A Semi-Universal Apology for Being a Bad Friend

I hurt a friend without meaning to.  

In fact, it’s probably happened a lot in the past two years, as the demands of the PhD increasingly pushed out free time, and the "free time" I did have was principally dedicated to stress management, meetings, or working on an extra project to make ends meet (I think those last two negate the meaning of “free time,” but … well, that was my reality). When I left the PhD, I spent around 9 months living on couches or in temporary situations while I waited to firmly establish myself in my new city. Even then, it's proving temporary as I prepare for field research. This has meant that my evenings were often spent with hosts, or trying to find a grocery store, rather than following up on missed communications.

The friends who got my attention were the ones who demonstrated a need for it, or who went out of their way to demand it. As a result, other friendships didn’t get the attention they deserved.  

It was never intentional, but it isn’t excusable either.

I can’t tell my friend that I’m sorry right now – the present circumstances suggest the kindest thing for me to do is to love her from afar and wait to discuss this another time. The realization of her hurt today, however, left me wondering how many other friends right now secretly resent me for not responding to that email, or not following up with a phone-call, or missing their birthday party, or engagement shower, or wedding. Who is annoyed that when I’m home in Cleveland, a disproportionate amount of my time is dedicated to my niece and nephew and little of it is spent outside the confines of my parents’ and siblings’ houses? How can I tell these friends that they still matter to me, even if at times these past few years it hasn’t felt so?

A semi-universal apology is a bit of a cop-out, but I’m afraid many won’t tell me that our friendship has been adversely affected by my PhD years.

There are inevitably some who will say “How could you not know?”  And that might be a fair criticism.  I’d like to explain a bit, though. This isn’t intended to minimize my faults, but to acknowledge them as part of my life. 

I am great at addressing things that require little mental energy and lots of pep-talking (yes, my red-headed friend, you will find a job you like someday; no, my brunette friend, you should not feel bad about your break-up). I’m also amazing at using the 30 second mental breaks I need on facebook to write political commentary. And before you say “you use way more than 30 seconds on facebook!,” I know.  But often I’m just scanning through the newsfeed to see what’s interesting, and since I type 100 wpm, it usually isn’t more than 5 minutes at a time.  

At creating space and time to sit down and re-connect one-on-one about personal things?  I’m discovering I’m not good at that.  For starters, I have very little concept of time.  I frequently begin sentences with “The other day…” when I mean “Six months ago…,” and “last month” frequently indicates “two years ago…”  More than once a day I will look at the pictures of friends’ children and think, “Wow… I can’t believe X has a 5 year old.  I mean, we’re not really old enough for that!” I’m 37.  Almost every single one of my friends is old enough to have a 5 year old.  I’ve only practiced law for around 5 years, despite being a lawyer since 2005, which is shocking since I’m pretty sure I finished law school like two years ago.

Okay, those last bits are a little exaggerated, but not nearly as exaggerated as you might think. 

I went around 4 years with limited contact with one of my best friends in the world.  I never meant for it to be that way, but suddenly we were reconnecting in Scandinavia and I realized that I hadn’t seen her, or really spoken to her, since I had started the PhD.  At that point, I was due to submit it in about a month.  Thankfully, she’s the kind of friend where things pick up as if no time had passed at all. And too often it’s easy for me to believe that’s how all my friendships are, without realizing some of them need a little more nurturing than I’ve provided.

The friend I hurt – the one I know I hurt – is someone I considered one of my closest friends in the world.  Literally last month (yes I’m using literally correctly, but only because I have an event to serve as a point of reference), I listed her among the very small number of people I was certain would one day celebrate my 45^th birthday with a week-long celebration on a small island (that’s scheduled to happen in about 12 years; and “very small number” for me was still in excess of a dozen so I’m bad at numbers).  When I thought of her, I felt like I’d just seen her recently.  When I thought through the dates more intentionally, it’s probably been over a year.

That hurt. Like a punch in the gut hurt. 

The reality that it had been more than a year since we talked actually changes nothing for me. She remains one of the most important people in my life.  She’s a part of me, of who I’ve become.

I just wish she knew that, and I’m devastated that she was ever led to doubt it.

So, if you’re reading this and thinking / hoping this apology is for you, please let it be.  I’m going to try to be a better friend, which may include less time commenting on politics on facebook and more time sending direct messages instead.  Facebook tells me I have over 1600 friend, and with the exception of around 10, they are actually people I know from real life.  I’m going to try to focus on a few dozen who deserved a better friend than I’ve been to them, but if you find I’m taking too long to get to you, I hope you’ll reach out and let me know.

As for the friend who prompted this post?  She’ll remain on my 45^th birthday invite list, and hopefully sometime in the near-ish future, things will be in place for me to tell her that. 

On Being Single after 30: We're not all Trainwreck'ed

I was having a conversation with a friend about the movie Trainwreck.  It's sadly not out in Denmark yet and by the time it is, I'll be getting ready to head to another country for a little bit.  This, by the way, is why I missed about 2 years worth of really good movies when I was in Japan; they'd come out in the US while I was in Japan and be gone by the time I would return to the US, at which point they'd be released in Japan.  Not to get too melodramatic, but it was a nightmare.

What my friend said about Trainwreck has me thinking about what it means to be a single woman, particularly one who will shortly be entering her "late 30s" (shockingly that did give me a little gut punch but nothing particularly strong... I'm enjoying my mid 30s; I think my late 30s will be pretty fun).

