Our Flag Means Stuff

In celebration of Our Flag Means Death season 2 coming out, here is a blog entry about why this show is completely brilliant. 

Let the record show that this blog entry is edited down from a SIX PAGE single spaced essay that I wrote for literally no reason other than loving to write about art that I love. And also probably because I miss school? But I’ll keep things casual for the blog. 

(Am I autistic? Yes.)

First of all, I fucking love that David Jenkins took all of the tropes of a romantic comedy and populated it with actual historical pirates (a convention carried into season 2!). But the actual brilliance of this show goes so much deeper. So as a big ole nerd with one degree in theatre and another in writing, I’m gonna break down why this show is so smart and lovely.  

If you haven’t watched season 1 yet, go do that and then come back, because 

***SPOILERS BELOW***

I’m gonna talk about flags and rom-com characters and feelings and lighthouses and touch and transformation. (I could continue talking about these things in season 2 but I’ll save that for another essay.)

FLAGS

There isn’t a verified historical record of the flag that the real Blackbeard flew, but the most commonly cited one is this one: a skeleton holding a spear that’s pointed at a red heart. In the show, when we first “meet” Blackbeard, his flag is just the skeleton. At the end of season one, after Blackbeard’s perceived abandonment by Stede, the flag has had a new section sewn on—the part with the red heart. (The DIY nature of sewing this addition echoes the first episode, when Stede has his crew sew flags for The Revenge.)

ROM COM CHARACTER 1: STEDE 

Classic romance trope: The Sunshine to Ed’s Grump. 

Stede is blindingly, adorably optimistic. He prefers gentler things, and we know that he always has, from the time of his childhood. (He is, after all, the man who got rid of gunpowder to make room for marmalade.) I think there’s also some interesting gender play at work here. Stede embraces who he is without pretense. He’s a bit of a clotheshorse, he loves books and flowers, and he’s horrified by violence most of the time. These are things that society often codes as feminine. But Stede is just Stede. 

But even though Stede comes from a world of finery—wealth, fine fabrics, books—he longs for something more adventurous. It’s notable that the story Stede reads aloud to the crew is one of transformation. Pinocchio is a story of a wooden doll turning into a real boy. It’s the same transformation that Stede longs for. He’s been a bit of a puppet throughout his life so far…inheriting his wealth, an arranged marriage. Selling land and becoming a pirate is one of the first times that Stede is a “real boy.” 

And he DOES have moments of strength, action, and courage. Taking the hostages back from Izzy and the crew. Banishing the ghost of Captain Badminton. Bringing down the boatful of high society folks with his “passive aggression.” 

ROM COM CHARACTER 2: ED/BLACKBEARD

Blackbeard, by contrast, seems to be MOSTLY a man of strength, action. (He’s also the romcom “grump” in this couple.) When we first meet him, he drips with what society has coded as masculine. He’s wearing leather. He’s got a gun and a knife on him at all times. He’s all fire and action and swinging from ropes. And he’s got that BEARD.

But there’s also a softer man beneath all of that. An “Edward” who longed for fine things as a boy, even though he was told that he doesn’t deserve them. His mother told him that they simply weren’t “those kind of people.” Even his childhood act of violence—killing his father—was born out of a desire to protect those he cared about. After that moment, Ed sees himself as the Kracken, as the monster Blackbeard. His reputation is that of an other-worldly, inhuman villain. And although he truly believes that he doesn’t deserve the finer things, Blackbeard longs for them anyway.

And I think he recognizes the absurdity of the character he’s created. When Stede shows him an illustration of Blackbeard, Ed calls him a “fucking Viking vampire clown.” 

ROM COM CHARACTER 3: IZZY HANDS

Whether Izzy Hands’ love for Blackbeard is romantic or sexual or strictly platonic, he takes on the role of a scorned lover/jealous ex. I think Izzy is in love with Blackbeard…but NOT with Edward Teach. His jealousy is not just about Stede taking a new place of prominence in Blackbeard’s life, it’s about the way that Stede is destroying the man that Izzy loves, the imaginary character of Blackbeard. He tells Spanish Jackie and the British that Stede has “done something to my boss’s brain.” 

Izzy is the only other person who calls Blackbeard “Ed” or “Edward.” When Stede uses that name, Izzy violently corrects him. Even Calico Jack’s nickname for Blackbeard isn’t “Ed”—he calls him “Blackie.” Izzy thinks of himself as the most important person in Blackbeard’s life, which gives him permission to use this intimate name. But the irony is that Izzy’s loyalty falls apart when Blackbeard is being Ed. Izzy only loves the idea of Blackbeard, not the man beneath the costume whose name Izzy uses.

I also have a theory that Izzy was once a “Stede” himself in some ways. A man who worked desperately to kill any softness within himself, even though it still surfaces now and then. When Lucius asks him if he’s ever been sketched, there’s a split second when Izzy looks like he wants to connect, to be desired, to be a part of something. But he kills that impulse immediately and tells Lucius to fuck off. 

Still, his ineffectiveness as a man of action parallels Stede’s. The crew is generally unafraid of him, and they mutiny almost immediately when he becomes their captain. Izzy is performing all of the trappings of violent masculinity, but it’s so obviously a performance that everyone else sees it as harmless. 

CALICO JACK

Calico Jack is another ex, and he almost fills the role of “the one who got away.” If not quite that, he definitely serves as a reminder that Blackbeard has a past that Stede has no part in, and a path forward that Ed could take. Stede has been falling in love with Ed, but the character of Blackbeard looms large when Calico Jack shows up. Everything is a performance of masculinity with Jack. Stede can’t compete with it, but he also doesn’t seem to want to. Calico Jack and Stede LITERALLY have a pissing contest, which is fairly one-sided, and later Stede spends hours comparing himself to Jack while watching him and Ed on the beach through a telescope. 

FEELINGS

I don’t think Edward realizes the depth of his feelings for Stede until the night of the fancy party on the ship. I think before that, he’s intrigued. He loves that Stede is doing something “original.” Stede is the break in Blackbeard’s monotony. I think Blackbeard sees Stede as his escape…literally. He makes a plan with Izzy to kill Stede and take his place as an aristocrat. (This plan is the exact one that Stede carries out with Mary later—a corpse showing up, horribly disfigured, but still identifiable.)

After Stede avenges Ed by passively aggressively destroying everyone on the fancy party ship, we get the lovely “you wear fine things well” scene. It’s in the MOONLIGHT, for godsake. Ed has decided that the rich are truly not his kind of people. But he still clings to the bit of red fabric from his mother from all those years ago. Without even knowing its significance, Stede tells Ed that he deserves it. That he’s very sophisticated. That he wears it well. 

The fabric is red, and that Stede puts it in Ed’s breast pocket…almost like Ed’s very heart is “this tatty old thing,” and Stede puts it back into his chest for him. 

(And it’s at the beginning of the next episode that we get a brief “falling in love” montage.)

As far as Stede goes, he doesn’t have a clear understanding of what love is for most of his time with Ed. He knows that he cares about him, but it’s not until Mary describes the feelings of being in love that Stede understands what he feels.

