On Winter Solstice -- at the moment of the Solstice, too! -- I had
the pleasure and privilege of spending an hour in the on-line living
room of the Unitarian Universalist Church of the Larger Fellowship, as a guest on The VUU. It
was a lovely experience -- gift after gift during that hour.
Many thanks to everyone involved for our lovely conversation and experiential celebration of the Solstice, and especially to Lori Stone Sirtosky and Rina Jurceka, for much more than I can put into words in this space.
And just a reminder -- you don't have to have a group to do A Winter Solstice Singing Ritual. You can do it by yourself in your living room, or with a small group of friends, or with 20 people in a friend's living room.
Blessed Solstice and Happy 2018!
----------------
Watch the video on YouTube:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9iuGDm9Yr-c
Watch the video here:
Listen to the podcast/audio:
Download podcast here:
More on A Winter Solstice Singing Ritual:
A Winter Solstice Singing Ritual on Facebook:
Erica Baron's wonderful Yule story, which she read on the program:
Showing posts with label featured posts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label featured posts. Show all posts
Sunday, January 7, 2018
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Pagan values, feminism, and transgender women
This is my contribution to the 2012 Pagan Values Project. For more information about the Pagan Values Project, please see http://paganvalues.wordpress.com/.
Non-violence and eco-feminism
I'm a Witch and a Quaker.
Non-violence and eco-feminism are essential parts of my life.
(I've written about this in detail before, including in my contribution to the Pagan Values Project in 2009: http://aquakerwitch.blogspot.co.uk/2009/06/my-pagan-values-my-quaker-values.html.)
Because non-violence and eco-feminism are central to me, I don't support -- and I do challenge -- violence and behaviors that lead to violence. I support, encourage, and participate in non-violent conflict resolution. I participate in community that promotes non-violence, teaches it, and tries to live it, amongst ourselves and in the wider world. I have training in both verbal and physical non-violent conflict resolution, and have trained and co-trained others in these methods. I have put my own life at risk in peace witness, and as part of and in support of non-violent activism, both at home and in other parts of the world.
So, no, this is not just an airy theory to me.
This is real life.
And one of the things I challenge because it leads to violence is hate speech.
What do I mean by "hate speech"?
There are two main categories of hate speech -- the kind that's covered by the law, and the kind that isn't.
According to Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hate_speech):
The kind of hate speech that is covered by the law is
The kind of hate speech that is not covered by the law is
This is over-simplified, but provides enough of a background for purposes of this piece.
How does hate speech lead to violence?
Hate speech dehumanizes other people, and thereby leads to violence -- by allowing us to come to see them as less than human, as deserving of violence. Dehumanization allows us to come to believe eventually that what happens to them doesn't "count" as violence towards other people.
The research on violence and violence prevention, and experience within the eco-feminist and other political and spiritual and religious movements, demonstrates this, over and over.
If you'd like to read more about how how reinforcing humanity works to prevent violence, and dehumanization works to increase violence, see http://aquakerwitch.blogspot.co.uk/2009/06/growth-of-political-violence-in-united.html.
Talking about transgender women
Recently, in particular, I have come across a wide range of language used in reference to transgender women.
Because of this, I'm going to speak about transgender women specifically right now; but almost everything I say is also true of transgender men, genderqueer people/people who don't fit the gender binary, as well.
I know that many people who are uncomfortable with transgender women, and make disparaging jokes about transgender women out of that discomfort, think nothing of it.
I know that many people who insist on using their own words for the experience and bodies of transgender women, instead of the words that transgender women themselves choose, think nothing of it -- or even believe that they are doing something positive.
I know that many people who use derogatory language for or towards transgender women think it's no big deal, or it's harmless, or that they are somehow defending themselves.
I know that many people don't think these things are hate speech.
They're wrong.
Gender stereotypes and feminism
One of the aims of feminism has been to help women -- and not just women -- resist gender stereotypes, and make choices based on what we like and what's good for us, rather than have our choices limited based on what society says is appropriate for arbitrary categories of gender. Things like "girls," "boys," "women," and "men."
What should determine whether I wear a skirt or trousers -- what I like, the weather, and what I'll be doing while wearing my clothing, right? What should determine the length of my hair?
My gender should just not be relevant to these choices. Neither should anyone else's.
However, my gender is still relevant, and I am sanctioned for making choices too far outside my culture's stereotypes for my gender.
Society holds transgender women to even stricter adherence to gender stereotypes than it does cisgender (non-transgender)* women. (So do many feminists, something I find ironic.)
(*Cisgender as non-transgender: Again, this is over-simplified, but should be enough for this post, for now. I will give a more in-depth treatment of this in another post soon.)
Hate speech towards transgender women in feminism
Many transgender women are feminists.
Many cisgender feminists are supportive of transgender women and transgender feminist women.
Many cisgender feminists are uncomfortable with transgender women and transgender feminist women. Some are challenging their discomfort; some are not.
But there are some cisgender feminists who take their discomfort to extremes.
One of the places I've come across some of the most derogatory language towards transgender women again recently -- outright hate speech -- is within feminist communities.
Speaking up
As a feminist, as a Quaker, as a Witch, it is my job to speak up when people in my communities use language, especially hate speech, that promotes violence against women, period.
And it is my job to speak up when people in my communities use language, especially hate speech, that promotes violence against transgender women.
So I am speaking up:
Hate speech against transgender women -- NOT consistent with my Quaker, lesbian, radical eco-feminist, Pagan values.
It's time to for all of us who are allies to speak up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Non-violence and eco-feminism
I'm a Witch and a Quaker.
Non-violence and eco-feminism are essential parts of my life.
(I've written about this in detail before, including in my contribution to the Pagan Values Project in 2009: http://aquakerwitch.blogspot.co.uk/2009/06/my-pagan-values-my-quaker-values.html.)
Because non-violence and eco-feminism are central to me, I don't support -- and I do challenge -- violence and behaviors that lead to violence. I support, encourage, and participate in non-violent conflict resolution. I participate in community that promotes non-violence, teaches it, and tries to live it, amongst ourselves and in the wider world. I have training in both verbal and physical non-violent conflict resolution, and have trained and co-trained others in these methods. I have put my own life at risk in peace witness, and as part of and in support of non-violent activism, both at home and in other parts of the world.
So, no, this is not just an airy theory to me.
This is real life.
And one of the things I challenge because it leads to violence is hate speech.
What do I mean by "hate speech"?
There are two main categories of hate speech -- the kind that's covered by the law, and the kind that isn't.
According to Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hate_speech):
The kind of hate speech that is covered by the law is
...any speech, gesture or conduct, writing, or display which is forbidden because it may incite violence or prejudicial action against or by a protected individual or group, or because it disparages or intimidates a protected individual or group. The law may identify a protected individual or a protected group by race, gender, ethnicity, disability, nationality, religion, sexual orientation, gender identity, or other characteristic.
The kind of hate speech that is not covered by the law is
...any communication that vilifies a person or a group on the basis of race, color, ethnicity, gender, disability, sexual orientation, nationality, religion, or other characteristic.
This is over-simplified, but provides enough of a background for purposes of this piece.
How does hate speech lead to violence?
Hate speech dehumanizes other people, and thereby leads to violence -- by allowing us to come to see them as less than human, as deserving of violence. Dehumanization allows us to come to believe eventually that what happens to them doesn't "count" as violence towards other people.
The research on violence and violence prevention, and experience within the eco-feminist and other political and spiritual and religious movements, demonstrates this, over and over.
- When we make the effort to remind ourselves of the humanity of other people -- other people we don't like, other people who make us uncomfortable, other people who challenge us, other people who scare us, other people who make us squirm -- we reaffirm a commitment to non-violence. Even more importantly, we are doing something concrete to ensure that we are less likely to commit violence against other human beings -- other expressions of That-Which-Is-Sacred.
- When we use words that trash other people, words that support some people as deserving of violence, words that support other people's violent behavior against certain people, words that dehumanize other human beings, words that refer to other people as animals or objects or trash... We are engaging in behavior that promotes violence.
If you'd like to read more about how how reinforcing humanity works to prevent violence, and dehumanization works to increase violence, see http://aquakerwitch.blogspot.co.uk/2009/06/growth-of-political-violence-in-united.html.
Talking about transgender women
Recently, in particular, I have come across a wide range of language used in reference to transgender women.
Because of this, I'm going to speak about transgender women specifically right now; but almost everything I say is also true of transgender men, genderqueer people/people who don't fit the gender binary, as well.
I know that many people who are uncomfortable with transgender women, and make disparaging jokes about transgender women out of that discomfort, think nothing of it.
I know that many people who insist on using their own words for the experience and bodies of transgender women, instead of the words that transgender women themselves choose, think nothing of it -- or even believe that they are doing something positive.
I know that many people who use derogatory language for or towards transgender women think it's no big deal, or it's harmless, or that they are somehow defending themselves.
I know that many people don't think these things are hate speech.
They're wrong.
- These things are hate speech. They disparage an entire group of people based on their gender identity.
- These things are not harmless; they are dangerous. This behavior dehumanizes transgender women. Dehumanizing transgender women promotes and encourages violence against transgender women.
- Dehumanizing transgender women promotes and encourages violence against all women.
- Dehumanizing transgender women promotes and encourages violence against everyone who does not conform to a particular set of gender stereotypes.
Gender stereotypes and feminism
One of the aims of feminism has been to help women -- and not just women -- resist gender stereotypes, and make choices based on what we like and what's good for us, rather than have our choices limited based on what society says is appropriate for arbitrary categories of gender. Things like "girls," "boys," "women," and "men."
What should determine whether I wear a skirt or trousers -- what I like, the weather, and what I'll be doing while wearing my clothing, right? What should determine the length of my hair?
My gender should just not be relevant to these choices. Neither should anyone else's.
However, my gender is still relevant, and I am sanctioned for making choices too far outside my culture's stereotypes for my gender.
Society holds transgender women to even stricter adherence to gender stereotypes than it does cisgender (non-transgender)* women. (So do many feminists, something I find ironic.)
(*Cisgender as non-transgender: Again, this is over-simplified, but should be enough for this post, for now. I will give a more in-depth treatment of this in another post soon.)
Hate speech towards transgender women in feminism
Many transgender women are feminists.
Many cisgender feminists are supportive of transgender women and transgender feminist women.
Many cisgender feminists are uncomfortable with transgender women and transgender feminist women. Some are challenging their discomfort; some are not.
But there are some cisgender feminists who take their discomfort to extremes.
One of the places I've come across some of the most derogatory language towards transgender women again recently -- outright hate speech -- is within feminist communities.
Speaking up
As a feminist, as a Quaker, as a Witch, it is my job to speak up when people in my communities use language, especially hate speech, that promotes violence against women, period.
And it is my job to speak up when people in my communities use language, especially hate speech, that promotes violence against transgender women.
So I am speaking up:
Hate speech against transgender women -- NOT consistent with my Quaker, lesbian, radical eco-feminist, Pagan values.
It's time to for all of us who are allies to speak up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Accessibility, Handwork, and Ministry in Meeting for Worship
This article first appeared in the January, 2012 issue of Friends Journal. - sm
Accessibility, Handwork, and Ministry in Meeting for Worship
Staśa Morgan-Appel
In the summer of 2000, I was in a car accident with multiple impacts. I walked away from it, but for months afterward, I couldn’t sit still for more than 20 minutes because of the pain. This was a problem in many areas of my life—work, home, volunteering, meeting for worship.
At the time, I was part of a large meeting which met in a large meetinghouse, and I could usually find a seat on the end of a bench, toward the back of the room. I could lie down on the floor when I needed to; I could get up and go into the back entry way, which we rarely used, and pace when I needed to, then come hover in the doorway to listen to any vocal ministry that was offered. The people in my meeting knew about the accident and seemed to understand the reasons for my odd behavior. It didn’t seem to bother anyone, at least. And as I healed, I was able to sit through more and more of worship again, eventually the full hour.
A few years later, I sustained a severe ankle injury. I was in constant pain: I couldn’t sit, stand, lie down, or walk without pain. Again, this affected every area of my life, and again, I found it very hard to settle into meeting for worship. Pacing in the back of the room wasn’t an option this time. For the first six months after the injury, my ankle was usually taped, so I could shift and wiggle easily in my seat when the pain became too great or too distracting. My usual seat-mate, my spouse, was sympathetic, although I’m sure it did not help the quality of her worship any.
But after six months, when the pain continued, my doctor placed my ankle and leg in a series of casts and braces—too big to make wiggling possible without loud thumps against the benches or being quite noticeable visually. The Worship and Ministry committee, on which my wife was serving, had asked its members to sit on the facing benches even when they didn’t have care of meeting. My squirming would now be even more obvious. I tried sitting on the floor in front of the first facing bench, where my wiggling was less noisy, but I felt that it was still very visible and distracting.
Worst of all for me was the loss of worship. I was not able to take part in communal worship because meeting had become an exercise in endurance through pain, not one of worship and not one of community. There are practices that are about reaching spiritual communion through physical discomfort or even pain, and I have experience in some of them. But meeting for worship is not, and should not be, such an experience.
What to do? There were many options. None of them was worship.
That fall, my F/friend Russell died. I have an active crochet ministry, and I had a very clear leading to make a comfort wrap or throw for his devastated husband. I worked on it mostly during meeting for worship with attention to business, announcements at the rise of meeting, committee meetings, and the like.
One day during meeting for worship when I was in a lot of pain and just couldn’t settle, I took my bag, went to the back corner of the room, and, hidden from view, sat on the floor, crocheting his throw while holding him in the Light, in worship.
It worked. I was able to settle into, and remain in, worship with my meeting.
The handwork distracted me from the pain. Unlike reading, it did not require the intellectual portion of my brain, and so I was able to stay in worship as I’m unable to do always when reading. Because it was ministry, the handwork was enhanced by my being in worship and by my being in worship with my spiritual community. Most of all, handwork was a spiritual tool that made meeting for worship accessible to me in spite of my disability. It was an accessibility aid and a spiritual tool.
Years passed and I didn’t think much about it. My spouse and I had both undertaken mid-life career changes, and we moved several times for her to go to graduate school and to work in temporary positions. We were part of several other meetings.
I became a member of a meeting that was open to diverse ways of making worship accessible to those having difficulty with mobility, neuro-atypicality, vision, hearing, and mental illness. In our meeting, we often balance behavior in meeting for worship that helps some people center but distracts others. As we participated in several meetings, I discovered that some of these ways of making worship accessible irritated me hugely...until I knew why they were being done.
This bothers me: Why should my knowing make a difference? Why would I assume that someone is being irritating on purpose, that someone is not participating fully? Why wouldn’t I assume that what they are doing—whatever it is: reading, handwork, writing, quiet play with hand-puppets, Sudoku—allows them to be fully present in meeting for worship? And yet, once I know the story (someone is neuro-atypical; someone is a young person who prefers meeting for worship to First-day school; someone is in chronic pain; someone just had news of a loved one in the ICU), my irritation vanishes. It makes sense and it ceases to be a problem for me. This difference in my own attitudes bothers me.
