Skeptic Toolkit -- Peer Reviewed Science

I'm quite excited by this series Denny has begun posting on his blog; Skeptic Toolkit.  Our culture is inundated with pseudo science; information that looks like science but isn't.  How do we know which is which?  Who do we trust? How do we search out answers?  This is a great introduction to skepticism and I hope you'll all read it.  

http://ourtomorrow.blogspot.com/2014/04/skeptic-toolkit-peer-reviewed-science_26.html

Reflections of an Unintentionally Undercover Atheist

I went to the dentist earlier this week.  I’ve only been to this office once, but I like the people, they’re friendly.  Having taken the children to a dentist in a nearby town and getting my oldest into an orthodontist up near St. Louis I’ve come to the conclusion that people in and around the dental profession are some of the friendliest, sweetest-natured professionals in the world.  I’m told they have to be because so many people hate dentists.  But that’s not what I want to talk about today.

While laid back in the dentist’s chair, waiting for him to return to finish the work he’d begun on my teeth, the hygienist and I made small talk; weather, gardening, kids.  Mostly only interesting because half my mouth was numb.  The context of our conversation was irrelevant, benign really.  At some point she interjected something about the sermon she’d heard in church Sunday, about how we are to love each other in spite of our failings, how we are accountable to God and not to men.

I had no words at the time for this absurdly interjected piece of faith-related small talk.  Granted, I was also having tools shoved in my mouth again, which somewhat limits my conversational abilities, but I lay there thinking that I could say something to the effect of, “As an atheist I don’t believe we have to answer to anyone when we die, but we answer to each other while we live and yes, it is best to love others.”

This has stuck with me.  More and more often these things stand out to me.  It occurs to me that people outside the Bible Belt might really have no clue how public religion has become.  It is not a personal thing anymore, if it ever was.  In Smalltown Midwest America faith in God and involvement in church is the rule, not the exception.  It is assumed that you are one of them.

Yes, one of them; us and them.  I cannot see it differently.  I immediately feel like an outsider when someone starts talking about their faith, like I’m some kind of spy, an undercover agent.  If this person knew they were talking to an atheist…  I wonder what would happen if I were to be found out?  Should I reveal myself before they say anything more to incriminate themselves?

But what if I don’t want to announce my unbelief to the world?  As it is, it takes effort to push this glaring difference aside and remember that this is just another human being in front of me with whom I might have all kinds of different and amazing things in common.  Humanity; focus on the humanity.  But isn't it interesting that no one stops to ask if their conversation partner is a believer?  I guess they just assume we are or hope that something they say will intrigue us if we’re not.

It occurred again today.  Seth and Blue went in for their first dental check-up/cleaning.  The hygienist and I chatted about the weather, the children, laundry, gardening, my dental care.  When she found out which practice I use she raved about what a wonderful doctor and staff they were and punctuated this with the statement: "You know, they pray every morning before they begin their day’s work."  I was supposed to be impressed.  She didn’t ask me whether I believed in the power of prayer.  I smiled and didn’t comment and wondered what I could or should say.  I wondered this all the way home.  That’s interesting.  I don’t personally believe in the power of prayer.  I used to, but I’m an atheist now.  I could have told her about my first book, written about my first year post-bible, a copy of which I happened to have with me.  Part of me wishes I’d spoken up.  I almost feel deceitful not saying anything (am I ashamed of who I am?) but another part of me insists I don’t need to go there.  What would be the point?  I needn’t broadcast my unbelief to anyone.  However, I was yet again suddenly thrust into the position of Unintentionally Undercover Atheist.  If I didn’t make myself known, was I merely cementing her assumption that I shared her delusion?

Apparently.

Soon after the above she recommended a movie her family had just gone to see; “Heaven Is For Real.”  She raved about it.  She raved about the book and insisted we read it, that we would love it, that it proves the existence of heaven.  I didn’t know all the details of the story, but I began to imagine, and again I wondered if I should speak up?  I asked her what it was about, buying myself information and time to process my thoughts.  As she excitedly told the story of this three year old boy who had died and returned to life with tales of lost loved ones and Jesus and angels singing, my mind bubbled and boiled; possible responses, observations about the situation itself and how odd to have two such situations in one week, both with dental hygienists no less, skeptical thoughts about the story…

What I wish I’d said:  “That sounds interesting.  I’m personally very skeptical of such stories and happen to be a former christian turned atheist who doesn’t believe in an afterlife.”  It could have turned into a conversation about how such anecdotal evidence is not true evidence.

What I actually said:  “Hmm.  Interesting.”

Some days I just don’t feel up to engagement.  It’s been one of those weeks for me, to be honest; worse than my occasional withdrawn mood.  Feeling very much like I would just like to crawl in a hole and take a break from the world.  Rather, I'd like to work in the garden with absolutely no distractions for a week.  The social demands upon this introvert have been high and I’m drained, but it doesn’t stop my mind from engaging.

