I read Todd Starnes’s Fox opinion blog. It’s a kind of like a conservative gawker in a weird way. His posts are very short and generally express anguish over something somebody else has done. He also enjoys declaring wars for others, like a liberal “war” on Christianity, or whatever.

So, some Colorado students as part of a multicultural club decided to say the Pledge of Allegiance in Arabic. People would’ve likely not gotten too upset if they had not used the  Arabic cognate “allah” instead of “god.”

Where my education lies, however, is not with Starnes, but with the comment section. It’s an opportunity for me to converse with those who disagree with me over almost everything. People get very upset with me, insult me, are sexist, degrading, or insult me for having gone to Berkeley. I’m kind of used to it.

Where I learn things, however, is in my use of Aristotelian rhetoric. I simply ask questions.

Now, there are major obvious issues with parents freaking out over this. I’m going to consolidate a lot of the comments I left on this blog to break down some major issues. Here are the obvious ones I won’t really talk about:

1. Xenophobia: People associate the Arabic language with terrorist cells. They cannot differentiate between the  larger culture of Arabic people and an extreme minority. Some people simply equate the two.
2. Racism: This goes along with the Xenophobia. All Arabic people supposedly hate the United States and the American way of life (though nobody can actually define the “American way” for me, no matter how many times I ask).

To me, these two things are so obvious that they’re boring to talk about. Everyone with a little sense and the will to do some research can learn that Islamic terrorists are extremists. They are the exception to the rule.

Now, what is really interesting to me is how this questions language and the ability of language to fully express meaning.

Understanding linguistics is really difficult. It’s impossible for symbols and grammar to full express the meaning and connotation of a concept.

You have to admit that there is a lot of baggage surrounding the word “allah” in American culture. Trying to deny that fact is pointless. Rather, the issue is why there is that baggage. Acts of terrorism against this country were perpetrated by people who use the word “allah” to mean an “Islamic” god who favors forced conversion and violence against non-believers. That is terrible; it’s terrible when violent extremists reappropriate a faith to match their personal convictions.

However, this situation is an opportunity to reflect upon the fact that such extremists do not reflect the beliefs of the majority of Arabic and Islamic people’s. They are the exception to the rule in a similar way that extreme Christians who murder abortion doctors and the Westboro Baptist Church do not reflect the beliefs of most American Christians. Some people said this was a false equivalency, but it’s not an equivalency.  They merely function similarly. The idea is that extremists are extremists because only a few of them believe it; so we can’t reasonably treat all people of a particular community as we would the extremists.

I have also said before that extremists think themselves the majority and the minority at the same time. We get confused and afraid that the extremists will win because when it suits them, they purport themselves to be a larger community than they really are. Tea Party activists do this a lot with the rhetoric of “taking back America.” Such language implies an original possession, that they are the true and real America and the extremists and non-true-Americans have stolen it from them. On the B side, when they are challenged or opposed, it suits them to play the martyr, the victim, the “little guy” who’s fighting the Goliath of “mainstream media” or other “majority” group. These are examples of extremists manipulating language.

Here are some terms:

• Cognate: “In linguistics, cognates are words that have a common etymological origin.”
• Proper noun: “ a noun that in its primary application refers to a unique entity“
• Connotation: “a commonly understood subjective cultural or emotional association that some word or phrase carries, in addition to the word’s or phrase’s explicit or literal meaning, which is its denotation.”

The major issue in this story has to do with the words for “god” and what they suggest. That’s the BIGGEST issue with language. For instance  “god” and “allah” are cognates. They are words that have common origins. Christianity was born in the Middle East, along with the other local Semitic languages. Therefore, there is a ton of linguistic overlap between Hebrew, Aramaic (Jesus’s language), and Arabic.

Indeed, because Jesus spoke Aramaic, evidence shows that he would’ve referred to god as “elah.” Sound familiar? Jesus did not speak English. The word “elah” literally translates to “awesome,” which is not a proper name, but a term. It is etymologically related to the word “allah,” and actually precedes it considering that Christianity was founded before Islam.

The words allah, yehova, jehova, elah, and waaaay more (per the many monotheistic religions) all break down to a variation on the concept of “sole deity.” This is a title, not a name. In polytheistic religions, there must be names, proper nouns, in order to differentiate between different gods. In monotheistic religions, there is no need to differentiate. So there is one word, one single title. God in the Christian faith, for instance, has no “real” name. He has a name that cannot be pronounced by humans, so therefor we have no choice but to stick with a generic title. His name for humans is the same as his title: god, or “the lord”. So, while the rules and backgrounds on the faith are different, the language and basic concepts are the same. Further, there are thousands of words for “king” but they all reference the same figure. It’s a symbol. Language is just complex symbolism.

I believe this is what these students were trying to share. They were showing an underlying commonality, similarities between cultures through language.

Therefore, the literal functionality of the language is not preferring one religion over another. Rather, there is a connotation that “allah” means Islamic god whereas “god” means Christian god.

You might then think “What about Jesus? That’s a proper name.” And I would agree! However, “Jesus” is the English name for him. In reality, because so much damn time has passed and language has changed so much, translations of his name span the spectrum. However, because he has a name and is a specific figure, his character transcends languages. In Islam, for instance, Jesus is “Isa.” His character remains the same, though, so there is no other Isa rolling around doing things. Isa is a prophet in Islam. In Hebrew he’s Yeshua, in Spanish Jesús.

Because of the instability of language, this one guy has had a zillion freaking names. However, if you look across them all, they share some similar structures, similar foundations. We don’t have that same luxury with the “names” of god because they are all different characters with the same title. Jesus is the same character with different names.

The issue here is language. When Jewish kids and Islamic kids say “under god” while reciting the pledge in English, they are personally swearing to the flag under their specific deity. The word is flexible. The meaning is complex. When a Christian uses the word “allah” in that context, they are personally swearing under their specific deity.

So, basically, this here is an opportunity for us to discuss the limitations and powers of language to unite and divide. We get to look into the meaning beyond words.

This is an opportunity to discuss the baggage surrounding language, and in a rhetorical sense stir up questions about the ability of language to express meaning. Is the meaning altered by a translation? If so, how so?

The Arabic Language is not the Islamic Language. Islam predates the modern Arabic language. Language is a reflection of geographical communities and the migration of peoples. It’s a facet of human culture. Religion is a facet of human culture that is expressed *through* language. It does not dictate language. Language evolves to give us the means to communicate meaning. Religion is one type of meaning.

Both religion and language are symptoms of human analysis. Language helps us ask questions. Religion helps us answer questions. (I am making no assertions for or against the accuracy of religion. It’s merely one way to answer questions.)

It’s impossible for us to truly talk about the issues of reciting the Pledge of Allegiance in Arabic unless we speak both Arabic and English. Only then will we have the literal and figurative vocabulary to explore whether or not the meaning is altered in translation.

Such an issue in translation raises questions about the meaningful accuracy of sacred religious texts that have been translated from languages nobody speaks anymore. The English language did not develop in congress with Aramaic, Hebrew, and Arabic. It was constructed out of Germanic tribal language and French Latin a couple thousand years later. While all languages share words and structures, English and Semitic languages are very different. For instance, they don’t even share the alphabet. Translations take into account the aural aspect of the language. We all know the instability of oral storytelling, particularly if you’ve ever played the game Telephone.

Coming right around to it, I would like to say to everyone freaking out about this:

1. You’re probably being pretty racist, and
2. I assure you that using the word “allah” in an Arabic version of the Pledge of Allegiance is not Islamic evangelism. It is merely an example of how Language cannot reflect all meaning. It shows how connotation undermines the ability of language to be literal. Language cannot separate cultural baggage from the literal roots of the words. This is because language is flexible, unstable, and limited. Our minds and culture are much too complex to be summed up in a single word.

The very concept of god, of any god, is beyond our comprehension. It is definitely, therefore, beyond our ability to describe it. Further, every language carries with it the failures and accomplishments of its speakers. We cannot give in, however, to linguistic bigotry. While language is limited, the wealth of information it imparts is not. We have the ability to talk and write until we pass out. Because of that, we should endeavor to root out the meanings underneath the words and address the volumes of information in one term, one title, and an entire vocabulary.

That is a great question! I bet you ask because it’s your birthday! You are six years old today!

Do you know what a birthday is? Yes, that’s right; it’s the day you were born. But what does that mean?

Exactly six years ago today, you came to life. You were growing inside of your mom for nine months and then when you were ready to come out, you were born! From there you’ve grown a lot bigger and will keep growing.

Now, where did you come from? What are you? These are really good questions, and really tough to answer. In fact, I can’t give you an answer in an hour or a day or even years! These questions are questions you’ll answer all of your life. You’ll spend your whole life learning the answers to many tough questions, and these are just two of them.

It’s like how you will read books all your life. You’ll learn from them all the time; there are so many books that you’ll never run out of new ones to read. But, before you can read all those books, you have to learn how to read, right? You’re working on that now, and from what I hear, you’re already very good at it.

So, let’s think of this as learning your ABC’s the first time. I will take it slow, okay? And you ask lots of questions. All the grownups around you will give you as many answers as we can, and when we don’t know, we’ll go look them up. You should always look up answers when you have a question.

Now what was the first question? What are you? You are a type of animal called a human. I’m a human, your parents are humans, you’re a human.

So where do humans come from?

For starters, we have to talk about some parts of the body. You know about your fingers and toes, right?

