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Summer 2022
A Letter from the Secluded Sisters of the Missouri Valley
This summer, we at the Secluded Sisters of the Missouri Valley were lucky enough to take our first group trip. It’s a bit shocking how much organizing it takes for a long weekend in Chicago, but ultimately I’m glad we did it.
We stayed downtown, which turned into a team building competition to see who could complain the most about how loud it was. By the end of the second day, I didn’t even hear the car horns and ambulances. I only heard the incessant complaining. I was ready to kill someone. But luckily, the legal weed of Chicago gave me the calm I needed to avoid sororicide.
I don’t want to go on too long about the legal weed in Chicago because it’s not that hard to get weed in Nebraska and frankly we all did spend most of our time sober. (We couldn’t just get high and hang out in the hotel, it’s too loud there!) But this was my first experience of buying weed from a dispensary. And it is comforting to know that gentrification and legalization have emboldened weed sellers to adopt the interior design scheme of a science fiction bank. The first time I bought marijuana, I had to get into a stranger’s purple car and make polite chit-chat while he handed me a baggie with a post-it note on it that said “blue cheese.” How lucky for us that we can leave that illicit bumbling behind for all the bureaucracy and confusing lines of an understaffed post office!
In the planning of the trip, I think that my Sisters were most excited about going to the Field Museum of Natural History. The Field Museum, if you didn’t know, is famous for having the most complete t-rex skeleton in the world. And if you have never seen a dinosaur skeleton in person…don’t worry about it. It’s just bones! Who cares!? If you’ve ever eaten at Popeye’s, you get the vibe.
There was a voice coming from a speaker that described the skeleton while lights would highlight the bones being described. It was like a planetarium light show for people who are opposed to making science fun. Max started describing all of these tests scientists have done to discover how Sue (the dinosaur) died. I asked why she cared and Max said, “Well, if someone killed me, wouldn’t you want to know why?” In retrospect, the correct answer would have been, “Yes, because you are my friend and I care about you. Sure, maybe your question is inane and doesn’t make sense in this context, but it is more important to make sure you feel loved than to make sure I feel right.” Instead, Ellie tried, “In 60 million years, I don’t even think people will remember who shot Paul McCartney.” So close.
After the dinosaurs, we went to the stuffed animals. (To be clear, these are real animals that were killed and then stuffed.) There is a certain depressing quality to walking through a hall of dead things, but I seemed to be the only person really that bummed out by it. While we walked through the bird hall, Alex kept singing, “Blackbird fly, blackbird fly. Into the light cuz you died, died, died.” If only Paul McCartney hadn’t been shot, he’d still be around to see how much his music connects with people. Rose, on the other hand, took a lot of pictures and has since wallpapered our hallway with sketches of extinct birds. So now the death has followed me home. It’s a lot of fun.
For me, the most unnerving part of the dead animals were the stuffed bears. I had never gotten to be that close to a real bear before. And it really shocked me how drawn I was to the animal. It looked so soft and cute but strong and terrifying. It unlocked something hidden in me that reminded me of the first time I saw a muscle-ly guy wearing a chain necklace with a padlock as a pendant; that feeling of, “Boy, I’d love to take one of these guys home. But I worry I’ll just end up getting hurt.”
You learn new things about yourself every day.
That night, we had dinner with Alex’s sister. (Well, half of us did. The other half went to see a movie about a sailor following a crab to find a treasure. I don’t like to go to movies on vacation, but I guess they are probably right that the Italian-island crab movie isn’t going to make it to rural Nebraska.)
Alex’s sister lives downtown with her lawyer job and her business husband and her spooky kid. My understanding is that the kid is not always spooky. Apparently, she just recently learned about ghosts and now only speaks in a creaky whisper. The problem, of course, is that children already have their own, unique (dare I say “darnedest”) way of speaking. The voice just turns it from silly to scary. While we were there, the ghost child whispered:
Parenting looks hard.
I asked Alex’s sister how she liked living in downtown Chicago. Of course, she started complaining about how loud everything is. I could have screamed! Then her daughter added, “If the sound goes away, that means the people died.” I decided to hide in the corner until Alex was ready to go.
The next morning we went to an Episcopal church. We had looked online ahead of time to make sure they were a tolerant and loving place, but I still felt a bit of trepidation. In so many churches around the country, the image of Jesus on the cross has been replaced with some Vin Diesel wanna-be complaining about lesbian librarians in a YouTube video titled “How to really deal with a feminist.” I’ve devoted my life to monastic Christianity, but I’m feeling more and more uncomfortable around Christians.
