I think I will be writing on THIS GUY:

http://ytupaltatambien.blogspot.com

way the heck more often.

Because I’m movin’ to Chileeeee!

It is very easy to feel in love with God when you feel in love with a person.

It is not so easy to feel in love with God, or even enormously loved by God, when you feel rejected by a person. Or persons. Or many people. 3 at least.

I have the knowledge that Jesus loves me (for the Bible tells me so). I have the knowledge that I am deeply loved. But the feeling…the feeling that Song of Solomon gives me when I read it, or that I used to get when I felt loved by God because I was loved by B…those feelings are overwhelmingly lukewarm.

I feel rejected by B through his apathy, I feel rejected by El Ecuatoriano even though he brings me such daily delight, I feel rejected by that one salsa-loving man from the past who never called me, and I feel like God isn’t so excited about me either. How can I begin to feel like God is in love with me when I feel people, specifically men of my fancy, turning me away? And how can I feel fulfilled as the strong independent woman that I claim to be, without having a boy to bring me a washcloth for my forehead when I’m sick, and drink coffee with me at twilight?

Lately I feel more convicted than ever that there must be a God (passing chemistry ultimately proved this for me) and that God must love me (He created rhubarb pie–enough said), but my emotions are rarely convinced.

Rarely.

That is, until I see amateur leagues of soccer players in the field outside my window, at dusk, how happy and alive they look. And when I go to the Green City Market and feel like I have been transported into a magical world where children constantly dance to bluegrass and every farmer is beautiful and kind and have a life story that would rival any biopic of any famous person and every customer will pay any price for tomatoes as long as they are grown locally and seasonally. Even when I ask El Ecuatoriano’s love interest if she has a boyfriend for him, it makes me happy to see his face light up with giddy hope. I know this feeling; I love to see it in others. Even if this other is someone I have wanted for myself.

Or when I learn a new verb tense in another language, that makes me happy. When I am drinking margaritas in the sun, that makes me happy. When I am traveling, even if I am miserable, I am joyfully miserable, or miserably joyful, because I feel like I am inside of God’s heart when I am in another country. Or when I see a good movie, or read a book about a strong independent woman who goes on an adventure. Or when I hear about the loves of my friends, and realize how powerfully God works through the loves of others. I feel then inspired to be patient.

I feel God loving me when I listen to the song “Conversaciones Incompatibles” by Muchachito Bombo Inferno (impossible to feel sad when listening to this–please listen to it, do) or anything by Habib Koite. And when I think of a memory, a really happy memory, with a friend and I can say “Thank you God for this memory.” “Thank you God for that croissant in Paris and that hug in Florence and that boy on the bench and that mom in my heart and that lovely lovely rain, all that lovely lovely rain, thank you.”

This is how it is to be with a lover, I suppose, to feel this love so powerfully sometimes, but at other times, simply to know it. Simply to keep saying, “I love you” because this is a statement of cerebral truth, sometimes more than a feeling. Or a statement of commitment.

But I think God and I are more at the commitment part right now, at least on this side of the divine realm.

I could really use some Habib Koite right now.

This afternoon over Intelligentsia coffee and a raspberry chocolate mousse cup, my friend/spiritual guide Megan informed me that, for those whose hearts are stirred by travel, God either gives a passion for a specific country, or for people.

My heart is for PEOPLE.

I can never decide which culture, which country, is most exciting for me. Megan told me a couple years ago that this is because I belong in heaven, not earth–and heaven is where one can experience the beauty of all cultures together, because their beauty constitutes God’s complete humanity-wide image. But for now I live on earth, and I am trying to find where I belong. I tried to find it in America, in Italy, and now Chile. Next, I hope Africa.

For now, I impatiently skip around on my iPod from Celia Cruz to Henri Dikongue, trying to find out where I feel I truly belong, where I can live for 5 years straight and not feel a calling toward another far-off land. It will be a great challenge to decide, since there are so many cultures to love.

1. West African–I connect to West African culture through their adopted language French, and through West African dance. I can’t believe these people. What other people on earth, when singing, will sing as loud as they possibly can? What other people, when dancing, will spread their arms out as far as they possibly can? What other people, when speaking, will use every syllable known to man, with as much energy and mouth movement as the people of West Africa? It is fantastic! They seem to want to feel everything, touch everything, live as far as they can. I have a hunch that West Africans live to the brim of their lives, bubbling over with nascent energy that comes from a long lineage of people who love to be alive, and express themselves in the most bold, exaggerated, and complete of ways.

