Fall in Love with a Twelve Year Old Egyptian Boy

Child Abuse is Hell. See Something? Do Something. For the Sake of Your Own Soul.

I just drove, alone, through my hometown. I don't often do that.

As soon as I crossed the border into my hometown, I felt a wave of incalculable agony and inconsolable grief.

At this point in my life, I can see that my hometown is actually rather picturesque. There are whirligigs on lawns, rolling hills, groves of trees I once rested under – much taller now – and family businesses that were there when I was a kid, somehow resisting competition from chain stores.

There is the colonial post office where a bemused postal clerk weighed and priced my writing as I sent it off to big city publishers, dwellers on alien planets, who would only ever reject anything I wrote. There are kids playing in the street. Blue skies; fluffy white clouds; lilacs, daylilies, dogs on leashes, rose of Sharon.

Why do these homey, almost bucolic visions overwhelm me with a sadness as dark and profound as anything I've ever felt, any joy, any hope, any elation when I finally did get my writing published?

I was an abused kid. I was abused by a primary abuser and several others. I was hated. I was told I was a loser, an idiot, that I'd end up in the gutter. I am dyslexic, a word I did not know when I was a kid, and I was slow to learn to read, to tie my shoes, to operate a key in a lock, to tell time. I was assured I was the ugliest, stupidest, most worthless entity on earth.

Kids would line up in school to ogle my bruises. My primary abuser went after me in public.

It was obvious. The hate, the beatings, the neglect.

No one ever did anything. No one. Not one teacher or priest or nun or doctor or neighbor or friend. Nobody. Everybody saw. Nobody said a word.

Years. And years and years and years and years and years. Years when I might have been happy. Years when I might have been healthy. Years when I might have learned to play a musical instrument. Years when I might have realized that I really wasn't an idiot and began to prepare for my future. Years when I might have had friends. Years when I might not have been afraid of walking down the hallway in my own house. Not my house. It was never my house. The house in which I lived.

Years of hell in that picturesque town full of churchgoing people who never saw, never spoke, never intervened.

In "Save Send Delete" I talk about why I believe in God. The book is a conversation I had with a prominent atheist I saw on television.

I believe in God because I survived my own childhood.

My belief in God is challenging because I lived that childhood.

An atheist attempted to contradict me recently.

"No," she insisted. "You survived your childhood because one person reached out to you. That's what scientific research shows. If an abused child has one person who believes in him or her, they can survive."

I told this atheist to stop trying to take over my own life story.

There was no one person who reached out to me.

I survived because of God. My survival was a miracle.

Being small, being defenseless, being malnourished, being unkempt, being inquisitive, being eager, being tender as children are – how could I otherwise have survived? I talk about it a bit in "Save Send Delete." It was hard enough to talk about it there. I don't want even to try here. I just got in from the ride through my hometown.

But, yes. Many people who have suffered do believe in God, and for many of us that belief is more of a vexation, a challenge, than the comfort snotty atheists insist that belief is.

***

No one spoke up for me. No one challenged my abusers. I do speak up. I speak up against wrong. I've been politically active all my life. I name perpetrators. I name victims. I name victimization.

If a student comes to me in tears and describes a boyfriend who needles her about being fat, or a mother who says she has to quit school to take care of abuelita because that student has no future, anyway, I say, "That boyfriend is abusing you. That mother is abusing you."

Just saying that is a big deal.

Recently, John, a Facebook friend, posted a story about two Pakistani girls, Noor Basra, 16, and Noor Sheza, 15, who were killed by family members for dancing in the rain. John and his Facebook friends, all good "liberals," tsk-tsked about these killings. Then they blamed Christianity. And Capitalism. And Mediterranean culture. Really. REALLY.

I said, "Honor killing. A custom in Islam." And they called me a bigot and just kept insisting it was Christianity and Capitalism and the Mediterranean.

Speaking up when you see someone hurt is dangerous.

The victimizer is powerful. The victim is weak. That is why one is a victimizer, and the other is a victim.

