Sur-Thrival

 Sometimes everything just comes to a halt - out of nowhere, things fall apart. Other times, the end is a dripping water faucet that eventually drains the well. It's the light left on non-stop that eventually grows dimmer and then blows.

That's the way the apparent end of my 7.5 year experience teaching online has arrived.

There have always been those who panic - every month - in the group chat, "Has anyone been paid yet?" The answers trickle in - it's hard to have an appropriate sense of urgency when there are instructors and students in most global time zones. Henny Penny's been chirping all year. 

Last month no one got paid. It seems clear that the end is at hand. Communications from the company consisted of stonewalling for a week - then the promise of regular updates, albeit vague and of no help, but really, at least there was communication. Or was it gaslighting? The chorus of doom and gloom continues.

In this time of uncertainty and hope, I'm reminded of my never-ending struggle to survive. Ever since I was 19 years old, the needs to procure a place to live and food to eat topped my to-do list. To that end, every action I took, every decision I made. Where to work, whether to finish my undergraduate degree - even what major (to some extent) and where to live (had to be able to walk in case I didn't have a car).

It's hard to describe the way struggling shaped me. Knowing that things could always get worse, but always thinking that nothing could be as bad as what had already happened, ultimately learning (again) that it can be damned close.

My father died at 67. He had let his health go to shit. He wouldn't take either his medicine or care of himself and I found him stiff in his leather recliner. Over the past few years, I've begun to understand how he must have felt; I empathize so deeply that it's often unsettling. 

You see at one time, he had a good career. He was regularly recognized for his can-do attitude. I found proof of this as we cleaned out his belongings. A cowboy-loving conservative to the core, maybe he truly believed that if he only worked hard enough, he'd go far. 

When did he realize that hard work wasn't enough? It was the friends, the connections, the complicity. I don't think he could manage it - maybe he tried, but just couldn't keep it up. Thinking he could mistreat and abuse those around him left him struggling to sustain relations with loved ones and even to find work. His health didn't help any, either. A car accident that wasn't his fault, a stroke, and other complications unknown to me held him back. Or maybe he couldn't go forward anyway. I don't know, but I know what it feels like to lose hope. To try as hard as you can while trying to stay true to your own values and then POOF. Nothing seems to work and nothing lasts. 

It'd be easier to let go. To just stop trying. It is exhausting to push for something and the only motivation is to make it to the next day. How do we forget why we live?

Complain as I do, I don't have that problem, really. There are about two dozen furry angels who depend on me, among others. I can't slip quietly into the night without someone knowing. Someone losing their caregiver. Others losing their biggest fan.

So I'm here. The rug yanked out from under me once again, or was it slowly being tugged away the whole time; my feet sliding into a new position? It's always hard to tell.

I remind myself of the many blessings I have - of all the ways it could actually be worse. Do you know that's also exhausting? Treading water, getting a nice float from time to time, but feeling as if there's a constant stream of pebbles raining down from somewhere - gotta keep moving to roll them off before they get heavy. Tired.

My positive approach to this is everything that it always is - controlling my thoughts, reaching high and pumping myself up - you got this girl. Just keep going. But this time I'm going to slow it down. If there's one thing I've learned is that fast fizzles and slow stays. In it for the long run, so I have to make it work. One way or another, it'll work out. At least that's what my Grandmother said. 

 

Whose Comfort Counts?

Today is Thanksgiving. 

Memories of this day often revolve around family, food, and football.

I haven't been in the United States for Thanksgiving in eleven years, so I don't really know what it's like now. And anyway, I don't really celebrate Thanksgiving, or any other holiday, for that matter, as I did before. In fact, I am usually rather sad on days that are major holidays in my homeland, but I do have memories, and memories are for remembering and traditions must be made anew.  Grow, grow, GROW! ...as we used to say.

My grandmother loved to sneak gizzards in the dressing. My cousins and I would always ask her not to put them in there, but to no avail. She would feign ignorance,  "What? Well, honey, I don't know about that - I didn't think there were any in there" and she'd quietly giggle and it became something of a joke. Nowadays it might not be so funny, as accommodating people's requests is akin to acknowledging both their right to exist and their beliefs.

That being said, some of the most memorable Thanksgivings were those during my high school years, especially one in particular when addressing ugliness, sexism, and racism at the table led to a lively exchange, which is forever etched in my mind. We were coming into our own as young people and we were not complaisant. While I miss my Grandmother's cooking and I miss seeing my cousins, I don't miss tense road trips with my angry father or the heated arguments that would inevitably scorch the Thanksgiving table. As I got older, I was in more control about where and with whom I would spend this special day. My Thanksgiving memories as an adult are much sweeter, happier, and embraceable. I was blessed to have experienced Thanksgiving with new family relations, friends from different parts of the country, and people whose families were too far away for them to meet. Thanksgiving had truly become a time to be thankful.   

***

I am an animal lover and that informs my eating decisions. Period. That being said, while living in another country, I'm not always in the control seat for menu offerings. Travelers are often advised that as guests, we should eat what is offered to us. Anything else would be considered rude, but at what point is it acceptable to consider your own comfort (and beliefs) when it comes to food?

This post won't answer that question - or any others. In fact the older I get the more I realize how little I know and hell, even if I did know something at one time, it surely doesn't mean the question is the same. Flexibility is key and so is a healthy dose of introspection. 

Where I live, due to religious beliefs, a great majority of the population neither drinks alcohol nor eats pork. As you can imagine, the lack of pork has never really been an issue for me, but at times it's been a little disheartening not to be able to find a cold beer when the mood hits. That being said, for many Indonesian Christians I've known over the years, the feeling seems to be that since there are no religious prohibitions for us regarding food, we (as I am a follower of Christ) are not only free to eat whatever we want, but that we should. I imagine this thinking stems from the scripture 1 Timothy 4: 4-5 (NIV)

4 For everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected
 if it is received with thanksgiving,
5 because it is consecrated by the word of God and prayer.

When I see online (in social media or news stories) that people are uncomfortable, stressed, or even a little irritated about accommodating the food requirements or preferences of guests sharing the Thanksgiving table, I naturally reflect on my years here. I think about the people who know that I don't want to eat meat or foods from animals and how graciously they have treated me. I think of the people that know and haven't cared, expecting me to eat what they serve since there's no "real" reason for me not to eat meat or products from animals. I reflect on my years in the service industry where I learned that sharing a meal with friends means a whole lot more than just eating. And maybe most of all, I think of what a privilege it is to prepare food for loved ones. Of what a blessing it is to be together, to laugh, to be happy.

I think about how eating is such a public thing, yet taps our inner most being - where grace can so easily turn to malice and sharing can shift towards judgment. Where eating dogs and cats is volleyed around just to get a reaction - from someone who lives in a house with cats AND a dog. 

