Signs point to love.

I turn on the TV and I see the protesters: angry, yelling, carrying signs. 

LEVITICUS 20:13

THE JEWS KILLED JESUS

GOD HATES FAGS

Click! I quickly flip the channel.

There's a senator on TV, making a speech. He's saying he's happy about the earthquake in Haiti, that he's glad God sent that disaster to punish the Haitans for their "sinful" local customs and beliefs. 

I reach for the remote once again. Click!

They've banned the burqa in France-- click-- violence in Israel and Lebanon--click!--  and Glenn Beck is on the screen, shouting, saying Obama should go back to the Muslim-loving Arab country he was born in and-- click!-- 

I turn off the TV; I can't stand it any more. 

Because the one thing all or most of these people have in common, apart from their inexcusable bigotry, is their professed belief in the teachings of Jesus Christ. 

Maybe I'm wrong about Jesus. Maybe all my years of Sunday school, and all the hymns I've sung, and all the sermons I've listened to (intently or not so much) didn't quite get through. Maybe I'm not interpreting Jesus' message quite right, maybe he DID say somewhere to hate our neighbor because they're a little bit different, maybe the Bible is dripping with some kind of sarcasm I didn't get, but the ONE message I've gotten above all the others out of being a Christian all my life is that God loves you no matter who you are or what you do, and we're supposed to love each other because of that. 

We've all failed at this. Of course we have. We are all human, after all; that's what forgiveness is for. The thing that really bothers me, though, is the people who deliberately preach hate against other human beings in God's name. "Well, God OBVIOUSLY hates these people," they say. They point to people's suffering, to natural disasters, to isolated incidents, as proof that "these people"-- gays, Jews, Muslims, the poor, what have you-- have sinned, somehow, enough to make God stop loving them. But the truth is, that just isn't possible.

Yes, people make mistakes sometimes. And yes, bad things happen sometimes. And I honestly don't really know how to explain either except by saying that life is a messy ordeal and no one knows why. But the answer isn't in blame or hate or fear; it's in love. In the end, love is what God gave us: not answers to everything or absolute perfection or a reason to point fingers at people and shout that we're right, but love. And the point of Christianity-- the point, I think, of any life well-lived regardless of your particular religious creed-- is to share that love with people, whether in the form of the missionary who goes to Guatemala with food and Bibles and free dental exams, or the school full of kids donating toys and socks and blankets so that some poorer kids can have a nice Christmas, or even just in that one friend who seeks you out on your worst days and asks you what's wrong and just listens. Because for those of you asking yourself, that, not yelling or blaming or carrying angry signs, is what Jesus would have done. 

I turn on the TV again, and there are the signs. Except I'm not angry anymore, just sad. I want to make signs of my own:

JOHN 3:16

JESUS WAS A JEW, THEY'RE PRETTY OKAY

GOD LOVES FAGS EVERYONE

GOD LOVES YOU

--Patti

Bible verses mentioned:

"If a man lie with a male as he lies with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination. They shall surely be put to death. Their blood shall be upon them." (Leviticus 20:13)

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. (John 3:16)

An Ode to Levelheadedness

The President is a Muslim. 

It's 2076, and the President of the United States is Faisal Mahdi, and he is a Muslim. The Capitol hasn't sprung minarets and the Bible belt is still full of old people with Bibles and we aren't all fluent in Arabic, although it's a common option in schools alongside Spanish and French and Mandarin Chinese. It's just that the President is a Muslim.

There was one who was a black guy a while back, and some people were mad about that. And then there was one who was a woman, and half the country didn't take her seriously. Then there was an Asian guy, and only the truly out-of-it made jokes about Coca-Cola and pee-pee, or how they couldn't tell the president apart from somebody else. (Jay Leno did a couple of those, but nobody really listened to him because most of his fan base had died.) And then that Brazillian lady got elected, and so few were surprised when things all of a sudden started working again. And there were a few white guys in between that nobody really remembers. Now the President is a Muslim. 

Sometimes the media gets a photo release of the President and his two teenage daughters, one of whom has chosen to wear a hijab and one of whom has not. Sometimes meetings are interrupted for prayers. President Mahdi and his wife still have a Christmas tree in keeping with tradition, but they also have a Ramadan party every year that is out of this world. I've heard the White House chef makes fantastic hummus. There are old traditions and there are new traditions, because the President is a Muslim.

