Cliché of the Day: Tattooing "Abide"

I never thought I’d get a tattoo. Especially not one easily mistaken for having Christian connotations. They’re expensive and permanent, and that's obnoxious. Three things I try to avoid. It’s why I like piercings. (Especially in Michigan: inexpensive and healable.) But one word has not left my mind for the last year: abide. And I like words. A lot. 

In response to my expressing surprise at its presence, my friend wrote:

I’m amazed at the confluence of “abides” in your life all at once. Wow. Sounds like some sort of message to me. I always think of that word as very comforting and peaceful. So maybe “hang in there” is the word, or “I’m here with you,” or both. Something like that?

I was/am amazed too. Looking back, that’s what I needed, to hang in there. It’s what I needed to hear: I’m here with you. She wrote that January 20^th of 2014, January of what would become the most fucked up year of my life. I know, that probably comes across as dramatic, and it is vulgar. But the year was both dramatic and vulgar. Someday I’ll express the vulgarity of 2014 in a book that I’ll probably never sell. Until then, perhaps “abiding” belongs not only in my mind and soul but on my body.

I probably won’t get a tattoo. I’m too cheap and too scared of permanence. But I’ll keep abiding. I’ll keep hanging in there, listening for and trusting that someone will always say, “I’m here with you.”

An Ode to Crosswords

Crosswords. They are a kind of complete that I am not and a type of disorganized that I am. The words don’t necessarily go together. In fact, they usually don’t. My inner workings don’t seem to go together all too well either. If they did, I wouldn’t be bipolar II. And of course, although the crossword’s complete, I’m not. Of course. None of us are. Some of us have more words spelled out and connected than others, sure, but we all have rogue tiles and mystery tiles. Real philosophical . . . I know.

I guess I hate being incomplete and disorganized, but the crossword’s disorganization mirrors my own disorganization and its completeness gives me hope.

Words. I like words. I like crosswords. I organize myself when organizing those tiles. But it’s no Ouija board. It doesn’t tell my future—and it doesn’t need to. It just needs to complete itself, for in that, somehow, it helps to complete me.

The Nutty Ones

It's been a good while since I've put anything on this blog. So here's something. I wrote it a couple of years ago, but it's a start--perhaps sharing a little will inspire something to flow out of my pen that I might "publish" here.

The Nutty Ones

Forrest Gump’s mama was dead wrong. Life ain’t like a box a chocolates, it is a box of chocolates. The days can be god-knows-what type of truffles—overwhelming and sickening—you wonder what sick bastard would place that in your path. Or when the caramel stretches for miles and miles and you question: is this ever going to end? You are glued to the never-ending day that started pleasurably but is now growing denser between your teeth, tighter around your tongue, closer to a gag than a gulp. And then, amidst the terrifying truffles, there are the turtles. The nutty ones. As if you weren’t nutty enough. As if you weren’t pokey enough. The chocolate can never simply be left plain, as God (seeing as you are God) intended. Yet, from the antsy race through the ick, to this pokey, this crunchy, this condoned before the start, yes, this silly turtle, allowing for the noting of the deep, dark chocolate, this is the one that has most surprised you. 

Priorities

I wrote this piece last year on Easter for my senior project. For the first time in over three years I attended a church(y) service today--Mount Hermon's Sunrise service. Churchy because the message is a telling of the Easter story mostly. (Which I appreciate. I'd rather not a full sermon.) However, this piece still rings quite true for me on the Easter Sunday.

31 March 2013

Holy week. The naming of the days preceding Easter is much more reasonable in the Romance languages. Viernes Santo. Not “Good,” but rather Holy Friday. The days are considered holy. Good, especially in modern English, is quite out of place, so far as I’m concerned.

Church. “Cr-easter Christians.” That term is insulting. As is “Nominal Catholics.” To each her own. Allow that she labels herself according to that with which she most identifies, whether or not her habits are up to the “standards” of said community.

Lapsed Christian that I am, there is a remnant of tradition that pulls me toward the Church on Holy days, paired with a dose of self-inflicted guilt. Yet I do not go. Besides, Jesus didn’t go to Church on what we call Easter. My sin, if I can use such language, my sin is that I am not with others, among friends. That’s what Jesus did. When Jesus rose from the dead, he went and hung out with his friends, after enjoying some gardening. 

