Where To Draw The Line

I was sitting at the table, my chin resting on my hands, as I watched her make the rounds. My cousin, whom I will call Carla as to respect her privacy, was standing near the table, her extra-large smile forming as she told stories of her tough-ass parenting to whoever would listen. She would wrinkle her drawn-in eyebrows as she performed an imitation of another woman, perhaps African-American, complete with a finger snap. I couldn’t help but wonder how she could snap with such long, narrow acrylics, but she did. Her eyes, adorned with shadow and shimmer, were dazzling as she smiled, and when her audience laughed, she’d grin victoriously.

Some few moments later, she grabbed her phone from the table and scrolled through her messages. When spoken to, she responded kindly, but her words were peppered with crass language and, though I’m desensitized to her and that kind of vocabulary, my eyes widened. She didn’t see this, but somehow, she instinctively looked over at me and pursed her glossy lips. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry.”

I forced a laugh. “No, it’s fine,” I said, somehow more to myself than her.

She quickly slid her arm across my back and embraced me. Her long, silky tresses fell across my face and I could smell her spicy perfume. “You know, I really love you,” she said to me, her breath a combination of mint and cigarettes. “You’re a Christian, but you know, you’re not judge-y.”

I smiled. “Thanks?”

She stared at me, her voice as smooth as butter. “See, that’s the kind I am too. You know? I mean, I go to church on Sundays, and if people want to change to be a Christian, that’s cool, but if you’re a Buddhist, that’s fine as well!” She smiled at me and planted a noisy, wet kiss on my cheek.

I felt my stomach lurch.

Have I relapsed into a state of tolerance? Perhaps I’ve been so accepting that I’ve forgotten to honor God in the process. Love the sinner, hate the sin. We all have the tendency to love both or loath both. Clearly, I’ve fallen into the earlier category. I read a quote the other day that said, “This culture is careful to offend no one but God.” This truth is painful, but it’s realer than we realize. I’ve become complacent, and I’m vowing now to sensitize myself  to sin.

I must clarify now, I do love Carla and note that she has a lot of love in her heart. She has two children whom she loves dearly, and all in all, she’s a pretty good mum. But her definition of a God-honoring Christian is crooked, and I can’t be just this church-going, lukewarm Jesus-follower. It needs to be my all in all, and if this means I come across as intolerant sometimes, than so be it.

This is not to say that we shouldn’t put love above judgment. This is not to say that we should judge people. This is to say that we should be discerning disciples of God, and remember to keep His word holy, regardless of how the world’s living.

So I’m not going to judge Carla, but I’m going to keep striving for an exemplary, God-filled life.

Worth

One could be told her whole life that she is beautiful. She could be told by her entire extended family that she is a sight for sore eyes, that she is stunning inside and out. She could be the envy of all of her little girl friends. Compliments she’d receive could be simple or intricately poetic. All of these combined somehow don’t add up to the first time a boy tells her she’s pretty. They fall away as her heart swells to twice its size. Why is this? Why does the approval of a male seem to validate us? Why do we crave their positive attention so much that when it comes to us, we are elated, but when it leaves us, we’re broken?

I remember the first time a boy told me he liked me. I was in the midst of my pubescent awkward stage; thirteen years old, with braces, gangling limbs and a brown growing-out-but-still-awkwardly-short haircut. I remember that I was in a class with him, and I had never spoken to him before that day. He had stopped me in the hallway of our co-op and told me he liked me since the first day. I had mentally calculated that that meant he liked me for ten weeks. Part of me knew that I had no feelings for this boy, that I had never spoken to him before, that this should make me more sad than anything. But ten weeks, I had thought to myself. I smiled.

Somehow, I still remember every minute detail of that exchange three years later. It was so wonderfully uncomfortable and unpredictable, two adjectives that I have learned not to mind. However, it proved to me that I conform to the inevitable; I like to be loved by guys and when I’m not, it can hurt.

