Introspection

There are 80 posts filed in Introspection (this is page 8 of 8).

Self-Definition

How does one define oneself?

Does Jeremy define himself as a car salesman? When Mac thinks of himself, does he think of himself as a teacher? Does Pam think of herself as a doctor? Dave as a lawyer? Jenn as a mother? Craig as an architect?

Do we define ourselves only by what it is we do to make money?

I’m reading the Hitler book again. I need to have it finished for book group on Sunday, but I keep getting sidetracked by thought experiments.

For example, the author — Ron Rosenbaum — goes to great lengths to try to define Hitler, as if defining him would somehow explain what he did. Was Hitler a mountebank? Or was he utterly sincere in his evil? Was he natural or was he unnatural? Was he human or was he something else? Rosenbaum’s attempts to define Hitler made me wonder: how do I define myself?

We went over to Jeremy and Jennifer’s for dinner the other night. At some point, I said something (which I can no longer remember) that made Kris smile at my thought process. In my defense I said, “But I’m a writer.” As if that explained why I thought as I did. And that’s the first time I can recall actually defining myself as a writer.

Later, thinking about it, I realized that I do think of myself as a writer now. I’m not a boxmaker or a computer programmer or anything else.

I am a writer.

But what does that mean?

And what, then, is Dana? What is Andrew? What is Tammy? What is Joel?

Is dowingba a dishwasher? Or is he a musician?

Are we defined by the work we do? By the hobbies we keep? By our personalities? What is it that makes up the one-word (or few-word) definition of our lives?

How does one define oneself?

Comments


On 19 March 2004 (11:27 PM),
dowingba said:

I think it’s how we think of ourselves. I don’t think of myself as “a dishwasher”. I totally think of myself as “a musician” though, even though I make no money doing it. I don’t think of myself as “a writer”, even though I write almost every day, and have even produced a novel before.

It might be more clear cut for me than for you, though. I mean, I’m obsessed with music. There is nothing I like more than music. Not even close.



On 20 March 2004 (08:29 AM),
Dana said:

As you might imagine, I’ve thought a lot about this, too.

I’ll tell you how I define myself. I’m a person — a person who does various things, like programs computers, sees movies, plays RPGs, and stuff like that.

I define myself as a female person, even though my tackle currently says differently, and my chromosomes will always say differently.

Words like ‘writer’, ‘musician’, and ‘dishwasher’ are descriptions of activities that are undertaken by people. Saying ‘I’m a writer’ is saying ‘I’m a person who writes’. The ‘person’ is always there as an unstated assumption.

And I think it’s important to define oneself in terms of what one is as a person — what we think, feel, and believe — as opposed to what one does as a person — writing, playing music, washing dishes.

The activites are important, but the qualities are more important, I think.



On 20 March 2004 (09:45 AM),
Tammy said:

Defining oneself as a person is not defining oneself. To define oneself as a female or male person is not defining oneself. Nature defined that at birth.

In my opinion, (I insert that for Dana’s benefit)I think we define ourselves by our passions. Jd, I have had similar experiences where I have said something off the wall and everybody looks at me like I’m from Mars. My only explanation for my strange train of thought is because I’m a writer. I’ve had to explain that to people many times before. Writers think differently than others. They view the world differently. I had to explain this to my neighbor lady just yesterday and now I can’t remember what I said! But she gave me a funny look. I answered the same as you did, “I’m a writer.”

Unlike you, JD, I have thought of myself as a writer for years. Having my first story published at ten years old in a Sunday School paper has forever marked me as a writer, in my own little mind. I had a school teacher in the 4rth and fifth grade who saw great potential in me and really thought I would grow to publish a book someday. I saw that teacher again several years ago for the first time since 1969. One of the first things she asked me was if I had written any books yet. She had not forgotten.

I love to garden and bake but I don’t define myself by those things. I define myself first as a mother than as a writer. Hmmm, I mever really define myself as a wife. Not sure why that is. Maybe I need to look into that.



On 20 March 2004 (12:33 PM),
Van said:

A difficult question. The amazing thing is sometimes how little we even know about ourselves. I remember on the wall of my 2nd grade classroom was a poster defining the essential question of personal identity:
“you are what you eat”

Although that lacks dazzling philosophical significance and could not appear on a doctoral thesis, it has a wonderful simple truth to it that transcends time. My answer then is:

“I am a Quizno’s sandwich” (Chicken Carbonara on Rosemary Parmesan Bread, to be more precise).



On 20 March 2004 (01:28 PM),
Dana said:

Tammy: Defining oneself as a person is not defining oneself.

But it is, Tammy.

When someone says they are a writer, a wife, or a mother, you are ‘subdividing’ the larger category of people. You are saying that you are a person that fits categories X, Y, and Z. But in the case you (and JD) are discussing, X, Y, and Z are all activities.

I prefer to define myself as a Person who has a set of Qualities — I believe X, I think Y, I feel Z — instead of a set of activities.

It’s just a different way to categorize things. I find it more useful.

I know lots of computer programmers. But they’re all very different from one another. So saying ‘I’m a programmer’ isn’t a very useful subdivision for me. Likewise, I know several people who define themselves as scientists, or writers. Again, lots of differences between them.

But I find a lot of similarity between all the kind people I know. So I find it more useful to talk about a person falling into the ‘Kind’ category than into the ‘Writing’ category.

Shrug.

This is just me, of course. Since I find those categories helpful, it’s how I also define myself.

I’m a person. I read a lot. I (think) I’m humble and diplomatic. I’m fairly technical. I try to be fair minded — I believe in fair mindedness and equality. I believe in kindness, compassion, and empathy. I think logic and science are useful and fun. I have a droll sense of humor.

I think those kinds of categories are more useful than ‘I’m a writer’. I’d rather know why you or JD write than know that you do.



On 20 March 2004 (01:51 PM),
Tammy said:

I’m a person is ridiculous. If you weren’t a person there would be nothing to define. There’s no point in mentioning it. No one ever doubts that some one is a person. How can that define you. The only way it defines is to seperate you from a plant or an animal.

And to say your humble? How do I say this as nicely as I can? Let’s just say that I don’t see humility as being a strong point of yours. In fact, I see it just the opposite. Have you ever heard the saying that when you start talking about how humble you are that it’s a sure sign you’re not? Now Dana, I like you and all and I know I’m always clashing with you but I just want to say that I mean no offense by what I just said. Kudos to all.



On 20 March 2004 (02:50 PM),
Dana said:

No one ever doubts that some one is a person.

I think we take it for granted, and I think it’s useful to acknowledge that, fundamentally, we’re all the same. All of us.

And to say your humble? How do I say this as nicely as I can? Let’s just say that I don’t see humility as being a strong point of yours. In fact, I see it just the opposite.

Well, to be fair, I said I think I’m humble. Not the same thing.

Am I humble? I don’t really know. I suppose a better way to put it is that I value and aspire to humility.

I am not a great person. I’m not sure I’m a particularly good or even ‘average’ person. I’m certainly not any better than anybody else I know.

I haven’t done anything significant, and I doubt I ever will. My impact on the grand scheme of things is likely to be minimal if not completely inconsequential. My skills and abilities are eclipsed by many other people’s. I’m not uniquely good at anything, nor even particularly expert. Frankly, I consider that I’ve failed at every thing of any consequence that I’ve ever tried. What success I’ve had I largely attribute to luck and the help of others.

The thing I’m most proud of in life is having helped a friend out of debt and depression.

I try to be as good as possible to my friends, and I try to be kind to people I don’t know, too. I try to stand up for principles that I believe in, and understand the principles of others that disagree with me. I try not to judge others harshly, and I try to treat them with respect and kindness whatever I feel towards them or their beliefs.

Am I humble? Probably not, but I try. Am I a miserable excuse for a human being? I certainly hope not, but it’s also entirely possible.



On 20 March 2004 (03:47 PM),
Tammy said:

Well I wasn’t trying to imply that you were a miserable excuse of a human being. Goodness no. And thats one thing about having kids; a persons impact goes on and on long after death, in fact it goes on till the end of time.



On 21 March 2004 (10:25 AM),
jenefer said:

Perhaps Dana’s point is that she spends time thinking about her humanity and all that implies, before thinking about labels for her activities. I think Dana is a much more philosophical person than most of us, just as I feel about jd. I love reading this site and expanding my thought processes almost every day. Too bad I type so slowly and don’t have hours and hours for discourse.

On the Malleability of Time

We say that the hour of death cannot be forecast, but when we say this we imagine that hour as placed in an obscure and distant future. It never occurs to us that it has any connection with the day already begun or that death could arrive this same afternoon, this afternoon which is so certain and which has every hour filled in advance. — Marcel Proust

I was in a car crash a couple of years ago.

It took only five or ten seconds for the tractor trailer to sideswipe my Geo Storm; for my car to lurch into the air and then to veer to one side and slam headlong into the guard rail at fifty-five miles per hour; for the airbag to deploy (so quickly that I didn’t even realize it had happened until I came to my senses) and pop me in the nose; for the car to spin around and around; for me to gaze about the cabin, marveling at the surreal quality of the dusty air (the airbag is packed with a powdery substance); for the car to stall and come to a halt on the shoulder of the south Wilsonville overpass.

It took only five or ten seconds for all of this to occur, yet it seemed much longer. The moment the car lurched into the air, jarring me from my early morning stupor, Time altered.

Five or ten seconds seemed to take five or ten minutes.

When it was all finished, my memory seemed incomplete. I had the memories one might be expected to have of a five or ten second event, one in which the sensory overload made it impossible to grasp everything. Yet, my mind seemed to understand that five or ten minutes had elapsed. My inability to reconcile these two perceptions of Time caused me anxiety, and does to this day.

Writers understand the malleability of Time. They’re taught to use the notion to their advantage.

When something traumatic happens quickly — like a car crash — the writer focuses on the details. Seconds of action can take pages to describe.

Conversely, long and tedious events are shown only briefly. Days of waiting for a letter might be represented by a single sentence.

Some days Time seems to ooze.

I look at the clock and it’s 8:12. I spend what seems like hours on quotes and orders and surfing the net, and when I look up, it’s 8:32. Twenty minutes have passed. I could have sworn two hours had elapsed.

Other days Time seems to flow uncontrollably, gushing through holes in a dike.

I try to stop the holes, but to no avail. It’s 9:37. I do one quote. It’s 9:57. I do another quote. It’s 10:12. I enter orders. It’s 10:42. An hour has rushed through the dike, though it seems to have been only minutes.

What we are doing is making our way back to life, shattering with all our force the ice of the habitual and the rational which instantly congeals over reality and keeps us from ever seeing it, finding a passage back into the open sea. — Marcel Proust

When I was a boy, I was impatient. Each minute I did nothing seemed like an hour. It tore me up to sit still, idle, waiting. I fidgeted. I fussed.

Now that I am approaching mid-life, waiting doesn’t bother me. I can sit waiting for hours. My internal thought-world is rich, so that it is no imposition to be forced to pass the Time. To do so merely gives me an opportunity to examine some heretofore unexplored path of thought.

If I am experiencing something rare and pleasurable — a delicious meal, a fascinating conversation, an encounter with a beautiful woman, an instance of intense intellectual stimulation — and I have the presence to realize I am experiencing something rare and pleasurable, I make an effort to force myself to consciously elongate Time.

I don’t mean that I try to prolong the experience in an objective sense, stretching actual seconds into minutes — though sometimes this is true — I mean that I try to force myself into a heightened state of awareness, one in which I note every detail of my environment, I savor every nuance, so that the subjective passage of Time seems greater. Then, when reliving those moments, they seem longer than they were.

