Before President Obama and his wife Michelle made the White House a symbol of racial and ethnic diversity, I interviewed a Unitarian minister from New England. The place was the African Episcopal Church of St. Thomas. He and many ministers from other denominations had gathered for a service of reparations for slavery. I was covering it for RNS, and wrote about it when it happened.
Having had a DNA test done, he had found out that in his family tree ran the blood of slaves and slave-holders. Or perhaps it's more correct to say he had DNA from Africans and Caucasians as well as some Native American blood.
I wish I could say the same. Not that I wanted to have ancestors who owned slaves -- I could tell it was something this man had to work through. My Hebrew great-greats were more likely to have been slaves. Not that this gives me any borrowed nobility -- as it doesn't give him any intrinsic blame. But since that time, I've wondered about taking the DNA test. Maybe I've got some Spanish blood from an ancient converso marriage. Maybe there is some ethnic diversity way back on the family tree.
Since I spoke with him, I've been, well, a little jealous. How cool it would be to be to testify to the possibility of a postracial world in oneself.
It's not that I had an "Obama" moment -- I just had the sense that the dream of racial equality might come faster if some of us lilies found out we were really tulips and roses.
It's so absurd that we judge by color -- and yet pervasive, like the pollution over Los Angeles. How many millions of people have been killed for being black rather than white, for speaking a different language, for having Semitic features? I have friends with biracial kids, and I have a feeling even they will encounter prejudice.
Many judge President Obama by how dark his skin is. Bias has just gone a little underground.
I'm proud of my heritage, and appreciative. But it seems to me that the closer we get to tracing our common ancestors, the better off we will be.
I asked my ex yesterday if he would get a DNA test -- some of his relatives go back centuries here. But he didn't seem interested. So I guess I'll be happy with the genes God has given me -- scholarly, left-handed, Semitic, near-sighted, flat-footed (and a runner) , and a reformer. We don't all have to symbolize the melting pot -- we just have to make sure there is room for all of us at the table.
vendredi, novembre 27, 2009
Bowling Alone -- Together
"We are in the middle of a revolution" I said to my ex as we sat in his living room, sated with turkey (him) and sweet potatoes (me) and his fabulous apple crisp (both of us.) "We're struggling to keep up so hard that we really don't understand what it means."
Downstairs, our son and daughter were playing Guitar Hero on the Wii. Next to me on the sofa, the "on" button of the DQ's Netbook blinked blue, waiting for her to return. Upstairs in my ex's bedroom, an LCD television that my ex, who mostly watches sports, cedes to our daughter for Disney movies.
As my kids remind me, often, I don't have the good toys at my house. Our television is a young, robust, 10 year old (maybe older, she lies about her age). The computer downstairs takes about ten minutes to load AIM and Mr. C's chess websites. But for Christmas (don't tell them) I'm surrendering enough to buy an LCD television for the downstairs. I may even go wild and begin forking out an enormous amount for some extra channels.
Go on, call me a mini-geezer (sometimes I feel like one). But those of us born before 1990 recall when the phone was in the hall, or the kitchen, not under the pillow. If you wanted to use a computer, you had to sit, by and large, in a public space. Even if you wanted to be available 24/7, at a restaurant or in church, it wasn't possible.
The downside of the technological revolution is how easy it becomes to isolate ourselves. At her dad's house, my daughter can take her Netbook downstairs and disappear for hours. He won't let her text, which I heartily applaud -- but she and I battle over keeping the cell phone (she's already lost four or five) in her room at night.
Another dilemma? It's become very easy to hide things you don't want others to see. A researcher I interviewed for a story on sexual misconduct among clergy commented on the fact that it's very easy now to start a tryst privately, via email and cell phone calls, developing a language of intimacy before the actual snogging starts (well, she wasn't that crude).
Did you know that Wii bowling leagues are a hot number among seniors? Last week an NPR segment on tech innovations for older folks noted that there are at least 86 American leagues.
They seemed to consider this a step forward. I'm not so sure. I can see grandma and grandpa standing in front of television screens, miming the game they used to play until bad backs and knees caught up with them. Virtual reality for the senior set? Is this a positive?
Not to mention what this does to relationships -- more on that in my next post.
