But the fruit that can fall without shaking
Indeed is too mellow for me

Go see "The Golden Compass"

What the hell is up with religion hating everyone that disagrees with them? I know I am not the only person offended by this, yet we don’t seem to react as a country to explicit examples of hate, we don’t react to obvious attempts made to take away our rights, we don’t react when others misuse positions of power to promote an agenda that does not befit us all.

We don’t react out of fear. Fear of retribution. Fear of harm to ourselves or our family. Fear of the loss of ones job. Fear of losing our friends and our family. Fear of losing the rights we still have.

My friend attended church today with her family. An announcement was made advising parents to NOT take their children to see the film “The Golden Compass”, the announcement warned that the film ‘kills God’. What bullshit. First of all, that someone is so terrified by one film that they feel the need to tell others not to see it is appalling, if you want to see it, go. The controversy only exists because the author of the books which the story is based upon is an atheist. Oh no, heaven forbid we read a book or see a film written by someone who does not believe in deity! Yet we take our children to see countless films about a fucking princess, films produced, developed, and generated in mass numbers by a corporation whose only objective is to increase the profits of its shareholders.

Why I write and Why are we here

I write because I am in pain. I write because I am feeling sad. I write because I am feeling loss. I write because I am feeling helpless. I write because I am feeling such an incredible sense of hopeless despair. I write because I have had way too much wine to drink. I write because my cheeks are wet with tears. I write because life is more than I can bear. I write because I feel weak. I write because I do not believe in miracles. I write because I felt my sister’s tears tonight upon my cheek. I write because I can not bear the thought of Emily burying another baby less than twelve months from her first, our sweet sweet Lillie. I write because I do not understand Lillie’s death. I write because I do not understand why a mother would be asked to bury her second child so soon after burying her first. I write because I am angry. I write because I do not know what to do. I write because I am overwhelmed with grief. I write because I can do nothing else. I write with the hopes that my tears will cease, that grief will pass; I write in hopes that I will one day be whole.

Today I sat at the hospital. Thursday I sat at the hospital. My mind is still at the hospital. My grief is everywhere. What should I say when my heart asks “why are we here?” We are here to support Emily. We are here to support Michael. We are here because we should be here. What should I say when my heart asks “why are we here?” We are here because we are loyal to family. We are here because we love my sister. We are here because our feelings can not possibly compare with what Emily and Michael are feeling. What should I say when my heart asks “why are we here?” We are here because I can not be a mother. We are here because I have no child. We are here because I am not worthy to bring a child into this world on my own accord. We are here because I am inadequate. We are here because I love. We are here because I don’t love. We are here because there is no other place to be but in our pain. We are here because the tears are still falling as happiness is calling, yet death surrounds us just the same. We are here because we are frightened by the possibility of not being here. We are here because our chest aches and we need to find the reasons why. We are here because we need straight A’s this semester to receive a scholarship. We are here because we have work to do. We are here because we don’t want to face work. We are here because our tears have not stopped. We are here because the world is cruel. We are here because the sun will rise and bring with it new work to be done. Another day. Another trial. Another hell. Another emptiness that should be filled with child.