2. Latin American– Having visited Guatemala a couple times, living with a Mexican currently, working with six Latinos, and taking salsa lessons once a week, I think I can make a safe generalization that Latin people are very easy to love. I think this is because they love so easily. The heart of a Latino seems to know no end; there is room for love for everyone, and lots of it. They love and love and love–love music, love dancing, love food, love singing, love talking, love listening, and love people. From the most low form of this endless affection (Mexican men whistling at me and calling me “mamacita” from their cars) to the highest form (boundless hospitality and grace), it is so evident that I cannot begin to understand the racism so prevalent against such people in America. A more warm and inviting group I have much trouble imagining.

3. Italian– I must say, coming back from a semester of studying and living and eating lots of gelato in Italy, I felt rather alienated from the Italian people. I felt like I didn’t understand their values–they all seemed rather exhaustible to me. I mean, sure, “la bella vita” is certainly enjoyable–no one’s complaining about the food or scenery here–but it’s enjoyable for about a month, and then the values seem a little empty. Really, Italy? An entire civilization historically dependent on the dessert course? But, as I became more reflective upon the people, their values, and their common history, I learned how really quite lovely it all was. Italians have suffered centuries of corruption, greed, and deception even at the national government level, and I do believe the word “mafia” is an Italian word, no? What is left to trust but beauty? Beauty for them became the only thing that was consistent, the only thing they could fall back on. No wonder they will accept a corrupt governor before they will accept a mediocre opera singer or marinara sauce. They are a country whose people refuse to live in any other manner than constantly indulging in life’s beautiful extravagances. Who can argue with that?

American– As an American wanderer, I have met plenty of other American wanderers. Though I enjoy the international community of travelers, one thing always really bugs me about most of the Americans: they all hate America. I’m of the first to admit that America should not be the leading power, nor do I think it should be particularly blessed by God. But that’s because I think every country should have equal power, and that God should bless every country. I think America has a really special culture, one whose father looks like Woody Guthrie playing the harmonica out on the bayou, whose mother looks like the Statue of Liberty and beckons those from all around the world to enjoy her riches and opportunities. I know that for most immigrants, it is more like the American nightmare than the American dream. But I also know that we are all immigrants here, and that somehow we have managed to form a common culture that is constituted of all these fabulously different states and a comparatively stable and trustworthy government. I was born in (San Francisco) California, grew up in (Seattle) Washington, went to college in Chicago (Illinois) and my home base is now in (the suburbs of D.C.) Maryland. I love how different all these places are, and I love that they are all distinctly American. I love African-American culture and the incredible artistic submissions that community has given the world. I think the presence of so many heritage festivals and events is pretty special. And I think swing dancing is pretty great too.

Japanese– I think the most impressive aspect of Japanese culture is the food. I never would have guessed, while flying over the long stretch of ocean between Seattle and Tokyo to participate in a high school exchange program in Kobe that I would love the food so much, and miss it when I left. I am so impressed by the attention to health that Japanese people give. Not only gastronomically speaking, but all kinds of health–physical (stretching and seaweed and lots of walking), spiritual (finding your center is pretty big in Japan), asthetic (simplicity all the way), relational (lots of respect over there–you simply MUST bow, all the time), and environmental (many bikes). I am dazzled by how calm and gentle the Japanese people are, how attuned they are to nuance. They are so graceful and elegant and they can feel the slightest change or movement in their midst, like sensitive little birds. They pay so much attention to the world around them, which is probably why they are so careful to create such delicious and organized food. Mm…I could really go for some udon soup about now.

Arab– One of the most fantastic things about Arabs to me is the way they speak Arabic. It always shocks me how passionate I will see Arabs speaking with each other, as though they are about to get in a fist fight, flailing their arms around and yelling. But, at the end of the conversation, they will laugh and shake hands as though the only words exchanged were “Hi, how are you? Oh good!” which isprobably true. I love how feisty Arabs are, how strong, and how passionate. I firmly believe that Arabic must be the most romantic language, with approximately 1,000 ways to say “I love you.” And get this: the most common way literally means “I would die for you.” Can’t get much more passionate than that! The poetry that comes out of Arab culture is something else–so completely sensual and energetic I feel like I must censor myself, and little Arab children are the most consistently excited and enthusiastic people you will ever meet.