In theory one is aware that the earth revolves, but in practice one does not perceive it, the ground upon which one treads seems not to move, and one can live undisturbed. So it is with Time in one’s life. — Marcel Proust

Proust makes the study of Time the central theme in his seven-volume Remembrance of Things Past. The final volume of his novel is actually called Time Regained (or, in some translations, The Past Recaptured).

Proust’s meditation on Time, filled as it is with a sea of dependent clauses, proves too daunting for most people, which is unfortunate because it contains so many sharp insights not only on the passage of Time, but also on truth, beauty, freedom, and love.

I am convinced that I have “absolute Time sense”. As long as I’m at least vaguely aware of the passage of Time, I can usually tell you the actual Time (or something close to it).

Despite my learned ability to alter the subjective shape of Time, there are instances in which I cannot alter its flow in my favor. These are those excruciating moments of embarrassment, or of oppression in the face of a boor, or of anxious panic. During these moments, Time seems incorrigible, beyond my grasp, a cruel and capricious tyrant. A half hour trapped in a car with a person I find offensive seems to take hours, or days. In these instances, when Time has shaken itself from my grasp, I feel helpless.

Sometimes when I’m programming, or playing a computer game, I lose my sense of Time. I may begin playing a game at ten in the morning, and the next time I’m aware of my surroundings, night has fallen. Kris has gone to bed. I’ve squandered hours on world conquest or on redesigning a web site. For some reason, when programming or playing computer games, my mind has a tendency to enter a sort of fugue state in which all that exists is the program or the game. Everything else is peripheral. Time no longer exists. I don’t eat. I don’t go the bathroom. I don’t hear the phone (or my wife). Only the computer world exists.

I’m not sure I like this state.

It is cliché to speak of a man’s life flashing before his eyes as he lays dying. Yet, I hope this will be the case with me.

I hope to have the presence of mind, the ability, the strength to force myself to relive my life, in real-time if possible, as my body fails in those waning seconds. Better still would be a recursive loop, one in which at the end of this relived life, as my viewed self lies upon his death bed, he forces himself to relive his life.

In this way it might be possible to live forever.

Comments

On 11 March 2004 (09:36 AM),
Dana said:

JD: Only the computer world exists.

I experience this state, but not when you do. I experience it when I’m buried in an engrossing book, or when I’m programming, or when I’m drawing, or when I’m working on math problems.

I don’t do that last one very often anymore.

I really quite like the sensation of being that deep inside my own mind, but unfortunately it seems to require a lot of time to truly experience, and subjectively it always seems like a short period of time has elapsed.

On 11 March 2004 (10:12 AM),
Tammy said:

There’s something odd about the computer. Nowhere does time slide by quicker than when I’m on the internet. And… there is no single pursuit of mine that makes me feel worse than when I’ve lost time by being on the computer. I don’t know why but I always have a vague feeling of not really experiencing life if I’ve spent too much time on this machine. I get done with my day an there’s no feeling of accomplishment and pride in my days acheivements. I can’t say why this is I only know that it is.

On 11 March 2004 (11:11 AM),
Amanda said:

Great entry today.

On 11 March 2004 (11:33 AM),
J.D. said:

Tammy, I, too, feel dirty when I spend too much time at the computer. Yet, like an addict, I find it difficult to tear myself away. I’ve tried to do so in the past, but I cannot. I’m hooked. And the computer world is not wholly bad, to be sure. If I were more prone to moderation, it might be something I could overlook. I am not prone to moderation. I am prone to excess, and to addiction, and so I spend too much time on the computer in various endeavors. It makes me feel dirty.

Thanks, Amanda. I should share the source of inspiration for today’s entry. I’m currently reading the science fiction novel Hyperion by Dan Simmons. One of its central themes is Time, and the way in which we perceive it. Simmons plays with this concept in several ways.

First of all, there are the mysterious Time Tombs, ancient artifacts which emanate a “temporal tide”. They disrupt the flow of Time around them, and the extent of this disruption varies in its radius, ebbing and flowing like a tide.

Around these tombs roams a creature called The Shrike. Among other qualities, The Shrike is unbound by Time. It seems to move freely through Time. In particular, it has the ability to remove itself from Time, performing any number of things in a fraction of a second. Simmons takes care not to represent this as superhuman speed or as the ability to stop Time; instead, he portrays it as some third option, as if The Shrike were somehow immune to Time.

Hyperion borrows its structure from The Cantebury Tales. In the novel, a group of pilgrims is traveling to The Time Tombs. As they travel, they tell their stories. These stories are amazing, sometimes poignant. My favorite, so far, is all about Time:

Sol and his wife have a daughter, Rachel. She is an angelic child. She grows up to be an angelic young woman, an archaeologist. She goes to Hyperion to study the Time Tombs. In a freak accident, she suffers “temporal poisoning” — she is infected by Time. This poisoning has a strange effect. She begins to live her life in reverse. She goes to bed today as a twenty-five year old woman, and she wakes tomorrow a day younger in every way. Her body is a day younger. Her memories are a day younger. Everything about her is a day younger. If she met you today, she won’t remember you tomorrow, because for her it is now the day before and you haven’t come into her life. For twenty-five years, Rachel ages backward, one day at a time, losing memories, losing friends, losing knowledge, losing abilities.

It’s a poignant story, utterly fascinating, and the kind of thing that makes me stop to think about Time for ten minutes, or twenty.

Mostly, though, it causes my mind to percolate until I’m sitting at the computer, entering invoices, and all of a sudden I’m stuck in a reverie about Time, a reverie I have to write down to share.

I’m a geek.

On 11 March 2004 (12:36 PM),
Lisa said:

A few years ago, I read a book called _Finding Flow_ by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. I’m not sure that I can do it justice in a short explanation, but the gist is that when you’re unaware of time passing (and of yourself in general), that’s flow. It’s basically being “at one” with your task. And if you do things where you find flow and appreciate the experience, you’re getting more out of your life. (That said, I don’t think that every task where you lose yourself is a good one–the computer being an excellent example.)

Anyway, it’s another look on the idea of time passing. If you’re interested, I can loan the book to you…

On 11 March 2004 (08:26 PM),
Aurora said:

You probably won’t read this, but there is a mathematical theory that proposes a reason for why time seems to move more quickly as we age. When we were young we had only been alive for a small fraction of our life, so a minute seems like forever in relation to the short time that we have been alive; however, as we age the passage of time in reference to the amount of time we spend on earth is shorter, so time seems to pass more quickly. There were equations and stuff along with this but I certainly don’t remember them.

On 11 March 2004 (10:17 PM),
nate said:

Is all this time philosophizing brought on by Donnie Darko? Or did you just finish reading The Philosophy of Time Travel by Roberta Sparrow? ;)

On 24 May 2005 (04:41 PM),
lewstermax said:

Time does not exist.
I have proven this, since I live backward right now, like that Merlin guy.
I was really near death when I was 20. Now I’m 48, and life is bran new! Yeah, I like that kind of cereal.
Hen way, time is an illusion, and merely a convention used to make clocks tick, or vibrate, or lose time; batteries wear out too.
Oh, and its good for clock makers too.
Anyway, if there is time, its one breath to the next. Any Zen master will tell you that. The one hand clapping koan, that was just to get you to snap out of your dazed and confused mind set, and wake up to the brazen fact that without breathing, nothing else will keep you alive! Nothing.
Try breathing deep space some time—I know I did.

Child Development

Kris and I are atheists. We’re not shy about the fact, yet we don’t advertise it, either. As I’ve mentioned before, my atheism is informed by healthy doses of Mormonism and Mennonitism.

We don’t have any children of our own. We do spend a lot of time with our friends’ children, especially with Harrison and Emma, the Gingerich kids. Most of these children are raised in devoutly Christian families. How, then, do we handle this? Do we see it as our responsibility to sway these kids to the one true path of atheism?

Absolutely not.

Mostly, we avoid the subject. I believe that children, especially those under six, are not prepared to handle Big Topics like comparative religion and sexual orientation and gender identity and racial prejudice. Perhaps the basics can be shared — “other people believe in different gods” — but it’s not my place to educate these children. It’s my place to support their parents without compromising my own value system.

How do I do this?

I never proselytize. If a child asks me a question, I either answer it honestly or, if appropriate, I’m evasive. For example, when Harrison asks me to read to him from a book of Bible stories, I tell him, “I don’t want to read that book right now.” He’s completely satisfied with that answer. And when he tells me Bible stories, I just listen and nod my head.

It’s fascinating to watch these kids develop. I love to watch the evolution of the childhood egotism. Children are, by nature, complete egotists, purely selfish. It’s only with time and experience that they learn to consider other people. The oldest kid I know is nearly six. At what age will he be ready to learn about comparative religion? About gender identity? About slavery? About the Holocaust? When did I learn about these things? Is the curriculum of our educational institutions already properly constructed so that, in general, kids are exposed to material appropriate for their stage of development?

How do parents cope with friends who have different beliefs? Tammy’s unwilling to read certain weblogs because they’re written by lesbians; how much more strongly must she feel about the people with which her children have contact? Does it make a difference if the unsavory types are family rather than friends?

At what age are kids ready to see gunplay and fisticuffs on television and in films? (When did you first see this stuff — I can remember watching westerns at the age of four or five.) At what age are they ready to the stories of the Greek and Roman gods?

I’ve been re-reading Greek and Roman mythology lately. It’s great stuff. Suddenly, I’m excited to see Troy instead of dreading it.

My favorite so far is the story of Pallas Athene (a.k.a. Athena) and her weaving contest with the young woman, Arachne. Here’s an abbreviated version of the tale (the details of which are slightly different than others I’ve read):

Arachne was renowned throughout the region of Lydia (in ancient Greece), for her skill in spinning and weaving. Her teacher was Athene, the goddess of wisdom. As Arachne spun and weaved the finest tapestries and fabrics, a great rivalry grew between them. Athene became jealous of her pupil. So Athene disguised herself as a withered old woman and visited the country girl at her loom. Expressing admiration, the old woman asked who was her teacher.

When the boastful Arachne denied that it had been Athene, the goddess removed her disguise and revealed her true identity. Flushed with anger, she said, “Those who defy the gods must make good their words. We will have a spinning contest to see who weaves the finer tapestry!”

News of the contest spread quickly, and from all over Lydia people came to watch. Athene wove a tapestry featuring an Olympic scene in which Nemesis, the goddess of vengeance, carried away those who dared challenge the immortals. The tapestry was very fine. But Arachne’s tapestry was even more beautiful and elaborate. She depicted scenes of the misbehavior of the gods and goddesses, of seduction, and of the unworthy tricks they played when they wanted their way. The work was perfect. Even Athene could not find a flaw in it.

Angered by Arachne’s skill and impertinence, Athene became enraged. Her hands tore at the tapestry, and she hit Arachne on the head with her weaving tools. In distress, Arachne turned away from the horrified gaze of the onlookers. She ran to the woods, put a rope around her neck, and tried to end her life.

Then Athene took pity on her mortal rival, and being a powerful goddess, she granted her a new life as a spider, the weaver with the ultimate skill in spinning. “Live on, wicked one,” the angry Athene said, “but always hanging, and let your children share your punishment.” And because of the goddess’s wrath, Athene’s body changed into that of a spider and she was thus doomed to spin and weave forever.My reading is so tangential. I started the Rosenbaum book on Hitler, was sidetracked by Proust, but now I’ve been even further sidetracked by mythology�

Tammy’s trying to send a trackback to this entry, but it’s not working, so I’ll do it in reverse. Here entry is The Lines I Draw, and discusses how she, as a parent, determines what her children should be exposed to.