Recently, I was talking to two of my friends, who happen to be sisters. The younger (who is seventeen) was questioning me about my feelings for a male friend of ours. I proceeded to tell her the interesting dynamic between us, and how we were simply platonic. “Enough talking about guys,” I said quickly. The elder sister (who is nineteen) laughed and said, “But that’s all we do.” The three of us laughed together until she continued. “We all crave male attention. We all need it.”

“Need” is a bit extreme, but I do recognize that, sadly, a lot of women find their worth in their relationships. We’re bombarded with distorted images of marital love from when we’re infants; Disney princesses that alter themselves to fit the proverbial glass slipper of the handsome prince’s expectation. And if they don’t? Perhaps they’re better suited to play the Evil Stepsister.

Guys. We need to stop looking for validation of our worth in men. We are worth too much for that. This is incredibly hard thing to do, but look at it this way; your future spouse will want an already complete woman. Codependent relationships are in no way healthy. In order to ensure a mature union, we need to find our validation in God and God alone. That is all.

“We’re easily startled. Who wouldn’t be?”

The title is a quote by young slam poet, Blythe Baird, who is known for her poem “Girl Code 101”, a window into the sexism that women face from an early age that turns them into these fearful, guarded individuals, and how we’re taught we must be polite, since “…male kindness is so alien to us, we assume is seduction every time.” The poem is very thought-provoking and, unfortunately, a reality for women.

A few months ago, a young mischievous boy at my co-op embraced me from behind and I screamed. It was well embarrassing, and as everyone’s eyes fell on me, I ran from the room in horror. A guy who is about a year older than me, whom I’ll call Luke, witnessed this in amusement. “Why are you so jumpy?” he asked. “Like, if I were to touch you from behind, you’d freak out?”

I looked at him and stood there in silence. Yes, I do live with the fear that, if someone approaches me from behind, they’re a potential attacker. I was taught from a young age that if I walk outside alone, or in the dark, or passed construction workers, I am in danger. I was taught how to hold car-keys as to stab an attacker’s eyes. I’ll admit that I’m terrified of the dark.

I have a guy friend who has hugged me from behind many times, and every time, I am almost paralyzed with fear. It’s a healthy fear, I’m taught; rape statistics are high enough that we all live with the underlying knowledge that we’re not going to be safe around men.

Recently, I was at SSI, a conservative Christian politics camp, where I generally feel very safe. I was on a team with two guys and a girl, and on the occasions when she left the room, I didn’t mind since I had already befriended both guys. However, one of them ended up turning off the lights to show us something that glowed in the dark, and when I tensed up and began to nervously drum my fingers on the table, he turned to me and laughed. “What’s the matter, are you scared of being alone in the dark with two men?” Yes, I most certainly am, and if you had anxiety taught to you from a young age, you would be too.

This is not to say that I lack confidence (I certainly do not), or I live in a bad neighborhood (I live in a lovely neighborhood), or that all men are rapists (they’re not). This is to say that a fear of men is developed in women from a young age. I will never like being embraced from behind (which says a lot, because I love hugs), I will always understand women who are easily frightened and I will always do my part to keep my sisters and myself safe from harm.

So yes. I will become frightened if you touch me from behind. But let me clarify that I keep scissors in my purse. That’s all 😉

The Link

I miss dance.

This isn’t the complete truth.

More so, I miss The Link.

I miss getting ready to Ingrid Michaelson music, slipping the smooth, stretchy pink tights over my unshaven legs and attempting to pull on my black leotard without letting my deodorant touch it. I miss smoothing my hair into a ballerina bun that would surely be touched up when I got there by my fellow classmates. I miss walking in, wearing my skinny jeans and sweatshirts and seeing the faces I have fallen in love with. Truly, I don’t take the word “love” lightly, but there is so much beauty in that place.

I’ve been apart from The Link for almost three months.

The odd thing is, I’ve never had a period where I was sick of it. With my co-op, I’ve had periods where I’ve wanted to stay home or cut classes, but The Link is different. There’s an atmosphere there that you can’t help but be grateful for; I have cried after class in utter happiness. His presence fills the building always, and it’s nice to go there and know He’s right there with you.

The Link is fantastic.

September can’t come soon enough.

When a Boy Tells You He Loves You