I hate moving

I hate boxes. I hate lugging heavy boxes up and down stairs. I hate trying to fit couches through a door made for shorter (and skinnier) people in the 1900s. I hate that our family not only helped us moved, but also helped us clean (I feel so guilty about it!). I hate not knowing where things are in my own house. I hate how our cat Bruce already ran outside twice, once almost getting hit by a car. I hate that my in-laws saw my underwear drawer. I hate that we spent the three days we had off working nonstop. I hate how much money it takes to move when we should be saving every penny for our first mortgage payment. I hate that we finally own property and two red cars park in front of our house, and I don't want to say something and be perceived as the bad neighbor. I REALLY hate that we forgot the garbage pick up was today.

However....

I love that our neighbors brought us cookies and brownies. I love that our family rocks and pitched in without complaint. I love that our house is unusual, unexpected, and completely unique. I love that there are kids playing in both backyards that we can see. I love that you can hear the local baseball game from our porch. I love watching (sometimes helping) Max completely tear down a room and rebuild it. I love that our cats love the stairs. I love sitting outside at night and breathing in the cool air. I love that we were able to use our wedding money for this rather than to pay off debts, as so many of our friends and family members were forced to do. I love that Max and I have achieved our own personal American dream.

I hate moving, but I love where I now live. Even though we had termites, had mold, have ants, and have spent I-don't-even-want-to-know at Home Depot this week, I know that we are home.

Poll Results:
How did your family react when you told them you were an atheist and/or not religious?

How did your family react when you told them you were an atheist and/or not religious?

They were happy. 7%
They were not happy, but accepted it. 25%
They didn't care. 30%
They were sad. 23%
They were furious. 15%

I was not surprised that the smallest percentage were happy about this choice. I was, however, pleased to note that over half of the families either didn't care or at least accepted it. This seems to indicate a positive trend toward acceptance. It is sad that families can still be furious at those of us who choose not to follow a religious path.

Were you surprised by these results? Any suggestions about what to ask next? Let me know!

Oh Your God!

One thing that Max and I have had trouble with in our secular humanist/atheist existence is language. When I hear something shocking, my first instinct is to say "Oh, my God!" Frustration can produce a "Jesus Christ!" Then there's the simple angry, "God!"

In some respects, this is not a big deal. These are just contemporary ways to express such emotions. It doesn't necessarily indicate someone's religious preference. Still, it is something we thought about and occasionally spoke about.

Then, when watching one of our favorite shows, Futurama, we heard something that was the answer to our prayers (pun intended). Bender, the thieving, unapologetic robot with a heart of, well, silver, uttered this, "Oh, your god!"

Max and I found this perfect. It's clever, funny, and, actually, often people don't even notice what you just said. Give it a try. Not only has it replaced some phrases we'd rather not use, it also makes us smile every time we say it.

Goodbye

I went to church sporadically as a kid. My parents would take us to church on Sundays, but only if we didn’t have a soccer game, a party, or some other commitment. I did have to go to religion classes until I was 14 or so, whenever I was confirmed. I found both church and religion classes stiflingly boring. I asked my mom why I had to attend, after spending all day learning about “real things.” She never really answered convincingly, but basically said that it was important to my grandparents, and important in continuing the Irish Catholic tradition. She told me how Irish were persecuted when they first came to America, such as the Irish Need Not Apply signs (note: I'm not comparing this relatively brief discrimination to other, longer struggles by other groups. I'm just mentioning it because it was used as a justification for going to church). So I went, and even studied for the religion tests (sample question: Jesus loves you. True or False?). If I was going to go, I was going to get good grades!

During church time with my parents and sisters, I would put a book in my Bible and read the whole time. I was often caught by my parents, but sometimes they let it go so I wouldn’t complain. I even read the Bible itself during church, but found it full of plot holes and way too long. However, when I went with my grandparents, I kind of enjoyed it. Everybody knew them, and my grandpa acted as an usher, and my grandma would point out the candles she lit for her grandchildren every day.

The grandchildren would often sleep over my grandparents’ house on Saturday night, which is when they went to church. As I grew older, I became less and less inclined to attend with them, but I knew it upset them when I didn’t. I always wanted to make my grandparents as happy and as proud as possible, because I knew I would lose them someday, so more often than not, I went to church to please them. Every time I didn’t go, I would feel such tremendous guilt that I would much rather have suffered through the hour or church. At least I would be able to spend time with my grandparents.

