When to Sympathize with Women

Gentle Readers,

I find it about time to talk about something pressing, irksome, and absurd.
I find it time to talk about when to sympathize with women.
"What's that?" you say. "Shouldn't I sympathize with a woman if she's pretty, or crying, or a diamond in the rough?"

NO.

Let me illustrate my thoughts on the fallacy of emotion. Recently I attended a large conference at which there were many protesters. When the protesters' cause was voted down, they stood in protest, bawling. Middle of the road voters were rather upset by this. I think even those who voted it down were shaken. "Uh-oh - we made them cry." Let me just state this from the beginning: tears do not an argument make. You can be upset as much as you want: that doesn't make an emotion legitimate.

For instance, if you cried when Heath Ledger overdosed, that's probably not a legitimate emotion. If you cried when viewing a Rothko painting because of its profound revelation, that's probably not a legitimate emotion either. A large block of yellow paint shouldn't move you that deeply, in my opinion. Now, if Heath Ledger was your son, that's okay. If the world was bombed and you thought all art was destroyed and then you found a Rothko amidst the rubble, you're allowed to weep.

But I find it ASTONISHING that so few people - often men - know when to sympathize with a woman. Because sometimes, sympathizing with a woman is the most foolish thing to do.

If you sympathize with a crying woman over, say, your wife, you're not sympathizing correctly.
If you sympathize with a pretty woman who weaves a tale of woe, but no other women like her, be on your guard.
If you sympathize with a woman who's just had it so hard and really does have good values even though she's rough around the edges and hey just because she cheated on the bloke before you doesn't mean she'd ever do that with you so give her a second chance STOP RIGHT THERE.

How to spot a woman who's not faking:

She won't have crises all the time. She may have them sometimes, or for a season, frequently. But if she's melting down every time she doesn't get her way, or every time another pretty woman comes into the room, or every time you're unsure of the relationship, watch out.

She calls on others beside you when there are crises. You won't be her savior, you'll be one of a number of people in support of her, and some of those people will be women. Beware the woman who makes you feel that you're the only one who can help.

She'll have blunt, honest friends that she sometimes has conflicts with. Any woman who surrounds herself with toenail-painting, sympathetic, nodding "yes women" who never actually tell her that the dress is not flattering should probably be avoided.

She'll confront you occasionally about your values, character, or flaws. Not this: "you never spend enough time with me", or this, "you're perfect," but this, "hey, I've really been thinking this over, and you say you value this, but then you act that way..."

She won't encourage you to do the wrong thing, even when it's to help her out. She won't put you in that position.

Now, I say these things because I grow tired of general opinion, institutional trends, and legislative decisions that deny women's responsibility. I am nothing if not a feminist by certain standards: I think businesses should make it easier for women to work from home when they have small children; I think that women in academia should gain tenure even if they're part time due to motherhood; I believe that women are competent to be pastors, lawyers, politicians, doctors, surgeons, bakers, or makeup salespeople. It bothers me when writers use "mankind" instead of "humankind" or "man" instead of "people." I have little patience for those who can't see that my ovaries are not a liability. And I am all for full punishment of rapists, sex traffickers, and the like, preferably by means of a cleaver and a chopping block.

So it's not that I myself don't sympathize with women, our concerns, our dangers, our difficulties and challenges. But because I believe that women are able to do so much, I also believe that we are responsible for our stupidity, lack of wisdom, and occasional mistakes, and even, yes, our own character flaws.

A perfect example of this tension exists in sexual harrassment policies and laws. These exist after decades of women who put up with sexism, or worse, in the workplace. But look at how much power that gives a woman now: if you get a needy woman rejected by a boss, or an emotionally broken woman who misinterprets something she hears, or if you get a simply vindictive woman who goes for the throat, you can have good men's names muddied before the ink on the lawsuit has dried. Why? "There's no smoke without fire," "we can't afford a lawsuit," and so on.

How many women, I wonder, have actually turned to a man and told him that he's making her uncomfortable? Or to stop? Or to say "that's inappropriate." Either at the time, or later on in private. Many women either shy from confrontation, or read into every little signal. Nothing's really changed from high school. It's the pleaser who won't say something in her defense, or the flirt, or the girl who thinks everyone is flirting with her.