A few years ago (we had moved again and were sojourning in a different meeting), I started experiencing a very unpleasant flare-up of a chronic neurological condition. One of the treatments made it likely that I would become fairly sleepy, unless I had direct sensory stimulation. To my horror, I found myself regularly falling asleep in meeting for worship.
I’m told occasional napping during meeting can be very worshipful, and I have often joked about hosting “meeting for worship with attention to napping.” But my chemically-and neurologically-induced experience was definitely not worshipful. It was awful.
So I was experiencing the loss of worship itself and of worship in community—yet again, at a time when I very much needed it. I didn’t want to read. I didn’t want to get up and leave meeting when I started to fall asleep. And I didn’t want to sleep in meeting. I wanted to worship—in community. On top of that, the meetinghouse where we were sojourning was quite small, and anyone doing any of those things, reading, leaving, sleeping, would be very obvious.
Finally, I thought about trying handwork again. People were used to seeing me crochet in meeting for worship with attention to business. We had a ramp for those who used wheelchairs, and we were engaged in discussions about other kinds of accessibility. People might understand. I explained the situation to the Ministry and Counsel committee and received a great deal of support.
Again, handwork helped me stay present in worship in community. It worked as both an accessibility device and a spiritual tool. Without handwork, worship would have been literally inaccessible to me. I would have had to leave the room; I would not have been able to be in meeting for worship.
This may be a novel idea: things we don’t usually consider to be acceptable behavior in meeting for worship can be spiritual tools that are accessibility aids. This idea also gives us the beginnings of some new ways to answer the question: how do we make our meetings more accessible to people with different kinds of disabilities and accessibility needs?
Here are some things I have learned to ask myself (and for others to ask themselves) when another person is doing something that irritates us in meeting for worship:
Staśa Morgan-Appel is a member of University Friends Meeting in Seattle, Wash., attending Central Edinburgh Quaker Meeting in Scotland. She has a letter of introduction and religious service from University Friends Meeting, with a ministry focusing on spiritual nurture with individuals and groups. She is a middling but avid crocheter and blogs at http://aquakerwitch.blogspot.com.
Accessibility, Handwork, and Ministry in Meeting for Worship
Staśa Morgan-Appel
In the summer of 2000, I was in a car accident with multiple impacts. I walked away from it, but for months afterward, I couldn’t sit still for more than 20 minutes because of the pain. This was a problem in many areas of my life—work, home, volunteering, meeting for worship.
At the time, I was part of a large meeting which met in a large meetinghouse, and I could usually find a seat on the end of a bench, toward the back of the room. I could lie down on the floor when I needed to; I could get up and go into the back entry way, which we rarely used, and pace when I needed to, then come hover in the doorway to listen to any vocal ministry that was offered. The people in my meeting knew about the accident and seemed to understand the reasons for my odd behavior. It didn’t seem to bother anyone, at least. And as I healed, I was able to sit through more and more of worship again, eventually the full hour.
A few years later, I sustained a severe ankle injury. I was in constant pain: I couldn’t sit, stand, lie down, or walk without pain. Again, this affected every area of my life, and again, I found it very hard to settle into meeting for worship. Pacing in the back of the room wasn’t an option this time. For the first six months after the injury, my ankle was usually taped, so I could shift and wiggle easily in my seat when the pain became too great or too distracting. My usual seat-mate, my spouse, was sympathetic, although I’m sure it did not help the quality of her worship any.
But after six months, when the pain continued, my doctor placed my ankle and leg in a series of casts and braces—too big to make wiggling possible without loud thumps against the benches or being quite noticeable visually. The Worship and Ministry committee, on which my wife was serving, had asked its members to sit on the facing benches even when they didn’t have care of meeting. My squirming would now be even more obvious. I tried sitting on the floor in front of the first facing bench, where my wiggling was less noisy, but I felt that it was still very visible and distracting.
Worst of all for me was the loss of worship. I was not able to take part in communal worship because meeting had become an exercise in endurance through pain, not one of worship and not one of community. There are practices that are about reaching spiritual communion through physical discomfort or even pain, and I have experience in some of them. But meeting for worship is not, and should not be, such an experience.
What to do? There were many options. None of them was worship.
That fall, my F/friend Russell died. I have an active crochet ministry, and I had a very clear leading to make a comfort wrap or throw for his devastated husband. I worked on it mostly during meeting for worship with attention to business, announcements at the rise of meeting, committee meetings, and the like.
One day during meeting for worship when I was in a lot of pain and just couldn’t settle, I took my bag, went to the back corner of the room, and, hidden from view, sat on the floor, crocheting his throw while holding him in the Light, in worship.
It worked. I was able to settle into, and remain in, worship with my meeting.
The handwork distracted me from the pain. Unlike reading, it did not require the intellectual portion of my brain, and so I was able to stay in worship as I’m unable to do always when reading. Because it was ministry, the handwork was enhanced by my being in worship and by my being in worship with my spiritual community. Most of all, handwork was a spiritual tool that made meeting for worship accessible to me in spite of my disability. It was an accessibility aid and a spiritual tool.
Years passed and I didn’t think much about it. My spouse and I had both undertaken mid-life career changes, and we moved several times for her to go to graduate school and to work in temporary positions. We were part of several other meetings.
I became a member of a meeting that was open to diverse ways of making worship accessible to those having difficulty with mobility, neuro-atypicality, vision, hearing, and mental illness. In our meeting, we often balance behavior in meeting for worship that helps some people center but distracts others. As we participated in several meetings, I discovered that some of these ways of making worship accessible irritated me hugely...until I knew why they were being done.
This bothers me: Why should my knowing make a difference? Why would I assume that someone is being irritating on purpose, that someone is not participating fully? Why wouldn’t I assume that what they are doing—whatever it is: reading, handwork, writing, quiet play with hand-puppets, Sudoku—allows them to be fully present in meeting for worship? And yet, once I know the story (someone is neuro-atypical; someone is a young person who prefers meeting for worship to First-day school; someone is in chronic pain; someone just had news of a loved one in the ICU), my irritation vanishes. It makes sense and it ceases to be a problem for me. This difference in my own attitudes bothers me.
A few years ago (we had moved again and were sojourning in a different meeting), I started experiencing a very unpleasant flare-up of a chronic neurological condition. One of the treatments made it likely that I would become fairly sleepy, unless I had direct sensory stimulation. To my horror, I found myself regularly falling asleep in meeting for worship.
I’m told occasional napping during meeting can be very worshipful, and I have often joked about hosting “meeting for worship with attention to napping.” But my chemically-and neurologically-induced experience was definitely not worshipful. It was awful.
So I was experiencing the loss of worship itself and of worship in community—yet again, at a time when I very much needed it. I didn’t want to read. I didn’t want to get up and leave meeting when I started to fall asleep. And I didn’t want to sleep in meeting. I wanted to worship—in community. On top of that, the meetinghouse where we were sojourning was quite small, and anyone doing any of those things, reading, leaving, sleeping, would be very obvious.
Finally, I thought about trying handwork again. People were used to seeing me crochet in meeting for worship with attention to business. We had a ramp for those who used wheelchairs, and we were engaged in discussions about other kinds of accessibility. People might understand. I explained the situation to the Ministry and Counsel committee and received a great deal of support.
Again, handwork helped me stay present in worship in community. It worked as both an accessibility device and a spiritual tool. Without handwork, worship would have been literally inaccessible to me. I would have had to leave the room; I would not have been able to be in meeting for worship.
This may be a novel idea: things we don’t usually consider to be acceptable behavior in meeting for worship can be spiritual tools that are accessibility aids. This idea also gives us the beginnings of some new ways to answer the question: how do we make our meetings more accessible to people with different kinds of disabilities and accessibility needs?
Here are some things I have learned to ask myself (and for others to ask themselves) when another person is doing something that irritates us in meeting for worship:
- Could there be a good reason that the person is doing this?
- Could that reason have something to do with accessibility and a hidden disability?
- Could what he/she is doing actually be a form of ministry?
Staśa Morgan-Appel is a member of University Friends Meeting in Seattle, Wash., attending Central Edinburgh Quaker Meeting in Scotland. She has a letter of introduction and religious service from University Friends Meeting, with a ministry focusing on spiritual nurture with individuals and groups. She is a middling but avid crocheter and blogs at http://aquakerwitch.blogspot.com.
© 2012 Friends Publishing Corporation. Reprinted with permission. To subscribe: www.friendsjournal.org
Monday, March 7, 2011
Radical love, radical inclusion... and the stereochemistry of gender inclusion
I know there's some renewed attention right now to the issue of cisgender-women-only space/the exclusion of transgender women in certain kinds of Paganism.
(Please note that I am not following, or interested in, that debate, and please don't ask me for information about it.)
A number of people have spoken to me quietly about the issue -- because they're hurt or just plain puzzled by the fuss, or because they're trying to figure out their own complicated reactions to it.
I've also been trying to discern what, if anything, I should say publicly about this issue.
I realized I'm led to share a response I sent to one of those friends. Part of why I'm comfortable sharing it is because it turns out there's nothing in this letter that I haven't said to other people, both electronically and in person, in public as well as in private.
Apologies to my beloved former chemistry professors for the oversimplified explanation of stereochemistry.
- sm
Dear [name],
Cis *isn't* being used because it's the opposite of trans -- it's a termed borrowed from chemistry [for one], and it's being used because it's a good descriptive term for people who were born into bodies consistent with their gender identities.
In chemistry, there are types of molecules with two different kinds of structures -- cis and trans. In one structure, the component groups are attached to *opposite* sides of a molecule across a (double) bond; that structure is called trans, or different. In the other structure, the component groups are attached to the *same* side of a molecule across a (double) bond; that structure is called cis, or same.
Take a look at the second set of pictures here to get the idea (the ones with the big green circles with no rotation): http://www.chemguide.co.uk/basicorg/isomerism/geometric.html
You and I were born into bodies consistent with our gender identity -- the same, or cis; "the same" with our gender identity, or cisgender.
My friend [name/mutual acquaintance] was born into a body not consistent with her gender identity -- different, or trans; "different" from her gender identity, or transgender.
If you don't like the way it's being used by transgender women in the [blank] debate, then you're giving too much credence to the commenters there, IMO.
If you don't like how it's being used by transgender women in general, I'm sorry. That sounds difficult. It's often difficult to listen to people with less privilege when they confront us, and it's true: you and I have cis privilege.
But the term cisgender is *not* being used exclusively by transgender women, any more than the terms heterosexual, straight, white, temporarily able-bodied, upper class, or male are being used exclusively by lesbians, gay men, bi people, transgender people, disabled people, people of color, poor people, working class people, middle class people, or women.
You also need to understand that transgender women experience a terrible amount of misogyny, and that they get it both from men and from other women. I don't know about you, but I don't want to be another woman who behaves that way towards women who also happen to be transgender.
My own journey towards transgender inclusion has not, and still isn't always, an easy one. I've been part of a Quaker lesbian organization that was torn apart over the issue of including transgender women; I couldn't have told you then if I thought it was better to exclude or include transgender women. I have also been incredibly honored to get to know a number of transgender women and men in person, as real people, most but not all of them through a deeply Spirit-centered Quaker organization that walks its talk of radical love and radical inclusion. It has become very, very clear to me where I find the Goddess, and where She leads me, when it comes to this issue. I can be sure of that even when I'm not 100% comfortable; it's a very different kind of discomfort than when I'm not certain.
So I hope this helps some.
Love and blessings,
Stasa
(Please note that I am not following, or interested in, that debate, and please don't ask me for information about it.)
A number of people have spoken to me quietly about the issue -- because they're hurt or just plain puzzled by the fuss, or because they're trying to figure out their own complicated reactions to it.
I've also been trying to discern what, if anything, I should say publicly about this issue.
I realized I'm led to share a response I sent to one of those friends. Part of why I'm comfortable sharing it is because it turns out there's nothing in this letter that I haven't said to other people, both electronically and in person, in public as well as in private.
Apologies to my beloved former chemistry professors for the oversimplified explanation of stereochemistry.
- sm
Dear [name],
Cis *isn't* being used because it's the opposite of trans -- it's a termed borrowed from chemistry [for one], and it's being used because it's a good descriptive term for people who were born into bodies consistent with their gender identities.
In chemistry, there are types of molecules with two different kinds of structures -- cis and trans. In one structure, the component groups are attached to *opposite* sides of a molecule across a (double) bond; that structure is called trans, or different. In the other structure, the component groups are attached to the *same* side of a molecule across a (double) bond; that structure is called cis, or same.
Take a look at the second set of pictures here to get the idea (the ones with the big green circles with no rotation): http://www.chemguide.co.uk/basicorg/isomerism/geometric.html
You and I were born into bodies consistent with our gender identity -- the same, or cis; "the same" with our gender identity, or cisgender.
My friend [name/mutual acquaintance] was born into a body not consistent with her gender identity -- different, or trans; "different" from her gender identity, or transgender.
If you don't like the way it's being used by transgender women in the [blank] debate, then you're giving too much credence to the commenters there, IMO.
If you don't like how it's being used by transgender women in general, I'm sorry. That sounds difficult. It's often difficult to listen to people with less privilege when they confront us, and it's true: you and I have cis privilege.
But the term cisgender is *not* being used exclusively by transgender women, any more than the terms heterosexual, straight, white, temporarily able-bodied, upper class, or male are being used exclusively by lesbians, gay men, bi people, transgender people, disabled people, people of color, poor people, working class people, middle class people, or women.
You also need to understand that transgender women experience a terrible amount of misogyny, and that they get it both from men and from other women. I don't know about you, but I don't want to be another woman who behaves that way towards women who also happen to be transgender.
My own journey towards transgender inclusion has not, and still isn't always, an easy one. I've been part of a Quaker lesbian organization that was torn apart over the issue of including transgender women; I couldn't have told you then if I thought it was better to exclude or include transgender women. I have also been incredibly honored to get to know a number of transgender women and men in person, as real people, most but not all of them through a deeply Spirit-centered Quaker organization that walks its talk of radical love and radical inclusion. It has become very, very clear to me where I find the Goddess, and where She leads me, when it comes to this issue. I can be sure of that even when I'm not 100% comfortable; it's a very different kind of discomfort than when I'm not certain.
So I hope this helps some.
Love and blessings,
Stasa
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Nearly-equal rights. Still second-class citizenship.
This is the story (so far) of our civil union in New Jersey, and why I am not, in fact, excited about it.
My wife and I recently moved to New Jersey for her work. After we arrived, I started researching NJ's domestic partnership and civil union laws.