Of this World

There has been a (welcome) decrease over the last ten years of the 90s' hit Jesus-fish phenomenon in the religious pockets of Santa Cruz County. However, replacing the dwindling fish population, a new form of bumper-sticker evangelicalism has emerged:

The HE>i decals and the “not of this world” decals.

I thought the HE>i decal represented some faux-hipster charity or clothing brand. (How would one even say that? “Hay-kai?”) But apparently, one should connect the “HE” to God and the i to I and then to the driver.

Jesus/God is bigger, and presumably more important, than the I. Which is why “I” is expressed with a grammatically incorrect, lowercase vowel. Even though the sticker does draw attention to the driver. But then again, most all evangelism struggles with to whom it points when the day is over. So I’ll forgive the ungrammatical HE>i. Even though it is huge and confusing. Maybe since the driver knows what it stands for, it is meant to be a reminder to her, not an announcement to the world?

As for the “now” stickers. Does it mean “Jesus, come now?” I figured. But then I saw it paired with “not of this world.” Ah. So the cross is also a “t.” Hm. There is something rotten in Denmark. Arrogance, perhaps? Pride? I know the sticker bearers mean no harm.

If this Jesus was FULLY God and also FULLY human, I think (perhaps wrongly) that he became and was and is part of this world. Don’t forget John 3:17, my Biblical friends: He came not to condemn the world . . .

He ate fish and drank wine and pooped and peed and bled and sweat and stunk and touched dirty feet. 

Yes. Of this world. We are all of this world. And it is good. 

Someone in Genesis said, “it is good.” 

The Evolution of the Tree Fort

Not a Through Street

Our tree fort--on the neighbor’s property--was and is a castle: real shingles, a climbable rope swing, a trap-door, a real cabinet, a pulley connected to the house, and a zip-line. We used to climb over the railing and down the rope, or vice-versa. Eric broke his arm on that zip-line; Rachel told him to let go at the end and he’d fly. (She failed to mention that Dad caught her.)

During the fall and winter seasons, we would slide down the hill on the pine needles—not always intentionally—and straight into the stunted, bush-like oaks and other unidentifiable, shrubs. And the occasional poison oak.

Inside of the cabinet we stored pinecones and other projectiles. By means of the pulley, we received our nourishment: apples, oranges, muffins. (Thanks, Mom.)

We prepared for battles, conquered our foes, and celebrated the victories from that tree fort; indeed, it fostered imagination, conflict, reconciliation, and many, many memories.

The fort leans a little funny now. A supporting board is cracked. The zip-line is gone. The pulley is gone. The bar to which the zip was attached leans precariously across the trail that is no longer well-trodden. Soon it will no longer stare forlornly into my window, dancing with the ghosts of the grown children of its youth. We’ll have to say goodbye.

Perhaps I’ll keep a piece of wood. Or that sign: not a through street. It’ll be a good reminder.

Cliché of the Day: Twenty-somethings and Technology

Technology: the ever present, ever whined about convenience and nuisance that I use now to communicate with a wee audience. But, it is sooo annoying, says the Original English Major.

Even Upworthy has become tiresome. It is time sucked away that could be used otherwise, that is lost forever. We don’t get this moment back. Ever. 

Upworthy, so long as we’re on the topic, is indeed worthy. One can learn about happenings of which s/he is otherwise ignorant: stop and frisk, on-line sexual slavery, etc. These things are outraging. The movements in response are the fruit of well-managed anger.

But do we do anything? Enough to keep Upworthy running. Is it a feel-good thing? The disconnect between humans that has come with technology has harmed our ability to feel, to relate, to communicate, to engage in legitimate understanding. Are media outlets such as Upworthy and Change.org successful for some generated feeling of connection, of participation? They are the news’ sources. Instead of reading the NY Times or SF Chronicle, we watch Upworthy or vote on Change and feel informed and involved; we feel something.

The generation tired of apathy, tired of the postmodern blahs, finds in these media a pseudo-connection. It is, though, the same generation that is heading the initiatives. Is it not? At least it is an effort to make connection, to interact.

I, too, subscribe to Upworthy, receive e-mails from Change and Avaaz and sometimes even 350.org and CREDO Action. How I wound up on all these mailing lists, I don’t know; why I haven’t unsubscribed, well, as it is I feel guilty for skipping over petitions or ignoring videos. Especially if I skip petitions solely for my lack of knowledge regarding the cause, the event, the likely relevant issue at hand. Instead of researching, I guilt trip myself while, oops, deleting the e-mail.