The encounter from earlier in the week joined this one in my brain for a good workout, running laps and jumping jacks; mental fitness during the forty-five minute drive home.  Does it bother me that religious people are often outspoken?  No.  I don’t mind people sharing their passions.  It does get under my skin a little bit now because I see christianity as a huge lie, but even that doesn’t bother me too much as religion is simply, apparently, part of the human experience.  The presumption that I am a believer or, at the very least, interested gets to me bit more; a person wouldn’t just start in talking about golf assuming I knew about golf or was interested.  Why not ask before diving in?  But this is a cultural thing and I suppose some allowance should be made for it.  No, what begins to gnaw at me is that I am put in the position of being an atheist, undercover or otherwise.  There would be no atheists if there were not theists.  Because theism defines the majority of people around me, by default I find myself an atheist, a label I would otherwise not burden myself with. 

I did not go out into the world this week to share with anyone about my unbelief in God.  I don’t feel the need to spread atheism wherever I go (though I am interested in teaching skepticism and critical thinking, reason and logic).  I don’t feel the need to engage with every christian who brings up God or Jesus or the bible.  So what is an unintentionally undercover atheist to do?  I was content to discuss the gorgeous spring weather, swap gardening tips and enthusiasm, connect with other parents about the interesting children in our lives or, imagine, just get some freakin’ dental work done on myself and the children without the staff referencing their imaginary friends.

And I think this is why I don’t speak up sometimes.  Fighting the division, trying to focus on the humanity, on the commonality.  

But, I am an atheist.  And as I think about it, I guess I’m an atheist not only because others are theists, but because I once was a theist myself.  Atheism exists because theism exists, generally, but this is part of my character now.  Part of me.  I do believe that, however it started and why-ever it continues, belief in the bible god is some sort of delusion.  And I saw the wizard behind the curtain.  I cannot unsee it.  I have been down that road.  With hard work and a pinch of chance my journey has been forever altered.

As a christian, I would not have taken kindly to being called delusional.  Or ignorant, but I think ignorant is the most appropriate word.  And for the most part there is no “sin” in ignorance.  Looking around me now and thinking back to my own past, I think there are some who are willfully ignorant, some who are not, and some mixture.  It just does not occur to some to question things.  Some refuse to question past a certain point.  Some question and feel they have found answers, but don’t understand about the scientific method, about evidence, about peer review, about logic and reason.  I fell into the latter category.  I now understand the work involved in flushing out truth.

Ignorance does not equal innocence and is not an acceptable condition to remain in.  An awful lot of damage can be done by the ignorant.  I daresay that’s when most of the damage is done.  Christianity, any bible-based religion, has done its share.  There are consequences to ignorant thought and behavior. I’ve written about some of those before.

So, I am torn, always.  I often hold back in random engagements as described above then unload in writing.  So, am I an outspoken atheist?  I guess I’ll accept the title, since I wrote a book largely about that.  But, like I said, I don’t feel the need to spread atheism wherever I go.  I will occasionally counter christianity when I meet it.  I will attempt to do so in a thoughtful fashion.  I do not aim to provoke and I do not aim to convert.  I am hungry for reason.  I am thirsty for mobs of critical-thinking humans who can begin to make necessary changes to our culture and our world.

A friend suggested to me this evening that people need the idea of God.  Not that he believed God existed, but that the idea of God exists and it exists for a reason.  I admit to believing that the God idea, in its many variations, came directly out of humanity’s attempts to understand itself.  As my friend seemed to be explaining, humanity needs to believe in God to explain the great unexplainable fortunes and calamities of life.  I personally don’t feel the need for this in my life.  I truly don’t.  I've had it, now it’s gone, and I feel my life is much richer without it, more focused.  Denny feels this way, also.  I know many others who do not feel the need for God, but I know many who do.  I know some who reject the bible god, but embrace the idea of a higher power.  It looks to me like they desire what mankind has always desired: a reason for life’s mysteries.  Without getting into my thoughts on the “God of the Gaps” (expounded upon in my book, “Free to Be.”  Today’s mysteries are tomorrow’s knowledge), I see humanity giving God credit for its good accomplishments, accepting blame and condemnation from God for our failings, and believing that all we have do to do is ask forgiveness and he will make everything better.  

It’s an astounding system, a perfect system designed by a humanity that doesn’t know what to do with itself or doesn’t want to bother.  

Personally, I would rather wipe away all the religion, all the ideas of higher power, and get down to bare humanity.  We will look our accomplishments in the eye and own them.  We will look our “sins” in the eye and own them.  We will look around us and ask, “What can we do differently?  What steps can we take to improve ourselves,” instead of waiting for God to perfect us.  We will offer each other the best that we have, physically and emotionally; all that energy we used to pour into worship of God, prayer, bible study, church-building and missions.  I think only then will we be able to heal our communities, save ourselves, save our planet and fellow species.  It will only happen when we accept who and what we are and stop looking to God for answers.  When we stop leaning on the crutch of God and stand on our own damned feet.

