My Prejudice Against Fundamentalist Southern Baptists

For this year's GISHWHES, there was one item that stood out to me that I originally wanted nothing to do with:

My initial thought was "Oh, what a nice sentiment. I'll let someone with actual biases tackle that one." Throughout the week, I was disappointed to see that no one would claim it. In a small way, it actually frustrated me. I thought to myself, I won't overcome my prejudice against neo-nazis. Which is still true. I am prejudice towards anyone who outwardly aligns themselves with that group of people. However, I ended up taking this item anyway, and as I was brainstorming, I kept returning to one group of people: Fundamentalist Christians.

Perhaps this is strange to some of the people reading this. I was, after all, born in rural Arkansas. I attended a Southern Baptist church as a child and eventually was baptized in my grandparents' United Methodist church. I even spent the majority of my high school career volunteering for the church in every way that I could. But even then, I found myself deeply uncomfortable when I was in the same space as a Fundamentalist.

Note that I may make the mistake of interchanging "Fundamentalist" with "Southern Baptist". I realize that this is a gross misunderstanding of the term and it only proves my inherent biases.

My discomfort began at a very young age. I grew up in a family that was ideologically split between Christianity and Atheism. And although Atheism was the minority, even in my family, it manifested in the two people closest to me at that time: my mother and my uncle. My mom was quick to educate me on the importance of separation of church and state. She fostered empathy in me for people of other religions who might feel uncomfortable in a school like my own, where we prayed before every football game and had religious figures visit the school to give thinly-veiled sermons with some secular message attached to it. (It was very much "Don't drink alcohol and I'll see you at church on Wednesday, right?") As a kid struggling to find her religious space in the world, these things made ME uncomfortable. I often felt as though my identity didn't belong, not even because I was a different religion but just because of the fact that I had doubts at all!

And this is where the trouble really started. Because in my limited experience, Fundamentalist Christians have not given me the space to have doubt.

Then, I began attending a Southern Baptist church with my best friend. We went every Wednesday, although sometimes we would skip and hang out in the graveyard and tell ghost stories. (In retrospect, this was dangerous and disrespectful, but hey. I was an otherwise incredibly well-behaved kid, so sue me.)

I remember three key events which began to completely erode at my soul.

The first occurred when it was time for an annual youth event. I had never been to one and a lot of my friends were going, so I begged them to take me along. I remember very clearly telling them that I didn't have the money to pay for the event myself, and them sighing and saying that it was fine, the church could take care of it. It was their tone of voice that held the real sentiment, though: "You are a newer member and we could really care less whether or not you're there." This essentially set the tone for the rest of the trip. The youth leaders ignored me and made me feel extremely lonely in a room filled with hundreds of kids. And that was only the beginning. While most church events I've been to have been careful to steer clear of politics, and especially pushing one political agenda over another, this one was quite the opposite. There we are, a room filled with very young, very impressionable children as a man got up on stage and began ranting viciously about abortion. Even at that young age, I was informed enough to realize that the man was completely lying about the process and the intention of the women who undergo these procedures. I was disgusted. A room full of children was no place to be describing a completely false account of abortion, complete with graphic details, and present it as truth. Much less so was it the place to pawn his book about the topic afterward. It became very clear to me in that instant that my place was not with this church, and I immediately wanted to go home.

The second event came much later. This had little to do with me, but I still remember how nasty I felt just for being a part of it. A girl in my church - we'll call her Jill - had become pregnant. She was probably 16 at the time, and she went to my school so it was the major topic of discussion everywhere you turned. But if there was one place where Jill should have been able to find comfort and support, it was her family and her church. She found nothing but cold shoulders in these places. Jill's family forced her to stand in front of the congregation and apologize for her sins. I should probably take the time to add that they did NOT force the guy who helped to apologize. So after this initial humiliation and traumatizing level of shame placed on this young girl who was already scared and upset, you would think it blew over and things were okay, right? Wrong. Pretty soon after that, she showed up to the high school youth class, holding her baby and sitting in the back where she wouldn't disturb anyone. The youth directors took that as their cue to talk about the horrible sin of sex before marriage, how it would ruin your life, and how you would find yourself in eternal hellfire for it. I wish I could describe to you how uncomfortable it was in that room. I saw several heads turn just to stare at Jill. I didn't look at her - partially because I didn't want to be yet another voyeur, but also because I wouldn't want anyone to see me if I was sitting there, reliving my pain without even being able to defend myself. I left the class feeling gross, and really needing to apologize to her for what had happened, somehow feeling partially responsible. I didn't apologize, but I still kind of wish I had.

