Another Leg on My Cancer Journey

 

So back in 2003 or so, I had breast cancer.  It took five surgeries, chemo and radiation, but after 18 months or so, that journey ended and I met my boyfriend NED (No Evidence of Disease).

Didn’t do a lot of medical stuff during 2020, so in 21 my primary was all freaked out and sent me for a BUNCH of tests (once you’re a cancer survivor, your doctors will always err on the side of caution).  Most of them were fine, but there was a mass in my bladder that they wanted to examine more closely.  Despite complaining that “I’m NOT a guinea pig!” I ultimately ended up at a urologist’s office.  She did a cystoscopy and told me I had a cancer.  “But it’s just a tumor, right?  You can’t tell just from looking at it, you have to biopsy it, right?” “This is a cancer, Ms. Perry.”

OK, it was a cancer in my bladder. She described the treatment protocols (y’all I have had some AMAZING doctors in my journey.  This is Dr. Elizabeth Kavaler.  I went to her because my gastro recommended her; once we started a conversation about cancer, I did some research and she’s one of the best in the City!).  She described the likely variants of the disease and the treatment protocols for each.  Compared to the chemo and radiation I went through for breast cancer, this seemed like a walk in the park!

I was wrong about that walk in the park.  In general, any sort of medical procedure involving your genital area ain’t gone be a walk in the park.  But ANY way, they did the cystoscopy, said it was a cancer, and scheduled me for the procedure to remove it.  The procedure was fine; the aftermath was not.  They give you the first dose of chemo while you’re in the hospital, and after the anesthesia wore off, the effects of chemo kicked in.  I’m grateful that I knew what they were and how to manage them.

So the path reports came back.  There were a few sites to be biopsied aside from the main tumor; all those sites came back negative.  The cancer was non-invasive, which is good and means they got everything that was there; it was also what they call high grade, which unfortunately means there is a high chance that it will recur.  So I get to have my bladder washed with some immunotherapy treatment once a week for the next six weeks, and then every six months for the next 2-3 years.

I’m writing this blog and posting it to FB because I don’t have a lot of energy to devote to this.  I love all y’all, but from where I sit, the disease is being managed and I now turn my focus to that dissertation.  Thanks to all who have or will be praying for my health; I leave that and my future to the One Who Made me, and am pretty optimistic about it, though as I said, the focus right now is on that dissertation.

Love y’all to life, though you can still stay 6 feet away…..

Remembering Dr. King

This morning I went to an MLK breakfast.  It was hosted by a politician.  I'm not technically in the politician's district, but we serve the same general area and I'm getting to the point where I feel almost guilty if I don't do something on MLK Day.  I'm grateful for the opportunity to have gone to this.  One of the speakers reminded us that Rev. Dr. King was not always loved and revered (evidence of which we see as we regard the length of time it took to make his birthday a national holiday, and the fact that, although it is now a Federal holiday, many states observe it, shall we say, less than enthusiastically).

This breakfast reminded me of many things, one of which is that we should be mindful of the labels we put on one another. In today's politically hostile environment,  I regularly hear talk of "radicals" and "the left" as if they were something bad, but I am always aware that Jesus was despised by the establishment, ultimately killed because he resisted its policies and practices. Jesus was a radical who butted heads with both governmental and religious rulers.  I'm pretty sure that the titles "radical," "leftist" and "social justice warrior" would be applied to Him today.  

Yet I've seen people spit out those words as if they were venomous.  I wonder what they think Jesus meant when He (quoting the prophet Isaiah) said: 

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me,    because he has anointed me    to proclaim good news to the poor.He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners    and recovery of sight for the blind,to set the oppressed free,   to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor." 

Or what He meant when said He came, not to bring peace to the Earth, but a sword?  I realize there are differing Biblical interpretations, and exegesis isn't the purpose of this post, but I wonder how folk can claim to love Jesus and be so busy demonizing those who do His work?

For instance, I've seen people spit out the label Democrat, saying the noun, but using it as an adjective (i.e., the Democrat attempt....")  and all that comes across is the bile and the hatred with which they regard everything that "democrat(ic)"  stands for. We must be careful whether we term people with whom we disagree democrats or deplorables.  We must be mindful of the fact that people are more than a particular ideology, more than the candidate for whom they work/support/vote. People are more than one governmental policy. 

We have to come together to see a larger picture, one based on Power, Love, and a Sound Mind.  We have to come together living out the radical love of Jesus Christ if we are to continue as a nation. And no, that does not imply that everyone must convert to Christianity.  It does imply that we in the Christian majority respect the faith traditions of our Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, Jewish and other non-Christian neighbors just as we expect them to respect our Christian traditions.  If we are concerned about our Christian identity, then Christ told us that people would know we were Christians by our LOVE.  If we call ourselves Christians, then it is incumbent upon us to live out the radical love of Jesus,  to bear witness to the work of Jesus in our walk and in our talk, if our faith tradition is to continue with any credibility. 

Dr. King's "mountaintop" speech was delivered while he was supporting a worker's strike, while he was confronting systemic injustice against sanitation workers.  Because he spoke of the possibility of dying before his time, the speech is considered prophetic, and we were told today that we honor prophets not by sitting back and celebrating them, but by carrying on their work.  Dr. King's "I Have a Dream" speech was delivered in the midst of a protest rally against systemic racism and economic inequality.  How can we celebrate Dr. King and tread upon the ideals for which he stood?  Are we to treat him like Jesus and whitewash or outright deny the revolutionary character of his message, opting instead to enshroud him in some mystical divinity?  Is that how we honor either of them?

