Third Confession

I gave a toast at my sister M and her wife E's wedding in October. For months, I was nervous about it. Being shy and introverted as I am, public speaking has always filled me with dread. But how could I turn down the opportunity to pay tribute to one of the most loving and enduring relationships I know? Preparing my little speech was a surprisingly fun writing activity because it involved telling true stories about people who are dear to me. It isn't so different from what I do here, really.

I was anxious until the moment I stood before that tent full of fancy dressed onlookers. But, oh my goodness, it went so well. My stories flowed. People laughed, people went "awww", people applauded in the middle of the toast! I felt so honored to be cheer leading M and E's union and so pleased to have worked up the crowd. But I won't lie, it was also a big ass ego boost for this quiet writer.

A couple weeks after the wedding, I received a Facebook invite for a local event called Wide Open Floor, which is a monthly open mic night at a small dance theater. Naturally, it often includes several dancers but also poets, musicians, comedians and storytellers. It's one of those Chattanooga arts things that I read about and think, "Oh, I should check that out," and never do. But I was still high on the wedding toast rush when it occurred me that I could tell stories at Wide Open Floor. Why not?

At the start of this year, I resolved to take my writing more seriously. Aside from just writing more, this has meant delving deeper into social media and its outlets for self-promotion, as well as submitting an essay to a literary journal. But until that moment, I'd never considered writing as performance. Maybe this was exactly what I needed to do. I don't appear to have many blog readers here in Chattanooga. One reason may be that people around here don't seem to spend as much time online (that's what I like to tell myself, anyway). Perhaps public storytelling would allow me to connect with another sort of audience. Maybe it would just be fun to try.

I missed early sign-up for the November WOF. While they allow space for last-minute contributions, I didn't feel quite ready for it anyway. I attended as an audience member instead and I have to say, the breadth and depth of talent was quite impressive. Sure, some acts were far more engaging than others, but I honestly admired every person who had the nerve to get up there. Their gumption inspired me and got me excited for my next chance.

I signed up for the December show with little idea what I would present. I considered reading some old material, perhaps one of my more story-ish blog posts. I've tried writing fiction, but my brain isn't much good at extrapolating upon past experience to create something new. I just find it easier to write honestly about my life and the things I know, which seems to work fairly well in this format. But unlike a work of fiction,  a spoken blog entry (one of mine, anyway)* is just plain awkward and I felt like doing something new. Ultimately, I pieced together a few old stories, all of which I'd related in past posts, and built a narrative around my experience being a polite northerner living in the south. I liked my piece. I rehearsed it. By mid-day Friday, I felt completely ready.

I performed on Friday night. It was one of the most horrifying moments of my life. When I got off stage and back to my seat, Dan said, "You did great!" I laughed. "No, I didn't." In hindsight, I don't think I did such a bad job, but it wasn't even the quality of my story or presentation that upset me. It was the spotlight. I couldn't see any of the audience members' faces, just dark fuzzy outlines of a too quiet crowd. I felt like I laughed at my own jokes more than they did. Granted, that's an almost daily occurrence in the life of Tara but not on that scale. I was never able to harness my voice, which trembled throughout my eight minute piece. Eight fucking minutes.

Though I'd hoped to go out for a celebratory drink after the show, various technical difficulties plus my late placement in the program meant that I got off stage at 10:40. Our babysitter expected us at 11:00. It was a pretty shitty night. I didn't feel like celebrating anyway. I just went home and cried.

Now I know why narcissists do so well in spotlights. It doesn't matter, because they can never see anyone else anyway. I, on the other hand, felt so awfully vulnerable. That sense of disconnection with a silent listener reminded me of one of the other most horrifying experiences of my life, the Catholic rite of confession. I only ever did it twice, in preparation for my first communion and my confirmation. The second time was the worst. Not only did I have to drag myself into that narrow, little booth and whisper all my sins through a screen to some faceless priest, I had to admit how long it had been since my last confession. I felt more guilty about that than anything else, especially every Sunday when I walked down the aisle for communion. "It's SO WRONG that I'm doing this because I haven't confessed my sins in YEARS but if I don't walk down the aisle, everyone will know that I'm a BAD PERSON." Oh, the layers of shame. I was about 14 years old and certain I was the only one who felt that way.