Comments


On 04 February 2004 (08:23 AM),
Tiffany said:

I remember Mom letting me spend the night at a friend�s and go to their church as early as 1st grade. Mom was far more concerned that I would act up in their church then that I would be influenced by anything that was said there. I do remember one friend was not allowed to go to our church, I think that was 4th grade. We had to take her home Sunday morning on the way to church. I have realized that some religions are more easy going then others.

As for violence on TV, I was watching MASH when I was 5 years old (with Dad) and reading �The Body� by Stephen King by 3rd grade. I do not ever remember being told that I could not watch something because it was too violent. I cannot say if that was because there was less violence on TV or Mom just did not see it as a problem. I did watch a movie (when I was 5 or 6) about spiders taking over a small, mountain town that gave me nightmares.



On 04 February 2004 (09:34 AM),
Kris said:

I concur with Tiffany’s memories. Our parents didn’t limit what we saw or heard, but maybe they should have. My mom actually took me to see the movie “Audrey Rose” when I was 6; in this film, a young girl graphically burns to death in a car accident and then is reincarnated. Many scary psychoanalysis/hypnotism scenes as well as the lingering shots of the girls palms pounding on the car window as the flames engulf her. I also read a whole series of VC Andrews “novels” in 4th grade, filled with incest, child abuse & murder, teenage sexuality, suicide, and, of course, surviving in the attic by drinking your brother’s blood because your grandmother is starving you. What fun! I was in a depressed funk for WEEKS. Naturally, I read the entire series several times over.



On 04 February 2004 (09:35 AM),
jenefer said:

We introduced our children to other religions as soon as we could. This usually took the form of fun things, carnivals, Buddha’s birthday, a Seder feast, bar mitzvah, etc. We have friends of many different religions. I always felt that the more our children, and we, knew about other religions, the more we could see the similarities and feel certain that the one we chose was the best for us. I believe it is all the same GOD, so the trappings and celebrations are just man-made. Liz was ready to assimilate the religion much earlier than Adam. She was confirmed at 8 or 9 after a year long class at church.

Adam is still not confirmed. No pressure from us or anyone else will make him ready. Adam enjoyed his comparative religion class at Mater Dei HS his senior year. They explored all the major and many minor religions. I realized that he wasn’t ready any sooner when he came home and chatised me for never exposing him to other religions. He had never seen the religious aspects of the celebrations we attended at the Mormon, Buddhist, Muslim, Unitarian, Lutheran, etc. churches. All he saw was the surface fun. Each child is different. Parents have to be sensitive to that. That’s why parenting is so hard.

Bob, my husband, was confirmed just a year after Liz. That’s when he was ready.

Each different religion is a teaching opportunity for those committed to their own belief. We cannot help our children on the “right path” if we don’t understand or at least know another religion enough to answer questions and discuss it with our children.



On 04 February 2004 (10:13 AM),
J.D. said:

I apologize if this gets long, but y’all have me thinking about when certain “firsts” happened for me. Based on what I can remember, I had early exposure to violence, but was relatively sheltered from sex. (And I regret his now — I would have liked a period of sexual experimentation, and think it would have been quite healthy.) Here’s the best I can reconstruct:

Before school (I was never in preschool or kindergarten): I had pneumonia at some point. First stitches. I can remember seeing Papillon (released in late 1973, so I would have been four, almost five) and being aghast at a man losing his head to a guillotine. Worse still was Westworld (also late 1973), my first exposure to Michael Crichton’s single plot (which he recycles endlessly), with its rampaging murderous robots. When I was five, dad took me to Where the Red Fern Grows, which was also traumatic. (Mom, why did you guys take me to these films? Couldn’t you find babysitters?) Also, I saw War of the Worlds, which scared the hell out of me. Also, I can remember the day I learned to tie my shoes when I was five. We didn’t have a television, but I remember watching at friends’ houses: Lone Ranger (and other westerns), war movies, and lots and lots of cartoons. Mom, can you contribute what you remember about my early childhood development?

1st grade (6yo, 75-76): phonics, rudimentary American history (Bicentennial year), watch Six Million Dollar Man at friends’ houses

2nd grade (7yo, 76-77): comic books in full force, first Hardy Boys, see Star Wars five times, watch Star Trek every chance I get, dad takes me to see my first James Bond film, join Cub Scouts

3rd grade (8yo, 77-78): learn about molecules, water cycle, fractions and basic algebra (“solve for x” — I was given a fifth grade math book), read The Lord of the Rings (though it was above my head), first knowledge of sex

4th grade (9yo, 78-79): back to grade-level math, but it’s tedious, first computer (Apple II), wrote first stories, first correction of teacher, first Oregon history, first geology, first exposure to Native American issues, first soccer team, first interest in astronomy (thanks partly to Andrew Parker’s father), first Piers Anthony and Stephen R. Donaldson, first self-conscious anxiety, first hand-held computer game (LED football)

5th grade (10yo, 79-80): first computer programming in BASIC, all my spare change into comic books, joined Science Fiction Book Club, first masturbation, first Dungeons & Dragons, first slumber party and Saturday Night Live, discover Tintin

6th grade (11yo, 80-81): began to take writing seriously (writing in my spare time), first girlfriend (Gina Hafner), begin to check out library books just for the sex scenes, self-conscious anxiety increases

7th grade (12yo, 81-82): an entire unit on Greek and Roman mythology, taught about Holocaust, beginning of self-guided music discovery (i.e. I begin to listen to rock)

8th grade (13yo, 82-83): computer programming in assembly language, first Shakespeare, wrote first poetry, Jeff and I buy our first record album (Asia’s self-titled debut)

9th grade (14yo, 83-84): reject my old self with intent of becoming a new person, cast off old friends (sorry, Dave!), first kiss, first questioning of Mormonism, first and last shoplifting, first job, obsessed with Hemingway, first (and only) fistfight (though it wasn’t much of a fight since I refused to throw a punch), first rock concert (if Chicago is rock)

10th grade (15yo, 84-85): first understanding of abortion, watch first porn flick, first opportunity for sex, first skip a night’s sleep

11th grade (16yo, 85-86): first alcohol, first Greek philosophy, first real sensitivity to racial issues, feel called to missionary work, first out all night gallivanting around

12th grade (17yo, 86-87): introduction to existentialism, first Ayn Rand, first Dostoevsky, spend some limited time with “popular” kids, first knee injury

Fresh (18yo, 87-88): first IBM-PC, first education classes (want to teach grade school), first questioning of religion in general, first marijuana, first real sensitivity to gender issues, first problems with weight gain, first Mexican food (seriously)

Soph (19yo, 88-89): first Macintosh, first sex, agnostic, last marijuana, first real sensitivity to sexual orientation issues, first Chinese food (seriously), leave home permanently over Christmas break after fight with Dad

Jun (20yo, 89-90): continue path to become grade school teacher

Sen (21yo, 90-91): atheist, foolishly cast aside plans for teaching grade school

More as I think of it…



On 04 February 2004 (11:04 AM),
Lynn said:

I can’t believe you remember all of that! Holy Cow! I can barely remember the names of my teachers, let alone what level of math I was learning! But it was quite an impressive list, despite the occasional overshare. ;-)



On 04 February 2004 (11:43 AM),
Tiffany said:

I remember learning a little about the Holocaust when I was 4. We were living in Germany then, I am sure that is why I heard about it so young. �Here is where a really bad man killed a man because he thought they prayed to the wrong God.� �Did they pray to the wrong God?� �No� �OK�.



On 04 February 2004 (11:51 AM),
Joel said:

Regarding the myth of Arachne as a student of Athene, I’m suddenly amused by the idea of the gods as weary high-school teachers. “Dude, who’d you get for Shop? Ah, man, Vulcan’s friggin’ brutal!”



On 04 February 2004 (12:40 PM),
Paul said:

I don’t understand your unwillingness to read the bible with the kid who asked. Can I assume that you weren’t going to be as entertained reading those stories as you would have been reading Dr. Seuss and therefore you didn’t follow through with the request? I would be suprised to find out that the subject matter of the story affected your decision to read the story or not.

I would be interested in a blog or link to a past blog in which you discussed how you relate to spirituality. The human spirit is a complex function and it has different connotations for me when compared to your atheism.



On 04 February 2004 (12:50 PM),
Dana said:

Well, with a lead-in like that…

(I’m going by ‘school years’ here. My birthday is in July, so in any given year, 197x, I am (x-1) during the first half, and x during the second half of it. Many of these memories are +/-1 year, as I can’t always place when two events happened in relation to one another, but I know *where* they happened, and we conveniently moved every few years).

2 yo/1972: We move from a rented house in the country with no kids around to our first house in a neighborhood filled with kids.

3 yo/1973: My brother is born.

4 yo/1974: Overdose on penicillin (mislabeled to give me two teaspoons an hour instead of one teaspoon every two hours), have an allergic reaction. Spend a couple days in the hospital having my tonsils out. Play ‘army’, ‘cops & robbers’, and ‘cowboys & indians’ in the neighborhood, all basically the same game. Around here, and over the next couple of years, SWAT, CHiPS, Barney Miller, Mash, and the like are on TV and I watch them.

5 yo/1975/kindergarden: Bret gets bronchitis, is in an oxygen tent for a week. My friend Danny gets called the ‘n-word’ in kindergarden. Danny lives kitty-corner across the street from me, and had been adopted by a white family. I stick by him and try to cheer him up after the incident. Begin phonetics. First and only bee-sting. Get involuntarily kissed at school. Catch chicken pox as a result. I remember Roots being on TV, but I don’t remember if it was ’75 or ’76. I didn’t completely understand it, but I did watch bits of it. Bret has to sleep with weird shoes on because of pigeon toes. Dress as Superman for Halloween. Mom makes the costume, and borrows an old pair of red tights from the girl next door (which, because of the snow, I have to wear over my courderoys — this didn’t work very well). I get weirdly nervous about wearing ‘girls clothes’.

6 yo/1976/first grade: I realize I want to be a girl. Interracial couple (wife from Botswana) move in next door. During the summer the high-school-aged moron on the other side of us tries to go after Grace with a baseball bat while me and a few friends watch from my porch. Interracial couple move. Get plowed into at school by kid running for his bus. Get a slight concussion, spend a couple days in the hospital, out of school about a week. Learn to ride a bike. Swimming lessons.

7 yo/1977/second grade: Big year — Get glasses, see Tutankhamen exhibit and Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago. See Flash Gordon serials on TV. See Star Wars. More swimming lessons. Win 2nd place in the district in the pinewood derby. I read my very first ‘real’ book on my own (a scholastic book, “The Disappearance of Mr. Allen”). In my first fight. I’m winning when we’re split up by an adult on the playground. Nobody is hurt. I think this is also the year I first remember a true depressive episode — I know it happened in Michigan, and I know I had my Micronauts when it happened.

8 yo/1978/third grade: Begin reading in earnest. Bret in kindergarden. Teacher ruins me for life by teaching us to not trust my memory, and always write out my math longhand.
We move from the UP of Michigan to Moorhead, MN. First memories of seeing Star Trek (the episode with ‘Lurch’ sticks in my head for some reason).

9 yo/1979/fourth grade: Picked on and teased as the new kid and for being a ‘brain’. Reading at a nearly adult level (about a book a day for ‘young adult books’, two or three for an older audience – these books include Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll, even), including the Hobbit. Start LotR, but don’t finish it. First exposure to computers. Get to be in the STEP program midyear, once they realize I’m qualified. First exposure to Native American issues (although I know about them, as the Lake Place is fairly close to a Reservation). Learn about the Tassaday people in the Phillipines. Learn about optics and refraction. Start Drawing. Get in trouble when someone dares me to explain where babies come from and I explain about sperm, eggs, and fertilization. The Martian Chronicles miniseries is on TV, and I see parts of it. Read the book to fill in the bits I missed. Learn how to read maps, compasses, and how Orienteering works. Read most of H.G. Wells stories, including War of the Worlds. Learn about the existence of Sex Change operations. I’m in my second fight, which I do not win, and in fact run away from in tears, while my tormenter laughs at me.