Thanksgiving is a lovely time to gather and be thankful. Sharing a meal is a meaningful way to show love and friendship, but from where I sit, peace begins on a plate. If that offends you, may you find comfort. And may we all learn how to love one another, giving thanks that we can make choices with a spirit of compassion for all. If we choose ;)

Feathers and Fur

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all
Emily Dickinson

Perhaps I should have listened to my superstitious gut. I should not have put the collage of photos on Facebook yesterday. Yes, he was getting better (I thought) and it was safe to share his journey.

I have learned over the years that often when it seems like they're getting better, it's more like a last ditch effort to survive. This morning when I went to check on him as I have for the past week and a half, he was almost stiff, eyes closed, as if he had passed in his sleep. Thank goodness for small comforts. 

Sometimes I say that I'm all cried out. I have cried so much over many lost lives, many unfair, unjust, and just plain sad things that I wonder if I have anything left in my heart at all; perpetual triggers and endless chances to grow through disappointment.

Hope is what carries me through the tough times. Faith teaches me how to access it, it's the branch for the little bird to sit on. Love is in the fluffy fur of every creature I touch and it's the spring of all that is good and worthy. 

Rest well, little one.

13 So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three;

but the greatest of these is love.

1 Corinthians 13:13

God does not require us to achieve any of the good tasks that humanity must pursue.

What God requires of us is that we never stop trying.

Bayard Ruskin

53 Percent, Revisited in the Light of 55 Percent

Soon after the 2016 election, I wrote 99% of what follows. Last night I listened to an interview with Malcolm Gladwell who shared that he was happy to think in front of others with the ability to learn and grow together. In that spirit I am sharing this older post, especially in light of the apparent reality that more white women voted for Trump in 2020 than in 2016. I'm working hard to make sense of this, but at the same time, if race is indeed learned and is a social construct, this bubble dwelling hermit changed majors long ago. 

                                                                                *****

I read that 53% of white women (white like me?) voted for Donald Trump. I've seen varying numbers; the lowest being 42% and the highest is 53%. It's not my intention to shame them (us?) - women are human beings and have the right - always - to do as they (we) see fit. Secondly, I don't see hand-wringing or softness on either side. We are ALL on a mission and we all feel "right".

That being said, I was completely befuddled as to how so many women could vote for someone who has obviously disrespected and cheated on (arguably) each of his three wives (at least he divorced and didn't try to justify cheating while remaining married - that's an all-too-common reality for another post), as well as said that he could "grab a woman's p---- because he can" - or something to that effect - and no, to me it doesn't matter when he said it: such a nasty attitude doesn't just "go away."

Have these women never been grabbed? Groped? Forced to have sex against their will? Propositioned for sex by men in positions of authority? Have they been lied to or cheated on? Are they, like me, still holding a grudge against Hillary for not kicking Bill to the curb or, at least, for the back-handed slut-shaming of those who choose to "stand by |their| men"?

I believe in the rights of women, but identity politics plays no part in my belief. I've taken heat for not showing compassion for those who choose a different way of being female. I will not stand up for a woman who abuses her children or spouse, who plays a position of weakness to manipulate or to gain benefits for her own selfish ends. Being catty or bitchy is not a part of what it means to be a woman. It's a part of being human and there's no better proof than to look at all the catty, bitchy men who troll and yell. I am a feminist, but certainly not of the "Female First" camp, but rather a feminist fortified by humanism. In this day in age in America, the need for women to play small no longer exists, so don't be surprised that I can understand why women wouldn't choose to support Hillary

BUT

not supporting Hillary does not default into support for Trump - or did it? I cannot understand how they would vote for Donald Trump. And today I wonder why and how.

As often as we have found ourselves straddling an imaginary boundary between good girl/bad girl, sex object or virgin, warrior or princess, I guess I thought those days were pretty much over. It's clear they're not.

Many years ago, I was having lunch with my dear Grandmother and her sister, my dear aunt. This was in 1995 when Shannon Faulkner and a handful of other women sought entry into the prestigious Corps of Cadets at the Citadel, famed military academy in South Carolina.

When I brought up the case - thinking it would be yet another opportunity to further develop our strong bonds - their faces immediately changed into scary, angry monsters "I hope they get raped -  every single one of them! I hope they get raped!" These two cultured Southern women descended into a tirade that would make the most dramatic soap opera diva jealous. Nobody could carry on like those two sisters and I just had to provoke it by wrongly thinking that we might be on the same page!

Even to this day that memory haunts me. How in the world...what were they thinking? I thought for sure, as strong as they were, that they would support an opportunity for young women with the will and ability to fight, to fight.  I was wrong. They had a different perspective and it in no way meant that women were weak or couldn't fight, it simply meant, I suppose, that war is for men and women should know their place and stay there. Period.

I'm embarrassed, but only a bit, to admit that I channeled their righteous indignation when I learned of the women supporting Trump. "How could they? I hope they get raped!" I caught myself and backpedaled. I'm not that person, but I would be lying if I said that the thought  - and the feeling - didn't briefly rage through my mind and body.

We should not be expected to be a monolithic body, but surely there are some places where we can find common ground, aren't there?

In the time since I began this post, the Women's March on Washington has transpired. And now, more than a year later, Stephanie Daniels/adult film actress, and her legal team headed by a man not afraid to speak out and sling hash, either, has filled the news. Mueller's team continues to bag game and white people all over America are calling the law on black people for...I'm going to say it..."not staying in their place." That is THE defining mentality of conservative-leaning people: know your place and stay in it. Are those 53% dutifully staying in their places? 

In reading as much as I can via the internet, as well as being able to discuss it with some friends who didn't march, I have a clearer idea of at least some of the answers to my initial query.

Some women just don't feel oppressed and they believe that other women are being unduly hysterical (now that's a loaded term, isn't it?), as well.

Maybe for some women, the belief that "our" men will protect us serves to quell any fears about the boyish boasting and potential harm from someone who, unabashedly, doesn't view women as fully human. Perhaps I'm a little jealous of such confidence. I've never known it. I can't remember being protected, but I can remember being blamed. As a woman, anything that happens to me is surely my fault. Boys have fun and girls have babies, after all.

The story of Sodom and Gomorrah, depending on your religious beliefs, either demonizes homosexuality or describes how we are to treat strangers.

For me, it not only tells how we are to treat the stranger among us, but it is a sad example of power and "playing the game". Lot offered his virgin daughters to the mob "to do with them as they will"(Genesis 19:8). I always wondered why it seemed nobody was as preoccupied with that as they were about the so-called homosexual overtones or the description of how to treat the stranger. Odder yet, is that even though Lot was willing to engage in their game of violence and power by giving his daughters, he was going to be made to suffer an even harsher fate! In other words, by speaking against the crowd, his male privilege was nil. That's what happens when anybody, male or female, speaks against power. Privilege be damned. That's one of the things that a lot of people on both sides fail to realize. Privilege only goes so far without a commitment to the game.

As I read the story again, the two virgin daughters had another role to play after they fled the city.

I don't want to dwell on that story except to say that the fate of the daughters, at first, was in the hands of the father. A fine fate that would have been, too, I imagine. Later, after they fled, by taking responsibility for themselves and for humanity, albeit in an unsavory manner, they too did what they were "supposed to do"; they continued their lineage.