My mom told me early on of the time a guy felt her up in the hallway at school. She didn't go to the school board. She punched him. You can argue for either, but hearing that anecdote instilled in me early on a certain confidence.

Ladies, act with integrity: if something a man says, or does, bothers you, tell him first before you go crying to someone else. Actually, that's a pretty good rule of thumb for if a woman says or does something that bothers you, too. But particularly with men, you need to be a good steward of the protection that society offers you. Be responsible with men. The suffragettes didn't work hard to get you a vote just so you can squander it in stupidity.

By His Stripes

A floating phrase from Isaiah: by his stripes we are healed...

A friend of mine I think will need these words. We all do. But today, I'm thinking of him and of us - the us who constitutes "culture", the majority, frequently, the white. This friend is a campus minister, a graduate from the same seminary that I attended. And all too easily I can imagine the situation that he describes. His name is Omar. Omar al-Rikabi. He was born in the U.S.

This is what he recently wrote in a blog post:

I’m not making this up. This happened last week:
I take my truck to the dealer for some work. After handing over my keys I walk into the small “customer waiting area” - a small room complete with a pot of coffee, a bunch of lame magazines, and a television on the wall blaring CNN. I walk past the only other waiting customer, a woman with her head literally buried in a fast food bag.I brought a book with me. I’m reading Teacher Man, a memoir by the Irishman Frank McCort. In the chapter I’m reading he is describing an ongoing struggle: He was born in America but raised in Ireland. When he returns to work in New York he is considered an Irish immigrant. When he returns to study in Dublin he is labeled a Yankee. He is a a foreigner in both the land of his birth as well as the land of his roots.

As I try to focus on the story over the sound of the news, a few more customers make their way in and sit down around me: A very old man in an old cap and oversized sunglasses, and a well-to-do couple who look like they are close to retirement.After a few minutes they start the small talk. Then a story on the news laments the every increasing price of gas. The woman who is now done with her fast food feeding makes the observation that it is crazy that the cost of gas won’t stop going up every day.The husband of the couple agrees with her, and then makes the comment that the culprit is the ever increasing demand for gas versus the supply.

Then she drops the bomb:“Well you know, the main reason for the high supply is all the foreigners who live in this country. They come over here and they all drive their cars and use up all the gas. Get rid of the foreigners and you get rid of half the demand right there!”My reading freezes in the middle of a sentence, but I don’t look up. Without a moment of thought, the husband agrees. I wonder for a short moment if they are really talking about all foreigners, or just jumping on the anti-illegal-immigrant band wagon.But in his next breath the husband clears up any confusion:“And then of course there are also the illegal foreigners who come here. They want to work? Okay... fine. Put ‘em in a uniform and ship ‘em off to Iraq and that’ll put ‘em to work.”Then something is said about how that will keep ‘em from wanting to come over here or something.

But my brain locks up for a second in shock and I miss it. Besides, now they are talking about immigrants, oil, and war in the Middle East. So I probably shouldn't say anything about my father being an immigrant petroleum engineer from Iraq. It probably won’t be until I am driving away an hour later when I will think of something clever I should have said.
So instead I grip the edges of my book a little tighter, and this son of an immigrant re-reads the chapter about an immigrant while sitting in a room full of people who don’t like immigrants.

That's what Omar wrote. Now, you have an interesting opportunity. You can comment on it here, without commenting on the original site on which it appeared. Say what you will. I think you know my response.

Flare. Not flair. And Sibling Brivalry.

I'm putting this out quick, people. After working a grueling 14 hours Friday, I slept this weekend. Insert snores. Slept and read murder mysteries. Slept and read murder mysteries and played indoor croquet because it was raining outside.

So I'm sending up this flare because that's all I can do. Last night the croquet got down to me and my brother. I said, "oh, it's a sibling b- rivalry." Because you know, I started to say battle. Who ever heard of a sibling battle? Well, that's what proofreading and writing for fourteen hours does to me. So Ethan pestered me the rest of the game by pointing out our sibling brivalry.

