‘Oh, my, God Becky, look at her butt…’: on judging & mansplaining & other such nonsense

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Student: Are you married? You look like a married person. You got kids? I can see you with like two kids, and you’re the mom making the healthy snacks.
Me: That is depressing. Next thing I know you are going to tell me I look like I have a minivan.
Student: Yes! You do- you’re a soccer mom for sure!
Me:
Student: But that’s not depressing though. You know what’d be depressing is like if you go home and you got cats, and you walk in and they’re like meow meow.

Let’s just get to it: I look a certain kind of way. Although, rest assured “Soccer Mom” is not, and has never been, the intended effect, I can see how I might present that way, especially to my young, female students of color – a demographic for whom I have both an immeasurable appreciation for, and an equally substantial gratitude for having been able to work along side of in a variety of capacities for more than two decades.

Here’s the basics. I am white. I am middle-aged. I am not a flashy human (save for my shoes, which if you have been following my current life trajectory, you might realize have been reprioritized for a minute #hipreplacement). I am not and have never been particularly trendy, whatever that means. I chalk that tendency up to several things: 1) not having unlimited funding to constantly ‘keep up’ with whatever or whomever; 2) being a big, tall, strong kid through the anorexic-heroin chic-body dysmorphic late 70s, 80s, and 90s; 3) a chosen profession where if you have crazy/flashy, or even just a distinctive accessory, you become “that one teacher who always wears that…” (I have never wanted to be trapped by a passing fancy.)

But really, I am just sort of subtle in my aesthetic choices. A former colleague once told me that he saw it as an cool juxtaposition of being a strong woman who took no shit and occupied many traditionally male spaces (social studies teacher and coach) and understood that how I dressed ran counter to expectations in a way that gave both aspects of who I am more gravitas. My grandma (my grandma for chrissakes) once lamented that I was “so conservative” as I was considering buying some new item of some sort on a trip we took to Europe. One of my long-time BFFs and confidantes has described my style (and me) thusly:

Anne Taylor Hippie? Your countenance, demeanor, appearance is classy Californian casual with some sassy blonde thrown in. No one knows you’re a secret hippie Deadhead from Petaluma. It’s as if you’ve come out from your past unscathed… no one would know about your travails, your missteps over the years. You look perfectly pristine and princess-y. You are the least obvious looking Patti Smith I know. You have the intellect, knowledge, and stories of a rock star, but you are chill as fuck to the unknowing masses.

(I like that last part the best, obviously.)

An interesting (euphemism alert) consequence of the reality that we are all more than the sum of the clothes on our backs + the work that we do + the places from which we hail is that I have been categorically chastised and condescended to in professional settings based on an assumption that I am less equipped to do the work I do because of how I look on two very specific occasions. That this happened most recently on Wednesday of last week at my new job, was disappointing, but also clarifying in some important ways for me (in addition to the comments that were posted on my FB page in response to the opening anecdote of this post) that underscore the power of how we look, the words we use, and the ways we understand the interactions that arise from it all.

The first incident occurred in my first year at Berkeley High School on the occasion of me receiving what is likely to this day the worst professional evaluation I have ever received. The evaluator, a VP at the time with definite eyes on a principalship he would never get at BHS, was a sharp dressed, well-educated Latino, who felt that he was vastly more equipped to work with young people of color than anyone, and certainly more than I could ever be – a generic white woman, most recently teaching at a nearby district with a distinctively different demographic, and before that Asia… he actually would later say to me, “How could a person used to dealing with those kinds of students understand the students I was working with at BHS?” [There is SO much to unpack in that statement.]

The thing about this particular evaluation is that when I read it, it seemed completely dissociated from what had been happening in the classroom. I was not even sure how to engage in a conversation around it because I had no understanding of what was being discussed in the evaluation. The immediate result of this was that on subsequent evaluations there would be an additional person in the room. We settled on our school counselor. This would prove to be an even bigger problem because his inability to see actual areas of strength and need for improvement would be further obstructed by the presence of an additional white woman.

