It's been weeks since it happened, but my brain is still twitching on it. Turning it over. Obsessing. I wish it didn't bug me so much, but it just did. And so here I am, doing what writers do.
It was the last day of Ayana's summer camp, and parents were invited to come enjoy a closing ceremony of sorts. Considering I'd never even gotten the girls who signed her in each morning for the entire summer to make eye contact with me, and Ayana got flashed for the first time by a fellow camper (buckle up, honey), and she picked up some charming habits like rolling her eyes and talking back, I wasn't exactly mourning the end of an era.
But you know what? They kept her alive and entertained for a summer, and that's legitimately more than I did. So with guarded gratitude in my heart, I headed down to the rec center (maybe a little late) to smile real big, gab with a few parents (when did they all get so much younger than me?!) and see my kid get a ribbon for participation, or whatever they had planned.
Whatever they had planned turned out to be a video montage of the kids throughout the summer, set to music. These were video clips, not photos, and honestly pretty fun to watch. When they weren't rolling their eyes and dropping their drawers, these kids were actually doing some great stuff! They were zip lining, going to water parks, playing parachute games, and eating messy snacks--the stuff of a privileged kid's summer.
The first few songs were forgettable apparently, because I don't remember them. And then suddenly the kids were eating sandwiches to an unedited Macklemore song. Now, I'll be the first to admit we listen to Macklemore with Ayana--we're not into censoring in this house. Looking around at the enthusiastically bobbing heads, it seemed to me we aren't the only ones raising our kids that way. Solidarity! But in a room full of five-year-olds and their parents, I'm not going to pretend I didn't tip my head like a curious owl at that choice.
Macklemore fed into that really irritating I'm Gonna Make You Clap Your Hands song, and I was the one rolling my eyes as all the kids dutifully clapped their hands after lines like: "I want your sex and your affection." Listen, I know my kid doesn't know what that means. She probably couldn't repeat those words if you sang them at her a million times. So...chill out, mom. Breathe.
But then they did the thing I just can't seem to let go. They played that Vampire Weekend song Unbelievers. Please stop reading right now and go listen to it. Guys, this is like my favorite song. I feel like an angsty teenager every time I hear it, and I get what probably amounts to perverse pleasure from blasting it in my car every time my mom invites me to church (sorry, mom. you know I love you.)
Sometimes I just need to claim my right to be an unbeliever, you know? I assure you it's a hard earned position, worth 30 blog posts at least. But for someone raised in a deeply religious home and who continues to feel an intense respect and admiration for the faithful, it wasn't easy to bind myself to the tracks of the train.
But it is what it is. I started asking myself decades ago: Is this the fate that half of the world has planned for me? And somewhere along the way, I realized the answer was yes, and that was something I just didn't want to be a part of. It's that somewhere along the way part that made seeing my kid play dodge ball with that song playing in the background just stick in my damn craw.
I am very intentionally raising my daughter to have her own somewhere along the way moment. The way I see it, she isn't allowed to be an unbeliever yet. She isn't allowed to jump on my bandwagon, because she deserves exposure to all ways of believing, and she deserves the chance to make her own choice.
I am sending her off to church with my parents when the mood strikes her (which may be more often than I'm 100% comfortable with). We're talking to her at home about other religions, and I'd like to get up the nerve to visit some of their services so she can see them in action as well. I'm engaging in all the conversations about God and Jesus that she wants to have, and I'm encouraging her to share and cultivate her own thoughts and ideas. I artfully dance around questions about my own beliefs, because I'm her mom. I'd like to think my thoughts have weight, and I really don't want to weigh in on this one.
If the day comes that she says to me, "Girl, you and I will die unbelievers," I hope to tell her I respect her decision, but remind her to keep an open mind. She doesn't have to unpack her bags in the unfaithful passenger car. She can jump off at any stop if she wants to.
And should the day come that she says to me, "We know the fire awaits unbelievers, all of the sinners the same," and I know I'm the sinner to whom she's referring, I hope to tell her: "Good for you, not for me." And boy I hope I mean that beautiful line Amy Poehler gave me. I hope to Heaven (whether it's real or not) that my respect and love for my daughter will transcend my own beliefs, or lack thereof.
