Call for Help: Creating Avid Readers

My students are bright and inquisitive about the things that interest them. Many of them come from lower-income neighborhoods. They have been told that their voices and opinions don't always count because they don't have lots of money, or they don't speak English fluently. But they have a fire in them to be heard, and they have a curiosity about the world. They are just now learning how valued and important they are, that their choices matter, that they have a right to know things about their world. - Ms. B, Creating Avid Readers

You may remember some months ago when I plugged a project of a long-time friend of mine, a teacher down in Austin, Texas. After the success of said project (asking for help in acquiring a variety of fiction books to appeal to her specific student demographic), she's now hoping for help in acquiring a variety of non-fiction books for her students.

And today is her birthday.

Anyway, if you have the extra cash and willingness (these kids need support), please visit her project page at DonorsChoose.org and donate whatever you can to help. One dollar, five dollars--whatever you can. The site makes payment really easy, and you don't have to make an account to do so.

Speaking as the wife of a teacher and friend of many teachers, our educators severely lack support, financially and otherwise. Consider making this your monthly charitable action, part of your Christmas giving. I know many ask for money (god do I know--daily emails) and that it can be overwhelming especially during this time of year, but check it out. Discovering a love for books, discovering knowledge, can not only change the life of a child but of those who the child comes in contact with as they go through their lives. It's a well-known saying, but it doesn't mean it isn't true: knowledge is power.


Thanks so much  <3

The Last Straw

Again, I sat in the chapel with the rest of the youth group at the age of 13 or 14-years-old. This night would prove to be the end of the road for me.

My young, handsome, energetic pastor whom everyone loved stood at the front. My peers and I waited in the front few rows of the pews, listening as he explained that night's particular activity. It went like this:

Two of our peers had been pre-chosen to be the angels of death. How they were chosen still fascinates and confuses me--if I allow my thoughts to dwell here, it angers me. Much about this night does.

Two rooms awaited us in the back of the chapel where the pastors' offices were located. One, representative of Heaven. Another, representative of Hell.

The two angels of death would come and take us randomly (like death often does, natch) and escort us to our proper destination.

I wasn't taken right away, but eventually those spared the pains of this ridiculous exercise silently stood before me with outstretched hands. I stood and followed them.

Led into the back hallway, the "angels" opened a door and invited me inside. I entered and found it to be akin to a janitor's closet--for all I know that's exactly what it was. It was hot and stuffy, small, and pitch black.

I was in Hell.

The realization struck me hard. Was it random? I hardly believed that.

Did the angels not like me?

What the fuck did I do?

As a girl who had felt the cruel impact of not belonging with a group of people who, by all accounts, should've been nicer, this was the harsh rub of salt to the wound.

I still don't know why I was placed here, or if it was intentional. I seem to remember another boy in the closet with me as I unsuccessfully fought like hell to hold back my tears and the embarrassment of muffled sobs that accompanied them. This wasn't about being put in hell so much, but of a complete and direct rejection of me as a person. That they thought so little of me as to find no problem damning me.

(It strikes me as something my 16-year-old sister probably feels often now, especially when her pastor unnecessarily took her aside to inform her she had kept her under the baptismal water just a little bit longer as to wash away her "extra sin" and continually berate her for things most teenagers do--effectively pushing her further away)

I don't remember anyone else joining us in Hell except for the one other person, and unfortunately even he remains nameless and faceless in my memory. Few, if any, words were exchanged between us.

Eventually the closet door opened and the two of us were invited to leave Hell. The object lesson was over. "Come to Heaven," they said.

The light in Heaven blinded our eyes as they had since adjusted to the darkness that was Hell. The room per my memory was as large as it was bright, probably a conference room. And rather empty. And a hell (ha!) of a lot more temperate.


"Have some cookies," they said. I wordlessly took one, hoping nobody would say anything to me. Hoping that the redness and puffiness that surely had to betray my resolve to be steeled and resolute was absent. Anger filled me here as much as did the stabbing pain of rejection. I also found the odd logic of the entire event somewhat amusing--did this mean we'd have a chance to enter heaven after a sufficient time in Hell? Of course it didn't. Not per their official doctrine.

Thankfully everyone left me alone. I didn't belong here. They knew it, I knew it. My years of attending had proven that much. And after this shit I was finished subjecting myself to the abuse.

But perhaps I was too hasty. I was eventually invited into Heaven, and there were cookies.

Wasn't that enough?

Salvation NOW!

I was eleven years old, brand new in the youth group program of my father's Assembly of God church. Our pastor, different from the previous one I've described, took us to the local Catholic cemetery, easily the oldest cemetery in our small town, if not in the vicinity. Full of history. I always wondered, if I was still enough, if I could feel the ghosts of those who had been lain to rest.

But there would be no such reverence this afternoon.

I stood there with my peers on the grass, listening to our pastor's strong and passionate admonishments that went something like this:

"I can't guarantee you that you'll wake up tomorrow. You can't guarantee me that the sun will rise in the morning, that the Earth will still be here. There is no guarantee. You don't know when you will die. If you don't accept Christ now, you will end up in hellfire--period. You cannot wait until the last minute because you may not know when the last minute is. You may not wake up tomorrow. You must accept Christ. Now."

Fear, as you may have noticed by now, is the primary tool in the Assembly of God arsenal. The use of fear is hardly exclusive to Mormonism, but it is certainly a different brand. This is a more violent, in-your-face fear mongering. It is without apology. It is hardly denied even by those who commit it. It is born of fear and perpetuated out of fear. It is a snake that you will pick up to let it bite you because you are unworthy and deserve ever more pain for Christ. You will ask to be bitten and stomped and crucified for and out of your own righteous guilt that, if sincere, will never be satiated.

This particular graveside example is relatively mild, but it remains in my memory.

Eleven-years-old and being told to accept Christ or be consigned to Satan's terrifying grasp to endure an eternity of fire, torture, and misery.

Because I was a sinner.

No matter how hard I tried, how good I was in my heart and in action, I was a sinner.

An eleven. year. old. sinner.

Who needed to be saved.

Have I ever explained to anyone just how hard I tried throughout my lifetime to be good? I haven't because I can't put it into satisfactory words. And it wouldn't matter, because it wasn't ever enough. It just didn't fucking matter because in the end someone would come up to me, for reals, to tell me nothing I ever did would ever be enough. It didn't matter what church I belonged to--Protestant, LDS, didn't matter. The Mormons straight up tell you to aim for perfection even though you'll never get there. To even suggest such a thing in my father's church could be considered blasphemy. Only Christ was and is ever perfect.

Assembly of God is bloody. But it's supposed to be. Therein is humility.

I would never be enough.

Praise Jesus.

I wasn't sure at this moment of my first real call to salvation if I'd been saved. I hadn't said "the prayer" yet--the one where you verbally "accept" Christ as your savior and call yourself an unworthy insect under his feet. But I believed in him. I accepted the story. I wasn't fighting it.

Apparently that wasn't enough.

Some people would tell me that's the point. 

I don't know. It's all bullshit. A part of me knew it, I'm certain, beginning that very day.

Memories: Assembly of God

The following describes one of three major events that led to my rejection of organized religion the minute I hit high school. Other factors were involved, but this--yeah.

I was in junior high, seventh or eighth grade, and sitting in the chapel of my father's Assembly of God church for youth group. Other kids surrounded me, kids I neither knew nor liked and who neither knew nor cared for me. But I was there because it was the week I was staying with my dad and, for some reason, I had agreed to this shit.

My youth group pastor was a young, energetic man, probably in his mid-twenties. His wife was super nice, a woman with big hair, a lot of makeup, and a Louisiana accent I adored. He stood at the front of the chapel and asked us all a question.

"If God offered to tell you where you'd end up after death--Heaven or Hell--would you want to know? Raise your hand."

Of course we all raised our hands.

"If God told you you were going to Hell, would you try your best to go to Heaven instead?"

Uhm, yeah I would. Apparently--and not surprisingly--everyone else felt the same way.

"You can't do that!" he said. "God told you you're going to hell, you're going to hell. There is nothing you can do. Now, who would still try to get into heaven anyways?"

What the fuck is this?! I wondered.

Yet my peers and I insisted, all raising our hands.

Again, he told us we were stupid for even trying because God said it wouldn't happen. Who are we to challenge God?!

So again he asked. And again we all raised our hands except for one kid. He was done with this shit. If he was going to hell, he was going to hell. Fuck it. I couldn't help but admire him for this and also couldn't help but think that it would make life a bit nicer if I could just enjoy it without worrying about the dangling, annoying carrot that was heaven.

Alas, he continued.

"What if God told you you were going to heaven?"

Sigh.

Agnostic Christmas

Before we officially-unofficially left the church, there was one thing I had grown to agree with the Jehovah's Witnesses on. To quote a friend of Eric's,

"If you teach your children about Santa and they find out that's a lie, then how can you trust that they'll believe you about God?"

I always thought he had a point, both before and after he said it. It had been on my mind. It made sense. But I couldn't teach my kids that Santa wasn't real--could you imagine? I wasn't worried about them but about them spouting off to their friends. Never mind the reactions from friends and family whom I divulged my hesitancies to.

God forbid I didn't teach my kids about Santa!

How dare I even suggest taking such a fundamental childhood experience away!

All of these reactions from fellow Christians.

I'm sure many of you fall or fell into this category and I don't want to judge you. I'm not. It just strikes me as a little odd. Especially when it comes from the camp of "Keep Christ in Christmas." Especially when it comes from a people who do understand the history of where Christmas comes from--why it's not held on or near Christ's supposed birthday. A people who get all up in arms over "Happy Holidays" when it's not necessarily a Christian time of year.

Knock, knock. Hello?

I didn't get it, but I couldn't bring myself to actively teach my kids about Santa, and Eric was on board with me. Our kids learned about Santa through other family and television shows, society at large. So you can imagine I got questions, at least from my oldest (who is rather observant), at a young age.

