That moment when you remember that thing you were supposed to do, a few hours before you're supposed to do it. It hit me earlier, that I'd intended to attend a book discussion with a group of ladies today, and I had yet to even get the book, much less read it. I frantically looked online to find out the author and possible local vendors. As I read the discriptions of the book, I froze in my tracks. It sounded like yet another "Chicken soup for the Soccer Mom's soul" sort of books. You know the kind, all about encouraging women as they cart around their eighty billion children, run marathons and make dinner for their insanely hot husbands. Those sort of books are what 90% of Christian women's book studies are studying. I know there are women who find them incredibly encouraging, and devour them hungrily, but I am not one of those people. 9 times out of 10, I end up tossing the book aside, and the book studies end up being more discouraging than a blessing. I plaster a smile on my face, and pretend that yes, the chapter on praying your child through potty training was the most inspirational nugget of wisdom I have ever read, and I applied it immediately to my life.
In Christian culture, there seems to be this belief that your single years are kind of unimportant and largely just the staging area for "real life", meaning marriage and children. I hear so many people say things like, "yeah, my single years were fun, but I couldn't wait to move on to the stuff that matters, like having a family." This perception of singlehood being one big party is inaccurate, dangerous and irritating. To walk away believing that your life is somehow meaningless because you don't have a mate and haven't procreated, is indescribably disheartening. If I hear one more well meaning person say, "Wait til you get married and have kids, then you'll have real problems!", I may scream. It is typically said without malice, but certainly with complete ignorance.
Trying to bare your soul to a married person can be absolutely mind-numbing at times. Every response begins with, "Before I got married...", and usually ends with a hint that marriage may be your saving grace in any situation. What's sad is that even people who have only recently been married, somehow undergo this change overnight, and are almost excited to join the "winning" team. Newly wed friends, LOVE to give their sad, single buds uninvited advice and pity. Their relief over no longer being among the singles crowd is palpable.
All this to say, there needs to be a better response to singles special needs from the church. Sometimes we just need our own women's book studies with books selected by other singles. We need groups where singles minister to each other. I know, typically they want a married person ministering to single to supposedly keep things safe, but it's not always best. A constant diet of happily married couples can lead to quite a bit of lusting and ill content for the single person. By lusting, I mean, wanting marriage in an unhealthy way. Letting thoughts of it consume you. Placing marriage on the throne of your heart, where Jesus is supposed to abide. At any rate, I will continue to find a solution to my issue of wanting more fellowship with women, but not wanting to have to sit through yet another book study in which I start daydreaming about stabbing my eyeballs out.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Friday, July 19, 2013
Absolute weariness
As of late, with all the racial tension being flung about, I hear a lot of "Blacks need to just get over it" and "They blow things out of proportion." So desperate are some to assure themselves and others that race doesn't matter. People comment on experiences they know nothing of, and will likely never have to endure. I do not hide behind being black, nor do I allow it to be all that defines me. I do not expect hand-outs based on my race, and I have no interest in being pitied. What I am about to share is merely to allow those who will never experience these things an opportunity to see why some black parents give their children a whole different set of instructions before doing things like going to school, going for a walk, or dating.
In the 8th grade, my social studies teacher decided to do an experiment of sorts. When my classmates and I walked into the room, she had boys line up on one side and girls line up on the other. She instructed us to look at the person standing across from us. We were then told to walk towards that person and stand shoulder to shoulder with them. She then called each pair up and "married" us. Afterwards, she explained that in some Native American tribes, mass arranged marriages were done like that. She said we were "married" to that person for the rest of the 6 weeks. It was awkward because we were given various tasks to do as a couple. I was paired with a young man who can best be described as grunge-goth. He was nerdy, had a weird group of friends who all looked the same (like...the exact same, but more on that later). I tended to have friends from several different social circles, so it wasn't a big deal to be "married" to the outcast sort of guy. The only problem came when I realized he was taking the assignment a bit too seriously. In his mind, our "marriage" continued until the end of the year. He would frequently refer to me as his wife and give me the most unsettling looks. Occasionally, I would catch his friends giving me the same looks.