Well, there are parts of the body that are between our legs. They are called genitals. That’s a cool word, right? Can you say it? Where are they? That’s right.

Now, one type of genitals includes these things: The vagina (say these back), the uterus, the Fall-o-pian tubes, and the ovaries. Cool words, right? See?

The vagina looks like a hole from the outside, if you looked between your legs in a mirror. It’s really a tunnel, though. It’s a tunnel to what’s called the uterus. That’s inside the body. Now, the uterus is where babies grow! You grew inside of your mom’s uterus. But how?

Well, remember the ovaries? The ovaries are full of tons of teeny tiny eggs. Yep! Eggs! And one of those eggs is one of two parts of a baby. It’s half a baby. Half of you was an egg inside of your mom’s ovary.

Now, once a month a teeny egg leaves one ovary and takes a trip through the Fall-o-pian tube. What does the egg do? Yes, that’s right. The Fallopian tube is also like a tunnel.

The egg takes its trip through the tube on the way to the uterus. Remember what the uterus is?

As the egg travels through the Fallopian tube, it waits for the second half. Now, where do you get the other half? You get the other half from a different type of genitals.

This other type of genitals is the penis (say it back) and the testicles. A penis acts like a muscle like the one in your arm, and it has a tiny tunnel inside it that goes to the testicles. The penis is on the outside of the body and some people think it looks kind of like a hot dog. Funny right?

There are two testicles like there are two ovaries. The testicles, though, are where sperm are made. There are millions of teeny tiny little sperm, which kind of look like little tadpoles. They are the other half of the baby!

So how do you get the two halves together to make one whole baby? Well, the most common way to do this is for two people with those two types of genitals to have sex. Sex is how humans have made babies since the very first humans more than two-hundred thousand years ago. That’s a really long time, eh? There are lots of other types of sex, but you will learn about those when you’re older and ready to understand. Right now we’re just going to talk about the kind of sex that makes a baby.

Now, when the two people making a baby have sex, the person with the penis puts it inside of the other person’s vagina. Do you remember what the vagina is? It’s a tunnel to the uterus. So, the two tunnels of the penis and the vagina are together, one inside the other. From there tons of teeny sperm all race as fast as they can from the testicles through the penis and vagina and into the uterus. They all want to be the one to make a baby, so they try really hard to be first. When a sperm wins and meets up with the egg, that egg is now called an embryo.

That’s a pretty cool word, right? What’s an embryo? That’s right, it’s when the sperm and the egg come together, making the two parts one. The embryo then takes a trip out of the Fallopian tube and sticks to the wall of the uterus. Why does it stick to the wall of the uterus? That’s where babies grow. That’s what an embryo will eventually become. It’ll get bigger and become a baby. The baby then grows inside of the uterus for nine months.

After that, the baby is all ready to be born. It’s ready to breathe and laugh and cry. It’s then that the baby will come out of the uterus, through the vagina, and into the world! That’s what it means to be born.

So that’s how a baby is made. There is a lot more to it, but as you get older and get better at reading, you will learn more. It takes time, though, so keep asking questions. Do you have questions now? (Take Questions)

Now, we’re going to talk about something that could be confusing. You stop me if you don’t understand, okay?

You know already that some people are born with a vagina and a uterus, and some are born with a penis and testicles. This is one way to know what sex you are, by what genitals you have. You’ll learn even more about this as you grow up.

So, sex can mean to make a baby, and it can also mean what types of genitals you have.

Now, people also say that genitals also tell you what gender (repeat) you are. But that’s not always true.

What is gender? That’s right, being a boy is a gender and being a girl is a gender.

You’ve seen pictures of what some boys and some girls look like. Sometimes girls have long hair and like to wear dresses. Sometimes boys only wear pants and like sports. But, this is only sometimes. Gender is just one way of talking about how we want our bodies to look, how we dress, do our hair, and what types of stuff we like to do.

But how do we know what gender we are? Is it just our genitals? No, it’s not. It’s something that each person knows about themselves. Like, what gender are you? You’re a girl? How do you know?

You just know; that’s right.  Only you can really know what gender you are. Sometimes it takes people a long time to figure it out, but deep down they know who they are.

My sister Sheila and I are girls.

You know based on how you want to look and what you like to do. It is also related to the types of people you will want to have sex with when you’re a grownup. But you will learn more about that when you’re older.

My partner, Jeff, is a boy.

Now, are you still with me? Gender and genitals are related, but there aren’t any strict rules about them.

Some people are girls, some people are boys, and some people are even both or neither. Why? That’s right, because there aren’t any strict rules. Only you can know what gender you are.

All people have genitals and people have genders. Some boys are born with a penis and testicles (you remember those, right?) and some boys are born with a vagina and uterus (remember those, too?). At the same time, some girls are born with a penis and testicles, and some girls are born with a vagina and a uterus.

Lots of times boys with penises grow up to have deep voices and their bodies are very straight up and down, like sticks.

Lots of times girls with vaginae grow up to have higher voices and their bodies are curvy.

Other times, though, a boy is born with a vagina and a uterus. And when he grows up his voice will be higher and his body will be curvy. He may not like this. He may want to look like boys who are born with penises and testicles, with a deep voice and a straight body. He can make that happen, though. He can become more like how he feels on the inside. His genitals do not mean that he HAS to look a certain way. He knows inside who he is and he can look any way he wants to.

My cousin Jaxon and his son Samad

So, is it the same for a girl who is born with a penis and testicles? If she’s born with a penis and testicles, what might she grow up to look like? Right, she’d grow up to have a deeper voice and a very straight body. But like that boy we talked about, she might be unhappy and want to have a curvy body. Her genitals do not mean she HAS to look a certain way. She knows inside who she is. She knows what she really wants to look like and how she wants to act in the same way that you do.

My friend Riley as Tinkerbell

It can be difficult to tell someone’s gender from how they look because people are all unique and there aren’t easy rules about gender. You don’t have to be a “boy” to like stuff lots of boys like and you don’t have to be a “girl” to like things lots of girls like. Sometimes girls with vaginae are still girls, but look like boys. And sometimes boys with penises are still boys, but look like girls. I know this all can get confusing. But if you don’t know what someone’s gender is, you can just ask them — politely of course.

My super-fabulous friend Jorell

Now, I am sad to tell you that some people think that if a person is born with a penis, that person is ALWAYS a boy. They think he must always look like a boy with a deep voice and a straight body, and only wear pants and have short hair. At the same time, they think that if a person is born with a vagina, that person is ALWAYS a girl. They think she must always look like a girl with a high voice, a curvy body, wear dresses, and have long hair.

But what about the girl with a penis and the boy with a vagina? They would be very sad and confused if someone told them that what they felt was wrong. What if someone told you that you couldn’t be a girl? What if they told you that because of the genitals you have, you have to look and act a certain way? You would be pretty sad, right?

And why is that? That’s right, because only you know what your gender is and only you know how you want to look and act. Nobody can tell you who you are. Only you know who you really are.

Women like to box.

What’s that? Why do some people think that only girls have vaginae and only boys have penises? Well, there are lots of reasons. There are lots of answers for this, just like everything else we talked about.

Men like to dance in tutus.

One reason is that it’s a lot easier to keep track of genders if there are only two, ALWAYS two. It takes a lot of work to understand a boy with a vagina and a girl with a penis. Sometimes a girl with a penis still has a deep voice and a straight body. She’s still a girl, but she may not look like how we often think girls look. It’s the same thing when a boy who has a vagina does not look like how we often think boys look. So, sometimes it can be confusing.

Work hard!

People don’t like being confused. We want answers. This is a good thing. But, sadly, lots of people want easy answers. They want answers that are really quick so they can get back to watching cartoons and making dinner. You can kind of understand that, right? We all get lazy and don’t want to work hard. Working hard makes you tired.

But what happens if we’re lazy like this? What happens if we say that people can only be a girl with a vagina or a boy with a penis? That’s right; it leaves a lot of people really sad. All of the people who don’t fit into those rules end up lonely and confused. They don’t live happy lives.

Do you think that’s fair? No, I don’t think so either. Just because we want things to be easy doesn’t mean we get to tell other people what to do and how to act and look. That’s not fair and not nice. The only way we can all be who we really are is if we all try hard to get the real answers, and not just the easy quick ones. We have to work hard to understand each other so that we can all be happy.

Does that all make sense? Does that seem like the ABC’s?

What are the types of genitals? That’s right.
What are the two parts that make a baby? That’s right.
How do the two parts come together? That’s right.
Where does the baby grow? That’s right.

What does gender mean? That’s right.
What are the types of genders and what genitals do they have? That’s right.
Are people with penises always boys? Are people with vaginae always girls? No? Why not? That’s right.

Should we tell people what gender they should be?

No? Why not? That’s right.