One more thing happened today to ‘cause me to stand up a little straighter and look my culture in the eye, unashamed of my non-theism, unashamed of my humanity.

I donated one of my books to my local library.  I’d also had some book-promo bookmarks made up and had left a stack of them with my librarian who set them on the counter with the usual library bookmarks.  A homeschool mom friend writes christian romance novels and I remembered that she had done the same a couple years ago with her bookmarks and that they had prominently displayed her book with a placard declaring “Local Author.”  My librarian friend informed me that a religious patron took my entire stack of bookmarks to “show her minister.”  Stole the whole stack.  My friend wasn’t present at the time, but learned this from another librarian who happens to be a christian.  She suggested to him that he might want to reconsider promoting my book.  I was also told that a new employee, a young christian, saw my book on the shelf (awaiting processing and Dewey Decimal assignment) and scoffed at it.

So, returning to the list of things that bother me about my recent interactions, it burns me a great deal knowing that if I were to speak as freely about my atheism as christians do about their theism, I would be met with considerable ugliness and be seen as antagonistic and divisive.  The playing field is not level.  The idea that my book could not be as freely promoted by my local library as a christian romance novel rather raises my ire.  I do not ask special treatment, but equal treatment.  In the asking of such I will likely be viewed as a militant atheist.

Bring it on.

I will be calling the library headquarters next week to see if they have a policy regarding promoting local authors.  I will avoid discussing the subject matter of my book and go from there.  I will also be talking to them about setting up a book signing/reading at my local branch.  From there I will see about getting my book into some stores in the area (there’s only one book store in my town and it’s christian.  Hmm).  I think I’m ready.

I, like everyone I know, am just a human being trying to find my way.  I will be met with opposition because my journey is against the grain of my immediate culture, but I will stand tall, unashamed of my experiences and who I am, and I will do my best to connect with my fellow humans.

Cry Baby

Who are you crying for?

Me. I weep for myself, for the me that was.  Part of the grief process, I suppose.  The stark contrast between my life now and the life I was living two years ago continues to jump out at me at occasionally and I end up in tears.  The scars are all there…

All the times I’ve ever felt like I was special to no one,
All the times I wondered if I was beautiful,
All the times the man who was supposed to love and cherish me, to have and hold me, left me doubting that love existed or would ever exist for me,
All the times I laid alone at night wondering where he was,
All the times he neglected to return my embrace,
All the times I wanted nothing more than for him to hold my hand, to give it a squeeze, to reach out and caress me,
All the times we didn’t see eye-to-eye on important issues, like how to raise the children,
All the times we didn’t see eye-to-eye on unimportant issues,
All the times I just wanted to share something with him and for him to share with me,
All the times I just wanted to be near him, to share a moment, and he acted like I wasn’t there,
All the times we just didn’t connect, didn’t understand each other,
All the times I wasn’t worth fighting for… 

And what about God?  What about all the times I cried out, soaked my pillow with tears, wanting to feel his presence, to feel some relief from physical or emotional pain?  All the times I sought comfort, direction, love, all the times I sacrificed and waited…  with nothing in return.
I had a good cry with Denny a while ago, overwhelmed yet again by the realization that those pains really are behind me.  I am no longer bound to an imaginary deity and Denny has brought healing to every other personal wound I can think of, just by being himself.
I don’t want to forget.  I don’t want to take this life and this relationship for granted.  So, I remember.  And I cry for the Kaleesha of the past.  I don’t waste my time with regret, wondering who I would be today or wishing things had been different, but I allow myself to grieve.  It hurts me to think of anyone feeling the way I did so often.  Are there worse things in life a person can suffer?   Of course, but one pain does not diminish another.  My pain was real.  The same pain in another person at this moment is very real to them. 
A few years ago I was receiving a monthly magazine for women based upon the fundamentalist patriarchal view of the Bible; women exist to serve men, to have lots of babies if possible, and they must deny and sacrifice themselves however necessary to make this happen.  I enjoyed the magazine and, with a few exceptions, I found it encouraging.  This morning, as I was crying for myself, an article from that magazine came to mind.  It had stuck with me because over the years I had found myself shedding tears aplenty regarding the neglect listed above.  The word picture in the magazine was of a woman crying.  A stranger approached her and asked her not why was she crying, but for whom was she crying?  The author proceeded to admonish us young women to lay aside self pity, not to waste tears on ourselves, and to trust God’s will for our lives.
I found the article and read it again this afternoon.  The author made some good points about self-pity, I’ll admit.  I won’t say we’re sinful for wallowing in self-pity (she doesn't either, but the implication is that it doesn't glorify God), and I think some things come out during our pitiful times that we really need to consider, but I certainly don’t think it’s a condition anyone should live in.  The real problem lies in the author’s answer to the self-pity issue:

May God help us to change our questions to those that will help to bring us into growth, rather than leave us in the rut, or the pit of despair. God loves us too much to leave us where we are. He is not content with letting us stay the same. He wants to lead us on. He wants to change us into the likeness of Christ, from one degree of glory to another. If God did not allow difficulties to come to our lives, we’d stagnate instead of grow.
Let’s ask this question continually, “Lord, what are you saying to me? I am listening as I read your precious Word. I want to hear you speak into my heart. What are you telling me through these circumstances I am going through?’

