Confessions of the Socially Awkward

I would so love to be one of those people who can walk into a crowded room, smile, speak intelligently (or at least endearingly), and leave a generally good impression. You know them--the little bursts of light and sound that everyone loves. They can keep a conversation in the air like it's a feather, while the rest of us have bricks falling on our heads.

I tend to walk into a social gathering half-hidden behind my husband, wearing a look usually seen only on the faces of terrified animals with large eyes, and I generally find that I have absolutely nothing to say to anyone, even if they are speaking to me and waiting for me to return some form of communication. My brain is screaming, "Speak! Say something...anything. Open your mouth!" but all I can do is smile and look nervous. Hopefully this comes across as shyness and not mild mental retardation.

I can stand up and give a speech, in front of hundreds if necessary, but put me in a room full of strangers--or even worse, acquaintances, and I will shrivel up and die within five minutes.

I am undoubtedly, perhaps incurably, socially awkward. My family always thought I was aloof, maybe a little snobbish. For a while during my college years I believed I could pass myself off as mysterious, but now I must face the truth: I belong in a cabin in the woods. I am the next Emily Dickinson, only without the poetic genius.

I should begin the blueprints for my hermitage immediately.

:)

Complicity and Convenience

"You have just dined, and however scrupulously the slaughterhouse is concealed in the graceful distance of miles, there is complicity."
--Ralph Waldo Emerson


I think I've always been a vegetarian at heart. Growing up, I wouldn't eat meat unless it was de-boned, fried, and virtually unrecognizable as animal flesh. One of my high school friend's parents would always tease me when I was over for dinner by assuring me that there were no bones in whatever meal we were about to consume: salad, pasta, chocolate cake. There has always been something unsettling to me about eating an animal, a being that breathes, moves, feels, and--yes--loves. It seemed to ago against my very nature, my own being.

I didn't become a vegetarian because I wanted to be healthier, though I certainly am now, but because my conscience could not bear the weight of so many innocent lives. I began to wake up in the night with dreams of animal slaughter, and finally decided to follow a truth I'd felt (often only subconsciously) for most of my life: that animals were not meant for my consumption, that they were not created to serve my appetite, that they were meant to be free beings, not slaves.

I have never been evangelistic about my vegetarianism. I have not handed out pamphlets, worn T-shirts, or preached in front of Burger King. I have not tried to convince anyone that they are going to hell for eating animals. But often when others find out that I am a vegetarian, they immediately put up their guard and begin to defend themselves, to express their opinions about animals in really obnoxious ways. I sometimes wonder if there is not a tiny speck of conscience that tells them they may be wrong, a speck of self-doubt. There must be.

If we eat meat, eggs, or dairy products, wear leather, fur, or wool, the truth is that we are complicit in a great deal of cruelty. I am guilty of much of it. (I too sport my wool jacket and love my cheesy lasagna.) Factory farming is a greedy, cruel, disgusting business that robs of animals of dignity and a natural existence. If you picture your beef coming from happy cows on a family farm, you are mistaken. Factory farm animals are brutalized, live their entire lives in spaces so small they cannot even turn around, and are often fully conscious when their feathers are boiled off, their hide is skinned, parts of their bodies are lopped off. I am a vegetarian because I cannot bear the thought of being complicit in the torture and horrible death of innocent animals.

I think it is a tragedy to never question these things because it may be inconvenient to you. You may have to start buying cage-free eggs or organic milk, or buying organic meat--God forbid. You may not be able to scarf down a Big Mac quite so blithely. We are happy to think that we are nice to animals, that we would never torture and murder them, but we are as complicit in their deaths as the slaughterhouse workers, as the greedy business owners and factory farmers.

Gandhi said that "the greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated." Abraham Lincoln expressed similar sentiments. If this is the case, America is probably the most depraved country in the world. We consume most of the world's resources, and it has been said that the grain we feed to our farm animals would be sufficient to end world hunger. This may be an oversimplification, but there is truth there. Is a steak really worth so much pollution and waste and suffering? I can't imagine so.

I am still considering my own complicity in the suffering of God's creatures. I regret my new wool coat; I want to give up any non-organic dairy products. I want to be more careful about the cosmetic and cleaning products I buy, know exactly what's in my vitamins...I want to care enough to do all I can to alleviate the sufferings of others, to be inconvenienced for the sake of mercy. Jesus wasn't a vegetarian, but I bet if he lived in today's horror land of factory farming he would be.

Fire Drill Thrill

It is Thursday. This has been a gray, rainy, boring week. I have sat at my desk with my little desk lamp, falling asleep into endless pages of questions like "O my love is like a red, red rose is an example of what literary device?," with only the occasional quip from my sarcastic co-workers, a siren wailing in the street, or an argument over whether nouns preceding gerunds need to be made possessive to resurrect me from hideous and unrelenting boredom. 4:30 should be a joyful acclamation of freedom, but then I have the ungodly traffic of 21st Avenue to contend with.

The most exciting thing happened today, though: we had a fire drill, which required our entire floor to empty out into the rainy cold street, huddling under umbrellas, a dentist's office awning, or just letting the rain soak through. It was delightful. Seriously, my department is so boring that this was the highlight of our month. I actually felt a little giddy.

I thought back to a few months ago, when I was a preschool teacher herding my classroom of 3 year olds outside for our first fire drill. Of course, one kid was barefoot, another was wearing rubber boots from the dramatic play center, and the classroom princess slipped and sullied her bright yellow dress. We made it to our safe place, though, and they all looked up at me with their big, worried eyes. I was very grateful that the fire wasn't real.

Today I might not have minded. The warmth might melt the ice off my windshield.

Winter in Nashville as a standardized test editor is killing my soul.

Home

I sometimes forget how much truth there is in fiction. Or how much there can be. Today I stayed home from work (sick) and finished up Marilynne Robinson's newest novel, Home. Throughout the book I kept thinking how it couldn't come close to Gilead, her Pulitzer prize winner; I love that book so much, as almost everyone who has read it does. It is gorgeously written, so full of poignant, unbelievably beautiful moments and stunning writing. It is the most delightful book I have ever read. So I was prepared to be disappointed by Home.

I wasn't at all. It was a completely different experience than Gilead, a much more painful one, but moving and wonderful in its own way. I wept through the last ten pages as if weeping for my own life--that's how real the characters were, how believable and lovable. But they were also universal, all of us, people I know. I understood my own father and brother better than I ever have before by reading this book; in 325 pages I learned more about them than I probably ever could in a face to face conversation. In a fictional story set in a fictional place I found truth about my own family, the people I love. Isn't that amazing? This is why we read fiction; this is why we return again and again to the written word, to stories, to stories real enough to break our hearts and make us weep for ourselves, for our families, for all people. This is literature at its best...making us more human.

So yes, add Gilead and Home to your reading list.