Say the Word

Trigger warning: Discussion of miscarriage and pregnancy.

***

It's hard to believe it's already been a year since I "went public" about my September 2018 miscarriage, but it's true - once again it's October 15, Pregnancy Loss Remembrance Day. And while this one obviously feels different from the last - thanks both to the passage of time, which dulls all grief, and to the fact that this year I'm pregnant with a healthy pregnancy - I do still have some things to say about pregnancy loss, and my experience in the months that followed mine. Today seemed an appropriate day to share those thoughts.

Throughout the fall and winter immediately following my miscarriage, I had a lot of people reaching out and checking in with me, throughout my Facebook post, my blog, private social media messages, texts, emails, snail mail cards, phone calls, and in-person conversations. These efforts made me feel loved, listened to, and so lucky to be surrounded by such a wonderful support system.

And yet, there was something about many of those interactions that I found curious (and, if I'm honest, a little annoying at times) - something I hesitate to bring up for fear of seeming ungrateful:

People really don't like using the words "miscarriage"* or "pregnancy loss." In fact, they often go frustratingly out of their way to avoid them, using all sorts of superfluous and downright mystifying phrases instead.

Over those several months, I heard my miscarriage referred to as - and this is a non-exhaustive list - "that time" and "last fall" (as if autumn is inherently a challenging time of year), "the pain and difficulty you went through," "that thing that happened to you, which I read about on your blog," and even the ultra-vague "recent events." (That last one particularly confused me, as it was said to me in February - an entire five months after my miscarriage. If it weren't for other context clues, I wouldn't have had any idea what they were referring to.)

Then there were other people who just trailed off in the middle of a sentence, unable to think of a synonym for the word they were desperate to avoid: "How have you been doing since...?" or "I know someone else who also had a... you know..."

It was hard to ignore the pattern, and it was hard not to take it a bit personally. When it happens time and time again, with a dozen different people, you begin to wonder: Is it something about me? Are they pitying me? Do they think I'm "too fragile" to hear them use the actual word? It's not a great feeling.

At the very least, their avoidance signaled to me that they were uneasy talking about it - and that put me in a bit of an awkward position. Whether they were asking me how I was doing because they felt socially obligated to, or because they genuinely wanted to know, they hardly encouraged me to give them an honest answer or start up a lengthier conversation when the topic appeared to make them so uncomfortable. I often ended up giving the answer it seemed they wanted to hear ("I'm doing fine, thanks for asking") and leaving it at that. They got to feel good about reaching out, but I ended up feeling rather alone.

(This isn't to say I needed or wanted to talk about my miscarriage all the time; I usually didn't. But there were times when I would've liked to know the option was there if I wanted to talk, and when people refused to call my miscarriage a miscarriage, it felt like it took away the option.)

I noticed this tendency to avoid the label more in people who hadn't experienced their own miscarriage. Some couples who've been through pregnancy loss of their own also avoid using the word of course (and in a society that still sees the topic as taboo, and frequently discourages showing vulnerability, it's no wonder), and there were certainly those who hadn't been through a miscarriage who were still willing to use the terminology. But more often than not, I realized that if someone was unafraid to use the word in front of me, it was because they'd been there. They knew what it was called; they knew what they called theirs. What's more, they knew that refusing to label an event does nothing to change the event itself - and that embracing the label can actually be incredibly empowering.

It reminds me (as so many things do, let's be honest) of the Harry Potter books. As soon as Harry learns about his parents' death in Book 1, after ten years of being denied the truth surrounding that night, his instinct is to refer to it every time thereafter as what it really was - murder at the hands of Voldemort - even while that decision shocks everyone around him.

"You said You-Know-Who's name!" said Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. "I'd have thought you, of all people - "

"I'm not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name," said Harry. "I just never knew you shouldn't."

Except that Harry did know - Hagrid had already told Harry that most wizards call Voldemort "You-Know-Who" or "He Who Must Not Be Named." And as the book continues, Ron has to repeatedly ask Harry to stop saying Voldemort - because Harry keeps doing it, despite Hagrid's explanations and Ron's protests. At 11 years old, Harry hardly has the words to describe why he feels the need to do this (and J.K. Rowling doesn't come out and say it either), but I think it's because to say anything else, or to avoid speaking Voldemort's name out loud, would feel dishonest and dishonoring to both his parents and his own journey of grief. He was mad that the truth about his parents' deaths had been hidden from him for so long, and now that he knew what had really happened, he wasn't going to go back to lies, omissions, or spreading misinformation. In any case, at the end of the book, Harry's choice (and mine) is vindicated when Dumbledore tells him, "Always use the proper names for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."

As I've said in previous posts, one of the best ways to grapple with trauma is to take ownership of it - to take something that happened to you, and make it happen for you instead. The first step in this process of moving on is often getting past denial by naming and defining your experience. Using the appropriate, Google-able terms furthermore gives you access to information about what to expect (a great help in reducing fear of the unknown), and connects you with others who've gone through something similar (paramount to helping you feel less alone in your experience and provide you with a useful support system).

On the various "What to Expect When You're Expecting" miscarriage/pregnancy loss boards, and similar boards on other apps and online forums, accurate labels are in fact so common that shorthands are used instead. MC = miscarriage, MMC = missed miscarriage, CP = chemical pregnancy, EP = ectopic pregnancy, MP = molar pregnancy, BO = blighted ovum, etc. Spend any amount of time on those boards, and you quickly figure out what all those abbreviations mean.

Granted, all of those posters are on there because they want/need a space to talk about it - and there are many who experience pregnancy loss and don't want to talk about it at all - but isn't it telling that of those eager to share their experiences, none of them choose to talk about it in euphemisms? We know the deeper truth: it happened, regardless of what creative phrase you come up with to describe it - so you might as well just call it what it is. To do otherwise just compounds unnecessary confusion and misunderstanding at best - or perpetuated fear, shame, oppression, and isolation at worst.

My doctors, too, never beat around the bush - I assume from some combination of not having time or tolerance for euphemisms. My medical chart says everything: in between comments about my high-risk status due to my diabetes, there are phrases like "incomplete abortion" (the medical term for missed miscarriage) and "multigravida" (meaning that I've had more than one pregnancy). And so, every time I saw a new doctor (or one I hadn't seen in awhile, since the start of this pregnancy), the doctor would both congratulate me on my new pregnancy and acknowledge that my first had ended in loss: "We're so glad to see you back here with a healthy pregnancy!" or "That first one was just a fluke; I hope you aren't worried. Everything looks great this time!" During an appointment early in my second trimester, when a doctor was trying to find my baby's heartbeat with a Doppler wand and having a bit of difficulty, he apologized. "I know it's hard when we can't find it right away for you, after everything you've been through. But babies just hide sometimes! I'm sure I'll find their heartbeat in a minute - ah look, there it is! Strong and healthy, at 150 beats per minute."

I assumed the people who took great pains to circumnavigate the words "miscarriage" or "pregnancy loss" in my presence meant well. They likely did it because they were afraid of offending, embarrassing, or upsetting me, or because they themselves found the words offensive, embarrassing, or upsetting to say. I don't think they did it to purposefully incite shame. But when they treated those words as if they were potentially offensive or embarrassing, that's exactly what they were doing, wasn't it? Even if they didn't mean to. They were treating my miscarriage like something I should be ashamed of, something I should take offense to others knowing about and acknowledging, something that shouldn't be said out loud.