At this point, I feel the need to issue a spoiler warning despite not actually having watched the movie myself.  Oh, and most of the rest of the post is about how the movie contributes to a systematic misrepresentation, misunderstanding and devaluing of non-married women over the age of 32-ish, so if you can't handle the spoiler, you might wanna skip out on the post.

So spoiler warning:
She told me that part of the plot point is how Amy Schumer doesn't know how to have a "normal" relationship and she realizes she doesn't think she deserves normality.  She's "broken" and doesn't know how to do things like resolve an argument without just leaving the other person.  But thankfully Bill Hader is normal and thinks she does deserve normality and in doing so teaches her how to love and be in a relationship.

So that's the end of the official spoiler warning.

Now, I understand that this is one story about one woman, and it's a legitimate story.  I mean, we all know someone who was / is a trainwreck, and some of us have been that person for a bit of time.

The problem is that this is now the main portrayal of women over 30 who are still single and it permeates the society and ultimately our conversations about women over 30.  The prevailing wisdom is that there must be something broken about single women over a certain age.  If only they knew how amazing they were, or if they opened themselves up to love, then it would just magically float into their lives and all would be well and right with the world.

My parents are going to disown me for telling this story so publicly (it's fine, my extraordinarily wonderfully normal sister loves me and will ensure I still get an inheritance... it might be whatever toilet paper is left in the bathroom when they die, but that's fine). 

A few weeks ago my parents were visiting and felt the need to say -- more than once -- that they hoped I understood how deserving I was of love.

They said it in the way a grandmother might say things like, "Oh, honey, don't worry that you're staying home on prom night; some day all the boys are going to be chasing you."

I groaned.  Audibly.

I know my parents meant well, and I know they say it out of a real desire for me to be happy.  For them, finding one another and loving each other for 45 years (seriously! This week! Anniversary! Yay Mom and Dad!) gave them a great deal of happiness.  As did raising at least 2 of their 3 children (sorry for, well, you know, ages 8 to 27. And all your gray hair. And the bald spot. And probably Dad's hearing loss... and some stress-related weight gain...).

So I know they say things like this to me because they want me to be happy, to feel loved, and to gain all they did from life.  For them, happiness and satisfaction in life comes, at least in part, from that love and family foundation. Since I'm still single, I know they worry I'm not getting all of that, and therefore am not as happy as I could be.

Since there's no other reason for me not to be married, it must be -- as Hollywood and society tells us -- that I just don't realize how lovable and marriable* I am.

*I know that technically the right word is "marriageable" but I also invented 'halflove' and 'couroppledge' this week, so I'm pretty sure I am no longer bound by the English language and "marriageable" contains connotations of simply being of the right age or class, and that's not what I mean.

Despite my parents' grand intentions, the sentiments are just ... really insulting.  It's based on this belief that a woman cannot be satisfied -- or loved! -- without some guy putting a ring on it.  It's the socially acceptable inverse of the start of Pride and Prejudice:  it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman of a certain age must be in need of a husband.

And that, apparently, is the premise of Trainwreck (I am still going to see it as soon as I can).

Of course I know how deserving I am of love because I am, actually, extraordinarily loved.

I actually think most of the time, I am probably the most blessed person in the world.

That doesn't mean I don't have problems and I'm certainly not the richest person in the world.  But I think I'm the most blessed.  People used to tell me "if you have one true friend in the world, you're lucky."  But I don't have one true friend - I have at least 100.  And I don't mean that guy I once sat next to in that class with the teacher whose name I can't remember.  I mean, like 100 friends that if I were in jail I could call and say "Can I borrow some money for bail," and I think as long as I wasn't rightfully accused of genocide or crimes against humanity, they would come.

If I was rightfully accused of genocide or crimes against humanity, I wouldn't blame them for not coming because it would suggest I've changed so fundamentally in who I am that the very premise of our friendship is no longer valid. 

These friends let me know regularly how incredibly loved I am, despite knowing everything that's wrong about me.

These friends are unbelievably good people who are doing incredible things with their lives. The fact that I get to be in their lives, feeding into their great works, benefitting from their incredible spirits, and truly loving and being loved by them is an incredible gift that leaves me not only fulfilled but pretty certain there are people who have been married for a long time and have never felt so completely loved and appreciated as I do without getting married.

I also have an amazing job. It lets me travel, engage with interesting people, and work on important issues that I am truly passionate about.  And since I'm doing that job in a Scandinavian country, I actually get paid a decent salary!

The fact that I'm still single isn't because I don't get how great I am.  It's because I do.

People think I'm humble because I'm often self-depricating but I'm self-depricating because 9 times out of 10 if I said how amazing I actually thought I was, people wouldn't want to be around me. I wouldn't want to be around me.  Who wants to hear someone talk about themselves that way?

I mean if I did go around talking about myself like that I could potentially delude myself into running for President (I actually felt physically ill visiting that site & I don't think last night's shisha had anything to do with it).

For as much as I like myself, I am content to live my life as it is even if I never again fall in love. (Oh, yeah... I have been in love. I'm not adverse to it. I know what it feels like when it starts.  I also know what it feels like when it ends.)

For me to want to alter the life I have -- and anyone who has seen  would require not just a nice guy but an amazing one.