"Is Santa real?" she'd ask.

"What do you think?"

But now that we're not believers, it doesn't bother me as much. There's still a part of me that doesn't enjoy lying to my kids. It's interesting how things change once you have your own sometimes, in various ways. I was taught about Santa, learned all on my own that he was a hoax. It didn't bother me at all--in fact, probably like many of you, I reveled in knowing when my siblings did not. I didn't make the connection between Santa and God. We tend to think kids have a greater propensity for such conclusions than they do, much like we worry about them seeing or hearing things on a movie that, up to a certain age, goes right over their heads.

So why am I having a hard time with my own kids, especially now? Abbie is so close to figuring it out, she's such a smart kid. I want so badly to tell her, but I'm encouraging her to rely on her own logic. So far she's finding ways for Santa to be possible, but it won't be much longer. I look forward to that day, really, just to congratulate her and include her in the behind-the-scenes action. But perhaps I won't make it and I'll be the one to tell her. I don't know. I hope for the former so, so much.

Perhaps Santa will be a good lesson they can remember years from now if they ever decide to be interested in the church.

If something doesn't seem quite right and you have to reach and stretch to make it rational and probable, something ain't right.

Red is bad, esp on Christ

Once upon a time some years ago, probably nine or so, I sat in my institute class like a good girl and listened to the lesson. Our instructor presented to us the picture of Christ at the door.

"What sorts of symbolic things do you see here?"

"There's no doorknob!" one particularly astute student said as if he, or anyone else in the room, had never seen the fucking picture before let alone was ever involved in a discussion about it. A million times over.

"That's right, what do you think that means?"

Blahblahblah. I raised my hand. "Christ is wearing red, symbolic of power."

His face sobered. "Now let's be careful with that, Lisa."

Just in time for Christmas.

I'm cat sitting for my MIL this week and decided during my last check-in with him to peruse through their deseret catalog for giggles. Ugh.

Didja know how AWESOME Tom Monson is? If not, someone wrote all about it. Snore. These biographies are probably the worst ever. Tell me Tommy smoked a joint at the age of 16 and I might reconsider my stance, though chances are he told on some kid for smoking and called him to repentance or some bullshit like that. SEW PURE AND RITECHOUS he was made bishop at 22!

Did you know that? because I think everyone on the fucking planet knows that by now. Maybe Tom hasn't had enough praise for such an amazing accomplishment. Let's all pat him on the head until he feels sufficiently acknowledged.

Not fair? Maybe. I just don't understand why this is such a big thing. Who in their right mind wants to be bishop at 22? Y'all, I don't know of many men that age in the church who've finished school at this point.

But what is school, yeah?


Then there's a book out there called "The Time Starved Family"

As a mother of seven children, DeAnne Flynn has experienced firsthand the challenge of staying balanced in a world where jam-packed calendars have taken a huge toll on family time. The sixteen practical ideas in this book will help families break out of the hectic, overscheduled, underconnected way of life that has become the norm for both parents and children. Her sensible and realistic approach will help relieve anxiety, encourage self-reliance in kids, and restore order and simplicity to daily family life. Isn’t it time to refocus your energy on the best choices for your family?

DeAnne, if I may call you that, I could've written a pass-along card on this shizz. Sixteen practical ideas to save time and use what you have more wisely? I have just one:

Get yo ass out the church. 


THEY HAVE MISSIONARY ACTION FIGURES.

How would you play with your figure set? Perhaps the missionaries, starved of human affection...well. When there's no Barbie, Ken will do. I've yet to find a man who doesn't look super hot in a suit. 

Unfortunately, I can't find any sister missionary action figures. Lame.


Then there's this beauty: Change Your Questions, Change Your Life

Yeah, pretty much. Although I'd change this title to "Ask some questions, change your life." Change Your Questions sounds pretty tricksy to me, like another strategy missionaries would use.

Wait. They already do.

Investigator: "I asked God if the Book of Mammon Mormon was true, but I didn't get an answer."

Missionary: "Did you ask right?"

Investigator: "Huh?"

But seriously, some examples from the book:

• What is on my premortal list of “Things to Do While on Earth?” (Uhm...?)
• What is the one question I most need to have answered from the scriptures today? (Horses in ancient America, fer realz?)
• How can I be more of my true self at the end of this experience? (GTFO, that's how)
• Whose agenda is this supporting? (duh, the liberal/gay agenda)

The Messiah Series.

I actually like these sorts of books. I'm interested in scholarly insights into the life of Christ, and these books look respectable and "thorough" enough for LDS standards (I did enjoy Jesus the Christ--one of few times I didn't feel spoken down to)--but then I saw the author. Bruce R. McConkie.

LDS interpretations of Christ's life are bad enough, but dudes.


Then there are all these books and whatnot about how awesome women are--I'll say it again: If you find yourselves having to convince the women of your church that they are teh awesome, something is wrong.


And to end along the same fucked up vein as my last point: I want to cry when I see a copy of "Emma Smith: My Story"

Because it's not her story. It's just not.