Space and Other Enthusiastic Interests

I love space. I wear space pun t-shirts and constellation earrings and refer to “Oppy” and “Curiosity” and “Juno” in regular conversation as if normal people know all about these rovers and satellites and what they tweet. I am also taking of the day of the full North American solar eclipse off work so I can enjoy it how I choose (i.e., in the direct path, with my boyfriend and brother, preferably drinking a moon pie milkshake). Kennedy Space Center, it’s existence and also the two vacations in which I’ve visited it, gives me a ton of feels. I reread The Martian at least twice a year. “Hidden Figures” makes me so happy that I’ll watch it two or three times, back to back, on a Saturday while crocheting and folding socks. I tweet “Merry Christmas” and “Welcome home” to astronauts on the International Space Station. My desktop image is either a high-res image of Charon, Jupiter’s southern pole, or Star Wars fan art of Rey, Leia, or Jyn. And the in-house blog contributors at work know that the best way to get a gushing reply email to their newest post, and for me to boost the crap out of it on the company’s social media, is to write about the distance between stars or the Apollo missions or something.

It’s important to note that, though I love space and profess that love openly, I am enthusiastically devoted to many things, and so am not Neil deGrasse Tyson or Emily Calandrelli levels of knowledge about the Hubble Telescope, upcoming missions, or the physics of black matter. (Please, no one ask me about light. I know it’s both a particle and a wave, but I don’t understand this at all.) Neither am I equivalent levels of knowledgeable about comics, yarn, young adult literature, ancient Egyptian mythology, hurricanes, Doctor Who (especially in the past 3 seasons), sharks, musicals, or women in the Bible, though I am deeply enthusiastic about all of these things. More than your average human with other interests.

People with less broad but overlapping interests sometimes grow annoyed with me for not having dyed my own alpaca wool or not being able to quote from a middling episode of the most recent season of Who. I try not to be upset by this. If I’m upset, it’s because that person has implied—or stated—that I’m not a “real” fan because I don’t bear knowledge or experience equal to or exceeding their own. There’s also, often, gender and age expectations in here that I’m not getting into because I don’t feel like it and it’ll bring the mood down. But bear in mind that I’m a human without knowing the exact pH of human blood (Kidding. It’s 7.35-7.45 depending on the person.), so I can be a comics fan without having read the first 17 issues of “Cloak & Dagger” (I haven’t read a single one, though I’m excited to try out the TV series adaptation).

I think they get upset because there aren’t too many in-person people they can talk proverbial shop with regarding out mutual interest, and they want to be able to talk in deep detail, as deep as they want, because clearly I exist for their conversational enjoyment. Mitigate expectations, my friends. Let’s gratefully sock-slide through our favorite lines of “The Great Comet” and our favorite characters in The Graceling Series until one of us (okay, probably me) reaches the stairs. Then, instead of getting upset that I haven’t mastered sock-footed stairs yet, let’s turn in a new direction! Also, don’t assume when I show up for a sock-party than I can’t walk at all. Don’t be that jerk. Also, I’m not here for you.

Not that I don’t potentially love you. But friends can also get frustrated when I don’t take up a new thing they’ve tried to introduce me to. For example, my best friend in all the world tried for eons to get me to watch “Parks and Rec”. Did I like what I saw? Definitely. Did I want to watch it? Yup! But I didn’t have the time/brain space then. I have found the brain space/time since her first attempts, but not so much with “Arrested Development”. There’s a degree of pressure to a person you love wanting you to love a thing with them. Loving enthusiastically takes work! It takes time! It takes a headspace open to New, but also that particular flavor of New. And there’s always the possibility that I won’t love it, thereby disappointing my dear, beloved friend.

Also, I believe they get annoyed because they know what brilliance I’m missing out on. (I know I need to read The Sun Is Also a Star! I know.) And yet, I suspect it’s fun to watch me gush over something, and they now don’t get to enjoy my squealing and talking incredibly fast and possibly tearing up over this thing. Being able to watch my newfound joy likely helps them to enjoy it all over again, in a way they haven’t since they were the gushers. Like when I introduced my roommate to “Ninja Warrior”. Or my bestie to “Arrow”. Or when I tell my massage therapist about Greenland sharks. (It’s Shark Week. My evenings are booked. Every night. Sorry, boyfriend.)

(Also, sorry coworkers. It’s possible I might be a bit annoying this week. But learning is FASCINATING.)

