adding my two cents

I’m frustrated. And overwhelmed. And saddened.  So, I’ve decided to do a little something about it.  While on vacation I attempted to get caught up with the health care reform maelstrom.  (Hey! I just used ‘maelstrom’ in a sentence!) It’s all a bunch of knots.  I’ve griped, and bitched, and dreamed and schemed.  Then I decided I should send a letter to my congresspersons.  Because that’s what good citizens do, right?  So here is my letter:

Dear [important elected official]

Regarding the current healthcare reform debate, I would like to contribute my voice as one of your constituents.  This is an issue about which I have grown increasingly concerned, and wholeheartedly believe that we should be moving towards a single-payer system.  We remain the only “developed” country that lacks anything resembling single-payer healthcare, with the exception of Holland and Switzerland (which offer limited and highly regulated private-insurance options).  Unfortunately the nature of the conversation and the trajectory of the debates has moved away from anything resembling humane, intelligent conversation.  The scare tactics and smear campaigns on one side, and the lack of a backbone on the other have left us with a bill that could very well leave us in a worse place than where we started.

We have all but abandoned the hope of achieving a single-payer system in the near future, and now that the public option appears to be compromised, it seems to me that we are conceding to fear and to the big businesses of insurance companies and pharmaceutical sales.  The conversation and the rhetoric, to my interpretation, have rarely, if ever, been about healthcare—actually providing necessary medical care for our citizens.  Instead it has been about profit and costs and privilege.  In a country where an estimated 46 million of our citizens are uninsured and over a million households file for bankruptcy each year, estimates range between 60-80% of those filed because of the overwhelming burden of health care costs (nearly 80% of those were insured at the time of filing for bankruptcy), it is unforgivable that our concern for healthcare begins with bottom-line and profit margins, and not with a concern for the health and well-being of our citizens.  I believe that it is a moral obligation to provide the coverage needed for each person in the country.  That insurance companies, who exist to make a profit, drive the market and make decisions about who is covered, and what sorts of medical care they are “eligible” to receive, is embarrassing, and the logic of it is lost on me.

It seems to me we’ve lost our humanity.  We’ve lost our moral center.  It is heart-breaking that profits and market competition are more important than people, preventive care and saving lives.  Doctors ought to get paid according to merit (much like Obama’s controversial stance on merit-based pay for teachers).  If they are catching cancer early, if they are helping patients live longer, healthier lives, if they are able to help patients quit smoking, lose weight, they ought to be rewarded for that.  Their motivation ought to be providing health care, not making or saving money.  Instead, doctors are at the mercy of insurance companies, often finding themselves in the position of denying care to patients because someone in an office somewhere has deemed that person unworthy of the procedures they need.  And we are worried about death panels in the future—seems to me they already exist de facto for most Americans that cannot afford top-of-the-line healthcare.

For me, what it comes down to is a matter of common morality, protecting human rights, and preserving human dignity.  Are we going to rise to the occasion and act to provide life to millions of people who cannot afford it themselves?  Will we recognize the basic dignity preserved when people don’t have to compromise the security of home and other basic needs to ensure medical care?   I urge you to be a voice for the voiceless.  Please bring the humanity back into the debate on healthcare.  This isn’t about profits—it’s about people.  At the very least, advocate for a public option, though I would hope we could move to a single payer system.

Thank you for your attention and for your public service.

To continue with the theme, regarding something else I read over vacation:

In the book, The Geography of Bliss, Eric Weiner travels the world in search of secrets to happiness.  What sorts of cultural, political, social climates contributes to a populations overall happiness?  He visits the remote country of Bhutan—a nation where the government charges tourists a per diem fee, which includes a mandatory tour guide.  In Bhutan, the government measures not only Gross Domestic Product, but Gross National Happiness.  Gross National Happiness isn’t a mere marketing tool or generic smiley-face image; GNH is a collective endeavor.  Compare this to our default measurement of America’s success and progress, the Gross Domestic Product: the sum of goods and services produced.  There is much, however, that the GDP either glosses over or leaves our completely.  Consider this: “The sale of an assault rifle and the sale of an antibiotic both contribute equally to the national tally (assuming the sales price is the same).  It’s as if we tracked our caloric intake but cared not a whit what kind of calories we consumed.”  The effect of GDP is that it often forgets the people that both contribute to production and consume the benefits.  Weiner quotes Robert Kennedy to elaborate on this point.  “GDP doesn’t register ‘the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriages, or the intelligence of our public debate.’ GDP measures everything… ‘except that which makes life worthwhile.’”  This is the crux of what’s gone terribly awry in the healthcare debate debacle.  We have become so concerned with preserving for-profit competition among companies, and fixated on the bottom line that we are forgetting the people.  We are forgetting the struggle and the dignity lost among our citizens, particularly among the working poor—those too rich to afford Medicare, but too poor to afford adequate insurance.  We are forgetting that what universal healthcare (however you define that—public option, single payer, etc.) would mean is handing back humanity to our citizens, effectively bestowing and guarding life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

*for the record, I did research the statistics.

how Beefeater saved me from amputation. or stories of a lack of grace.

Sunday started out relatively commonplace.  The beauty and warmth and sun of Saturday gave way to the overcast and rain that has become this summer’s norm.  I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed on the promise of a lovely Sunday afternoon nap (like no other nap out there).  Ate a little breakfast, got ready, visited the Presbyterian church (walking distance!), came home, made a little lunch.  Then my landlord came by to see about switching out kitchen tables.  See, everything seems so bo-ring, doesn’t it.  I changed clothes and changed shoes, when I noticed my foot hurt.  More specifically the top of my foot.  I looked down and noticed a slight bruise.  When I touched it however–oh sweet mercy–that was more than a bump–a veritable protrusion.  I stood perfectly still in my room for a long time replaying my morning wondering when I had run into what?  Or what did I drop on my foot.  Because it is within al probability that I had done one (or both!) of those two things and Not Thought Twice.  I run into tables. I drop things.  But what could I have done to my foot to cause what looked like it was trying to be a sixth toe, and not even remembered?  It remains a mystery.

I mostly forgot about it, assuming it was just normal everyday ungracefulness.  Then I had the idea!  What if it is some sort of bite.  And of course I googled.  Do Not google Spider Bite.  Just don’t do it.  Okay do it.  Gross. So there I am, Sunday evening, the end of a quiet weekend alone in my apartment.  And in a matter of minutes and a handful of images I am convinced that I have a deadly spider bite, which is clearly going to become infected, fester, and lead to certain amputation.  And all before my excelled PA State healthcare plan kicks in.  Great.

My dad very calmly (a little too calmly if you ask me. Isn’t he concerned about having a daughter with only one foot!?) suggests that I put some ice on it and some rubbing alcohol.  Well I don’t have any rubbing alcohol.  But! I have gin!  And that has alcohol in it!  So I put a little Beefeater on a cotton ball, cover the Source of Death, and go to bed.

I wake up this morning, the bruise is better, the protrusion is much less, well, protruding.  All thanks to the gin, obviously.

Oh, and I never got that nap.

Why I ate dinner at 9:15 p.m. And other reports from the northeast.

Okay, mostly just the one story, but now you’re intrigued aren’t you?

Since the last post (gah! I know. Tsk, tsk.) I moved from one quaint college town to another.  The impulse to compare the two is completely irrepressible.  Kutztown is much smaller than Bloomsburg, but hard to tell because it is situated right in between Allentown and Reading.  Bloomsburg has a little more going on because it’s right off the interstate.  But the Mennonites!  There are no Mennonites here!  Which is probably in the best interest of my health. No pretzel rolls, hot bacon dressing or shoo-fly pie.

Oh, right. My story.

Since I’m going to be in Bloomsburg for the whole year, I came with the mission of Meeting People.  I’m living alone (in a fabulous apartment, by the way), and teach four days a week.  What could I do to meet people, and maybe even Make A Friend.  My landlord told me about the Town Park Tennis Program.  (yes, all caps.)  Apparently, back in the day, someone endowed a tennis program so kids could take free tennis clinics in the summer.  They offer an adult class, too—four weeks, eight classes, for $15.  Do I play tennis?  Absolutely not.  Do I think I’ll be good at tennis?  Not a bit?  But will I look ridiculous in order to meet people?  You bet.

