Category Archives: Christian fundamentalism

In Sight.

February 3, 2016Christian fundamentalism, creative writing, family history, Fundamentalism, grief, human behavior, nostalgia, psychology, relationships, sectarian Fundamentalism, social behavior, sociology"Married At First Sight" commentary, beliefs vs. facts, childhood memories on the Great Lakes, friendship, Jeremy L. Smith Professor of Musicology, Lake Erie properties, Scotland tourism in the 1980s, Shorewood Country Club, The Queen of Englandruth ann scanzillo

“Married At First Sight” on FYI fascinates me. Two psychologists and a sexologist pair up single, independents who have failed to sustain a committed relationship. They meet at the altar, and we watch the rest. After 8 weeks, the couples must choose either to remain together, or to divorce – their climactic, camera-captured conclusion a life lived in fast forward.

Take a rewind.

I used to have a friend. Her grandmother found an eligible young man in Scotland, and arranged for them to meet. A brief courtship ensued, largely from a distance. He proposed, they married, I sang and played at the wedding, everybody ate caramelized bacon and a full sit down, and then the happy pair flew off for the Isle of Skye.

By the end of the first year, they were already welcoming the first of three sons and a daughter. My three visits – separated by a year, a decade, and seven, respectively – provided me limited, if memorable, observable data. I could only draw conclusions based upon the crystallized aspects of my friend’s personality. Somewhere between the children, the Abbeys, Selkirk, the rare highland walk, and the Edinburgh Fringe, that’s exactly what I did.

By all accounts, 32 years this October, the two of them are still together. That’s the least surprising fact. In a culture virtually dictated by one David Hume*, maintaining a public protocol of refinement and propriety is paramount. It’s the very fiber of the society. In turn, fidelity and commitment to the institution, let alone the sacrament, of marriage goes without saying. So, staying married is pretty much the given.

Oh; and, even as recently as 30 years ago, there were still Scots to whom the clan was the Word. This potential husband was none other than a third cousin, once removed, or some version of said descriptor. Yes; blood relatives. Proof? Her youngest brother was already carrying her new surname – in between his first and last. To my knowledge, he’s never left Buffalo.

Yes; in spite of my three attempts to nurture what had begun in childhood by the only means available during the pre-Internet age – traveling across the ocean – her marriage would prove more durable than any relationship she’d ever had with me.

Strangely, we had also been introduced by a third party. Our parents were all members of the same non-denominational Christian sect and, although separated from the world at large by strict dogma, were only separated from each other by a few miles and one state border.

But, because each assembly of said Fundamentalists was characteristically small in number, there was an unspoken intention to generate continuity among its young by bringing them together in as many ways as could be contrived.

Our earliest visits, for me, were really special. Those from my small city were working class and, while my parents were among its most well respected, her family were merchants well into the second generation and held a pre-eminent place in their small, New York town. In addition, trained well to be of superior hospitality, when they opened their home to my parents it were as if the Queen of England had deigned a major reception.

I can’t pinpoint when we became each other’s friend, per se. She had multiple siblings and, apart from the brother who was born the same year as I but who almost never spoke audibly, were closest in age. Their house was always buzzing and bustling with laughter, gourmet food preparation, and wide-ranging conversation. They asked all the questions and my family, starved for this kind of welcoming attention, held forth for hours on end, oblivious of any agenda.

As time passed, our social encounters increased. They lived on the private drive of a country club, overlooking the same lake which provided us a state park peninsula of free beaches across the border. Swimming and chicken fights, bonfires and s’mores were their offerings throughout the summer and, when travel permitted, tobogganing and real hot chocolate in winter. My eldest brother, old enough to be married, created a Hallowe’en haunted barn and hayride on his wife’s farm, a titillating event we would anticipate every year thereafter – in the dark, on the haywagon, she and I, my younger brother and her older sister and all her strapping, handsome brothers none of whom had the slightest time of day for me beyond a jostle against the bales. I had a transparent crush on her eldest, hers on my younger expertly veiled, neither of us ever realizing our longings for either brother but, reaching our teens, crowning it all by taking on the moniker of becoming roommates at the annual Eastern Bible Conference at Grove City College.

