Wounded Knee remembered

It was the fourth day after Christmas in the Year of Our Lord 1890. When the first torn and bleeding bodies were carried into the candlelit church, those who were conscious could see Christmas greenery hanging from the open rafters. Across the chancel front above the pulpit was strung a crudely lettered banner: PEACE ON EARTH, GOOD WILL TO MEN.
-from Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Brown

It's simple, Sarah Palin. Just say no!

Exactly who is John McCain pandering to by adding Sarah Palin to the ticket? Talk is that he's hoping to hook the evangelical crowd, but he's obviously missing a few key bits of information.

Conservative Christians do not put their women in positions of authority over men. Ever. In my former church, women were not allowed to preach to the general congregation because this was seen as unbiblical, and a condescension to their male counterparts. Believe it or not, they aren't even permitted to lead the "praise and worship" musical segment of the Sunday service for the same reason. Jezebel can forget about the support of evangelical males.

As for females, they present an even peskier problem. Christian women have strong opinions about the roles of wife and mother. In my experience, few evangelical wives are employed full-time outside the home. Their lives are about rearing godly children and glorifying their husbands. Many consider themselves helpmates, subordinate to their husbands and the church. They are not going to view Sarah Palin as a sister in Christ. She resembles a Biblical harlot, not a Proverbs 31 role model.

There is a nonreligious unbridgeable gap here as well. In case you hadn't heard, there is an ongoing feud between stay-at-home mothers (SAHMs) and women employed outside the home. The SAHMs claim the moral high ground in the area of child-raising and husband-tending, while the working women, especially those in traditionally male-dominated professions, cling to feminist values of independence, equality, and self-actualization. Ms. Palin -- the working woman who calls herself a soccer mom -- may strike both camps as an imposter. And many women, regardless of work status, will wonder why Sarah would leave five children, including a special-needs infant, to be used as a pawn in a good-ol'-boys ploy.

I feel sorry for Sarah Palin. She's being used as hastily begotten arm candy to pretty up an ugly ticket. Things won't go well for her this election season. In my opinion, she should have refused McCain's offer. She should have thanked him for the honor of being asked, and then used the national spotlight to showcase who she really is. Not the life preserver he'd like her to be.

Wondrous mysteries

I watched the coverage of the Pope's final message to the lucky faithful -- 60,000 hankie-waving fans in Yankee Stadium -- and can only shake my head in disbelief. Am I the only one who doesn't understand this Pope-worship stuff? It is so weirdly absurd that I hardly know what to make of it. Who are these people driving hundreds of miles to catch a glimpse of him? Those who turn out by the thousands, even without tickets, just to be near him for a few minutes? Looking at the pontiff (just the word makes me laugh) clad from head to toe in white, barely this side of the grass, reminds me so much of the movie Foul Play that the whole thing seems hilarious.

I am pretty sure that no one I know personally would even consider going to great trouble to see the Pope (except my mom, of course), so it makes me wonder what kind of person does. Are they part of other groups that also make me slightly uncomfortable, like NASCAR fans maybe? Or those who drive around the country in silver RVs looking for other people with silver RVs? Maybe I'm just jealous that I wasn't invited to join the club. I did do a ten-year stint in Catholic schools, after all, and never missed Sunday mass until I went off to college. Even in Boulder I went to St. Thomas Aquinas for a few months, until time spent in the confession booth started interfering with my studies. So why do I not know what they know?

No pithy analysis will be forthcoming. As I said, this is beyond me.




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In praise of Pope Benny and the boys

The Vatican has updated the list of the seven deadly sins! We are no longer to be concerned only with gluttony, lust, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride. As if these weren’t more than enough!

Oh, woe is I.

The new cardinal sins (those that require absolution from a priest to be forgiven — otherwise you’re lookin’ at a stint in Purgatory) are pollution, mind-damaging drug use, and genetic experimentation. Monsignor Gianfranco Girotti, the head of the Apostolic Penitentiary, also made mention of the ever-widening gap between the haves and have-nots. “The poor are always becoming poorer and the rich ever more rich, feeding unsustainable social injustice….If yesterday sin had a rather individualistic dimension, today it has a weight, a resonance, that’s especially social, rather than individual.”