Perhaps we should take a moment to read and take notes from Dr. King's "Letter from a Birmingham Jail."  In it, Dr. King is an object lesson in how to deal with political/philosophical opponents:  showing them the respect due every living creature, drawing on a long theological tradition, he presents his case and, rather than attempting to vilify his adversaries, he patiently and thoroughly offers them an opportunity to rise to a different level.  Whether they do it or not is, of course, their decision, and while Dr. King may judge the validity of their actions or lack thereof, he does not diminish their worth as individuals.  While there may not have been much conversation in response to this letter, Dr. King did not close the door.

More than 50 years later, many of the issues against which Dr. King campaigned remain as cancers upon our society.  Our current social/political environment is not one conducive to collaboration; already we are seeing ideological splintering that could result in a second term for the individual presently residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.  While varying opinions often add to any conversation, an inability to unite and coalesce around one candidate, a very possible outcome of this present environment, could lead to an undesirable result. 

If we really want to honor the legacy of Dr. King, perhaps we could work, not towards our own individual goals, but towards mutual goals and ideals that are larger than our immediate agendas.  Perhaps we could begin to work with people who look, love and pray differently than we do, focusing not on the things that differentiate us, but on the things that bind us together.  Perhaps we could show our love for America by recognizing that not only is it not perfect, but that it was forged through revolution, through rejecting an unjust and repressive status quo.  Perhaps we could show our love for America by embracing the fact that the checks and balances built into the very core of our system of government are there in recognition of the fact that people both disagree and can sometimes abuse the power invested in them.  There is no shame in political checks, balances, accountability, or verification.

Those of us who claim to be Christian might do well to remember that while we should certainly give to Caesar that which is Caesar's, our first responsibility is to give to God that which is God's.  John asked how we could claim to love God whom we have not seen and hate our neighbor whom we have seen (OK, John didn't really ask how we could do it, he said if we make that claim while hating, we are liars).  So if we claim to be Christian, shouldn't people be able to identify us by our love?  When love includes upsetting an unjust social order, should not the LOVE be identifiable?  When that love precipitates a disagreement in politics, should not the LOVE be identifiable?  When our love for our neighbor necessitates the dismantling of unjust systems, should not the LOVE be identifiable?

Dr. King's legacy is one of nonviolent social change.  He took on many of the institutional powers of his day, but he did so not by belittling his opponents, but by overwhelming them with radical love.  As we move ahead into a pivotal social and political era, let us remember Dr. King not just with a couple of soundbites, not sanitized to respectability, but in the battled, beleaguered, revolutionary, radically-loving fullness of who God created him to be.

I Just Need to Write....

I don't know who Meghan Kelly is; "Fox talking head" or "Tamron Hall Replacement" are sufficient for me. She's another white person who, in 2018, championed the use of blackface and lost her job because of it.  Increasing numbers of white folk attribute this to "political correctness," or "black folk making everything about race," or other catchphrases which show they either don't know or don't care why this is such an egregious offense.  The following incident came to mind.

A dear, dear friend is Catholic.  I don't know that they attend Mass regularly; if asked they would likely term themselves more spiritual than religious, but the religious tradition in which they were raised is important to them.  I was visiting them once, and, attempting to bring levity into a stressful situation, told them an old church joke.  It's the one where St. Peter is welcoming a new person into heaven, and they pass by rooms full of different denominations or faith traditions.  Depending on who your audience is, you choose the tradition about whom you will deliver the punchline, "Shh... they think they're the only ones here."  I've told this joke using Christians, Baptists, and Pentecostals as the group who thinks they're the only one;  with my friend, I chose to make it about Catholics.

My. Friend. Exploded.  They took offense, accused me of badmouthing their tradition, a noisy argument ensued, and we probably stopped speaking for several hours.  We're friends and we resolved it, but I was acutely aware that, even though my friend's tradition did not fully accept my Protestant ordination, I could not even make a friendly joke about their tradition.

The stress of the moment, my friend's sensitivity, and their history of growing up as a Catholic minority all contributed to their having taken umbrage at a simple joke.  They saw it as an attack, and it was only when I was able to put myself in their situation that I was able to understand why they felt so strongly.

Similar dynamics are at work in America today.  Blackface has historically been used to degrade and demean people of color.  There is an ugly history behind it, and to use or advocate its use reflects tone deafness at best; in the worst case, it reflects someone who is unwilling or unable to empathize with people who have different experiences, specifically the ugly history of objectifying black people in America.  While I think Meghan Kelly was likely terminated because she is not consistent with the ethos of the network that fired her, I also think that a journalist's inability to look at the world around them without imposing upon it the filter of their own personal experience is a factor.  That Meghan Kelly grew up in an environment where blackface was tolerated is not something to be considered normative, but reflects a background that does not include tolerance of other cultures.  That she somehow thought such a background justified the use of blackface in 2018 shows a lack of objectivity that is not consistent with being a professional journalist.

Many white people in America live in the realization of the best of American ideals:  a land of opportunity where everyone is equal and everyone who works hard gets ahead.  They even elected a person of color as President for two terms, which, they apparently believe, is proof that this country has no problems that some discipline and a return to our religious roots won't solve.

Problem is, that picture is a reality only for white folk.  I've stopped counting the numbers of black and brown people who hold advanced degrees but do menial labor because they can't get a foot in the door; conversely, I know a number of white males who would probably have difficulty navigating the NYC subway system alone, but who have the right name or the right connections and so have never had to do so.  There are lots of people in between those two extremes, of course; my point is that people's lived realities are quite different.  What I see in America is a lack of engagement.  We don't take the time to know people who are different from us, and are content to live with our stereotypical visions  of them.