Do you know what’s going to happen if you ask God these questions, if you look to him for answers?  The same thing that will happen if I look for answers from the invisible pet dragon in my living room; not a damned thing.  That said, ask questions.  Examine the pity and ask yourself if there is something you could or should do to better yourself or your situation.  If it’s completely out of your control make peace with it, draw upon your inner strength.  You will discover good things about yourself, you will grow, but it probably won’t be enough.
        Reach out to another human being.  I can’t stress this enough.  You do not have to go through anything alone, but you might remain alone if you don’t reach out.  Talk.  Share your pain.  Let someone hold your hand.  That’s real.  That’s tangible.
The only thing that hurts me worse than the injuries is the knowledge that there are people out there right now being told to stop crying for themselves, that this is God’s will for their lives and to just accept it and ask him to give them strength to get through it.  They are being told, “I will pray for you.  God won’t give you anything you can’t handle.”
I used to pray for people.  I’ve found my new response to the suffering of others infinitely superior.  First, I hug them if I am able.  I say, “Here’s my phone number; call me any time, day or night, if you’re feeling alone or scared or you want to talk or you just want a distraction.  I’ll come over and be with you if you want and I am able.  Let me know what your needs are and I’ll see what I can do.  Maybe you need a pecan-topped brownie or some strawberry cheesecake.”
I’m not entirely joking about the food.
Anyway, we are real human beings with real pain and real needs.  We need to be real for each other.
       I’ve found the best cure for my own self-pity is to look toward others, not so much for sympathy as for perspective and distraction.  Maybe I can be an ear for someone else, maybe I can ease their pain somehow.  That’s the idea behind the question, “Who are you crying for?”  But if the answer is, “Me,” don’t trip on it.  You’re only human, after all.

Sexuality and Shame: Part 3 — Sexaltation

I've been sharing this 3-part essay from my book, Free to Be, over at No Longer Quivering.  Hop over there to join in the discussion and to read some other amazing articles.  Read part 1 here, and part 2 here.


