Lydia Schoch

Before we dive into the meat of this post there are a few stories you should know.

1986. Lake Erie. A study in personalities: my newly-mobile baby brother, Jesse, tries to crawl into the middle of the lake. I stand before the largest body of water I’ve ever seen and ask where the drain is and how and when it will be pulled. I wonder, but do not ask, where the drained water will go, how loud it will gurgle and how long it will take to refill the lake tomorrow morning.

1995. Ohio. I’m 7/10th a little girl. For now. Every Sunday after church I absorb Xena: Warrior Princess in my newly-decorated, mint-green bedroom, still adjusting to these things called cable television and puberty. The ripple of Xena’s muscles as she fights off the bad guys and her connection with Gabrielle nudges something deep inside of me that I won’t noun for years to come.

The Difference Between Men and Women

In the 1990s I heard the same story about sexuality over and over again at church, in abstinence-only sex education classes at public school, and from the mouths of about a dozen different special speakers overtly and covertly at assemblies and special church functions over the years:

As a young woman it is your job to monitor how you dress, act and behave so that men don’t become too distracted around you. Men aren’t like women. They have needs.

Once I heard a speaker, one of the few women who I ever saw speak in front of a large church group, acknowledge that men needed to be careful not to play around with the emotions of women. That, apparently, was our achilles heel.

As a Christian, especially as a Christian who was also female and a preacher’s kid, I wasn’t suppose to think about sex. Even being attracted to other people was morally dubious. I never did figure out how to avoid that.

Not only did I have sexual thoughts and feelings…only some of them were about the opposite sex. In a culture that said gay or lesbian in hushed tones (and bisexual not even once), in a world in which everyone knew that these things were caused by mothers who loved their sons too much and fathers who loved their daughters too little I had a lot of stuff to figure out.

The pieces I’d collected didn’t fit together. I’d always had a father who adored his kids, who would do anything to protect and provide for them and I couldn’t wedge into the sharp corners of straight any more than I could into the term lesbian.

How can I carry your bag when I already have my own?

As each youth group rally, sex ed class and special speaker layered their ideas about gender roles and sexuality on top of one another the question of carrying two bags weighed more and more heavily on my mind. Even before I knew how my puzzle fit together I thought it was insane to ask me – or any other teenage girl –  to assume responsibility for someone else’s sexuality. Carrying our own was work enough. I didn’t know how to carry two and had no interest in trying.

No one else I knew was asking these questions and if they had their own puzzles pieces to sort out I never caught a glimpse of them. In these ways I felt anything but innocent.

Over time, a very long time, I began to sort out the pieces. There was always a part of me that felt worldly for having these tasks, though. It wasn’t that I was ashamed so much as it was that I didn’t know how to reconcile my life. Asking a metric ton of tough questions was one thing. Bisexuality was another. But I didn’t know how either of these could or should intersect with my spirituality.

I know this is a long post. I have one more story for you.

Toronto. 2009. In the middle of a conversation during a big project a coworker turns to me, tilts his head and says “you’re so good, Lydia.” I’d adjectived myself many times before then. Good was one of the slipperiest modifiers of them all. Between my jumbled up puzzle and the Calvinistic undertones of my (former) faith it felt weird as hell to use that word to describe anyone other than God.

What is innocence? What is worldly?

I don’t know any longer. Those aren’t even the right questions to be asking. All I know is that I’m me. You are you. There is nothing else either of us can be.

By far the strangest phenomenon I’ve encountered while living in the big city is the unholy wedding of environmentalism and consumerism.

Last year a law was passed requiring businesses to charge their customers at least five cents for every plastic shopping bag. In response to this law, more and more businesses are selling reusable plastic and cloth bags so that people who don’t want to pay the fee or accumulate more plastic bags have another option while shopping.

Some of the bags are black and plain, others are covered with bright colours and whimsical animal, plant or geometric patterns. Grocery stores often sell incredibly sturdy reusable bags that have the store’s name printed on the side of them. There is one style of bag that has various phrases printed on the side of it. For example, it may say this is a green bag or this is not a plastic bag.

Snide phrases like these irk me.

The Irks

• I’ve never heard of any these bags (or the companies that make and/or sell them) extolling the idea of buying and consuming less as a permanent lifestyle change.
• Unnecessary purchases are not made one whit more necessary by the type of bag in which one carries them home.
• Sermonizing does nothing to endear other people to one’s cause.
• Ethically speaking, it seems so strange for one to purposefully draw attention to his or her own virtue. It is far better, IMO, to let your actions speak for themselves.

