“The Lie” ~ Sir Walter Raleigh


Go, soul, the body’s guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant.
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Say to the court, it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the church, it shows
What’s good, and doth no good.
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates, they live
Acting by others action;
Not loved unless the give,
Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition,
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate.
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they must reply,
Then give them all the truth.

Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust.
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honor how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favor how it falters.
And as they shall reply,
Give everyone the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over wiseness.
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention.
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay.
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming.
If arts and school reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.

Tell faith it’s fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell manhood shakes off pity;
Tell virtue least preferreth.
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

So when thou hast, as I
Command thee, done blabbing--
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing--
Stab at thee he that will,
No stab the soul can kill.

More Than Women

Whoever you are, wherever you are, you will be judged. Whether you are titled as some lazy man, longing his glory days or as some gangster pimp, pushing drugs or as some mindless twit, painting her nails, you will always have some stereotype uttered behind your back. Discrimination is a blind gossip who thrives on, often erroneous, face-values. Through all fields of life, discrimination exists, not excepting the field of mathematics. Still, there are many who break through glass ceilings and work around, through, and despite the monster of prejudice. Specifically, female mathematicians have come along way from a time when girls were excluded from higher learning. You see, one plus one equals two, no matter what your demographic may be. Here, the blinders go down and judgments matter not; because whatever typecast is plastered on your forehead, the genius speaks for itself. Math does not look at the outward appearance, but at the brain, as displayed through the lives of Christine Ladd-Franklin, Mary G. Ross, and Svetlana Jitimirskaya.
Christine Ladd-Franklin was born 1847 and died in 1930. She was in love with learning. Although she had to drop out of school for financial reasons, without assistance she continued to study, focusing on trigonometry, biology, and languages. Having a passion for languages, her first publication was a translation of Schiller’s “Des Madchens Klege” into English. In 1868, she returned to school at Vassar College and graduated one year later. Her passion for math and endeavors as a mathematician became significant only after graduating. She was author of many mathematical publications in the Educational Times of London and, an American journal, The Analyst. She studied at Harvard with some of the “greats.” Then with the aid of J. J. Sylvester, Christine was able to take on graduate courses in math at John Hopkins University. She found much success in her work at John Hopkins, even in the midst of the fact that the university was closed to women. At the university, she focused on her unique interest in symbolic logic. He dissertation on “The Algebra of Logic” was renowned, but by the end of her time there she was forced to leave the university without the Ph.D. she deserved. John Hopkins would not offer official recognition of the degree she had earned. That year, she married a member of the mathematics department at John Hopkins. Though she had two children with him, only one child lived on to be an adult. Christine worked on through the loss and changed her mathematical concentration to the arena of physiological optics. After 37 years, in 1929, she published a compilation of her efforts concerning color vision, titled, Colour and Colour Theories. Despite the label “female” taped to her back, she achieved many goals and eventually got the full recognition she deserved. In 1887, she received an LL.D. Degree at Vassar. In 1926, she finally was afforded her doctorate degree from John Hopkins. She championed efforts to allow women receive graduate educations and academic employment. For 17 years, she played a monumental role in the direction of the Sarah Berliner fellowship to aid women just getting their Ph.D. In March of 1930, she struggled with pneumonia. She died that month, more than a label, more than a woman. She died a mathematician.
Another champion of genius is Mary G. Scott, the first Native-American female engineer. She graduated from Northeastern University in 1928, her alma mater being a foundation attributed to her great-great grandfather, Chief John Ross, a leader of the Cherokee tribes during the conquest of America. Her family supported her in all intellectual undertakings because they understood the importance of an education. Through the master’s degree in mathematics, which she received from Colorado State College, she was able to become a part of Lockheed Aircraft Corporation. Her first couple years there, she contributed to the development of fighter planes. Because her work was unavoidably brilliant, Lockheed offered Mary an education as an engineer. In 1949, she completed her rigorous training and became a leader in the pioneering projects of Lockheed. With a focus on rockets and missiles, she developed the criteria for the Agena rocket, making way for an America’s space age. Soon after, she began her work for missions to Mars and Venus, leading her to an esteemed involvement with NASA. In the 1960s, her leadership at Lockheed flourished. By 1973, she retired only to take on the mantle as a spokeswoman for women in the field of mathematics and more specifically to Native-American women. She was a respected and prominent member of the Society of Women Engineers. And, she had a hand in the American Indian Science and Engineering Society and the Council of Energy Resource Tribes. Her efforts in those two groups made way for great expansion in the education programs available. In 1992, Mary G. Ross entered the Hall of Fame, through the Silicon Valley Engineering Council, and was honored with the Woman of Distinction Award. In 2001, she was chosen as the subject for a sculpture, celebrating the 1901 Pan-American Exposition, which honors the achievements of minority, indigenous women in the past century. In the “Art Across Borders” exhibit, her sculpture, by Lawrence Kinney, is titled “Mary G. Ross: Scientist, Engineer, Cherokee-American.” A legend lives on, more than a label, more than a woman. She lives on having earned the titles that coincide with her name.
Our last heroine is the acclaimed Svetlana Jitomirskaya. She was born in 1966 in the Ukraine. Svetlana was raised in a family of mathematicians, traced throughout her lineage. Her mother was the venerated Valentina Mikhailovna Borok. Svetlana got her Ph.D. in 1991 from Moscow State University. That year, she moved to California with her family. Throughout her career, she held a prominent research position at the Institute for Earthquake Prediction Theory, was a part-time lecturer, assistant professor, and regular faculty member at the University of California, was a Sloan Fellow, a speaker at the International Congress of Mathematicians, and was awarded the 2005 Satter Prize from the American Mathematical Society, an award given out every two years to women having offered outstanding efforts and research spanning the prevailing five years. She is celebrated for her pioneering efforts in the field of non-perturbative quasiperiodic localization. The committee states, “In her Annals paper, she developed a non-perturbative approach to quasiperiodic localization and solved the long-standing Aubry-Andre conjecture on the almost Mathieu operator. Her paper with Bourgain contains the first general non-perturbative result on the absolutely continuous spectrum.” In 2004, her mother died; yet, Svetlana believes that she carries on her mother’s character through her own labors in mathematics and that of her children (Borok’s grandchildren). Svetlana is the proud mother of three children, ages ranging from one to seventeen. She strives on, more than a label, more than a woman. She strives on as a mother.
The lives of these three amazing women, Jitomirskaya, Ross, and Ladd-Franklin, shows that math does not stereotype. It does not judge. It breaks through barriers. Math looks at the genius and the potential and the devotion of the inner character. Women are more than labels; they are mathematicians, living titles, mothers. People are then measured by their passions, not their genders. Demographics fade, prejudice falters, and glass ceilings shatter. What labels have others placed on you, or vice versa? What labels have you given yourself? Are you no more than a label, a stereotype, a demographic? Can you choose to be more?


