Anna's dilemma

One of my Christmas presents was a Downton Abbey desk calendar. What a wonderful series that was! The entry in this calendar for the weekend of April 30 is on Social Mores, Customs, and Practices, and notes that in the 1920s "a damaging theory reared its head among psychoanalysts and "sexologists," which argued that men were innately aggressive and women were innately masochistic." This theory was supported by Havelock Ellis, who was progressive enough to recognize homosexuality as a condition, rather than a disease or a crime, and who first identified the condition that later came to be known as transgender. But in supporting this theory of innate aggression and masochism, he and others of his day contributed "to a blame-the-victim mentality that kept many women from speaking up against their attackers." (Downton Abbey Color Page-A-Day Calendar 2016. New York: Workman Publishing Co.)
I am sure that fans of the series remember the terrible scene in episode three of season four where Mr. Green, Lord Gillingham's valet, rapes Anna Bates (played by Joanne Froggatt). Anna chooses not to tell her husband, for fear that he will hunt down Green and kill him, placing him once more in danger of the gallows. But this is unrealistic, because given the mindset of the day, it is far more likely that what would have held Anna back from telling Mr. Bates is that he would be likely to blame her for having been raped.
And the practice of blaming the victim is alive and well today. Several women from Brigham Young University have recently come forward claiming that, in response to their reporting having been raped or sexually assaulted, they were themselves punished for violating the BYU honor code (which stipulates. inter alia, that students live a "chaste and virtuous life").
It is for this reason that, despite many other topics I want to write about (such as understanding the scientific method, and the war on political correctness), I feel we must consider the topic of sexual assault, and rape. Just yesterday, we learned of yet another case, this time in France, of a politician who appears to view women as sex objects.
And this is a topic I feel qualified to write about.
For I have been sexually assaulted.
And raped.

I Didn't Choose This

There has been quite a lot of news about the recall of Takata airbags--which have a nasty tendency of exploding. My airbag had been replaced, so I couldn't understand why I was still getting dire notices in the mail. The picture at left is the latest. It turns out that they had only replaced my driver-side airbag (the initial recall). This explains why Friday evening, when I went to Hall Honda to make the annoying orange light on my dashboard turn off--a process that requires me to have my oil changed--I wound up spending three hours in the waiting room while they replaced the passenger-side airbag.
I had brought a book which I needed to read, on the statistical analysis of ordinal categorical data. I haven't bothered providing you, gentle reader, a link to this book on Amazon because it is entirely as boring as it sounds. I found myself alternately falling asleep and being distracted by the blaring television. I listened intermittently to the Steve Harvey Show and to Dr. Phil. These are both shows that I generally try scrupulously to avoid. Much of the Steve Harvey show was about a case of spousal abuse. The episode of Dr. Phil concerned a mother who made the difficult choice to relinquish her teenage son into foster care because she was being repeatedly battered by him. At one point the son, who was also on the show, said with tears in his eyes: "I didn't ask to be born your son."
I am writing this week about choice; in particular, about instances where we assume people have a choice when they really don't--or sometimes, they don't yet--and instances where we don't want to let people choose. In the Dr. Phil episode, we saw two instances of choice: the mother chose to turn her son over to foster care, and the son had no choice in his birth.

The joys and sorrows of language

Last week we discussed ways to add meaning to an otherwise senseless death, and I promised to write this week about immortality. I will do that, but you'll have to hang on just a little longer because first I want to talk about language. (After all, if we're going to be immortal, we may as well settle on a way to communicate for eternity.)

Tonight we had choir practice, and it was rough. We are preparing for Easter and beyond, and are struggling with anthems in Latin and in French. The combination is particularly difficult, because we have to remember to pronounce the word "qui" as kwee in one case, and kee in the other.
Add to this the fact that two of us grew up in England, and so had to learn Latin and French for O-levels (the exams on which J. K. Rowling based OWLs in the Harry Potter series), and the pronunciation we learned in class differed from the sung forms. French in particular tends not to pronounce any of the last five or more letters in a word, except when sung, in which case they are given their own syllable and note. And then the sung form of Latin in England differs from that in the U.S.A., which led to the closest that Presbyterians come to a knock-down brawl--which is not very close--over the pronunciation of virgine.
The choir has decided they don't like French.

Eternal life; or how to leave a legacy

"Everyone ought to have a legacy, something to be remembered for." Clinton Tyree, aka Skink; in Stormy Weather, by Carl Hiaasen.