Myself at sixteen

]]> http://rangerbagel.com/2012/11/08/aunty-ranger-what-am-i-and-where-did-i-come-from/feed/ 34 Ranger Bagel Happy_Birthday_Celesse_by_QueenOfDorks Reading_by_Tooshtoosh humanbody anatomy fallopian penis/testicles sperm_life_1 anatomy,illustration,monography,sex,diagram,009-919650ddf2ef3cd0a2760a6aa9ebe511_h features-IVF-1 Babies-In-Womb-Amazingezone-11 Labor-3-Gerrity win-baby tumblr_m6lv8spsc21rxc39oo1_500 5257 181450_10150999041327697_846287250_n 306548_10151106636831762_828267301_n 01_spiderman Wonder_Woman_II_Diana_Hollywood_h 376773_4044676367945_1371180446_n 524119_477101312317357_28346709_n 603485_3995347195798_679200660_n gender-oriented-brands carinamoreno123-550x687 Les+Ballets+Grandiva+Men+Tutus+Hits+Sydney+aSr3Rr79vwSl photo_2010_07_17_ww2_women_factory_worker 299478_10152213111970354_1736261747_n http://rangerbagel.com/2012/08/13/i-fought-the-batman-and-the-batman-won/ http://rangerbagel.com/2012/08/13/i-fought-the-batman-and-the-batman-won/#comments Mon, 13 Aug 2012 23:34:35 +0000 Ranger Bagel http://rangerbagel.com/?p=563 ]]> As I live and breathe, I live and breathe. I don’t often gush about my luck because mostly it’s rotten. I always seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. And just a night past I was yet again in that place.

But there was something different. Something good came out of the Darkness….

This makes me think of the legend of Bill Murray walking up behind a guy, placing his hands over his eyes and when the man turns, whispering “No one will ever believe you.”

And indeed you may never believe me for what I am about to tell you. But I can’t care about that. It’s all too wonderful to even recognize skeptics.

The Batman has been an interesting cultural force. Some might say that’s strange — but he has impacted everything we know. He’s a vigilante, but seems to hold to a strangely eastern and stoic moral code. Some call him a Knight, but I often think of him walking among the Samurai.

A Ronin roaming the streets in a cowl and cape that is apparently electrified or cursed to give him flight. Now, I’ve never seen him fly, but if somebody asked to place bets, I’d probably throw in a hundy on the loft of the Caped Crusader.

Cliches out of the way now?

I was stupid and walked alone at 2am. The streets were empty and I was arrogant. This is a mistake I will never make again, I assure you. I will never be too cheap to call a cab. Never.

It’s frustrating that because of rape culture I can’t walk where I want when I want, and that I’m told it’s pretty much only my responsibility to “avoid” rape, but this is not a post about rape culture (okay, yes it is).

I walked along. I’d been out with friends sipping on cheap sparkling wine. Dark jeans, a silk top, and my favorite decadent shoes: 5inch silver-glittered Steve Madden platform pumps.

As I clicked along in those shoes I had a thought, “It really is too late to be walking alone.”

And a hand grabbed the back of my neck. Yes, I was attacked. It was surreal and fast. It was the culmination of all the fears and anxieties of women everywhere as an average-looking white man pushed me into an alcove between two store fronts. He shoved the barrel of a small gun into my throat.

He shoved the barrel of a small gun into my throat.

He had an accomplice who grabbed my bag. I stared, tried to calm myself, desperately tried to weigh options, ideas, actions.

But then he said it: “Don’t fight. We got condoms.”

And there it was. Rape culture staring me in the face. They wanted more than my money and my phone. They wanted to forever imprint themselves on my life. They wanted to feel like they’d stolen me.

Little did they know that a very long time ago I considered what would happen if someone tried to rape me. I realized that I would fight to the death. Them or me. In reality, this is not the wisest choice. And I abhor violence and murder. But on occasion, for some people, certain violations can make them snap.

So, without thinking, I said it. I was oddly calm. It was like a different me: “You know, I made a vow about this. You die or I die, but you won’t get to rape me.”

The assailant gave me a bug-eyed look. I felt hot tears run down my face, but I hoped the darkness gave them cover.

I realized that they’re stupid and arrogant. The accomplice is looking through my bag and the gunman has left my arms free. Why were they waiting here? What was wrong with them? He’s merely holding a gun to my throat.

So I did something completely stupid that you should probably not do. I fought a man with a gun.

I threw the heels of my hands into his shoulders with all of my weight behind them. He fell backward, losing his grip on the gun. His accomplice was distracted, so I got the jump on him. I threw the hardest punch of my entire life into his cheekbone and much to my elation, he went down like a sleeping cow.

The gunman had begun to get up. I knew I needed a head-start on running, and I wanted my stuff back on principle (which was also stupid).

As he moved to get up I kicked him in the face as hard as I could. He fell back. I should’ve run then. Instead I stomped on his groin with angry force more times than I remember. I stopped. I knew I couldn’t leave the gun behind. But why didn’t I call the police?

Because they don’t particularly care about rape. Yeah, I said it: Cops Don’t Care About Rape.

Don’t worry. I am filing a report, now.

But back to the events as they were. I took the gun. I grabbed my bag. I turned.
And there stood The Batman.

The Batman! Truly and honestly in the flesh! And armor. He wore armor… I’m not sure of its material, but it looked sturdy and unyielding — like him truly. It also looked insanely expensive, with a very stylish overlay of his famous symbol. (I wonder who he got to design this? Maybe he has a team of peeps doing his bidding?) His cape fluttered around him like inky smoke, an aura of the night. (Romantic, right?)

I threw my hands up, holding the gun by the barrel. My first thought was that I absolutely could not come off as a threat. See, I’m not completely stupid.

But then I got kind of annoyed. That was one of the most terrifying moments of my entire life. I could’ve died very easily. I could’ve been abused, battered, tortured, violated like so many innocent walking women before me.

“Why didn’t you fucking save me?” Somehow I said it with a smile. I should not have expected him to save me. That’s not his job. I was so pumped with terror that I felt abandoned like a little kid.

He reposed a moment, staring. It was the strangest stare I ever felt. I’ll likely never understand it. It was like feeling someone staring at the back of your head. But here he looked right through me.

He spoke gruffly, like a growl. I figure it’s a method of disguising his true voice, and it’s intimidating as hell. I was covered in goosebumps when he spoke the best compliment I have ever received or will ever receive:

“By the time I approached, you seemed to have it under control.”

It was like some strange and beautiful dream. A nightmare and a fantasy in one. The vision of this shadowed antihero was like a vision within a delirious fever.

Then it became absurd.

He walked slowly toward me. I realized he meant to take the gun, as was very logical. I certainly didn’t want the damn thing. Its cold metal burned me.

So I held it out to him. He reached to take it and in my mind I heard a voice in my head: “High five. To the Side. Down Low…”

“Too slow!” I giggled the words and pulled back the gun, leaving him to grab air. I did it before I could think. I was both instantly horrified at myself, and beside myself with glee at the subtle change in his expression (the cowl itself was expressionless). He’d been breathing through his mouth, but after my mischief his lips closed tight.

I stepped forward to give him the gun. He said nothing.

What does The Batman represent of us? Do we need not fear the things that go bump in the night? Does he mean to show us that we need not bump back? That we, instead, are the what frighten the things to their bumping?

How many scoundrels fear The Batman? Is he like Keyser Söze? Is he now the true and real bogeyman for the children of crooks?

He’s also become an absurd masculine power fantasy. And recall that he didn’t help me. On the one hand I appreciated him allowing me my independence, but on the other hand I didn’t appreciate that he left me to deal with a gun pressed to my neck without the luxury of armor around it. That being said, I have already mentioned that I shouldn’t have criticized him for not saving my ass. He was pretty much the best spotter of all time, an effort for which I am staggeringly grateful.

So when he reached for the gun again, I pulled it back. I took quick steps backward. He followed forward. I scurried right, he followed, I scurried left, he anticipated.

I was playing Keepaway with the God-Damn Batman.

Of course, he caught me. I don’t know if I can truly express to you how I had very little logical or rational reasoning going on at that moment. I think maybe the adrenaline and my own dorkiness just shot me off into the world of surrealist idiocy.

So he’d caught me. He grabbed me in a shockingly gentle way. He pulled me into what you might consider a begrudging embrace, my back against him, his right arm across my shoulders. He plucked the gun from my loose grip with his left gloved hand.

I remember laughing that gaspy-squeeky laugh you do when something is really funny while crying all at the same time. I’m not sure what I was truly feeling, but the comedy and tragedy of the situation was overwhelming.

And in the very few seconds that passed, I was able to discern some very small, very human details.

His armor is firm and cold, but did feel flexible. The guards on his forearms are hard. I’d hate to get hit with those babies. His gloves are textured, made for gripping. The cape shuffled quietly, suggesting it both thick of mass, but light of weight.

Now here are the personal details, the embarrassing details, the unexpectedly humanizing details:

In the fives seconds that he held me, for just a moment the cold, hard cheek of his cowl brushed against the cheek of my flesh. And subtly, truly, humanly, he smelled of mouthwash and Old Spice. When I sensed the scents, I stopped giggling. I nearly swooned. He is a person. And more blush-worthy — He is a man.

He let me go.

I stepped back and shook my head at my own folly, “I’m sorry,” I apologized, “I don’t know why I did that. I couldn’t resist.”

He turned to go and I thought of all the words I could use to describe even the smallest details of our meeting. And before I thought consciously I squeaked, “Wait!”

I plunged my hand into my purse and luckily, magically, miraculously, extracted one of my business cards (of which I have hundreds and never remember to give out). Like a moron I said, “Read my blog! I’m going to write about this.”

He stood, his head cocked. Then he shook it, walked two steps, and took the card in between his index and middle fingers.

The Batman took my business card (!), shook his head again, and looked down at my feet. “There’s blood on your shoe,” he said in a delicate growl.

I looked down. My spike heel bore the blood of my gunman’s groin. I winced and snickered.

I looked up.

Gone.

Nothing but an empty street save two men slowly regaining consciousness.

