On Stuff

“Keep your life free from live of money, and be content with what you have; for he has said, ‘I will never fail you nor forsake you.’ Hence we can confidently say, ‘The Lord is my helper, I will not be afraid; what can man do to me?’ … for it is well that the heart be strengthened by grace, not by foods… do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.” — Hebrews 13: 4-16.

Christians, and Americans by and large claim that faith, are supposed to adhere to the above passage. As many have noticed, Americans by and large are also materialists, capitalists, gunslingers devoted to their individual freedom, and/or envious of everyone more wealthy and successful than they are. The typical American’s knee-jerk reaction to this passage might be the question: “But this doesn’t mean we have to be poor because we’re Christians and share with, you know, the people who won’t use our stuff wisely, right?”

And the most honest answer would be, as Jim Wilson might say, well, because you asked, maybe it does. You should keep in mind that the founder of Christianity was a penniless, homeless Jewish man, who seemed to think being poor wasn’t such a bad estate and being rich just might be. His immediate reaction to financial oppression was in accordance with the Jewish law of giving four times as much as you originally took.

In this country at least, our errors tend to be of the selfish kind; rarely do we err on the side of being too generous. Rather, we keep boxes and boxes of stuff we don’t use on the off chance that it might come in handy someday. Rather, we buy the iPod, the more expensive appliance, the half-price Armani jacket, the book we’ll never read, the movie we may or may not even like, the knick-knack for the already-crowded shelf, because we suddenly, urgently need it. We may be defrauding another by doing this, particularly if, when we return home and place it on the shelf, it gets knocked over and broken, and its shards eat away our hearts. How dare this person be so stupid, so clumsy, so unconscious as to knock over something that didn’t belong to them? We will strike them from our will! They have obviously had too much leisure and too much luxury to understand the importance of possession, so they should be granted none. That’ll teach ‘em.

And we, being satiated with the importance of possession, nod knowingly, because we recognize the true value of Stuff.

The other day I was chatting about this concept with a co-worker, and mentioned that when I was a kid, my sister and I were fighting over a balloon. A common, cheap little balloon one of us had filled with air. My dad came over, took the balloon away, and popped it. He said: You must never let a thing become more important than your sister. At the time, I thought this barbaric (it was our balloon! He didn’t understand!) but looking back, it was a good lesson. My co-worker said: “That’s hella cool,” and proceeded to go home and clean out her house. She came in today with a sweater she thought would fit me and said as she was cleaning out all that stuff that no longer fit and were just taking up space, she repeated to herself: “it’s just a balloon. It’s just a balloon.”

By and large, it’s just a balloon, folks. I really like those shoes my grandmother gave me from the 1940s and I really liked my antique wedding ring (before it disappeared) and I really like my old journals and the photos I’ve taken and books I’ve collected and sand from different parts of the globe; my sweet French road bike and my more expensive but less sweet mountain bike; the clunky car my parents gave me for graduation—except it got dented from a deer and the door doesn’t open very well—the Hermes perfume I’ve only been able to find in Europe—and all that. But if I die, it’s just going to sit there. Or be used by somebody else. So why wouldn’t I share that stuff now, when it can actually do me some good to share it?

America, the Workable

A semi-recent article in the Wall Street Journal, “Want More Growth in China? Have Faith,” reports that Peter Zhao, a Communist party member/advisor to the Chinese Central Committee, is arguing that Christianity is the key to the West’s prosperity.

“He claims that Christianity produces greater wealth than other religions or no religion. His view is partly historical—the wealthiest societies are those that are either traditionally Christian, either Catholic or Protestant. He says that Christianity provides three elements necessary for economic growth: motivation—those who work for God rather than for pleasure, money or status don’t tire of being productive; a moral framework that makes for less exploitation and less corruption; and a mandate to care for the poor and disenfranchised. ‘Traditionally,’ he says ‘when Chinese become rich, they buy houses or maybe they marry a second wife.’ But they start to become lazy. Not so with Americans. ‘Even Bill Gates is still working very hard.’”

The article also points out that John Wesley, another man to make this connection, warned of its consequences: “religion must necessarily produce both industry and frugality, and these cannot but produce riches. But as riches increase, so will pride, anger, and love of the world in all its branches.”

Indeed, the Bible warns of the temptations of the rich. Jesus’ words, “it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven,” however bizarre, make it quite clear that those accustomed to riches may find them hard to forswear, even if they know it is good to do so. Proverbs and Ecclesiastes and the Gospels speak of the simple joys of life and against those who have gorged themselves on riches, particularly when a brother lacks. The man who increased his barns to eat, drink and be merry later in life was called a fool, at least partially because he died before he could ever enjoy them.