The year 2000 was a real turning point for me. That summer, I had just graduated high school and was looking forward to going away to college (the first person in my family to live in a dorm) when my grandfather was admitted into the hospital. Because of his history with cigarettes (which he quit 10 years or so before he died) and weakened lungs, combined with some unforgivable hospital errors, he could barely breathe and eventually slipped into unconsciousness. I was working at McDonald’s (down the block from my grandparents’ house) when I received a call. I was to leave work immediately to stay with my younger sister, as my parents had to go to the hospital. I did so, and my mom took the car to meet my dad there. I was only home with my sister for about a half an hour when I got another call from my mom, this time to meet her at the hospital. From what she didn’t say, I knew it was bad. My neighbor, Mrs. M, would drive us.

Mrs. M is an uncommonly kind woman. I had always liked her very much, and, in fact, she had even taught sex ed at my religion classes, and in a fairly straightforward manner. I have nothing but respect for her; however, that day I hated her.

My sister and I were in the car with her, not saying much. I felt my sister gripping my hand as tightly as she could; she usually never stopped talking, but she was afraid to open her mouth that day. As we rode along, Mrs. M tried futilely to comfort us. I don’t remember all of what she said, as I tried to answer politely, but I do remember my fury when she said this:

“If it’s his time, God has to take him. God has his reasons,” she said.

If I had the brain power to kill her with my thoughts, I would have absolutely had done so at that moment. I know this is a fairly conventional and so-called “comforting” platitude offered to family members. But it was ridiculous in this case. He was dying because of two human errors. The first was his: the decision to smoke for so many years severely weakened his lungs (although, his was the era when cigarette commercials mentioned how doctors approved them, so it wasn't entirely bad judgment). The second was the serious medical error the doctors made while treating him. How could it possibly be “his time” when two human beings caused it? God forced him into smoking? God made the doctor screw up his treatment? How does this connect with the “free will” I was taught in my religion classes?

When we got to the hospital, we literally ran out of the car. I managed a civil good bye and thank you for the ride. Later, as they disconnected the tubes from my grandfather’s immobile body and he slipped into death without cracking one last joke, or even a smile, those words were never far out of my mind.

Intellectually, I had been done with religion for a long time. I loved science, and especially evolution. It was fascinating, and I wanted to know more. But my church never discussed it, so I could live with the two coexisting. I was pro-choice, but the church didn’t really talk much about that either (although it did have signs for rallies), so again, I could ignore it. But that day, under the hot August sun, my emotional break with the church came. I could no longer rationalize the divide between what I actually believed in and what I was just following because of family loyalty.

Religious friends and family who are aware of this reasoning say that I am just angry about my grandpa's death, and that someday I'll get over it and turn back toward religion. Religion will comfort me, they say. God will heal my wounds. Well, I am angry, but at the hospital, not at God. I know we all die, but he didn't have to die then. And, as I mentioned, my break was a long time coming. Grandpa's death didn't turn me against religion; it simply gave me the courage to do what I knew was right for me. And although my grandpa may not have agreed with my decision, he would have been proud that I was displaying the bravery and strength that he showed every day of his life.

No Bread for Me, Thanks.

Max had a death in his family recently. The majority of both of our families are Catholic, but not obsessive. Most don't go to church every week, but go more than the Christmas and Easter, as well as the occasional wedding or funeral, as I used to do. So when his great aunt died (not at all unexpectedly), we took off from work and attended her wake and funeral. Max, of course, is respectful of the beliefs of others, and attended without hesitation; however, when the time came to eat the bread (receive the host), he remained seated.

Obviously, people who are not Catholic should not be forced or expected to follow Catholic traditions and laws. A Jewish or Muslim person would immediately be excused from such a tradition. As always, though, it is often perceived differently for an atheist, especially an atheist who was brought up Catholic, and who had been baptized and confirmed. Most of the people who were attending the funeral attended both of those events as well. Nobody said anything to Max, but he did get a few stares.

I'm not sure exactly who knows of Max's atheism in his family. His close relatives do. We've discussed it with his parents and sister many times. But as for cousins, uncles, aunts and more distant relatives? I don't know, and neither does he, apart from the relatives he has literally told. Max never hides how he feels and will not follow any religious traditions just because they are religious, but neither does he make a point to let everybody know his spiritual beliefs. It is not what defines him, and therefore he does not feel the need to proclaim it to the skies. So how do they know why he is not standing up? I completely support his decision not to, but I am concerned that it might seem disrespectful to those who do not know the whole story.

Atheism on a whole is very offensive to some people. I know my parents aren't thrilled about it, although they do adore Max. It is vitally important to respect others' beliefs, but what can you do if respecting others' beliefs conflicts with following yours?

What do you do in these situations? Any advice?


Poll Results:

Can a marriage between two people of different faiths work?
Absolutely: 38%
Depends on the people: 42%
If the faiths are similar, maybe: 9%
No: 9%

Thanks to all those who answered, and check out my new poll!