If you're struggling to understand why I even bothered staying after these two incidents, join the club. And yet, there is one more story to tell. I was in 8th or 9th grade this time; I know because it was right before I joined the Methodist church. I was in the van on my way home after church, and I was talking with the youth directors and my friends. We were discussing Saturday Night Live. It was a very casual conversation - we were simply talking about some of our favorite skits. I mentioned that I really liked Tina Fey and I thought she was hilarious, and my youth director got quiet for a moment. "I just don't like Tina Fey. She's all about them gays." I didn't know what to say to that. I was kind of shocked that he would even say that so casually. So I sat back and let the conversation drop. Somehow, even though this may have been the least egregious error that the church made, this was the final straw. LGBTQ+ intolerance was something that I had worked hard to fight my whole life, and the comment came at a time when I was best friends with two gay boys and girls of various sexual orientations. Unlike other minority groups that I hadn't really been exposed to, I knew a LOT about the struggle in this community and I had first-hand accounts of feelings of depression, thoughts of suicide, and perhaps most importantly, people feeling this way on account of their churches forcing them to.

If I remember correctly, that may have been the last Wednesday I ever attended that church. Perhaps I went for a few more weeks to try and stick with my friend, but I don't have any memories of that time if I did. I very quickly switched to my grandparents' church and found a much more loving and accepting atmosphere there.

Hopefully you can see how and why my prejudice began to form. I was conflating Fundamentalism with hardcore conservatism, bigotry, anti-intellectualism, and the Southern Baptist church. And while yes, many times, these things go hand in hand, they often do not.

Enter in my boyfriend's family. They are all very strict Southern Baptists. They go to a church with a pastor who has a voice that would immediately call to mind hog hunting and pickup trucks. He's the sort of man who could wear a ten gallon hat and you wouldn't bat n eyelash. And their church is the first Fundamentalist atmosphere I've willingly entered in over five years. I won't pretend like my anxiety isn't still there: I hold my breath through half the sermon waiting to hear hateful rhetoric. I sometimes imagine all the people in the room at a Trump rally, shouting with demented joy at the idea of putting Hillary Clinton in prison. But then I look at Jeremy and I realize that my generalizations ignore the most tangible evidence I actually have. Jeremy isn't a Trump supporter. He doesn't say hateful things. And his family, though they did support Trump, care much more about being kind and loving to their neighbors than they do about politics.

As a matter of fact, his family is filled with some of the kindest people I know, least of which are his incredible parents. And while I certainly disagree with them on many ideological points, they are also the exact opposite of the hateful people I found in the other church. They are by and large moral compasses who try to do the best they can with what they have.

That's not to dismiss some of the things they have ignored in their politics and their religion. You won't see Jeremy's family protesting on behalf of Black Americans. You won't see them post statuses about welfare inequality. But you'll see that they have a spot at the dinner table for whoever walks through their door, no matter what. You'll see that their latent prejudices stem from the culture they grew up in and not from any hatred in their hearts. And honestly, they are much nicer beings than many who DO claim to stand up for these issues.

It is this family that has made me realize just how backwards and nonsensical my prejudices are. They have made me understand that within a single denomination exist a wide variety of people and ideas. Ultimately, I am a better person for listening to them instead of immediately disregarding them as racists or idiots, which is what I might have done a few years ago.

So I do sincerely apologize to the Southern Baptists, the Fundamentalists, and all the other denominations of Christianity that get a bad rep. You are not one heterogeneous group, but rather an eclectic mix of people who happened to find a community with others who really like God.

Perhaps one day I will be able to go to a Southern Baptist church without feeling uncomfortable, but until then, I hope that this public apology is a step in the right direction.

Who in the World is Miss Jean Louis?

