Faith, Hope, and Charity?

I am probably one of the most naïve 20 year olds on the planet, which is extremely odd considering my personal history. I really should be far more jaded and cynical than I actually am. But, being the naïve idiot that I am, I decided a long time ago to take my naiveté in stride and to be happy about the fact that I am so optimistic, and gullible, and positive. I’m generally very slow to see problems that most people would see almost right away. So, generally, when I see something right away and think that it’s very, very wrong, it really is. Something has to be pretty screwed up for me to notice right away.

I recently started working at a shelter in Nogales, Arizona. I need to acknowledge first that the shelter does very good work, and that it’s the only place on the American side in Nogales that gives people food and a place to stay. It’s very important, and I don’t want to deride that. However, I have several problems with it already. I feel like I have to question why the shelter exists. And I don’t think it’s because there’s a need in Nogales, although there certainly is a need here. It seems to me like the directors of the shelter started it because there religion told them to. I went to Catholic school, but this shelter is the most “Christian” environment I have ever been in. Before I began working here, I had never been asked for my “salvation story” before. (I still don’t know if I even have one of those, or if I do what it is.) I suppose part of my problem with this place is my own personal history with religion and with overly religious people. My own crises of faith have left “indelible” marks. Religion, or rather, my lack of it, killed what was once a very close friendship and I still sort of regret my own part in that.

Despite my previous troubled interactions with religion, however, I’m still extremely ambivalent about it. I realized a while ago that religion (or at least Catholicism) was never going to play the part in my life that I wanted it to and that it did in my friends’ lives. For several years, I felt as if I were religiously incompetent—that the reason religion didn’t mean anything to me was because of some inherent flaw I had, and that’s why I “couldn’t” pray, why I lacked the faith and personal relationship with God that everyone around me seemed to have. It’s hard to tell now how much of it was a crisis of faith and how much of it was something entirely different, but that was one of the hardest times in my life. And religion and that time are intrinsically linked in my head, which is probably slightly unfair. However, and I’m not entirely sure where this comes from, exactly, I still see religion in a fairly positive light. If I’m completely honest, part of me is still extremely jealous of “people of faith” because part of me still wants what I was never truly able to have. Despite all of the problems it’s caused me, and, more importantly, the world in general, I still see religion as inspiring acts of great good.

But a discussion I had with a friend a while ago made me think about whether motives matter. Is it a problem that people do good work because they think Jesus told them to, instead of out of compassion for their fellow human being? Does that even matter? Is the only important aspect the work that is done? After all, if it weren’t for Christian beliefs, all of the people that I helped feed today wouldn’t have had lunch, and they wouldn’t have been given food to take home, or beds to sleep in. The small utilitarian part of me thinks that the work is so important that it doesn’t matter why it was done. But the rest of me, while I still acknowledge the importance of the work, sees a problem with giving people a side of Jesus with their soup. These next two months should be very interesting…

Potato Boulders

Something we seem to do a lot here at Secrets is what we've deemed "soul-sharing." With that in mind, I have several "confessions" to make. Confession number one: I am a geek. I'm sure any one that reads this blog regularly will be shocked by this confession. But Kat, you're saying, you always seem so incredibly awesome. How could you possibly be a geek? (Alright, I know you aren't really saying that, but I'd really, really like to imagine that you are.) And it's true, dear readers, I am a geek. I'm not the stereotypical geek, certainly, but I am a geek. I hate math, I've never been all that into sci-fi, I'm so bad at video games that I make Pacman cry, and as far as science is concerned, the only thing I can do with a test-tube is break it. However, I am a geek. Wikipedia says "The word geek is a slang term, noting individuals as "a peculiar or otherwise odd person, especially one who is perceived to be overly obsessed with one or more things including those of intellectuality, electronics, gaming, etc."[1] " Geeks are generally associated with intelligence and social awkwardness, and I certainly possess enough of those characteristics to qualify. (On second thought, perhaps I'm not a geek;I'm a nerd. I'm really not in the mood to split hairs right now.) All of this talk about geeks is really only supposed to be a lead-in to what I actually want to talk about. I know, I know, this is a ridiculously long introduction, especially since it isn't actually over yet. (Confession number two: I love meta-discourse, and I use it far too much.)

I love mythology; and I am geekily obsessed with it. (See! I told you I was going somewhere with this.) Recently, I've been reading The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell, and it's gotten me thinking about the universality of myths and the human experience. I've always loved mythology because I could relate to it so well even as it opened my eyes to an exotic world that disappeared centuries ago. The first world that I entered was the Greco-Roman (although it was really more Greek than Roman) Myths. When I was younger I would see myself as the different heroes (or villains) of the myths. One day I was Prometheus, running away from the Gods to bring the gift of fire. The next I was Medea, plotting my revenge. Then Penelope, Circe, Calypso, Hermes, Athena, Artemis, the list goes on and on. I've often dreamt of becoming a modern Orpheus, even though I know that requires far more talent than I could ever possess. At work today, however I realized something: I am Sisyphus.