LIGHTHOUSES

There’s the scene when Stede says that he should have been a lighthouse to his family, a guiding light. Ed points out that people are supposed to avoid lighthouses, so that they don’t crack up on the rocks. But the reality is that lighthouses are both guiding lights and warnings. It’s a lighthouse that saves the whole crew from the Spanish in episode four. 

I think Ed has created the character of Blackbeard to serve as a sort of shadow version of a lighthouse…the fire in his beard serving as a light, warning to stay away. Because he’s a monster—the Kracken who killed his father, who doesn’t deserve fine things because he and his family are “just not those kind of people.” 

The tragedy is that when Ed goes towards the light of Stede, he breaks up on the rocks. 

TOUCH

In episode five, when Ed and Stede attend the fancy party, there’s a moment at the dinner table when Antoinette reaches over to pick something out of Blackbeard’s beard. He startles so much that it’s violent. In episode seven, Stede and Blackbeard have a similar moment, but this time it’s relaxed and Ed is open and calm. When Calico Jack shows up, the use of touch returns to violence, even just casually. Blackbeard and Calico Jack initiate things like “whippies” and “yardies” and “coconut wars.” At one point, Blackbeard laughingly tells Jack to whip his balls, all as part of the maniacal, unhinged “fun.” All of the touch between Jack and Blackbeard is a heightened performance of masculinity. By contrast, Stede stands on the beach with a parasol while everyone else drinks plays with knives, not participating in the violence.  

TRANSFORMATION

This theme is at the absolute heart of this show for me. 

Blackbeard’s gender expression softens the more time he spends with Stede, eventually leading to him shaving off his beard, completing his transformation from Blackbeard to Ed. Right before he shaves is the only time we ever hear him refer to himself by his full name. “Edward Teach, born on a beach.” The next time we see him, he really is just Edward Teach. No longer Blackbeard. He’s ditched his Mad Max leather and his black beard, and is in soft, flowing fabrics. A billowy shirt for the kiss on the beach (where he says he just wants to “be Ed”). He wears Stede’s old floral robe during his time on the Revenge afterwards (the same one Stede wore while jealously watching Blackbeard and Jack on the beach). 

Which makes his re-transformation at the end of the season all the more heartbreaking. He tries to “hold on by a thread” to this softer version of masculinity, sometimes by literally holding on to the threads of Stede’s old clothes. But in the end, the harsh Blackbeard version of masculinity takes over again. 

He lets go of the fine fabric that Stede told him he wears well. He lost the finest thing he’s ever had—Stede—so he must not deserve the fine things after all. He lets go of his own heart. And in the next moment, he pushes Lucius overboard…the first time he’s actually killed a man since killing his father. Then he cuts off Izzy’s toe and force feeds it to him.  

The transformation ends with Ed drawing the beard back on, with the addition of dark makeup around his eyes. (This look felt to me like a masculine echo of the “mascara streaming down her face” image, and we see this parallel even more strongly in the shot of Ed sobbing in Stede’s now empty quarters.) Masculinity is a costume he must put on.   

And y’all there’s so much more. Ed and Stede’s musical theme—the little melody that plays in their moments of connection. The fact that so much of the fancy dress party scene is shot from lower angles, as if Ed has to look up towards them. The fact that the first time we see Mary, her dress style is from the 1850s even though it’s the 1700s, because she’s a woman ahead of her time. And the way that it normalizes queerness and anti-racism and women in positions of power. 

DO YOU SEE WHY WE ALL LOVE THIS SHOW? 

The way the fandom has embraced and celebrated and fan-fictioned and cosplayed and taken this show on as their own is just so beautiful. So consider this blog a part of all of that. 

(And then someone tell me how to get into a writer’s room for a show like this.) 

Writing Elsewhere

Hello, my friends! 

Things have been a bit quiet here on the blog lately, and I just wanted to post real quick to excuse and justify my absence. 

RJ and I are continuing our Sister Blog Challenge, but we're on a brief hiatus while we focus on other projects. I'm doing NaNoWriMo (again) this year, so for the month of November, I'll be focused on that. And during October, I spent a lot of time editing old works and submitting them for publication and applying for writer residencies and doing all kinds of other writerly things. 

But if you're craving some Liz writing, never fear, because one of my essays got accepted for publication! You can read my creative non-fiction piece, "The Goddamn Miracles of Nature," on the Sad Girls Club Literary Blog by clicking here. (While based on truth, names have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty alike.) 

Happy reading and writing, loves.

Loving Our (Imperfect) Bodies

DISCLAIMER: I am not a health professional, for mental or physical health. I have done research and am providing relevant links, and I'm also experienced in advocacy and non-violent communication, which is really the focus of this blog. 

CONTENT WARNING: This blog contains frank discussions of body image and disordered eating, including examples of harmful things that are sometimes said about bodies and examples of negative inner monologues. I invite readers to practice self-care and discretion in reading, and offer the option of skipping the examples written in orange text. 

Image: A dim picture of an empty dressing room, with lighted mirrors.
(via Travel Salem on Flickr) 

Hello my friends! Before I start this blog, I want to be transparent about the fact that for most of my life, I've been thin. My body has grown somewhat in the last several years, and nowadays I've got a bigger and softer tummy and a proper double chin. But I haven't personally experienced a lot of fatphobia or disordered eating or body image issues. This makes it easy for me to stand up and say "Hey, let's all love our bodies!" with very little baggage. But the amount of baggage I have or don't have doesn't have anything to do with my willpower or character. I just got lucky. I won a genetic lottery and got a body type that happens to be valued in my society and a family that doesn't have too many issues around body image. All of us humans have grown up in this culture, and all of us have internalized messages about fat, about age, about appearance. No one should be shamed for how much those messages affect them. For all my positive body talk, I also still have plenty of moments when those messages get to me, too. This blog entry is about why I do my best to consciously undermine those messages, and some practical ideas about how to do it. It's a skill that has to be learned and practiced. 

So! 

Now that more people are vaccinated (for the love of Osiris, if you can get vaccinated but haven't yet, PLEASE GET VACCINATED), we have more opportunities to do live theatre safely! And with that comes something I had literally completely forgotten about: the negative body talk that gets thrown around in women’s dressing rooms. 

I don’t know what happens in men’s dressing rooms, and it’s been a while since I’ve been in a universal dressing room. But I’d like to invite everyone, regardless of the dressing rooms you’re in, to move away from this kind of talk. The last year and a half has further radicalized me into working for all kinds of equity and compassion, and the dressing room is one place where I can do that work. Come join me! 

WHAT IT IS

Negative body talk is any negative comment about your own body, someone else’s body, or bodies in general. It may include comments about weight, shape, age, or appearance. Sometimes negative body talk comes in sneaky forms, like praising people for weight loss, or assigning moral value to certain foods. 