Tonight I’m walking to the park (yeah, that’s the best part, I can WALK.  Hear me Texas?!) and as I’m nearing the courts I don’t see any of our coaches.  And there are tennis balls scattered everywhere.  Seriously, it looked like the rapture had just happened, and it started at the Bloomsburg Town Park Tennis Courts.  Eerie.  One of the other pupils pulled up with kids and dog in tow.  As we’re standing around wondering where they are, they drive up, hop out of their cars, squeezing water out of their shorts and t-shirts.

update from the east

What a quaint college town.  In the summer. Which means this town is probably a pretty buzzing place during fall and spring.  But starts to close at around 7 p.m.  Some places stay open till 10:00.  There is certainly potential…

I’m sitting in a coffee shop: Uptown Espresso Bar.  You can probably guess: old wooden tables and chairs, and mismatched lamps, some on, some not.  A vague breeze blowing through the windows.  The (male) barista keeps dashing into the bathroom.  Totally normal.  Wasn’t all that hungry, but I think I’ll have to come back and try the quiche.  And the cookies. Both smell delightful.

This is a town full of pizza places.  I guess that’s also to be expected.  But I haven’t tried any of them yet.  I’m also a little nervous to try the Mexican restaurant.  I’m sure it’s fine, but I just left Texas and the disappointment would far overshadow the appreciation of melted white cheese and brownish-grey beans.

My first meal in Kutztown was at the Airport Diner, the only 24/7 establishment in town.  The menu is basically a binder and everything is the specialty.  I had some sort of chicken sandwich–good but ultimately forgettable.  My boss introduced me to the Pennsylvania German anomaly of “hot bacon dressing”.  Drenching iceberg lettuce.  Delicious, yes, but I’m still convinced I was eating iceberg and bacon grease.  Nothing “dressing” about it.

Went to the local farmer’s market/antique hall on Saturday.  Enjoyed an Italian Pretzel roll.  Meat and cheese in a pretzel.  Pretty sure I burned my tongue on the first bite, but also pretty sure it was worth it.

There are Mennonites everywhere right outside the town.  I took a pair of pants to get hemmed at a Mennonite Dry Goods Store (on reference from the department secretary).  (Yeah, I accidentally bought Long-Length pants.  Thought I could pull it off.  Nope. Just not that tall.).  The last few mornings after leaving the building in which I live (on campus), I turn around to hear the clop-clop, and see the black shape of a horse and buggy.

Not sure what I’m going to get used to first, the ubiquity of the horse-and-buggy or having an office.  Both are pretty damn cool.

I should know.

Moving ought to be old hat for me by now.  Four years in and out of college dorms, three years in and out of seminary dorms (well, one dorm, one room, three years.  Small miracle for this girl), two summers back and forth for internships, ten months of long-distance cavorting, and a move to the Lone Star state.  I ought to have this down.  Five days and 1645 miles later (who’s counting) I’m face-to-face with a summer of boxes, suitcases, and hauling junk up staircases.  The moving, the goodbyes, the transitioning, as routine as it is, never feels ‘normal’.  At least this time I could admit to being bad at change.
I fight it with every fiber of my being.

It always sounds like a fine idea; oh, sure, I’ll pack up and drive several hours away and start something new. I love meeting new people, I say.  I’ll get to know another town or city.  But then I get there.  And it’s not home, and I realize that my car was full of my stuff.  My people are back where I left them.  And it sucks.  Like a punch in the gut.

Forcing the strange to feel familiar to ease the dissociation.

The first time I moved to DC I had my own place and the silence was (pardon the cliché) deafening.  Oh, how I cried.  Museums will crowd you out with the loneliness if you let them.  I laugh at myself remembering that summer, though, because the first two weeks compared to the last couple months were like night and day.  I remember it now as one of my favorite summers.  Once it felt familiar, once I found my people.  Sometimes, though, even people can’t help the suck.  Moving to Waco should have been beautiful.  Living with friends, knowing people around Baylor and Waco.  The hard part would already be done.  I couldn’t let myself feel at home, though. Not in 105 degree heat, and not in wide-open, flat, awful Texas.  Not without him.  Oh, how I cried.  Fought hard.  I fought allowing Waco to become my home, and to allow the new people in.  But Waco won.  A week ago I drove away from the heat and humidity.  And drove away from home and family.