For same-gender couples, NJ offers everything but marriage: the law is exactly the same as for opposite-gender couples, with one major exception: "civil union" rather than "marriage." There is one application, whether you're applying for a civil union license or a marriage license; it has spaces for "Applicant A" and "Applicant B." The federal government won't recognize a NJ civil union, and other states might or might not, but the state of NJ can't control that. NJ is fairly unusual in that, if you've had a registered domestic partnership, civil union, or anything similar in another jurisdiction, you can transfer it to NJ, as long as it offers the same benefits and responsibilities as a NJ civil union, instead of having to dissolve it and re-register; although, if it didn't offer the same state-level legal protection, you do have to dissolve it and re-register. But to transfer it, you still have to fill out the paperwork ("Re-Affirmation of Civil Union"), unlike a straight married couple who moves to NJ.
It seems like the NJ civil union is as close as you can come without it being marriage.
Interesting, I thought. I wonder if we want to do this?
When we were first married, five-plus years ago, we asked ourselves if we should take advantage of our city's relatively new domestic partnership law -- especially since I'd been peripherally involved with the campaign, and since the former head of City Council, who'd opposed it vehemently, was now the mayor, and would have to sign it. Heh. Reading the law and the application left a bad taste in our mouths: it had second-class citizenship written all over it. We recycled the paperwork.
When we embarked on this itinerant phase of our lives for Beloved Wife's job, we moved to another city that turned out to have a domestic partnership law. What's more, we were required to register as domestic partners if I was going to be on her insurance -- the same way opposite-gender couples were required to marry if an opposite-gender spouse was going to be on the employee's insurance. Reading the law and the application, we found, to our surprise, no bad taste in our mouths: the city ordinance spoke of the diversity in our community, and of the need to protect all families.
We did have to giggle, though. The 2-foot by 3-foot, hand-calligraphed and hand-illustrated certificate, with our wedding promises, our signatures, and the signatures of more than 200 witnesses, never got us a legal thing. The 8 1/2-by-11 computer-generated certificate (not even the signatures were "live") with the shiny gold seal on it got me legal access to my wife's health insurance. We put the city certificate in our file cabinet for future reference; our Quaker wedding certificate hangs on our living room wall.
The following year, the voters of that state passed an amendment to the state constitution defining marriage as one man and one woman, and making domestic partner benefits illegal (including my insurance coverage). My wife's employer, along with the city we lived in and many other employers in the state, found ways to insure "other adults" while being in full compliance with the law. I retained my health insurance, so did many other adults, and most importantly, so did many children: the new amendment put second-parent adoptions in jeopardy, and a lot of kids were in danger of losing coverage if they were on a non-birth parent's insurance.
We moved again; last year, we lived in a state with a very, very good domestic partnership law. Still not marriage, but nearly everything-but-marriage. We did not feel any leading or need to register: my wife's employer did not require us to; that state doesn't have income tax; we were going to be there for a year; this was an area with a very good record of honoring powers of attorney and other legal paperwork for same-gender couples.
But now we've moved to a state with a good civil union law, in an area with a mixed record of honoring powers of attorney and other legal paperwork. We're going to be here longer; we both have medical issues; we're thinking about kids.
All good reasons, but I was still doubtful. In my head, anyway. Someplace else, deep down, I had a very strong feeling about registering a civil union.
We've talked about getting legally married in Massachusetts or Canada. We've talked about domestic partnership and civil union and everything-but-marriage laws in other states. And I have felt very clearly that I am not willing to settle for second-best, for nearly-but-not-quite equal.
So, one, it has to be marriage. Not domestic partnership, not civil union. It has to be the same thing regardless of the gender of my partner, the same thing as it is for opposite-gender couples. And two, it has to be recognized by the federal government. Even if we were married legally in MA or Canada, our marriage would not be honored fully in the United States. Some states would recognize it; some wouldn't; they'd pretty much get to choose. We'd still pay federal income tax on my health insurance as "taxable income." We'd still have to carry powers of attorney -- and add our everything-but-marriage license -- when we traveled.
But...
I went back and looked at the law here in NJ again. It's still everything-but-marriage. It's still not federally recognized, like opposite-gender marriages are.
But, I had a strong feeling that we need to register our civil union.
I'm not sure if it's an actual leading or not. Would it feel this uncomfortable if it wasn't? Perhaps it's just a good idea, and perhaps not-quite-equality is not a good reason not to take advantage of the legal protections we do have.
I brought it up to Beloved Wife, and she agreed. Here's what she says:
"One of the things that is infuriating about marriage law in the U.S. is the blurring between religious and civil marriage. True separation of church and state would mean that the state recognized civil partnerships between same or opposite-gender couples, and if a couple wanted then they could also have a religious ceremony. Really, I think that if the New Jersey situation for same-sex couples were as good in real life as it is on paper, it should be the nationwide situation for all couples. It leaves a sour taste first because it's separate and almost-but-not-quite-equal (not all employers provide equal benefits, and some civil partners have had difficulties with health providers), within NJ vis-a-vis marriage, and because of all of the ways that our partnership won't be recognized outside of NJ or by the feds."
So, we printed out the application. I filled out the parts for Applicant A while she was cooking dinner. She filled out the parts for Applicant B while I cleaned up after dinner. We called the parents of some dear friends, who live nearby, and asked if they would be our witnesses. They would be honored, they said, and in fact, they sounded excited. We figured out a date when one of them could go with us to Boro Hall to apply for the license; I called the Boro Hall and made an appointment with the Registrar's/Health Department to fill out our application and pay our $28. ($3 stays with the Boro; $25 goes to the local domestic violence shelter.)
I had a question about something, though: on the application, you have to provide information about when the ceremony will take place. We already had a ceremony, it just wasn't legally binding. The clerk and I talked it through, and the conclusion she came to was: Yes, in order for this to be legally binding, you have to have another ceremony. She gave me the phone numbers of a judge and of the mayor for us to call.
For another ceremony.
Reading the applicable material carefully, it does look like the ceremony is necessary to make this legally binding. We can't just get someone official to sign our license, even with us present and in front of witnesses. There has to be a freaking ceremony. "Do you, Stasa..."
We had our appointment at the Registrar's/Health Department Office to fill out the application. (Both our friends came, and tossed a coin to decide who would sign the application as witness.) Then we trudged down to the Mayor's Office to find out if she could perform our civil union ceremony.
No, we didn't have a date picked out. What would be convenient for her? No, we don't have a time picked out. When would be convenient for her? Our flexibility both puzzled and inconvenienced the poor aide to the mayor. The four of us -- Beloved Wife and our two witnesses -- picked out a proposed date. The aide continued down the form to questions about the ceremony: Anyone giving either party away? Single ring, double ring, no ring? How many people present? How large a wedding party?
We've already had a religious ceremony, we explained. We just want something nice and simple.
Well, I'll fill this out and give it to the bailiff, and we'll call you and let you know if the mayor agrees to do your ceremony and if she's available on this date at this time.
We could do another day or time if it doesn't, I offered.
If this doesn't work, you can talk about it when we call, she said. I have to put down a date and time.
Ah, bureaucracy.
As we were leaving, our friends offered, If she can't do it, we know one of our ministers would. (They're members of the Unitarian Universalist Church in our town.)
Well, for that, we could probably get someone from the Meeting here, I said. But I don't think it would feel right to have anyone religious do it. We already had our religious wedding, in our former Meeting (the same year as their son and daughter-in-law; in fact, we were in each other's weddings). To have a religious officiant feels like invalidating our wedding, or acting like it never happened. It would feel like a violation of the Testimony of Integrity. I think we just want it to be civil. Beloved Wife nodded.
To their credit, that made sense to our friends, and we could tell they were a little troubled by it.
A few days later, the mayor's aide called, sounding perky and excited. Genuinely so. "Hi, it's So-and-So from the Mayor's Office, calling about your wedding. Mayor So-and-So has agreed to perform your civil union ceremony on thus-and-such date and time. Now, I'll mail you a copy of the ceremony she uses, and you can edit it and mail it back to me."
(Here's a cool thing: the mayor does not accept honoraria for weddings or civil unions. She asks for a donation to the domestic violence shelter instead, and provides their information and an envelope addressed to them.)
We called our friends: Does this date and time work for you? Yes, we'll be there. And we'd like to take you out to lunch afterwards, if we may.
Sigh. Is everyone involved more excited about this than I am?
It's a small town; the envelope arrived the next day. The ceremony was a variation on the standard Do you, lawfully-joined, in sickness and in health, hard times and easy, til death do you part.
We thought about it. We talked about it. We sat down together and worked it out. We went through every part of it, asking, Can we say this? We tried them out on each other. Does this work?
Does this feel honest and true?
And in the end, we couldn't repeat any part of our Quaker wedding promises. In part, because someone will be pronouncing us, and that is just not compatible with Quaker marriage. It would be lying to repeat that in front of the mayor and have her pronounce us. Part of it is also because we've already said those promises, and while we may (and do!) repeat them to each other, it can't ever be on command. Part of it is that it feels like lying to repeat them as part of another ceremony after which we somehow have a different status.
And some of it is about separation of church and state. We've had our religious wedding. This is purely and completely about civil law.
We found we couldn't repeat any part of the mayor's proposed ceremony that duplicated the wedding we'd already had.
I, in particular, found I didn't want any part of the ceremony to have any significance that wasn't purely legal. So what we said had to be in the service of the civil union contract, with the mayor pronouncing the contract as now in effect, as now legally-binding and legally-recognized.
We felt good about the edits we came up with. They felt right.
We weren't sure what the Mayor's Office would think.
I dropped the edits by the Mayor's Office, and it turns out in-person was a good thing. The clerk was definitely taken aback. I don't know if she'll be willing to do something so short; I mean, this will take five minutes...
Yes, I said. We want something very simple. She blinked. We've already had a religious ceremony, I added. She blinked again.
I understand, she said, I just don't know if the mayor will be personally comfortable... she trailed off.
I decided to try to explain, a little. I explained that we're Quakers, that we had a Quaker wedding, that to repeat those vows could be a violation of the Testimony of Integrity, that...
I could tell she didn't get the "Quaker" or "Testimony of Integrity" part; but she got the "religious reasons" and "violation" part. Her expression changed, became a little less strained, a little less puzzled. She pulled out a Post-It, put it on the sheet, and started a note to the mayor.
I'll tell her it's for religious reasons. I think she'll be fine with it, but I'll call you tomorrow and let you know.
I thanked her and left.
I felt torn.
I called her later and said, We can bring information about our Quaker wedding with us if that will help the mayor feel more comfortable. No, no, you don't need to do that, she said, I'll talk to her and I'll call you back tomorrow.
I don't want to rain on anyone's parade. Our friends, and these strangers in the Boro Hall, from the registrar and the registrar's clerk to the mayor's aide to the mayor, are clearly and genuinely happy for a same-gender couple to be getting the closest thing currently possible to equal rights. They don't get many same-gender couples -- when I went back and said I was there to proof my civil union license, I didn't even have to give my name; we're the only same-gender couple in process right now. But not one person has stuttered, looked flustered at the two-women-thing or the civil union thing, not one person has even asked me about my future husband. So on some level, they get it; I can tell.
I don't want to come across as disrespectful of the mayor, of our friends, of anyone involved. And I'm glad that I'm about to get a level of legal protection I've never had.
But this thing by which we're getting nearly-equal rights?
It's discriminatory.
And that makes this whole situation infuriating.
It's discriminatory because it doesn't grant us equal rights. We won't be legally married. Even in this state, there are employers and hospitals which grant certain benefits and privileges to married couples but which don't recognize civil unions, because they're not marriages. There are no federal benefits or responsibilities: my taxes will still be whacked, and if Beloved Wife dies next week, I still won't be able to collect her social security.
It's discriminatory because we are required to have another ceremony. And if we move to another place where this civil union isn't recognized, we will have to dissolve this civil union and, if we have to have a ceremony to make whatever they offer (if anything) legally-binding, we will have to have another ceremony. And the same thing again if we move again, which we might well have to for my wife's work. How many times will we have to do this? I have F/friends who keep a spreadsheet of their legal unions.
As my mathematician friend Deb says, 1st wedding + N, where N>0, is discriminatory. Opposite-gender couples do not have to go through this.
And so, I am furious.
I have to have a second ceremony because of the gender of my partner. I have to have a second ceremony because the state we lived in when we got married didn't recognize our marriage. We will have to have a third ceremony if the law in whatever state we move to next requires it. We have to do everything someone in an opposite-gender couple has to do, plus more, in order to get fewer legal rights, responsibilities, and protections.
I am frustrated and hurt because our wonderful wedding, with our beloved families, friends, and community, is not visible in this process, might as well not have happened for all it matters to anyone involved with our civil union.
And there are all these well-meaning straight people who are excited for me.
The mayor agreed to our pared-down ceremony.
Who knows how I will actually feel when we go back to Boro Hall again for our civil union ceremony and when our friends take us out to lunch. Maybe my anger will be tempered by pleasure and even some joy.
I'll try to let you know, gentle readers.
In the meantime, we'd certainly appreciate your holding us, our witnesses, the mayor, and her staff in the Light.
And everyone facing discrimination.
And everyone working to end discrimination.
My wife and I recently moved to New Jersey for her work. After we arrived, I started researching NJ's domestic partnership and civil union laws.
For same-gender couples, NJ offers everything but marriage: the law is exactly the same as for opposite-gender couples, with one major exception: "civil union" rather than "marriage." There is one application, whether you're applying for a civil union license or a marriage license; it has spaces for "Applicant A" and "Applicant B." The federal government won't recognize a NJ civil union, and other states might or might not, but the state of NJ can't control that. NJ is fairly unusual in that, if you've had a registered domestic partnership, civil union, or anything similar in another jurisdiction, you can transfer it to NJ, as long as it offers the same benefits and responsibilities as a NJ civil union, instead of having to dissolve it and re-register; although, if it didn't offer the same state-level legal protection, you do have to dissolve it and re-register. But to transfer it, you still have to fill out the paperwork ("Re-Affirmation of Civil Union"), unlike a straight married couple who moves to NJ.
It seems like the NJ civil union is as close as you can come without it being marriage.
Interesting, I thought. I wonder if we want to do this?
When we were first married, five-plus years ago, we asked ourselves if we should take advantage of our city's relatively new domestic partnership law -- especially since I'd been peripherally involved with the campaign, and since the former head of City Council, who'd opposed it vehemently, was now the mayor, and would have to sign it. Heh. Reading the law and the application left a bad taste in our mouths: it had second-class citizenship written all over it. We recycled the paperwork.
When we embarked on this itinerant phase of our lives for Beloved Wife's job, we moved to another city that turned out to have a domestic partnership law. What's more, we were required to register as domestic partners if I was going to be on her insurance -- the same way opposite-gender couples were required to marry if an opposite-gender spouse was going to be on the employee's insurance. Reading the law and the application, we found, to our surprise, no bad taste in our mouths: the city ordinance spoke of the diversity in our community, and of the need to protect all families.