I am so put off by grievance mongering industries. I am so unwilling to participate when someone announces to me that he or she is a victim deserving special funds or treatment simply because of identity. So many of these people have never suffered. I know. People who have suffered wear it. It precedes them, like the scent of a perfume.

I wish we had a grievance industry dedicated to abused kids. It's happening right now. Some kid – millions of kids – are being abused right now. And they will never enter the halo of any grievance industry.

As much as I support gay rights, and I do, I was nauseated when Facebook friends changed their profile pictures to equal signs to celebrate gay marriage. All well and good, I want to say, you CAN speak up and be visible when it is trendy, when it is easy.

Will you speak up when it is not trendy? Because real speaking up is always risky.

I just googled the phrase, "If you witness child abuse." I found a website, and it looks good. Please read it. Please speak up. If you witness child abuse read this.

Sharing "The Searchers" with a Young Writer

One of the creepiest embraces in film history: Debbie (Natalie Wood) and Ethan Edwards (John Wayne) 

Did John Ford know now to compose a shot, or what? 

Do these pioneer women want Ethan Edwards to be arriving, or leaving?
Will he protect, or will he kill? What is the difference? 

I cried. 

Comanche warriors.
This image was probably not so picturesque if your village was about to be raided.

Comanche, no longer warriors. Source

Perhaps the depths of ignominy. Source

My student is brilliant and beautiful, talented and spirited.

She is, like me, a hyphenated American, from a little-known ethnic group.

As a writer and a woman, she's looking at writing, women writers, and the body of literature by and about hyphenated Americans.

We'll look at the predictable classics: Willa Cather's "My Antonia," Anzia Yezierska's "Salome of the Tenements," and a more recent work, "The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf," a book I have to say I really hated.

But, to start with, I wanted to look at the original ethnic others against whom European Americans defined themselves: Native Americans.

So, we started with the 1956 John Ford / John Wayne classic, "The Searchers."

"The Searchers" tells the story of Ethan Edwards (John Wayne) who spends five years searching for Debbie Edwards (Lana Wood and Natalie Wood), his niece, who has been kidnapped by Comanche Indians. It soon becomes apparent that Ethan is not searching for Debbie in order to rescue her. He is searching for Debbie in order to kill her.

Debbie has been sexually used by the Comanche chief, Scar (Henry Brandon). In Ethan's eyes, the only way to respond to that is to kill Debbie.

***

I had seen "The Searchers" years ago. I don't like Westerns and I don't like John Wayne. I'm a film fan, though, so I felt obligated to watch it. I sat down and thought I'd give it ten minutes of my time. Two hours later, my response was "Holy Cow!" I had been totally drawn in by the flic.

I wanted to research it before sharing it with my student. I learned more about why the Comanche kidnapped and sexually exploited Debbie.

Google brought me to material that ruined my day, material I almost wished I had never read. Native American torture practices: gang raping, enslaving, torturing and mutilating captives, both Native American and European, were all ritualized. I read of tortures I had never read of before, things that even the Nazis didn't do. I had been taught that Native Americans were all peaceful and spiritual. I wasn't prepared for this material at all. It put Ethan's obsessive quest in a new perspective.

The film was made under production code standards. They'd never show mutilated bodies in a big budget movie in 1956. The film alludes to these nightmares, though, in several scenes. Ethan comes back from a mutilated body and is visibly upset. When asked what he saw, he says, "What do you want me to do? Draw you a picture? Spell it out? Don't ever ask me! Long as you live, don't ever ask me more!"

I had to leave my desk after reading about Native American torture practices. I went for a long walk. After days of thought, I realized: Native Americans didn't live in walled cities. They needed some way to protect their own. Establishing a reputation as diabolical torturers was a form of self-protection.

My politically correct assumptions about benign Native Americans defending their land against all powerful and all evil European American settlers was further disrupted when I read about the Comanche. The Comanche, just like the Europeans, did not start out in Texas. The Comanche started out in Wyoming, hundreds of miles north of Texas. They adopted the horse in warfare, adopted a "total war" mindset, and expanded, as successful warriors do.

