Spain was wonderful - brutally hot, beautifully green, bountiful in culinary goodness. We were there for World Youth Day, but the joy of that event is that it never denies pilgrims a peek into the culture of the venue. We were not disappointed, especially by the food.
I have always believed you can't really know a place or a people without tasting the food. If you're eating maple syrup on snow, you're in New England - the people are hard against the brutal winters, and simplicity is a way of life. If you're eating fresh, simple seafood made with love and a side of hot sauce, you just might be in Madrid. The love is evident in the ingredients, and when the fried egg yolk dreamily oozes into a bowl of bell peppers and tomato, it is emminently clear you are not in Kansas anymore.
One thing I noticed besides the food, however, was the interaction between local family members. Sure, we saw moms and dads lounging over cervezas on Sunday afternoon while their children played nearby - much further away from the adults than our paranoid American culture would ever have allowed... And we saw old friends interacting just as they would here, but I noticed a pattern that was very different from the stateside view.
When it came to small children and babies, the fathers took the lead. That is to say, even with mom nearby, it was the dads pushing the strollers, tying on shoes, carrying infants.
So this isn't particularly shocking, don't get me wrong. I realize that in NJ in 2011 both mothers and fathers are very involved with their children. Both change diapers and feed children, and it has been this way for decades. However. This was different. The dads took the lead, patiently waited on the very smallest children, cared for the babies, while moms shopped, chatted, relaxed. What a concept. Truth is, that is not how we care for children here. Moms still rule the roost and hover over small children, and are most likely to be pushing strollers through the mall.
And yes, I have a point.
These men were masuline men. I mean, really. There was nothing culturally different about their gait or mannerisms or speech that showed a less masuline self-understanding. The moms are still beautiful, still lovely and gentle and kind. The moms and dads still interacted jovially with each other and with their babies. The world hasn't ended, and the adults seem no less happy and no less fulfilled than other parents. Or perhaps ... well, they all seemed a lot more relaxed than many of our Gen X parents are today, and much less worried about every last speck of dirt or about keeping baby Super Close.
So my observation serves as a reflection on that quote from Pia de Solenni I love so much - anyone can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. For those who still worry about the roles of men and women, and whether or not there is an inherent masculinity in the tasks of the world... I give you the dads of Madrid. Are the women still feminine, still motherly? Yes. Are the dads still masculine, still fatherly? Yes. In fact, the cooperation - the collaboration of parenting seems to make them all the more themselves. And the kids - well - we saw lots and lots of happy, dancing, giggling babies there. Maybe it's all that sun. But maybe, just maybe, it's something else...
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Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Communion and Community- Adoration and WYD
Just a week ago, I was in Spain with 2 million (plus) other Catholics, most of them younger than I, to celebrate our faith at World Youth Day. It's an event that has been held every two to three years primarily aimed at young Catholics ages 16-35, though it impacts anyone in its perifory as well. This gathering has been held a dozen times now, in languages from Spanish to Tagolog, and attracts anywhere from half a million to a reported four million (in Phillipines).
The pinnacle of World Youth Day (WYD) is the prayer vigil with the Holy Father on Saturday night. The vigil is held in a field, often an old air base, that can sustain millions of pilgrims. Fields are set up in grid form, and registered pilgrims are assigned to a square on the grid, with a large overflow area at the back for the local or the curious.
At night, the Pope leads a prayer vigil, addresses the youth of the Church in a homily, and presides at Eucharistic Adoration. It is always stirring and beautiful.
This year, as I looked at the 500 year old monstrance in its gold and enamel housing, and saw the stunning purity of the white host cradled inside I truly experienced the Body of Christ in a new, deeper way. There was Jesus, crisp, shining, surrounded in the glow of ancient precious metals. And there on the field was simultanously the Body of Christ: ragtag, sweating, filthy, sinful, tired, humble, desirous, battered, and holy.
Two million bodies joined in the communion of that moment of adoration. Two million minds and hearts, two million mouths and four million legs, arms, ears... In the front half of the enormous crowd, the silence was deafening. And yet those father away, with little to no view of the monstrance, with no jumbotrons (bad planning) or speakers (violent winds), they too participated in the moment, in their own communion of wanting, of interacting, of busy-ness.