For those of you unfamiliar with the story, Sisyphus was a Greek king damned by the Gods to roll a boulder up a hill for all eternity. As soon as he reached the top, the boulder would roll down the hill, and he would have to start all over again. I was making fries during the lunch rush today when I saw the similarities between and myself. (Confession number three: I work in a fast-food restaurant that shall be nameless on this blog.) Now, I hate fries, as fries are the most monotonous job imaginable. For you lucky people who don't understand what I'm talking about, I'll show you how it's done: Take basket. Fill basket with fries. Drop basket with fries into fry vat and hit timer button. When duty button beeps, take fries out, shake basket, and put fries back in vat. When timer button beeps, take fries out, hang fries to get rid of oil, and pour fries into fry holder. Pour salt on the fries. Mix the fries with a fry scoop. Put fries in individual fry boxes (small, medium, and large.) Repeat ad nauseum. (As you can no doubt see, this is a job that could be done by a lobotmized robot.) Now, we are supposed to have a certain number of each size of fry at all times. However, because I hate fries and I wasn't paying attention today, I could not reach that number. As soon as I made fries, they had disappeared into one mouth or another. I could not roll my boulder of potatoes (well, potato product) up the hill of greed and gluttony. From that realization, I saw that the absurdity of much of modern life. We are all Sisyphus, doomed by our hubris to do the same thing over and over and over again. Unfortunately, this isn't just about potatoes. We make the same mistakes, live the same lives(once you factor in technology), and have the same ideas as our parents did. The human life- birth, childhood, puberty, adulthood, children, aging, and death- has not changed since the Cro-Magnon. We have added technology, but has that really changed anything? We are still rolling the boulder of mortality, trying to get it up to top of that hill. We still fight death, and while we can prolong life, we cannot end death altogether. There is a certain futility in the human condition; we struggle against our own frailty in vain hopes to change reality. (Wow, this has become an incredibly depressing and morbid post for something that started out so light. I'm sorry; I really wasn't intending this.) I'll leave you with this: in my case, the fries weren't disappearing, people were eating them. What seemed idiotic and futile and boring to me, was feeding people and making them happier. So even though I felt like Sisyphus, there was some purpose to my actions.

Oops!

Just wanted to write a quick post to help make up for my inconsiderate behavior towards Secrets: I'm sorry that I've made Kat bear the weight of the blog alone recently. I'm going to blame the lack of time on work, finals, and my sexy boyfriend, even though I know its been mostly my fault. Even now though, I should be snuggling up with Sayyid Kutb and Jose de Espronceda, I'm neglecting them for you, dear readers.

Before I go, I want to introduce you to a new prophet: sure he might be just another schizophrenic street cat, but do you really want to take that chance?

I can't even come up with a title for this...

For an English major, I feel remarkably incoherent most of the time. I have these ideas, and I know how to express them in words, but the words always come out jumbled up and tangled, like a box filled with yarn that some cat got into. That previous (and incredibly cliche) image is exactly what I'm talking about. As soon as my fingers hit the keys and I see my words on this glowing screen, I realize that that isn't what I want to say at all. What I think I mean and what I actually mean I have become two separate entities, and I'm not sure how to make them into one. Sometimes I'm not sure what language I'm expressing myself in, if any, and if I'm expressing myself at all. I'm effectively mute, and I don't know what that means, exactly.
Words used to be one of the easiest things in the whole damn world. As a child, I would take them apart, and string them back together again. Instead of sand or Lego castles, I built my castles out of words. They were a toy, and yet they were more than a toy. They were my security blanket, my favorite stuffed animal, my kiss goodnight, and my lullaby. For as long as I can remember, words were my reality.
Lately, however, I haven't been able to use words as well as I used to. It seems like they haven't had the same effect. They just don't fit anymore. I don't know what's changed, but I can't write and recognize my words as my own anymore. They feel cold and unfamiliar, like someone's changed them right in front of me. Maybe I don't understand my own ideas. Maybe I have less ability than I thought. I don't know, anymore. And I even if I did, I wouldn't know how to write it so that you'd understand.

Forgiveness?

It's been almost two weeks since I last posted, but in my defence, my life has been pretty hectic. Between papers and essays and study abroad applications and required reading and non required reading and tutoring and bronchitis, I really haven't had the time. (And for the record, the bronchitis is damn annoying. I went through two packs of cough drops in as many days...so, yes, bronchitis is my excuse. I'm sorry my lungs hate me.)
This probably won't come off as well-polished or even well-thought out. But Stef mentioned some time ago that I'm better at sharing my soul-which is ridiculous, since I'm fairly certain I don't-so here goes. When I was little, my mom always told me that if I did something to hurt someone else, I had to apologize. And if someone hurt me and apologized, then I had to forgive them. When I was younger, this really wasn't that difficult, not because I didn't have anything to forgive people for, but because I actually believed that forgiving someone changed things. When I got a little older I realized that forgiveness was a struggle, and that forgiving meant a restoration of trust, a restoration of love. I was able to forgive people, even myself, eventually. And I took great pride in that, because it meant that I was a good person. I believed that I was able to forgive just about everything.

I was wrong. Really, really, wrong. Last semester things between me and one person got very ugly. Downright hideous, actually. I'm talking freak-show carny ugly, here. I don't want to get into specifics, because I don't want to actually come out and name her, but we essentially had an abusive PLATONIC (and I cannot possibly stress that word enough) relationship. I was terrified of her. Ok, I still sort of am. She was incredibly emotionally abusive towards me, and for the longest time I told myself that she needed me to be her scapegoat, and because I could stand it, I should. But I couldn't stand it for long. There's only so many times you can exploit a person's guilt complex before they fight back. (I, however, have a ridiculously large guilt complex, and because I'm a coward I didn't fight back; I ran away. It was just as effective.) I've been made fun of before because of my guilt, but she was gleefully and slowly driving me insane. (Not that I wasn't already incredibly close to the edge, but she wanted to push me completely off.) I was in hell all of last semester, and it was mostly because of her. (To be fair, I had some other issues as well, but they wouldn't have been nearly as destructive without her influence.) Some of the things she's said, and some of the things she's done I will never be able to forget.
It seems that I won't be able to forgive them, either. I've tried, but I cannot forgive her. And that scares the hell out of me. This is the first time I've ever not forgiven someone. (To be fair, she has never actually apologized.) I feel like such a terrible person for being unable to move past this, but I cannot forgive her. I don't even want to be in the same room with her. I can't stand to be around her, or listen to her, or even look at her. I want nothing to do with her. I know that the right thing to do is to forgive her, and to forget this past semester, but I can't. I am still so hurt, and still so angry, and I don't know if I'll ever get past that. And if that makes me a bad person, then I'm just a bad person. I'm sorry for this long and emo-esque rant, and I promise that my next post will be about something happy, like kittens or puppies or rainbows or unicorns, or something equally saccharine.

Daydreams of the Ugly Duckling

I saw the movie Enchanted today. It was cute, and I was amused by it, even though all of my friends that have seen it thought it was idiotic. (I'm immature, what can I say?) But because the movie was all about fairy tales, it unearthed the part of me that's still 6 years old. I grew up with beautiful books and stories, but from a young age, I always preferred fairy tales. Not just the Disney ones, although of course I grew up watching Snow White, Cinderella, The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, and many, many others, countless times, (my favorite movie with a "princess" in it was Beauty and the Beast: Belle loved to read and she was a brunette; for a 5 year old that's a huge deal), but also the real fairy tales: the (somewhat) unsanitized tales of princes that fight gigantic ogres with terrifyingly bad breath, the beautiful princesses who were sometimes in league with witches and demons, the youngest sons of farmers or woodcutters who were somehow the bravest and the strongest and the kindest in the land who always win in the end, the mythical creatures in the equally mythical and mysterious, dangerous, dark forests, and the entire magical world. I adored fairy tales. I read everyone I could find. The library of my elementary school, had the entire collection of Andrew Lang's Fairy Books (The Blue Book, The Red Book, The Green Book, The Yellow Book, the Violet Book, The Chartruese Book, The Salmon Book, etc. ...) and I read all of them at least two times. (I also read and reread and reread and reread Hans Christian Anderson and the children's version of the Brother's Grimm.) Back then (and, alright, now) fairy tales were my only means of escape from a cruel and inhospitible world, and they very quickly became my reality. There are no divorces in fairy tales. Young girls who have sad and lonely childhoods grow up to be the most beautiful women in the world, whom everyone adores. The ugly duckling always becomes the swan. She has to; that's the way it's written. I began to see the world in terms of good and evil, with the strictest ethics that I learned from my books. But at the same time, they taught me that even the lowliest was capable of the greatest good; that even I was capable of good. Fairy tales have their own view of justice: the evil die or are horribly punished, while the good get their happily-ever-afters. I saw that in my books, and I dreamed that it would somehow get applied to the real world. I guess I still do. But more so then the justice, and the safety, I retreated into stories for the wonders they possessed. In fairy tales, the mundane and supernatural walk together like twin brothers. And just like twins, sometimes you don't know which is which. The supernatural becomes mundane and the mundane becomes something supernatural. In fairy tales wonderful, beautiful, magical, miraculous events take place every day. I don't regret my reclusion into fantasy; it gave me so much more that reality never could. It awakened in me a great sense of wonder, for somewhere, everywhere, there was something fantastic happening, even if I couldn't see it. They made me search my back yard and the nearby park for leprechauns. Fairy tales allowed me to see the magic that I desperately needed; and they taught me to cherish every living thing, for life has a magic of its own, far more powerful than any spell. They made me into the idiotically optimistic person I am today. For a time I recanted my beliefs in fairy tales: those years were the hardest and saddest in my life. I've grown older and become this strange girl-woman hybrid, and now I can see the beauty and the truth in my old daydreams. Crutch for reality they may be, but fairy tales only add hope, wonder and magic to this world: things we need more than we know.
"Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed. "-G.K. Chesterton
Kathleen, the (ex?) Disney Princess