Yet it is too easy to simply click yes, this I support, to click “add my name to the proposal,” to “sign the petition.” We become lazy. Instead of researching for ourselves, we rely on others; we don’t dirty our hands.

“I’ll write a check. I support art; I just don’t have to see it,” says Ouiser.

That is how I’ve begun to feel about Change.org, Upworthy, et. al. Even World Vision. Even the Mentoring Project, to which I’ve sent many a hard-earned dollar meant for tuition.

I write a check. I click “yes.” I support change. I just don’t have to do it. I’ll give you my two to ten minutes of passion—for however long your filmed or written vignette may be— leave the rest to you. Good luck. 

Cliché of the Day: A cliché topic, the "-ists"

You’ve probably heard it: “My best friend is black.” “My best friend is gay.” Ad nauseam. If you haven’t, well, you’re blessed. (Yep, I could’ve helped that cliché.)

Now, I haven’t heard “My best friend is Mexican” or latino or Asian or Middle Eastern or African;  I don’t doubt that people say such things. But, it probably stays there, rather than using more specific language: Guatemalan, Peruvian, Uruguayan, Honduran, Columbian; Cambodian, Vietnamese, Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Hmong; Indian, Pakistani, Israeli, Iraqi, Palestinian; Malagasy, Nigerian, Sudanese, Rwandan, Ghanan, Ethiopian, Mauritanian, etc. You probably mean your best friend is American, or s/he isn’t “one of your best friends,” as the person’s actual ethnicity is beyond memory.

My closer and older friends are white. White, straight, females. I have a close friend who is first generation American; her father is Dutch. I have a wonderful friend who is Peruvian, who studied and is currently working in the U.S. There are people dear to me who are Spaniards. And family that is Mexican. One friend who is gay. (And, guess what? He is a white American.) End of story. Nope. Not too diversified, my life. To boot, most of them are Christians.

 

There’s one not heard: “My best friend is a Christian.” (Add to that “and not an asshole,” and then it might be a reasonable thing to say. Probably not.) 

I’ll say it again: my closer and older friends are white, straight, Christian women. Does that make me racist? No. Am I racist? Probably.

The majority of people are racist and/or prejudice in some way against some people group. White people need to stop defending themselves. We are not a post-racial or post sexist, or post homophobic society, and having, or claiming to have, a (best) friend from these fields does not change that.

So stop it. It sounds racist. It is defensive. And what are we defending? The fear of being labeled with an ist, no doubt. Perhaps that fear has grounds, perhaps it doesn’t. White Americans are obsessed with race, and it is disturbing. The obsession tends towards abstract conversations of color, of race, of ethnicity, and of self-protection, instead of conversations about people and the roots of their plight. It is no different when speaking of LGBT+ rights or women’s rights or immigration. Let us listen to people. Then let us speak of and with people, not concepts. Not money. Not numbers. Just people. With love.

Cliché of the Day: Death

Or not. Perhaps the language used regarding death is what gives off that stench of cliché. Passed on. Empty. Gap. Will be missed. The person who . . . fillintheblankwithsomething-positive. In a better place. So unexpected. So unfortunate. So heart-breaking.

And yes, Professor Vande Kopple’s death was unexpected. While pancreatic cancer tends to be a death sentence, a week isn’t enough time on death row. Then Bob died in surgery—unfortunate. His health considered, not surprising. Unfortunate. Gordon’s murder? Yes, heart-breaking.

Cold-blooded: a favored cliché to describe the actions of murderers and perhaps transferable to cancer. Except cancer doesn’t have blood. The cliché is that cancer sucks. Well. No shit. Murderers? Are people. People who murder? Aren’t cold-blooded, uncaring. Someone cared quite a bit about Gordon. Sure as heck wish s/he wouldnt’ve. But even a sociopath has some splintered sliver of light inside.

Three deaths and three staph infections: the great and the insignificant. Shall that describe 2013? Two births and two saving graces: Ashlyn and Eva, Debra and Irene. Shall these describe 2013? 

Or rather, indebted to the Book of Common Prayer: “. . . to have and to holde from this day forwarde, for better, for woorse, for richer, for poorer, in sickenes and in health, to love and to cherishe, til death us departe . . .”

Beat Poetry: a post-post modern's literary platform

There’s a new Upworthy clip; a father wrote and performed a poem for his son. His son has down-syndrome. The word he mentions, against which he speaks is retarded. The poem’s literary quality is wanting, but his eyes tell the of the desire; that’s what kept me listening.