Selected Bibliography
Riddle, Larry. Biographies of Women Mathematicians. 1995-2005. Agnes Scott. 14 December 2005. http://www.agnesscott.edu/lriddle/women/women.htm.

Truth

If Corder is right and one’s argument equates to one’s identity, then I feel I must address my beliefs head on (3). C. S. Lewis, renowned author who went from diehard atheist to steadfast Christian, explains, rather well, the foundations of my identity and argument:
All I am doing is asking people to face the facts--to understand the questions which Christianity claims to answer. And they are very terrifying facts. I wish it was possible to say something quite agreeable. But I must say what I think true. Of course, I quite agree that the Christian religion is, in the long run, a thing of unspeakable comfort. But it does not begin in comfort; it begins in […] dismay […] and it is no use trying to go on to all that comfort without first going through dismay. In religion, as in war and everything else, comfort is the one thing you cannot get by looking for it. If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end: If you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth--only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin with and, in the end, despair. (39)
Yes, the quote is lengthy and loaded (especially considering that the quote is presented without Lewis’ intended introduction and explanation); but I use it in order to purposefully nail some topics of interest and doubt.
Firstly, I argue because I care. Certainly I have a lot wrapped up into my argument, my whole identity in fact; but contrary to the underlining notions of Argument as Emergence, Rhetoric as Love, I do not argue in order to prove my identity is right. It does not have to be all about “me, myself and I.” I argue; because if I am right, I long for you to be right as well. I argue; because if I am wrong, I long to become right. I want to “face the facts” and I want others to “face the facts.” In class, we defined fact as “accepted statements.” Yet I find the word fact to be obscured by this definition. Whether or not people accepted the world to be round, the fact is it’s round. Whether or not people accepted the existence of atomic and subatomic particles, the fact is they’re there. In all likeliness, I am wrongly allowing the word truth to interchange with fact. Upon deep consideration, the truth has lead me to believe there is an authority on high and that authority is the God of Christianity. Perhaps another finds that the truth has lead them to believe that there is no almighty authority, or that if there is one, it is the god of some other religion. Yet, as with the roundness of the Earth and the existence of miniscule particles, there is but one truth. How can this be? How can we feel so lead by truth, yet differ so uniquely? The author, J. F. Baldwin explains:
Your worldview is your framework for understanding existence—the way you look at the world […] Your worldview is like an invisible pair of eyeglasses—glasses you put on to help you see reality clearly. If you choose the right pair of glasses, you can see everything vividly and can behave in sync with the real world […] But if you choose the wrong pair of glasses, you may find yourself in a worse plight than the blind man—thinking you see things clearly when in reality your vision is severely distorted. (29)
I argue for my beliefs because I believe my worldview glasses are quite accurate. I know that I will reach points where my glasses are unacceptably inaccurate. But when I choose to argue, I argue not just to be right, rather to seek clarity. Many find Christianity pompous and authoritarian; for myself, it is but a submission to what truths I have met in life.
Secondly, I find that the argument for Christianity envelopes an expansive range of “I believe this, therefore […]” which allots for a hearty understanding of the view that Christianity can be “an authoritative position […] a prison both to us and to any audience” (Corder 29). As a Christian, I have found the opposite to be true. I find it rather freeing to say “I know what I know what I know what I know, that is until you can tell me otherwise.” Christianity has never placed any cages on my life, rather it has set standards to which I seek, desire and live to reach.* Supposedly with an unchanging standard, you receive the title, “intolerant,” and as Corder points out, you become an ass. The only things that justly earns these titles are the arguments that take on the mentality, however masked it may be, “I am right, so there!” In order to adhere to an unchanging standard and still be open, I try to live by “I am right and here’s why, until you can prove me otherwise.” I believe that the standard never has to change, while people’s views of this standard can change and vary all the time. Some more right than others; some still in need of further growth; some wrong. It is not wrong to assume your identity is right and to fight for it. It is not wrong to assume another’s identity wrong and fight against it. It is wrong to fight when truth is not the objective goal. My goal is not to change the world and others, that is but an occasional result of my goal. My goal is to find truth. Whether my portion of discussions cover the wavering temperament of Modernity, the silence of the unborn, the meaning of culture as religion externalized, the view that “the right thing done in the wrong way will always lead to disaster,” the importance of giving, the failure of the church, the success of the church, the good of geometric and arithmetical sequences, the purposes of academic fervor, the politics of war,
the ethics of war, the vices of war, the virtues of war, et cetera I will forever do my utmost to tie my longings and goals to truth. I must rely and call upon, in the mean time strengthen, my ability to discern, the ability to tell the difference between that which is right and that which is almost right.
Thirdly, the shape of my argument is rather distinctive and often faces the audiences’ lofty list of immediate assumptions. My stance sets me up as the bad guy. My arguments are viewed as pragmatic and unreasonable. But I will make every effort to prove my ethos. Part of my beliefs as a Christian, apart from popular opinion on Christianity, is that truth cannot be found in pragmatism or in pacifism. The operable word needed to reach truth is balance. I should not see argumentation as all or nothing. Still, my foundation or worldview need not waver unless I come upon “that strange kind of argument […] where one offers the other a rightness so demanding, a beauty so stunning, a grace so fearful as to call the hearer to forego one identity for a startling new one” (Corder 24). But the assumptions of my beliefs deserve to be faced head on, judged, proved, tried, believed and denied as the case may be. Faith in anything will, by nature, create the desire to speak out. That can be seen in any culture when faced with any beliefs of any sort. It is the truth alone that defines right and wrong, not how well we argue facts. I hope that from these standing points, my arguments are shaped by thoughtfulness, kindness, wisdom, discernment, research, support, ethos and pathos and logos, clarity, stewardship as it relates to time, love, and most of all the search for truth. “I wish it was possible to say something quite agreeable. But I must say what I think true” (Lewis 39).