Such a contrast was breathtaking. At once Heaven and Earth were joined, and the still and vibrant beauty of Christ radiated through a crowd of millions, the Body of Christ feeding and sustaining the hearts and imaginations and bodies of the Body. In that stunning scene, I had a glimpse of the meaning of the body and the way in which we image Christ, not simply as one isolated being, but in the splendor of communion, in the fullness of the whole body- of the diverse and gifted and unique and unrepeatable pieces and the diverse and unrepeatable whole of that being, that humanity brought before Christ and in Christ and with Christ: male and female, old and young, poor and wealthy, American, Chinese, Brazilian...
In that moment the dirt and grime and smell of the bodies became something greater and something more whole. In the devotion of Eucharistic Adoration God becomes nearly tangible, but I don't think I will see the host in the monstrance the same again, without understanding that in some minute way, my own body participates in that holiness before me. And WYD has taught me that - the goodness of my body, the goodness of the millions of bodies is not separate from, but part and parcel of that One Body that was given for me.
The pinnacle of World Youth Day (WYD) is the prayer vigil with the Holy Father on Saturday night. The vigil is held in a field, often an old air base, that can sustain millions of pilgrims. Fields are set up in grid form, and registered pilgrims are assigned to a square on the grid, with a large overflow area at the back for the local or the curious.
At night, the Pope leads a prayer vigil, addresses the youth of the Church in a homily, and presides at Eucharistic Adoration. It is always stirring and beautiful.
This year, as I looked at the 500 year old monstrance in its gold and enamel housing, and saw the stunning purity of the white host cradled inside I truly experienced the Body of Christ in a new, deeper way. There was Jesus, crisp, shining, surrounded in the glow of ancient precious metals. And there on the field was simultanously the Body of Christ: ragtag, sweating, filthy, sinful, tired, humble, desirous, battered, and holy.
Two million bodies joined in the communion of that moment of adoration. Two million minds and hearts, two million mouths and four million legs, arms, ears... In the front half of the enormous crowd, the silence was deafening. And yet those father away, with little to no view of the monstrance, with no jumbotrons (bad planning) or speakers (violent winds), they too participated in the moment, in their own communion of wanting, of interacting, of busy-ness.
Such a contrast was breathtaking. At once Heaven and Earth were joined, and the still and vibrant beauty of Christ radiated through a crowd of millions, the Body of Christ feeding and sustaining the hearts and imaginations and bodies of the Body. In that stunning scene, I had a glimpse of the meaning of the body and the way in which we image Christ, not simply as one isolated being, but in the splendor of communion, in the fullness of the whole body- of the diverse and gifted and unique and unrepeatable pieces and the diverse and unrepeatable whole of that being, that humanity brought before Christ and in Christ and with Christ: male and female, old and young, poor and wealthy, American, Chinese, Brazilian...
In that moment the dirt and grime and smell of the bodies became something greater and something more whole. In the devotion of Eucharistic Adoration God becomes nearly tangible, but I don't think I will see the host in the monstrance the same again, without understanding that in some minute way, my own body participates in that holiness before me. And WYD has taught me that - the goodness of my body, the goodness of the millions of bodies is not separate from, but part and parcel of that One Body that was given for me.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Grieving the Loss of Harold
While these thoughts are not necessarily along my usual "theological" bent, my heart is racing with the need to say something. And as theology and humanity are intimately intertwined, I think this is as good a forum as any - if only for myself and the ten people who so faithfully read what I have to say...
A young friend of mine once told me that when he walks into a huge bookstore, he "sort of pees a little" from excitement. Ok, it's definitely TMI. But my own response to that environment is also visceral, though more of the "goosebumps" variety.
Today I walked into the local Borders, a place I meet teens and young adults for coffee often more than once a week in busy season. It is a large and comfortable store, cookie-cutter, sure, but in its own way, a home away from home. And it is closing.
While there is still plentiful merchandise on the floor, I felt a deep sense of sadness as I walked through the now-condensed aisles flagged by 30% off tags waving like sticky-tab portents of doom. Magazines drooped atop one another in a quarter of the racks once available. The cafe shelves stood. glassy and barren, like a still life of a time disinhabited by a civilization that had moved on.
And then the deep gloom settled as I entered the Children's Book Section.
