Original Sin

I don’t believe in Original Sin as Sister Barbara taught it to us. It didn’t entirely make sense to me in first grade and certainly does not make sense to me now.

If we are to believe that a Christ lived for the purpose of dying in recompense for mankind’s transgressions, we must first accept several fundamental concepts:

·        that collective guilt transfers to the individual and vice versa;

·        that collective absolution transfers to the individual and vice versa; and

·        that attributes present at or before birth and wholly independent of the thoughts or actions of the individual are reliable markers as to the person’s worth.

I accept none of this.

And if I can’t accept Original Sin, then absolution earned by a stranger on a cross of course becomes moot and so on, and so forth.

It will present no surprise to those of you with whom I’ve communed for any length of time that I am utterly devoid of any moral, ethical or spiritual connection to the religion of my birth and raising, nor should you be shocked at my dismissal of the whole idea of a god or gods. So, no point continuing along those lines, what?

 There is a more troubling version of Original Sin playing itself out politically and socially in our time and place.

I have long been a member of a political party; therefore I must agree with and share responsibility for the actions and utterances of the ‘leaders’ of said party. A bit of transference and some deeply troubling assumptions there but basically, I accept that rap. Which is why I’ve recently renounced my party membership.

After all, my joining that party in the first place involved overt action. I have not been assigned guilt simply because of an accident of original position. (We could get into a whole discussion of Original Position and the Veil of Ignorance and so on here, but really, why? I joined the party, therefore any guilt that I accrued was through my own action.) So I accept the slam even as I move away from the association.

There are other areas of my life for which I have been assigned the latter day version of Original Sin that I decline to accept in any way, shape or form.

I do not accept 'white guilt' and I reject the idea that ‘white privilege’ has been a primary driver in my creation of the life I now enjoy. Yes, many others have suffered positional discrimination associated with gender, race and ethnicity, country of origin and cultural bias. This is one of the stains of our human society that continues today and anyone who believes otherwise is either ignorant or unobservant.

There are also others – many others – who from birth were endowed with much more than I and yes, I’m human. I do sometimes wish I’d had ‘more’ from the get go. But that does not mean these folks are guilty of a crime against me or that their experience is less valid, less a part of humanity than my own. It simply means that we don’t all start from the same initial position. That doesn’t make one or the other more or less holy.

Positional attributes carry no moral burden, in my view. The sole determinant of personal (worth, validity, choose your favorite descriptor) is the body of thoughts you entertain and the actions you take. There is no Original Sin. There is only an ethically neutral starting point and then, how you live your life.

Another attribute that some find damning of late is my gender. First, I have to say that having been born with both X and Y does not make me a sexual predator. Or a potential sexual predator. Donald Trump is a sexual predator. Brock Turner-Rapist is a sexual predator. But most of you already accept the difference between me and Da Drumpf, some of your Facebook posts notwithstanding.

In my reading and my social interactions and even my personal life of late, the evidence has been building that having been born male identifies me eo ipso as clueless, disinterested, and unconcerned with the lives, thoughts and reasonable best interests of women.  And to say I am uncomfortable with that moral assignment is, as they say, an understatement.

I could go on as the examples abound. People are terrorists because they were born in a Muslim culture, gays are by definition perverts, liberals care while conservatives don’t. So many of our prejudices are not recognized as such simply because we’ve had them drilled into us from birth – authoritatively, presumptively, even lovingly but from a position of ignorance and fear.

The whole idea of Original Sin is anathema to any attempt to see the next person as part of ‘us’ rather than as a suspect member of ‘those others.’

I accept my failings. I am at times self-centered, tone-deaf, impatient and (this is a BIG ONE) socially inept. I say things in ways that are easily and unfortunately misconstrued and this failing has cost me friends. And for all my noticing, I am frequently guilty of not actually seeing. But NONE of these failings arises inexorably from my having been born male or white or raised Roman Catholic or by older sisters or that my family was lower middle class. Each and all of my assignable failings arises from something I did or failed to do.

