Drunk texting and the complexities of human nature

A thirty-two-year-old woman is killed while updating her Facebook status behind the wheel of a moving car, and the Internet is flooding with opinions.

Reactions span everywhere from “She deserves a Darwin award” to “How would YOU like your entire life to be judged based on one mistake?”

Talk about extremes. One could rationally argue that Facebooking while driving is more a deliberate choice than a “mistake,” but I can understand the sentiment behind it: no one wants to be remembered solely for the wrongs they committed. Our lives should be more than cautionary tales.

But I have to wonder if the same amount of compassion would be shown if the truck driver she hit was critically injured or killed. Or if she plowed into a family’s minivan and killed all the children inside.

Then she’d be a monster. Right?

This idea of how we define “good” and “bad,” especially when the person in question is deceased and cannot redeem or justify their actions, appeals to me because it’s the primary topic in my upcoming book. Where There’s Smoke is full of flawed characters who want to believe they are good. And they do try; but the ways they go about proving themselves make others scratch their heads at best, and feel betrayed at worst. It’s a story that asks: who are we really? Are we the sum of all our actions? Is the note we finish our lives on the most defining of them all?

There are no right or wrong ways to answer this question, and that’s what I love about it.

When hate begets grace

A funny thing happened when I got engaged last weekend (cue the squeals!):

I was consumed with so much joy at the thought of spending the rest of my life with a man I’m crazy about (and get this guys, he actually feels the same!) that I forgot to be bitter for the rest of the weekend.

You see, the engagement happened during the 6-year anniversary of being assaulted; the 3-year anniversary of ending the abusive relationship in which that assault occurred; and the 11-year anniversary of when a friend of mine committed suicide. So needless to say, the first few weeks of springtime are not typically joyous for me. In fact, I dread them, for all the memories that come up.

And then – and then! – Fred Phelps, the legendary patriarch of the hate-filled Westboro Baptist “church” passed away. So I’ve been reading up on articles that keep cropping up on Facebook about it, and it seems my internet friends’ reactions fall almost evenly in two separate camps: those who want to piss on Fred’s grave and protest his funeral, and those who insist on extending forgiveness and the hope of salvation to a very, very lost individual.

I, like many Christians, am not without bitterness towards people like Phelps: people who make me ashamed to identify as “Christian” for all the ways that word has been abused. Still, this man was someone’s father, grandfather, brother, husband…and it saddens me that it’s not obvious to more people how protesting his funeral isn’t justice; it’s only sinking to his level of depravity. I find myself increasingly inspired by people who are choosing to extend grace and mercy on his behalf.

But I can’t have those thoughts about Fred without doing some soul-searching about my feelings towards the man who wronged me. I’ve wished for bad things to happen to him. I’ve wished for the chance to humiliate him. But in the same way protesting Fred’s funeral won’t undo the emotional damage caused by holding up signs saying “God Hates Fags,” wishing terrible things on my abuser doesn’t undo what he did. And it certainly doesn’t make me a happier, joy-filled person.

It’s giving him permission to live rent-free inside my head. And there’s something about the counter-protests like this one, plus getting engaged, that makes me think “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”

It’s time to start living. Time to accept that the past can’t be undone, and the memories may still sting, but they don’t define me or determine the happiness I can choose to feel. Time to start planning my wedding!

"We don't need feminism in America"

I was about to have another one of my “Sarahbeth might be closeted liberal” moments earlier today, based on my reaction from this blog a friend of mine shared on Facebook. The blogger describes herself as being “Christian, anti-feminist, pro-patriarchy.”

Oy vey. My heart definitely lurched into my throat when I read that.

But then I stepped away from my laptop for a moment (smart move) and realized my outrage has nothing to do with possibly being “liberal” or not.  Or conservative, really. What do those labels actually mean? My outrage stems from the complete ignorance of what feminism is, based on the ways it’s being perverted in the media. It has an ugly side, like all well-intentioned movements do. We can argue until we’re blue in the face about whether feminists should support abortion, or be stay-at-home moms, what have you. But Christian or atheist, male or female, I cannot understand why it’s so hard for us to agree on the fact that women are people, and as such, they deserve to be dignified.

