So, how am I planning on tying up the loose ends from my previous six entries and summing them up in one neat, coherent, thought?  I’m not.  I’m just going to ramble on some more, as is my wont, and then come to a screeching halt.  I will say one thing in advance of the verbal torrent, though, I want to discuss the impact of religion on my personal life and the impact of religion on my political life.  For the purposes of this blog entry, I am going to assume the two do not overlap.

First up, religion in my personal life.  My friend, Natasha, says she doesn’t take offense at the religious people in her life because they are trying to save her from eternal damnation.  In their minds, her soul is at peril, and they are trying to save it.  I actually agree with this.  I don’t particularly care if people (like my mom) want to pray for my soul.  In fact, it’s sweet when my niece tells me, her eyes wide with concern, “You’ll go to hell” (because I don’t believe Jesus is my savior).  

However, that brings up a sticking point–when do I get to mention my beliefs to my nieces and nephews?  I tried a couple of times when my niece was younger, but I was told by many people that it’s not fair or right of me to tell my niece my beliefs.  It’s like I wouldn’t tell her there is no Santa Claus, right?  Well, no, I wouldn’t, but then is Jesus the religious equivalent of Santa Claus?

In addition, when my niece or nephew wants me to pray, what am I supposed to do?  Make up a prayer?  I simply say, “I don’t pray, but I’ll be happy to listen to you pray.”  That’s the best I can do.  My best friend supports me in my effort to gently let my niece and nephews know that not everyone (meaning, me) is not a Christian, but she is the only one.  

My niece is ten, almost eleven, and I admit I might have told her a little too much when she was too young to understand.  Such as, when she told me her god was the best because he had been around the longest, I said, actually, he hasn’t been around the longest.  I don’t know what I should have said in that situation, though.  Even my therapist doesn’t quite understand why I find it important not to lie about god and my beliefs about the topic.  If I can lie with impunity about Santa Claus (or rather, by omission, since I have never said I believed in Santa Claus), then why can’t I do the same with Christianity and God?  

I have come to the uncomfortable conclusion that it’s because I actually do think there is something harmful with indoctrinating your child about religion–especially when you don’t tell your kids everything about said religion.  For example, my sister-in-law said at Christmas that we celebrate Christmas because it’s Jesus’s birthday.  Well, no, actually, it’s not.  December 25th was chosen as Jesus’s birth date because there was a pagan feast scheduled on that day (celebrating the Sun God).  Christians decided it would be more acceptable for the locals to celebrate Jesus’s birth if it was already a pre-existing holiday.  According to this article, Jesus was born in September/October.   Another very different website comes to the same conclusion.  I have heard June and July as well as probably months of Jesus’s birth.  

Some Christians argue that when Jesus was born isn’t important.   I would concede this point if these same Christians weren’t so damn stubborn in defending nearly everything the Bible says.  There are many contradictions in the Bible itself, yet, many Christians dismiss them or find a way to rationalize them.  One thing I admire about my mother is that she went through a period of disenchantment with Christianity and started studying other religions.   She ultimately went back to Christianity, but it was with a more open mind.  She will readily admit that she doesn’t know for certain whether people of other religions will go to heaven or not.  

I guess in my personal life, I am concerned when I see religion being used as propaganda.  I want people who believe to question what they believe and see if it means something to them personally, or if they are just regurgitating what has been spoon-fed to them.  If a person is going to believe in a religion, I want that person to thoroughly examine said religion.  I also want Christians to act more Christianly, which means being more caring and merciful and less judgmental and harsh.

As for religion in my political life, I am much more strident here.   I think the conversation around abortion and gay marriage (the two hot button issues for the religious right) have been shaped by the rightwingers, and I want to retake the issues and reshape the dialogue–if you can call it that.  In this, I will agree with President Obama.  The goal should be to cut the need for abortions AND for providing for the women who make the choice to carry to term.  Any time a pro-lifer says they are against abortion, he should be asked if he’s for social programs that help poor kids or at-risk youth.  If pro-choice folks want to get down and dirty, we could air ads with children who are grown and poor and have the tag-line, “Why doesn’t my life count?”  Or something to that effect.