When I finally entered the confessional that second time, I had to tell the priest my dirtiest secret right off the bat. "Bless me father, for I have sinned. It's been six years since my last confession." He tsk tsked and said, "That's a very long time." Then I mentioned fighting with my brother and sister and being mean to some classmates. When that didn't seem bad enough, I added some blown up charges of swearing (which I'd done only once, in private, to see if god would strike me down). I think I got five Hail Marys and that was that. I felt relieved, but only because it was over. I didn't feel like a better person. And that was one of the early inklings, one of those nagging moments when I had to ask myself, does this belief system make any sense at all?

Within a year, I was faithless. I would still go to church because I didn't want to make waves, but my inner self was done with being Catholic. Around that time, my English Lit teacher, Mrs. P, read Frank O'Connor's short story "First Confession" to our class. It's a brilliant, hilarious tale, in which a little Irish boy dreads admitting to a priest that he wants to kill his crass, ill mannered grandmother. Most of the kids in my class were Muslim, so I don't think they necessarily appreciated it. I had tears and snot running down my face, it was so fucking funny.  But Mrs. P was also a gifted storyteller. She recited the whole story in a brogue. That still stands as the best reading I've ever attended. Come to think of it, I probably should have taken her forensics class. Maybe I'd be better at this public speaking stuff now.

I'm not positive that I won't do this Wide Open Floor thing again. I still stand by my story being good, even if the presentation was nerve-wracking. Maybe next time I'll talk about being terrified. Maybe I'll ask the tech guy to raise the house lights. Maybe I should have asked the priest to pull back the screen. I remember that being an option. It seemed like the craziest idea at the time, but I have this weird feeling it might have helped me quit being Catholic sooner. Maybe I would be less Catholic now.



*I tried doing this on a Youtube video when my friend G asked me to share my birth story with her Bradley Method class. After reading and recording both posts, I watched about thirty seconds and thought, “Well, this is terrible.” So I recorded myself talking through my story instead, and that turned out to be much better.

Conscientious Consumption: Owning the Evil Toy

I have many weird, uncomfortable feelings about this iPad I got for Christmas. For starters, it's truly the fanciest thing I've ever possessed. I've never owned a new computer, a new TV, a smart phone or a digital camera, and this elegant device can stand in for all those things. It's just so pretty and current. Almost all my other stuff is second hand. I've never had the hot new toy before and honestly, I was a little scared to handle it.

Now I'm addicted to the thing, which makes it easy to forget my other major misgiving. This beautiful machine was produced in one of the world's most infamous sweatshops. I've tried in the past couple years to avoid purchasing sweatshop-produced apparel and other stuff, and even blogged about my efforts in previous Conscientious Consumption posts. I started hearing about Foxconn (where Apple iPhones and iPads are made) a year or so ago, after a slew of employees committed suicide. In January, the New York Times published a series of articles about Apple's foreign production, including this fascinating Foxconn exposé. It's old news now, but if you haven't read it, I highly recommend it.

I often feel ashamed of my iPad, but I feel more ashamed of the fact that it took me two weeks to read that article. I was brought up Catholic, so I realize that this may just be my own special neurosis. But in my experience, a lot of people get testy when confronted with the subject of sweatshop labor. I suspect that consumer guilt is the major reason. No one wants to feel like an asshole for owning something, so it's less bothersome to just not think about it. 


That was me a few weeks ago. Then I made myself read the article and I learned a few things that have given me a new perspective on my role as an Apple consumer: 


- While it's really easy to blame Foxconn for unfair labor practices, those practices have everything to do with what Apple demands from its vendors.


- While all computers are produced in foreign countries (mainly in China), the Apple/Foxconn dynamic is not universal. 

"Many major technology companies have worked with factories where conditions are troubling. However, independent monitors and suppliers say some act differently. Executives at multiple suppliers, in interviews, said that Hewlett-Packard and others allowed them slightly more profits and other allowances if they were used to improve worker conditions."

- Though I figured most consumers were unaware of Foxconn and their relationship with Apple, I found the actual percentages rather shocking. 

"Apple is one of the most admired brands. In a national survey conducted by The New York Times in November, 56 percent of respondents said they couldn’t think of anything negative about Apple. Fourteen percent said the worst thing about the company was that its products were too expensive. Just 2 percent mentioned overseas labor practices."

All of this got me pondering...


- If so much of our stuff is inevitably going to be produced in foreign countries by low wage earners, I guess I'd still rather support the lesser of those evils. Is there a way for regular ass consumers like me to know which companies are tied to less exploitative labor practices?