I'm trying hard to understand different perspectives, especially about what it means to be a woman in this Patriarchal world that too often forces us to be pitted against each other.

I have to remember that the 53% of white women have white fathers, white brothers, white uncles, and very likely, white sons. This puts them in the unfortunate position of not only maintaining and nurturing systemic racism, but also the Patriarchy.

I'm going to disagree with the women who voted for Trump, but at the same time, I will try not to demonize, name-call, or shame them. That's a game and a system that I want no part of. I will continue to hope that we all can do what we think we need to do, what we're supposed to do, and that we'll be ready to be accountable and to change our views if necessary.

https://www.thecut.com/2020/11/many-white-women-still-voted-for-trump-in-2020.html

Snake Dreams

When I was in high school, I often dreamed about snakes. 

Snakes on the ground; I had to step over them to get to class. Snakes covering the road as I road my bike home. Happily swimming underwater in a clear, blue pool, only to emerge to see snakes slithering along the surface. A sharp bite on the top of my foot, awaking to find that I had kicked the foot of the bed to shake the serpent.




At the time, I thought the snakes symbolized my life; unable to trust people or places - scariness and danger lurking around every corner. A few of my friends, in that cutesy hyper-sexualized teenager way, laughed that they knew why I was dreaming of snakes, but I knew that wasn't the reason.



So aptly put by my daughter many years later, it seemed that the ground was always uncertain. I had no solid ground, a place of safety, on which to stand. The ground was always moving. I had never thought of that before; only of discomfort, threats, and imminent danger. No firm foundation. Hm.


The last snake dream I remember happened during a time of great change in my life. I was 21 or 22 years old. In the dream I was of being chased around my grandparent's house by a huge and ominous snake. Round and round we went - I was terrified and ran up one side and down the other, only to have that snake at my heels. Unrelenting. As I ran I remember thinking, I can run like this forever or I can kill that snake. Somehow I was able to grab what can best be described as a stone mason's hammer. I turned on the snake, grabbing it by the head and pinned it down to kill it. As soon as I had it down to deliver the death blow, before my eyes the snake transformed into my precious pet, my cat Rayne. Unable to harm my cat, I let it go, only to see it once again become the snake and pursue me with renewed vengeance. If I recall correctly, I was finally able to kill the snake, but only with the knowledge that even though it looked like my cat, it was not. As soon as the hammer dropped, the snake coiled into a shapeless mass and died.


I often dreamed of snakes.


Sometimes when I try to think of how to describe my first experiences here in Indonesia, the first description would be swimming - colors, advertisements, chaos, confusion, and buzzing motorbikes everywhere. Swimming; or treading water in a pool of snakes.

I thought I was going for a swim. I thought I knew how to swim and that was enough. I'd been a lifeguard in high school, afterall. That, however, is not enough when the pool is full of snakes.


Matthew 10:16

Pay attention, now! I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. 

So be as cunning as serpents and as innocent as doves. 

Be the Church; on Christmas and Everyday

This post was in my draft folder and in the spirit of trying to compile experiences and reflections, I've updated it for this year. I'm surprised that even after 2 years, so many topics remain relevant. Thank you for reading. May all the blessings of this holiday season be with you throughout the year!

***

As long as I can remember, Christmas has been my favorite season. Beginning with a big, gorgeous (and REAL!) tree the day after Thanksgiving, the season continued with community service, introspection and reflection, baking, church services, song, and much, much, merriment. In looking back, now from a completely different vantage, shopping was also a big part of the season, but in my family, it was never about TVs, camcorders, and new cellphones, but about the tireless effort to find just the right thing for all the right people; sometimes it was something small (a pack of gum to joke with a friend who can't seem to live without it) to the video game with the music that you swore you couldn't stand. The point of the shopping was about showing the people we care about that we remember them and love them - idiosyncrasies and all.

Christmas is, after all, about love. There are many ways to show it and the month of Christmas would be spent working to show it - in as many ways as possible.

For many of us, those ways begin in the pews. We know about Christmas because it's our faith tradition. We celebrate Christmas because it reminds us of God's gift to the world, Jesus Christ; God made flesh to live, love, and even suffer among us in human form.

I came to Indonesia as a missionary; not to proselytize, not to "plant churches", not to even really talk about my faith, but to serve.

It's been more than five years since I've worked as a missionary, but in reality, I've never stopping working towards that ultimate call to "be the Church".

It's easy to get caught up in what that means. In a place where religion is as much a part of one's identity (and even social status) as faith, it can be a challenge.

Daily I am reminded that the life of Christ, much like any of our lives, is seen through the eye of the beholder. What is "Christian" to some is arguably NOT to others. What makes the foundation of my faith may, or may not be, what fortifies the faith (or religious practices) of other Christians. Regardless, we are called to be the Body of Christ. For the past seven years I've been trying to find that place, been trying to be a part of the church of believers. I've been trying, to the best of my human ability, to follow Christ the Redeemer.

As an outsider, I'm thankful that I don't have to put  my religion on an ID card. I'm thankful for the privilege that allows me to practice my faith in the way I know as an American and not in the tracks of colonial empire. It is a privilege and I am thankful, but I'm also sad.

I'm sad that I can't engage in the traditions and conversations that predominate in my culture. I miss the opportunity to "do" things that make me feel good and hopefully help others. One year we "adopted" a family; a single mom with two or three children. That year, for the first time in my life, I had a decent job and a little disposable income. I didn't spend much - maybe $200 - but I bought what was on the list and I spent as much time on that as I would with someone I knew. The bathrobe had to be a nice one...and on sale...the other things had to be things that anyone I knew would love to have. I threw in some extra things that I loved when I was killing myself to make ends meet...a pretty pair of earrings, fragrant bath and beauty products. I had put my heart into that endeavor and it felt good. When I was struggling as a single mom, I received a little basket from a Sunday school class for Mother's Day one year. I remembered how much it meant to have pretty things for me. Of course it's a blessing to receive baby clothes and other related needs, but mommies have needs, too. It felt good to finally be able to (hopefully) return that feeling. I miss that.

One day a few years ago I was sharing some of those things with my Mom. True to form, she said "Well Charlotte - you're going to have to create new traditions". And also true to form, I tried to do what she advised.

In 2014, we began hosting an intimate Christmas gathering. The first year consisted of a small group of friends - we all had our stories and together we shared our joys and struggles. The next year we added a few more, and the next a few more, and this year, 2017, was the largest of them all, but the spirit of peace, joy, friendship, and togetherness remained.

This new tradition is a blessing for me - it's the one time of year I can "be me", with all my idiosyncrasies and silliness. Most of all, I can express my faith in a new and very real way. You see, I neglected to mention that our Christmas gathering is always an interfaith event. I have taken part in religious-but-not-my-religion gatherings for babies, marriages, housewarmings, and more, but our Christmas gathering is the one time that I can share my traditions, my joy, and my sense of love and happiness with the people I appreciate every day throughout the year.