Sexuality and Shame: Part 3 — Sexaltation

I’ve heard so many sermons about sexual temptation, so much focus there, but they are occasionally balanced with messages about how holy and pure sex is within marriage.  Within marriage only.  Imagine, “Sex is sinful, evil, wicked...  Oh, now you’re married--okay, you’re free to enjoy yourselves!”   I wonder, what does a piece of paper or a pronunciation of “man and wife” actually change about the messages we’ve received all our lives regarding sex?  (Or about relationships in general.  Marriage is a very interesting institution, but I shan’t go there now.)
All of the Christian families I called friends instructed their children to save themselves for marriage.  Most of them included instruction in the dangers of touching or kissing and even warned against the dangers of giving their hearts to another of (falling in love with) the opposite sex until they married.  In the cases of my friends it seemed to be balanced with an example of affectionate, loving parents who also taught that sex, when done right, was a joy.
I attended two weddings of such lovely young couples whose very first embrace was shared within minutes of their wedding vows.  Unfortunately, I am no longer in their lives, so I have no way of knowing if they are happy in marriage.  I must allow that for some young people this has perhaps worked well and they are happily joined to the only person they have ever kissed, with no regrets.  I’m not knocking these fine folk.  I feel privileged to know them.
I wanted this pattern of modesty and purity for my children.  This, I thought, would keep my children from experiencing the shame I experienced.  They would have no regrets.
But, what were my regrets, really?  If I were honest, did I regret my sexual experiments?  On the contrary, I was glad that I’d had so many exciting and pleasurable experiences.  Yes, maybe I would have been just as glad if I’d only ever known one man and called him husband, and if I’d been his only gal, just like I’d imagined.  (I still find it a very sweet thought.)   More than anything what I genuinely regretted was the shame.  What I regretted was that I was so embarrassed by my natural desires and activities that I foolishly detached myself from reality, making life-altering mistakes instead of thoughtful decisions about what was best for me and my partners.  What I regretted was that I was so focused on the forbidding and ever-tempting sex that I didn’t take time to explore other important things; education, for instance.  What I regretted was that I was so focused on sex that I wasn’t more discerning about who I shared my pleasures with and before I knew it I was stuck in marriage, painfully aware of my loss of opportunity to find a quality mate with whom I could deeply share other beautiful experiences.
So, what if all I was really offering my children was an opportunity to experience shame and regret?  What if I could be open with them about their humanity instead?  I could encourage them to learn about their sexuality and to not be afraid of it, but to be wise in their explorations, not foolish like I was.  I could let them make their own decisions regarding their sexuality and relationships.  I envy Denny’s experiences in his community in Memphis.  I want that freedom for my children.
Teaching young people that their natural urges are evil is a recipe for anxiety and shame.  There are many variables, but this is the crux of it.  My own story is just one example of how denying one’s sexuality can be detrimental, but I believe it’s a fairly common one.
Last night Denny and I looked up the current teen pregnancy statistics from around the world.  Out of some dozen or so countries the U.S. rates the highest by far.  Higher by two thirds (down a third from the 1990’s), with some 40-something out of 1,000 teen girls becoming pregnant.  Are we just that ignorant?  Or are we just that ashamed?  Both?  So many variables, but it seems that our teens are seriously lacking in sex education.  And why is that?  Is it because by and large we are not as open about sex as we should be?  Because sex is more of a taboo than an accepted part of our humanity?  I can only speculate.
By focusing on sexual “sin” Christianity also sets us up perfectly for exploitation by those looking to make a buck.  American pop culture thrives on the forbidden fruit.   Why is it that across most of America breasts are viewed as sex objects, carefully covered and uncovered to provoke sexual response, but in many primitive cultures women bare their chests just as freely as the men do?  Why do so many women feel that their bodies are inadequate?  How and why did we, in our “developed” countries, get to this place?  Why are American’s shaving and primping and nipping and tucking, changing our bodies from their natural state?  How and why has everything become sexualized?  What the hell are we doing?
Body image is no small issue, separate but related; I shall not wholly delve into it here.   Again, it appears to me that we are generally less accepting of our bodies than folk in many other countries.  I can’t help but suspect this is born out of our unnatural over-focus on sex which is born out of our attempted repression of sex born out of our fear of God.  Maybe I’m imagining things.  But personally, when I got over my ideas of God I became a lot more comfortable with my sexuality.  I found myself relaxing more into what Denny had described about himself and his friends, accepting sexuality as part of being human, learning to be open and unashamed.  When I relaxed about my sexuality I soon discovered I had also grown more comfortable with my body, not quite so down on myself.  Denny is so accepting, making it much easier to relax and be human.  For the first time ever I am with someone who sees me as most attractive in my most natural state, hairy legs and all.  Being accepted by him has aided me in accepting my own humanity.  It has been very liberating.  I can’t help but imagine what would happen if more men and women could speak up and speak out about being natural, being normal, being human.
  My first tentative step into my new culture’s sexuality occurred this spring when I realized that I wanted to take my friendship with Denny to a new level.  Inexplicably drawn to him in every way, perceiving that he lived in a perpetual state of acceptance of his humanity, I felt I could approach him with an offer of sharing something more intimate than our already close friendship.  I had in mind a kiss. I thought of little past that.  I wanted to have at least that one moment with him, to kiss him deeply and sweetly and express my love and appreciation for who he was and what his friendship meant to me.  I felt that he would be receptive, as well as understanding and accepting if that were all we were to ever share beyond our friendship.  So, one day, after we had walked and talked and he had encouraged and comforted me, I asked him, “Can I kiss you?”
Early in my marriage I occasionally daydreamed about what I would do if I found myself single.  I would want to find that one special someone.  I would have the opportunity to do things “right.”  I would find a Godly man with whom I had much in common.  I would be proper and pure until our wedding night.  Now, here I was, newly single and newly deconverted.  I’d barely had time to think about the next step, I was just living free, exploring my humanity.  I had no intentions of having casual flings, but it just seemed so natural and right to share a kiss with Denny, who was easily the most amazing, interesting and attractive man I’d ever known, with whom I had so much in common.  If it turned into more, well, that would just be mighty natural and right, too.
It did, of course.  And it was.  Is.
Neither of us had expectations that night, a couple weeks later, when I showed up at his cabin alone.  We were comfortable with each other and free to explore our relationship.  Nothing could have been more sweetly human.  I daresay it was the first time in my life that the sex was not for the sex, but rather for the expression of emotions.  Deep, complex, truly intimate.  Beautiful.  Completely shameless.

Sexuality and Shame -- Part 2; Sexperiences

I've been sharing this 3-part essay from my book, Free to Be, over at No Longer Quivering.  Hop over there to join in the discussion and to read some other amazing articles.  Read part 1 here.

By the age of thirteen I’d gleaned enough of a sex education from Stephen King books and porn magazines to start seriously writing erotic fiction.  According to the responses I received on the internet, I had found something I was very good at.

It was exhilarating.  I pleased the opposite sex.  I had power.

Through my teens I continued this hobby on the worldwide web.  In real life I fooled around with more young men than I care to admit, and a few considerably older men, too, kicking things off with my first kiss at the age of fourteen with a twenty-four year old man from Arkansas that I’d met on the internet.  I craved the affirmation.  (I guess that’s about when I decided I’d better make some decisions about sex.)