Part of their expansion was from the integration of captives from other tribes. Comanche widows immolated themselves. Comanche stole horses and cattle as well as women and children. Their name, Comanche, comes from an Ute Indian word for "enemy" or "foreigner."

I studied up on John Ford, too. "The Searchers" was made in my student's grandparents' time. Would she grok this flic?

As the door was slamming on Ethan's retreat from the peaceful home his violence made possible, and the lights went up in the screening room, I turned to my student. "Well?"

"I think there was something going on between Ethan and Martha!" she announced. I could have burst from happiness. Ford leaves little hints that what drives Ethan is his relationship to Martha, but those hints are not easy to pick up. Martha's theme is "Lorena," a Civil War ballad about impossible love. Lorena plays on the soundtrack, as Ethan closes in on Debbie, to kill her. It's a subtle clue, one of many – clues my student picked up.

We chatted about the film for a bit, and I tried to bring it home why a movie from over fifty years ago, about events that occurred over a hundred years ago, might have pertinence to a hyphenated American today. We looked at snapshots of Comanche today, including Comanche casinos. Two hundred years ago, Comanche housewives, without metal, lined a hole in the ground with buffalo stomach in order to heat water with hot rocks. Comanche women today have access to running water and electricity. My student and I both have ancestors who could build their own houses with their own bare hands. We come to America and that physical labor is no longer necessary, but we lost something in process of Americanization.

We looked at a snapshot of a modern-day Comanche woman. She looked like a Comanche-themed Barbie doll. Exquisite beadwork; hair permed; lots of lipstick. A bit kitschy, and not really true to the spirit of a nomadic, warrior tribe.

What can we save of our past? What is usable today? How can we communicate the best of our past to American readers? My student will be working on those questions. I look forward to her answers.

Paula Deen, Mark Fuhrman, and the Public Stocks

Paula Deen cries on the Today Show 

LAPD Detective Mark Fuhrman, a star of the OJ Simpson Murder Trial 

Pillory, or Stocks, a method to immobilize and publicly humiliate transgressors 

I'm troubled by the public pillorying of Paula Deen. I don't own a TV, and I don't eat crap, so I'm not really a follower of Paula Deen. One of her recipes involves a Krispy Kreme donut, a hamburger, bacon, and egg. I'll pass.

I check Google news every morning and Paula Deen kept turning up in the feed. She had admitted in a court document that she had used the word n----- decades ago after being held up at gunpoint. Further, a former employee, Lisa T Jackson, accused Deen's brother of workplace discrimination.

If Deen done bad, that's between her and her employees and the court. I was annoyed that Deen's name and use of the word n––- kept coming up in my news feed, next to weightier topics like Egypt's mass demonstration against Morsi and Snowden's NSA allegations.

The public pillorying of Deen reminded me of the public pillorying of Mark Fuhrman. That also disturbed me.

I wrote the essay, below, in the 1990s.

***

We knew everything we needed to know about Mark Fuhrman. Even those of us too pure, too intellectual, to follow the O. J. Simpson Murder Trial knew that Mark Fuhrman was not a man. Like a fairy tale ogre, he was our bête noir personified, without individuality or motivation. He was racist, if not racism itself. Late night comic David Letterman joked about racism using the name as shorthand; a reporter equated Fuhrman with Hitler. Forces usually in opposition, like the iconoclast Bill Maher and conservative pundits, were united in their vilification of Mark Fuhrman.

All you had to say was: "Mark Fuhrman," and you were using the trendiest, most economical vocabulary available to convey the evil of racism. Detectives Tom Lange and Philip Vannatter made the LAPD look squeaky clean, Clinton displayed sensitivity to the needs of African Americans, columnists took on the authority of clergy, all by isolating and ritualistically denouncing Mark Fuhrman.