Intelligent people understand that just because some loudmouth politician who calls himself a Christian is against gay rights (not just marriage, but against a homosexual being fired simply for being homosexual) does not mean all Christians agree with him.

Intelligent people understand that one negative encounter with someone of a different race does not mean all people of that race are bad.

Intelligent people understand that the militant “feminazis” (a term I abhor) do not represent all feminists. We are not out to supplant men, oppress them, or degrade them. Those who do are missing the whole point.

My heart wants to react violently when I hear people say, “We don’t need feminism in America!” I’ll be honest and admit that I’m hesitant to use expressions like “war on women” because life for women in this country is not nearly as oppressive as, say, women in the Middle East who are assaulted with acid for the crime of wanting to be educated. We are so blessed to not have to face that kind of persecution here.

But that doesn’t mean life is ideal for women in America. There are scores of men who are running Congress who make extremely damaging remarks about domestic violence, which influence society’s view of it as a whole. Those attitudes ruin lives. They destroy the dignity of women’s souls. They hurt women, their children, and create an attitude of shame that directly affects the impact they leave on this world. You cannot operate out of shame and expect to live a productive life. Sadly, more often that not, men with the utmost privilege, who cannot fathom what it’s like to be judged by their clothing choices or their decision to work outside the home, are the ones promoting these attitudes.

But it’s not just men. Women like the creator of that blog have also bought the lie that the entire feminist movement is damaging and irrelevant because politics have gotten in the way of simply affirming humanity. Can we please go back to the beginning, when it was decided that a movement was necessary to affirm the humanity of women??

We need feminism in America. We need feminism in churches. We need feminism in every corner of the world where there is even one iota of injustice. We need men who strive to dignify the women in their lives: their wives, mothers, daughters, sisters. We need feminism to teach women that they are more than vaginas. More than sex objects.

We need feminism, period.

Is being liked overrated?

Here’s a shocking question I’ve been trying to process lately: is being liked an overrated goal?

As a self-published author, putting my books out there to be loved or loathed by strangers, and even subjecting myself to criticism from those who don’t think self-publishing “counts,” I’d say the answer is yes.

There’s a difference, though, between living your life with selfish abandon, not caring at all about the legacy you’re leaving behind, and living your life with a healthy sense of nonconformity.

I had a misunderstanding with someone this week. It made me angry, upset, and tempted to retaliate. I’m forcing myself to bite my tongue and carry on, because there are times when people will be set on disliking me regardless of the effort I make to clear my name. Sometimes I have to accept that the consequences from my not-so-wise decisions will leave a sour taste in people’s mouths when they hear my name. And that sucks. But ultimately, what can you do about it?

I know I’m not always the nicest person. I’m even hesitant to label myself a good person, because I am the only one with an uncensored view of what goes on in my head, and I'm all too aware of my tendency to judge, criticize, and condemn. I don’t accept that as a permanent feature of myself that can’t be changed, but it helps me accept that my entire life is basically a work in progress, which means being unliked is inevitable. Not being able to change people’s minds is inevitable.

All that is to say, being viciously protective of what people think will make you immobile. For what it’s worth, maybe it’s better to not be liked by a few than go completely unnoticed in this life.

Again I repeat, This is sanctification.

On choosing conflicting battles wisely

This is one of the most obvious understatements in the world: human beings are complex and often downright frustrating creatures.

Self-exploration and defining your place in the world is difficult enough without having to deal with unsolicited and misguided opinions thrown in your direction. As multi-faceted people, our internal battles are all over the place.

This is a brief, non-exhaustive list of issues that have made me want to hit my head against a wall on several occasions:

The idea that Jewish background + Christian beliefs automatically = Messianic Jew (it doesn’t. It’s a bit more complicated than that).

That being a Christian, period = hating gays, believing atheists have no morals, forcing beliefs on the nation by turning them into laws.

That feminism = bra-burning, man-hating, always pro-choice, anti-shaving extremist (I’ve had the privilege of meeting a handful of married, stay-at-home, religious, self-described feminists. They are real. I promise. And we all generally want the same thing: to be treated like human beings).

That English major = future English teacher (nope, not me).

That author = famous and made of money (HAHAHAHA…not even close).

That self-published author = not a 'legitimate' author (self-published books are on Amazon like all other “legitimately published” books. If it’s made of paper or downloadable via Kindle and you paid for it from a major distributor, it’s a book, dangit).

