с соусом неудачника

Translation: with sauce of failure.

I am now back at Notre Dame (glory, glory, hallelujah!). In the past 72 hours...

• My laptop has been opened 5 times total, including this time.
• I have stayed up until 3:30am once.
• I have woken up without an alarm at 7am every single day.
• No gluten has passed through these lips.
• I have only skipped one meal.
• My rector encouraged all of the hall residents to be bitches this year (... meaning, obviously, Babe In Total Control of Herself. We ignore the O.)
• One of my classes learned that our professor is not only cute, Irish, and old, but also the uncle of Evanna Lynch, a.k.a. Luna Lovegood.
• I have attended 2 ISI meetings. (2 more in the next 36 hours! Just like old times. Except more.)
• I have only worn a skirt once. To Riley's chagrin.
• I have developed a healthy fear for the last 2 weeks of the semester (so. many. backloaded. classes.)
• I have been re-convinced of my desperate need to study Russian. Because... соус неудачника.

I got to Russian class yesterday, my first class of the semester, and my professor begins spouting out 20 minutes of fluent, rather fast Russian. Which would be a bit of a shock to begin with, even if she did not keep calling me Катя (Katya), which is traditionally not the name I have gone by in Russian class. She asked us what we did this summer. My response? ...видно, забыла всё (apparently, forgotten everything).

The other classes yesterday were more promising. Children's Literature looks like the best English class EVER EVER EVER, and did I mention it's taught by Luna Lovegood's uncle? Yeah, he's adorable and brilliant. And the booklist is fantastic. The one problem is that the only real assignment is a significant paper at the end of the semester.

I was late to my Brother's Karamazov class, which was embarrassing, but okay. It'll be good. The prof is my favorite, and I know a lot of people in the class. Again, the only problem is that the only real assignment is a significant paper at the end of the semester.

Today I am visiting different classes, and I will decide which one to keep, because TWELVE CREDITS YAY. This morning was a Theo class on the Psalms, which I'm a little unsure about. The professor is all kinds of intelligent, but it felt kind of like he was teaching a class of middle schoolers. I don't know if he is quite comfortable with a level of student that is neither child nor super motivated grad student. But they are reading Bonhoeffer, C. S. Lewis, Isaac Watts, Thomas Aquinas, and other cool people... and the whole Psalter in 2 weeks. Which is never a bad thing.

I love life here.

unnecessary things I pack for school

Packing takes me a long time. This is a reality caused by several factors, the main ones being (a) I have a lot of stuff, (b) I know that I don't actually need all of this stuff but want it anyway, and (c) what stuff I bring to school must be packed to maximize space perfectly.

What are these things, you ask, that you do not actually need but insist on bringing regardless?

1. 12 pairs of purple socks.
   Most of the socks I own are purple, and I just can't bear to leave more than two pairs behind at home. Wearing purple socks just brings so much joy to me and the people around me. At least, that's what I like to think.
2. More weird hippie skirts than pants.
   Skirts are just so much more interesting than pants. So what if I could only bring myself to part with one of my five paisley skirts? 
3. Pleasure reading.
   What kind of literature major wastes time reading books that aren't even for class? This kind. This semester's list includes Glory, by Nabokov, and The Cost of Discipleship, by Bonhoeffer.
4. Lending reading.
   Last year I had a fully operational C. S. Lewis Lending Library in my dorm room. It got quite a bit of use. This year I (alas!) cannot fit the whole collection, but I'm bringing a couple of those along with some other books I've found myself lending to lots of people (Walking on Water, by Madeleine L'Engle; Bonhoeffer, by Eric Metaxes; Desiring God, by John Piper).
5. All of my class textbooks.
   'But you need those, Katie!' Yes, and because I'm an idiot, I had them shipped to home instead of straight to school. 'Great way to add 20 pounds to the load, Katie.' Sorry.
6. My unicorn-rainbow-hearts-stars beach towel. With my name on it. A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
7. Like three journals.
   I'm afraid that I'll run out of pages in the middle of a crisis. Woe. Also, what if I come up with a new category of thought that needs journalling? I can't put life analyses in my quote journal, and I certainly can't make to-do lists in my prayer journal.
8. Acrylic paints and chalk pastels.
   Sometimes even the most obnoxiously task-oriented among us need to take a rainy Sunday afternoon to make art.
9. A jar of Nutella.
   Because, Nutella.
10. Approximately 23 hairbows.
    Friends, I'm a little obsessed with hairbows, and I have a whole box full of them. I can justify it because I've never bought a hairbow in my life: they have all been hand-me-downs from friends who grew up in the nineties and realize just how ridiculous they are OR bows that I have had since I was 4. (Yes, I have been wearing the same hairstyle for as long as I've had hair to style.) Proof:

Me, circa sometime-in-the-nineties, wearing a fabulous white hairbow.

the gag reflex

In light of The Gospel Coalition's recent post* about how we should take advantage of our gag reflex in arguing against same-sex marriage, and the four posts on my blog feed reader in the past six hours responding to it (that's 50% of all of the posts on said feed reader in said time frame)...

