Tragedy is the core of literature

The post title is borrowed from a quote by Cormac McCarthy: "The core of literature is the idea of tragedy...you don't really learn much from the good things that happen to you."

It's a common sentiment at this time of year, but I'll say it anyway: 2013 was nothing like I thought it would be. And not in a good way.

In just 12 months, I nearly lost my father to cancer, took some brave steps in confronting old demons, and became physically ill from depression and anxiety, resulting in withdrawing completely from grad school and facing a quarter-life crisis. Or, more to the point, a quarter-life faith crisis.

At least the good news is that I went through all of this with my boyfriend only an hour away, as opposed to 3,000 miles. He may have a clearer picture of the "real me" than I do.

And, like every year before this one, 2013 has been a year of acquiring new and awesome books. I have no doubts that 2014 will bring more of the same.

However, new books also bring sadness, as I realize more and more that few people treat the act of reading as I do. Reading, for many, is a hobby; something they do at the end of the day to relax, to escape on a vacation, to pass time in the waiting room at the doctor's office. It should come at no surprise at this point, but reading for me is, well, my life. I live in books. I breathe books. Every experience of my life that shaped me, positively or negatively, is chronicled somewhere in a book I wish I wrote, by an author I view as a kindred spirit. It's safe to assume that without books, I wouldn't be a person of any significant substance. I'd be more lost, confused, and directionless than a typical twenty-something is expected to be. So a piece of my heart always shatters when I hear a person say "I don't read." Good for them, I guess; they're just missing out on a deeper realm of human experience, is all. No big.

I think this is the reason I do alone time so well: because books are where my friends are found. From the literary heroes who shaped my childhood, and rocky descent to adolescence -- Matilda Wormwood, Harriet M. Welsch, Anne Shirley, Sara Crewe, Jane Eyre, Katniss Everdeen, the March sisters (especially Jo) -- to the brave women who mentor me with their memoirs -- Lauren Winner, Rachel Held Evans, Sarah Bessey, Addie Zierman, Jonalyn Fincher -- I am never really alone. Then again, I am aware that people in books are frozen in time, while the authors behind them are living, breathing entities who are in a constant state of character evolution, as I am. There's comfort in knowing that people in books can never disappoint. But it's the real-life disappointments, inflicted by people who often mean well, but don't always show it, that challenge me to grow. So while there's safety in books, there's no real growth if I am reading in a vacuum.

I don't intend to create a laundry list of improvements for 2014. That almost never works. To be blunt, a lot of shit happened in 2013. And as much as that sucks, my love of reading has shown me that stories don't really progress without varying degrees of tragedy. Adversity is just a fancy name for plot twists. And that is what will, I hope, one day make me a kindred spirit on someone else's book shelf.

If a man opened Pandora's box

What if the gender roles were reversed, and suddenly,
the world was no longer a safe place

for men?

What if a male stranger should fear me

on the streets at night,

the New Female Predator,

and his gut instinct
was to gird his balls

like women do with their attractiveness,

so as not to make himself
a target?

What if men were taught

that Fear is the new Sexy,

that involuntary arousal

is code for "Yes Please,"

and his gender alone

is his own personal Armageddon?

What if it had been
a man

who opened Pandora's box?

After being hit on at Barnes & Noble

I received a compliment

(or something resembling one)

between the aisles of Poetry and Fiction

at Barnes & Noble, from a wannabe representative of Smooth Talkers Anonymous:

Far too pretty to be reading books.

I wonder how many tragic young women,

digging through Plath and Dickinson

in search of validation, would allow themselves to be flattered by this drivel?

How many would allow this blatant chauvinism

to infiltrate their hard-won rooms of their own?

I think of my teenage self,

curve-less and wiry-haired,

unpopular, yet proud to admit
that the love of my life is named Gilbert,
and you may not have heard of him
because he lives in a book.

Therein was the real reason I was single
for so long, but nonetheless satisfied

with who I was. I saw the world through fiction,

allowing me to avoid the real-life villains

with the hope that,

if characters are created by humans,

surely they can be embodied by
real humans, too.

"Too pretty" to be reading books,
you say?

Too bad.

The most attractive man (I think)

is a man well-read.

Creating "bad" characters, and relating to them

Lately I've been fascinated by the idea of writing a story with a very unlikeable main character. Author Gillian Flynn is a pro at this, in her books Gone Girl, Dark Places, and Sharp Objects (creepy, horrifically disturbing books, but nonetheless interesting because they are different from what I normally read).

But "unlikeable" doesn't necessarily mean unable to relate to. I don't like villains that are evil just for evil's sake. The best "bad characters" are multidimensional. They have history. They also have a handful of good qualities.

While working on my book of poems, I can't shake this idea that keeps coming back to me, usually when I'm trying to sleep. It was originally going to be a redemption story about a pastor who is a saint to his community, but has a terrible secret. Now I may be shifting my focus toward a teenage girl, who may or may not be related to him in some way, but is known at school for being a not-so-nice person. She may be the type to use bullying as a way to build up her own confidence. She'll do this because she herself is weak, even if her victims don't see that.

I believe in this idea because I don't believe in truly "good" people. I don't even think of myself as a "good person" (though in retrospect, I'm hesitant to call myself a "bad person." Most people wouldn't say that about themselves, would they?).

I think about my personal prejudices...feeling disdain for large families with loud children coming in to coffee shops while I'm studying, letting their kids run all over the place and try to talk to me while I'm taking a timed online quiz (yeah, that happened once).

Mass-generalizing people who can't put sentences together and use the proper forms of "your/you're" as stupid, even if it's a proven fact that our education system doesn't adequately prepare students for the business world, and "business skills" may include proficiency in written communication.

Having a those people mindset regarding those who grew up in one place, in one culture, for most of their lives, and have had little interaction with people who are different from them. Never mind that I too can be one of those people. I am embarrassed by this fact.

So what makes a character truly unlikeable? What distinguishes an average person from the Hitlers and Mother Theresas of this world? In one last gesture of good faith, I'd argue that many people are simply not aware of how "bad" they can be. My goal then, if I choose to write this next story, is to develop a character who is aware of her personal badness, and has no desire to change.

