On Religious Tolerance

A former student of mine is Iranian, and she went home for Christmas. She came back frustrated because she had a lousy time, and I suggested that might have been because the "Spring Break" series never actually made it to Tehran.

She replied, "Actually, summer is the best time to go, and we party all the time. My cousins use heroine, and all they have to do is go to rehab--it's not even a really big deal. They pretty much let you do whatever you want in Iran, as long as they can't see your hair. I don't know why it matters, because I am more of an American, and everyone there can tell. Even the taxi drivers know, so they all tell me about Jesus. It is wierdest thing."

"Is that because they know you won't turn them in?"

"No. You can be a Christian in Iran. You drive past a mosque next to a Catholic church. I think there are even Jews in Iran, even though I've never seen one. They don't really care what religion you are... as long as you're not Sunni.

What I got in trouble for most, though, was my boots. Apparently they came too far up my calf to be decent. What doesn't make sense to me, is that I was getting in trouble for covering more of my legs. My grandmother and Iranian family want to cart me off out of shame. In Iran, they call me a 'spinster,' except this Iranian word for women like me literally means 'milk gone sour.' I'm tainted because of my boots."

"Your parents don't care about this?"

"No. It could be that I have the Iranian version of the hippie-liberal-green-party parents."

"But you were one of my most conservative students in our politics class!"

"Maybe," she replied, "but you have to consdider the rest of our family."

Act of Mercy

Sometimes I think one of the cosmic reasons I am unmarried is because Someone knows that I am a greater responsibility than that for which any individual can be reasonably held accountable. There is a distinct possibility they I may not have been assigned a partner in life because I require a team. I consider the redeeming purposes served by a successful and worthwhile marriage: counsel, companionship, and cooperation. Then I reflect on how many people in my life have been required to ensure even my most minute success.


For instance, it can't be normal that I require a diligent squadron to prevent me from setting fire to my surroundings. My dad steered me, with threats and ultimatiums, away from pursing a career in pyrotechnics; my sophomore lab partner Dietrich delivered my college chemistry section from certain explosion by guarding my contributions to the experiments; and my beloved roommate repeatedly removed me from drunken bonfires and flaming Sambouca shots.


As far as companionship, my daily wordcount can't be normal, either. I read someplace that women, on average, speak 20,000 words a day, whereas men may use as few as 5,000. Surely I exceed the 20,000, which is far and away too great a verbal burden for one man to primarily bear. For this same category, I must also consider my great passions and tempers--which are decidedly an assault on general order and solemn decorum. In fact, the only known subduing force is a significant amount of alcohol. (It should be noted here that my primary beverage is its opposite, coffee.)


And finally, it requires an Atlantean effort to coax me into cooperation. I would decidedly prefer to carry the world on my own shoulders, thank you very much. Furthermore, I am quite convinced mine is the best possible plan for doing it. I don't forsee a ready submission to someone who is contending for a share of my universe. Perhaps, for my own good, I must have my current arrangement: I am duped into cooperation by by surrendering in several tiny ways to a great many people, not one particular partner. The sum total of the cooperation is probably the same, but I don't have to acknowledge defeat.

So, it is a distinct possiblity one man would never be enough. And it may be a Cosmic act of mercy to spare someone the job of managing me.

Of course, I don't hold this to be an explicative certainty; most days I doubt this is even the case.

But it sure does make a great answer to those who pose impertinent questions.

PostSecrets

#1. I have a thing for British Prime Ministers. Plural.

#2. I never really got over "Toxic".

#3. I am not a faithful Republican.

Life Lessons

29. Just because it is funny and on the internet doesn't mean it has to be porn.
30. It's never good to find out you weren't kidding.
31. If someone's shaking it, try not to look at it.
32. The value of situational appropriateness can't be overestimated.

One More.

I was right. That wasn't all of it. This morning I was wishing I had a copies of :

Tragic Kingdom by No Doubt
Rock Steady by No Doubt
Recovering the Satellites by Counting Crows
No Need to Argue by The Cranberries
Grace by Jeff Buckley
(Man. My dream last night must have been set in the 90's.)
Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings by Counting Crows (this is their new one! It comes out in March and it will be the first new track set in about six years!)

hyphens

I need new music.