The second evaluation was (in my mind) an even stronger class. For whatever reason, that day, those sophomores decided to be active, interested, curious, engaged, cooperative… I mean, frankly, it was bizarre. At the conclusion of the class, the three adults in the room left seemingly on the same page. At the debrief I was shocked. I sat and listened to his assessment and literally had no words. The second set of eyes that had been in the room was also there for the debrief (we had decided via union reps that I would not meet with this VP alone after the previous experience) and where I was stunned to silence she became enraged in spite of her best efforts to remain completely calm. I ended up leaving while the two of them stayed because I had to teach, but I remember distinctly hearing her say, “I cannot believe we were in the same classroom based on what you have written here.”

Long story slightly less long, the struggle for this VP to see that I could possibly bring anything not just of value, but that would not be toxic to my students continued. He said, “You do not understand children of color. You do not connect with them, particularly the young women.” No one I worked with could understand where this was coming from, and the student population that I worked most closely with would certainly contradict this assessment. Eventually, I would end up contacting a lawyer and be assigned a different evaluator.

I never really understood what the issue had been, but it really did seem like the way I presented myself – from how I looked, to how I talked, to how I worked with students – prevented this man from seeing what I was actually doing at the school. While my pseudo-bougieness has become somewhat of a calling card (emphasis on pseudo) I assure you I am in on the joke.

So much about how we look can be deceiving… No?

Last Tuesday, several days into PD for the upcoming school year, a Black Latino teacher I am working with (who ironically also worked for the aforementioned VP at the school he would eventually move to in order to secure a principalship) had an eruption in a team planing meeting. At the time, I felt like I understood the reaction – we were all tired and working to do something collaboratively that the majority of us were unclear about in terms of structure, cadence, and objective. That evening he emailed me saying he thought we should check in the next morning before PD. I said sure, I could make that happen and arrived that morning expecting him to say something along the lines of, “Hey, sorry for the outburst, just wanted to let you know where I was coming from…”

That was not what was awaiting me.

I showed up and we sat down and there began his soliloquy.

Unlike Omarosa, I was not prepared to tape it (though I see that as a mistake now as I try to make sense of it all) and so these are just some of the highlights absent the extremely verbose and rambling context built around his ‘I statements’ (sidebar: this man had just proclaimed the day before that he prided himself on timely and blunt feedback – there was not a single element of bluntness here.) The nutshell version of him talking at me for more than 30 minutes was that he does not like how I am. He circularly addressed how who he is does not allow for people like me, from the ways I conduct myself with others, to how I utilize time, among many other things. Suffice it to say, it was not the apology I thought I would be getting.

“I am at a point in my life where I have to address the things that trigger me. You took a phone call yesterday – I mean I took a call too, but you did not step outside!” (Nor did he, btw.)

“I feel I need to explain to you…” (I did not walk out at this point, but I must be honest, I am sort of done with men explaining things to me – shout out to Solnit and my entire life experience.)

“I am here to work and I want it to be a positive experience for me…” (What in the heck does he think other people are hoping for?)

“I have not always had good experiences working with others and being acknowledged for who I am at previous schools…” (I cannot even.)

“I want to respect your experiences as an educator, but…” (I have more than three times the number of years in the classroom as this man despite his being 5 years older than me, something that had come up earlier, which I think bothers him.)

I leave this as the last one (though it certainly was not the end of his presentation) because it was what really stayed with me. The idea that somehow my experience was less than. This man does not know a thing about me – who I am, what I have done, the work I have participated in, the students I have worked with, the way my classroom operates, but he felt he could speak to all of it.

This was troubling to me as I sat there conscious of my whiteness, which by definition is a privilege, and his being a man of color – no easy task in the world these days. How could I respond without simply negating his perspective (a known consequence of white privilege) but also speak to the clearly misogynistic diatribe I felt was being put on me? I considered all the ways he seemed to be trying to mitigate his speech and thought of a dear colleague from last year who had told me he never gets mad because he cannot – because being a black man removes that option for him in white spaces. I wondered what my new colleague’s actual point was (I am afraid I never got it, in spite of my efforts to do so) before it was lost in an overabundance of explanation and qualification about how who I am is less than simply because of who I am. Would it have been easier to understand if he had just said whatever it was that he meant even if it mean his getting angry?

Ultimately, I could not figure out why he felt so entitled that he could come at me and tell me how it all was. And then it hit me: all of these assumptions he was making were coming from his perception of me, which at this point could really only be based on how I present on the outside. I was stunned. His look is so hugely intentional and cultivated, I wonder if he really thinks that his look is him, in totality. I cannot imagine that is true, or that he believes it is.