Here are a few examples: 

• “Ugh, this costume makes my butt look huge.” 
• “These crow’s feet around my eyes are driving me crazy.” 
• “I was so bad today. I ate like five cookies.” 
• “Okay, time to put on makeup. Because no one wants to see this face without makeup.” 
• “I’m gonna have to go to the gym for an extra hour to work off that lunch.” 
• “I hate having such tiny boobs!” 
• “I felt so bad for him, trying to do that lift with her.” 
• “You’ve lost so much weight! You look amazing!” 
• “Time to put on my Spanx. Gotta tuck all of these saggy bits in.”
• “These gray hairs look just awful.”  

WHY IT’S IMPORTANT TO SHIFT AWAY FROM IT

(My radicalization is gonna show here…) 

Negative body talk upholds the patriarchy

It’s the patriarchy that says “women are valuable because of their looks.” It’s the patriarchy that says “Men should look a certain way to get women to date them, because that’s where men get their value from.” It’s the patriarchy that says that women’s jobs are to be ornamental, decorative, and make others comfortable. It’s the patriarchy that makes no room for queerness or anything outside of the gender binary. It’s the patriarchy that says only pretty people can be romantic leads. It's the patriarchy that says women's value goes down as they get older. And there’s no inherent truth to any of it. It’s what society teaches us, but we can decide to disregard it. And as more of us disregard it, the less power it has. 

Negative body talk perpetuates the toxic aspects of capitalism

Think about how much money we spend trying to change how we look. I’m all for cool haircuts and tattoos and piercings and sunscreen and yoga studios—those things help us express and care for ourselves. But the only reason women shave their legs is because some guy in the 1920s wanted to sell us razors. The only reason we have so many diet programs is because people want to make money off diet programs. Even though none of them demonstrably work long-term and restrictive eating is always harmful. (Check out The F*ck It Diet for one resource on this.) The diet industry makes an estimated $60 billion a year. Imagine how much good that money could do if we spent it elsewhere. On small businesses. On bail funds. Or hell, on our f*cking bills. And don’t even get me started on the “pink tax.”

Negative body talk is often deeply rooted in racism

This is way complex, and I’m not the best person to speak on this, and many others have spoken about this more eloquently than I have. (Check out this interview with Sabrina Strings on NPR for one example.) But the idea that “thin is the only and best way to be beautiful” is an extraordinarily Western idea, based on white ideals that attempt to separate “superior” bodies from “inferior” bodies. The beauty ideals of other cultures are all so radically different…if we say “Well, being thin and young are the ONLY ways to be beautiful” we’re saying “White colonial ideals of beauty are the only valuable ones.” (Also, your value as a human being doesn’t have anything to do with how you look ANYWAY.) 

Negative body talk perpetuates the fatphobia that plagues the entertainment industry

There is literally no reason for actors to be thin. Because we use our bodies to tell stories, it’s helpful if our bodies are strong and healthy. But the lie that we’ve been fed for so many decades and from so many sources is that fat = unhealthy. And it’s just not…true. (Check out Health At Every Size to learn more). Health can be measured in a few different ways, but generally speaking, the actual science says that weight is not an accurate predictor of health. Lizzo can do cardio while singing and playing the flute for hours at a time in heels, night after night, for months on end. And have you seen Olympic weight-lifters? And also, the BMI is racist and completely useless and was never intended to measure health. So if you’re ACTUALLY worried about health, you don’t need to worry about weight. And as far as storytelling goes, there’s no reason we can’t have a fat Juliet on stage. A fat Elle Woods. A fat Hedda Gabler. LITERALLY NO REASON. If being thin doesn’t mean being healthy, and if you don’t have to be thin to play certain roles, then there’s literally no reason to push ourselves (or each other) to be thin. 

Negative body talk harms those with body image issues and disordered eating

It's difficult to get really accurate statistics, but eating disorders affect AT LEAST 9% of the population. So if you're in a room with 10 people, it's highly likely that at least one of them has experienced some kind of eating disorder, and even likelier that more people in the room have a difficult relationship with food or body image (if not all of them/us). When we make comments about our own weight, or the weight of others, we're adding our voices to the chorus of already loud voices saying "you're not thin enough" or "you'll only be loved if you're thin" or "you're not worthy of love unless you're thin." This is also why it's powerful to not compliment people about weight loss. I personally have multiple friends who have shared that compliments on their weight loss caused their eating disorder to deepen. Or perhaps their weight loss was because of another health issue, and the compliment made their pain feel invisible. In both cases, they were being rewarded with love and acceptance in times when they were very ill. I want to live in a world where we give people love and acceptance regardless of their weight. 

HOW TO UNDERMINE NEGATIVE BODY TALK IN THEATRE DRESSING ROOMS 

(and any other rooms, really)

Okay, so if you're on board with moving away from the negative body talk that perpetuates the patriarchy, toxic capitalism, racism, and myths about health, here are a few ideas of how to do it. 

1. Aggressively compliment yourself. Look at yourself in the full-length mirror and smile at what you see. Exclaim with ecstasy. “Are you seeing this?! Look at these thighs! Look at these curves! Man, I love this gorgeous tummy.” Grab handfuls of your body and jiggle it with joy.
2. Abstain from the “script” when someone says something disparaging about their own appearance. When one person says “Ugh, I hate how this makes my butt look!” the expected response is either “No, it looks great!” or “Well, MY costume makes my tummy look huge.” Both of those responses reinforce the idea that appearance = worth. Which is completely false. Speak up, or change the subject, or abstain. 
3. Give specific compliments that don’t have to do with size. These compliments can have to do with appearance, but think of it as praising the way you’d praise a painting. (“You have such great eyebrows.” “You have such lovely hands.” “Look at your beautiful elegant feet!”) You can also compliment things that don’t have to do with appearance at all, like talent or smarts or interpersonal skills. 
4. Respond to negative body talk with “That’s the patriarchy talking!” or another quippy one-liner of your choice. 
5. Post body positivity quotes/images by the mirror/on the walls. A few of my favorites include "Love Your Tree" from Eve Ensler's The Good Body, some variation of this popular sticker, or this one, and this cross-stitch from my own Etsy shop (shameless plug).
6. Respond with a simple “Hey, this kind of negative body talk isn’t okay with me. Could we please keep it out of this space?” 
7. If the costumes/time period of the show allows, refuse to wear Spanx or other shape wear. 
8. Invite people to explore the ideas behind the fatphobic comment. “Hey, have you ever thought about where those ideas come from?” (This can also be done more pointedly, in the form of “Explain what you mean by that?”)
9. Speak frankly and matter-of-factly about your own body to the costume team (“These jeans are too small for my belly.” “If I wear this skirt, can I also get something to wear underneath so that my thighs don’t get irritated from rubbing together?”)
10. Respond with “Hey, friends. Someone recently pointed out to me that this kind of negative body talk can be rough for folks with eating disorders. So because we never know what the people in the dressing room are going through, I’ve been trying to just refrain from any kind of negative body talk in every dressing room I’m in. Would it be cool if we did that in here?” 
11. Sometimes negative body talk is an attempt to bond with those around us. The desire to connect to our fellow humans is deep and primal! (This is often what's going on when people are following the "script" mentioned earlier in #2.) So work on finding other ways to connect. Tell a funny story about your day, ask people what their favorite part of their day was, bring up an interesting article or YouTube video you recently read, or ask any of these conversation starters. (I always love hearing about people's journeys, so I like to ask "How did you get into theatre?") 