The menu is a "fusion" of Southern American and Indonesian selections - bean soup and rice are a staple, as are rum balls and bourbon balls, but this year we added a tray of fried treats - tempeh (tempe goreng), corn fritters (dadar jagung), and potato croquettes (perkadel), not to mention the famed "tape ketan hitam" (fermented black sticky rice wrapped in leaves). We have coffee and tea and special concoctions whipped up by an extremely talented friend. There is laughter and comraderie. It is the highlight of my year.

Now as I said before, I'm not in the business of proselytizing or trying to "plant" anything, but when a friend who came asked me where I was going to church the next day, I told the truth. This is my church, I said. Our Gusdurian friends jokingly call our house the Karangploso Church (Gereja Karangploso). It's a place where all are welcome in the spirit of peace, joy, and love.

So while I miss the very American aspects of a Southern Christmas season, there's much to be said for creating new traditions. I'm thankful to share love and appreciation with friends and to have this opportunity to feel peace, joy, and love abounding.

And isn't that something we all need, not only at Christmas, but everyday?

Choke

The past 7 years have been a time of exponential growth and no shortage of sadness. It is hard to be "the Other" and even harder when there's no feasible way to change it.

I have been singing in choirs since I was a small child, but had never sung alone in front of people until I arrived in Indonesia (except for one talent show in Brazil when I was 17...does that count?)

It seems to me that most non-Indonesians, especially westerners, come here because they love it or because they have a good job. If they're lucky, they come here for both reasons.

I came here because I thought I'd finally found something I could do for the rest of my life...and get paid for it: serve God. I love people, I've already served in every position in a restaurant and I've also been an Elder in my church and in the choir. I love to do for others.

Perhaps I should have stayed in the US and done for others because I have been able to do little more than choke ever since I got here. I don't teach the way they wanted me to, I'm not white enough, and I'm too liberal. Not only that, but being a white southerner who grew up with utopian ideas thanks to Sesame Street, I'm not the one to sit quietly and accept or accommodate injustice and silly games. Oh and did I mention that I won't lie and can't be expected to, no matter which culture wants to claim it as a tradition?

I stopped taking formal language classes when the schedule of my so-called "work" changed. Conversing with others is the best way to learn they say, anyway, but I quickly tired of the conflicting directions I was given, as well as the laughter. It's hard enough to manage in an extremely different environment without the added bothers. I guess I mostly stayed silent for about about 3 years; at least as far as language learning.

Finally I realized how stupid that was, plus I moved to a place that is more accepting of differences and the people I was around didn't make a sport out of making fun of others. I've been learning, but it's hard. I don't have much incentive to learn. I'm an introvert, I am not allowed to work (visa issues), and I know enough to have sufficient conversations anyway.

I recently joined a choir. After being completely disillusioned with the post-colonial church and realizing that my western whiteness makes anything worse in this context, I've been trying to find a way to worship again.

I was supposed to sing two sentences in Javanese and I choked. I forgot the entire second sentence and I squeaked though the first one. I'm embarrassed and I feel like I let the choir down.

The part I forgot? In English it would be "my life is always blessed". The part I remembered was "Ever since I've " let go and let God". Yep, that's right.

Ever since I have tried with all my might to follow Christ, speak out against injustice, and be "the light", my life has been a mess. I now know why people choose to follow the status quo. It's easier. I have never felt like more of a failure.

Is that what it's supposed to be like or am I being punished because I'm just so awful? Don't answer too quickly because I assure you, such an answer opens a veritable Pandora's box.

The long and short of it is that sometimes when you try to save your life, you lose it. I haven't gotten much past the lose part. I'm still lost and apparently, still choking on my ignorance and experiences.

Mustang Sally and Big Bad John

Ever since the I became acquainted with the tiny, crying kitten who would come to have the name of Mustang Sally, I knew I was in for more than I expected.

I didn't mean, really, to get her. A few days before I heard her cries in the dark early morning, one of our clan had disappeared. Sophia was likely taken, but I kept on hoping that she had only run off; momentarily spooked over a neighbor's fireworks. When I heard the fearful meowing, I went outside and saw her. Under a parked car, she wailed. Hmph. Not Sophia, I can go in, but wait. Is she following the trash collectors? Oh if they pick her up and toss her in their cart she'll surely die! Let me just follow along and make sure that she stays out of their bins. We had enough, or too many (depending on your perspective), cats, but when the trash collector scooped her up and handed her directly to me rather than tossing her in his cart, what could I do other than take her?

Sally is, without a doubt, the most challenging of all our clowder of babies. She is either full of love and cuddles with the other cats, and even with us, or out of nowhere she'll pounce and swipe one on the head or nibble my leg when I'm at the sink, especially if I sing! The other cats seem to understand her ways as she is now the slightest of the bunch and any one of them could take her on, but they don't. They must know something that I need to learn. All the same, she ofen prances about on my last nerve. A while back I wrote about Sally and while I should have written a follow up to say that although my new experiment of reaching out to her with more love than scorn has made a positive difference, she's still Sally.

After bopping one of the babies on the head today, I did what my daughter knows too well: I sang her an on-the spot song entitled "Sally, don't be an asshole". As usual, Johnny came to check on his lover. They have a special relationship that I try to understand because Johnny's nature is the most peaceful, most purely spiritual, and most docile of any of them. He's the only one who'll engage with her when she acts like that. Jack and Saucy give her "the look" while Peter and Simon stare in utter amazement that such a little thing acts with such bravado.

Johnny and Sally - love from day one

I kept on singing because it wasn't a bad song and oddly enough, she stopped fussing at me for singing and sat down to listen. Maybe she was thinking "WHO is being an asshole, Mom?" As she listened, so did I. Where did I hear that melody? Is it from another song that I've embellished? It didn't sound half bad so surely I didn't make it up!

All of a sudden Jimmy Dean's Big Bad John popped into my head:

"Kinda broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip
And everybody knew ya didn't give no lip to big John"

I stopped my singing and thinking and rushed to the computer to hear Jimmy Dean's hit.

Johhny

As with many songs that made their way into our American consciousness, Big Bad John tells the tale of a big strong man with a questionable background who has a big heart. A heart so big that he sacrificed himself for the lives of 20 miners. 20 miners who feared him to the point that they'd hardly talk to him and probably excluded him from their daily lives, but it didn't matter. Big John saved them because of who he was, not because of who they were. He was not a leader, he was not the boss, and he was most definitely an outsider. And yet he saved the day.

Being out of context for so long and experiencing the magnificence of Islam Nusantara, the culturally contextualized practice of Islam specific to Indonesia, I often reflect on American Christianity, my faith tradition.

It's tempting to think that my Christian religion is practiced relatively the same all around the world because of the basic tenets, but similar to the question of which came first, politics or history, I have to ask, which came first? Culture or religion?

