On Beyonce and Pavlov

There's this viral video where an adorable baby just starts dancing:

It's funny, sure, but I also find something unsettling in watching a baby sleep peacefully... until she is suddenly jolted awake with an infectious beat. I trust that her parents know her personality, and that she isn't really as anxious as she looks while flailing her arms to "Gangnam Style." In all honesty, I found it unsettling is because I felt like I was watching a biological reflex to catchy music. The implications are that pop music really is the cranial crack as Jason Castro discussed in his 2011 Scientific American article.

An addiction to pop music is a guilty pleasure, and we all have them. I know that I have a Pavlovian response once I hear Sean Kingston's synthesized voice cooing "fiyah burning..." I'm going crazy dancing in place even before he starts reciting his ultra respectful lyrics: "shawty got that supa thang, hotta than the sun in the south of Spain..."

Which brings me to this question... do we allow ourselves the guilty pleasure of addictive pop music, even though we know that it is coming in direct opposition to our values? The area is iffy for most.

For example... all of us watched Beyonce's Superbowl performance that dripped with all of the fanfare worthy of a ruler of a small country. She was wearing things and shaking things that demanded gross objectification, but all of the intelligent women in my company couldn't resist cheering and clapping. I was turned off by all of the implications of one of our generation's most beloved "icon," but I felt just like that baby flailing around in her carseat. Something in my brain was stimulated, I was confused by what was happening around me, I was not visibly enjoying the forced melody as much as the people around me... and I just wanted out.

Alas, Mrs. Knowles-Z spun around the stage with crazy eyes and crazy amounts of overstimulating effects. I couldn't rip myself away, and I wished that I'd gone downstairs with my husband before this had happened... but was so happy that he wasn't watching Sasha Fierce (in her own words) slap her thighs, swing her hair, squint her eye, and... shake her jelly at every chance. I couldn't help wondering what kinds of synapses were taking off in the brains of the young men in our company. But... more likely than not... they were probably already desensitized to this nonsense.


The show concluded with strange fans trying to caress Beyonce's thighs, and fans doing the illuminati hand gestures. I turned to a friend next to me and asked: "is that really...?" Recently, illuminati-inspired societies (organizations with pretty sadistic roots, if you ask me) continue to gain mainstream acceptance through its promoters that include Jay-Z and (perhaps inadvertently) Beyonce.

Knowing that my students were all planning to watch the Superbowl, I tried to imagine this performance through their points of view. Football is the most watched professional sport for children ages 7-11, and while the myriad of ads for alcohol, erectile-dysfunction pills, and shoot-people/sleep-with-many-women shows might turn some parents off... you know that most kids demanded to see Beyonce. What world view did that form?

So, even then...
as a woman...

as a lover of Jesus...
as a teacher...
I just couldn't peel my eyes away.

As people debriefed over how spectacular the show was, I couldn't even begin to articulate why I felt so dirty... so upset... so thrashed. Even worse, I was the only person to notice this... which makes me so judgmental.

Next time, I'll just go downstairs with my husband. Less complicated.

On Street Smarts

Watching the Sandy Hook students performing at the Superbowl, I started bawling. The music, the children, and the symbolic healing that is coming from the brilliant foundation: sandyhookpromise.org

Back here in Oakland, there have been a lot of ramifications for the Newtown shooting. The most recent notion that teachers ought to be armed in dangerous schools. Um yeah... Oakland School Board... way to put on the thinking caps with that one.

The interesting thing is that the week before the Newtown shooting, there were several other shootings... the one near Andrea's sister's elementary school, the one just outside of Isaac's home that lodged a bullet into their wall, the one that killed Loxxi's sister, or the one that startled Alyah's grandmother into a heart attack. When my students heard about Connecticut, they felt sorry for these kids, but not for reasons I'd expected. They noted that the Newtown kids grew up in suburbia, so nobody taught them how to run away or how to protect yourselves from stray bullets.

They know.

Some give it the detached term "street smarts," which seems to indicate a savviness in the way the world works. If ever the topic of funerals were to come up, these kids have an entire series. Lighter news comes in the form of the boys discussing video games and how to deal when CPS takes you away for awhile. Girls share tips on mascara and how to react when your house is broken into in the middle of the night... when you should feign sleeping, when you should hide, when you should run away, and when you should brandish your parent's weapon.

Yes, "street smarts." As thought there's no difference between being aware of your surroundings and living as though you're in a war zone... day on top of day... trauma on top of trauma. It's enough where I just want to rip out my hair and shout:

MY KIDS ARE NOT STREET SMART! 

They are more detached than anybody from the way the world ought to work. 

STOP F-ING TRYING TO SOFTEN IT BY CALLING THEM STREET SMART!!!!

Please... just allow them their innocence... just one more year...


Andrea's mom stayed in my classroom late today. Twirling her fingers, with very few people to speak with frankly, she shared with me the fear for her girls... the feelings of failure when she was unable to shield her six-year-old from seeing her first murdered body. At least Andrea was nine when she saw her first. I just hugged her, and that's really what we should do in the face of trauma... create the ways in which we know how to promote healing. Otherwise the kids become hardened... defiant... angry perpetuators of the "street smarts" they've seen modeled.

I'm glad that the Superbowl showcased these kids, and for the healing that it promoted in their community. I just wish that my students had the chance to isolate their individual trauma, and experience the same scale of healing for themselves. Praying for my kids in the car... and I know that they will.

They will.

Of Tweets and Men

Just recently, a slew of my left-leaning friends were enraged as a slew of my right-leaning friends retweeted Mark Driscoll's statement:

Praying for our president, who today will place his hand on a Bible he does not believe to take an oath to a God he likely does not know.


To be fair, I will clearly state my biases:
1. I do not often feel that the core values of my faith are represented by Mr. Obama.
2. I do often feel that the core values of my faith are misrepresented by Mr. Driscoll.

Another disclaimer: my goal is not to crucify Mr. Driscoll for his man-sassy (massy?) antics. In fact, I don't actually think that he personally condemns Mr. Obama in his heart. Rather, I think that his bombastic ministry style is designed to stir people's hearts into deeper convictions... one inflammatory tweet at a time. The efficacy and integrity of said ministry style is subjective, and I'll leave it at that.

Okay, enough diplomatic speech. Here we go... Mr. Driscoll's tweet is a reflection of the paltry intercession demonstrated in our culture. The most beautifully gifted intercessors that I know say "praying for you" with so much authority. They are, in effect saying: "I am putting aside my desires, an going before God Almighty to petition Him on your behalf. I am going to walk with you when others abandon you, I am going to cry out with you when you're in pain, and I'm going to dance with you when the blessings fall." These people love others through weakness, they share wisdom patiently, they pray (and say!) the hard things, and God is always faithful to hear their prayers and CHANGE things!

Mr. Driscoll's tweet reflects another kind of "praying for you." At its worst, it says: "I don't know how to respond, so swallow my spiritual cliche." At its worst, it says: "You are wrong, I am passive-aggressively telling you that you're wrong, and I am going to tell God to change you because you're wrong." It is, in effect, an attempt at spiritual regulation rather than intercession... where we try to command God to do things, rather than stand in the gap for things that He already wants to do.

Mr. Driscoll may be right to question the health of Mr. Obama's walk with Jesus Christ, as the man has made some very troubling decisions. But Mr. Driscoll's "praying for him" approach seems to be: "God! Git him outta here... he ain't like us!" The intercessors that I respect might approach "praying for him" with something like: "God, surround him with wisdom and understanding so that he might be reconciled with you."

Intercession comes from a place of humility, love, and wisdom. I am not suggesting that Mr. Driscoll lacks these things, however, soundbites such as these suggest unnecessary disdain for Mr. Obama as a person. It'd be just as easy for us to intercede for the specific issues that have led right-leaning Christians to speculate about Mr. Obama's spiritual inauthenticity.

Personally, I see Mr. Obama as a prodigal son... and I would love to see him revitalize the core of his initial message of social justice with faith. However, neither you nor I have any idea how difficult it is to live out faith under the scalding hot magnifying glass of modern media. Poor Tony Blair kept his devout Catholicism in the closet during his time in office.

We would do well as Christians to have our prayers empower men of faith into action, rather than condemning them for their lack thereof.

Of Grunions and Womanhood

I've often been asked as to why I despise females who squeal and giggle in unison. After a lot of reflection (and inner healing) I can safely say that is comes from grunion hunting with Moriah's cousin in sixth grade.

Moriah's cousin was 20, and she was the epitome of a strong woman. She had long hair that coiled tightly into raven ringlets, she had a nose ring, she wore Birkenstocks and she reeked of body odor and patchouli... stenches of power!

Moriah had once told me that she went to college in a mysterious place called Berkeley, where she told me that she was going to fight a regressive attack on affirmative action. I had no idea what a regression was, nor did I know how one fought such a thing... but I desperately wanted to watch Moriah's cousin take on the powers that dared to tangle with her passions.

She took us down to the beach, and aggressively handed out our respective sacks to store our catch. It was midnight, and the beach was crowded with tourists itching to begin the grunion run. Moriah's cousin sneered at the crowds, and hurried us along the dark beach. She took our flashlights, and made us walk in the dark. Splash. Slosh. Crunch. I didn't know whether I was stepping on seaweed, soaked litter, or the tails of these little creatures. All I knew was that I was in 6th grade, and I'd just started shaving my legs so the salt water stung my rashy calves. We walked for ages, and Moriah's cousin allowed us to turn on our flashlights.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the thousands of flopping creatures that were ashore to spawn. Moriah's cousin began to seize up the fish with precision and authority. Moriah and I, however, alternated between squealing "ewwwwwwww" and handling a fish before letting it slip through our fingers.

Moriah's cousin had had enough.

In one sweeping motion she seized Moriah and I by the shoulders, with narrowed eyes and a jaw clenched with fury. Her short grubby nails dug into my shoulder, and she said slowly:

"Don't squeal or giggle..."

We held our breath, and nodded.

"EVERRRR!!!!" Moriah's cousin bellowed into the crashing waves. She grabbed a slimy grunion with her claw-like hand and held it to our faces.

"Smell itttttt!!!"

Completely frozen in terror, I obediently smelled the fish. The abrasive material of the burlap bag was brushing against my raw legs, and I only remember feeling physical fear, irritation, and paralysis. Eventually she released us, and we both bit our lips and ravaged the sea with our grunion skills.

Thus, Moriah's cousin instilled a value in me... that real women neither squealed nor giggled. However, having reflected upon this (with the filter of a dramatic 6th grader)... I can honestly say that if I met Moriah's cousin today, I'd tell her how much I disliked her... but shoot, I respected her! Then, I'd shake her hand...*

*... AND slap her with a grunion for being a dumb hipster who intimidates children.

One Year

Students have given us a gift card to go on a date... something that feels rather grown up.

You sit across from me at the table, and we efficiently order together... that's us, a team. We talk about deep things as the salmon bruschetta arrives, and we smack and savor each bite as we chatter on about rent, basketball season, art, seasonal produce, and fantasies of future exotic vacations.

And that's when I look at you...

my best friend

the only person that I could do this with

the man who became my family in less than a tenth of the time it took me to grow into my own

the one to whom I speak in hushed laughter before bed

the man whose breaths in the morning make all that's around me feel safe when dreams seem dangerous

the one whose kiss reaches the overflow of my heart as I stumble out to work

the one who looked at me and said, "Yes"

So, to you my friend... thank you for my favorite year yet.

On Politics

During my first fall in Korea, I was told that this was the season for books. It’s actually a thing there, books and picnics… things that I presumed could be done at other times of the year, but who am I to complain?

I crawled into the dingy basement that touted itself as a bookstore for foreigners. I combed through the poorly organized piles, looking for something that would be simultaneously cheap and stimulating. 12,000KRW for Twilight,  15,000KRW for anything by Milan Kundera, and 8,000KRW for Jesus for President… sold!

It seemed like a whole bunch of well-meaning post-modern hippies who liked to corroborate the Bible with Gandhi quotes. Yes, Jesus for President… Amish for Homeland Security… Anglicans for Treasury… good changes, all of them.

One thing that they said, really resonated with me: ”we still are, political refugees in post-religious-right America. No party feels like home. No candidate seems to value the things we see Jesus talking about in the Sermon on the Mount. Our money says in God we trust … but our economy looks like the seven deadly sins.” 

It truly begs the question, what would America look like if Jesus were in charge?

Now, here I am… in 2012, and I passed up another chance to register Republican just so that I can have some say on which wack-job should push back on Obama’s creepy notions that Planned Parenthood would prevent his daughters from being “punished” with a baby. I'm feeling a bit irritable, a bit like a political misfit with every established group feeling either harsh, unscrupulous, racist, or just… weird. So, how do I partake in this circus?

How do we partake? [Read: we=Christians]

What if it looks scarier and more radical than grudgingly voting for donkeys or elephants? What if it looks like a revolution under the blood of the lamb?!

Acts 17:6-8

[They] dragged Jason and some other believers before the city officials, shouting: “These men who have caused trouble all over the world have now come here, 7 and Jason has welcomed them into his house. They are all defying Caesar’s decrees, saying that there is another king, one called Jesus.” 8 When they heard this, the crowd and the city officials were thrown into turmoil.

I think I’m beginning to understand that the “Kingdom” is not just a sideline/strange subculture… it’s an Empire! He’s coming to invade Earth with heaven, and the early church was constantly aware of this every time they proclaimed “Jesus is Lord” rather than “Caesar is Lord.” What if we said Jesus is President, not Obama… Gingrich… Romney…

Oooh, sounds subversive! =)

Technology

Today I saw this man and woman in a cafe, reading their iPad and Kindle respectively. I imagined this entire gloriously romantic scenario wherein they realized that they were reading the same book... something intellectual and obscure. They'd suddenly realize that they were an incredibly rare match made in heaven and they'd run off an get married at an observatory or something.

However, I realized that their iPad and Kindle would eliminate any possibility for such social interaction. 

And I suddenly understood why eHarmony is so valuable.