At least, not yet.

The male privilege poem

Another excerpt from the upcoming book. One of my favorites so far!

"Why don't you smile?"
the man at Starbucks said.
"I bet you have such a pretty smile."

This, from a complete stranger,
who knows not my circumstances,
my private battles,
my very life.

I gape at him and his broad shoulders,
and his condescending "Because I can" veneer.
Please, I think, Contain your male privilege,
its crumby texture already snowflaking
on my table. Let me enjoy my coffee.

Also! Here's a preview of my snazzy new cover (the back cover text may change 50 more times before I declare it finished. Hard to accurately summarize a collection of poems when the subject matter is all over the place). My new designer, Amy Queau, did this for FREE and she is a special kind of wonderful.

The Jewish Girl Who Dreamed of Saints

The following poem is an excerpt from my upcoming book (more like a chapbook, since I anticipate it being less than 100 pages) of poetry, currently titled Sorting Myself. The title isn't set in stone, though. I had a really catchy title that came to me in the middle of the night, and I stupidly thought I'd remember it by morning...I didn't. So until it's recovered from my mental oblivion, or unless I come with something new, Sorting Myself stands. Reader suggestions welcome!

Most of the poems are already written, just scattered in various journals, and several years old. This one is pretty recent. Not sure when I'll release it, but definitely next year. Before the snow melts.

The Jewish Girl Who Dreamed of Saints (potentially autobiographical):

Don’t let the quietness fool you –

she’s a heroine in her own right.

Her life is defined by choice:

The right to fight for her own identity,

because the one she was born with didn’t fit.

She and convention were destined to be enemies.

It started with the storybooks about saints

wedged between Doctor Seuss and There’s No Such Thing as a Hanukkah Bush,

Sandy Goldstein.

Other girls played MASH at recess,

while she day-dreamed about Joan of Arc.

She wondered what it must have felt like,

about to be burned for her beliefs,

and if it ever crossed the future saint’s mind

that 20^th-century Jewish girls

would hope to be half as brave as she was someday.

As she grew older,

the girl lost her verve for sainthood.

She struggled with ordinary temptations.

Couldn’t decide if she was still a virgin.

Couldn’t allow herself the simple courtesy of being human.

The best books often get bent.

Even Saint Joan had to be vulnerable and lonely.

Final preview of "Public," chapter 10

Alas my friends, this is the final free preview selection of Public Displays of Convention. Hope you have enjoyed these excerpts! You can read them all in order here. Happy reading!

“Good morning, ladies,” chirps an unusually perky Julia. “Meet Zach, your new co-worker.”

     Eryn, Morgan, and I all look up in unison – a male employee? No wonder the boss is happy this morning; she’s probably thinking this will be better for business, since most of our clientele are women, but the fact that he is – hate to say it, but it’s true – good-looking is definitely a bonus for all of us. Not that I care, or am looking to date again. At any rate, Zach will be a nice distraction from Eryn and her Curly Head of Opinions.

     “Hello,” he says softly. I detect a slight southern twang in his voice, which is a perfect lead for Eryn to introduce her loud, obnoxious self. “You don’t sound like you’re from here,” she says brashly. “Did you just move here or something?” And then, as if she could subconsciously hear her mother nagging about manners, she coyly added “I’m Eryn, by the way.”

     “I did just move here,” Zach answers. Would it be cheesy to say that his voice is somewhat musical? Well, his voice is somewhat musical. “From Mississippi.”

     “Oh yeah? What for?”

     His gaze drops suddenly. “It’s kind of a long story.”

     Eryn laughs. “Well you’ll notice we have very long, empty shifts here. What’s the story?”

     “’Long and empty’? Don’t believe her,” interrupts Julia. “There’s always something to do around here. Eryn, if you’d like to go run your mouth to the woman who’s been meandering through the self-help section for the last twenty minutes, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

     With a devious grin and notorious clang of her giant hoop earrings, Eryn saunters off. I have to hand it to Julia: she comes off as a little spacey most of the time, but she does know how to handle Eryn well. But with what I’ve heard Eryn say in her presence, I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t been fired. Then again, it’s not like there’s much competition for a job like this.

     As Julia explains the lay of the land to Zach, I hear a bell ringing, indicating that someone has entered the store. I have yet to see Morgan greet anybody – I doubt anyone would hear her if she did – so I walk to the front with my prepared speech. “Welcome to Book Nook, can I help you find –”

     I stop short, realizing I already know this customer.

     “Well hey there, Anna-Kate,” Collin says. “How ya been?”

     I have never been Anna-Kate to him before. He must really be pissed that his advances were rebuffed; this is the first time I’ve seen him in over a week. “I’ve been just fine. How are you?” Why have you all of a sudden stopped talking to me?

     “I’ve been great. I didn’t know you worked here.”

     Knowing his gift for finding me anywhere, I somehow doubt this, even if Book Nook is cornered in the only shopping center this area has to offer. Collin coming here could be just a coincidence.

     I refuse to speculate. “Are you looking for anything in particular?” A book of scenes from The Lion King, perhaps? Given that ridiculous tattoo?

     “Nothing really, AK. Just browsing for now. But thank you so much for asking.”

      Using my initials is somewhat of a relief; so we’re not total strangers after all. Yet the lack of “47” following them is not what I’m used to from him, and I’m embarrassed by how much it disappoints me that he didn’t say it.

     He walks away from me, but then turns awkwardly to add “Nice hair, by the way.”

     I’m pretty sure that is not a compliment.

     Tess doesn’t know anything about Collin. I guess I was afraid to mention him, as if doing so would be prophetic and turn our situation into something bigger than it is. Which is ridiculous, because he never intended for anything concrete to happen: he proved that when he told me he only wanted to “have fun” when he almost kissed me.

     It’s still creepy to imagine what more might have transpired if he had.