It seems as though in the wake of one of the largest scavenging events on the planet, one of its most esteemed leaders remains an enigma to the adoring eye of the masses. Miss Jean Louis, advisor and babysitter to Overlord Misha Collins, as well as self-prescribed “Unrepentant Hedonist”, seems to evade the spotlight while inhabiting it fully. Her origins are unknown, other than the fact that she was “born in a hut in Khor Angar, in the dirt.” However, it is through intensive research that I was also able to uncover another, lesser-known fact about the past of the Great Miss Jean Louis.

In approximately 1994, Miss Jean Louis would encounter a man (?) who would change her life forever. He referred to himself as “The Arbiter”, and he kept a small set of scales in his pocket that he would – seemingly at random – pull out and check before nodding his head decidedly. Miss Jean Louis, much younger and much less wise, seemed to be taken by this strange man.

In a fit of either lust or wanderlust (our research team debated about this for many hours), Miss Jean Louis left behind her life in Djibouti and set out with no real notion of what life held in store for her. The Arbiter would then explain to her that he held the Scales of Judgment, which would weigh the morality of any action which he focused on. And in his presence, all actions which were morally good or morally evil were weighed as equals. However, The Arbiter had a much different idea of what morality meant.

In the mid-autumn of 1995, Miss Jean Louis witnessed her first act of pure evil. The Arbiter, after a particularly long day, took out his scales and they tipped heavily to one side. He took out a small knife and stabbed an innocent old man. Miss Jean Louis was horrified. She confronted The Arbiter, who simply told her that in all the world, good and evil must always cancel each other out. There was not to be any more good than evil, nor any more evil than good. It was his job to check the scales and always keep them totally balanced.

Miss Jean Louis was, of course, dissatisfied with this answer. She could not see why it was necessary to keep evil in the world to counteract the good. With this, she left The Arbiter and went off on her own, with the sole focus of causing more good than The Arbiter could keep up with using his tiny scales.

On her travels, she would meet the Overlord Misha Collins, and after many years, she would finally tell him the tale of The Arbiter. At this, Misha Collins would vow to help Miss Jean Louis in every way. These were the events that led directly to the creation of the Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen. Once a week every year, Miss Jean Louis and Misha Collins join forces in order to lead hundreds of thousands of people in a massive operation to Do Good. Unbeknownst to the members of this religion (?), their actions directly contribute to the overtaking of evil in the world, and the defeat of the strange Arbiter who has yet been unable to create enough evil to balance the scales back.

While the ramifications of this massive movement to make the world a better place are yet unknown, it is safe to assume that under the determined and righteous eyes of Miss Jean Louis and Misha Collins, nothing can overpower the immense love that flows from the well of GISHWHES.

Racism, As Explained By A Privileged White Woman

As a white woman, how can I express the pain that I feel at these senseless murders without drowning out the voices of those who are in so much more pain, and need the space to talk about these things openly? This is the struggle I face before writing anything on the subject of racism. But I feel like the only way to reach some people is to force them to hear it from the perspective of someone with the same skin color as them.

After all, you will never be able to reason with someone who thinks himself better than you.

It is today, after growing up in poor, white, and ultra-racist rural America that I have finally decided to talk about my feelings. And I am aware that by doing so, I detract some attention from the people who deserve it. But hopefully, I can do more good than harm by expounding on my own experiences in a relatively isolated part of the country.

First of all, I was taught from a very young age that racism is wrong. My mother had long conversations with me about how I perceived people of other races, how certain words that I might hear were infinitely worse than others. She made sure that I interacted with other children of other colors, since my high school was almost exclusively white.

My first real encounter with blatant racism came when I was in 4^th grade. This is well after other children my age had learned about how police officers are not always their friends, or how they need to avoid certain clothing, and I was moving through life blissfully unaware of the scary things in these children’s closest. The difference, though, was that their fears were much bigger and much more palpable than mine.

We had created “All About Me” posters. There were sections for family, friends, sports – whatever else is relevant to 4^th graders. And with my stick of Elmer’s glue, I pasted one of my favorite pictures in my “friends” section; a picture of a slightly older black boy, kneeling down with me sitting on his bent knee. Although we drifted apart in the years after, I never lost my fondness for him or his sister, and I remember their kindness every time I see another act of racially-charged violence on the news. That same photograph, which I displayed proudly on my posterboard, was met with disgust by a fellow classmate.