10 yo/1980/fifth grade: Read the LotR. Take an Applesoft Basic programming class in summer school. Read Huckleberry Finn. Logic Problems in STEP. First exposure to Dr. Who (in novelized form). Play Dromio of Ephasus in a version of The Comedy of Errors in STEP. Know a guy who gets into trouble for bringing one of his Dad’s Playboys to school. Played intramural soccer terribly, but had fun anyway. First ‘m-word’ experience.

11 yo/1981/sixth grade: D&D. Frequent access to an apple II at school, begin programming in earnest, trying to write our own game. Realize that I read to avoid difficult emotional situations and depression. This doesn’t do me much good from a practical point of view. Join the School Crossing Guards, use the powers thereto appertaining to break up fights by intimidating them with my semi-official status. Several refugee families from Southeast Asia settle in Moorhead, we have several in my class. See the Blues Brothers on HBO at a friends. We get our dog, Betsy. Read Watership Down.

12/1982/7th grade (jr. hs) Lots more computer use, including Ultima II and the like. More getting picked on. Start learning to play the Oboe. Play Humpty Dumpty in a school play of Alice in Wonderland. See First Blood and Bladerunner at a sleepover. Grandma passes away from colon cancer. Learn to sew and cook. Also take shop. By this point I really hate gym. I’m usually second to last or last picked.

13/1983/8th grade: Move to Nevada mid-year. Get our first computer, Apple IIe. Read Black Like Me. Have friends with more diverse hardware (Commodores, IBM compatibles, and so forth). First actual conscious cross dressing, mostly a few skirts mom is storing in my closet because of a lack of closet space in our NV house. No lock on the door to my room, so I prop up my chair under the doorknob to keep anybody from discovering me. I remember lots of WW II in school in Nevada. Also, took an ‘acting’ class (as ‘acting’ as you can get in Jr. High, I suppose).

14/1984/9th grade: Algebra. See the video about the liberation of Auschwitz that I keep yapping about. Also get introduced to (effectively) comparitive religion covering Christianity, Islam, and Judaism. First exposure to gay people (although most are closeted and I’m a bit thick about it). Attend exactly one Debate tournament, and really enjoy it. Biology class, with frog dissection. See the ‘risque’ version of Romeo & Juliet. Get picked on a lot less, as I’ve mostly learned how to handle bullies so that I’m not a target. We get a 300 baud modem for the Apple. Have jewish friends that I’m aware of (that is, I was aware that judaism existed previously, but I didn’t know anybody who had identified themselves as jewish). Confirmed as a Lutheran (delayed ’cause we moved around a whole bunch).

15/1985/10th grade: More debate. Make ‘Senior’ in both individual events and debate. More algebra. Chemistry class. Take typing, too. Debate group contains a wide mix of religious attitudes (ranging from carrying a bible around to class to the athiests). Effectively agnostic at this point, although it’s been moving in that direction for years. First friends who smoke (cigarettes). Shuttle explodes when I’m home alone, sick.

16/1986/11th grade: More debate. Trig and precalc. Physics class. More computer programming classes, Pascal this time. I win a scientific pocket calculator for having the highest score on a standardized physics test in our school, and get to sit in on a lecture about Supernova 1987A, which is pretty cool. We move to Idaho. Learn to drive. First exposure to formalized logic. Existentialism and other philosophical things hit around here, too. Get to learn some SCUBA in a pool, as well as learn a bunch about electron microscopes and whatnot at a special “brainiac summer class” at UNR.

17/1987/12th grade: New kid again. Make friends, but don’t have much fun. Programming class uses IBM computers. First real experience using one on a nearly daily basis. First real exposure to Mormonism (I knew some Mormons in Nevada, but Idaho is different). Calculus, more chemistry. Read Crime and Punishment. Work at Shop-Ko during the summer. Get a National Merit Scholarship.

18/1988/frosh: Start at WU. New kid again. Get a 286 with a 20 MB HD for HS graduation. Room with a friend from HS in Nevada the first year, which is…ahem, interesting. First girlfriend, technically, although we never actually kiss. She broke up with me in a note. Calculus, ‘real’ programming on the PR1ME, again in pascal. Briefly consider trying a triple major (physics/math/computers), but rapidly realize that this is insane. Meet Dagny. Work on an assembly line at HP during the summer. First real exposure to people drinking around me. Not particularly fun. Vonnegut speaks at WU, which is pretty darn keen. See the theater departments production of Cloud 9, where several female characters are played by men, and vice versa.

19/1989/soph: Meet Andrew Cronk. Kris Gates is in my philosophy class taught by Moss. Linear Algebra. More physics. Actually kiss a girl this year. Took Japanese for no apparent reason for a semester. More roommate issues. My roommate from freshman year comes out as gay, to nobody’s surprise. Matt Long, also from our HS in NV is a freshman this year. I discover he’s also gay (I told you I was thick).

20/1990/junior: Get my first car. Move into a single, meet JD. Abstract Algebra. Get elected floor representative in the dorm, probably because nobody else actually bothers. JD takes up smoking a pipe because he’s dumb, and he with his pipe and Andrew with his clove cigarettes wander around pompously smoking and acting cool.

21/1991/senior: Move into off campus apartments, still in a single. Do not take Arnika and Tara up on their innocent offer to cross-dress me because there’s some CD party going on at the elk’s next door — I’m freaked out by it, in fact, because I’m afraid someone knows I want to be a girl. Coincidentally, first time wearing pantyhose…

I dunno if this is actually interesting to anybody. I was exposed to racial discrimination and hatred at about five or six. I was reading adult fiction with killing, sex, and aliens with weird sexuality and biology in fourth grade at the age of 9. I read Huckleberry Finn, which deals with slavery and whatnot when I was 10. I knew people who were gay (and despite my obtuseness, I did know *some* of them were gay) and who were of widely different religious faiths by the time I was in high school.

I know I was a conscious, thinking, empathetic person by the time I was five, because I had empathy (ie, non-egotism-driven) feelings for Danny in kindergarden. And I remember always trying to take care of my brother right from the moment he was born (I was three). That was My Job as an older sibling.



On 04 February 2004 (12:54 PM),
Dana said:

Dang, two additions.

In 2nd grade, my teacher’s son was killed in a motorcycle accident, and we had a sub for the last third of a year or so.

In 3rd grade, there was a solar eclipse, and I remember showing everybody in class how to make a simple pinhole viewer with a couple of index cards.



On 04 February 2004 (01:12 PM),
J.D. said:

Paul said: I don’t understand your unwillingness to read the bible with the kid who asked. Can I assume that you weren’t going to be as entertained reading those stories as you would have been reading Dr. Seuss and therefore you didn’t follow through with the request? I would be suprised to find out that the subject matter of the story affected your decision to read the story or not.

No, I chose not to read the Bible stories (not the Bible itself) out of principle. Harrison is exposed to Bible stories constantly, believes them to be true, and he doesn’t need me to read them to him in order to further his Christian education. Too, doing so might convey to him that I believe them. While I’m certainly not trying to make him understand that I don’t believe them, I don’t want to give him a false impression, either. Totally avoiding the issue seems like a solution that ought to be acceptable to all parties. I do condone cats, so I’m happy to read The Cat Club to him. :)



On 04 February 2004 (01:36 PM),
dowingba said:

I don’t believe in cats, personally.



On 04 February 2004 (02:40 PM),
Paul said:

I am suprised, as I said I would be. Harrison is too young to understand the complexities of your belief system, but he is old enough to understand that he can assume you condone the principles embedded in the bible to be your principles because you read the words to him? You appear to be subvertly proselytizing to Harrison by not enjoying the words on a printed page with him. Isn’t the power of the truth best identified when bright to the light of day or at least verbalized in a story between JD and Harrison? For god’s sake JD, read the kid the story he enjoys and don’t foist the false idol of a cat upon him!

I love the cult of JD.



On 04 February 2004 (02:56 PM),
Kris said:

Paul, in my mind the difference is this: Harrison (5) and Emma (3) can clearly understand the concept of “pretend”. They know Spiderman is pretend and they are amused by the idea that the cats are having their cat-friends over for a spaghetti party because they know that that, too, is just pretend. They know real cats don’t cook spaghetti. However, in Sunday school, the Bible stories are not presented as part of a myth or even as allegory; they are presented as truth. That’s fine with me; it’s up to their parents to decide when to expose H&E to alternative truths. But it is my choice to read or not read those stories as I see fit. I choose not to read the Berenstein Bears (or however you spell it), too (because I’ve always thought them dumb). The kids deal with my preferences just as I deal with theirs. There are plenty of books we all enjoy to quibble over a few.



On 04 February 2004 (02:59 PM),
J.D. said:

Harrison is not old enough to understand whether or not I condone his belief system by reading Bible stories to him. He is old enough to remember whether or not I’ve read them to him, though, and one day will be old enough to examine these memories with respect to a more complex examination of religious belief. Trust me: my decision is not capricious. Besides, isn’t it better to lead him to the Cult of J.D. through felinity?

Facts about The Cult of J.D.

Deity: Me.
Sacred food: Kalamata olive.
Sacred music: “Bad” by U2.
Sacred book: Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier.
Sacred film: Amelie.
Sacred day: March 25th.
Sacred rituals: daily writing, daily reading (but not Bible stories!), breaking bread with friends, yo-yo dieting, standing in line for films, discussing geeky topics ad nauseum, sitting on a log in the middle of the forest.
Sacred motto: “why do today what can be put off until tomorrow”.
Sacred scriptures: Timecube!
Sacred commandments: thou shalt not shop at big chain stores that invade your town; thou shalt not read Bible stories to children; thou shalt love your cat; thou shalt relax; thou shalt spend $50 for a bottle of whiskey but refuse to spend more than $20 for any one piece of clothing; thou shalt forgive all transgressions; thou shalt maintain contact, yada yada yada.

The cult of J.D. welcomes all members.

(And what will be really amusing is if this weblog is still operational four years from now (or six or eight), and Harrison rummages through it to stumble upon this post.)



On 04 February 2004 (03:53 PM),
Lynn said:

I’m with you on this, JD. Reading Bible stories with someone when you don’t agree with that belief system is hypocritical. He may not understand it now, but someday when Harrison is old enough to understand your beliefs, he will look back and realize why you chose not to read those books. I actually don’t see why this is such a difficult concept to understand? Just because it involves the sensitive subject of the Bible? What if it had to do with hunting, or war, and you didn’t believe in those activities? I’m sure others would think it fine to choose not to read those books.



On 04 February 2004 (04:29 PM),
Tammy said:

I don’t see what the big deal is about JD not reading Bible stories to the kids. Actually he should be applauded for this. If he believes the Bible stories to be fables of no value then why should he read them? I wouldn’t read Jehovahs Witness literature or the Book of Mormon to my kids because I think they’re wrong. I stand on the same principle as JD. The only difference between us is that my beliefs are right and his are wrong! :) (love ya JD)



On 04 February 2004 (05:47 PM),
Aimee said:

[Further Dana-Aimee coincidence: I played Maud in the Luther College production of Cloud 9 (nearly ten years after you saw it); Joel played Harry Bagley in the same show … You’re one of the few people I know who has mentioned that show in casual conversation (in this case, auto-bio opportunity). Nonetheless, incredibly significant piece of theatre – I highly recommend it to anyone who’d enjoy upsetting their teacups.]