As for gay marriage, every time someone trots out, “It’ll harm traditional marriage which is between one man and one woman”, well, there are several ways to attack this.  First, “Divorce!  Have you seen the divorce rates in this country?”  Second, “King David had eight wives.  He slept with the wife of one of his best soldiers, and then had that soldier killed.  King Solomon had 700 wives and 300 concubines.  Abraham was married to his half-sister and then impregnated her slave at her behest.  Once Sarah got pregnant, Hagar and her son were thrown out.  All of this, apparently, happened with God’s blessings.”  Third, “Newt Gingrich.  Rudy Giuliani.  Ronald Reagan.”

For too long, the religious right has declared itself the keeper of the morality in this country.  The fact that many of them have had mistresses or same-sex affairs or, in general, broken their own moral laws, makes it even more egregious in my mind–not to mention hypocritical.  Let me make myself clear–I don’t give a fuck whom they fuck (at least not from a political stance), but I do give a fuck when they, in turn, try to dictate whom I can and cannot fuck (and how I can fuck said willing partner). 

In addition, I am fucking sick and tired of Christians in the media whining about how they are the oppressed ones.  ”Saying Happy Holidays oppresses Christianity”.  Putting aside the mind-boggling belief that shopping for Christmas presents has anything to do with the true meaning of Christmas, how is being open to other people’s religion/nonreligion oppressive of the dominant religion?

This, however, is the mentality that many people who are in the majority have.  It’s what happened when affirmative action first came into play (and still happens today).  The majority with the privileges see some of those privileges being rescinded, and the majority goes ape-shit because they view their privileges as rights.  It’s what allows white people to talk about all those foreigners taking ‘our’ jobs.  It’s why some straights feel threatened about gay marriage.  It’s why the Christian right in some southern states want to be allowed to put up the ten commandments at their capitol buildings, but who would be the first to pitch a fit if text from the Qur’an was allowed to be installed as well.

Ok.  I don’t have a solution or a conclusion, really.  What it comes down to is that I will struggle to find a way to be respectful with Christians in my personal life, but I won’t afford the same luxury to the religious right.  I view them as harmful to American politics and to our society in general.  It’s rather similar to how they view me–only I don’t have a book to back me up.  That’s fine with me.  I will use my conscience to guide me through the mindfield that is life, instead.  

That’s it.  The end.  So speaketh Minna.  Tomorrow, I will be returning to my regular random blogging.

She lifted one arm out of the water, dribbling bubbles to the floor. Her previously immaculate tiles, waxed every day by her by hand. Her husband chuckled indulgently over his wife’s finicky habits.

“Whatever my baby wants,” he chortled, a big smile creasing his moon-shaped face. He was a hearty man with hearty appetites which showed in his ever-expanding waistline. “More for my darlin’ to love,” he chortled, pinching her cheek. She would flush and inch away, her black hair covering her face.

Now, she sank into the hot water which threatened to overflow the tub. She held her head erect, careful not to dip her hair in the bubbles. Even though her hair was piled high on top of her head, she wasn’t taking any chances. She was a planner, some would say anal. Hosting dinner parties was excruciating because she labored over whether she should write the place cards by hand, or do them on the computer. Calligraphy was so elegant, but doing it by computer ensured that they turned out identical. China or crystal? Formal or semi-formal? Her mind ran in circles. Gilbert would tell her to leave everything to the housekeeper, but Mrs. Jackson was common. A nice woman, a superb housekeeper, but not an ounce of class in her. No, if Leilani wanted things done correctly, she had to do them herself.