*Side note: When people say things like, “but that means you can’t have sex ‘til you’re married, you can’t swear, you have to go to church, you have to do this and be that,” I find that although I fail the standard, forgiveness and peace are assured the repented heart. I desire that Christian standard while forever desiring that worldly standard as well. It is a battle, the battle of mankind, between the heart of man and the spirit of God. My choices in life are carving a sort of character, one that will result in either a hellish being or a heavenly one (Lewis 86). In the end and despite my contradicting desires, what I truly desire most is what the world likes least. (Romans 7:15-25)


Works Cited
Baldwin, J. F. The Deadliest Monster: An Introduction to Worldviews. New Braunfels:
Fishermen, 1998.
Corder, J. W. “Argument as Emergence, Rhetoric as Love,” Rhetoric Review, Vol. 4. 1985.
Lewis, C. S. Mere Christianity. NY: Macmillan, 1952.
The NIV Study Bible. Kenneth Barker, gen. ed. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1995

More Than the Surface, Please

John Stossel. Known for telling it like it is. He certainly rides a high horse; but oftentimes, his opinions are waist-high in ethos, logos and pathos. On 11 March 2005, Stossel broadcast yet another Give Me a Break story, this one begging the question, “You Call That Art?” His argument is as simple and as complex as the question details. Who decides where to draw the line between that which is art and that which is junk? “How do they determine that Damien Hirst's embalmed shark and sliced cow carcasses are art?” (1). Stossel’s angle of persuasion was represented through a quiz available in the article, an excellent way to argue with the intent to find truth and make a point, rather than simply fight to be right. “Do people really know what's art and what's just stuff? We ran a test. On ABCNews.com, we showed four reproductions of art works that are considered masterpieces of modern art along with six pieces that will never make it into any museum. We asked viewers to decide which work was art and which was not.” The pieces shown covered everything from the work of four years olds to a five dollar find at the thrift store to Willem de Kooning’s “A Tree in Naples.” The thrift-store-find won out as the most likely to be considered art. Even the professionals, artists and art historians, could not hit the nail on the head. “One artist, Victor Acevedo, described one of the children's pieces as ‘a competent execution of abstract expressionism which was first made famous by de Kooning and Jackson Pollock and others. So it's emulating that style and it's a school of art’” (2). Sometimes a search for answers leads to more questions, as exemplified when Stossel came to the notion that maybe, “it's just all in the eye of the beholder?” (2). Art historian, Hoover explains, "I wouldn't say it's all in the eye of the beholder […] you need to know the story behind the work to understand its full impact and meaning” (2). In which case, Stossel had yet to arrive at a definition for modern art. Then he came across one artist’s definition of art. “An artist who calls himself Flash Light told me, ‘The function of art is to make rich people feel more important’” (3). Which led Stossel to conclude his argument with the idea that “whether you think it's art or junk, the real deal is that you're contributing your money too. The politicians may say they're starved for funds, but they're still giving your hard-earned tax dollars to museums that exhibit these kinds of things” (3).
The main objective of Stossel’s argument was to address two issues: 1. To point out that much artwork, specifically modern artwork, is lacking definable and substantive signs as to its qualification to be considered “art;” 2. And to make known that taxpayers dollars are funding these illusive “masterpieces.” He starts off with a rhetorical question to get the juices flowing, “You Call That Art?” Much of the audience he is trying to reach is likely able to recall an instance where something close to this phrase entered the mind. Then he leads off the article with an example that his viewers can experience immediate relevance with, “The Gates” in New York’s Central Park. When this massive “artwork” hit the scene, opinions ran the gamut. So Stossel is making an appeal to passion, pathos, right from the start. He moves on to establish the marketplace point of “gee, I’m not sure; but according to people like you […]” as displayed through the quiz. He sells his theories by appealing to logic, logos. The result