A few things floating through my shipwrecked brain:

http://play.typeracer.com/ Now THIS is a fun game. Kind of stressful, in an unnecessary way. I found out my average is 68 words per minute. Wow.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080512/ap_on_re_as/myanmar The Myanmar government is killing thousands of citizens by refusing to let in worldwide aid sitting at its doorstep to help kids and families who've been left without food and homes due to the giant cyclone that hit a bit over a week ago. I'm all for dropping aid in anyway.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/05/10/stamp-prices-to-rise-on-m_n_101114.html Don't forget, STAMP PRICES have risen again. Doesn't the post office realize they're just discouraging people from sending letters?

http://stormlake.com/topstory.htm Blind bowler gets perfect score. Enough said.

Or, As I Said to Emily, "A Methodist Sock Got in With the Rest of my Laundry and Dyed it All Methodist"

Well, after a bumpy plane ride from Ft. Worth, I have returned. At least, to be a dualist about it, my body returned. But my mind is a haze of laundry needing done, Ft. Worth restaurant menus blinking in front of my eyes, the smell of warm cement outside the Convention Center, and the slobbery dogs at home needing baths. My mind, as I said to Emily, is like a Methodist sock got in with all the rest of my laundry and dyed it all Methodist. My conversation and dreams are peppered with images from the last two weeks, like when I returned from Mongolia.

Which means I need to think about something else, because now that we're home from the United Methodist General Conference, we have to think about it at work, read about it, write about it, proofread it, read about it, pour it into layouts for the magazine, reproofread it, publish it, and send it out to bazillions of people.

So here are a few of the other things I've been resting my brain with. Here, brain, have some pie. Enough cerebral granola.

"Violinist Performs for Cabbie who Recovered Rare Instrument": a violinist left his multi-million dollar Stradivarius violin in a cab. And got it back.

http://www.newsday.com/news/local/wire/newjersey/ny-bc-nj--missingviolin0506may06,0,7294256.story

AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA. "Endangered Seals Eating Endangered Salmon": wait, wait, which ones do we save? technically this one's more endangered, but that one is prettier...oh, shoot, let's just take bets:http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=90213669

CREEEEEEPY. "Emails from the Dead": posthumous email services are springing up. I never, I repeat, never, want one of these. Unless it's really funny, like, "I went all the way to limbo and all I got was this lousy email." Hee. Haha. Oooh, morbid humor floats my boat.

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/columns/article/57800/e-mails-from-the-dead/

"Toy Car Powered by Hamster Wheel": yes!!! my favorite of the day. Why? Because it'd almost be worth getting a hamster, just for this:

http://www.boingboing.net/2008/05/05/toy-car-powered-by-a.html

Madam President, Mama President

I stood.

So did several thousand others. The crowd was rather awkward - what do you do when a president is about to be introduced? There were nervous giggles when it was the Bishop from Liberia who approached the podium, and not the president herself. Herself.

The thick accent of the Bishop running through the list of the President's accomplishments left me antsy, as we all waited through the "opening band" for the "main act." And then she came.

I stood. Everybody applauded. Several female African delegates did celebratory trills and whoops which made the President smile. Her gold head scarf and dress shone under the lights, and a patterned black wrap draped over one shoulder. Several times it slid, and she smoothly continued her speech and attempted to adjust it. A couple of times a female aide came up quietly behind her to secure it. It's never easy being a head of state. Especially when your accessories act up.

Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, President of Liberia, has the posture of Maya Angelou - straight, confident - the comfortable familiarity of Ronald Reagan - want a cookie? - and the tenacity of Winston Churchill. She's also a grandma.

Her speech was well-crafted, statements both reporting on her country and challenging listeners for the present and the future. I don't remember all of it, just a few chance phrases here and there. I do know she beat Charles Taylor, ushering out the tumultous days of uprising and rebellion. I know that children used to run in fear from her motorcade - a habit from former days - and now they clamor and approach when it comes, yelling for her to descend and greet them. I know that she fled for refuge to the U.S. when the political scene got bad some years back. She has a Harvard education, a light accent tinged with British tones, and a great deal of self-respect individually and nationally. And that is what she is helping to bestow on her country: self-respect. They're addressing an unemployment rate that was estimated at around 85%, after conducting the first census in over twenty years. They're building schools and training teachers (many of whom had only high school level education themselves). They're building self-respect, as individuals, and as a nation.

