I was traveling back to Inez a couple weeks ago, and as usual, my mind was turning over one million thoughts. I was drifting somewhere in between long-term plans, lesson plans, and lack-of-plans. The day was hazy, and the winter, though warmer than usual, still hid the sun behind layers of fog-dusted mountains.
My gaze wondered up to the mountaintops, and I followed the craggy ridgelines for miles. I don’t recall looking at the two yellow lines superficially separating the other lanes of traffic, but instead found my eyes simply lingering on the ridgelines, following the trails of pointed cliff edge mingling between rounded rock faces that showed smoother lines.
The winter exposes everything. This same ridgeline, 6 months ago, wouldn’t even be visible until you were walking along it, under the shade of greens and browns and life. The crisp leaves underfoot wouldn’t speak of death, because all the living things around you would consume your attention. The ridgelines, though just as native to the landscape as in barren winter, are temporarily forgotten.
Until the leaves fall from the treetops, we forget they exist.
Nothing in nature likes being exposed. Our ability to transform and adapt to changing environments, create facades to fool, is a far more celebrated ability than to overexpose. The word “exposure” itself, feels dirty. Connotations include: naked, vulnerable, judged. I always make a connection to an infamous hometown strip club that employs the word exposure.
Ridgelines, exposed to the elements and traveling eyes, have never fascinated me until that dreary day driving back into Kentucky.
I started to think about how I myself am like a ridgeline, and how many I come in contact with fear exposure enough to masquerade as fully clothed – embellished in dignity and integrity and the comfortable trappings of secure and sound beliefs and ideology.
Exposure indicates something askew, something very much out of line with traditionally accepted belief.
We can’t risk exposure, because then we would be risking the realization of imperfections and fault lines within ourselves. At what cost, however, do we avoid the wintertime? At what point do we accept our barren ridgelines for every crack and crevice and sharp-pointed edges? At what point to we attempt to smooth out the ridgelines of our hearts? At what point can we question why the hills bend and turn and crack?
I’ve been mad lately.
I’ve been confused lately.
I’ve been anxious late….well… always, to be honest.
But I’ve never been as deeply conflicted as I have these last few months.
I feel a rant-like-post coming on. I apologize, only, for anything that seems circular or repetitive. I feel like I’m about to unleash a torrent of words and questions and conflict.
If you hate my political blog posts, you might want to stop reading. If you think I’m wrong to think the way I think, you might want to stop reading…because I’m mad, and I’m unapologetic for the following questions and musings. I fear I might expose within myself, and you as well, deeply rooted cracks in a surface that appears smooth to all bystanders.
This weekend, I read article after article detailing the detainment of legal immigrants in American airports. I read articles, mind you, from ALL news sources, not just CNN.
And I JUST.DON’T.GET.IT. I mean, I knew I had a lot of issues with Trump’s exaggerations, inability to answer direct questions, and fear mongering, but I never thought he would actually sign orders within a week that would totally jeopardize human beings trying to escape war-torn, oppressed, impoverished, violent, and tumultuous countries.
**While I’m on the topic of oppression, I have a question for some of you: how do you, IN ONE WEEK, use Islamic women as the epitome of “oppression” on Facebook to prove that American women aren’t oppressed – to prove that women shouldn’t march to improve their standard of living – and then simultaneously ban those women from entering your inequality-free-zone? How can you cry out “this is TRUE oppression – look how pitiful they are” while simultaneously turning a blind eye to those same women who knock on the door of Freedom?**
“Make America Great Again.” What does that even mean? Oh, yeah. I remember.
It means Jesus has finally returned to the White House. It means we have a Godly president who actually cares for people who are struggling. Miners? Yeah, they’ll have jobs. Public Schools? We get guns for grizzlies and funnel cakes for breakfast. Terrorism? We will make sure all brown terrorists aren’t permitted to enter the United States. (Now, the white terrorists who shoot and kill based on race, or any other reason, really, get a bullet proof vest and the label “mentally unstable” because they came from a Christian family who believed in their right to bear arms).