You see, I just don’t believe in Original Sin.

And I believe you shouldn’t either. Because this election cycle will end, women will continue to rise to the top where they belong, aliens will become neighbors, gay couples will be merely couples. But not if we cling to Original Sin. If we are to move on, if we are to build a society of compassion and caring and inclusion, Original Sin can’t be part of the calculus. 

(BTW: As you may have noticed, I've been busy with other writing of late. Sorry about that. More soon.)

Vote

I voted this morning. Hope you will, too.

It's 11:54am where I live and since I got up at 7:30am I have answered four phone calls, every one of which turned out to be a recorded political pitch.

Sorry, annoying people. Too late for this hombre.

Impostor

I have a confession to make. It’s one I’ve toyed with making for many years but never got up the gumption to just out with it. But of late, my life has been laid open – or perhaps more precisely, flayed – as I’ve struggled to define my own personal narrative. Over the course of the last couple of years, through deaths and assaults against loved ones, struggles with understanding relationships with friends, missteps, learning moments and yes, the occasional small victory, I’ve come to know things about myself that I had never before grasped. Or at least, had never encouraged myself to understand.

I’ve tired of moving forward only to slip back. I have decided to try to ratchet my forward progress so that ground, once covered, need not be trod again. The best way I know to install this anti-slip device in my journey is through being honest with those who know me best. Or at least, know of me. So fasten seat belts because I intend here and now to expose to you a secret I’ve kept all these years.

Ready? Here goes:

I’ve never read Catcher in the Rye.

Now, you might be tempted to think this is a twisted joke, building you up for the great reveal only to have it be inconsequential. But I promise you, to me this is no small matter.

You see, the story of myself as writer and therefore presumably a reader of worthwhile literature has always rested on an unspoken assumption. Writers know writing, yes? Great writing. Writing by the seminal authors of our literary history. Writing that has shaped our lives, both individually and as a society. The assumption is that those who would have us take their own written work seriously have educated and informed ourselves through broad and deep immersion in the works of the masters, the classics of literature and commentary.

Yeah, well… For me, not so much.

I don’t know Holden Caulfield except as a reference made by others that I understand – or presume to, anyway – only in the context of the conversation of the moment. And this is not the only ‘great character’ of literature with whom my acquaintance is largely imaginary.

I have never read most of the authors, playwrights or poets that connoisseurs of great writing would recognize as worthy of acclaim. If there is truly a literary canon of the American experience, my knowledge of it is at best anecdotal. I have failed utterly to educate myself in the approved literary framework of required reading for writers of my day and age.

I am currently reading through some books I picked up at a conference. The one on my nightstand as I type this is Breakfast with Neruda by Laura Moe. I’m two-thirds through it and found it hard to put down this morning so I could get on with my own writing. And I do NOT apologize for choosing this book over one from the approved list. I’m enjoying it immensely.

I have read several Farley Mowats but very little of Hemingway. Okay, enjoyed Old Man and the Sea but not so much that I felt compelled to go in search of a Hemingway anthology. Maybe it’s the whole hard-drinking, risk-taking manly Papa thing that turns me off. I was never really drawn to Hemingway. But Mowat – there’s a guy who engages my mind. Never Cry Wolf was a delightful and fascinating introduction and it led me to several others, in particular Grey Seas Under. While other writers focused on battleships and bomber streams, Mowat told me about The War through the saga of salvage tugs. Yes, tug boats. Brilliant. But alas, not mentioned on any canonical registry.

My least favorite had-to-read-for-a-class book of all time has to be The Great Gatsby, the uninteresting story of unlikable characters in an ultimately fruitless search for a theme. I did enjoy a few of Fitzgerald’s short stories, read for the same class – The Curious Case of Benjamin Button comes to mind. But a master? Not for me. He always seemed to be writing for New York reviewers and not for, you know, readers.

I’m a nutter for Amy Tan, although admittedly her books take me a while to get through. But then, I’ve shared that affinity in an earlier missive.

My point here is that I tend to emotionally cower when I speak of writing and writers with folks who might recognize me as non-cognoscenti. I live in fear of the disdain sure to follow my response to the simple question, “What have you read lately?” Because while I won’t lie, I also don’t want to admit that my intake is less, well, high-toned than the interrogator might expect. Which is why it always feels like interrogation.

I recently attended a writers’ conference. Loved the content and the people but I have to say I spent the whole two days feeling like an impostor constantly on the verge of being found out. After all, I can’t quote lengthy passages from recognized gurus, nor was I familiar with the works of most of the people there. Every session included at least one casual reference to the works of an author I was presumed to know and love. But for the most part, I understood the references only in the context of the presentation and so, can’t be certain I understood them at all.

I will soon be submitting a major piece of writing to a professional editor for review. I have to tell you, this might be one of the bravest things I’ve ever done. Because so much of my self-image is wrapped up in my sense of myself as having something worthwhile to say and being competent in communicating that message through my writing. And this is a smart woman who’s been doing this for a couple of decades. I’m afraid she’ll find me out.

She might identify me as an impostor.

And if she does, if I’m forced to face the house of cards that my self-image might well be, what then? What can I do at my age to undo the damage of years spent reading non-literary literature? I’m sure I don’t know.

Two weeks from right now as I write this, I will submit myself to examination by a Person Who Knows Real Writing. And I am haunted by that dream we all have of coming to class - or a business meeting, or a wedding, or, or - woefully unprepared. Except in my case, I fear it's not merely a dream.

Can’t wait. Dread the day. 

In memorium

The bird eventually left the safety of the piano to make a mad dash for the Great Outdoors. Unfortunately, his navigation was faulty, taking him on a path that terminated when his beak came into contact with the kitchen window at full (might I say, breakneck...ahem!) speed.

There will be no service.

Best laid plans

So, I am now working to deadline on Da Book and in order to reduce sidetracks, I shut down my Facebook account, cleared the decks as to work travel for the next several weeks and planned a nice, full day of editing for today.

You know what they say about plans.

The current distraction involves a small bird that flew in the back door and has taken up residency under the piano, the better to avoid any interaction with the dogs, who are driving me to distraction with their whining and pawing at said pianoforte.

Since I am not likely to be able to catch-and-release the bird without Mary’s help and she is currently at her sister’s watching football, I guess there’s nothing for it but to wait for her to return. Meanwhile, I am not about to move the piano, thus potentially setting off another mad flurry of bird and dogs around the mid-level of the house.

Zoey the Small and Annoying is doing her best Lassie impression, wearing a path up and down the stairs, trying to get me to follow her to the scene of the musical bird sanctuary. Cleo, the Smaller and Annoyinger follows close on her heels, trying to act dog-like. It’s a difficult mien for a Chihuahua to pull off so mostly, she just looks like something caught on Zoey’s foot, following along in jerks and jags everywhere Zoey goes.

Up the stairs, bark-and-sniff, down to office, stare at Dad, up, bark-and-sniff, down, bark at Dad.

Yeah, I’ll get some editing done. You betcha.

Twitter status

Today I was asked a question I did not entirely understand. One of my bus buddies asked me my ‘Twitter status.’ And of course, I gave that most erudite of responses, “What?”

I could have saved face, I suppose by allowing my friend to go on believing the problem was one of bus noise or unclear pronunciation.  But no, I couldn’t take the easy way out. For one thing, it would not have been honest and for another, she would merely have repeated the question and little would have been gained by my coyness. And anyway, she’s someone I like well enough to be straight with her.

So the next few lines went something like this:

“I don’t know what that means,” said I.

“Twitter?”

“Twitter status.”

“You don’t know what Twitter means?” So now, maybe it was becoming a problem of misunderstanding rather than ignorance on my part but too late, because heads were turning.

“I know what Twitter means, I guess.”

And now, the younger-somethings in the next two rows were making knowing faces to each other. “Old Fudd alert!” I could hear them thinking. (Which may well be a valid assessment but was, in my estimation, totally beside the point.)

She stared at me, backed up by a rapidly forming rogues’ gallery of what I can only assume were Twitter cognoscenti. I could have gone back to my reading or gotten off at the next stop or pretended to give up my seat to someone more in need of butt compression so I could move to another part of the bus.

I could have. But of course, you know I didn’t.

“I don’t know my Twitter status,” I admitted. I felt this was a perfectly reasonable response, and was not at all prepared for the next comment, delivered in a particularly snarky tone by a young (expletive deleted) a couple rows away.

“We do!”

Which sent several of his cohort into gales of laughter. Even my erstwhile (I’m reconsidering) friend couldn’t hide a knowing smirk.

Now, I know when I’ve been had. So I let it go and did, finally go back to my reading, hoping the matter could be closed, if not forgotten. The coup de grace was delivered by a young lady who I’m sure was trying to let me off the hook.

“My grandfather doesn’t use it either.”

She even patted my shoulder.

Please kill me. 

And on a more pleasant note...

I listen to music while I write (or try to).

Just listened to Yo Yo Ma playing the prelude to Bach's Cello Suite No. 1.
Is there any piece of music more evocative or any rendering of it more sublime?

Please, no!

What is it that makes some men think they’re allowed to act this way?

Please note that I say some men. It’s not all men; if it was, then Larry and Joe and Steve and I would act as atrociously as do Donald and Billy.

I was raised by a mother and older sisters who never, ever would have allowed me to even glance curiously down that path, much less turn and run joyously along it. Who raised these monsters?

Donald seeks to excuse it as normal by referring to ‘locker room humor.’ I admit that the locker rooms I shared during the days of dressing out for gym class did reflect the curiosity and yes, braggadocio of young males not yet competent to control their hormones and frantic to be seen as manly. But even in that setting, the tone was different. It was more like “I wish I could…” or at most “I’d like to…” but never, NEVER “Grab them by the XXXXX. You can do anything.”

Perhaps these guys inhabited different locker rooms than my friends and me. Or perhaps, oh, what the hell… Truth is, I can’t imagine from what suppurating pustule these guys emerged.

Please don’t think this latest revelation changed my thinking about Donald in any way. He had long since shown himself for what he is. I’ve been shocked and horrified by the crowds of people who seem to blithely accept, even celebrate his bigoted, narcissistic excesses. But even if you allow for ignorance – perhaps that guy grinning and waving behind Donald has never known anyone with a disability or has grown up in a mystical town without a racial divide or has never met a person struggling with their gender identity – even if you allow for the fact that each and all of us have some built in centrism that allows us to see others as Other, I’m not sure how you avoid the message this time.

If you are the son of a mother, brother of a sister or father of a daughter, then surely, finally you can see where Donald’s message takes us. His entire approach to life and living begins and ends with ‘Me.’  He believes not only that he can do or say anything, but that his primacy is so obvious, that he is so clearly anointed that the rest of us are somehow irrelevant except as some demented Greek chorus.

I can’t imagine what went wrong in his formative years that allowed him to embrace a world view in which everything and everyone around him is a tool, a toy, a stage prop. And I can’t imagine that this horrific man-child might actually be anointed leader of our land.  

It is no longer about this tax plan or that, or even which jurists should occupy the federal bench. I wish it was. Our deliberations should be about such things. I truly, longingly wish we had a real decision before us. Sadly, we do not. The choice now is binary – we are or we are not who we pretend to be.

“Grab them by the XXXXX. You can do anything.”

If we allow this guy to be elected, we will have to consider that perhaps he can, indeed, do anything. And that we will do nothing to stop him.

Please, no. 