Ellen Johnson Sirleaf is the first female leader of an African nation (well, unless you go back to the times of Cleopatra). This mention got rousing applause, the crowd stood. I stood. This woman had begun life in Liberia as a student of a United Methodist school. Bishop Innis, who introduced her, emphasized this fact: Methodist missionaries were in Liberia before it was even established as such. And Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, he said, is a daughter of Methodism.

Women, men - support your missionaries.

After her formal speech ended, she quipped, "and now I will go down into the crowd, like a good politician." She did, and there was singing, and after she climbed the steps back to the platform, the bishops began to line up. It took at least another ten minutes for all of them to file past, greeting her, one eliciting laugher after he stood back and took a photo of her with his cellphone.

White men were lined up to meet a black woman.

Men were lined up to show respect to a woman.

Elderly white men who looked a lot like the men who tried to crowd out my minister mom from pastoral service stood in line to meet a woman. They waited in line to pay respects.

And afterwards, when I saw a friend outside the convention center standing in the sun, we chatted briefly about the address. "You have to understand," my eyes pushing back tears, "how personal this was for me." The truth was, I still had pink bunny kleenex wadded in my hand from the hour before, when I was trying desperately to keep tears in my eyes and not ruining my mascara. I kept sniffing. And the cold I was developing was not the cause.

I had WITNESSED A WOMAN PRESIDENT. It reminded me of the time when I was little and I was taken to see Margaret Thatcher. I didn't get, at the time, just who she was or why it was important.

I got it this time.

I had WITNESSED A WOMAN RECEIVING HONOR, from some powerful men.

And it's very plain that SHE DESERVED IT.

I hadn't realized how it still hurt, the memories of struggles Mom had had just to be considered an equal. I knew I was defensive for her, on her behalf. I always knew she was a good, competent pastor. I knew that some would never see past her chromosomes. And an ache grew, deep inside.
Yesterday, a bit of that ache healed. It began to heal a moment or two after I stood - for a woman who had entered the room.

At that moment, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf was sharing honor with all women who have been mistreated, maligned, ignored, disrespected, and dishonored.

Honor is healing. Honor your mothers, sisters, daughters. Honor the President of Liberia. Be honored. Be healed.

Niner Niner

[static]
Reporting in from Ft. Worth. The periscope is emerging briefly before sinking back down under conference waters.
SATURDAY:
Two examples of why church politics matter: (I know, I know, some of you want to worship God without politics - and yet, the church exists on earth as an imperfect body susceptible to flaws and weaknesses just like anything else).

Becqui Blanco. She's a cool 20-something who teaches second graders. She and a friend noticed a gaping hole in curriculum: discipleship materials for young women - junior highers, teenagers, college freshmen. So they started Bible studies, and this led to some small conferences popping up across southern Texas. Young girls hearing about how to be a woman, with topics like eating disorders addressed in a way that acknowledges a woman as a whole being - something vital to young girls still forming their identities.

But then the Women's Division found out. They accused Becqui of being a puppet of renewal groups. "As if we couldn't have thought of this ourselves," she noted wryly. Because "Women of Valor, Rise Up" is not distributed top down, but rather sprung up from the grassroots level to meet a need. The Women's Division wanted them to use "approved" curriculum - as if they're a polygamous sect instead of women encouraging young girls to develop identities wrapped around Christ. "These girls don't care about mercury poisoning. That's the kind of thing their curriculum covers," Becqui lamented.

And then there's the cell phones. Who at General Conference arrives for two weeks without a cell phone? Many international delegates, that's who. Either they come from countries where cell phone usage isn't prevalent among the general population, or they arrive exhausted after three days of travel with little energy to track down a prepaid phone.

So a bunch of groups got together to provide cell phones, so that people like Mwenze could keep in contact with other delegates, with friends in the U.S., and with family, while he's here for two weeks.

