Memorial Day, Motherland and Blood Sacrifice

Memorial Day, Motherland and Blood Sacrifice

When it comes to questions of how to respond to the cultural demand to “honor the soldiers who died for you,” I find that the problem is not so much that I do not want to comply, but that I literally do not know how. Assuming, of course, that our honor and memory should take a form other than silent complicity in the continuing violence and militarism of our government — what should my honor look like?

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The Myth of the Neutral Tool: Thoughts on Guns (And Other Ordinary Things)

The Myth of the Neutral Tool: Thoughts on Guns (And Other Ordinary Things)

It has happened again. In fact, it is still happening, even now. If not here, then somewhere, in this country, in this world. There is almost no end to it. There is almost no space between one moment and the next, between the pain and the noise it makes.

What do we do now?

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The Killing Blow: A Poem

The Killing Blow: A Poem

In times of grief and sorrow, when even a hundred thousand words will not do, I turn to the aching brevity of poetry…. This poem was originally published February 17, 2011, and though it may be unseasonable for the time of year, there are days even in the dreary depths of autumn when we need to remember the coming spring.

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Learning to Fall

Learning to Fall

Last night I had a dream. I was enrolled in a class that taught self-defense. The instructor was a thin, over-eager man. He split the class in half and gave half of the students bats. To the other half, he said, “They’re going to come at you with bats. So you need to practice how to defend yourself.” I kept waiting for some advice, some insight into how you fend off a person with a bat. But that was all he said.

And they came at us with bats. Swinging for the head, the shoulders. I raised my arms over my head to protect myself, and they swung their bats until my arms were bruised and shattered in a pulpy mess of pain. The instructor called out, “Swing harder! You need to learn how to defend yourselves against an enemy that will show no mercy. This is a serious threat, and you need to take it seriously.” And it dawned on me that those of us without the bats were not the only ones being taught. The students with bats saw themselves as warriors, defenders learning to wield their weapons for the right cause, in the name of justice. Their eyes burned with pride and power.

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Why Aren’t I Happy He’s Dead?

Why Aren’t I Happy He’s Dead?

When I look at my own response — even the immediate, uncensored emotional response I had when I first heard the news — there is not even a trace of relief or joy. Bewilderment, yes. But honestly, more than a little bit of cynicism and scorn, as well. There’s a part of me that immediately began to wonder what the “game” was that the government was playing this time, how they would turn the event to their advantage, and to what extent the killing of bin Laden was carefully orchestrated for calculated purposes. The seeming rush to dispose of the body, the lack of evidence or corroborating story from any sources outside the U.S. government, and now the rapidity with which the “official story” seems to keep changing, sparked my inner Conspiracy Theorist.

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