...or...
Daddy Always Told Me, Women Weren’t Simple
Daddy Always Told Me, Women Weren’t Simple
Train 001: My Country
"I'm going to go home and listen to country music....
The music of pain."
--Xander, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
A few weeks back I made a generalized comment about the American South and this week, I’d like to make another. Having grown up in Boston, come of age in New York City, fallen in love for the first time in Seattle, and finally found myself in LA, I owe the South for my unshakable sense of patriotism. Or... more specifically... I owe it to country music. Country music, after all, isn’t named after rural regions, the bread basket and rolling fields o’cotton. It’s Country (read: My Country, America) Music.
“I thank God for my life.
And for the stars and stripes.
May freedom forever fly, let it ring.
Salute the ones who died.
The ones that give their lives
so we don’t have to sacrifice
all the things we love.”
In America, freedom is an extreme sport. Even with terrorists, planes and death scarring our memories, we whine about the long lines at airports. We like our freedom wild, dangerous and... free. “Live Free or Die,” reads the license plate tag in New Hampshire. No where near the South but it might as well be.
As a brown grrl, it was considered acceptable in school for me to beat the drum of common knowledge and claim that the South is all full up of ex-slave-owning, white, red-necked bigots. I could beat my chest and shout about burning their dang Confederate flag. But you know what? The Civil War was more about economics and State freedom than about skin color. The freedom to create the culture that speaks to us. To protect our way of life. To keep near and dear that which means the most to us.
“A cold Coke on a Friday night.
A pair of jeans that fit just right.
And the radio up.
I’ve seen the sunrise.
Seen the love in my woman’s eyes.
Felt the touch of a precious child.
And known a mother’s love.”
Country music reminds us of the simple, indelible, undeniable truths that should (and in so very many ways *do*) rest at the center of this system that is our country. The basic freedoms that were laid down in that thing that isn’t just a character attribute in an rpg. Roll the d20 to set the limits on your constitution? I don’t think so.
When I hear people complain about the corrupt American government and the evil Electoral College and the lying politicos... I want to grab them by their collar and shake some geography into them. We are a sweet little cakewalk into corruption compared to the rest of the world where you whine about a leader and your family disappears. We are a game of dress-up-make-believe evil when other countries have white-washed words for contemporary day genocide. And those lying politicos? The Latin root for “politician” is “lying scum bag” so, yeah, we’ve *all* got those. But you know what, friends? We have the singular pleasure of saying we voted in our scum bags so let’s show our short-term leaders some respect. Think you could speak eloquently to a country when airplanes are falling out of the sky? I think not. I know I couldn’t.
“It's funny how it’s the little things in life
that mean the most.
Not where you live or the car you drive
or the price tag on your clothes.
There’s no dollar sign on peace of mind
this I’ve come to know...”
Part of this extreme sport is perhaps our most heated right. Freedom of religion. Stop with the snorts and guffaws. They truly drive me nuts. Because no one – not our white-wigged founding papas or our current grim-mugged ringmasters – ever said freedom *from* religion. Freedom *of* religion is the ability to stand in a country, to worship in a country, and not be gunned down or exiled or imprisoned because your god isn’t Their god. It may really bite (and remember, I’m a Christian here... and not a casual one!) when our law-makers argue for or against based on scripture (which, I’m sorry, but is *wrong*) but we’re still not sticking “Free America” bumper stickers on our SUVs. It’s “Free Tibet” (Google it). Church should *not* dictate State... but we *are* a Christian country (look at a penny for proof) so let’s all deal, okay?
And even that (church dictating State) isn’t as insane as elsewhere. Other governments dictate... we kinda... poke along with a dull stick. And still, if we turn out in enough numbers at the polls, we do get our way. Maybe it just so happens that some of us like those scripture-based dictates :)
We have crazy rights. Mad rights. More rights (literally) than we know what to do with. And guess what else? We’re still fighting for more! We’re still bringing all our peoples up to date. We’re making progress (and equal rights *are* progress) and equalizing. We’re finding a balance in a country that is less homogenized than any other in the world.
Southern Pride? Patriotism? Of course! The South is all about *America.* It’s all about the cars, the dreams, the star-crossed lovers, the rebellious teens, the hard-working, dying-young daddies, the soldiers, the ranchers, the belles. America is all about:
“Cause I was thinkin’ bout a little white tank top
Sittin’ right there in the middle by me.
I was thinkin’ bout a long kiss
man, just gotta get
goin’ where the night might lead.
I know what I was feelin’
but what was I thinkin’?”
The election is quickly approaching. Some of my friends and I are getting together at the local biker bar with the great big, big-screen to watch the results. America has voted in white men since our get-go but this term our white boy is backed by a chick and our little-Democrat-who-could is a brown man. Oh yeah. There’s no freedom here. We’re all just dreaming the impossible dream *snort* What have we got? We’ve got *choices.* Make ’em. Be decisive. B E Decisive!
And please, not this week, don’t get me all stoked on the sweet courtin’ (after all, Froggy done did it with a banjo... or a shotgun dependin’) that lives in country music. I won’t lie. I will walk out of a club that starts twanging country when I want to dance (Angel don’t line up for no one, baby) but I’d rather stay home in my little white tank top than dance to hiphop’s courting sounds of simulated sex acts, bitches, hos, and butts so big only snakes can love ’em. Hand me over to a grin on my face and aw-shucks boys painting my name in John Deere green while crooning:
“So won't you lay back down beside me.
Just like I know you want to do.
Yes, it's gonna take forever, darlin'.
Girl, I just got started lovin' you.”
Mm-hm. That’s the freedom I’m talking about.
Train 002: My Battle
--Xander, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
A few weeks back I made a generalized comment about the American South and this week, I’d like to make another. Having grown up in Boston, come of age in New York City, fallen in love for the first time in Seattle, and finally found myself in LA, I owe the South for my unshakable sense of patriotism. Or... more specifically... I owe it to country music. Country music, after all, isn’t named after rural regions, the bread basket and rolling fields o’cotton. It’s Country (read: My Country, America) Music.
“I thank God for my life.
And for the stars and stripes.
May freedom forever fly, let it ring.
Salute the ones who died.
The ones that give their lives
so we don’t have to sacrifice
all the things we love.”
In America, freedom is an extreme sport. Even with terrorists, planes and death scarring our memories, we whine about the long lines at airports. We like our freedom wild, dangerous and... free. “Live Free or Die,” reads the license plate tag in New Hampshire. No where near the South but it might as well be.
As a brown grrl, it was considered acceptable in school for me to beat the drum of common knowledge and claim that the South is all full up of ex-slave-owning, white, red-necked bigots. I could beat my chest and shout about burning their dang Confederate flag. But you know what? The Civil War was more about economics and State freedom than about skin color. The freedom to create the culture that speaks to us. To protect our way of life. To keep near and dear that which means the most to us.
“A cold Coke on a Friday night.
A pair of jeans that fit just right.
And the radio up.
I’ve seen the sunrise.
Seen the love in my woman’s eyes.
Felt the touch of a precious child.
And known a mother’s love.”
Country music reminds us of the simple, indelible, undeniable truths that should (and in so very many ways *do*) rest at the center of this system that is our country. The basic freedoms that were laid down in that thing that isn’t just a character attribute in an rpg. Roll the d20 to set the limits on your constitution? I don’t think so.
When I hear people complain about the corrupt American government and the evil Electoral College and the lying politicos... I want to grab them by their collar and shake some geography into them. We are a sweet little cakewalk into corruption compared to the rest of the world where you whine about a leader and your family disappears. We are a game of dress-up-make-believe evil when other countries have white-washed words for contemporary day genocide. And those lying politicos? The Latin root for “politician” is “lying scum bag” so, yeah, we’ve *all* got those. But you know what, friends? We have the singular pleasure of saying we voted in our scum bags so let’s show our short-term leaders some respect. Think you could speak eloquently to a country when airplanes are falling out of the sky? I think not. I know I couldn’t.
“It's funny how it’s the little things in life
that mean the most.
Not where you live or the car you drive
or the price tag on your clothes.
There’s no dollar sign on peace of mind
this I’ve come to know...”
Part of this extreme sport is perhaps our most heated right. Freedom of religion. Stop with the snorts and guffaws. They truly drive me nuts. Because no one – not our white-wigged founding papas or our current grim-mugged ringmasters – ever said freedom *from* religion. Freedom *of* religion is the ability to stand in a country, to worship in a country, and not be gunned down or exiled or imprisoned because your god isn’t Their god. It may really bite (and remember, I’m a Christian here... and not a casual one!) when our law-makers argue for or against based on scripture (which, I’m sorry, but is *wrong*) but we’re still not sticking “Free America” bumper stickers on our SUVs. It’s “Free Tibet” (Google it). Church should *not* dictate State... but we *are* a Christian country (look at a penny for proof) so let’s all deal, okay?
And even that (church dictating State) isn’t as insane as elsewhere. Other governments dictate... we kinda... poke along with a dull stick. And still, if we turn out in enough numbers at the polls, we do get our way. Maybe it just so happens that some of us like those scripture-based dictates :)
We have crazy rights. Mad rights. More rights (literally) than we know what to do with. And guess what else? We’re still fighting for more! We’re still bringing all our peoples up to date. We’re making progress (and equal rights *are* progress) and equalizing. We’re finding a balance in a country that is less homogenized than any other in the world.
Southern Pride? Patriotism? Of course! The South is all about *America.* It’s all about the cars, the dreams, the star-crossed lovers, the rebellious teens, the hard-working, dying-young daddies, the soldiers, the ranchers, the belles. America is all about:
“Cause I was thinkin’ bout a little white tank top
Sittin’ right there in the middle by me.
I was thinkin’ bout a long kiss
man, just gotta get
goin’ where the night might lead.
I know what I was feelin’
but what was I thinkin’?”
The election is quickly approaching. Some of my friends and I are getting together at the local biker bar with the great big, big-screen to watch the results. America has voted in white men since our get-go but this term our white boy is backed by a chick and our little-Democrat-who-could is a brown man. Oh yeah. There’s no freedom here. We’re all just dreaming the impossible dream *snort* What have we got? We’ve got *choices.* Make ’em. Be decisive. B E Decisive!
And please, not this week, don’t get me all stoked on the sweet courtin’ (after all, Froggy done did it with a banjo... or a shotgun dependin’) that lives in country music. I won’t lie. I will walk out of a club that starts twanging country when I want to dance (Angel don’t line up for no one, baby) but I’d rather stay home in my little white tank top than dance to hiphop’s courting sounds of simulated sex acts, bitches, hos, and butts so big only snakes can love ’em. Hand me over to a grin on my face and aw-shucks boys painting my name in John Deere green while crooning:
“So won't you lay back down beside me.
Just like I know you want to do.
Yes, it's gonna take forever, darlin'.
Girl, I just got started lovin' you.”
Mm-hm. That’s the freedom I’m talking about.
Train 002: My Battle
“I love rock 'n roll, put another dime in the jukebox, baby.”
--Joan Jett
The doves are looking at me strange. Up here on the roof top, under the quickening sky, they think I’ve lost my mind in my tank top and leather pants in the 50 degree weather. But Christ’s sky is so dang open to me, so unencumbered with clouds, so bright and sharp like His own steel blade scythe. The chaff falls away beneath this sky. I’m bowing down, on my knees seems my natural resting state. Sweet Lord, I wish it were for another reason.
“It's not fair
to deny me
of the cross I bare
that you gave to me.”
I stood here, on the raised edge for so long. Five storeys beneath my feet. People and lives I never knew. And I’m staring out over a city that bustles 24/7, spinning its wheels, chrome and steel. And Christ stands right beside me. As tangible and real as any brother. As solid and strong as any lover. And He waits for me to speak but I don’t. He knows everything all ready, but I won’t. I refuse to acknowledge this living presence... because right now I need to feel alone.
“My shadow is the only thing
that walks beside me
My heart is the only thing
that's beating.”
The music bleeding out of my cheap ear buds. The player in my back pocket seems like an extension of me. A pod of my emotional state, upgraded as needed with a buck-a-tune or Google hack. Never deleted, just augmented. If I had wings right now, I’d jump. If I had wings, you’d already be holding me in your arms.
Will you be gentle with me?
So gentle, lover.
I'm scared... butterflies.
Feel me, baby? See, so gentle.
Hm.
Just the tips of my fingers.
Oh.
Just slow...
Yes.
...over all these feathers.
*nodding*
I love your wings.
...
I love you.
“Every whisper,
every waking hour,
I'm losing my religion.
Trying to keep an eye on you.
And I don’t know if I can do it.
Oh no, I've said too much.
No, I haven't said enough....”
The doves are staring at me... or not staring at me. Hard to tell with doves. Their heads are cocked away. Their deep black eyes are fading into the darkling that takes my sky. Their house is full. Their little cathedral. I added the bench from the Catholic church on Fifth that was remodeling. Got it for a day’s work lifting and hauling. The new window is from Amel’s temple. It’s double-paned and the frame has beautiful scroll work, knobs and turns in the wood. It was out by their dumpster when we met for lunch on the day he finally asked me if I was yours.
I told him yes, btw. I blushed when I said it. I had been yours since long before baptism. Since long before waking up again in those bright white lights. We spent an hour discussing the death that occurs before rebirth. The growth that happens before we split our chrysalis and stretch our wings. We spent another hour looking at each other in some wonderment. I don’t think I ever stopped blushing. Somehow, it was like looking at you.
Fugees’ voice like warm honey and chai:
“Killing me softly
with His song.
Telling my whole life
with His words...
killing me... softly.”
The doves don’t know what to do with me. So still and silent... just hands on keys, itty bitty laptop on knees. At least, they think, she’s sitting now. Away from the vertigo. Away from the edge. But I’m more on edge here, my back to their House of the Lord, than I ever was far above the street. Muscles jump. Breath not misty but cold over my hands. Eyes dark like doves at night. Anger... where does that come from? Where is it taking me?
We're dancing. I’m dreaming. Nickelback. I’m not. It’s real. It’s now. It must be. Lord... let it be. Your hips fit perfectly in my palms. Your fingers play softly in my hair. You make jinglebells of my d6 earrings. You whisper, “Tell me where you want me.”
“There's broken glass
on the freeway.
I've fallen apart.
I'm barely breathing.
But in every pain
there is healing.
And I'm holding on.
I'm still holding on to you.”
This city has a history with me and within me. It’s not my darkest place. It’s not all bite and chew. But it has this way of finding a grrl on a roof top like this, under her Christ’s own bright-dark, dark-bright sky... confusing stars for satellites, singing amens beneath my breath... and somehow, everything turns inside out and I start to consider that everything is not as it seems. I start to puzzle together the riddle of this even before your messenger arrives on transgenic wings.
“But if the bright lights don’t receive you
you should turn yourself around and come on home.
Let that city take you in (Come on home).
Let that city spit you out (Come on home).
Let that city take you down.
For God sakes, turn around!”
The doves are wondering why I’m board casting music into their domain. They want to know why my head is buzzing like a hive. They are curious enough to lift a strand of my hair off my goose-bumped shoulders. They escape with a few threads but still they wonder.
Christ is standing on the edge of the roof top. He has stepped into a beautiful body to greet me. I wouldn’t acknowledge Him and so He made Himself flesh. He is standing here now, hands on narrow latina hips, head cocked. You might think He had attitude but He’s just mimicking the doves. He’s the last soldier in the long line that it took to reach me. He’s not amused to have been ignored.
“You knew it was a lie. If you had looked into your heart, if you had stopped and heard me, you would have known. I was whispering the truth to you all along. But it was easier to be afraid. It was easier to accept failure and crumble. It was easier to give her the out you wanted her to take. To liberate your shoulders of your own doubt.... But I won’t let you. Carry your cross, Eliza Jean. Walk your path even if you bleed for me.”
And I realize that tonight, beneath this now nighttime sky, beneath the treasure horde of heaven’s stars, I realize that tonight Christ sounds a lot like Jessica Alba.
“My stomach's filled
with the butterflies
and it's alright.
If I said I didn't like it
then you know I lied.”
Sometimes the fighter wants to lay it down. Sometimes the soldier wants to close his eyes. Sometimes the natural state of kneeling beneath the weight of the world and worry and wonderment is enough to make even Atlas cry. Sometimes... we want to believe the lies because they are easier than the truth. They are less complicated. Sometimes fact is so much stranger than fiction that we pray for the fictionalized novelization where everyone is played by archetypes and, if we’re lucky, Eliza Dushku plays the lead.
Sometimes we need saving from ourselves.
“The little things
you do me.
I want to show you
this beating heart
crazy beats
stuck here
in this place.”
The danger of that edge draws me back, moth to streetlamp. I look out over the city. Somewhere out there lies my enemy. Somewhere inside my heart is his sanctuary. Take off my armor of Christ for one day, one hour, and this hell-bent herald creeps in and takes root. He reads weaknesses and worries in my eyes wide with exhaustion and hope and trust. He calls himself friend and tries to make amends with bashful murmurings. His sweet-talking, turn of phrase is legendary, prime time.
I gave him the benefit of a doubt. My doubts.
He took them to an alchemist and poisoned my latte.
“This is so surreal,” I wrote to you. Even more so now.
“Every time I look
you're never there.
Every time I sleep
you're always there.
When I close my eyes
it's you I see...”
You’re everything to me.
Now Angel is going out to do some hunting.
Train 003: My Love
Wings: You rock.
Me: Because?
Wings: You write her a story *every* night!
Me: No... just on Mondays and Fridays.
Wings: And you do it *live!*
Me: Well, I’m certainly not dead, baby ;)
You: Tell me a story? To help me sleep.
GamerAngel: Just make one up?
You: Yes.
GamerAngel: Just right now?
You: Can you?
GamerAngel: For you? Anything.
You: Tuck me in :)
GamerAngel: In the winter is the best time to travel to Moscow because no one can get there in winter. Only locals.
You: Oh, winter in Russia? I must have a *big* coat or I'm going to be a whiny baby. :)
GamerAngel: And many of the smaller churches close their doors because there isn't enough to keep them running. I dress you in a full length, soft, fur-lined coat because there's no freaking PETA in Russia and you'll freeze in fake fur.
You: You're dressing me? LOL
GamerAngel: Actually... We've been together ten years at this point... so yes, I often *dress* you.
You: LOL :)
GamerAngel: :) There is a hat vendor braving the elements to sell his last two hats and I buy them. The one I buy for you is brown and white and covers your head and ears. You look like a puff ball and you're warm. Your hands are protected by my favorite pair of leather gloves that I bought in
You: :) My cocoon! The portable form!
GamerAngel: France when I was eighteen. They cost me almost $600 USD but they're as soft as satin. I like these on you because you have a habit of reaching out and touching my face,
You: Wow. That's an amazing pair of gloves.
GamerAngel: stroking my cheek, and if I can't feel your bare skin against mine, then I want something almost as soft.
You: Really? I didn't notice that I like to stroke your face :)
GamerAngel: We walk together, stealing smiles at each other. We hold hands because... well, because it reminds us that we're together now, no longer apart.
You: :) I like that.
GamerAngel: We come to a small blue-stone church called St Michaels (which really exists) but it's closed. You look up at the high windows. The stain glass is rose and crimson and gold. There are hints of purple and deepest green.
You: That sounds amazing.
GamerAngel: "What denomination is this?" you ask. "I never knew," I say. "It closed the summer I visited here with Grandma." You blink at me. "It's abandoned?" It is very late, the sky is dark above us, the last of the people seem to have fled from the descending cold. I gaze at you for so long that you wonder if I've frozen in place.
You: Oh no! Don't freeze, EJ!
GamerAngel: I am wondering... I am waiting for a sign. You take off one glove and touch my face. I reach into my pocket and take out a key. I press it carefully into your hand.
You: Where did you get that, you magical creature, you?
GamerAngel: "This was my grandmother's," I whisper to you. Your lips part and I have visions of kissing you, slowly, on the other side of the world, that place we call home. But I also know that home is wherever I am with you.
You: :)
GamerAngel: You have carried home in your words and in your trust since the day we promised ourselves to one another. You squeeze my hand and lead us up the old stone stairs. The door is massive and the key is small but you don't pause. The lock is most likely frozen shut... no... the key turns in your hands like my life turned in your hands, from lost to found, so long ago. The door is soundless as you push it open. We step inside.
You: Oh, you are so sweet. Amazingly so.
GamerAngel: I close the door behind us to keep out the chill. There are pews, worn smooth by the faithful long, long ago. They are olive wood, golden and streaked with russet. Without cloth you know them as Puritan (as well as New Testament Christian) style. There is no pulpit but there is a raised dais (sp?)
You: Spelling is fine.
GamerAngel: "Eliza?" you are looking up at the small domed ceiling. "Do you hear...?" And, of course, I do. The silence of the night does not fill this place. It is alive with something not silence. Not harp or keys, not flute or strings... it is music, a sound, a celestial tune that drifts through the open space and vibrates in our chests.
You: Oh wow.
GamerAngel: "This is... beautiful..." you murmur, turning slowing in a circle to take it all in. I catch your hand again. "Hold me?" And you do.
You: Of course I would.
GamerAngel: Your glove still off and your bare hand against my cheek. Your other hand on my shoulder. I wrap my arms around you, bow my forehead to your shoulder, surrender myself to your arms, to you, as I have never with any other.
You: :) Thank you.
GamerAngel: "I think that heaven may be like this," I admit quietly. "I think it is heaven," you say and I can hear your amazement and a smile. We stand like that for what seems like just a few moments... maybe half an hour at the most. Then we walk the space and touch the stain glass and the pews. You put your glove back on. I retie your hat.
You: Gorgeous.
GamerAngel: We open the big heavy door... and find that night is gone. Completely spent. Dawn has come and past.
You: :)
GamerAngel: The new sky is full of fast moving silver clouds mixed with white. And peaking through now, catching the stain glass like jewels, is the first sun we have seen all season. Our light. His light. Always perfect and complete.
Amen
EJ