Other Examples

This is only one example of the melding of environmentalism and consumerism. Back when Drew and I still had cable our local news channel would occassionally feature stories in which the host talked about various ways of living a more green life.

In many cases, this involved buying new stuff that had been grown or produced in more eco-friendly ways: appliances, homes, cars, clothing, toys, shoes. Anything that could be repackaged as earth-friendly was repackaged as such and much of it was far more expensive than what one would typically pay for such a thing.

Are organic, locally grown/made, fair-trade products better? In many cases yes. At other times I’m less sure. I do feel a twinge of guilt when I buy something that was probably picked, sewn or assembled by someone working for abysmally small wages in dangerous conditions.

Sometimes there are no alternatives, though, or the conscious-friendly option isn’t even in the same solar system as my budget. This is what I do instead:

• Use it up.
• Wear it out.
• Give away what I no longer need.
• Gratefully accept what others pass along to me.
• Only purchase the absolute necessities.

For certain items I’ll also consider buying used although the North American bedbug epidemic makes me wary about bringing home anything in which they could hitch a ride. A set of dishes, cookware or cutlery would be acceptable things to pick up at a secondhand store or garage sale; an upholstered couch, on the other hand,  is something I’d insist upon buying new. 😉

By far my favourite new TV series this year is The Walking Dead, a post-apolyptic zombie tale based on a series of comics by the same name.

I’ve always enjoyed the heart-pounding excitement of horror and end-of-the-world stories.Gore or violence don’t makes these things worth watching but how the characters react to what is happening and how they come together to fight it (or occasionally lose all social cohesion and don’t do anything at all.)

What If?

There’s something to be said for wondering if a bump in the night is an indication of something other than just a strange sound, for being prepared for the worst even as one fully expects nothing at all or only good things to be waiting around the corner.

When we go out to eat my Dad has always preferred to be seated at a corner booth where he can sit and observe everyone who walks past us. To the best of my knowledge he’s never been harmed in any way while eating out. 😉 He simply prefers to know his surroundings and to never be caught unaware.

There’s also something to be said for facing the ugly truth within each of us. Scary movies and tv shows can and often do portray painfully sexist, racist, homophobic, and classist views. This is not a good place for those who want to believe that we live in a world in which these things no longer taint how people perceive one another. Things are improving, yes, but prejudice and discrimination aren’t going away any time soon.

If the economic, social and national ties that bind us together were unwoven and people had to fend for themselves (or die trying) the world that the survivors re-created would still be birthed out of all of our old assumptions. In this I cannot disagree with the creators of The Walking Dead and similar shows.

The Walking Dead, like most post-apocalyptic tales,  assumes that this new world would be quickly overtaken by sociopaths.

This is Where We Disagree

I understand why someone would assume that a post-apocolyptic world would heavily favour our most selfish tendencies. In a world full of limited resources it would make a certain kind of sense to battle over them in the short term. An individual who goes to bed with a full stomach every night, after all, is going to have that much easier of a time remaining healthy and strong.

Altruism is a better strategy for long-term survival, though. Eventually even the strongest person is going to need help with something: setting a broken limb, having a baby (and at least occasional assistance in looking after him or her for at least the next dozen years), solving a problem, building a home, fixing a broken tool. No one remains young, healthy and independent forever.

It is in these moments that relationships win out. Someone with a history of altruism is much more likely to find the advice and practical help that they needed. Would some selfish or sociopathic people survive? Of course. There will always be those among us who eschew social mores and try to get something for nothing.

I don’t agree, though, that they would define who we are as a species any more than they define us now. Every day I see people looking out for one another in gestures as small as opening a door or offering a subway seat to someone who needs it more to as monumental as a stranger risking his own life to save another. There is so much good in this world, in each of us. (If you don’t believe me, click here.)

Even with our prejudices and deep imperfections people are good. There would undoubtably be conflicts in an emergency situation like the one portrayed in The Walking Dead but I do not, I cannot believe that our future would defined by the grim.

Growing up as a preacher’s kid in a fairly conservative community my family didn’t keep alcohol in the house. Mom and Dad didn’t drink outside of the home, either. It wasn’t part of our life in any way for many years. Other church members would sometimes say it was a sin but I don’t remember my parents ever mentioning it at all. Even in their most evangelical, conservative days Mom and Dad were never that interested in telling other people what was right or wrong for them.