I'm a case in point:  a few years ago I matriculated into the Ph.D program of a very conservative Christian school.  I dreaded my first stay on campus, having decided that all conservative Christians were hypocritical bumpkins intent on prostituting the Gospel to forward their notions of white supremacy.  Clear that my sole purpose there pursuit of my degree, I tried not to engage.  Thankfully, God had a different plan, and the last few years have afforded me the privilege of meeting some wonderful human beings whose passion for Christ is reflected in every aspect of their lives.  We often have widely divergent views on political and social issues, sort of like the widely divergent theological views that have led to the creation of our various denominations.  Many (not all, but many) of us have created safe spaces in which we can share and exchange those points of view, and it was in those safe spaces where I began to see the humanity in my conservative evangelical Christian siblings, many of whom have spent more time with Africans in Africa than with members of the African diaspora in America.  And while I'm not about to be a token nor a spokesperson for progressive urban Christians of color, I am a reminder that "liberal" is not a dirty word but a descriptor of someone they love and respect.  For some of them, I am the only embodiment of "liberal" they know.

There is so much work yet to be done, and it doesn't start with rhetoric and vitriol.  It starts with a willingness to see human beings rather than stereotypes, and to recognize the Imago Dei, the Image of God,  in every human being.

There's no profound point here, other than I need to write more.

Learned some things in Alabama today....

After my first visit to Birmingham in almost exactly a half century, I am very pleasantly surprised.  I always thought of Alabama as the last bastion of willful ignorance, racism, nationalism, etc.  Yes, they were technically southerners, but displayed none of the gentility I tend to associate with “true” Southerners.  I was wrong.  Like the rest of the South (and the reason I prefer a Southern racist to a northern one), Alabama appears to have dealt with its ugly history of racism.  Has it resolved issues of race?  Of course not, but it has acknowledged the racial terrorism in its past, which is more than most of America does.

Interactions with people were most interesting for me.  I can’t go anywhere directly, and as I wandered around on the way to Selma, I found myself on beautiful backroads, with majestic trees – that would have been great for hanging people.  You could go for miles and not see another car; while I enjoyed it, I was not unaware of the fact that a knucklehead could see me, run me off the road, and disappear me without leaving a trace.  My interactions with people were the exact opposite of that.  I did not meet a single person who did not address me as “Ma’am” (because we’re in the south, not because of my age), and because it’s the South, everybody stopped and made pleasant conversation.  It wasn’t the gruff assembly line interactions you get in NYC.  At one point, as I’m explaining to a woman that I don’t want to buy another battery pack because I have a solar one in the hotel, but the heat is wacking out my battery and I’m concerned I may not make it to Selma, blah, blah, blah – she asks where I’m coming from, I tell her NYC, and her face lit up like a Christmas tree as she told me how she and her husband went there a year ago this week, and how they loved Central Park.  As she’s telling me this, another lady is waiting to tell me about how she went with her son when he was eight (he looks to be a teenager now), and how they had to evacuate the Statue of Liberty for a bomb threat, and how it made the news… Later on I saw a woman with a family, including a young boy with a shirt that said “I can do all things..” I asked if he knew that was part of a Bible verse, and she told me that yes, he knew.  The kid is a big fan of Steph Curry and a big fan of the Bible.  We had a long convo about my friend who idolizes Curry, waited all day for the chance to do one of those half-court contests, MADE the basket, and got to celebrate with Curry!  Then we talked about the young boy and how he’d had some health challenges, had gone through treatment, and she’d gotten him the shirt at the end of treatment.  We also talked about kids, helicopter parenting, the advantages of juicy versus crisp burgers, and the various chain restaurants in Indiana and Kentucy (where she’s from), NYC, and Alabama.

So the people are cool, but the history is amazing.  You fly into Shuttlesworth Airport.  I had no idea who Rev. Shuttlesworth was, but he was an original SJW, and Birmingham has named its Airport after him!! As I sat out to go to Selma, my offline nav system wasn’t updated for the ongoing construction, so as I was driving around in circles, I stopped at the 16^th Street Baptist Church. The City and the State have a long history of civil rights, both abusing them and protecting them. No one is perfect, but what I’ve seen in Birmingham shows a city doing what I thought only my progressive college-centric hometown would do:  confront their past, acknowledge its strengths and weaknesses, build on the former, and eradicate the latter.

Now, one of my profesors share an article about kids from Harvard who met people from the heartland and got to know them.  I assume Alabama was a red state, and I expected everyone here to be a character out of Deliverance.  I couldn’t have been more wrong, while makes me wonder where the disconnect happened that so many of them went to the dark side? I think perhaps labeling people as “deplorables” was not helpful; seems a number of people embraced that moniker and allowed it to define them.  But what about those who were offended, or whose fragile senses of self and self-esteem were fractured with the utterance of such a label?  Not trying to make excuses for them, just trying to figure out what went wrong – everybody that voted for that guy is not an idiot, is not a racist, is not unintelligent – so what went wrong?

It would be nice if those in the political realm could do like the people of Birmingham have done, and say:  we made a real mess here.  Let’s examine it and ourselves, make some changes, and see that it never happens again.  Fellow liberals, we could learn a thing or two from the folk of Alabama…

***Sigh*** and now the people from the conference are returning to the hotel, disrupting the quiet with their hallway banter and conversations. 

Privilege

I talk a lot about injustice in this country.  I write from my point of view as an African American female.  It may, therefore, seem a bit strange for me to write about privilege, but today I got a unique glimpse of it.

If you know me, you know I've been a season ticket holder for the NY Liberty for years.  As I've been able, I've gradually moved my seat up; in their last full season at Madison Square Garden, I sat right behind the MSG announcers and made a game of photobombing their interviews.  Since the move to a much smaller venue up north, I've graduated to feet-on-the-floor, a luxury I could never afford, even for women's ball, at MSG.