In 9th grade, we were loosely associated with each other, he was on the fringe of my social circles. Every once in a while, he'd make a pass at me, still refering to our "marriage". Towards the end of the year, I was totally crept out by him. 10th grade was THE year, though. He began to stalk me. By mid year, he'd begun stalking me with his friends...who all had a certain...look (I mean, everyone goes through a head-shaving phase, right?). Frequently, they would be waiting for me after soccer or orchestra practice. They'd corner me and talk about how they'd pass me around their group...I could be everyone's "wife". They would make lewd gestures, and talk about how afterwards, they'd toss gas on me and set me on fire. The entire school year, this persisted. Thankfully, I was always able to out run them, physical fitness wasn't as important as learning firearms, it seems. When I'd pass any of them in the hall, they would mutter something about me being a filthy n!&&#%. One day, after soccer practice, I had to go upstairs at the school to get something from my locker. I don't know how they knew I would come, but the whole building was cleared. They stood there waiting for me with smirks on their faces. "Ready to die, wifey?" was my greeting.
They started describing what they were going to do to me, both sexual and non. Coming fresh from practice, my kleats still on, I kicked the living hell out of someone's jewel purse, and ran. Downstairs, blindly looking for someone...a janitor, SOMEONE. Desperate, I ran to my coach's room. He was there talking to another player. When I burst into the room, he sent the player away, and asked what was wrong. I told him everything, from 8th grade until that point. Never, had I seen him so mad. He turned purple, and left the room. Returning moments later, he told me to get my things, then he escorted me to my mom's car parked out front. I begged him not to tell her, which he didn't. The next morning, I went to his room, and he told me that he'd reported everything to the principle, and that I would have to talk to them. I freaked out, because I didn't want to be burned alive...didn't want to be raped. He looked me right in my eyes and said, "I will NEVER let them hurt you." I was called in to the principal's office, and given a legal pad. He told me to write everything that had been said, describe the gestures and anything else that had been done to me. I filled up half the legal pad and had to stop because my hand hurt and I couldn't remember everything exactly. The first few pages were soaked with my tears. I was so ashamed because I had let it all happen. In my head, I was as much to blame as those guys were. (Of course I understand now that it was not my fault, at all). When the principal read some of what I'd written, he looked ill. He looked at me, and looked at the paper again. The silence was killing me. He gave me tissues, and told me to take some time to compose myself before returning to class. His voice, shaking with emotion, swore, "They will NEVER hurt you." I never saw that guy, or his friends ever again. I have no idea what happened to them. For a while, I feared I'd see a burning cross in the yard or be jumped suddenly. Nothing happened. I didn't so much as hear their names ever again.
Still with me? Continuing on..
Junior year of high school brought the excitement of getting to go to prom. A new guy had moved into town, and I was instantly drawn to him. We became the best of friends, and since he was a year younger, I had to ask him to prom. I was so looking forward to it! I got the tickets, and had begun dress shopping. One night, he called me sounding horribly depressed. I asked him what was going on, and he said, "My parents found out I was going to prom with a black girl...they said I can't go." I immediately deflated. It had never crossed my mind that his parents would have those sentiments. His parents grilled him daily, to find out whether or not he'd continued interacting with me. We hid our friendship from them. He went from being a great, Jesus-loving guy to someone I eventually didn't recognize. We tried to remain friends, but he began to date a girl who absolutely hated me. She knew how his parents felt about me, so she began to report to them that he and I still communicated. They withdrew him from the school, and I never heard from him again.
Many things have happened since then, thankfully few have been as painful as the above examples. We hear so much about how hard things are for black men, but little light is shed on the struggle of black women. Granted, my experiences are not typical, but sadly, they are not that unique.
I'm sorry it's so hard for black people to "get over it". That we still see things a little differently sometimes. I'll be sure to try a little harder.
In the 8th grade, my social studies teacher decided to do an experiment of sorts. When my classmates and I walked into the room, she had boys line up on one side and girls line up on the other. She instructed us to look at the person standing across from us. We were then told to walk towards that person and stand shoulder to shoulder with them. She then called each pair up and "married" us. Afterwards, she explained that in some Native American tribes, mass arranged marriages were done like that. She said we were "married" to that person for the rest of the 6 weeks. It was awkward because we were given various tasks to do as a couple. I was paired with a young man who can best be described as grunge-goth. He was nerdy, had a weird group of friends who all looked the same (like...the exact same, but more on that later). I tended to have friends from several different social circles, so it wasn't a big deal to be "married" to the outcast sort of guy. The only problem came when I realized he was taking the assignment a bit too seriously. In his mind, our "marriage" continued until the end of the year. He would frequently refer to me as his wife and give me the most unsettling looks. Occasionally, I would catch his friends giving me the same looks.
In 9th grade, we were loosely associated with each other, he was on the fringe of my social circles. Every once in a while, he'd make a pass at me, still refering to our "marriage". Towards the end of the year, I was totally crept out by him. 10th grade was THE year, though. He began to stalk me. By mid year, he'd begun stalking me with his friends...who all had a certain...look (I mean, everyone goes through a head-shaving phase, right?). Frequently, they would be waiting for me after soccer or orchestra practice. They'd corner me and talk about how they'd pass me around their group...I could be everyone's "wife". They would make lewd gestures, and talk about how afterwards, they'd toss gas on me and set me on fire. The entire school year, this persisted. Thankfully, I was always able to out run them, physical fitness wasn't as important as learning firearms, it seems. When I'd pass any of them in the hall, they would mutter something about me being a filthy n!&&#%. One day, after soccer practice, I had to go upstairs at the school to get something from my locker. I don't know how they knew I would come, but the whole building was cleared. They stood there waiting for me with smirks on their faces. "Ready to die, wifey?" was my greeting.
They started describing what they were going to do to me, both sexual and non. Coming fresh from practice, my kleats still on, I kicked the living hell out of someone's jewel purse, and ran. Downstairs, blindly looking for someone...a janitor, SOMEONE. Desperate, I ran to my coach's room. He was there talking to another player. When I burst into the room, he sent the player away, and asked what was wrong. I told him everything, from 8th grade until that point. Never, had I seen him so mad. He turned purple, and left the room. Returning moments later, he told me to get my things, then he escorted me to my mom's car parked out front. I begged him not to tell her, which he didn't. The next morning, I went to his room, and he told me that he'd reported everything to the principle, and that I would have to talk to them. I freaked out, because I didn't want to be burned alive...didn't want to be raped. He looked me right in my eyes and said, "I will NEVER let them hurt you." I was called in to the principal's office, and given a legal pad. He told me to write everything that had been said, describe the gestures and anything else that had been done to me. I filled up half the legal pad and had to stop because my hand hurt and I couldn't remember everything exactly. The first few pages were soaked with my tears. I was so ashamed because I had let it all happen. In my head, I was as much to blame as those guys were. (Of course I understand now that it was not my fault, at all). When the principal read some of what I'd written, he looked ill. He looked at me, and looked at the paper again. The silence was killing me. He gave me tissues, and told me to take some time to compose myself before returning to class. His voice, shaking with emotion, swore, "They will NEVER hurt you." I never saw that guy, or his friends ever again. I have no idea what happened to them. For a while, I feared I'd see a burning cross in the yard or be jumped suddenly. Nothing happened. I didn't so much as hear their names ever again.
Still with me? Continuing on..
Junior year of high school brought the excitement of getting to go to prom. A new guy had moved into town, and I was instantly drawn to him. We became the best of friends, and since he was a year younger, I had to ask him to prom. I was so looking forward to it! I got the tickets, and had begun dress shopping. One night, he called me sounding horribly depressed. I asked him what was going on, and he said, "My parents found out I was going to prom with a black girl...they said I can't go." I immediately deflated. It had never crossed my mind that his parents would have those sentiments. His parents grilled him daily, to find out whether or not he'd continued interacting with me. We hid our friendship from them. He went from being a great, Jesus-loving guy to someone I eventually didn't recognize. We tried to remain friends, but he began to date a girl who absolutely hated me. She knew how his parents felt about me, so she began to report to them that he and I still communicated. They withdrew him from the school, and I never heard from him again.
Many things have happened since then, thankfully few have been as painful as the above examples. We hear so much about how hard things are for black men, but little light is shed on the struggle of black women. Granted, my experiences are not typical, but sadly, they are not that unique.
I'm sorry it's so hard for black people to "get over it". That we still see things a little differently sometimes. I'll be sure to try a little harder.
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