On 04 February 2004 (06:36 PM),
Jennifer (Harrison’s Mom) said:

I feel compelled to respond. If you must know the Truth. Jd never actually reads stories to our kids. Yes, he opens up a book and begins with the first few written words. Then he adds a few of his own ideas, substitutes names and places for those of his own choosing, and sometimes reaches the end of the story (or not) with the same general plot line or theme. You can see why it would be nearly impossible for him to read a Bible story using this technique. The kids usually get frustrated with Jd’s rendition of their favorite story gone askew and respond by jumping on him… but they love him anyway.



On 04 February 2004 (07:34 PM),
Dana said:

I think it sounds like someone needs to write some children’s books…



On 04 February 2004 (08:09 PM),
Drew said:

As I go dottering off into middle age, I find myself still occasionally pompous and smoking – usually in J.D’s vicinity. Guilty as charged, madam! J.D. is probably a bad influence on me, but I like him anyway. I’d say more, but I’m busy writing Wizardry I in J#.



On 08 February 2004 (04:45 PM),
J.D. Roth said:

This weblog entry, at the always great Fussy, seems relevant to this disucssion.

Twenty-Two Year Reflection

One night, when I was twelve, I stayed up late to watch the ten o’clock news with Dad. It was the day of the first space shuttle launch, and we wanted to see the footage of the shuttle on the launch pad, the shuttle in flight, the shuttle lifting into space. (Dad possessed a strong conviction that manned spaceflight is important to our future as a species, and he imparted that conviction to me.)

We watched the entire newscast, including the end credits, which featured slow-motion images of the shuttle launch set to ethereal new age music. Dad was enthralled. The music, especially, captivated him.

He called the television station in the morning and learned that the song on the end credits was from the soundtrack to the Carl Sagan television series Cosmos. The song was called Heaven and Hell, Part 1 by someone named Vangelis. (Vangelis’ Chariots of Fire soundtrack would become popular several months later, making him a household name; his Blade Runner work was still a year away).

Dad went out that day and bought the record album.

He played it repeatedly, and we kids even played it when he wasn’t around. I liked Vangelis’ Alpha and Tomita‘s The Sea Named Solaris. But Dad — Dad played the entire album, loudly, whenever he could.

Though Dad bought the record for Heaven and Hell, the track he loved most was the Bulgarian Shepherdess Song. We hated it, and we told him so: the bagpipe-like instruments, the indecipherable lyrics, the strange shrieking of the woman’s voice all grated on our nerves.

But Dad loved it, and he listened to the song again and again.

One morning I woke, in darkness, to the Bulgarian shepherdess wailing from the living room. In our 1000-square foot trailer, sound carried well, and in this case, the volume was set quite high. I tried to go back to sleep, but it was impossible with that woman wailing.

I got out of bed and walked down the hall, through the kitchen, to the living room. I looked in at Dad. He was sitting, alone, on the edge of the couch, staring out the window at the still-black dawn. He was dressed for work, in his business suit; his wild curly hair almost looked neat.

“Dad, I’m trying to sleep,” I said.

He didn’t seem to hear me.

“Dad,” I said.

“Go back to sleep, bug,” he said, but he didn’t look at me. His expression didn’t change. He stared out into the blackness.

“But Dad…” I said.

“I said ‘go back to bed’, bug,” and though his appearance was unaltered, something about his voice told me it was best not to disobey.

I crawled back in bed and lay in the dark, listening to the Bulgarian shepherdess again and again and again, wondering what it was Dad was doing, sitting alone, staring into the darkness.

A while later I heard the front door open and close, heard Dad clip-clop clip-clop down the walk to his car. Skrp, skrp. He scraped the ice from the windows of the Datsun 310GX. The car door slammed. As he pulled away, the Bulgarian shepherdess continued to wail from the living room.

I’m older now, but I still listen to the Cosmos soundtrack; it’s a great album. In fact, I own it on vinyl, cassette tape, and compact disc, and at the end of March I purchased the deluxe expanded edition of the album (which is better than the original in some ways, worse in others — I like both).

I find myself drawn to that song which I hated in my youth, the Bulgarian Shepherdess Song. I still don’t understand the lyrics, but I think, perhaps, I understand their meaning. I understand what Dad heard, I understand what he was doing that morning, staring out at the darkness, listening to the shepherdess sing.

He was thirty-five. I am thirty-four.

Comments


On 20 May 2003 (04:53 PM),
Dana said:

Shall I hazard a guess? Is someone feeling the inexorable march of time wearing away at the strands of his life? Has the Christmas (or Birthday, or whatever) sweater become threadworn and shabby, with inexpert patches at the elbows and loose threads dangling from the edges, ready to pull the whole thing to bits?

Or am I projecting?



On 20 May 2003 (07:55 PM),
J.D. said:

Nah, I was just feeling a bit melancholy after hearing the song, and I started to think about Dad.

Although, if you substitute body for sweater, perhaps your analogy is apt. :)



On 20 May 2003 (08:11 PM),
Dana said:

Not analogy, metaphor. At least, that’s what I was aiming for. Ah, well.

Are you ready for surgery?



On 20 May 2003 (10:13 PM),
Dave said:

I think that there comes a time for every man (I can’t speak to the woman side of the coin, of course) at which we realize that despite our promises as youths, despite our best intentions, and most of all despite our best efforts to be someone or do something different than that which we see around us, we take stock and realize that our youth is gone and that we have become that which we feared most- our fathers. Sometimes that’s not a good thing. Sometimes it is. Most off all I think that we just feel very keenly the loss of the illusion that we could have changed and that we had a choice in the matter coupled with the sudden shock of being confronted with a reality that we thought we had a lot more time to change.

In the course of my practice I’ve seen men handle this transition in many different ways. Count yourself lucky, JD, that at the end of the day your father came back home. Many don’t.

Ok, I’m done being maudlin for the evening.

On 20 May 2003 (10:57 PM),
Virginia said:

What can I say? I miss him!! Why was I blessed with a life span of (at this point) 10 more years than my brothers? At this time Steve knew he had cancer. If he was thirty-five it would have been the winter of 1980-1981. Ice generally
comes in Dec. or Jan. Mom, your Grandma, was also dying of cancer. We had just found it out.
She died July 3, 1981. One day when I was down at Steve’s place he had just bought a CD of Enya. He loved the song “How Can I Keep From Singing” That was in the early 90’s. By that time he had resigned himself to his condition. He was a great person.

On 21 May 2003 (08:02 AM),
Nikchick said:

I have two handwritten books of poems that I collected in high school. About half are my own poetry that I thought represented my best efforts at the time. The other half are poems from issues of Patina, or poems that I exchanged with JD, Andrew Parker, and Mitch Sherrard. (Strangely, I also have poems from David Carlson and Darren Misner…)

I also have one poem that Steve wrote and that I find just as touching today as I did when I was an intense, naive, romantic 14 year old. This is it:

Suzanne

If I do not sing,
My music
Will break its bonds
And cause great damage
To my soul
And maybe yours.

My music is love.
My music is freedom.
My music is joy.

My song is for you.

Extrovert

I’m almost having more fun watching the soccer games than I did playing in them. I march up and down the sidelines shouting at my teammates, clipboard and stopwatch in hand. They’re doing a great job. Already, in two games, we’ve scored half as many goals as we did in all ten games last season. Joel has been outstanding in goal, and the entire team seems to be playing at a higher level despite having practiced less to prepare for the season.

Last night’s game was played on artificial turf, which I’d never actually seen close up before. The field was H-U-G-E, much larger than any of the other fields on which we’ve played, and the players felt it. The ball was fast, too (especially when compared to the jungle in which we played last week). The other team had some skilled players, especially the women at right- and left-wing, and they mounted some impressive attacks. Joel and his defense were able to fend off most of them, though, and we penetrated several times, converting twice. Pam had an impressive assist. (We failed to convert on a heartbreaking sequence in front of the opposing goal: the other team’s keeper had come out after the ball, but our striker eluded him; we tried repeatedly to put the ball in the net, but couldn’t find the opening. Eventually the ball sailed wide of the goal.) The 2-2 tie is our second-best result ever. (We won only a single game last season.)

Driving home after the game (listening to ABBA — can you believe it?), I began, as I so often do, to engage in self-reflection. I was driving home from Portland for the twelfth time in fourteen days. I have four more Portland trips scheduled in the next week. How did I get to this point? When did social interaction become so important to me?

After college, Kris and I experienced a long stretch during which we rarely had social engagements. None of our Willamette friends lived nearby, and I had not yet reconnected with my high school friends. We did things by ourselves (we watched a lot of television), we did not seek social contact. It was clear to me that, as my Myers-Briggs personality type might indicate, that I derived energy from solitude.

Over the past decade, however, our circle of friends has grown substantially. We spend a lot of time with other people. For two years, we did spend most of our free time with Mac and Pam, but we’ve since returned to spreading our attention among a wider group of friends.

I love it.

I love spending time with Jeremy and Jennifer, watching their children grow. I love having dinner with Dave and Karen, discussing history, comparing cultural differences between the East Coast and the West Coast. I love discussing books and music with Aimee and Joel. I love playing games with Mac and Pam. I love seeing Andrew and Courtney. I love the time with larger groups, too: time with the MNF group, the soccer team, the book club, the photography classes. I look forward to creating new friendships, learning more about Ron and Kara, Craig and Lisa. I’m excited about re-establishing old ties with Nicole Lindroos and Andrew Parker and Jim Osmer; perhaps I’ll even finally get the courage to find Mitch Sherrard. I love interacting with my extended family, and with Paul and Amy Jo, through this weblog.

How did I get here? When did I pass from being and introvert to being an extrovert?

Comments

On 13 May 2003 (11:39 AM),
Drew said:

We love seeing you as well. Wish it could happen more often. Perhaps you should consider moving a bit more north…closer to friends, closer to Kris’s job, closer to the amenities of PDX.

On 13 May 2003 (11:46 AM),
J.D. said:

Oh, I’ve considered it, but that’s about it. I met the other Andrew at his mother’s house in Sellwood the other day; she lives just a block from The Iron Horse, not far from Caprial’s. It’s a nice neighborhood, filled with older homes, which appear to be affordable. I could see myself living there.

I’m not pleased with our current location. It’s neither country nor city. It’s some unholy mix of the two and it gives me little pleasure.

Unfortunately, my better half isn’t so keen on moving to Portland as I am, despite the fact that it would reduce her commute signficantly.

Perhaps others might have better success persuading her to move…

On 13 May 2003 (06:21 PM),
better half said:

The Crime Lab is scheduled to relocate to Clackamas in 2005, so I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. This would reduce my commute from an hour each way to half an hour, but I’d have to drive instead of taking the bus.

If only there was a way of transporting my garden en masse… alas, I am loathe to leave it. Kris

On 14 May 2003 (04:34 AM),
kaibutsu said:

Aye; that switch from being the introvert to the extrovert is an unsettling one, once you look back and realize it. It was art school what did it to me.

On 14 May 2003 (06:35 AM),
Lonely in Alexandria said:

Try moving across the continent to a place with no social network whatsoever and then you’ll see whether you’re and introvert or an extrovert. Might it be J.D. that you are comfortable in your social surroundings which allows you to be gregarious? If you lived where “nobody knows your name” would you still be considered an extrovert?

On 14 May 2003 (06:50 AM),
J.D. said:

This is an excellent question, one for which I have no answer. It takes guts to do what Paul and Amy Jo did. I don’t know if I could do it. The closest I’ve ever coming is moving away to college. But that move was only thirty miles!

On 14 May 2003 (06:54 AM),
Wife of Lonely in Alexandria said:

Paul (aka Lonely in Alexandria) is getting at something here. I think one can enjoy the company of one’s good friends and family without self-identifying as an extrovert. Aren’t many of us extroverts at times and introverts at others? Haven’t you known someone who is always surrounded by people, yet know one really knows that person. Someone who recently met that person might say that she was an extrovert, however, someone who has known her for years might call her an introvert because even though she’s always with people, she holds back much of who she really is.