There are a whole bunch of other words like miscarriage: rape, assault, depression, suicide. They are things that our society is afraid of and uncomfortable with, and words that erroneously have connotations of blame attached. We all want to believe that there's a reason these things happen, and ways of preventing them - and the easiest way to do that is by blaming the person it most affects. (And for trauma like rape and pregnancy loss that disproportionally affect women, this impulse is all the more frequent.) But the truth is, acts of violence can happen at any time to anybody, regardless of what that person does; mental illnesses and other chronic disorders affect otherwise healthy people indiscriminately and unpredictably; and miscarriages, which occur in at least 1 in 4 pregnancies, are nearly always just a matter of horribly bad luck. These are not things that can be prevented, as much as we wish they were, and they are not things we should let anyone feel ashamed of.

If someone says they're on medication for the treatment of their depression (or anxiety or bipolar disorder or OCD or anything else), don't call it their "condition," implying that it's some nebulous, vague, unknowable disease - use the label that they and their doctors and therapists use. And if someone has publicly proclaimed that they were raped or sexually assaulted (as so many have in this era of #MeToo), don't try to find another phrase to use instead ("nonconsensual sex," "forced sex," "taken advantage of," etc.) - use the words they use: "rape" and "assault." To do anything less is to disempower the survivor who has chosen to use that word to describe their experience.

This isn't Victorian times anymore. It doesn't do anybody any good to force these topics or words into secrecy.

Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't admit my own faults. There were times when I wanted to use the word "miscarriage" (or at least obliquely refer to mine, even without using the word), but shied away from doing so... As I've found with so many things that open us up to vulnerability, it's easier to write it in a blog post than it is to say it out loud.

My impulse to mention my first pregnancy didn't go away once I was pregnant for the second time - in fact, it was something I often wanted to do during those first few weeks. It felt weird to me to tell people I was pregnant without acknowledging what I'd been through; I always wanted to tack on the word "again": "I'm pregnant again!" I was also frequently compelled to compare my two experiences - how did my symptoms this time stack up to what I'd felt during my first pregnancy? But I did my best to curb those impulses and keep such observations mostly to myself - even while doing so felt like lies of omission and hypocrisy, perpetuating shame and stigma just as I accused others of doing.

I was worried what others might think of me if I kept bringing up my miscarriage. Would they be concerned or even disappointed in me, that even when I was getting a second chance at pregnancy I was still "complaining" about what had happened the first time? Would they think I was somehow doing a disservice to my unborn child by refusing to let them be their own person, with their own pregnancy, untainted by what I'd experienced previously? And what if someone heard me say these things who had experienced more than one miscarriage, or someone who struggled with infertility, and was still waiting for their rainbow baby, or their first positive pregnancy test to arrive - would I come across as ungrateful, would my words spark jealousy in their hearts? I knew how difficult it could be to hear about someone else's pregnancy when you were hoping and trying so hard for your own, and I didn't want to inadvertently cause anyone else that sort of pain.

I was also worried about making other people uneasy by reminding them, in the same breath as telling them my happy news, that life also brings loss sometimes. This acknowledgement did not temper my own excitement - I would argue that knowing the worst that could happen and holding that concurrently with my hopes and dreams for my new pregnancy actually made me appreciate and value my pregnancy even more. But I was worried that others might not feel the same way I did, and think me adding that "again" to the end of "I'm pregnant!" was in poor taste.

I'm trying to be better. I'm trying to care less what others think of me, and to feel less responsible for the reactions that others might have to the things I say and do. I'm trying to prioritize myself, and say the things I want to say (even if for now that means mostly just posting them on here). I want to be a role model for my future child(ren), and exemplify the traits of self-confidence, honesty, authenticity, and openness to vulnerability that I so value and admire when I see them in others.

I hope anyone reading this post will try to be better, too. And if, in the meantime, the best you can do is ask someone "How are you doing since...?" - at least that's something. In the end, I was always touched when someone took the time to contact me, and - as stated before - felt extremely grateful that so many did.

I'd much rather someone reach out clumsily than not at all.



***

*To be fair, there is some debate about the appropriateness of the term "miscarriage" - given that when you break it down into its components ("mis" and "carry") it seems to put blame on the one who was carrying the baby-to-be in their womb. Still, I think it's safe to say that if someone uses the word "miscarriage" to talk about their experience, you can assume they aren't offended by the term, and feel free to use that word yourself when talking to them about it. If you do want to avoid that particular word, "pregnancy loss" (or even just "loss") is a good substitute.

Personally, I find "pregnancy loss" to be both a more and less accurate description of my experience - it feels more accurate, in that I quite literally lost a pregnancy, and certainly didn't incorrectly carry the child I was hoping to have; it feels less accurate in that "pregnancy loss" is an umbrella term that encompasses stillbirths (losses after the 20 week mark) as well as miscarriages (losses before the 20 week mark), and I feel a bit like a fraud when lumping in my experience with others who quite literally labored and birthed a baby who may have even breathed outside the womb for a few short minutes or hours, and whom they may have had the chance to hold, however temporarily, in their arms as well as in their wombs and hearts. So while I do use both "miscarriage" and "pregnancy loss" interchangeably, I tend to default to "miscarriage" more often - just to avoid that constant internal debate with myself. (Not to mention that "pregnancy loss" just sounds clunkier in everyday conversation.)

To put an even finer point on it, I use other terms as well... I use "my miscarriage" or "my pregnancy loss" to refer generally to the weeks-long process of noting diminishing pregnancy symptoms, learning at my 8-week ultrasound that my baby had stopped growing, getting a D&C six days later, and the weeks of physical and emotional recovery that followed. But sometimes it's more convenient to reference a specific date rather than an entire process - and when that's the case (as it often was when we were trying to conceive again), I chose September 13 and called it "my D&C" (e.g. "this is my Nth menstrual cycle since my D&C"). More often, I think of the entire pregnancy, not just the end of it (and sometimes not the end of it at all), and I refer to it as "my first pregnancy" or "my last pregnancy" ("last" meaning previous, not final). Even when I was not yet pregnant again, I always used one of those qualifiers; trying to conceive requires a certain optimism and forwardness of perspective that assumes another pregnancy is just around the corner, if not already begun.

I don't care which of those terms you use with me - miscarriage, loss, pregnancy loss, your first pregnancy, etc. All of them are true, better than the verbose "that painful, difficult thing that happened to you last fall, which I read about on your blog," and refreshing to hear.

And if you're not sure what someone else wants their experience to be called - ASK THEM! I know it can be awkward and nerve-wracking, but if you want others to feel safe enough to be emotionally vulnerable around you and tell you how they're feeling, you might just have to be emotionally vulnerable around them, too. :)

The Separation of Church and State

I'm going to start this blog post out with a definition.

Secular: Adjective. Denoting attitudes, activities, or other things that have no religious or spiritual basis.

Secular means "non-religious." It does NOT necessarily mean "anti-religious." Those are two separate terms. "Non-religious" means that a specific item or institution (a building, a school district, a government, etc.) is not intended for religious use nor influenced by or supported by or affiliated with any religion. It is separate from religion; the two do not come in contact with each other. In reference to a person, it would mean that such a person is not affiliated with any religion, and does not adhere to religious beliefs or practices. 

"Anti-religious" would indicate that more contact is taking place; it hints at active attempts to suppress, alter, or control religion. An anti-religious person would be vehemently against participating in or witnessing religion; they might allow others to participate in religion privately, but certainly not publicly.