The church seems to be walking the walk here, at least where the Earth’s fate is concerned. During Pope Benedict’s papacy, Vatican engineers have developed plans for some Holy See buildings to use solar energy, including photo-voltaic cells on the roof of the auditorium for pilgrims’ audiences with the pontiff.

As for fighting social injustice, one needs only visit the Vatican to sense that perhaps the church has a way to go on this one. I’ve heard suggestions in the past that the church sell some of its astounding collection of artwork to help the poor. The reply is that the art should be considered public wealth, equally available for all to see. A reasonable argument, especially if one has the resources to make it to the Vatican.

As for the billions in real estate owned by the church, reference is usually made to Jesus’ obvious love for the temple in Jerusalem as justification. The big beautiful churches, after all, were not built at great monetary cost, but through the dedication of thousands of laborers and through the prayers of the faithful. Again, a reasonable position. The Vatican, the artwork, and the great churches of Europe are part of human history and probably shouldn’t be sold off to collectors and developers for fast cash.

It’s not often that I find myself in agreement with the Catholic church. But I have to say, I think they are on the right track here. Props to the Pope! Long live this particular Pope! At least for today!




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Benazir's murder, a matter of when

It's tragic that Benazir Bhutto was assassinated today. There is rampant speculation about who did it and why. But largely missing from the analyses I've read is the possibility that the nation of Pakistan, the Islamic nation of Pakistan, a nation that recently gave Osama bin Laden a 46% approval rating, simply didn't want a high-born, Western-educated, secularist woman in a position of power in their country. A woman who has twice been removed from office on corruption charges and whose father was branded an enemy of Islam and executed in 1979.

We can pretend that it's an oppressive regime we oppose and that the Pakistani people are longing for freedom and equality as we've defined it. In actuality, our quarrel is with the Pakistanis themselves, at least half of whom would institutionalize Islamic fundamentalism and call it freedom. Pakistanis who would love to be free of Western influence, be it cultural or political. Pakistanis who want to practice their religion and define their values without interference from outsiders.

The world does not want our electronics, nor our cars, nor much of anything we have to offer. Why do we insist that the world want our democracy? Clearly it doesn't.

Oh hell, now they want a picture of him

The family of Matthew Murray released this picture, taken in 1998, today.

It's about time really. Am I the only one who found it odd that after five days there was only one crappy photo of him circulating? And now the only picture the family can find is nearly ten years old?

Such a well-loved son.

Matthew Murray: ABOUT ME

Abused and tormented by christians for many years growing up in christianity.

Christians, if you want to preach/witness to me, please keep in mind: I know all the apologetics stuff, all the evangelism and pentecostal stuff. I was forced to memorize bible verses 5 days a week growing up 11 years in christian homeschool.

I was involved with and taught the ideas of C. Peter Wagner, Mike Bickle, Bill Gothard, and many others. I went to all kinds of fundamentalist/pentecostal/evangelical bible studies, conferences, prayer meetings, and even a missionary school/ministry called Youth With A Mission Denver. Of course, LOTS of hypocrisy and NO REAL love to be found at YWAM Denver.

I know the bible better than most christian pastors. Oh, and I've already been baptized, received "the baptism of the holy spirit," spoken in tongues and all those other games christians love to play. I've lived the christian life, did all the faith stuff, confessions of faith, the baptism stuff, the prayer stuff, and all the rule stuff. If I'm not changed, well, it ain't my fault. I did my part of the deal.

Christians thought they could get away with abusing me and others, they thought the Truth and Light would never be found out. They were wrong. Even though many christians have tried to oppress and control the lives of many, even though many christians serving darkness have tried to carry on their fascist agenda of bigotry, intolerance, tyranny, and hatred, the Light ever shines, even in the darkness though the darkness comprehendeth it not.