When I was twenty, I went to an afternoon mass in St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. It was my first (and only) time out of the country and I was thrilled to see this beautiful church with hundreds of years of history. At the start of the service, the Priest said something like, “If you look around, you will see people who have traveled here from all over the world. A journey of thousands of miles brought this specific group of people together on this specific day. But we are all united by one faith, by one belief, by one love.” I found that very moving at the time. But on that Sunday in Chicago, I wanted special glasses to tell me who was a Christian and who was some cultish fascist. I wanted to know who was at church to better love their neighbor and who was at church to resurrect the memory of a past that never existed. I felt tired of rolling my eyes at regressive idiocy and being respectful of “different people’s paths.” I wanted Jesus to turn over the money-changers tables in the temple and chase the fuckos out.
Given the dumb fucking Supreme Court, I’ve been a little stressed recently. And I tend to retreat when I am stressed; contracting into myself and the things I am most comfortable with. But I know that that is a destructive desire. The instinct to slink under the cover of those who are loudly agreeing with me is closer than I would like to the instinct to only ever watch Cheers reruns and vote to keep new people out of my town. But how do I love my enemies while still chasing money-changers out of the temple? I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, but I don’t know.
Pretty soon, though, I felt a little better. One of the speakers encouraged people to come to a protest in a couple weeks, saying, “This is essential to making anti-racism something we do, not just something we talk about.” During the prayer, the pray-er listed out the names of the victims of gun deaths in Chicago that week and called on the mayor, governor, and president (by their first names--as in President Joe) to take climate change more seriously.
But then, the priest got up to talk about their food ministry. They had pledged to provide meals once a week for people with food insecurity, and they were following through with that pledge. But, the priest warned, almost no one from the church was involved. They had a full kitchen staffed with volunteers and outside donations, but the only thing “Christian” about the operation was the location. The priest said, “If this is how things are going to proceed, I will still be glad that we are playing some role in serving our community. But I do wish that more members of this church wanted to be a part of that.”
On my most skeptical days, I worry that the American Church is primarily a scheme to dodge taxes and protect sexual preditors. Since this trip, I’ve been wondering what it would look like if all of the money and physical resources of our churches were forfeited to whoever was doing the most good in the community. I realize that churches aren’t meant to be charities, they are meant to be places of worship. But maybe, during the work-week, they ought to be left unlocked to increase the chances that anything good will come out of them.
I don’t know. I’m in a bad mood. I think I’ll stop writing now.
We stayed downtown, which turned into a team building competition to see who could complain the most about how loud it was. By the end of the second day, I didn’t even hear the car horns and ambulances. I only heard the incessant complaining. I was ready to kill someone. But luckily, the legal weed of Chicago gave me the calm I needed to avoid sororicide.
I don’t want to go on too long about the legal weed in Chicago because it’s not that hard to get weed in Nebraska and frankly we all did spend most of our time sober. (We couldn’t just get high and hang out in the hotel, it’s too loud there!) But this was my first experience of buying weed from a dispensary. And it is comforting to know that gentrification and legalization have emboldened weed sellers to adopt the interior design scheme of a science fiction bank. The first time I bought marijuana, I had to get into a stranger’s purple car and make polite chit-chat while he handed me a baggie with a post-it note on it that said “blue cheese.” How lucky for us that we can leave that illicit bumbling behind for all the bureaucracy and confusing lines of an understaffed post office!
In the planning of the trip, I think that my Sisters were most excited about going to the Field Museum of Natural History. The Field Museum, if you didn’t know, is famous for having the most complete t-rex skeleton in the world. And if you have never seen a dinosaur skeleton in person…don’t worry about it. It’s just bones! Who cares!? If you’ve ever eaten at Popeye’s, you get the vibe.
There was a voice coming from a speaker that described the skeleton while lights would highlight the bones being described. It was like a planetarium light show for people who are opposed to making science fun. Max started describing all of these tests scientists have done to discover how Sue (the dinosaur) died. I asked why she cared and Max said, “Well, if someone killed me, wouldn’t you want to know why?” In retrospect, the correct answer would have been, “Yes, because you are my friend and I care about you. Sure, maybe your question is inane and doesn’t make sense in this context, but it is more important to make sure you feel loved than to make sure I feel right.” Instead, Ellie tried, “In 60 million years, I don’t even think people will remember who shot Paul McCartney.” So close.
After the dinosaurs, we went to the stuffed animals. (To be clear, these are real animals that were killed and then stuffed.) There is a certain depressing quality to walking through a hall of dead things, but I seemed to be the only person really that bummed out by it. While we walked through the bird hall, Alex kept singing, “Blackbird fly, blackbird fly. Into the light cuz you died, died, died.” If only Paul McCartney hadn’t been shot, he’d still be around to see how much his music connects with people. Rose, on the other hand, took a lot of pictures and has since wallpapered our hallway with sketches of extinct birds. So now the death has followed me home. It’s a lot of fun.