I have, in fact, met some amazing men, but for a variety of reasons it hasn't worked in the long-term.  Only once was that "variety of reasons" been an issue of my end. And by "issue" I mean... I screwed the pooch on that one by not understanding what was going on.  Yes, if I could go back and redo that relationship, everything would be different.  But I can't.  That's not to say that I was perfect in my other relationships, but that their end was about issues that were more complex than a division of responsibility, and which reflected that they weren't someone I should be trying to marry.

Being over 30 and a single woman is not always an indicator of a problem. It doesn't mean someone is Trainwreck'ed.  Sometimes it just means that God and life haven't brought the right person their way.

Unfortunately, whenever I point that out, people feel the need to say "But, don't worry-- someday, someone amazing will come."

Seriously, please stop telling me that.  You don't actually know.  I don't know.

And I'm really okay with that.  Because I'm not a train wreck.

Human Rights Academia and the Problem of Solitude

This post was prompted by a survey of individuals who work with violent and disturbing “user-generated content” as part of their work. The survey was aimed at journalists and human rights and humanitarian workers who work with user generated content as part of their work.  Reading the call, I was stumped:  Do I qualify? 

This is the problem with human rights academia: unlike our colleagues in other areas, we often aren’t just academics. Our research touches on daily human suffering. Sometimes we engage, sometimes we intentionally disengage. We’re often asked to be advocates or activists, but we always remain academics.

So do we fit in as “human rights and humanitarian workers?” 

I’m definitely not a field operative. And I don’t work in a headquarters.  But I do, unfortunately, engage with a great deal of user-generated content.

Some of that content fuels my research, some fuels my teaching. All of it has a profound effect that I hadn’t quite realized or appreciated until I tried to fill out this survey while sitting in a coffee shop.

By the way, I did ask and the relevant researchers assured me I was someone they wanted to hear from.  So, I started it while sitting at a coffee shop, thinking it’ll just take a moment.  It would be a quick little break from a sentence I’d been trying to construct for five minutes.

And it did just take a moment – the survey was less than 3 minutes in total.  But somewhere around minute 1.5, I almost started to cry. In public. Alone.

Anyone who knows me well knows how much I hate crying in public, much less crying in public while looking at my phone or computer. I think it must make everyone around me incredibly uncomfortable, if not slightly afraid of my mental state. I find it embarrassing and stupid, even when it shouldn’t be either. It makes me feel like a five-year-old child separated from her mother at the mall, a ridiculous feeling when I think of the kinds of things that cause me to cry in public.

But the survey asked: “can you talk to your colleagues about the trauma?”

This is a difficult question for me, not just because I’ve recently moved universities. In my old University there was a huge human rights network, plus other PhD students. In my old University, I shared an office with between 3 and 8 other PhDs. While those working on non-human rights issues didn’t always understand my work, they did understand why my work could cause secondary trauma. My colleagues let me cry or vent or yell at my computer screen when I needed to.

In my new university? 

Let me start by saying I like my new university and I enjoy the people here.  It’s nice and friendly and I do think people are committed to making the world a better place.

But, it’s a new dynamic and I’m not yet sure how to navigate it.

I’m not a PhD student. I sit in an office by myself. I currently interact on a regular basis with no more than 8 people.

And I’m supposed to be a “serious” academic.

Do “serious academics” really yell at their computer screens for reasons other than the data not working? 

There’s also not a particularly large network of human rights scholars here, and even fewer within my discipline. The idea of staring at pictures of burned down and bulldozed homes, of pictures of children’s clothing amongst a pile of rubbish, of videos of police or military pointing weapons at protesters … my corporate law colleagues can’t understand that. It’s simply not part of their world.

And even amongst the few who work on human rights and humanitarian law issues here, I’m not sure how much they engage with the reality of what we do as opposed to the legality of it. 

If I wanted to, I could do that… analyze legal issues without engaging in the context in which they are raised.  But, that seems so empty to me, pointless, and almost cruel or inhumane as the solutions I would offer have little in the way of relief to those actually facing the issue.

I don’t think my colleagues do that, either, but we’ve never discussed our work beyond its legal scope.  So maybe I really am alone on this?

At least some of my colleagues here would likely tell me to stop looking at the images, not understanding their significance for my work. 

Right now – without getting too specific – my work is focused on human rights violations in armed conflict situations. I am trying to identify trends to determine the adequacy of the law and how best to address accountability gaps. I have to read first- and second-hand accounts, watch videos, and sift through pictures from those who have suffered direct violations.  Soon, I’ll be conducting interviews and surveys of victims. 

On the very good days, I’ve mentally prepared myself to experience secondary trauma. I am able to distance myself from the experience; these are not my stories, and my role in this experience is to gather information to inform better responses.

On the less good days, I’ve realized I’ve finished one set of legal questions and need to move on to the next pattern / story / concern. I flip modes a bit slowly. It takes time to adjust from the mindset of drawing legal conclusions to that of fact gathering, to go from This law does A, B, and C but fails to address D-Z to How exactly did this person’s house get burned down and why? Who did what to whom and when? How did they know it was this group? What was the response from the government?

Often, there is no response from the government.  That’s when the work is hardest – realizing the lack of justice in the world can be oppressive.

On the worst days, a new image or article comes across my desk without warning. Often a well-meaning friend or colleague sends me a link with a quick note. What do you think about this? Or, have you seen this? I thought it would be good for your research. I click expecting some mundane article – they come across my desk with greater frequency than anything else -- only to find myself reading a blog post or looking at a youtube video. 