The Light is available for all who have eyes to see.

I'll keep my Old Life, thanks

Another tragedy has befallen New Life Church. This time the perpetrator is not a gay male prostitute. No, Matthew Murray is one of their own. The son of devout Christians and a former member of Youth with a Mission.

As is the norm for evangelicals, the story is being presented in the limited language of Christian-ese. "Ms. Assam, as you were advancing toward the gunman firing repeatedly, what was going through your mind?" "I was thinking how awesome and powerful God is, and how happy I am that I was his chosen instrument." Okaaay.

Let's try again. "Why would a young man raised by devoted Christian parents feel such hatred toward fellow believers?" Permit me to improvise here. Matthew Murray hated Christians because sin had gained a foothold in his life. Or because he didn't have Jesus in his heart. Maybe he didn't actually have a personal relationship with the Lord. Perhaps he was being assailed by Satan and his minions, caught in his own private Armageddon.

I have a thought. Maybe Matthew Murray despised Christians because he'd been isolated from his peers and home schooled (brainwashed) by them. Obviously he was experiencing some emotional turmoil, a common thing really, but instead of being heard, or being helped, he was expected to trust in the Lord because, after all, His ways are higher than our ways. As a young man, when his God-given inclination was to find his separate identity and partake in some earthly delights, he was expected to be a youth with a mission. Go to the ends of the earth and spread the good news of our Lord!

One spin I'm sure we won't hear coming out of Christian mouths in the coming days is the possibility that, like Hurricane Katrina and the AIDS epidemic, the shootings represented God's wrath being poured out on people who claim to know him, to speak for him; people who oppress and repress and judge in his name. There will be no one uttering what many of us in Colorado Springs are thinking. Perhaps Matthew Murray was God's chosen instrument.

Ghosts of Thanksgiving Past

I was obsessed with Bernadette Soubirous when I was a Catholic schoolgirl. You'll recall, or perhaps you won't, that the Mother of God appeared to Bernadette at Lourdes in 1858. Or so Bernadette claimed.

Filled with unbelief and not wishing to delude the gullible faithful, the church hierarchy convened a Council of Enquiry to check out Bern's story. Oh how the Bishop wrestled with his monumental burden!
"But if Bernadette does not want to deceive, was she not deceived herself? How could she believe to see and hear what she did not see and hear? Was she not the victim of hallucinations? How could we believe her? The wisdom of her answers reveals in this child a spirit of goodness, a quiet imagination, good sense beyond her years. Religious feelings never showed in her a spirit of exhalation; nobody could prove in the young girl neither intellectual disorder, nor change of mind nor unusual personality nor morbid feelings which would allow her to give way to a creative imagination."

The Bishop of Tarbus, after only four years' deliberation, decided that Bernadette was worthy and the people were given permission to believe her. The divine presence revealed, because of the moral purity of one young girl. Hmmmmm.

Upon hearing this story as a ten-year-old I determined to be the next Bernadette. I was certain I could be as holy and pious as she was. I secreted myself in my room at night and quietly recited the rosary, lingering over the Hail Marys. Surely the Blessed Virgin would take notice of my glow-in-the-dark rosary beads and appear to me as I lay in my little bed. I worried about my response. Should I feign surprise? Perhaps a sense of peaceful recognition? What if she expected tears of joy? Would I be able to produce them without delay? What if she appeared and my acting was deemed inferior? What would happen to poor Mary?

I enrolled in a Creative Dramatics class to ensure my success.

Despite years of piety, countless novenas (guaranteed to work! follow instructions exactly or no money back!), mental sojourns along the Via Dolorosa, Easter vigils, midnight masses, prayer flags, candles, medals--still no Mary. After learning that Marie was synonymous with Mary in the eyes of linguists everywhere, my final act of radical devotion saw me refuse to take a confirmation name. There could be no saint that I hoped to emulate more than the Mother of God. Mary, are you listening?