I recently received a letter from a friend with enough faith in me to believe I’d promptly respond. She asked me, in light of my then impending graduation, which talent I would choose if I could have any in the world. It did not take me a second to conclude: I would love to be a singer/songwriter. Music is so dear to me, and I love how directly lyrics seem to speak to me at certain times. I have all the passion for it, but absolutely zero talent. I can’t sing. Can’t play an instrument (and I’ve tried, really hard). Can’t write songs to save my life. It’s a hopeless cause.

But what if? Oh, what if! I often look at the wonderfully hopeful pages of aspiring musical artists on myspace and wonder what mine would look like, if God had been so sweet as to bless me with my most coveted ambition.

Mariposa (my nickname shall become my stage name…)
Folk/Regional French/Samba-Cancao

Band Members: Mari–vocals, ukulele, djembe, banjo, pandeiro, three-hole pipe, txalaparta

Influences: The Covenant Hymnal 1974, West African lullubies, contemporary bassa nova, regional Mexican love songs, Irish jigs and reels, old school hip hop, Algerian rai, international house, Americana roots music sung by Woody Guthrie or people who look like Woody Guthrie, the soundtracks of more than 40 Broadway musicals, Rainier Maria Rilke and other poets who talk about beauty and people, my dad playing saxophone under a bridge to me when I was 6 months old, smoky jazz sung by strong independent women, books about people finding themselves, nomadic songwriters and the streets of foreign lands, the multiple times I fall in love a day, and black coffee on beautiful mornings

Sounds Like: She’s not trying at all–it’s natural!

Record Label: Sub Pop, duh.

International Summer Tour!
15 May– Seattle, Washington
17 May– San Francisco, California
18 May– Chicago, Illinois
20 May– Brooklyn, New York
22 May– Cape Breton, Nova Scotia
25 May– Pisa, Italy
26 May– Le Havre, France
28 May– Bilbao, Spain
1 June– Porto, Portugal
3 June– Kalamata, Greece
5 June– Istanbul, Turkey
9 June– Dakar, Senagal
11 June– Lome, Togo
12 June– Yamoussoukro, Cote D’Ivoire
20 June– Sao Paulo, Brazil
22 June– Montevido, Uraguay
23 June– Mar del Plata, Argentina
25 June– Valparaiso, Chile
26 June– Trujillo, Peru
28 June– Guayaquil, Ecudaor
3 July– Grenada, Nicaragua
5 July– Antigua, Guatemala
7 July– Guadalajara, Mexico
8 July– Mexico, D.F.
10 July– Chicago final show!

That would be really awesome.

If Anna Resvik had not left some hick town in Norway to sail the Atlantic and bring her radiant self to the shores of the proverbial Lake Wobegon and if the poor, tired, huddled masses yearning to breathe free of the Andrew Family had not decided to get the hell out of England and settle in the sunny state of Georgia and if the guitar had not touched Sam Andrew (the Third) so much and if he had not decided to go to San Francisco and meet the sweet woman from Minnesota who is seriously the sweetest woman and if Seattle’s houses had not been so damn cheap in 1986 and if San Francisco’s houses had not been so damn expensive, and if Suzanne had not said, “Soreya is a dumn name for a baby and you know it, let’s please call this thing Mari” and if Harold had not been the most selfless man in all of history and never complained once that he basically had a miserable childhood and if Seattle had not been so beautiful but so small and if Arielle had not taught me about the Bible and forced me to go to that dorky Christian club that I was so ashamed to go to, and if French had not been such an alluring language and forced me into wanting to study in France and if that Italy calendar had not been on the red-headed girl’s wall and made me study in Italy after all, and if Rosie Thomas had not written “2 Dollar Shoes” and if Chris had not been the cutest boy and if Chicago had not had the tulip festival when I visited, and if Dr. Rabe had not been the most glowing woman in the history of America and if Joe had instead said “Girl, out of my face” instead of being the most kindred of spirits and the most humorous of humorists and if Megan had not asked me how Italy was and then that guy didn’t ask us if we liked J-Lo and if Lise had not been neurotic too and if B hadn’t been so lovely with his excellent outfits and his stunning letters, if he had not sent me roses all the way from Paris and told me I was his bird, if I hadn’t felt that perhaps it was the time to release him, perhaps, and if RJ hadn’t said, “How about the Anglican Church?” and if Priest Sarah hadn’t been the most fabulous of women and if Tyler and Kelli hadn’t kept saying “We don’t want to sing songs out of hymnals, you Catholics!” (or basically) and if Guatemala had not been so achingly gorgeous and if Michael had not sat with me on the couch and listened to crazy jazz and made fun of me for loving VHS videos and been so completely dazzling and if my chemistry professor had not been blessed with the mercy that God has bestowed upon him during grading week, and if Chicago hadn’t had such a fine assortment of neighborhoods and if the winter hadn’t stopped just before I was about to give up and if Whipple Park didn’t have all the Ecuadorians playing soccer in it and if that old man hadn’t said “You remind me of my mother” and if that one bloke hadn’t said “Eres bella” and if the Grind had not fed me iced soy lattes and bagels with hummus and if Kristina had not accepted me just as I am and if that stained glass window at church didn’t exist and if forgiveness was not feasible and if I did not take such delight in all people everywhere who are so beautiful, then I would not be graduating college this Saturday and everything would not be as glowing as it is.

