Other Stuff

Hate the bigotry, love the bigot

It would be easy to blame the media for the ugly misuse of sayings and phrases these days. With the oracle Google as close as most of our cell phones, we assume that if we hear something from our favorite info feed it must be true—freeing us from taking responsibility for thinking before we repeat. Since it is so easy to check the veracity and etymology of almost everything, we presume our favorite talking-head surely has. Thus the mindless regurgitation of clusters of words out of context and out of sync with reality seems to be all the rage. This leads me to believe that I have (d)evolved into an “Annoyed at Stupid Sayings Time Bomb” set to explode at 51 years old. That is to say, I’m likely to go off next time I hear my most hated aphorism, “Hate the sin, love the sinner.”

The context in which I’m hearing “Hate the sin, love the sinner” today is mostly around homosexuality—and perhaps this is ramping up due to it being an election year when hot-button topics are being fellated for the crescendo of a sound bite. The obvious interpretation of this maxim is that homosexuality is a sin and sin is to be hated. The phrase, not the context, comes from St. Augustine’s letter 211 (a.c.e. 424) in which he wrote, “Cum dilectione hominum et odio vitiorum,” which translates roughly as "With love for mankind and hatred of sins." In this letter Augustine rebukes the Nuns of the Monastery, of which his sister had been prioress, for certain turbulent manifestations of dissatisfaction with her successor and lays down general rules for their guidance. The quote has also been attributed to Gandhi, where it is found in his biography. I did not come across any ready scholarly biblical reference for the phrase.

My sensitivity to this phrase comes in no small part from raising a lesbian stepdaughter. When she was in her early teens I noticed she was not developing emotionally like her two sisters. She wasn’t ahead or behind—more like she was developing in parallel to them. She was not delighted with the feminine aspects of herself and was more comfortable running around with me in outfits that emulated my blue-collar ethic than in ones that mirrored her mom’s womanlier affect. She was curious about how people were attracted to each other and about alternative ways of thinking and being. By the time she was in high school, she had read every book on my philosophy bookshelf, was more comfortable with her hair short, and chose to hide her body behind looser clothing. Conspicuously, she didn’t have crushes on guys like her sisters did.

What became obvious to me was that my step-kid was not “choosing” to be different. She desperately wanted to know why she was somewhat off off-center compared to the other kids in her adolescent experiences. Most gay people with whom I’ve spoken about their sexuality have said that they, too, had wondered why they were so different—until they discovered others who were different like they were. This child who I raised, who used to cry when the other kids made fun of her for something she couldn’t help, has nothing wrong with her. This is how she is. She is also one of the kindest people I have ever known, is often funnier than is prudent, has an esthetic sense that would make anyone smile, and happens to be a lesbian. So to “hate the sin” that is the homosexuality with which my stepdaughter identifies, is to hate my stepdaughter. My child, who has done nothing in this life to be hated for and has grown into a fine young woman, is targeted by this phrase.

“Hate the sin, love the sinner” is passive-aggressive camouflage, providing a cozy, thought-free place to hide rather than coming right out and saying your belief system chooses to hate people like my kid. I write “chooses” because the references used to back up hating my daughter’s “sin” are surgically excised from scripture—conveniently ignoring the surrounding “sins” that are inconvenient to avoid in everyday life. Thus, the argument that homosexuality is sin usually comes with a scriptural reference. I am one of many who do not share faith with people who subscribe to a religious canon. To judge other people’s sin by what is considered a holy scripture carries no weight with me. I do not have the emotional or cultural attachment to scripture that allows me to use it as a barometer to measure anything.