I finally gave up hope the summer after my sophomore year. I burned my uniforms and transferred to a public school. I decided that if Mary was too good for me, I'd find another other-worldly persona that liked my obviously flawed self. Who could be bad enough for me? Perhaps SATAN?

After a short stint as a bad girl I found Jesus and stopped grieving my fractured relationship with Mary. I was drawn to the fundamental purity and wisdom of that most-revered and infallible document, the Holy Bible. In my youth, the Bible was clad in white leatherette with garish gold writing and a big picture of Jesus. It was placed in a prominent place in every Catholic home. But read? I was sure the Pope would not approve. Popes are popes and they have need to pontificate. This requires a certain degree of cooperative ignorance on the part of the pontificatees, does it not? Feeling like a teenage boy with his daddy's Playboy magazine, I sat in my room and studied the Bible. I could not believe how deceived I had been! Satan himself had been standing between me and the Holy Spirit, the only true path to peace and enlightenment. Jesus had been there all along, quietly knocking on the door to my heart, and I had been so caught up in my works-based salvation, my meager attempts to be holy, that I missed his call. Fuck.

Thus began a twenty-year stint as a religious fundamentalist. I will spare you most details of my quest to reconcile my inherently sinful nature with my holy and perfect god. I will say that I had a team of prayer warriors beseeching god to reveal himself to Dave, my militant atheist husband. I begged the Lord to allow the scales to fall from Dave's eyes so he, too, could see as clearly as I did. It turns out that it wasn't only Dave who was in grave danger. It was pretty much everyone I knew. And every unreached person in the four corners of the earth. It was up to me personally to pray without ceasing for each and every one of these lost souls. Their eternal destiny depended entirely on me. Holy fuck. I had wasted a lot of time on Mary.

Try as I might I could not suppress my rational nor my spiritual side forever. An academic approach feels safe when treading in parts unknown, so I embarked on a study of comparative religion. Surely most of the world could not be held accountable for truths that God in his infinite wisdom had not chosen to reveal to them. And surely it could not possibly fall on me and a handful of the idiotic chosen to make certain that the world had a chance to hear the good news. While I was sporting my hard-won Mind of Christ, my mind developed a mind of its own. What a crock of shit! was the refrain that replaced the time-honored Praise the Lord!

I'll cut to the end. I believe that there is something more knowing, more powerful, more permanent, more loving than me. But to attach a personality, a gender, a shape, even a part of speech, to a universal force is not only foolish, it's often tragic. If you want to see human frailty in action look no further than organized religion.

Spiritual reality has been a part of mankind since the beginning. We do our best to give our ephemeral understanding structure. We fashion an idol that resonates within us. Where food is scarce and money more so, perhaps god resembles a golden calf, the highest and best we know. Where women suffer together and depend upon the earth's bounty to bear daily burdens, perhaps she is a goddess who permeates the natural world. Men stripped of their voices and forced to serve a capricious master create a suffering servant who will rule heaven and earth one day. When our basic needs are met and we are perched on the top of Maslow's ladder, we have nowhere to go but inward. Divinity resides within.

At the deepest place we are the same. We are one tribe. We are protected and loved by a universal force that knows no bounds. We are free to define it as we will. Our understanding of it may change over time, a reflection of our growth. We must give others the same freedom to be, to know, to discover, to change. I am thankful that I have had that chance. That I still have that chance.

Tea Room Etiquette

Don't get me wrong. I am as happy as anyone to see Larry Craig unveiled as the hypocrite jerk that he is. I'll be thrilled to see him lose his place in Congress. I only wish he'd been voted out of office for his twisted ideology. Or been hit by a bus.