We did have to giggle, though. The 2-foot by 3-foot, hand-calligraphed and hand-illustrated certificate, with our wedding promises, our signatures, and the signatures of more than 200 witnesses, never got us a legal thing. The 8 1/2-by-11 computer-generated certificate (not even the signatures were "live") with the shiny gold seal on it got me legal access to my wife's health insurance. We put the city certificate in our file cabinet for future reference; our Quaker wedding certificate hangs on our living room wall.
The following year, the voters of that state passed an amendment to the state constitution defining marriage as one man and one woman, and making domestic partner benefits illegal (including my insurance coverage). My wife's employer, along with the city we lived in and many other employers in the state, found ways to insure "other adults" while being in full compliance with the law. I retained my health insurance, so did many other adults, and most importantly, so did many children: the new amendment put second-parent adoptions in jeopardy, and a lot of kids were in danger of losing coverage if they were on a non-birth parent's insurance.
We moved again; last year, we lived in a state with a very, very good domestic partnership law. Still not marriage, but nearly everything-but-marriage. We did not feel any leading or need to register: my wife's employer did not require us to; that state doesn't have income tax; we were going to be there for a year; this was an area with a very good record of honoring powers of attorney and other legal paperwork for same-gender couples.
But now we've moved to a state with a good civil union law, in an area with a mixed record of honoring powers of attorney and other legal paperwork. We're going to be here longer; we both have medical issues; we're thinking about kids.
All good reasons, but I was still doubtful. In my head, anyway. Someplace else, deep down, I had a very strong feeling about registering a civil union.
We've talked about getting legally married in Massachusetts or Canada. We've talked about domestic partnership and civil union and everything-but-marriage laws in other states. And I have felt very clearly that I am not willing to settle for second-best, for nearly-but-not-quite equal.
So, one, it has to be marriage. Not domestic partnership, not civil union. It has to be the same thing regardless of the gender of my partner, the same thing as it is for opposite-gender couples. And two, it has to be recognized by the federal government. Even if we were married legally in MA or Canada, our marriage would not be honored fully in the United States. Some states would recognize it; some wouldn't; they'd pretty much get to choose. We'd still pay federal income tax on my health insurance as "taxable income." We'd still have to carry powers of attorney -- and add our everything-but-marriage license -- when we traveled.
But...
I went back and looked at the law here in NJ again. It's still everything-but-marriage. It's still not federally recognized, like opposite-gender marriages are.
But, I had a strong feeling that we need to register our civil union.
I'm not sure if it's an actual leading or not. Would it feel this uncomfortable if it wasn't? Perhaps it's just a good idea, and perhaps not-quite-equality is not a good reason not to take advantage of the legal protections we do have.
I brought it up to Beloved Wife, and she agreed. Here's what she says:
"One of the things that is infuriating about marriage law in the U.S. is the blurring between religious and civil marriage. True separation of church and state would mean that the state recognized civil partnerships between same or opposite-gender couples, and if a couple wanted then they could also have a religious ceremony. Really, I think that if the New Jersey situation for same-sex couples were as good in real life as it is on paper, it should be the nationwide situation for all couples. It leaves a sour taste first because it's separate and almost-but-not-quite-equal (not all employers provide equal benefits, and some civil partners have had difficulties with health providers), within NJ vis-a-vis marriage, and because of all of the ways that our partnership won't be recognized outside of NJ or by the feds."
So, we printed out the application. I filled out the parts for Applicant A while she was cooking dinner. She filled out the parts for Applicant B while I cleaned up after dinner. We called the parents of some dear friends, who live nearby, and asked if they would be our witnesses. They would be honored, they said, and in fact, they sounded excited. We figured out a date when one of them could go with us to Boro Hall to apply for the license; I called the Boro Hall and made an appointment with the Registrar's/Health Department to fill out our application and pay our $28. ($3 stays with the Boro; $25 goes to the local domestic violence shelter.)
I had a question about something, though: on the application, you have to provide information about when the ceremony will take place. We already had a ceremony, it just wasn't legally binding. The clerk and I talked it through, and the conclusion she came to was: Yes, in order for this to be legally binding, you have to have another ceremony. She gave me the phone numbers of a judge and of the mayor for us to call.
For another ceremony.
Reading the applicable material carefully, it does look like the ceremony is necessary to make this legally binding. We can't just get someone official to sign our license, even with us present and in front of witnesses. There has to be a freaking ceremony. "Do you, Stasa..."
We had our appointment at the Registrar's/Health Department Office to fill out the application. (Both our friends came, and tossed a coin to decide who would sign the application as witness.) Then we trudged down to the Mayor's Office to find out if she could perform our civil union ceremony.
No, we didn't have a date picked out. What would be convenient for her? No, we don't have a time picked out. When would be convenient for her? Our flexibility both puzzled and inconvenienced the poor aide to the mayor. The four of us -- Beloved Wife and our two witnesses -- picked out a proposed date. The aide continued down the form to questions about the ceremony: Anyone giving either party away? Single ring, double ring, no ring? How many people present? How large a wedding party?
We've already had a religious ceremony, we explained. We just want something nice and simple.
Well, I'll fill this out and give it to the bailiff, and we'll call you and let you know if the mayor agrees to do your ceremony and if she's available on this date at this time.
We could do another day or time if it doesn't, I offered.
If this doesn't work, you can talk about it when we call, she said. I have to put down a date and time.
Ah, bureaucracy.
As we were leaving, our friends offered, If she can't do it, we know one of our ministers would. (They're members of the Unitarian Universalist Church in our town.)
Well, for that, we could probably get someone from the Meeting here, I said. But I don't think it would feel right to have anyone religious do it. We already had our religious wedding, in our former Meeting (the same year as their son and daughter-in-law; in fact, we were in each other's weddings). To have a religious officiant feels like invalidating our wedding, or acting like it never happened. It would feel like a violation of the Testimony of Integrity. I think we just want it to be civil. Beloved Wife nodded.
To their credit, that made sense to our friends, and we could tell they were a little troubled by it.
A few days later, the mayor's aide called, sounding perky and excited. Genuinely so. "Hi, it's So-and-So from the Mayor's Office, calling about your wedding. Mayor So-and-So has agreed to perform your civil union ceremony on thus-and-such date and time. Now, I'll mail you a copy of the ceremony she uses, and you can edit it and mail it back to me."
(Here's a cool thing: the mayor does not accept honoraria for weddings or civil unions. She asks for a donation to the domestic violence shelter instead, and provides their information and an envelope addressed to them.)
We called our friends: Does this date and time work for you? Yes, we'll be there. And we'd like to take you out to lunch afterwards, if we may.
Sigh. Is everyone involved more excited about this than I am?
It's a small town; the envelope arrived the next day. The ceremony was a variation on the standard Do you, lawfully-joined, in sickness and in health, hard times and easy, til death do you part.
We thought about it. We talked about it. We sat down together and worked it out. We went through every part of it, asking, Can we say this? We tried them out on each other. Does this work?
Does this feel honest and true?
And in the end, we couldn't repeat any part of our Quaker wedding promises. In part, because someone will be pronouncing us, and that is just not compatible with Quaker marriage. It would be lying to repeat that in front of the mayor and have her pronounce us. Part of it is also because we've already said those promises, and while we may (and do!) repeat them to each other, it can't ever be on command. Part of it is that it feels like lying to repeat them as part of another ceremony after which we somehow have a different status.
And some of it is about separation of church and state. We've had our religious wedding. This is purely and completely about civil law.
We found we couldn't repeat any part of the mayor's proposed ceremony that duplicated the wedding we'd already had.
I, in particular, found I didn't want any part of the ceremony to have any significance that wasn't purely legal. So what we said had to be in the service of the civil union contract, with the mayor pronouncing the contract as now in effect, as now legally-binding and legally-recognized.
We felt good about the edits we came up with. They felt right.
We weren't sure what the Mayor's Office would think.
I dropped the edits by the Mayor's Office, and it turns out in-person was a good thing. The clerk was definitely taken aback. I don't know if she'll be willing to do something so short; I mean, this will take five minutes...
Yes, I said. We want something very simple. She blinked. We've already had a religious ceremony, I added. She blinked again.
I understand, she said, I just don't know if the mayor will be personally comfortable... she trailed off.
I decided to try to explain, a little. I explained that we're Quakers, that we had a Quaker wedding, that to repeat those vows could be a violation of the Testimony of Integrity, that...
I could tell she didn't get the "Quaker" or "Testimony of Integrity" part; but she got the "religious reasons" and "violation" part. Her expression changed, became a little less strained, a little less puzzled. She pulled out a Post-It, put it on the sheet, and started a note to the mayor.
I'll tell her it's for religious reasons. I think she'll be fine with it, but I'll call you tomorrow and let you know.
I thanked her and left.
I felt torn.
I called her later and said, We can bring information about our Quaker wedding with us if that will help the mayor feel more comfortable. No, no, you don't need to do that, she said, I'll talk to her and I'll call you back tomorrow.
I don't want to rain on anyone's parade. Our friends, and these strangers in the Boro Hall, from the registrar and the registrar's clerk to the mayor's aide to the mayor, are clearly and genuinely happy for a same-gender couple to be getting the closest thing currently possible to equal rights. They don't get many same-gender couples -- when I went back and said I was there to proof my civil union license, I didn't even have to give my name; we're the only same-gender couple in process right now. But not one person has stuttered, looked flustered at the two-women-thing or the civil union thing, not one person has even asked me about my future husband. So on some level, they get it; I can tell.
I don't want to come across as disrespectful of the mayor, of our friends, of anyone involved. And I'm glad that I'm about to get a level of legal protection I've never had.
But this thing by which we're getting nearly-equal rights?
It's discriminatory.
And that makes this whole situation infuriating.
It's discriminatory because it doesn't grant us equal rights. We won't be legally married. Even in this state, there are employers and hospitals which grant certain benefits and privileges to married couples but which don't recognize civil unions, because they're not marriages. There are no federal benefits or responsibilities: my taxes will still be whacked, and if Beloved Wife dies next week, I still won't be able to collect her social security.
It's discriminatory because we are required to have another ceremony. And if we move to another place where this civil union isn't recognized, we will have to dissolve this civil union and, if we have to have a ceremony to make whatever they offer (if anything) legally-binding, we will have to have another ceremony. And the same thing again if we move again, which we might well have to for my wife's work. How many times will we have to do this? I have F/friends who keep a spreadsheet of their legal unions.
As my mathematician friend Deb says, 1st wedding + N, where N>0, is discriminatory. Opposite-gender couples do not have to go through this.
And so, I am furious.
I have to have a second ceremony because of the gender of my partner. I have to have a second ceremony because the state we lived in when we got married didn't recognize our marriage. We will have to have a third ceremony if the law in whatever state we move to next requires it. We have to do everything someone in an opposite-gender couple has to do, plus more, in order to get fewer legal rights, responsibilities, and protections.
I am frustrated and hurt because our wonderful wedding, with our beloved families, friends, and community, is not visible in this process, might as well not have happened for all it matters to anyone involved with our civil union.
And there are all these well-meaning straight people who are excited for me.
The mayor agreed to our pared-down ceremony.
Who knows how I will actually feel when we go back to Boro Hall again for our civil union ceremony and when our friends take us out to lunch. Maybe my anger will be tempered by pleasure and even some joy.
I'll try to let you know, gentle readers.
In the meantime, we'd certainly appreciate your holding us, our witnesses, the mayor, and her staff in the Light.
And everyone facing discrimination.
And everyone working to end discrimination.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Reflections on Marriage
This is an excellent article. My thanks to a friend for pointing it out. - sm
Reflections on Marriage:
Reflections on Marriage:
Today, many same-sex couples in the United States live in a fraught, contingent space of loving attachment, unprotected by state recognition. My fierce commitment to marriage equality derives, in part, from my personal biography as an interracial child, descended from American slaves, and raised in Virginia, beginning less than a decade after the Loving decision. Even though I am heterosexual, marriage equality is personal. I learn from the history of racial and interracial marriage exclusion that the denial of marriage rights to same-sex couples is wrong.
....
We must do more than simply integrate new groups into an old system. Let's use this moment to re-imagine marriage and marriage-free options for building families, rearing children, crafting communities, and distributing public goods.
Monday, October 19, 2009
More on marriage equality
I found myself writing recently, a little unexpectedly, about some of my experiences with marriage inequality, and why marriage equality matters when it comes to real-life, practical details.
Well, I'm finding myself even deeper, more face-to-face, with marriage inequality right now, and it's very, very frustrating.
I'm a reluctant marriage equality advocate, let me admit that.
For most of my adult life, I have had two big issues with marriage. One is that marriage is not necessarily good for women. In terms of mental health, quality of life, economics, and other areas, the research is pretty clear on this, and has been for many years. Yes, for many women, marriage is beneficial; but when you aggregate very large amounts of data, marriage is not necessarily or by definition good for women overall.
My other issue has been about the separation of church and state, about the little-understood difference between religious and civil (or legal) marriage, and about how minority religions are treated differentially under the law (even though we're not supposed to be).
Most people simply don't understand the difference between religious marriage and civil, or legal, marriage; to borrow a phrase from Bishop Gene Robinson, the difference between religious rites and civil rights: where each happens; who performs each.
But in the 21 years that I have been out of the closet as a lesbian, all the practical ways in which my life is more difficult and so many of the ways in which I am legally not afforded equal protection under the law keep coming together in this sharp point of marriage inequality.
And then, on top of it, the Goddess called me not just to be in a committed partnership, but to be in a marriage.
So, between those two things, here I am, a marriage equality advocate.
I know there are people who think civil marriage is the be-all and end-all of equal rights for LGBTQ people. Um, no. Civil marriage for same-gender couples will not keep my trans friends from being fired or being evicted for being trans, or address any of the other kinds of inequality lesbians, gay men, bisexual women and men, transgender women and men, and queer women and men face.
But yes, marriage equality matters. It matters for both symbolic and practical reasons. It matters because oppressions are connected: I earn less as a woman; my family earns less because the two adults in it are both women; we lose money every year because we pay extra taxes on my health insurance and because we have to pay extra money for legal paperwork -- powers of attorney, wills -- to achieve some of the legal protections as opposite-gender couples. Does this matter next to homelessness? I've been homeless, and I've done case management with homeless folks, and shit, yes, it matters. For people living paycheck-to-paycheck, that tax burden at the end of the year can mean missing a rent or mortgage payment, paying taxes instead of groceries or utilities, or other such impossible choices. These are exactly the kinds of things that lead people to lose housing -- to become homeless.
(For more information: The New York Times had a very good article recently on the literal additional costs with being in a same-gender couple: The Higher Lifetime Costs of Being a Gay Couple. They also had an article pointing out the complete ridiculousness of our patchwork of same-gender marriage laws, as evidenced by a Texas couple who would have to move back to Massachusetts for a year in order to get divorced.)
So, no: marriage equality is not a white, middle-class luxury. It's a basic right. It's not the ultimate proof of equality under the law, but it's absolutely an important, essential milestone on the way for full equality for LGBTQ citizens.
