My life is not a Disney movie. bummer. (maybe.)

And then he’ll swoop in on a white horse, simultaneously eradicating the world’s problems and my own, so that we can spend the rest of our lives in a charming home with darling children in our little Shire, reading books and gardening.

I’ve always had an active imagination.  Although the story shifts and sways (not always my tall, dark, handsome knight-in-shining-armor singing a love ballad while riding his trusty white steed... sometimes, he pedals into my world on a tandem bicycle, then we ride into the city at sunset and tango at a jazz club...and other times, it’s just a big, red easy button for life’s little emergencies), regardless of the form of my deliverer, I often yearn to be rescued.  I want to be rescued from my loneliness, rescued from my boredom, rescued from my apathy, rescued from my inability to sprout wings and fly, rescued from awkward moments, and rescued from my failure to set the whole world aright.

I often get lost in Christy's microcosm of reality and miss out on real life.  Christy's microcosm: Disney movie.  Real reality: our good God constantly taking our deep-seated issues and quick-fix solutions and uprooting them (often painfully), so that little seeds of simple trust and utter love can sprout into abundant freedom, and we can welcome others into that reality.  It’s not quite as glamorous, but it is good.*

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*These thoughts may have been inspired by the following quote, from Shauna Niequist’s Bittersweet (thanks goes to my roommate Ryn for sharing this with me):

"I was miserable because I lost touch with the heart of the story, the part where life always comes from death. I love the life part, and I always try to skip over that pesky death part. I believe that God is making all things new. I believe that Christ overcame death and that pattern is apparent all through life and history. I believe that suffering is part of the narrative and that nothing really good gets built when everything is easy. I believe that loss and emptiness and confusion often give way to new fullness and wisdom. But for a long season, I forgot all of those things. I didn't stop believing in God. It wasn't a crisis of faith. I had failed to live with hope and courage and live instead a long season of whining, self-indulgence, and fear. I'm able to see now that what made that season feel so terrible to me were not the changes. What made that season feel so terrible is that I lost track of some of the crucial beliefs and practices every Christian must carry. Looking back now, I can see that it was more than anything a failure to believe in the story of who God is and what he is doing in this world. Instead of living that story - one of sacrifice and purpose and character - I began to live a much smaller story, and that story was only about me. I wanted an answer, a time line, and a map. I didn't want to have to trust God or anything I couldn't see. Even while I prayed fervently, even when I sat in church and begged for God to direct my life, those things didn't have a chance to transform me, because under those actions and intentions was a rocky layer of faithlessness, fear and selfishness. If I'm honest, I prayed the way you order breakfast from a short-order cook. This is what I want. Period. This is what I want. Aren't you getting this? I didn't pray for God's will to be done in my life, or, at any rate, I didn't mean it. I prayed to be rescued, not redeemed. I prayed for it to get easier, not that I would be shaped in significant ways. I prayed for the waiting to be over, instead of trying to learn about patience or anything else for that matter. I couldn't make peace with uncertainty - but there is nothing in the biblical narrative that tells us certainty is part of the deal."

Amusing Ourselves to Death

I love reading.  In middle school, I was often “caught” reading a book when I should’ve been doing schoolwork.  Reading and eating marshmallows were probably the two most common reasons that I got in trouble (somehow my sweet tooth and the only-eating-healthy-snacks-between-meals family rule didn’t seem to get along).  I still have quite the sweet tooth, though dark chocolate seems to be its preferred mode of expression these days, and I’ve also retained an insatiable appetite for reading.

Recently, I read a book about reading.  (Yeah, you might want to re-read that sentence.)

More specifically, Neil Postman’s Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business describes the cultural shift from typography to show business.  Typography refers to a print-based culture; in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, that described the United States.  This was an era in which political debates were untelevised and easily lasted six or seven hours, usually with a break for everyone to go home and eat dinner.  Postman argues that we have become an age of show business, an era of entertainment.  This is an era in which greater and greater stimulation has become required to avoid boredom.  In fact, boredom itself is a recent phenomenon.

In a prophetic voice circa 1985 (pre-cell phones, social media, GPS, iPads, etc.), Postman critiques our new era of show business.  Unlike other critics, his objection to television (and other forms of media) is not one of content; the television certainly contains unwholesome material, but books can as well.  Instead, his critique is one of form.  Form affects what and how content can be addressed and what response is demanded of the partaker.  For example, 30-second commercials.  If you can reasonably convince me to buy your product in 30 seconds, why would I want it?

For the full story, consult the book. 