If you have other ideas, feel free to share them in the comments! Now go forth, and practice showing love to your beautiful, imperfect body and help others love theirs! 

Kick off your Sunday shoes

“If Walt Whitman were alive today, what song would he hear America singing? When I turn on television, all I hear is the music of easy sexuality and relaxed morals. I hear rock and roll and the endless chant of pornography.” – Reverend Moore, “Footloose,” Act One 

“You wish to change the law because you want to throw a dance; that is your right. It is my duty to challenge any enterprise which, in my experience, fosters the use of liquor, the abuse of drugs, and most importantly, celebrates spiritual corruption.” –Reverend Moore, “Footloose,” Act Two

Listen. I'm in a production of "Footloose" that opens this week, and it's kind of all I can think about nowadays. (You know how tech week is.) The premise of the show always struck me as so ridiculous as to be unbelievable. A ban on dancing seems absurd for any time period after the early 1600s.  

But the more I learn about American history in the 1980s, the less ridiculous a religious ban on dancing seems. First of all, the show is based on a true story (you can read about it here), but also there were a lot of things going on in American culture during the 1970s and 1980s that could easily lead a Christian preacher to believe that dancing is dangerous.   

I’ve been researching this for weeks, like the nerd I am, so get ready for a dramaturgy dump, my friends. 

THE RISE OF THE CHRISTIAN RIGHT

In the late 70s and early 80s, evangelical Christians were like "You know what we need MORE of? Combining Church and State." For them, the separation was clearly leading to the "decay of the nation's morality." Groups like The Moral Majority, Christian Coalition, Focus on the Family, and the Family Research Council urged evangelicals to get involved in politics and got them pumped up about "traditional family values." Before this, things like abortion, divorce, feminism, LGBTQ rights were all separate issues. It's a great PR move, really, and it carries through to this day. 

SATAN WANTS YOUR CHILDREN 

For members of the Christian right, Satan wasn’t metaphorical. And know who he was after? THE CHILDREN. In 1972, Evangelical Christian Mike Warnke published “The Satan Seller,” a memoir of a childhood allegedly spent in Satan worship, detailing everything from summoning demons to ritualistic sex orgies, and his subsequent salvation and conversion to Christianity. 

In 1980, another even more explosive “memoir” was published called “Michelle Remembers.” Co-written by Michelle Smith and her therapist Lawrence Pazder (who eventually became her husband), the book is based on hundreds of hours of interviews with Michelle while she was under hypnosis. During these interviews, Michelle recounted terrifying childhood experiences after her mother sent her to live with a Satanic cult at age five. She described everything from being forced to consume urine and feces, bathing in the blood of dismembered babies, and being locked in a cage filled with snakes and spiders. She also recalled being sexually assaulted as part of Satanic rituals. The entire experience allegedly culminated in meeting Satan himself, before Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and the Archangel Michael intervened. These beings removed all physical scars, and hid the memories from Michelle until “the time was right.” 

The best-selling book, along with one or two accusations of sexual assault made against preschool teachers (particularly the McMartin preschool in 1983), launched what we now call “The Satanic Panic.” There was a widespread fear throughout North America that Satanists were secretly running preschools in order to use the children in rituals. Under dubious interview practices, children made statements about being taken to "devil churches," being sexually abused, performing Satanic spells, and being tortured. Worried parents campaigned vehemently for authorities to do something with the slogan “We believe the children.” Federal law enforcement made training videos to help officers recognize the signs of “Satanic Ritual Abuse.” 

SATAN IN POP CULTURE

In 1973, the horror film “The Exorcist” was released, and the fear of Satan’s power ramped up among those who believed in him literally. Not only was the movie legitimately terrifying to audiences, but the making of it was also terrifying. (At one point, the entire set burned down in an accidental fire, except for the possessed character Regan’s bedroom???) The film was based on a real life exorcism on a 14-year-old boy known only as Roland Doe. Or rather, it's based on the attempted exorcism, because Roland somehow managed to break out of his restraints, pull a metal bedspring out of his mattress, and slash one of the priests with it, and they declared him beyond their help. When the film was played in theatres, there were multiple reports of audience members fainting and vomiting, and at least four cases of people requiring psychiatric care afterwards. Televangelist Billy Graham said “There is a power of evil in the film, in the fabric of the film itself.” 

And when 17-year-old Nicholas Bell killed a 9-year-old girl in his UK neighborhood in 1975, his statement to the police read, in part: "It was not really me that did it, you know. There was something inside me. I want to see a priest. It is ever since I saw that film The Exorcist. I felt something take possession of me. It has been in me ever since." Turning to the attack on the girl he had said: "I don't know why I killed her. It was this spirit inside me." In a later alleged statement he continued: "One night I was alone at home playing with the [ouija] board and while doing so felt something bad was happening."

Satan was everywhere. Movies. Books. Music. Television shows. Advertisements. Magazines. 

By 1988, Satanism had so permeated popular culture that TV Talk Show star Gerardo Rivera aired a special called “Devil Worship: Exposing Satan’s Underground.” 

Music and dancing were especially dangerous. The 1989 Christian documentary “Hell’s Bells: The Dangers of Rock ‘N’ Roll” linked rock music to sex, violence, suicide, drug use, rebellion, and the occult, and ended with a dramatic call to be saved. In 1989, Mormon church leader Gene R. Cook recounted a story about meeting Mick Jagger on a plane, and asking him what he thinks the influence of his music is on young people. Jagger reportedly replied, “Our music is calculated to drive the kids to sex.”

Here are a few excerpts from the LDS Church’s “For the Strength of Youth” pamphlets—a free publication to help Mormon teenagers live righteous standards. 

From For the Strength of Youth, 1972 edition: 

“Church standards prohibit dancing that is suggestive or sensual in any way…If one concentrates on good posture, many dances can be danced in a manner which will meet LDS standards. Some examples of these dances are the waltz, fox trot, tango, rhumba, cha-cha, samba, swing, and most of the folk dances. When dancing, young people should avoid crouching, slumping over, trying to do a backbend, or having too close a body contact…Members of the Church should be good dancers and not contortionists. Extreme body movements—such as hip and shoulder shaking, body jerking, etc.—should be avoided, and emphasis should be placed more on smooth styling and clever footwork…The kind of music that is played has a definite effect upon the actions of those participating in dance. Moderate and modest music should always be played. When electronic bands or instruments are used, an extremely loud beat is discouraged because it is inconsistent with church standards. Musical lyrics should always be in good taste and sung in a dignified way.” 