And I hope to Heaven that's the behavior I model for her all along. I don't want to celebrate being an unbeliver (except when I'm in the car by myself). I want to celebrate belief in things beyond our limited understanding. I want to celebrate the power of faith. I want to celebrate the right to choose. I want to celebrate questions, rather than answers. And above all, I want to celebrate respect for (and celebration of!) everyone's different approach to muddling through whatever happens on this here mortal coil.
Can you believe all that has been spinning around in my brain because some young wippersnappers stretched the limit of what I want the soundtrack of my daughter's life to be? Ridiculous, right? Totally ridiculous. But I'm a thinker, and that's what I think. I'd love to know what you think too. If you made it to the end of this meandering post, please do that great thing where you join in a conversation about this topic (which usually happens on FB, not on the post itself). And if you don't want to comment, but you are worried about my soul, I'd appreciate it if you'd say a little grace for me :)
It was the last day of Ayana's summer camp, and parents were invited to come enjoy a closing ceremony of sorts. Considering I'd never even gotten the girls who signed her in each morning for the entire summer to make eye contact with me, and Ayana got flashed for the first time by a fellow camper (buckle up, honey), and she picked up some charming habits like rolling her eyes and talking back, I wasn't exactly mourning the end of an era.
But you know what? They kept her alive and entertained for a summer, and that's legitimately more than I did. So with guarded gratitude in my heart, I headed down to the rec center (maybe a little late) to smile real big, gab with a few parents (when did they all get so much younger than me?!) and see my kid get a ribbon for participation, or whatever they had planned.
Whatever they had planned turned out to be a video montage of the kids throughout the summer, set to music. These were video clips, not photos, and honestly pretty fun to watch. When they weren't rolling their eyes and dropping their drawers, these kids were actually doing some great stuff! They were zip lining, going to water parks, playing parachute games, and eating messy snacks--the stuff of a privileged kid's summer.
The first few songs were forgettable apparently, because I don't remember them. And then suddenly the kids were eating sandwiches to an unedited Macklemore song. Now, I'll be the first to admit we listen to Macklemore with Ayana--we're not into censoring in this house. Looking around at the enthusiastically bobbing heads, it seemed to me we aren't the only ones raising our kids that way. Solidarity! But in a room full of five-year-olds and their parents, I'm not going to pretend I didn't tip my head like a curious owl at that choice.
Macklemore fed into that really irritating I'm Gonna Make You Clap Your Hands song, and I was the one rolling my eyes as all the kids dutifully clapped their hands after lines like: "I want your sex and your affection." Listen, I know my kid doesn't know what that means. She probably couldn't repeat those words if you sang them at her a million times. So...chill out, mom. Breathe.
But then they did the thing I just can't seem to let go. They played that Vampire Weekend song Unbelievers. Please stop reading right now and go listen to it. Guys, this is like my favorite song. I feel like an angsty teenager every time I hear it, and I get what probably amounts to perverse pleasure from blasting it in my car every time my mom invites me to church (sorry, mom. you know I love you.)
Sometimes I just need to claim my right to be an unbeliever, you know? I assure you it's a hard earned position, worth 30 blog posts at least. But for someone raised in a deeply religious home and who continues to feel an intense respect and admiration for the faithful, it wasn't easy to bind myself to the tracks of the train.
But it is what it is. I started asking myself decades ago: Is this the fate that half of the world has planned for me? And somewhere along the way, I realized the answer was yes, and that was something I just didn't want to be a part of. It's that somewhere along the way part that made seeing my kid play dodge ball with that song playing in the background just stick in my damn craw.
I am very intentionally raising my daughter to have her own somewhere along the way moment. The way I see it, she isn't allowed to be an unbeliever yet. She isn't allowed to jump on my bandwagon, because she deserves exposure to all ways of believing, and she deserves the chance to make her own choice.