As the very Indonesian understanding of Islam permeates this society,  I've learned that the same has happened in the US regarding Christianity, as very surely it's happened everywhere else in the world. Our American cultural traditions honor the underdog, especially the ones with the big hearts willing to sacrifice themselves for others. We LOVE Big Bad John. Maybe, just maybe, to many of us the idea of an ousider thinking of others before himself is something Jesus would do. To think that there is one pure way of practicing religion is ignorant at the least and dangerous at the worst. Our cultures are woven into the ways we practice and understand our faiths. There are no absolutes. Absolutes form the foundation for modes of outdated thinking that manage to emerge from dark places whenever the rest of us stop paying attention.

Recently on Facebook there have been some posts about the leader who ruled Indonesia for more than 30 years. He is viewed as either a kind of father-figure or as a despot, depending on your perspective, His era is referred to as the New Order and was ideologically based on the same kinds of organic heriarchies that influenced the facists of the early twentieth century.

Perhaps you can't see how Sally fits into all this.

According to David Bouchier in Illiberal Democracy:

              Guidance, hierarchy, harmony, structure, familiarity, paternalism, and 

              patriarchy were all key themes in the Soeharto regime's attempt to 'order' 

              Indonesia's social and political life

The awareness I've had about everybody "knowing their place" has finally made its way into the relationship I have with my pets.

You see, Sally doesn't exactly fit in. She doesn't really fit in the way I want her to (I mean I like to keep my things picked up, but for the sake of neatness, not because I have to worry about them getting peed on).

Not to mention that she can be a bit of a bully from time to time.

I wouldn't tolerate behavior such as that from a human. Why would I endure it from a mere cat? I realized that I put up with her for 2 reasons, mostly. Number 1, she's a part of our family. Number 2, she's a cat and I can't expect her to think rationally like a human being should.

This is the part where it all comes together.

In the typical hierarchy of living things, humans should be at the top of the pyramid (much like Soeharto was during the New Order and as a father is often similarly placed in the family structure,)

The trouble with that pyramid is that the people at the top don't always act in the most rational, humane, or intelligent ways meaning that their position at the top is not legitimate. It is false and based on power, money, gender, privilege...you get the picture.

And sometimes those lower in the pyramid act with more intelligence, grace, and aplomb than those at higher levels. Sometimes, those in lower levels, one such as Big Bad John, save the day.

In the 21st century we are facing new times and new ways of thinking. The out-dated idea of structural heirarchy is being replaced by the idea of "heterarchy"

Image with thanks to http://www.maccoby.com/Articles/CreatingNetworkCompetenc.shtml

Even in my rather isolated circumstances I can experience the changes happening in the world. In this case, it's through my cats.  The main difference between hierarchies and heterarchies is that heterarchies are kinetic. They shift and change position - they can evolve.  Who we are, the roles we play, and our positions in society change depending on need and ability. Figure it out, understand it, and make it work.This is in high contrast to the hierarchy model in which places are set in stone and immobile. That model is being superceded. And I learned about it in real time from Sally.

Sally has taught me that there is room at the table for everybody. The onus is not on others to adapt to us, but on all of us to hold space for one another so that we all can learn and grow, together. To have compassion, to think outside our own limited bubbles, to be forced to see something from another perspective. Sally's relationships with the other cats showed me that they knew something about her that I didn't, or couldn't, grasp. 

That made me pay attention.

I've struggled with Sally. She has taught me more than I've been ready to learn and somehow, somehow, she's finally calmed down. She's not a bully anymore.  Sometimes we need to let others teach us something; even if that other is a cat. Class dismissed.

Thanks, Mustang Sally.

A Lesson from Feline Friends

Our favorite cafe is a place where we can visit friends, have delicious coffee and even a tasty traditional beverage called Es Sinom, laugh, read a book, and enjoy the warmth that permeates the space – from the first floor to the open terrace on the top with the amazing views of the city. As is common with friendly places and kind people, all kinds of visitors are drawn in to share and be comfortable together. Two of the most precious guests, and now residents, are a mother cat and her baby.

Kopi Ireng at Oase Cafe

When they first arrived, the baby was less than a month old; tiny and completely dependent upon mommy for sustenance. The mom realized she had found a good place – the people were kind and fed her. They loved both her and her baby. She was finally safe from the struggles of the street. She became very protective of her new digs; she would absolutely not let another cat come in and she guarded her baby, and her new home, against other would-be interlopers with all her strength.

Last night when we arrived there for our weekly gathering, there was a new visitor. A small kitten, maybe 2 or 3 months old. A fluffy and clean kitten, it walked around as if it had found a new home, too. Where was the protective mother with her little baby? Even though the little baby isn’t so little any more, everybody knows that to a mom, our children are always our little babies. So, anyway – where were they?

The new kitten seemed relaxed and comfortable around people. Weird, I thought. Why has this one not been run off like the others before?

As usual when paying attention to cats, I learned something.

Later on in the evening, the resident baby cat arrived. True to form, she walked around and checked everybody out. She saw the new little baby sleeping on the lap of a friend and continued on her journey. “Where’s the mom?” I kept thinking.

The not-so-little-anymore baby - completely at home

Finally as we were leaving, I saw the mom with 2 cat friends hanging out by the side of the road near the corner of the cafe. If they were human beings, they would have been shooting the breeze and chatting amicably. Whoa! That’s the mom that won’t let any other cats come near her treasured safe space? Wow! Look at her now!

Then I began understand.

When resources are limited and we don’t know where or how we’ll get our next meal, the natural temptation is to hoard. To protect. To exclude. To save ourselves first.

But when we know we are safe, when we know we are loved and we’re being cared for, we can be more open. We can begin to share.

Now this isn’t to say that when we struggle we tend to be greedy, it’s only to highlight how easy it is to try and protect what we have. I recall working as a city planner and hearing complaints from surburban residents that there was another subdivision being built next to them and they’re cutting down trees and grading the land! I would nicely remind them that before their own subdivision was built, the rural residents likely had the same concerns. We can’t run around trying to meet our own needs and slam the door on others doing the same, or can we?

All of this thinking reminded me of having faith in God. Some verses from The Holy Bible, Matthew 6:

25 “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. ... 26 Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. ... 

28 “And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. 29 Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 30 If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? 31 So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ 32 For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. 33 But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. 34 Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. ...

The mommy cat at the cafe finally got it – she was loved, she was safe, and she and her baby would be cared for and given food, as well as a loving home. Perhaps when she realized that, she was able to be friendly with the other cats, possibly even letting them come inside for a meal and to rest. She was certainly letting them closer than she ever had before. Maybe she knew that it was OK to share her good fortune with others.

My point is that if animals, especially cats, can love one another, share resources, and change their behavior when they realize they are loved, safe, and cared for, can we human beings with sincere faith in God ever do the same?

 

Peter and Ti at home. Different litters, different places of birth, different ages. One love.

Looking on the Sunnyside

This post is dedicated to my Grandfather

Being conscious of our thoughts and working through our emotions may sound like New Age mumbo jumbo, but I don't think that my Grandfather followed that path. He was a Methodist.

This may have happened when he was 91 - two years before he would pass away, or maybe this happened when he was 93 years old; the age at which he left us, but it doesn't really matter. The answer he gave to my Grandmother's sister was something that we often heard from him. And it is, I believe, how he managed to live so long and be such an inspiration to so many people.