From For the Strength of Youth, 1990 edition: 

“Music can help you draw closer to your Heavenly Father. It can be used to educate, edify, inspire, and unite. However, music can be used for wicked purposes. Music can, by its tempo, beat, intensity, and lyrics, dull your spiritual sensitivity. You cannot afford to fill your minds with unworthy music. Music is an important and powerful part of life. You must consider your listening habits thoughtfully and prayerfully. You should be willing to control your listening habits and shun music that is spiritually harmful. Don’t listen to music that contains ideas that contradict the principles of the gospel. Don’t listen to music that promotes Satanism or other evil practices, encourages immorality, uses foul and offensive language, or drives away the Spirit. Use careful judgment and maturity to choose the music you listen to and the level of its volume. Dancing can be enjoyable and provide an opportunity to meet new people and strengthen friendships. However, it too can be misused. When you are dancing, avoid full body contact or intimate positions with your partner. Plan and attend dances where dress, grooming, lighting, dancing styles, lyrics, and music contribute to an atmosphere in which the Spirit of the Lord may be present.” 

RISE OF SERIAL MURDER

There was an enormous surge in serial murders during the 1970s. Why? Who the hell knows. Unresolved PTSD? Intergenerational trauma? Misogynist backlash against second wave feminism? All of the above? Maybe better forensic methods, stronger police communication, and deeper research into psychology just made us more aware of the murders. Maybe the nation was paying more attention because more victims were white women. Whatever the reason, the majority of the most well-known serial killers in American history were committing their crimes during this time period. 

Charles Manson and "Helter Skelter." "Son of Sam" killer David Berkowitz. Edmund Kemper. John Wayne Gacy. "BTK Killer" Dennis Rader. The "Golden State Killer" and "Easy Area Rapist" Joseph James DeAngelo. The "Hillside Stranglers" Angelo Buono Jr and Kenneth A Bianchi. Ted Bundy. Jeffrey Dahmer. Wayne B Williams and the Atlanta child murders. Richard Ramirez. 

Dennis Rader wasn't apprehended until 2005, and Joseph James DeAngelo was at large until 2018. Berkowitz and Ramirez both cited Satanism as the reasons for their crimes. Bundy was a law student who had converted to Mormonism. (Incidentally, he was arrested a few blocks west of the Harman Theatre, where "Footloose" is being produced.) 

From these cases alone, that means there were AT LEAST 150 seemingly senseless murders/sex crimes during the 15-year period from 1969 to 1985. If you were to average it out, that’s around 1 per month. For 15 years straight. Murders that didn’t have to do with gang violence or drugs, or even robberies much of the time. It was happening in Brooklyn, New York and Witchita, Kansas and Provo, Utah. Nowhere was safe. Kids were warned about "stranger danger" through PSAs and children's books. 

SEX IS MAINSTREAM

Also to the dismay of Christians, sex was going mainstream during the 70s and 80s. Chippendale’s opened in Los Angeles, then in New York, and then went on tour, performing mostly for middle-aged white women (who apparently were into sex? What?). Pornography films like Blue Movie, Deep Throat, and Mona were being reviewed positively by everyone from Johnny Carson to Roger Ebert. Madonna and Prince and dozens of other singers were writing lyrics that weren’t even thinly veiled references to sex. 

Thousands of gay men were dying of a mysterious new illness that would later be diagnosed as AIDS, an immunodeficiency disease caused by the HIV virus, and spread through bodily fluids. Ronald Reagan and the United States government intentionally ignored the crisis, and by 1995, over 800,000 people had been lost to AIDS. Conservative Christians viewed the crisis as a “gay plague” and that God was punishing homosexuality. 

So yeah. You take the rise of Christianity in politics and a literal belief in Satan, the occult showing up in everything from blockbuster films to rock music, hundreds of people being senselessly murdered and some of the murderers blaming it on Satanism, children saying they’re being ritualistically abused by their preschool teachers, and sex seeping into every facet of American society? You’re damn right I’m going to do everything I can to protect my kids. And if I have to ban dancing to do it, that’s a price I’m willing to pay for their eternal salvation. 

With hindsight, it’s easy to see how this kind of thinking is misguided. How the impact is miles away from the intent. But it still continues today. Fox News spent weeks clutching their pearls over Lil Nas X’s song and music video “Montero (Call Me By Your Name)” and did the same thing again with Cardi B/Megan Thee Stallion’s Grammy performance of Up/WAP. (It's worth mentioning that a lot of the criticisms of popular music always have been and still are deeply rooted in white supremacy, but that's a whole 'nother conversation.) Evangelical Christians still dominate conversations about conservative politics. 

And we still are determined to “protect our children.” Instead of putting signs in our windows that say "We Believe the Children," we share things with the hashtag #SaveOurChildren. In 2016, a 28-year-old man walked into a New York pizza parlor and fired 3 shots from an assault rifle, in an effort to rescue the children from a child sex-trafficking ring allegedly run by Democratic elites. Despite there not being a child sex-trafficking ring in the pizza parlor, the belief that powerful people were using children as sex slaves persists through QAnon and InfoWars and Trumpism. 

Here in Utah, Tim Ballard’s non-profit “Operation Underground Railroad” allows investors to join Liam Neeson/Taken-esque “rescue missions” in other countries. Despite a lack of any relevant training, problematic sting operations that create demand for underage sex workers, and a lack of recovery resources for victims, Ballard continues to frame his work as guided by God. 

Mike Warnke’s memoir “The Satan Seller” was completely debunked and revealed as fraud. The same goes for “Michelle Remembers.” The Satanic Panic surrounding daycare centers had more to do with anxiety about mothers entering the workplace than the devil torturing children. Child sex trafficking is absolutely an issue worth solving, but the problem has less to do with innocent white girls being kidnapped from suburbia and more to do with foreign policy and economics and racism and resource equity and drug policies. 

It’s difficult to face the real traumas. Poverty and grief and fear are all so messy. And the solutions are equally complicated and overwhelming. It’s so much easier to blame a metaphorical being whose only motivation is evil. If you're a parent, it feels both impossible and vital that you protect your children from sexual harm and violence and substance abuse. And if you're Christian, the stakes are even higher--those things lead to literal damnation. 

So it's easy to see how the parents who proclaimed “We Believe the Children” during the Daycare Satanic Panic had good intentions. They were trying to care for and protect the innocent young people they were responsible for. But the heartbreaking thing is that they didn’t actually believe the children. In interview after interview after interview about the satanic ritual abuse that supposedly happened in daycare centers, the children said that nothing really happened. Transcripts and recordings of the initial interviews show that the children were coerced into confessions and stories of things that weren’t even possible. 

But parents were so afraid of failing their children that they didn’t listen to them. 

Just like Reverend Moore. 

Tableaus of the American West, spring 2021

There are stretches of Utah that are, frankly, boring. Pastures, shrub-covered hills, sage and tumbleweeds. But down near the southern border, it becomes almost other-wordly. The sandy red cliffs rising against a backdrop of cotton candy clouds. I feel my stomach unclenching the farther south I go. 