And then this story was published: http://www.umc.org/site/apps/nlnet/content3.aspx?c=lwL4KnN1LtH&b=4017527&content_id={18E4
642B-276E-43D3-A28D-CCBF89

5121F5}&notoc=1

And then this one:
http://www.umc.org/site/apps/nlnet/content3.aspx?c=lwL4KnN1LtH&b=2639513&ct=5
291765

So now it's racist to make sure the international delegates have cell phones just like everybody else? And what, African or Asian delegates can have their votes bought with a measly phone? Yeah, cause it's not racist to suggest that.

American delegates wouldn't dream of going to a conference for two weeks without their cell phones.

Something about blatant inconsistency annoys me.

Maybe I'll just put these chronic complainers' staplers in Jell-O. Or throw their cell phones in the ceiling.

Rockin' Robin.

MONDAY:
So plenary sessions begin today - that means a full house is meeting now that legislative committees has sifted through all the petitions and resolutions.
And I had a smoothie for breakfast. It was strawberry banana, but I think I'll now call strawberry banana smoothies plenary smoothies. Plenary sounds like a fruit, right?

The Big Stuff today is, of course, moving to plenary sessions, but also Judicial Council elections this morning. The Judicial Council is the Supreme Court of the United Methodist Church, and they've been becoming more and more prominent the last few years as they've had to deal with challenges to Conference decisions.

Our work room looks like the workspace of a presidential candidate. Cords, coffee cups, highlighted paper, flash drives, bananas and mini candy bars, cardboard boxes, multiple printers all running out of ink and toner at the same time, and giant post-its on a wall that we haven't used since last Wednesday because the roller coaster hasn't stopped since. Technically, the work room is for Good News work, but a lot of Renewal/Reform Coalition people are in and out, which basically makes it Times Square. Times Square with people needing you to print things from your laptop frequently.

So, there've been a lot of lunches lately. Today's is the Lifewatch lunch - the lady speaking is really cool. Carol Everett used to run several Dallas abortion clinics, but somehow switched positions and now speaks and works on behalf of life.
Tomorrow, my new roommate (the final of three) will speak on persecution and human rights issues of Christians around the world. Faith McDonnell works on behalf of human rights for the Institute on Religion and Democracy.

Well, the air conditioning is on again and freezing me into the Arctic, so I'm off to grab a jacket and walk over to the Convention Center to see what's happenin'.

MONDAY, LATE:
"Former Abortion Clinic Owner Share Story with Delegates"
http://www.umc.org/site/apps/nlnet/content3.aspx?c=lwL4KnN1LtH&b=4017527&content_id={2E02A187-AB9B-47FC-AC7C-59A1597C8C40}&notoc=1

Africa Lunch

Delegates and visitors from around the continent of Africa as well as the United States attended the Africa lunch the other day. Many Africans speak French, so the proceedings were translated into French. The ladies' flowing, colorful dresses and elegant head scarves and wraps make a striking picture walking down the street or along conference corridors. Texan hospitality bags welcomed delegates with a taste of the South along with a few snacks. Many international delegates are still adjusting to the time difference, and the jetlag in addition to late nights and early mornings have suffused faces with fatigue. The Rev. Jerry Kulah, a District Superintendent from Liberia, spoke to his fellow Africans. Before the United Methodist General Conference, he led a day of prayer in his country attended by President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, a fellow United Methodist. She will address delegates this Tuesday. PBS has produced a documentary on this first female president of an African country and her cabinet called "Iron Ladies of Liberia."

General Pandemonium I Mean Conference

Entries from the past few days...
WEDNESDAY:
Hey ladies 'n gents! Good News is down here in Ft. Worth - with a lot of other people - for the United Methodist General Conference. So far we've seen propaganda fliers, a large star made of cowboy hats, a lot of international delegates, and the presidential suite JFK stayed in the night before he was assassinated. Tonight is the "opening ceremony" - no Olympic torch included - and tomorrow the hoopla begins for real. Delegates are sitting around highlighting portions of the gazillion petitions and proposals, getting registered, and trying to navigate the housing mess.A few hundred miles away kids from that weird sect are being placed in temporary custody. No protesters yet.

THURSDAY:
8 Bazillion international delegates came to an Africa Lunch held today, as well as the crack of dawn 7 a.m. Good News briefing breakfast. It's extremely cool to a) be in the minority somewhere, and b) see amazing national dress of the Central Conference delegates.