I took off my shoes, grabbed them, and ran as hard as I could for home. Tears flowed and laughter bellowed.

When I slammed the door to my apartment behind me, my feet were black. I was panting.

My roommate Mike ran in, befuddled with sleep.

“Steph, are you okay?” He asked.

I looked up. All I could say was,

“His eyes are blue.”

He could not get to his bedroom for the extent of clutter. He had garbage collecting dust. He had fifty copper jello molds nailed to the wall above the sink. He had Swastika hat pins. He had 19th century vibrators designed to cure a lady of hysteria.

His son could only make periodic day visits because there was no room for the boy’s bed. When my mother brought along an antiques appraiser, this good goblin man could part with not a single item. He would meditate on the object in his hand and then seem to ingest all of its psychic love. He’d return, unable give up the little thoughtless friend in his palm.

A&E is a freak show for the modern melodramatic age.

One of the very basic social lessons babies learn as they begin to communicate is that you have to clean up. You have to take “control” of your environment. In a lot of ways it’s an illusion that we instill in our children, the harnessing of nature and the organization of the present. But it’s an illusion that provides the required simplicity for our small little steps toward being functional human beings.

Now, I’ll introduce you to the television series, Hoarders.  It features people who compulsively hoard things and sometimes animals (there are other shows specifically dedicated to animal hoarding.) A&E gives us explicit examples of how those first lessons of childhood can get derailed or ripped apart entirely.

Now, the definition of hoarding from a physical perspective is generally up front. People compulsively hoard things. They collect any number of items as much as possible and retain those possessions as long as possible. Each individual episode is a gross simplification of a very big problem. However, when taking multiple seasons’ worth of episodes and analyzing them, you get to see a few themes and peculiarities that suggest the presence of archetypes, symbolism, socio-economic commentary, and melodramatic insanity.

Hoarding is a coping mechanism. That seems pretty clear. Where it gets interesting is how and why it functions. Different trauma can cause a ripple of ontological insecurity. A person in that state of instability needs a way to cope. Hoarding is an incredibly efficient method to poorly cope with trauma. You just hunt and gather. Hunt and gather. Hunt and gather. You’re like a Capitalist squirrel.

Commodity Fetishism has shown itself to transcend the theoretical and can actually become a disorder. When we purchase something we haven’t made, we’re alienated from it. I would suggest that we then impose our own memory, or sense, on to that object in order to make it familiar. It becomes a fetish. There is a bond between person and object. Objects don’t have personalities. But they can represent any personality you want to invent. People do something similar (though it is not inherently self destructive, and can supposedly be part of an enriched life) that’s called objectum sexuality. But that’s another post altogether.

I like this show for character research. But it’s not just from the people afflicted with this compulsion.

Cleaning is a catharsis and a symbol. To cleanse oneself is often religious, something one can do for ones soul. Psychologically, to cleanse is to process an emotion, a neurosis, or trauma into something we consider manageable. We human beings are not in control of ourselves. We’re driven by the unconscious, and whether or not the pre-conscious gets on board and our ego controls our id, we’re guaranteed to lose control of the wheel and spin off in donuts of confusion and misguidance. One thing we can do is attempt to clear away the wreckage of a psychic trauma so as to begin functioning in a more “reasonable” manner and participate in relationships — grab the wheel, as it were.

Hoarding is maybe a crisis of “soul,” the strange concoction of neurological chemicals and the buzz of directed electricity that gives us self awareness.

Like body dysmorphia, hoarding can lead to severe denial that seems to leave sufferers unable to see the sheer scale of their “collecting” and destruction of their homes and relationships. They’re “seeing” something completely different from what their family and friends see.

Season 1, episode 7: A man named Paul cannot give away the scrap metal and trash that covers his property because in his mind they represent money for his grandchildren’s futures. However, threats to send him to jail and take away those kids drive him to seek help from Hoarders to clean up what cleaner Matt Paxton calls his “401 K.”

There’s a Marxist psychic crisis here that is reflected by a number of hoarders on this show. They see “value” in most of the things they have. By hoarding valuables they derive a sense of control over their future. This particular brand of commodity fetishism reminds me of Max Weber’s arguments about the Protestant Ethic. Such an ethic revolves around securing the family legacy and its wealth. It’s about hoarding money and not spending it.

But that ethic and fetishism is also thrown out of control as many hoarders on this show also have a shopping addiction. Alienation from commodities and perceived obsolescence can make their buzz last only a short time. A shopping addiction is an addiction to that buzz and a sensitivity to that perceived obsolescence. Further, when hoarders seem to be project-oriented they continue to start new projects repeatedly until scores of unfinished opportunities are scattered around their homes in piles like shoveled snow.

I have some trouble with OCD and mania. It’s not extreme (anymore), but they’re things  that can at times make me put off a project. The issue is that sometimes I don’t feel like dedicating the time it would take to satisfy my OCD, or I started it in a wave of mania that’s passed. So the project gets shelved. Then when a new idea surfaces, I get excited, pursue it, and then abandon it because of how demanding it is.

This does not happen much anymore. I tend to just come up with ideas, write them down, and then commit to buying the materials when I’m sure I will dedicate the proper amount of time and effort. I have learned that this is a healthier way to be creative and productive. This is via long-term therapy and treatment that hoarders on this show will hopefully begin with the after-care funds they’re provided.

Hoarding animals I think functions similarly, but with the note that animals provide companionship. People anthropomorphize animals to the extreme (lolcats). It seems to me that a person inclined to hoard does it not just for a need to control and evade real issues, it seems that they do it because they’re lonely. It seems like the people on this show feel very alone and alienated from other people out of fear and ontological insecurity.

To collect things is to possess meaning and project memories onto them (making their lives seem tangible and substantial). To collect animals is to collect friends whom are totally dependent on you, thus allowing you the illusion that they love you — the idea of unconditional love. It’s a cultural meme that when people love each other it means they also “need” each other. It’s an objectification. Hoarding is about possessing objects. If everything is an object to be collected, than everything can be arranged by ones own psyche to have the exact meaning they need in order to feel secure. It’s harder to do that with people, but very easy to do with animals and inanimate objects.

Now, in addition to enjoying this show as some sort of Mad Critic watching my little literary rats run and run and run, there are also two recurring helpers for whom I am a SUPERFANGIRL.

Dr. Robin Zasio

Dr. Robin Zasio is a clinical psychologist who started a center in my hometown of Sacramento, California. The first thing I noticed about her was her very soft demeanor. Just looking at this woman is relaxing. I recall laughing and thinking to myself, “Now that’s a therapist.”

I would argue that as she functions on this show, she is an archetype. She speaks with a very soft, even tone; communicates gently and directly; and has very focused eyes.

She’s also pretty, which makes her perfect for TV. One could be put off by that given that it’s yet another example of the aesthetic projection of media today. Her lovely hair, slim build, and nice face is a producer’s dream. The ideal is not just to be smart, but to be attractive, too.

As a critic, I have no problem with beautiful people. That side of her is what makes her an archetype. She’s the ultimate empath. She could be a Betazoid psychologist and holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx.

Dr. Zasio works with hoarders to help them vocalize why exactly they want to keep an item. The question is “can you live without it?” or “Do you need it?” Her job is, in a way, to fight the psychological clutter. She’s wonderfully gentle and clearly provides a safe and welcoming trash can for the rotting gunk in a hoarder’s mind (neurological soul). She seems to express that the objects themselves don’t have the meaning the hoarder seeks. The meaning exists within them already. The intangibility of it makes it seem fragile, but in reality that intangibility makes it eternal and strong. Nobody can take away what exists thoroughly in your own being. A fire, flood, or earthquake may ravage everything, but they cannot destroy the meaning  of pictures, trinkets, and toys. That meaning remains intact as long as the mind agrees to retain it. In essence, that meaning can live on until the moment you die; and even then, someone you love will likely maintain its meaning until they die, and so on.

Matt Paxton

Matt Paxton is a true American Entrepreneur. He started his own company, Clutter Cleaner, “specializing in homes that have been affected by hoarding, addiction, and grief.”

He’s a fascinating character for me because he’s found a way to further make the treatment of “hoarding, addiction, and grief” part of the Capitalist market.

I won’t get into yet another big speech about the dangers of Capitalism. Instead, I will note specifically his inclusion of “grief.”

When my grandmother died, cleaning out her home was a really bizarre experience. I wasn’t that close to her even though my mother, her boyfriend, and I lived with her for 10 months while she succumbed to cancer in her mid 80s. I was 10 at the time.

For a number of reasons, as well as my age, I did not experience grief like my mother did over the loss of her mother. Grief cleaning, however, proved to be a difficult and absorbing task. My mother did it, however, because she at two points in her life cleaned homes professionally. She’s also one tough lady.

Matt Paxton takes those same skills of cleaning and organization and melds them together with a kind of unofficial therapy. He’s not a trained psychologist or counselor, but he’s in a position to provide objective cleaning expertise in a situation where logic and reason are usually clouded by deep, dark emotion.

He works with hoarders to see the ramifications of their own denial,  extreme commodity fetishism, and emotional projection. He regularly says things like, “Do you want the stuff, or your family?” He cuts through the manipulative bullshit that sick people put out in order to fend off criticism with immediate practicality. Practicality requires order. He is the master of practicality.