I managed surprisingly well with my conviction for awhile.  I guess. By the guidelines I had set I simply refused to have intercourse, but pretty much anything else was up for grabs.  (No pun intended.) Really, I had little practical knowledge and didn’t know what I was getting into when I started off. But, it’s okay because I WANTED to be a good girl.  In “real life,” anyway.

Later in life I heard sin described as being like an octopus, waiting on one side of the line of conviction you drew in the sand, waiting for you to get close enough to snatch at you with its long tentacles and drag you over.  I reckoned that’s what had happened to me.  I’d gotten too close and found myself up to my ears in sin of the worst kind.  (So I felt about intercourse.  Maybe there were worse sins that could be committed, but in truth the worst always seem to be those you find yourself committing.)  Once you cross that line, it’s easier to cross again and again, in spite of your best intentions and the choking shame.  I was overwhelmed with shame.

A dictionary definition of shame:  ”a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior.”

I suppose the interesting thing, and why I bother adding my voice to this already saturated-with-reflection topic at all, is the origin of the shame and its effect on our culture.  I am not an expert on this (or on anything) and don’t pretend to be (I hope you have figured that out by now), so again, these are just my experiences and reflections.

It appears to be a fairly common thing, what happened in my life regarding sexuality.  A certain duality quickly developed.  I explored my sexuality (as I now believe is natural for people sexually awakening), yet was somehow aware of my culture’s taboos and so sensed that what I was doing was unnatural and worthy of shame. Subsequently, in my personality, this manifested itself in astounding titillation at the merest hint of sexuality;  beyond, I felt, natural instincts and curiosity.  I wasn’t necessarily aware of how this worked, but surely there was more stimulation because of the forbidden nature of my thoughts and activities.

As my sexuality matured, so did the mysterious cloud of shame.  The duality and conflict of conscience caused me to develop my sexuality more in some kind of fantasy land than in reality.  There was my real life and there was my sex life.  Since my real life was rather empty and I had a lot of free time on my hands, having been pulled out of public school into a very informal homeschooling situation and so pretty much left to myself from twelve years old on, sex attracted
more and more of my attention as the years passed.  Chronic masturbation, writing and reading erotic literature, pornography, phone sex and physical encounters with boys and men, these things filled much of my time.  (Incidentally, I still tried to refrain from intercourse.)

Separating myself this way caused me to be blind to the ways sex affected my life.  It filled my head and much time was spent in pursuit of it instead of other worthwhile things.  For instance, I considered the guys in my life only with the thought of what pleasure I could receive, with little thought to lasting relationships or marriage and children, so it didn’t matter if the guys I fooled around with were decent.  In fact, I turned away many a decent guy because he didn’t flirt with me or pursue me sexually.  In hindsight, I think I had a chance with some very amazing, good quality men, but I didn’t give them my time because there was no sexual tension.  Nope, I acted on a very base-level, animalistic understanding of self-worth, so I was drawn to the misfits and the way they aroused me; it was fun and their desire made me feel good about myself.  (My deepest apologies to
you dear, kind men whom I caused distress or discouragement.  If you are reading this and know who you are, I’m glad you stayed strong and found women who appreciate you.)

I’m very fortunate to not have picked up any nasty diseases or been raped or worse.  As for pregnancy, well… I wasn’t totally ignorant of the fact that sexual intercourse can result in (and often is the leading cause of) pregnancy, but every sexual encounter of mine was cloaked in fantasy, you see.  In my mind I wasn’t actually doing what I was doing.  It was as though I had stepped out of the real world and into a world where sensuality reigned and real-world rules didn’t
apply and needn’t be fussed about.  If I kept denying that I was doing what I was doing, then it wouldn’t be real.

For the most part I was able to keep these worlds separate.  Under my parents’ roof I occasionally crashed into their authority (became suspect or got caught with a boy) and I crumbled under my shame.  But I handled Mom’s lectures and Dad’s scowls the same way I handled the rest of the disturbing real world; I separated myself, lost myself in imagination.  It was as though they were talking to someone else entirely, not to me.  In classic teenage fashion I even convinced myself that they didn’t really know me, didn’t understand me.

Unfortunately, I think that was true to some extent.  Or, maybe closer to the truth, they knew me, they just didn’t know what to do about me.

The shame that descended on me when I discovered I was pregnant at eighteen nearly crushed the life out of me.  Pregnancy was the reality that could not be denied, could not be fantasized or prayed away. Yet, in spite of the evidence, stubborn denial held me fast.  I even tried escaping the reality by running away to Australia, to the arms of a friend and lover I’d corresponded with via phone and internet for the two years prior.  Halfway around the world; if you tried to run further you’d be running back home.