- Shaming consumers for purchasing sweatshop-produced goods makes about as much sense as blaming car owners for air pollution. Yes, all of our individual choices add up to one giant problem. But in both circumstances, corporations are at least as culpable and it's imperative that we don't lose sight of that.


- How do individuals influence corporations and government to promote reform? I don't fucking know. But I have to believe that if even ten percent of consumers were to associate the Apple brand with unfair labor practices, that particular corporation would be far more likely to address labor issues in a meaningful way. Since that article's publication, Apple has hired monitors to inspect Foxconn's facility in China, where employee wages have increased up to 25%. Again, it's important to remember that Foxconn responds to Apple's demands. Getting the middle man to initiate reform strikes me as an insufficient short-term solution, but I suppose it's a start.


More than ever, I believe that knowing the ugly truth is better than not knowing. So please read the NYT article. Here's that link again. If you read it on your iWhatever, it might make you feel weird and that's okay. It's also fine if you don't have any moral qualms. I'm not going to tell you to feel bad. But I'm not going to say that you shouldn't, either. I still feel icky abut this thing.

In Search of a Gray Shades Detector

Last Wednesday, Lady Gaga provided one of the most satisfying TV moments in recent history and she wasn't even singing. Rather, she was mentoring American Idol contestant and metro-Chattanoogan Lauren Alaina during her rehearsal of Elvis Presley's "Trouble". When LA stumbled over the song's first of many "I'm evil"s, she confessed in an interview, "I don't want America thinking I'm evil!" Jimmy Iovine (Idol In-house Mentor and real-life producer) sort of rolled his eyes and said, "This is a character. Just change characters for me," but that advice was clearly going nowhere. That's when Gaga intervened, telling Lauren, "At the end of the day, the word 'evil' isn't that big a deal, is it?" And that was when the young woman stopped arguing and started singing with real passion.

Here's the deal - I really like Lauren Alaina, not just because she's from the town next door, but because she's talented and strikes me as a very sweet and humble young lady; I loved, for instance, her jaw-drop reaction when Jimmy informed her that she is actually a much better singer than Miley Cyrus. She also has this wonderful, unwitting way of using her stature and the nickname "Peaches" ("We're both from Georgia!") to make douchey Ryan Seacrest look just like the fragile man-child that he truly is, though he obviously adores her. So even though I don't care all that much, I think it would be nice if she won the competition.

However, if all this happened a year ago and I'd been witness to the "I'm evil" bit at that time, I may have had to switch players. Her illogical fear would have struck me as the pinnacle of blind, religious idiocy. I guess the difference now is that I understand Ms. Lauren Alaina comes from a community where many, if not most people often and openly discuss their faith (most likely some flavor of Christian Protestant). In this context, her concern is legitimate. I'm just glad that Lady Gaga was able to help her understand that singing "I'm evil" needn't express anything about your true identity.

Identity. It's at the heart of the biggest paradigm shift I've experienced as a southern newbie. I've never lived amongst such a large population of individuals who publicly identify themselves by their faith. Don't get me wrong, I knew plenty of religious people in the north. I'd guess that at least 20% of my high school female classmates wore hijabs, which clearly indicated that they were Muslim. I went to church every Sunday until I was 20 years old and I'd see several of my Catholic peers there, too. I had a sense of what others believed, but we didn't talk about it much. After moving to a college town, I was definitely hanging with a more agnostic crowd, but no one talked about that much, either. When I look at my northern Facebook friends' profiles, I find that most people hesitate to discuss their specific beliefs (either not responding to the query "Religious Views" or posting intentionally vague statements like "I have them"). Occasionally I'll see a specific designation, like "Lutheran", but that's the extent of it.

I can't express how different it is here, though I sense I've seen only a surface glimmer of the deep religiosity that pervades this region. The other day, I stumbled upon a neighbor's Facebook profile. I was surprised to learn that he's a minister in addition to the other job I knew he had. This never came up in conversation, but he makes reference to "the word" in the first line of his profile. Where I come from, that's unusual. But I've noticed this when I've happened across other locals on FB; So-and-so enjoys cooking, reading and Bible study. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I avoid "friending" these people, which certainly attests to my own prejudices. Though honestly, I'm also afraid I'll say or post something that will offend them (like this blog). After all, they aren't the weird ones in this part of the world. I am.