In our miniature subculture, these were the parameters which defined friendship. There were no dances, no illicit parties. The boys were rumored gadabouts, but this was their birthright; as a girl, I never knew much choice, when it came to traits in others which I would grow to appreciate or to which I might recognize myself drawn. In fact, should I become attracted to anyone outside of this realm, assimilation was nigh impossible. Adding the element of proper English Romance novels, the dimension of fantasy easily beckoned, and my submission was all too willing.

Somewhere between the second and third visit “across”, life experience finally having made its indelible mark on decades of escape, realization began to gel. Perhaps it was the wedding gift, arduous hours of handiwork producing two full color, framed renderings of myself and another mutual friend, so casually misplaced and then practically thrown in my face as I lay cowering under the bedcovers in forced penitence for even raising the subject; perhaps the invitation to perform a Chopin Nocturne for visiting friends, its final pianissimo chord truncated by her loud and mood-hijacking assertions; perhaps it was the toddling along, as a fully fledged adult, being introduced to stable barons and architects and then promptly ignored as if the role were to be that of stray hoping for scraps. Perhaps it was the little flat in the center of town, for which I’d expressed both interest and capital, and a willingness to time share, which was curiously prevented by the local bank. Whichever. The awareness dawned far too slowly, and expensively, in the end; no amount of childhood generosities returned or desire to create greater proximity for both myself and her family could, apparently, sustain something that did not, in fact, exist at all. I had been some enforced presence, possibly a burden borne for too many years of trained tolerance. I was nothing more than a starling, planted in her path by loving and earnest parents, intended to teach the art of acceptance, patience, and charity. She had outgrown me, and I would be the last to know.

There were whisperings, in the kitchen, that ceased when I entered. There were references to her husband not being “keen” on my visits, my reminding him of another “teacher” friend who would bore. It was August of 2001, and I would head home to arrive on American soil a scant two weeks before 9/11 – but, not before my own warning about terrorism being the most looming threat to our safeties having been met with remote, eye rolling reticence. Ironically, I would be able to use fear of air travel, and its inevitable profiling, as excuse never to return.

*****

Rumor has it, social status is still important in her corner of the planet. The marriage, and the family which is now busily producing its next generation, has deliberately endured. All are within walking distance of most of life’s essentials. Money, an object in the past, has returned to its proper place of casual deference. Both patriarchs have passed on, their widowed matriarchs enjoying the fruits and her marriage having taken its rightful throne.

Arranged, contrived, calculated, constructed; refined, buffed and polished, lives carefully chosen for only their finest attributes, somewhere between a rocky, ocean crag’s gooseberry patch, a tenement row, and a grande cobblestone the world’s tiniest notion of civilization waits for no stranger. I’ve said my “goodbyes”, long ago, to that which only existed just beyond my alleged entitlement. The reality show camera will roll on, sure as the hills of bonnie Scotland, to find its next version of the untold truth.

(* Yeah. I wrote a paper. Ivy league-generated Professor Jeremy L. Smith has it in his stash.)

All rights, in part or whole, those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above. Thank you for respecting fantasy, the stuff of unrealized dreams.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Take It, Personally. *

January 9, 2016Christian fundamentalism, civic commentary, commentary, contemplative essays, Deep Thoughts, family history, human behavior, psychology, sociology, The Art of Practicing Institute 2015democracy, freedom of choice, hierarchy in management, inner life, Julian Assange, personalization, subserviation, the meditation movement, unrealized dreams, voter fraud, what happened to meritocracy?, what threatens our institutionsruth ann scanzillo

*[FINAL DRAFT.]

Anxiety.

The community of social workers and psychologists might say that, statistically, the increase in anxiety disorders within American culture has reached epidemic proportions. And, the drugs dispensed to treat such disorders have become almost commonplace.

But, why?

Perhaps one of the reasons our society is experiencing so much of the old angst is because we spend too much time personalizing the behavior of those around us.

We absorb everything that happens. And, this informs not just our reactions, but our very selves.

The whole meditation movement, which seems to be keeping pace with the increase in social ills, is really based in turning attention inward. But, finding our Selves, for many of us, is a real task.