Am I the only one bothered by the fact that a lone punk cop, sitting in a bathroom stall, can take down Larry Craig? Or any man? No witnesses. No evidence. Just some gay-hating cop sitting in a stall watching him tap his feet and peer through a crack in the door. Such horrors! The officer's dead-on description of cruising behavior seems to be evidence of Craig's guilt. Am I alone in thinking that it smacks of police training? And since when has a subtle sexual overture, if that is in fact what Larry Craig made, been a crime? If you listen to the interrogation, Craig says that the cop made an overture to him as well, which the officer now denies. So it is a case of he said/he said. Since when has the burden of proof not been on the shoulders of the accuser? No proof, no case.

If Larry Craig stuck his penis under the divider, that would be considered indecent exposure. If he pinned the officer against the wall and groped him, that would be assault. What exactly was his crime? Our glee that it was a bigoted ass like Craig who was caught in this sting allows us to ignore the amazing erosion of civil liberties at the hands of the state underlying the case. Who cares about the rights of bathroom-lurking gays? They aren't us. We're still safe.

If I were you men, I would start to go to the bathroom in pairs like we women have always done. We do it for social reasons. You should do it to protect yourself from your, uh, protectors.

Peace be with you and also with you....

I have an idea for a new drinking game. Go to a Catholic mass, as I did this week for the first time in years, and take a swig of sacrificial wine every time you hear the word "peace." You'd likely die of alcohol poisoning before the service was over.

I had forgotten how peace-oriented Catholics are. They ask for it. They give it. They even shake on it during the service to seal the deal. Christians in general are pretty into peace. Jesus was and he is, after all, their role model.

There are zillions of Catholics/Christians all over the United States. Congress is jammed full of them. I imagine the military is too. And since they are all peaceniks I wonder why we are at war with Iraq? Or with anyone? I think Jesus is pissed.

Dance for Virginity

Recently, at the Broadmoor Hotel:

Following dessert, couples file into the adjacent ballroom. Seven ballerinas appear in white gowns with tulle skirts, carrying on their shoulders a large, rustic wooden cross that they lift up and rest on a stand. A woman cries as she presents each of their three ceremonial dances, one of which is called “I’ll Always Be Your Baby.” Afterward, two middle-aged pastors stand at the cross with heavy rapiers raised and announce that they are prepared to “bear swords and war for the hearts of our daughters.” The blades create an inverted “V” under which girls and fathers kneel and lay white roses that symbolize purity. Soon there is a heap of cream-colored buds wilting beneath the outstretched arms of the cross.

This lovely rite ended the Seventh Annual Father-Daughter Purity Ball. A hundred couples--fathers dapper in tuxedos, daughters resplendent in backless floor-length gowns, long gloves and tiaras--gathered together to celebrate and pledge to protect the girls' virginity until marriage.

Okay, I'm sorry. I cannot, for the life of me, think of anything creepier than being in a room full of middle-aged men knowing that each and every one of them, including my own father, is thinking about my vagina. My hymen more specifically.

Thank God I grew up Catholic where I only had to feign virtue. If my father would've suggested that he and I, or any of my three sisters for that matter, attend the Purity Ball to celebrate virginity, I would've perished on the spot. More likely I would've had sex with the mailman or my priest or someone, anyone, just to get out of going. "Too late, Dad," I'd say, bloodied and bedraggled. "I guess we can't go."

When it’s time for dads and daughters to take the pledge (some informally exchange rings as well), the men stand over their seated daughters and read aloud from parchment imprinted with the covenant: “I, [father’s name], choose before God to cover my daughter as her authority and protection in the area of purity….” The men inscribe their names and their daughters sign as witnesses. Then everyone returns to their meals and an excited buzz fills the room.

Yeah, an excited buzz like "thank fucking hell that's over." I know, I shouldn't be so jaded. It's not like I'm exactly a fan of promiscuity. And I do think that a strong relationship with dad lays a foundation for future interaction with the male species. But this is just so icky. And, no surprise, ineffective.

88% of the pledgers go on to have premarital sex. Of course, with more than the usual dose of guilt. They are less likely to use condoms because that would mean planning to have sex. Best that it "just happens." They are more likely to engage in anal sex (PROTECT THAT FLOWER!), again sans condom, which is risky behavior. Thus, as a group, pledgers have a higher-than-average rate of STDs.

