Outrage 2.0

Certain issues require top notch outrage.  Guns, reproductive rights, education, exercising the franchise .... these are Outrage 1.0.  I wax eloquent on those subjects and I expect that people will listen.  I'm expressing an opinion on topics of vital interest to every sentient being on the planet. Agree with me, disagree with me, but please engage with me in these important conversations; that is what makes our democracy flourish.

And then there are those things which just make us nutty.  Asiago Bagels are a prime example.  Along with Blueberry Bagels, they fly in the face of what makes a bagel a bagel.  It's boiled dough with some stuff stuck on the outside..... as long as that stuff is a poppy or sesame seed or an onion.  Beyond that, they are some kind of gluten, but they are not bagels.  This is Outrage 2.0

And so, today, as TBG began to riff on Hat Discrimination, I took notes.  It was classic Outrage 2.0. laughed through every minute of it.  The following is his rant, with some of my own embellishments. (If you are sent to Outrage 1.0 after reading any of what follows, you are taking it, and yourself, much too seriously today.)
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A stylish woman in a stylish chapeau was sitting two tables over at Wildflower.  Behind her was a stylish older cowboy in a stylish cowboy hat.  Those two sparked TBG's tirade on Hat Discrimination, starting from the perspective of the hat, itself.

Why did it have so many rules about inside and outside?  What did it do to deserve such persecution... and to whom did it do it.... and why did that person get to make all the rules?  There are no similar rules about any other article of clothing; why pick on the hat?

Why is it permissible for a woman to keep her hat on her head while dining, when Ms Manners frowns upon men who do the same?  Isn't that sexism run amok?

And then, there's religion.

Men must take their hats off in church, but women are required to keep theirs on.  That makes no sense at all.  Women spend time creating hairdos that can be admired from all sides.  Why choose to view a boring,  bald pate when you could admire a fashionable fedora? It's a simple matter of what is more interesting. The rules are just wrong.

Unless it's an all or nothing experience.

Observant Jewish men wear a head covering all the time; that, at least, is consistent.  The rules for women and other men depend on which piece of Judaism you ask.  Most, at some point, want to see a nod in the direction of a yarmulke for both sexes.

What is it with religions and covering the head?  Keeping the brains in?  Protecting the self from the wrath of God, sent from on-high straight down onto an unprotected noggin?

The man was on a roll.

Young boys can't wear their caps straight any more than they can cover their butts; sideways caps are as disrespectful as sagging jeans.  And when did it become appropriate to cover your head but expose your butt as you enter a restaurant?

After a brief detour into the meta - These are some really deep, anthropologically significant insights, y'know - we were brought up short when his mind went to Helmet-less Motorcyclists.

Some things belong in Outrage 1.0 ...  and lunch was being served.
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"I am TBG and I approve the content of this post."

Have a wonderful weekend.  I'll be back on Sunday with some Valentines Love.

Happy Birthday, CTG

I went to church on Sunday.  

I felt no strong pull to attend synagogue, despite the High Holy Days and Days of Awe which my family and friends are celebrating this week. I've been speaking to my heart this week, examining corners and wondering where the new year will take me, but I've been unmotivated to pray in public. There was nothing for me to say, there.

Today is Christina-Taylor's birthday, though, and last Sunday was the second Sunday in September, the day on which a mass is celebrated in her name. So, there I was, at St. Odilia's, her family's church, two traffic lights away from the Safeway where bullets took her from us. Honestly, I'd rather have been at her 12th birthday party.

But, the day and time were announced on Facebook, and everyone was invited. I rolled out of bed and through the shower and my closet without thinking too much. I was in the parking lot fifteen minutes later, leaving my car next to her parents' car, and in front of this sign

I was trying to hold it together, but that just pulled it apart. What have we come to that such signs are necessary... at a church?

I slipped into the back row, after telling the Boy Scout on the patio that I would donate to his cause after the service, if he could formulate his reasons more articulately. I tried to laugh at myself for making every moment a teachable moment, but the smile wouldn't come. My civics lesson with Gabby and Christina-Taylor had led me to a hard bench on a Sunday morning and my heart was breaking into little pieces.  None of them wanted to be translated into a grin.

St. Odillia's is a friendly place, starting (and ending) the service with handshakes and greetings. The message was hopeful and welcoming and healing. The cantor (there must be a word for the person who sings in a Catholic service but this is as close as I can come) held out her arms, bringing us into her song, encompassing us all as she thanked Jesus.  "You have been our refuge," she sang, and I knew that it was true.  My friends find solace in their belief in his goodness; for that I am ever grateful.

Two babies were introduced to the community, and blessed. Christina-Taylor's delight in being a 9/11 baby was the centerpiece of the sermon, a short and thoughtful homily on healing grace and poverty and what we can do about it. "If you want peace, work for justice," was the message. I wanted nothing more than to talk about it with CTG. I was lonely, and the comfort I wanted cannot be found.

So I looked around the auditorium, at the Dad cossetting his antsy young son, tenderly stroking his head, directing his attention to the dais; at the quiet chatter in the glass fronted family room, where praying and playing were taking place side by side; at the three crones, one terribly palsied, all white haired and smiling and delighting in one another as they helped and guided and laughed. I watched the parishioners take Communion, eating the bread that was matzoh and which, this morning, resembled a tortilla, leaving the altar with clasped hands and gentle smiles.  

I realized that I was no longer on the outside, looking in. 

I was part of the community and that was the point. Christina-Taylor was all about inclusion and joy and doing something new. In her honor, I was wearing an outfit I'd coordinated with accessories to match, and though I was one of the few who were not in blue jeans, I didn't feel overdressed. There was no one there to judge. They were glad that I was there, new, dressed up, knowing no one but smiled at by all. 

Fr. Troutman, the pastor, remembered my name and asked about my rehab before sighing that the family's pew was full. I assured him that it didn't matter. I felt connected, right there in the back.

My little friend is gone, but she is not forgotten. She is with me as I drop off socks to PYP and as I measure how tall her brother has grown.  While he towers over me and recounts his mom's encounter with a rattle snake while wearing red... a color certain to enrage the reptile... wearing a sport coat and looking all grown up... his sister is sitting on my shoulder, laughing along with me. 

I don't think I'll make this a regular Sunday thing, but I am looking forward to it as an annual event, a re-connection with a part of myself I don't visit very often. Thanks for the invitation, Christina.  I love you.

A Bonus Post

The Chief Dispenser of Care at G'ma's pod-castle asked if we had plans for tonight. There were 2 other Jewish ladies in the Community and, if I had no objections, the pod-castle would like to invite the 3 of them to a special Rosh Ha'Shana dinner in a neighboring pod-castle.

All on their own, in a decidedly un-religious-though-leaning-towards-Christian environment, they are going out of their way to give G'ma the kind of experience she had when she managed her own living space. They thought it would make her happy.

Any doubts I had about the wisdom of this move have vanished.

L'shana tova tikatevu - May you have a GREAT new year, filled with sweetness and joy.