Today the team was back at MSG, and my seat was moved up a bit to be beside the announcers instead of behind them.  I got to engage in the old familiar banter with the reporters, the camera people, and all the statisticians who are constantly scurrying to and fro.  Most of them work for MSG and are not assigned up north, so this was the first time this season I've seen some of them.  From sales reps to security guards to people manning the Delta Club, there was a brief feeling of "coming home."

So it wasn't at all unusual that my cameraman friend got me on camera.  That's my normal.  As I left the Garden, I was surprised at the number of people telling me how good I looked on TV, how I was a star, etc, etc.  I think it's because when I'm on camera, I'm calm and waving to everyone, just like the celebrities do.  This is in contrast to the people who get on and engage in wild antics (I used to think they were drunk, but this was a morning game and no alcohol was served), or the kids who are so hyped they literally look like they're on film that's being fast-forwarded.  There are, of course, the shy ones, but there are more of the types who clamor and climb over each other to get on camera, or to get to touch the mascot or to get a player's attention after the game.

I was watching a group today, and was about to be judgemental when I realized my privilege.  No, the players don't know me by name, though many recognize my face, but I'm often on the jumbotron and apparently have been on the screen at the smaller venue -- this isn't uncommon when you sit with feet on the floor.  The mascot plays with you, the cameras are on you, you make sure to move your feet out of the way of the players and the refs -- that,  plus a dedicated catering menu and/or private entrances, are simply part of the package I've bought. I got to 15-18 home games a year, and have done so for several years.  It's not a big deal.  But then I thought about the folk for whom it is a rare privilege to sit anywhere other than in a nosebleed seat at MSG.  I thought about the 20,000 people the stadium can hold, and the fact that only perhaps 20 -- or let's say 50 -- have the chance to have a cameo on the jumbotron.  Of course it's a big deal to them.

That led me to thinking about privilege in society.  Those who "have" or have access to certain privileges may not, without intentionally seeking to do so, understand the environment or perspective of those who live without privilege.  Those who live with privilege may not recognize their own privilege, or may identify more with the effort it took to gain that privilege than with the results of that privilege.  If someone were to call me elitist for entering the Garden through a private entrance, I would explain how much I love basketball and hate crowds, how hard I work, what I sacrifice to pay for the tickets, and how much I need the release, all of which justify my being in the position of privilege.  Unless I'm bringing my clients (who will use donated tickets and to whom we try to give a decent allowance to purchase snacks at the exorbitant MSG prices), unless my clients are attending a game, I'm not very intentional about the fact that I can avail myself of amenities unavailable to others; to me, these seem like perks that I deserve.  In society, when people are said to be privileged, they may be unwilling or unable to see how others live without that privilege.  Privilege in and of itself is not a bad thing; you could, for instance, take your free food and snacks and share with people who have none, and the reason we actually have to wear non-removable wristbands is because Rangers fans used to take their wristbands and give them to their friends (wristbands identify who gets access to what).

One of the benefits of a diverse society is that we are all privileged, in some way, to some extent or the other.  I think it's important for us to begin to recognize the areas in which we exercise both privilege and power.  Perhaps we can share the benefits with one another.  It doesn't mean I have to give up my courtside seats; perhaps it just means that I need to respect the awe, delight, and desire of the folk who don't routinely sit in them.

I'm So Tired.

I’m sooo tired. 

Recently a friend of a friend made a comment to the effect that they “didn’t like to do the racial stuff.”  I may not have the words exact, but believe I’ve captured the gist of the statement.  A bunch of us went back and forth with her, and while I believe her intentions were good, the reality is that she, as a white person, has an option that I as a person of color, simply don’t have. 

White folk can claim they “don’t see color” (a lie from the pit of hell if there ever was one) or refuse to engage in “racial stuff” or wonder why black people “have to make everything about race;” white folk can invoke any number of ways or coping mechanisms to not have to deal with the detritus of the legalized elevation of white people and subordination of all others in this country.  One of the reasons we still have to deal with all the detritus is that as a nation we’ve never dealt with the ugly, nasty, messy, hateful, dehumanizing reality upon which this nation was built.  Americans captured people, treated them as if they were not human, used their labor to create wealth and build their country, propagated laws that kept them economically and physically oppressed, and then, when they could no longer continue that system, repealed some of those laws and pretended everything was alright. 

Saying black people should just “get over” that horrid past is like saying America should just “get over” 9/11.  Instead of “getting over it” or “moving on,” America has created a new governmental department and new protocols in numerous industries, all to ensure that such a heinous act never occurs again.  Additionally, there has been an unprecedented resurgence of xenophobia, islamophobia, and a growing isolationist nationalism, all of which seem to have some sort of genesis in those horrible acts on that Tuesday morning 17 years ago. 

But black people (maybe because we really are magical negroes) are supposed to just “get over” centuries of legalized, institutionalized oppression which, while reluctantly legislated away, has clearly never been removed from the hearts and minds of many of our fellow Americans. If we are spozed to “get over” racism, then how come y’all still got young people in the Klan?  Why, instead of telling black folk not to “be racial” are you not telling young white nationalists not to be racist?  How does a Charlottesville happen?  How come you were never taught about the Tulsa Massacre?  What about the massacres of Native people and Asian people and Black people ALL OVER this country, since its inception?  Get over it?  Isn’t it the American tradition to remember those who lay down their lives for their brothers and sisters?  Did we not just celebrate Memorial Day to commemorate those who sacrificed their lives for this country?  Is the memory of those who were murdered during the growth of this country any less sacred?  Yet their memories are systematically erased from our national consciousness and those of us who attempt to truth tellers are too often labelled troublemakers.