Did we interrogate the private lives, the public actions, the secret thoughts of these politicians, columnists, comics? Did we dig up their unfinished novels, dream diaries, office e-mails, and expose them publicly in a search for sin? Did we ask if they have ever gone the extra mile for a member of another race? Did we ask that of ourselves?

No. America drew a border around racism; it was embodied in Mark Fuhrman. No matter how bad we were, we were at least not him. As long as we were not him, we could enjoy a temporary respite from our racial agony. Isolating, trying, and condemning Mark Fuhrman provided catharsis. That's the whole point of having a scapegoat.

After two years of silence, Mark Fuhrman, the man, has recently been making the talk show circuit. We had reason to expect a shallow racist who would continue to entertain us and provide us with the opportunity to feel relatively righteous. After all, as the press has been reminding us, where has he been hiding out but Idaho, that white supremacist enclave? Why else would anyone leave the coasts? Either for the siren song of supremacy, or potatoes.

Our favorite fairy tale ogre has not materialized. This Mark Fuhrman was able to complete whole sentences and use words appropriately. As he spoke, traces of humor, pain, hope, quivered over his face. Fuhrman wasn't only simply human, although that was enough to be rattling. He apologized for his actions while disavowing racist action or sentiment. He talked of his complex relationships with African Americans throughout his professional and personal life. He revealed: he is not the Beast we so wanted him to be. Now we ask ourselves, what made this man so easy to demonize?

Fuhrman is obviously male in a traditional sense. He has short hair, he wore suit and tie, he sat erect. He appeared physically fit. He spoke courteously but with decision, he spoke Standard English, he apologized but did not plead for mercy. He revealed accomplishment and intelligence, perhaps the source of what looked like arrogance but what might be simple self confidence. His former occupation – police detective – is a traditionally male one involving weapons, crime, power. And he's white.

However Fuhrman may classify himself, as a good cop, a once poor kid without a father who took on adult duties at a very young age, an artist, a felon, we classify him as a white male. In a woman or a person of color, the kind of dignity and sang-froid that Fuhrman displayed would be admirable. In him, it is read not as self-mastery but as tool for the oppression of others. No less than Willie Horton, Fuhrman's public assessment suffers for the class our fears and current politics place him in.

Fuhrman may be the only major figure in the Simpson Drama who has not had a crying scene. Were Fuhrman to produce one, to reveal a temporary lack of mastery, we could embrace him. Public weeping would violate the taboos of his exotic tribe of martial white males, and demonstrate surrender to our more civilized mores.

Race is not the only divide in America. Class is another. Fuhrman did the kind of work it takes a body to get done. And we know those guys need the thinkers to keep them in line. Problem is, action risks; actions can be seen, actions can be judged. As Fuhrman himself has pointed out, he spent his career working with and, he says, protecting African Americans. The assassination of his character was the gambit of wordsmiths, whose actions may or may not mirror their avowed and popular politics. Not risking action and material consequence makes it easier to appear superior.

Like Robert Bork, Lanie Guinier, and Clarence Thomas, we gave Fuhrman his fifteen minutes to provide ourselves with target practice. Unlike those figures, he was not judged on alleged actions. An extensive review of his professional record, The L.A. Times has reported, revealed no indication that he ever planted evidence or engaged in racist activities. The contents of his notorious tapes were the basis of a fiction project; not even his thoughts, rather, his imaginings. Mark Fuhrman was pilloried in the court of public political correctness, not for anything he did, but for what he imagined. Even the low-tech Puritans, our archetypal witch-hunters, never pulled off such a coup.

Having gone through Hell, Fuhrman has not gone crazy the way we want martial white males to. He is not Bruce Dern in "Coming Home," not Michael Douglas in "Falling Down." He seemed to receive Larry and Oprah's outrage and sermonettes in a centered place, and not lose balance. He revealed awareness of his demon status, yet he doesn't look damaged to the core. He expressed awareness of the pain and wrong that resulted from his action, yet, at certain moments, his face revealed what looked like an almost Buddhist resignation to the complexities of life.