I was in an accident once – I caused it.  Thankfully, I was going under 15mph, but I remember the feeling of my car hitting the one in front of me.  My head and body being jerked around as the airbags deployed – the temporary moment of disorientation and the series of questions and thoughts that came not in a real order but more like a pile of questions all at once being dropped into my head: What just happened? Oh my God, I think I was just in an accident. Am I okay? I can’t breathe. Is that the airbag? Am I okay? I can feel my toes, right? Thank God no one else is in the car with me. What about the other driver? Oh my God, what if they had a child in the car? Dear God, please let everyone be okay. Where am I? Oh my God, that poor driver – he must be so scared. I hope he’s okay. What if he’s old? What if he’s young? I want my mom and dad.

Opening up a link on the worst days is like being in a low-grade car crash. Nothing serious enough to leave you injured or bruised; just enough to leave you disoriented.

The problem with being an academic in my area is that there is that there is no one really responsible for my well-being. My Facebook newsfeed lately has read like a Humanitarian’s Guide to Survival as story after story comes across talking about the need for organisations to better care for their staff.  But those stories are aimed at the organisations whose purposes are humanitarian relief.  Academia, I am reminded by the likes of Tim Hunt, is not a place for emotions.  We are not humanitarians.

My passion drives my work and the emotions make me double down on the important issues.  I am not willing to cede ground to my counter-narrative just because it’s the more regularly accepted standard amongst the world’s privileged.

But that same passion is slowly eating away at me. It leaves me isolated from the “norm” in academia while still not rendering me a humanitarian.  It’s a double solitude.  And it’s one I’m still trying to get used to.

To the Men I’ve Loved but Never Told

One of my favorite posts on here remains "To the men in my life I never hooked up with."  But, there's a particular subgroup within that broader umbrella who require a different letter.  These are the very few men in my life whom I’ve loved but never had the opportunity to tell.

Hmmm... “Love” is an admittedly strong word… but English is a fickle language that provides us with dozens of synonyms for “disappointed” and very few words dealing with affections that surpass the level of attraction or lust and fall short of true romantic love.  (How is it that we only have “love” and “like” for a set of emotions that are so complex that even the ancient Greeks knew we had at least four versions?)

And, well, "opportunity" might also be the wrong word, what English word means "I’ve never had the courage and the opportunity and the relevant knowledge simultaneously in order to make speaking up on this issue an appropriate one." 

I would like at this time to propose two new words for the English language:

Halflove: a sensation of feeling of attraction that is more than just a crush but less than romantic love.  This choice is inspired by the Danish counting system, which is based in part around the number 20 so that ‘50’ (halvtreds) roughly means halfway to the third twenty, while ‘70’ is halfway to the fourth twenty (halvfjerds). Halflove… when I’ve resisted the potential of falling in love but a not quite able to box you into the friend-zone no matter how much I want to...

Couroppledge: the simultaneous existence of opportunity, knowledge, and courage.

With that, I’ll attempt to begin again:

Thankfully, there are not many men I’ve halfloved with whom I did not also have the couroppledge to discuss it with.  I owe that reality in part toVL.

But, unfortunately, there are still a few such men.  

My continued (direct) silence is inevitably the result of circumstances largely beyond my control. I might have met you when I knew I wasn't ready for something serious, but I probably met you shortly before a scheduled international trip; or perhaps you live(d) far away; or maybe you dated / got engaged to / married someone else during the relevant period of time. 

Then again, if there had truly been a “relevant period of time,” I would have ‘fessed up by now. It’s somehow much easier to discuss feelings that have passed than it is to be honest about those we are still experiencing. 

So my continued (direct) silence is probably because circumstances haven’t changed, meaning there are even fewer men to whom this is directed, and I’m just going to hope that the plethora of men in my life means none of them are confident enough to realize this is for them because... Well, the first thing I want to say to you is that I don’t want you to read this.  I don’t want you find out this way.  I know I’m taking a huge risk by posting this on my blog, but I mostly just need to say this to the universe rather than to you.  For you, I’m happy to remain silent.  The circumstances as they are mean that silence is perhaps the greatest gift to you. And perhaps your greatest gift to me could be to stop reading this if you think this is about you?  (It's probably not... just because you were married / engaged / dating when we met, or we met shortly before an international trip, or you live(d) far away does not mean this is about you...)

I probably haven’t been a very good friend to you, and you have, inevitably, given me more than I deserve. I am truly sorry for this. I want to be a better friend; I just don’t know if I’m capable in the current situation.  I don’t want to hurt you, or to make things awkward between us, and I’m afraid that most of what I say and do secretly conveys I halflove you.  I have tried to act cool and friendly, striking a tone that comes so easily in so many other circumstances, but I can’t.  

So we don’t have many inside jokes (if any), I probably don’t bake you birthday cakes, and I doubt I’ve ever walked side by side hugging you, kissed your forehead, or told you I love you as I would if you were simply my friend. I may even go for a while without emailing or messaging. It's not because I don't want to, but rather because I do but I'm afraid that if I do, I will forever alter who we are to one another.  And right now, we have a friendship I value (otherwise none of this would be that difficult).

The other thing you should know is that I’m working on this. I know I've been unfair and I don’t want to be unkind.  So I’m going to make a conscious effort at being a better friend.