I am going to leave it up to all the people who say it better than I could to talk it out. And then I am going to do a perhaps-inconsiderate and un-serious thing and talk about an indisputable application of the gag reflex, one that I saw for myself that time my cat pooped in my sister's lap.

Friends, I have been dying to tell you this story.

When my family went on vacation a few weeks ago, none of us had any ideas about taking the cat with us. So we left him with my grandparents, who live about a half-hour away. Very conveniently, my sister had an end-of-the-summer party near them, the day after we got back from vacation. The plan was:

• Katie drops Kristen off at party
• Katie reads The Idiot at grandparents' house for 5 hours
• Katie packs up the cat and his paraphernalia in the car
• Katie picks up Kristen and takes everybody home

And it was going swimmingly. The plan was very streamlined and fine with everybody involved. Except, apparently, the cat.

Historically, Hummer has been an excellent traveller (along with the darned cutest feline I ever did see). He has always done well on car trips. Sometimes he would even sleep on the dashboard.

But this time, he was not having any of it. Because I have a heart, I couldn't keep him in his crate in the backseat. I let him roam the car, as is his wont.

When I got to Kristen's party and picked her up, Hummer began to wander between the back dashboard, where he had been sitting, and my sister's lap. He would lie down one place for a while, get up, move to the other, lie for a while, migrate back, etc. Kristen and I ignored him, having our merry conversation about her party and whatever else we were discussing.

All of a sudden, I heard from the passenger seat,

Wait, Hummer, what-- what are you do--

OH MY GOSH HE POOPED ON ME.

KATIE PULL OVER. PULL OVER RIGHT NOW.

So, laughing hysterically, I scanned the road for a place to pull over. It was a little after midnight, so the local warehouse parking lot was deserted. We parked there, Kristen hyperventilating and almost throwing up. I went around to the back of the car to get out the roll of paper towels... to discover, of course, that he had also gotten carsick all over the back of the car. Sigh. C'est la vie.

I shoved the little monster in the crate, ignoring his woeful plaints, and proceeded to clean up my car and my sister. Laughing, still. (What kind of cat decides that a person's lap is the best place to do his business?? REALLY.)

After I collected the pile of nasty paper towels, I began to search for a place to dispose of them. Not a trashcan in sight. But as I wandered around the warehouse building at midnight, I guess I triggered something, because next thing I know,

KATIE. We've been caught.

There was the police car pulling in behind my car. Wheeee. I giggled at the absurdity of the situation. Kristen still looked like she was going to throw up.

What's going on? Is everything alright here?

Yes sir. We just pulled over because the cat pooped on my sister.

The cat?

Yes. We're bringing him from my grandparents' to home, and he had an accident.

Ew. Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you all were okay.

Thank you, sir.

I deposited the paper towels in the litter box, which was situated in the trunk (woe! ah, alas!). I got in the car. We drove away. And I laughed. And Kristen spent the next 20 minutes punctuating Hummer's cries from the backseat with exclamations of,

HE POOPED ON ME.

What a day.



...anyway, here are some cute pictures of my kitty, just for fun.

*Warning: the Gospel Coalition article contains some obscene language. I didn't read the whole thing.

that part when hard things happen

My friend Sam and I have a long-running joke about the dining hall at school. Every time, both of us circle the room, looking for something that appeals to us-- and inevitably end up back at the pasta line. 'And while he was still a long way off...' we intone, because we love taking Bible verses way out of context.

It would seem that for the next few weeks, at least, this will no longer be the case. Because I, the girl who has 'Carbs' listed as one of her 'Activities' on Facebook, think I might be gluten intolerant.

Yeah. It's pretty terrifying.

Ever since last fall, I've been suspecting that some things I was eating in the DH were causing me trouble. Particularly after eating a meal like pasta stir-fry or a grilled ham & cheese sandwich, I would feel lethargic, distracted, and uncomfortable for the rest of the day. I just chalked it up to chemicals in the lunchmeat, because really, that stuff IS kind of gross.