Change is hard.  Transition sucks.

But this time?  This time will be different, right?  Because this time I know.  That’s what I keep saying.
Here, let her tell you:

The only time that change was not so hard was starting seminary.  I loved it.  It was easy.  Some of the best friends I still have were some of the first friends I made in that perfect northeast town.  So this time, in some small way, feels like a return.  Closer to that place that settled immediately into home.  But it’s not Princeton, and my friends are closer, but not down the hall.

But I’ve come by faith.  Following opportunity and calling and the peace of ‘knowing’.  Still fighting, finding, searching, allowing home to be here.

dates.

No, not that kind.

Andrew Bird concert in Dallas: March 22

10K in Austin: March 29

Comps: Scheduled.  April 21, 23, 24.  Get it done.

Spring Youth Retreat: April 24-26.  Take exams. Vomit everything I know about three different subjects into a USB drive.  Go hang out with youth for a weekend.  Re-focus.

Oral Exam/Proposal Defense: Sometime the following week.

Students’ final papers due: May 1

Over the Rhine concert in Austin: May 2 (I will go by myself if I have to)

Going Away Dance Party: Better happen sometime in between above and below

Car packed and drive out of Waco: May 11

Arrive in Kutztown: May 15

Start teaching at Kutztown University: May 18

Present at National Assoc. of Baptist Professors of Religion (mouthful): May 30

[yep. still all happening]

here we go.

It’s all happening.

At another time in my life, someone I used to know would say that often describing all sorts of other things that were happening. Things coming together. Things moving forward.

When I moved to Waco, it didn’t feel like everything was happening. Everything was new and different and I hate moving, I hate new and different. (At least now I can admit that.)  Everything kept changing that first year. More new. More different. More difficult. But those things are other stories for other days.  One of the questions I hear most regularly is “how much longer do you have?” which is closely akin to “how long will you be in Waco?” The answer shifted to “Until I finish.”  That answer is typically accompanied by clarifying that unless some reason manifested to move me from Waco, it just made more sense to stay planted, keep plugging away, and carry to completion what led me here in the first place.   I never imagined the “unless…” would finish its sentence.

But here I am. Preparing for the something that is giving me cause to pick up my somewhat-reluctantly made roots and plant them else where for a little while.

In November I happened upon a teaching fellowship program through the state university system in Pennsylvania.  It’s for the summer, it’s aimed at cultivating diversity in the college educational experience; it’s focused on teaching. It sounded ideal.  I applied. And I got the job offer.  And the news got better—would I be willing, would I be available to extend my stay for the school year.  Better, yes, and bittersweet.

I’ll be going to Kutztown University for the first part of the summer to teach Religion and Society. Then I’ll be at Bloomsburg University until the end of the school year, teaching Intro to Religious Studies and a couple electives. (If anyone is interested in covered bridges, you should come visit me. Also, Autumn, anyone?!)

It’s all happening, indeed. In May, I will pack up clothes, books, music (my necessities) and drive to Pennsylvania. I am taking another few steps along this journey and this calling.  I will be finished with my comprehensive exams, and will have defended my dissertation prospectus (all successfully, God willing).  I will continue along the road, following my heart.  It’s all happening. It’s all falling into place. And it’s good, it’s life affirming and it’s exciting.

My heart is full of gratitude and anticipation. And it is heavy knowing what and whom I will leave back in Texas.  A year is a long time. Yet not so long at all.

It’s all happening.

the sanctity of what

There seems to be a fundamental disconnect in how we see ourselves as functioning members of society and the implications of the presence of an Other on that identity. If I see myself as “one from many” (E Pluribus Unum—dolla’ dolla’ bills, y’all), and my One identity is equal to—no better, no worse—than the Ones in the Many, my understanding of the Others takes on a mantle of humility, respect, and mutual dignity. However, if I somehow see these Others, the Many, in all their differences, their vulgarities, their beauty, their ugly, their oddities, their strangeness, as ultimately a threat to who I am, then that, eventually, turns everyone into an enemy. What is civil and what is necessary turns into a fight over what is good and what is evil. What is criminal turns into a question of what is sinful. What is permissible, what is a choice, becomes a threat to my sanctity.