FRIDAY:
On the quaint streets of downtown Ft. Worth, bustling people with large nametags hanging around their necks scurry in huddles, floating words like "clergy" and "petition" and, in some cases of international delegates, "ah, no...only leetle English," so then I smile and bob my head.

But there are two people from the masses that I'd like to sketch for you - Trista and Mwenze.

Trista will be blurbing at today's luncheon on sexuality. I only knew that she was one of the women who'd be in and out rooming with me. She has an Australian accent. But she's from Ohio. Trista has MS, and the accent that comes and goes is a symptom that accompanies her clenched muscles. She also has been in and out of same sex relationships. A very bright, intense person with a shock of short red hair and a confident demeanor, she is working on a PhD in counseling at Regent University. She will tell you that she isn't healed. She still struggles with same sex attraction. But she believes, she knows, she says, that her orthodoxy - her God - expresses a plan for creation that doesn't include same sex relationships.

Mwenze's skin is the color of deep, rich chocolate syrup. I met him when complimentary cell phones were being distributed to Central Conference delegates - Central Conferences include most the world United Methodists outside the U.S. He asked, in limited English, how much time he had to talk on it, and how long it needed to be charged. I bustled to find the answers to these questions and attempted to communicate the information.

And then I found out he was congressman. A congressman from the Democratic Republic of Congo. And he wanted to know my name. I told him I was honored to meet him. He seemed surprised. Later he saw me again, repeated my name, and handed me a business card. His name is Mwenze.

Mwenze and Trista are both traveling some arduous journeys, in different ways. One's accent denotes a ravaging disease, one's accent marks his sincere efforts to communicate hospitality by learning a new language.

Yesterday, I was profoundly blessed by both. I hope someday you get a chance to meet them.

SATURDAY:
Two examples of why church politics matter: (I know, I know, some of you want to worship God without politics - and yet, the church exists on earth as an imperfect body susceptible to flaws and weaknesses just like anything else).

Becqui Blanco. She's a cool 20-something who teaches second graders. She and a friend noticed a gaping hole in curriculum: discipleship materials for young women - junior highers, teenagers, college freshmen. So they started Bible studies, and this led to some small conferences popping up across southern Texas. Young girls hearing about how to be a woman, with topics like eating disorders addressed in a way that acknowledges a woman as a whole being - something vital to young girls still forming their identities.

But then the Women's Division found out. They accused Becqui of being a puppet of renewal groups. "As if we couldn't have thought of this ourselves," she noted wryly. Because "Women of Valor, Rise Up" is not distributed top down, but rather sprung up from the grassroots level to meet a need. The Women's Division wanted them to use "approved" curriculum - as if they're a polygamous sect instead of women encouraging young girls to develop identities wrapped around Christ. "These girls don't care about mercury poisoning. That's the kind of thing their curriculum covers," Becqui lamented.

And then there's the cell phones. Who at General Conference arrives for two weeks without a cell phone? Many international delegates, that's who. Either they come from countries where cell phone usage isn't prevalent among the general population, or they arrive exhausted after three days of travel with little energy to track down a prepaid phone.

So a bunch of groups got together to provide cell phones, so that people like Mwenze could keep in contact with other delegates, with friends in the U.S., and with family, while he's here for two weeks.

And then this story was published: http://www.umc.org/site/apps/nlnet/content3.aspx?c=lwL4KnN1LtH&b=4017527&content_id={18E4
642B-276E-43D3-A28D-CCBF89

5121F5}&notoc=1

And then this one:
http://www.umc.org/site/apps/nlnet/content3.aspx?c=lwL4KnN1LtH&b=2639513&ct=5
291765

So now it's racist to make sure the international delegates have cell phones just like everybody else? And what, African or Asian delegates can have their votes bought with a measly phone? Yeah, cause it's not racist to suggest that.

American delegates wouldn't dream of going to a conference for two weeks without their cell phones.

Something about blatant inconsistency annoys me.

Maybe I'll just put these chronic complainers' staplers in Jell-O. Or throw their cell phones in the ceiling.

Rockin' Robin.