of this tactic is that agreeing with his argument only makes sense, especially when one can look right at the pictures and see that according to visual content alone, the art of a four year old deserves to be rated alongside Kasimir Malevich’s Black Circle. Then throughout the article he verifies his argument through the appeal to ethics, ethos, which in this case is done by establishing a standard of credibility. He goes to those who are supposed to know what they are talking about. He asks questions, rather than making bottom-line-statements. He does research. He supports his opinions with examples. He relies upon a source of past credibility. He presents himself as being just like the people, only he comes with the journalist’s pad and pen and video camera. He even creates credibility through his accuracy in spelling, grammar, and word choice.
The context of his message is tricky. While he will be picked on perhaps by those who celebrate every aspect of the arts, he will be praised perhaps by those who consider themselves conservative or those who consider themselves part of “middle America” or perhaps by those who consider themselves “Stossel fans” (though few may feel courage to say so). In this case, Stossel knows his audience well enough to know that the context of his media message is in a comfortable place. Presenting his message in the context of television and the world wide web gives him an ironic edge. He utilizes a machine for the masses to confront an issue that, as he faced in the article, is personal. If in part, art is “in the eyes’ of the beholder,” then how can you attempt to form generalizations that extend to the masses, and more so, to the pocketbooks of the masses. His assumptions become his calamitous error, which are not all that calamitous since his argument needs not focus on much else. He assumes some of the fine points about art without giving them proper presentation, which is not necessarily a fault, considering his audience.
The fact is that at the heart of the actual argument, apart from his rhetoric, there exists a balance between the right to question modern art and the right to create modern art. Modern art places a strong focus on “me, myself and I” and often will altogether dismiss the objective of art. Art should express a balance between the fatality and the hope of humanity. It should both delve into the imperfection and the longing for perfection. It is the good and the bad. An excellent standard for the balance between the hurt of reality and the hope of possibility is Michelangelo’s Pietà . This statue pictures Jesus lying limp in His mother’s arms. It shows the utter despondency of death, but the grace and peace of a hope foretold. Whether one accepts the statue as a symbol of truth or not, the reality and hope this artwork displays is inescapable. Most of modern art deals with emotions alone. It is usually void of a balance between two realities, pain and hope; and often focuses on only one aspect of life, either pain or hope. In addition, modern art is often depicted as being in touch with the common man; but that is not the case. Unless a common person knows the complexities of the history behind the piece of work or the complexities of the style, content, skill, creativity, et cetera of the piece of work, then the only use a modern artwork has for the common person is how it looks. “That’s pretty; that’s ugly; that’s weird; that’s a black circle […]” All one can do is state the obvious and maybe hypothesize what it could possibly mean. And if it could possibly mean anything to any person, then what if, just what if, it could mean nothing altogether. Beauty is more than canvas deep. If all the “beauty” retrieved from a piece of art is found on the surface alone, then it cannot be true beauty. Art comes with a strong legacy. When looking at any piece of art, the artwork should be held against the standards of time, through all cultures from Antiquities to Christendom. Then and only then can Modernity come up to bat. The problem with modern art is that it is viewed without the breadth and depth from which it was born.
In conclusion, Stossel’s argument was lacking, but fitting for his purposes and art should be definable. Modern art, or rather “look art,” bases everything in emotionality. There is no story, just sadness. There is no purpose, just anger. There is no relief, just longing. Stossel faced the argument of when and where art becomes art, but he only stopped at your wallet. When you face down the totality of art, you should be able to reach right down into the soul.