I am sending her off to church with my parents when the mood strikes her (which may be more often than I'm 100% comfortable with). We're talking to her at home about other religions, and I'd like to get up the nerve to visit some of their services so she can see them in action as well. I'm engaging in all the conversations about God and Jesus that she wants to have, and I'm encouraging her to share and cultivate her own thoughts and ideas. I artfully dance around questions about my own beliefs, because I'm her mom. I'd like to think my thoughts have weight, and I really don't want to weigh in on this one.
If the day comes that she says to me, "Girl, you and I will die unbelievers," I hope to tell her I respect her decision, but remind her to keep an open mind. She doesn't have to unpack her bags in the unfaithful passenger car. She can jump off at any stop if she wants to.
And should the day come that she says to me, "We know the fire awaits unbelievers, all of the sinners the same," and I know I'm the sinner to whom she's referring, I hope to tell her: "Good for you, not for me." And boy I hope I mean that beautiful line Amy Poehler gave me. I hope to Heaven (whether it's real or not) that my respect and love for my daughter will transcend my own beliefs, or lack thereof.
And I hope to Heaven that's the behavior I model for her all along. I don't want to celebrate being an unbeliver (except when I'm in the car by myself). I want to celebrate belief in things beyond our limited understanding. I want to celebrate the power of faith. I want to celebrate the right to choose. I want to celebrate questions, rather than answers. And above all, I want to celebrate respect for (and celebration of!) everyone's different approach to muddling through whatever happens on this here mortal coil.
Can you believe all that has been spinning around in my brain because some young wippersnappers stretched the limit of what I want the soundtrack of my daughter's life to be? Ridiculous, right? Totally ridiculous. But I'm a thinker, and that's what I think. I'd love to know what you think too. If you made it to the end of this meandering post, please do that great thing where you join in a conversation about this topic (which usually happens on FB, not on the post itself). And if you don't want to comment, but you are worried about my soul, I'd appreciate it if you'd say a little grace for me :)
Kimberly,
ReplyDeleteI see you as more of a realist, than an unbeliever. In fact, I would say you are more spiritual than most of the people I know – simply because you prefer questions to answers and Mystery to dogma or certainty. I believe we don’t need to surrender our realism; just expand it to encompass the bigger reality of the spiritual dimension, which is inherent to our physical realm. To see life and all of creation with the eyes of the heart. One of my favorite quotes goes; “God comes to us disguised as our lives!” by Paula D’Arcy
A god who would allow half of humanity to burn in eternity is way too small of a god for me. I feel being a Christian is less about meeting the requirements for a future reward in the afterlife and more about developing a relationship with God that transforms life in the present.
To be fully Christian does not just mean believing in Christ, but developing a relationship with God lived within the Christian tradition. How a person lives is more important than what he or she believes. Jesus said follow me, not worship me.
The easiest path of growing up spiritually, and in many ways the most natural, is to start with some "morality, dogma and order." But at some point in our lives we begin to realize that morality and order cannot solve all or even most problems, especially pain and suffering. For me, the key is to begin to grow in contemplative spirituality without rejecting morality and order.
My spiritual director often reminds me, “The road to enlightenment is long and difficult; so don’t forget to take along some snacks and a magazine!”
Mike
I love your perspective here, Mike. I never thought about how people kind of have to start somewhere with spirituality--and morality and dogma and order are good access points. And even as people grow or expand beyond them in their search, it's not acceptable to say they no longer matter or apply. We need morality and order; but it seems like we should be needing them more for guidance on how to make this world a better place, not as our ticket to our notion of Heaven. I think all my struggles with religion end up distilling down to that distinction. If everyone who doesn't follow a specific dogma is damned to Hell, what does that say about God? I choose to believe it says nothing about God and everything about man. And of course according to every dogma, that choice damns me to Hell. How delightfully confusing :)
DeleteThe one thing I've learned in my journey is to open my eyes and heart to people like you. It's as easy to be dogmatic against religion as it is to be dogmatic inside it. The truth is we're all just confused and struggling on that road to enlightenment. We can chose to believe we're on our own path, or we can recognize that our perceived destinations are just a construct. We're not actually alone. And I'm so pleased I've found people with whom I can share magazines and snacks :)