You’ve probably seen the statistics. You’ve probably read about how President Trump hasn’t even banned immigrants from the Middle Eastern countries that actually produced terrorists. Some of you, in fact, don’t believe this is true.
Another thing I find confusing is that religious ideology and government interference only goes as far as abortions and same-sex marriage. It stops at Terminal 4 in JFK airport.
In Terminal 4 in JFK airport, good ol’ American values must be protected. Religious beliefs, i.e. Christian beliefs, stop here. Christian love and tolerance? Nope. Just gotta keep America safe from terror. Those brown people who speak Arabic? Yeah, they’re all terrorists. We need to vet them even more. Give preferential treatment to Christians though, even if they’re suspiciously brown.
In Terminal 4 in JFK airport, immigrants fleeing danger and oppression are reminded that Jesus also carried an American flag to Calvary. He was probably a nationalist, too, if my Facebook news feed has anything to say about it.
In Terminal 4 in JFK airport, the argument that Trump embodies Christian Values literally got locked in the room with the legal green card holders who happened to be Muslim. Although, as the President so eloquently explained “this is not a ban on Muslims.”
He’s right. It’s a ban on tolerance. It’s a ban on the American Dream. It’s a ban on peaceful acceptance of people who wanted to come to America the “right and legal way,” which was, as of last week, exactly what conservative friends felt was acceptable, but as of Saturday, seems less acceptable than originally stated.
“Wow, Halie is being SO dramatic,” some might say. “The left wing idiots just want something else to complain about. How else are we going to secure our borders? How else will we be able to keep our children safe?”
I’m not trying to be dramatic. I’m heartbroken. And confused. And scared.
If you are a Christian, I really understand your stance on Abortions. I get it, truly.
If you are a Christian, however, and don’t find fault with the President’s latest ban, you are WRONG. You are living a lie. Your façade is cracking, and I can’t listen to your excuses. Jesus wasn’t white. He dined with prostitutes and refugees and orphans and widows and Lepers. My Jesus told us to love without regard to financial situation or religious beliefs. He said that love was the greatest of all his commandments. He said to give a home to the homeless. He certainly didn’t wear an American flag pin on his robes. He wasn’t an American, period. He was BEYOND borders. If you’re pro-life, for religious reasons, for a fetus, for an unborn baby, but not a Syrian refugee, you’re just wrong.
If you’re not a Christian, and believe we should secure our borders, I get that as well. I hate it, but I understand it.
But if you are a follower of Christ…I can’t understand.
“Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders.”
I watched more ridgelines today, coming back to Inez from visiting my cousin in Maysville, Kentucky. I had a lovely visit, as usual, but was dreading the drive back in the snow.
I was still wrapped up in the weekend’s happenings, and I viewed the ridgelines with scorn. The exposed rocks felt like an unwanted reminder of all of the personal struggles I am trying to overcome. Right when I think I have something under control, I am poked by the sharp edge of another craggy imperfection. Reminders of hatred poke me, and then I find hatred within myself. Then I’m confused again.
When you read this, I hope you don’t think I think I’m perfect. That idea is laughable. I have so many fault lines in my heart, I feel like San Andreas gets jealous.
I get angry. I feel emboldened. I get judgmental. But, thanks to Grace, I get over it. I try to make peace with situations and people that don’t like peace, and I try to be a decent human.
That’s all we can expect from one another: despite fractured shells, our inner beliefs about the world and those people we encounter, ought to reflect goodness and light. A quote I’ve liked since August is “may your choices reflect your hopes and not your fears.” It’s something I’m trying to live by, and I hope you, dear reader, will as well.
Expose your ridgelines. Embrace the rocky. Accept imperfections and the unfamiliar. Love unconditionally. Respect everyone, but don’t be afraid to ask questions when you don’t understand (like I’m trying to do). Challenge. The only way we can better our society is when our ideas of “better” align with morality and human decency.
I know this is where the conversation gets murkier, (what exactly does an aligned sense of morality look like?) but for tonight, I will simply implore you to reach out to your State Representatives to put an end to this hateful order. Let’s make America, as it once was, a beacon of light for those encumbered by darkness.
haliewanders 