And I, for one, am thoroughly sick and tired of this unequal bullshit.
Well, I'm finding myself even deeper, more face-to-face, with marriage inequality right now, and it's very, very frustrating.
I'm a reluctant marriage equality advocate, let me admit that.
For most of my adult life, I have had two big issues with marriage. One is that marriage is not necessarily good for women. In terms of mental health, quality of life, economics, and other areas, the research is pretty clear on this, and has been for many years. Yes, for many women, marriage is beneficial; but when you aggregate very large amounts of data, marriage is not necessarily or by definition good for women overall.
My other issue has been about the separation of church and state, about the little-understood difference between religious and civil (or legal) marriage, and about how minority religions are treated differentially under the law (even though we're not supposed to be).
Most people simply don't understand the difference between religious marriage and civil, or legal, marriage; to borrow a phrase from Bishop Gene Robinson, the difference between religious rites and civil rights: where each happens; who performs each.
But in the 21 years that I have been out of the closet as a lesbian, all the practical ways in which my life is more difficult and so many of the ways in which I am legally not afforded equal protection under the law keep coming together in this sharp point of marriage inequality.
And then, on top of it, the Goddess called me not just to be in a committed partnership, but to be in a marriage.
So, between those two things, here I am, a marriage equality advocate.
I know there are people who think civil marriage is the be-all and end-all of equal rights for LGBTQ people. Um, no. Civil marriage for same-gender couples will not keep my trans friends from being fired or being evicted for being trans, or address any of the other kinds of inequality lesbians, gay men, bisexual women and men, transgender women and men, and queer women and men face.
But yes, marriage equality matters. It matters for both symbolic and practical reasons. It matters because oppressions are connected: I earn less as a woman; my family earns less because the two adults in it are both women; we lose money every year because we pay extra taxes on my health insurance and because we have to pay extra money for legal paperwork -- powers of attorney, wills -- to achieve some of the legal protections as opposite-gender couples. Does this matter next to homelessness? I've been homeless, and I've done case management with homeless folks, and shit, yes, it matters. For people living paycheck-to-paycheck, that tax burden at the end of the year can mean missing a rent or mortgage payment, paying taxes instead of groceries or utilities, or other such impossible choices. These are exactly the kinds of things that lead people to lose housing -- to become homeless.
(For more information: The New York Times had a very good article recently on the literal additional costs with being in a same-gender couple: The Higher Lifetime Costs of Being a Gay Couple. They also had an article pointing out the complete ridiculousness of our patchwork of same-gender marriage laws, as evidenced by a Texas couple who would have to move back to Massachusetts for a year in order to get divorced.)
So, no: marriage equality is not a white, middle-class luxury. It's a basic right. It's not the ultimate proof of equality under the law, but it's absolutely an important, essential milestone on the way for full equality for LGBTQ citizens.
And I, for one, am thoroughly sick and tired of this unequal bullshit.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Not the National Coming Out Day conversation I expected
If you're on Facebook, you may have noticed a number of folks over the last few weeks with standardized status updates that read:
I didn't donate my status -- for one, I rarely do apps, since I like my privacy -- but I did post one or two status updates to this effect.
I'm always surprised when people who know me at all well are surprised to find out I'm a lesbian. It's less startling, but still frustrating, when people are surprised I'm bi, because there's still an assumption of monosexuality in this culture: either you're homosexual or you're heterosexual. Folks who are startled to learn I'm bi either know I've had successful romantic relationships with men and assume those are invalid now (because I must be monosexual), or assume that because I have been involved only with women since they've known me and am not that interested in men, I must be monosexual.
But those are still the conversations I more or less expect to have. The kind where I refer to my partner or spouse in conversation at an event, the other person asks what my husband does, and I say, "My wife is a mathematician," and they blink. The kind where someone I've known for a long time says in shock, "You had a husband!?," and I say, "Yes, my first partner was male, and yes, I was out before we got together. He took me to my first Pride event."
But these conversations have progressed and changed over time. For example, more and more over the last few years, the conversations I've been having around the fact that I'm a lesbian center around civil rights, and especially marriage equality.
And while there's one little thread on my Facebook Wall about National Coming Out Day and how people identify and what labels mean (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer), there's another, completely different, conversation I've ended up having about the reality of my life as a lesbian in today's society.
And it really does feel like a coming-out conversation: Here is my reality. Here is the truth of my experience.
And as with many other such conversations over the years, I'm finding someone I'm talking with disbelieves the uncomfortable truth.
This person isn't a bigot. They seem to be a well-meaning straight person, but someone who just doesn't want to believe the discrimination I live with every day is as bad as I say -- that their legally-sanctioned heterosexual privilege is, in fact, just that.
(All names changed but mine; all quotes paraphrased except where indicated.)
The conversation has gone something like this:
Conversation ensues in the comment thread, and then it gets interesting:
A couple of things really got me about this conversation:
One is Person B's complete unwillingness to believe the truth of my experience when it doesn't match their experience, or what they think. Of course it doesn't match their experience: they have heterosexual privilege. This person isn't living their life as a lesbian, trying to protect themselves and their family. I am also reminded of the bumper sticker, "Don't believe everything you think." For years, my reaction was, How random. But, really: just because you think it, doesn't make it true. Just because you think $100 gets someone else equal protection under the law, just because you think I don't pay more taxes than you do, does not make those things true. (But gosh, what if it was! My life would certainly be easier.)
Two is that I am grateful to straight allies, and queer folks in legal opposite-gender marriages, who stand up for the truth.
Three is, how amazing are folks who don't want to see their privilege. I've mostly dealt with this in the context of sexism ("Of course women in my company are paid the same as men") and racism ("Of course I'm comfortable when Black people come into my store"). I've dealt with it some in heterosexism ("I don't care what you do in the bedroom, but do you have to flaunt it by holding hands?"), religious discrimination ("Of course she can wear a cross, but people will be uncomfortable if you wear a pentagram"), and other kinds of discrimination. I know I have my own blind spots.
But it's been a while since I went toe-to-toe (keyboard-to-keyboard?) with someone who just plain doesn't believe me about the everyday reality of my life in quite this way.
So my tiny little mind is blown again.
And that's the conversation about equality that I had for National Coming Out Day.
[Name] is (a lesbian/gay/bisexual/transgender). There are X days until National Coming Out Day and I pledge to have heartfelt conversations for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender equality. Donate your status and join me by clicking here: http://apps.facebook.com/equalityconversation/.
I didn't donate my status -- for one, I rarely do apps, since I like my privacy -- but I did post one or two status updates to this effect.
I'm always surprised when people who know me at all well are surprised to find out I'm a lesbian. It's less startling, but still frustrating, when people are surprised I'm bi, because there's still an assumption of monosexuality in this culture: either you're homosexual or you're heterosexual. Folks who are startled to learn I'm bi either know I've had successful romantic relationships with men and assume those are invalid now (because I must be monosexual), or assume that because I have been involved only with women since they've known me and am not that interested in men, I must be monosexual.
But those are still the conversations I more or less expect to have. The kind where I refer to my partner or spouse in conversation at an event, the other person asks what my husband does, and I say, "My wife is a mathematician," and they blink. The kind where someone I've known for a long time says in shock, "You had a husband!?," and I say, "Yes, my first partner was male, and yes, I was out before we got together. He took me to my first Pride event."
But these conversations have progressed and changed over time. For example, more and more over the last few years, the conversations I've been having around the fact that I'm a lesbian center around civil rights, and especially marriage equality.
And while there's one little thread on my Facebook Wall about National Coming Out Day and how people identify and what labels mean (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer), there's another, completely different, conversation I've ended up having about the reality of my life as a lesbian in today's society.
And it really does feel like a coming-out conversation: Here is my reality. Here is the truth of my experience.
And as with many other such conversations over the years, I'm finding someone I'm talking with disbelieves the uncomfortable truth.
This person isn't a bigot. They seem to be a well-meaning straight person, but someone who just doesn't want to believe the discrimination I live with every day is as bad as I say -- that their legally-sanctioned heterosexual privilege is, in fact, just that.
(All names changed but mine; all quotes paraphrased except where indicated.)
The conversation has gone something like this:
- Friend A posts to their Facebook status that they're grateful to the marriage equality movement for helping them understand how many rights and privileges go with legal marriage [which this person has].
Conversation ensues in the comment thread, and then it gets interesting:
- Person B: I thought it was just the death tax that can't be addressed in a contract; what other rights can't they have?; of course anyone should marry whomever they want!; isn't Toys R Us great, they give domestic partners full health insurance.
- Person C: Oh, no, there's the whole hospital visitation thing; do you want to wrangle with a resistant family member in order to say goodbye to a dying partner?
- Person B: Wrong! If you have a living will and a signed and notorized agreement, the family can't keep you away!
- Person C: Uh-huh. So, my husband's in the hospital, and I have to dig out my legal paperwork before I go to the hospital?; in my case, take the bus home from work, find the paperwork, and drive back into town, when on top of it I'm probably not safe to drive?; assuming we've gone to the expense and trouble of getting such paperwork?; oh, and by the way, because we're an opposite-gender couple, they're not going to ask us for a copy of our marriage license, and we're in less need of powers of attorney and living wills, because we're legally married.
- Person B: Gosh, it's really awful when family members are jerks, and I'm really sorry for anyone who has to deal with that; but you do kind of know what you're getting into; spending $100 on a contract is nothing at all for the peace of mind it gives you, and of course if I had to do that, I'd know exactly where my paperwork is; so what else are the issues?, I know there aren't a lot of people who have to worry about taxes on huge estates.
If you're not legally married, which NO same-gender couples are on a federal level, you have to pay income taxes on your health insurance, b/c it's a taxable benefit.
I can't collect my wife's social security if she dies first.
Health care powers of attorney aren't enforceable everywhere. There was a Seattle woman who died ALONE in FL when the hospital refused to honor the couple's legal paperwork - and her kids couldn't say goodbye, b/c the hospital also refused to honor the adoption.
It doesn't matter how much money we spend on legal paperwork: it's not the same protection.
Imagine that every time you move, you have to get divorced and then re-married in your new town, county, or state. And that benefits that depend on the date you get married got re-set every single time.
Imagine that in addition to that, every time you move, you have to re-do your will, living will, and financial and health care powers of attorney, b/c getting remarried doesn't cover everything.
Imagine that if you get married and move, and then want to get divorced, you have to move back to the original state for a year first.
The NY Times had several good articles recently:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/03/your-money/03money .html?_r=1&hp=&pagewanted= all
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/03/us/03texas.html
- Person B (with lots of exclamation points): But everyone pays taxes on health insurance, regardless of who their partner is!
- Person C: Stasa, I figured you'd be up on this kind of stuff; and what about the Seattle woman whose partner died when their house flooded, and even with a sympathetic family and good state laws, she had to get permission from the family?; why should anyone who's willing to make this commitment have to jump through these hoops?; why should it matter who your partner is?; I have heterosexual privilege, and that's not fair; my adult child does not; this is wrong.
- Person D: It's ridiculous what people have to go through; it makes me ill; this is unfair and wrong; it's time to change the law.
- Me (direct quote):
Person B, there definitely is a difference. My health insurance through my partner is taxed very differently than my health insurance was through my former employer.
Employer contributions to health insurance premiums are NOT counted as taxable income for workers whose coverage includes themselves, legal spouses, or dependents. As soon as you add a non-dependent adult -- such as a domestic partner -- that person's health insurance benefit becomes taxable income.
My family most certainly *does* have a higher tax burden for my health insurance than if my partner and I could be married legally, or if I had insurance through an employer -- because my health insurance counts as taxable income. (We even get a separate little income statement for it.)
Person B, you said, "...what you were dealing with 100 dollars at most for your well being is nothing..." First off, $100 is out of reach for a lot of people. Secondly, $100 buys you NOTHING in terms of legal paperwork and protection. This kind of paperwork, if it's going to stand up in court, starts at thousands of dollars if there's ANY property or any children involved. And court comes AFTER the shit hits the fan, and your partner or kid is in the hospital and you're not being allowed to see them or make medical decisions for them. For way too many of us, court comes after our partner or kid is *dead*. And *that* is discrimination at work.
Person C, I'm particularly up to my eyeballs in this crap right now (which you probably know), since we just moved and are in the process of registering our civil union with the state.
Okay, folks, if all the other paperwork does the trick, and legal, civil marriage doesn't matter, then I'm sure every heterosexual legally married couple in the country would be just fine with not being legally married but getting to do all the other paperwork instead.
- Person B: But your child is your child; no one can change that; even if you adopt, that is the same for everyone; health care is always taxable income, it's about how your employer sets it up not about your "legal status"; "I am sorry but you are very wrong!"
- Person A: This is a great discussion!; what else do folks think?
- Me (direct quote):
Bullshit. I wish I was wrong. Tell me I'm wrong when you've lived my life, paid my taxes, and dealt with what I deal with every day. Believe me, I'm much more aware of my legal rights on a daily basis than you could possibly be.
Tell us we're wrong to all those parents in MI whose legal right to their children is now in jeopardy b/c second parent adoptions may now be invalid and illegal. Tell it to the kids in FL who were kept out of their mother's room while she was dying b/c they had two moms, legally, and the hospital refused to recognize them as her kids. Tell it to the IRS if I don't pay income tax on the insurance premium my partner's employer pays.
Person B, if you are legally married to an opposite-gender partner, and you get health insurance through your husband's employer, you do NOT pay income tax on the portion of the premium that his employer pays. That's a fact. It's the law. It has NOTHING to do with how an employer sets it up and everything to do with legal rights you have that I don't.
And if you still don't believe me, do some of your own research instead of just telling me I'm wrong. Google "taxable health insurance."
Person A, thanks for starting this conversation!
- Person B: In NJ and MN, we absolutely pay taxes on health insurance!; "I don't know what planet you live on" but we pay taxes on insurance for our kids.
- Person C: I've never gotten a separate income statement for my spouse's insurance, b/c it's included in the regular W2; has anyone else?; so how can we say Stasa's wrong when she's the one with the experience with this?; you're only your child's legal parent if your state recognizes the adoption, and if your state doesn't recognize gay adoption or second parent adoption, you are up the creek; these are inequalities that shouldn't exist, and no one should have to pay more than someone else for equal protection under the law anyway; why would anyone be okay with this?; this is discrimination.
- Person B: I agree, but you still have to pay taxes; unless the family of origin is totally horrible, why would a kid be prevented from visiting?
- Person C: "Person B, have you read any of the articles Stasa posted?"; I don't know why anyone would keep a child away, but it *does* happen; it happened this year; it doesn't have to be a family, it can be a nurse who decides they don't like gay people; it can happen, it does happen, it's wrong; and sure, you can go to court afterwards, when it's too late; same problem with living wills; family or hospital decides not to honor it, they don't honor it; also, remember there's a difference between state and federal income tax, and make sure you're comparing apples to apples and not apples to oranges.