Works Cited
Stossel, John. Gimme a Break. 2006, ABCNews. 5 Sept. 2006. http://abcnews.go.com/2020/GiveMeABreak/story?id=563146&page=1.
.

"Anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows, but only empties today of its strength." ~ C.H. Spurgeon

My galley is charged with challenges. I think I will always be here in this place, this place of wanting more. Always more. More books, more understandings, more writings, more artworks, more songs, more thoughts, more ideas, more kids, more people, more places, more loves. I want more of life, and yet never enough do I want more of God. With more of God, I have more of life. Perhaps there in lies the reason for my lacking. I want to finish school so that I might really begin to learn. I want to finish work so that I might really begin to labor. I want to finish my fun so that I might really begin to enjoy. I want so much and fail so greatly. If I could just grasp the hint of Christ in my daily life, I would have so much more than I know. Why am I failing to see Him? Is it the aggravation of busy work or the denial of His calling for me? I cannot seem to get comfortable and the unrest is hard on the spirit. I want to do it all and I want to do it all now. No, that is not right. I want to do it all and I want to do it yesterday. God help me not give up! I must continue to strive for His glory and find the place He wants me to be. Where is contentment, where is faith? Has faith fled the city or have I fled from faith? Must it always be this anxiety, this impatience, this sin? Where is grace, where is peace? I have so much and am blind. I do want more. That must be okay; that must be alright. But I must learn a love for the wait.