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When I eventually had the chance to speak, I told him what I had heard him say, offering him a chance to clarify or correct my understanding – he did neither. I apologized for taking the phone call the previous day and said that while I would never intend to trigger him, I understood that had been the impact of my behavior. Here he began to explain how his experience led him to conclude something (I’m not sure what, I couldn’t keep up with the circles at this point) and I politely interjected and said:

I am not comfortable with your insistence on explaining things to me. I hear you say you want to respect my experience as a teacher- “but”. However, because you feel compelled to explain to me how things are it is clear the “but” is more significant than the respect. Perhaps I can share with you that men explaining things to me is one of my triggers. We are both new teachers here, ostensibly hired for a lot of the same reasons, so let’s agree that we are both bringing a lot to the table, including positive intent.

He said nothing.

I said “I hope you have a super productive and good day!” and walked away. If only walking away from preconceived notions was as easy.

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Thank you notes.

You can’t cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water. ~  Rabindranath Tagore

There are turning points in a person’s life, many, if you’re lucky, I think. A turning point for me certainly was the decision to become an expat in the summer of 2005. Although now it seems I have repatriated, (“She’s so American!” ~ Lucas D.) several incredibly clichéd truths remain around that decision to pull a geographical some 9+ years ago. But there is beauty in cliché, likely because of the universal truths they are born from and therefore resonate from them.

The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances; if there is any reaction, both are transformed. ~ Jung

I have been forever changed by my choice to live on the other side of the world, and although many understand this obvious statement, real understanding, the kind that never needs to be explained, the kind that is shown through a look, a nod…  can only be shared with those who too have made this choice. This return to Hong Kong reminded me of the power of this shared experience and the importance of reconnecting to it.

I am unsure of the exact reason it took me so long to go back, though I can speculate at many, some embarrassingly mundane (should I spend the money, my “partner” was uncomfortable about it, it is too hard to arrange…) and others more complicated (what would I find there, do I need to be reminded of things, am I going for the “right” reasons?) In the end, all of these contemplations turn out to be rubbish. Why I make a choice is irrelevant to anyone beyond my psyche really, and the judgments surrounding it are things I cannot control. Further, the logistics can always be handled, and it is only a provincial mind that allows them to stand in the way. And really, what sort of “partner” places limits upon one? [A former partner, that’s what kind…]

In the end you just go. Or maybe you don’t, that of course being your own choice.

I left Hong Kong on 1 July 2010. I returned, briefly, in February 2011 with the specific intention of proving to myself that I had made the right choice to repatriate. That was foolish. But I was in a bad place, relying too much on the opinions of others about the choices I was making, and insecure about an unsure future here. The insecure and unsure mind makes many declarations: YES, I have chosen correctly. NO, I do not need this. Etcetera, etcetera, off into tedious infinity.

Three and a half years later I returned. Not so much as a prodigal daughter, (though one could make the argument that in some ways I had squandered (by diminishing) some of the amazing lessons I had learned while abroad – and was welcomed back into the arms of my teachers with nary a moment of consideration) nor in some prodigious nature replete with characteristics of a grand tour of places far and wide (though prodigious in some other ways, I shall allow you to speculate.) Home now for nearly three days (though this is my first alone in my space with only coffee and cats – definitely a story for another time-space-medium) I can say with the most sincere conviction that my return was important, necessary, invigorating, clarifying, and right.

No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride…and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well…maybe chalk it off to forced conscious expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten. ~ HST

It is important to assert that I had been longing for a visit to Hong Kong, really a trip – a voyage – anywhere, as I had felt my wings unduly and involuntarily clipped for the past two years (though it would be irresponsible to suggest that these things happen entirely involuntarily, if at all involuntarily.) I had been stayed put. But then I had an experience that shook things up a bit and like a stick loosened from the mud I chose to follow the current. Of course, this did not come without judgement (both my reaction to said shake up and my choice to head to Hong Kong, but lately I am less and less interested in the judgement of others.) So, in what appeared to the untrained, uninterested, or unobservant eye, to be spontaneous (irresponsible? reactionary?) I bought the ticket.  I would deal with all of the reasons why this would be a problem later. It turns out that problems are largely a product of perception, by the way.

