A Brief Digression from Japan: Dear Nancy Menefee

I’m working diligently on my Japan entries, but they’re taking longer than usual. You see, given that I couldn’t understand most of what was going on while I was there, I was more or less sight-seeing, but that doesn’t make for a very good blog. I mean, you enjoy some of my observations, but I’d rather give a bit of a history lesson and the overall cultural effects of the things I see rather than simply pile on the fluff for you to read and immediately discard from memory. Thus, I’m reading up on the things I saw and their histories to back up (or rearrange) my perceptions of the things I saw. It’s really fun, but… like I said, it takes a little while.

In the meantime, I’ve received a letter that I would like to address, especially since it isn’t the first one of these that I’ve ever gotten. Please allow me to return the letter here before I do so on paper.

Dear Nancy Menefee

Your handwritten note is a sweet little sentiment, albeit one that is misguided in so many ways it’s hard to enumerate them. Well, allow me to try:

Firstly, I’m an atheist, and your waste of paper, postage, and effort are a sad reflection on humanity. These letters that you send to hundreds of people (I live in a trailer park and I know you sent one to each of the fifty homes in here), are generally thrown immediately into the recycling bin. Honestly, you’d do better going door to door–at least then the energy you wasted would be yours and yours alone, instead of that of the mail service whom you have employed to tote your nonsense around for you. It seems to me that coupons and religious propaganda are all I receive in the mail lately and we could save a hell of a lot of trees if one or both of you would simply knock it off.

Secondly, your letter is unbelievably childish and ridiculous. After the common greetings and a mention of your “worldwide volunteer work to share an encouraging message from God’s word,” you ask if I check my horoscope before leaving the house each day. Well, Nancy, as a matter of fact, I don’t. Horoscopes are even more nonsensical than your belief in God, and, dare I say, more damaging to those delusional enough to invest their lives in such off-the-cuff tripe. I have known people to interpret their entire lives according to the signs and to cause themselves to have bad days simply because some idiot in a newspaper office decided that “Capricorn should be wary of the waning moon.” No, actually, Capricorn should be wary of swallowing nonsense from an asshole with a typewriter. I’m an asshole with a typewriter–I should know. Furthermore, the fact that you associate the bible (hurray Kings) with seeing constellations and interpreting them only further demeans the book that I already find worse than useless. I suppose it’s a good idea that you’re targeting those feeble-minded enough to follow you on the whole horoscope thing (I mean, they’re a better audience than I am), but you’re really not helping your case.

Finally, you ask if I would like to “learn more about this subject and others,” then request that I please write you. Well, I would like to learn more about… other subjects. That’s why there are schools. And blogs. And newspapers. And books. And podcasts. And specialists. And professors. And teachers. And lectures. And essays. And libraries (which you demean in your letter, you sad sack). And colleges. And universities. Unfortunately for you, I have no desire to learn about your religion because I know enough already. I’m writing you for one simple reason: to inform you that you are brainwashed and that you need to open your eyes if you hope to lead a productive, peaceful, and fulfilling life.

So, Nancy–the other thing you put in your envelope is a pamphlet that asks Would You Like To Know The Truth? Yes, yes I would. Unfortunately, the “truth” you offer comes from the only book that “contains reliable answers” in your view, which is, of course, the bible. But worse than that, it’s not even a real bible. It’s something called the New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures–With References. What would we ever do without those references?

Inside this treasure trove of terror (your pamphlet, not your own personal bible), you feature images like a man lost in a crowd, a child who has obviously been the victim of severe violence, gravestones (how evocative of our own mortality! good choice!), a girl who is obviously wondering “is there any hope for the dead?” (according to the accompanying headline), a man in prayer, and finally, a smiling woman holding a bible to her chest. I appreciate the scriptural references for all of these things and the fact that you think you have all of the answers, however, I am not going to refute you one point at a time. You see, I’m not a biblical scholar, but rather a pragmatist.

Given that pragmatism is probably not a word you’re going to find in the bible, let me describe it for you: I worry about reality and how to make life better while I’m alive for myself and for others. Why? because that’s the only sensible thing to worry about. The afterlife, what the bible says, all of that–really, it’s all debatable. If you don’t believe me, ask a Muslim. Or a Hindu. Or a really devout Buddhist. Or a Krsna. Or a philosopher. Or a history book. Or even a few different scientists–you’re bound to find some that think they have the answers, but no consensus, just like in religious circles. The one thing I know is that suffering in this world can be prevented and the surest way to prevent it is to

STOP LISTENING TO JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES. (And, subsequently, anyone else who behaves like a fucking cult. Yes, I used the f word–there needs to be emphasis on this point.)