The thing is, I think that my weirdness is so obvious to some of the natives that they may hold back in my presence. If they don't know I'm godless, they at least figure I'm the wrong kind of believer, or the lazy kind, or a Satan-worshipper (which, near as I can tell, is the ultimate insult you can hurl at a weirdo; I don't think I'd heard it since the third grade, 'til I moved down here). Others favor me by assuming I believe in god, casually referring to some way in which he has "blessed" me. I'm always fascinated by those who broadcast their beliefs on t-shirts and bumper stickers with phrases like "Real Men Love Jesus". They aren't trying to start a conversation with any specific person, but I guess they're more than happy to engage in a chat if you're interested.


I am interested. More accurately, I'm curious. I prefer a society in which most people keep religion out of the public discourse because I think that's more polite. But as long as I'm living in the south, I'd like to get more familiar with these varying shades of religiosity. I suspect that the (generally pejorative) term "Bible Belt" is just too broad. I want to study the nuances. What inspires that dude at the gym to say, "If you don't finish all those reps, man, then you don't love Jesus!" Why do some people speak more about Jesus love while others focus on god's wrath? Is the community worship service at the local hipster coffee shop more or less exclusive than your average church, and how so? Is this town actually rather secular for this region (I'm pretty sure it is)? I can't imagine asking these questions outright, because that seems way awkward, so I'm just going to get spongy, do as much eavesdropping as I can, and see what I figure out via passive observation.

The day after Lady Gaga helped Lauren Alaina belt out a rather innocent Elvis song, I had a minor revelation while I was at work. It was family dinner night, when the store is overrun with hyperactive children and exhausted parents looking for a cheap, precooked meal. Compared to the rich, overindulged and manner-less brats I used to meet in Ann Arbor, these Chattanooga kids are angelic, so I don't mind 'em much. Plus, they always get excited to see me, the Free Food Lady. Anyway, a mother and her five sheepish moppets approached my table. As I chatted with mom about the on-sale olive oil and scooped samples, one of the girls quietly handed me a religious tract. I groaned internally, but did what I always do in that situation - say "thank you," tuck it in my pocket and wait until they leave before I throw it out. Again, I found her gesture rude but I certainly don't think it was meant that way. It may have even seemed a generous exchange - I gave her a bite of caprese salad, she gave me the opportunity to be saved. She and her siblings so well behaved in every other way, I couldn't help taking it as a mild compliment.

And then it hit me - so that's how all these families of five and eight and ten children maintain order! Coming from a seven kid Catholic family, I don't know why it took me so long to figure it out. How could two adults raise such an enormous brood without religion? It isn't impossible to produce that many well-mannered kids secularly, but a built-in community - not to mention the fear of god - sure as hell helps. For my siblings and me, the religion didn't seem to stick as much as the manners. Now if we'd lived in place where almost everyone believed in the stuff we were taught... I wonder how we would have developed.

Losing My (Mind Over) Religion

This morning, out of nowhere, my coworker asked me, "You're not, like, super religious, are you?"

I answered as any good, ex-Catholic atheist would. "Oh, god no!"

She exhaled deeply, as though relieved. "I didn't think so. Gabe thinks you are."

All day, I've been wondering why my 21 year old boss would make such an assumption. The best reasons I can muster are these: that he finds me "oddly" nice for a Yankee (he told me so), and that I don't wear makeup. There was a time and a place when such qualities made people think I was a "hippie" and I thought that was the most offensive assumption anyone could make about me.

Since moving to the south, I've had religion on the brain almost all the time. Certainly, part of it comes from arriving at the bible belt. Here, the question isn't "Are you Christian?" The question is "How Christian are you?" (I think the local "most Christian" award goes to the dude who keeps dropping bibles and religious tracts in Dan's public school lounge.) Also, our southward move coincides with the recent rise of anti-Muslim sentiment around the globe, though it seems especially concentrated here in the US. I haven't much to say on that subject that hasn't been stated more eloquently, but I'm going to offer my few cents anyway.

Again, I am an atheist. I think most religions are pretty bizarre to the same degree, though I admit to finding Mormonism especially weird (because I used to believe in god, and I figure that 2,000 years of groupthink can be pretty convincing; 150 years, are you kidding me?). Nevertheless, I respect the fact that others - including many of my favorite people - believe in god. I don't agree with them, but I don't think they're dumb for having their faith (and I know atheists who do). Mostly, I just try to mind my own business. I believe that this life is probably all I have. I'm not going to waste it with a lot of arguing and hurt feelings about the unknown.