Similarly, many Americans have taken their work ethic far and above the teachings of Christianity. Riches and material possession are never lauded in the Bible. Enjoying the “wife of your youth,” and sharing with those in need is. In this way Christianity should produce honest workers (as pastors and employers teach), those devoted to doing right in the workplace, but no more than they are devoted to doing right elsewhere.

The error of a Christian society is that it may well produce hypocrisy; the sheen of doing right by an employer or wife or brother when the heart of the matter is different. Often, the sheen of doing right can be rewarding itself; as Peter Zhao noticed, Christian societies admire hard work and creation and “random acts of kindness,” even if one is not kind to the people closest at hand, or is working merely to store up wealth for a self-contained retirement.

Thus, many Americans, Christian and otherwise, answer the call to work 50,60,70 hours a week, to the detriment of every other part of their lives. They even continue the cult of business outside of work: they multitask while eating, researching, or even sleeping (hypnosis to stop smoking on tape); they shop, golf, take up Japanese, or watch football to improve their image and gain ground with their boss. If they’re older, they antibacterialize their houses and stretch plastic over their couches to protect their assets, and then coddle Fido because they don’t have many real friends to turn to, never having had the time to build friendships, particularly not with their children or grandchildren. If they’re young they jump on the social web to network and make inane comments for an hour on various acquaintances’ walls, and maybe jet over to a friend’s house to make inane comments in person—about shopping, golf, how they’ve taken up Japanese, or football.

This doesn’t take much thought and thus they will not be intellectually taxed the next day when they wake up at 6 a.m. to do their hair for work.

I make no mention of those of the younger generation who actually are too lazy to do anything but go to a third-rate college for 17 years while they party. This is the result of riches, too: they have found a way to use the obsessive productivity of their parents. Or they accrue so much debt they are forced to work 50,60,70 hours a week upon graduation to pay it off, with or without the skill to make working 60 hours in this country better than working 35 hours in another society.

Eating Chapstick

My little sister used to eat my cherry-flavored Chapstick when I wasn’t looking. Once she ate the whole tube, and fearful of incurring my wrath, stole another tube from the store to replace it.

My brother, also, would apparently swipe his girlfriend’s chapstick and chomp a bite or two out of it. She must have had a sense of humor, because she started offering him the tube whenever she bought a new flavor.

I never thought this family fad was particularly couth. I use chapstick like any normal female: thoroughly, often, and with greater attention to texture and quality than taste. I have Burt’s Bees, normal and tinted, lip glosses, Carmex, Chapstick (not the cherry kind), and the cheap Wal-Mart knock-offs. I keep some in my pencil cup at work, some on my nightstand, some on the counter, some in various pants pockets (always check before you wash!) and some next to my toothbrush.

My husband has developed an allergy to all of them, he says. So he doesn’t eat chapstick, not even when he’s supposed to. His lips start burning if they come into contact with the stuff, and then peel away to reveal a nervous courtroom presence. I protest: how does chapstick make your lips more chapped? All kinds that I and only I use? (and are you sure you’re not allergic to something else? Maybe my pH?)

I alerted Amy to my situation, and this Sunday she surprised me with an assortment of “Paraben-Free” all-natural chapsticks. The bonus: they taste delicious. Ginger lemon, coconut; closer to candy than any chapstick I’ve previously tasted. I haven’t crossed the line to gnawing on the tube yet, but I have been licking my lips a lot.

Scott hasn’t passed his verdict yet, (though his face isn’t looking quite so molted) but I’m enjoying them. So thanks, Amy. If nothing else, you’ve given me a deeper understanding of my siblings.

France (Rouen)

Being in France, particularly Rouen, again was weird. C’etait chez moi et pas chez moi; j’etais la mais j’etais entre deux mondes. I walked the same streets and saw the same people… at least a few of them… and spoke French as was my wont, but it had to be short-lived because Scott was there and he doesn’t understand French. I spoke French to him anyway, and took him by bus to where we were staying with Christine, because of course I remembered the way, and I remembered the stops on the way, and the three years it had been were a small thing. Yet not so small, because I was a visitor, clearly. How do you visit your home, or what was once your home? How do you explain: this distance was nothing before; I walked it all the time, and it was normal? How do you explain: je suis different en francais, et tu ne peux pas le comprendre. Je suis moi quand meme, toujours, mais c’est un moi que tu ne connais pas?

Oregonians

I have always loved Oregon. It’s gray, but green; rainy, but mild, and I grew up here. When the sun comes out over the windy gravel backroads, lined with wild irises or blooming wild apple trees or dense blackberry thickets, it’s homey in a way that mountains and oceans can never be to me. Everyone should be nice here.

At Samuel’s spring scrimmage game on Friday, as I stood on the sidelines, I heard a white college kid addressing a well-dressed older black man behind me. The college kid seemed intent on winning cool points; in any case, I heard him say, without much lead-up: “Republicans just want a Fuhrer they can get behind and march.” He then went on to detail how he was planning on becoming wealthy by using his special talents: being not very good at anything but knowing a little bit about everything.