A person (and a government) can be non-religious without being anti-religious. There are some models of secularism that are anti-religious - specifically, France's laïcité, where the government actually dictates to its citizens the kind of religion-related clothes and symbols that can be worn in public schools or on public streets.

But when I talk about secularism, and wishing that the United States government was secular, I don't mean the rigorous sort of anti-religious secularism France seems to advocate - I mean only that I wish religion and government were separate entities (or, at least, as separate as they can be), and that I wish the First Amendment of our Constitution was upheld consistently and fairly, so that we all can benefit from its promise.

"Congress shall make NO law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof." 

That clause was written into our Bill of Rights purposefully, with careful consideration, and despite controversy at the time, because the founders of our nation believed in those words. They knew European history, rife with its past and present religious conflict, and were afraid of repeating its mistakes. 

Some reasoned, as Martin Luther and John Locke had years earlier, that the government did not belong in religious affairs for ethical or spiritual reasons. "Religion," Thomas Jefferson wrote, "is a matter which lies solely between man and his God" - meaning that the government therefore has no right to endorse religion. Jefferson continued, "the legislative powers of government reach actions only, and not opinions." James Madison went one step further, reasoning that religious governments paved the way for pride and tyranny. He remarked that "superstition, bigotry, and persecution" were the fruits of the "legal establishment of Christianity." These two Founders were in the minority among Americans at that time, going farther than most in their beliefs that the government and religion shouldn't mix. Madison, especially, maintained an extreme pessimism about the social value of religion that few could agree with.

Still, and perhaps more tellingly, the Founders refrained from invoking the scriptures anywhere in the Constitution, despite the fact that they lived in a world culturally immersed in them and absolutely nothing was stopping them from doing so. Clearly, they did not have a "Christian nation" in mind (as so many argue today), and were willing to set the groundwork for a secular government to be constructed.

(All this, by the way, is according to the wonderful book How To Be Secular: A Call to Arms for Religious Freedom by Jacques Berlinerblau, which is amazingly well-researched and chock-full of footnotes and references.)

Despite these beginnings, however, our current government is not very secular. There is often no clear separation of church and state. There are references to God everywhere in our government - in our Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag, printed on our money, and engraved on statues and government buildings all over this country. Other examples are nativity scenes, crosses, or statues of the Ten Commandments on public land, prayers starting public meetings, and prayers in public schools. This might not seem like such a big deal at first glance - but consider how alienating it can feel for someone who does not believe in any god, or someone who does not believe in a singular god, or the Christian capital-G God, to see "In God We Trust" on official government currency and buildings. Who is this "we" that's being referenced, and why are atheists and non-Christians immediately excluded from it?

These types of references to religion (Christianity specifically) are sometimes called "ceremonial deism." When it is challenged in court, it is often upheld by judges, under the reasoning that it is part of our national heritage, and simply tradition/custom at this point, without any overt religiousness. But if there were no passionate religious people behind the continued use of these phrases and these practices, then they wouldn't be defended so fervently in court. And, according to atheist author Greta Christina (http://www.alternet.org/belief/4-ways-christianity-sneaks-our-secular-government-and-why-it-matters), "every one of these 'ceremonial' incursions of religion into government gets used - on the ground, in tangible, real-world ways - to marginalize non-believers, and to treat them as second-class citizens." 

That linked article, by the way, has several examples backing up that claim - specific times when our nation's "In God We Trust" motto and public, government-sponsored prayer have been used to shame, belittle, and award second-class status to non-Christians. It also goes on to explain why, even if these instances WERE just symbols, just traditions, and not meant to be used as a way to discriminate against non-Christians - those symbols still matter. Nothing is too trivial when it is a symptom of a larger issue:

"Are these the most pressing problems facing the nation? No. Of course not... But that doesn't make them trivial. Symbolic issues can have a significant impact. Employers requiring women to wear makeup wasn't the most pressing problem facing the women's movement, but most people understand why it was a fight worth fighting. Segregated drinking fountains and lunch counters weren't the most pressing problems facing the civil rights movement, but most people understand why they were deeply troubling and needed to end. President Obama saying same-sex marriage should be legal had zero effect on same-sex couples' legal rights, but most people understand why the President's statement mattered, and mattered enormously."

Even "surface" discrimination can hurt. And just because something is tradition doesn't mean it still has a place in modern society. If you've seen the responses of civil rights activists to some Southern states still flying the Confederate flag, you know what I mean - seeing those symbols can be painful reminders that the government once (and STILL) endorses awful practices that particularly target marginalized groups. Why should people who belong to those groups, or people who call themselves supporters, allies, or friends, feel comfortable in such communities?

But the government doesn't only use these "ceremonial" instances of religion, either. Look at some of the policies that get passed, or that congresspeople try to get passed; look at some of the rhetoric government officials feel comfortable saying. Look at the religious beliefs that are taught as fact or viable possibilities in public school, such as creationism being taught as a legitimate alternative to evolution, or sexual abstinence being taught to the detriment of educating youth on other methods of birth control or STI prevention. Look at the way Congress impedes medical progress by attempting to curtail stem-cell research or abortion care in the name of religious beliefs. Look at the way the government bends over backward to accommodate outlandish corporate decisions about how to run their companies, compensate their employees, or provide health benefits - all because the CEOs claim their policies stem from religious (read: Christian) beliefs that they hold and desire to practice at work - even if that means coercing non-believer employees into adhering to tenants of a religion they do not support. 

The above examples only touch on a few; there are other very frightening ways in which the government supports Christian privilege in this country - through policies and through finances. Furthermore, several Christian groups lobby the government and influence these policy decisions.

I wish this wasn't the case. I wish our government was not influenced by religion - because when it is, it is inevitably Christianity that does the influencing. I also wish our government didn't support religious institutions - unless it can learn how to do so equally, with equal support given to all religious and non-religious groups (which I doubt is even possible) - because right now, when it does support religion, it is inevitably Christianity that it supports.

These sorts of practices perpetuate Christian privilege, deny people who belong to other religions the same opportunities, and often leave non-religious individuals out of the discussion altogether. Worse, when the government as an institution, or the people who represent it at federal, state, and local levels, model "othering" non-Christian groups by supporting only Christianity or making blanket statements about those who aren't Christian, they seem to sanction religious homogeneity, as well as discrimination, intolerance, and violence toward non-Christians. A government which endorses one and only one religion is one step away from a theocracy - and theocracies can be dangerous things: glorified cults that get away with all manner of atrocities in the name of religion simply because they have the numbers, the means, and the political power to back them up.

My next bouquet drawing will work to show the beautiful arrangement that can be made when all religions (and non-religious groups) are represented. I do not want to erase religion; I just want everyone to have a say. I want everyone's beliefs to be recognized and respected - and part of that is having a government which does not seem to endorse one religion at the expense of other religions, or at the expense of non-religious people. 

So what would a secular government even look like?

For a start, there would be no National Day of Prayer or religious words in the country's motto. There would be no nativity scenes in front of government buildings - because to do so would be to endorse a Christian holiday while ignoring or excluding the holidays of every other religion. The Pledge of Allegiance would return to its pre-1950s rendition - which didn't include the phrase "Under God". Public schools would teach only the topics that experts in those fields give merit to, and not present alternative views without such academic support as being equally worthy of consideration. (The news media, too, could learn from this - increasingly, journalists are presenting all possible opinions on a controversial topic as equally reasonable opinions to have, and thus legitimizing harmful, extremist opinions held only by a small, attention-seeking minority.)