     Returning behind the cash register, I watch Collin as he wanders over to Fiction, where Morgan is stocking a new shipment of New York Times best sellers. Fifty Shades of Grey just happens to be sitting on the shelf above her head, and I watch, incredulously, as Collin picks up a copy and appears to ask her about it.

     His back is facing me, so I can’t tell what he’s saying, though if I know anything about that man, it’s probably something snarky. Morgan, on the other hand, lights up like a Christmas display, and giggles incessantly. Why on earth would she be giggling about anything that has to do with Fifty Shades of Grey? It wasn’t too long ago when she made it perfectly clear to Eryn that the series was – how did she put it? – glorified sadomasochistic abuse. Yes, that’s quite a humorous subject.

     He continues to talk to her, nodding every once in a while, and Morgan is still smiling. Good grief, it looks like Collin is flirting with her! Poor girl, this may be the longest conversation she’s ever had with someone who’s not her boss or fellow employee.

     Okay, that was mean. Whatever the reason for Morgan’s extreme introversion, she seems like she’s genuinely enjoying her conversation with Collin. I wonder if he’s come up with a clever nickname for her yet (“Mousy Morgan,” perhaps? No, again, that’s unnecessarily mean). Her face has softened into an expression I’ve never seen on her before, but I know it well.

     It’s probably how I looked when Collin first started flirting with me.

A love-hate relationship with popular TV

I cannot keep silent about this anymore. Enough is enough! I must speak my mind, before I start to go stir-crazy.

*Ahem*

My name is Sarahbeth (no middle name) Caplin, and I am the only person I know who hates the popular show, "New Girl." Or, is the only person brave enough to admit it.

Even more confusing, some of my friends, whose judgment I wholly trust, have claimed to love this show. So that just begs the question, what is the matter with me??

I finally took my dilemma to Facebook: "Does this show get any better? Because I'm halfway through the first season, and I find it horrible." Man, some people were truly shocked that I could find any fault with this show. I admit, some episodes (or rather, a few lines per every other episode) are hilarious. But ultimately they aren't enough to hook me.

For whatever my not-so-humble opinion is worth, shock-value sex ruins good TV. What's truly upsetting about this show in particular is how great a premise it had. Talk about a show that I should, by description alone, fall instantly in love with: a twenty-something woman figuring out who she is, with a quirky set of roommates. But that hopeful premise fell flat when a date told Zooey's character Jess "I don't care about you, you don't have to care about me. We can still tear each other UP." And she...accepts?

I am a budding feminist and I cannot see this as entertaining.


This is far from the only show I've watched that doesn't line up with my values, and that alone is not enough reason for me to quit watching. What is it about this show in particular that bothers me so much? I guess I have a hard time appreciating it because I disagree with the idea that sex is something casual. I really think these shows are lying to me if they don't present the whole truth. They tell me I can jump from bed to bed as easily as switching brands of Kleenex. I've never heard of a real-life relationship starting with casual sex and leading to love...or ending without the slightest twinge of disappointment.

I honestly don't think I'm that much of a prude when it comes to entertainment. Curse words and sex scenes don't automatically ruin TV shows for me. The difference, I think, is context. If it's relevant to the story, or a character's development, then I can watch it. If there are other jokes and plot devices to round things out, then I consider it a decent show. I don't feel any compulsion to replicate the choices of characters I like. But if a show falls apart when you take the sex stuff out, then there's a problem.

My fellow author friend Kaitlyn and I have had an ongoing discussion about the placement of sex scenes in YA novels, and the same reasoning applies to TV shows too: a cleverly-written love scene can enhance the plot, but shock value is always going to be shock value, and ultimately it's not memorable. It's not original. It's just a desperate grab at ratings.


Bottom line: I tried to like this show. I really did. The characters are people I probably wouldn't hang out with in real life, which makes my potential fan-ship feel dishonest...but for every episode that makes me feel gross and in need of a shower, Schmidt has to say something that makes me pee my pants, and I keep watching. It may take me a while to break this apparent addiction, but I just had to get these feelings off my chest.

Whew! I feel better now. Thanks for listening. Now let the judgments roll ;)

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 9

Only one more free chapter left to preview for Public Displays of Convention! This week it's only 99 cents to download on Kindle. Starting next week it will go up to $1.99, and then return to its normal cost of $2.99. Get it cheap while you can, and enjoy reading chapter 9 (previous chapters found here).

It rained on the day of graduation, but I let my hair down and wore a strapless dress anyway. I don’t know why I was shaking in the moments before my name was called to walk across the stage – this is, after all, the moment I’ve been waiting for. My diploma is my ticket to freedom.

     Limited finances notwithstanding, my opportunities are endless now. The thought of going anywhere, pursuing anything, without being tied down by another person is liberating and frightening all at the same time. It’s sad to admit, but if he were still in the picture, I might have agreed to stay in this dead-end town for as long as Jared would be in it. But that’s not an option anymore.

     When I think of the opportunities that await, my longing for a relationship almost pales in comparison. Almost. Do I need to belong in anyone’s arms to be somebody important?

     Believing this is one thing. Living it is quite another.

     On her last day before heading off to India, Tess helps me pack up my little box of a dormitory and prepare to move in the spare bedroom left by her previous roommate. I feel bad that we’ve barely talked about her excitement for this upcoming trip; she seems to be more concerned about how I’ll handle the next few months without my best friend, still knee-deep in the muck of post-relationship insecurity.

     “You’re still hurting, aren’t you?” she asks carefully.

     I don’t cringe, even though it still feels raw to talk about it. For the first time in weeks, my expression is completely blank, even if my words are not: “It kills me every day,” I tell her.

     “You’ve taken your grief out on your hair, I see.”

     I touch a piece of newly dyed reddish-black hair: quite a contrast from my natural dishwater blonde. “Yeah, well, I decided to start over, and be as unrecognizable as possible.” Tess looks somewhat shocked, so I hastily add, “Unrecognizable from the codependent woman I was with Jared, I mean.”

     “I’m worried about you,” Tess says plainly. “Are you sure…are you sure you’ll be okay?”

