In the months leading up to our impending wedding (19 days, and couting!), the Donald and I have been thinking a lot about faith and spirituality. And talking a lot about faith and spirituality. And being faithful and spiritual. But not in the ways you might expect.
I'm not religious. I was raised in a church-going house. My mother is one of the most wonderfully faith-filled people I know. I went to Catholic school, know all the words to all the prayers, and catch myself wanting to cross myself whenever I hear an ambulence or police siren, a remnant of Sister Virginia's third-grade classroom. But I'm not religious.
Incongrously however, I'm a very faithful person. I believe in God, though I struggle to decide if that should be a capital or lowercase gee. I believe in love. In compassion. In empathy. In selflessness. In charity. In accountability. And when I hear thoughtful mention of ideas like those related to religion, I can almost see religion in myself.
But then, something happens. Someone in a cassock or with a Rev. in front of his/her name starts using religion as a weaponized form of faith. And because these individuals "speak witht he voice of god," it becomes hard for us everyday people to get a word in edgewise. For me, religion is oppositional to faith. The machinery of organzied religion feels so antithetical to the private and humble practice of faith.
In religion, it's okay (and encouraged) for someone "with religion" to make statements that are so jarringly antithetical to my understanding of what faith is and can be. That a religion can promote contradictions like "Like thy neighbor, unless he/she is gay." Or "judge not that ye be judged... unless you're holier than the other person." And so on. That's not to say that people who are religious are contradictory. I simply mean that I can find no home within an institution that doesn't see these cracks in its own foundation.
I am not religious, and it is because of my faith. I don't believe that God is capable of hate, because if a force in the universe is strong enough to create love, that same force wouldn't waste its time with the far weaker power of hate. I believe that all people are worthy of love, and respect, and equal rights before God and man. I believe that it is not my job to judge people around me, even though sometimes I find myself angling for that temp work. I believe that children should be loved to bits and raised responsibly, and that, because parenting is the hardest profession in the world, it must be taken seriously and not undertaken lightly. I believe that a relationship in which one partner is subservient to the other is fundamentally flawed, because it does not draw on the godgiven talents of each member of the partnership. I believe that I make good decisions about my body and what happens to it (and it) and that my uterus does not require external religious legislation. These beliefs are part of who I am. And they come from my faith.
As the Donald and I thought about our wedding, and what kind of expressions of faith we wanted to make, we struggled with the question of religion. I requested from the beginning that we plan a wedding ceremony outside of a church. To me, our wedding is rite of passage, both for us each individually, and also for us as a couple. It marks a transition from separate into together, and is the knot that will bind our lives. The symbolism and significance of this day is so important to me that I could not fathom building our marriage on false premises. My faith precludes a church wedding because I do not feel I can be faithful to something that stands more for judgment than acceptance, for hate over love, for dictating over questioning. I cannot in good conscience stand in front of priest or minister who is a respresentative of an organization I do not endorse, and make the tremendous promise to join my life with another person's. I would be a liar. Not about my love for Donald. But about my support for organized religion. And I couldn't imagine making my share of our mariage promises while feeling like a hypocrite.
This put Donald and I in a bind. What kind of wedding could we have, that would both honor our families that are religious, and serve as a fitting basin for the promises we want to fill our lives with? We explored our options, and decided instead to have a self-uniting ceremony, in grand Quaker tradition. In this style of ceremony, there is no officiant. We will not be standing in front of a judge, a minister, a priest, or a ship captain. Instead, we will stand beside each other, and make our promises in the witness of our beloved family and friends. We will celebrate the first day of our marriage by making our wedding promises in our own voices, in our own time, and in our own way. We have crafted a ceremony with texts and voices that resonate for us. Some of these words will be familiar from church weddings. Others will be uniquely and honestly representative of us. Creating our ceremoney has been an exercise in love. And in faith. And we are so moved to have the opportunity to share it with so many of you.