And while it takes a phenomenal amount of spiritual and psychic energy to live in an environment that’s so toxic, most black people in America grow up learning to navigate that world.  Whereas white folk have the option to summarily dismiss all black people as threatening, black people have to learn, very early on, the difference between the white person who could be your ally and the one who could be your assassin.  I grew up in the South, at a time where the end of public segregation was forced upon the population.  Always among the first or the few to integrate formerly white institutions, I learned early on that you can make rules and regulations, but you cannot legislate human hearts.  I could claim a statutory right to an equal education with white kids, but nothing would make them play with me at recess, and only learning to fight boys (well) got them to stop harassing me.  (I guess the teachers were inside not being racial or something).  And I could dominate them physically and intellectually, and I was luckier than many: some of my earliest memories are of friendships with people of different races and cultures, many of which have endured over half a century.  For that I’m grateful, even as I realize that so many people did not have it that way.  So many more people had experiences similar to those mine when I moved out of the progressive college-town cocoons of my youth.  So many more people learned, as I would later, that if you’re with a mixed race group at, say, Tiffany (or even Macy’s), and it’s crowded, just get the black kid to go stand by the register or by the jewelry.  A sales clerk would instantly appear!  You learn as a black adolescent that you can’t do grunge in public – your white friends might be able to do it as a fashion statement, but with you, grunge brought out a whole host of ugly stereotypes.  People of color, people who must navigate the dominant culture but who are “othered” by that culture must of necessity be (at least) bicultural.  We must develop an awareness and sensitivity to people whose ways, standards, and reasoning are not like ours, but upon knowledge of which our survival often depends.  So by the time you’re an adult of color, you’ve developed these chops for navigating other cultures.

And that’s when you see the narrowness and the oft- malicious myopia that is engulfing our nation.  It’s not just islamophobia, it’s not just nationalism, it’s a paucity or meanness of spirit that seems to have infected us.  Its latest manifestation comes in the revival of a caustic, divisive, unamusing harpy who has shown her true colors using the preferred medium of a failed reality tv star with similar characteristics.  It’s hard for me to believe that Americans willingly embrace these deviants; I believe their prominence is simply the manifestation of a demonic spirit that’s overtaken the land.  How else do you explain an assault on decency, the normalization of hatred, the unrest, the lack of tolerance, the meanness, the lack of fidelity, the harshness, and the lack of self-control which now characterize this nation?  When there’s a demon in charge, then what is manifest is the opposite of the Fruit of the Spirit, and that’s what we are seeing now.

I’ve sort of wandered, mostly because I’m tired and am not taking the time to write.  But this is all related.  The racial tension in our nation is but a manifestation of this demonic influence we’re under.  The unwillingness of people to confront the enemy in front of us is evidence that the enemy is roaming and devouring those who were perhaps not as vigilant as they thought, or who, in choosing to call wrong right, inadvertently made a deal with the devil, let it in, and now can’t get rid of it.  I don’t know.  I just know I’m tired of grown people sticking their heads in the sand (or somewhere darker) acting like everything is ok, when the reality is that we are living in a tinderbox.  We’ve seen eruptions here and there, but we cannot continue the systematic oppression of people without consequence. 

Every day it takes more and more effort to not be angry, to not want to seek retribution, to not want to hurt those who hurt me.  It takes effort, and I’m just sooooo tired.

An Exodus 14:14 Moment

Over the summer, I got a ticket for pulling a U-turn on 125. The officer wouldn't take my get out of jail free card, but told me to go to traffic court.

So I went to traffic court this morning. My defense was going to be that the area where I got the ticket wasn't a Business District so the ticket wasn't valid, but I looked up the definition of Business District and determined that it was. I'd heard that if the police officer didn't show up, the ticket would be dismissed, and that's what I was hoping for; as a backup, if he did show up figured I would try the "oops, I meant to make a left turn but couldn't..." defense.

Go into court and am in the courtroom of this judge who listened politely and compassionately to everyone before finding them guilty. She was taking people who'd signed in after me, and my officer wasn't there, so I thought it was all good. Then this guy shows up and I'm trying to ask him if he's my officer and the judge pops me for talking to a police officer (apparently that's not allowed). But we are the only two in the room who haven't gone before her, and even though he's not as cute as the guy I remembered giving me the ticket, I figure it must be him and begin to prepare myself for the possibility that I might actually be found guilty of this offense.

The judge doesn't see me and instead sees some attorney who wasn't in the room with us, but I guess attorneys get to go to the head of the line. While she's finding him guilty, some guy comes in and says something to the police officer. Then he goes to the judge, gets my id, and tells me to come with him.

Turns out he's the judge in another courtroom, and we go in. Judge asks me if I have an atty (no) or documentation (yes), and if I'm ready to proceed (yes). The officer gives his testimony. Judge asks him how he determined it was a Business District. Officer answers "all of 125 is commercial." Judge DISMISSES THE TICKET, stating "there are very specific guidelines for what constitutes a Business District."

Y'all shoulda seen me shaking getting out of there. Then on 125 I was shouting so hard strangers were turning around to see what was going on.

But: 1) I was removed from the courtroom of the judge who found everyone guilty;  2) I did not have to open my mouth to defend myself; 3) the evidence that I had deemed insufficient is what was used to exonerate me; proving that sometimes, every now and then, 4) the Lord WILL fight our battles, if we just keep still!!!

PS: I don't pull illegal U-turns anymore.

Thoughts after Jumping outta the plane...

This morning I jumped out of an airplane.  It’s not that big a deal; while I don’t have a USPA license to jump, today marked my 7^th dive, including one from 18,000 feet, billed as “the world’s highest skydive” (technically it’s just the highest you can do without having to don an oxygen mask).