When we first step inside, we’re hit with a rush of Presences. And, furthermore, most of those we recognize as populating the space we call our inner life are ones about whom we don’t feel particularly fond.

Yes; that first “visit” with Self is somewhat of a shock.

For most of us, those we encounter first are family predecessors. Parents, relatives, an older sibling, spouses of same. Alive or dead, these all appear. Next, those who populate the belief system around which we were raised. Believe it or not, no pun intended, such systems shape our realities from birth and should never be underestimated. And, then, perhaps the most present: the administrators, the bosses, the supervisors, even some colleagues. Seems that, wading through all these characters, we can hardly find ourselves. Indeed, the room is full!

And, it isn’t their smiling faces we see; rather, it is the symbolic spectre they impose. Each seems to be present precisely to pass will and judgment on our right to live according to that which expresses our fullest self.

Parents bequeath to us any number of their own unrealized dreams; siblings, their competitive edge. Priests, ministers, Sunday School teachers, with their visceral tales of admonishment and condemnation. Employers, supervisors, each with the agenda that propelled them into management, hell bent on subserviating us via the systems they peddle. Together, they fill our subconscious with a collectively Expert Opinion. It’s a wonder we can claim a single motive as our own.

Most recently, we have all been grappling with an even larger entity, one which – in contrast to those which bespeak our past – is quite foreboding: our government.

Why, in a country wherein, for generations, its people never had to give a second thought to the day to day impact of those in power, we are now faced with forces that seek to alter the very quality of our hours. Living at the behest, even the mercy, of these used to be what we’d read about in History or Social Studies classes – viewing photos of long lines of citizens, living in remote nations, waiting to receive allotted food or clothing.

Now, such a scenario doesn’t seem so far off.

Perhaps we feel this more acutely during an election year. We realize that our government is designed to include, even welcome, our input – but, we feel less and less valued by that system. We are no longer sure that our vote will either matter or even be fairly counted. In fact, we’ve learned to suspect that the structure of our democracy has been intractably corrupted.

And, all of this compounds. When we awaken, there is an unspecified restlessness that meets us. It’s as if, by setting our feet on the floor beside the bed, we are opening the door of our psyche and letting them all in. And, they come, running.

Maybe some of us feel like this because of time of life. If we have lived beyond the developing years, the embarking years, the ambitious years, the competitive years, we’ve reached an established point of alleged arrival. The Now, for someone of our generation, is the Future for which we all planned.

And, plan we did.

We thought that, along with the modest financial freedom that came with foresight and diligence, the serenity and bliss that was sure to come from the belief that we had done the right thing would follow. Surprise; the scene is far from idyllic. Now, every constant upon which we based our decisions seems threatened.

Each of us needs to make greater effort, each day, to face the mirror in true solitude. We only think that those around us are watching and listening. They aren’t. They only see others as either a help or a hindrance to their own goals. While there may be a hierarchy in our niche of the world, we do not have to live as if our position within it is either dictated or determined. Change is still far from a luxury, and outcomes are potentially as varied as the paths open before us. At any moment, the only aspect of human behavior we really should personalize is the next step we, alone, will take.

And, take it we must, while we are still free.
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littlebarefeetblog.com

Original Sin.

November 23, 2015Christian fundamentalism, Christianity, classical music, classical musicians, Deep Thoughts, human behavior, Uncategorizedcello solos, cognitive dissonance, composers, Erie Chamber Orchestra, Hungarians, live music, live orchestra, Michael Ludwig, Miklos Rozsa, music, original sin, serenadesruth ann scanzillo

[final draft].

Everybody secretly yearns to be the next “original.” Nobody wants to remind anyone of somebody else they know. In spite of the billions upon billions of us and, though likely manifest more strongly in some than in others, we each carry within us the desire to break the mold.

Among the vast and nearly endless array of musical masterworks created for orchestra from across virtually every country in Europe (and, more recently, the rest of the world), many have enjoyed a wide audience for decades, crossing the generations. From Beethoven’s symphonies through the Russian masters to Americans like Copland and Gershwin, these comprise a virtual museum for the listening ear – the “classics.” And, each is a singular original.