Here’s the takeaway. “Jill of all trades, master of none, is oftentimes better than master of one.” Also, don’t be a jerk about it.

Refilling the Wells

A few weeks back, I spent a long weekend visiting my best friend. We’d planned to spend most of our time working on our respective writing projects, but by the time I arrived it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. At least, not on my end.

Remember when I thanked Carrie Fisher for giving my desire to publish back to me? Well, it hasn’t been that easy. And the desire hasn’t remained constant. And I’ve still done very little of that work. So I felt a strong need to get over this block and to work like Kayla and I had planned. But I was coming off a very busy past few days at a work conference. I was physically tired, spiritually overwrought, socially drained, and creatively empty. My gracious bestie recognized this and refused to let me feel guilty over it. Instead, she encouraged me to spend the weekend refilling my wells. Here are some ways I like to do that.

Nap. Not kidding. I’m always an advocate for naps, and more and better sleep in general. And I know this isn’t easy for a lot of people. Kids and work and schedules prevent you, or you can’t turn your brain off long enough. But even just trying, even just laying there with your eyes closed can help you breath deeper. Giving yourself permission to take these five minutes or half an hour or two hours gives your overworked brain a chance to slow down a step or two. And if you make it to that space between sleep and awake, something like dreaming while dozing, that’s creative gold.

Read. No agenda, no timeline, just read something you enjoy. It can be a book you’ve read a dozen times before (Lately, Fire by Kristin Cashore or The Wrath and the Dawn by Renee Ahdieh) or something totally new (Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher or Eliza and Her Monsters by Francesca Zappia). And while you’re at it…

Change the genre. In whatever you’re consuming—TV, movies, writing, the Bible—whatever you’ve been doing, switch it up. Start reading cozy mysteries. Start watching documentaries. Try your hand at poetry. Flip over to the Psalms or Isaiah. This change of pace and topic let’s your brain stretch and play a little. If you need to keep your routine but want to add a dash of newness, this can be a great way to accomplish both.

Color. I’ve been a proponent of coloring as a means of stress relief long before adult coloring books started dominating grocery store shelves and Christmas stockings. Coloring lets your brain focus on something small, manageable, and with clear evidence of progress. But you can also tear it up. You can throw it out. It’s just paper. Other forms of visual creativity, like crocheting or painting by numbers or cross-stitching or flower arranging, can help in similar ways. A college friend could create amazing art pieces on his tablet while watching the Super Bowl and carrying on multiple conversations. Engaging in visual creativity uses parts of your brain that words don’t, so go highlight something! Rearrange your bookshelves or closet until you’ve made a rainbow. Find a Star Wars coloring book, buy yourself a new box of colored pencils, and let yourself color.

Do a repetitive task. I find repetition comforting, which is how I ended up cleaning my hairbrush for half an hour last night. Vacuuming and scrubbing the stovetop involve repeated motions, leaving brain power free, but only if you want to use it. You can whittle your conscious thoughts down to nothing but the whirr of the bristle brush, or you can let your arm keep scrubbing while your mind works on whatever problems and preoccupations have been dominating your headspace. Jumping jacks or a hoola hoop would work, too.

Change your environment. Go for a hike Saturday morning or get out of town for the weekend if you can. Just pick a different coffee shop. Take yourself to your favorite restaurant and don’t be ashamed if all you can afford is an appetizer or dessert. Sit in your car with the windows down for a few minutes. Don’t be here, with all your thoughts running down all the usual pathways leading you to all your usual conclusions and anxieties. And you know what?

Go outside. Even if you only have time for a short walk. Even if it’s midnight and you only have a 3′ by 3′ porch. Even if you just stand in the doorway and let the sunlight hit your face and arms. ​When I lived in England, I walked or took public transit most places, so just getting from point A to point B meant I was outside a lot more than I am now. But being outside was not always pleasant. It could be sweltering hot or biting cold. Once, in October, we didn’t see the sun for five days straight. So what happened the moment the clouds parted at 2:10 that Tuesday? Everyone stopped. Drivers slowed and rolled down their windows to stick an elbow out. Pedestrians took off their gloves and stood to the side. Shoppers and shopkeepers stepped onto the sidewalk. Into the sunlight. Like wildflowers, our faces turned up to the sun. Like we were praying. Those three minutes of embracing the light helped us get through the rest of the day, the rest of the week until the storms passed.