Today was only 13,500 or so, so it wasn't that big a deal.  I’m not crazy; it’s terrifying every time I even think about jumping out of an airplane.  I sort of do it for the thrill, but I also do it as a very real reminder of God’s provision.  I often challenge my preacher friends to “step out on faith,” but I know that every thing is not for every body.  Just like I don’t understand how you can proclaim to trust Jesus and express fear at anything in the natural world, some of my folk don’t understand many of my behaviors and/or theological positions.  Since this really isn’t about my preacher friends but about me, I’mma move on.

So not only was I at a new dropzone, I was going to be at a dropzone in the South.  Conservatives and/or Republicans collectively puzzle me.  Individually they're usually cool, but when they come together behind a "Republican" or "conservative" veneer that is seemingly inconsistent with who they are, it tends to puzzle me.  So not only am I in a conservative, probably Republican area, but it’s the Bible Belt. I love people who love Jesus, but sometimes I feel there may be agendas other than Jesus' being carried out... So as I drove to the dropzone I wondered what it would be like if my tandem instructor were an obvious trumpster or a racist or a misogynist – after all, I’m about to join my fate to someone I don’t even know! (And if you’ve never skydived, the standard waver you sign talks about how you are going to be in close physical proximity to someone and you might be touched by them in ways that make you uncomfortable; I dare not write publicly HOW close we get, but suffice it to say you are INTIMATELY connected to your tandem partner).  Could I do it with a trumpster?  More importantly, could they do it with ME?

I went to the dropzone, I had a wonderful jump (did I mention how my tandem partner stripped to his skivvies right in front of me?  He had to change into his jumpsuit and was in a hurry.  A coupla guys changed their shirts, and while I do notice physiques, all I did was come to the conclusion that skydiving must make your upper body strong, the adrenalin is prolly good cardio, but it doesn’t seem to burn a lot of fat.  But I've digressed again.). I had a wonderful jump, and by the time I saw the “Hillary for Prison 2016” sticker on a jug, I was much more concerned with what might have been in the jug than I was with the politics of whomever may have put the sticker there.

I’ve jumped now in four different dropzones and I’ve noticed some similarities in them that perhaps could be employed in the church.  I was a walkin, even though I’d called; I just didn’t want to make an appointment because I didn’t want to be committed to a time.  I told them that, and there was absolutely no judgement; they just worked me into the next load.  When you first go for a tandem jump, they sit you down and make you watch a video.  It acknowledges that you came to skydive because you want to, but that to get the thrill, there are risks.  It goes over those risks and tells you what the worst possible outcomes could be.  Then they spend an inordinate amount of time suiting you up and giving you instructions and cheering you up and attending to your needs so that the possibility of negative outcomes is minimized.  At any point in the process, you are free to say “hey, I don’t think this is for me” with no judgement and a complete refund.

What if when people came to church, instead of trying to get them to join or even to get them to give their lives to Christ, we just took them, just as they are? What if they could come to us on their own time, rather than at 10:30 or 11:00 or whenever we tell them service starts?  What if we then had a conversation with them, acknowledging they came for something, maybe even figuring out what that something is, and letting them know we’ve got something and it looks like it may be what they need, and they are welcome to partake, but that it will require something from them.  And what if we were really upfront with them about all the time and toil and trouble and blood and sweat and tears it will cost them to follow Christ?  What if we then girded them up with spiritual armor, dd our best to strap them in tightly so they wouldn't fall, taught them about their responsibilities, coached them on things they could do to achieve the best outcomes, attached ourselves to them and answered their every question before joining with them on the ride of their lives?  What would our churches – and our own faith walks – look like then?

At one point Brian, my jumpmaster, was telling me how we’d exit the plane.  I have an arthritic knee, so crouching is hard for me.  We’re at 13,500 feet in a single-engine Cessna that is filled to its 14 passenger capacity.  Brian’s not commenting on any of that, he simply makes sure the hop and pops go out first so the aircraft will be relatively empty when the time comes for us to go out.  And he’s telling me how we’ll exit, that we’ll do a 180 degree turn and face the wings.  Not fully understanding, I say to him, “so you’ll go out first?,” (I just meant his body would exit the aircraft in front of mine) but he immediately responded “No. We go out together.  We’re doing all of this TOGETHER.”  What if we took that attitude in our churches, say if we had a new member who was slow or needed special accommodations or didn’t understand?  What if our focus was on our unity rather than on the obstacles to unity?

I always say there’s a bond among swimmers because no matter how much we exercise, train, and try to tame our bodies, our sport places us ultimately at the mercy of a natural element that cannot be completely controlled.  Our safety and our lives depend upon proper respect and communication.  I think the same thing is true of people who jump out of planes.  No matter how good a plane or a rig you may have, no matter how much skill or experience you may have, the wind can take your chute and leave you freefalling to the earth.  Proper respect for the natural environment and good communication does not eradicate the danger, but it does lessen it.

So what if we were like that in church?  What if we acted like our very survival depended not on anything we have or anything we do, but what if we acted like our survival was anchored somewhere deep inside a respect for the environment – the Body of Christ --  and in proper communication?  What would that look like?  Could we then create and foster an environment in which our differences did not define us?  Could we flourish in an atmosphere that focused on the love that binds us together rather than those points upon which we disagree?

I don’t know the answers.  I know that I went, I was welcomed, I was safe, I got what I came for, and even after seeing the “Hillary for Prison” sticker, the experience was a positive enough one that I’d go back in a heartbeat.  Do we have that same atmosphere in our churches?