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is an excellent look into the duality of mankind. It is a great read. I have trouble getting into books, no matter how much I wish against that fact. I'm slowly, very slowly changing. Most people know the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, so the anticipation of the unfolding of events is strong. Robert Louis Stevenson, author of Treasure Island, The Master of Ballantrae, Kidnapped, and more, starts the book off by setting a stage of characters. His narrative of the characters is always substantive and clear. It's as if anyone of the characters might be able to meet up for coffee sometime, including the infamous Mr. Hyde. The people are real. When I came closer to the end, I had trouble getting into the story, simply because I felt I had it all figured out. I knew who was who. I solved the supposed mystery. The unfolding of events did not have much farther to go. So I put the book aside. That was a mistake. I hate an unfinished book, so I picked the book back up out of principle. The last chapter is gripping and reaches right at the heart of humanity. I found the tale desperately sad, but perfectly honest. Stevenson was wearing one strong pair of worldview glasses when writing this tale. "My instinct and all the circumstances of my nameless situation tell me that the end is sure and must be early. Go then, and first read the narrative which Lanyon warned me he was to place in your hands; and if you care to hear more, turn to the confession of
"Your unworthy and unhappy friend,
"Henry Jekyll."

Am I missing out? Every moment I spend in class, every minute I sleep away, every hour I spend turning book pages, I feel I am missing out. I feel as if there is some other class I ought to experiance, some other issue I was suppose to address before head-meets-pillow, some other book that deserves my attention. Even in this moment, I am stuggling to enjoy the opportunity to journal. But most likely I am missing out on patience and joy for the moment more than anything else. The feeling of wasting moments to hike mountains, read unknown stories, write testiments of God's work in me, discover new people, etc. is haunting. I want to do it all! And am weary of the constraints of responsibility. But this is wrong. God has clearly placed a calling on my life to be dedicated to these moments. In Mere Christianity, Lewis talks about how we are creatures made for anther existence and how each little moment is capable of leading to enourmous victory or devastating defeat. The little moments are carving my soul, either creating a hellish being or one meant for heaven. I suppose my problem is that I have turned away from the true calling God has for His people. He gets the glory in the "little things" long before I can ever offer up any "big things." Why at this time am I striving so? I am terrified of living according to the tyranny of the urgent and ignoring those things of the Deepness, the things of the Spirit. Perhaps that is why I am failing to see the small things as cherished gifts, because I'm living in the fear of the tyranny of the urgent--which still gives hegemony to the urgent, indirectly. It reminds me of a line from the song "Free" by Genny Owens conscerning the dedication to bonds of failure, until we take on the Master's yoke. Am I "bearing gifts as if they're burdens"?

Identity: Not a Rhetorical Question

Who am I? Occasionally we let people know who we are without even saying a word. We seem to carry these screaming identity tags hung around our necks. When we go from place to place, we tell a story. It’s in the way we walk, talk, laugh, think, breathe, and communicate. We say, “I am polite and shy,” or “I am good; please look at me, love me,” or “I am no one of consequence,” or “I am all that matters,” or “I don’t care,” or even “I don’t know.” We all have a story to tell. Oftentimes our story changes with the company we keep or the feelings we hide. Women experience this battle for identity in austere and curious ways. Two writers that display this fact are Marge Piercy in her insightful but daunting poem, “Barbie Doll,” and Joyce Carol Oates in her strange but telling story, “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?”
“Barbie Doll” expresses the conflict over the Barbie ideal. The poem has an occasional rhyme within random lines and an uncontrolled rhythm and meter. Her word choice is exacting and powerful but always disquieting. She tells the tale of a thousand girls who were raised on the notion that, unless we are Barbie-perfect, we are worthless. The "girlchild," raised on dolls, was happy until the world perverted her with the lie that perfection is beauty, perfection is key, perfection is everything. The poem states,
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs. (825)

She turned into a woman and tore away what the world titled "imperfect." She lived as unto death, a mutilated vision of the Barbie illusion. Her identity was not an issue of self-reality, rather self-doubt. She was playing pretend, just as she played with her dolls, only she could not recover like Barbie is able to do. The girl just wants acceptance, just wants to be called beautiful, just wants to be perfect. Nothing more. Everything she wants is either transient or impossible. Perhaps there is more to her life; perhaps there is joy capable of surpassing the ephemeral. If there is more for her in that existence, she is not ready or wanting to find it. Living without a real identity will break a person. Piercy clarifies:
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up. (825)