Is there hope for the dead? Well, how about some hope for the living? I know that the only Jehovah’s Witness I knew growing up was taunted, teased, and constantly depressed because of his beliefs. It’s fun being the only kid who doesn’t get to eat a cupcake because it’s someone else’s birthday. Or to have your own birthday party. Or to celebrate a holiday.

But let’s stray away from the circumstantial evidence of my childhood. Here’s a blog I found written by an ex-Jehovah’s witness about his experiences. (Well, here’s a quote for those of you who don’t want to click over:)

He describes your ritualistic idiocy as

A set of beliefs which teach young children that their whole world, including non-Jehovah’s Witness relatives, schoolmates etc. is soon going to be destroyed by god because they are evil, wicked people. I was becoming more and more aware that what Jehovah’s Witnesses are prepared to teach children, MY children, is wholly inappropriate.

I reasoned that if this religion could take me, a happy go lucky 17 year old and turn me into a paranoid, depressed, anxious wreck, then what could they do to my children by means of this gradual drip, drip, drip that happens as you soak in their words and phrases?

That sounds like a fun way to live. Also, please note that I didn’t make that up. I’m also not making up the fact that your religion instructs you to refuse blood transfusions, even unto the point of letting yourself, or worse, your children, die. There’s no need to discuss the medical basis for such refusals–after all, the decision against transfusions was made back in the supremely well-informed 1930′s. Who can question such sound science from a time when blood was simply removed from one body and dripped into another? It’s not like we’ve improved the process over the last eighty years.

More than all of this, though, I’m simply offended by your decision to bother good people, in person or through the mail, with your beliefs. What you don’t realize is that people who want religion (I will never admit to anyone “needing” religion) will seek it out. If your beliefs are worthwhile, they will find you, probably through what we call the Internet. Should your claims prove to be viable (or helpful), they may come knocking on your door, but by all means, leave my household alone.

I would wish you luck, but that would be a falsification of my feelings. I wish you no luck in your current endeavor to twist the minds of susceptible people, though I do wish for you a swift and decisive split from your church.

Cj

PS : I don’t have an order form for any specific books, but I would insist that you read some that aren’t printed by Watch Tower Bible and Tract Society of Pennsylvania. Maybe try out “Crisis of Conscience”–it seems up your alley and was suggested by someone smart enough to part with your particular ideology.

International Christian University Chapel

This post is the first in my Japan series which will probably only be two or three entries long. Unfortunately, the language barrier makes it hard to say an awful lot about the things I experienced in Japan, but I’m probably going to add a little history to some of these entries to make them more worthwhile.
**

I awoke on June 30th in Tokyo, Japan, far from Simi Vallley and Culver City where I had spent the previous weeks. I’ll spare you the details of my travels, suffice it to say I had been awake for 24 hours before I crashed into a mattress at the lovely Hotel NUTS (New Urban Time and Space—don’t ask).

At eight AM Japan time, I dragged myself out of bed and shoved myself through the bowels of Tokyo’s subway system. Granted, it’s a lot more pleasant than the other trains I’ve been on (I’m looking at you, AmTrak), but the sheer magnitude of human bodies milling about is more than a little overwhelming to a misanthrope like me. Half an hour and a few missed connections later, we arrived in Narita, a greener, prettier suburb near Tokyo, and hopped a taxi to ICU Japan.

Why is this relevant to the blog, you may ask? Well, ICU stands for International Christian University. It’s one of the few universities in Japan that is accredited by the United States, and thus, the place where my sister-in-law Molly came to spend the past four years of her life. Molly isn’t religious, though I don’t know exactly where she stands on the issue, I do know that church doesn’t even begin to register on her list of priorities. ICU was simply the nicest campus she saw amongst the accredited schools, but for my purposes, it is a hotbed of Christian activity, and thus, a useful trope for the blog.

Back to the narrative, I must say that the crushing weight of the city was more than I could take in my jet-lagged sleep-deprived state and ICU’s verdant campus was a rather pleasant change of scenery.

Or, it would’ve been if we weren’t already late for Molly’s graduation.