“My sweet Hawaiian flower,” Gilbert called her. “So deceptively fragile-looking.” He shook his head in wonder that a self-made man like he had ever won the hand of the fair Leilani. He marveled at the contrast of his ruddy skin and corpulent body with her pale flesh and slender curves. He knew she was out of his league class-wise, but money is a great equalizer, and that was one thing of which he had plenty.

Leilani shifted positions in the tub, deliberately soaping her arms. Even though she was surrounded by bubbles, she didn’t feel clean. She added more hot water and judiciously turned off the tap before the running water turned lukewarm. She couldn’t abide tepid bathwater and had fired more than one maid who had made the mistake of “letting the water cool, Ma’am” before calling her to take her bath. It was easier to do it herself so she was now without a maid. She loved her gold-gilded, claw-foot porcelain bathtub. Gilbert joked that she was part mermaid, part raisin. She didn’t think that was very funny.

Her right hand starting twitching, so she massaged it with her left one. The lit candles surrounding the bathtub cast shadows on the wall, shadows of Leilani. The aromatic fragrance of the vanilla candles mingled with the smell of the lavender bubble bath. She buried her nose in the bubbles, inhaling their overpowering scent. She had the sudden impulse to dunk her head under water so she could smell the lavender from underneath, but refrained from doing so. She should be getting out of the tub soon. Gilbert didn’t like coming home and finding her in the tub. They had had a terrible fight about it the last time it happened…
“Leilani, honey? Where are you?” She sat up with a start in the bathtub. She had fallen asleep and woken up to the sound of her husband calling her name.

“In the bathroom, dear,” she said, rising from the bubbles. She wrapped a towel around her and padded to the door. She unlocked and opened it.

“Not again.” A sliver of impatience laced Gilbert’s words. “What do you do, spend all day in there?” His amiable face was stern. “Leilani, baby, I don’t ask much of you, but I do ask you this one thing-that you greet me with a dry martini when I come home from work. Is that really too goddamn much to ask?” Gilbert’s tone was mild, but the look in his eyes was anything but.

“Sorry,” Leilani said, throwing on a sundress. “I can have that martini ready in two seconds.” She zipped up the dress and began brushing her hair. Gilbert grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to him. Leilani stayed still, knowing from experience not to struggle. He looked at her, his eyes flat.

“Don’t do it again, understand?” Without waiting for a reply, he let go of her hair. “I’d like that martini very dirty.” He smiled at her, his pique forgotten. He slapped her on the rump before heading to the bedroom. Leilani finished brushing her hair though her hand was trembling, then went downstairs to make that goddamn martini…
Leilani checked the clock she had set by the tub. Four-thirty. Half an hour before she had to get out. Gilbert never came home before five-thirty, but she liked to be prepared. She would not get caught again. She reached for the remote balanced precariously on the edge of the bathtub and pressed a button. Oleta Adams’s voice poured out from the speakers. Leilani liked R&B better than any other kind of music because it stirred her. No other music affected her that way. Not rock, not country, not that dreaded rap or that horrible heavy metal. Not that so-called alternative music. New age music just made her snort derisively. Her husband listened to country pop of all things. Garth and Faith and especially that damn Shania Twain.

The water was cooling again, so she added more hot water. Water reminded her of home. She felt a flash of homesickness before tucking it away. It was a self-indulgence that she could ill-afford. Every year, Gilbert promised he would take her to Hawaii to visit her parents and every year, he reneged. Every year her hopes would raise only to be shattered again. She didn’t know why still asked when it was obvious he was never going to take her home. She sighed at the thought of her parents patiently waiting to see her again. They were not young when they had her; they were in their seventies now. She didn’t know if she would see them alive again. She sent them money every month, but knew that was no substitute for a visit. She would go by herself except she was on a strict allowance. There was no way Gilbert would shell out money for a ticket to Hawaii.

She turned up the volume of the music. She sank further into the bubbles, well aware that her skin was starting to shrivel. She liked the sensation. She turned off the water, making sure there wasn’t a drip. She started soaping up her skin, although she didn’t need the extra cleaning. After sitting in the tub for an hour, she was more than clean. It was an old habit of hers, however, not to exit the tub until she had soaped herself thoroughly. It started when she was a child, and it was a tic that continued to the present day.