But all religious and interpretive issues aside, there is an emotional reaction to that saying that is as real to me as the faith is to others. It feels like condemnation and an admission of hatred for someone I hold dear—for many of the people in my life I hold dear. The transparent bubble wrap of scriptural reference doesn’t soften the offensive blow to my psyche every time I hear “Hate the sin, love the sinner.” It is piercing dissonance because most people who spout “Hate the sin, love the sinner” are unaware of what they are doing to the people around them who know what they really mean, even if the purveyors of the saying do not. Everybody is surrounded by shades of grey of homosexuality. Whether it is the guy who delivers the water or the woman who fits your kids with braces—you do not know. Most of those who have risen above the self-loathing that “Hate the sin, love the sinner” perpetuates will not let on that you are doing the equivalent of getting right up in their face and telling them to die in a fire. Most will show you the grace and courtesy you are not affording them—because they know you do not understand that homosexuals are your sons and daughters, and fathers and mothers—that some of those who preach intolerance the loudest are suppressing their own homosexuality.

And as I move farther into life I’ve shared with people who choose partners of their own gender, I see them as being grateful for the progress made in their lifetimes. Many of them have lost the need to hate those who hate them. I find their presence centering because they have lived through everything from attempts on their lives to the constant soft-core pornography, of which “Hate the sin, love the sinner” is no small part. And they have done it without needing to tell those who hate them to die in a fire.

I anxiously await my evolution to the enlightened place that many who have suffered this insult directly have reached.

 

 

Review of TAKE SHELTER

TAKE SHELTER opens with Curtis (played vividly and thoughtfully by Mike Shannon) standing in his driveway. He is in his mid-thirties, works digging in the earth, and is looking at an Ohio sky that is dumping a type of rain that he’s never seen before. It’s a big scene of big sky and big sounds. The scene then cuts to him in the shower. It is the kind of edit that lets the viewer know there is a deliberate mind behind this film. This is a cinematic cue that you should be paying attention.

TAKE SHELTER is about many things. It seems each viewer leaving the movie has a different take on it. I’m inclined to see the film as an intriguing study on the tendency of gender roles to blur and blend in times of crisis.

Curtis is a man in the Midwestern sense of the word—simple, hardworking, not too chatty, and also not too far from being a little boy. His wife Samantha, played exquisitely by Jessica Chastain, takes care of him and their hearing-impaired daughter Hannah.  In one pivotal scene, Curtis arrives to a parent-teacher conference covered from head to toe in mud.  He had been running late and didn’t have enough time to shower after working outside all day. During the meeting we see Curtis behaving like a mischievous child who’s been out playing in the mud.  He prefers to conspire with Hannah as if he were her sibling rather than her parent.

His preadolescent tendencies are played out with his best friend and workmate Dewart (Shea Whigham).  This is highlighted by the only reference to sex in the movie, which is made when Dewart tosses out a sexual fantasy which is beautifully crushed when we see his wife, who appears less than cordial.

As TAKE SHELTER progresses it becomes evident that Samantha is the strong stuff that binds family together. It is a role thrust upon her, but she embraces it and does it with sensible affection. Sewing and cooking are just as second nature to Samantha as playing in the dirt and removing junk piles are to Curtis.  Everyone seems at ease with his or her place.

Then things gets weird.

Curtis is separating from the people around him. He is seeing things others are not. Is he nuts? Well, his mom was about his age when she was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. His sleep is disturbed by dreams that are becoming more and more palpable and that are merging with his waking life. He seeks help but in that Midwestern, blue-collar, big-toe-in-the-sand way that butts up against the ridiculousness of asking a paranoid person to trust others enough to talk to them about his paranoia.

As he goes further inward, he pours this frenetic energy into renovating the storm shelter. He stops coming to bed at night and makes very poor choices around his job. As financial realities mount, Samantha becomes aware that her version of providing for the family is about getting a surgery for their daughter, not about funneling all their resources into a shelter from a storm that no one else seems to think is coming.

In a critical scene, Curtis pulls the straps off his stoic, masculine reserve and lets his community know, uncharacteristically multi-syllabically, that he knows something they do not. (If you are lucky enough to have seen Michael Shannon take his character in the HBO series Boardwalk Empire over the edge of insanity, you will realize this scene in TAKING SHELTER goes further down that road to what better be an Oscar nomination.) However, it is the character Samantha who takes the scene home by doing what is best for the family, to hell with what people think. We should all be so lucky.