“Who is HE?” She asked, her nose scrunching as if he were a cockroach.

“That’s my friend from Seabrook.” I replied, trying to stay bright but also acutely aware that her reaction was much different than I would have anticipated.

“Why are you sitting on his lap?” She asked, in almost a whisper. I started to feel nervous, now. Like I had done something wrong by being around this kid, and I had no idea why.

“I don’t know? We’re friends? Why is that weird?” I said, a hint of anger in my voice. She looked almost amused now, and with an air of superiority, said “But he’s BLACK.” And then she walked away.

I was dumbfounded. It had never occurred to me that such a sweet, innocent photo would be the subject of such hurtful, petty comments. I remember being embarrassed by the photo after that. I wondered what other “friends” would look at me the way she did simply because I had been in contact with someone of a different race.

It starts early, racism. It starts when you’re a child, and grows more aggressive as the child remains uninformed. And the longer you let these seeds of hate grow in children, the harder it is to rid them of the weeds that sprout from them.

My experience in school only got worse from there. In the following years, I would become accustomed to hearing n****r in casual conversation. Kids barely old enough to understand their own place in the world, trying to justify their denial of others’ places.

“I don’t hate black people,” they would claim with indignation, “I just hate n****rs!”

And I would stare at them, horrified, and unable to form proper words to articulate why their logic was so twisted and hurtful. As the years would go on, and especially once I reached high school, I became more vocal. But unfortunately, the louder you talk to a group that won’t listen, the quieter they make you. It often felt that the more I spoke up, the more adversity I faced from my peers, my teachers, and my administrators.

These are the injustices that I faced as a white child growing up in a white world. I shudder to think at what that same life would have cost me if I grew up as a black child. How much more violence, whether it be physical or emotional, would I have had to face? These experiences did enough to shape me going forward; despite my family’s efforts, the pressures of my white education caused me to develop inherent racism that I would later spend years trying to rid myself of. And on a more surface level, I was angry at the insensitivity shown by my peers towards things that were so inherently wrong, such as when three senior boys dressed up as KKK members for the school’s dress up day.

I can’t imagine where they would have found those outfits, unless they were already hanging in some family closet, donned maybe only in the past, but more likely on a regular basis, just down the road where a chapter of the KKK was still very alive.

I can’t imagine how that would have made a black student feel. On a day which is reserved for fun, and in a place where education is supposed to be the priority, these three white boys decided that their fun little “joke” was more important than the safety of all people of color who could have been affected by them.

Meanwhile, my experience at home was very different.

My family is full of musicians of all kinds, and so I was blessed to be able to experience many different decades and genres of music. My grandfather is a jazz pianist, so a lot of my childhood was spent exploring the jazz music channels on television. It wasn’t until later that I would discover the history of jazz, and how it was born out of the culture-laden streets of New Orleans, where black musicians had a space to create freely and genius was born. It was only then that I began to realize the massive influence that great black artists have had on all music, throughout time.

My uncle was the one who introduced me to Michael Jackson, who quickly became one of my most beloved artists. He introduced me to Herbie Hancock, a true musical genius. And he introduced me to the leaders of the funk movement: George Clinton, Bootsie Collins, and the like. My grandmother and I would sing along to Ella Fitzgerald and Nat King Cole on the way to school every morning. And through a deep and curious love of music, I would go on to love and respect other black artists, from BB King to Kanye West. From Nina Simone to Nicki Minaj.

That was when I really started to hurt. Because I was watching this progression of the arts – I could see the movement from country and blues to rock n’ roll. I watched as I started to understand how artists like Elvis Presley came in to popularize the exact same music that black artists had created, all but totally erasing their existence from the public sphere.

When you hear “Hound Dog”, it’s only natural to associate it with Elvis Presley, despite the fact that it was actually performed first by Big Mama Thorton. Unfortunately, I doubt that many people reading this will even know who she is. And Led Zeppelin, one of the most idolized rock groups in music history (and one of my personal favorites, at that) was one of the biggest perpetrators in stealing this music from the artists it really belonged to.