We understand that our decision is a departure from how things are "usually" done. And we understand that some of you feel that our choice is not as appropriate as a church wedding may be. We hope that that you will be open-minded and open-hearted, so you can see our ceremony for what it is: our promise to love and support one another for the rest of our journey. Faithfully.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
If Santorum is Elected, "That Girl" Might Die. Literally.
It could be easy to read the title of this essay as a preemptive panic attack of a liberal Democrat (which I am) towards a candidate who espouses every attitude and value I hate (which he does). But I didn’t actually mean “die” in a metaphorical sense. I meant that a President of the U.S. like Rick Santorum could actually kill me. And here’s why.
I’m a member of the GenY: I'm an overeducated, high-achieving, baby boomer-spawned middle class. I hold honors degrees from college and graduate school, and carry the hefty student debt to back up those accolades. I was raised on the rhetoric of second-wave feminism and nurtured with the fervor of independence, self-reliance and a heady dose of the “be all that you can be’s.” I am trying desperately to be an artist and writer, while also holding down two jobs to pay the rent. I regularly work 60 hours a week at paid employment, and devote another large chunk of unpaid time to my real career, the arts. I do not qualify for health insurance from my employers, I make slightly too much to fall into a assistance program, and cannot afford shoulder the staggering cost of an independent health care plan.
And I am at high-risk for cervical cancer.
Risk so high in fact that, for the past several years, I have been instructed to receive Pap Smears 3-4 times a year to monitor any changes to my cells. That means that I need one doctor’s appointment for tests, and a possible follow-up to get results every time. It also means that sometimes, I have to have more invasive (read: costly) procedures done as well. Colposcopy, biopsy, electric loop… scary words with even scarier price tags.
Cervical cancer used to be one of the most common causes of death for women, a silent killer that took otherwise-healthy women seemingly all of a sudden. But then, starting in the mid-1950s, survival rates climbed because early detection methods became more widespread. That’s right. Pap smears save lives. They also cost women like me a fortune.
To manage the high cost of looking after my own health, I have explored most of the low-cost medical options known to (wo)mankind. Clinics, medical schools, drop-in offices. You name it, I’ve dropped my drawers and my dollars there. Affordable care is sometimes terrifying. I had my very first gynecology in the big city done at a teaching hospital facility with approximately 20 students watching and a doctor who told jokes to “lighten the mood” as he probed my cervix. As a person who has had a brush with sexual assault, this experience set my teeth on edge. I hovered on the brink of a panic attack and cried through the entire exam. Why would I put myself through that, you ask? Because it only cost $20, that’s why. That price point suited my actress-cum-waitress-cum-office monkey bank account. I have been terrified into looking out for my reproductive health, but still must be mindful of the bottom line.
After some additional exam-room drama, I finally found a healthcare provider where I felt comfortable and taken care of. Enter Planned Parenthood, where overall, I have received the most comprehensive care that I have ever received. For preventative care, Planned Parenthood is the bee’s knees… or the Queen bee’s queen-parts, however you choose to think of it. The physicians and other medical staff members are committed to compassionate patient care, with an eye for more than diagnosing symptoms. My Planned Parenthood doctors have held my hand both figuratively and often literally as I wend my way through this difficult reality of my own life. While I do not have the luxury of always seeing the same physician, I always have a positive experience talking to a provider who is an expert in women’s health, and who is genuinely interested in helping me maintain my health and sanity. For a place I spread my legs roughly four times a year, Planned Parenthood is a-ok in my book.
I would like to clarify here and now however that it is not cheap. I pay a small fortune for an appointment with the wonderful people at PP, usually at or about $100 per visit. Four times a year, at least. But, that fee buys peace of mind for me. So I pay it, and have my Paps done by PP.