For a fascinating tangent, the following is Postman's definition of intelligence within a print-based culture.  That is, what an “intelligent” reader is doing as (s)he reads:

“Although the general character of print-intelligence would be known to anyone who would be reading this book, you may arrive at a reasonably detailed definition of it by simply considering what is demanded of you as you read this book.  You are required, first of all, to remain more or less immobile for a fairly long time.  If you cannot do this (with this or any other book), our culture may label you as anything from hyperkinetic to undisciplined; in any case, as suffering from some sort of intellectual deficiency.  The printing press makes rather stringent demands on our bodies as well as our minds.  Controlling your body is, however, only a minimal requirement.  You must also have learned to pay no attention to the shapes of the letters on the page.  You must see through them, so to speak, so that you can go directly to the meanings of the words they form.  If you are preoccupied with the shapes of the letters, you will be an intolerably inefficient reader, likely to be thought stupid.  If you have learned how to get to meanings without aesthetic distraction, you are required to assume an attitude of detachment and objectivity.  This includes your bringing to the task what Bertrand Russell called an ‘immunity to eloquence,’ meaning that you are able to distinguish between the sensuous pleasure, or charm, or ingratiating tone (if such there be) of the words, and the logic of their argument.  But at the same time, you must be able to tell from the tone of the language what is the author’s attitude toward the subject and toward the reader.  You must, in other words, know the difference between a joke and an argument.  And in judging the quality of an argument, you must be able to do several things at once, including delaying a verdict until the entire argument is finished, holding in mind questions until you have determined where, when or if the text answers them, and bringing to bear on the text all of your relevant experience as a counterargument to what is being proposed.  You must also be able to withhold those parts of your knowledge and experience which, in fact, do not have a bearing on the argument.  And in preparing yourself to do all of this, you must have divested yourself of the belief that words are magical and, above all, have learned to negotiate the world of abstractions, for there are very few phrases and sentences in this book that would require you to call forth concrete images.  In print-culture, we are apt to say of people who are not intelligent that we must ‘draw them pictures’ so that they may understand.  Intelligence implies that one can dwell comfortably without pictures, in a field of concepts and generalizations....To be able to do all of these things, and more, constitutes a primary definition of intelligence in a culture whose notions of truth are organized around the printed culture.” (25-26)

I love this book.  Read it.  It will change the way you understand our society.

Pruitt-Igoe

In St. Louis, after exiting highway 40, you’ll head north for two miles on Jefferson Avenue before turning onto my street, Hebert. 

I love driving on Jefferson.  Its broad lanes, formerly used by trolley cars, have minimal traffic.  On that two mile stretch, there are a few schools, a police station, gas station, a nightclub (quite busy on the weekends, judging from the plethora of cars parked outside), a fire station, old warehouses, and a small forest.  Yes, a small forest. 

I’ve driven along that stretch countless times.  Growing up, I never really considered the oddity of a forest along Jefferson.  There were many other abandoned lots, but the grass was mowed regularly.  None of them had wild-growing trees.  Why was there a small forest only three miles from downtown St. Louis?

I recently learned why.

It was the former site of Pruitt-Igoe.  For those unfamiliar with urban sociology or St. Louis history, Pruitt-Igoe was perhaps the most infamous housing project in the United States.  In the 57 acres of now-wild forestry, there once were 33 high-rise apartment buildings with a total of 2,870 apartments.  Completed in 1955, Pruitt-Igoe lasted only two decades before it was deemed an utter crime-infested disaster.  Demolition began in 1971, and the site was entirely cleared by 1976.  The forest had been growing for almost twenty years by the time my family arrived to Hebert Street in 1994.

How did this initially-optimistic public housing project seem to fail so quickly?  That is the subject of the documentary “The Pruitt-Igoe Myth.”  Here’s the trailer:

I won’t spoil the documentary for you... it's a fascinating glimpse at the intersection of good ideas, poor planning, unfortunate politics, racism, and sociological trends.  (If you’re a St. Louis resident, you can find it at the public library.  If you’re not, well, I’m not sure.  You can order the movie online or check for screenings in your area.)

One of my favorite themes of the film is the humanity of the residents.  Yes, public housing is generally designed for the poor.  Yes, poor neighborhoods often have higher rates of crime, high school dropouts, prostitution, etc. Yes, I’d be scared to walk some of the streets in St. Louis in the dark.  Yes, there’s a culture of poverty that clashes with some middle class values.  (And some middle class values clash with upper class values.  There’s an excellent book called Bridges Out of Poverty by Ruby K. Payne that discusses these class differences, designed as a resource for social workers, but offers helpful insights for anyone.  Highly recommend it.)  But, poor people are just people.  People who want the best for their children; people who need to eat and sleep, to work and play; people who hurt each other; people who love each other.  The next time you cringe at someone... whether it’s because of that person’s (or institution’s) words, appearance or actions... reconsider their humanity.