This could be a disaster.  You should know that because I do.  I know that relationships are best when both parties are their natural selves.  And the thing is, I really like my natural self.  I just don’t know how to let that person come out when we’re together … at least without compromising the totality of the relationship.

And that’s pretty awful because I’ve loved getting to know you and wish you could know me in the same way.  You remain an ideal – the human manifestation of those sighs I release at the end of every good chick flick.  I don’t fall in love (or even halflove) with guys in movies – at least not since I was about 8 and realized it was weird that Prince Charming loves Cinderella despite her not saying more than 2 sentences.  And those sentences were “I’m sorry!  I have to go!” What is that?  It’s so weird that that’s what we teach our daughters.

So, when I watch Hollywood love stories, I’m never left at the end thinking, “Oh if only I could meet someone like…”  I’m instead thinking, “Oh, I wish I met something I could click with like…  Except I’d really want them to be…”  That second sentence could end a lot of different ways, but it usually relates to passions in life.  Part of what I’m hoping to find in a partner is someone who is as passionate about life as I am, and in ways that I relate to.  And someone I just click with – with whom I don’t have to explain every part of myself or defend each of my beliefs.  Someone I could just be myself with.

You were that person.  Before I got weird and unable to be myself, at least.

That’s the thing… if you think back through our history, you’ll notice there’s a difference.  I was once fun, laughed easily, and was probably more affectionate with you.  It was when I realized you were both something I had been waiting for and something I simply couldn’t have, that’s when I got weird.  Again, I'm sorry about that.

I've mourned our missed relationship almost as much as I've mourned actual relationships. Knowing you as I do, I have confidence that we would have had a real partnership of equals.  It's not that I actually think you're perfect... I'm sorry, I don't.  (I do realize I've said "I'm sorry" approximately 600 times in this post, so I'll stop now.)  I have seen you when you've been disagreeable.  Not to go all Charles Dickens on you, but our friendship really has endured the best of times and the worst of times.  But your 'disagreeable' is something I'd enjoy working with. I think I'd have enjoyed the frustrating parts of relationships with you.  

For example, I have no idea if you actually want to have children, or if your current answer would be the same if things were different between us.  But I think I'd enjoy making that decision with you.  And while I have my ideal wedding planned in my head, I would have been interested in seeing which compromises you'd demand. (By the way, I feel it necessary to point out that my ideal wedding isn't something I planned when I was 8. I did plan an ideal wedding when I was 8 but my ideal has shifted and evolved probably 100 times since then and the most recent iteration is only about 2 months old. So, I'm crazy but not that crazy.)

Realizing how both working and fighting with you would have fed my soul has led me into mourning at times.  In fact, it's part of why I'm writing this now - so I can move past a temporary moment of mourning for something I never even had. 

Because I'm a half-glass-full kind of gal, there is one final thing I must say: you give me hope that there’s another like you out there somewhere. And hopefully this time he won’t be living on the other side of the world, showing up in my life just a few weeks before I leave, and/or married, engaged, or in a serious commitment. 

Homesickness and Refugees – Or How I Almost Cried at the Grocery Store Today

My latest bout of homesickness came while standing in a grocery store aisle looking for rubbing alcohol.  It shouldn’t be this difficult to find.  I scanned the rows by the bandages but nothing looked right.  Then the next aisle and the two after that. 

There was no one around to ask, so I just kept moving back and forth, certain that eventually I would find this f---ing rubbing alcohol.

My toe hurt and each step felt a tiny bit more painful than the last. It was the reason I needed the rubbing alcohol. Last night I went to the pharmacy to ask for help but they gave me something resembling Neosporin.  Not realizing this, I rubbed what I thought was some random Danish version of disinfectant on a tiny wound.  Overnight and this morning it became clear that whatever they had given me was doing the wrong thing and I would need to cut open the wound and apply a real disinfectant.

My friends and family often think of my life as glamorous – but for every tapas crawl through Madrid, I have about 13-18 trips to the grocery store standing in front of aisles thinking So, how big a trashbag is 20L?  If the store (large) bags are 30L, 20L has to be a good size, right?  Then I take it home and discover I have again bought something I can use but it’s not what I wanted to use.

After ten minutes of moving between the aisles, certain I was just missing the thing that would be very clearly the Danish equivalent to rubbing alcohol, I stalked a kid in uniform.  Undskyld, excuse me, undskyld.

“Do you -- have something -- that can clean -- wounds? -- I cut -- myself. -- So I need -- something to clean – the cut -- before I put -- a bandage on.”

I spoke slowly and clearly – no more than 2-3 words at a time while remaining conscious that I can't have too long of a pause between the word groups.  

I speak in English here a lot.  Not because I necessarily want to but because when I speak in Danish people flip to English so I never get much practice. Their unwillingness to speak to me in Danish furthers my insecurities, like no matter what I’m saying, I’m probably saying it wrong.

I still try – when I know what I’m asking for.  But google and google translate both failed me.  “Rubbing alcohol” in Danish was going to get me a spot cleaner for clothing.  I don’t know what I need here – I have no idea what to ask for.

Had my phone been charged, I would’ve called someone to ask for the right Danish word.

But, of course, my phone wasn’t charged so it was just me and my new stripped shirted friend.

He asked a few questions with no pauses in his English: “So, it’s for a cut? On your skin? And you want to clean it?”  Yes, yes, and yes.