It's 2076. The President is a Muslim, and nobody really cares. 


--Patti

chivalry.

is it still worth it?

it may not be dead

but it's ebbing.

chivalry is good because most of the time

it just means a level of respect that isn't seen that much anymore.

besides, it is absolutely adorable when a guy holds the door open for a girl

or when he offers to carry her books.

on the other hand

if it's my books that are offered to be relieved from me

i've found that i'll get offended

even though the boy probably means well.

but i happen to be both smallish and proud and pseudo-self-reliant

so my immediate thoughts will be "YOU THINK I'M HAVING TROUBLE CARRYING MY OWN DAMN BELONGINGS".

and that's the type of attitude that doesn't mesh too well with the concept of chivalry. :3

My City

We're walking to the mall
Just because there's a Subway there
Not the subway
Not underground trains and filth
Just Subway
You know
Eat fresh.

"It feels like downtown Naperville"
(He's longing to go back home)
"Kinda. The sidewalk's too gross and there are too many tall buildings, though"
"Not the looks, just the feel, the sun's just really warm and the smell is kinda the same and it's just random"
"Plus we're going to Subway"
"Yeah. It's an American thing"

Two seconds pass and he says it again
"It feels like Naperville"
"Kinda, not exactly"
"Close your eyes and feel it"

So I close my eyes

And there I am
Barnes&Nobles right next to me
Ruddy red bricks stretching across an organized town
Gigantic and flashy or environmentally friendly and flashy cars are zooming by
And it's safe to cross the street without looking twice
I could go to Noodles and Company or Jamba Juice or that cute little candy store with the delicious gummy trout
I could go to the River Walk and throw bread to the ducks
Or hop inside Barnes&Nobles and read Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul all afternoon

(Or I could go home. Back to my house. Sit on the roof with my friends.)

I open my eyes.
It's not Naperville.

"We're gonna go to Subway and then when we step out we'll be next to Dominick's and the library"
He says

And I do one of those nervous laughs
Because I know he's kidding
But somehow it seems true.

~*~*~*~*~
We turn onto Borba Gato.
(What a weird street name)
And all of a sudden it goes from feeling like Naperville to feeling like ghetto Chicago
Construction everywhere
Homeless people on the streets
Buildings stretching up up up

"Let's walk faster. It smells funny here."
"Ok."

We speed through
And there's the mall.
~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~

To get into the mall you take creepy stairs down
(Like the ones you take to get to the actual Subway in Chicago, if you were gonna take a train)
They're gritty and threatening
And you can barely see your destination
But you go down down down
And all of a sudden it goes from underground train station to life.

~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~

"Why do all the malls here have a grocery store!"
That's his first reaction.
I love my little brother.
"I don't know. Let's find Subway."
We follow the signs that say
Praca de Alimentacao 
Food court
It's not like Fox Valley
The food court is all the way up
Not all the way down.

~*~~*~*~*~**~*~*~

When he sees it he starts running
"SUBWAY!!!"
It's like he's going to hug a long lost friend
(Mark, I thought of you)
He orders his food
Getting a 30cm sub
Instead of a footlong

And there are cookies
Real cookies
Chocolate chip
Soft
Yummy.

He bites into his sandwich and he's home
"It's even better than the one back in Naperville, it almost tastes like Quiznos"
"Yeah well, they keep it cleaner here"
"Yeah, in the US it's like there's lettuce in the tomatoes and pickles in the peppers"
"Yeah, it's gross. Brazilians are super neat freaks"

He takes the last bite of his cookie
And we're done with Naperville
~*~~*~*~*~**~*~~*~*~

We step out of the mall
Into Brazil
It feels like forty degrees
(Not fahrenheit)

There are people buying fresh squeezed orange juice
And corn on the cob
And popcorn
And peanuts
And anything else you can imagine
From metal carts owned by barefooted Brazilians
And no one looks like they have money to spare
And everyone looks happy
It's like a circus or a county fair.

There are trees
Everywhere
Little forests in every step of the city
The shops don't have doors
There's just one wall missing
And I step into a clothing store
(A little place no bigger than my bedroom, filled up to the top with super cute everything)
Because this jean skirt catches my eye.

