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Beards to Biospheres: a stoned journey

June 24, 2018 by Tricia

I’ve always plucked, shaved, or waxed the soft little mustache hairs that cover the corners of my upper lip. Occasionally, I find two coarse curly hairs sprouting from the left underside of my chin. The hairs first showed up once I’d had babies, somewhere in the nursing-bra-spit-up-showerless time of my life. Though at the time I despaired a bit, they came as no surprise, because I distinctly remember cuddling in my mom’s arms when I was little, gazing up at her, spying the hairs and tugging on them. I called them her “beard” and my glee punctuated our conversation. I don’t think I mind the beard nearly as much as my mom did then. My kids love to hear about grandma’s beard, and teasingly scold me when I’ve neglected my plucking. “ack, you have a beard, haha mom!” The legend of the beard has spurred treasured discussions in our home. We’ve learned about heredity and hair follicles, and affirmed a positive, realistic body image.

Most of us could do ourselves a huge favor and stop taking the little shit so seriously. I swapped facial hair tales with a friend at dinner tonight, with our partners and kids at the table. No embarrassment, no hushed tones. Why spend so much mental energy to follow a cultural or religious ideal that doesn’t pass the logic test? My mother’s dismayed reaction to a few chin hairs robbed her of laughter in that moment. I would rather my ordinary chin hairs connect me in memory to my mother, in joy to my children, and in solidarity with my friends.

If insecurity over a stray hair could prevent my mother from experiencing the joy and connectedness that was right in front of her, what other negative mindsets could we have that are unknowingly blocking us from a fucking glorious life?

Ten years ago, mired in manicured suburban evangelical church culture, obedience was the ultimate virtue, and my slick Vaseline smile belied my struggles. Though I had broken away from the doomsday cult of my childhood, I still didn’t realize “none” was a viable religious option. I was never one to shirk my assignments, but I eventually wearied of living my life through a litany of do’s and don’ts. Don’t do drugs. Get good grades. Get a college degree. Go to church. Tithe. Marry a godly man and fulfill your wifely duties. Take your babies to church to gaslight them into belief in a caring, engaged, supreme sky being. I stepped into the gray when I acknowledged that the promise of reward and the threat of punishment is a method of control, not a haven for a broken world. Evangelical kool-aid has a bitter aftertaste.

My head was so far into the ass of church culture that my politics, social values, and personal morals were entirely based on my perception of what it meant to be a good Christian. I had no opinions of my own. Once, before a Sunday worship service, I was shocked when I overheard a burly, bearded middle-aged man explaining that abortion should, in fact, be legal and accessible, so fewer kids would come into the world unloved and poor. It blew my mind to hear someone flouting the fundamentalist line. He had thought about his position, and wasn’t fearful of God’s wrath. It may have been an early catalyst to my charismatic undoing. Once I challenged my own world view with research and opposing ideas, the shift in my perspective was inevitable, and rapid.

Before age thirty I recognized the folly of religious zealotry. I began to see Christianity as a mythology, not dissimilar to how I viewed Zeus and his cohorts on Mount Olympus. The scales began to fall from my eyes through educating myself in world views unlike the one I was served. I craved details about our universe, and found myself captivated by the work of Neil De Grasse Tyson and his fellow astrophysicists. The most beautiful phrase in the world – we don’t know – is uttered regularly by Tyson as he shares breakthroughs in his field. We. Don’t. Know. For my whole life, those in authority over me knew the answers, knew the origins of the universe, knew how to be saved. Not knowing is what drives us forward, maintains a growth mindset. We must seek answers to our unknowns, or we will languish.

I am so close to being de-churched completely, finally free of the mental prison of fundamentalism. I revel in my own feelings of smallness, knowing I am woven into the mesh of this harshly stunning and mysterious universe. The atoms in my body are as old as the universe, and have been recycled through gaseous stars, terrestrial structures, and the carbon-based life forms that preceded me. I am not disconnected from the universe. I am made of the universe. And so are you.  For as long as we’re around, we get to marvel at the wonder of that thought.

It’s not divinity, it’s just science.

 

Sabbath Nipples: training bras and when to wear them

May 8, 2018 by Tricia

As a kid in a fundamentalist family, church and popular culture simultaneously tantalized and shamed me with sexual knowledge I would learn when I “grew up”. Fashion magazines in the checkout line espoused ways I could please my man and highlighted cleavage I should aspire to, while pastors pounded the podium, railing against harlots and impurity. In my mind, growing up meant learning everything about sex, a delicious, yet dirty deed. I couldn’t grow up fast enough.

In the 5th grade, feeling proud of my newly-pipped breast buds, I pinned all my pubescent hopes on a training bra. It was 1990, and I expected a bra paired with my fluorescent music note earrings, paisley leggings, and layered scrunch socks would secure my spot as one of the cool kids. My mother surveyed my soft jelly-bean nipples rippling the front of my shirt, and agreed it was time. The bra was made of two flimsy triangles, adjustable straps, and a front clasp. I assumed bras with hooks in the back were for boobs that dangled, like my mom’s. I’d watched her lean forward and drop her breasts into the cups more than a few times. She was a pro.

The bra did not succeed at making me cool, but it did raise my grownup-o-meter by a good 15 points.

We were Sabbath-keepers. That meant from Friday night sundown until Saturday night sundown, we followed strict behavioral guidelines. No TV. No work. Pray, and read the Bible. We wore our ‘Sunday best’ to church every Saturday: dresses with no make up, three-piece-suits with ties. Even in July. Church services predictably opened with three hymns and a prayer. Hundreds of us sat on metal folding chairs, and my dad concentrated, stern-faced, balancing a notebook on his thigh, pen in hand. He captured bits of wisdom the pastor, deacons, and other men of esteem shared with the congregation, while I sat sketching fashion designs that pushed the limits of Christian modesty.

Before we left for church one morning, I was dressed and nearly done with breakfast, finishing my toast by the sink.  I wasn’t wearing my bra. Without a hundred 10-year-olds around to impress, I didn’t see the point. My dad, ostensibly a jokester, yanked the front of my dress, intending to tease me about the bra. The gathered elastic top gave way easily, exposing my plump nipples. Gah, DAD! He was apologetic for having embarrassed me, but slunk away mumbling, wondering aloud how much I really needed the bra. Dad wasn’t a creeper, but he was socially awkward and often handled uncomfortable feelings with juvenile impulsivity. At the time I didn’t have the right vocabulary to give voice to my feelings, but when I remember that day now, I feel violated. No matter his intent, the subtle message was clear: I was just a child, and I didn’t have a right to my own body, even within my clothing. In my view, my dad missed an opportunity. He could have bolstered my relationship with my body, impressing upon me that I had charge of who was allowed to touch me, and where. Instead, I was made to feel silly for excitement over my body changes. I was teased for having a bra, and humiliated for not wearing it all in the same moment.

Twenty-eight years have passed since the 5th grade, and my relationship with my breasts is still changing. I have padded them, hidden them, defiantly bared them, and nourished children with them. What’s new is finding my own pleasure in them. Turning on with cannabis is opening me up to erotic sensations in body parts I thought were sexually broken. Any small tingle of pleasure in my breasts used to bring with it a wave of shame. Now, when I smoke weed in the bedroom, I set an intention to find pleasure with my partner, and shame huddles in the shadows, weakened. With a continued regimen of cannabis self-care, the effect has been cumulative, and now, most of the time, I feel like my body belongs to me.

And I don’t own any bras with hooks in the back.

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