In moments like this, I turn into a 12 year old, more likely to nod my head in silence than to speak with actual words. I am twice this kid’s age but he speaks with more authority than I do.  He has more authority than I do.  This is clear when we head back to the same aisles I had just left and he looks knowledgeably while I follow a few steps behind him. “I’m sorry – I think I know what I’m looking for, but I’m not sure... I mean, I don’t know what it looks like here.  Or what it’s called.”

In the US, it would be a brown bottle.  None of the bottles here are brown. 

His hmmm is followed by an almost absent-minded yes, I guess it’s hard when everything’s in Danish. 

I wonder if he’s making fun of me, secretly thinking stupid foreigner, learn the f---ing language before you come here.  But he doesn’t seem to be thinking that. The tone of his voice and his sympathetic stance when he turns to me suggests he genuinely feels bad that I don’t know what I need.

He determines they don’t have it, but tells me sårhans.  I think.  It sounds like sow-hands but Danish doesn’t sound like how it’s written.  It never does.  So busgarden becomes busgarn when you say it out loud.  And that undskyld … whatever you’re thinking it is in your head is not what it actually is (unless you’re Danish, in which case you’re cheating). 

I repeat it. So. Hans.

His smile says my accent is embarrassing but he appreciates the effort. Yes, sår means wound and hans means cleaner.

Later, I would look up these two words to see how it’s spelled.  I can’t find it anywhere.  Google translate doesn’t have anything that looks or sounds like hans for the English “cleaner.” 

I paid for the few things I had picked up along the way and headed towards the apotek to see if my new Danish word could get me what I really want.

This kid’s human kindness meant I could leave rather than simply melt into a pile on the store floor.


I know that normal people would never connect this moment of homesickness to a global international crisis. I know this because my sister is a very extraordinarily wonderful normal person who gets confused when a simple road trip leaves me thinking about how the US can better engage with average Afghanis. So, I am prepared for the fact that what I’m about to say will be met with groans by several friends who want me to just “relax… don’t make everything a thing…” and stuff that I totally understand and respect but I have absolutely no ability to do.


As I left the grocery store, I started to think about the refugees fleeing Syria.  I chose this life of constantly feeling out of my depth, never knowing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing or how many social rules I’ve inadvertently broken.

I’ve chosen to leave my family and friends even though if I return to Ohio no one will attempt to throw me off a roof or behead me or sell me as a sex slave.

I can’t imagine the pain of doing all this without a real choice. 

Living overseas – leaving my family and friends behind and moving to this new place –makes everything just a tiny bit harder.  Most of the time, I’m prepared for that challenge.  But some days… some days I just want to throw my basket onto the aisle floor and have myself a good cry because the aisle clearly doesn’t have rubbing alcohol no matter how many times I tell myself it should be right here.

But I’m a privileged migrant.  The reason I’m allowed to start sentences in English without any backlash at all is because of my alabaster skin and Midwest American accent. No one finds me threatening or my presence a grave cause for concern over Danish nationality or British security.

No one is threatening to send the British military to France to stop my movements.

No one is wringing their hands about what my presence does to the welfare state or the cultural norms.

It is cruel that my migration, based solely on professional interests and a desire to travel, is welcomed more than those who are fleeing persecution, forced to relocate not because they want to enjoy a few more jaunts to Madrid but because they face slaughter at home.

The West is not doing enough. We push boats back, refuse to offer real resettlement options, and tell Syria’s neighbors to just suck it up and make it work.  We do not think about the trickle down effect this has on other refugees, like those in Lebanon who are currently unable to register as refugees because the state has legitimately taken in too many Syrians.

Syrian refugees now make up more than a quarter of the Lebanese population. 

Britain, meanwhile, had resettled 90 Syrians by the end of 2014.  In total.

90.

And now they are treating a few dozen potential refugees like an invading army.

It should be embarrassing for the state, but it’s not.

I could go into the historical reasons why Britain has a bigger obligation than pretty much anyone else to resettle refugees, but I don’t have time.  I’ll just say for now that the UK’s response has been woefully, painfully, horribly racist.


I’ve been trying to figure out how to wrap this post up, and I can’t really.  The best I can do is this:

It’s not easy being a migrant.  It’s not fun or glamorous or cool. Being a real migrant is gathering your courage every single day to speak in a foreign tongue while navigating a system that sounds familiar but simply isn’t.

Being a refugee means doing all of that while not having a real choice in the matter.  It is the bravest attempt to do the most natural of human activities – survive – in the hardest conditions imaginable.

Our refugees deserve better than our contempt. They deserve our love and human kindness.  

Why I am a Christian (But I still bake for Ramadan)

This is a long post, best read with a cup of tea or a hot coffee while munching on a croissant or a muffin.  It should not be consumed with alcohol or on a full or empty stomach.

Last week, I was a bit overly excited that my local mosque was letting me bake for Ramadan. I realize for some of my friends on Facebook, this apparently got annoying.

But, honestly, I’m not sure many Christian churches in the US would let a random stranger cook for Christmas lunches.  It made me really excited that this mosque said yes, that I could serve them in this way.

A few people asked – in the way Christians ask when they’re afraid you’re about to do something like convert, why I felt the need to celebrate Ramadan.  The question is rather complex, but it dovetailed nicely with the request from the Chair-elect of the mosque that I consider seriously why it was that Muslims believed in prophets through Mohammed while Christians believed only through Jesus. So, I thought I’d take a moment, dust off this blog that I haven't written on in a very long time, and address all of this in one fell swoop.