Cue the Fall Festival

Most of the people we knew were non-drinkers so it was surprising and a little daring as a young teenager to attend the annual fall festival that a local Catholic church hosted and see devout grownups drinking mugs of beer. For many years I had understood drinking in rather black-and-white terms. One either abstained or drank to excess. There was no middle ground in part because of my conservative religious upbringing and also because I was so young. It’s much more difficult to see social or behavioural shades of grey at certain developmental stages of life.

Over time I became used to their libertine ways, so to speak. Once I was old enough I even drank myself on rare occasion. Most of the people I associated with were still fairly traditional on this issue, though. It was just a little odd that my family was comfortable with this. The moderate people we hung around believe that alcohol, while not a sin in and of itself per se, was a slippery slope to the act of doing something wrong if one wasn’t particularly careful.

I’ve mentioned this story before, but while in college I took a fitness and health class in which a special speaker told us that anyone who drank any amount of alcohol while under the age of 21 had a drinking problem. She worked in the substance abuse field and was no doubt surrounded by people who started drinking early  in life. On a certain level it made sense that she was so cautious; on every other level she was wildly misinterpreting what was generally a benign social activity for non-addicts.

These were the cultural influences and circumstances of my first couple of decades on this planet. Depending upon who was speaking alcohol was:

• Dangerous
• Exciting
• Controversial
• Potentially Sinful, but Probably Ok
• Actually Sinful
• Addictive
• A Recipe for Disaster
• A Recipe for Fun

And then I thudded into adulthood. I’d tasted small amounts of alcohol before then but had never developed much interest in it. As friends began to very occassionally invite us to barbeques, the pub or other places where alcohol was regularly served I decided to give it another shot.

My conclusion:

Meh

Drinking is boring.

I’m not uncomfortable if other people want to drink around me. Once or twice a year I might even join them for a glass of something sweetly flavoured. I really don’t understand the cultural tradition of going to a bar or pub for the express purpose of becoming intoxicated, though.

When a new friend suggests this once, no big deal. When they suggest it almost every time they want to get together I begin to think that we have fairly different ideas of what it means to have fun. In a city as large as Toronto, why go out drinking when there is so much else to see and do: festivals, parades, museums, restaurants, national parks and campgrounds, city parks (e.g. the kind with playgrounds and benches),  beaches, the bluffs and a massive zoo to name just a few alternatives.

There are other rare-drinkers here but it seems to be much more common, at least in secular circles, for young people to go out drinking as a common method of having a good time or celebrating happy news. I don’t judge anyone else’s choices in this matter; it’s simply funny that I’m now just a little odd for not drinking enough instead of for imbibing at all. 😉

Nine years ago this winter I stumbled upon a link to The Ooze on the message boards of a now-defunct postmodern magazine called Re:Generation.

By the time I found The Ooze I was seriously contemplating de-converting from Christianity. There were too many things we disagreed upon, too many questions about how things were done that floated to the surface of my mind every time my shadow fell across the doorstep of a church.

For anyone who hasn’t heard my story before, I grew up a preacher’s kid in a series of small, predominantly midwestern communities.  God was part of the fabric of our lives from my earliest memories but as I grew older I began ask some serious questions about the ways in which I was taught to practice our faith.

Over the next seven years The Ooze was a safe place to explore these questions and to re-imagine some of the ways in which I understood and thought about God. Much of what I had grown up believing was the truth sounded more and more like cultural preferences or traditions instead.

A few years ago I began to identify as Agnostic. For every one question answered several more popped up and after a time I came to suspect that the process was far more important than the act of discovering a final answer (or lack thereof.) It was not a path I had intended to follow yet it was to where my questions and concerns ultimately lead.

This changed my relationship with The Ooze. After a time it no longer seemed helpful or right to continue to so deeply associate with a Christian organization as someone who had stopped relying on the Bible or church tradition to guide my decisions. A few years ago I began to gradually detach from The Ooze’s online community.

There’s something about The Ooze and the people I grew to know and love there that continues to stick with me, though. I still consider myself to be an Oozer even as my identity as a Christian has slipped away.

Recently I learned that The Ooze is going to be relaunched early next year. I’m curiously watching and waiting to see what will come of it all. I wonder if this is the birth of a new denomination, if it will evolve into some sort of training ground for church leaders or  if, much like earlier incantations of The Ooze, it will thrive in unexpected ways and among the least likely people.

And I wonder why I still care so much. None of the other religious or spiritual groups I’ve ever known have remained lodged in my mind like this one.