At least, I do for now. Here is where it gets terrifying. In continuation of the moral crusade being waged by conservative American politicians, Planned Parenthood has been cast as the baby-killing, premarital-sex pimping, contraceptive-slinging bad gal attacking the America That Jesus Built. And yes, I am not going to say that Planned Parenthood doesn’t provide abortions. They do. At Planned Parenthood, abortions are provided for an out-of-pocket fee to the consenting clear-minded women who come in wanting one. For a myriad of reasons, none of which matter one bit to anyone except the woman (and sometimes her partner) who is pregnant. And let’s be very clear here and now that abortions are legal in America. Legal. But, because this legal medical procedure remains an option to informed and consenting women, the Republican wheels have hate-mongered Planned Parenthood, and have threatened to defund and in effect shut down this crucial healthcare provider. In the past few years, we have also seen bills placed before our elected representatives that sanction, or at the very least turn a blind eye to, the harm of the medical providers who perform this legal medical procedure. In the name of morality.
So, I can’t help but wonder where that leaves me. I have never had an abortion at Planned Parenthood, or anywhere else. Taking a way a woman's right to choose a (legal) abortion is bad enough, but eliminating Planned Parenthood has a far greater impact: it takes away my ability to choose to take care of my own health. I cannot afford health insurance, but need regular care from a physician, at the very least for cancer screening. Without options like Planned Parenthood, how will I know if my risk level increases? If I should go from “high-risk” to “cancerous,” how will I know if I can no longer have my quadrennial visit to the gynecologist? I think about cancer a lot. I worry that someday, some of my cells will go rogue, and start my body on a crash course that I may not be aware of. I am terrified I might die of something that is utterly treatable if caught early, simply because I am poor.
I’m getting married this year, to a partner I love more than ice cream. And, in this same year, presidential candidates like Rick Santorum make it abundantly clear that they care less for me and my concerns than they do about ice cream. I’m stuck in the middle, rapidly approaching my winter visit to Planned Parenthood. I’m scared like I always am in advance, wondering how my cells have behaved in the past few months. But I also am experiencing a new subeterranean kind of panic: what if this is my last appointment with a gynecologist I trust and can afford? What if Rick Santorum gets elected, Planned Parenthood ceases to exist, and I have to stop seeing a gynecologist (much like I have already stopped seeing a Primary Care Physician, dentist, optometrist, etc.) because my already-stressed budget does not allow it. What if the death-do-us-part part of my wedding vows comes much sooner than my husband and I have anticipated.
What if cervical cancer kills me, and thanks to morality in politics, I never even knew I had it...
I’m a member of the GenY: I'm an overeducated, high-achieving, baby boomer-spawned middle class. I hold honors degrees from college and graduate school, and carry the hefty student debt to back up those accolades. I was raised on the rhetoric of second-wave feminism and nurtured with the fervor of independence, self-reliance and a heady dose of the “be all that you can be’s.” I am trying desperately to be an artist and writer, while also holding down two jobs to pay the rent. I regularly work 60 hours a week at paid employment, and devote another large chunk of unpaid time to my real career, the arts. I do not qualify for health insurance from my employers, I make slightly too much to fall into a assistance program, and cannot afford shoulder the staggering cost of an independent health care plan.
And I am at high-risk for cervical cancer.
Risk so high in fact that, for the past several years, I have been instructed to receive Pap Smears 3-4 times a year to monitor any changes to my cells. That means that I need one doctor’s appointment for tests, and a possible follow-up to get results every time. It also means that sometimes, I have to have more invasive (read: costly) procedures done as well. Colposcopy, biopsy, electric loop… scary words with even scarier price tags.
Cervical cancer used to be one of the most common causes of death for women, a silent killer that took otherwise-healthy women seemingly all of a sudden. But then, starting in the mid-1950s, survival rates climbed because early detection methods became more widespread. That’s right. Pap smears save lives. They also cost women like me a fortune.