Before I became a Christian – and yes, there was, for me, a process of becoming a Christian, despite having also been raised a Christian – I did a bit of a “let’s see what’s available” mission, where I researched various religions and beliefs.  It was actually the second time I did this – the first time, it was required for my confirmation class by the Methodist church I attended at the time. We visited the local imam to learn about Islam, the synagogue to learn about Judaism, the Catholic church, a few other Protestant churches, a Native American site (I have weird memories about this one, so I’m not actually sure what the site was), something associated with Buddhism (again, fuzzy memories; it’s been over 20 years).  When I was confirmed, I knew what I was accepting.

But then again… maybe I didn’t, because a few years later, I gave up believing in God, ascribing my earlier commitment to the thing young kids do when they don’t know any better.  And then later, I began to think that maybe I did believe in God? I wasn’t sure.  So, for the second time I did a comparative study, but this time I went deep down the rabbit hole.

In the end, I narrowed it down to Judaism, Islam, Christianity, and agnosticism.  I won’t go into details here what led me to choose these four, but they were the final choices – when I knew I believed in something and knew that something, but wasn’t yet sure what to call it.

From there, my decision came down to two words:

I am.

Jesus says them in John 8, when questioned over who he is.  He actually says them several times: “You are from below; I am from above. You are of this world; I am not of this world. I told you that you would die in your sins; if you do not believe that I am he, you will indeed die in your sins.” 

But those weren’t the verses that made my decision for me.  It’s the last verses in John 8: “’Very truly I tell you,’ Jesus answered, ‘before Abraham was born, I am!’” 

I hadn’t understood the words at 12 or 13 years old.  When I was older, though, and had re-read the Bible a few more times, it became clear: I am.  It’s was God’s first title – the thing he says to identify himself to Moses from the burning bush: “I am who I am.”

The totality of my beliefs hinged on these two words and one important question: did I believe him?

When Muslims try to evangelize to me – and it happens quite a bit – they tell me that if they didn’t believe in Mohammed, they would believe in Jesus.  I understand that better than anyone because if I didn’t believe in Jesus, I would believe in Mohammed.

That’s a controversial statement, I know, and every Muslim friend I have still reading this post just protested in their head, “But I do believe in Jesus!”

And you do believe in him – as a prophet.

I do not believe in Jesus as a prophet; I believe in Jesus as God.

Muslims reject Christianity because God has "no partners;" I do not consider Jesus to be God's "partner;" I consider him to be part and parcel of who God is -- just as I cannot separate myself and partner with myself, Jesus is not God's partner.

It’s why those two words mattered so much to my decision. If “I am” means Jesus was claiming to be God, then I had C.S. Lewis’ ‘liar, lunatic, or Lord’ trilemma.

Unfortunately, though, I’m mostly a monolinguist, with some passable non-English words that did little for me in determining what Jesus meant by “I am.” 

So I read, and I read, and I read some more.  But it was ultimately the next sentence in the Bible that made this question clear to me: The people picked up stones to stone him.  They knew what he was saying – and they considered him to be committing blasphemy.

But did I believe he was committing blasphemy?  Was Jesus a liar (claiming to be God when he was not), a lunatic or was he Lord?

I’m not someone who believes that good people don’t lie – or even that a good person couldn’t accidentally lie about being God. It could easily be one of those things where you get kind of swept up in a moment and suddenly … well, oops.

Okay, it’s never happened to me, but I can understand how it could happen, and the person wouldn’t need to be insane.

Yet, as I go through the Bible and see the prophesies Christ fulfilled and see what he said salvation was, I was left with this other feeling…

Christianity makes no sense.

Like, none. At all.

If I were to design a religion based on my earthly understanding of justice and God, I would not design Christianity. In fact, I don’t know a single person who would.

So we have to sacrifice God to be forgiven by God? Jesus creates the bridge by which we in our imperfection can be loved by God in his perfection – because he was both fully God and fully human? We get to heaven not by doing good things or being a nice person but because God loved us?  And on my deathbed, after a world of sins, I could simply say “I believe” and that’s enough? 

Seriously?

If someone were to make up a religion, or to try to explain God without being God, this is not what it would look like.

Jesus was everything the people thought he shouldn’t be and nothing that they thought he should. Jewish people waiting for the Messiah were waiting for someone to overthrow Rome. Rome was waiting to quell an attempted coup (can it really be called a coup? When a military junta overthrows another military junta, is it really a coup?).  And anyone waiting for the word of God was waiting for someone to give more rules.

And if Jesus were lying about who he was, that’s what I think he would do.  He wouldn’t simplify the old rules – reducing the Word of God to love God and your neighbor – and he certainly wouldn’t hang with society’s rejects, the prostitutes and tax collectors, adulterers, and the unclean.

I’m admittedly skipping a lot in the story of how I became a Christian – how I decided to trust the Bible, and why I believe the Bible is the inerrant word of God even if Christians interpret it badly (seriously… God used analogies to speak throughout the Bible and sometimes words have more than one translation; please stop trying to convince me the world was formed in 7 literal 24 hour spans) – but it was in that paradox, in the complete insanity of Christianity, that Jesus revealed himself to be God, at least to me.