Readers, you have to understand what these books mean to me and do to me. I am honestly surprised every time when my breath catches because a deeply-rooted childhood memory sparkles before me in the covers of a children's book, like the first time I saw and read it, and devoured its pages as a four or five or six year old... or had it read to me in that loving comfort of a mother's lap, a sharing circle at school, a grandparent's living room rug. Today I was greeted by so many dear old friends: Harold and the Purple Crayon, Strega Nona (a breathtaking pop-up book version), Richard Scarry's Best Word Book Ever (it really IS), and Curious George, Katy and the Big Snow, Green Eggs and Ham. These books are somehow old and dear friends. They gave me worlds in which to disappear, challenge my creative mind, bring myself to the page. They never judged me or yelled at me, or walked away. There is a deeply emotional bond between me and these children's books that may not be normal, I admit, but still it is comfortable and meaningful, and rare. When I needed to escape from worries, I always had this safe place to fall as a child - between the pages of a good book.
I understand that we create and change and adapt as human beings. I understand that technology is a good thing, that makes the world more accessible than ever, and that allows for new experiences we might only have dreamed of. And I realize that loading the entire five part (so-far) George R.R. Martin series on a Kindle in two and a half minutes is practically miraculous, especially because the books we bought years ago (in hardcover) total something like 5200 pages of reading in five cumbersome volumes, and bringing all those on, say, a long flight would be a huge challenge to baggage weight restrictions (while making most chiropractors happy to have job security). I understand.
But I also am grieving for the plain old physical interaction of it all. The meeting of minds over some ridiculously caloried coffee drinks, and the poring over magazines promising a better life. The smell and touch and feel of a new book hot off the presses, and the interchange between the cashier asking if you've read the first book and how you liked it, the stranger recommending a new author, or the friend Christmas shopping next to you for games and music and photographic masterpieces in one shiny volume. We are losing something uniquely Human in this - the creative minds behind the words, the Art of the paper, the bindings, the covers- oh the covers! The don't-judge-a-book-by and every-publisher-realizes-how-necessary-the-art-is covers !
My breath caught today over an intricately crafted pop-up book. One with an entire twelve-inch "family tree" that sprang off the page. What glorious, accessible art! Are we to lose this entirely? This mysterious, interactive, physical glory?
And is my one year old niece going to back herself up into my lap while holding a Nook?
I think we are on the brink of something impossibly exciting, and something destressingly dehumanizing. While we already have access to more and faster than ever before, access that makes our world smaller and more intimate, and perhaps "smarter", we also are taking one giant step into a less human existance, where phyiscal interaction, the enrichment of physical art, and the fantasy of childhood are at risk. And I, for one, remembering the hours I spent pouring through the pages with Harold, and wondering if his crayon would ever help him find his home again, am already grieving this leap into the future, and away from human beauty.
A young friend of mine once told me that when he walks into a huge bookstore, he "sort of pees a little" from excitement. Ok, it's definitely TMI. But my own response to that environment is also visceral, though more of the "goosebumps" variety.
Today I walked into the local Borders, a place I meet teens and young adults for coffee often more than once a week in busy season. It is a large and comfortable store, cookie-cutter, sure, but in its own way, a home away from home. And it is closing.
While there is still plentiful merchandise on the floor, I felt a deep sense of sadness as I walked through the now-condensed aisles flagged by 30% off tags waving like sticky-tab portents of doom. Magazines drooped atop one another in a quarter of the racks once available. The cafe shelves stood. glassy and barren, like a still life of a time disinhabited by a civilization that had moved on.
And then the deep gloom settled as I entered the Children's Book Section.
Readers, you have to understand what these books mean to me and do to me. I am honestly surprised every time when my breath catches because a deeply-rooted childhood memory sparkles before me in the covers of a children's book, like the first time I saw and read it, and devoured its pages as a four or five or six year old... or had it read to me in that loving comfort of a mother's lap, a sharing circle at school, a grandparent's living room rug. Today I was greeted by so many dear old friends: Harold and the Purple Crayon, Strega Nona (a breathtaking pop-up book version), Richard Scarry's Best Word Book Ever (it really IS), and Curious George, Katy and the Big Snow, Green Eggs and Ham. These books are somehow old and dear friends. They gave me worlds in which to disappear, challenge my creative mind, bring myself to the page. They never judged me or yelled at me, or walked away. There is a deeply emotional bond between me and these children's books that may not be normal, I admit, but still it is comfortable and meaningful, and rare. When I needed to escape from worries, I always had this safe place to fall as a child - between the pages of a good book.