By the time we got out of the taxi, the bell-tower built out of the school’s chapel was already sounding out a last chance warning, and we (the family minus our little graduate) hurried up to the heavy wooden doors. (See the splash page image here—we rushed up that little walkway, around the circle (which is actually a little lawn area), and over to the church itself.)

But we were too late. The path was clogged with professors in their PhD hooded robes, and several administrative helpers genially led us with broken English to wait by the side. My father-in-law wheezed a rather grumpy retort, but the machinations of the grand display were already in motion and we would simply have to wait our turn.

Promptly, the foyer doors opened, and the professors began singing the opening hymn of the graduation, the ironically titled (and even worse-ly worded) “Take Our Minds, Dear Lord.” Some sang the words in Japanese, others in English, but all marched diligently down the central aisle and took their seats on the rear-facing pews at the front of the room. As the final notes echoed their last reverberations through the rafters, our ever-smiling hosts (formerly our polite foyer-bound captors) opened the doors and motioned for us to find seats near the back of the chapel.

Shuffling quickly around the edges of the room, our family unit was broken up by a tiny old woman who inserted herself as we came through the side door, and we scattered ourselves amongst the remaining seats in the sweltering hall. A robed official took to the lectern, and I settled into my seat for the long haul.

The program listed a handful of minor events, but I knew well enough (having been to my fair share of graduations) that this wasn’t bound to be a short process. First, there was a prayer, later, a benediction, and in between, the individual conferring of degrees for both undergraduates and post-grad students. There were other songs (one from the Glee Club even), speeches, and even an emeritus ceremony in there as well, but nothing particularly caught my eye. After all, I was in a church—there were more important things to look at than the program or even the tassle-capped heads that tilted sleepily before me.

Though I’ve provided a link to some pictures of the church, the one thing you’ll miss by looking at them is actually the most important: how hot the place was. During our week in Japan, the temperature in Tokyo wavered a grand total of ten degrees night and day, from a low of 76 to a high of 86, but with near-total humidity throughout. Even now, when people ask me how my trip was, I remark with a single adjective: “sweaty.” Inside the chapel, there was no air conditioning—just six rotating fans set up to service the couple hundred people who had come to watch the proceedings.

As for the architecture, the ceilings were vaulted to the standard awe-inspiring height, fit to accommodate the downright impressive pipe-organ set up that sat behind the stage. (See this page for a good visual The picture is taken from a balcony–I only ever saw the bottom of it, though.) Wood paneling was affixed to everything but the windows, and the pews (though rather old fashioned and short enough to seat the average Japanese congregant rather than my lanky self) were pretty comfortable. I would show you my own pictures if I had any, but there were signs posted between the life-giving fans that said (in English as well as Japanese) that photography was not permitted.

Though I once took quite a bit of Japanese in school (two years—one conversational, one academic), I couldn’t make out a single word of what was going on at the front of the room, even when they were speaking English. There were microphones, but the chancellor chose not to use them the majority of the time, and our position at the back of the room meant that what little noise did manage to squeak its way back to us was garbled and unintelligible. It made me appreciate the more modern churches I’ve visited around here. Apparently, acoustics are the unappreciated gift that most religious institutions readily enjoy. Maybe you should thank your architect instead of Jesus one of these days.

As I was unable to hear and appreciate the things that were being said, I turned my attentions to other things, like the Japanese language bibles, hymnals, and other little treasures that could occupy me for the ensuing hours. The bibles were diminutive in size compared to the ones that are so regularly thumped in the states, and though they had the customary black covers, I almost didn’t recognize them. Flipping to any random page, they didn’t seem like bibles: there were no verse numbers and hardly any periods to be found. Instead, there were just columns of text—in kanji and hirigana, of course—and rather telling empty space. I flipped through and practiced my hiragana reading skills (sounding out random syllables to waste some time), before returning the little tome to its slot on the back of the pew before me.

Of slightly more interest was the hymnal, a sometimes English, sometimes Japanese affair with notes, words, and syllabary sound-outs for the musically inclined. It seemed to me that none of them were works of original Japanese origin, but just simple, rote translations of things that had been passed down from generation to generation through Christian families. I’m sure the cockles of the Christian heart will be warmed to know that this Sunday they may be singing the same song as their brothers and sisters in Japan, though I would have rather seen something a little more culturally ethnocentric than all of the same stuff I’d seen in the Mormon hymnals back in California.