     “Tess.” Setting down the pants I was folding, I walk across the room to where she’s sitting on my bed, and hug her tightly. “You’re going to go to India and not worry about me. Promise.”

    She looks unconvinced. “I just need some distraction,” I continue. “Working full-time at the bookstore and getting to know my co-workers will do just that. And when I’m not working, I’ll be filling out other job applications, maybe to teach writing courses somewhere.”

     Tess’ face softens. “Well that’s good, but you can’t just heal from something like this overnight –”

     Sigh. “I know that, Tess.”

     “All right then.” We resume folding clothes, and I bite my tongue to keep from saying what I’m really thinking: You don’t think I’m stable enough to handle being alone.

This former seminarian life

What a crazy week it's been...I have completely re-routed my life plans for the next few years. It feels slightly insane, but I also have a strange, unfamiliar sense of peace now that has been sorely missing in my life for the last several months.

It has occurred to me that maybe I'm not supposed to be a counselor after all, and that I definitely should not have pursued that degree at a conservative Christian seminary. In the same way that it's never a good idea to make drastic changes to your hair while experiencing depression and anxiety, it's probably not a good idea to pack up your life, move 3000 miles away, and start a degree that you never expressed interest in before, at a school you know next to nothing about. The lesson I learned? Look before you leap. And be willing to let the people who know you best help direct you. They are often able to see things that you can't.

I have some nagging feelings regarding the fact that I will probably live the rest of my life with "just" a bachelor's degree. But where is that guilt coming from? It's pressure I put on myself, mingled with a skewed idea that somehow my intelligence is measured by the initials after my name. Well, deep down I know that's not true. And I don't have "just" a bachelor's degree; I worked my ass off for it, and I enjoyed doing it. I gave grad school a try for a year, and it wasn't for me. There is no failure in that. There is also a lot less debt to pay off, and that's a huge plus!

I have learned something else about myself, too: I do not thrive well in bubbles. Christian bubbles, political bubbles, any kind of restrictive environment where everyone around you shares basic core beliefs, and you find your worldview shrinking, not growing. Not every Christian is cut out for seminary. What was unique about my experience at Kent State was how challenging my environment was. I was surrounded by peers who were burned out on church because they were only exposed to negative examples of Christianity. This motivated me to try and live more authentically, especially when I decided to write a conservative column for my campus newspaper. There was a definite sense of being "watched." And it convicted me in the best possible way.

My on-campus church group met twice a week, and that is where I felt "fed." That was where I grew. The key, I think, was having a healthy balance of church life and secular life. That was non-existent at seminary, when most of my time was spent in the library writing exegetical papers, and in class, wanting to beat my head against my desk listening to other students talk about "the lost," and how we as Christians have all the answers.

I can honestly say that seminary brought up way more questions than answers. That's not a bad thing. Most importantly, it was as if someone was holding up a mirror of my old self, the one who thought all the answers to the world's ills were tucked neatly in Scripture. Obviously, it's not nearly as simple as that. I wish I hadn't had to pay (read: borrow) $20,000 to learn that lesson, but I'm not sorry I did. Education is never a waste.

Thanks to a few searches on Google, I learned that spiritual burnout is a real issue. It can make devoted Christians jaded at best; atheists at worst. I'm nowhere near relinquishing my faith completely, but I definitely feel burned out. Jesus is someone to know, not someone to study. When seminary schooling reduces him to merely a homework assignment, when Bible verses are used as platitudes in times of real struggle, and when I'm feeling frustrated and wondering what attracted me to Christianity in the first place, then the right thing -- the only thing -- to do is leave seminary. Because my faith matters to me still. I need to spend time with God on my own terms again. Spiritual discipline is not "homework," and I don't think it's fair to be graded for it.

So what will I do now? Well, I do have an English degree. Maybe I'll look into publishing or editing positions. I wish I were the kind of person who could see this new road as another new adventure, but I have way too much OCD for that. In the mean time, there is a stack of books in my bedroom calling my name -- books I haven't had time to read because I've been swamped to my ears in books about Freud and Pauline epistles. And they seem to be saying,

Welcome home, SB!

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 8

Chapter 8 of Public Displays of Convention. Only two preview chapters left! Catch up on previous chapters here.

     There are several ways to tell it’s officially spring: the crocuses peeking out of the ground, the leaves growing back on the trees, and the flurry of engagements of people who have never been anything more than acquaintances to me.

     Somehow, I end up clicking through dozens of Facebook photos of rings, hundreds of congratulatory messages…and I feel increasingly pathetic with every wasted minute of envying others’ happiness, but once I start, I don’t know how to stop.

     Luckily, graduation is just three weeks away. I have no idea where this new season of life will take me, but Tess’ roommate is graduating too and moving back with her family, so I’ll be taking her place once I sign away my little box of a dorm room. I’ve always preferred to live alone, but I can’t afford a full month’s rent by myself, and Tess is the only logical roommate choice. Just one step closer to growing up, however small the step may be.

     At Book Nook today I helped a rare male customer who was looking for a gift for his girlfriend’s birthday. He proved to be the most difficult customer I’ve helped yet. It wasn’t him that was the problem – he was polite, cordial, smiled a lot – it was the fact that the girlfriend, whoever she is, had literary interests so similar to my own; it was like helping Jared shop for a gift. My heart splintered when he purchased My Sister’s Keeper, another one of my favorites. It was all I could do to fight back tears as I handed back his change.

     “Hey, Weepy,” interrupts Eryn. I swear that woman has a gift for speaking up at all the wrong moments. “It’s all right, really. We only sold one copy of Twilight today!”

     I laugh, in spite of myself. “Well thank God for that. It’s just so hard, you know? All those young minds being corrupted by poorly-written literature –”

     “At least it wasn’t Fifty Shades of Grey,” pipes Morgan, and we both turn around, shocked: it’s the most I’ve heard her say since I started working here.

     “Hey now,” Eryn retorts. “At least Christian Grey is a real man who doesn’t sparkle, for goodness sake.”