I let my circles know I would be coming back. ‘Home’? It is hard to say, but I believe there are so many versions of home, and likely the “where you hang your hat” definition is most accurate, particularly for me, as you can be sure I would never hang my hat somewhere I did not want to be; I have issues about my stuff. I opened my heart and my calendar to see what would be, and just let things work themselves out… and it was – if there is such a thing – perfection.

No man [or woman! – Monty Python] ever steps in the same river twice, for its not the same river and he’s not the same man [or woman! – ibid]. ~ [apologies to] Heraclitus

For a change, I harbo(u)red few illusions that I would return to a place that was the same, or people who were the same, or as one who was the same. I also allowed myself to be open to anything, making expectations unnecessary. I reminded myself that people might want to know about my reasons for coming back, (although, really the only people who asked about it were the people I was leaving in America) and that there might be assumptions… and I allowed for those as well. Why should I care what those might be? A few days into my visit, a friend pointedly asked if this trip was about Stu, I thought for a moment before answering, considering how this made me feel – shy? embarrassed? silly? I shrugged and said, it was really about me, and Stu is certainly a part of that. The answer felt right and true, and my friend smiled and said, “Welcome home.”

From the moment I landed and walked into the palpably thick air of a Hong Kong summer, everything felt right and true. Different yes, but familiar enough to comfortable and welcoming, while different enough to exciting and inspiring. [In keeping with the theme of cliché: same same but different, if you will.]

And there are so many I have to thank for this.

Thank you Frenchie for being you; goofy, loving, generous – and holy shit – ON TIME! Thank you for allowing me to use your space without limits or conditions and making time for me on the days before your departure. Wine, cheese, walks, sweat, shandy, stories, the beach, spring rolls, coffee, yoga & failed helicopter plans… Kind of a lot for three days. Although the time was too short, vive le France! And to next summer we look.

Thank you Kelly for being the consummate planner and arranging the traditional Lamma dinner and knowing precisely who to include. Although we took no photos, (wait, really?) that I was able to see my original Lamma benefactor and favo(u)rite OAP is something I cannot express my gratitude for. And the rest of you who were there… you were my first Lamma family without question, and time and space aside, you remain my family.

Thank you Chris, Jill, Cath & Daz for knowing I had to share our mutual loss, and knowing without words that it mattered. That it all matters. And for much more that need not be articulated, but suffice it to say, Cath’s bar is still home and I loved being able to rock up like a local. The four of you cannot know how grateful I am for being able to spend time together in an awesome variety of ways over my twelve short days.

Thank you Kate for being you and allowing me to combine two things I love beyond measure: Yoga & Lamma. Fabulous.

Thank you to my cousin Akasha. He knows why. And although these times are trying in many ways, for us they have been transformative. Namaste, yo.

Thank you Camellia for letting me be an auntie and for so many things: massages, margaritas, breakfasts, spa treatments, sushi & shopping. You are a fabulous mama, Chloe is so lucky. Were it not for the little princess I would still be shaking my head trying to figure out if it was 2009 or 2014 as it seems like not a day has passed since the last massage & margarita session.

Thank you Sarah & Willie for getting me to Kenneth’s recital… he was amazing and still EXACTLY the same curmudgeon I love to recall. To see you two along with Inggie and Clare was awesome. I miss you guys!

Thank you Keren for spotting me fresh off the boat and your gorgeous smile. I feel lucky for all of our unplanned encounters and the time we shared.

Thank you Tracey & Jerry & Lucas for still being the best neighbors a girl could ask for and reminding me of about a million things I love about our little village (and dinner!) I am gutted to not be having a wine with you and Nick when she arrives in a few weeks time… but I’ll be there in spirit.

Thank you Tam & Aims for making time and sharing Mui Wo with me. Gorgeous afternoon, and one of the best catch-ups of all time.

Thank you Veer for continuing to be my teacher. I am lucky to have a yoga master like you. You have shaped my practice and continue to inform my understanding of yoga far beyond the asana.

Thank you Emily for always being the connection between me and the girls we practice with and making time for a lovely long lunch. I can’t wait to see you again.

Thank you James for lunch and all the NTK news… and the thought-provoking conversation about so many professional options. And cats. You were a great boss… and make me almost consider working six days a week again. Almost.