Back, back to school again.

This week, I returned to graduate school. I take two classes a semester, both at night, immediately after my full time job. Needless to say, I'm pretty tired, a state that is not helped by the fact that we are not going home early today (which we do almost every Friday before a 3-day weekend). I was hoping for some nap time, but oh well. I am even going to the gym after work because it has been tough for me to go this week with classes starting.

Speaking of classes, I have found that there are a few different "types" who emerge in every grad class I have been in so far. This might vary across disciplines; I've only taken English grad classes, so I wouldn't know. But in these classes, where the majority of the students are also working full time, some characters emerge:

1. The too-enthusiastic girl: You know the type--she claps her hands when assignments are given out, "whispers" how she's "so excited" about this class, and hits the poor girl sitting next to her when making a particularly dramatic point. Oh, and she seems to forget that the first class is the only class from which you have a good shot of being let go early. Yet she keeps talking, and talking...

2. The cool, quiet guy: He sits in the back, staring into space, pondering deep, brilliant thoughts. He'll occasionally speak, but when he does, he speaks with the expectation of a few seconds of silence following his every utterance, and rolls his eyes if it does not happen.

3. The overprepared, arrogant student: She's read all of the books already. He wants to know if he can hand in the assignments in early. She had already read some of the books, so she read all the books that author ever wrote to "be fair." He really wants to start talking about his research paper ideas--so what if it is the first day of class! And, of course, these students inform all of the other students, and the teacher, of these facts as often as possible.

4. The writer dude: Hemingway and Dreiser tried to write the great American novel, but he's about to blow them out of the water. Just you wait.

5. The overly angry girl: she's a minority. She's a lesbian. Therefore, anything that does not have to do with both of these things is ridiculous, discriminatory, and a waste of time.

Luckily, I have all of these characters, and more, in my classes this year, so you can hear all about them as we discover the joys of 20th century United States literature.

There are two new students, hopefully unique to my Tuesday class, that I recently encountered as well: Big-head girl, who waved her head back and forth the entire 2 and a half hour class, just enough so I could never see the board or the teacher; and Blabbermouth girl, who had to tell the uninterested (to her story--attracted to her body) guy all about how she just knew she was going to get an A in the class. Also, she seemed to think everything the teacher said was outrageously funny. So I could not see or hear during my first class. Bodes well for the semester, doesn't it...

As I only have two semesters left, I suppose I should try to appreciate these unique characters. I plan to try, but I can think of a few jokes that start: so I was in a room with a bunch of English grad students...

Drive Me Crazy

I am a bad driver. I have been hit by a truck that was backing up, slipped off the Belt Parkway and drove up a guardrail, and, to avoid being hit by a crazy driver, drove off the road on the New Jersey Turnpike and blew two tires. Then there are a million almost-moments, like when I almost hit the person in front of me when he slammed on his breaks, or when I lost control of the car in the snow and was barely able to regain it in time to stop. Maybe these all weren’t my fault, but a better driver would have been able to avoid at least one of these incidents.

I am also a reluctant driver. I don’t like driving. I don’t like how you can’t relax for one moment. I don’t like how easy it is to get angry at the other drivers. And I don’t like how driving is so dependent on the fallible human temperament. No wonder it is so unsafe to drive. Personally, I feel much safer in a plane.

Max and I had a fairly terrifying experience a few weeks ago. We were making the long trek to upstate New York to see his parents. When I say long, I mean over 3 and a half hours, easily, with no traffic. And we go every few weeks (another issue for another day). Max usually drives, as I am a bad driver (see above) and I dislike it. So we were driving along what is the longest portion of our journey (50 miles on this one highway). We were chatting; it was a Friday night and we were just catching up on our increasingly busy weeks. We’ve both been given more responsibility at work lately, and it had been an exhausting week.

As one of our headlights was out (the light just stopped working) and one of our brake lights was also out (my fault—maybe I’ll tell you that embarrassing story later) so Max was trying to go close to the speed limit. With the house looming in the near future, we did not need to get a ticket. So Max had the cruise control set. It is one of those roads that changes from a 55 speed limit to a 65 one and back again, seemingly without any reason behind it. So while Max was fairly certain it was a 55 limit, he wasn’t positive. We were in the middle lane, moving with traffic, at about 62 miles an hour.

Anyway, we see headlights approaching us, fast, in the distance. We weren’t worried, but we did keep an eye on it. It was a truck. As it approached us, it flashed its brights at us a few times, and then left them on for 30 seconds or so, indicating that we should move out of the way. Max was very comfortable staying behind the guy in front of us, and the truck had plenty of room to move, so we didn’t. Apparently, this infuriated the truck driver. He screeched into the right lane and hurtled in front of our car, almost hitting the car we had been driving behind and forcing Max to slam his brakes as to not hit the truck. Now in front of us, we could see the truck was transporting large, metal tubes, all strapped onto his flatbed by chains. While this was annoying, things like that happen all the time, and we were not too concerned.