I’m a little critical of such videos. Just say what you mean. The verse is convoluted. It gets in the way of the message, an important message, and is not well written or performed.

I love poetry. The beat poetry movement is really something; for me, it’s mostly a reminder of the verbal side of poetry, of the part after writing, the part I like to ignore, the performance. The beat movement takes a submerged topic and blends it with a head snapping style that is culturally appealing. It is exciting. It is passionate.

Do I enjoy the beat poetry? It’s okay.

But it seems forced. Angry sometimes. Too fast. The tones often disagree with the subject matter. But perhaps the escalating emotion is what has kept it living and growing through the 20teens. The mellow is drowned out by the dramatic. The generation tiring of the jaded postmodernism latches to open emotion, latches to those who say “fuck it” as a rallying cry rather than a sigh of cynicism. It’s hip. Hipsters are gradually handing it over to pop culture. (Says I.)

My generation’s pull for openness is frazzling for one who paired well with the skeptical, jaded mode of being. Of course, there is a balance to be found; the beat poets make me think of the pendulum metaphor, with Annie-on-Autopilot on the other side: why the hell would anyone want to “embrace their emotions” and unfurl them for the world??

My counselor, Reagan once said, “I’m going to go religious on you. Jesus got ticked in the temple. If the Son of God can get pissed, I think it’s probably okay for you to feel anger.” Okay, okay. Perhaps beat poetry is something people find to be an expression of righteous anger. (However, I think the poets could take some lessons from Eminem on breathing while keeping the desired emotion palpable.)

As for the subject matter—keep at it. Father of the wonderful son who happens to have down-syndrome, don’t stop.

The Grinch that Stole Passion

Passion. It’s a funny concept. Passion, calling, gift, vocation . . . over-used, lackluster terms nearing a drought of meaning. Calling and gift smack of evangelical necessities.

Vocation may follow in suit.

Passion? Passion is intense.

Left with passion and vocation, I judge one intense and the other stoic.

‘Tis my vocation . . . Serious business.

What is your passion? Extroverted interrogation to find the inner key to a happy, successful, meaningful life. Passion. My passion? Passion. Compassion. I get that.

Passion. Phooey. Vocation. Phbt. Life?

Life without either, oh probably slow and unfulfilling. Bugging about disinterested and tired. 

With? Don’t ask me; I don’t know.

Do you like green eggs and ham?

Yep, that’s what I hear when asked for a passion presumably packaged in my pocket.

No. I do not like green eggs and ham. 

I do not like them, Sam I am. 

Cliché but True

            It has been a while since I last wrote—at least for the blog. But between last post and now, I’ve graduated (or “commenced”) from Calvin College: four years of strenuous studying, of passionate and inspiring professors, of learning, of being loved, of struggling, of being cheered on through it all. Four years, and I have graduated with a bachelor’s degree in English and a minor in Spanish. Four years and I’ve left bits of my heart scattered at Calvin, throughout Grand Rapids, in Michigan. Four years, four CAM/walking boots, one semester in Spain and one semester on academic leave, three communication classes, two psychology classes, countless books (the beginning of a mini-library), three semesters with a solid, wonderful counselor, one Festival of Faith and Writing (and a hankering for more), four years. It has been, as goes the cliché, good, and it has been hard.

            So now what? The always present question, the unoriginal question, for “educated young adults”: now what? Oh, I don’t know. Nor do I mind not knowing. I’m not God. (Who would’ve thought?) Part-time work. Lounging around Felton and Santa Cruz, fat and happy. Writing. Living as a "wordsmith,” however that may be made manifest in the employment I see this year. A little fun wouldn’t hurt either. :)

Quiet Company

Quiet mornings . . . I’m a sucker for them. And I try to draw them out as long as possible. It’s almost ten, and I’m still calling it “my quiet morning.” Meaning, I have put very little effort into starting into a project, homework, getting out of my PJs. Meaning, I have put my efforts into coffee, food, and chill music. So maybe Miranda Lambert’s “Kerosene” doesn’t qualify as chill.

I need my quiet. We all do. Need. Just as we all need people, dammit. It stinks—quiet, solitude, what you will, is torture for some people. People, noise, talk (that nasty impossibility called “small talk”), interaction—that is torture for others.

But that quiet is also the most conducive for reading, writing, being a student. The quiet without the music, that is. The quiet whose music is a snowflake, a blue sky, a breeze, a shuffling of papers, a scratching pen, a clicking keyboard.