     “There ought to be to parental advisory warnings on some of these shelves,” Morgan continues. I don’t know what’s more surprising: Morgan actually talking, or instigating a debate with Eryn. It’s not that I’m afraid of her, but Eryn definitely comes across as someone who doesn’t believe in censoring her opinions, no matter what the context. Personally I’d rather steer clear of her than challenge her.

     “I’ll admit they’re not the most well-written books I’ve ever read,” replies Eryn, “But I give props to the author for trying to normalize taboo –”

     “You mean sadomasochistic abuse.”

     “It’s not abuse if she wants it!”

     I can’t believe I’m hearing this. The only other time I can remember wanting to crawl beneath the floor boards and hibernate was when I fell asleep watching a movie with Jared, and woke up to find I’d drooled all over his sleeve.

     “What do you think, Anna-Kate?”

     I pretend I’m so immersed in the act of stapling receipts: anything to avoid eye contact with Eryn. “I’m sorry, what?”

     “Morgan seems to think the S&M activity in Fifty Shades of Grey is misogynistic and abusive; I say whatever floats your boat is fine as long as everyone’s cool with it. What do YOU think?”

     My throat feels lined with sandpaper. “I haven’t read that book, so I really can’t say.”

     This seems to be the answer Eryn expected to hear. “Well, in my experience –”

     “No one wants to hear about your experiences, Eryn.” Dang, where is Morgan’s fire coming from all of a sudden? She must only speak when she’s really irritated about something.

     “Oh, that’s right. I forgot I was speaking to virgin ears.” She says virgin like it’s a dirty word, too scandalous even for someone with Eryn’s brazenness. Her hoop earrings, so large I can probably fit my hand through them, clang as she shakes her head; a move that seems to summarize the personality I’ve come to expect from her.

     Turning to me again, she asks, “Do you have a boyfriend, Anna-Kate?”

     Because this workday just hasn’t been awkward enough. “No,” I say, teeth clenched. “I don’t.”

     “It’s a lot easier not to. It’s nice not to be tied down, you know?”

     Curiously, I turn to look at Morgan, whose face now looks like mine did when I was helping that guy pick out a present for his girlfriend. Eryn must have triggered something in her, as she’s retreated back to her usual mouse-like self, and scurries back into the fiction section.

     Interestingly, now that it’s over I’m almost grateful for Eryn’s brashness today, for no other reason except to show me a possible ally in my shy co-worker. I wonder if Morgan has always been quiet, or if she’s harboring a secret devastation like I am. Maybe this is the gateway for us to be friends.

Voices matter

In the last seven days since my Big Speech, I've received a flood of emails and, for the first time in forever, genuine dialogue in my blog comments! Not all of them agree with me, but that's okay; people are talking. There's never a shortage of words, never a true end to the discussion of something as heavy and provocative as rape culture. One week later, the dialogue is still continuing. I'm so grateful. I hope it lasts.

I never thought I'd be comfortable talking about this. Writing a book, and having my words filtered through a fictional character is one thing; talking about rape culture in relation to my own life is quite another. When I think about the bare facts, it's easy to get depressed once again. But if I can't press charges, if my vindictive-laced attempts at justice are failing, then my story is all I have left to fight with.

About 30 people showed up, mostly women I didn't recognize. My friends from my writing group were there, and a handful of classmates. The responses afterward were so incredible. And you know what I realized? I have a definite bias I need to overcome: a bias against men being redeemed. There is nothing to gain by turning the entire male species into an enemy. I have only one enemy, besides the devil -- my greatest enemy is myself. I am my biggest roadblock to recovery. I don't need my ex to apologize, and I don't need to appeal to God with the hope of triggering some kind of spell that will make him repent. That's not what healing is.

Healing is taking my story to a wider audience, because I realize how much it matters. Most importantly, I matter. My voice matters too much to keep silent.

It also helps that the more Josh and I talk about our future as husband and wife, the memory of the person who hurt me fades a bit. His influence matters less. That's not to say that I'll ever be able to forget. But it gets better.

I still struggle to believe these words as I write them. But they came to me somehow, so they must resonate somewhere.

I don't know if I'll end up a rape crisis counselor. I don't need to seek that profession in order to still care. It may have been a grief-motivated decision, not a genuine "calling." Anyone who knows me will tell you I am meant to be a writer. All six copies of Someone You Already Know were autographed and sold, and several business cards given away. So maybe, just maybe, that means something.

A very wise friend of mine told me that we don't get to choose our story sometimes, and we might hate it, but it's ours, and we're stuck with it. We can ignore it, stifle it, or tell it, and see what happens. The first two options made me crazy(er), so let's see what happens with the third.

Christians for Biblical Equality presents: Rape Culture in the Church

The following post is what I talked about during my presentation on rape culture for Christians for Biblical Equality. Delivered the entire message without tearing up, throwing up, or tripping in my heels. AND I got to sign some books. Success!

You may be wondering what is meant by the title “Rape culture in the church.” To start, let me just explain what “rape culture” is, for those who have never heard that term before. Rape culture is living in a society that excuses rape by placing the blame on the victim. Rape culture is perpetuating a cycle of irresponsibility for rapists who are in relationships with their victims, which is more common than you think. We often tell women that because they consented to sex before, they can’t say no, now. We teach men that sex is a right, and one that is theirs for the taking, especially in a marriage where a man is considered the head of the household, according to Christian tradition.

Rape culture is also making jokes about rape. When I was a freshman in college, it was an inside joke in my sorority to say “It’s not rape if you call pin rank” (“Pin rank” referring to the order in which the pledges were initiated). This wasn’t referring to actual rape, but was used as an extreme expression to show the amount of power and authority the older pledges had on the newer ones. To my knowledge, no one thought anything of it, and I laughed along as much as everyone else did.

This topic is very personal to me, because I myself am a statistic of rape. Rather than beat myself up, I channeled my anger and grief into my self-published book, Someone You Already Know, which tells the story of two teenage victims and their efforts to understand each other. One character was raped by her boyfriend; the other by a stranger. It wasn’t written as a Christian book, but I intended for it to be a teaching tool for classrooms and churches.