So, this show, Hoarders, is an act of voyeurism. That’s a plain fact about reality shows dealing with the exposition and recovery process for mental disorders like addiction and hoarding. People refer to these things as Trash TV, as exploitive, as even disgusting. I disagree, however. The reality is that these people get a free therapist, a free organizer, and free crews to take the first hardcore stab at their hoarding problem.

They regularly say on this show that two days is not enough to solve the problem. That’s a real “duh” but I appreciate the honesty of the therapists like Dr. Robin Zasio and cleaners like Matt Paxton. The consistent formula of the show is what provides weirdos like me with a sort of science-experiment-style literary insight into the illness. We get to see how each unique individual reacts to the process of facing their own obsessions and taking the first steps to cleanse their entire lives so they can live on and have healthy relationships.

Every episode is a beautiful play: two stories told in four acts a piece. We meet our hoarder and see their back story. We meet Dr. Robin Zasio or another therapist as they survey the home. We meet Matt Paxton or another organizer to start the first day of cleanup and therapy. Then we get the final day attacking the hoard and see the final results of the radical therapy.

You see good people and bad people. You see people who love animals, but are terrified of people. You see people frozen with grief years after the loss of a parent or child. There was one awful woman whose adult children came to help her even though she used to chain one of them up in his room, and said during the show at one point that she never should have had children. You have people who fight toe-to-toe with the logic of Matt Paxton. And you have sweet and delicate individuals who lean on Dr. Robin Zasio as they make their way through the maze of garbage to the starting line of ontological security.

Hoarders fills me with questions, wonders, and anticipations. I work as an editor and see the cleaning of a hoarded house like I see the revising of a cluttered document littered with sentence fragments and passive voice. I see the hoarders like I see the big point of a document: obscured by fussy and overwrought ideas, unnecessarily big words, too many commas, and paragraphs that are way too long. All it takes to reveal the possibility is an initial big sweep, firmness and love, and two days with a therapist and a cleaning specialist. Just ignore the camera crew.

Mario Savio on top of police car in front of Sproul Hall. Oct. 1, 1964

I argue that the Occupy movement cannot specify a single cause or it will fail in enacting any change. Why? Because the system is a system and not a machine. You cannot change the system by attempting to alter a single part. It’s connected to everything. The plight of the poor and disenfranchised is social issues informed by economics. Access to medicine, food, clothing and shelter are social and economic issues, and those are the heart of “political discourse.”

So how do we change the system that is failing “99%” of the American population? We first have to change the way we think.

Now, I’m sure that sounds insurmountable, altering the perspectives of people. It sounds impossible because we’re inclined to believe that when I say “we” I mean “them.”

Human beings are inclined to believe that when we disagree with someone on an issue that they don’t actually believe their own position and have ulterior motives like racism or greed (which can definitely be the case), or that they are simply ignorant idiots. The truth is that everyone has their own context and from that context they form opinions. We all do that.

I try to believe that most of the people who disagree with me on issues genuinely believe in their own positions. I want to believe they are as passionate as I am about the topic. I try to assume that when someone argues that a flat tax doesn’t favor the rich, they truly believe it and see evidence for it. Do I immediately assume they’re idiots? Sometimes. I can admit that I am guilty of this binary thinking too because it’s part of my context. It’s another construction of the system; the two-party mentality that anti-federalists, back in the day, were very, very against.

The recognition of my inclination to do this hit me just recently. In fact, when this realization sunk in, it was in connection with another radical recognition. I will explain that second recognition in just a bit.

At Occupy Cal police pummeled students and other protestors who’d locked arms to protect the prohibited encampment. A letter from the university stated that such action was “not non-violent.” Everyone screamed “bullshit!” and so did I. I was ashamed of my Alma Mater for handling that event so horribly. I was angry with the police for being malicious morons, hurting people, and tarnishing the tradition of peaceful protest on MY campus.

Then suddenly, something clicked. I love my university. Emotionally I wanted to give it a chance. I wanted to believe that it wasn’t as evil as lots of people were asserting. So I took another look. I gave in to the hope.

That’s when I realized that the Regents probably believed they were doing the right thing and didn’t want students getting beaten. UC Berkeley prohibits encampments on campus. I believe there are two reasons behind this. One is the apparent control over demonstrations that people are very opposed to, and I believe should be protested. The second is a practical assurance of the safety of students, staff, and visitors to the campus. Encampment also, obviously, is a staple of the homeless. It’s a sad truth.

The police? I don’t want to hate people, so I have tried to step back and remind myself that police are people and people are human. Those officers who assaulted students unprovoked were absolutely wrong. I believe they should lose their jobs and face charges of assault. That’s what would happen to any civilian.

You Don’t Hit People. We were supposed to learn this as toddlers.

So, I have found an initial possible method for quelling my intense emotions on this subject. Rather than screaming and yelling at the opposition, I am endeavoring to steady myself and try to unite us.

Back during the protests over cutting down the trees standing in front of a defunct Memorial stadium, I took a walk over to see the big hulking plants cut and fall to the ground. I was still arrogant and angry about the whole situation because I have a great love and appreciation for collegiate sports. The protestors I found to be stupid, ill-informed, and likely full of shit over their impassioned attachment to the trees that would die only to be replaced by three more. I have asserted that they’re “trust-fund hippies who are sad they missed the ’60s.” I went out to watch the trees fall and started trash-talking the remaining protestors. I was rude and antagonistic. I started an insulting chant of “Roll on you Bears” which is shouted when the California Offense passes the 50 yard line. A leader in the organized save-tree movement ran up to me and began screaming. He was promptly arrested, because a man can’t loudly intimidate a woman in a Patriarchy much anymore. He was also super annoying (Sorry, it’s true. That guy is kind of a dick).

Throughout that event, though, I had been trash-talking with a hippy that majored in art and didn’t know that the air we breathe is 70% nitrogen. As we argued and jabbed at each other, suddenly things began to fall away. He’d made a nice painting of a tree. He listened to me talk about the facts of seismic retrofitting, the necessity of giving talented athletes the opportunity to get an amazing education when they might not otherwise be able to afford one. Eventually we softened. I realized I respected him because I could see the passion in him for nature that I also have, just a different kind.

By the end of that day we agreed that it’s sad, very sad, when old beautiful trees have to be cut down.

When I was suddenly struck the other day that I am often unwilling to respect those I disagree with, I thought of this moment. I felt very humbled.

This softening of my exterior and reduction in my arrogance very suddenly left my ears open to the possibility that this was a small example of how people can change the way they think. It’s very possible for people to begin to admit they’re wrong when they’re wrong, to begin to understand that those they disagree with likely aren’t bad or stupid, to begin to see that everything is connected and that, really, we’re all on the same team.

Human team. It sounds corny, but it’s true.

The solid moving hope that I received was in a video of Occupy Cal, which you can see below. It features frazzled and clearly afraid police officers surrounded by angry and remarkably committed student protestors. What happens next gave me incredible chills like a rising orgasm.

The protestors – young people – began shouting at the police, “YOU are the 99%!”

This is incredibly remarkable because it’s the first sign I’ve seen that people may begin to understand what the concept of “99%” means. It means that the police, the mayor, the legislators, all of those people are connected to us. We are all in the same boat. In reality, the 1% people are part of it, too. They are merely a small collective who truly think themselves as separate from the system. That’s the real problem; we have people who want to tear things apart. They are mechanistic and binary.

You can’t tear apart a system like you would an engine. All you do is warp it so only parts of it get the best stuff. It’s a system out of equilibrium.

So, the point? I don’t really believe in pure Bad Guys. I believe The Man is really just a bunch of people who believe what they believe and want what they want. It’s becoming further clear that what a lot of us believe and want isn’t good for us. It makes us sick, leaves us homeless and hungry, and hits us in the head with rubber bullets.

Things certainly have to change. This binary and mechanistic sense of economic and social segregation is a delusion manifesting in a myriad of personal perspectives.

We need to step back, take a deep breath, respect our feelings, look into the eyes of the person we’re talking to and then listen. Then we need to hope they’ll listen to us. If they don’t, if they try to push past us to take the tents down when we truly believe they must stay up, we’ll lock arms and lift our chins high. There’s a chance they’ll jab us in the sternum. It’ll hurt. But we’ll be connected not just to the two people with whom we are locked. We will be connected to the particles of the baton, the particles of the riot gear, the particles of the blood-shot eyes focusing desperately for a terrified brain.

Whether that brain is malicious we can’t really know. But how can we assume that’s the case? If we assume the worst of each other, how can we possibly work together?

The violence of the police and the venom of representatives and pundits are part of the system, too. They are what stimulated “You are the 99%!”

The hostile positions of tree dwellers connected me to a young man with whom I have little in common beyond passion. But that’s a connection. When police hit protestors, people find out about it. It’s a mass connection. It’s fucked up, but police brutality actually helps these movements. Martyrdom is a powerful thing.

There are connections in everything. I believe that when we all really begin to see the system, see each other and what we most basically need, we’ll be on our way.

We can occupy the headquarters of the most profitable corporations. Corporations are part of the system, but they are not people. We treat them as people and I believe that needs to change.

We can occupy City Halls, Police Stations, State Capitals, The National Capitol, Wall Street because the government is supposed to be the people, part of the system, but it’s not the people.

We can equalize the system when we find our own equilibrium. I am he as you are we. We are all together. We are the 100%

This is the kind of hyperbole that can blow up into long pointless stories about how I used to wear onions on my belt to school every day.