It seems that the fundamental disagreement over what constitutes a civil right is akin to the definition of a human life. If we re-read the constitution we will find—in black and white—that only the whites truly counted. And, really, only the white men. And, really, only the white men who were prosperous enough to own land. Which reflects a much larger gap between our wealthy and our poor today. Our constitution reflects a definition of persons that is somehow quantifiable in percentages (what does 3/5 of a man look like anyway?). Thankfully, the Bill of Rights soon followed. Amendments that allowed for a recognition of past wrongs, expanding the definition of Person to include all men. And eventually, thankfully, all women. Though, ask any African-American (or non-white-looking person living in our borders), or look at the tear-streamed faces of John Lewis, Jesse Jackson, the countless others without famous names on November 4, and ask them what it means to be a person in this nation. You won’t hear much taken for granted coming from their lips.

thank you.

From Salon.com. (read the whole thing here)

When you don’t take your own career and reputation seriously enough to pause before striding onto a national stage and lying about your record of opposing a Bridge to Nowhere or using your special-needs child to garner the support of Americans in need of healthcare reform you don’t support, I don’t feel bad for you.

When you don’t have enough regard for your country or its politics to cram effectively for the test — a test that helps determine whether or not you get to run that country and participate in its politics — I don’t feel bad for you.

When your project is reliant on gaining the support of women whose reproductive rights you would limit, whose access to birth control and sex education you would curtail, whose healthcare options you would decrease, whose civil liberties you would take away and whose children and husbands and brothers (and sisters and daughters and friends) you would send to war in Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, Russia and wherever else you saw fit without actually understanding international relations, I don’t feel bad for you.

I don’t want to be played by the girl-strings anymore. Shaking our heads and wringing our hands in sympathy with Sarah Palin is a disservice to every woman who has ever been unfairly dismissed based on her gender, because this is an utterly fair dismissal, based on an utter lack of ability and readiness. It’s a disservice to minority populations of every stripe whose place in the political spectrum has been unfairly spotlighted as mere tokenism; it is a disservice to women throughout this country who have gone from watching a woman who — love her or hate her — was able to show us what female leadership could look like to squirming in front of their televisions as they watch the woman sent to replace her struggle to string a complete sentence together.

In fact, the only people I feel sorry for are Americans who invested in a hopeful, progressive vision of female leadership, but who are now stuck watching, verbatim, a “Saturday Night Live” skit.

Palin is tough as nails. She will bite the head off a moose and move on. So, no, I don’t feel sorry for her. I feel sorry for women who have to live with what she and her running mate have wrought.

just desserts.

John Claypool has said that too often we rely on the eyes of Justice, rather than looking through the lens of Generosity (according to this morning’s sermon).

I believe they are two sides of the same coin. That justice, in fact, is supposed to be generous. At least the justice I read about from the prophets, and hear in the words of Jesus. It is because God is generous, that God is fair–that it is because we do not deserve what we receive that God is just and generous—that it doesn’t really matter what we deserve.

I believe there is a difference between getting what we need and getting what we want. (I guess Fulghum was right.) The parable today of the workers in the vineyard each getting a day’s wage, regardless of the length of their days’ work. It causes us to balk—unfair! I believe in the absurdity of the story. The absurdity of what is fair–to us–finding definition in what others receive (or don’t receive). The absurdity in recalculating ‘need’ based on other people’s (un)deserving. The workers in the story all get what they need. Maybe they deserved more or maybe they deserved less. None of them walked away rich. They remained day laborers, their pockets contained a day’s pay. They received their daily bread. There is absurdity, I believe in even attempting to line up according to desert, or order of appearance. Last, first, doesn’t matter. What matters is that we come at all. And we receive what we need.

And maybe others are lazy. Maybe they don’t deserve subsidy after subsidy. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe generosity is what matters. And generosity in the form of provision of needs. I believe that we all deserve to have our needs met. And I believe that food, clean water, good education, safety, and adequate healthcare are needs. Generosity, therefore, might just be providing all of these things for all God’s children. Because it doesn’t matter at the end of the day our assessment of their deserving, but it does matter that we all are given, and help give to others, daily bread.