This evening I hauled two big bags of worn literature down Damen to sell at Myopic Books, the mega used books store and Kaaba of the Hipster Mecca that is the 6 Corners of Wicker Park. I got two major things out of the experience:
a) $35 for the books they wanted, which I greatly appreciated
b) the realization that I am not a hipster.

I used to be a hipster, I think. I at least really WANTED to be a hipster, which I think is the definition of a hipster. What changed? What made me feel so uncomfortable and stifled surrounded by black skinny jeans, cute vintage scarves, vegan milkshakes, dark lighting, and no cell phone policies? Why did I start panicking in the middle of Earwax Cafe–all that black coffee and all those desperately apathetic students talking in the foreground of some band whispering about solitude and alluding to a Rimbaud poem? This is something I would have been ALL ABOUT two years ago.

I walked up Damen, getting into Bucktown which is even more stifling with all its ladies and their make-up and their long hair and high heels in a world I have ever been a part of, frantically turning on my iPod loaded with Reggaeton, just so I would feel normal. Hearing “Baja baja baja baja mamacita” from cars flashing colored lights would have been so comforting at that moment. It was lovely coming back to dirty little Albany Park with its independent grocery stores and creepy 24-Hour Lebanese restaurants with the health department warnings.

I wonder, if when I’m living in Chile, I will miss the neighborhoods like Bucktown. I wonder if I will re-claim my ex-hipster-identity, because it is something different to them, but comfortable to me.

It’s hard to imagine Hipsterness ever being comfortable again. Even if I don’t eat meat or dairy, even though I listen to experimental bands whose members have angsty side bangs and wear ironic t-shirts, even though I sometimes read Kierkegaard and occasionally dip into poetry, even if I reeeeeeeally like independent coffee shops…I feel isolated by Hipsterdom these days. I feel like I can no longer muster up all that apathy. It takes a lot of energy not to care. It also takes a lot of energy to pretend I like stuff like riding bikes and Michel Gondry and French elecontronica.

I’m hopeful for the next sub-culture. Maybe it will be the opposite of hipsterness. Maybe it will be “People who actually really care about stuff in an open, passionate way and aren’t worried every second about what people think about them and don’t have intimidating haircuts.” Yeah that sounds nice.

The air right there smelled like dust, water, incense, and soot; the air over there smelled like mangoes, just mangoes, maybe wood too. Whatever it was, I want to smell it forever. Right in that place. Right between those two enormous walls that used to be even more enormous before an earthquake 300 years ago. There are little bits of these walls that have been taken out by time or by earthquakes or by restoration accidents. Little tiny holes dot these walls and bright blue pierces through the stone, as though dozens of sapphires spangle the rough surface.

Gardens spring up capriciously throughout this churh; there is a lovely flower garden where the bishop used to live, a palm tree oasis near the ancient altar. There are less traditional gardens, a sand garden for example, the likes of which I have only seen at a kitschy Japanese botanical garden in suburban Chicago. There are patterns in the sand, like the faux Japanese one, but these patterns are not created by rakes; instead, by human fingers indulging in one of life’s great unspoken pleasures–plunging one’s fingers into a patch of thick warm sand.

There were two little gravestones by where I was sitting, forcing me to recall Chicago, a place at least 50 degrees below this one. I remembered the cold cemetery by my old apartment encased in slabs of concrete and that grey train passing over the Art Nouveau mausoleums. I didn’t want to think about all that greyness. It felt overwhelmingly heavy in a place so light and airy.