The main character of a story is sometimes defined as the one who changes. Change may be beyond O.J. Simpson. Mark Fuhrman has revealed the capacity to change, not just in public perception, but in himself. He has learned and grown from his trauma, rather than let it destroy him. The question now is whether or not we change. Yes, Jay Leno apologized for his Richard Jewell jokes, but only after Jewell sued and cried. America shouldn't wait for Fuhrman to cry before we change the virtual courtroom that chewed him up. Any one of us could be next. Do we really want to be judged simply on how media savvy we are, how well we can pose?

Muslims Who Want Free Speech / Englishmen Who Reject Free Speech / Robert Spencer and Pamela Geller Banned by Neville Chamberlain

Egypt. Free Speech. Source

Afghanistan. Free Speech. Source

Pakistan. Free Speech. Source

Turkey. Free Speech. Source

Iran. Free Speech. Source

England. No Free Speech. Neville Chamberlain lives! 

I'm a Christian. I find many of atheist Richard Dawkins critiques of Christianity to be profoundly offensive, even evil. Dawkins is a British superstar biologist.

I wake up to a radio alarm blasting the morning's news headlines. If, tomorrow morning, my radio alarm announced that President Barack Obama and Secretary of State John Kerry had barred Richard Dawkins from entry into the US because his critiques of Christianity had offended many, I would recoil. I would realize I had woken up in 1984. I would realize that the rest of my life wouldn't be worth dirt under such an oppressive regime. I would immediately devote everything I had to overturning such a regime. Free speech is the sine qua non of Western Civilization. No free speech means no Western Civilization, no science, no scholarship, no comedy, no progress.

The English now live under such a regime.

On June 26, 2013, England announced that it would deny entry to authors and bloggers Robert Spencer and Pamela Geller. The English government denied Spencer and Geller entry because Spencer and Geller report on acts of jihad. You can read the full story here.

Neither Spencer nor Geller is accused of any crime. They are not accused of wanting to commit a crime. The only reason the English gave for denying Spencer and Geller entry: They criticize acts of jihad.

If this bugs you as much as it bugs me, please sign the petition here.

"Save Send Delete" Is Humbling, Compelling, Amazing says Patric Miller, Near Death Experiencer

Patric Miller, golfer and near death experiencer 

I was recently reading reviews of Dr. Eben Alexander's book "Proof of Heaven: A Neurosurgeon's Journey into the Afterlife." The most helpful Amazon review was by Patric Miller, who identified himself as someone who had had a near death experience. I was impressed by Patric's review, but even more impressed by his comportment in the lengthy discussion that followed. As is often the case with Amazon discussions, some posts were prickly. Patric remained classy and on topic. You can read Patric's review here.

Patric maintains a webpage, "Beyond God and Science," where he talks about the insights he gained from his own near death experience, here.

I asked Patric to review "Save Send Delete." His review is below:

***

In the C.S. Lewis classic book, "The Screwtape Letters," we read one-way communication from an earth-bound demon, working to try and capture the soul of a wayward Christian. In Danusha Goska's "Save Send Delete" we are privy to one-way replies to a modern day demon, in the semi-fictionalized role of one of the chief skeptic leaders of the modern atheist movement.

Like many who read this book, you may be compelled to try and figure out who the key protagonist is based upon. I was assured by the author that the actual role model was indeed a well-known, public skeptic/atheist who can be seen regularly on talk shows, and multimedia interviews online. And more important, that the events of the story were all true.

Which of course makes the entire book all the more compelling.

If this "fiction" was indeed based upon real life events, then one must believe all of the heartbreaking and amazingly revealing transcript of a life that is enlightened, beyond challenging, and yet based in a Christian faith that is not only unshakable and adamant in its defense.

"Mira" is resolute and amazingly brilliant in her defense/offense, dodge and parry dueling with "Rand," the flawed, flailing, and all too foibled famous atheist/science pragmatist known for destroying every challenge from Christianity and other traditional faiths and "fringe science," that would dare look at our existence as being more metaphysical than physical. Her arguments are solid, and convincing, in a way that is hard to refute, although we are not privy to what is actually being written by "Rand."

While this literary vehicle can be frustrating at times, her replies make it clear as to the direction and stance he takes. And let's be honest...if you have seen any of the aforementioned professional atheists on a talk show, or read one of their books, the "party line" is pretty clear, thin and repetitive.

However, what makes this a great piece of writing, worthy of the highest recommendation, is not the outward debate that transpires, but the way in which this book examines the true state of the human condition, and how frail and fragile "success" really can be, in this complex, reality-show-as-stars-world. The fact that more people know who "Honey Boo Boo" or "Snooky" are, and don't know who Michael Shermer or Richard Dawkins are, should make my point.

Mira and Rand are not just theological polar opposites, their very existence as a famous, rich, well-lettered, and privileged voice of humanism, contrasted by a person marginalized by circumstance, health issues, and a health and education system that borders on sadistic, is at the root of the amazing transformation that takes place in both of the characters of the book...and most likely the reader.

While I am not a member of any specific faith or religious denomination, the message here is clearly one of the need for us to see every person beyond the basic outer shell, and realize that compassion cuts both ways in a society so divided by religion, politics, and a widening income gap that creates a clear caste system in the Western world, as well as third world countries.

The most amazing aspect of this book to me...and I agree with other reviewers that it is a short read, simply because you can't put it down...is that you are left to fill in the blanks in your own life, in a way that almost no other modern book on theology, personal relationships, or the perils of online relationships usually does. This is a cautionary tale, not only in realizing the limitations of electronic communications without personal contact, but even more important, the need to reach out and MAKE personal contact with everyone you meet in your everyday life.

Mira/Danusha does this in ways that are humbling, compelling, and amazing.

This is a voice that should be heard...no matter where you stand on the debate between science and faith. This book should be the beginning of a life-changing moment for the author...as well as the reader. I only hope that I can be part of getting the word out to a far larger audience.

"There Are Times that My Eye Welled up with Tears; There Are Times that I Burst Out Laughing": Deacon Kevin McCormack of "Religion on the Line" Endorses "Save Send Delete."

Rabbi Joseph Potasnik and Deacon Kevin McCormack
of WABC's "Religion on the Line." 

On Sunday, June 23, 2013, I was interviewed by Deacon Kevin McCormack and Rabbi Joseph Potasnik of WABC radio's "Religion on the Line."

My fellow blogger, Otto Gross, who blogs about World War II mysteries including the disappearance of the L-8 blimp, kindly recorded the show and posted an mp3 of the interview. You can listen to the interview here.

Amanda Cooney transcribed Deacon Kevin McCormack's endorsement of "Save Send Delete." Here's what he had to say about the book:

***

I downloaded the book off Kindle…and I got hooked into it! It's a journey of faith in a real modern way. It's a real person's struggle with understanding what it is to be a believer in the 21st century.

The book is a pretty neat book! The book is done through emails. You get great reviews! Talk about some of the people who have reviewed your book positively. And it's big names! You and an atheist have this dialogue debate with one another. We live in a society that very often is segregated; people of faith on one side, atheists on the other and there is little discussion between.

I want to reinforce the importance of the book, but also the pleasure of reading the book. This is not a philosophical tome. This is very clever-you are a very funny writer also-I mean there are times that my eye welled up with tears, there are times that I burst out laughing with some of the ways you turned phrases. It was a fun read, I certainly enjoyed it.

There is a tension within it, a personal tension that adds suspense to the whole thing. It's definitely something worth a summer read. If you're looking for something to take with you that's not going to be complete fluff, but is going to have something that is readable and is going to challenge your soul, I can't more thoroughly suggest that you pick up "Save, Send, Delete".

I think God wanted this interview to happen. I am very glad that we could do this. I can't tell people enough, go to Barns and Noble and Amazon. Pick up this book and enjoy it, absolutely enjoy it! It's certainly worth your time and effort. I'm honored that you've become a friend through all of this.