Flashback to 1995
Both of these articles come from the Spring 1995 Synapse.Eggnosticism
by Marc Loustau
Eggnosticism: A treatise dealing with one person's doubt of the Great Chicken.
Sometimes I really wish I believed in God. Lately, I've found myself thinking this increasingly often. Maybe if I believed in God it would be a whole lot easier. Whatever happens, I would know that God has some reason to cause it to happen. Don't get me wrong—I hold a great respect for those who believe in a god, goddess, or any other type of greater being. I've tried my darndest to believe, but there is always something that holds me back. I tend to think that I am this way because I grew up in a Unitarian Universalist (UU) family filled with professors and intellectuals. I was taught to trust science over spirituality and to shy away from the biblical God and "His" believers.
I tend to believe that no one can give anyone else spirituality, it's a solely personal process. I found myself coming to church more and more often as I entered my teenage years and became involved with Young Religious Unitarian Universalists (YRUUs), not because of any kind of spirituality that my church or YRUU gave me, but because of the community I found there. This is why my favorite part of the service is hanging out with everyone else during coffee hour. This is why I enjoy the communal aspect of YRUU worship—a chant, a song, or a spiral dance. Spirituality, for many people, is an inherently personal matter. They often don't go to conferences or church services looking for it. I have found YRUU to be a haven for many of these people, who, after finding no other place so warm, open, and accepting, find comfort in the community YRUU provides.
So when someone asks me what I believe in, for now I just tell them I am Eggnostic. Eggnosticism is a belief system of my own invention. It is something that is waiting to be born, incubating patiently, waiting to be discovered. When I do discover it, I will start on the journey to find out what to do with this newfound spirituality.
Roots that Wish to Become Wings
by Jenna Martin
I see people around me, ministers, teachers, friends, and the like, who are very proud of their spirituality. Have they truly found that which I find essential—the balance between the personal and the political? Every day, we and people that we love struggle for survival in a culture that wants us dead. Why is it that capable, intelligent, amazing woman starve themselves to establish "control" in their lives? Why do black men get scape-goated for nine out of ten crimes committed in this country? Why are children being raped at staggering rates by the men who claim to love them? Why do I think about these things and want to jump off a bridge? What stops me? My belief in humanity stops me. A smile stops me. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. That is why life is a struggle. For every Newt Gingrich there rises to meet him a Jesse Jackson or an Andrea Dworkin. This is what stops me. It is a struggle that I find sacred, profound, and meaningful. This is my spirituality.
Spirituality is also the balance between my roots and my wings. But what does being rootless really mean? Being rootless means in a sense to be mutable, to be changeable, to be contestable. It means to be political. It means to be flexible in our political alliances as well. Glorica Anzaldua, author of Borderlands, believes that contradictory alliances change our expectations about political loyalty. It can affect one's impression of a given political landscape. What an empowering notion—to think that we live and grow and change. The potential for action is overwhelming.
If we are political beings in essence, then doesn't it make perfect sense that we, ourselves, should be the battleground for political action, for political battle? It is this space that I choose to occupy; the border, the battleground. For me, it is the only way I can survive. Thankfully I did survive. However, it is terrifying to cross those borders out there in the world. It is inevitable that I will change. How can I cross the border from woman to something else? What is that something else? Is it man? Is it a third or fourth or fifth gender? I have existed in a climate that has always acknowledged me as a woman. This label of "woman" has been the source of great oppression, but also of great movement. I am on the second floor with my friends who are like me. I look around and smile at our similarities. They are young, educated, lesbian, and bisexual women. How did this happen?
Fortunately, I have come to understand that they are not my only family. This is where my challenge shows its face. There exists grave danger in familiarity. I must move into discomfort. I must leave home. It is no longer safe now that I know my possibility for change. My identity is constantly changing; it moves along with my location at every moment in every day. We are not organic. We are political. We are therefore subject to change.
Unfortunately, wanting to change, no matter how intensely, does not guarantee that you will be able to get up right now and run to the borderlands. There are, as in my case, people or pressures, prohibiting you from taking a step toward this life-giving journey. Vital to this journey is refusing to stand still; to be planted as if a tree into the ground. We must try a new way of being. Gloria Anzaldua, like many of us, stumbled upon many obstacles, but when she was able to make the trip, to cross over, what she found inside herself was alienating. She realized that her language as well as a new class consciousness separated her from her family. In her case change was inevitable. She even welcomed it. But at what cost?
The cost cannot be totaled. It becomes a moot point. She did not lose a home altogether, she simply moved it into a wider neighborhood. With curious eyes I follow her there.
It looks like a border, this place. I see Anzaldua here. She lives here now, on the border itself. But she is not alone. Others have come here too. I suppose in attempts to find meaning— substance in a world that seems not to care. Me, I came because my spirit begged me to. I have finally found a place to call home. For the border is a place on which to act. Act now. Act loudly. Act upon yourself. Act up. Do not take sides. Be the conflict.
Be a crossroads. It may be one salvation. It was mine. I am very seldom bound to who I am or how others choose to perceive me. I have stepped out of my identity. I am now free to roam the many plains of existence, no matter where they may be. It is this new self that I am getting to know. She is from who I gain strength. However, I no longer ask the question "who am I?" only the question "who is it that I can become?" This is my spirituality.
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Last updated on Saturday, April 19, 2008.