What is she missing? Is it the “classmate” alone who caused her hollowness? Her own hollowed out story ends as such,
In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending. (825)

In “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” Connie is a young girl filled with the hopes of immature but precious thrills. She hates her home-life; a place where love is seldom seen, rather it is implied. She lives for her moments away from the demands to be like sister, to be what her mommy calls perfect, to be her daddy’s little girl, and to be nothing more. Nothing more. Perhaps there is more to her home; perhaps there is joy capable of surpassing the ephemeral. If there is more for her in that home, she is not ready or wanting to find it. Her story is always changing. Her identity is like chocolate ice-cream, it just never lasts. Oates explains:
Everything about her had two sides to it, one for home and one for anywhere that was not home: her walk, which could be childlike and bobbing, or languid enough to make anyone think she was hearing music in her head; her mouth, which was pale and smirking most of the time, but bright and pink on these evenings out; her laugh, which was cynical and drawling at home—“Ha, ha, very funny,”—but high-pitched and nervous anywhere else, like the jingling of the charms on her bracelet. (128,129)
The hope to become one thing is frequently outdone by the requirements to become another. She was a shell of herself, longing for some come-and-go moments spent with friends and dying for some lasting moments spent with family. Through the events of the story, her family goes away to a barbeque, and she is left alone with her dreams. During that time, Arnold Friend walks into her life and steals her away from all that she knows. Oates details the outrageous feelings of fear and loneliness that Connie lives out daily but deals with directly as this man confronts her. He spends a great deal of time and effort on her, trying to rip her away from her home and her ability to discern. He cajoles her, “Now come out through the kitchen to me, honey, and let's see a smile, try it, you’re a brave, sweet little girl [your family] don't know one thing about you and never did [...]” (443). After endless coaxing, she goes to him, feeling hollow. Connie has no identity to speak of, only desires, hopes, and the possibilities of her future. She is a young girl worn out of her self-made realities, living in doubt. What is she missing? Is it Arnold “Fiend” alone who had caused her hollowness? Her own hollowed out story ends as such, “the land behind him and on all sides of him—so much land that Connie had never seen before and did not recognize except to know that she was going to it” (443).
Oates and Piercy do an excellent job of describing the painful world of a hollow identity. Women face this issue daily yet confront the problem rarely. Changing an identity from moment to moment may be a result of having no foundational identity, no story at all. We all have a story that we want others to hear, but the real story we have to tell usually is locked up in the corridors of our hearts. We tell the world a lot of things about ourselves, but only on occasion do we speak the truth. A large problem with this habit is that we usually lie to ourselves in the process of story-telling. We need to stop telling the world what we want them to hear and start telling ourselves what we need to hear. Ask the question. “Who am I?”


Works Cited
Gwynn, R.S. ed. Literature: A Pocket Anthology. NY: Penguin, 2002.

Tomorrow, I will face the Wood Between the Worlds and go home. I love the airport, even though it is not nearly the same as that wonderous place that C. S. Lewis created. I love the people-watching, the continuous book-reading, the pensive silence of the plane ride, the soaring rush, the mad dash to the correct "pool," the hilariously angry neighbors, the happy stranger-made-friend, the journaling, the semi-free-time, the exhaustion and thrill of flying. The experiance can grow you, if you allow it. I love to watch the world disappear beneath the plane's shadow and watch it reappear, after an ominous and/or peppy voice calls out over the intercom "We are now landing in..."

Every time I step into an airport, I feel a little older, a little wiser, a little braver. I like to think about all that I'm leaving behind and all that I'm heading toward, whether it be a week's or a month's trip. My imagination is on its toes while traveling through this home of nomads.

I think of the parish life and how it compares to mine. I want to see and know the world, but then long for that Chalmer's-like existence, that Heavenly hominess. Where lies the balance between world-exploration and home? The idea of covenental community depicts this perfect image for the visual learners with home at the center, moving out reformationaly in concentric circles.

But what about people like me? As a college kid, home means Franklin, Tennessee AND Marana, Arizona. Then there's the fact that my family is moving from Franklin to Spring Hill. How's does that affect the home to "not-quite-home" ratio? Then there's Puente Piedra, Peru, which I pray will be my someday-home. Then there's this unquenchable desire to see the world and see it well. Then there's that someday husband and someday family. And what about my family now? My brothers and sister have always been prominent in my life. Where do they fall in this picture? Or my dear friends, what about them? Or all the kids that I teach? What about the fact that those kids (the Pirates of Room Six) have stolen my heart from me? Oh, let's not even get into my life-long calling to teach and learn.