Policies that a secular government passed would not be influenced by religious beliefs, or support other institutions or corporations which tried to coerce non-believers into being subject to the customs or beliefs of their religion. Everyone would be legally permitted to have sex or get married to those of their choice, presuming all parties were consenting adults. All medical procedures would be legal and available, presuming that they had gone through the rigorous trials that any medical procedure is subject to for approval, and no patient would be shamed for making a medical decision about their own life that went against the religious beliefs of their doctor, or coerced into refusing (or taking) medical treatment they wanted to receive (or deny).

Furthermore, if the United States government truly became secular, American Christians would lose a lot of privilege - which would create a more egalitarian society. (For more on Christian privilege, see this previous post. And for more on why a loss of Christian privilege would actually be a good step toward eradicating religious discrimination, read this blog post from Monday.)

I don't say this because I hate Christianity and want it to be eradicated, or because I want Christians to be persecuted. I just don't want Christians to have unfair advantages in this country any more than I want men to have unfair advantages over women, white people to have unfair advantages over people of color, or heterosexual or cisgendered individuals to have unfair advantages over those who don't identify in those ways.

Secularism does not equal atheism, and those who believe a secular government would be beneficial (to people of ALL religions, and to those who are non-religious) can also be religious people in their personal lives. In fact, many who advocate for a more secular government are religious - especially those who belong to minority religions (religions other than Christianity), who are troubled by recent policies of the Christian-controlled government. Even Christians can advocate for a more secular government, if they recognize that there are Americans who don't subscribe to their religious beliefs - Americans who are no less American for doing so. 

Democratic governments should represent all people - not just those belonging to the privileged religion. The best way to do this is to make sure the government is a secular one - and that it stays secular, regardless of which political party currently holds the presidency or congressional majority. Not only is secularism democracy - but it is a hallmark of our democracy, as the founding fathers intended.

That first clause of the First Amendment is so important. "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion." What is so hard to understand about that? When did the United States government forget this provision? And why did we, the citizens, let it happen - and continue to do so?

The Sexuality Umbrella

Everyone might not agree with me on this point, but I believe there is a much wider range of different "sexualities" than we usually suppose. 

First there is someone's sexual orientation - what "type" of person you are physically attracted to. This is often what we think of when we talk of someone's sexuality, and it is often broken into only three categories: straight (attracted to someone of the opposite sex), homosexual/gay/lesbian (attracted to someone of the same sex), and bisexual (attracted to both sexes). 

The problem with these three categories is that neglects to consider the true spectrum of genders/sexes that exist within humans (see this previous post for more on that topic). There are people who are not male or female, and still others who identify as both male and female, and the above three categories assumes that no one would be attracted to someone who does not have a clear sex/gender label one way or the other. 

To rectify this problem, new terms have developed (or been reclaimed) in recent years, including pansexual, omnisexual, and queer, which refer to being attracted to people of all genders, including transgendered individuals.

But this still doesn't cover the entirety of the human sexuality experience. What about people who bristle at the idea of labeling what gender/sex they are attracted to? After all, it's not like straight women are attracted to all men, or straight men are attracted to all women, or gay men are attracted to all men, or pansexuals are attracted to every single person on the planet. We are attracted to and forge connections with individuals, not entire genders. Or what about people who aren't attracted to anyone, and have a very low or non-existence sex drive?

These people are often glossed over when we talk of sexuality - but there is a vocabulary out there that's being increasingly used, in an effort to include them. There's demisexual, meaning that someone doesn't experience primary physical attraction, but may experience secondary attraction after forming a close personal bond with another person. There is also asexuality, a term for people who don't find themselves sexually attracted to anyone. (Asexual individuals often do form close bonds with people, and might even have (non-pleasurable) sex with them - but that is a choice, and has to do with sexual behaviors - which I'll get into more in a bit.) Gray-asexuality is another recent term, used to describe someone who feels their sexuality falls somewhere on a spectrum between sexual attraction and complete asexuality.

Keep in mind that these terms are not mutually exclusive. Someone could have a low libido and little interest in sex and therefore identify as asexual or gray-asexual or demisexual - but also identify as a specific sexual orientation (i.e. gay) because of who they are attracted to (i.e. someone of their same sex) on those rare occasions when they have sexual desire. Still others might have so few experiences of attraction or desire to draw from that they aren't sure how to label their orientation - or if they should label it at all.

Besides this, there are other things that might complicate someone's sexual orientation. For one thing, we all define attraction and desire a little differently - including or excluding physical attraction and emotional attraction depending on the person. For another, most of us are capable of understanding if someone could be considered "attractive" - even if they are not a gender we typically look at or would say we are personally attracted to. 

I feel like women especially have this tendency to recognize (or appreciate, or feel threatened by) attractiveness/beauty/sexiness in people of any gender - because our world is built for a male gaze, and billboards and magazine covers and television ads and porn sites are plastered with still images and videos of attractive women; and because women are culturally taught to look at other women and judge themselves against each other; and because women are expected to make themselves more attractive to men (or to other women) by the way they dress, wear their hair, do their makeup, etc. This sort of environment can breed jealousy and envy, and I feel like there is often only a fine line between coveting someone's body because you want to have sex with them and coveting someone's body because you want your body to look like theirs.

This might transition into identifying as bisexual or pansexual for some women; for others, it would never. Close friendships between two people can also complicate things - particularly among those who form emotional bonds first and foremost, and rely on that emotional intimacy to lead them into physical/sexual attraction.

Finally, there are behaviors and choices to consider, which are other important parts of sexuality. These categories would include someone's past sexual experience and someone's future sexual experience - what they have done, and what they will choose to engage or not engage in in the future.

Celibacy is refraining from sexual behaviors of any kind, usually born from a desire to prioritize other areas of life instead (such as one's psychology or spirituality). Abstinence is choosing to refrain from sexual intercourse (though not necessarily other sexual behaviors) - often for religious/spiritual reasons or for medical reasons.

On the other end of the frequency spectrum are people who choose to have a lot of sex or engage in a wide range of sexual behaviors, perhaps with many different partners. There are plenty of terms used to describe such behavior - and many of them are gendered, because our society tends to view women and men differently in this regard. Women with multiple partners are "sluts" or promiscuous; men are "lucky" or "studs." These terms stem from the dual stereotypes that women don't or shouldn't want to have sex often, and if she does, something is wrong with her; and that men do or should want to have sex often, and if he doesn't something is wrong with him. Both of these are cultural bullshit. Some men don't want sex. Some women do. Every person is different (and can furthermore change from day to day), and gender stereotypes like these are both ridiculous and dangerous.

There are still other terms to describe how we form relationships (or how many relationships we form). Monogamy is the practice of forming a one-on-one connection with someone (sexual or otherwise), and not forming similar connections with anyone else simultaneously. Most marriages in the U.S. are monogamous - there are only two people in the marriage, and these two people have vowed to be in a closed, exclusive relationship with each other and no one else. 

Open relationships, on the other hand, allow for multiple simultaneous relationships. Participants are often still in a core relationship they can rely on, with other additional experiences being only periphery, usually to fulfill specific needs that that person is not receiving from their core relationship. These could be physical needs (i.e. because their core partner is physically or emotionally unable to provide them with sexual pleasure or reproductive success), or emotional/romantic needs. For an open relationship to be successful and not breed resentment or confusion, it's important to set up specific agreements beforehand, and to keep lines of communication open throughout the experience.