Quiet is dangerous. No. Aloneness is dangerous. Prolonged aloneness. Days. Hours for some. It depends on the person and her situation. But she always has her breath; truly, she is not alone. Her breath is always there. The internet is lonely. It is a dead complexity. The breath is company. It is a live simplicity.

Jesus, you say, Jesus is company. So send Him to my pal over there. He doesn’t disbelieve you; he’s just waiting for the tap on the shoulder. And is Jesus, or God, pleasant company? What if he wants Him to go away? That young man would say He already has, if He was around in the first place. God kneeling and wiping the tears from his face is an image of beauty and compassion. And it is a cruel joke. Where is He? “Do not be afraid. I am with you.” Oh really?

This is when solitude can be torture. When company is emptiness. When alone in a crowd. As if crowds weren’t bad enough, not a soul is familiar. Already panicked, the promised company to see you through is nowhere to be found. So this is what I get for trusting.

Returning to the breath is much more comforting. It is always there. It is not disruptive in solitude nor does it desert one in need of company. Here I am, it whispers. Here I am.

Pinpricks of Light

Today, my words are lacking. This last week and most of last weekend my words have been lacking, so I offer bits from previous writings, and a poet whose words I have shared before.

It is often nothing more than the gentle acts of caring that see us through the day. I wrote in my snipit style memoir of this gentleness: 

“[There] continues to be something in the word during the showers of spite; something in that smile saying, I am listening and I hear you, while the fog of muted emotion fills the air and the mind; something in those patient eyes and open hands . . .” These “somethings” can be painful; I want to do it myself, fix it myself. But that won’t do. It doesn’t work. We need someone to talk to, albeit frightening. We carry eachother through life. “[We] owe [our]  existence to others, to those who offer the simple words, the smile, the kind eyes, the gentle hands, to a broke soul. They reassure [us] that [our hearts are] beating, and that maybe, one more day or minute or moment is worth the while.”

Small but Urgent Request to the Unknowable

Whatever small nugget of kindness we carry,

that shy opal I picture buried in gray folds

of a cortex evolved to flinch at fire

and whittle sharp sticks when beasts

stalk too close; whatever prompts

bereaved widows to offer you coffee then

the guestbook, and parched sailors adrift

to share the day’s thimble of water,

and mothers to lift the most bent and broken

children with joy and glad for the work of it;

whatever iota of caring has survived

the millennia’s hardships, ice age and terror

and the simple tedium of walking upright—

maybe it’s no bigger now than a seed

in a fig—tonight I call for it, call

with my dry mouth from this cold room

clouded by my being alive

on a planet whose true gravity

eludes me; let that pinprick of light

multiply in the sky’s nightly leather

and in the pupil of each eye. Let me seek it

in the large, crazed creatures whose shadows

I fear most, in myself, for instance.

Kneeling, I poke at this ash-heaped hearth in hope

of some faint imagining, grateful for that.

Mary Karr

Sin in Eyes

            There is a weight to eyes—ringed purple and grey, rimmed red, or plain—there are days they are top heavy with sleep, days they are bottomed out with a faithful sorrow. The eyes retain truth invisible, invisible but palpable, undeniable.

            There is a sin, a type of sin that I despise more than any other in myself: that which causes pain, but not to myself. The sin committed intentionally against myself without contrition, until it sears the surrounding people. The consequence is terrible, and rightly so, but the harm done to others is irrevocable.

            The eyes suffer for the sin and tempt for an escape. Darkness. Hiding. The weight is heavy, but deserved. The eyes empty of color, fill with fog, and feign indifference. The eyes send acid guilt into their body. The eyes find distraction: flitting, firing, falling. Falling away from the eyes of others.

            This sin designed for ourselves, but producing suffering where not intended, spirals. One sin becomes two, two becomes three, three, ten. In an attempt to punish ourselves, we continue to punish others. This sin cannot be escaped alone. The very people we pain are the ones with whom we will make it out, onward, from the floor to our knees. Our eyes tell us this. They speak inward with their want of words, with their silence.

Sentence vs Cents

Artists make it. (Funny term, no? “Make it.”) Some folks, I can’t help but wonder how, but someone enjoys their music or art or medium of expression, their manner of interpretation, of caprice, of notions, the known and the unknown. Perhaps my favorite country singer and songwriter, Miranda Lambert, is an example of this “making it,” and continuing to do so. With the time she has been performing and writing, the quality of her music has not diminished; sure, her music isn’t the same as it was ten years ago, but the songs do not feel forced.