So the trend became clear to me at last: the one where white people take the pain of disenfranchised groups and masquerade in it. Poor white America listens to “gangster rap” and relates to the poverty, and after so long begins to believe that their struggles are the same as black peoples’ struggles. And even if they don’t realize it, they water the seeds of racism that the institutions (and possibly their families) made sure to place in them at birth.

And I am left wondering; we love this art so much that we bastardize it to suit our needs and purposes. But why don’t we at least give respect to the population that birthed these great minds? Why don’t we respect the struggles that created this art?

Why is it that we can root for Atticus Finch but not Tom Robinson? The answer, as some smarter people than myself have posited, is because Tom Robinson himself was absent from the equation. When you aren’t listening, and you aren’t engaging, you are disregarding, and you are erasing.

How can anyone possibly expect anti-racism movements to make real change when we are constantly pushing black people out of the public realm? We can’t let them have the music they created, we can’t let them take pride in their own cultural fashion without demonizing them for it. And then, once we can’t demonize, we make it white.

Demonizing cultural fashion choices

And just like how it’s hard to root from Tom Robinson without us getting to know him personally, it’s hard to root for Black Lives Matter without honestly listening to them and encouraging them to speak up. It’s hard for scared white people to root for the victims of these police shootings because who are the survivors? Who gets to speak directly to the public? White people.

And, of course, that isn’t to say that there aren’t many more caveats to racism than just giving black people the platform that they deserve; that they have earned while we earned nothing. This is about much more than that.

It’s very hard for me to concisely and concretely respond to the murders that have occurred in Minnesota and Louisiana. It is hard because these are just two links of a long chain that goes back centuries. These are just two innocent lives out of the thousands that have been slain at the hands of racist white people, many of which by the people sworn to protect.

And I can’t help but think that my experience, and any comments I would make, are so insignificant. It feels as though I am one small grain of sand when I need to be a mountain.

But that is why I have decided to write this blog post. We, as brothers and sisters of the human race, must come together to become the mountain of change. We must raise up those voices which do not have the power and authority to raise themselves up. We must offer our voices only when they are called for, and our ears constantly. We must stop these divisive politics, and this media scheme to separate and argue about whose woes are worse. We must join together to create real change. And for me, that starts now.

I welcome any and all voices to participate respectfully, and to allow first and foremost the expression of the Black Voice in this conversation, so that we – perpetrators of violence and the benefactors of injustice – can learn, and then respond appropriately.

May all find the light in these dark times.

Abuse in a Highly Competitive High School

When I was a junior in high school, I attended a highly-competitive magnet school which fostered intense, sometimes vicious competition between its students. We were systematically told that we were the “best and brightest” of our state, and that we were competing with each other for the top few, coveted spots in the Ivy League Schools. Being at that school felt like a nightmare, and the stress was compounded over and over again until I found myself sitting opposite my toughest professor, crying. I didn’t mean to start crying – as a matter of fact, I was terrified of doing so because he was known to berate people who cried. Even in public. But he happened to be my advisor as well, and when I began to tell him that I could barely eat, let alone focus on my schoolwork, he interrupted me to say “Well, if you would stop crying, maybe you could get your work done.”

A few weeks later, as I considered returning to my public school, this same man would tell me that if I left, no one would remember me.

Updates on My Life & A Commitment to Better Blogging

I feel like it is necessary at this point to catch people up in the world of Erica Kriner. There have been a few major developments since I last posted and I think it’s time to dust off this old blog and continue on with my story on the sole narcissistic belief that someone out there actually cares. So let’s go through the basics:

•  My love life has changed a little bit since we last spoke. Previous Boyfriend who I wrote about and I broke up – it was a pretty uneventful thing. We’re still on good terms. Now, I’m with Current Love Interest who will probably be my boyfriend here soon, and who is wildly different from the former, but it’s really exciting and amazing and he makes me very happy.
• I am in Arkansas for the time being, and will not be back in Philly until spring semester. I’m a bit bored, but that has recently been made a little easier to bear with the aforementioned, as well as…
• My new writing endeavors! Not only did I start my own website where I do reviews and talk about social issues and politics (http://culturalettes.com), but I also was selected to become an actual contributor to an actual magazine! So if you ever want to read writing that I put a lot more time and effort into than my personal blog, check out one of my articles of The Odyssey Online, which I will begin posting here when they are published!