But after a summer living at home and eating pretty safely, especially since my mom has gone on a health food kick thanks to the Vitamix (ALL the green smoothies!), I can no longer blame bad processed meat. No, I think the fault lies somewhere else.

Like gluten.

The thing that tipped me off was actually a celiac Facebook friend's post with 10 Signs You're Gluten Intolerant. I had never seen gluten linked with skin problems before, but that was a major, major red flag. So I did some more research, which froze my face into a shape much like the one pictured.

I have had eczema for as long as I can remember. Eczema is... awful. The best way I can think to describe it is layers upon layers of tiny little blisters that perpetually feel like blisters do right when they're about to fall off (read: intensely itchy). The more you scratch at them, the more layers of blisters build up, and the deeper the itch runs. Parts of my body have come close to losing all feeling because of so many years of this... the nerves are dead to everything but insatiable itch.

Eczema has been not only a physical trial for me, but also a social and spiritual one. It's hard to be a 6-year-old in a gymnastics leotard or a 16-year-old in a bathing suit when you have rashes and scars all over your legs. And it's hard to pray when your whole consciousness is being constantly tugged to an itch that does not go away, unless you lather it with cream that instead makes the whole area burn so deeply that you literally can't think about anything except how much it hurts.

And it turns out that, for a lot of cases which, like mine, didn't go away at puberty and don't have any other immediate links, gluten intolerance can be a factor in the flaring up of eczema. Who knew?

So I'm going to try the elimination diet for a few weeks and see what happens. Could be rough going; we'll see. (By 'could be' I mean 'absolutely will be'-- I am an unrepentant carboholic, so I don't know if I will actually be able to make it longer than a few days. erk. haha)

in which katie is a magnet of awkward

I spent this past weekend in Buffalo, NY, visiting friends. Ladies and Gentlemen, I humbly present myself to you as one who is for some unknown reason highly attractive to Awkward.

Allow me to paint the scene... Actually, a few scenes, selected from the weekend.


LOCATION: a Greyhound bus terminal in Cleveland, OH. 
TIME: 8:30am.
ATMOSPHERE: sketchsketchsketch.

Our protagonist, a certain 'Katie,' has just watched her father exit the bus terminal in order to go to work. She begins to feel very conspicuous in her yellow Snoopy t-shirt and bright red hoodie with a giant paisley-printed pretzel on the front. She grips the book she is reading (Bad Religion, by Ross Douthat) a bit tighter and concentrates on the pages a bit more intensely, convincing herself that she will be able to disappear into the walls if she assumes a posture of nonchalance and I-could-hardly-care-less-that-I'm-in-a-Greyhound-terminal. Finally, she is called to load onto the bus. She is one of the first to board and finds a window seat in the middle. She hopes that no one will sit next to her.


LOCATION: a Greyhound bus from Cleveland, OH, to Buffalo, NY.
TIME: 11am.
ATMOSPHERE: desperation.

Our protagonist has been joined by a man of about 30 in bluish pixelated camo pants. He smells of cigarettes and sweat... or maybe that is the Amish family sitting across the aisle. He decides that a 4.5-hour bus ride is a perfect opportunity to share his life story, including discussion of past romantic relationships and drug use, all the while cursing like a sailor. We find Katie about halfway through the ride, staring furiously at her fingernails.

STRANGER: So my sister is getting married. Her engagement party is September 22!
KATIE [whose birthday is the same day]: Oh! that's... Hobbit Day.
STRANGER: ...Hobbit Day?
KATIE: Yes. Bilbo and Frodo Baggins' birthday.
STRANGER: You are such a dork. [Katie wonders what gives him the right to say this.] --But it's cute. You're cute. You look like a princess.
KATIE [wishing to exit the bus]: Umm...
STRANGER: Am I making you uncomfortable?
KATIE: Well...


LOCATION: a park in Buffalo, NY.
TIME: 9:30pm.
ATMOSPHERE: doom.

Katie and her friend Rebecca have met up with Rebecca's high school friend, Kelsey, to see a free performance of Shakespeare's Measure for Measure in the park. It is intermission.

KATIE: Where are the bathrooms, do you think?
REBECCA: There are port-a-potties up over there.
KATIE: Thanks!

Katie finds said port-a-potties. There are two rows facing each other. The closest source of light, other than a very smart woman's headlamp, is about 20 yards away. Katie enters a port-a-potty... and soon finds herself unable to exit. She begins to feel claustrophobic in the pitch-dark, 4x4' square that kinda smells bad. She runs her hand frantically over the door, attempting to find the latch while keeping her hair from falling into the urinal to her right. She considers what a port-a-potty rescue mission might look like.