On 14 May 2003 (06:56 AM),
Wife of Lonely in Alexandria said:

I meant “no one” rather than “know one.” Blame it on my raging headache and all the crap I’m having to proofread today.

On 14 May 2003 (09:06 AM),
Dana said:

Although I wasn’t aware of it at the time, I now know that you underwent a radical reconfiguration of your personality while you were in college. You shifted from being a devout, evangelical Christian to your current agnostic/athiestic-type beliefs.

I think, as a consequence, you sort of cocooned a bit — introspection takes a lot of energy and brain power, and other people distract from that. Likewise, I get the impression that it took a while for you and Kris to settle in to life together (I remember in college hearing that you’d NEVER get married because it just wasn’t important).

Now, however, things are more settled. You know who you are, you know where you fit, and you and Kris have worked out how you fit together. You are reaping what you’ve sowed, socially speaking, building a more complex, interactive social structure on top of the foundation you put together yourself (well, with help from Kris).

If you moved someplace else (Florida, for example), well, I think you’d have to undertake some of this again. You wouldn’t have the long-term friends handy to reconnect with. You might find yourself having to be more solitary because it’s harder to develop casual connections to people.

Being a displaced person myself, I find it difficult to establish the kind of life you have because there is no place where a large body of people who have known me for decades lives. My college friends and my family are the closest I come to in that regard.

So, are you an extrovert? I would say yes, and you probably always have been. You just spent a number of introspective years doing interior remodeling.

Well, IMHO, anyway. :)

On 14 May 2003 (09:15 AM),
Tiffany said:

Jd, this is a totally unrelated comment… The Army considers your website �not secure�. I only know this because Mon and Tues of this week I was in MD and tried to access your page on an army server. Each time I would get a �Will not display. Web page not secure.� However I was able to access all kinds of shopping pages during class!
I really liked the spider photo.

On 14 May 2003 (09:31 AM),
Dave said:

Just to add my two cents, I’m not convinced that based on your presentation here, you’ve carried your burden of proof in asserting you’re an extrovert, JD. Instead, I think that Paul’s point is well taken. You are comfortable within your sphere and have come to welcome the contact of people within that sphere, perhaps even depend on it for a certain portion of your view of yourself. Would you welcome the same level of contact with complete strangers? In other words, would you actively reach out to people you didn’t know because you felt you wanted/needed the additional personal contact? At some point, probably, but would that point come sooner or later compared to the average individual? That’s how I would define an extrovert as opposed to an introvert. Not that I’d generally take the position that you’re an introvert, however. As someone who has been accused of being downright misanthropic, I’d say you’d have a looooong ways to go to get to introvert.

This is not to say that you haven’t changed over the course of the years, but speaking as one person who has probably known you for longer than most, but for that momentary divergence into “evangelical Christianity” (to use Dana’s terms) I think you’re remained fairly consistent in how you relate to others. My recollection is that you’ve always had a fairly outgoing style and I’m sure that your report cards said that you worked and played well with others. And looking back, I can’t think of anyone that you did not get along with fairly well (other than the snobby people who only wanted to play with other snobby people, but who cares about them).

Speaking as a dedicated introvert (who lives with a dedicated extrovert) Thag will now retreat to his cave.

On 14 May 2003 (11:19 AM),
Amy Jo said:

To JD’s better half (aka Kris)–Wouldn’t Sellwood or Westmoreland be nearly as close to Clackamas as Canby?

On 13 May 2004 (11:08 AM),
Gwen said:

Did you know that Tammy used to be an introvert? Grandma used to look at her and say, “Quiet waters run deep.” She changed in the eighth grade, and now I am quite sure that it wouldn’t matter if she was with friends or strangers, she is soundly an extrovert, (I think:-))

Social Personality

Proust provides much food for thought; twenty pages of Proust provides more discussion fodder than two hundred pages of most books.

Here’s a passage that I believe could inspire an entire evening’s discussion:

Even in the most insignificant details of our daily life, none of us can be said to constitute a material whole, which is identical for everyone, and need only be turned up like a page in an account-book or the record of a will; our social personality is created by the thoughts of other people. Even the simple act which we describe as “seeing some one we know” is, to some extent, an intellectual process. We pack the physical outline of the creature we see with all the ideas we have already formed about him, and in the complete picture of him which we compose in our minds those ideas have certainly the principal place. In the end they come to fill out so completely the curve of his cheeks, to follow so exactly the line of his nose, they blend so harmoniously in the sound of his voice that these seem to be no more than a transparent envelope, so that each time we see the face or hear the voice it is our own ideas of him which we recognize and to which we listen.

How true.

It is both a great and terrible thing that the ideas we form of others — especially those first impressions which are constructed after mere moments of acquaintance — continue to dominate our relationships with them in the face of conflicting evidence. It’s a natural coping mechanism akin to the process of stereotyping, but applied to a single individual, and the real sin occurs when our formed image of a person is unyielding, stands fixed in the face of conflicting evidence.

I am as guilty of this as any other person. Poor Jeremy Gingerich long was the victim of my notion of his nature, and it was only when I allowed myself to really perceive him, to view him in diverse surroundings and situations, without filtering his behavior through a filter of my own prejudice (based primarily on antiquated notions and opinions of Jeremy), that I was able to alter my opinion of him. It works in the opposite direction, too, of course; we place some people on pedestals, even in the first few moments of a friendship, and in them we seem unable to note even the grossest flaw. The ugliest, most vile person in the world might seem beautiful and good if our minds have been swayed to that opinion and we are unwilling to relinquish it.

Are we what others perceive us to be? Does our social personality exist outside our interpersonal interactions? I suppose, by definition, it cannot. Is our social personality fixed, or is it malleable? Does it change from one social environment to another? For myself, I believe that some people’s perception of J.D. more closely matches my own than other people’s perceptions. Some view me in a negative light, and are not swayed by evidence that might assuage this disdain. Others like and respect me despite my foul actions and ill humor. But who sees me most truly? Is there a group that has a more accurate image of who I am?

Paul Carlile and I have discussed, at length, another aspect of social personality: the masques we wear from group-to-group. Paul makes no secret that he alters his masque to the social environment in which he finds himself. With me, alone, he is thoughtful and reserved. In a small group of close friends, he is mischievous, challenging, looking to goad staid thought toward something new, always “stirring the pot”. When he’s in a new social environment, mixing primarily with strangers, Paul plays the clown, the buffoon, going for cheap laughs, disarming those around him so that he can better gauge their personalities while delaying their view of his own. Each of these masques is a part of Paul, and he’s fully cognizant of the roles he is playing.

I prefer to maintain, essentially, the same persona in nearly every social situation. I am not socially facile, cannot cope with juggling multiple masques. Sure, my behavior alters slightly from one social context to another, but only slightly (on a conscious level). Still, each person’s perception of who I am is different, based on the social climate in which they know me. My soccer teammates have seen one facet of me, my family has seen another, and my geek pals have seen yet another.

In order to have a full grasp of another person’s nature, one must have known him for an extended period of time, have observed him in a variety of situations, have viewed every facet of his personality. How many people, then, can we claim to know fully?

How well do you know me? How well do I know you?

See how it goes?

Proust inspires self-reflection, close meditation.

Lovely.

What do you think about social personality and self-perception?

Comments

On 24 April 2003 (09:17 AM),
Tammy said:

Ok I’ll try this one. Actually, I had thought about this when we all did that quiz thing you had on strength, intelligence. charisma, etc. Those scores were based on individual perceptions; how much charisma and intelligence we “thought’ we had.

I know that I put on different masks for different groups of people. Most definitely! I think my husband is the only one that truly knows me.(Even then sometimes I wonder!lOl)

I see myself as haveing a lot of charisma. I see myself as a very blunt ,outspoken person, yet not rude. I think my friends see me as rude sometimes.

I can be very loud and annoying, or very quiet and reflective. Unfortunately the quiet side is usually only seen at home.

Above all things, I hate it when people think I am a certain way and won’t let me be anything else. Two weeks ago I attended a Ladies Seminar and we all stayed at a motel overnight. A bunch of us met in the speakers room to gab into the night. Well our pastors wife spent most of the night regaling us with tales of missionaries she had entertained in her home.

I was feeling particularly tired that night and a little worried about my kids at home so I wasn’t the life of the party like I usually am. When we got back to the conference the following mornign, one lady said, ” Oh Tammy, I so wish I could have gone to the motel. I bet you just kept every one in stitches all night!” I looked at her and informed that I was really tired and hadn’t participated much.

Now heres what just burns me up!!!! Another lady was standing there and she starts shaking her head like I wasn’t being truthful. (she had been to the motel) Lady no.1 says, “Oh so I am right! I bet you didn’t shut your mouth all night!” Lady no.2 says through clenched teeth while rolling her eyes,”Uh huh!”

Well I had HAD IT! I said, “Linda, how can you say that! Vicki talked all night telling missionary stories! I want you to know I scarecly said a word!” Linda just shrugged and walked away.

Now there, JD, is a true case of someone having a preconcieved notion of ones social personality. And what irks me is that once people have formed an opionion of you it doesn’t seem to matter what you do after that . You just can’t change it!

I think I know what my social personality is. It’s funny,witty, charismatic, and intelligent. Sometimes a little too loud perhaps. I also know that everyone percieves me as a gossip, which I am not! Gossiping, in my book, is purposely setting out to destroy someones good name. I don’t do that!

To wind up this long narrative I must say that my social personality and my self perception are not the same!

PS. I may have revealed more about myself in the above writing but I must always remember my mother is reading this!lol (Altho I do say that seriously too!)

On 24 April 2003 (09:45 AM),
Jeremy said:

I deserve to be judged for my unwillingness to fit in with “acceptable” social behaviors. This is a weakness of mine – most of the time I just don’t care what others think. I learned early on that trying to fit in, or trying to MAKE others like me as a way of feeling better about myself, left me exhausted, both emotionally and physically. This is often a point of great distress for my wife – she is the polar opposite on this subject.

Ultimately, my point is this. I like you JD. I like almost everyone I know. The people I like least are those who can never just be themselves – who always need some kind of a front. But there is no need for a statement like “poor Jeremy Gingerich.” I’m ok with you not liking me – or liking me. Although as I enjoy your company I prefer the latter.

It sounds as if I am a great deal like Tammy. I have been in many situations similar to the one desscribed as above (if you don’t believe me :) just see JD’s entry from April 22, 2002. I read this two days ago and found it funny. My wife would cringe as she read it and remember and be extremely upset with herself for marrying such a social idiot.

At any rate – don’t feel sorry for poor Jeremy Gingerich.

:)

On 24 April 2003 (10:34 AM),
Dana said:

Well, you’d better believe that I have an opinion on this :)

Nobody exists in a vacuum. Even those people who purposely go out of their way to wall themselves off from other people still have relationships with others — it’s just that those relationships are stilted and superficial, at least on the concious level. You can still read things about people around you, even without any councious interaction.

The thing about knowing someone else is that each interpersonal relationship is different. If both Able and Baker know Charlene, they know different Charlenes, because Able and Baker are themselves not the same person. Who they are colors their relationships with who Charlene is.

I think the most important parts of knowing another person are time and variety. Seeing them in many situations, over a long period of time.

Under those circumstances, you get to observe that person’s many masks, and how and when they employ them. You get the opportunity to learn what doesn’t change, despite the concious efforts of the person to adapt to his or her surroundings.

You also learn to read the person. You can tell their emotional state more readily, which allows you to pick up more subtle signals of how they are feeling and what they think about other people or situations.

I think others get to know us in spite of ourselves, not because of what we do. Because having someone else know you makes you vulnerable, and we are all careful to try and protect ourselves. And what is always amazing is when someone does get to know you, and sees through all those layers you put between yourself and the real world, and yet they still like and enjoy being around you.

That’s the basis for true friendship, and true love. At least, in my opinion. For most of us, it’s only our family that has the opportunity to get to know us this well. Our family, and our spouses.

If we’re lucky, we have a few friends who get there, too.

I think I know you pretty well, JD. I’ve known you for over a decade, and getting to know you in the Dorms at college gave me the opportunity to see you in lots of different contexts. Up until you started this blog, I think I’d probably read as much or more of your writing as anybody (because of our e-mail correspondences), and that reading has probably given me more insight into who (I think) you are than anything. You still surprise me, though, like with the kids at Clara’s BBQ. And I know that there are sides to you that I probably will never see.

Anyway, I do this sort of introspection all the time. I don’t need no stinkin’ Proust to trigger it — Heck, I go out of my way to pay people to listen to me do it :)

On 24 April 2003 (12:06 PM),
Joelah said:

So if these first impressions are so powerful and lingering, why do we make them? I’d argue that they do serve a purpose in our complicated social classfication system. They allow us to react and communicate more efficiently than we otherwise would. Imagine if everytime you encountered an acquaintance you had to sort of circle each other warily, testing out the roles you’d play socially. Each person would be reserved, reluctant to communicate, afraid of revealing too much. Because, after all, you never really know what someone else will do or say. You can get to know someone well enough to make very educated guesses, but there will always be uncertainty. I think our tendency to make and stick with first impressions allows us to overcome this first level of social inhibition.

On 24 April 2003 (12:13 PM),
J.D. said:

Ah, yes, I do agree that first-impressions, like stereotypes, serve a valuable psychological function in our ability to engage in social interaction.

The problem, comes, I believe, when one is unwilling to change a first impression or alter an existing stereotype based on evidence that contradicts the existing template. Often times we steadfastly refuse to change our perception of somebody (or some group) despite blatantly contradictory behavior. This phenomenon is more interesting to me.

Stereotypes and first-impressions aid in social interaction, but they should not be so rigid that we are unwilling to alter them in the face of new information.

On 24 April 2003 (12:57 PM),
Dana said:

If you buy my argument about time and variety, what you are describing is basically having the opportunity to get to know someone (ie, the opportunity to “circle each other warily, testing out the roles you’d play socially”), and yet not doing it for whatever reason.

Instead, you stick with a superficial impression of the person, and don’t take the effort to put the time and experiences you do have in common to learn more about that other person. You allow (either from laziness or, more likely, from indifference) the relationship to remain, at least from your point of view, superficial.

This isn’t necessarily bad. Lots of activities do not require deep interpersonal relationships (ie, playing Starcraft, soccer, or the like) and if you only did them with Close Personal Friends who know all about your Inner Soul, well, then you’d have pretty small teams and/or not get to participate in some enjoyable activities very often.

On the other hand, if you undertake one of these activities with a small group of people for, oh, 15 or 20 years and yet your relationship with them remains on a more superficial plane, well, I guess I’d wonder why. What else is going on? Why are you chosing to exclude those people, whom you’ve had ample opportunity to get to know well, from other areas of your life? There may be a good answer for it, but I would certainly wonder what that answer was.

(Note that this is all hypothetical rambling that I’m throwing out while I’m otherwise occupied at work. There Is No Subtext!)

On 24 April 2003 (08:00 PM),
Virginia said:

humm, this almost renders me speechless, however I do have a comment. When we moved to Idaho we met a family who viewed us from a distance (I know we look strange J.D. but they did too :o)
Anyhow we tried to be friendly and they were polite. This continued about 6 months. Then for some unknown reason we became their (They became our) best friends. They have confided in us, Taken us out for steak dinners (and paid the bill). Brought roses and pizza when we were sick, sent cards and the like.
Are first impressions always right? I don’t think so. Had you ask me about them a year ago I would have said they were nice, respectable people. Today I would say they are outgoing, friendly, and wonderful people.
About myself I would say I am mostly one to observe and watch other people. My voice is not often heard above the rest, (maybe because I married into a noisy family) However (if Tammy’s not around) and I am comfortable in the group I am in, I can be the life of the party. Like how do you be the life of the party when Tammy is there and tells an old school friend in the group, who is at least 4 years older than I am , “You look a lot younger than mom”… enough said.
About you J.D. Steve was his own person, You are your own person. I like that kind of person.
Different but likeable. You don’t seem to be afraid to do what you like and want to do. Also polite and respectable. And very interesting to talk to.
I have a feeling I’d better quit. I’m sure Tammy is checking my spelling and english and I don;t get a very good grade when she does.

On 24 April 2003 (10:15 PM),
Tammy said:

My mother strongly contends that the Roths are a quiet, intelligent bunch of people who would never think of being noisy and outspoken like the Swartendrubers.(her husbands side of the family)

Well she may be right. But once again that may just be a first impression. After all, according to all that has been written, only those who actually live with the Roths will ever really know! (spooky) And….. I have lived with a Roth!

Yet I will never tell!

Tradition

I’ve been doing a lot of genealogy work lately, researching my family history. It’s a great hobby, makes the hours fly by like nothing else.

As my research continues, I understand more how deeply my roots are embedded in this area: not only Oregon’s Willamette Valley, but specifically the ten mile radius around Zion Mennonite Church.

My Roth ancestors came here in 1889. They helped found Zion in 1893. My Sharp ancestors settled here soon after. Now many descendants of the Roths and the Sharps still live here, as do descendants of the Kropfs and the Yoders and the Kauffmans and the Gingeriches from which the original community was built.

I’m still here. I’m tied to this place by deep roots of tradition.

Tevye
A fiddler on the roof. Sounds crazy, no? But here in our little village of Anatevka you might say every one of us is a fiddler on the roof, trying to scratch out a pleasant simple tune without breaking his neck. It isn’t easy.

You may ask why do we stay up there if it’s so dangerous? Well, we stay because Anatevka is our home. And how do we keep our balance? That I can tell you in one word: Tradition!

Because of our traditions we’ve kept our balance for many many years. Because of our traditions everyone of us knows who he is and what God expects him to do.

Papas
Who, day and night, must scramble for a living,
Feed a wife and children, say his daily prayers?
And who has the right, as master of the house,
To have the final word at home?

The Papa, the Papa! Tradition.
The Papa, the Papa! Tradition.

Mamas
Who must know the way to make a proper home,
A quiet home, a kosher home?
Who must raise the family and run the home,
So Papa’s free to read the holy books?

The Mama, the Mama! Tradition!
The Mama, the Mama! Tradition!

Sons
At three, I started Hebrew school. At ten, I learned a trade.
I hear they’ve picked a bride for me. I hope she’s pretty.

Daughters
And who does Mama teach to mend and tend and fix,
Preparing me to marry whoever Papa picks?

Children
The daughters (sons), the daughters (sons)! Tradition!
The daughters (sons), the daughters (sons)! Tradition!

Tevye
Without our traditions, our lives would be as shaky as a fiddler on the roof.

I was raised in Anatevka. I live there still, but in the past I have turned my backs upon its traditions, have mocked them even.

I am older now, and see things differently. Maybe I do have room for these traditions, even if they serve a different role in my life than in the life of others. Maybe it is possible to reconcile these traditions with who I am today.

So I’ve been thinking: where is it written that in order for me to attend church I must profess a belief in a god? Where is it written that my presence at church is an admission that I believe in a god? As Jenn said yesterday: “People go to church for a lot of different reasons,” only one of which is a desire to worship a deity. Nick wants to visit Zion this Sunday for the singing. He misses it.

If I choose to spend my Sunday mornings at Zion Mennonite Church, do not take the wrong impression. I will not go there to worship; I will go there to be with my family, to participate in the traditions of Anatevka.

I want to do so without expectations being placed upon me. I want to do so without causing distress to Kris or to anyone else. I want to do so with the understanding that it is not god that brings me to this place; it is the bond of family which ties me to this church, to this congregation, to these people.

Comments

On 19 December 2002 (01:48 PM),
Joelah said:

You bring up an interesting question: Can/Should we celebrate traditions without believing in or honoring that which inspired them? The whole singing a song about God, in a setting that is constructed for the worship of said God, in amongst a group of other singers who are singing FOR God… being part of a situation and only participating in it fractionally? What would/will the true believers say about this? A lot of them, I suppose, would cheer you on, appreciative of the values that bring you there, or hoping that from a partial participation would grow a full one. Others, though, might be disturbed by the motions you’re going through.
As far as the whole, “Tradition” angle, I say chuck it. We cannot ever fully free ourselves from our cultural underpinnings, we must always be aware of our biases and influences, but why celebrate them?

On 19 December 2002 (02:50 PM),
Dana said:

It sounds to me like you are missing the sense of community that Church provided (as well as the music and the traditions of your childhood). There’s nothing wrong with nostalgia, of course.

However, I think there is something a bit disingenuous about attending a religious worship service when you are an atheist. If people who are there worshiping know you are an atheist and accept your presence, that’s one thing, but if they actually think you believe, well, I think they would be within their rights to be upset and/or exclude you.

You ask where it’s written that you have to believe in god to partake. I think that’s sort of implicit in churchgoing — that’s the primary purpose, and the singing and community are secondary manifestations of that purpose.

(Shrug)

On the other tentacle, unless they ask and/or you volunteer the information, I can’t imagine anybody would really know. Of course, Canby isn’t exactly a big town, and you have history in the church, and there is such a thing as gossip.

On 19 December 2002 (04:58 PM),
Dave said:

And a weblog…

On 19 December 2002 (06:28 PM),
J.D. said:

Ha!

I’ve made no secret of my atheism, but neither have I been evangelical about it. My fear is that attending church would lead others to believe, incorrectly, that I had returned to a life of faith. Kris is already afraid this is true.

On 20 December 2002 (12:41 AM),
Drew said:

It sounds like your desire to attend church is a longing for community and ritual – both fine reasons for participating in a religious organization – ITWATA (in the world according to Andrew). It seems peculiar that you are so concerned about other people’s reaction to your participation. If it gives you something you need then that should be enough. ITWATA a church is a place where one goes to delve for a personal revelation of truth. It is not a place where prepackaged dogma is force fed like bad fast food. This is probably why I’m a Unitarian. At the risk of sounding evangelistic, you might enjoy a Unitarian service – cerebral, often political, heavy on music, light on dogma. The sum of UU doctrine basically amounts to seven principles:

The inherent worth and dignity of every person

Justice, equality and compassion in human relations

Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations

A free and responsible search for truth and meaning

The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregations and in society at large

The goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all

Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.”

Oooops, that probably is evangelism. I’d better stop.

Happy holidays.

On 20 December 2002 (07:09 AM),
J.D. Roth said:

It seems peculiar that you are so concerned about other people’s reaction to your participation. If it gives you something you need then that should be enough.

To an extent, I agree. However, one of the hallmarks of J.D.-ness is empathy; I do worry about how others feel. Not because I’m afraid of what they think of me, but because I do not want to make them uncomfortable. I don’t want to create marriage strain by going to church; it’s not worth it. I don’t want to cause the church members any anxiety; it’s not my intent.

ITWATA a church is a place where one goes to delve for a personal revelation of truth.

That’s not really what I’m after, though. You hit the nail on the head when you said I wanted “community and ritual”. These are missing from my life. (I get some community via friends and book group, but on a much smaller scale than what I crave.)

At the risk of sounding evangelistic, you might enjoy a Unitarian service – cerebral, often political, heavy on music, light on dogma.