Tension mounts within the family and within the community as Curtis’ dreams come faster and more furiously from the darker recesses of his mind. The judicious employment of CG in this film is riveting, , creating an Ohio skyline rife with unearthly clouds and swarms of birds coming together and diverting into patterns that look like schools of fish in the presence of a shark.  These images are unsettling on many levels but not bludgeoning. They are necessary for the flow of the movie and are balanced nicely with the calm of Samantha’s steadfast resolve to keep the family together.

The first hour of the movie seems to be taking off toward a heart stopping crescendo. However, the last hour of the movie brings us into the hearts of good people getting through their day in a time when jobs are scarce and sickness—of body or mind—is frightening.

TAKE SHELTER follows a rational story arc, so it is no surprise that in the last act of the movie the storm sirens blow, which is not out of the ordinary for Ohio where tornados drop from the skies. Curtis and his family head to the shelter, for he is sure it is THE storm, not just a storm. It is in this box that Samantha makes Curtis prove that his love for his family is stronger than his allegiance to his hallucinations. It is here where many understand what the film is really about.

But, TAKE SHELTER is not over. When Hannah sees something that her father is sure only he can see, the viewer can assume what comes next. Assume nothing, for this is a well-written film that respects the viewer’s intelligence enough to dispense with an epilog. The story isn’t over until seconds before end credits roll.

 

Getting the Bird

It was thanksgiving long ago and my wife didn’t feel like cooking and me cooking was and continues to be a bad idea. So we went out. The three girls were too young to know that the novelty of going out for a holiday meal weighs lightly against the high quality of the food mom normally prepared. Hoping to mitigate that, I selected a rather nice restaurant.

Feeling the need to wander a little out of the box, we ordered their special, which was a game hen rather than the usual turkey. They were…cute. The girls rarely had to tackle food that maintained the shape of the animal it came from. Sure, they had shrimp—under protest. (And animal crackers, which don’t really count.) I even told them that hotdogs were made from a single part of the pig and when they were older and married, they would know what part that was. Oddly, they were barely out of elementary school, and unmarried, before they made sure I wished I had never made that joke.

When they were presented with what they coined as the “Barbie” version of turkey by the server, eating did not ensue. Oh, a couple of them tried and managed a few pieces of protein that they announced as tasty. But, it did not go well. The other diners in the restaurant found us rather gauche as they nimbly dissected and nibbled on the little bird  carcasses. It became obvious that the ridiculousness of the situation outweighed propriety—so we added wine.

The girls’ mom had a pinot-propelled departure from decorum and with two forks made her small Cornish game hen into a puppet, ala Charley Chaplin and the dinner rolls. Soon her small bird was dancing on the plate, kicking into the mashed potatoes. The girls, being children, had to have puppets too. Soon they were squabbling about who would get what piece of cutlery to animate their dinners.  Mom was out of control. When people from other tables looked at her, she would have her “puppet” voice a falsetto greeting and a wish for a happy thanksgiving. They would turn around quickly—daring to cast their gaze no longer upon the crazy lady—which was like chasing away ants with honey. It only escalated the show. Soon the girls had small birds dancing on their plates, too. Being siblings, whole dramatic plots were orchestrated.

I sat back, drank my wine, and watched the show. The server approached our table with a combination of like-I-need-this-shit-when-stuck-working-a-holiday, and thank- God-for-a-break-in-the-boredom attitude. She asked if they could bring us something else to eat. The kids looked a little concerned they were about to lose their (arguably) edible toys. I suggest we leave the puppets alone and just bring the desert. Lowering my tone, I conspired that when they were distracted with the pie and ice cream, she could snatch their plates safely. She could feel her tip growing and decided to play along. Mom, speaking through her fowl puppet, said that was a great idea.

The bait and switch worked and soon the kids were elbow-deep in pumpkin pie and ice cream. As they ate the waitress practiced her ninja skills and relieved them of their plates like a pickpocket working a subway platform.

When the desert plates were bare and the wine bottle was empty, we left through a gauntlet of other diners. They speared us with disapproving looks. The kids didn’t notice. Mom reveled in it. The help just smirked.