In other news, I turn 20 years old in a little over two days. This is a big deal for me, as I will officially be entering my third decade of life! So much happened in my second decade – I wonder if I can outdo myself this time around. I’ll need to write another novel – that’s for sure. I’ll need to accomplish some stuff on my bucket list. It’s so daunting! How different will my life be when I’m about to turn 30?

Tatiana seems to think turning 20 is a boring age, but to me, this is a huge development. I feel like 20 is the first year I will be taken seriously as an adult, which is super exciting. (I guess I should stop crying at Disney movies and maybe stop building pillow forts in my free time. Oops.)

Also, as one of my first Adult Goals on turning 20, I plan on being much more active in all my blogging spheres. That means more personal blogs, more writing on The Culturalettes, and of course – keeping up with The Odyssey.

Basically, my life is going pretty okay as of right now, and despite a lot of problems that I’ve faced this past year or so, a lot of good things have happened, too.  

An Unbiased Feminist's Look at Anita Sarkeesian

Let's talk about a woman almost everyone in today's age either loves or loathes: Anita Sarkeesian. Before I tell you what I think about her, there are a few things you should know about me.

1. I am a feminist.
2. I think there are lots of problems within the feminist movement.
3. I give everything the benefit of the doubt.

So, the feminist movement has become less of a political force and more of an internet meme, sadly. As many people who are truly recognizing the problems that women face, there are even more who call themselves feminist for publicity reasons, but who don't seem to carry those same principles throughout their career. (I love you, Beyonce, but I'm calling you out for this. You too, Taylor Swift.)

And let's be real: 'manspreading'? These are not the types of battles we should be fighting right now.

One thing I do as a feminist is really take all these different points of views into account. For example, the issue of manspreading. I think it definitely speaks to a deeply-ingrained sense of what women and men are supposed to embody, but I don't think every guy on the subway is trying to perpetuate these stereotypes, and I think attacking them for it it counterproductive.

With these things in mind, I finally decided to take a look at a woman who has polarized a lot of people on this issue. Anita Sarkeesian is a prominent feminist activist, and the face of Feminist Frequency, in which she provides a feminist analysis of elements of pop culture. I first started paying attention to her with the rise of GamerGate, where she is heavily advocating or more equal treatment of women in the world of video games.

And I heard a lot of stuff about her. I heard accusations that she is a "FemiNazi" (whatever that is), ignorant to the plights of other minorities, "man-hating", etc. And finally, I decided to look up her videos, where she was supposedly spewing her "man-hate" and encouraging all these destructive ideologies in other women.

And to be completely honest? I was expecting her to be exactly what these people were accusing her of. I expected her to be angry, make biased points and disregard problems within her argument, point out every little problem with everything, and basically ruin things that I really love. That's seriously what these comments about her had set me up to believe. So finally, when I saw her two-part series on The Hunger Games, I took a deep breath and waited for her to confirm my suspicions.

And then, something beautiful happened.

This woman is SMART. She may make a point here or there that I think is a bit unfair (most notably in her video in which she applies the Bechdel test to Oscar-nominated films), but this is usually followed by an explanation about why what she is trying to do is not a judgment on particular films/TV shows/etc. She points out tropes, and why they are problematic, but also why they might show how someone has tried to create a good female character.

Basically, she just exposes how differently women are treated, and she does it really well.

And suddenly, everything kind of makes sense. Suddenly, I understand why GamerGate is such a huge problem, because even I - a proud feminist and advocate for the cause - was beginning to question women who were guilty of nothing but being intelligent and loud.

In short: You're my hero, Anita. Thank you for continuing to be loud in a world that is telling you to be quiet.

How To: Have A Healthy Relationship

First, a disclaimer: I am not an expert. I'm only a mere 19-years-old, and my current relationship is actually the only relationship I have to go on in terms of health. But, with all my previous, and somewhat unhealthy relationships, I've learned quite a bit that I would like to pass on: