The Modesty Myth

Warning:  This post might offend you.  There are some words you may find distasteful, plenty of ideas with which you may disagree, and some things, that if you read, may lead your opinions to shift a bit.  Choose your next step wisely.

Recently, I've noticed an odd occurrence in my Facebook news feed and elsewhere on the internet.  It seems to me that I've been seeing a lot more of the word "modesty" lately.  Now, although I don't have a problem with "modesty" in and of itself, I have some issues with why we encourage modesty and some serious issues with our discouragement of other people's expressions of modesty.  To be frank (as in "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," not as in "Frank Sinatra), I find it incredible that many of the people I see suddenly becoming a voice for modesty are also people who have field days talking about how terrible hijabs and burqas are.  Understand, please, that the people I associate with - as with many people, I believe - are very much like myself.  We're somewhere in the lower middle class, white, Protestant, and have some seriously strong links to the American Midwest.  And the funny thing is that I don't think that's a bad thing, necessarily.  Although I have pretty open views on most things, I understand how socializing goes and recognize that I'm really not particularly good at diversifying my friend group.

I also recently came across a new Facebook friend and real-life acquaintance's status update bemoaning the lack of respect for people who are and who appear to be young.  And she's totally correct.  Although I don't often get second-guessed by strangers and I'm starting to look my age for the first time in about ten years, I feel really strange sometimes because of the way my own family members react to some things I say or do.  When I was twelve and reading Gone with the Wind, the only copy the Kingman Library had was the large print edition, so I was toting around the first volume of two 8"x12"x4" copies for a while.  When I got to the middle of that volume - which is a difficult task, by the way, because when you're not used to it and don't need it, large print is far more of a hindrance than a help!  On our next trip to the mall, I went to the bookstore and asked if they had any copies of Gone with the Wind.  "You mean, like a children's copy?"  Yes, because Gone with the Wind, the tawdry Civil War novel has a children's edition, nitwit!  But I digress.  The point is that we, probably as a global society, look down on those who are younger than we are and are expected to look up to those who are older than we are.  How arbitrary is that?  Think about it for a second.  On the surface, yes, we all have that engraved on our psyches, but I want you to seriously think about that.

And when you do, remember that some of our assumptions with that respect are that we must bite our tongues when we encounter something we understand better than our elders, that we must smile - or at least nod - while he or she talks about how much better things were when "I was your age," that we must ignore significant historical data that we may know concerning their topic, that we much turn our back on what we think - all because someone is older than we.

Does that make a lick of sense to you?

I find myself squelching my thoughts from time to time, averting my eyes, and clenching my teeth to avoid controversy.  It happens far too often.  I have this incredible anxiety not so much about offending others or even disrespecting them, but about how their offense will negatively impact our relationship.  I'm a stubborn person when I want something badly or believe in something enough, but I'm able to listen to people and have the uncanny blessing (curse) of severe empathy.  If everyone had this ability, the world, I assure you, would be a much more heart-wrenching place.  I'm constantly conflicted and constantly on guard.  It's really hard for me to listen to person after person complain about the health care act without acknowledging the problems from every angle.  I sharply inhale when I hear people say that healthcare is not a right, it's a privilege, and it's not for everyone.  I feel a tingle up my back when people bash beliefs other than their own.  And I want to scream at the people who make snide comments about my trip to Turkey, the people I met there, and who think they are being clever when they talk about hijab (head scarves) in a derisive tone.

"Did you have to wear that everywhere?"  That's how it starts.

"No, just in mosques, mostly."  I try to leave out that in Konya, I felt remarkably more comfortable with my head covered at all times.

"Why would you go into a mosque?  I don't know why you'd ever want to go to a place like that.  I wouldn't."

That's usually when I want to call them a pea-brained American stereotype.  And that's also when I usually assess why it is that I spend time with them in the first place.  Most people with whom I share my photos are beloved family or friends, so I brush it off and I'm pretty honest with them.  Some are kids who've just overheard their family's close-minded remarks and don't know any better.  Actually, most people just don't know any better.

And that, in my opinion, is utmost unacceptability.

There is no excuse for this ignorance, this hatred, this fear of what we history majors call "the other."  Let me say that again:  there is no excuse.  There might have been at one time, I'll concede that.  There was a time when we were closed off from the world and really had few ways of accessing it.  Today, however, if you're reading this, if you're scrolling through your Facebook news feed, if you're watching YouTube videos to kill the time, and find yourself - as I often do - needing a way to occupy your mind with something other than the here and now, you can be exploring.  We often talk about travel and how wonderful it is.  Although what education-minded people would call experiential learning is priceless and incredible, there are other types of learning.  You could check out a book on Turkey and learn more than the history I picked up on my study tour, but you'll not know what it's like to feel more comfortable in that head scarf than without.  But there are books about that.  There are blogs about that.  Heck, there are vlogs that address that and other cultural perceptions.  There are people on the street who are years younger than me who know a hell of a lot more about wearing hijab than I ever will.

It seems to me that modesty and age go hand in hand with one another.  We seem to want to tell our children adolescent girls that they need to wear shirts up to their collarbones, loose skirts to their knees, and moreover, act modest.  We warn girls to not lead boys on.  We teach girls our children that women are to blame for the failings of men.  I have witnessed an incredible pooling of joy for the video above this paragraph, a song entitled "Virtue Makes You Beautiful."  I wanted to like it - I did.  I went into it thinking, "Well, if we're talking 'virtue,' that's exciting," and when the music started playing, my boy band loving self (no, I'm not really a One Direction fan, but I'd be lying if I didn't mention that they have some catchy tracks and I know the one this song rips off) was thrilled to hear the opening riff.  But then the lyrics started.  And, for Pete's sake, the chorus of this song is:

"If only you saw what I can see,

you'd understand why I need your modesty.

Right now I'm talking to you and you must believe

You gotta know-oh-oh -

Virtue is so beautiful!"

Let's just take a moment to examine this in the order it's thrown out to us before the beats of the song allow for it to be.  "If only you saw what I can see," means that these shirt and tie clad teenage boys want this girl to see herself as they do.  Okay, cool.  This is stolen directly from the original hit pop song.  "You'd understand why I need your modesty."  Stomach flop.  Feel that puke rush up your esophagus.  Yes, what that catchy hit tune just got you nodding along to was that women need to be emblems of modesty.  What's more, this is not for themselves, but for the "I" of this song: the men boys male gender.  "Right now I'm talking to you and you must believe," means that this isn't a choice, but a command.  Look!  "Must believe."  "You gotta know-oh-oh - virtue is so beautiful!"  Not you.  Not how you carry your virtue.  Not what makes a woman "virtuous," but "virtue" itself.  The implications of this are truly disgusting and it bothers me to no end that people I've always respected have liked and shared this in what as become such a public forum as Facebook.  This is a big deal, folks.  This song is boys and men telling girls and women that their modesty is necessary to our way of life and they have no choice but to hold the same views as the menfolk or else the men may well not be able to keep it in their pants.  Moreover, they're saying that clothes make the woman and that they have the right to judge our value based on the clothes we wear

"Really, Yvonne?  Is that fair?"

Yes, I think it is, thank you very much.  (And I'm not the only one.)

Have you ever watched Frasier?  It's one of my all-time favorite sitcoms and I've recently gotten Tom pretty into it, too.  Our post-X-Files world is a bit of a minefield, but we're coping.  The most fascinating character, in my opinion is Roz Doyle.  Now, if you don't know anything about the show I suppose Roz's stereotype would be "the slutty one."  There are plenty of cracks about Roz Doyle's sex life, desperate grabs for good dates, and dissatisfaction.  But they gave her so much more than that.  Roz is a professional woman in a competitive market and works her way around a man's world with more savvy prowess than any of her male counterparts.  She's smart, witty, and always has a killer comeback.  You get the feeling she can throw a punch, but can cry on her friend's shoulder.  Roz Doyle is a fantastic woman who is in control of her life, who deals with curves life throws her way, who rises above, and who can schmooze and influence anyone.

Is she "virtuous" in the sense that those men are talking about?  Hell no and damned proud of it!  Would she be caught dead in a burqa?  Probably not, but I'd be willing to bet that entering a mosque,  she'd slip on a head scarf without a thought and wouldn't judge women who choose to wear them.

I ask you: what is virtue?

Is it an ethereal thing?  Is it attainable?  Is it scary?  What is virtue?  I've copied and pasted Mirriam-Webster's online definition of virtue on the page of lined notebook paper to the left.  I can go with definition 1, actually.  "1a: conformity of a standard of right: morality, b: a particular moral excellence."  That leaves open the definition of morality.  And I think that our popular definition of morality is lacking.  It should be more proactive and less limiting.

I have a theory that limiting ourselves - in any way - is to our own detriment.

Now, do I think modesty is a bad thing?  No.  I believe that being judging others's modesty with our own arbitrary definition breeds hate.  One of the strangest memories I have from being in a Lutheran high school was traveling to another school and having to change in the locker room with their girls basketball team.  Did I mentino this was a strict Baptist school?  Well, it was, and those girls were really interested in our game day attire.  Most teams were required to wear dress clothes on game day so that we could look presentable.  However, our definition of "dress clothes" and "dress code" were very different things.  Their cheerleaders wore ankle-length circle skirts with knee-length bloomers beneath them and loose sweaters. Ours wore typical pleated mid-thigh skirts, lollipops (spandex underwear covers, in team color blue), and tight little vests and sometimes long-sleeved white turtlenecks under them.  Their girls basketball team was, likewise, changing out of ankle-length skirts and in awe of our short skirts, heels, and décolletage.  "You're allowed to wear that to school?  I should probably also mention that our school's dress code had been strengthened from that of previous years.  We had to wear collared shirts, though that could be skirted around if you were a girl and claimed what you were wearing was, in fact, a blouse, or if - like me, who really didn't give any care to the dress code - you might have discovered that you could get away with wearing a t-shirt if you put a semi-sheer hooded long-sleeved shirt over it.  The hem of our skirts and shorts had to be at least three inches below our fingertips when we stood stiffly.  Footwear needed to have at least a back strap.  But those girls were amazed by our immodesty.  And many of us were amazed by theirs.  Thing is, we were all dressing to the code of modest within our tightest social framework.

I'd consider myself a fairly modest dresser, but I'd also consider myself fairly liberal with my definition of "modest."  I also consider myself fairly virtuous, but my "virtue" is different from that the boys in the video sing about.

What of it?

It's bizarre to me that people I know find head scarves and burqas offensive and oppressive, but don't see the hypocrisy of endorsing these offensive and oppressive social regimes within their own circles.  But I know what causes this, and it's even more bizarre to my way of thinking.  We we are so lacking in understanding that we ignore what the women in the head scarves and burqas tell us about them.  Yes.  We are so afraid that we don't take the time to look at these garments - or, if you want to get closer to home: imagine the Baptist girls I shared that locker room with - as they are meant to be seen.  What's more is that we enforce our perceptions of them onto the wearer:

"Her family must make her wear that."

"Why would you wear that?"

"That looks so stupid."

"Check for bombs in there.  Terrorist."

It's sickening to me.  Yes, there are girls and women who are oppressed.  There are also boys and men who are oppressed.  Regardless of what is worn, oppression is bad.  Oppression has nothing to do with what you wear.  When it comes to clothing, it has everything to do with who is making the decision to wear it.  I would consider it oppressive if Tom demanded I wear my wedding ring and admonished me when I didn't.  Plenty of women choose to wear their wedding rings and we don't think that's bad, but the minute it's a decision not of your own volition is when, in my opinion, this becomes an oppression-related issue.

I'm not denying that there are women in the world who dress a certain way - in burqa, let's say - at the behest of their families or because they must because of the controlling power, but there is a lot more to it than that.  Not every woman in a head scarf is oppressed.  In the same way that we regard covering our American breasts and private parts, those women are saving things for the eyes of their husbands and loved ones who would love them regardless of the oiliness of their hair or the acne on their neck. I could go on and on here - objectification leads to oppression, so that supermodel with the unrealistic airbrushed body is leading to my oppression, et cetera, but I have something else I want to get to.

"Modesty" and "virtue" are not words that should be solely regarded for the females of our species.  Women and girls are taught these things throughout the world.  In my giant history capstone paper during my final semester at Berea College, I wrote:

Consider our nation’s standards of beauty and morality as laid out in our own cultural standards of dress and behavior.  If a woman was waiting on a corner while wearing jeans and a coat at noon, no one would notice or care.  However, if she was waiting on that same corner wearing a revealing dress and sky-high heels at midnight, someone might report her for prostitution.  The motives in the two situations could well be the same, but the cultural perception calls for a moral judgment.  Similarly, certain segments of Turkish society have become so rooted in Islamic conservatism that women who do not wear higab are considered to be more promiscuous than women who do.  This also plays into women’s fashion, as well – wearing higab can be very fashionable in modern Turkish society and may merely be an accessory for some.  Thus, higab helps to inform a deeper understanding of the complexity of secularism which has become so entwined with Turkish identity.  Clearly, higab has a large impact on women’s roles in society, but there are larger issues within the context of Turkish modernity...

There exist pockets in the world where women's roles are different from our own.  That terrifies us, but we're also terrified of the "other" who have similar views to the ones we're familiar with.

"You mean we have something in common with the 'other?'"  (Yeah, go figure, right?!  I mean, someone we see as so different could be us.)

Boys and men should also be brought up in such a way that disrespect and self-control are discouraged.  They should not be taught "boys will be boys" and "she was asking for it."  They should be taught that kindness and understanding are key principles.  We should foster love and hope.  We cannot allow our boys to grow up to be men who need our collective modesty.  We should all have enough self-control to keep it in our pants or skirts or kilts... or whatever bottoms we choose to wear!  No one sex is to blame for the inequalities in our world, but it's not a far stretch to acknowledge that we are bombarded with images of strong men and weak women and are influenced by that from a very young age.  We have so much left to do for our children, our future children, and their children's children's children.  I'm not not naive enough to believe that I can solve this thing and I'm still cynical enough to believe that we'll need to always keep the conversation going, but we owe it to humanity to get ourselves straightened out.  (Check this out to learn more about people who are actively working on this problem.)

Religious people of the world:  We need to unite to get things straightened out.  We need to be open to explaining and listening.  We need to really look at what our teachings say.  We need to prioritize.  I love 1 Timothy 4:12: "... set an example... in speech, in conduct, in love, and in purity."  Show others how to act with what you say, how you act, with open love, and - lastly - with "purity."  We make such a mountain out of a mole hill sometimes, don't we, though?  Going on and on about "purity," "modesty," "virtue," and the like?

Forget (think of Cee-Lo Green's famous radio edit) all of that!

My personal favorite of this picture emphasizes Jesus's
frustration with our refusal to take his new
commandment to heart with a variation of the word
Cee-Lo and I have bleeped out.

Clothes mean nothing.  Action means everything.  Stop bossing people around because you believe yourself superior because of your age, race, religion, fashion sense, or anything else.  It's giving me a headache and making me lose my breakfast.  

My Awkward Decade: How yearbook and choir changed my life

Last week, a former professor and (I like to think) friend of mine shared a video of 500+ Kentucky high school choir kids making the United States's national anthem ring through the open space of a hotel lobby and shared that choir and journalism were what kept him interested in high school.  And so I got to thinking.  Similar things kept me interested in high school.  Similar things keep me going now.  And, as that professor/friend of mine so wisely noted, that rendition of our national anthem is "a testament to the power of the arts."

There are some things you should know about me in my high school years.  Things about me that I didn't want.

I didn't want to move to Illinois in 7th grade.  After two years in school in Crete, I didn't want to go to the high school I graduated from.  I didn't want to be there.  I didn't want to try anymore.  I didn't like myself.  I didn't know what was coming.

*          *          *

You see, most of us - and most kids we know - go through what are commonly called "awkward years."  I had an awkward decade.  No, seriously.  I went from ages eleven to twenty-two without looking back from the awkward.  It started with looking terrible in polo shirts as school uniforms, which was exacerbated by the terrible hair cut I was forced to get because my pre-pubescent oiliness manifested in both zits and - BONUS - oily hair.  This morphed further upon our move, when I discovered that my fashion sense was even worse without the shield of a uniform shirt for school.  Maybe this wouldn't have been so bad, but my schoolmates all had parents with a closer investment in their fashion - and more money to spend on it.  When we moved to Crete, I didn't have a pair of shoes that fit properly; I'd been wearing sandals the latter half of the summer.  We bought a pair and I learned that here in the Midwest, I needed a special pair to wear in the gym.  These same shoes were not to be worn outside.  At all.  I looked ridiculous.  And though I knew it, there was little I could do about it.  For a long while, I was a fashion victim.  I also had little in common with my peers, being a public school kid who'd never memorized portions of Luther's Catechism, having divorced parents, and having been exposed to other points of view.

Basically my life, but I didn't cry in front of people then.
Suffering in silence is unbearable.  Find someone you trust.
Talk to your kids without judgment.  Be the change.
It all sounds cheesey, but you need to do it.  Please!

Then, at some point, we got a bit more on our feet, but I had no clue how to dress myself.  I became accustomed to finding quirky pieces to deflect from how I looked overall.  I had friends who attempted to help me match, but I said I liked dressing the way I did.  That wasn't true at all, but I felt as though I had no way of looking good.  And now you're thinking to yourself, "Looks aren't everything."  No, you're right, they're not.  But in high school, they are something, especially if you have some major confidence issues and are the heaviest girl in the class to compound the problem.

Freshman year was pure torture.  The summer before, I developed a fledgling eating disorder, which I stifled with - what else? - more food and packed on the unhealthily lost weight.  Within a few weeks of the start of classes, I heard there was a spot open for my school's show choir.  This, you need to understand, was the only thing I thought I might enjoy about high school.  I tried out.  I didn't make it.  I'm fairly sure I skipped more school that year than I did throughout the rest of my education through high school and both colleges.  I didn't do anything.  I just didn't want to be there.  My writing did well, but I didn't find any joy in my studies, which was strange.  My grades suffered.  I fell asleep in religion class.  I disappointed a friend with my depression.  People reached out, but I didn't want to be gotten.  I yelled at some senior girls from my basketball team in the locker room because they were being unfair and I was frustrated, though I knew they were trying to help me.  Things were not good.  The bright spot?  I ran the fastest mile I have in all my life - 7 minutes, something.  The looks on my teacher's face and those of my classmates was beyond satisfying.

Sophomore year wasn't looking much better.  I had tried out for show choir at the end of freshman year and had failed again.  My locker between two guys who always took gym and refused to wash their gym uniforms, so my stuff reeked.  Within those first few weeks, I noticed the yearbook sign up sheet and that a new teacher was taking the post.  Because I enjoyed writing and photography, I decided to give it a shot.  Having somewhere to go during the last period of the day, a place that wasn't a study hall full of students who didn't want to be there, was wonderful.  I found a niche.  I was good at writing and editing others' work.  I could design unique pages and quickly caught on to the design software and the style we were striving for!  I copied inspirational designs with ease, learned to manipulate images a bit to do what I needed to with them, and felt satisfied with something on a regular basis.  I started to make more friends and to get closer to my classmates - it only took three and a half years (sarcasm intended)!  Still, I observed more than I experienced.  I was in the regular high school choir that year, so I got to sing and I even got to sing different parts, switching from second soprano to first alto midway through the year.  My little cousin was born on my sixteenth birthday.  Nana was diagnosed with cancer again and it became apparent we'd be moving back into my great aunts' house.

"Third time's the charm," she said quietly as I rushed to get my books together at my stinky locker.  I was also scarfing down my breakfast because, as ever, I was late.

Cav Singers at Choral Fest 2005
I'm on the far left.  Barney Stinson's Cheerleader  Effect is
in full swing here.  I didn't normally blend so well!

I made it into show choir for my junior year, and if you got in once, I knew you was fairly guaranteed to be in my senior year, too!  After a really good summer that included an escape from my everyday by going to Yellowstone, hanging out with and getting a lot closer to a family that took me into their hearts, and moving back in with my great aunts', I settled into junior year, a bit more the "me" you know today, but still lacking anything resembling unshakable confidence.  Cavalier Singers added to the insanity of what was known as the hardest year at my high school.  Almost as soon as it began, we'd picked a song to perform for the WELS National Choral Fest - 500+ kids, by the way - to be at Martin Luther College in New Ulm, Minnesota.  This performance, mind you, was for our bodies as well as our voices.  A dance number.

And my friend Carly partnered me up with this guy whose voice had sent chills through my spine from the first day we warmed up as a group.

Cue the extra awkward.  I couldn't talk to this guy, let alone look at him straight on.  But I was crushing on him so hard it was unbearable not to communicate at all with him.  Thankfully for me, the world of social media - then, in the form of MySpace - was upon us.  We MySpace messaged quite often.  I think it started off teasing each other about our horrible dancing "abilities" and determining whether or not we had morning practice the next day.  I can't remember.  I suppose it doesn't matter.  But we learned this dance to "Puttin' on the Ritz" and got to the point of being able to do it - both shaking with nerves - and not tripping one another or hitting each other with our PVC canes.  I was the last person on the bus home from Choral Fest - have I mentioned my perpetual lateness?  When I got on, the only seat left was next to him.  I felt the thrill I always felt when I knew we'd be near each other - a mixture of paralyzing fear and extraordinary excitement - and marched myself down the aisle and sat without a word.  The nine hour journey home was an odd one, but for the first time, we talked.  In the form of remarks about other passengers' shortcomings, idiocies, and how much they bothered us, but it counts!  We cast sidelong glances and I ended up flirting with someone from the other choir on the bus.  I tried to get him to help with my physics homework, but he refused, playing dumb, though he was in honors physics.  He sang Irish drinking songs to me softly.

On the way to Prom 2006
I'm the one awkwardly reaching across in the back.
I can't tell you why, though I remember
thinking it made sense at the time.

Things seemed to be going well until the middle of December, when he asked out one of my closest friends and the guy I'd been flirting with also admitted to being interested in another girl.  Around the same time, Nana's health took a sharp turn for the worse.  My insomnia became more intense and more logical.  My studies suffered a bit.  I didn't feel like I had the energy to do it all.  But I still MySpaced with the guy from time to time, avoiding my heartbreak.  I wore blue patent heels on game days.  I wrote nice things on yearbook pages, wrote papers about how I couldn't concentrate, and put a pixel of ever color swatch available for our school's first full-color yearbook on its opening page.  My Dad moved across the country to live with us and to help out.  Things were more insane than ever.  And April 2006 was the hardest month of my life.  When Nana passed away, I felt many of the things I expect people experiencing their first loss experience, but I didn't want to talk about it any more than I wanted to have it happen.  Prom was the first weekend of May and I went with a bunch of friends in a limo and with a classmate "as friends."  In that limo was the boy whose voice gave me chills.  He - and a number of my closest friends - graduated later that month.

Oh, unrequited love, you cruel mistress!

Senior year rolled around and at that point, it was apparent that all that mattered to me was, indeed, yearbook and Cavalier Singers.  I did my best in basketball, as always, but my complete lack of traditional athletic ability once again surged to the forefront as I was the only senior on the team not made captain, though we had three - the two other seniors and a junior.  That stung.  That year, really, was probably the smoothest year.  Though many friends were away at school, I had some solid ones nearby and made some new ones.  By this time, my formerly fellow Cav Singer and I had progressed to AOL Instant Messaging - we in the know called it "AIM" - and emailing.  I graduated, wrote some beautiful things about my time there on some key yearbook pages, and was glad to be done.

A picture from around the time
I was accepted to Berea

Then on to college and more of the same, but with less care.  I didn't care so much what people thought of me.  I was fine with being who or whatever they perceived me to be - for better or for worse.  This let me not try.  Fantastic, right?  A bit freeing, maybe, but I was still holding myself back.  By the time I got to Berea, however, I'd spent a bit of time learning how to make myself look good.  How to dress, how to do my makeup nicely, how to smile at the right time.  And around that same time, someone noticed.

*          *          *

So, as usual after reading one of my ranty posts, I bet you're wondering why that all matters so much to me.  Why do three years of yearbook and two years of show choir hold such a place in my heart?

Let's start with what came first.

Yearbook served as an outlet for the creativity I - still - so easily forget I possess when I fail to use it.  I found a way to write about people other than myself.  I learned to constructively criticize my colleagues' writing.  I worked to create pages and designs that I could see in my head.  I made the computer my friend for more than just messing around online and playing with words.  I grew up a lot in that room.  When I write today, I can't help but think of my time in that Spanish classroom, struggling to make something that made me proud and feeling like I fit in.

Show choir has been a major force in my life, as well, though it may be more accurate to name "music" as that force.  All my life, I've loved church for the music.  I've listened to whatever's on the radio.  If I like an artist, I listen to every song on their album and have to listen to each and every word.  This is a bit maddening for people I'm with, as I cannot be disturbed while the artist is imparting his or her or their wisdom.  But moreover, show choir made me feel like a part of a larger whole - whether the Lutheran high school choir kids throughout the school, the nation, the region or all singers everywhere.  I feel a kinship with song.

There are things I fear I'll never be able to do with total confidence, but I've come a long way.  For example, although I have a job writing now, I fear looking like an idiot in my polo shirt and often feel like I don't know how to dress myself.  I become self-conscious of the way I look, stumble over my words, and sometimes forget what I'm doing.  I have daily struggles, but I also have daily wins and a kitten who gets excited by water and human food.  And Kitten Chow.  And his humans returning home.

And do you know what?

Every day, I get to feel those chills go through my spine when I hear that boy from Cav Singers sing and hum.  That boy helped me through the roughest times in my life so far.  He told me that my beliefs are what matter to my life.  He taught me that I am worth something.  He treated me well.  He became my best friend through years of typing back and forth.  We worked hard on talking to each other.  We're honest.  We're nearly inseparable.  I suppose I should call that boy a man now.  We're married, after all!

I started out quite awkward around this one.  Thankfully, that's faded now.  =)

Marriage Day.  The only awkwardness
came from some of the hilarious poses.

And all from a bit of show choir, a heckuva crush, a lot of hours in front of a computer screen, a lot of unforeseen undercurrents, and whole lot of love.


Side note:
Happy Valentine's Day to all of you out there!  Whether you're celebrating with someone you love romantically, your family, a dear friend, or alone, please be sure to eat enough (the amount differs for each of us) chocolate, sip a little wine (if your old enough and take a sip now and again), and remember the meaning of love, the unforeseen goings on in your life, and pray for a more loving tomorrow for us all.  There are a lot of things that get lost in the shuffle of life and too often we forget our hopes, dreams, and earnest prayers for peace, enduring love, and a bright tomorrow.  Let's not allow that to happen!

Tom tucked me in before work this morning,
so I woke up instead to my little Valentine!
Happy Valentine's Day from Fox the Cat!

Bill & Ken: a conversation I probably won't have with my (future) kids

I didn't watch Bill Nye the Science Guy very often when I was young, but every time I did, I found it fascinating.  I don't know why I didn't watch it very much - whether it was a conscious decision of my grandparents or if I didn't really find it as "fascinating" as I remember and I replaced it with such classics as I Love Lucy and the lesser Laverne & Shirley.  I always thought he was cool, though.  I remember watching the episode on planetary distances.  Each planet was set up as the correct size and in relative distance.  Bill Nye rode his bike from one to the other.  It was awesome.  And Pluto was still a planet!  Anyway, I feel now as though I should go back to watch some.

As I'm sure many of you are aware, Bill Nye and Ken Ham faced off for a debate concerning evolution and creation.

As most of you who know me will recognize, I'm a Christian.

Want to know something I keep under wraps - generally because I don't want to deal with the backlash of it?

I don't think it matters how we came into being.  I do think, however, that the debate itself is important.

I know.  I'm a terrible person, right?

Wrong.

I think that one of the greatest pursuits in life is to search out understanding.  I think that we should try our best to speak about the things which bother us, to talk about the things that matter to us, to consider the ideas of others as just as valid as our own.  Now, before you write me off as an idiot, consider this:  although I did abnormally well in the only philosophy class I ever took, the greatest frustration of my academic life was reading into authors' inner meanings and looking into historical events with a more critical eye than that of a "this happened, which led to this" learner.  I'm an English major who struggled through reading and listening to Pride & Prejudice, the whole time wanting to tear out my hair.  I went through the SparkNotes of Lord of the Flies because it was the first book I ever truly hated and the boredom of it put me to sleep.  I did a decent job of following along witht he novels and stories of my English curriculum not because I "liked to read" as so many people who met me during my college career assessed, but because I know this stuff is important, even if I don't like it.  There are authors I love whose books I need to re-read at a different time in my life.  Steinbeck's Tortilla Flat isn't a bad book, but it was a painful one to read when a loved one's life was crumbling due to alcoholism and in the aftermath of my first dealing with death.

So, you see, even if you don't agree, understanding is important.

Last night, when I was making dinner and about an hour and a half into the debate, I started to think about how I came to my "views" on the topic at hand.  You see, my origins upbringing has been a bit unique.  My science classroom time has been pretty evenly split between secular and parochial classrooms.  I learned about Biblical creation in Sunday School, of course, I memorized light years and distances in public school, and at home, when asking to be quizzed on my science homework, my grandmother was appalled by my answers to the questions.  "You don't believe that, do you?"  "I don't know, but I need to know it for my test tomorrow."  Then came the big Midwestern move.  Thankfully, my science teachers here didn't address the origins question.  Unfortunately, my religion teachers did - and if you disagreed, you were done for.

I don't see what all the fuss is about.  You probably think I'm stupid.

Then, while carrying the laundry up the stairs last night, I considered that even if it doesn't matter to me now, what Bill Nye has said in the past and during the debate might someday come into play.  He's still remarkably focused on the future generations, something which resonates with me because I was one of his first "future generation.

What will I tell my kids?

So, as I often do when such questions come up in my muddy and overfilled brain, I played out the conversation in my head.

*          *          *

"Mommy, we're learning about evolution in school."

"Oh?"

"Yes.  In Sunday school, we learned that God made everything."

"Mhmm..."

"And a kid at school said that to the teacher.  And some other kids laughed and someone said he was stupid at recess."

"Well, that wasn't very nice."

"What do we think?"

"About creation and evolution?"

"Yeah."

"Well, sweetie, that's kind of a complicated question.  Luckily, you've been blessed enough to be born into a family that's okay with complicated things.  You're getting pretty big now and I bet you've noticed that there are a lot of things that your Daddy and I don't agree on, but we don't fight about them, right?"

I imagine my future child will then nod.

"Okay.  Well, I tend to lean a little closer to the creation side of things and your Daddy tends to lean a little closer to the evolution side of things.  And a lot of people we know think  that which one you believe or think happened matters a lot.  Do you want to know a secret?"
"Sure."

"Daddy and I don't think it matters at all.  Think about it - we can't possibly ever know what really happened that long ago, can we?  We weren't there.  Something happened and we - and all sorts of wonderful things - are here now.  It's sort of like if you and I were here in the kitchen and heard the doorbell ring, but when we got to the front door, no one is there - but there are flowers by the door without a note or anything!"

"What would we do?"

"Well, I'd put them in a vase in the middle of the table and think how pretty they are and smell them and enjoy them as long as I could.  I think that we could consider who brought them and come up with a pretty good list - it could have been Daddy, Grandma, or someone else - but we might never know for sure.  Unless the person wanted to tell us.  I even think we could ask the people we think it might be and talk about the mystery flowers with other people - they might be able to come up with some more good guesses.  But I don't really see the point in getting mad at anyone else or thinking they're stupid because of what they think."

"Okay.  But what about evolution and creation?"

"Well, I believe that God created everything, but I don't know exactly how he did it - as much as I believe the Bible, I know that there are a lot of things in science and the Bible that I don't understand or fully accept.  I love going to the museum and seeing bones and fossils and I love the story of a loving Creator.  I don't know how it happened.  I don't really think it matters.  But I think it's important to know both sides and to be well-versed in them.  See, you're going to learning about evolution every school year from here on out and about creation at church each year, too!  Believing or thinking either way doesn't make you stupid or more or less of a Christian or the smarty-pants you are.  People just disagree on things - and that's okay.  We've talked about the right way to be before - loving, joyful, peaceful, patient, kind, good, faithful, gentle, and self-controlled - right?  I think that all of that rolls into respect and that respecting one another is part of the 'Golden Rule.'  Do you remember that one?"

"Treat others the way you want to be treated?"

"Always keep that in your mind.  We won't love you any more or less if you believe differently or the same.  We'll always love you more than anything."

*          *          *

The hitch, of course, is that I doubt my child(ren) will need such a talk and I'm not planning to force it.  If he/she/they ask(s), I'll answer.  If not, I'm more than willing to bet that they're a lot like their parents.

I think mutual respect is one of the most important things in life.  I think that, with 40 minutes left of this debate to watch, each side has been respectful in its way.  I'll admit it's obvious that neither one is willing to yield.  And you know what, I think it's okay.  I'll not be telling you what to believe or think, but I think that whatever you do ought to be done with respect.

good cooks & baNana bread

This past month hasn't held anything ground-breaking, but there have been a few events that have left me thinking for quite some time, along with some words I've puzzled over for longer than the speaker could have possibly intended.  Sometimes I wonder if I'm insane for mulling over the phrasings people choose.  I tend to decide it's not normal.  Then I chalk it up to "being a 'writer.'"  Then I realize I haven't actually written anything in a while and that I've been slacking off on my reading-oriented intention for this year.  Oops.

So, today, as part of a celebration for my Indiana driver's license (In the picture I look like a fool and am smirking because the woman told me I could smile - but no teeth - and I didn't take the time to think about how I'd look if I didn't show my teeth if I didn't fully commit to the smile.), I walked to the local library.  Let me just say, I walked there once with Tom before the snow decided to engulf us.  The walk seemed a lot longer today!  But no matter.  I made it.  And after going through the rigorous library card screening process (it's not over yet!), I checked out two movies I've been wanting to show Tom, along with Lee Smith's Fair and Tender Ladies.  I've been wanting to read it for a while now and I have two weeks to do so.  I'll probably start it tomorrow.  We watched one of the movies already, too.  But, to make myself feel better about the writing bit, I'll do some of that now.

I've been thinking about some of the most common-place words.

A couple weeks ago, my mother-in-law and I were out to lunch at one of Valpo's adorable downtown restaurants - Meditrina - and were talking about food and cooking and life.  She was interested in what I'd eaten during my time in Turkey, whether it was like the things at Meditrina, and the like.  I explained as well as I could that Turkish food where I was tended to be similar to the stuff on my plate, but not the same - also, that I'd eaten a lot of street food and hotel food, but never once eaten in a Turkish home, but that I've tried my own hand at a few things.

Then it happened.

"I'm not a good cook."

She tacked on some qualifiers and I listened.

And it keeps popping into my head time and again.  I know so many people who don't consider themselves good cooks.  I know a lot of people who think they're good cooks and can't cook at all.  I know people who are amazing cooks.  I know people who whip cream just for coffee.  I know people who drink instant coffee like it's the best thing ever.  I know that I could probably make ramen, Kraft macaroni and cheese and hot dogs, or pick up a carry-out pizza every night for dinner for the rest of my life and be a happy girl - and Tom would probably be happy right along with me.

But I have grown to love so many more things.  When I was little, the adults in my life were all extremely concerned about my food pickiness.  I didn't like vegetables other than carrots and corn.  I didn't like Chinese food except for egg drop soup.  I didn't like most soups.  I'd only eat bread and dessert at Lenten soup suppers.  I got sick of lunch meats after demanding to have the same type for an extended period of time.  I didn't eat the majority of breakfast-type food.

