I want to be the kind of person who models vulnerability as well as stubborn resiliency. So here goes…
My first job, after a short-lived career as a ballerina, was as a Lifeguard at Wild Rivers, a now-closed water park in Irvine, CA. In CPR and Lifeguard training you are taught that you never come in contact with a drowning person. People thrash about when the fear of death sets in, so you are trained to use a ten-foot pole, a ring preserver, or, in the absence of the proper equipment, just wait until they go limp before you jump in after them.
Of all my first aid training, this was the one I had trouble with the most, it just seemed so callous. But from a certain utilitarian point of view, it makes sense; why put yourself at risk? If you try to do it yourself, they will push you under in their panic to survive - when you’re drowning, everything looks like a life preserver. But how messed up would it feel to see someone just waiting for you to pass out if you were the one drowning? That same exact thought is what kept me up at night for months after watching an American soldier die slowly without medical assistance because of combat triage protocols. Was he aware we were ignoring him? Would his family deserve to know what happened?
I dealt with my combat stress by studying it, archiving my experience, and ultimately, writing about it. The product of that was Reborn on the Fourth of July. But seminary was traumatic in its own right; bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I naively expected to learn, learn, learn - my FAVORITE thing. Instead, I found myself teaching, fellow students and professors, and fighting, harmful caricatures and toxic theologies. My naivete lasted for years, I kept playing the game, until another American soldier died. It wasn’t in front of my eyes, but the feeling was the exact same; Did Alex Ney seek help from university officials? Would his family be happy with how his death was treated differently from other students?
That’s when I stopped playing by rules set by people who refused to obey them. No more token vet friend, no more propping up toxic pacifists. Not while my friends are dying, at least. I watched my profession of choice slip out of reach, thrashing about, expecting friends and colleagues to live up to all that bullshit they spouted about social justice and civil rights. I dealt with this new traumatic experience the same way I dealt with the last; with Scripture, tradition, and reason. It’s funny how I was applauded when the trauma was from combat, but ridiculed and ignored when the trauma was by civilians.
The more I fought, the more I watched as the crowds lined up poolside, waiting for me to “shut the fµ¢k up and drive on,” just like I was expected to do in the military. I get it though, it’s “expedient that one should die” so everyone else can live in the so-called peace of unassailable privilege and cheap grace. Those are the words I threw at my former Bishop when he told me that a rich, white congregation in Chapel Hill was more worthy of moral respect and dignity than a disabled combat veteran.
But that’s where the analogy ends, because a Lifeguard always has the proper equipment no matter how small the emergency. Pools always have throw rings and life hooks. If they don’t, then someone fµ¢ked up. If you’re the dumbass who did, the person drowning ain’t the only one in trouble… Christians are called to be the Lifeguards. If that responsibility is too much to bear, then take off the uniform and step aside to create space for those who can.
There were more distant Lookie-Lous, watching as a “desperate” veteran, “seething with anger” as he “tried to destroy" reputations by speaking up about his experience, than there were Lifeguards. There are plenty of Lookie-Lous getting these posts, and I’m not about to remove them, that’s not what I’m about. They can keep standing there, watching what they may see as a train-wreck in progress, and I’ll keep putting my emptiness to melody, my awful heart to song. They couldn't name that feeling carried in [my] voice because they haven’t really tried.
I am compiling all my old “desperate”, “incendiary” material in a special area I’m calling A Fearful Trill, after Maya Angelou’s poem “Caged Bird.” Nobody will be emailed anything unless they check a box to opt-in, but it will be my place to crow of freedom from behind these bars of rage I apparently reside. It’s always better for veterans to open a laptop to sing than to open their wrists to be ‘free’ of civilian bias and expectations. If that’s you, and you can verify your service, I want to hear from you.
If you’re a Lifeguard, thank you, I know you are doing your best. If you’re a Lookie-Lou, you may want to pay attention because it might just be your name on my lips one day. If you’re fearful that might be the case, I challenge you to reach out and have a conversation with me. I will (reach out to you) before I post anything with your name or title, and whether you answer and engage with me as a human being is entirely up to you. Just like my song is up to me. 🤷
Denying another's reality is an old game. See, if we don't recognize its existence, then we don't have to do anything about it. (Insert here the sexual assaults by church officials). I was recently called out by a conservative "christian" couple because I was physically abused by "christian" school teachers in the 70s. There's a case here locally about a different "christian" school that has a lawsuit now over physical abuse they covered up in the 80s. The wife of this couple was upset that I support those who were abused, affirmed my own abuse, and showed how scripture is used to justify physical abuse. She's a graduate of this school and so is her daughter. Our experiences shape us and when what we experienced is denied that sets up a whole slew of negative events that can cascade into suicide if let go.