G​ood luck, friends!​

Because Abram Lied to Pharaoh

This week on “Things Katie Learned from the Bible”: The whole child-by-proxy/Ishmael thing was only possible because Abram had lied to Pharaoh.

Background. Abram (later renamed Abraham) was married to his half-sister Sarai (later, Sarah) [Gen 20:12]. They lived in Canaan and, at one point, a local famine became so bad that they fled to Egypt (Gen 12:10). If this sounds familiar, but not with these names, that’s because something similar happens to Joseph’s family later in Genesis (chapter 43).

Sarai’s really beautiful. And because of her beauty and of how terrible men can be, Abram’s afraid the Egyptians will kill him so they can rape Sarai. So, Abram instructs her to lie and say that she is his sister, not his wife. (12:11-13)

Egyptians do notice Sarai’s beauty, officials tell Pharaoh all about her beauty (not her, mind you), and then Pharaoh wants her in his harem. So, he gives a bunch of stuff and animals—and also male and female slaves—to Abram, and generally treats him well, in exchange for his alleged sister Sarai. (12:15-16)

Now God gets ticked and sends plagues upon Pharaoh’s household (12:17). Apparently God’s the only one (other than Sarai) who doesn’t want her to be raped. When disasters befall you, you naturally wonder why, and somehow Pharaoh figures out that these plagues are because he’s been lied to and then took a married woman into his harem.

So now Pharaoh is ticked and calls Abram before him. Basically, he shouts, “What the hell, man?” (12:18-19). If Abram explains, it doesn’t hold any more weight with Pharaoh as it does with me. Then Pharaoh, the most powerful person in the region—if not the world at that time—an absolute ruler with power to take anything he wants at a mere word…let’s them go. Technically, he tells Abram to take his wife and get out (12:19). That seems rather generous, but Pharaoh’s priority was stopping whatever illnesses and suffering had come upon his household, and he wasn’t interested in risking further suffering by harming Abram for being such a callous, yellow-bellied, faithless liar. And although Pharaoh is framed as a victim here, let’s not lose track of Sarai, the real victim.

Abram does as Pharaoh commanded, leaving with Sarai and “all that he had” (12:20). Although it’s not said outright, it’s very likely that the Egyptian slave Hagar was one of those given to Abram. After all, Abram came to Egypt poor and is now leaving well off, if not rich. And there’s no mention I’ve seen of them returning to Egypt at any point, though we know from Joseph’s story two generations later that slave traders traveled between Canaan and Egypt (Gen 37).

Some years later—before pulling this mess all over again in Gen 20 with King Abimelech—God promises Abram and Sarai that they’ll have a baby (Gen 15:5; 18:10). There’s some laughter along the way, some disbelief, but they’re excited. And, by the way, I’d eavesdrop on my husband’s in-tent meetings if he once traded me to another man. (Gen 18)

After a while of continued infertility, Sarai gets impatient. Presumably Abram is, too, because he agrees when Sarai tells Abram to have children with her Egyptian slave Hagar. Sarai is planning to claim those children as her own. (Gen 16:1-2)

Sarai has probably been working out for a while how she can be infertile and past menopause, but going to have a child. This Egyptian woman is not past menopause, and we know from Jacob/Israel’s many children by his two wives and their various slaves that having a child-by-proxy was a practice of the times.

But once Hagar is pregnant, after Ishmael is born, and even after Sarah and Abraham’s son Isaac is also born, Sarah is incredibly jealous of Hagar. Hagar doesn’t act perfectly either. But on top of instructing her husband to repeatedly rape Hagar, Sarah mistreats Hagar so badly that she runs away once and is sent away once. Hagar could have died both times, but apparently God is the only one who cares that Abram raped her and Sarah orchestrated it. God saves her and promises to bless her son (16:1-12; 17:20). Hagar names God, “The God Who Sees Me” (16:13).

Now, you may be a bit edgy, even outright upset, because I have twice stated that women were raped in these stories, one by a patriarch, and the Bible’s usual language for this [“laid with her by force” (Gen 34:2; Deut 22:25, emphasis mine); or “violated” (2 Sam 13:14)] is absent. So let’s have a little refresher on consent.