Polyamory is the state of being in love with or romantically involved with more than one person at the same time. Often, polyamorous individuals find others who wish to structure their relationships in a similar way, and may even form bonds of more than two people - committed triads, quads, or complex networks of five or more people. This is different from an open relationship or open marriage in that there is not one "core partner" and then other "side partners"; instead of hierarchy, there is community. These bonded groups act as a family, and everyone in the family is as committed to each other as a monogamous long-term couple are to each other. 

Those who never have sex are just as important as those who have sex every day; those who are attracted to or desire no one are just as important as those who find themselves attracted to people of all genders. All of these types of individuals should be included in conversations about the different types of sexuality found in humans.

And that's what I mean by the "Sexuality Umbrella" - sexuality encompasses more than just your sexual orientation. It also includes your frequency of sexual attraction or desire, your experiences, and your behaviors.

With so many things to consider, it might seem the height of uselessness to bother with any of these labels at all. If their definitions are so murky, and have the ability to change over time, why even bother? But the truth is, labels can help people define their experiences both for themselves and for the benefit of others. The human brain is hardwired to categorize things and people, and making these sorts of categories helps many of us better understand our world and our place in it. Deciding what to label themselves or even inventing new labels is a wonderful liberating experience, a key part of their journey through self-discovery, and a crucial part of their journey to find (a) partner(s) to spend their lives with (or part of their lives with, or one night with). Why would anyone discourage someone from doing what they need to find happiness?

Indeed, the nihilistic "why even bother?" attitude is often perpetuated by well-meaning but ultimately ill-informed heterosexuals. It's the same idea as asking, "Why can't we all just be 'color-blind'? Why do we have to categorize race at all?" It's easy to say when you already fit the label that's used as society's default (i.e. heterosexual and white) because if all subcategories ceased to exist and we were all considered just one type of sexuality or just one race, that person's identity (heterosexual and white) would still remain - it's all the others that would get erased. Acknowledging them is to validate them; to ignore those labels or pretend that they do not matter is to invalidate those labels and therefore also the people who use them to describe their experiences - which is something I would never want to do.

Gender is a Spectrum

There are two terms that we use more or less interchangeably - sex & gender - but which actually mean slightly different things (depending on who you ask). 

As I see it, sex usually refers to someone's biological sex (as characterized by the genitalia and other secondary sex characteristics you were (or weren't) born with, or by the chromosomes you were or weren't born with), whereas gender is the outward expression of one's sex - how you think of yourself/label yourself or how you are thought of/labeled by outsiders who interpret your behaviors (how you dress, how you wear your hair, your mannerisms, your ways of speaking, how you process or express emotion, how you interact with others, etc.) through the lens of contemporary gender stereotypes.

Often (but not always), one's sex and one's gender are the same - such as when a biological female considers herself to be a woman, and embraces/identifies with many (but rarely all) stereotypical behaviors of contemporary womanhood. These people are cisgender, also known as "gender-straight" or "gender-normative," meaning they conform to the gender/sex based expectations of society. 

Other times, a person's self-concept of gender does not match the sex they were assigned at birth. These individuals might identify as transgender. They may reject the stereotypes of the sex they were assigned at birth in favor of ones that better match their self-concept, may dislike the parts of their biology that do not represent the gender they feel they truly belong to, and may request that those they interact with change the gender pronoun they use to refer to them. They may take hormone treatments or go through surgeries to transform the parts of their biology they dislike, so that their physical appearance better matches their true gender. Some individuals who are transgender know from a young age that there is a disconnect between their minds and bodies; others do not realize it until much later in life. It is best not to assume any of these things, because every transgendered individual (just like every person in general) is unique and experiences life differently. 

>> Side note #1: Rejecting some gender roles does not automatically change someone's gender - "effeminate" men and "tomboyish" women exist, and they are not less of a man or less of a woman than manly men or feminine women (unless they want to be). 

>> Side note #2: A person's gender identity is not the same as their sexual orientation. Though being attracted to women is a stereotypical gender characteristic for many men, it is only one of many. Someone could be a gay man (and therefore reject one of the stereotypes of their male gender role), or even an effeminate gay man (and therefore reject many of the stereotypes of their male gender role), but still identify as male. Similarly, a woman could be attracted to women, or even be attracted to women and reject other female gender stereotypes, but still identify as female.

Behaviors or proclivities are gender-specific only because we have made them so. Women are not inherently "more nurturing" or "more domestic" than men. All genders/sexes are capable of providing quality childcare, and in completing household chores; like any other tasks, these are tasks that one gets better at with training or practice. Behaviors that we see associated with women, and behaviors we see associated with men, are things that women and men do because of how they are brought up, what they are taught, how they are treated, and social norms they are exposed to and encouraged to emulate (whether consciously or subconsciously).

Gender characteristics are fluid, changing throughout time and differing among cultures. For example, in America, it used to be acceptable for all children, regardless of gender, to wear dresses, and the color pink used to be associated with boys and blue with girls. In another example, some cultures associate displays of emotion as exuding manliness, while others associate emotional sensitivity with femininity. It doesn't take too much research to realize how arbitrary those characteristics are assigned to one gender or another - and not too much further thinking, once one has reached that realization, to conclude that it is ridiculous to insist that women or men "should" act a certain way. There is more than one way to be a man; there is more than one way to be a woman.

Gender is therefore more of a spectrum than a simple binary between male and female. You can have supposedly masculine traits even if you're a woman; you can have supposedly feminine traits even if you're a man. In recent years, this has developed into some people choosing to identify as neither a man nor a woman, or choosing to identify as both man and woman. They are the same person they always were; they are merely looking for a more appropriate label to use for themselves - a label that recognizes the arbitrariness of gender characteristics/the lack of a gender binary, and a label that encompasses how they truly feel about themselves and what group(s) they belong to, or want to belong to, or want not to belong to.

Some terms you may hear include:

• agender: a person who is internally ungendered or who does not have a felt sense of gender identity
• bigender: a person whose gender identity is a combination of a man and a woman
• pangender: a person whose gender identity is comprised of all or many gender expressions
• gender diverse or gender non-conforming: a person who either by nature or by choice does not conform to gender-based society expectations
• gender fluid: a person whose gender identity or presentation shifts 
• genderqueer or gender non-binary: a person whose gender identity is neither man nor woman, is between or beyond genders, or is some combination of genders; often used as a reaction to/commentary on the social construction of gender, gender stereotypes, and the gender binary system

Sex characteristics seem more rigid at first glance (males have penises; females have vaginas), but are actually just as fluid as cultural gender conventions. There are different ways to define one's biological sex, and all of them are less clear-cut than the strict male-female binary we suppose. 

You could define sex by observable, external characteristics (penises and scrota and facial hair, vulvae and hip width and breast size), or by internal sex organs (ovaries, uteri, prostrates) - but to use such a narrow definition would be to exclude or shame those who have had hysterectomies or mastectomies or other surgeries, those whose secondary sex characteristics are inconsistent with their primary sex characteristics (i.e. a "bearded lady" or someone with "man boobs"), and those who were born with conflicting or absent characteristics (i.e. an intersex child born with male and female organs, or a child born without any reproductive organs at all).

A male does not stop being male just because he's had surgery on his prostrate. A large-chested female is not "more female" than a small-chested female. Nor does a starving female who starts to grow extra body hair (to keep her skeletal frame warm) or lose the ability to menstruate (due to a lack of key nutrients in her diet) stop being female because of these physical changes to her body.