He was in the hospital. He had respiratory heart failure. He was going Home.

"Well, Calvin. There's only one way out now and the road is coming to an end."

"Well, I know all that, but I prefer to look on the sunny side"

And there he was, lying in that hospital bed looking on the sunny side.

He was surrounded by his dearest family members, a staff of nurses and doctors who treated him with love and kindness, flowers and cards from former students and friends who loved him and that he had loved during his time as a teacher and principal.

The sunny side.

That's the sunny side. We can't control other people - what they do, where they go, how they think, but we can control ourselves and our thoughts. He chose to have happy thoughts. He chose to look on the sunny side.

Sometimes it's hard to keep our chins up in the world. Especially with what is happening now, but every era has had its challenges. I don't know who read more than my Grandfather. He was an academic and his library was an endless source of fascination for me - he had a little of everything, it seemed. He and my Grandmother also watched Walter Cronkite every night, they also watched Laurence Welk, too. He knew what was happening in the world and he did not live in a bubble of ignorance.

When faced with social change and the regular challenges of life, I know that instead of reacting with hate, judgment, defeat and withdrawal, he was moved to love more, to serve his community at every turn, and to never settle with my knee-jerk ideas and rebelliousness before he could clear his throat to tell me how to think on those things with reason, compassion, and what I now know would be called "grace".

My Grandfather was a Southern man. He came from a long line of educators. He had been an officer in the Navy and a high school principal. He didn't entertain silly ideas or "mumbo jumbo", but he also would not be reduced into pettiness or negativity. Rather than complain, or "belly-ache", as he called it, he did his best to do as much good as he could where he was. I never heard him say ONE word that could be construed as racist - and that's considering the definitions from both then and and now. The bottom line is that my Grandfather was many things, but one that he was not was a HATER.

It seems that the more we learn and grow, the more likely it is that we'll uncover things that make us feel ashamed or guilty, even hot-damn angry; about our nations, our cultures, even about ourselves and others. It's crystal clear to me and even though it gets hard  - anger, hate, resentment, and spite come a'knockin', but I'm not gong to answer the door.

I prefer to look on the sunny side, too.



Psalm 121 (NIV)
A song of ascents.


1 I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
where does my help come from?
2 My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.


3 He will not let your foot slip—
he who watches over you will not slumber;
4 indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.


5 The Lord watches over you—
the Lord is your shade at your right hand;
6 the sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon by night.


7 The Lord will keep you from all harm—
he will watch over your life;
8 the Lord will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore.

Where to Begin?

It's been 6 years since I have been on this journey; it's been 5 since it took a drastic change in direction.  The saying "no matter where you go, there you are" is true, but true in a way that seems to defy its snarky tone. I am the same me, in my head, but to think that I am free from the labels, assumptions, and the context of my surroundings, well that's just folly. Our context determines our identity. Chimamande Ngozi Adichie precisely describes that shocking reality in the novel Americanah.

It is etched into both my brain and being that if I don't have anything nice to say, I need to keep my mouth shut. I wish that I had more nice things to say, I do, but honestly, these years have been the hardest of my life.

The inauguration of the new American president prompted my reflection on the meaning of a "post-truth" world.

You see, I've been learning about post-truth for the past 6 years. Indonesia continues to reel from a 32-year long authoritarian regime that impacted almost every aspect of daily life. Through laws, policy, dictates, and propaganda, the mindset of the greater society was altered. Once propaganda gets in the water and once people can be fooled or forced to believe it, it doesn't just "go away". William Faulker said the past is never dead, it's not even past.  William Faulkner was right.

I've  read on Facebook the ugly name-calling from all sides and, while I've never been one to shy away from a good argument in person, the depths to which my society and culture have plunged shock me.

We, just as much as anywhere else in the world, "developed" or "developing", are swimming in hate, judgment, and "othering" with dreams of salvation by a boss-man/authoritarian.

It's understandable; I mean, really. Wouldn't we all like to shut those damn idiots up? (whoever they are) Why don't they get the hell on out of here and back where they belong? (whoever and wherever they may be) And they sure are stupid! Idiots! (no matter how much education they have or how respected they are in their respective professions) And if they look like "us", but don't think like "us", the "They're not real Christians/Muslims/Patriots/Nationalists!" admonishment is hurled at the newly minted "other".

We've descended into a stinking bog of identity politics and for my part, I always thought that kind of primitive thinking belonged somewhere else.

Now I realize there is nowhere else.

It's a part of the human condition and the idea that some are more civilized, developed, or "modern" is a farce. My mother once said "wherever there are people, they're going to act like people."

We do indeed.

How dare I ever have thought that we were better? That our systems were better? That our way was better? There are people in power who seek to destroy and dismantle every single thing that made me think my country was great.

As a woman and a Southerner with open eyes, I know that injustice abounds, but being an 80's girl made me think that we were moving past our wrongdoings. We were going to be better. I thought that phase of our history was over.

But injustice is no phase. It is so very human. It always has been. To fight it, we have to be prepared to lose some things.

Lose our jobs,
Lose our self-respect.
Lose our ideas about civilization.
Lose our standing in the community.
Hell, lose our community.
Lose our identities, our privileges, our sense of being right, or for that matter, what "right" actually means.

You see, the systems that perpetuate injustice rely on our compliance, our silence, and even our cooperation. Systematic injustice is beyond a person or party. It's in the water.

Not falling into the gooey morass of societal norms means that sometimes we can't comply with what we're asked to do, we can't be silent, and that means, finally, that we won't be able to cooperate.

Sometimes, we just can't drink the water.

The Dakota Access Pipeline controversy, the "accidental" coal ash spills in the Tar River, and the lead in the water in Ferguson show that systemic injustice is in the water both figuratively and literally.

Systemic injustice is in the water, not just in the US, but everywhere.

To make a change, we have to learn to be thirsty. We will have to lose some things; some conveniences, some privileges, some income, but isn't it worth it?

John Stewart, the famous American humorist and social critic, said if we're not willing to act on our values, they're not values, they're only hobbies.

I want to say that acting on our values today means that we're going to have to learn to be thirsty.

And after 6 years, what do I know? Damnation, I'm thirsty.

The Road That Brought Me...

This evening I had a refreshing conversation with a young woman I met at the 1 year birthday celebration of Gubuk Tulis, a local community group that supports and encourages reading and writing. www.gubuktulis.com

As the event wound down, she asked if she could ask me a question.

I said of course, but in my head I was thinking "oh gosh - somebody wants to practice their English...at 11 o'clock at night!"

"You seem like a person who loves Indonesia," she opined. I hesitated because I'm grateful and I appreciate many things, but love is a strong word. I guess I kind of looked to her to continue because I wasn't really sure what I should say.

"Well, specifically I guess it seems that you love Malang" she continued in her precisely articulated English. After a flash of appreciation and amazement for her language skills, I breathed a sigh of relief. Whew! That's easy and a good conversation starter.

We were able to talk about some serious things like opportunities to work, in general, to teach, specifically, but what we talked the most about was how, in her words "most white people do not love Indonesia."