Adventures in Writerland

I spent this weekend past communing with the muse, so to speak, in the form of attending my first ever writers’ conference, Write On The Sound in Edmonds. It was quite a positive experience, as evidenced by the fact that at least once during each session I found myself torn between the desire to stay and hear more and the need to get someplace quiet where I could start applying some of what I had learned. For me, this is the best form of cognitive dissonance and I enjoyed it even as it threatened to drive me bonkers. I felt like the kid at Halloween who has stumbled upon the house hidden at the end of the cul-de-sac where the lady lets you take as much as you want – should I cherry pick or go for volume?

I will be some time processing the writerly lessons I’ve learned and so will refrain from an attempt to enumerate them here and now. But as you might surmise, the weekend was chock full of opportunities for noticing, of which I shamelessly availed myself.

Do you detect a list in the making? Good, because here for your reading enjoyment, I offer my (incomplete – sorry I didn’t write everything down) list of things I noticed over two days in Writerland.

Trees in the central courtyard, observed while waiting for a session to start:

·         The maple with leaves just turning – I could spend my writing life describing them and ultimately prove unequal to the task.

·         Another deciduous tree, windblown so that over time all the growth has been to one side, in profile suggesting the classic banshee with arms extended in the chase or perhaps a young child reaching for the solace of mother or even a timid or superstitious person fleeing (what?)

·         Folks arriving for the conference, representing both individuals and archetypes but each and all sort of writerly in affect (or was this just a projection on my part?), and many seeming to carry questions: Do I belong in the company of REAL writers? Will I be found wanting by myself or others? Will they understand my work? Will they even take an interest?

·         Or, in some cases: Are they worthy of me? Are they teachable?

·         But mostly, probably: These are my people? Yes? Please!?!

Folks aggregating in the rooms and halls: old friends catching up; rounds and rounds of from-where-do-I-know-yous; newbies casting furtive glances or sometimes studying in frank appraisal; the greeters; the leave-me-alone-I’m-just-here-to-listeners. And thankfully, mostly just people being friendly and reassuring each other we were in the right place and running with the right crowd.

The view of the Sound while realizing I showed up wa-a-a-ay too early on the first day:

·         Clouds spanning the passage between two distant land masses (Point No Point and Whidbey Island, methinks?)

·         Auto traffic heading for the ferry dock while beyond, the ferry heads in to meet them

·         People walking on the sidewalk below, never stopping but never scurrying

·         Overcast with breaks of pale blue – it will pour rain later but just now, tranquil skies

·         Brilliant white chalk cliffs which I will realize later were just sun glare on landslid (Slid land? Landslided?)  bluffs – I like the  white chalk imagery better and may use it sometime, who’s gonna know?

Writer/presenters generously stumbling over themselves to engage and bring us the best advice because in the end, they are readers, too and so desperately want us, each and all, to write well and often.

A young presenter who starts out in ‘deliver the paper’ mode, even rebuffs a couple of audience questions (nerves?), heading for a crash-and-burn, then seems to just sort of unlock, hits her stride (perhaps buoyed by the positive vibe in a room in which every person is rooting for her to be comfortable and interesting) and ends up providing quite a bit of usable advice.

Questions from the audience reveal that this truly is a gathering of writers, not just wish-we-were writers or want-to-be-seen-as writers. Writers. People who write. And I’m one (Really? Yes! Well... Oh, shut up!)

One  should never be the guy who volunteers to read your final two paragraphs out loud because the silence at the end seems to confirm worst fears but then, wait, here comes a woman to tell you it resonated (RESONATED! THE SECRET TALISMAN!) so maybe you’ve found an audience and if it’s only one, still, it’s one. (Yahoo!)

One should always be the guy who volunteers to read…

Stop to talk to the guy who corrals you after the last session when you’re mostly desperate to find a restroom because it will turn out to be a truly nice conversation with someone who is also a writer.

Did I say, ‘also?’

Wow! Imagine that!