Other than the books, I was rather given to boredom, as was the rest of the audience. At one point, a young couple a few pews in front of us were making out (rather unseemly for a graduation, let alone one that’s taking place in a church), but other than that, people watching was largely uneventful. All around me, people fanned themselves with their carefully printed programs or the cheap, freebie fans they procured from street vendors or their hotels. My father-in-law took to reorganizing his day-bag, occasionally flashing me bits of interesting electrical accoutrement that he had brought for our picnic later in the day, but that was about it.

On occasion, I put some real effort into understanding the English portions of the ceremony but still never understood what was going on. At one point, while flipping through the little bible, I heard the current speaker declare, “in the name of our Savior, Amen.” Oddly, no heads in the audience had been bowed (at least, not anymore than they had been before), and I hadn’t even known he was praying.

It was hard to tell where one agenda item ended and the next began, until the graduates received their diplomas and made their way back to their seats. It was a rather interminable process—one group had 50 names in it, and it was only one amongst nearly a dozen disciplines. We waited for each group to wander up, receive its four-year-reward, and then clapped with a bit of enthusiasm (though far more subdued than the rollicking efforts common to American graduations) before repeating the process. By the time the final prayer was offered, everyone was anxious to return to the lush lawns outside and take photos with their own little graduates.

Though there were hymns, one of which was sung very beautifully by the ICU Glee Club, there wasn’t much religion in the process at all. The Christianity at ICU seems like much of the religion throughout the rest of Japan—a tradition to nod to, but nothing to get bent out of shape about. ICU is interdenominational, and much of its student body isn’t even Christian at all (as I understand it). We spent the rest of the day hanging around, eating and chatting with a lot of students (I’m sure my picture, mohawk and all, is floating around the internet right now because of it), but there was no more mention of religion, God, blessings or anything else you might expect to hear at a Christian University. In the end, I rather appreciated the way they handled their religion at ICU, as opposed to some of the more ridiculous things I would see in the coming days.

Next entry: my visits to a shrine and a pair of oversized Buddhas.

I’m Still Alive

I have officially survived my final semester as an MFA candidate, a trip to Japan, and the return journey. Today, I’m getting my life back in order, but tomorrow, I will be writing up an entry about my wanderings in and around Tokyo–I went to a few religious sites and a couple of religious landmarks, so it’s pretty good fodder for the blog. I think you’ll like it.

I’m also going to get to work on editing my lecture for those of you interested in that. It’s going to take a while, though, so I wouldn’t hold my breath on that front.

The main reason I’m writing this entry today, however, is that I’ve had another interesting encounter in Santa Cruz:

I woke up at three in the afternoon today. I’m jet-lagged and in a foggy headspace, just sort of drifting through my waking hours. While making the six hour drive home from LA last night, I meandered over the white line enough times to get Gina to take over driving duties and get us home safely. Note: Gina never drives that road–I am completely out of my mind.

Shortly after I woke up today, I decided to clean out the fridge and restock my life. I haven’t set foot in this house for nearly a month and everything has gone bad. And continued to sit in the fridge. Molding.

So I made a list and wandered through the store for an hour, picking up the things I needed and the things I craved (curse you Japan and your delicious, unavailable-in-the-states noodle dishes). When I was done, I walked to the car and unloaded the groceries. After returning my grocery cart to the pre-determined cart corral, I noticed that someone in the lot was having car trouble.

With the toaster waffles melting in the car, I wandered over to the driver and offered him some help. His hood was open, and it seemed to me, given the relative newness of his car, that he probably only needed a jump-start.

He was sitting in the driver’s seat, talking on a cell-phone, but he stood up to greet me. “Do you need a jump?” I offered.

“Yeah, but the tow-truck is on its way. Should be here any minute.”

“I could do it right now,” I offered pointing to my car a few spaces away.

“It’s okay, I’ve been waiting for 45 minutes already, but thanks a lot.” He reached out and shook my hand.

“You’re welcome. Good luck.”

As I walked back to my car, he continued the conversation he was already having on his phone.

“Yeah, it just proves that people around here really are human. And that’s why I’m willing to go to war for them.”

I had no idea he was a soldier, and I’m not trying to make some grand 4th of July statement, I just want to say this one more time: do something right for someone else, for no other reason than that it’s the right thing to do. Make the world a better place. It doesn’t cost you anything more than a minute of your time. Pass it on.