KATIE: God help me.

Katie eventually finds the latch and exits the Place Where Light Goes To Die.


LOCATION: a house in a Buffalo suburb.
TIME: 8pm.
ATMOSPHERE: slap-happiness.

Katie has gone to visit her friend Mary Kate. They have just feasted on a lovely pasta supper, and they plan to make raspberry puff pastries. (By 'make' we mean 'take out of a box and bake on a cookie sheet.') They retrieve the pastries from the freezer. Somehow the pastries have managed to thaw and re-freeze, rendering them permanently attached to each other. Katie and Mary Kate proceed to put the whole block of them on a sheet and hope for the best. They have just been discussing relativism and are much more interested in their conversation than in digging up an ice pick to dislodge pastries from each other.

KATIE: They might not look like puff pastries, but I'm sure they'll still be good.
MARY KATE: If they don't look or taste like puff pastries, are they still puff pastries?
KATIE: Of course not! They can claim whatever they want, but saying they are puff pastries does not make the puff pastries.
MARY KATE: They are still useful, but they are not the fullness of puff pastry!
KATIE: The heretics.

Katie and Mary Kate at this point decide that keeping a straight face is no longer important, and summarily dissolve into peals of laughter.


LOCATION: a wings restaurant in Buffalo.
TIME: 6:45pm.
ATMOSPHERE: hope.

Katie, Rebecca, and Rebecca's mom have gone to get wings for dinner. Katie has never had wings before. She is a little frightened, knowing that Buffalo Mild Wings will still probably be too Wild for her. She is slightly placated by promises to get the mildest of the mild, even a step milder than Rebecca usually gets. Their order of Mild and Parmesan Garlic wings arrives.

KATIE [tasting a mild wing]: Hey! This isn't... too bad.
REBECCA: Good!
KATIE: Oh just kidding. My lips are burning.
REBECCA: You can eat the parmesan ones...
KATIE: Holy smokes my mouth hurts. Water!!


We also did things like talk, watch Gone with the Wind (for my first time!), and visit Niagara Falls. But let's be honest, the above scenes are probably more amusing to the general populace.

Also, pictures:

Niagara Falls

Relativist Puff Pastry with a side of Heresy

summer vacation + young adult fiction

Last week my family went to The Middle Of Nowhere, MI. We stayed there for a week. It was great for me. Books, fudge, and a 32-mile bike ride. For my sister... well...

The showers were a little short.

The water was a little cold.

But she's still really pretty.

I began and completed two books over the week (aside from A Year of Biblical Womanhood and most of The Idiot: Lois Lowry's Son and Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game.

It's been a while since I've let myself read popular fiction, but I liked them both. Why? They don't answer all the questions.

Lots of people on goodreads have been throwing fits over both books, because both leave lots of annoying open room at the end. They don't tie off all of the fraying ropes. There are things you want for the main characters that you just don't get. That they just don't get.

Both Lowry and Card, even within the context of weird, futuristic worlds where kids have unprecedented 'powers' and all of civilization depends on a teenager, stay true to reality. There is no deus ex machina. No implausible solutions to insoluble problems. This is probably more true for Son than Ender's Game, but I'd say it holds for both.

And even though there was no crazy 'perfect ending' that answered every question I might ask, there were... endings. Endings that resolved the main tension that had driven the plot to that point. They fulfilled my list of ending requirements that I came up with on the spot back in June. So I'm happy.

My biggest beef with Ender's Game was probably that the thing identified through most of the book as The Real Enemy is left completely undealt with and undiscussed after the climax. Hrumph.

feminism & me part 2 (the fallout)

First: A Year of Biblical Womanhood.

The review at Desiring God mostly takes issue with Evans' approach to Scripture, less than her takeaways from it, as she looked in depth at femininity in the Bible. The reviewer summarizes her complaints:

Throughout A Year of Biblical Womanhood, Evans works to prove that the Bible is not without error and therefore cannot be applied literally — and in some cases cannot be trusted.

I think that is... false. I did not see proving the error of the Bible as a goal of AYoBW. Did I see some historical critical analysis? Yes. Do I think that's an awful, heathenish way to read the Bible? Not necessarily.