Ideally, the daughter goes from being under the virginity contract right into the marriage contract. More tuxes, more pretty dresses, more cake. Forget the hidden clauses and caveats. Just enjoy your big day. And your special night as you present your treasure trove of earthly delights to your new headmaster.

I deeply wish that the lovely things I have seen tonight—the delighted young women, the caring, doting dads—might evolve into father-daughter events not tied to exhorting a promise from a girl that may hang over her head as she struggles to become a woman. When Lauren hit adolescence, her father gave her a purity ring and a charm necklace with a tiny lock and key. Lauren's father took the key, which he will hand over to her husband on their wedding day. The image of a locked area behind which a girl stores all of her messy desires until one day a man comes along with the key haunts me. By the end of the ball, as I watch fathers carrying out sleepy little girls with drooping tiaras and enveloping older girls with wraps, I want to take every one of those girls aside and whisper to them the real secret of womanhood: The key to any treasure you’ve got is held by one person—you.

That's the lesson that we should be teaching our children.

Read the entire scary article in Glamour Magazine.

Handle with care

The snake charmer is dead. Tragically, Ali Khan Samsuddin, a fifth generation snake charmer, died last week in Kuala Lumpur after being bitten by a cobra. He had been bitten many times before and always managed to survive. Not so this time. Though originally tied to religion, in modern times, snake handling is a trade without much religious significance. The religious practice of handling snakes does still exist, believe it or not, in the American South.

In 1992, a man named Glen Summerford stood accused of attempted murder after forcing his wife to put her hand into a cage full of snakes. He was the pastor of the Church of Jesus with Signs Following. Services at this tiny church, located in the Northern Alabama town of Scottsboro, include speaking in tongues, handling fire and drinking strychnine from mason jars. But even more exciting is their practice of handling poisonous snakes as the Spirit moves them.

The faithful at the Church of Jesus with Signs Following interpret literally a passage in the Book of Acts: And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name they shall cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover. When the Spirit moves 'em in Scottsboro, they get out the snakes.

Dennis Covington was a freelance journalist covering Summerford's trial for the New York Times. After the trial was over, Covington was befriended by some of the snake handlers and other members of the church. He began to attend services at the church out of curiosity and, over the course of a few months, was pulled into a bizarre world of fundamentalist Christianity where "believers" base their entire Christian identity on one or two Bible passages. Apparent lunacy is generally the result of such limited Biblical interpretation.

While mainstream Christian fundamentalism is not quite as zany, nor as interesting, as it is in Appalachia, the practice of carving the Bible up into little passages and verses that serve particular agendas is just as common. Leviticus does say that for a man to lie with another man is an abomination. It also says that shellfish are an abomination. It says don't cut your hair, don't wear clothing made with two different materials. It's okay to own slaves. Just don't disrespect your father or you'll be put to death. Take one verse, take all. Or else step back and open up to a larger perspective, one that doesn't diminish God or re-create him in our own limited image.

Fortunately, Dennis Covington escaped the cult and made it back to New York. He wrote about his experience in an amazing book called Salvation on Sand Mountain: Snake Handling and Redemption in Southern Appalachia. In the book Covington says that the snake-handling experience confirmed his long-held suspicion that madness and religion are a hair's breadth apart. That feeling after God is dangerous business. That Christianity without passion, danger, and mystery may not really be Christianity at all. I'm with Dennis on this. Let us not reduce faith in God to a small-minded, verse-picking, powerless and fearful way of life.

Pot smokers rejoice!

Colorado Amendment 44 would legalize possession of an ounce of marijuana by individuals 21 or older. If it passes, it could be a first step in a long journey toward a rational and effective federal drug policy. It could generate a national debate about drugs, about civil liberties, about lots of important things.