So let’s talk about 1997, shall we? I was nine years old. I find that 1997 was the first year that I was conscious of the whole world. I understood basically the structure of our representative government. I understood the separation of the voting body from the woolen men at city hall.

I also saw and felt the early rumblings of what it meant to be a tween. That’s a fucked-up space. I was still a little bitty thing who couldn’t imagine wearing a bra… yet… I was going to be a “young lady” soon.

I went to my first sleepover that year. Everyone wanted me to do their makeup because I was best at applying it. Did I wear it myself? No. Why? Because I was overwhelmed by my own context and I wasn’t sure of what identity I should invest myself into.

“Should I be a young lady?” I thought to myself. Little Ranger Bagel was confused. Big Ranger Bagel is still confused, but 14 years dealing with her own context has helped.

So, let’s discuss 1997 from my nine-year-old context.

Boyz II Men, Cooleyhighharmony

This album debuted in 1991. I was three. This may seem unrelated, but this is part of my context, remember? This is what built 1997 for me.

My childhood friend Jennifer is two years older than I am. She was my best friend, my only friend then, really (sad trombone). She was a full-blown tween at eleven. She also loved Boyz II Men.

So, one day in downtown Sacramento on K Street, my mother, Jennifer, and I walked into a Tower Records that is now an abandoned home and flipped through the used CDs.

“Oh! You should get this one,” Jennifer exclaimed with a lasciviousness that can only be expressed by a girl on the verge of puberty. That kind of lust is electric and lost.

That’s how I felt as I listened to the general “meh” of Boyz II Men. Electric and Lost. Frankly, I was a little white girl with very little connection to African American culture. I only found out a couple years ago that my late biological father was a huge racist.

So, Boyz II Men introduced me to the complexity of race relations and sensuality. Sensuality? R&B, Baby. Black people, Baby. It’s a cliché, a classic complaint. The music of black people is obscene, sexual, and corrupting of virtue. It’s dangerous to white women.

With this album in part, Making Babies transitioned into Making Love. The concept of sex shifted in my mind from the imagery of a woman giving birth, to the images of lips, tongues, legs, buttocks, movement. All the things that people want to pretend don’t occur to nine year olds occurred to me.

I conceptualized sex as good at nine. That was one of the first steps into the realization of my own context: Boyz II Men.

Princess Diana

Cliché takes a bend. I never wanted to be a Princess. While I was conceptualizing sexuality, I could not wrap my head around gender performativity. Also, I did not wear dresses. I completely and totally refused to wear dresses. They horrified me. I hated the idea of performing femaleness. There are many reasons for that rejection growing up, but I won’t get into it here. Let’s just say that having a fucked-up childhood while damaging, contributes to the awakening of context. Part of my context in 1997 involved a rejection of the “female.”

So, I didn’t want to wear ball gowns and crowns only to walk down a long aisle to a man I barely knew. Fuck that, right?

But I loved Princess Diana. I recall learning about her in school. I loved that she got divorced rather than staying in a failed relationship (my mother had an awful boyfriend at the time that I wished she would leave). I loved that she used her position as “princess” to do things.

Hell, yeah! Do things! That crown is worth more than its diamonds and precious metals, I realized. It was a symbol of influence, of pull.

I wanted pull. It was the first time that I realized achievement and context could usher you into a position of good-doing, world changing. I wanted to be Princess Ranger Bagel, fighter of the fight, changer of the change.

So what happened when Princess Diana died? I was shattered. I sobbed. I mourned as if I knew her. My mother was absolutely bewildered.

I can understand how that would be pretty bizarre, a nine year old sobbing over the death of the Princess of Wales. But, you see, it was the death of another piece of my context. Her death was the death of an ideal that was carrying me into functioning in society. She was a deep, grooved ring in my trunk.

I had to learn how to grieve.

Barbie Girl

So, you can see there are definite themes of what made up the foundations of my context: Sexuality, gender, and action.

Barbie Girl was a bizarre and confusing song to me, with a melody and style that still makes me think of pink zebra print skirts I used to put on my Barbies.

I fucking loved Barbie dolls. Super loved them. I had tons of Barbie stuff. Now, that may seem pretty strange considering I rejected the “female” performance. But, see, I did not view Barbies as a female performance because I was, myself, not performing the female. I played with everything.

One day when I was about three my mother said to me, “You know, some people say that boys shouldn’t play with dolls and girls shouldn’t play with trucks.”

“That’s stupid,” replied little Ranger Bagel.

And I promptly went back to Skipper manning the dump truck in the dirt pit my father had tilled for me.

Barbies, I realized at nine, were part of a larger play-time concept. I like to think of my childhood games as world practice. That’s how it is for all children if they’re not forced to have hetero-normative and gender-binary toys. They construct a quirky and personalized world.

I liked to have my Barbies go to big parties and dance. I also liked to have them go to the zoo to see my stuffed animals. I also liked to have my Barbies fall in love. I had a “Mary Sue” Barbie that everyone loved and paid attention. She was my Pocahontas Barbie. Think about that one!

So, what did Barbie Girl do for me? I realized it was a satire of the ultra white dumbness of the dolls that were ancillary characters in my game. This realization? It made me feel smug.

I felt a sense of pride and superiority over the fact that my Barbies weren’t idiots. My Barbies were educated and didn’t have time for nonsense. They had places to go in their pink convertibles and things to do in the school I made out of a cardboard box.

My games were better than everyone else’s. My Barbies were better than yours. That’s what Aqua taught me. Aqua taught me about generalizations, about norms, and that I inadvertently rejected them.

Sweet, right?

Spice Girls

GIRL POWER!!!

Revelation?!?! Yes. Power? In Girls? Really?

Oh wait. I already knew that. Princess Diana was girl power…Oh shit… She was?

She.

Spice Girls blew up what it meant to be a girl. What it meant to be a Woman. Rejecting the demure and repressive ideals of femininity didn’t mean I had to be gender neuter.

While it would take me a long time to figure out how I wanted to perform my own gender, the Spice Girls started me off down the right track.

How, you say? Crazy clothes and five straight-forward examples of different performances of femininity:

Scary

Sporty

Ginger

Baby

Posh

I liked each concept for its own specific reason.

Posh (Mrs. Beckham) was polished and sleek. She was my first example of what it meant to be “stylish.” We were poor when I was nine. I had never seen anyone wear expensive shoes and fine clothes. That was a revelation in my context. Suddenly my context contained high fashion.

Baby was sweet and irreverent. She embraced a sort of innocent youth, what it meant to be a “little girl” in a way that had never occurred to me. People wanted to buy me fluffy girly things that I rejected.

When I was little people used to compare me to a doll for my shiny curly hair, round nose, and puffy lips. I have no qualms with that now because I was fucking adorable, but during those years I hated being ascribed a personality that went with the visage.

I was no doll. But Baby Spice? She wasn’t a doll, but she was a doll. She was sweet and cutesy, but she was embraced by the other women in her group and the world as someone talented, and thus powerful. My context suddenly included the idea of softness in demeanor and delicacy in form.

Sporty I could identify with readily. She wasn’t “feminine” like the others. She wore pants and sports bras. She rocked sweet Nikes instead of platform heels. She had a pony tail and was active, running around being healthy. I realized that my own athleticism and activity were separate from my “gender” and sex. They were a part of me. Sporty expanded my context to include the idea that activity and interest are what makes people three dimensional. My context suddenly included the idea of fluidity in identity.

Scary was another Spicy lass I could identify with. I’ve struggled with mania all my life and the ideas of being “scary” and rambunctious I knew all too well. When I was nine I began to feel separate from my peers. I was a good student but high-energy and goofy. The bullying was just beginning to start. Scary helped me see that I lived in a world where other people were full of energy and sass. My context included the idea that while I was separate, I wasn’t entirely “other.”

Ginger pulled my context into focus. Ginger was sexy. Sexy. Sexy Ginger! Boyz II Men introduced me to the idea of lovemaking, but they are African American Men. That’s a pretty big separation for me in terms of being able to identify with a sexual/gender construction. Ginger helped make sex seem accessible. As a white female she helped me transition the idea of being sexy and sensual from mere concept to possibility. Ginger brought the idea of attractiveness into my context.

Sex, Charity, Games, Invention, Sex, Dresses, Shoes, Makeup, Sex, Me.

1997 was a big year. Every year is a big year in context, but for me the last step before hitting double digits was pivotal.

I remember starting to do pushups so I would be strong. I remember trying to comb my hair more (it’s a wild mess). I remember organizing my toys according to scripts I wrote. I remember taking those scripts and evolving them into full plots. I remember helping kids with their homework as we sat in AA meetings waiting for our parents to admit their lives had become unmanageable.

Of course our lives are unmanageable, little Ranger Bagel thought, but so is everything. All you can do is remember the lessons, mark the rings on the trunk.

Bill Clinton is President. The inflation rate is 2.3%. Mike Tyson just bit Holyfield’s ear off. Mother Teresa has died. Woolworth’s is closed. A civil Jury finds OJ guilty. Fen-phen is off the market. Internet Explorer 4 is out. Biggie has been shot. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone just came out. Batman & Robin is in theaters, unfortunately.

And 1.5 billion people around the world are watching Princess Diana’s funeral.

Ranger Bagel sat there scribbling through word problems, reminding her little compatriot to show her work. Together they begin to hum Spice Up Your Life. I see them. I see me as I was myself. I see myself found in 1997. I see the tree trunk like a small but hopeful sequoia; I kiss its rings.