Fact: the Bible cannot always be applied literally. We learned that even in my Sola Scriptura high school. For example-- The Song of Solomon is a poem. It's not a love manual. (cough Mark Driscoll cough)

The Word of God is living and active. It is not a static text. But this does not mean I agree with all of Evans' interpretation. She claims at the end that it is essential to read with a 'prejudice of love' (295). When talking to my parents about the book, though, I realized that it is also very important to read from a posture of humility. In reading Evans' thoughts on women's roles in relation to men, in the church and in the family, I did not find that I could read the Scripture with a prejudice of love and a posture of humility and get quite the same answers she did.


Next: Gender in the Church

One of the reasons I love Christianity so much is because my value as a person comes from God, who will never stop loving me. I am valued because I am loved, not the other way around. This is the same for me, as a woman, as it is for a man. I am valuable regardless of my occupation and life situation. Period. Martin Luther got this:

'A cobbler, a smith, a farmer, each has the work and office of this trade . . . and everyone by means of his own work or office must benefit and serve every other, that in this way many kinds of work may be done for the bodily and spiritual welfare of the community, even as all the members of the body serve one another.'

Man or woman, occupations are to be taken to the benefit and service of the community, the construction worker as well as the pastor.

But wait. Women pastors? --I'm not really sure what I think of Evans' justification for the passages that instruct women not to teach in church. But I do know that the discussion of women & men in church is heavily linked to the relationship between husbands and wives. The words Paul uses in 1 Corinthians 14:34-35 and 1 Timothy 2:11-12 maybe should be translated as 'wives' and 'husbands' rather than 'women' and 'men.' So...

Last: Gender in the Family

I talked to a friend of mine for hours over video chat the other day, hammering out what we thought of complementarianism vs egalitarianism in marriage. If those words confuse you, join the club.

I think what it comes down to is this: complementarianism at its best and egalitarianism at its best are the same thing. To say that men and women have complementary roles in marriage and to say that men and women are of equal value and dignity (with roles decided by giftedness rather than gender) are not mutually exclusive.

I'll take two couples as examples of this: my parents, and a couple from my church in MD.

1. My parents follow fairly stereotypical gender personality patterns. Dad is an ISTJ. Mom is an INFP. He likes building things. She likes gardening. He's well-read and wise. She's intuitive and passionate. There's a sort of sense that my dad is a leader, but he values my mom more than himself. Zero hierarchy. They do things for the family based on what they are gifted to do.
2. The other couple does not follow any 'regular' pattern. He is a scatter-brained artist. She is organized to the max. He makes music and dinner. She fixes the plumbing and the finances. And again-- there is a sort of sense that he is a leader, but I've never seen him give her orders. He takes the initiative to serve her whenever possible. And they do things for their family based on their gifts.

In both of these, the men take on the leadership 'role' as one of servanthood: taking the charge to lead as one to love sacrificially. And in both of these, the women take on the submissive 'role' as one of... well, graciously being loved, and loving back. And in both of these, the 'roles' in organizing the family follow what the men and women are gifted to do, not some weird 1950s household code.

Once in a co-ed Bible study, we talked about marriage. What we came to was basically this:

1. Women should submit to their husbands. (Eph 5:22)
2. Men should love their wives. (Eph 5:25)
3. Christians should submit to each other. (Eph 5:21)
4. Christians should love each other. (John 13:34)

Soooo... basically, let's make this whole thing a question not of who obeys whom, and more of who serves whom. And we might get a little farther with the whole 'gender roles' business.

(I do not see how this helps me with gender in the Church, of course, but that's okay. I don't want to be a pastor anyway, so we can leave it at that?)

feminism & me part 1 (the context)

There. I said it. The dirty word that, when applied to a woman, means that she has clearly fallen off the top shelf, is a few crayons short of a full box, or is just irredeemably wicked. That one.

I recently read Rachel Held Evans' (very controversial) book, A Year of Biblical Womanhood. It is a record of her experiment within the context of being Christian and a woman: she was going to do All The Things! that a good Christian woman ought to do. She was going to live Biblical Womanhood.

'Biblical Womanhood' is a very ill-defined term, as she came to realize, but she did it anyway, and discussed it with great finesse and snark. While I don't think she is as totally derailed as John Piper's people do, I also did not have a life-changing revelation of oh my stars I've been wrong all along.

So I want to talk about my understanding of womanhood, femininity, feminism, gender roles, whatever... but first I want to give some context by way of stories. I grew up deeply entrenched in Evangelical Christianity. Baptist grandparents on both sides. Firm Bible-believing Apostle's-Creed-Christian parents. Presbyterian (PCA, for that matter) school. 100% of my friends were professing Christians... the conservative, Protestant kind. And what did that mean for me?