Every body is different; these differences can occur naturally, from genetics or environmental factors (such as diet), or they can occur medically, due to life-saving surgeries, medications, or elective procedures. They could even occur through abuse, such as someone who has had their genitals mutilated or altered. Girls who have had their vulvae stitched shut are still girls, just as the man whose wife famously cut off his penis is still a man.

How then can we insist there is a standard body that every male should have, or a standard that every female should have? Every female body looks different from every other female body, every male body looks different from every male body, and there are still other bodies that do not fit cleanly into a male or female category at all.

You could also try to use hormones to divide humans into males and females, looking at levels of testosterone, progesterone, or estrogen. But some males or females have naturally occurring levels of hormones that are typically found in someone of another sex, and others see altered hormone levels due to medical treatments, surgeries, or medication side effects. 

Females with Type 2 diabetes, for instance, have pancreases that must produce extra of the insulin hormone - and sometimes increased production of other hormones, as well, including testosterone, which can affect ovulation and fertility. PCOS (polycystic ovary syndrome) is another common illness which can affect hormone levels and impact reproductivity. 

Should such individuals no longer be considered female, just because of hormone imbalances or fertility difficulties? Of course not! If being female only meant that one was capable of ovulation, then girls could not be considered female before menarche either, nor older women after menopause. As much as it sometimes seems like we're heading in that troubling direction, we are emphatically not living in Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale; females are worth more than their ability (or willingness) to bear young.

Finally, you could also classify people by chromosomes - XX for female, and XY for male. But there are other chromosome combinations that naturally occur in humans, including Turner syndrome (X0, or only one sex chromosome), Triple-X syndrome (XXX, or even XXXX or XXXXX, where multiple X chromosomes are inherited), Klinefelter syndrome (XXY or XXXY, where extra X chromosomes are inherited with a male Y chromosome), and XYY (aka Jacobs) syndrome. 

Some of these individuals see their fertility compromised because of their condition; others see no obvious symptoms that they have a chromosomal abnormality and go through their entire lives never knowing. 

People who are born with any of the non-typical XX or XY chromosome combinations listed above, and/or people whose reproductive or sexual anatomy at birth does not seem to fit the typical definitions of female or male are known as intersex. These individuals are proof that gender is a social construct; there are not "only" two sexes, and therefore not only two genders, either. Sex/gender is a spectrum, rather than a simple either/or. Whether you look at physical characteristics, hormone levels, or chromosomes, there is more variation than the dichotomous "female" and "male" categories we are taught.

And so, if sex and gender are divided rather arbitrarily into different categories, than it makes no logical sense to treat people differently or give people different privileges or limitations based on their sex or gender. This is what feminism is - an insistence that woman and men should have equal rights and equal opportunities. Women and men should earn equal pay for equal work, should be treated with the same dignity and respect, and should feel valued and safe in whatever realm of society they choose to inhabit. 

"Woman" and "man"; "female" and "male" - these are just words, just labels that we came up with in an attempt to understand our world. Their definitions can change, just like any word evolving over time. Furthermore, new words can be added to the lexicon if needed (and I would argue - they are needed). There should not be any controversy in this - it is just people trying to explain their experience, use words carefully and conscientiously, and have some say in how people are or aren't labeled. There is no harm to it, and in fact often a great deal of good. Discovering who you are and who you want to be, and being allowed to define yourself as you see fit, are important aspects of being human and being free.

Implicit Bias/Unconscious Racism

Everyone is a racist.

No, really - it's been scientifically proven. (For some examples, check out this article, and also this article.)

Even liberal activists who would never consciously or purposefully utter a racist slur or generalize groups of people; even people who belong to minority groups themselves - everyone is prey to implicit bias and unconscious racism. We subliminally pick up on stereotypes portrayed in the media, or inherit knowledge of those stereotypes from others around us, and they sink in to our subconscious. We would never admit them aloud; we often don't even know they're there at all - and if we do (temporarily) know, you better bet we pretend not to.

For example, the stereotype that black men are inherently more dangerous or threatening than men of other races. Most of don't believe that's actually true at all, and will explicitly and publicly denounce such stereotypes as misguided at best, horribly racist at worst. But how many times have those same people kept a bit more distance between themselves and a stranger who happens to be black than they would an identical stranger with lighter skin? It's not a behavior that we even realize we do, but we do it. If we were to be confronted with the reality of this implicit bias that's just manifested itself, we might deny it, or try to make excuses.

This article has a great definition of implicit bias: "Implicit bias refers to the attitudes or stereotypes that affect our understanding, actions, and decisions in an unconscious manner. These biases, which encompass both favorable and unfavorable assessments, are activated involuntarily and without an individual's awareness or intentional control. Residing deep in the subconscious, these biases are different from known biases that individuals may choose to conceal for the purposes of social and/or political correctness. Rather, implicit biases are not accessible through introspection."

It goes on to say that implicit biases are pervasive: "Everyone possesses them, even people with avowed commitments to impartiality such as judges." Furthermore, "the implicit associations we hold do not necessarily align with our declared beliefs or even reflect stances we would explicitly endorse."

Another great article (yes, one that I already linked above - but it's just that good that it warrants linking again) takes that last idea even further, and says: "We bury [implicit bias] deep in the subconscious in layers of denial to protect our social reputation. We might explicitly deny our internal reactions, but implicitly we follow their whispered mandates."

The real problem is that implicit bias can be just as dangerous as explicit bias. You don't have to be an uber racist, vocal neo-Nazi/alt-right/white supremacist type for your racism to harm people. You don't have to intend harm to cause it.

If you're not on board with me so far, the rest of this post is not for you. This post is for people who are open-minded, self-reflective, and willing to admit things that might make them uncomfortable. I am also making other assumptions about the type of person you are - namely, that you're generally tolerant and "woke," and that you don't want to be racist (or that you want to find a way to be as least racist as it is possible to be). You also already understand what implicit bias is, how harmful it can be, and that everyone has some of it (including yourself). If that sounds like you, keep reading.

In my unprofessional opinion (but as someone who has given a fair bit of thought to this, in an abstract way), here are some things that we need to focus on in order to dismantle some of the implicit, unconscious bias we have:

1) Recognize where your personal implicit biases lie. This isn't easy, because they're not biases we actually believe in, or ones that we're usually aware of. But when something from your subconscious "breaks away" into your awareness, take the time to acknowledge it. Did you just catch yourself crossing the street when a black man approached? Were you describing a scene you witnessed to a friend and heard yourself referring to a non-white by race - where you didn't see any reason to indicate the race of the white people in your story? Did you have a nightmare where a stranger was invading your home, or threatening your family - and this dream villain was the only person in the dream of another race? They don't even have to be "negative" associations - maybe you found yourself asking your Asian friends to be study partners for an upcoming math test, or wanting to be picked to be on a team with the tall black kids during a pick-up game of basketball.

Whenever you recognize a moment of implicit bias coming forward like that - don't ignore it. Take the time to acknowledge what happened, to self-reflect and unpack where that gut reaction came from and if you've ever had a similar gut reaction in a similar situation before. Maybe even write it down. Keep a list, or write a journal entry. If you feel comfortable talking to your friends about it, ask them if they've had similar experiences. Follow the train of thought and extrapolate how your snap judgment could have been harmful to the others around you who witnessed it - especially if it was a seemingly inoccuous bias, or one that could be spun in a positive way (i.e. "All Asians are smart!" or "All black men are good athletes!"). Even "positive" stereotypes like these are harmful - because they lump everyone together to make incorrect assumptions, thus alienating anyone of those groups who doesn't fit the idea of what a member of that group should be good at, and because they might attribute a good quality to a group at the expense of other groups. If all Asians are inherently smart - does that mean other races are inherently dumber?