At Zion that afternoon, it’s too hot to sleep in the tent. So I lay my sleeping pad out on the ground in the shade of my car and nap there. When I wake, it’s still hours before sundown, but I make a fire and roast hot dogs for dinner anyway. I read. I look at the fire. I move my chair in a steady orbit to avoid the smoke. I am discovering that more than half of what I enjoy about camping is spending time with other people. Maybe if I had a good place to hang my hammock, I’d feel differently. I make two unsatisfactory s’mores and go to bed. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I unzip my tent to look at the stars. It’s only a moment, but it’s beautiful anyway. 

The Grand Canyon is truly and actually GRAND. It’s also fucking enormous. I feel like I pass signs for hundreds of miles that tell me I’m at the Grand Canyon. I pull over after crossing the bridge at Glen Canyon, then walk back over it. It’s so far down to the water it doesn’t even feel real. Later, I take a small detour and hike ½ mile in the desert sun to see Horseshoe Bend. Maybe one day I’ll kayak around it. For now, I lean over gaze down, the metal of the railing scalding my forearms. I hold my breath as I glance over at a man close to my age, sitting with his legs dangling over the edge, hundreds of feet above the Colorado River. 

I’ve decided I hate camping by myself, so I cancel all of my camping reservations and book cheap motels. It’s probably just the fact that motels have internet access, but it feels much less lonely. In Williams, Arizona, I eat a meal by sitting down in a restaurant for the first time in 14 months. It’s surreal and a little nerve-wracking. I sit at the bar in a 50’s-themed diner and devour a burger and sweet potato fries with my book propped up behind my plate. At one point, I glance up in time to see one of the dishwashers in the back drop a cup onto the ground and put it right back onto the shelf. 

I listen to books on tape while I drive, or BTS, or podcasts, or my “Wandering Tunes” playlist. I’ve learned that I do best when I take a break every hour and a half or so. I pull over into rest stops and stretch, I wander the aisles of Maverick gas stations and side-of-the-road gift shops. I see a sign advertising the ancient site of Montezuma’s Castle and drive a few miles past two casinos to see it. I feel like John Steinbeck, “traveling with Charley.” But instead of a poodle and an RV, I have a journal and a Prius.

At a gift shop on Navajo land, things feel like April 2020. Masks are required, spacing is enforced, entrances and exits are calculated so that only a limited number of people are in the building at a time. After I spent so much time in areas that probably never really took the pandemic seriously, and as someone who’s been fully vaccinated for a while, it feels like a time capsule.  

There are whole stretches of the American southwest that look so much like the quintessential idea of “The American Southwest” that it almost feels fake. If I lived in a different country and had never been to America, and you asked me to describe Arizona, I’d say, “Big open areas with tall saguaro cactuses, flat-roofed adobe houses with dogs sleeping in the dusty driveways, the occasional tumbleweed, metal sculptures in the yards of the more wealthy.” It sounds like a movie set, or Disneyland’s Cars ride. But it’s 100% accurate. 

There’s something sort of surreal about the moment when your drive home turns from unfamiliar to familiar. I don’t know my way around Spanish Fork, but once I hit Provo, it feels like I’m “home.” Even if I still have an hour left to drive. 

I’m not entirely sure how to end this piece. I can’t tell if it’s a love letter to the American west or reminders for my next solo road trip. 

I suppose I’ll end abruptly, in that crisp way that you pull your car into your own driveway after a week away. 

Breathe

“I need another short breather,” I say. 

 

Patrick stops a few steps ahead of me. “No worries,” he says. “We’re in no rush.” 

We’re standing in the shade, halfway through the first ¼ mile of this hike, which has a 600-foot elevation gain. I lean forward and put my hands on my knees as my lungs struggle to gulp enough air. 

“Don’t let me forget my inhaler ever again,” I say. 

 I’ve only had my inhaler for a few months, so I never remember to bring it anywhere. I got it after I realized that my lungs were consistently tight after going on walks in spring. My lungs often felt tight in spring in general. But this time, my lungs felt tight in early spring when I was going on daily walks in an effort to stave off the madness of quarantine. (The albuterol prescription also helped alleviate my anxiety about having COVID-19. If the inhaler helped, it meant I was negative for the disease?) 

“Okay,” I say, once my lungs stop burning. “I’m ready.” We walk slowly, setting a deliberate pace. I glance around at the aspens, the rocks, the wildflowers. I take a sip of water. My head has begun to ache. Not enough oxygen. Not enough hydration. 

I put one foot in front of the other. I’ll probably be a little sore tomorrow. If I had marched yesterday, I would be sore today too. But yesterday, we stayed in the car, honking the horn, blasting Childish Gambino’s “This Is America,” participating in a drive-by protest of police brutality. 

I wish there was a phrase other than “drive-by.” 

My muscles and bones and lungs and heart carry me up the mountain. They’re carrying a lot for me nowadays. 

How it felt to dance in the blinding heat, a few hundred of us in the streets, dance-dancing for the revolution, blocks away from the District Attorney’s office. How it felt to lay on the hot pavement in front of the governor’s mansion, face-down, gravel pressing into my knees, for eight minutes and forty-six seconds. The burn in my feet and knees as we walked up the long hill to the Capitol building. I forgot my inhaler that day, too. 

Patrick and I pace ourselves, a slow and steady climb to the lake. When we get there, the light glints off the water, and the grass is wet and cool at its edges. The sky is blue blue blue, the leaves on the aspens twirling in the breeze. 

It feels good to be outside. I temporarily took Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter off my phone yesterday. I’ve recently found myself caught in an endless cycle of bad mental health, which I try to alleviate with social media, but social media makes it worse. So I’m doing a “fast” for a few days, even though I’m always judgmental when other people do that. Just have some f***ing self-control, I always think. Or, If you think social media sucks that much, I think you just have crappy friends. 

But I also apparently lack self-control. And it’s not that social media sucks, or that I have crappy friends. It’s that I mostly have passionate, empathetic, and compassionate friends who are constantly fighting for justice and equity and it’s beautiful and also somehow exhausting, and then I have a few friends who keep doing theatre and having social gatherings without masks and it is NOT beautiful and it is definitely exhausting. (The pandemic is not over, my friends. You are endangering everyone around you and prolonging hardship for yourself and your entire community, my friends.) 

And I’m exhausted by strangers stopping me to discuss how “not all police are bad” because they see the sign on my car. I’m exhausted by people telling me that Black Lives Matter is a terrorist organization. I’m exhausted by editing my resume for every remote job posting that I find on ZipRecruiter. I’m exhausted by not being able to breathe when I walk up a mountain. I’m exhausted by calling the DA’s office every day to ask that the life sentence charges be dropped against protestors. I’m exhausted by the steady and relentless heat of this corner of the planet, and by the wildfires that blur the skies for days on end, and by my dwindling savings account. 

So I’m taking a break. I’m taking a break, knowing that my whiteness is part of what allows me to take a break. But I'll be back to do the good work eventually. I just need a few moments. 

A few moments to just breathe.