Now you’re probably wondering, what does this have to do with the church? If you’re active on Facebook and other forms of social media like I am, you may be familiar with a certain blog post regarding female modesty that went viral this summer. It was written by a woman named Kim Hall, and in her post she talks about looking through her sons’ Facebook friends’ lists. She is writing to their female friends asking them to “cover up” so her sons don’t stumble. She writes, “Once my boys see a suggestive photo of you, they can’t un-see it.” To be fair, this woman’s intentions were good: modesty is a forgotten virtue in our culture that must be brought back. But Kim Hall is not the only Christian going about this important subject in a way that shames women. We Christians care a great deal about modesty, but we teach it in a way that is completely backwards.
I want to tell you that it is not a woman’s responsibility to prevent men from lusting. Not to mention, telling women to “cover up” for the sake of helping out their brothers in Christ is demeaning to both sexes.

First, it implies that women’s bodies are shameful and something to be hidden, which they’re not! Remember that Adam and Eve were originally naked in Eden. It was after the Fall that the body was viewed through corrupt lenses; but there is nothing inherently shameful about our bodies to begin with. Secondly, this mindset implies that men are barbaric beasts who are slaves to their hormones. It implies they have no self-control, and need to rely on women to take responsibility for them.

Men, I don’t know about you, but I’m highly offended by the implication that your brain is next to your balls. If men become animals and lose all self-control at the sight of a suggestively-dressed woman, and seemingly have no ‘choice’ but to either lust after her, or assault her, then what we’re saying is that the default status of all men is "rapist."

Think about it this way: we all know better than to take things that don’t belong to us. We know better than to trespass onto someone else’s property. Such actions have serious consequences, and rarely do we tell the person whose car was broken into that it’s their fault for not hiding the GPS under the seat, or in the dash. But when it comes to rape, there is something unique about this crime where it’s easier to excuse the perpetrator. We blame the woman’s skirt. We blame the fact that she was drinking. We insist she should have known better. Why her, and not the rapist?

So now, you may be thinking: okay, rape culture is a problem, but what does this have to do with the church? The answer is simple: the line between “She caused him to stumble” is not a far cry from “She was asking for it.” The reality is, women are just as likely to be raped in burquas as they are in string bikinis. This happens every day in the Middle East, especially right now in Syria.

I’ve had well-intentioned Christian friends preach modesty during Bible study, in a way that suggests “Only you can keep your boyfriends’ minds in check.” Well, my ex-boyfriend raped me when I was wearing sweatpants: not my first choice of ‘asking for it’ clothes. So clearly, sinful behavior is a deliberate choice. It’s not something one ‘stumbles’ into by accident. The relationship began when I was 17, an age where I thought I knew everything, and it ended when I was 22. He was a leader in the young adult group at his church; if you knew him, you probably looked up to him, as I did. He told me he was “making me into a woman,” and because he was a leader in his church, this raised an important question for me: what kind of womanhood is expected of me as a Christian?

It’s time the church starts taking responsibility for one another by changing the way we see each other. We are created in God’s image, meaning we are creatures with inborn dignity. Men AND women should care about modesty out of respect for their own bodies, a vessel that should not be revealed to just anyone. What would it look like if we taught our sons and daughters to view each other as dignified human beings, instead of ‘stumbling blocks’?

When we teach our daughters to cover up to prevent men from lusting, we are telling them that their bodies are shameful. And when we tell men that the control of their hormones are a woman’s responsibility from the way we dress, we are teaching them to view women as temptresses, not human beings. Attitudes like these are further traumatizing for rape victims in particular, who may already blame themselves for what they endured. That’s what society does, but the church is called to be different. The church is called to set an example.

According to RAINN, the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network, approximately 28% of victims already know the person who raped them. These victims are often sitting next to you in church, and are further shamed into silence by their pastors and fellow congregants, who ignorantly promote a view that modesty is about preventing men from lusting; and should they fail, then rape is not only excusable, but asked for.

How can we better address this issue in the church?

On breaking up with Christian Culture

Life is getting a little intense here in Seminary Land.

If you know me in real life, and have known me since my early college days, you may have been very concerned about the way I'd be influenced at a conservative Christian seminary. It is, after all, a complete 180 from Kent-read-Kent-write-Kent-remember-what-I-did-last-night Kent State. Of all the places in the world to find faith, when so many of my peers finally had the freedom to leave it!

But that's what I did. And I remember quite clearly, in the midst of cold-sweated fear of what my family and friends would think, the excitement of jumping head-first into a brand new world. It was exciting and terrifying like the first day of school. There were many things I embraced, or tried to, back then that I find very uncomfortable now. Ironically, going to seminary for the last year has done a lot to flip my faith inside out, and cause me to wonder what I thought was so appealing about it in the first place.

My theology hasn't changed much; the Gospel message never changes. But my view of church has. And other Christians I'm supposed to be in community with. Church culture as a whole.

Maybe I'm using the wrong words. I don't know if "Christian culture" is what I should be criticizing, or rather, Christian stereotypes. Can one really embrace a religion without its culture? The real problem may be that Christian culture is fine as it is; the flaws I find within it are a result of comparing it to the Jewish culture I grew up with, and miss dearly (is it obvious I still have soul-searching to do?).

I keep forgetting that belief in the Gospel is what makes one a Christian. Nothing else. But the Christian culture thing is problematic: something I find myself rebelling against, because I realize how much pretending is involved on my part. How much fakery and pretension. See, I'm not and never have been the happy-clappy, hand-holding, Christian-ese speaking kind of Christian. I've written before about my distaste for church groups that seem to imply worship music is the only kind of worship, period, and being forced to lead prayers as an introvert...or sit and listen to someone else pray them over me, because I'm too nice to say "I'm sorry, but that makes me uncomfortable. I appreciate the offer, though."

I've endured awkwardness many times in church settings, telling myself it will get better as time goes on. It never occurred to me until recently that it may not be a sin after all to speak up and be honest, but polite, about things I'm not comfortable doing. Things like praying out loud that contradict my personality and the ways I relate to God. Doesn't the beauty of community include diverse worship practices?