To manage the high cost of looking after my own health, I have explored most of the low-cost medical options known to (wo)mankind. Clinics, medical schools, drop-in offices. You name it, I’ve dropped my drawers and my dollars there. Affordable care is sometimes terrifying. I had my very first gynecology in the big city done at a teaching hospital facility with approximately 20 students watching and a doctor who told jokes to “lighten the mood” as he probed my cervix. As a person who has had a brush with sexual assault, this experience set my teeth on edge. I hovered on the brink of a panic attack and cried through the entire exam. Why would I put myself through that, you ask? Because it only cost $20, that’s why. That price point suited my actress-cum-waitress-cum-office monkey bank account. I have been terrified into looking out for my reproductive health, but still must be mindful of the bottom line.
After some additional exam-room drama, I finally found a healthcare provider where I felt comfortable and taken care of. Enter Planned Parenthood, where overall, I have received the most comprehensive care that I have ever received. For preventative care, Planned Parenthood is the bee’s knees… or the Queen bee’s queen-parts, however you choose to think of it. The physicians and other medical staff members are committed to compassionate patient care, with an eye for more than diagnosing symptoms. My Planned Parenthood doctors have held my hand both figuratively and often literally as I wend my way through this difficult reality of my own life. While I do not have the luxury of always seeing the same physician, I always have a positive experience talking to a provider who is an expert in women’s health, and who is genuinely interested in helping me maintain my health and sanity. For a place I spread my legs roughly four times a year, Planned Parenthood is a-ok in my book.
I would like to clarify here and now however that it is not cheap. I pay a small fortune for an appointment with the wonderful people at PP, usually at or about $100 per visit. Four times a year, at least. But, that fee buys peace of mind for me. So I pay it, and have my Paps done by PP.
At least, I do for now. Here is where it gets terrifying. In continuation of the moral crusade being waged by conservative American politicians, Planned Parenthood has been cast as the baby-killing, premarital-sex pimping, contraceptive-slinging bad gal attacking the America That Jesus Built. And yes, I am not going to say that Planned Parenthood doesn’t provide abortions. They do. At Planned Parenthood, abortions are provided for an out-of-pocket fee to the consenting clear-minded women who come in wanting one. For a myriad of reasons, none of which matter one bit to anyone except the woman (and sometimes her partner) who is pregnant. And let’s be very clear here and now that abortions are legal in America. Legal. But, because this legal medical procedure remains an option to informed and consenting women, the Republican wheels have hate-mongered Planned Parenthood, and have threatened to defund and in effect shut down this crucial healthcare provider. In the past few years, we have also seen bills placed before our elected representatives that sanction, or at the very least turn a blind eye to, the harm of the medical providers who perform this legal medical procedure. In the name of morality.
So, I can’t help but wonder where that leaves me. I have never had an abortion at Planned Parenthood, or anywhere else. Taking a way a woman's right to choose a (legal) abortion is bad enough, but eliminating Planned Parenthood has a far greater impact: it takes away my ability to choose to take care of my own health. I cannot afford health insurance, but need regular care from a physician, at the very least for cancer screening. Without options like Planned Parenthood, how will I know if my risk level increases? If I should go from “high-risk” to “cancerous,” how will I know if I can no longer have my quadrennial visit to the gynecologist? I think about cancer a lot. I worry that someday, some of my cells will go rogue, and start my body on a crash course that I may not be aware of. I am terrified I might die of something that is utterly treatable if caught early, simply because I am poor.
I’m getting married this year, to a partner I love more than ice cream. And, in this same year, presidential candidates like Rick Santorum make it abundantly clear that they care less for me and my concerns than they do about ice cream. I’m stuck in the middle, rapidly approaching my winter visit to Planned Parenthood. I’m scared like I always am in advance, wondering how my cells have behaved in the past few months. But I also am experiencing a new subeterranean kind of panic: what if this is my last appointment with a gynecologist I trust and can afford? What if Rick Santorum gets elected, Planned Parenthood ceases to exist, and I have to stop seeing a gynecologist (much like I have already stopped seeing a Primary Care Physician, dentist, optometrist, etc.) because my already-stressed budget does not allow it. What if the death-do-us-part part of my wedding vows comes much sooner than my husband and I have anticipated.
What if cervical cancer kills me, and thanks to morality in politics, I never even knew I had it...
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