A few days ago, I said to myself, "Oh, Marie. Don't get your hopes up about 44. This is Colorado. This is the land of the God Squad. The permanent homeland for a buttload of Jesus freaks (not the cute hippie-types). The promised land for tens of thousands of self-righteous nimrods (a biblical place, by the way). There is no way in hell that this will pass."

Then, in what can only be defined as an act of divine radicalism, or perhaps it was cosmic libertarianism, Mike Jones happened. And everything changed.

Perhaps this coming Tuesday, as thousands and thousands of the Colorado flock are still wringing their hands and lamenting Chief Ted's vision quest along the straight and narrow path (wink, wink), they'll feel too sheepish (ha! I'm slayin' myself) to pull the little "no" lever. Perhaps at the Holy Spirit's prompting they'll experience a new sense of tolerance, of empathy. The scales will fall from their eyes as they wrestle with the complexity and difficulty and joy and pain and duplicity and faithfulness of fallen humanity. Maybe an ounce of pot won't seem like such a big deal.

Party at my house.

Ted Haggard crucified

If today's bombshell doesn't prove the existence of God, nothing will. Perhaps Pastor Ted should have listened to God's inerrant words a tad more closely. Maybe he should've spent some time memorizing the verse clearly stating that "pride goeth before a fall." Biblically, pride is considered arrogance. And I'd say there is something inherently arrogant about a man who claims to speak for God on a daily basis, to millions of people. Yet this same man can very conveniently ignore many of Jesus' words, you know those that are written in red, like "blessed are the peacemakers..."

Now we find that there may be a whole slew of God's inerrant words that Pastor Ted conveniently ignored. For shame.

I expect to see all of you heathens in church on Sunday.

Let the dead bury their dead

I know it's Monday and I should be toiling away at my job, thinking about bringing home a large rasher of bacon, double-checking the kids' Halloween costumes, deciding what to do about the brand new fake fingernails I bit off in a weekend fit of pique.

For some reason I am perseverating on the subject of death, especially the death of a child. I watched an interesting film last year about how Americans handle the dead bodies of their loved ones. I, of course, had never questioned how we do things until I saw this film and realized that we are one of the only cultures that whisks away our corpses, tags 'em, drains 'em, pumps 'em full of some other liquid, gives 'em a bad hairdo, an even worse makeup job, dresses them in their least favorite outfit, sticks them in an incredibly expensive and garish casket and dumps 'em in the ground really really quickly. In short, we turn our dead over to complete strangers, nearly instantaneously, and by the time we lay them to rest, still firmly in the denial phase, they bear no resemblance to the one we've known and loved. We give ourselves no real opportunity to grieve, to come to terms, to "give up" the body and take hold of the spirit.

Other cultures allow the deceased to take up residence in the living room. Propped up, perhaps, in their favorite chair, dressed in their normal clothes. Friends, colleagues, family are able to hang around, to view the body, to hold the hand, stroke the hair, feel the pain and the loss. I understand that after a few days, as the cheeks and eyes have become sunken and there is no sense of life whatsoever, those of us left behind are able to make peace with the fact that this body IS NOT our little boy or girl or father or mother or sister or brother. This is, in fact, a shell. An earthly vessel. We have time to grieve the loss, to let go of the body and embrace the spirit.

Of course, the funeral business, just like the wedding business or any of the other "ritual" businesses that are so ingrained in American culture, doesn't want us to consider anything besides the norm. Five thousand dollar caskets are expected because, after all, we loved Uncle Joe and want only the best for him. What a fucking scam.

Note to anyone who knows and loves me......When I die, please choose a very simple pine casket, perhaps lightly distressed just for effect, dress me in my flannel pajamas, put my hair in pigtails. Give people a few days to come by to look at me, hold my hand, tell me how they've loved me, how they've hated me, whatever they'd like to say.

When everyone has had enough time to comprehend that the body is not me, that I'm waltzing with Jesus, or dirty dancing with Satan, or whatever people do in the afterlife, dump me in a hole that you've all dug together in the back yard. That would make me happy.