I understand that we create and change and adapt as human beings. I understand that technology is a good thing, that makes the world more accessible than ever, and that allows for new experiences we might only have dreamed of. And I realize that loading the entire five part (so-far) George R.R. Martin series on a Kindle in two and a half minutes is practically miraculous, especially because the books we bought years ago (in hardcover) total something like 5200 pages of reading in five cumbersome volumes, and bringing all those on, say, a long flight would be a huge challenge to baggage weight restrictions (while making most chiropractors happy to have job security). I understand.
But I also am grieving for the plain old physical interaction of it all. The meeting of minds over some ridiculously caloried coffee drinks, and the poring over magazines promising a better life. The smell and touch and feel of a new book hot off the presses, and the interchange between the cashier asking if you've read the first book and how you liked it, the stranger recommending a new author, or the friend Christmas shopping next to you for games and music and photographic masterpieces in one shiny volume. We are losing something uniquely Human in this - the creative minds behind the words, the Art of the paper, the bindings, the covers- oh the covers! The don't-judge-a-book-by and every-publisher-realizes-how-necessary-the-art-is covers !
My breath caught today over an intricately crafted pop-up book. One with an entire twelve-inch "family tree" that sprang off the page. What glorious, accessible art! Are we to lose this entirely? This mysterious, interactive, physical glory?
And is my one year old niece going to back herself up into my lap while holding a Nook?
I think we are on the brink of something impossibly exciting, and something destressingly dehumanizing. While we already have access to more and faster than ever before, access that makes our world smaller and more intimate, and perhaps "smarter", we also are taking one giant step into a less human existance, where phyiscal interaction, the enrichment of physical art, and the fantasy of childhood are at risk. And I, for one, remembering the hours I spent pouring through the pages with Harold, and wondering if his crayon would ever help him find his home again, am already grieving this leap into the future, and away from human beauty.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
The Challenge of Being a Pilgrim. Revisited.
I have taken groups of pilgrims to a few World Youth Days: as a peer leader back in Denver, and more recently as a youth/ya minister to Germany and Australia. At the end of the week I will be once more leading a group to Wolrd Youth Day in Spain. When I tell people I am going to Spain, they usually think something like: European vacation - yay! But it's not. Twice, this time included, it has meant completely giving up my 1-2 week Shore vacation, and any equivallent r&r experience because of the time and money WYD demands. But as I pack, I thought I would share some thoughts from six years ago, at WYD Cologne 2005, for your edification. Thanks for indulging me!
Pilgrimage is a dirty word. It means dripping sweat for an hour and a half on a train meant for 300 passengers and packed full with 450. It means walking through mud and straw after sleeping in a field with a million other people. It means using the same utensils day after day for tuna fish, oily pasta, peppers and veggies, and rinsing them off in the sink with tepid water. It also means being shoved so hard from behind that the air is knocked out of you, lining up for portable toilets you share with the other 40,000 people in your section, having the only sweatshirt you have be stepped on by muddied shoes, feeling the oil on your skin's surface and having no hot water at hand, holding the train railings with whitened knuckles to avoid being directly beneath another foreign armpit, having the water temperature cycle through hot and cold (only cold at night) while you try to wake up for the day, eating amidst weeds and dirt while sitting in a sports park field in the hot sun with one napkin a piece regardless of who spills what or how much oil is in the food, and picking countless ticks, spiders and ladybugs off your sleeping bag.
World Youth Day redefined the word crowd. Trains were packed, stadiums full, hotel lobbies and every last inch of green space overrun with pilgrims. Stereotypical Americans pushed their way by (even past other Americans), asked where the ranch dressing was, got lost going five stops on a tram. Other stereotypes emerged - sometimes cheerfully, in the songs and attire of other nations, sometimes brutally, in the relentless crushing crowd at the Horrem train station, where I watched six women pass out in a half hour's time from lack of air and the selfishness of the penned up crowd.