1. The ideal family model is complementarian.
All I ever saw from my parents and grandparents followed the assumption that

'Men and women are equal in the image of God, but maintain complementary differences in role and function. In the home, men lovingly are to lead their wives and family as women intelligently are to submit to the leadership of their husbands. In the church, while men and women share equally in the blessings of salvation, some governing and teaching roles are restricted to men.' (Council on Biblical Manhood and Womanhood) 

There was an assumption of male headship... even if the leadership my dad or grandpa practiced was not a strictly hierarchical or even remotely power-mongering sort, it was definitely leadership. Don't ask me to explain how; I can't. It just was.

2. Certain jobs are For Men Only.
A girl at my school was at one point certain that she was being called to be a pastor. This inclination was summarily tempered by gentle instructions from teachers (with Scripture references) and less-than-gentle scoffs from her 'less rebellious and more appropriately submissive' female peers. Myself included. (We, of course, did not use those words or actually scoff... but we were thinking them.)
Within the school, it was certain that Bible teachers for grades 7+ were to be men. The headmaster of the school also ought to be a man. This has led to an interesting conundrum for some as recently the headmaster left the school, and his job has been filled by an interim principal... the female principal of the Grammar School.

3. Actually, all leadership is For Men Only.
Even if that was not what was spoken, that is definitely what was heard. The student body president and vice president needed to be male. Female leadership in business and government was spoken of with a twinge of distaste (remember Hillary Clinton? Large twinge of distaste).
This has caused some angst as graduates went on to college and found ourselves in leadership positions. After being asked to serve as vice-president in ISI my freshman & sophomore year, I had to worry through the implications of what I would say if asked to be president. No can do. I can't be in charge; I'm a woman! But what if I'm the most qualified? I'm still a woman. Drat. (note: have gotten over this, especially since the role of 'Commander-In-Chief' has been pretty much dispelled entirely.)

4. A woman's ideal place is in the home.
People always spoke with pity about those kids whose moms worked out of the home. It was just a shame, wasn't it? Motherhood (particularly stay-at-home-motherhood) was always assumed to be the ideal for women. When asked, though, my parents seemed okay with the idea that I might not get married and have kids. As long as I didn't want to live at home forever.

5. Modesty is the prime consideration in dress.
Very early on, I heard that it was my job to remember boys when I was getting dressed. What would they think, looking at me in this outfit? Is it too revealing, too tight? (Secret: I was very glad that I at 13 had roughly the figure of a 13-year-old boy. I pitied the girls who actually had to worry about things like cleavage.)
If I had doubts, I could check the Modesty Survey posted on the Rebelution page, where boys and men had weighed in as to what exactly constitutes modest dress.

6. Taking the initiative is never my job...
To have told a boy I liked him without him approaching me first would be sleazy, desperate, and taking away his inborn right to/gift of leadership. And oh, did I ever cast judgement on those girls who did.
When it came to senior prom, my best friends and I were in a terrible bind... there were five of us in our class, two boys and three girls. Those two boys were pretty much definitely not going to ask us, and even if they had, there would have been at least one of us left over. We had to ask other boys to prom, unless of course we just bit it and went alone. We were quite angry at this predicament, and discussed it for long hours into the night. I would be lying if I said I didn't feel a teensy bit guilty inviting a friend of mine... and I would not have done it at all had I not been certain there would be no chance of dating happening and anyone saying that I had started the relationship. What a scandal that would be.

7. ...in anything.
My church hosted swing dances a few times a month. It was fairly well-established, in my social circle, that boys were to ask girls to dance. There were some boys who would say no on principle if girls asked them to dance. If they didn't ask you, you were doomed to sit the evening out or learn how to lead so you could dance with other girls.
There was also the impression that emotions were only to exist as responses. It was shameful, I felt, to admit to having feelings for a guy if he had not indicated his first. Just embarrassing. And also wrong. I should get rid of those and not have feelings until I have been approached by a guy; then I am allowed to have feelings. (What good are they anyway, if I can't do anything with them?) (This is something I am still trying to get over.)

8. To be forward is to fail.
My good friend Christine and I use to tease each other about being 'forward' or 'brazen' or whatever. If it had been true, though, there definitely would have been an intervention. Our duty was to cultivate quiet, submissive spirits in all things. (That did not work out so well for me.)