And so here I am today.  I'm the one insisting that we have a vegetable with every dinner - and the only veggies in my freezer are green ones.  I make yogurt from scratch after having grown up on Trix yogurt and then Yoplait.  I licked the top of a Trix yogurt the other day; I won't be going back to it.  I just ate a lot of General Tso's chicken and enjoyed every bite.  For "the pickiest kid I ever saw," I crave a lot of variety in my diet.

"I'm not a good cook."

Tom's comment when I told him this was, "Does she think that's why there are never many leftovers?"  I wanted to dismiss it.  I just couldn't.

You see, I grew up with someone who I don't think would ever have actually said that, but who really wasn't a very good cook.  Nana somehow made every meat the same way - stringy and dry.  She made every vegetable the same, too - spongy and wet.  Everything was overcooked.  And when I was little, we were living in a post-coronary world filled with low fat and fat free versions.  Trust me, we're not talking about the '90's that normal Americans on diets experienced.  We're talking the lives of two people who were told to limit their fat intakeor else.  We had I Can't Believe It's Not Butter and switched to Brummel & Brown because of the yogurt inside.  These were the lowest fat contents available, of course.  Fat free sour cream.  Reduced fat Jif.  The 2% Velveeta was the only cheese in sight.  Skim milk for Papa and 2% for me.  Turkey bacon and Egg Beaters.  Now, this is not to say that good things can't be made with low and no fat options, but I think it enhanced my pickiness a bit.  I didn't really like eggs at home, but it didn't help that they tasted different in restaurants - the same for bacon and milk.  I didn't know that butter was its own thing.  On the other hand, fast food tasted especially delicious, so guess who ate more than her fair share when she got the chance!

Anyway, Nana had a few fantastic dishes - her lasagna is mimicked but never matched, the banana bread recipe is cherished, though it's just from an old Betty Crocker cookbook, the baked potatoes were always done on time, she could throw together homemade chicken noodle soup at the spike of a fever, she'd microwave Pop Tarts for me instead of toasting them, and she placed the cinnamon rolls perfectly on Christmas morning and baked them without burning.  I'm sure there are other things I've forgotten, which is making me tear up, but a lot of memories are lost and many are treasured.  Someday, I'll probably forget the Pop Tart thing, but not today.

I have a loaf of that cherished baNana bread in the oven right now.  Reading through the recipe - which, by the way, I was reading from an email I sent my dad five years ago because people in our family can't make any old banana bread - I began to think.  I'm usually so quick to make substitutions in recipes, to go on a whim and to make it my own.  I've never strayed from this one, except that I never have margarine or "soft shortening" on hand, so I just use butter.  I've also never put the optional 3/4 cup of walnuts in.

Do you know why?

Because I've never had baNana bread with nuts.  I didn't like nuts when I was little.  Nana never put them in, so I've never had this particular recipe with nuts.  I guess I should mention that this banana bread really isn't typical; it rises higher than most and is more bready than most, which seem more cake-like.  You can butter it and it barely crumbles.  It's weird, but it's fantastic.

Three recent creations:
-Roast chicken and
mashed potatoes
-Cherry pie
-Yogurt battered, sesame
coated chicken strips
and skillet cornbread

Nana used to make it whenever we had old bananas.  It was probably the most commonly-baked good in the home.  She never put in the nuts.  At church get-togethers, if someone had brought banana bread, she'd have a piece and comment on how delicious the nuts were in it.  She loved banana-nut bread, but she never put those walnuts in to my knowledge.  Sometimes, when I was older, she'd consider it and sort of ask me if I liked nuts yet.  I usually said I could just not eat it if she put them in - and then probably whined a little about it.  So she never put them in.  She loved me so much and wanted to put a smile on my little face so badly that she sacrificed her likes for mine.

So, it strikes me: being a good cook isn't about being well-rounded or fancy or whatever Food Network, Cooking Light Magazine, and your favorite food blogger are telling you it's about today.

Maybe it's just about finding what you make well, what you and your loved ones enjoy, and being happy with what you do in the kitchen and even in the grocery store.

Me?  I tend to be able to make a bit of every cuisine I've encountered.  And I do well with most things.  And the looks of joy on the eaters' faces, the overwhelming spiciness I enjoy that comes when I pour way too much cayenne for anyone else onto my ramen or chili, and the happiness I get from cooking is what makes me happy.

As I was mixing my batter tonight, it struck me that I could put the walnuts in.  But then it wouldn't be the same.  So, I tried another experiment instead - I put half of the flour in as whole wheat.  We'll see how that works - it's smelling great, by the way.  Maybe next time I'll be adventurous enough to try the walnuts Nana left out and dedicate those mouthfulls to her memory and to the good cooks I know - those who sacrifice for their loved ones and find their bliss in the smiles on the faces around them.

Let's focus on what makes us good cooks, not what makes us not good cooks.  Every one of us has something.  I've seen my mother-in-law's food gobbled up.  The strengths matter so much more than the weaknesses.  What makes you a good cook?

P.S.:  I've tried it now - it's good!  It rose a bit higher than usual, but could probably use more bananas than it normally does!  Yum!