Republicans are mindlessly marching on towards happily ever after? What about belligerent undergrads who think they’ve arrived at enlightenment because they can diss “the establishment” with the underdog — never mind that they can’t do much more than pass some general-studies tests in the establishment (government-funded second-tier schools for the poor and/or S.A.T-challenged). And what is this nonsense that a well-dressed black man needs the whiny approval of a college democrat, anyway; needs to be singled out as the underdog and sided with?

Skip to Saturday. I’m having lunch with a friend in Portland. We’re in a trendy bistro in the trendy Pearl district; Michal chats it up with local musicians who pass by on the street. She tells me that one of her customers, earlier that day, had handed her a deposit slip with the question: “you’re not a Republican, are you?”

“What if I was?” asks Michal.

“I don’t do business with Republicans,” the guy says, starting to get angry.

“Isn’t that discrimination?” Michal parries.

“I’m not discriminating on your race,” he retorts. (so, ok, you can hate someone for not holding the same views you do? Why get mad at Republicans in the first place, then? Their supposed staunch moral hatred is the main reason you’re dissatisfied with them, right?) Michal tries to calm him down; he proceeds to go on a rant. And note that she never said she was a Republican in the first place.

We finish our lunch and walk a few blocks to a brewery, where Samuel and dad are. Michal gets an Obsidian Stout; Sam gets a Porter. I drink water. I’m frugal and health-conscious; they’re cool.

The skinny

I went shopping this last weekend in Boise, our fair state’s capital (Boise, from boisé, or wooded, supposedly first named by a Frenchman in the Lewis and Clark expedition, after a long period of traveling over the desolate southern Idaho high desert). There was an Urban Outfitters just across the street from our hotel, so I checked it out. Sure enough, I found some sweet pants for $10. They were labeled as size 0, but I tried them on anyway on the off chance that they were meant to be very loose. And yes, they fit — perfectly and extremely comfortably.

Note: my mother made my wedding dress, and according to the pattern, I’m somewhere between size 10 and size 12. Pattern sizing hasn’t changed much in the last 50 years to reflect America’s expanding waistline, but apparently clothing size has. Today’s 0 is the 1960s 12. Go figure.

I guess I’m supposed to be flattered, but if anything, I find the implication that I am a size 0 insulting. I am not a stick and I don’t want to be a stick. Being a Ross Dress for Less 6 and a Banana Republic 4 makes me feel sleek, assured — but an Urban Outfitters 0? I just get suspicious. What do the real size 0 girls wear?

Maybe this is a subtle anti-anorexia ploy, however: if you’re swimming in the smallest size they make, perhaps you’ll get the hint and eat some more yogurt occasionally. Or just move on to the kid’s section.

On the other hand, maybe the pants were on sale because they were mislabeled.

Heralding

I went home this weekend and discovered that I have been editing mutlilingual publications for, not one month, but 12 years. Sorting through an old box, I came across a collection of Botkinville Heralds, designed, paginated, hand-written and hand-illustrated by a youngish me, detailing small vignettes in the life of our family. They came out (nearly) every month for two years, when I was 14 and 15. Stories carried titles like “Mom runs late, kids have fun” (on watching country music videos) and “Botkin family blasts apples” (on munitions). I also included an “interview of the month” with one of the other Botkin children, recording answers to burning quesitions like “what is your favorite flavor of ice cream?” as well as whatever (usually unflattering) situation they happened to be answered in. There were also helpful Latin sentences for philosophizing and insulting people (“Quarite vitam,” or “get a life”) and “poetry” or illustrations by the boys.

Here’s are two samples from March 1997:

BOTKINVILLE SITE OF STATUE
Botkinville has on it’s [sic] grounds a statue of George Washington! It should be noted that the color of this person’s wig is very true. It is white as snow. Probably whiter than George’s real wig. The reason for this is that the rendition is done in snow.

It is located several feet away from Samuel’s fort.

Sadly George’s nose has partially melted.

INTERVIEW OF THE MONTH, with Isaiah Botkin
K: what are you doing?
I: uh, playin’ Sta’ Wa’s toys.
K: do you want to be interviewed, Isaiah?
I: no… biz, beau! Look, Sam’el, look. Yiah! (hits wall)
K: do you like our house?
I: yeah. My house.
K: what is this house?
I: Idaho (plays with Yoda and then R2D2). Buh Buhheee!
K: do you like going to the potty?
I: yeah.
K: do you go in the potty or in your pants?
I: in my pants.
K: but you’re supposed to go in your potty.
I: no, in my pants (plays with toys).
K: did you see Joseph last week?
I: yeah.
K: what did he do?
I: he play wis me.
Samuel: are you going to interview me? You haven’t interviewed me since our old house, I think.