That being raped or assaulted always = brutally attacked by a stranger hiding in the bushes, because it can never happen in a relationship with someone you actually know (more on that here)

Your own list may look similar, or completely different. It’s easy for me to lose patience, to write off the people who question me as completely ignorant or even stupid. There are battles, and then there is the battle to pick your battles, because you simply can’t afford to lose it every time someone misunderstands an aspect of your life.

I’ve decided to pick three of the above “battles” as educational fields; my defining markers in life: Being a Christian, because that’s who I am; rape culture awareness/feminist issues, because those have affected me personally; and misconceptions about being an indie author, because that is my chosen profession. Even one of those issues results in a fully loaded plate, and I wish I didn’t have such a random lot to choose from.  I felt like a freak for a while, until one day I realized that no one’s life is lived completely in a vacuum. It’s okay to stand for multiple things, and the best way to stand for something is to be an effective teacher of it.

I’m always curious to learn more about how people deal with ignorance regarding who they are, or what they’ve been through. Now is your chance to educate me: what are your battle fields?

Selfish with a dash of good? Or vice versa?

Leaving my internship yesterday, I heard a voice call out “Hey Sarahbeth! Can I borrow a dollar?”

I looked up to see a somewhat disheveled man standing in front of me; possibly homeless but hard to tell. At first I was confused how he knew my name, but he probably read it off my custom-printed bag. In that bag was a hefty chunk of cash from my four babysitting jobs that I planned to take directly to the grocery store, in addition to a very expensive Macbook.

The man was only asking for a dollar; not a huge expense on my part. I could and should have given one to him. Yet all I could think was, I can’t let my guard down and risk having my stuff stolen.

I offered him some of my Ramen noodle stash instead, which he politely declined. Getting into my car, I felt like a failure as both a Christian and a human being. I could have done more, and I chastised myself for living in a world where concern for one’s personal safety trumps compassion; where being a single woman alone in a city means automatically fearing any man that approaches, even if his intentions aren’t malicious.

But is it really about safety? Or is there underlying prejudice that prompts us to say “no” when asked to give? Or when we notice people whose lives are radically different from our own?

I don’t always remember to lock my doors when I get in my car, but I lock them when I pass a cluster of teenagers in downtown Denver, always thinking It would be so easy to unlock the passenger door at a stoplight and grab my laptop/purse/whatever. Once, during a discussion group at church, a student was talking about how selfish we can be when there’s an opportunity for outreach: did Jesus not call us to serve others, no matter the personal risk to ourselves? My instinct was to protest, “You don’t understand! You are not a woman who looks ten years younger than she actually is; the world is not as dangerous a place for you, of course it’s easy for you to say that.”

Thankfully I wasn’t the only one thinking this, and the discussion turned into a battle of the sexes: the men kept insisting we (the females) were more concerned about ourselves than others in need, while the women kept insisting that Jesus would never advocate purposefully putting ourselves in danger if we didn’t absolutely have to.

On the drive home I stopped to allow more cars into my lane than usual, as if trying to atone for my selfishness before; once again deceiving myself into looking at salvation as some kind of points-based system. In the end, I am just one person with good intentions who often falls short. I can only do so much. But I feel guilty just the same.

I guess I don't have to be famous after all

It’s that time again. The time when I’m just about ready to click that “publish” button for a fourth time, and I’ll tell you: the rush never changes. It’s exciting. It’s empowering.

But it’s also a moment that calls for some self-evaluation. After all, it’s my fourth book. My fourth book at the age of 25, and I have yet to be named, let alone considered, as a best-selling author in any notable book review journal. So am I doing okay? Am I doing anything right at all?

What’s the point of asking these questions, anyway?

I created something I love, and am proud to have my name on. That’s what matters. The small circle of “fans” (that feels slightly pretentious) I’ve acquired are not part and parcel of this whole author experience: they are earned. And their reviews tell me that they appreciate my work not because I’m a hot new name in fiction, but because they connect with my stories. They recognize themselves in them.

That’s what matters.