Consent means that both parties in any sort of exchange, but especially a sexual one, verbally agree to the proceedings and the way in which they will happen. If I’m exchanging money for vegetables at the grocery store, the grocery store and I both agree on the amount I’ll give, the number and kinds of carrots I’ll take, when possession will shift, that I’ll use modern and legal US currency. We also agree that I can return the uneaten, undamaged carrots and receive the same amount of money back, but I cannot return half-eaten carrots for the money. Neither can the store compel me to return the carrots once I have bought them. Both parties have power and rights and the ability to make choices about the exchange and terms. I have the power to refuse to pay the price the store demands and so to not buy the carrots. I have the right to return the carrots. The store has the right to refuse to take damaged carrots back.

In a sexual relationship, power is extremely important. “By force” is aptly used in the Bible to convey that the physical power between the people was not equal and was not used equally for a consensual exchange. However, that is not the only kind of power at play. And let’s remember that rape is sexual intercourse with a person when that person refuses or is incapable of giving consent. Someone incapable of giving consent might be unconscious, for example. A slave is incapable of giving consent to a master or other member of the oppressive group because a slave has no social power. Neither does a slave have the legal right to refuse anything that their master demands.

Remember Joseph? Potipher’s wife tried to compel him to have sex with her, and Joseph had the physical power to flee. However, he had no social power and no rights, so his word was not believed when she accused him of rape and he was jailed for a crime he didn’t commit. (Gen 39)

Therefore, a slave of any kind cannot consent to a sexual relationship with their master. Or to anyone the master “gives” them to. This includes Abram giving Sarai to Pharaoh and Sarai giving Hagar to Abram. There cannot be consent because neither Sarai nor Hagar had any social power to refuse. As a concubine, Sarai had no rights in Pharaoh’s haram. As a slave, Hagar had no rights in Sarai’s (really, Abram’s) household.

How else does this concept apply?

Well, let’s look at Esther. Yes, she became the queen and saved the Jewish people. But she did not have equal power with her husband. She did not have equal power with any Persian, particularly when the edict against Jews was written (Esther 3:12-15). Remember how afraid she was to go before her husband? Especially because she hadn’t been summoned in a month (4:11). Remember how long she prays and fasts before doing so, stating “If I perish, I perish?” (4:14; 16). She has some social power in the court, but her power is still no where equal to her husband’s. This is especially true when she first had her one night with the king (Esther 2). She’d been taken from her home and family by force (2:8). She had no rights and would never be allowed to leave, even if the king did not want her. Because she did not have equal rights and power to the man who eventually married her, she could not consent to a sexual relationship. Even when married they did not have equal power. Therefore, she was raped.

Let’s come forward in history a bit. Sally Hemings was not Thomas Jefferson’s mistress. She was his slave. She could not consent. She was, therefore, repeatedly raped and forced to have and raise his children. When Jefferson was made ambassador to France during the Revolution, he took Sally with him to France, where slavery was illegal. She had no rights or power to refuse to go to France, and still had no social power once she got there. To conform to the letter of the French law outlawing slavery, Jefferson paid Sally a wage so small she wouldn’t have even been able to afford a trinket sold on the street.

When Jefferson was returning to Virginia at the end of the war, he gave Sally, and perhaps other slaves, the opportunity to stay in France as a free person. However, Sally chose to return to Monticello. Why? She was a pregnant 16-year-old in a country she did not know and in which she could not speak the language. She had no friends or opportunities, no means of supporting herself or her child, and Jefferson still owned her entire family. He could do anything to them in retribution for her staying in France. And even if he didn’t, she would never have seen them again if she’d stayed in France. She likely wouldn’t have survived in France. If she’d lived long enough to see the French Revolution, her life may well have looking a lot like Fantine’s in Les Miserables. So no, Sally was not Jefferson’s mistress. Theirs was not a love story. And neither was Hagar and Abram’s or Sarai and Pharaoh’s.

In another vein, have you read any books, or heard about any advertised, in which a Jew falls in love with a Nazi during WWII? There are a few. I know of one that won a major Christian romance award. The two main characters do not have equal power or rights, so true consent is not possible. I call shenanigans: this is not love, it’s rape. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Many Jewish authors I follow on Twitter and many members of various marginalized groups spoke strongly against the book and against it winning awards. This book is romanticizing the rape of Jewish people who did—and did not—survive WWII. It’s winning awards at the expense of today’s very real, very alive Jewish community.

To return to my original point, the whole garbage fire of a situation in Genesis 20 is only possible because Abram lied to Pharaoh and risked his wife being raped, which he did because he was scared for himself.