Genocide in Darfur

“Why should I be concerned with the death of one child? It happens every day, every hour. Every minute. Why would we get involved? Why would I get involved with genocide occurring on the other side of the world? If they want to kill each other, let them! What could I do? How would I prevent death? We can’t really change the world. I can’t really stop one child from dying. Children may suffer now, villages might burn; a reward awaits them in the next life. We need suffering and death, it puts things in perspective. Death is taking them to a better place.” These statements are but a handful of the excuses spouted off in my direction, burning my ears with apathy. I have stood, listening to others reason to themselves, reason to me. Answer this: your home is on fire, you are one of the few who made it out with your family alive. Your three children have severely charred limbs, you can carry one child and your wife can carry another as you run from the village whilst avoiding gunfire. How do you decide which child to leave behind? There are no ifs, ands, or buts, one of your three children must be left in the burning village or your entire family will burn. You have seconds to decide. If you leave your eldest daughter, she will be raped before being shot or burned. If you leave your youngest, an animal may tear him apart before he succumbs to death. Once the smoke clears, the military will be in the village killing those still alive. This is not a weekend blockbuster. This is not a video game. This is not the History Channel. This is the present moment, reality, daily life for Darfur refugees, over two million displaced and 800 thousand dead (Cheadle 5). These are the faceless that have no voice on the other side of the world; we hear no screams, we smell no burning flesh, we see no ash or smoke moving closer to our homes, we taste no blood as it drips from the forehead of our mothers. When did we stop hearing? When did we stop feeling? When did our nation become apathetic to suffering?
I had planned on providing you with a brief history of genocide, our nation’s lack of involvement, the excuses told by one Congress to another, yet this is irrelevant to your involvement. What congress did or did not do twenty years ago does not save one son today and a daughter tomorrow. The actions we take NOW have the potential to save life and prevent suffering. Few of us understand the suffering of living among a war-torn country; few of us have fled out of our homes as our neighborhood burned; few of us have heard gunshots fired in the direction of our family our friends and our neighbors. Although we have not experienced Hell we cannot ignore its presence.
In my preparations for this paper I read the account of three young boys who have experienced hell, “They Poured Fired on Us from the Sky” is one of the most beautiful books I have ever read. The beauty of the book was its ability to open my eyes to another understanding of humanity, but more importantly, the book provided me with a greater sense of how similar each of us is regardless of color, nationality, or geographic location – we love and we live, and we cannot accomplish either of these alone. Why put forth effort to save the life of a child who knows not of your existence? You only exist because you were first a child.
Do not despair. It is easy to lose sight of what is important when overwhelmed by the big picture. There is much that you can do today . . . tomorrow . . . next week . . . I find that we are often surprised by the little efforts that make a big difference. If I could urge you to do only one thing, I would ask that you check out one of the books listed on the works cited page. The first is the book “Not On Our Watch: The Mission to End Genocide in Darfur and Beyond” by Oscar winner Don Cheadle. The second book is a memoir of three Sudanese refugees, “They Poured Fire on Us From the Sky”. This is the account of three young boys displaced by war; an excellent choice for a book club. Don’t have a book club? Call a friend or neighbor, call your sister or mother, a discussion takes two people – share the book with your partner. If your library does not offer this title I would be happy to supply you with a copy to share with friends and family. Send me an email, my email address is listed at the end of my remarks. The third book is the Pulitzer Prize winner “The Problem from Hell: America and the Age of Genocide” by Samantha Power; I own the latest version printed earlier this year which contains an appendix about the situation in Darfur. I would suggest reading Power’s book if the other two leave you wanting to understand genocide and its origins. You may ask, why would I suggest you read? Shouldn’t I recommend action? Educating yourself may be the first action most suited to end genocide; once you are informed you can educate others. “Not On Our Watch” offers an easy explanation of six things you can do today to help. On page 160, Don Cheadle recommends six steps of action that you and I can take.
· Raise Awareness
· Raise Funds
· Write a Letter
· Call for Divestment
· Join an Organization
· Lobby the Government

Please email me with any questions. I don’t claim to have all the answers but I will do my best to provide you with accurate information. And please, don’t hesitate to contact me:
· If you would like to discuss genocide further
· If you are willing to wear a green “Save Darfur” wristband
· If you would like a list of online sources working to end genocide
· If you would like material on starting a book club
· If you would like more details about what you can do today
· If you have any comments or questions

My email address is meganvanpelt@mail.weber.edu.

Works Cited

Cheadle, Don., and John Prendergast. NOT ON OUR WATCH: The Mission to End
Genocide In Darfur And Beyond. New York: Hyperion, 2007.
Deng, Benson, Alephonsio Deng, Benjamin Ajak, and Judy Bernstein. They Poured Fire
on Us From the Sky. New York: Public, 2005.
Power, Samantha. “A Problem From Hell” America and the Age of Genocide. New
York: Harper, 2007.