How does life balance out? Will there ever be clarity that does not totally depend upon faith over the actual fruition of all that God is doing in my life? Where does home begin for me? If home is where the heart is and my heart is absolutly everywhere, where's home?

For now, I'll happily settle for my Wood Between the Worlds.

It is my last week before my summer really begins. I can't believe it. I miss my family and friends greatly. But my heart is broken over leaving my kids. I am a teacher. Now I have to leave behind my pecious kids. Most of them I'll not see again. I knew it would happen, but I did not understand how it would feel. I'll never have another hug from Cisco, have another adventure with Sydney, or have another story from Morgan. What will happen to them? I love them so dearly and I won't get to see many of them ever again. My heart is on fire. I can't believe how much this hurts. Those babies have been my life for the past year and it is a deep, wrenching pain to loose them. I can hardly stand it. I want their lives to be filled with joy, with love, with truth. I want so much for them, all of them. I hate that they are leaving me. Next year, I will get a mostly new group of kids. Then year after that will be the same. How can I do this? I must; for this is my calling...I know. I love those children. How am I supposed to say goodbye to them? I pray that they'll call sometimes or even visit me. What if they just forget me? How I can I do this?

When days hit hard, when moments repeat, when sleep becomes a metaphor, and when spare time translates as wasted time, we loose touch. I want to be reading more, teaching more, laughing more, living more; but every breathing moment is constricted by the tension of "what am I doing? Where am I going? And when will I get there?" I get lost in these places. I want to do so much. There is always work to do, but little drive to do it.
My Lord, "Deep calls to deep in the roar of Your waterfalls; all Your breakers and Your billows have swept over me. The LORD will send His faithful love by day; His song will be with me in the night-- a prayer to the God of my life. [...] Why am I so depressed? Why this turmoil within me? Put your hope in God, for I will still praise Him, my Savior and my God." Psalms 42

lost reality... 

pray 

dream 

more 

...the front yard... 

beauty 

They stole it from me! Took it from the deepest place within me, a place dark, secret and a bit forlorn. They carry it around with them day after day without a thought to the consequences. Yes, those children took my heart.
I work almost full time at a daycare. I do all the same things a kindergarden teacher would do, except that I do them after regular school hours. Therefore, I am titled "daycare worker." Ah but that title falls so far short of what I am, not in the sense that I am too good or the title too lowly, but that these kids are too good and the allowed behavior of "daycare workers" too lowly. Those children are precious, and people who seek to work with them without understanding cause, cure or care make me cringe. Those kids have my heart on a platter because within their eyes, I see fire. I see life. I see something that some hold back and others have forgottan. When fellow "daycare workers" come by to "show" me a thing or two, I try to hear them. I try to understand. "Oh, they've been in the daycare circuit for 5, 10, 15 years. They must know what they are talking about." But how can you feed 4 and 5 year olds the evil eye, time and time again, and not think once that maybe that pounding excitement that occasionally slips out of their control is a glimpse of something more.
They have my heart and can keep it, for a day without feeling that pull on my heartstrings is something to be missed. A day without their small arms wrapped 'round my leg is something to be endured. A day without "please, Miss Kala" is something I never want to face.
My youngest brother and sister at home are to blame of coarse. If it weren't for my "Buddy" and my "Moosh," my heart would not skip several beats at every small one's smile. But then it must go back farther than that, for even when I was small I leapt at the chance to teach, guide or do something in the lives of others. Teaching is my greatest joy. Singing and music-making feed me; history (HIS story) and imagination fill me; writing and "mathing" further me; reading and telling fix me; working and studying frighten me; strengthening and enduring fortify me. But feeding, filling, furthering, fixing, frightening and fortifying others... ahhh, that consumes me!
Reading my 4 and 5 year olds The Magician's Nephew and all of those Chronicles, creating stories out of thin air and watching young eyes glaze over in awe and excitement, those are the things I feel called to. Those are the moments I seek out. Those are the just cure that "daycare workers" are missing out on. With fevor and tenacity, we should then live with Nehemiad hearts that long for Jeremiad tomorrows.
Give your heart to a child and see where it takes you.