She checked the clock again. That was quickly becoming another nervous habit, one she could ill-afford to add to her growing list of compulsions. She already had to check the door twice after locking it to make sure it was locked. She had to rap on the nightstand table three times before either going to bed or getting out of it. Those were two of her tamer compulsions-the ones she didn’t mind doing. The clock checking one was getting on her nerves, but she knew better than to piss off Gilbert again.

Leilani got out of the tub, remembering to open the drain this time. That was the catalyst of another fight-she forget to drain the tub once and Gilbert had had to do it himself. You would have thought he had to straighten the Leaning Tower of Pisa the way he carried on about it. She hadn’t been able to leave the house for days after that particular argument. She peered into the mirror, touching the corner of her eyes where wrinkles were starting to form. Thin, spidery lines snaking their way towards her ears. Very faint, practically unnoticeable. Except by her. She looked every bit her thirty years, which was still better than Gilbert’s forty-five.

She turned away from the mirror and hurried into the bedroom. She padded to the closet to pick out something to wear. It would never do to greet Gilbert at the door wearing nothing but a towel; he might think she had nefarious purposes for it. She rejected anything too revealing. Gilbert bought her clothes that showed off her body, but she shied away from wearing them. She was raised to be modest. She pulled on a blouse that buttoned to the chin and coupled it with a long, flowing skirt. She twisted her hair in a knot and secured it. Gilbert also liked her to wear her hair down, but she rarely complied. She looked in the mirror atop her dresser and nodded in satisfaction. She caught sight of something crumpled on the bed.

“Oh, honey, I forgot all about you.” Leilani crossed the room to the bed where Gilbert lay, his head spilling blood profusely. His eyes were open and staring blankly at the ceiling. His flesh was a shade of blue that precluded the possibility of him being alive. “You really shouldn’t have startled me like that.”

He had come home early, to surprise his wife. She was in the bathtub, as usual. When she heard rustling outside the door, she had grabbed her hairdryer and rushed into the bedroom, stark naked. Gilbert had taken one look at her before starting to cuss her for taking another bath and for dripping on the carpet. He had advanced towards her, his arm raised. Without hesitation, she brought the hairdryer crashing down on his head. The first blow stunned him, but didn’t knock him unconscious. The third or fourth blow did that. She didn’t remember how many times she hit him, but she continued long after he was still. When she was done, she had tossed the mangled hairdryer aside and walked back into the bathroom to slip back into the bathtub for a long soak.

“You had to come home early,” she whispered, staying as far away from the body as possible. “I am a good wife. I keep the house spotless while you throw your things everywhere; I make you wonderful meals even though you need to lose weight; I put up with you climbing on top of me whenever you could get it up; I even have your precious martini waiting for you when you walk in the door except for that one time. It’s not my fault you came home early today. It’s not my fault you’re a disgusting, filthy pig. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t let you hit me again.”

She studied her husband’s body dispassionately. She erased the countless times he had pressed himself on top of her, sweating profusely from every pore. He was a sweaty man, which, while being the least of his flaws, was also one of the more disturbing. Every time they finished having sex, she had to suppress the urge to leap up from the bed, race to the bathroom, and plunge herself into her tub. How she wanted to scrub away all traces of him from her skin.

“I never loved you,” she informed him. His mouth was slack and his tongue was protruding from it. She turned away in disgust. She glanced at the clock on the wall, noting that it was time to start cooking dinner. “I have to go, honey, and get your martini ready. Wouldn’t want you to have to wait for me. Mustn’t make you mad.” She slowly unwound her hair and let it fall to her waist, shaking it free from its captivity. No need to wear it up any more. She nodded at herself in the mirror before switching off the lights. Leaving the bedroom, she closed the door firmly behind her.