But I’m someone who has wanted to be famous her entire life. There’s still a part of me that looks at my sales, my number of Twitter followers, compares them to those of other indie authors, and thinks I’m not doing enough. However, there’s a huge difference between putting work out there to be noticed, and putting work out there to say something real. If my only desire is to be noticed, to become some sort of household name, then I will always be disappointed, because there will always be someone else topping new charts that didn’t exist yesterday, selling more copies, and gaining more Twitter followers.

It’s funny how you can find a high school-style hierarchy in just about any occupation or hobby: no matter what you do, you will always, at some point, feel like a geek while someone else is being crowned prom queen. Well, the latest New York Times best-seller is the prom queen. I guess that makes me a mathlete or something?

I’m in the process of re-evaluating the real reasons I want to be famous. Not can’t-buy-toilet-paper-without-paparazzi-snapping-my-picture famous, but…famous. Significant. No, more like an important historic figure. Someone to be read about in history books, not People magazine.

And the more I think about it, the more I understand that my reasons for desiring fame are kind of stupid. I’m not “that special” of a person. I’m just a woman with something to say. So I write it down, publish it, and am blessed by the handful of reviews from people who tell me that they see their own stories in my work. I’ve made a few new friends out of this journey into publishing; friends I wouldn’t have met any other way, because they are as close as Philadelphia and as far away as England. They aren’t established critics, but they are people whose voices matter just as much as my own. And when they tell me that something I wrote resonated with them, it means the world.

And that is why I continue to write. Fame or no fame, I think I’m doing okay for myself.

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 struggle to be believed

The first book signing for Someone You Already Know is this Saturday (Learned Owl in Hudson Ohio, 1pm)! What an awesome way to start 2013! Here's another excerpt, depicting the struggle of one survivor to be believed by another:

There are certain things we already know, things we don’t need schooling on: that no means no, yes is yes, what is permissible at one moment may not be at another time. But the root of our conflict, as two young women struggling to understand how much of a role our bodies play in our identities as people, is that neither of us fits the definition of “That Girl” we always imagined would find herself in predicaments like ours. Somehow we believed we were born with immunity. Why is that exactly?

I explained to Katherine everything I knew for sure, everything that should have happened if he really loved me: He should have stopped when I told him to. He should have stopped right away, not several minutes later when he wanted to. His exact words at one point were “I was having too much fun to stop.” He commented on my nervousness, my inability to relax and “go with it.” He knew I was not completely on board with what was happening; that it meant so much more to him than it did to me, because I didn’t need to fool around to feel loved. He came up with that on his own. 

     “You know you wanted it.”

     “I thought if I kept going, you would change your mind and start liking it.”

     “You’d be real hot if you didn’t look so terrified.”

I stare into my coffee cup as the room starts spinning. The pounding in my head is unrelenting.

     

It was exhausting, just putting to words these conflicting feelings I’ve had for so long, but it’s still not enough for Katherine. “So he never actually forced you to do anything” she retorts. I can’t tell if this is a question or an accusation. “He never held you down or used a weapon, or –“

Obviously this conversation was not going to be easy, though for someone who was intent on listening without judgment, she wasn’t doing a very good job. “No, he didn’t hit me or threaten me with a knife or a gun or anything that put my life in immediate danger,” I snap. “But you know what, Katherine? I don’t see what difference it would have made if he had. We were supposedly in a relationship; just saying ‘no’ should have been enough. Please explain to me why saying ‘no’ was not enough.”

Even after I said that, my mind was full of the same old doubts: Did I really say “no” loudly and clearly every time? To what extent does my body language count? Is it unrealistic to expect John to have read my nervous shaking as a refusal, even when he knew I was desperate to impress him? 

It’s funny; I’ve seen enough romantic comedies to know what it looks like when a guy and a girl are mutually enthusiastic about hooking up. Yet the more I think about it, the nature of consent itself is such a fine, crooked little line with so much gray area smudged in the middle. Will guys need to sign permission slips acknowledging what behaviors are acceptable? Is a girl allowed to change her mind after saying yes? How is a normal guy, who may have the best of intentions, supposed to know if what he’s doing is okay?

The question of what consent is -- and isn't -- comes up again in the discussion guide at the end of the novel. It's true that plenty of people don't fully understand the nature of consent, but manage to have sex without raping anyone. Even still, this is a topic that deserves to be addressed by everyone, regardless of relationship status and experience.