Downstairs, our son and daughter were playing Guitar Hero on the Wii. Next to me on the sofa, the "on" button of the DQ's Netbook blinked blue, waiting for her to return. Upstairs in my ex's bedroom, an LCD television that my ex, who mostly watches sports, cedes to our daughter for Disney movies.
As my kids remind me, often, I don't have the good toys at my house. Our television is a young, robust, 10 year old (maybe older, she lies about her age). The computer downstairs takes about ten minutes to load AIM and Mr. C's chess websites. But for Christmas (don't tell them) I'm surrendering enough to buy an LCD television for the downstairs. I may even go wild and begin forking out an enormous amount for some extra channels.
Go on, call me a mini-geezer (sometimes I feel like one). But those of us born before 1990 recall when the phone was in the hall, or the kitchen, not under the pillow. If you wanted to use a computer, you had to sit, by and large, in a public space. Even if you wanted to be available 24/7, at a restaurant or in church, it wasn't possible.
The downside of the technological revolution is how easy it becomes to isolate ourselves. At her dad's house, my daughter can take her Netbook downstairs and disappear for hours. He won't let her text, which I heartily applaud -- but she and I battle over keeping the cell phone (she's already lost four or five) in her room at night.
Another dilemma? It's become very easy to hide things you don't want others to see. A researcher I interviewed for a story on sexual misconduct among clergy commented on the fact that it's very easy now to start a tryst privately, via email and cell phone calls, developing a language of intimacy before the actual snogging starts (well, she wasn't that crude).
Did you know that Wii bowling leagues are a hot number among seniors? Last week an NPR segment on tech innovations for older folks noted that there are at least 86 American leagues.
They seemed to consider this a step forward. I'm not so sure. I can see grandma and grandpa standing in front of television screens, miming the game they used to play until bad backs and knees caught up with them. Virtual reality for the senior set? Is this a positive?
Not to mention what this does to relationships -- more on that in my next post.
mercredi, novembre 25, 2009
lundi, novembre 23, 2009
The mystery of an intriguing life
What is it about some people? Why does serendipity seem to find them, fame touch them with her windy garment, strange encounters seem to fall into their laps?
We've all known people who, for one reason or another, seem to be lighting rods for adventures.
As I've commented in a prior post, my aunt Marilyn has had encounters that no one could have predicted. How many Brooklyn girls going on an senior's cruise had one evolve into a relationship an with Alaskan fisherman?
How many women in their 70's move West and start a volunteer drama group in a house where a flock of chickens just happened to roost?
Do you think, if you moved to Los Angeles (if you live there already, your odds may be slightly better) your veterinarian and ancient dog would be chosen to be trained by Cesar Millan?
I'd never heard of the Dog Whisperer. And I'm not sure Auntie M had, either, before...well, before...
I can't explain it. So I won't.
These adventures just seem to fall into her path -- and she navigates them with the same spirit that she has called on when faced with larger challenges, like my dear uncle's illness and death from lung cancer.
She's not wealthy, or socially networked (although she has lots of pals), or famous.
Maybe certain outsized personalities beckon other such personalities. Maybe having adventures doesn't make her anxious.
The more open one is to out of the ordinary occurences, the more they seem to present themselves.
But we observe with amazement, and admiration, and gratitude. Of course, those phone calls are always longer than either of us intend.
Gail Collins, the New York Times columnist, said recently that even if she doesn't believe things happen for a reason, they do happen so that they can be turned into a column.
Or a good story. That's the only rationale that clicks, right now.
We've all known people who, for one reason or another, seem to be lighting rods for adventures.
As I've commented in a prior post, my aunt Marilyn has had encounters that no one could have predicted. How many Brooklyn girls going on an senior's cruise had one evolve into a relationship an with Alaskan fisherman?
How many women in their 70's move West and start a volunteer drama group in a house where a flock of chickens just happened to roost?
Do you think, if you moved to Los Angeles (if you live there already, your odds may be slightly better) your veterinarian and ancient dog would be chosen to be trained by Cesar Millan?
I'd never heard of the Dog Whisperer. And I'm not sure Auntie M had, either, before...well, before...
I can't explain it. So I won't.
These adventures just seem to fall into her path -- and she navigates them with the same spirit that she has called on when faced with larger challenges, like my dear uncle's illness and death from lung cancer.