2) Don't shame yourself. This can be difficult for a lot of us (if the rather small sample size of me and my perfectionist friends and family are any indication). We don't want to be racist, and then we witness ourselves thinking racist thoughts. Even if they are something we had literally no conscious control over, we might find a way to blame ourselves for our mistake. We feel guilty and ashamed. This is understandable. You might even argue that it's the proper reaction - because if we recognize it was wrong, and that we are to blame, we're more likely to fix it, right?

Actually no. In my experience, the more we shame ourselves for something, the more likely we are to bury it and insist that it's not a problem. The shame makes us feel bad, so we avoid reflecting on it or doing anything to take concrete steps to make sure it doesn't happen as often - which then means when we inevitably slip up again, we'll be even more ashamed, and so on, until we've created a shame circle that just gets worse and worse and spirals us into depression or anxiety. Furthermore, the harsher we are on ourselves, the harder it is to see the positive attributes we have, and the harder it is to have confidence in ourselves to change. If we focus only on the negatives and beat ourselves up over our shortcomings, over and over again, everything will start to seem impossible - and once you're in that defeatist mindset, it's really hard to find the motivation to work toward any positive change. We might also start to believe we don't deserve to succeed in that positive change - we get stuck in this mindset of, "I said/did a bad thing, and that makes me a bad person, and as a bad person I am not capable of being a better person, or deserving of being seen as a better person, and anyone who forgives me for my mistakes is being too nice to me, nicer to me than I deserve."

3) Don't pass the buck, either. It's decidedly unhelpful to get stuck in those shame cycles mentioned above - but it's equally as unhelpful to try washing your hands of the whole thing. You alone are not to blame - but as a society, as humans, we are. It's a collective effort, and that means we're all a part of the problem - and the solution. The trick is to find a way to balance these two responses. You have to recognize your (probably minuscule) part in contributing to systems of oppression and discrimination and make efforts to change, while at the same time allowing yourself to be imperfect.

I think the best way is to approach it as a learning opportunity. It might sound silly, but it will probably help if think of yourself as a friend you're talking to, or even a young child who just needs a bit of guidance. I know I'm always quicker and harsher to pass judgment on myself than on others, and I bet some of you are too. If you overheard your good friend say something that sounded surprisingly racist, would your first instinct be to disavow that long, solid friendship? Probably not. You would assume she "didn't actually mean" what she said, and ignore the problem. Even better, you might gently talk to her and figure out if she realizes what she said and how bad it sounded. Similarly, if you saw a child have a reaction that clearly came from implicit bias (i.e. trusting a white stranger more than a black stranger), it would be a better idea to talk to him about his behaviors and thought processes than to let the opportunity for learning pass, just because you know he "didn't mean it."

So when you recognize yourself falling into prematurely labeling people or making assumptions based on stereotypes, call yourself out on it and face it head on. Allow yourself the luxury of being human (all humans make mistakes sometimes), but still make sure to think through what happened and reflect on what a better response might have been instead. Soon enough, you'll find yourself being more aware of implicit bias - which in turn will make you more likely to recognize it before it happens, and to start correcting for it so it doesn't happen as much.

4) Don't shame other people. Maybe you're more likely to judge others harsher than yourself. In that case, treat others with the same respect you allow yourself. Accusing someone of acting in a racist fashion is not going to put them in a receptive mood to really self-reflect and figure out what happened or why. If you want to talk to someone about examples of their implicit bias you've witnessed, think long and hard about the best way to do it. Maybe bring it up at a later date, or be prepared to offer some examples of times you had a similar reaction and then immediately regretted it. You can bond over your shared mistakes, and come up with some solutions of what you could have done or said instead.

5) But also don't let other people get away with implicit bias. Remember how I said you have to find a balance between allowing yourself to make mistakes/forgiving yourself for the mistakes you do make, yet still taking responsibility for your inadvertent racism? Same goes for other people. They might need some (gentle) assistance in realizing they've said or done something racist - and you might be the only one in the room to notice this fact. If you don't speak up, the perpetrator and the other people in the room who witnessed it might never recognize that something problematic even happened. You don't have to make a big thing about it - and in fact it might be a better idea not to (see point #4, above). It can be as simple as saying, "Did you realize you started walking faster once that black man turned the corner and came into view?" or "I know you didn't mean that the way it came out. What did you actually mean to say?" You'll help them be more diligent in observing their own slip-ups, and make sure everyone around you knows that you won't stand for racist behavior, whether it was intentional or not.

In a similar vein, if someone says a racist joke, don't laugh. If you find yourself laughing inadvertently, make sure you follow up with: "I'm only laughing because that joke actually made me really uncomfortable - and not in a good way." If someone starts defending their joke ("It was just a joke; I didn't mean it" or "I didn't make it up myself; I'm just repeating it"), ask them: "Would you have told that joke in mixed company?" If they wouldn't say the joke in front of a black person, for fear of offending them, why would they think it's okay to say the joke in front of white people? We should all be offended when we hear racist comments - not just the comments that apply to our race.

I know all of this advice is "easier said than done." Don't expect to recognize every time some of your implicit bias shows, or to feel comfortable pointing out when someone else's does. Allow yourself to understand that this - like so many things in life - is a learning process. Progress is going to be gradual, and maybe not even noticeable. You're going to make the same exact error in judgment at age 60 that you did at age 20. This doesn't mean you're failing. It just means you're human. They're called implicit and unconscious biases for a reason. You're not aware of them until it is too late, and because they're embedded into our unconsciousness they're also really hard to successfully eradicate them - and keep them out. Don't expect yourself to be better than everyone else. You will not reach an unattainable level of "racistlessness." Literally everyone is a racist. That means that you're not exempt from the problem. It also means that you're not exempt from the solution.

If we all just put in a little bit of effort to be more aware of the things we do and say, and to be kind to our fellow human beings, wouldn't this world be a much better place?

Why on earth should that mean that it isn't real?

This post is going to be a continuation of yesterday's post about mind-body dualism, so you may want to start there if you haven't read it yet.

As I said yesterday, though part of me is swayed by the scientific proof of monism - the idea that everything is built out of one category of substance (atoms, molecules, chemicals, cells) - I am ultimately too enamored with the idea of dualism to suspend belief that there is a second, incorporeal substance also at play in nature. We are not just bodies, but bodies and minds (or souls, depending on how you want to label it).

I acknowledge that I am, to some extent, governed by my chemicals and hormones and neurons and all of the other building blocks that create and multiply and manipulate my cells, or communicate between them. I even understand that when I dream at night I am in actuality at the mercy of coincidences and firing neurons; that what I choose to interpret as a story, with colors and faces and emotions and conflict and resolution, is not created or influenced by a separate substance (my mind, my soul, my intuition, creativity, inspiration, a collective unconscious I'm tapping into, or anything spiritual like that) but by the same category that maintains my blood circulation and digestive tract: Atoms. Molecules. Things that science can observe and quantify and explain (or are working toward observing, quantifying, and explaining).

