey, a show with which I have been quite smitten. There is much to enjoy about the shows' elements: visually sumptuous shots (even in a boot room), engaging—if soap operatic at times—story lines, and writing littered with witty bon mots and lovely turns of phrase. For those familiar with the reference, Downton Abbey offers a nice update to Upstairs, Downstairs, a show created in part of give some voice to the many people who lived a life "in service" before the many social changes in England following the World Wars.

Not only has Downton Abbey presented itself as an aesthetic play land (I say nothing about its depth), it has succeeded as a seductive treatise of privilege. It seems that across the pond Downton has lost its luster even as it continues to do well here in the states. Here, where we never really had the feudal-like system in which people worked, ate, and slept in others' home for grueling hours at little pay: well, we had slavery, but the show helps us forget that, too.

Andrew O'Hehir critiqued films like The Help for helping white audiences to see past racial injustices through a lens of contemporary morality in which we get to say, "Ah, yes, if I were in that place and time, I would have been one of those good white people who saw the system as unfair." Perhaps you/I/we would have; perhaps.

My five year stint in Louisiana taught me the phrase, "just like one of the family." Those words came from a number of my white students when referring to black women who worked in their childhood homes as housekeepers, child care providers, and general "help". The students who repeated the mantra, "just like one of the family," did so with genuine affection for a person that often served as a surrogate mother whom they could talk about things "I could never mention to my parents." The children did love these women, but members of the family they were not; often not educated and with little work experience outside their home raising their own children, who sometimes sat at home alone while their mothers tended to their employers' own, the women received meager pay and could be easily replaced. The employment afforded some women a paying job they may not have found elsewhere, but their ample availability for work spoke to the nature of a social order at play.

The people living in the homes of Downton certainly seem just like members of the family; just recently  Lord Grantham paid for a plaque to honor his head-cook's late nephew. A few seasons ago the whole family—that is, the family with money— rallied to bring William to the manor house following a war injury that he might die at home—again, the manor house where he had worked. The storyline only helped to solidify the idea that the servants lived in a natural orbit around the family, seeing the place where they worked from before sunup to after sundown as home.

The show reminds me sometimes of Gone with the Wind, where Mammy (a woman whose position is also her name) provides the white heroine, Scarlett, a conscience first as a slave then as (presumably) paid help. Mammy's presence as the now-free, ever-loyal, and still-working for her white masters reminds us that she's just like one of the family, so long as that means she gives to her employers' as though they were her family but they never have a place for her at the table as though she were their family.

Often we cannot help ourselves; we always root for the main character. Romantic identification, we call it, wanting to see the protagonist prevail even in conflict with our morals (House of Cards, anyone?). Bertolt Brecht coined the phrase "alienation effect"—well, he called it Verfremdungseffekt—to describe the experience art might create to break audience's romantic identification with the narrative's protagonist. Brecht wanted us to examine the hero more objectively. Alas, Downton Abbey is all romance, no alienation.

Upstairs, Downstairs helped viewers to firmly connect and care for the family of employers and also see their occasional indifference and disrespect to the staff—in the first episode a maid is hired and then renamed in the same breath to something more pleasing to the lady of the house's ear. The tendency to make the employers sometimes unsympathetic, and the staff also flawed, faded with time as the characters lost their third dimension to become more easily likeable from all sides.

At Downton's start there seemed the chance we might get some of the sensibility from Upstairs. As we are introduced to life at Downton we meet servants beginning a day's work, forced to tend to the house without the paying family ever seeing them, saving the moneyed folk from a breakfast spoiled by seeing others work. Anna, a housemaid we have always been charmed by, laments being woken—to be ready to dress someone else—pleading to the universe to be wake on her own accord for once.

Thomas: servant, villain, realist

Quickly, though, we forget about the work, truly back breaking work, that, happily, gets a little better about the time in history Downton opens, with hot running water saving servants from forty trips up back staircases with buckets of hot bath water. We also never feel much of the reality of division created by the stair case you use. Servants care desperately about their employers' well being, and employers look in on the servants just enough to seem like the sort of kind, caring masters and mistresses we imagine we would be with someone who is "just like one of the family" that dresses us, assists with our bath, and combs our hair at night.


The footman-cum-under butler, Thomas, provides the show a somewhat reliable villain. How do we know he's so bad? He keeps questioning everyone in the servant hall living and dieing with the happiness and sorrow of the people whose house they tend. In the first season, especially, Thomas raises the ire of his fellow employees whenever he suggests they care more about the people upstairs than is ever reciprocated. True, Thomas's harsh comment about the lady of the house's miscarriage went a little far, but his point remained that servants wept for their employer's loss when they cannot count on such intense sympathy in return, not in reality at least.

Rather than denying or shaming an in-house employee having concern for other humans, even those they work for, I mean to highlight the fantasy Downton perpetuates that class hierarchies can be filled with mutual love and affection, that life as a servant can be rather nice, and that the system of differences works just fine so long as you look at it from the right side of the green baize door. In recent episodes the cook and head butler, alike, have bemoaned the march of time, signaled by the absence of live-in help and the rise of the labour party. Here the servants worry about a world run a muck, where the class system has broken down, even just a little. You see, it was a good system; everyone agreed.

I do appreciate Downton's attempts at progressiveness. Thomas, the sort-of-openly gay character, gets to keep his job, he even gets a promotion. Another member of staff urges him to accept his sexuality, as does a physician, though with a slightly more realistic (to the time) suggestion he just accept it and forget it. Of course, the script generally elides actual discrimination of the period—hell, this period—in the attempt to make everyone seem always good. (On the plus side for Downton [thinking back to a storyline from Upstairs], the homosexual servant may be sort of sinister, but at least he has avoided being hung for murder, at least so far.)

Tonight I'll watch Downton and probably enjoy it. I won't think about the realities it masks or how it invites me to forget my own history, personal and cultural; I'll just root for Anna to be free, Isobel to find love, Edith to find happiness, and for Lord Grantham to find it somewhere in his generous, thoughtful heart to love his granddaughter(!). I suppose that's the secret to the show's success.