It was those two words – I am – coupled with a lot of lessons that throw society on its head that convinced me that Jesus is God, not simply a prophet from him.

By the way, that insanity of Christianity? It is still relevant now – Jesus is still not who society wants him to be.  He doesn’t create a hierarchy of those he loves and those he doesn’t. I am still not better than a prostitute or a murderer, and I don’t get to pretend my sins are meaningless because they are societally acceptable (pride, arrogance, gluttony, jealousy). He doesn’t heap praise on those driving the BMWs or Mercedes.  And if he were picking a political candidate?  Nothing in the Bible tells me he’d be siding with Donald Trump.

[But I also don’t think Jesus chooses political candidates.  Free will allows us to do that – even if it makes Jesus cringe at what we do (I won’t say which 21st Century President not named Barack Obama that I think that applies to, because I generally try not to speak for God on things he hasn’t spoken of himself, and, well, let’s be realistic… I’m not sure Jesus has ever not cringed at what we do in elections).]

Jesus flipped everything we know about society – then and now – on its head.  And a liar wouldn’t while a lunatic couldn’t.

From the time that I accepted that – around 17 years ago, perhaps? – until now, I have never re-examined this central issue. I don’t feel the need to.  I’ve never been tempted to convert, and I have listened to a lot of individuals who have wanted me to.  I’ve had to tell more than one man I have loved that I am sorry – I will not be converting to… well, fill in the blank. I date a lot and I mostly don’t date Christian or Western men, so there’s a lot of ways to fill in that blank (that’s not a general slam on Christian or Western men; just my reality).

This raises two more questions: what do I believe about Mohammed and why do I bake for Ramadan?

Remember how I said I would believe in Mohammed if I didn’t believe in Jesus?  That’s still true.

Seriously, if I were to design a religion, it would probably be Islam as interpreted by many feminist Islamic scholars I admire. The idea that we have to demonize Islam to protect Christianity? It shows a very small idea of God.  An idea I find repulsive and disgusting, absurd, stupid, dangerous, disingenuous, and unnecessary.

I respect Mohammed, even while I disagree with him. I think if Mohammed hadn’t rejection Jesus’s status as God, then some of the Qur'an writings would go down alongside the writings of Sir Thomas Moore and St. Thomas Aquinas, Martin Luther and Calvin, as things that Christians should study. Or, they would if we didn’t have a ridiculous bias towards western Christian writings, but that’s for another day.

I think Mohammed was a man who looked around and saw that those who professed to follow God – both in Judaism and Christianity – were not doing what they were supposed to be doing. I think this saddened him and angered him and the Qur'an is the result of that. I don’t know how the Qur'an was written – and I can respect Mohammed without that answer.  I do know that he never claimed to be God, and it is in that difference – in Christ’s divinity and Mohammed’s humanness – that I find the answer to what I believe.

Now, why do I bake for / celebrate Ramadan? 

There are three reasons, but let’s start with Romans 12:15-16, which says that we are to ^“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.  Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.”  Let’s be clear that I’m not saying Muslims are “people of low position” – I have, unquestionably, felt that some of my Muslim friends are much more godly, are following His will much more closely, than people I know who profess to be Christian.  But, we are to celebrate with those who celebrate.  So why would I not help Muslims celebrate?

I’ve previously broken bread during iftar celebrations, and some of my most important friendships are with individuals who follow Islam. Since I can’t celebrate with them, I baked for those who believe like they do, and through this, and these friends in common, I believe I celebrated with my friends who celebrate.

I also find in Ramadan the desire to honor what Jesus identified as the two greatest commandments: to love the Lord with all our heart, soul, strength and mind, and to love our neighbor as ourselves. Ramadan teaches Muslims to lean on God, and to have empathy for others who are less fortunate in life.  We as Christians could learn from this – fasting is one of our spiritual disciplines as well – so I want to support those who show their dedication in this way, and who are trying to grow closer to God this month.

There’s a final reason, specific to this mosque and to the country where I’m living: I do not doubt that if Jesus were in my city, this is where he would go and this is who he would be with. The national election here was pretty much about this mosque. That’s a bit of an oversimplification, as most of the commentary was on immigrants generally, but at the heart of this concern – and underlying it – was this mosque, its controversial history and association with Isis, and how if we allowed more refugees in from the Middle East, it would allow extremism to breed and to destroy the local culture.

While the mosque has worked hard to tamper extremism, the sentiment that they don’t belong is strong.  There is an otherness to their life here.

This is not an easy country for foreigners to begin with, but to be told through national elections that you are not wanted?  That you are less than those who “belong” here? Can you imagine an entire election around your existence and presence? [aside: the election here was strange for other reasons; the winning party won’t rule because, in essence, they just don’t wanna.  No, I’m not making that up; yes, I am overly simplifying it.]

I’ve never been more angry at Christians than at the silence of Christians here when people were placing up barriers to acceptance, to religious practice, and to belonging (okay, that’s not quite true; I get angry lots of times when Christians are silent in the face of meanness and injustice).

That mosque?  That’s where Jesus would go.  Those Muslims? That’s who he would break bread with.  That’s who he would bake for, and that’s who he would celebrate with.

So I’m a Christian with no intention or desire to convert, but I will always bake for my Muslim brothers and sisters when they fast.  I am deeply grateful that this mosque allowed me to do that for them, and I look forward to doing it for them again soon.