I hope the answer is yes. If not, then Church Culture and I may need to go our separate ways, because I am not growing. I am not learning. Instead, I sit pretending to be just as moved as everyone else, but inside I'm wondering what is wrong with me. In the end, I can't pretend to be something I'm not, just because that's what other people expect. That's not authenticity. That's wasting my time. Furthermore, it doesn't allow anyone else the chance of really getting to know me (I'm worth knowing, aren't I???).

I don't know what the ideal solution to this dilemma will be. But, while everyone else is standing and holding up their arms while the worship band is playing, doing what comes naturally to them, I'm doing what comes naturally to me: sitting, and writing in my prayer journal. Because worship goes beyond the bounds of Christian culture stereotypes. Worship is authentic, or nothing.

I am either an authentic Christian, or no Christian at all.

With thanks to the chutzpah of Rachel Held Evans for tackling subjects that many "good Christians" sweep under the rug, thus giving me courage to write a few of my own.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 7

Is a motorcycle ride ever just a motorcycle ride?

Catch up on previous chapters here!    

     It’s Easter Sunday, and Tess has convinced me to resume our routine of going to church together. We used to go every week, but laziness and self-pity kept me from going to any of my usual places, including the gym, in the weeks after Jared broke up with me. Now, finally, I’m taking responsibility and re-immersing myself in the world I’m used to.

     Not surprisingly, as I return to the dorm that evening, the shout “Hey, AK-47!” stops me in my tracks. I’ve barely crossed the parking lot, and already my presence has been detected. Playfully I ask “Are you stalking me or something?” but I’m not entirely kidding. It’s starting to feel a little weird, the way he keeps surprising me like this. There might be a small chance it’s a coincidence, since we do live in the same building, but what are the odds of that? Why doesn’t he hang out in the student center like everyone else?

     “You flatter yourself, AK. I’m just about to indulge in some bad habits.” He holds up a pack of cigarettes, which is a perfectly convenient excuse not to kiss him!

     Asking where I went in such a pretty flowered dress, I remind him that today is Easter. His response: “Right, Zombie Jesus Day! How could I forget?”

     For the life of me, I cannot figure out what it is about this guy that still tempts me. I’ve never poked fun at his beliefs – actually, I’m not sure what his beliefs are, exactly, but I don’t pick up any religious vibes from him – so what gives him the right to make fun of mine? His only purpose in my life right now is to validate my sick need to feel loved, however temporarily. That makes me feel pretty despicable.

     Stuffing the cigarette box in his pocket, he says “On second thought, I’m kinda hungry. How do you feel about an Easter dinner? My treat.”

     Oh goodness, this is tempting. A meal I don’t have to pay for? Can I really refuse that, broke almost-graduate that I am? Or am I a tool for blatantly using him for food?

     Ugh, that smile. It’s infectious and entirely too convincing. Maybe, if I lay down the condition that this is between friends only, one meal with him would be harmless.

     “Sure,” I tell him. “But only if –”

     “Excellent. Would be a shame to waste that pretty outfit.”

     I’m pitifully speechless again. He is constantly full of surprises. Rather than walking toward the student center, where I assume he meant to eat, he takes my hand and walks into the parking lot, saying he wants to show off his motorcycle. He’s as gleeful as a small child showing off a new toy, and I can’t help but indulge him a little. “All right, show me your motorcycle.”

     Well, he does more than show me. He hands me a helmet, and my first thought is, Hell no. Honestly, it’s not him I don’t trust; rather, it’s the thought of my body brutally scraping against pavement if he rounds a corner too quickly in an attempt to impress me, or something.

     Sensing my apprehension, he pouts. “Oh come on, AK. Live a little. You can’t graduate college without riding a motorcycle.”

     Oh, hell. Chalk this up to one last undergraduate hurrah, I suppose. I take the helmet, which doesn’t fit easily over my ponytail, and nervously wrap my arms around him once I climb on. Who would have thought I’d ever have to literally cling to him for dear life? He’s loving every minute of this, I can tell.

     It should come as no surprise, once he revs up the engine a few more times than is probably necessary, that he drives us away from campus. Briefly, I panic. What if I’ve been wrong about him this whole time? What if these last few weeks of flirtation were nothing but a ruse to charm me into trusting him, all so he could drive me away like this, completely unsuspecting, into some remote wooded area, where God only knows what could happen…

     “Where are you going?” I hiss, having no choice but to hold on to him tighter as he speeds up.  “It’s a surprise!” is his predictable answer. Joy.

     We end up at Bellacino’s, a semi-fancy (by college student standards) Italian restaurant. Much too fancy to accept the school’s dining plan, which is accepted at some places outside of campus – usually places that are no fancier than McDonald’s.

     I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at this irony: I’ve longed for a genuine, loving relationship for so long, and the first guy since Jared to show an interest is someone I shouldn’t want. Is this a normal phenomenon, or is my life sitcom material?

     I wouldn’t feel guilty about having Collin pay if we were dining at McDonald’s: but Bellacino’s? It doesn’t seem fair to accept this dinner off him when I have no intentions of dating him. At the same time, it’s too late to tell him now that we’ve already been seated, and he’s placed an order for a bottle of sparkling grape juice. Besides, he never actually used the word “date.” So, technically, this could be an outing for which the only goal is to enjoy each other’s company. That’s a stretch, I realize, considering his offer to pay. Still, I don’t want to be one to assume…

     Staring at the menu, I realize what a mistake this is. I want someone to love me, I want to feel cherished and special, but I hate dating. I hate the façade of putting on a show, the pressure to be my best self. I hate feeling self-conscious about which of my quirks to reveal, because who knows what personality traits are considered cute, and which ones are turn-offs?

     I want to be done with this agonizing competition to try to win a man’s heart. There’s so much pressure to be the prettiest, the smartest, the funniest; pressure to look my best when all I really want is to show up in sweatpants and my favorite T-shirt.