I know, with Amirah's pre-Christmas pile, it was sort of like hitting the music jackpot. However, I didn't get any new favorites out of it. I like a bunch, sure--like The Weepies and Tilly and the Wall, but I am missing that put-in-anywhere-anytime stuff.

I think most audiophiles have an irrational allegiance to a handful of bands, to whom few others measure up. You know, the desert-island-top-five bands. I want something new, but I want to love it as much as those.

I went through a phase recently, kind of an accidental backlash to the barrage of indie music that friends who are cooler than me shared, no-strings-attatched. I listened to all my favorite stuff that I have had for five years--the U2, Coldplay, Counting Crows, Jimmy Eat World, David Gray, with the despicable nostalgia culminating in a little--wince--Matchbox 20 (please don't judge me). But now I am tired of it all, again.

There are two forces at work here. The first is the addict's greed where getting a little begets desperation for more, and the second is that retro-music backlash.

It turns out, I don't just want more music for curiosity's sake, but I want more I can keep. In wading through all this not-always-distinctive indie music, I am sort of holding auditions for new favorites.

Below is a list of music I still need, both out of addicted, curiosity-driven greed and classic-favorite replenishment.


Cassadaga by Bright Eyes
The End of History by Fionn Regan
The Shepherd's Dog by Iron & Wine
Who You Are by Cary Brothers
The Vastness of Space by Reid Anderson
On the Outside by Starsailor
Shine: The Best of the Early Years by David Gray
Born in the U.K. by Badly Drawn Boy
Remedy by David Crowder Band
Do You Like Rock Music? by British Sea Power
Some Cities by Doves
North by Elvis Costello
Picaresque by Decemberists
Illinois by Sufjan Stevens
Greetings From Michigan: The Great Lake State by Sufjan Stevens
Sky Blue Sky by Wilco
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot by Wilco
A Ghost Is Born by Wilco
Prog by The Bad Plus
Love Is Hell by Ryan Adams

And this probably isn't even all of it. Maybe I need help?

Driving Thoughts Part II

I have a really wise friend who has kids my age. Those extra years and family days she has on me have made her a genius, as far as I can tell. I hope I get to be just like her.

Lately, I have been struggling with several things that seem rather one-sided, including my sister's contentious wedding. My friend and I were talking and she said she makes it a policy not to care about an issue or another person's issue more than they do. She pointed out that it isn't healthy or productive. It sounds good to me, though it may not quite be a fail safe plan for "healthy and productive." It doesn't account for any kind of sentimental myopia, where I figure I am the only one who cares and I turn out to be wrong. Still, I find this error preferable to the agony of caring too much.

I can't explain how much I wish I had this advice 7 years ago. My sophomore year in college, I started being friends with a guy who made me crazy. He was insufferable, but I was drawn to him because we had everything in common, including music and a rare sarcasm. We had days that were inexplicably hot or cold--it was arbitrary. I never knew if he was my friend. I would insist that there was some subsurface tension or cause, and he would brush it off like I was the crazy one. (Hindsight shows I wasn't.) The hot and cold with him was exasperating and deeply destabilizing. I figured it was all my fault but I couldn't understand how. We fought all the time (more like I yelled at him in my head--there were no gratifying, direct exchanges) and I constantly vowed never to talk to him again.

The whole thing resulted from two broken people trying to be friends in spite of their dysfunction. (We had both just seen the end of significant relationships and carried a lot of hurt.) Eventually, we became close friends, but that beginning was rough. His head games and my sensitivity stemmed from baggage that was, right then, insurmountable. Our friendship needed time and patience. Instead of internalizing the perlexing strife, I could have rejected responsibility that didn't belong to me. That wasn't my mess to save. I could have used the rule: Don't care more than the other person. It spares you the fight for something that can't be won by fighting.

And that is something I don't readily accept:

Many fewer battles are won by fighting than I suppose,
and not every battle is mine to fight...
which is my most noble excuse for not talking to my sister.