Shame followed me.  I was not delusional enough to withstand the reality of teen-pregnancy AND a foreign land.  The day I flew home was my nineteenth birthday.  I was almost four months pregnant.  As I was flying backward through time zones, and from winter to summer, I had some time to think.  The day lasted thirty-six hours.  That was the longest day of my life.

A few months before becoming pregnant I had begun attending a local church.  I heard the gospel and accepted Christ as my “personal Lord and savior.”  It was about that time that I met Bobby, actually.  The conflict within me was seriously intensified, to be sure.  My dual natures stood in stark contrast.  The shame… oh the shame!  I had vague but powerful ideas about what and who I should be and I failed to meet these expectations time and again.

Now everyone would know. My parents would know.

Shame kept me from announcing my pregnancy (except to a few close friends); instead, I hid it until I could hide it no longer.  Shame kept me from being able to allow myself a happy wedding surrounded by family; instead, Bobby and I eloped.  Shame kept me from recognizing that Bobby and I were not a good match; instead, the messages spinning around my head made it clear that I had to get married as quickly as possible to make things right.  I may even be able to blame shame, in part, for shoving me forth into devout religiosity.  It certainly helped propel me through the years.

Shame…  ”a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior.”

It has made me a little sad, writing this, but now the anger is returning. I’d like to know what the hell is WRONG with sex?!

I can tell you what was wrong with sex the way I did it. Secretively.  Embarrassedly.  Embracing sexuality while trying to distance myself from it, in constant conflict, suffering a constant awareness of sex and denying it.   THAT is foolish.  But where did I, where does our culture, get the idea that sex is wrong or foolish behavior? Isn’t sex one of the most basic, most normal human functions?  These biological urges are written in our DNA, not just for the sake of procreation but for our emotional well-being.  It’s part of being an animal here on earth, as necessary and delicious as eating and sleeping and cheesecake.

There are stories of sexual repression and perversion through all cultures I guess, but it seems so very prevalent in Christianity.  The culture’s suppression of natural desires and functions giving birth to rejection of sexuality and a fascination with it.  Celibate Catholic priests molesting alter boys, frigid adult children of the Holiness movement, Biblically justified domineering patriarchs and their submissive wives and daughters.  I cannot begin to tell all the
stories I’m familiar with.

As Christians, was our professed desire for modesty and purity in service to God what really motivated us to such hatred of sexual sin? Could that be a front?  What about jealousy?  What about our own frustrated sexuality and shame?  Am I the only one who claims to hate the heroine on the TV because she represents the sinful, tempting side of sex but more honestly hates her because I am jealous of her figure and find her so sexually alluring that I can’t take my eyes off of her?  Are we angry because we are ashamed?  Do we feel shame because we are trying to suppress natural human responses to sex?

To be continued...

Sexuality and Shame-- Part 1; Sexpectations

I've been sharing this 3-part essay from my book, Free to Be, over at No Longer Quivering.  Hop over there to join in the discussion and to read some other amazing articles.

“Shame, boatloads of shame
Day after day, more of the same
Blame, please lift it off
Please take it off, please make it stop”
-The Avett Brothers

I am snuggled with my dear darling, watching a movie.  The heroine appears on the scene wearing a black vinyl supersuit that looks like it was painted on.  Her lips are full and red, her eyes are dark and sultry, her ample cleavage threatens to spill out of her suit.  As she walks up the steps of the building the camera captures the flexing muscles of her curvaceous rear.  Her waist is impossibly slender.  In three inch stiletto heels she is ready to do battle with the first villain that she encounters.  She is stunning.  She is hot.  A perfect female specimen.

I hate her.

That old feeling rises in my throat and I swallow it down.  I cannot take my eyes off of her.  I remind myself that she is Hollywood: her boobs have probably been enhanced, she probably looks quite plain without make-up, maybe she even has skin issues; she isn’t actually fighting in heels and is more than likely insanely uncomfortable in her tailored costume.  She probably hasn’t had a delicious, satisfying meal in months.  Her fine features are highlighted by skilled camera-persons while her poor ones (we all have poor ones) are masked.  She is dissatisfied with something about her physical appearance the same as I am with myself.  She is human, just like me.  She probably snorts when she laughs.  They never film her laughing.

I am so distracted by her that I lose track of the plot.

I am very still.  I am now wondering what my man is thinking when he sees Her on the screen, moving with grace and ease, Her hips swinging captivatingly.  Is he attracted to Her?  Of course he is, just look at Her!  She is so sexy.

I am so not.  I’ve never had a great body, but time and mothering have had their way with me.  Baggy belly, baggy behind, baggy eyes.  I vividly remember the last time I saw myself in a mirror naked as I consider the sexpot on the screen.  My stomach knots up.  I am so embarrassed, so ashamed of my body.  I should do more to take care of myself.  I pull my blanket up around neck and try to disappear.

Only moments have passed.  It happens so quickly.  Pretty girl—me want to disappear.  It happens often.