Others are lesser known.
In the hands of mere mortals, just such unfamiliar pieces are nonetheless a real challenge to pull off; in short, they’ve garnered less air time because they represent, in the hands of all but the best, a greater risk to the reputation of the musicians.

A certain serenade fits that bill.

Miklos Rozsa, best known as composer of film scores for such epics as “Ben Hur” and “The Thief of Baghdad”, wasn’t only servant to the cinematic medium; he also composed legitimate, stand alone orchestral pieces. One of his most sensuous he called “Hungarian Serenade” because, well, he was Hungarian.

Like most Hungarians and probably few Serenades, the piece is both passionate and flamboyantly effusive, yet irresistibly persuasive; it bespeaks at once the soul of a man who yearns, whose feelings are deep, and of a nation’s people wearing their hearts on its sleeve.

Now, this Hungarian composer loved the cello. He loved it so much that he featured the instrument prominently in the music he wrote. His Serenade has five movements, but the second is devoted almost exclusively to the cello’s voice.

And, no shrinking violet, Rozsa gives the cello one royal entrance: an octave shift, right out of the gate.

From the day of my own emergence, and many years before I knew what a cello was, I was destined – if my father had anything to say about it – to be one of a kind. He would raise me on the sound of his bari-tenor, crooning the hymns and gaslight love songs of his generation. A singular talent, himself, he would continually remind me that I was a “born artist.” Eventually, I became one – first, through visual media, and then, via the musical profession. And, I did so boldly, from the deep conviction of my father’s endowment.

But, my mother was raised on fear. Her father was an English street preacher. He regularly beat his eldest daughter. And, he took his family, every Sunday morning, to the small, exclusive, sectarian Fundamentalist meeting hall of the Plymouth Brethren, where they could be reminded – all day long, and again on Tuesday and Friday night – of their inheritance: total, and original, sin.

It would take the whole of life thus far for me to realize how un-reconcilable such branding would be; conceived to be a creative, to express the ineffable, yet saturated by a sense of sinfulness. Instead of finding an otherwise inevitable place among the “free spirits”, self-loathing became my middle name.

This past Saturday, as section leader among the cellists of the Erie Chamber Orchestra, and the ” Hungarian Serenade” having been an included feature, I was called upon to present Rozsa’s cello solo in all its magnificence. I meditated; I set my inner narrative on the positive affirmations of my musical lineage; I prepared, diligently, the entire body of that singular voice; I took my beta blocker. I was, by all accounts, ready to meet the task.

But, this time, the devil would be in one, pesky mathematical detail: statistical probability.

Delicately balancing delusional grandeur and innate fatalism, I had faced that formidable octave each time with the measured mix of physical distribution of weight, point of arrival, and trajectory. Between practice at home, and the three opportunities our orchestral budget would allow with my colleagues, I had managed to nail that shift at every rehearsal. And, I mean, down to the precisely required vibrational frequency.

Come the concert, and its moment of truth, however, one inner battle with cognitive dissonance could not be surmounted by either mental conditioning or earnest commitment to the music; statistically, my odds for missing that octave had steadily increased!

Like all good Hungarians, I heaved a melodramatic sigh, smiled at my section mates, gave my conductor a sure nod, and went for it.

There was much to celebrate at the close of that performance. Our featured violinist, Michael Ludwig, stepping in at the last minute to cover the most difficult concerto in the repertoire, was an absolutely flawless and mesmerizing sensation. Our ensemble had never been tighter. Each family of the orchestra was more than worthy of thunderous acknowledgement. And, I would immerse myself in the joyful relief of having expressed my creative soul more fully than ever before.

Yet, if I truly bore the aforementioned stain, the devil would have his jollies. He would indulge them in that microtone living just beneath the point of arrival of the octave B, and it would not matter one iota if anybody else admitted to the hearing.

Original sin is so engraved in the psyche that, even when one proves to oneself a capacity for the truly amazing, one can spend a lifetime yearning to give oneself its permission. In the meantime, opting to be carried by the exultant triumph of the human spirit, seeking the rewards of the total spectrum of artistic experience, can rival even the exacting order of the universe. We may all be self-generating expressions of the same, original DNA, after all. Original sin, be damned.

littlebarefeetblog.com