Thank you Fun Bobby for being you. Hong Kong is simply not Hong Kong without a night out with you – in whichever form it might take. Sorry we missed the pandas, but hey, gelato and hot pilots are fairly good compensation.

Thank you Rodney for lunch and your sanguine nature and ability to explain so much of what is happening now in Hong Kong. You look amazing, and as you are singularly the reason I ever came to Hong Kong in the first place, to not see you would have left my return incomplete.

Thank you Adele and darling N for the breakfast adventure and shared time. I am astounded at the young man N is becoming, and it is certainly a credit to his momma.

Thank you Andy for being you. Always. I miss you, mate.

Thank you Kelly L. for reminding me that the light I see in others is a reflection of my own light – you’ve always seen something in me that is special, and that is a reflection of you.

Thank you Dr. Man for squeezing me in on your return. You have always had a unique ability to shift my perspective, and this was no exception. It is interesting for me to see you, then and now, because you remain, ( not ironically) someone who is simultaneously steady and fluid.

Thank you Heather and Eric for a rain-soaked happy hour. Thank you Andrew for sharing your pool. Thank you Barry for continuing to entertain in so many ways. Thank you Jack for the many ferry hellos. To Dave O., Parksy, Mooney: thank you for remembering. To Cita and Luisa and Joyce and Emma & Danny: thank you for remembering me like I never left. John Fox… thank you for saying hey, and the conversation: San Francisco may not be the only American city I could live in, but it certainly is pretty great.

And a huge, smiling thank you to everyone who came up to me with a hug and said, seriously, “Have you been on holiday?”

To Eric, Olly, Vicky, Nickie, Sheli, Tamara N., and those I missed for reasons many, I know I will see you the next time around.

The clichés comfortably, or at least aptly, remain: You can take the expat out of Hong Kong but you can’t take Hong Kong out of the expat, roads less travelled, rivers stepped in and out of, nothing lasts forever, we are all in this together… and life goes on.

Thank god for that.

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We make our decisions, and then our decisions turn around and make us. ~ F.W. Boreham

Nostalgiasm.

For the past couple of weeks I have been deep, deep, DEEP into the archives of my past lives. Although I realize that sounds weird, going through the accumulated archives (the intentional and the accidental) of my human existence, it really does feel like a series of loosely connected but wildly divergent experiences.  I have found things from my infancy, my burgeoning adolescence, my painfully intentional embarkation into college, my initial departure for far off shores, and all things in between.

To say it has been a long strange trip would not only be plagiarized, but vastly understated.

Many of the true gems deserving of public display found themselves on my Instagram (because why shouldn’t Facebook, Inc., own my memories?) and there were heaps more beneath the carefully laid bandages I have strategically applied in order to preserve and/or to obfuscate the uncomfortable, precious, healing, and irreparable memories.

As I went through the boxes I was awed by the (embarrassing, silly, hopeful, ruined, strange, unfamiliar, heart-wrenching) notes, photos, accolades, and things… so many things. And as I sat among the things, things I would keep, give away, throw away, I thought aloud:

I miss this girl.

Now to be clear, I was a strange kid; too everything. Too tall. Too bossy. Too critical, Too worried. Too smart. Too too too. But looking back through time at all the things that were me, I suddenly missed my younger self in a way I had never really considered before. At least all those too’s were mine.

I hear all the time about people who miss their youth, but it is usually a ‘glory days’, cougar-y, broken dreams-y longing, which I have never identified with. As I looked back at my life what I missed was being the person in those pictures and notes and things, who was totally free to be herself. She was not operating from underneath the weight of a lifetime of labels assigned to her by other people. The girl I saw in all that stuff was not afraid to smile with crooked teeth, or laugh out loud, or stand up for what was right, or to speak up for herself. She was not afraid to be totally fashion/music/style challenged, she was just going for it. Not that she had a huge number of original ideas in any of those areas, but she tried them all on.

A lifetime of “you are so…” “you know how you are…” ” it is your style, way, personality…”

It dawned on me as I lugged boxes on boxes on boxes of things from here to there to gone, that the heaviest thing I was carrying around was something I haven’t put down since I picked up that first thing someone told me was mine years ago.