But I care about those stories I dream, or the stories I come up with in the daytime and attempt to put to paper, or the subjects I want to draw or paint - and to write or create art the way I want to, I feel like it diminishes it to think of it through the lens of monism.

Sure, I am able to see color because of the way my eyes work and the cells that make up my eyes; I am able to hold a paintbrush because of the cells in my hand; I am able to retain muscle memory and things I've practiced and learned in school for the best techniques to use because of the cells in my brain. And to some people - the scientifically minded, the monists - this is more than enough, and they can find excitement and inspiration in the idea that everything comes down to essentially one thing, or that everything is born from essentially one thing, and that any differences we see - at the molecular or macro level - are just different rearrangements of the same basic substance.

Good for them! I'm not knocking monism. It's just not how I think of things, and I don't see the value (and in fact see negative consequences) in retraining myself to think of the world that way. I could persuade myself if I really wanted to. I definitely see the reasoning and the merits. But I don't think it matters to my life, and because it is not my gut reaction, I fear that it would take away something of who I am to try to dissuade myself of my belief in dualism.

I am an artist, and a writer. I like looking at art, and reading books. I like writing poetry. I like listening to music. I like being creative. I like thinking of myself as a body and a soul, and other people as a body and a soul. I like imagining that there is this creativity or inspiration that ebbs and flows and visits us and abandons us and takes us on journeys and sets our hearts on fire. I like dreaming; I like trying to influence my dreams in the moment of the dreaming, and I like interpreting them after the fact. I like sitting around and thinking and philosophizing. I like asking 'what ifs'.

I like thinking of my emotions, my mood, my intuition, my dreams, my creativity, my art, my writing, as a separate entity. Something to conquer or challenge or accept or adore or avoid or manipulate or mold or cherish or abhor. Something that is unique to me, but also something that is similar to what everyone else has and experiences - a collective pool that we all dip our toes into once and awhile, and dive into even rarer still. Something that is sometimes out of our control - which is frustrating at times but beneficial at other times. Something that is separate from my physical body and will exist in some form after my body dies.

I don't think my soul will go to heaven or hell because I don't think those are actual places. But I am open the idea of reincarnation. I like the idea of the ancient goddess, where we are all birthed from the same womb, live physical lives, and then are returned to that sacred womb to be reborn into another life (with or without knowledge of previous lives). That doesn't mean I believe in a goddess, or a specific womb that exists. I just like the imagery of it. The Neo-Platonists had a similar idea - this Oneness that we all come from and return to. It's actually almost monist sounding, right? We are all essentially the same thing, born from the same substance, made of the same substance, and return to that substance when we return. But I think of it in a dualist way.

There's this spiritual substance (spirit, soul, mind, unconsciousness, etc.) - let's just call it Substance 1 for the sake of simplicity. And this substance is unquantifiable and unidentifiable and really hard to understand or know or label - because that's kind of the point of it. We can only feel it - in our guts, in our hearts, in our minds. We can't touch it with our hands, or see it or hear it or taste it or smell it or observe it in any way. It's extrasensory.

I like to imagine that we are that substance, at our cores. If our bodies ever ceased to exist, or if we were in a transition state between bodies, we would still be Substance 1. It's our emotions, our collective unconscious, the stuff of dreams, our creativity, our childish sense of wonder, our pleasure, our pain, etc. When we are on earth it is encased in a body, which is a different substance (Substance 2). It has to be a different entity, because it can be observed with our physical senses. We can see and feel and taste it. We can study it under a microscope. It gets hurt or sick, and we watch it heal (or not heal). It is observable, in a real, quantifiable way. It can be categorized and labeled. It can (more or less) be understood.

So we start as Substance 1 and end as Substance 1 (if we do indeed end). We still have access to Substance 1 while we are encased in Substance 2 (our bodies), because we are always Substance 1, whether or not we are at the moment connected to Substance 2.

Of course, at any given moment we can understand, we are connected to Substance 2, because that's the only way we can understand or acknowledge or interpret or observe things at all. I have no proof that Substance 1 exists before/after/outside Substance 2 at all. Perhaps it doesn't. I like to think it does, but it hardly matters (to me) if it actually does or not. I would not act differently in this life if I knew for certain that my soul would or would not extend past by body's life, so it makes no difference.

The point is, that I am drawn to thinking of myself this way, for better or worse. It is so engrained in me to believe that there is some essence to me that is more than just the sum of my bodily parts that I have to think it is a belief I would hold dear regardless of whether or not I had been brought up Christian and taught to believe that we all have souls and which go to Heaven or Hell when our bodies die. I was drawn to color and art from a young age. I loved stories and reading. I have always been drawn to fantasy. I have always put more significance on my mind than my body. It didn't matter what was happening in "the real world" if I had another world I could escape to in my mind.

And I think that, is essentially, why I would really have to talk myself into monism. Because I like Substance 1 better; I could never discard it in favor of Substance 2. And it doesn't make sense to me believe there isn't a Substance 2 - indeed, I would be way too scared to pretend Substance 1 is the only substance. While I like Substance 1, I also often keep my distance from it. It's unreliable. It's mysterious. To believe only in Substance 1 (and thus ignore the "real" physical world) would be to lose all control, lose anything tangible to grab onto, and, essentially, to go insane.

So Substance 2 must exist - it is the rock in the flowing stream of Substance 1, the tangible, sturdy, steady thing to grab onto. And I want Substance 1 to exist - because it's the flowing stream, and more interesting. And so I am a dualist.

But I also call myself an "atheist."

Being an "atheist" doesn't mean I'm not spiritual, in my own way. It doesn't mean I don't like sitting around philosophizing. It doesn't mean I don't believe in something by faith alone. The "something" that I believe in through faith alone, however, is not capital-G God, nor any other god or gods of any organized religion on this planet. There is no Creator. There is no Destiny. There is the Human Experience, and the Soul, and the Collective Unconscious, or something along those lines - but I vacillate between whether or not I think this other Force, whatever it is, has any sort of semblance of control over me and my actions, or even any understanding of me, or anyone else, or itself. Perhaps it is just Nature, going through its cycles as it does; and I am just a part of it, a cog in its incognizant machine.

I even (as you can see with these last two blog posts), debate with myself on the issue of my dualism. Do I actually believe there are two substances - mind and body - or do I just really want there to be two substances, because it's a more interesting story, and one that I am immediately drawn to?

So I call myself an atheist because I do not align with any modern religion or its beliefs, and I do not one anyone to get the impression that I do, or that I could be persuaded to. Calling myself an agnostic, I think, is not strong enough to get this point across. But really I would identify myself more as an apatheist - because not only do I not believe in god, but it really doesn't matter to my daily life if god does or does not exist - or even if there are one or two categories of substances in the world.

From the Wikipedia article, Apatheism

I like thinking about such things in the abstract, but have no real motivation to come to any sort of concrete conclusion. I'm fine with sitting in the corner and imagining the world I want to imagine, with its mind and body separation. It suits me. It doesn't really matter if it's "real" or "true" or not, because it's true to me. And even if someone could prove to me that God exists (or doesn't exist), or that everything I hold dear about my "essence" is really just nothing more than neurons firing in my brain or the chemicals and hormones in my body fluctuating their levels to influence my emotions or mood - it wouldn't matter. I would still make art. I would still feel things. I would still write. I would still go on pretending that what is in my mind is important and real - because that's what makes me feel like me, and I think it's what makes me good at the art and writing I do.

I've rambled on about all this long enough. I'll end here with a favorite quote by J.K. Rowling: