Do You Think I'll Get an A?

God and the Human Condition: What’s in it for Me

There is something to be said for good parenting. As a young reader, prolific beyond my years, I would often come across a word with elusive meaning. I’d follow the trail of cigarette smoke in my search for my mother to ask for help, and often found her sprawled out on her bed, a heavy book in her free hand. When I questioned my mother about the troubling word, she would ask if I’d identified any Latin or Germanic clues; “There are none”, I’d respond, sure even before my approach. “Well then, look it up” she’d say, and lower her head back to her Margaret Atwood. As I got older and became determined to write the great American novel (I think I was nine), my grammar school spelling would betray my Steinbeck vocabulary, and I would find my mother again and ask for help. “How do you spell dispassionate?” I’d ask, so afraid of her standard answer. I was in a hurry to get back to my thread, and our dictionary often went missing, shared by six siblings! But no, ease could not be mine, and “Look it up” she would say, a pen between her teeth, smoke around her head, as she worked her way through a dimestore collection of New York Times crossword puzzles.

Such has been my experience in this class. As I study the world’s religions, I am motivated to answer the very many questions of “why”, “how”, and “where” that nag at me with each chapter. Many late nights I was motivated to “look it up”, the connections that lead us through time and culture. The study of religion is not simply to find comprehension of a particular dogma; for me, religion is part of the world’s historical whole. Who found faith in what, where were they going, from where had they come, why were they motivated to find answers to their human condition at that point in time…for me, all these questions relate human beings to each other over time, generations, boundaries created and re-created, and human experience. In my opinion, there is no other subject which can teach us so completely about history, literature, art, ethics, culture, and philosophy, all under one empirically accurate roof. The study of religion to me does not point out our personal differences, but unifies us as world travelers, muddling through life the best way we know how. Really, to me it’s all the best way, as long as the path is kind, fair, and promotes the independent spiritual growth of followers. Do no harm, do unto others, feed the starving, teach what you know…it’s all really very good.

An objective look at a religion different than one’s own allows insight to another lifestyle, and maybe greater appreciation for one’s own lifestyle once educated. I am not at all uncomfortable with the Catholic who thinks of the Jew, “Well, that doesn’t sound right”, as long as she finds no hatred in such difference. Unfortunately, there are too many of that type of bigot, and it was obvious that such ignorance got in the way of objective learning while I sat in our religion class. There are those so cloaked in their religion they wear it like a self-righteous burqa, with only small slits cut out for limited vision, lacking a peripheral view of the world. Their education is inadequate by design; if another person’s reality lies outside their field of vision, it cannot be reality, and may even seem ridiculous. Thus I am motivated to return home and “look it up”, the how’s and why’s of man’s personal motivations, cloaked as religious behavior. My annoyance at some classmates’ blindness serves to illuminate my own illiteracy, and through the study of religion, I am enlightened. And that is why I am here, as a college student, aiming for a degree in higher education. For this experience, I thank my classmates, my professor and, of course, my mother.

A Communion of Us

My friend Karen talks about the Second Step of 12-Step recovery in a way that skinny old chainsmoking bar flies can really hear: The First Step tells you, "You're fucked!", and the Second Step whispers, "Maybe not!"

When you finally admit you've got a problem, it is suggested that you find a "higher power", or as my sponser refers to in her text messages, a "HP". This can be a challenge for those who can't seem to shake their disappointment in God, or the hypocrisy of religion, or the self-righteous indignation of very right and judgemental churches. The need for the HP is urgent and real; you need to know that there is a power greater than you, and it is...NOT YOU! Face it, your ideas, as far as being a drunk goes, suck. So, mull it over, argue with your sponsor, tell the Lord what you really think of Him, and then pick something, anything, that is iconic enough to keep you from drinking. And do it quick.

There are those who, like me, start out with AA itself as their HP. After all, I thought, the room is full of people who found a way not to drink so much that they fall down the stairs today, so, maybe I should shut the hell up and listen to what they have to say. I have a friend who has taken a deceased group member as her higher power, and there are a few who may have followed that lead, and just don't say it out loud. (Believe me, this guy is worthy.) There are myths and legends of AAs that chose a non-conventional higher power, like a pet, or a squirrel, or grandma's quilt. Then there is the woman who, whenever she raised her hand, thanked her higher power, whom she chose to call "wood". Hey, whatever gets you through the night, right?