Eventually, the truck moved over to the right lane. Max, keeping the same speed (he was on cruise control) eventually began passing the truck. Well, the truck driver must have seen us starting to pass him, for he once again threw his truck into the middle lane in front of us, again almost hitting another car and forcing us to slam the brakes. He repeated this right lane/middle lane move 4 times in the next 20 minutes. I called information to report him, but the girl was a bit of an idiot and couldn’t help me so I gave up. Nonetheless, I was starting to get really nervous, and I asked Max to get around this lunatic.

So Max (who is an excellent if fast driver) decided to do so. The truck was in front of us in the middle lane again at this point, fresh from almost hitting yet another car. Max waited until a large SUV passed us in the left lane, got over right behind him, and drove fairly close to him, betting that the truck driver would not want to kill this innocent person. He was wrong.

As soon as the truck driver saw we were about to pass him, he threw his truck into the left lane forcing both us and the poor SUV guy to drive on the cement divider to avoid being hit. As we passed him, he honked and yelled at us. Luckily, we were able to get far ahead of him and didn’t see him again.

I have the greatest sympathy for truck drivers. I’m sure they have a hard time of it on the road. I have personally witnessed idiots cut them off, forcing them to brake harder than they should, and I know they have to deal with that kind of thing every day. Still, was it really necessary for this driver to wage a kind of psychological warfare on us? Because we didn’t get out of his way? If Max wasn’t such a good driver, we would have gotten into a very serious accident. He was also endangering other people on the road. It’s terrifying to think that there are people out there with access to such a dangerous weapon who have no problem hurting other people.

Maybe he saw our Darwin fish….

Close Encounters with the (Un)Evolved

Max and I are originally from Long Island (I lived closer to Queens, he lived further out on the Island). Constant trips to NYC, very diverse schools, and an eclectic mix of people helped both of us from an early age be very tolerant of others, and, on the whole, were accepted in return. As anywhere, there were of course quite a few intolerant jerks, but, overall, it was pretty great in that regard (not so great about traffic…) When we went to college, we realized it isn’t like that everywhere. I worried about it a little bit when moving to Pennsylvania, but after a few years here, and over a year of the Darwin fish planted firmly on both of our cars, I just forgot about it.

So imagine my surprise when, a few weeks ago, Max and I were driving home from my parents. We were stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, and we were just chatting about what we would do when we got home from our busy weekend (me: nap and read; him: Guitar Hero and practice tae kwon do). We were just sitting there, and we heard a few repetitive beeps. I looked out the window and saw a gray-bearded man in a large truck gesturing for us to roll down the window. So I did so, thinking that I knew what it was; one of our headlights was out, which we knew about but had scheduled an appointment to get it fixed the next day. So as I smiled uncertainly at this stranger, I was not prepared to hear what he would say.

“You know, evolution isn’t true. Have you read your Bible lately?” he shouted out, in a fairly jovial but firm tone. I looked at Max, looked back at him, waved, and rolled my window back up.

As I did so, he leaned further out his window and said. “He recanted on his deathbed. Google it!”

Luckily, just then the traffic moved and we merged right in front of him, giving him plenty of time to contemplate our Darwin fish in all its glory.

In a way, although it was certainly a strange encounter, the man was fairly polite. He didn’t rant at us or call us names. It actually seemed like he genuinely wanted to inform us of something we might not know about.

On the other hand, can you imagine what would happen if we, as either atheist, secular humanist, a non-religious person, or any such ilk, made a similar statement to a car with a Jesus fish on it? I wouldn’t be surprised if we were sued.

Our would-be teacher might be interested to know that Max and I, unlike many people on both sides, have read The Origin of Species. There is really nothing Darwin needed to recant. He didn’t, by the way. I think some people equate a lack of religious fervor to something like the Goth, or gangster, or whatever trend is currently popular amongst teenagers—which can sometimes be temporary, immature, rebellious, and superficial. It is just a phase that we, as young people, are going through. So although I appreciate the restraint this man showed, it did seem a bit patronizing, like we would “grow out of it.”

So, on the off chance this man is reading a blog written by the wife of an atheist, let me clarify something: The large majority of people my age that I know are either not religious, religious only for convenience, or atheists. Most of us have chosen this direction based on a lack of satisfaction for the “answers” religion provides. Perhaps as we age, we will change our minds; anything is possible. But we have made this decision rationally, not out of rebellion or pique or on a whim. And we are very happy, and we still have the potential to be good.