A couple of things really got me about this conversation:
One is Person B's complete unwillingness to believe the truth of my experience when it doesn't match their experience, or what they think. Of course it doesn't match their experience: they have heterosexual privilege. This person isn't living their life as a lesbian, trying to protect themselves and their family. I am also reminded of the bumper sticker, "Don't believe everything you think." For years, my reaction was, How random. But, really: just because you think it, doesn't make it true. Just because you think $100 gets someone else equal protection under the law, just because you think I don't pay more taxes than you do, does not make those things true. (But gosh, what if it was! My life would certainly be easier.)
Two is that I am grateful to straight allies, and queer folks in legal opposite-gender marriages, who stand up for the truth.
Three is, how amazing are folks who don't want to see their privilege. I've mostly dealt with this in the context of sexism ("Of course women in my company are paid the same as men") and racism ("Of course I'm comfortable when Black people come into my store"). I've dealt with it some in heterosexism ("I don't care what you do in the bedroom, but do you have to flaunt it by holding hands?"), religious discrimination ("Of course she can wear a cross, but people will be uncomfortable if you wear a pentagram"), and other kinds of discrimination. I know I have my own blind spots.
But it's been a while since I went toe-to-toe (keyboard-to-keyboard?) with someone who just plain doesn't believe me about the everyday reality of my life in quite this way.
So my tiny little mind is blown again.
And that's the conversation about equality that I had for National Coming Out Day.
Friday, June 19, 2009
The growth of political violence in the United States
I have been working on this entry for several days. Today I learned of the murders of most of the members of the Flores family in a home invasion by members of an anti-immmigration vigilante group. - sm
When I was an undergraduate, in the late 80s and early 90s, I rather unexpectedly did a lot of research on terrorism.
At UMBC, I started to understand not only what a loaded word "terrorism" is, but how culturally programmed. The professors who team-taught my political science class in Third World Politics challenged us to pay attention whenever we heard or read the word "terrorism" being used -- to notice who was using it, and whom they were describing. In addition, they challenged us to replace the term "terrorism" with the term "political violence" whenever we read it or heard it, and see what that did to our thinking and perceptions.
When I got back to Bryn Mawr, I took social psychology with Clark McCauley, one of whose specialties is the study of terrorism/political violence. Also an eye-opening experience.
You have to understand, this was before September 11, 2001. The majority of what Americans called "terrorism" back then was divided into two kinds: "terrorism from above," or state-sponsored terrorism, and "terrorism from below," or guerilla warfare/terrorism. The places Americans talked about this happening in were in the "First World" and the "Third World" -- the Middle East, Africa, Europe, South and Central America. Not the US -- not yet.
But my point is that we talked about both kinds. The political violence of guerrilla groups in Lebanon, Nicaragua, Iran, El Salvador, and the Occupied Palestinian Territories populated the news, as terrorism-from-below. But state-sponsored political violence -- particularly from repressive regimes and military governments such as the Soviet Union, East Germany, and El Salvador -- was recognized as terrorism-from-above back then. The massacre in Tiananmen Square made huge news in the West. The terrorism of the Soviet Union was still active in the news through the late 80s. Even the shootings at Kent State were still understood as state-sponsored terrorism. I could go on.
Nowadays, when we talk about "terrorism," we talk primarily about violence-from-below, rather than about state-sponsored terrorism. And we very often talk about religious extremists. But they're usually people who are either far away or from far away, whose skin is not white, and who are not Christians.
We rarely talk about people right here in the US whose political violence should rightly be called terrorism -- especially not if they are are white, right-wing, or supposedly Christian.
In the summer of 1992, I worked with McCauley doing preliminary research that was part of a larger project of his, on the question of what helps prevent violence-from-below in political movements. Many political movements start out espousing non-violence, but many of them come to resort to violent tactics -- against first property, and then people. What makes that change acceptable to some groups but not others? What factors protect or insulate a movement against that change?
He wanted me to study a group that, unlike the New Left and the environmental movement, was still non-violent, and had an unprecedented paper trail -- the ecofeminist movement.
(I pretty much said to him: I'm a feminist, and I'm a Witch, and you want me to spend three months reading eco-feminism and related material, writing about it, and talking with you about it. Twist. My. Arm.)
So I read a lot of primary materials from the New Left, the anti-nuclear movement, different aspects of the environmental movement, the women's spirituality movement, and eco-feminism.
The ecofeminist movement, it turned out, didn't meet all of the requirements for McCauley's larger project -- for one thing, a great many of the movers and shakers of the ecofeminist movement had been previously involved in the New Left, and many ecofeminists were part of the anti-nuclear movement.
(Reading Robin Morgan's accounts of her time in the New Left was... illustrative. Interestingly, she also went on to write about terrorism and political violence.)
But, the ecofeminist movement did provide some useful insights. As, in a way, did the New Left, by contrast.
In all the material I read, one thing stood out over and over as a protective against the development of violence in a political movement:
Refusing to dehumanize the enemy.
Not only did the eco-feminist movement consistently refuse to demonize the enemy, its adherents insisted on finding ways to see opponents as human, as real people -- and even as an embodiment of the Divine. It could be something as simple as going around a circle at the end of the day in an action, each participant naming something that emphasized the human quality of someone with whom they'd come into conflict that day. It could be making sure to address a police officer or soldier by name, not merely title or rank. It could be making a practice of asking opponents about their families. It often included ritual and magic, and could be as intimate and formal as taking time in circle to name "enemies" and affirm, "Sergeant Jones, thou art God," "Jane Smith, thou art Goddess," as well as naming allies and those present, affirming, "Sara, thou art Goddess," "Tom, thou art God."
Why am I writing about this now?
A Friend of mine shared a link to an interview with David Neiwert about violence in political movements and about his new book, The Eliminationists: How Hate Talk Radicalized the American Right. (Click here for publisher's web site.)
Neiwert discusses recent terrorism in the United States: in the wake of the suppression of a Department of Homeland Security report warning about a potential upsurge of right-wing political violence, we have the assassination of an abortion provider, the uncovering of a plot to assassinate President Obama, and a killing at the Holocaust Museum. [And now, the murder of a family of Hispanic immigrants.]
And Neiwert also talks about the factors that encourage that political violence/terrorism, and some ways to resist it.
As I've been reading the interview, I've found myself saying to myself, Yes, yes, yes.
Some things that have stood out to me:
This is one reason I react strongly whenever I hear anyone refer to cops as "pigs." I grew up in a large city that had problems with police violence; it's not naivete on my part. I've also worked with amazing people in law enforcement during my humanitarian work. But calling cops "pigs" -- or calling union-busters, or even anti-choice murderers or anti-immigrant murderers "pigs" -- is not okay with me, because it's dehumanization. Seeing cops, even security guards, as "pigs" is part of what sent the New Left down the slippery slope from non-violence to violence. Dehumanization opens a door in the psyche to violence.
I am reminded of the collective response of the San Francisco gay community on the night of the murders of Harvey Milk and George Moscone, and of Holly Near's song "Gentle Angry People":
I am reminded of my peace witness trip to the Middle East. I am reminded of successful reconciliation work I've witnessed and learned of, in the US and abroad, between family members, political enemies, and survivors and perpetrators of violence.
Neiwert talks about the importance of engagement, of not demonizing the enemy -- and of not heroizing one's self:
The kind of engagement that Neiwert and other activists for peace, justice, and non-violence are talking about is hard work. It requires a particular combination, of an open heart and self-protection, and that does not necessarily come easily.
But it can be learned, it can be supported, it can be done -- and it can create change.
What are we going to do -- you, and I -- to contribute towards this kind of engagement, this kind of change?
How are we creating magic?
How are we nourishing openings to grace?
How are we nourishing That-of-God and That-of-the-Goddess in each other?
What are we doing to prevent violence?
When I was an undergraduate, in the late 80s and early 90s, I rather unexpectedly did a lot of research on terrorism.
At UMBC, I started to understand not only what a loaded word "terrorism" is, but how culturally programmed. The professors who team-taught my political science class in Third World Politics challenged us to pay attention whenever we heard or read the word "terrorism" being used -- to notice who was using it, and whom they were describing. In addition, they challenged us to replace the term "terrorism" with the term "political violence" whenever we read it or heard it, and see what that did to our thinking and perceptions.
When I got back to Bryn Mawr, I took social psychology with Clark McCauley, one of whose specialties is the study of terrorism/political violence. Also an eye-opening experience.
You have to understand, this was before September 11, 2001. The majority of what Americans called "terrorism" back then was divided into two kinds: "terrorism from above," or state-sponsored terrorism, and "terrorism from below," or guerilla warfare/terrorism. The places Americans talked about this happening in were in the "First World" and the "Third World" -- the Middle East, Africa, Europe, South and Central America. Not the US -- not yet.
But my point is that we talked about both kinds. The political violence of guerrilla groups in Lebanon, Nicaragua, Iran, El Salvador, and the Occupied Palestinian Territories populated the news, as terrorism-from-below. But state-sponsored political violence -- particularly from repressive regimes and military governments such as the Soviet Union, East Germany, and El Salvador -- was recognized as terrorism-from-above back then. The massacre in Tiananmen Square made huge news in the West. The terrorism of the Soviet Union was still active in the news through the late 80s. Even the shootings at Kent State were still understood as state-sponsored terrorism. I could go on.
Nowadays, when we talk about "terrorism," we talk primarily about violence-from-below, rather than about state-sponsored terrorism. And we very often talk about religious extremists. But they're usually people who are either far away or from far away, whose skin is not white, and who are not Christians.
We rarely talk about people right here in the US whose political violence should rightly be called terrorism -- especially not if they are are white, right-wing, or supposedly Christian.
In the summer of 1992, I worked with McCauley doing preliminary research that was part of a larger project of his, on the question of what helps prevent violence-from-below in political movements. Many political movements start out espousing non-violence, but many of them come to resort to violent tactics -- against first property, and then people. What makes that change acceptable to some groups but not others? What factors protect or insulate a movement against that change?
He wanted me to study a group that, unlike the New Left and the environmental movement, was still non-violent, and had an unprecedented paper trail -- the ecofeminist movement.
(I pretty much said to him: I'm a feminist, and I'm a Witch, and you want me to spend three months reading eco-feminism and related material, writing about it, and talking with you about it. Twist. My. Arm.)
So I read a lot of primary materials from the New Left, the anti-nuclear movement, different aspects of the environmental movement, the women's spirituality movement, and eco-feminism.
The ecofeminist movement, it turned out, didn't meet all of the requirements for McCauley's larger project -- for one thing, a great many of the movers and shakers of the ecofeminist movement had been previously involved in the New Left, and many ecofeminists were part of the anti-nuclear movement.
(Reading Robin Morgan's accounts of her time in the New Left was... illustrative. Interestingly, she also went on to write about terrorism and political violence.)
But, the ecofeminist movement did provide some useful insights. As, in a way, did the New Left, by contrast.
In all the material I read, one thing stood out over and over as a protective against the development of violence in a political movement:
Refusing to dehumanize the enemy.
Not only did the eco-feminist movement consistently refuse to demonize the enemy, its adherents insisted on finding ways to see opponents as human, as real people -- and even as an embodiment of the Divine. It could be something as simple as going around a circle at the end of the day in an action, each participant naming something that emphasized the human quality of someone with whom they'd come into conflict that day. It could be making sure to address a police officer or soldier by name, not merely title or rank. It could be making a practice of asking opponents about their families. It often included ritual and magic, and could be as intimate and formal as taking time in circle to name "enemies" and affirm, "Sergeant Jones, thou art God," "Jane Smith, thou art Goddess," as well as naming allies and those present, affirming, "Sara, thou art Goddess," "Tom, thou art God."
Why am I writing about this now?
A Friend of mine shared a link to an interview with David Neiwert about violence in political movements and about his new book, The Eliminationists: How Hate Talk Radicalized the American Right. (Click here for publisher's web site.)
Neiwert discusses recent terrorism in the United States: in the wake of the suppression of a Department of Homeland Security report warning about a potential upsurge of right-wing political violence, we have the assassination of an abortion provider, the uncovering of a plot to assassinate President Obama, and a killing at the Holocaust Museum. [And now, the murder of a family of Hispanic immigrants.]
And Neiwert also talks about the factors that encourage that political violence/terrorism, and some ways to resist it.
As I've been reading the interview, I've found myself saying to myself, Yes, yes, yes.
Some things that have stood out to me:
Joshua Holland: There is a lot of ugly discourse in this country, and there always has been. What makes eliminationist rhetoric different from the kind of run-of-the-mill nasty stuff that we see on all sides of the political spectrum?Something I saw over and over in my research for McCauley's project was that when groups start seeing opponents or members of other groups as not-human, that's when violence becomes acceptable. And starting to lump opponents together into groups, rather than seeing individuals, contributes to this.
David Neiwert: Right -- there is a lot of hateful rhetoric that floats around on both sides. What's unique about eliminationist rhetoric is that it talks about eliminating whole blocs of people from the body politic, whereas most of the hateful rhetoric, in the case of people on the left, is directed at an individual -- George Bush or Dick Cheney and various characters on the right. That's one of the key differences -- when right-wing people talk hatefully, it often is directed at entire groups of people: Latinos, African Americans, gays and lesbians or liberals.
JH: People they deem to be inferior.
DN: Deemed inferior, or not even human. That is a critical aspect of eliminationist rhetoric. It often depicts the opposition as subhuman -- comparing them with vermin, diseases or carriers of diseases. I think for me the classic historical expression of eliminationism in America was Col. [John] Chivington's remarks prior to the Sand Creek Massacre, where he urged the white Colorado militiamen to kill all the Indians they encountered, including women and children. He said, "nits make lice." That to me is pretty much a classic eliminationist statement.
This is one reason I react strongly whenever I hear anyone refer to cops as "pigs." I grew up in a large city that had problems with police violence; it's not naivete on my part. I've also worked with amazing people in law enforcement during my humanitarian work. But calling cops "pigs" -- or calling union-busters, or even anti-choice murderers or anti-immigrant murderers "pigs" -- is not okay with me, because it's dehumanization. Seeing cops, even security guards, as "pigs" is part of what sent the New Left down the slippery slope from non-violence to violence. Dehumanization opens a door in the psyche to violence.
One of the things that I learned while studying hate crimes is that the vast majority of hate crimes are committed by ordinary people, not by members of hate groups. Yet it's also the case that the vast majority of hate crimes are accompanied by hate-group rhetoric. So in a lot of ways hate crimes are a manifestation of the way right-wing extremism has permeated the broader culture. But more than that, these ordinary people also believe -- and I might add this includes the white supremacists -- that what they are doing reflects the secret desires, the unspoken wishes of the community that they believe they are defending.I am reminded of the power of collective action. I am reminded of a recent article in the New York Times, "At Last, Facing Down Bullies (And Their Enablers)," which talks about the pioneering and successful work of Dr. Dan Olweus in mobilizing bystanders to counteract and prevent bullying.