She's not wealthy, or socially networked (although she has lots of pals), or famous.
Maybe certain outsized personalities beckon other such personalities. Maybe having adventures doesn't make her anxious.
The more open one is to out of the ordinary occurences, the more they seem to present themselves.
But we observe with amazement, and admiration, and gratitude. Of course, those phone calls are always longer than either of us intend.
Gail Collins, the New York Times columnist, said recently that even if she doesn't believe things happen for a reason, they do happen so that they can be turned into a column.
Or a good story. That's the only rationale that clicks, right now.
samedi, novembre 21, 2009
Column: Pastor hopes his story helps other clergy
After I wrote my first of two columns on troubled clergy and what can be done to help keep congregations and clergy healthy ("A disturbing trend among our clergy," Nov. 7, Intelligencer Journal/Lancaster New Era, Page B5), I realized how helpful it might be to have a clergyperson share his or her own personal story.
While hearing from experts is important, there is both immediacy and power to a first-person account.
I approached five therapists, promising anonymity to someone willing to tell his or her story.
No one was able to find a volunteer.
In a therapeutically oriented society, where reality shows and public confessions are part of our cultural discourse, it seemed significant that these therapists didn't know one clergyperson willing to discuss previous ministry or personal challenges.
Finally, someone I know, currently active in the work of promoting healthier communication among individuals and in congregations, made the decision to open up part of his past.
His name is the Rev. Howard Friend, and he is an ordained Presbyterian minister, founder and lead consultant of the Parish Empowerment Network, and author of "Gifts of an Uncommon Life: The Practice of Contemplative Activism."
In one of his book's chapters, he examines the challenges he faced and how he and his marriage were changed by them. He offered his experiences in hopes that clergy in similar situations might find them helpful.
• • •
When one arrives at midlife, said Friend, "stuff comes up." Sometimes you don't know what you thought you knew for certain. "You are so busy with personal and career development, with making a name for yourself, that you haven't been reflecting on your life."
In his early 40s, Friend was pastor of a church in an affluent Philadelphia suburb — a church that was doing so well that it was studied by a national think tank. He had a circle of friends, a wife and children — and yet he was asking questions like "Does my routine make any sense? Am I making any difference?"
In some ways, Friend didn't suffer from the pressures that can sometimes burden clergy and lead to secrecy and misconduct. His congregation didn't have a blueprint for his family — it wasn't until college that his son knew what the term "P.K." (preacher's kid) meant.
"They knew that I had an obnoxious, off-color, rambunctious side."
While the congregation didn't elevate him to demigod status, he was aware that he had a unique role as a pastor.
"I felt that their demands that I be a role model were reasonable," he said.
And then he met a woman at a conference, someone who shared his affinity for psychology.
"There was something about her that was powerfully engaging. I wanted to be with her and talk to her." In addition, Friend said, he found himself physically attracted to her.
At this point, Friend clearly had a few choices. He decided he was going to tell his wife of many years and go into couple's therapy.
"It was a transitional time that became a transformational time."
Strangely enough, said the pastor, his therapist advocated that he continue to stay in touch with the woman he thought was so attractive. She lived in California, so frequent encounters were not possible.
That advice turned out, in the end, to be really helpful.
"I was drawn to her spiritual heart and depth," he said. "I came to see that she was an object of my projections, parts of me that weren't developed."
On the heels of this revelation, Friend decided to seek closer communion with the divine — on a 30-day retreat in the woods of the Canadian north. And when he came back, following up on the advice of his retreat director, he purposefully renewed and deepened his commitment to his marriage.
In many ways, Friend doesn't fit the "profile" of clergy who get into trouble. He and his spouse had made communication and growth high priorities, both individually and in their marriage. And when they found themselves in tumultuous times, they sought help.
The fruit of his own experience, and his work with hundreds of congregations, has led him to a few conclusions.
• Acknowledge that pastoring a church when so many are in decline is tough, he said.
• Be willing to look at your "shadow side" and find places where you can own up to it without having to act it out.
• Seek friends outside your congregation.
• And if you know that you are lonely, suffering from lack of self-esteem, depressed or impelled toward misbehavior — get help in finding a safe place to open up those broken places and let healing begin.
Bellettreliz@hotmail.com
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While hearing from experts is important, there is both immediacy and power to a first-person account.
I approached five therapists, promising anonymity to someone willing to tell his or her story.
No one was able to find a volunteer.
In a therapeutically oriented society, where reality shows and public confessions are part of our cultural discourse, it seemed significant that these therapists didn't know one clergyperson willing to discuss previous ministry or personal challenges.
Finally, someone I know, currently active in the work of promoting healthier communication among individuals and in congregations, made the decision to open up part of his past.
His name is the Rev. Howard Friend, and he is an ordained Presbyterian minister, founder and lead consultant of the Parish Empowerment Network, and author of "Gifts of an Uncommon Life: The Practice of Contemplative Activism."
In one of his book's chapters, he examines the challenges he faced and how he and his marriage were changed by them. He offered his experiences in hopes that clergy in similar situations might find them helpful.
• • •
When one arrives at midlife, said Friend, "stuff comes up." Sometimes you don't know what you thought you knew for certain. "You are so busy with personal and career development, with making a name for yourself, that you haven't been reflecting on your life."
In his early 40s, Friend was pastor of a church in an affluent Philadelphia suburb — a church that was doing so well that it was studied by a national think tank. He had a circle of friends, a wife and children — and yet he was asking questions like "Does my routine make any sense? Am I making any difference?"
In some ways, Friend didn't suffer from the pressures that can sometimes burden clergy and lead to secrecy and misconduct. His congregation didn't have a blueprint for his family — it wasn't until college that his son knew what the term "P.K." (preacher's kid) meant.
"They knew that I had an obnoxious, off-color, rambunctious side."
While the congregation didn't elevate him to demigod status, he was aware that he had a unique role as a pastor.
"I felt that their demands that I be a role model were reasonable," he said.
And then he met a woman at a conference, someone who shared his affinity for psychology.
"There was something about her that was powerfully engaging. I wanted to be with her and talk to her." In addition, Friend said, he found himself physically attracted to her.
At this point, Friend clearly had a few choices. He decided he was going to tell his wife of many years and go into couple's therapy.
"It was a transitional time that became a transformational time."
Strangely enough, said the pastor, his therapist advocated that he continue to stay in touch with the woman he thought was so attractive. She lived in California, so frequent encounters were not possible.
That advice turned out, in the end, to be really helpful.
"I was drawn to her spiritual heart and depth," he said. "I came to see that she was an object of my projections, parts of me that weren't developed."
On the heels of this revelation, Friend decided to seek closer communion with the divine — on a 30-day retreat in the woods of the Canadian north. And when he came back, following up on the advice of his retreat director, he purposefully renewed and deepened his commitment to his marriage.
In many ways, Friend doesn't fit the "profile" of clergy who get into trouble. He and his spouse had made communication and growth high priorities, both individually and in their marriage. And when they found themselves in tumultuous times, they sought help.
The fruit of his own experience, and his work with hundreds of congregations, has led him to a few conclusions.
• Acknowledge that pastoring a church when so many are in decline is tough, he said.
• Be willing to look at your "shadow side" and find places where you can own up to it without having to act it out.
• Seek friends outside your congregation.
• And if you know that you are lonely, suffering from lack of self-esteem, depressed or impelled toward misbehavior — get help in finding a safe place to open up those broken places and let healing begin.
Bellettreliz@hotmail.com
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vendredi, novembre 20, 2009
Of all the Nerf!!!
A night of high drama in our house.
Oddly enough, it all started with a Nerf gun, apparently aimed at the DQ by her brother. Honestly, you'd have thought he got her with a quick left hook to the kisser.
After I told her that she had plenty of times when she hit Mr. C too, it quickly escalated to: "I want to live with Dad."
When I offered the unwelcome opinion that Dad was far too intelligent to have the DQ live with him all the time, she took off -- to sit by a neighbor's tree. He doesn't love me either, she told me as she walked out the door and down our drive.
Leaving the dinner which I was tending (grits and shrimp, which somehow had become cornmeal and shrimp), I pulled on my boots and followed her brother down the road.
Naturally, every commuter coming into our small development could see us -- the DQ, sitting head bowed under the tree, me with my Halloween flashlight, and Mr. C on his bike. My dreams of a quiet evening of good food (well, my attempt at good food), a movie and two well-behaved, appreciatve kids disappeared.