The lady is eating her lunch at the counter
And is interrupted by me asking her for the same skirt outside but in a larger size

"Sure hon! But the biggest size I have is G" (For the gringos G=Grande=Large)
She digs enthusiastically through neatly folded, packaged clothing and pulls out a skirt that looks like it'll fit someone half my size.
"Ugh. I don't think it'll fit."
"Of course it will! Give it a shot. You'll be surprised"

There are purple curtains on half circle bars
It kinda looks like a shower curtain
And I hesitate
Because it's not gonna fit
But I step inside anyways

"Let me see!" The counter lady calls from outside
I pull open the curtain, biting my lip, cause I'm not confident in how it looks
"It's perfect!" She assures me.
"It's u-hm. Hm. Yeah. I like it a lot. But it makes my hips look huge."
I'm tugging uncomfortably at the fabric hugging my figure
"Well! What else do you want! It's suppose to be tight like that. And you have a violao body. It's perfect for you"
Violao. A "guitar" body. Kinda like a disproportionate hourglass.
The second uncomfortable laugh of the day.
"It looks really good. I swear. I would tell you if it didn't"
I know she's just trying to sell me.
But I don't know
The skirt just made me feel good.
"I'll take it."
Done. The lady smiles and she adds, "You'll be the hit of the balada"
"Yeah. I hope so."
~*~*~~*~*~*~*~

We're walking back.
We've only spent about 80 American dollars between us
But we're practically carrying new wardrobes.
(I love street stores)
"You know," He says, "We're always comparing Brazil and the US. Like. We can't just say that São Paulo is busy or dirty or clean or anything. We have to say it feels like Naperville or Chicago or Arizona. And when we're in the US we say it feels like somewhere in Brazil."
"Yeah, well. It's because it kinda gets the point across about what the city is, but without listing everything single trait."
He doesn't respond.
But inside my head there's another conversation
He's right
This city can't be described in terms of US or Naperville or Chicago

SP, Brasil is a uniquely diverse, fresh, busy, lively, infested, crazy city where cars will run you over without looking twice and you have to clutch your purse to prevent getting pick pocketed
Where shop keepers and hair dressers become confidants and every corner has a different personality

There's just no way to describe it if you haven't been here
It's like nothing you've ever seen before
Crazy looking trees in the middle of highways and bamboo forests in apartment complexes
Fairs with fruit you've never heard of before
It doesn't matter how many things I list
The good or the bad or the ugly
There's a feeling that you can only feel if you're right in the middle of it

So
(Come visit)

--Julie

The Girl and the Pickle Jar

I take the jar of pickles out of the fridge.

It's a brand new jar, stuffed chock-full of crinkly little cucumber product, never been opened before.

I'm about to call my dad to help me open it, thinking that's what's expected of me. But the words catch in my throat.

Since when, I wonder, did women have to be the weak ones?

Traditionally, of course, men have been stronger physically. Ever since the stone age, men were relegated to the heavier labor, and women the lighter jobs, simply because of the slight sexual dimorphism present in the species H. sapiens. The men kill, the women gather; the men reap, the women sow; the mean hunt bears, the women bear hunters... It only makes sense. To format society otherwise would be highly inefficient.

But since when does that mean women have to be such wimps?

Women are delicate flowers, says the Victorian era. Women are made for housework and for child-care and for sitting around in impossibly huge dresses looking like the beautiful, delicate creatures they are. Women are not to think, women are not to work, women are not to do anything strenuous or serious or gruesome enough to move one delicate little ringlet on their delicate little heads.

Yet it's the women who bear the children. It's the women who take care of the sick, the wounded, the hurting, the dying, the lost. Even in the most ancient of civilizations, it didn't matter how much the man did unless there was a woman behind him.

Maybe it's traditionally the man who moves the world, but it's the woman who makes it stay put.

And now that times are changing, who says we women can't change with them?

Physical labor isn't the most important aspect of a job anymore. Even the farmers and the construction workers have tools to help them; although they're still immensely strenuous jobs, it's nothing an extremely fit woman couldn't handle. Society's mechanized so much that outside of mens' athletic competitions, I dare you to name a job that no woman could perform as well as her male counterparts, if not better. People say women are appeasers, are poor decision-makers, are soft and weak in the brain. They say we try too hard to make everyone happy, to be everyone's friend rather than to make the best decisions. And maybe some women do that. Maybe some women are still convinced that everyone has to like them to be worth anything... but I can name a million examples where it's exactly the opposite. Who tries harder to be everybody's friend, me or my brother? Who's made more enemies, Hillary or Bill? And when you look at the men in the CEO jobs on Wall Street giving everybody bonuses to make them happy, don't you wish just for a second that Wall Street had a tough-as-nails woman to shape it up? An Arianna Huffington? A Condoleeza Rice? Yes, even a Hillary?