Of lake and parks and creeks

When I was very small, I thought Lake Elizabeth was named after me. It’s a man-made lake in Fremont, a city to the southeast of San Francisco Bay, where I grew up. It’s surrounded by a large park, several playgrounds, and a couple of community buildings. 450 acres, and a lake that’s around 80 acres and maybe 8 feet deep. I sat in my grandparents’ sailboat on Lake Elizabeth’s waters. We rented paddleboats and bought ice cream cones. I fed ducks on its shores. A few times, we went swimming in the roped off area that demanded payment for use. I remember once we found a tiny orange kitten in the reeds on the south side of the lake, his little eyes glued shut with sickness. We named him Moses and took him to the nearby animal shelter.

There was one summer when my sister and I went to a day camp there. My sister and I were separated and the teenagers working there never gave us the color of marker we requested. If I could have figured out how to wander off, I would have. Maybe I did. As a child, I much preferred the company of nature to the company of my peers.

So many of my memories of Lake Elizabeth are of the small creek that meandered from the lake, through the playground, and into a wilderness refuge. To a dreamy girl like me, it was paradise. I was a small peasant girl, fetching water from the river to bring back to my family in our hut. I was a witch, gathering herbs and performing spells in the grass on the edges of the water. I was a pioneer, lifting my petticoats to ford a river on my way across the Oregon Trail.

There are strange, unspoken rules among children in public spaces. There are two ways to stake a claim on a particular area: be the first, or be the loudest. I was rarely the loudest, so I usually tried to be first. If I wasn’t, I had to settle for some other, smaller patch of shore to call my own.

I moved back home to Fremont for one semester during college. In the afternoons before my closing shift at the bookstore, I would take my grandmother’s old bike and ride out to Lake Elizabeth. As a twenty-two-year-old, the walk around Lake Elizabeth was short and manageable, an easy two miles. I would bring a book, or my journal, or a picnic lunch. Sometimes all of the above. I would watch as kids played by the same unspoken rules of territory by the creek. The grass was kept short (and often soiled) by flocks of Canadian geese.

There was less imagination in my use of the park as an adult. I went there for a change of scenery while doing the things I would be doing at home—reading, writing, walking, eating. But I could still feel the green of the park seep into my spine. It made me feel calm and quiet in the same way that it did when I was a child. Like a fish returning to water. Or more like breathing when you’ve been underwater.

I still visit Lake Elizabeth now and then. Everything at the lake is a little smaller to me now. The creek that was a wilderness to 6-year-old me doesn’t have the same untamed nature that it did then. I’ve embraced the fact that it was not, in fact, named after me, but rather after Fremont’s sister city, Elizabeth, South Australia. There’s a tunnel for BART, the public train, that runs right under the lake now. There’s a tree there planted for my late uncle, who died when I was too little to understand what that meant.

We adults still follow the same unspoken rules about territory—whoever’s first or loudest claims a spot. We’re more civilized about our claims, but we make them nonetheless. A picnic blanket here marks the border between my space and yours. Stay away from my picnic table, strangers. I didn’t come here to connect with people. I came to connect with the trees.

I wonder how long Lake Elizabeth will remain. If I’ll wheel a stroller with my own daughter around its perimeter. If I’ll watch her wade in the creek. If she’ll have a daughter that will do the same. I wonder if Lake Elizabeth will be a precious sanctuary to them, as it was to me. I hope it is. I believe it will be.

Check up

I’ve been meaning to change the oil in my car for months. For so many months, in fact, that I’ve now reached the point in the calendar when I should be getting the NEXT oil change. The check engine light came during the evening, so I drove exactly ten miles under the speed limit for the whole drive home. I wake up an hour and a half early the next day to stop by Jiffy Lube on my way to work.

I’m groggier than usual as I stumble out of the shower. I lift my arms to apply deodorant and notice a dark spot on the bottom of my right breast. I lift my skin to look closer. Slightly rough. Irregular shape. A mole? A dry patch? It’s small, a scaly spot of brown. How long has that been there? I don’t often notice the underside of my breasts.

I rub sunscreen onto my face, brush on mascara. If I have breast cancer, maybe I’ll just have one breast cut off. An Amazon woman. I’ll learn how to shoot a bow and arrow. I’ll wear bikinis that show off my survival and pose for empowering nude photos, a clean thick scar across my chest.

It’s probably nothing.

I blow dry my hair. Glance at the moles and freckles that dot my skin. What if this is the time that it’s not nothing?

I don’t have time for this.

At Jiffy Lube, they remind me that I’m overdue for a transmission service, a radiator flush, and an air filter replacement. They also recommend a headlight cleaning and new wiper blades. I tell the woman at the counter that I’ll get new wiper blades if she gives me $10 off. She agrees.

Yes, I know I have an oil leak. Yes, I know about the check engine light.

In the lobby, I open my phone and Google “dry scaly patch on breast.” The results are what I expected. A mixed bag of internet diagnostic horror and benign skin conditions. Planned Parenthood does breast exams, right? Friday. It will have to be Friday.

Maybe I should go to the University of Utah. A full mammogram, instead of just an exam. Huntsman Cancer Center is right there.

Just in case. I make a mental note to check if they take my insurance.

I feel an oppressive sense of calm about my mortality this week. I was almost hit by a car on Monday. Not that my car was almost hit by another car. My person, scurrying through the crosswalk after hearing the crunch of metal and shatter of tail lights, a white Suburban hurtling towards me. Sitting on a curb and filling out paperwork, a plastic clipboard that a police officer handed me resting on my knees. Date. Time. Cross streets.

I imagine my breasts being pressed between two plates, flashes of light in an office. Waiting.

* * * * *

My check engine light is still on. So it wasn’t the oil. Somewhere else in this complex system, something is wrong. I feel like I should know what it is. But it takes years of training to make a diagnosis. You have to rely on the expertise of others. Maybe it’s a $15 filter, a $50 repair, a benign anomaly.

And maybe this is it. The transmission shot, the radiator cracked, some piston beyond repair. Days in the shop, thousands of dollars sunk into this goddamn thing that’s absolutely necessary for me to navigate my life.

Either way, it will have to wait until next week.

* * * * *

University of Utah only does mammograms if a doctor requests it. Planned Parenthood can’t fit me in until the week after next. By this time, the check engine light has turned off in my car, and I’m hoping it’s a sign that all is well elsewhere. I sit in the exam room of the clinic for forty-five minutes, wearing a pink paper vest, and reading a book, telling myself that everything is fine.

The nurse practitioner makes polite conversation as she presses and wiggles into each breast, up, down, around. Her gloved hand takes a moment to examine the dry scaly patch that brought me here.

Everything looks perfectly fine.

She tells me to visit a dermatologist if it gets bigger or darker, and answers my questions about long-term Zoloft use and fertility, and I put on my shirt and walk back to my car.

* * * * *

After the car accident on Monday, I sat on the curb and watched the tow truck pull up. The woman from the vehicle at fault stood watching next to me, answered her phone when it rang. A short, polite conversation. Thank you. Have a nice day. She sighed. “Well, the good news is that I don’t have cancer.” We all laughed. “At least that’s one good thing today.”

When I finally got to the theatre that night, two hours after the accident, I sat down and was suddenly flooded with what had just happened. It was so close. I’m only 33. It feels wildly unfair, beyond acceptance that my life would end at 33. I sat, shaking, breathing.