This doesn’t sound evangelistic, but it also is not what I’m looking for. I do not want to participate in just *any* church service; I want to participate in the services at Zion Mennonite Church in Hubbard, Oregon. It is in this one place that my family roots are deep, with which I feel kinship to the congregation. I don’t want to create new family bonds, I want to revisit the old ones.

On 21 December 2002 (01:29 PM),
Dana said:

Do or do not. There is no try.

As I said above, there’s nothing wrong with nostalgia. I expect that if you were to revisit for a service or three, no one would mind at all. However, if you are going to actually formally join the church, the church members might have a problem.

But if that’s what you want to do, then there’s not really going to be a substitute. You should try it out and see how people react.

If you know Kris is going to have a problem with it and you aren’t willing to add that strain to your life, then that pretty much answers that right there.

If you know what you want, and you aren’t willing to live with a known consequence of attaining it, then your only real option is giving that up and trying to find something else to satisfy your desire.

If your current life does not provide the ritual and community that you crave, and you feel you cannot get it at the familiar, childhood source, where else can it be found? Can things like book club provide more of it than they do now?

Creative and Analytical

My mind seems to have two major modes of operation: Creative Mode and Analytical Mode.

Creative Mode is used for activities such as reading, writing, etc. It’s also used when I learn photography, when I design my personal web site, when I play certain games. This mode is typified by spontaneity, a casual release of creative energy just to see what will happen. It doesn’t care about the quality of the results; the important thing in Creative Mode is to be creative, to produce something.

When my mind is operating in Analytical Mode, it is more concerned with the way things are rather than their mere existence. I use Analytical Mode for programming, for non-personal web design (i.e. web design for Computer Resources clients), and for playing most games (especially card games). Less obviously, I use Analytical Mode when exercising and when editing material produced while in Creative Mode.

When my life is dominated by Creative Mode, writing is easy. Producing a daily weblog entry is limiting: I want to produce two or three or five! Creative Mode is expressive, and when my mind is operating in that mode I want to write and I want to share. However, when I’m in Analytical Mode, producing a single weblog entry per week can seem daunting. My mind wants to break things apart, not put them together.

Maybe that’s another way to put it. In Creative Mode, I assimilate things, construct them. In Analytical Mode, I break things down, deconstruct them.

Why do I mention this?

For the past week I’ve been operating in Analytical Mode. My web work for Canby Ford and Wilcox Arredondo took over my life, and I found myself living in the Analytical. No time for weblog updates. No time for reading. No time for anything but HTML and exercise.

I’ve finished my Canby Ford project though, and am nearing completion of Wilcox Arredondo. I’ve already begun to slip into Creative Mode. I lost the flow of Downbelow Station when I entered the Analytical phase, so I picked up a new book yesterday (Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk) and read a chunk of it. I also watched some of Magnolia. In the next couple of days I’ll resume work on this site.

I’ve been impressed recently with how much fun I have when I least expect it.

Most of my life is planned. Kris and I usually know what we’re doing for the next several weeks: who we’re going to dinner with, who we’re playing games with, when book group is, etc. These planned activities, while enjoyable, sometimes seem a chore. They take me from other things that are either more important or would be more fun at the time.

Twice recently I’ve participated in social events for which I had not planned. I had a great time at both events. Found fun. In high school and college, I was spontaneous, rarely planning my life more than a day in advance. As I’ve aged (and spent more time with Kris, a scheduler by nature), my life has become less spontaneous. Perhaps I need to regain some of that lost spontaneity. Found fun. I like that.

My most recent encounter with found fun occurred last Sunday. I had planned to spend the day completing my two web design projects, but when Joel and Aimee invited me (and Kris, who had other plans, and Mac and Pam) to their apartment for the Super Bowl, I casually shirked responsibility in favor of entertainment. I’m glad I did.

We had far too much food for only five people, especially considering that Mac and I are dieting. It was good food, though, and I ate too much. The game was exciting, U2’s half-time show entertaining. Best was the smart and witty banter that filled the room all afternoon. It’s been a long while since I laughed so much. After the game, we went to see The Brotherhood of the Wolf. I had never heard of the film (and probably wouldn’t have seen it if I had), but it was more entertaining than it had a right to be.

Found fun. Life should be more fun. Fun is the meaning of life.

Comments


On 16 July 2003 (08:48 PM),
JLT said:

So what type of jobs does somebody who is creative and analytical do??



On 15 September 2005 (08:57 AM),
KRR said:

Yes, a couple of job suggestions for a creative and analytical person would be…? Thanks a bunch

Who Owns the Memories?

Recently I’ve given a lot of thought to the responsibilities and obligations of a journalist. When I say journalist, I don’t mean a reporter; I mean a person who keeps a journal, or a weblog, or who writes a personal history.

Through this weblog, I share many of the important events in my life (and, some would say, many of the unimportant events in my life). To what degree am I obligated to edit what I write here? To what degree am I obligated to not edit what I write here? To what degree is this obligation to the truth different than the obligation to the truth when I create a scrapbook/album that contains my personal history?

These are tough questions.

I am generally an honest person. I see no sense in hiding the truth. However, I recognize that in some cases the truth a) may not be productive, b) may hurt somebody else, and/or c) may not be mine to share.

For example, I have a close friend who will likely change gender. While this is not a huge component of my life, it is a huge component this person’s life (obviously). When we spend time together, it becomes a rather large issue, for good or ill, between us. This is something that I’d normally be incline to share in this weblog, and certainly in my scrapbook/personal history. Is it something I can share, though? Is it something I should share? Tough questions.

In this case, I’ve opted not to discuss the subject in the weblog. However, I’ve asked (and been granted) permission from this person to incorporate this particular aspect of our relationship into my personal history. I have a greater degree of control over who accesses my personal history, as it is a phsical object, a scrapbook, that I alone grant permission to view. My weblog is open for the entire world to see (though I realize it’s only friends and family that actually read it).

Even the personal history raises questions of this nature. Where should the line be drawn regarding what I put in my scrapbook? I have another friend that is gay and semi-out. However, he’s not completely out. How much of this should I put in my personal history? It’s always there when I’m with him, it’s a huge component of who he is. It seems senseless to skirt the issue when I’m documenting my life. Yet, is it really my decision?

I have very strong feelings regarding my parents, both positive and negative. Whether I place my positive feelings in my scrapbook is not an issue. Nobody minds reading positive things about themselves. But what about my negative feelings? My father is dead, so it’s less of an issue. I don’t mind putting down the things that bugged me, the things that made our relationship difficult. But my mother is alive, and likely to be hurt by some of the things that I would say. Do I include them? Do I censor myself? Is it fair for me to write only the positive things about my mother and not mention the less flattering things (which are nevertheless a portion of her character, and a portion of my relationship with her)?

Similarly, I have a letter from a friend in which she confesses things that she might consider secret. The letter is very much meant to be communication between me and this friend. However, it is a huge component of my personal history. How can I edit it from my scrapbook? Yet, how do I handle its presence? Do I black out the most provocative lines, so that when others read the history they are left in the dark? Blacking out these lines makes the letter mundane, unworthy of inclusion in my scrapbook. Allowing the lines to remain raises issues regarding secrecy and trust and friendship.

Who owns the memories? How much honesty is too much?

Tony just said to me: “God, you’re wierd.” Like I haven’t heard that one before.

Hypochondriac

Have I tried to post an entry from within Linux before? I can’t remember. I’m going to try it now. My browser, Opera is choking on some of the code, though: instead of having a huge area in which to type, I’ve got a tiny little box. We’ll see if it works.

The 2001 Hugo Award nominations have been announced. Maybe they were announced a while ago. I don’t know. I just found them, though, and the nominations for best novel are:

  • A Storm of Swords by George R.R. Martin
  • Calculating God by Robert Sawyer
  • Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling
  • Midnight Robber by Nalo Hopkinson
  • The Sky Road by Ken MacLeod

Sometimes I worry that I have some creeping fatal disease. I’m not a hyponchondriac or anything (well, I don’t think I am, anyhow), but sometimes I worry that I have a Brain Cloud or something similar.

For example: last night Kris and I ate exactly the same thing for dinner. (Actually, I had two Burgerville cheeseburgers and she only had one Burgerville cheeseburger.) Yet, I ended up with intense stomach cramps. I ended up squirting like a goose. She got to relax and watch the Mariners move to 22-6.

This morning, I woke up with a black tongue. That’s right. I said a black fucking tongue. What in the hell is that? My mouth was all pasty and my saliva was black and my entire tongue was black. Holy cats! (A web search reveals this is a potential side-effect of taking Pepto-Bismol type products, so it’s likely nothing.)

Sometimes I worry.

So, I redid my mix. It’s much better now, has more cohesion, and is fun to listen to. Here’s how it ended up:

  1. The Boy Who Giggled So Sweet (Emiliana Torrini)
  2. Central Reservation (Beth Orton)
  3. No Angel (Dido)
  4. Sweet Jane (Cowboy Junkies)
  5. Babylon (David Gray)
  6. Alison (Everything But the Girl)
  7. The Girl From Ipanema (Bebel Gilberto)
  8. Perhaps Perhaps Perhaps (Doris Day)
  9. One (Aimee Mann)
  10. Why (Gus Gus w/Emiliana Torrini)
  11. Life in Mono (Mono)
  12. Sleep the Clock Around (Belle and Sebastian)
  13. Unemployed in Summertime (Emiliana Torrini)
  14. Mr. Zebra (Tori Amos)
  15. Nothing is Good Enough (Aimee Mann)
  16. There’s Too Much Love (Belle and Sebastian)
  17. Mad About You (Hooverphonic)
  18. She Cries Your Name (Beth Orton)
  19. Woman’s Realm (Belle and Sebastian)
  20. Tonight and the Rest of My Life (Nina Gordon)

I like it.

For whatever reason, I’ve always had an aversion to doctors. I can be so miserable that I can barely function and still I’ll be reluctant to schedule an appointment. However, the swelling in my abdomen and the soreness in my shoulder have gone on long enough to concern even me. I’ve made an appointment for next Friday at 2:30. I hope I live that long.

With Kris going on a business trip to Virginia, I’m going to have about ten days to myself. With some of that time, I’m going to be playing Diablo II. I’m going to be testing the water with a hardcore character or two. I like the idea of having death be final. Novel for a video game, eh?

I just played a little with a Paladin. I got careless and died on the Stony Field. That’s right, the Stony Field. sigh That’s what happens when you wander a third level character into a spot designed for sixth level characters and then you encounter a lightning-enchanted boss while surrounded by Fallen. (I’ll be this makes no sense to people who have never played the game.)

I’ve discovered (or re-discovered) a couple of cool things about the game. Chief among these is that it is compatible with my Sound Blaster Live‘s environmental audio effects, meaning that I get surround-sound from my speakers. Coolness. For some reason, the environmental effects were switched off (maybe they are in the default install?) and so I wasn’t getting the full glory. Now I have birds and crickets and monsters emitting noises from all four corners of the screen.

I only discovered this when I turned the game’s music off so that I could listen to Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. When I was making daily sales calls, I listened to classical music almost exclusively. Tonight I realized that I haven’t really listened to classical music in almost five years, despite having a small collection of it. Guess what? Time to change that. I enjoy it, and was even learning something about various styles and composers before I stopped listening. I’m going to make an effort to listen again.

Dane’s worried that the swelling in my abdomen might be appendicitis. I’m pretty sure it’s not. Don’t worry, Dane. The swelling is just below my ribs, which I believe is way too high for the appendix. I do have a doctor’s appointment, though, and I’ll have Pam (who is a doctor, though actually a pathologist so maybe that isn’t much help) look at it tomorrow to see if she thinks it needs immediate attention. I’m positive it’s fine, though, and is just some minor thing that may need treatment to go away.

Back to Diablo II.