     There was never a “comfort period” like that with Jared. With constant subtle reminders of my imperfections (“You should work out more if you want to wear pants like those”), I could never simply be myself around him. I’m not convinced I can be myself around Collin, either. We’ve built a pseudo-relationship on a foundation of non-stop sarcastic banter that, quite frankly, is a little exhausting to keep up with. It’s like I’ll lose an unspoken competition if I can’t fire a comeback quickly enough.

     Dating, when it comes down to it, is a lot like auditioning for American Idol: thrilling, if you’re approved to go to the next level; devastating if you’re rejected.

     We have just placed the order for our meal, but already I feel sick. Deciding I no longer care about keeping up appearances, I ask a question I’d never dare to ask if this were someone I was truly desperate to impress: “Why are we here, Collin?”

     His confused expression, I must admit, is somewhat adorable. “We’re here to eat dinner, silly.”

     “No, I mean why are we here, in a booth at a fancy restaurant, implying to other people that we’re a couple or something? Where are you trying to go with this?”

     I’ve gone ahead and done what Tess says women should never do: initiate the DTR, or “Define the Relationship” conversation. It’s such a juvenile expression, but a very fitting one. Supposedly, the guy is the one who should start it, but I can’t remember why that is and I’m beyond caring about convention anymore.

     “Uhh,” he stumbles. “Well, I think you’re cute and interesting. I’d like to get to know you better. Is that a problem?”

     There’s still that obnoxiously charming twinkle in his eye, indicating that I’m supposed to retort with something clever. Instead I reply, “I guess not,” even if I think his answer is more than a little vague.

     “The day we met,” he continues, no longer grinning mischievously, but actually appearing concerned, “You seemed upset. Anything you want to discuss?”

     Well, that’s unexpected. Not to mention completely out of character, the little I’ve seen so far. All this time I thought he was being cutely obnoxious to start a casual fling, but that’s not the kind of question you’d ask someone you don’t want to get emotionally involved with. But how could he want to get emotionally involved when he attempted to kiss me before even learning my favorite color?

     “I forgot I had a paper due that day,” I say, attempting to relax. “You might as well know I’m the type who’s extremely anal about her grades.”

     “I see.” He doesn’t believe me, I can tell. “What class was it for?”

     “Great Books. It was a report on Great Expectations.”

     “There would be a book with the word ‘Great’ in the title for a Great Books class.”

     “I know, right?”

     Here we are again: the same old banter that keeps getting worse as it gets better, and damn near impossible to end once it’s already started. Like trying to contain Niagara Falls in a coffee mug.

     When our food arrives, we stop talking for a while. Is it “romantically correct” (as opposed to “politically correct”) to ask the girl to pay for her own meal if the guy decides, mid-date, that he doesn’t want to see her again?

     No, I’m the one who should offer to pay my own way. I’ll end this whatever-it-is first, just to avoid the humiliation of being the one to get dropped all over again. Always better to be safe than sorry.

     The waiter comes by, asking how our food turned out. I seize the opportunity and say “Can we have separate –”

     “It’s on one check,” Collin interrupts. Nodding, the waiter disappears, and Collin reaches for my sweaty hand from across the table. “Chill out, AK-47. I got this.”

     I am hereby excused from any accusation of leading him on. Still, it feels wrong.

     The ride back to campus is more nerve-wracking than before, now that it’s dusk, and pitch black from the tinted glass inside Collin’s helmet. I really have to trust him now that I can’t see a thing, and I hate myself for agreeing to this all over again.

     My paranoia is unfounded. We arrive back at the campus, safe and sound, and I accept his offer to walk me back to my room. Now I can pride myself on having experienced one official date since Jared: it means I’m not a complete loser.

     Yet here we are once more, alone in the hallway, and temptation creeps in like water from a sieve. What, exactly, is protocol here? With Jared, a kiss was the least amount of activity expected to close an evening together; was that just him, or do all guys expect that? Do I “owe” Collin for taking me out for a meal?

     Most importantly, do I want to kiss him, dinner or no dinner, simply because he’s Collin?

     Playing into the moment, he whispers “I had a great time tonight,” and he’s tracing my jawline again. Whatever it is he’s trying to do, he’s good at it – good in a way that tells me, somehow, it’s worked before. It feels calculated: rehearsed, even.

     When his hand cups my chin and slowly tilts my face toward his, I all but lose myself completely. His mouth is a centimeter away from meeting mine when common sense – or is it fear? – kicks in, and suddenly I am wrenching myself away.

     “There’s too much garlic on my breath, right?” he asks, at the same time I think Goodbye, last chance.

     “Uh, no, your breath is fine.” It just now occurs to me that if I were serious about this, I would have avoided kissing him anyway, simply because my breath reeks of garlic too. Or would it matter, if we both smell the same? It’s not like people never kissed each other before there was a standard for hygiene.

     “So what is it, then?” He sounds slightly irritated now, for which I can’t blame him. This was a two-person tango, after all. How can I back out without looking like a tease, or worse: revealing the real reason I can’t do this? Because even if Collin is about six inches taller than the man I used to date, maybe ten pounds heavier, and has blond hair instead of brown, I know I’d be pretending it’s Jared that I’m lip-locking instead.

     And that’s not fair to either of us.

     “I thought I was ready for this,” I stumble. “But I don’t think –”

     “Shhh, AK.” He puts his finger over my lips to shush me. “There’s no pressure here, okay? We don’t need to decide anything right now. I just want to have some fun with you.”

     All the lingering temptation sucks out of me like a vacuum. He thinks I’m nervous because of how kissing would affect the friendship, not because we’re about to kiss, period. Kiss and who knows what else.

     I understand now what I could not see before: I don’t need this. If Collin and I were to hook up tonight, and I imagine with all my heart that I’m with Jared again, a man who no longer loves me, what possible good would that do? I’m tangled enough in hurt as it is. I may not feel worthy of much, but somehow I know I’m worth more than this.

     “I think we’ve had enough fun already,” I tell him. My voice is icier than I intended, but I don’t apologize. Not for that, and not for sliding my key into the lock and slamming the door in his face.