9. Purity!
Were I to become emotionally attached to someone, I would give him a bit of myself I could never get back, so I should probably avoid that. Lesson taught complete with visual illustration/activity.
Physical boundaries were introduced into my head at age 11--no sex until marriage, for sure. Probably also no kissing until then either (although I'll admit I made that up... if we are going to do purity, let's do it right! The less physical contact, the purer; the purer, the better).
I thus learned that saying 'no' was very much allowed and very much important. I did not need physical intimacy to validate me. --In fact, maybe the lack thereof validated me? Thoughts.

10. Men should respect me because I am a woman.
After I entered my school in 6th grade, I think the only door I opened for myself was the door to the Ladies' Room. We were automatically first in line for everything and given preference if there were not enough seats for everyone. It was really nice, actually.
(This, unfortunately, did not always extend to our co-ed gym class, where I was not so much 'shown honor as a weaker vessel' as not really wanted for anybody's team ever. Whoops.)


There are probably a lot more implications of the culture in which I grew up on gender roles, but these are some of the outstanding ones. Obviously, some of the things that stand out the most are the things that are at disconnect with my desires and/or culture, so this list may seem overly negative, but that is not my intention. I just want to give an accurate frame to my discussion of AYoBW and feminism.

mind of the maker + art

When you create a work of art, that work possesses a bit of yourself.

Whenever I write, I draw a bit of my reputation out of the safety of freezer-sealed bag to thaw, vulnerable to the elements and the opinions of the air... Your impression of me is somewhat reliant on what you see. In that respect, my creation is an extension of myself. Of course.

But my reputation is not the only part of myself that I expose in creation. There is a something that sits inside me and grows, and develops, and strengthens, until I give birth to it, and it becomes a force in the world beyond me. It will not appear to all the way it appears to me. It will not speak to all the way it speaks to me. It will not have meaning to all the way it has meaning to me. But it will be, independent and separate from me though still carrying some of myself.

In the case of man, that which he creates is more expressive of him than that which he begets. The image of the artist and the poet is imprinted more clearly on his works than on his children. (Nicholas Berdyaev via Dorothy Sayers)

I think I have always felt, and if not always at least for a long time, that there is something almost mystical about art. About literature. About God, and man, and man's creations, and how the only way my life makes enough sense to keep living is as a work of art.

Beauty will save the world. Dostoevsky said it.* Beauty is, from one perspective, an overwhelming sense of order that pierces the heart. Beauty and meaning walk hand in hand.

When I read a well-written novel, I am flooded by the impression that everything in it has a reason. It has a place. It is part of a Story. Isn't that the desperate desire of the human heart? For reason, for purpose, for order, for Story?

Meaning is necessary. That discrete objects and events in succession would say something is necessary.

It's necessary in art, and it's necessary in life, and it's necessary in God.

And then Dorothy Sayers goes and paints the most lucid and vivid picture of the Trinity I've ever seen, based on what we already know about the creative process. It's brilliant, in the actual meaning of the word. Read it.

...and then I find a quote from Solzhenitsyn that makes me want to cry because he says in a few paragraphs what I didn't-quite-succeed-in-saying in 20 pages in high school. Emphasis added.

'One day Dostoevsky threw out the enigmatic remark: Beauty will save the world. What sort of a statement is that? For a long time I considered it mere words. How could that be possible? When in bloodthirsty history did beauty ever save anyone from anything? Ennobled, uplifted, yes - but whom has it saved?  

There is, however, a certain peculiarity in the essence of beauty, a peculiarity in the status of art: namely, the convincingness of a true work of art is completely irrefutable and it forces even an opposing heart to surrender. It is possible to compose an outwardly smooth and elegant political speech, a headstrong article, a social program, or a philosophical system on the basis of both a mistake and a lie. What is hidden, what distorted, will not immediately become obvious.  

Then a contradictory speech, article, program, a differently constructed philosophy rallies in opposition - and all just as elegant and smooth, and once again it works. Which is why such things are both trusted and mistrusted.  

It is vain to reiterate what does not reach the heart.  

But a work of art bears within itself its own verification: conceptions which are devised or stretched do not stand being portrayed in images, they all come crashing down, appear sickly and pale, convince no one. But those works of art which have scooped up the truth and presented it to us as a living force - they take hold of us, compel us, and nobody ever, not even in ages to come, will appear to refute them.

So perhaps that ancient trinity of Truth, Goodness and Beauty is not simply an empty, faded formula as we thought in the days of our self-confident, materialistic youth? If the tops of these three trees converge, as the scholars maintained, but the too blatant, too direct stems of Truth and Goodness are crushed, cut down, not allowed through - then perhaps the fantastic, unpredictable, unexpected stems of Beauty will push through and soar to that very same place, and in so doing will fulfill the work of all three?  