Now I am angry.  I hate the character, hate the actress, hate the culture that says, “This is what is sexy, this is what men want, this is what’s going on.”  I am angry on behalf of my daughters and sons who will grow up surrounded by this message.  I am angry on behalf of other women who surely feel as inadequate as myself compared to Her and the other mere 2% of women who look like Her.  I am angry with myself for getting suckered.

I pep myself up again, this time reminding myself that she’s just a human who doesn’t deserve my wrath.  I was perfectly content with myself before I saw Her.  I love my life.  I finally have a great relationship with a great man who makes me feel more than adequate, physically, sexually and otherwise.  I have done amazing things with my body; I’ve given life and sustenance to seven other lives. I must not give in to Hollywood!

Nonetheless, my anger is intense.  I want to blame someone for what I am feeling.  The movie ends.  The feeling doesn’t.  I talk with Denny about it.  By “talk with” I mean I rant about the floozy in the movie for two minutes and the twistedness of our sex-crazed culture for four.  He is fascinated by my strong response and begins to ask me questions.  Soon my anger turns to defense.  He probes too deeply. I don’t like where this is going.  Why do we have to talk about my sexuality?  I don’t understand it, but I feel threatened and I begin to shut down.  I fall silent and listen to him talk.

He speaks so thoughtfully and so… so…  comfortably about sexuality.  He is so accepting of this aspect of human nature.  Where he comes from, his culture, they were free to explore their humanity and so they explored it freely.  I tease Denny about their being free lovin’ hippies, but at the co-operative house in which he lived for over a decade they were social activists, artists and anarchists (not anarchists in the rebellious punk-rock teenager sense of the word, but anarchists as in community-based, self-management practicers and promoters and social economic developers.  Or something along those lines.  Think co-operative businesses, co-operative social institutions and co-operative efforts of all kinds).  They were careful and considerate, thoughtful and aware, right down to their sexuality.  In spite of their shameless freedom they didn’t have wild orgies or swingin’ sex parties, they didn’t walk around in the nude or copulate in public with animals.  But they didn’t hide their affections or their thoughts.  They were open and accepting.  What they were experiencing was natural and they were not afraid of it.

Incidentally, because sex was not taboo it also did not receive an undue amount of their attention.  It was merely one of many facets of life to explore together, right there with intellectual and artistic pursuits, shared meals, self-government, community outreach, gardening, political activism and spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen.

The culture I came from was not so balanced.  It strikes me that Christianity is very focused on sex.  Does that seem contrary to popular ideas?  Maybe it’s my imagination.  It’s difficult to separate myself from my experiences, from humanity, to view things objectively. Maybe I can’t blame Christianity entirely, but it’s definitely played a part in the shaping of my sexuality.

There is some idea that God created this sexual aspect of us; so beautiful within the confines of marriage, but with so much potential for sin!  We must run from all temptation.  Insert plenty of colorful descriptions of temptation here, fresh from the pulpit.  And suddenly you see temptation everywhere.  You see sexuality everywhere.  Somehow it’s evil, something you must hate and reject.  It’s so very evil you must keep a lookout for it always.

I think this does different things to different people, different personalities.  It creates true prudes in some cases, raging closet nymphomaniacs in others, or maybe just embarrassed, awkward individuals who won’t look you in the eyes.  I imagine plenty of folk escape unaffected;  I guess it depends largely upon their immersion in Biblical culture.  I thought I was fairly comfortable in my sexuality.  Until Denny’s questions.  Until I took some time alone and gently sifted my thoughts.

Near as I can figure, I get angry because I am somewhat ashamed of my sexuality.

By the time I began to explore this aspect of my nature I had already been innocently receiving messages about it.  I can’t say that I remember my parents doing or saying anything in particular to impress me with their ideas (we didn’t go to church and though Mom was a Bible believer she pretty much left us kids to decide for ourselves if we wanted anything to do with her God). I consider my family pretty average.  I think it was mostly just our American culture, permeated with ideas so subtle and prevalent.

I remember that when I was fourteen I felt convinced that I should remain a virgin until I married.  I felt somehow that this was what God expected of me, of young ladies in general.  It’s my first memory of giving God’s wishes any consideration.  I took a Bible off Mom’s shelf for the first time.  It looked confusing.  I guess I was hoping for a more complete instruction manual, maybe with “virginity–how to keep” in the index.  After flipping through and reading a few passages I put it back on the shelf betweenThe History Of The Jews and The Gospel According To Peanuts.

To this day I’m not sure where this conviction came from.  It’s not like I had nuns breathing down my neck or anything.  Possibly I was influenced by Shakespeare’sMuch Ado About Nothing, but I may not have even seen that until later in my teens.  Maybe I picked it up from my mother the way all children pick things up from their mothers; more in a general way than from any specific instruction.

What I later considered one of my greatest mistakes was not deciding how I would go about walking out this conviction of mine.  So began the most serious conflict of my life: what I believed God expected of me verses the humanity I lived.

View Part 2 here.