Men need to respect our ability, but that also doesn't mean they have to be a jerk about it.

Yes, boys, feel free to hold doors. Feel free to pick things up when we drop them or buy us dinner. Chivalry isn't dead just because sexism should be... it just means that after you hold the door for me on the way in, I'll turn around and hold it for you when we leave. Maybe I'll pay next time. And if you drop your pencil and it rolls toward my feet, I'll pick it up and hand it to you. And then maybe I'LL ask YOU to homecoming: it's a free country, and I'm a free woman. Just because old society expects you to be chivalrous to me doesn't mean new society can't have chivalry go both ways.

--

Snapping out of my reverie, I looked at the pickle jar anew.

I set it on the table and twisted the lid. It came off without much effort.

I smiled.

Yes, I'm a woman.

I'm a woman who can give a firm handshake

I'm a woman who can carry and play an instrument bigger than you are.

I'm a woman who can write

I'm a woman who can think

I'm a woman who can decide

I'm a woman who's much more likely to change the world than to change a diaper

And I'm a woman who can open her own damn pickle jar.

--Patti

A picnick in the park

Upload photo

Start off with autocorrect

Everything brightens, looks a bit more defined.

Next step, messing around with color, saturation, contrast.

Perfect.

Next to blemish control, blotting out little bumps and bruises.

Now to the fun part.

Adding different colors, vignettes, cutsie stamps of flowers and smiley faces.

Some words for effect.

Brighten these colors, make this black and white.

Beautiful.

Make eyes different color,

A fake spray on tan,

Insert in rosy cheeks.

Wow.

In front of the computer screen,

I look at a beautiful version of myself,

Green eyes, tan skin, no imperfections.

Save as "Imma real brazilian".

Bring up picture on desktop.

What did the original look like?

Bring up original.

Ew....

Brown eyes, scarred face, pale, pale skin staring back at me.

This is what you are.

Look back on the photoedited picture, in all it's glory.

Fake green eyes staring absently,

Plastic skin glowing falsely, 

I guess you're not so pretty after all.

Delete.

Back to the original,

Back to imperfection,

Back to what I've learned to love.

There's feeling in her eyes,

Empathetic smile on her lips,

You're gorgeous.

Save as "Imma real me."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

No.

You aren't pretty.

Yes.

Your hips are a bit too wide,

Your belly bulges too far past your jeans,

You've got thunder thighs,

Your face is oily and gross,

Your hair could use some work,

Your smile is a crooked mess.

No.

You aren't pretty.

You're beautiful.

Yes.

Your hips make you look like a woman,

Your muffin top is a result of actually eating food,

Your thighs are proportionate,

Your face emits a healthy glow,

Your hair is original,

And your smile

Your smile

Your careless, youthful, happy smile

Is the most beautiful of it all.

--Julie

cassandra

she is called cassandra. not sandra, not cassie, but cassandra. somehow, nicknames for her don't ring quite right. the only reason why i've never yanked her by the hair and flung her out of my life is that she never meant harm. that, and the fact that i have to see her face every day because of the three class periods we share.

~*~

cassandra worries about homework and tests and auditions and her parents being unhappy with her grades. she says that when she comes home with a c on the chemistry lab report, her parents get angry and might hit her, but that doesn't happen most of the time. she comes to school the next day with unbruised skin and insecurities about the next history test. 

i will never understand why she is so stressed out about academics in every waking moment. achievement comes from passion, hard work, and a reliable head. it isn't born out of being a worrywart. besides, who wants to be perpetually thinking about grades and consequences?

~*~

she thinks that i am her friend and asks me when the next math quiz is, which is aggravating because i happen to not give a damn about test dates. friends don't come to each other just to glean extra information about those kinds of senseless logistics; that's what classmates do. friends find somewhere quiet to eat brown-bag lunches, talk about life, and make tasteless viola jokes. they take the train downtown together to take in riccardo muti and the city lights.

maybe one day she'll gather her scattered brains and learn to work hard, play hard, live hard. or maybe her day-to-day concerns about schoolwork will directly translate into a week-to-week hassle about what sales and promotions are going on in which grocery stores.

[rule number six: stop taking yourself so goddamn seriously :D]

--christie