Last week--well, actually two weeks ago now--I wrote about death. Not a particularly cheery topic--sorry. And the somber mood continued through the week. On Wednesday, as we prepared for the imposition of ashes in a ceremony that was particularly poignant, we gathered in the fellowship hall for a discussion. After considering various aspects of the "I am" statements, both of God (Exodus 3:14) and of Jesus as recounted in John's gospel, we walked through the dark hallways of the church to the sanctuary, lit only by candles on the altar, having been enjoined to remain silent from the time of leaving the fellowship hall until our return. We were invited to sit and meditate, then go forward for the imposition of ashes, return to a pew and meditate, and leave when ready. Sitting silently and meditating is not a comfortable experience for many Americans, or for many Presbyterians. But I found it strikingly fulfilling. Before we left the fellowship hall, Rev. Bell asked us a question: "what do you have in your life that cannot be reduced to ashes?" This tied so well to my promise to address what we leave behind when all else is gone, that I thought maybe he was reading this blog!

Giving meaning to a senseless death

My early career in the Navy was backwards. In November, I arrived at Officer Candidate School in Newport R.I.--actually, I almost didn't, but that's a different story--and spent four frigid months there, running at five in the morning with two sets of sweats, long-johns, a scarf, woolly hat, and gloves and still freezing. Graduation day in February was incredibly cold. I spent the next summer in Orlando FL at Nuclear Power School. The uniform we wore was 100% polyester, with all the ability to breathe of a plate glass window. Every afternoon at about two o'clock it rained, which reduced the temperature not a whit, but raised the humidity back up to 100%. This was followed by winter in Saratoga Springs, N.Y., where our Chevette was buried by snowplows, then a hot summer in Virginia Beach for Guided Missile School at the Dam Neck base and a cold winter in Groton CT for Submarine School.
But it was in Orlando that this story starts. We lived in an apartment complex, the entry to which required turning left from South Bumby Avenue. I had stopped to let an oncoming car pass before turning. A boy on a bicycle was coming out of the apartment complex, saw me stopped, assumed I had stopped to let him out, smiled in thanks, and pulled out. Directly into the path of the oncoming car.

Won't you be my neighbour?

This morning, our first morning in Edinburgh, we went to church service at St. Giles Cathedral. Fourteenth century and incredibly imposing, it was very different from the modern church we normally attend. We kept seeing a man standing to the side of the congregation, before realizing that it was a statue of John Knox, looking as Calvinistically dour as ever. The day ended up being filled with references to the various wars between Scotland and the "auld enemy" England, especially as we toured Edinburgh Castle. This, together with the fact that I have been studying the British Civil Wars in detail, made St. Giles a particularly appropriate place to start our visit. The Lonely Planet Pocket Edinburgh (Travel Guide) informs me that the cathedral's "proudest moment came in 1637 when a woman called Jenny Geddes, incensed at the king's attempts to impose bishops on Scotland, hurled her stool at the dean and ignited a riot whose aftermath led to the signing of the National Covenant at Greyfriars the following year." The service varied from what we are used to in several ways, not least because we have spent over a year at Providence Presbyterian Church trying to remember to ask forgiveness for our debts, but here in the "Mother Church of Prebyterianism" we asked forgiveness for our trespasses.

Also known as the High Kirk of Edinburgh, it is the Mother Church of Presbyterianism. (www.stgilescathedral.org.uk) John Knox

After the opening hymn, the minister — today the Very Reverend Dr. Finlay A.J. Macdonald — gave The Bidding. He opened by recounting how strange he found it, when a child, to see grown ups cry because they were happy. He was used to crying when sad, but the concept that one could cry in response to almost any emotion was unknown to the child.
Eventually he would understand the "tears of a clown." And so the Rev. Macdonald acknowledged the passing of Robin Williams. He noted how often it is the depressive who makes the best comedian, and Robin Williams was both to the extreme.
The discussion of weeping for joy was relevant to both readings. From the Old Testament, we heard the story of Joseph's reunion with his brothers, and from the New Testament the story of the Prodigal son. In both cases there was copious joyful weeping at the reconciliation.

An Unlikely Constitution

Two weeks ago, we saw Lincoln at the cinema.  It is a wonderful film; I particularly enjoyed the mellifluent personal insults hurled by Tommy Lee Jones in the character of Thaddeus Stevens.  The film capably portrays the fear of the Southern Democrats that, if those whom they had oppressed were given even the slightest freedom, then the flood-gates would burst and the Negro would rise up against the White Man.  I can’t help feeling that this fear lives on, and was revealed over the past six months, as it had been four years ago.  But that’s a topic for a future posting.

The next morning, I read about the growing confrontation between President Mohammed Morsi and the Egyptian judiciary (see BBC News or Washington Post).  Similar struggles between ethnic and sectarian groups can be seen in Iraq, the other southwest Asian fledgling democracy as can struggles between government, judiciary, and military in Pakistan, a not quite so fledgling democracy in south Asia.

The political struggles of the 13^th Amendment (see also Wikipedia) must have been a mere fraction of those involved in constructing the Constitution itself and its first ten amendments.  And yet, it seems that the early Americans were able to concoct a political arrangement relatively quickly, and with surprisingly little ensuing bloodshed, compared with the efforts going on in today’s emerging democracies.  Is this really the case?  And if so, why?