When you stand up to them, when you engage in the act of standing up to them, that knocks that plank right out from under them, because when the community stands up and says, "No, these are not our values, this is not what we believe in, what you are doing is wrong," that takes that belief away.
I am reminded of the collective response of the San Francisco gay community on the night of the murders of Harvey Milk and George Moscone, and of Holly Near's song "Gentle Angry People":
We are a gentle, angry people
And we are singing, singing for our lives...
I am reminded of my peace witness trip to the Middle East. I am reminded of successful reconciliation work I've witnessed and learned of, in the US and abroad, between family members, political enemies, and survivors and perpetrators of violence.
Neiwert talks about the importance of engagement, of not demonizing the enemy -- and of not heroizing one's self:
So when we engage them, I think it is fundamentally important that we try not to see ourselves as heroes, that we don't turn them into the enemy but rather people like us, human beings who have frailties and have flaws and engage them in a real way, because that is how we are going to pull them over.
We are not going to change people's minds by pointing at them and calling them bad people. We are going to change people's minds by taking care to honestly engage them as one human being to another. That is the only way I think that we really can succeed.
The kind of engagement that Neiwert and other activists for peace, justice, and non-violence are talking about is hard work. It requires a particular combination, of an open heart and self-protection, and that does not necessarily come easily.
But it can be learned, it can be supported, it can be done -- and it can create change.
What are we going to do -- you, and I -- to contribute towards this kind of engagement, this kind of change?
How are we creating magic?
How are we nourishing openings to grace?
How are we nourishing That-of-God and That-of-the-Goddess in each other?
What are we doing to prevent violence?
Thursday, June 11, 2009
My Pagan Values, My Quaker Values
Pax over at Chrysalis blog had the idea for Pagan bloggers world-wide to take some time in June to blog about Pagan values. He points out, rightly, that folks in particular other traditions, especially here in the US, dominate the public discourse about values.
I found this immediately appealing. Both because it irritates me a great deal when the Christian religious right pretends it has "values" all sewn up, and because I'm curious about what other Pagans I haven't already read have to say.
I know, in general, what values my spiritual communities and the people in them hold, as well as the values the traditions that have influenced me hold. But modern Paganism, or modern neo-Paganism, is an umbrella term for a very broad, very diverse range of experiences, expressions, traditions, and beliefs. And I'm curious about what values other Pagans hold, and I'm curious about how that's developed over the 18 years that I've been "out" as a Witch.
But first off, what do I mean by Pagan?
I like to borrow the Pagan Pride Project's definition -- or set of definitions -- of "What Is a Pagan?" It's not perfect, but it is definitely a good "functional definition."
As you can see, it's a pretty broad definition/set of definitions.
And it can include folks who are part of relatively mainstream congregations, folks who have created or are part of exclusively Pagan congregations, folks who aren't part of any religious or spiritual groups, folks who are Non-Theists or Atheists... And more.
A lot of people describe discovering that they're Pagan very similarly to how they describe what it was like to discover that they're lesbian, bi, gay, queer, or transgender. It's incredibly powerful to realize:
So now that we've looked at "Pagan," let's look at "values."
Considering the Merriam-Webster definition of values, what are the things that are important to me as a Quaker Witch?
One place to start is with the list of core values we developed in my former Coven in the mid-90s:
Part of what had led us to form our own Coven is that while it wasn't hard, in our large East Coast city, to find other people who shared our labels as Pagans and Witches, or people who shared some of our values, it was hard to find people who shared our particular combination of values. There were interesting places to visit, but none that felt like home. (I'm sure my founding co-Priestess will make additions and corrections as needed.)
Some folks saw the Goddess, That-Which-Is-Sacred, only outside the world, not inherent in everything that lives. A number of folks we met were into the supernatural in ways we weren't. Some groups were strongly hierarchical; we were egalitarian. Most weren't able to offer support for the kinds of intensive work we both knew we needed to do in our lives. Some were too "high-churchy" for our needs; we needed something more simple. Some were more dogmatic than we were comfortable with. Not many saw the same kinds of connections we did between our spiritual lives, social justice, and work in the world. Not all Pagans or Pagan groups are committed to non-violence, although many are; not all Pagans or Pagan groups are feminist, although many are. Some groups were much too serious for either of us. Some were actually too light-hearted for us. We needed a balance between seriousness and fun.
So we formed our own Coven. Over time, both the core group and the extended Roses, Too! community grew into just that -- a wonderful, imperfect, organic community. Not all of whom identified as Pagan, or even as spiritual at all, but to whom coming together regularly on the spokes of the Wheel of the Year became important.
My values as a feminist Witch -- the ones that led me to co-found a Coven, and led me to live my life as a Witch -- are the values that led me to Quakerism.
First, on a Coven "field trip" to a Quaker-sponsored training in non-violent intervention. Folks came to this training from faith communities all over the City. We really enjoyed meeting, hanging out with, and working with other religious and spiritual people whose labels were different from ours, but who shared many of our values. (And Rob C. and I still reminisce about how we first became friends by screaming at each other in a role play more than twelve years ago.)
Second, to Meeting for Worship. Many of the people we met at the training -- including quite a few we already knew -- invited us to come to worship. For me, it started out some as intervisitation, and mostly as an experiment in a particular spiritual discipline. Almost right away, however, Meeting for Worship became a regular and deeply important part of my spiritual life.
Third, to Quaker process and testimonies, as I became more involved with the life of my Meeting and other Quaker organizations.
And then, before long, to a commitment to Quakerism as a way of life, because it's an outward expression of inward truth, because it's where the Goddess calls me to be.
The two of us who founded Roses, Too! had both gone to a small Quaker liberal arts college. (I had also gone to a mid-sized state university, another enlightening experience.) Because our alma mater doesn't exhibit much outward, obvious Quakerism, it took me a good five years after I'd graduated to realize how much Quaker enculturation I'd experienced there. One of the things I'm grateful for to this day is how Bryn Mawr provided me with an outward structure for many of the things I believed in and values I'd held before arriving there. The Academic and Social Honor Codes, along with other forms of Quaker enculturation, were things I embraced with a whole heart -- they were outward expressions of my inward truth.
So when Quakerism became my home, years later, it was because of values I'd held ever since I was old enough to articulate what was important to me -- including the values of feminist Witchcraft.
What are Quaker values? To me, they are encompassed by, and exhibited in, Quaker worship, practices, and testimonies. But I think it's fair to say that Friends' worship and Friends' practices, particularly in how we attend to our business together, are rooted in our testimonies:
I have a connection with each of the testimonies on a gut level. Some of them are easier to explain than others; some are more accessible than others; some of them are more of a daily presence in my life than others.
In my Faith and Practice study group in my Meeting, I recently had some breakthroughs in my understanding of both Simplicity and Stewardship. (I love North Pacific Yearly Meeting's Faith and Practice; it's a gem.) Peace and Equality resonated with me from the beginning. Community and Earthcare are vital expressions of and experiences of the Goddess for me. Integrity has a near-daily presence in my life, if for no other reason than I am living my life as an out lesbian and Witch.
Each of the testimonies has something to say to me, and says something about me, as a Quaker Witch.
So, if you ask me about my Pagan values, you're going to hear about my Quaker ones, too.
And if you ask me about my Quaker values, you're going to hear about my experience of the Goddess and my values as a feminist Witch, too.
My Pagan values and my Quaker values can't be separated. My Quaker values and my Pagan values are the same.
Quakerism is how the Goddess calls me to walk through my life as a Witch.
I found this immediately appealing. Both because it irritates me a great deal when the Christian religious right pretends it has "values" all sewn up, and because I'm curious about what other Pagans I haven't already read have to say.
I know, in general, what values my spiritual communities and the people in them hold, as well as the values the traditions that have influenced me hold. But modern Paganism, or modern neo-Paganism, is an umbrella term for a very broad, very diverse range of experiences, expressions, traditions, and beliefs. And I'm curious about what values other Pagans hold, and I'm curious about how that's developed over the 18 years that I've been "out" as a Witch.
But first off, what do I mean by Pagan?
I like to borrow the Pagan Pride Project's definition -- or set of definitions -- of "What Is a Pagan?" It's not perfect, but it is definitely a good "functional definition."
A Pagan or NeoPagan is someone who self-identifies as a Pagan, and whose spiritual or religious practice or belief fits into one or more of the following categories:
- Honoring, revering, or worshipping a Deity or Deities found in pre-Christian, classical, aboriginal, or tribal mythology; and/or
- Practicing religion or spirituality based upon shamanism, shamanic, or magickal practices; and/or
- Creating new religion based on past Pagan religions and/or futuristic views of society, community, and/or ecology;
- Focusing religious or spiritual attention primarily on the Divine Feminine; and/or
- Practicing religion that focuses on earth based spirituality.
As you can see, it's a pretty broad definition/set of definitions.
And it can include folks who are part of relatively mainstream congregations, folks who have created or are part of exclusively Pagan congregations, folks who aren't part of any religious or spiritual groups, folks who are Non-Theists or Atheists... And more.
A lot of people describe discovering that they're Pagan very similarly to how they describe what it was like to discover that they're lesbian, bi, gay, queer, or transgender. It's incredibly powerful to realize:
- There are words for who I am/ what I believe/ what I experience!
- There are words for my inward truth!
- There are other people like me in the world!
So now that we've looked at "Pagan," let's look at "values."
Considering the Merriam-Webster definition of values, what are the things that are important to me as a Quaker Witch?
One place to start is with the list of core values we developed in my former Coven in the mid-90s:
These are still true for me today.
Roses, Too! is a Coven of eclectic, feminist Witches. We hold Sabbat potlucks and semi-open ritual, usually on the Saturday (or Sunday) closest to the holiday. Our spiritual backgrounds are diverse: Quaker, Pagan, Jewish, Episcopalian, Congregationalist, Catholic, Atheist, and more.
As Witches, some of the values we share are:
- Respect and love for the Earth, for all living things, as the embodiment of That-Which-Is-Sacred -- as the Goddess.
- The courage and honesty to do hard spiritual and emotional work.
- The compassion to support and bear witness to each other's work.
- A commitment to justice and to non-violent political activism.
- An understanding of magic as a way to create personal, political, and cultural change.
- The recognition of the importance of fun, silliness, and play in what we do.
Part of what had led us to form our own Coven is that while it wasn't hard, in our large East Coast city, to find other people who shared our labels as Pagans and Witches, or people who shared some of our values, it was hard to find people who shared our particular combination of values. There were interesting places to visit, but none that felt like home. (I'm sure my founding co-Priestess will make additions and corrections as needed.)
Some folks saw the Goddess, That-Which-Is-Sacred, only outside the world, not inherent in everything that lives. A number of folks we met were into the supernatural in ways we weren't. Some groups were strongly hierarchical; we were egalitarian. Most weren't able to offer support for the kinds of intensive work we both knew we needed to do in our lives. Some were too "high-churchy" for our needs; we needed something more simple. Some were more dogmatic than we were comfortable with. Not many saw the same kinds of connections we did between our spiritual lives, social justice, and work in the world. Not all Pagans or Pagan groups are committed to non-violence, although many are; not all Pagans or Pagan groups are feminist, although many are. Some groups were much too serious for either of us. Some were actually too light-hearted for us. We needed a balance between seriousness and fun.
So we formed our own Coven. Over time, both the core group and the extended Roses, Too! community grew into just that -- a wonderful, imperfect, organic community. Not all of whom identified as Pagan, or even as spiritual at all, but to whom coming together regularly on the spokes of the Wheel of the Year became important.
My values as a feminist Witch -- the ones that led me to co-found a Coven, and led me to live my life as a Witch -- are the values that led me to Quakerism.
First, on a Coven "field trip" to a Quaker-sponsored training in non-violent intervention. Folks came to this training from faith communities all over the City. We really enjoyed meeting, hanging out with, and working with other religious and spiritual people whose labels were different from ours, but who shared many of our values. (And Rob C. and I still reminisce about how we first became friends by screaming at each other in a role play more than twelve years ago.)
Second, to Meeting for Worship. Many of the people we met at the training -- including quite a few we already knew -- invited us to come to worship. For me, it started out some as intervisitation, and mostly as an experiment in a particular spiritual discipline. Almost right away, however, Meeting for Worship became a regular and deeply important part of my spiritual life.
Third, to Quaker process and testimonies, as I became more involved with the life of my Meeting and other Quaker organizations.
And then, before long, to a commitment to Quakerism as a way of life, because it's an outward expression of inward truth, because it's where the Goddess calls me to be.
The two of us who founded Roses, Too! had both gone to a small Quaker liberal arts college. (I had also gone to a mid-sized state university, another enlightening experience.) Because our alma mater doesn't exhibit much outward, obvious Quakerism, it took me a good five years after I'd graduated to realize how much Quaker enculturation I'd experienced there. One of the things I'm grateful for to this day is how Bryn Mawr provided me with an outward structure for many of the things I believed in and values I'd held before arriving there. The Academic and Social Honor Codes, along with other forms of Quaker enculturation, were things I embraced with a whole heart -- they were outward expressions of my inward truth.
So when Quakerism became my home, years later, it was because of values I'd held ever since I was old enough to articulate what was important to me -- including the values of feminist Witchcraft.
What are Quaker values? To me, they are encompassed by, and exhibited in, Quaker worship, practices, and testimonies. But I think it's fair to say that Friends' worship and Friends' practices, particularly in how we attend to our business together, are rooted in our testimonies:
- Simplicity
- Peace
- Integrity
- Community
- Equality
- Earthcare
- Stewardship
I have a connection with each of the testimonies on a gut level. Some of them are easier to explain than others; some are more accessible than others; some of them are more of a daily presence in my life than others.
In my Faith and Practice study group in my Meeting, I recently had some breakthroughs in my understanding of both Simplicity and Stewardship. (I love North Pacific Yearly Meeting's Faith and Practice; it's a gem.) Peace and Equality resonated with me from the beginning. Community and Earthcare are vital expressions of and experiences of the Goddess for me. Integrity has a near-daily presence in my life, if for no other reason than I am living my life as an out lesbian and Witch.
Each of the testimonies has something to say to me, and says something about me, as a Quaker Witch.
So, if you ask me about my Pagan values, you're going to hear about my Quaker ones, too.
And if you ask me about my Quaker values, you're going to hear about my experience of the Goddess and my values as a feminist Witch, too.
My Pagan values and my Quaker values can't be separated. My Quaker values and my Pagan values are the same.
Quakerism is how the Goddess calls me to walk through my life as a Witch.
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Peace Testimony and Armed Forces Emergency Services
This article appeared in the July, 2008 issue of Friends Journal. An earlier version appeared here. I am re-posting it, in part, in honor of Memorial Day. - sm
Disclaimer: The opinions and beliefs stated in this article are those of the author only. They do not reflect the opinions, beliefs, or positions of the American Red Cross. This article is not endorsed by the American Red Cross.
------------------------------
It’s 3:45 am when my pager wakes me. I speak to a man who is quite upset: his sister has just died – at the end of a long illness, but unexpectedly soon – and his sister’s son is on active duty in the military, stationed overseas. The caller needs to get a message to the nephew through the Red Cross so the young man can get leave for his mother’s funeral. I walk the caller through giving me all the information I need – his sister’s information, the hospice information, his nephew’s name, social security number, and military address – and promise him I’ll get back to him just as soon as I can. I call the hospice agency and page the hospice nurse, who confirms the date, time, and cause of death. I send the message through the Red Cross system and call the man back to tell him the message has been sent and that we requested that his nephew call him as soon as he receives it. I explain that because his nephew is in Iraq and the activity level there is very high right now, it may take longer for the message to go through and he may not hear from his nephew for several days.*
I’m driving home from work when my pager goes off. I pull over and talk to a woman whose son was just in a motor vehicle accident and is near death. She is very calm. She wants her daughter to come home so the family can all decide together about taking him off life support. I talk to the charge nurse in the ICU and gather all the information that command will need to decide whether or not to grant leave, including the medical team’s recommendation for the service member’s presence. I send the message, then let the family know that it’s on its way, and that I requested that a chaplain be present when the sister is notified.
I’m eating dinner when the pager beeps. I speak to a woman who’s in active labor at a local hospital and is about to give birth. She gives me her husband’s information between contractions and then passes the phone to her father-in-law when she can no longer speak. I apologetically explain I can’t send the message until the baby’s born. Her father-in-law chuckles. “Don’t worry, they’re wheeling her into delivery now!” By the time I talk to someone on staff for the verification, the baby’s been born and I can send the notification. The delighted new grandpa answers the cell phone when I call back to say the message has been sent.
------------------------------
*To protect confidentiality, none of this information comes from actual cases. These situations are compiled from typical kinds of cases.
------------------------------
I volunteer with the American Red Cross, an organization which provides humanitarian relief and assistance under a variety of circumstances. I’m active in two areas: Disaster Relief, and Armed Forces Emergency Services (AFES). As an AFES volunteer, I mostly work with military families to get emergency messages to active-duty service members: an illness or accident, death, other emergency situation, birth.
As a Friend, I first got involved with the Red Cross through Disaster Services just after September 11, 2001. Like so many of us, I had a deep need to do something – something to help, and something that expressed the Peace Testimony. What I did was answer phones, all day, every day. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was needed, and it freed up experienced, trained volunteers to go out in the field.
After Hurricane Katrina, I again found myself raging at the news, and again felt that need to do something. So I thought I’d go answer phones again. But because I have experience as a pastoral counselor and case manager and the need was so great, the local Chapter asked me to go to the Gulf Coast instead.
Five weeks after the disaster, at just one service center, in just one town, my fellow volunteers and I saw and spoke with thousands of people every day. None of us could “fix” anything for them. True, we could help them apply for financial assistance. True, we could try to connect them with services. But we couldn’t repair their lives.
Mostly, what we could do was just be there with them.
It turned out our simple presence meant much more than financial assistance to many people. “You came from where? To be here with us?”
“But you’re not getting paid?!”
“What about your family?”
“Thank you for coming down here.”
“I haven’t told anybody what happened, and it’s been more than a month.”
“We thought nobody cared about us.”
I already knew what a difference it made for me to have someone simply be with me when I was going through hard times. In Mississippi, I learned yet again that bearing witness is sacred work.
When I returned from my deployment, I stayed involved with my local Red Cross Chapter, mostly responding to local disasters. I learned it also makes a big difference to people when they know they’re not alone just after a house fire, tornado, or flood. One elderly resident of an apartment house which had been completely evacuated in the middle of the night said, “Because you all were there, we weren’t afraid.”
But then my supervisor asked me to get involved with Armed Forces Emergency Services. Our department was short-staffed, and she said I had a good background for the work. I was a little dubious about this. As a Friend, as someone who doesn’t support this war, how would I feel talking to military families in crisis? And could I do so without offering them short shrift? (Integrity. Peace.) But as a volunteer, I was there to do whatever needed to be done, so I said I’d try.
I kept thinking of a F/friend whose brother is a Marine. I kept thinking of my own surrogate brother, who’s a Marine, too.
Over time, doing AFES casework became as much an expression of the Peace Testimony for me as Disaster Relief work. I don't know that I have good words to explain how being part of providing this service, providing this ministry of presence, is, for me, a way of walking the Peace Testimony in the world; but I will try.
Let me start with the seven Fundamental Principles of the International Red Cross/Red Crescent Movement: Humanity. Impartiality. Neutrality. Independence. Voluntary Service. Unity. Universality.
I know. They sound like a bunch of very dry words. And yet each one of those Principles is quite real. Each one provides concrete guidance to Red Crossers. Each one helps me put my Quaker beliefs and convictions into action as part of a larger, completely secular, organization, side-by-side with non-Friends. Each one lets me work closely with other people who have very strong convictions, and who in ordinary life might not think we have anything at all in common.
The Fundamental Principles help us do sacred work together.
I find one key, one link, to the Peace Testimony in the Fundamental Principles. Take, for example, Humanity. With each AFES case I work, I have several opportunities to recognize and honor the humanity in another human being; to recognize and honor That-Which-Is-Sacred in each person I speak with – the spouse or parent or sibling or cousin or friend who's initiating the case; the medical administrator, nurse, doctor, police officer, funeral director, or hospice nurse with whom I verify the case; the AFES Center worker who takes the case or gives one to me.
These are opportunities to bear witness.
I find additional keys in Red Cross history. The first-ever Nobel Peace Prize, awarded in 1901, was shared by Frédéric Passy, who founded the first French peace society, and Henri Dunant, who founded the International Red Cross and initiated the Geneva Convention. The International and the American Red Cross organizations were founded in the midst of two of the bloodiest wars Europe and America had known – the Battle of Solferino in the Second War of Italian Independence, and the American Civil War – springing from a desire to help the wounded on the battlefield, without consideration for which side of a conflict any of those wounded were part.
Humanity. Neutrality. Impartiality. Independence.
Several months ago, a local Friend asked me, “Don’t you feel conflicted when you do AFES casework? Because you’re making soldiers’ lives easier?”
That thought hadn't occurred to me. So, I thought about it.
And I realized, I haven't talked to one family or one soldier whose life is anything approaching “easy” right now.
The service I offer as an AFES caseworker is one where I work with people in a time of great stress, and touch them as embodiments of That-Which-Is-Sacred. As real people. Many of the families and professionals I speak with in the course of a case are struggling to make a difference in the world. Many of the them are struggling simply to get through each day.
For the families, having a loved one in the service right now is not easy. There's not one family I've worked with that hasn't been under enormous stress because they have someone in the service right now. When someone they love is ill or dying or giving birth or being born, it doesn't matter whether or not they support this war, or any war, or their relative’s military service: they are the same people as you and me.
I guess that's the real key, what it really comes down to. Working with military families has helped me see that women and men in uniform, and the families of those women and men in uniform, are not part of a monolith or even a monoculture. Working AFES cases has helped me recognize military members and families as people who are a lot like me.
And they are people who are suffering because of this war. Some of them believe in it, some of them don't. It actually doesn't matter: they are all suffering for it, in ways those of us back home who don't have a direct connection can't understand.
Humanity.
The Peace Testimony.
Each of us is sacred.
Disclaimer: The opinions and beliefs stated in this article are those of the author only. They do not reflect the opinions, beliefs, or positions of the American Red Cross. This article is not endorsed by the American Red Cross.
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It’s 3:45 am when my pager wakes me. I speak to a man who is quite upset: his sister has just died – at the end of a long illness, but unexpectedly soon – and his sister’s son is on active duty in the military, stationed overseas. The caller needs to get a message to the nephew through the Red Cross so the young man can get leave for his mother’s funeral. I walk the caller through giving me all the information I need – his sister’s information, the hospice information, his nephew’s name, social security number, and military address – and promise him I’ll get back to him just as soon as I can. I call the hospice agency and page the hospice nurse, who confirms the date, time, and cause of death. I send the message through the Red Cross system and call the man back to tell him the message has been sent and that we requested that his nephew call him as soon as he receives it. I explain that because his nephew is in Iraq and the activity level there is very high right now, it may take longer for the message to go through and he may not hear from his nephew for several days.*
I’m driving home from work when my pager goes off. I pull over and talk to a woman whose son was just in a motor vehicle accident and is near death. She is very calm. She wants her daughter to come home so the family can all decide together about taking him off life support. I talk to the charge nurse in the ICU and gather all the information that command will need to decide whether or not to grant leave, including the medical team’s recommendation for the service member’s presence. I send the message, then let the family know that it’s on its way, and that I requested that a chaplain be present when the sister is notified.
I’m eating dinner when the pager beeps. I speak to a woman who’s in active labor at a local hospital and is about to give birth. She gives me her husband’s information between contractions and then passes the phone to her father-in-law when she can no longer speak. I apologetically explain I can’t send the message until the baby’s born. Her father-in-law chuckles. “Don’t worry, they’re wheeling her into delivery now!” By the time I talk to someone on staff for the verification, the baby’s been born and I can send the notification. The delighted new grandpa answers the cell phone when I call back to say the message has been sent.
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*To protect confidentiality, none of this information comes from actual cases. These situations are compiled from typical kinds of cases.
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I volunteer with the American Red Cross, an organization which provides humanitarian relief and assistance under a variety of circumstances. I’m active in two areas: Disaster Relief, and Armed Forces Emergency Services (AFES). As an AFES volunteer, I mostly work with military families to get emergency messages to active-duty service members: an illness or accident, death, other emergency situation, birth.
As a Friend, I first got involved with the Red Cross through Disaster Services just after September 11, 2001. Like so many of us, I had a deep need to do something – something to help, and something that expressed the Peace Testimony. What I did was answer phones, all day, every day. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was needed, and it freed up experienced, trained volunteers to go out in the field.
After Hurricane Katrina, I again found myself raging at the news, and again felt that need to do something. So I thought I’d go answer phones again. But because I have experience as a pastoral counselor and case manager and the need was so great, the local Chapter asked me to go to the Gulf Coast instead.
Five weeks after the disaster, at just one service center, in just one town, my fellow volunteers and I saw and spoke with thousands of people every day. None of us could “fix” anything for them. True, we could help them apply for financial assistance. True, we could try to connect them with services. But we couldn’t repair their lives.
Mostly, what we could do was just be there with them.
It turned out our simple presence meant much more than financial assistance to many people. “You came from where? To be here with us?”
“But you’re not getting paid?!”
“What about your family?”
“Thank you for coming down here.”
“I haven’t told anybody what happened, and it’s been more than a month.”
“We thought nobody cared about us.”
I already knew what a difference it made for me to have someone simply be with me when I was going through hard times. In Mississippi, I learned yet again that bearing witness is sacred work.
When I returned from my deployment, I stayed involved with my local Red Cross Chapter, mostly responding to local disasters. I learned it also makes a big difference to people when they know they’re not alone just after a house fire, tornado, or flood. One elderly resident of an apartment house which had been completely evacuated in the middle of the night said, “Because you all were there, we weren’t afraid.”
But then my supervisor asked me to get involved with Armed Forces Emergency Services. Our department was short-staffed, and she said I had a good background for the work. I was a little dubious about this. As a Friend, as someone who doesn’t support this war, how would I feel talking to military families in crisis? And could I do so without offering them short shrift? (Integrity. Peace.) But as a volunteer, I was there to do whatever needed to be done, so I said I’d try.
I kept thinking of a F/friend whose brother is a Marine. I kept thinking of my own surrogate brother, who’s a Marine, too.
Over time, doing AFES casework became as much an expression of the Peace Testimony for me as Disaster Relief work. I don't know that I have good words to explain how being part of providing this service, providing this ministry of presence, is, for me, a way of walking the Peace Testimony in the world; but I will try.
Let me start with the seven Fundamental Principles of the International Red Cross/Red Crescent Movement: Humanity. Impartiality. Neutrality. Independence. Voluntary Service. Unity. Universality.
I know. They sound like a bunch of very dry words. And yet each one of those Principles is quite real. Each one provides concrete guidance to Red Crossers. Each one helps me put my Quaker beliefs and convictions into action as part of a larger, completely secular, organization, side-by-side with non-Friends. Each one lets me work closely with other people who have very strong convictions, and who in ordinary life might not think we have anything at all in common.
The Fundamental Principles help us do sacred work together.
I find one key, one link, to the Peace Testimony in the Fundamental Principles. Take, for example, Humanity. With each AFES case I work, I have several opportunities to recognize and honor the humanity in another human being; to recognize and honor That-Which-Is-Sacred in each person I speak with – the spouse or parent or sibling or cousin or friend who's initiating the case; the medical administrator, nurse, doctor, police officer, funeral director, or hospice nurse with whom I verify the case; the AFES Center worker who takes the case or gives one to me.
These are opportunities to bear witness.
I find additional keys in Red Cross history. The first-ever Nobel Peace Prize, awarded in 1901, was shared by Frédéric Passy, who founded the first French peace society, and Henri Dunant, who founded the International Red Cross and initiated the Geneva Convention. The International and the American Red Cross organizations were founded in the midst of two of the bloodiest wars Europe and America had known – the Battle of Solferino in the Second War of Italian Independence, and the American Civil War – springing from a desire to help the wounded on the battlefield, without consideration for which side of a conflict any of those wounded were part.
Humanity. Neutrality. Impartiality. Independence.
Several months ago, a local Friend asked me, “Don’t you feel conflicted when you do AFES casework? Because you’re making soldiers’ lives easier?”
That thought hadn't occurred to me. So, I thought about it.
And I realized, I haven't talked to one family or one soldier whose life is anything approaching “easy” right now.
The service I offer as an AFES caseworker is one where I work with people in a time of great stress, and touch them as embodiments of That-Which-Is-Sacred. As real people. Many of the families and professionals I speak with in the course of a case are struggling to make a difference in the world. Many of the them are struggling simply to get through each day.
For the families, having a loved one in the service right now is not easy. There's not one family I've worked with that hasn't been under enormous stress because they have someone in the service right now. When someone they love is ill or dying or giving birth or being born, it doesn't matter whether or not they support this war, or any war, or their relative’s military service: they are the same people as you and me.
I guess that's the real key, what it really comes down to. Working with military families has helped me see that women and men in uniform, and the families of those women and men in uniform, are not part of a monolith or even a monoculture. Working AFES cases has helped me recognize military members and families as people who are a lot like me.
And they are people who are suffering because of this war. Some of them believe in it, some of them don't. It actually doesn't matter: they are all suffering for it, in ways those of us back home who don't have a direct connection can't understand.
"The Red Cross, born of a desire to bring assistance without discrimination to the wounded on the battlefield, endeavours... to relieve the suffering of individuals, being guided solely by their needs, and to give priority to the most urgent cases of distress."
Humanity.
The Peace Testimony.
Each of us is sacred.
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