Feeling Bereft...and the loss of one's Tiara

Departing for vacation is never quite like the departure one takes to return home. Anticipation and excitement flow through my body as a river to a gorge. Like the early days of a new romance the thrill is in the newness of the unexpected. This is especially true when traveling to a new destination. This past week I had my first romance with Disneyland…cliché isn’t it? As a child I dreamt of the magic kingdom, but as I matured the destinations I longed to see matured with me - it’s much more sophisticated to think of traveling to Paris or Monaco. To my surprise, a mouse and his house filled my heart with wonderment, more than I imagined even as a child. I credit this to two things: first, the company I was in; and second, a ten dollar tiara that transformed me into a princess, if only for a few days. I took my youngest sister Amelia, my best friend Clarissa, and Perrie. In fact, the entire purpose of the trip was to fulfill a goal that Perrie has had for years; as long as I have known Perrie she has talked of going to see Walt Disney. I have been planning to take Perrie for the last two years, always finding a reason to delay the trip for another season. We were planning to finally go this fall when I said, why wait, let’s go now. Traveling with Perrie can be both physically and mentally challenging; Amelia and Clarissa went as reinforcements. Even more important than the support they provided for Perrie was the perspective I gained in their presence. I have the tendency to be so focused on providing everyone with what I interpret as their needs that I forget to enjoy the moment. I feel the need to maintain the role of adult and parent, forgoing fun for the appearance of maturity. Amelia and Clarissa forced me to live in the present without fear of embarrassment, embracing the possibility of laugh lines as proof that I indeed could laugh at myself.

Disneyland, albeit highly commercial and overpriced, is enchanting. The smells of the park are a fragrant bouquet of childhood treats and fantasy. As if traveling outside of the city and seeing the stars for the first time...I felt the magic from head to toe, this was of course made easier by the tiara I wore on my head. Where else can a grown woman wear a tiara without chagrin? For those few days I believed I could be a princess. I felt beautiful, gracious and self-assured, as any true princess would. The presence of the tiara bewitched me; I was all at once Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty and Snow White. But as fast as the euphoria of my own fairy tale came, it vanished…one does not wear a tiara upon her departure for home, what would the gas station attendant think and what might the neighbors say? So for now my tiara will glisten upon a shelf as a reminder of the few days I spent returning to the wonderment of childhood, my personal Neverland.

Rambling on inside my mind . . .

I do not wish to feel. Scratch that. I do not wish to feel the pain of others . . . yet it is inescapable. I have prayed to stop feeling, at a time in my life when I held a belief in prayer. I have meditated to stop feeling, knowing that I rarely (if ever) have reached that state of mindfulness. I have painted to stop feeling. I have read to stop feeling. I have indulged in chocolate to stop feeling. I have not turned to drugs for fear it may actually stop me from feeling, albeit briefly. I should clarify what I wish to numb myself from as the word ‘pain’ is quite vague. I tend to view the position of others in 360 degrees; I view a picture of the individual as a whole instead of parts. My tendency to see others from this vantage point has made me successful in my work, although it has often left me exhausted. In this light you see the needs of others, my fault lies in feeling the emotion behind the suffering of others. I have yet to sit through “Schindler’s List” in its entirety; during my first viewing in the spring of 1994 I ran from the theater and hung my head over the toilet as my body wretched uncontrollably. I feared leaving the stall in my embarrassment; I now recognize that this is what our reaction to genocide should be. I had the same reaction to “Hotel Rwanda” which I have only attempted to watch once. Many of us are moved, we are human. Yet I seem unable to separate myself from the emotions I perceive others to be feeling. I don’t know if I’m making any sense, perhaps I am not as adept at describing my thoughts as I had hoped. My desire not to feel pain has extended to my own pain, pain which I need to experience and process; not allowing myself to feel has often required me to distance myself from others in order to distance myself from pain. This has resulted in few close relationships which, at best, are strained.