Going Home

My cousin’s funeral is set for Tuesday, March 14 at 10 am.  I was fortunate enough to get a 6 am flight on Tuesday scheduled to get me into RDU at 8:30, so even if there are delays, I should be able to make it.  Then the meteorologists decide there’s going to be a nor’easter in the City.  They forecast blizzard like conditions from Monday midnite thru Tuesday midnite.  We’d spent Monday in Albany lobbying politicians for more money for housing.  So I’m thinking I’ll come home from Albany, maybe hit the gym, maybe not, and head to the airport about midnite in case there really is a snowstorm.  That way I can beat it, and hopefully there won’t be too much accumulation before my 6 am flight.

On the way to Albany I get a message from the airline that my flight has been cancelled.  I start to rebook, but we lost the signal, and because I’m a genius I didn’t think it was that big a deal.  We go to Albany, we have a VERY productive meeting with a couple of State Senators, and get on the bus to come home.  I use my phone as a hotspot instead of relying on the bus’s wifi, and look at the airline’s options.  There’s a 4 pm flight and an 8 pm flight, both out of Newark.  The 4 pm isn’t even possible since we didn’t leave Albany til after 2;  the 8 pm could possibly work.

Long story short:  traffic was a bear, which slowed us down.  I made a conscious effort to remain calm and rely on God’s Will.  We got off the bus, I got in my car and amazingly zipped through 5:00 traffic in the South Bronx.  I’d told myself that if I got home by 5:30, I might have a chance.  It was 5:29 when I pulled into the parking lot.

I go into the house and can’t find the duffel bag I’d wanted to use.  I found another one, and managed to stave off the OCD enough that I didn’t go through every pocket in it reminiscing about what I might have used it for.  Instead, I put in my robe and stoles, grabbed some stockings and some dressy-ish boots, (the funeral is at a Missionary Baptist Church with a pastor whose own preferences overruled those of the family and who actually had an opinion on what type of collar I should wear), and my good black preacher suit.  Come to think of it, I should have taken a different one, but the one I took is my favorite.  Of course the jacket and skirt were in two different places, but I managed to pull them together, a collar, a gift for my brother, stuff it all in a bag, and skedaddle.  By this point I’m not watching the time. 

The bag doesn’t have wheels, and I have to schlep it to the train, with my laptop (including not-yet-completed remarks) slung across my back.  My metrocard is around my neck where I keep it for easy access.  Get to the train station, and a train is pulling up.  Except I can’t unzip my coat to get to my metrocard.  I look like a 5-year old standing there trying to unzip my coat while the train pulls out of the station.  Next train is 6 minutes later.  Plane is due to take off at 8, board between 7:25 and 7:45.  Six minutes means a lot.

But I get to the next train and get to Penn Station.  I wander around NJTransit because I don’t see any schedules or fare machines.  Go to Customer service who tells me there’s a train now on Track 10. I go to track 10, passing a ticket machine on the way and getting a round trip ticket to Newark Airport.  I meant to get money, since I forgot to bring some from home and tipped the Albany driver with my last, but the two Chase ATMs I saw were both out of service.  So I get my ticket and go to the train which is full.  No problem, I’m standing, even though there’s a lot of traffic pushing by me.  Finally decide to go to the upper level of the packed train where I immediately find a seat.

The journey to EWR was uneventful (except for the fact that my NJTransit ticket to Newark airport included the Airtrain  -- I thought I’d have to buy a separate ticket for it!), but I was on standby.  Somehow United failed to put my TSA pre-check status on my standby ticket.  It’s now 7:25 or so, I think boarding has started, and these people at Newark literally sent me walking around in a circle before I got to the TSA line.  There not only did I have to take off my shoes and take out my laptop, but my scarf fell out of the bin and got caught in the rollers. After we got that untangled, this little girl kept feeling me up.  She explained what she was gonna do, but it was basically feeling me up.  As always, I made awkward jokes about how much she seemed to like it and who should pay whom, but it didn’t serve to make her move any quicker.  She even swabbed the palms of my hands and it seemed the machine took forever to tell her there was nothing on them.  I’m thinking I’m not getting on the plane.

Then I go to the gate, which is located on bumblefuck lane in west hell.  Seriously.  It was like gate 120-something. And while there were a lot of little cart thingies, the people who were spozed to be driving them all seemed to be talking to each other. I had no confidence they’d get me there any quicker than I would get there walking, so I walked.  And walked.  And walked. And walked.  I even lamented loudly at how ridiculous it was to have a gate that far away.

I finally got to the gate and waited behind a couple of people, only to find out I was at the gate for the Los Angeles flight.  I finally got to the correct gate.  I’d checked the app, which had gone from 7 available seats to zero, and where I had gone from #6 on the waitlist to #7.  It didn’t look good.  But the woman at the counter told us to hang out.  I told God I would trust God’s decision.

Turns out there were 6 available seats on the flight.  I was #7 and the guy I was talking to was #8.  Somehow, we both made it onto the plane!! Seems three people failed to show up.  I ain’t saying it was the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, I’m just noticing three people failed to show up….

There were obstacles on every side.  Every rational indicator suggested I would not make it.  But I’m writing this from 30,000 feet (did I mention I got a window seat?), as we prepare to begin our descent to RDU where I’ll go to be with my family as we prepare to say our final goodbyes to our beloved cousin, father, husband and friend.  I’ll be talking about Faithfulness.  He was a Marine, and Semper Fi was their motto.  I’mma be talking about the faithfulness of God.  I know what I’m talking about.

What I Learned at the Spa

So it seems my latest obsession is with Korean Day spas.  There is a long-standing camaraderie of women at the Harlem Y -- for over 30 years we've sat in the nude, sweating, and steaming, sometimes scrubbing and massaging one another, and always discussing the world's issues.  Vestiges of that camaraderie (though it has waned tremendously as the neighborhood has gentrified) are what keep me at the Harlem Y rather than the gym where people eat while they do reps.  We share our womanhood as we share our communal care about our bodies.

And one day, when either the steam was coming up nice or wasn't coming up nice, or when the sauna was hot or it wasn't hot enough -- on one of those days the discussion turned to Spa Castle, some place in Queens.  Various women raved about it, enough that, even though it had scandals (including a man being found dead in one of the pools, after which it closed down for about a year), I was interested in checking it out.  I never buy anything at retail, so when a Groupon offered 40+% off, I bought one.

And it was great.  Apparently it's based on the concept of a Jjimjilbang, which you can read a wiki about here (or if the link doesn't work, just Google Jjimjilbang, or "Korean Day Spa.").  It's set up just like that, down to the color-coded uniforms.  Spa Castle had a bunch of pools:  100 degrees, 104, 106, a chill pool, a cold pool -- and a massive jacuzzi area with chairs built into the walls.  Position yourself properly in the chair, hit a button,  and you have a personal jacuzzi-massage!  It was fabulous.  The pools were all same-gender, and they required you to enter them nude.  There was lots of showering and scrubbing before getting into them, though it IS still a bunch of naked women in water....  Granted, I've been in the gym for decades and am no stranger to nudity (I actually met a nun in the steam room at AAR once; we had a delightful chat in the steamroom and later, when we saw each other during the conference, we both remarked something like "I didn't recognize you with your clothes on!" which made us the butt of jokes for the rest of that evening...) -- I'm no stranger to nudity, own whatever body issues I have, and am comfortable in my skin.  But in the spa, I very quickly I realized that pretty much EVERYBODY owned their body issues and was comfortable in their own skin.  I mean, here we are parading around in our birthday suits, and all we're concerned about is "is there any conditioner left?" or "how hot is that pool?" or "how long til I can get a massage/body scrub?"  Usually when I'm walking around a locker room with no clothes on, I'm aware of my breast cancer scar, and it's a badge of honor.  In the day spa, the only thing I thought about my breasts was to notice how they floated and wonder whether they'd hold me up if I were to pass out from the heat of the pool.  The upper floors of Spa Castle were co-ed.  Fortunately, I'd been told to wear a bathing suit under the uniform they gave me, so I was good to go in the various saunas and in the co-ed pools and Jacuzzis.  Spa Castle had outdoor pools, but since the air temperature was in the 30s, I didn't choose to brave them, though many people did.

Back at the Y, I raved about how I'd finally gone to Spa Castle, and someone told me about King Spa in New Jersey.  Sure enough, a coupla weeks later, I bought a Groupon for King Spa.  It was very similar to Spa Castle, with a couple of exceptions:  King Spa doesn't allow kids in the pools, it didn't appear to be as trendy and crowded as Spa Castle; King Spa didn't serve or allow alcoholic drinks; and it had more varieties of saunas and less pools.  It was a mellower, more chill vibe for me.

So I'm laying on the floor in one of these saunas (they have like a Rock Salt sauna, a Mineral Salt Sauna, a Yellow Ocher Sauna, an Amethyst Sauna, a Gold Pyramid Sauna, an Ice Sauna, and a bunch of other saunas with Korean names that I don't know what they mean.  There's even a little female-specific spa/herb bath with mugwort that the lady says is "good for your v-jayjay." Most of us did it out of curiosity, but one of the women said she was doing it because her friend told her that it enhances orgasms).  So I'm laying on the floor of one of these saunas.  The heat comes through the floor as well as from something in the middle or top of the room.  And I'm laying there, still and quiet, and somehow I'm able to pray and commune with God in a way I haven't done in over 30 years.  (Sidebar:  I'm really into the triune person:  body, mind, and Spirit, and I have to engage with God in all three areas or else I don't feel complete.  I realized this about myself when I was a martial artist, and I try now to maintain a strict exercise discipline, but they really need to be intentionally integrated -- you need to recognize when you are exercising that it is also a form of worship, or else it's just exercise.  The spiritual discipline is different from the purely physical one).  But I've digressed again.  As I was laying on this floor, struggling to surrender my body to the intense heat, I came to realize how incredibly broken I am.  My public persona is sort of a gloss over bandaids, duct tape, and dental floss, which all hold me together.  My life is so busy (Burdened Under Satan's Yoke), and chaotic that I have not been consistent about addressing that brokenness. I can feel it, and can duct tape and gloss it over, but at some point I need to go in and repair that brokenness.  For me, the repair doesn't happen in communal experiences, it doesn't happen through external stimuli, it doesn't even happen in supplication to God.  For me, the repairing of my brokenness happens when I calm my body and mind, open those inmost parts of my spirit, and allow God to touch and heal me in those places.  And it's not just allowing God to touch me in those places, but being still and calm and quiet and open and present enough to receive GOD'S healing touch, rather than trying to interpret it, or to put my spin on what I feel -- there's a difference between feeling the Power and Presence of God and going out and babbling about it versus feeling the Power and Presence of God, connecting with it, and surrendering to it -- even when it's contradictory to what I'd thought or wanted or imagined.  It's like in that sauna is where I can:
Be Still And Know That I Am God.
Be Still And Know That I Am.
Be Still And Know That.
Be Still And Know.
Be Still.
Be.

The Spa is where, after studying and napping and scrubbing and showering and massaging and exercising and eating and all, I can subdue my flesh, consciously and intentionally make my spirit available to God, and just Be.  In that Being, God enters in, miracles happen, and brokenness is repaired.

And that's what I learned at the Spa.