I ran my finger along the tops of the gravestones, little stubs coming up from the dusty earth. I tried to imagine the people underneath these stones but it was nearly impossible; we were too far separated by time and place. How far below the ground they must have been, after so many earthquakes and so much time and so much rain. So much rain that all the walls smelled like it, even on that day when rain seemed to only exist in far-distant memory. The walls kept the memory of rain for the city, just in case they needed it; perhaps to kindle a feeling or spur a bit of hope, or maybe because they just like the smell–I don’t know.

A man passed me by–I initially guessed he was a carpenter, judging from the hammer in his pocket–and he greeted me “Hola.” I smiled at him and replied in greeting, very conscious about the lack of self-consciousness with which I replied. Perhaps Spanish was getting in my blood!, thought I. I do not want to learn it; I want to know it; I want it to get into my bloodstream so it is a part of me. I want to be so intimate with it that I can’t remember if I’m speaking Spanish or English. I want it to be just another way I express myself. Sometimes I express myself through art, sometimes through poetry, sometimes through Spanish.

Only then, after a brief surge of confidence, I came back down as I tried to mentally name the things I saw around me–plant, stone, dirt, church…but I could not think of the word for hammer. Nope, no idea. I had never even consciously heard that word. And I came back to the reality of how little Spanish I know and how much I have to learn, how little I understood of the carpenters, how I could not remember how to say “I smell…” which is exactly what I wanted to be thinking about. “I smell dust.” “I smell mangoes.” I did remember the word for mangoes.

My relationship with Spanish is one of fickle nature; I feel like I’m dealing with a tall, dark, dashing Flamenco instructor who is sexy and intimidating on the dance floor but then takes me out to dinner and dazzles me with his gentleness, and gentlemanliness. Spanish is nearly terrifying out on the streets of Antigua, where I don’t understand the directions I’ve been given or do not know how to communicate that my passport is missing…then there are moments like this, surrounded by dusty sapphire-spangled walls and palm trees and the smell of mangoes, and Spanish is this close gentle friend, whispering in my brain these elegant sounds depicting elegant things, and I feel happy to be with it and happy to let it run through my brain, through my blood.

Man. I really want a mango.

The fresh sun inspired a walk through my neighborhood today, the kind of walk that makes me feel in love with everybody and everything. I was in love with the Live Poultry store, the Dinero Mexicano exchange shop with the freaky lighting, the sloppy Arabic on the “Shut down by the Health Department” sign, and the fabulous Chica’s Secret with all its glittery Quineanera dresses. I felt in love with Stevie Wonder and Entre Rios and all the people who sang through my iPod into my ears. I looked at the birds and I was in love with them too.

I passed a stand selling elotes, which reminded me of Guatemala, which reminded me of Mayan people. I cannot stop thinking about Mayans these days; I am in love with them as well. I was thinking about that beautiful church I saw in Antigua with the Mayan Gods as well as Christian saints, and thought about how much I was in love with that.

I got to thinking about El Cristo Negro, and this is when my love for life and the world turned into crying. El Cristo Negro is a 16th-century Spanish crucifix that was displayed at the Iglesia de Santiago in Antigua. It depicted a white Christ, a Christ that looked like the Spaniards. However, soon after the church’s construction, there was a fire, and the soot blackened the crucifix. Thus, Jesus turned black. The indigenous Christians of Guatemala took this as a sign of Jesus’ care for them, as he was now dark like them. They joyfully praised him and took this as confirmation of their faith.

My tears started while thinking about this story. The most compelling thing about Jesus is his humanity, the way that every person can relate to him. How incredible that a people completely oppressed could find hope and beauty in this person praised and touted by the people who oppressed them. How incredible that they could identify with him. And yet, not very incredible at all, when you ponder the true and undeniably human-ness of Jesus.

The song that came on my iPod immediately after concluding my thought journey through my memory about the story of El Cristo Negro was Alison Krauss’ rendition of “I’ll Fly Away.” And I was further struck by the fact that we are able to identify with Jesus while on earth, and then go be with him in heaven! Because God was so nuts about the world that he gave eternal life to those who believe in him! And I was so thankful for the fact that those indigenous people got to fly away to heaven after a life of oppression, to be with their Jesus.

I began to think (how could I not?) about the magical loveliness of flying. Flying plays a rather significant role in my life. I often fly on planes to far-away lands. I just flew to Guatemala, and yesterday I found out that in July I will fly to Chile, and will not fly back to Chicago for either 6 months or a year, depending on how my adventure unfolds. This is the longest I will have ever been in a foreign country and I am anxious and terrified. I feel comfortable in Central America; I feel comfortable with Mexican Spanish; I feel comfortable with 8-hour flights (at the most). I know very little of South America, of Chilean Spanish, and of epic flights lasting longer than 8 hours.