It is funny that I am thinking about this now, because right now I am faced with a real, conscious opportunity  to think about where I am, what I want, and to truly remember who I am. And it is hard. It is hard to ignore the constant barrage of people telling you who you are, what you are good at (and not so good at) and how you should be and what you should want, need, care about. When you think about the infinite and incessant input a person gets in this regard it is deafening.

No wonder we just quietly take it on board.

Think for a minute how many times in a day or a week you hear someone say, “You are…” I have become acutely aware of it in my present work situation because it seems to be the primary operating system there to tell people how they are, who they are, even why they are. But it started a long time ago, the first time someone pointed out something about myself to me that I picked up and put on.

They are not all bad things, mind you, (you are so smart, so athletic, so tall -?-) but they become this fabric, this tapestry, that you slowly add to over a lifetime and you wear everyday, adding to it, good parts, bad parts, strengthening parts, sad parts. I remember things people said about me when I was really young, (mostly the good things); when I was discovering adolescence (mostly the bad things); and beyond (mostly the confusing things).

And when do you take it off?

In my case, I didn’t. In all the days of adding to this technicolor dream-coat of a life, I never took it off. Sometimes I held on tighter because I liked what it said about me, other times, because I felt like I’d be lost without someone else’s understanding of where I belong in the world.

Sometimes, I keep it on to hide because it is a whole lot easier to wear all those labels than to try to really show people who you really are.

But sitting in that filthy garage among piles of life sometimes less ordinary and other times so totally ordinary, I caught a glimpse of what that little girl way back then thought of herself. The fact was she didn’t think of herself that much. She thought about the wide world out there and all the cool things to do and see and taste and try (within reason of course – she was a Virgo then as now after all.)

And it was not half bad.

I walked away from that garage and another completed project, noticeably dirtier, a little sadder, and a lot freer than I had felt in a long time.

The next time someone starts a sentence with, “You are so….” I am going to do that thing someone special taught me in Hong Kong years ago: Look just beyond their left shoulder and continue on with whatever I might be doing, politely nodding and agreeing when they are done with their most current assessment of me.

And I am gonna leave that coat right there. I have plenty of my own stuff to wear, thank you very much.

Do you believe in magic? How about John Fugelsang?

A lot of talk on the internets these days about what g/God thinks, and who g/God loves/likes/hates, and what is means to be religious (well, to be honest, this is mostly surrounding what it means to be Christian…) While I know this is hardly a revelation (see what I did right there?) recently it seems quite pointed toward specific current issues: the abortion debate and same-sex marriage. Granted I live in San Francisco so I am sure that my perspective here has a very obvious bent, but I have been amazed listening to people speaking for g/God, even here. Interestingly, no one is talking about how we should not judge and we should love our neighbor and we should care for those who cannot make it on their own…

It has got me thinking about a couple of things. First of all, I am not traditionally religious insofar as I was not raised within the teachings of a particular faith. But I do believe… in something. I am not sure what that looks like exactly, but I think to assume that everything conceivable is a result of humanity (not to mention the silliness of considering (believing??) that we have the capacity to comprehend “everything conceivable”) is rather limited in view. And I am not just talking about science or evolution, but I am talking about feelings, and connections, like Edward Lorenz thought about and like the feeling you get when you are around someone you have a huge crush on: that shit is real. These ideas inform the foundations of my belief system. Secondly, I have come up around a variety of religious types, from Catholics, to Baptists, to Lutherans (okay, not traditionally super devout…), Mormons (of the traditional & Jack varieties), Jews, Sikhs, Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims, even a few fundamental Christians, as well as a few other new-agey varieties. I feel like this was a really great environment to see how religion can be hugely beneficial to humanity. None of these traditions seem to fit me perfectly, but I keep my eyes open – perhaps embodying the hope my mom had for me, that I would “have a ticket for all the rides.” I do not mean to make light of all this either. I think to say, as people like Richard Dawkins do, that people who believe in a god are delusional, is pretty ignorant, and even in my darkest days I have not come to the depressing conclusion that more than 90% of humankind are delusional.Frankly, the only thing I find more arrogant than religious zealots spewing hatred in the name of an omnipotent God, are atheists judging people in the same way for holding a different world view. But I have written about this before and need not digress. Lastly, I believe that the energy that connects people is benevolent (if sometimes misunderstood), even when I am in my worst moods, I hold this to be true. This is important to understand my criticisms of those who would speak for g/God. Continue reading