Now, if you are like me, and you choose the group as a starting line HP, all goes well until someone in the group does something really stupid, and then your resentments start to build. After all, you've put this group on a pedestal, and now someone is screwing the young newcomer/gossiping about your ex-boyfriend/cheating on their taxes, and that shaky house of cards begins to fall. You need a real higher power, real quick. Who do you call?

Long story short, I called Mary. Well, maybe she called me. Anyway, I ended up at her feet, and there I remain. She stands in my kitchen, looks down from my car visor, and watches over my classrooms. She's everywhere, she always has been, and she's IT for me. I love her, talk to her, and listen to her. We have conversations. I talk to the Mother of God, and She talks to Me. Crazy, you say? Well, don't whisper Joan of Arc-y things about me to the Pope, or any other Catholic true believer, because they will have to tell you, it's true. The Catechism tells me that not only is it possible, it happens all the time, and the willingness to believe it is necessary to Catholics. "The Communion of Saints" is the interactive relationship of all believers between heaven, purgatory, and Earth. I didn't know this until yesterday, and when I learned it, I cried. I had imagined the communion of saints to be a recited line in a creed I really didn't care to understand, a club for dead stigmatics. Not so. The saints, Mary included, are there to help us and lead us toward what is best for us, even when we don't know it ourselves. They are like kind and loving grandparents, or godparents, or best friends. Mary is my best friend. She hears me, and sets me straight, and the Church will tell you it's all true. How else do you know it's true?

I didn't drink today. Miracles can happen.

The Bowery Boys vs. John Wayne (or, How the Duke Goes Down)

While researching a paper on the Catholic influence on world peace, I came across a quote by John Wayne. (Yes, this is how I often end up on the road less travelled.) Regarding Native Americans, he said:

"I don't feel we did wrong in taking this great country away from them. There were great numbers of people who needed new land, and the Indians were selfishly trying to keep it for themselves."

And he meant it.

Boy, do I miss my dad.

My father would tell stories of how his younger brother was an insufferable whiny brat. Whatever Timmy wanted to eat, that was lunch. Whatever he wanted to play, that toy became his, even if it belonged to his older brothers. Whatever he wanted to watch on TV, that show blared into the living room. Now, Uncle Timmy loved John Wayne movies. Back in the day of the Sunday Afternoon Classic, and the Friday Night Late Show, and the NBC Holiday Classic or whatever Show, you could choose from two movies for the afternoon or evening. Well, if one movie was "Big Jim McLain" and the other was "The Bowery Boys Meet the Monsters", little Timmy would cry and say, "But Mom, it's my favorite! Dickie NEVER lets me watch my favorite movies!" He'd run in front the old tube wearing a kid's toy holster and cowboy hat, stick out his tongue at his brother, and grin that smug bratty grin. Insufferable. Whiny. Brat.

My father, the older brother, had little recourse. Just about anything he might do would get him pounded by the adults in the home who just wanted Timmy to shut the hell up; he couldn't change the channel, steal Tim's toy gun, or smack the hell out of him. So, he'd grin a bigger grin in the Whiner's face, lean down low to him, and whisper, "John Wayne is a fairy." It would ruin my uncle's afternoon, everytime. The Whiner became the Tantrumer ("I'll kill you for that, Dickie! John Wayne is an AMERICAN HERO, he is NOT A FAIRY! So WHAT if his real name is Marion!"), and my father would smile and take to his room, the Quiet Victor.

Now, my father is gone, and my uncle remains. He calls Asians "gooks", blacks "niggers", Latinos "spics", and God knows what he calls gays; I don't spend enough time with him to hear it. That my father used a slur against homosexuals may not have been nice, as far as homosexuals are concerned. But my dad wasn't looking to offend gays; he was using his brother's own weapons against him. The tools my uncle used to cut another man down would leave him crying and red in the face when turned in his direction. His hero was a man who stood on principle of murder, displacement, and a sense of entitlement. When it comes to giving the other guy a break, my hero was, is, my dad.

Men and women of every color, race, sexual orientation, and religion came to pay their respects at my dad's wake. They were his real friends, not icons on the screen. My father's lasting quotes are, though borrowed, kind: Keep on keepin' on. Home safe. Shower the people you love with love. Never go to bed angry.

And then, there is that quote all his own: John Wayne was a fairy.