Interesting idea, wrong planet.
When I finally lured her home with the promise a phone call to an empathetic friend (more so than moi) she was still pissed.
Eventually, though she calmed down. She came upstairs, threw her arms around me and apologized. I know you and Dad love me. I get too dramatic, she said.
Really?
Oddly enough, it all started with a Nerf gun, apparently aimed at the DQ by her brother. Honestly, you'd have thought he got her with a quick left hook to the kisser.
After I told her that she had plenty of times when she hit Mr. C too, it quickly escalated to: "I want to live with Dad."
When I offered the unwelcome opinion that Dad was far too intelligent to have the DQ live with him all the time, she took off -- to sit by a neighbor's tree. He doesn't love me either, she told me as she walked out the door and down our drive.
Leaving the dinner which I was tending (grits and shrimp, which somehow had become cornmeal and shrimp), I pulled on my boots and followed her brother down the road.
Naturally, every commuter coming into our small development could see us -- the DQ, sitting head bowed under the tree, me with my Halloween flashlight, and Mr. C on his bike. My dreams of a quiet evening of good food (well, my attempt at good food), a movie and two well-behaved, appreciatve kids disappeared.
Interesting idea, wrong planet.
When I finally lured her home with the promise a phone call to an empathetic friend (more so than moi) she was still pissed.
Eventually, though she calmed down. She came upstairs, threw her arms around me and apologized. I know you and Dad love me. I get too dramatic, she said.
Really?
jeudi, novembre 19, 2009
The present tense
I am not sure that Eric remembered that today was the second anniversary of dad's death when he sent the email to his cousins before dawn this morning.
Two years have passed very quickly. I haven't reached the point, as most of us do, where the memories of his suffering recede to some extent, and those of more cheerful hours return.
Scan a brief memorial biography of dad, written by a colleague of his at Brooklyn, if you are interested in knowing more about him.
Eric's email wasn't about Dad, however. In many respects, Eric acts as the family historiographer. He's the man to query about long-dead relatives, the grandfather who faithfully sends his cousins videos, the person you want to call when you need information about a family event.
My cousin wanted to let us know that Grandpa's book was edging closer to publication. My grandfather was a turn of the century immigrant, and a rabbi. In his time, he was pretty well known - and in the arena of Judaic studies, still a man of historical importance.
Along with the information, Eric sent along a gift -- words from my father's heart.
His personal reflection on my grandfather will, in some way, become a part of the anthology. When I read the pages this morning, I hear the voice of the writer, with his unique style -- when did you last hear the word "minatory"?
But I also saw admiration, love, and warmth for a man that I hadn't ever known. I learned some family stories Dad hadn't ever told me -- did I never ask?
Just for a few moments, as the light grew, he was present -- as he had always been present, until he left us.
But I think the chain is unbroken.
We, like so many families, are bound by love, and memory, the difficult and disturbing along with the good -- and sometimes the rare, unsought, grace of the present tense.
Two years have passed very quickly. I haven't reached the point, as most of us do, where the memories of his suffering recede to some extent, and those of more cheerful hours return.
Scan a brief memorial biography of dad, written by a colleague of his at Brooklyn, if you are interested in knowing more about him.
Eric's email wasn't about Dad, however. In many respects, Eric acts as the family historiographer. He's the man to query about long-dead relatives, the grandfather who faithfully sends his cousins videos, the person you want to call when you need information about a family event.
My cousin wanted to let us know that Grandpa's book was edging closer to publication. My grandfather was a turn of the century immigrant, and a rabbi. In his time, he was pretty well known - and in the arena of Judaic studies, still a man of historical importance.
Along with the information, Eric sent along a gift -- words from my father's heart.
His personal reflection on my grandfather will, in some way, become a part of the anthology. When I read the pages this morning, I hear the voice of the writer, with his unique style -- when did you last hear the word "minatory"?
But I also saw admiration, love, and warmth for a man that I hadn't ever known. I learned some family stories Dad hadn't ever told me -- did I never ask?
Just for a few moments, as the light grew, he was present -- as he had always been present, until he left us.
But I think the chain is unbroken.
We, like so many families, are bound by love, and memory, the difficult and disturbing along with the good -- and sometimes the rare, unsought, grace of the present tense.
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