Again, I don't think Islam is better or worse than any other religion - like I said, they're all pretty weird to me - but this spate of anti-Muslim rage and the accompanying indifference from the "Oh well, everyone's a victim, sometimes" crowd is making me really, really angry. That's because I have Muslim friends. More than that, I've known dozens of perfectly okay Muslims. Just about anyone from Dearborn can say that. It's really just that simple. If you have a friend who is Muslim, chances are that you are more likely to support the opening of an Islamic center two blocks from the site of the World Trade Center (according to this New York Times article, that's certainly true among New Yorkers, who are arguably most affected by this controversy).

My point is, I think it's a really good idea to live and work with people who don't share your same class, race, religious or sexual profile. One of the reasons I started to question Catholicism as a youngster was that I didn't think it was fair that my sister's gay friend should burn in hell, because he was always really kind to me. I'm not saying that exposure to people different from you has to be that much of a dealbreaker, but I think perspective is healthy for all. It may help you from misunderstanding an unusually polite northerner who simply chooses to not wear makeup.

DeCatholicizing

“Even though there is the whole confession thing, that's no free pass, because there is a crushing guilt that comes with being a Catholic. Whether things are good or bad or you're simply... eating tacos in the park, there is always the crushing guilt.”
- Jack Donaghy (Alec Baldwin) on 30 Rock episode 1.17 “The Fighting Irish”

Even though I am an atheist, I’ve come to accept the fact that I will probably be Catholic for the rest of my life. If you grew up in a Catholic, church-going family, you know what I mean. It isn’t about believing in heaven or hell or god. It’s that crushing guilt, the kind that sticks to your bones and your brain and your soul and makes you say, “Oh, I’m sorry!” when someone steps on your toes.

Or here’s a great example. A few summers ago, Dan treated me to a romantic, alfresco Mexican lunch on a sunny weekday afternoon. And as I ate my tacos in the park, I felt guilty that I wasn’t at work. I remember that passing and seemingly mundane moment like it just happened. Needless to say, I was blown away when I watched that episode of “30 Rock”. The two words that best describe this instance of art randomly imitating my life are “sad” and “hilarious”.

I hope to convey those sensations to you, reader friend, through a series of writings about being Catholic and trying to become less so. Even if I’ll always be a little Catholic, I’ve learned that I really can be more confident, less fearful, and infinitely happier if I aggressively attack my neurotic Catholic bullshit (henceforth to be known as NCB). Through countless therapy sessions and many prudent social choices, I’ve stripped away a lot of that suffocating NCB. And since I already enjoy exposing and making fun of my sore spots in my writing, I figure, why the hell not?

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Frightened Sheep Mentality

Dan and I were driving home late one night a couple months ago. I was thoroughly exhausted. I had felt woozy and dizzy earlier in the evening, and hadn't eaten anything for several hours. As we were heading back to Ypsi, my appetite returned with a ferocity that could not be ignored. I had to eat something.

There were few open establishments at that hour. Fast food joints were about the only option, so I settled on Steak & Shake, or as Dan calls it, "Stomachache". Even though Steak & Shake is somewhat less disgusting than McDonald's or White Castle, I couldn't bear the thought of a burger and fries at that hour. I just needed enough food to prevent a sleepless night of tummy rumbling.

I stared at the back lit, drive-through menu board for several minutes. Dan recommended the grilled cheese. Granted, it was a relatively light option, but I knew I would ultimately be disappointed by anything served on "Texas Toast". I had to get some fries with that, just for moral support. But I didn't want too much...

Why the Kid's Meal - of course! Just enough fries and baby Sprite to help me digest half of a greasy grilled cheese sandwich. It was all I needed.

But, no. That wasn't for me. I sighed.

Dan could tell I was changing my mind. "Why don't you get the Kid's Meal?" he asked.

I whispered, "But the Kid's Meal is for children 12 and under. Do you think I'll get in trouble if I order it?" I was so worn out that I only thought of the words as they spilled from my mouth, and I couldn't help cracking up. Dan laughed at me, too. And then I got my cruddy mini meal.

Just beneath my consciousness, there's this sensor that knows how very ridiculous these sort of fears are, and it usually keeps me from saying such things aloud. But I think I'm better off when I make my NCB apparent. The only thing worse than feeling guilty is feeling dumb about feeling guilty. At least when I verbalize the fear, I get a chuckle. And maybe, I actually get over the thing that's scaring me.