The fact that she said "white people," oddly enough, was a welcome change for me because the word that is most often used in Indonesian is "bule." Bule means "white person" - or a white water buffalo, even - and sometimes people will say that it means "foreigner", but that phrase is "orang asing" and I've yet to hear of a white person being called an "orang asing" in conversations. We're "bule".

Listening to people dance around the justifications for using the term "bule" is tiresome and, so late at night, I just didn't want to begin a conversation centering on why I can live on foods other than bread and cheese and how the weather here, for me, is not too hot.

I was very pleased that this young woman was prepared to communicate honestly and openly.

Anyway, as I was saying, her directness and honesty were a breath of fresh air.

She shared that she once had a professor who couldn't stand it here, I'm assuming this was a white person even though the country of origin wouldn't necessarily be a clue, The professor, apparently, had mentioned the traffic, the burning trash, the low salary...

"Wait wait wait..." I interrupted. "She told you all those things?"

"Yes, and she's now in Jakarta teaching there" she replied.

"Oh Jakarta," I quipped "that's an improvement." (I try not to be snarky, but I am, actually, proud of Malang. This is my home.)

At this point in our conversation, I shared with her a story about a kind of rule that I try to follow. It goes like this:

The region I come from in the United States is called the South. We have our own culture and it's pretty different from what most people from other countries think of when they think of the US.

When I was growing up, I went to school with a lot of kids who had come there from other parts of the country. When I was still a child, I often heard from friends that "we" talked funny and "we" were backwards, I can still clearly hear the comments in my mind because I heard them so often and because, I believe, they are still common.

"Why is everything closed on Sunday?"
"Why are there no bagels around here?"
"Do you have any decent bakeries?"
"Why do you people put so much sugar in your tea?"
"Is everything fried?"
"Why do you guys cook all your vegetables to death?"
"I bet you don't know even where (insert name of country or Canadian province here) is!"

That was tiresome. And it still is. I've had more than my fair share of conversations with people from the "civilized parts" of America who still think the South is a backwater bog of inbred derelicts.

The common retort, as I got older, to the barrage of insults and denegrating remarks was "The road that brought you here will take you back!"

I guess because of that experience, I'm determined to never say bad things about where I live. Of course I see the things and experience the things that so many "white people" complain about. Everybody sees it. Everybody experiences it.

But I also see something else.

I see a community of people who have welcomed me. Where I used to live, it was common, even for adults, to point at me and screech "BULE!!!" That does not happen here. People actually treat me like a person.

I see a community of people who speak up for what they love and what they care about. The motto for the local football team, Arema, is Salam Satu Jiwa (Peace of One Soul). It doesn't only apply to the fans and the team, though. That spirit is in the water here and diversity is embraced and celebrated.

Malang has many big trees, sidewalks, efficient public transportation, and an engaged citizenry.

There are committed scholars, religious leaders, environmentalists, business owners, activists, and elected representatives who work to make Malang a place to live with a high quality of life for all its citizens.

And just as much, I know that the road that brought me here can take me back. I will not be that person.

My new friend and I had a nice conversation this evening and I'm glad that she initiated it. Sometimes I need to be reminded of good things, of how my own life experiences shape and form my present, and most of all, that there are still people in this world who care - about decent conversation, about learning something new, and making a new friend.

From Malang, Salam Satu Jiwa.

Cats Are Aliens

Having an open mind has always been important to me. I've tried to understand things from the perspectives of those with whom I disagree or can't understand. I try to catch myself making ugly judgments about things that I may not have all the information about and I like to think that I can change my mind, my actions, or my beliefs accordingly. This is a kind of special hell for an overthinker, but I must say that I'm feeling relieved that maybe I won't have to work so hard any more.

(wonder if I need to add a disclaimer that this is an attempt at satire? Nah!)

I mean, truly, why worry about what other people seem to be doing - actions may speak louder than words, but when we understand a person's INTENTIONS, we don't have to focus on their actions anymore.

 So simple!

 If someone says they're not racist or that what they did is NOT what it seems to have been, who am I to say otherwise?

 I can't get inside their head and figure it out for myself, so I should just go with what what they say, or better yet, what other people say.

 Easy peesy!

  In that same way, what does it matter how my intentions are interpreted by others?

 They need to try harder to see my perspective.

 Maybe I just need to tell them that I'm smart and that I know what I'm talking about.

 That should suffice.

 I can back it up and there may even be friends who'd back me up, too. That's the new world and I believe it's going to be a LOT easier to get along since we don't have to think so hard. We can just look at things, decide what they mean, and move on.

 If any explanation or reasoning (ARGH!!!! SCARY!!!!) gets in the way, we just have to remember:

things are never what they seem, 

but they are always what we believe them to be.

I saw on YouTube a video that "proves" no disabled person was mocked by someone that many thinking people either love or detest.

 What does thinking mean, anyway? 

The definition of thinking: our brains are churning around and producing thoughts. 

(Told you this new world's gonna be a piece of cake). 

Everybody's smart! Everybody's dumb! 

The days of dignity and decorum are O.V.E.R. 

As Ted Nugent sang, "cause I got me a rock & roll band - it's a free for all!" WOOOOO! 

I got a little rock and roll band. And they're aliens.

Some people seem to not like cats. They're too independent. They're evil. They actually hate you. Damn cats. Why can't they just do what I tell them to do? Hmph. Don't they know they're just animals? Some people eat animals. SMH. Anyway.

I saw on Facebook that cats can't resist a circle. They have to sit in them. Silly people. They said it's because they like to feel safe or something. Well, since I know all about cats and am near 'bout surrounded by them everyday, I know what they're really doing. 

See, people don't hate cats because they're independent. People hate them because they're not people. Cats don't hate us because we are not cats, cats are just pissed off aliens.

 Everybody knows that to go to a different place, we just have to step through a portal (I saw it in Warcraft and read about it in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe - just to name a couple of sources - there are many stories about portals between dimensions

 - you can Google it.) 

Cats are always trying to get back where they came from - that's why they're always getting in boxes and sitting in these circles. They were sent here to spy on us and thought they'd get to go back. ha ha. Stupid cats. Thomas Wolfe said we can never go home again even if sweet little alien angels are looking in that basic direction trying every portal possible. 

Boxes, circles - I read a book called Star Dragon that says that cats are actually dragons that come from the sky. You know that the ancient tapestry in Bayeux, France shows Halley's comet and some people (didn't get to use THAT phrase in college, but this is so nice now!)  think that aliens and dragons and comets are related. It just makes so much sense! 

So cats are aliens and they want to go back, but they can't. 

And if you thought they hated us before, worry not. 

We should have it a bit easier for the next few years. 

Now they know we can't go back either. 

Suckers! ha ha

Cattitudes

Wooly Bully was actually a cat.

Flapjack, Applesauce, Mustang Sally, Hujan ("rain" in Bahasa Indonesia), Peter, and Simon are our cats. Four of them are known more commonly by their nicknames Jack, Saucy, Sally, and Johnny, Each one of these babies is a rescue. Each one of them came from the street...3 of them from the literal middle of the road (apparently that's a good place to ditch kittens when there are too many around the house).