Feeling the weight of my chest rise and fall.

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight

There are few who know that emotions are tangible.

I know because I am filled with them. Humans have breathed life into my paint and foundation and flooring. I wasn’t born from a womb. All of humanity is my mother, and I become a mother to them, a womb to shelter them.

Within a few short millennia, humans have leapt into the skies and plunged into the oceans, photographed particles, measured the speed of light, split atoms, cured diseases. It will only be a few more years until their instruments are fine-tuned enough to measure the matter of feeling that permeates everything around us. A fine mist of pollen, an ethereal smoke, that floats through the air and settles into the walls and carpets. Here, feel the hum of fear in these walls. Here, the golden orange light of joy courses through the glass of the windows. It will straighten your spine if you sit near. Here, your feet will drag in the concrete sludge of sorrow left in the floorboards. I am what you make me.

I have heard whispers of houses where men re-arranged the insides in fury, drove nails into them as if their wooden flesh were a threat. The crash of porcelain echoed within those places, and the whip and crack of punishment, and the roar of disdain. The unshed tears of women and children seeped into the floorboards, a continuous, incomplete baptism. A sea that would not part.

In houses like that, after the terror is over, the weight of everything left becomes a grindstone. A house cannot help but let out some of what it carries. It bleeds from the walls, gathering in unseen beads that slowly drip towards the carpet and make the family dog whimper. It slips out in little ways…a creak on the stairs, a door that closes on its own. Sometimes it comes in gusts, bursts of wrath that topple books from shelves, send pictures flying from the walls, and make lights flicker and pop. Sometimes the memory of a man’s voice, his agony and fury, flies from the rafters, his words ricocheting from floor to ceiling. The neighborhood children would speak of it in whispers.

Perhaps I could have been a theatre. Never quiet places, where feelings upon feelings upon feelings bump and tumble and multiply, knocking props off from shelves and popping lights in the rafters. If I were a theatre, they would leave a light on within me, to appease the ghosts.

Or else maybe I could have been a museum, where every stroke of paint is buzzing with feeling, where stone and wood and metal and cloth are alive with it, and the air vibrates with what is left behind after people stand in awe and clutch their hearts.

But I am not a museum, or a theatre, or a house. I am a church. For some, God is just a word, but within my walls, reverence is tangible. There is a beauty to that uniquely human emotion. Other animals do not seem to worship. Humans look upwards and ache with hope. It fills the stained glass windows. Every beam of wood and every stone is weighted with meaning. “This is important,” each of them says. “I am made beautiful by your hope.”

In older places, the hope and sorrow and joy and fear of centuries make each room feel bigger than it looks. Feelings compound upon themselves, multiplying over time. At first, there is reverence and wonder and awe at the way the light shifts, at the coolness of stones, at the bend of wood. But that wonder seeps back into the light and stones and wood, until even people who believe only in what they can measure sense the weight of that wonder.

The stones do not matter only because they are carved. The wood does not matter only because it’s old. The glass does not matter only because it bends the light. Their power is in what they contain, in the fine matter of what was felt there. The word God alone does not make this place sacred. It is sacred because a woman came to that place and mourned the loss of a child. Because a man came to that place and thanked Something Bigger to be alive. Because a child came to that place and hoped for something they could not name.

Come, walk among my ruins. There is wonder here, a looking upwards and upwards. The acidic burn of hatred hissing in corners. Hope against hope. Whispered prayers, whispered sins. Tonight, the memories of these feelings taste of ashes.

An Ode to Plastic Wrap

“Maybe it was time to consign this chair to nothing, but I would do this on a day when it was not important. I would break its spell in my own due time.” –The Testament of Mary, Colm Toibin

It’s been 8 ½ years since Jacob and I got married. As one of the most practical wedding gifts in history, someone gave us 3000 square feet of plastic wrap. It’s a giant roll, from Costco. From the beginning of our marriage to the end of it, we went through maybe a fourth of the roll. 750 square feet.

Who knows how many plates and bowls and serving dishes of food it was used to preserve. 500, maybe? We used it to wrap up the window air conditioner for storage in the winter. It protected plates and picture frames each of the four times we moved. It’s a perfect temporary storage solution. It does the same job that bubble wrap or a Tupperware container would do—keeping things preserved for now, until the time when we need the thing it’s preserving.

The roll of plastic wrap came with us from 5th West to College Avenue in Rexburg, then from College Avenue to the farmhouse with Mama and Papa Chapman. It traveled with us to that first little house in Provo. When we moved to Salt Lake, we almost forgot it in a kitchen cupboard in that Provo house, and I drove all the way back to get it. “That would have been a huge loss,” Jacob said, half laughing with relief, as I carried it into the kitchen.

That roll of plastic wrap is “one of the things I got in the divorce.” Our separation was uncomplicated, legally speaking, and amicable, emotionally speaking, even if it was deeply painful for both of us. Jacob left the plastic wrap behind, which I’ve always interpreted as a sign of good will. I still have it. It’s seen me through maybe 100 more plates and bowls of food preservation. I still use it to wrap and store the air conditioner. Sometimes I use it to protect surfaces while I paint.

Most often nowadays, it’s used to wrap up finished cross stitches for my Etsy shop. The box the roll came in fits perfectly (PERFECTLY) into my craft cart, and it seems a logical way to protect stitches for storage and shipping. But it’s being used to protect dishes and picture frames lately, too.

Because I’m packing up this Salt Lake City apartment. I’ve spent four years here, two with Jacob and two without him. And it felt like time. My life is shifting, and, it feels like I’ve outgrown this place. I’m a houseplant in need of re-potting.

I’ll be joining a friend and another roommate in a perfect old house with a giant backyard, about ten minutes away from my current place. I’ve got two weeks before move-in day, so I’ve been emptying shelves and clearing out closets. And I keep stumbling upon things I saved when Jacob and I separated. Old pictures. Notes. A small book stamp that says “Chapman Family Library.” There are some things that I’m keeping. They’re the tangible equivalent of journal pages. A record of the past, of truths that were, that add up to become the truth that is. My marriage with Jacob was a big and beautiful and important part of my life, and I feel no need or desire to erase it.

But there are some things that fall into a strange “in between” category. Things that I don’t feel a need to keep for sentimental reasons, but that I’m having a hard time getting rid of. A few framed pictures of us. Things that used to decorate the Chapman home, when this apartment was the Chapman home.

Maybe it’s too much to let go of everything all at once. The apartment and the framed pictures, too. If I’m a houseplant in need of re-potting, I don’t want to cut off too many of my roots in the process.

So for now, I’ll wrap these things in plastic wrap. I’ll pull of yards and yards from that Kirkland Signature roll, and preserve those pictures temporarily. Until their spell is broken. Until I’m no longer in the middle of being transplanted.

There’s a voice in my head that cries out for me to make a decision, to let go or not. But I’m learning that I can roll my own, when it comes to healing. I’ll let those things from the Chapman home sit, preserved in amber, or in plastic wrap, as the case may be. Until it’s time to transplant them, too.