I have a few posts drafted, awaiting evolution from their primitive existence. I will finish them! I promise.

So I am not dead. I have not abandoned you, fair reader. I just am occupied with something that you may read after you find the paperback laying on the street.

In the meantime: Christmas!

Blade Runner deals with the notion of human reproduction without the necessity of sex. Indeed, Replicants seem to achieve their super human status, lending credence to the slogan “more human than human” by moving beyond both the biological and developmental need for parents.  However, to fully achieve their potential as super humans, Roy—the representative of the ultimate evolution of Replicants—must sever all parental ties for his species.  He must do this by usurping Tyrell—the inventor of Replicants—through murder. Tyrell in the dialogue preceding his death scene establishes himself as a trifecta, or trinity, of paternal archetypes. He is the Frankensteinian father, the Oedipal father, and the Heavenly (Christian) father; God.  Each of these archetypes represent a father that must be usurped by his “son.” This offers an explanation to Tyrell’s knowing, accepting, and even welcoming behavior toward his guaranteed murder by Roy.

Replicants in the film are regularly aligned with machines; there is a sense that they are a kind of robot or more mechanical than human. I would argue that this sense of the Replicants is via their “super” humanity such that they lack womb gestation. They are biological beings that have entirely eliminated the need for mothers. However, they have yet to eliminate the need for a father. Their existence is preceded by the insemination from Tyrell’s engineering. He, like God and Victor Frankenstein, has fostered a new race with the insemination of engineering rather than the insemination of a woman. Oedipus’s father, however, impregnates a woman that Oedipus himself will later impregnate; suggesting Oedipus has usurped his own father sexually. Both Oedipus and the Frankenstein monster seek to destroy their fathers (The monster first destroys his father’s sexuality by killing his bride) in order to establish their own independent identities.  Then, to complete this trinity of analysis I recall that man, according to Nietzsche, killed God as religiosity became an inviable source of morality and philosophy. Man, in reason, had usurped the Lord.

The scene in which Tyrell is murdered is preceded by a chess game that Tyrell loses. Roy informs Sebastian of the winning move; evoking the chess-match with Death  in Bergman’s The Seventh Seal.  Tyrell has been mated by Roy’s move; implying that Roy will win over Tyrell as he attempts to defeat death.  Bergman’s film is also mirrored by back and forth shots between Roy and Tyrell with intermittent closeups that resemble the shots of the Knight and Death preceding their chess game. In Blade Runner, however, we already know the outcome. The Knight of the Replicants is pursuing triumph over death. His life is finite—as per his “father’s” engineering. Though he has beaten Tyrell at chess, he cannot undo his finite lifetime by asking his father for immortality.

Tyrell is clad in celestial white as Roy engages him for more life. He is surrounded by white bedding and candles evocative of prayers; appearing like a holy father in his church. Roy exclaims “It’s quite a thing to meet your maker” and Tyrell asks in the third person “What can he do for you?” Tyrell seems unphased by Roy’s presence and his request to elude death. Roy’s demand for “more life” is punctuated by calling Tyrell “Fucker,” which sounds peculiarly and appropriately like “Father.” Tyrell then admits freely he hasn’t the power to reverse the death-threat among his “children.” This bit of truth is strange since he could easily lie, get Roy onto a slab and murder him instead.

Tyrell systematically reveals information pertinent to the process of “incubating” Replicants. The explanation is followed by an informative conversation as Roy makes suggestions of how to avoid the death of a Replicant by modifying it. His knowledge, while vast, is destroyed by Tyrell’s superior paternal and God-like knowledge of how he made Roy. Tyrell’s truthfulness suggests his awareness of his Destiny.

Tyrell alludes to his awareness further by dismissing his explanation as academic, evoking Nietzsche’s anxiety over the limitation of religious doctrine. Tyrell recognizes his own limitations as both God and Victor Frankenstein. While he has created life, the limitations of his monsters weigh heavy on his “Prodigal Son.” Rather than having a crisis of being properly interpreted like the Frankenstein Monster, Roy has a crisis of Life, of identity Oedipal in nature. He cannot be who he is without killing his father; he cannot usurp his father without becoming his father. Roy does this not by inseminating his mother, but by coming into possession of Sebastian; his physical maker—the man who provided his physical gestation without a womb. This is indicated by the shots of Sebastian gazing through the candles as Roy carries out his murderous deed.

Tyrell seems aware of his role; aware of his Paternal and Godly responsibility. As Roy sits on his “Father’s” bed and drops his head in penitence, Tyrell strokes his hair and after his “prodigal son” confesses to having done “questionable things”, he counters that he has also done great things. He, as the ultimate priest absolves Roy; allowing him to achieve his destiny as the Monster, Oedipus, and Man. An ominous cello underscores the murder. It makes notice that the entire scene has been devoid of music save a mystical jingle at the conclusion of the chess game. The scene is complete with Roy taking his “Father’s” head in his hands, kissing him intimately and crushing his scull. Roy crushes the brain that envisioned him. He destroys his paternal wand. As God and Frankenstein inseminated with their minds Roy castrates his father by destroying his brain.

The scene ends with Roy’s back to the audience. We see Sebastian flee him as Oedipus’s mother fled him following the revelation of his patricide.  The music surges of harmonic voices; evocative of a church choir. The drums, the synthesizer and horns swell as Sebastian runs from “the monster” Roy; applying a horrific tone to the concluding scene. Suddenly we are given a shot of a Replicant owl; a Frankensteinian owl fathered by the same science and Promethean drive as Roy.  He, being many things in this scene, is also an animal. He is clearly now not human; indeed finally more than human.

Tyrell’s death is symbolic of the death’s of Victor Frankenstein, Oedipus’s father and the idea of God. Via science, philosophy and perhaps a sense of Destiny, Tyrell seems acutely aware of the gravity of Roy’s presence in his bedroom. He is truthful with his son, accepting and forgiving. He seems to know that he will be murdered. This acceptance of his destiny suggests that Roy, too, has a destiny in conjunction with his Father’s. The Frankenstein monster at the death of Victor Frankenstein goes off to die;  man is no more immortal without God than with; and Oedipus put out his eyes and wandered off, abandoning his identity for his lack of parentage and guilt of patricide. Perhaps Roy cannot exist. Perhaps his finite life, that was so thoughtfully engineered and is so thoughtfully discussed in the scene leading to Tyrell’s death is a commentary on the impossibility of super humanity, on reaching too far beyond the origin of the species. It could be a commentary on the impossibility of Man abandoning parentage literally and figurative; of us abandoning our roots, our identity, and the symbolic wisdom and unattainable power that God represents.

How did they do this? With Wyatt Earp.

The trusty Marshall is the stuff of legend, taking no hit at the OK Corral and generally mowing down a bunch of dudes who killed his brother with seemingly no consequences at all. He was like The Punisher of the Wild West. On top of it? He married a pretty, sassy actress from a rich family who also took naked pictures of herself way before the internet. When you have to accept a flashbulb and a flurry of smoke that’s commitment to a naked picture.

Anyway, this movie is brilliant because it’s gorgeous. It’s a beautiful imagining of  archetypal characters in the most idealized way. The casting is practically gilded I find it so stunning.

I’m not really big on swooning over actors, especially when that actor is Kurt Russell, but the long coat and the epic handlebar mustache totally does it for me. Somehow the melding of these two personalities creates a character who is Super Hot.

“Skin that smoke wagon,” he says as he smacks Billy Bob Thornton around, “Are you gonna do somethin’ or just stand there and bleed?”

I argue that this film is influenced and directed by Faustian themes including seven deadly sins: Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, Pride. Furthermore I believe it is also directed by both the absence and presence of the feminine. These things are often major themes in Westerns. I believe they evoke the fragility of the human across the frontier. Sin is fragility and women are often both. But in the end, so many of these tales of the west hinge on the holder of the womb. And they hinge on justice.

And I looked, and behold a pale horse:

and his name that sat on him was Death,

and Hell followed with him.

This quote from Revelations is introduced in the first sequence as we have Wrath, Greed, and Pride exhibited by the Cowboys.

The Cowboys are a rough large gang and Curly Bill leads a group of them, including Ike and Johnny Ringo, to a Mexican soldier’s wedding to avenge the killing of two Cowboys. There is a shootout and the soldier is murdered as he is clutched his new wife. Cowboys then drag her into the church and we assume she is raped. They don’t respect the feminine.

Curly Bill and the others take to eating the reception feast. A priest curses them, asserts that they will be struck down, and he quotes revelation, invokes the end of the world — the end of the world for them.

Johnny Ringo swiftly and unexpectedly pops a bullet into the priest’s head. Curly Bill and the others laugh nervously in awe of Ringo’s brutality. He scares even them because he has no reverence even for revelations.

Look, darlin', Johnny Ringo.

So here, we’ve got it. We’ve been informed of the true villain and his fate to be swallowed by hell. Later on in this film as he sits watching Josephine and her troop act out Faust he comments that he’s already sold his soul to the devil.

Vi veri universum vivus vici: I by the power of truth have conquered the universe.

By comparing himself to Faust we are left to wonder if he will be saved by forgiveness or if he will be dragged down to hell for his failures. I wondered if the feminine, evoking Gretchen, would intervene and save him from the wrath of the rider on the pale horse. Point 1 for Feminine presence.