Perhaps that is what makes an artist an artist: patience. Words, music, paint strokes, carvings, welding, all of these can be forced. The products can be okay, sometimes pretty darn good, but the art lacks patience, which I would argue is a form of love. The best art is not forced.

This is why I don’t believe I ever could or will be a writer. No. I cannot and will not rely on writing for income; the writing will become desperate. Chasing the cent rather than the sentence—that is desperate writing. Not because life is about money, but because it takes money to survive in this world. And I fear that if my motive is money, my writing will not come from a healthy source.

This writing may seem desperate. Maybe it is. Maybe my writing on this blog is a desperate attempt to keep practicing so that someday I can maybe create something more worthwhile and send it to a publisher and then another and then another, until I can find it a home. But then again, when I am searching for a topic, writing and erasing, typing and deleting, not saving, crumpling, saying to hell with it all, I put my work aside. Not today, not this, give it a rest. I’ve practiced. I’ve tried. But this is not for the blog. Whoever my audience is, shrinking, growing, fluctuating, present upon fancy, non-existent, I will give them better; I can do better. I may make a penny for a published article, for which I will be grateful, if that day comes, but I do not want that to be my drive.

*Naturally, there is a place for monetary driven writing, and I respect those who can and do write to support their life, the life of their families, etc. Writing to support of one’s family, for lack of resources, so far as I’m concerned, is no longer desperate writing, but writing out of love. (For writing, yes, but moreover for people.)

Blessings From Whom?

Grand Rapids, sometimes, can seem to be a different country, but for reasons that seem to be anything but antithetical to what is “American.” Freedom of speech, right? That’s somewhat American, no? I don’t know. It’s a little difficult to decide whether or not it is still important when saying “Merry Christmas” is considered to be politically incorrect. But I’d rather not go too far up that stream right now . . . or anytime in the near future.

In any case, it’s a little different here in G.R. I bought some eggs at Horrocks, a market that I had never been to, or heard of for that matter, until this weekend. The eggs are from a dairy farm here in West Michigan (Grassfield); the chickens are free-range clucks that go munching on organic grass. The cartons are recycled, as in the first step of the tri-re-cycle: reuse. (It is marked “please return cartons.”)Good and green and hippy. I love it. Here’s the other-country bit, the box also reads “You [LORD Jesus] care for the land and water; You enrich it abundantly.” Psalm 65:9. !!

I have yet to see that in Santa Cruz. That’s brave. Having spent the last three and a half years attending Calvin and learning Reformed theology, I understand the reason for this verse: creation, fall, redemption. The land is good; it was made that way. That is the creation part. The redemption bit is the choice to care for the earth and its critters as, well, “God intended.” (Or follow the mandate—to have “dominion” is to take responsibility for, not exploit.) It’s a mission statement of sorts. Again, I could go into further depth, but I’m not going to.

            The next stop on my shopping excursion was G.B. Russo & Son, a bit of a snooty palooty store (high quality imports . . .), but not, as it is a family-owned, itty-bitty, the-one-and-only type store. I was there to take a gander at their olive oil selection (and wouldn’t be opposed to going back). When entering the purchase in my register, I noted some text at the top of the receipt: “Jesus is Lord!”

            Hm. Admittedly, that was a little too much for me. (Okay, so a lot of things are “a little too much” for me.) But, again, what boldness! Had it said, “Allah reigns,” I wouldn’t have been offended. This wasn’t offensive—just unexpected. I kind of prefer Grassfield’s approach to making a statement of belief. It’s more on par with saying, “God bless you” or “May Allah’s bless you” or whatever. I wouldn’t do either. But that’s me. These sayings are sending a person off with goodwill, a goodwill specific to a particular belief. And that is more genuine, I think, than an Muslim saying, “good luck.” Allah is more powerful than luck; therefore, the person is expressing the deepest blessing she can muster—it is the giving of the best comprehensible, rather than withholding the blessing of Allah from he who subscribes to a different set of beliefs. It’s something worth pondering. And I’ll step out with some words from Ms. Karr:

EASTER AT AL QAEDA BODEGA

At the gold speckled counter, my pal in the white apron—

index finger tapping his Arabic paper,

where the body count dwarfs

the one in my Times—announces

You’re killing my people.

But in Hell’s Kitchen, even the Antichrist

ought to have coffee—one cream

and two sugars. Blessings

upon you, he says, and means it.