Jack and Sally

While six is a lot of cats, I am happy to report that I know quite a few people who have more than we do, so I take some solace in that. The biggest thing that makes me feel not-so-bad
about the number of cats we have is the feeling that their lives are better now - safer, happier, and, I would also say that they know they have a good family,

Our cats are very Indonesian (or Javanese, maybe) and they are very serious about their "together time" (bersama-sama). It may take a little time for them to meet each other and get used to each other, but that phase usually
passes quickly and they become one family.

Jack is the big daddy of the family - when Saucy ran to Tatok as a small kitten almost 2 years ago, an older Jack was not far behind. He had been taking care of Saucy and was very protective of her. He still is. But more than that, it seems to be Jack's nature to be that way. One might think that Saucy would be a spoiled princess because she doesn't remember those hard times. She's not, though. She's shared the love she was given with countless abandoned kittens who've passed through our lives. She shares the love that she's received. I'm biased about these babies - I've never seen anything like it in my life.

Mustang Sally

 And then along comes Sally. Mustang Sally, girl you got to slow that Mustang down! We had been taking care of two kittens abandoned by a neighbor when one suddenly disappeared. After combing the enclosed and walled-in neighborhood, we couldn't find her. I then allowed her sister, Tina, into the house so that she wouldn't be alone outside. A couple of weeks later, I awoke at 3 am to the cries of a kitten outside. Ever hopeful, I jumped up and ran outside to see if Sophia had returned. It was not Sophia, but a tiny kitten under a car across the street. With 3 kitten-cats inside, I didn't want any more, but I didn't want anything bad to happen to the one under the car, either. Why was she screaming so?

Sally and Johnny

I watched from across the street as the trash men came - immediately she ran out and began to follow them on their rounds. Afraid that she would be scooped up and thrown in the trash trailer, I approached. Sure enough she was scooped up - and then handed directly to me. "Mau dia?" "Do you want her?" the man asked. Without thinking, I took her and we went inside. We sat in a chair together and she voraciously ran around my lap and intermittently snuggled in my neck. So full of energy and life. Mustang Sally had arrived. I didn't want to put her down with the others even though for some reason, she wasn't dirty or stinky. I got the small cage I use for found kittens and put her in with some soft food and a blanket. I let her sleep in my room so that we'd both have a little peace. Later, I'd introduce her to the others.

Sally was welcomed into the clowder of cats and they all got along well. Sadly, Tina fell sick with a respiratory illness and we lost her. About that same time, we had another kitten on the terrace that had been dropped in the middle of the street. Eventually, he too would join the group and they would all live happily. 

Hujan ("Johnny")

Jack, Sally, Johnny, Saucy

I was determined not to have any more kitten-cats in the house. If I had to wear earplugs and blindfolds when out and about, I'd do it, but NO MORE CATS.

And then came Peter and Simon on Christmas Eve. 

Coming home from church activities on Christmas Eve, there in the middle of the road in the middle of nowhere were two kittens huddled into a mass that looked like a crumpled paper bag. When I got off the motorcycle, they ran right up to me and again without thinking, I just scooped them up.

Peter and Simon lived on the terrace for three months. Every morning at 6am or earlier, I woke up to feed them and to free them from their cage. They'd stay in the yard and play, but as time passed, they began to venture further and further away. Luckily, however, they'd always come when I called them. Our activities have us out of the house, and often it can be for four hours or more. After a trip to the vet, I decided to let them join the family inside. Johnny was overjoyed - he wasn't the baby anymore!

Sally, Mustang Sally, wasn't very happy about it, but I thought she'd come around.

Sally, Jack, and Saucy (before)

Saucy had accepted Johnny and Sally as babies - they cuddle with her and relish their esteemed positions. Jack oversees the clowder like a humble king. 

Jack, Johnny, Saucy

I had begun to notice, however, even before I let the little ones into the house, that Sally is kind of pushy. Sally, actually, might be a kind of cat bully.

She's sweet and she always apologetically looks at me when she pushes the limits, but with Peter and Simon, she was having a harder time. 

She often growls and them and even takes a swipe at their little faces with gusto.

How could she act like this when she was raised with nothing but kindness?

Of course, if you're an American and reading this you're probably thinking "Charlotte, cats don't get along - they're jealous!" To be honest, I always thought that too, but that hasn't been my experience here.

Yes, six cats is a lot - six cats are probably too many in most contexts, but as long as they can be healthy, happy, and well-fed, I don't know what else to do.

And now back to Sally.

What should be done with one who doesn't want to consistently get along and play nice with others? How do we treat those who frequently and unpredictably lash out at others? How do we accommodate them?

It's funny how when we're talking about a cat, an animal, it may be easy to think that we can just "get rid of it". Give it away, put it outside, or even take it into the country and let it go.


But what do we do when people are like that?

"Oh, that's just how she is - you have to be patient"

"He's just a man and you know they act like that"

"He's your father - you have to respect him"

"You need to be patient and understand that they don't have the same back ground as you - they're less educated and from the country"

"She brought you into this world - it's her right"

My cats are among the closest relations I have here. Yes, I'm blessed to have a small group of friends that I enjoy and feel I can trust, but these cats - well, they're like family,

When I see a cat - whether it's Johnny, Peter, or Simon - or even Saucy! - recoil in response to a simple gaze from Sally, I remember a term from Psychology class long ago.

Mental health professionals call that feeling "walking on eggshells" and it's used when describing life with a person who is emotionally or physically abusive, and who may even have what is called "borderline personality disorder".

Is Sally's behavior tormenting the cats who DO know how to get along and play nice? If I lived with a person who made others in the house feel scared and nervous like that, what would I do?

A comforting thing is that the difference between a human and a cat means that we can talk to people who act like that - we can reason with them. We can share how their behavior affects others, we can ask them to be considerate, to have compassion, to change.

Seems easy, doesn't it? But can you imagine a child asking a parent to calm down and not be scary? How about a wife to a man who uses her face as a punching bag? How about a husband who's scarred by rants of worthlessness and endless mind games?

Even if we are able overcome the power distance and to communicate the need for change, change isn't as easy as being asked - they have to want to change and nothing we say can MAKE them "be nice". In fact, when we're talking with abusive people about their behavior, many of them show the same kind of understanding and compassion that is mostly expected from an animal. Even a house cat.

Mustang Sally

And now I'm back to Sally.

Sally hasn't been fixed yet and her good days and good times are greater than her lashing-out times. She and Saucy will be fixed next week and I'll see if that makes her act nicer to the others. If she still walks around the house making the others afraid or if they run under the sofa when they see her approach, I'll have to do something.

I don't like bullies and I don't believe that a home should be poisoned by one who doesn't, or can't, realize the needs of others to feel safe and loved. Sally is loved and cared for just like the others, but a happy home is only as happy as those in it. Cowering in fear or walking on eggshells isn't the way for anybody to live, cat or human.