In real life Johnny Ringo killed himself. In the film he is shot by Doc Holliday (as per one theory), who I believe in this film is redeemed in his assistance of the Righteous Earp and his desire for a solitary and peaceful death with his boots off. Redeemed, but not saved. His death, the Faustian damnation, may be signaled by the distinct absence of his lady Kate. He refers to her as possibly the anti-Christ. We wonder if the absence of her sin allows him to go to Heaven or if the absence of her feminine forgiveness damns him like One Such Faust. Point 2 for Feminine presence.

The film glosses over the pasts of the Earp wives as prostitutes and while I wish it had been a little less subtle (Ike calling the Earps pimps) I understand why the film makers left it out. Audiences have a hard time with sex workers as they have a problem with women who aren’t sublimated.

Matty, Wyatt’s wife, doesn’t even reject sublimation in that she’s a drug addict. Her alienation from Wyatt is established early on as she looks away from the window in which the Earps and their wives are framed. Coming off the train in Arizona, Wyatt grabs his brothers and sisters-in-law and stands them in front of a window, gazing at the reflection like a photograph of heaven. As I said, Matty looks away. She is focused on laudanum, on drug-induced sloth. She is so locked into this that she scoffs at Wyatt’s genuine compliment of her beauty — her femininity — but not locked in enough to escape feeling jealousy of Josephine.

Josephine Marcus is absolutely not sublimated. She’s a “spirited actress,” as Holliday remarks. She plays the devil and she asserts that she “wants one,” when witnessing Earp Archetype, a man with the visage of both predator and prey. Billy Zane responds, “Happy Hunting.”

So Josephine hunts for Wyatt, displays her rejection of sublimation, and Matty recedes into her bed. When Wyatt sees the devil revealed he exclaims, “I’ll be damned.”

Doc responds, “You may indeed, if you get lucky.”

This prognostication is very interesting to me in contrast to Johnny Ringo’s exclamation of his attempt to cheat the devil. Wyatt never tries to cheat the devil. Josephine only plays the devil. She is presented as a temptation, but I believe that she is Gretchen empowered by a vagina.

But who was the devil?

“I’m a woman. I like men,” she declares. Wyatt maintains that she’s still a lady, that he’d swear to it. Duh. She’s totally a lady. She may not be a Lady, but rejecting a chaste and modest veneer she just wants to have fun forever does not negate female definition.

I argue that her desire for Wyatt signals that he will be the one saved.

Et vivus a potentia veri universum vincet.

The only threat is the absence of the feminine, if he cannot be forgiven by Josephine. Following the death of Morgan and Wyatt’s rejection of her comfort she strolls across the street casually the next day. Holliday muses, “and she walked out of our lives forever.” Point 3 for Feminine presence.

Wyatt Earp rides off on the vengeance meme, embodying the ultimate wrath of Armageddon with a few men on hearty horses.

He anticipates Ike meeting him at the train. As Ike disrespects Matty by asking her to betray Wyatt Wyatt has already moved on from her sloth. He’s right behind Ike. He dominates him and marks him with  Mexican Tattoo minus the rope; an emblem of the coming apocalypse. Ike runs off with the message of Wyatt’s encantation, “Hell’s comin’ with me!”

At the OK Corral Wyatt Earp was not hit by a single bullet. That was part of his mystique. Everyone, even Holliday was grazed by a bullet. But Wyatt stood untouched as if protected, captivated by a greater power for a greater deed: Faust unlimited.

In the film when Wyatt encounters Curly Bill and his men he charges across the water to execute his destiny, to bring forth hell and death. And as Ike rides off in fear he drops the red sash that associates him with the plague of the Cowboys. He renounces them.

And Holliday’s presence? Why does he go on to kill Johnny Ringo instead of Wyatt? Well I’m going to make a wild argument that I think is pretty kickass. I am going to suggest that they are the two opposing moralities of the White Horseman of the apocalypse. They are fighting for the title. They are two sides of the coin and that’s why they hate each other.

Johnny Ringo exclaims that he sold his soul to the devil. He shot a priest for evoking revelations, and he exclaims to Wyatt that he wants his blood following the shootout in Tombstone. Johnny Ringo is evil.

But what of Holliday? Is he Righteous? Is he the counter to Johnny Ringo’s evil? Should he take the place as the proper horseman by Wyatt’s side?

Yes. This is why he wins. This is why at the end I believe he is redeemed. All of his gambling and drinking and shooting is ancillary to his inherent goodness in the film. He rides along with Wyatt as death, bringing an end to the cowboys and indeed to evil. That world is destroyed. Holliday exclaims when asked why he’s gone along with Wyatt through his sickness (pestilence), he merely answers that “Wyatt Earp is my friend.”

The White Horse is sometimes argued to be Christ himself. Is Holliday Christ? Is he the Holy Spirit? He helped Wyatt overcome evil. Now that it’s over he demands to die alone, without his friend and without the feminine. But he’s fulfilled his duty and spread his gospel. He has separated himself from Kate the anti-Christ and ordered Wyatt to find his high-spirited actress. He passes into the night in a white bed.

And Wyatt Earp? He makes good on his deal with the devil, with vengeance. He ends the Cowboys and with the fulfillment of revelation he is a man again. He is Faust awaiting his fate. His last effort is to pursue the forgiveness of the feminine. Who is the ultimate feminine? Josephine Marcus. He will love her for the rest of her life.  Rest of her life? Not his own? Beyond death.

Wyatt is forgiven and allowed to have true happiness in heaven: Room Service.

You think he’s damned with “And she walked out of our lives forever,” but being damned turns out to be a very “lucky” thing.

Shall we chronicle? Shall I do a fascinating exploration of the socio-psychological dynamics of this momentous event full of people as nerdtastic as I am?

Um. Probably not. It was surprisingly small. I was disappointed in the lackadaisical vendor room and there weren’t very many spectacular guests.

But once I got past that original disappointment I came to embrace the eternal truth that Size Does Not Matter.

After all, how can one complain at seeing and meeting Leonard Nimoy. He is Spock. He is not Spock…

He stood on stage with a kind of reverence I had not seen in youtube videos of his public appearances. He gave a nod to Japan and expressed a sort of baffled sadness that made me wince and feel like I was the only one there. He was gentle in his talk. He showed photos from his life. He talked about being an artist and having a fixed point of honor throughout his time on this earth:

What’s he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;

If we are mark’d to die, we are enow

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

He read this and I mouthed the words along reverently… I’ve been using that word somewhat excessively lately throughout my writing. I tend to personally be irreverent, so the converse of such a state is an interesting turn for me. It’s a shift in respect, in my reaction to my environment.

With Mr. Nimoy’s enunciation of “honour” the crowd awed slightly. He himself mimicked his initial reaction as a young boy, with similar great awe.

Before seeing Mr. Nimoy speak to a truly captive audience I met a Klingon! Upon seeing him first arrive somewhat earlier I thought to myself: “batlh,” Honour.

See my theme here? It’s the theme of Star Trek. One cannot traverse wide open space and interact with people of all different experiences and perspectives without a sense of reverence, without a sense of personal honour.

Lionel Trilling did a series of lectures at Harvard in the 70s that were published in his book Sincerity and Authenticity. I read it my first semester at Cal and was baffled. Then I started all over again. He talks about a shift in public perspective from a sense of public sincerity to the practice of internal personal authenticity. To be sincere is to publicly express that which is societal and good. It’s external. To be authentic is to be true to a personally constructed identity. Both of these roots have their own problems.

Being too sincere or too authentic can be symptoms of self deception. To live for society turns one into a shell in existential crisis. To be too authentic is to be isolated.

I believe that upon experiencing this Star Trek Convention I have seen my first real working example of what I think is a balance between Sincerity and Authenticity.

The people were friendly and out in public and polite and involved. Strangers came up to me and complimented me on my uniform (yes I wore a uniform and I totally made it, too.) The vendors were personable and reasonable, bargaining with ease and making truly fantastic Trek jokes.

There was an acceptance of performativity. These lovely people could interact with anyone. I met and saw no scared stereotypes because such stereotypes can’t leave the house. By being too authentic they’ve cut themselves off from the world and can’t engage (at impulse or warp).

But at the same time nobody goes to a Star Trek Convention if they’re James-Dean cool. They don’t go if they’re focused solely on living a publicly-approved sincere lifestyle. That’s because that which is subculture is sincere only to its own community.

I am not James-Dean cool.

So it seems like I have degenerated into some kind of pretentious analysis. But it’s only for my dueling reverence and irreverence over the experience.

I asked the Klingon for a photo. He said, “Come ‘ere, Woman!”

At that Convention I bought a replica phaser and a combadge and pips for my TNG uniform. It does not matter what I bought. It does not matter that I paid money for a photo with Leonard Nimoy. It does not matter that I wanted to possess a photo of me with a badass Klingon.

For while it may seem frivolous or insincere, for me it’s a personal expression of awe. My journey toward authenticity lies partially in Star Trek. I love Star Trek because I covet honour.

When I took a picture with Leonard Nimoy I said I hoped he was having fun. He said he was. I didn’t need anymore than that. As I mentioned in my post about Wondercon last year, I don’t need anymore from my heroes than they’ve already given me. Nimoy isn’t an idol to be worshiped. He’s an artist, a poet, a photographer, a teacher. He held our attention like a king on a mound, but he was a man, a man of honour.

As I left that convention and felt the sun on my hair, a phaser in my hand and a smile stealing my face I felt as though, for me, it were Saint Crispian’s Day.

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