But amidst the suffering was a true grace that enlightened our way and led us to Christ in the simplicity of the Eucharist and in the whisperings of our hearts. I watched my kids strengthen and mature before my eyes. I watched as they loved each other enough to step aside, anticipate needs, carry each others backpacks and burdens. They never complained about the food. They were willing to walk out of their way with an armful of water bottles to fill them. They offered their attention and respect to all those in leadership, held on to one another in crowds, attempted a foreign language, and loved one another. What a joy to experience not only the gifts of travel and the exotic boundaries of multiculturalism, but a greater one still to unite in difficulty and emerge with greater love, more respect, deep compassion and truer faith.
S offered her passion for people of all nations and walks of life, and embraced the diversity with vigor. M kept watch over his travelling buddy and was always the first to volunteer for a mission. P used his talents for shining a little light into people's days - mostly by honoring the beauty of those around him- partly by sharing with us all his wonderment at the greater world. N overcame her fears and allowed herself to trust not only those leading her, but also grew in confidence of her own independence and abilities, especially on the subway system. It is no small task for a young woman who has never been on a train to survive the ins and outs of multiple transfers and track listings, but she conquored her fear with aplomb. T constantly reached beyond himself to offer up comfort for the good of others, to show us a true example of respect for the dignity of those around us. He never let a woman stand while he sat, gave up his water for a young woman who was near fainting, and at some point in the trip held every other teen on his six foot high shoulders without complaint. D dug deep and became another of our fearless leaders - willing to step up when asked and anticipate needs when not asked. I will be forever grateful to him for carrying my backpack along with his own not only for the 5 miles to the Marienfeld, but for the 5 miles back. And if it wasn't enough to have the light of these youth emerge and intensify, our male chaperone, drew them into their faith, challenged them to mature, embraced the fun and joy of life in the spirit, was a humble servant, a true brother, and -to me- pure gift.
Pilgrimage is a dirty word. It means dripping sweat for an hour and a half on a train meant for 300 passengers and packed full with 450. It means walking through mud and straw after sleeping in a field with a million other people. It means using the same utensils day after day for tuna fish, oily pasta, peppers and veggies, and rinsing them off in the sink with tepid water. It also means being shoved so hard from behind that the air is knocked out of you, lining up for portable toilets you share with the other 40,000 people in your section, having the only sweatshirt you have be stepped on by muddied shoes, feeling the oil on your skin's surface and having no hot water at hand, holding the train railings with whitened knuckles to avoid being directly beneath another foreign armpit, having the water temperature cycle through hot and cold (only cold at night) while you try to wake up for the day, eating amidst weeds and dirt while sitting in a sports park field in the hot sun with one napkin a piece regardless of who spills what or how much oil is in the food, and picking countless ticks, spiders and ladybugs off your sleeping bag.
World Youth Day redefined the word crowd. Trains were packed, stadiums full, hotel lobbies and every last inch of green space overrun with pilgrims. Stereotypical Americans pushed their way by (even past other Americans), asked where the ranch dressing was, got lost going five stops on a tram. Other stereotypes emerged - sometimes cheerfully, in the songs and attire of other nations, sometimes brutally, in the relentless crushing crowd at the Horrem train station, where I watched six women pass out in a half hour's time from lack of air and the selfishness of the penned up crowd.
But amidst the suffering was a true grace that enlightened our way and led us to Christ in the simplicity of the Eucharist and in the whisperings of our hearts. I watched my kids strengthen and mature before my eyes. I watched as they loved each other enough to step aside, anticipate needs, carry each others backpacks and burdens. They never complained about the food. They were willing to walk out of their way with an armful of water bottles to fill them. They offered their attention and respect to all those in leadership, held on to one another in crowds, attempted a foreign language, and loved one another. What a joy to experience not only the gifts of travel and the exotic boundaries of multiculturalism, but a greater one still to unite in difficulty and emerge with greater love, more respect, deep compassion and truer faith.