In that case Dostoevsky's remark, "Beauty will save the world," was not a careless phrase but a prophecy? After all, he was granted to see much, a man of fantastic illumination. And in that case art, literature might really be able to help the world today?'   ― Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Nobel Lecture

*At least, he said that his narrator said that Ippolit said that Myshkin said it. See The Idiot.

a sonnet for kmax

I am aghast! Somehow I have managed to get through the whole summer without posting ridiculous poems in forms far too grand for their subject matter (which is what I most love to write, let's be honest).

But, as I said to a friend who confessed that she never used AIM in middle school... It's never too late to start living.

This sonnet is a summation of my oft-repeated sentiments toward the Fabulous Maxfield Family. These feelings were reawakened when Katie sent me an email the other day noting some statements her 'dear old dad' made at dinner, so I decided to pour them out in the form of a sonnet.

This is high art, y'all.

O, to be a fly upon the wall
In places where the Maxfield clan resides
And Katie and her family members all
With pithy speech the summer hours bide.

And O! to hear first-hand the wond'rous words
I now find only through the internet:
Perchance to add myself some thoughts absurd
(Because strange thoughts more of the same beget).

But most of all, I revel in the way
KMax's family takes such time to tease
The living daylights out of their poor prey
(That is, the giggling dame: Kathryn Louise). 

And as I love to poke fun at my friend,
With such good company, 'twould never end!

(And this is why Katie should begin plotting now to ensure that I never spend extended periods of time with her family.)

from the archives: a elbereth, gilthoniel

Once upon a time I took the best class ever, i.e. a seminar with Professor David O'Connor, who is one of the greatest minds I've encountered.

The final project for this class was to perform a selection from The Lord of the Rings, incorporating elements from Wagner's Ring Cycle and The Odyssey. I told you it was the best class ever. My group chose the Grey Havens scene, and we of course did not near do it justice. But we tried. 

Because I'm slightly-no-really-a-lot obsessed with metaliterature/metafiction, one of the things that most intrigues me about LotR is the frame story. While it's not explicitly stated, there are many hints that Bilbo's Red Book is either the same as or very closely related to the book I hold in my hand. Tolkein is attempting to justify the existence of The Lord of the Rings in a universe where Middle Earth was a reality, which I appreciate immensely. But how then do I explain the very end of the book, where the author describes the arrival of Frodo, Bilbo, and company at the Valinor (assuming that no one ever goes to Valinor and comes back)?

This is where the invocation of the Muse comes in. It's a nod to the Greek epics, but within The Lord of the Rings I think it makes the most sense at the end of the story, where the task of writing the book has been passed on to Sam. He is charged with finishing the story, but how might he know what the story would be, from Frodo and Bilbo's perspective--and eventually, as Frodo hints, the end of his own story? The Muse: in this world, Elbereth (proper name 'Varda').

So that was my contribution to the performance... the invocation of the Muse. And in the middle of the performance I forgot the second half of the fourth stanza (laerflhaerfgluaegr. frustration.) but that was how it must be. It was an oral class; what I had written didn't make a whit of difference. But I like it well enough and figure that anyone who follows my blog has got to be weird enough to appreciate it (except Jake, but hi Jake! I love you anyway. You probably abandoned ship at 'meta' and aren't even reading this. oh well.) so enjoy...

A Elbereth, Gilthoniel!
Speak, O Starkindler, of joy-
the beauty high and infinite,
the bracing light of stillness, clear
and cold and ancient, young as Spring,
which rises from the from the silent earth
with quiv’ring, scintillating song. 

And speak, O Ever-White, of peace:
the coming-home of weary souls,
the drawing-near of wand’rers far;
the final surety of end,
the heart-borne confidence that hence
no traveller shall e’er depart. 

Tell of the wind that stirs the soul
on seeing that eternal shore.
Tell of the swift and valiant course
the heav’nly spheres with joy do trace,
enlightening the tired eyes--
there lies the close of all our hopes! 

Now speak, Queen of the Stars, of here.
Tell of the years that stretch before,
of life in wholeness newly found.
Sing of the home and happiness
my heart may know in staying here
below, before the eternal end. 

Tell me where I might find my peace;
A Elbereth! Where here is joy?
With singing breath that quietness?
When all the world is chaos: rest
as fixed and tenuous with life
as the center of the turning earth. 

And say, Star-queen, the long-off day,
when the world will whirl me off itself;
and moved by piercing softness, I
will know the joy the poets told,
and feel the final wholeness--peace--
and see, myself, Gilthoniel.