For me, the most unnerving part of the dead animals were the stuffed bears. I had never gotten to be that close to a real bear before. And it really shocked me how drawn I was to the animal. It looked so soft and cute but strong and terrifying. It unlocked something hidden in me that reminded me of the first time I saw a muscle-ly guy wearing a chain necklace with a padlock as a pendant; that feeling of, “Boy, I’d love to take one of these guys home. But I worry I’ll just end up getting hurt.”
You learn new things about yourself every day.
That night, we had dinner with Alex’s sister. (Well, half of us did. The other half went to see a movie about a sailor following a crab to find a treasure. I don’t like to go to movies on vacation, but I guess they are probably right that the Italian-island crab movie isn’t going to make it to rural Nebraska.)
Alex’s sister lives downtown with her lawyer job and her business husband and her spooky kid. My understanding is that the kid is not always spooky. Apparently, she just recently learned about ghosts and now only speaks in a creaky whisper. The problem, of course, is that children already have their own, unique (dare I say “darnedest”) way of speaking. The voice just turns it from silly to scary. While we were there, the ghost child whispered:
- I’m not supposed to play so loud. If the neighbors hear, they might tell someone.
- Eggs aren’t really baby chickens. So you don’t need to feel bad when you break them. And besides, I eat chickens anyway. I eat lots of things.
- The wind is so cold. But it doesn’t make my daddy cold anymore. And someday, I won’t feel things, either.
- Are you sad? My mom knows how to fix that. But you have to do whatever she says.
- My dad says the plants need more water. But don’t use your drink. If it’s not water, something bad will happen. And it will be your fault.
Parenting looks hard.
I asked Alex’s sister how she liked living in downtown Chicago. Of course, she started complaining about how loud everything is. I could have screamed! Then her daughter added, “If the sound goes away, that means the people died.” I decided to hide in the corner until Alex was ready to go.
The next morning we went to an Episcopal church. We had looked online ahead of time to make sure they were a tolerant and loving place, but I still felt a bit of trepidation. In so many churches around the country, the image of Jesus on the cross has been replaced with some Vin Diesel wanna-be complaining about lesbian librarians in a YouTube video titled “How to really deal with a feminist.” I’ve devoted my life to monastic Christianity, but I’m feeling more and more uncomfortable around Christians.
When I was twenty, I went to an afternoon mass in St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. It was my first (and only) time out of the country and I was thrilled to see this beautiful church with hundreds of years of history. At the start of the service, the Priest said something like, “If you look around, you will see people who have traveled here from all over the world. A journey of thousands of miles brought this specific group of people together on this specific day. But we are all united by one faith, by one belief, by one love.” I found that very moving at the time. But on that Sunday in Chicago, I wanted special glasses to tell me who was a Christian and who was some cultish fascist. I wanted to know who was at church to better love their neighbor and who was at church to resurrect the memory of a past that never existed. I felt tired of rolling my eyes at regressive idiocy and being respectful of “different people’s paths.” I wanted Jesus to turn over the money-changers tables in the temple and chase the fuckos out.
Given the dumb fucking Supreme Court, I’ve been a little stressed recently. And I tend to retreat when I am stressed; contracting into myself and the things I am most comfortable with. But I know that that is a destructive desire. The instinct to slink under the cover of those who are loudly agreeing with me is closer than I would like to the instinct to only ever watch Cheers reruns and vote to keep new people out of my town. But how do I love my enemies while still chasing money-changers out of the temple? I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, but I don’t know.
Pretty soon, though, I felt a little better. One of the speakers encouraged people to come to a protest in a couple weeks, saying, “This is essential to making anti-racism something we do, not just something we talk about.” During the prayer, the pray-er listed out the names of the victims of gun deaths in Chicago that week and called on the mayor, governor, and president (by their first names--as in President Joe) to take climate change more seriously.
But then, the priest got up to talk about their food ministry. They had pledged to provide meals once a week for people with food insecurity, and they were following through with that pledge. But, the priest warned, almost no one from the church was involved. They had a full kitchen staffed with volunteers and outside donations, but the only thing “Christian” about the operation was the location. The priest said, “If this is how things are going to proceed, I will still be glad that we are playing some role in serving our community. But I do wish that more members of this church wanted to be a part of that.”
On my most skeptical days, I worry that the American Church is primarily a scheme to dodge taxes and protect sexual preditors. Since this trip, I’ve been wondering what it would look like if all of the money and physical resources of our churches were forfeited to whoever was doing the most good in the community. I realize that churches aren’t meant to be charities, they are meant to be places of worship. But maybe, during the work-week, they ought to be left unlocked to increase the chances that anything good will come out of them.
I don’t know. I’m in a bad mood. I think I’ll stop writing now.
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