S offered her passion for people of all nations and walks of life, and embraced the diversity with vigor. M kept watch over his travelling buddy and was always the first to volunteer for a mission. P used his talents for shining a little light into people's days - mostly by honoring the beauty of those around him- partly by sharing with us all his wonderment at the greater world. N overcame her fears and allowed herself to trust not only those leading her, but also grew in confidence of her own independence and abilities, especially on the subway system. It is no small task for a young woman who has never been on a train to survive the ins and outs of multiple transfers and track listings, but she conquored her fear with aplomb. T constantly reached beyond himself to offer up comfort for the good of others, to show us a true example of respect for the dignity of those around us. He never let a woman stand while he sat, gave up his water for a young woman who was near fainting, and at some point in the trip held every other teen on his six foot high shoulders without complaint. D dug deep and became another of our fearless leaders - willing to step up when asked and anticipate needs when not asked. I will be forever grateful to him for carrying my backpack along with his own not only for the 5 miles to the Marienfeld, but for the 5 miles back. And if it wasn't enough to have the light of these youth emerge and intensify, our male chaperone, drew them into their faith, challenged them to mature, embraced the fun and joy of life in the spirit, was a humble servant, a true brother, and -to me- pure gift.
I have spent the last week praying for all my family and friends. I myself have struggled deeply through frustration and fatigue, and still come to the other side of this week a blessed woman. God provides beyond my wildest imagination (and I was gifted with a strong one of those!). I am grateful to the parish of St. Bernard's for your constant support and prayers, to Fr. Joe and Fr. Tim for their blessing and encouragement, to the parents of these pilgrims for letting go, saying yes, and allowing the Holy Spirit to breathe in their children's hearts and minds.
Pope Benedict XIV spoke charismatically and accessibly. He drew us into the heart of the Church and challenged us to walk in the footsteps of the saints "the true revolutionaries". We are humbled and challenged by this call to holiness, and I am thankful to be here, back again, to share this light that we have followed to Worship Him.
The theme of 2005 was "We have seen His star in the East, and we have come to worship Him."
Pope Benedict XIV spoke charismatically and accessibly. He drew us into the heart of the Church and challenged us to walk in the footsteps of the saints "the true revolutionaries". We are humbled and challenged by this call to holiness, and I am thankful to be here, back again, to share this light that we have followed to Worship Him.
The theme of 2005 was "We have seen His star in the East, and we have come to worship Him."
Friday, August 5, 2011
Good Lighting in a Jar
Susan Sarandon is older than my mother. But when I saw her recent tv advertisement for some Golden Aging Cream, her skin looked about as good as mine - which, since I am 25 years younger and a non-smoker, is impossible. No age cream, golden or otherwise is going to make anyone look 25 years younger. And so, once again, celebrities - even in their 60s- are reinforcing the ageist stereotypes against women. How in any way, can these women take pride in this kind of work?
Seriously, Susan... We arn't stupid! You are being airbrushed and "lighted" to the hilt. Let's give women some credit, here. We know when we're looking at something fake and incredible. And I'm not talking just about a younger generation who grew up on CGI. You can't convince me that women in their 60s are looking at your porcelain skin and believing that Revlon can do the same for them.
Let's just think about this for a second. Susan grew up amidst the second wave feminist generation. She at the very least watched women burning their bras on the evening news. She saw women struggle against a man's world, against the belief that a pretty woman couldn't be smart, and vice versa. She grew up in a Catholic family, and went to Catholic U. And though those religious beliefs seem not to have influenced her film career much, she is active with several social justice organizations. This is a clearly intelligent woman, with an educated past.
And yet, she is getting paid by a cosmetic company to hawk a product that makes her "better" because it erases age.
Well, I'm tired of it. I fully understand that we are a pro-youth society, and that some of that is evolutionarily influenced. Youth means ability to procreate. But when it comes down to it, we are largely against procreation as well. So society begins to salivate over youth for youth's sake. We separate the evolutionary imperative, and now anyone can be young. Because young no longer is about bearing children. Young is a commodity which can be purchased, for a price, and which has become its own god.
What is it that we fail to see in a woman's grey hair and wrinkled eyes? Because we don't fail to see the beauty in many men sporting silver streaks and laugh lines. No, we call this handsome, distinguished.
And woman's body? The body which breaks down in older age, which drapes and softens? The body which bore children and fed from her now unperky breasts? The hair which lacks luster and fades? We become ashamed. We pay through the nose, and purchase the products we are sold, in a desperate attempt to look airbrushed through life.
I'm sorry. I think we need to retrain our eyes. I think we need to see the beauty of a body which has lived. And I think we need to be at ease with silver hair and softer curves. A friend of mine, about my age, was talking about stripteasing for her husband, and then said with a sad sigh, that her body is droopy and scarred, and old. But I was compelled to tell her she was beautiful, and she said at least her husband thought so.
This is wrong. Her body is beautiful. The scars tell her journey, the roundness, her motherhood. I am glad her husband thinks she's beautiful, but why doesn't she? Because she isn't well-lit?
Dammit, Janet. And Revlon. And all you cosmetics companies. Start treating women with the dignity that befits us. Help us stay stronger and healthier. And embrace our beauty - the beauty of the 20 year old whose skin glows, the beauty of the 40 year old beginning to gray. The beauty of the 60 year old with a mother's body, the beauty of the 80 year old with kind eyes.
And stop insulting my intelligence. All that glitters is not golden cream. And beauty, well, that will never be found in a jar.
Seriously, Susan... We arn't stupid! You are being airbrushed and "lighted" to the hilt. Let's give women some credit, here. We know when we're looking at something fake and incredible. And I'm not talking just about a younger generation who grew up on CGI. You can't convince me that women in their 60s are looking at your porcelain skin and believing that Revlon can do the same for them.
Let's just think about this for a second. Susan grew up amidst the second wave feminist generation. She at the very least watched women burning their bras on the evening news. She saw women struggle against a man's world, against the belief that a pretty woman couldn't be smart, and vice versa. She grew up in a Catholic family, and went to Catholic U. And though those religious beliefs seem not to have influenced her film career much, she is active with several social justice organizations. This is a clearly intelligent woman, with an educated past.
And yet, she is getting paid by a cosmetic company to hawk a product that makes her "better" because it erases age.
Well, I'm tired of it. I fully understand that we are a pro-youth society, and that some of that is evolutionarily influenced. Youth means ability to procreate. But when it comes down to it, we are largely against procreation as well. So society begins to salivate over youth for youth's sake. We separate the evolutionary imperative, and now anyone can be young. Because young no longer is about bearing children. Young is a commodity which can be purchased, for a price, and which has become its own god.
What is it that we fail to see in a woman's grey hair and wrinkled eyes? Because we don't fail to see the beauty in many men sporting silver streaks and laugh lines. No, we call this handsome, distinguished.
And woman's body? The body which breaks down in older age, which drapes and softens? The body which bore children and fed from her now unperky breasts? The hair which lacks luster and fades? We become ashamed. We pay through the nose, and purchase the products we are sold, in a desperate attempt to look airbrushed through life.
I'm sorry. I think we need to retrain our eyes. I think we need to see the beauty of a body which has lived. And I think we need to be at ease with silver hair and softer curves. A friend of mine, about my age, was talking about stripteasing for her husband, and then said with a sad sigh, that her body is droopy and scarred, and old. But I was compelled to tell her she was beautiful, and she said at least her husband thought so.
This is wrong. Her body is beautiful. The scars tell her journey, the roundness, her motherhood. I am glad her husband thinks she's beautiful, but why doesn't she? Because she isn't well-lit?
Dammit, Janet. And Revlon. And all you cosmetics companies. Start treating women with the dignity that befits us. Help us stay stronger and healthier. And embrace our beauty - the beauty of the 20 year old whose skin glows, the beauty of the 40 year old beginning to gray. The beauty of the 60 year old with a mother's body, the beauty of the 80 year old with kind eyes.
And stop insulting my intelligence. All that glitters is not golden cream. And beauty, well, that will never be found in a jar.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Defending the F Word. Again.
When I was in college at one of the most liberal universities on the East Coast, I took a class that fulfilled both a History and a Women's Studies requirement. Needless to say, one day we had a guest speaker who was doing graduate work at the university. Unfortunately, the young woman filled every stereotype of the feminazis on the late 90s campus- multi-colored hair, torn clothing, random piercings, doc martens. While she was there to "teach" about the feminist movement of the 1960s, she kept the time-honored tradition of the liberal arts classes at the school, and prosthelytized instead. Armed and passionate about her agenda, she presented a very one-sided defense of a narrowly-defined feminism.
Most interesting to me was the question asked by one of the nineteen year olds in the room. Can a feminist also be conservative? Now, those of you who know me understand that I am not happy with political labels, but the point being made was clear: is it possible to be a feminist and defend the family, honor traditional marriage, stand staunchly in the pro-life camp? And fortuately, the young woman teaching was surprised enough by the question that she happily deferred to my raised hand in response.
Poor thing. She was completely shocked when I defended feminism in JP II terms. She tried to stop me, and (again, happily for me) my truly liberal and wonderfully respectful professor insisted I have my say. Of course, I did too. And to this day I hope that the other young women in the class at the very least heard another side to the story. I hope they understood that ultimately feminism needs to be a belief that honors the dignity and value of women, and rises in defense of the most vulnerable among us.
That event happened many years ago, but I think it's important for me to recall. I truly believe that the word does not match most people's definition. And that drives me batty. Feminism - belief in woman - goes to the heart of creation and drives home the reality that she is as equally image of God as man, and that she is integral to the full glory of humanity.
This is why I continue to be surprised when conservative women are horrified by the title feminist, and still a bit amused by those who just now are starting to embrace the term, like those political leaders in Lisa Miller's article. That's not to say I'm not happy that there are women coming aboard, reclaiming the word with a refreshed philosophical turn, and honoring those things which make women unique to the species. I just don't know what took us so long, or why we allowed deeply wounded women who wanted to be men or hate men rise to the front lines of the movement?
The young woman who taught that day was willing to accept all kinds of subdivisions of "feminst" including those who embraced anti-male philosophies, artificial birth control, and abortion. I would argue that this is not feminism, and needs a new word. Pro-womanism could never embrace a rejection of what makes womankind unique (men), nor support medication which relieves men of their responsibility for pregnancy, nor be in favor of pills that cause lethal blod clots and certain kinds of cancer, infertility, and more. The very word feminism upholds her dignity, and does not subject woman to be less brilliant, less fertile, less image of God than she is.
And so here it is. This is how I can have a blog with the title it has. I believe that the Church's letters and meditations and documents are truly pro-woman. But the practice - well, that has a long way to go. Nevertheless, that practice is well worth fighting for, because humanity does not fully exist without the contribution of woman. And if Jesus showed us that humanity is worth dying for, why shouldn't we believe it?
More of my insights on what this word means can be found here - thanks for reading!
Most interesting to me was the question asked by one of the nineteen year olds in the room. Can a feminist also be conservative? Now, those of you who know me understand that I am not happy with political labels, but the point being made was clear: is it possible to be a feminist and defend the family, honor traditional marriage, stand staunchly in the pro-life camp? And fortuately, the young woman teaching was surprised enough by the question that she happily deferred to my raised hand in response.
Poor thing. She was completely shocked when I defended feminism in JP II terms. She tried to stop me, and (again, happily for me) my truly liberal and wonderfully respectful professor insisted I have my say. Of course, I did too. And to this day I hope that the other young women in the class at the very least heard another side to the story. I hope they understood that ultimately feminism needs to be a belief that honors the dignity and value of women, and rises in defense of the most vulnerable among us.
That event happened many years ago, but I think it's important for me to recall. I truly believe that the word does not match most people's definition. And that drives me batty. Feminism - belief in woman - goes to the heart of creation and drives home the reality that she is as equally image of God as man, and that she is integral to the full glory of humanity.
This is why I continue to be surprised when conservative women are horrified by the title feminist, and still a bit amused by those who just now are starting to embrace the term, like those political leaders in Lisa Miller's article. That's not to say I'm not happy that there are women coming aboard, reclaiming the word with a refreshed philosophical turn, and honoring those things which make women unique to the species. I just don't know what took us so long, or why we allowed deeply wounded women who wanted to be men or hate men rise to the front lines of the movement?
The young woman who taught that day was willing to accept all kinds of subdivisions of "feminst" including those who embraced anti-male philosophies, artificial birth control, and abortion. I would argue that this is not feminism, and needs a new word. Pro-womanism could never embrace a rejection of what makes womankind unique (men), nor support medication which relieves men of their responsibility for pregnancy, nor be in favor of pills that cause lethal blod clots and certain kinds of cancer, infertility, and more. The very word feminism upholds her dignity, and does not subject woman to be less brilliant, less fertile, less image of God than she is.
And so here it is. This is how I can have a blog with the title it has. I believe that the Church's letters and meditations and documents are truly pro-woman. But the practice - well, that has a long way to go. Nevertheless, that practice is well worth fighting for, because humanity does not fully exist without the contribution of woman. And if Jesus showed us that humanity is worth dying for, why shouldn't we believe it?
More of my insights on what this word means can be found here - thanks for reading!
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