But I was born to fly. I am sure of this.

To Guatemala, to Chile, to heaven!

That said, I have a new email address, for when I graduate and no longer have my college email.

mariauciel[at]gmail.com

(Mari to the sky)

Also, what’s the deal with Coldplay? So much wailing and beats I can barely think straight.

Today is Easter Sunday. A beautiful, hopeful, beautifully hopeful day of TANGIBLE happiness.

No more of this “I vaguely remember happiness existing once in my life…I think it sort of feels the way I feel when I have a pound of baklava and a new fresh book about South America with a killer cover…is this what happiness is? Was it this anticlimactic?”

No. Now happiness has a smell (incense) attached, a sound (“Jesus Christ is Risen Today”) attached, a feeling (hope) attached.

Hope takes up a lot of energy, and it’s been frustrating to me lately.

YEAH I KNOW IT WILL GET BETTER, GUYS!!! BUT HOW ABOUT MY LIFE RIGHT NOW!!

I want to feel better NOW.

NOW!!!

But today it felt effortless. 50 days of Easter, whether I want it or not. 50 days of tangible hope. 50 days of hope as not something abstract in the future, but as happiness right now.

NOW!!!

Guatemala was a week of tangible happiness for me. Such a delightful foretaste of Easter’s hope. I felt as alive as I possibly could. I felt the Mariest Mari can be. I felt heavy with possibility, with wonder, with promise for all the lovely life that lay ahead.

Once upon a time I went to Italy and met a magical woman who lived in a little red house that used to be a stable and now has a kelly green kitchen where the woman makes tea. One day I went to her house, sad and weepy, frustrated and lonely, homesick and crestfallen. She made me some soup out of beans and held my hand and hugged me in her big warm sweater. I felt so good in her big warm sweater arms, and I felt a wave of relief when she offered to pray for me.

She prayed for me, and she prayed for my friend Megan. For both of us, for both our sorrowful hearts. At the end, she told us that she got visions of us while she prayed.

For Megan, dancing before the Lord!

For me, she thought it might be embarassing to hear. I said “No please tell me anyway.” And she finally revealed, “I saw a peach! A big ripe succulent juicy peach!”

Every moment wherein I feel Mari to the Max, the most Mari I can be, the Mari wherein I am not wishing I were skinnier, prettier, smarter, faster, more graceful, better at Spanish…these are the moments I feel heavy like that big ripe succulent juicy peach, heavy with all the blessings God continously lavishes me with in abundant quantities. I feel all those juices and all that delight just ready to burst out to delight the partaker, who wants nothing else than a peach while beholding it. Who wants even a CHEESECAKE when you have a peach of the ripest, most succulent variety? If a peach is all that a peach can be, who would want anything else? What else would a peach want?

In Guatemala I felt very peach-like.

This morning I felt very peach-like.

Wanting nothing. Being everything.

What do Guatemala and Easter have in common? I must find it, and find a way to put it in my everyday life.

Perhaps it is good food. For one thing.

“I think it’s great that you’re going to Guatemala to learn their language. I just can’t figure out why they don’t learn our language when they come here. You know what irritates me? When I see ATMs with an option for Spanish. What’s next? Options for every language?”

This “what’s next” argument is the most horrific rhetorical fallacy I’ve ever heard. I wouldn’t describe myself as a very logical person, but I know enough about logic to know that the “slippery slope” is completely false. Completely.

“What’s next after we marry homosexuals? We marry horses?”

Obviously.

“What’s next after we write our signs in English AND Spanish? We start writing them in Estonian too?”

And what, exactly, is wrong with that?

The amount of energy that is put into hate could  move mountains. And I’m sure the amount of energy I put into resenting this hate could move mountains.

How does love happen? How does forgiveness happen? How do I not want to punch this person in the face for saying,

“Mexicans are just bad drivers. But I’m not racist–I think women are bad drivers too!”

Which, by the way, does not make you just a racist; it makes you a sexist too.

Or for saying, “I’m not intolerant. It’s just obvious that God punishes gay people.”

Actually, I’ve never really caught that in the Bible. Of course, when Jesus talked about homosexuality–oh wait. He didn’t.

All I want to do is talk about what idiots all these ignorant people are with other non-idiots. But I KNOW that can’t be the correct response. So what is it? What would it mean to love them? Or, just, not hate them? Or, at least not call them “idiots?”