our exile for
our exile for
Conspiracy theories used to be a “fringe” thing. Aliens landed in Roswell, New Mexico. Barcodes are the “mark of the Beast.” And it used to take years to hatch a complete conspiracy theory. People watched Stanley Kubrick movies and gathered photos of the “supposed” moon landings. They combed carefully through the actors’ dialogue and the photos’ shadows for clues to substantiate their beliefs. People, most people anyway, shook their heads and laughed about these theories, and we all went on with our lives.
These days the internet allows theories to generate and propagate worldwide in minutes. Slick web sites tout headlines announcing the latest theory as fact. These sites look like news outlets, so the content in them must be true, right? Hillary Clinton is running a pedophile ring out of a pizza restaurant. Barack Obama was not born in the United States. The Holocaust didn’t happen.
The city of Charlottesville, Virginia, hadn’t even finished cleaning up debris left by the crowds of alt-right and counter-protesters when a new set of conspiracy theories hatched. Brennan Gilmore was a counter-protester that day, and he happened to be on the street where James Fields drove his car into the crowd, killing Heather Heyer and injuring 19 other people. Gilmore had his cell phone out and was filming when it happened. He shared the video with law enforcement and eventually also with the public. Almost immediately thereafter the alt-right took various biographical information about Gilmore, that he had worked for the State Department for example, and spun it to assert all kinds of conspiracy theories that shift the blame for the attack from the man who did it, James Fields, incredibly, to Gilmore! Gilmore wrote
They wrote that I was a CIA operative, funded by (choose your own adventure) George Soros, Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, the IMF/World Bank, and/or a global Jewish mafia to orchestrate the Charlottesville attack in order to turn the public against the alt-right…They claimed my ultimate aim was to start a race war that would undermine and then overthrow Donald Trump on behalf of the “Deep State.” (Politico.com, “How I Became Fake News,” 21 Aug. 2017)
Gilmore was there as a protester and happened to film this horrific scene, and suddenly he is the cause of it? The leaps of illogic are astounding. As an English teacher and a librarian, I wonder all the time what people are learning in school. Is no one teaching students what a logical fallacy is? Such faulty reasoning goes, “Since Gilmore worked for the State Department, he was a government operative; therefore, he is a part of the ‘Deep State’ that is attempting to discredit Trump.”
On such “logic” then what could you conclude about me from these events in my life? I grew up in Texas in a rural ranching area. My parents owned some land. I loved being outdoors. … Then I must have ridden horses a lot growing up, right? Wrong! When I went to Germany as an exchange student and people found out I was from Texas, that was always one of the first assumptions they made about me. You can take virtually any activities or affiliations and string them together to create a theory, but it’s the next step that people seem not to be taking: You must have evidence!
What disturbs me even more than the speed with which these theories multiply is that people I know and love are some of the ones who believe them. I have lost friends on Facebook because they continued to share these types of posts, and when I tried to assert that what they were posting was fake, that there was no evidence for what they were repeating from some unknown source, they became angry at me. I’m not saying I’m always right. I’ve been guilty of reposting some fake stories as well. But everything I’ve been taught about citing sources, checking for evidence, and looking for accuracy made me cringe whenever I saw people sharing “news” that I knew was not based in reality. I was amazed that they did not trust my credentials as a teacher and a librarian.
I realize that what I just wrote might sound arrogant, but I don’t mean it that way at all. It’s just a disbelief in the same way that thousands of scientists are left shaking their heads that people don’t “believe in” climate change. If scientists with doctorates and years of research-based evidence can’t get through to the conspiracy believers, then no one can. I just hadn’t wanted to find that kind of irrational thinking among some of my friends. They either blocked me or I blocked them because we eventually couldn’t stand each other anymore. And that’s really sad. I miss them. But I no longer know how to communicate with them because the system by which they come to their beliefs is incompatible with mine.
I’m just as fascinated as anyone about the moon landings and why we haven’t been back in all these years. It is fun to look at the NASA photos from the moon and to try to see whether it looks like a movie set. But the evidence says we did go to the moon, and until there is evidence—real evidence—to the contrary, I believe there is a US flag stuck in the moon’s soil up there.
People’s beliefs in these theories are no longer just something to shrug our shoulders about. They are causing harm. Edgar Maddison Welch drove from his home in North Carolina to Washington, DC, and entered that pizza restaurant carrying weapons because he sincerely believed Hillary Clinton was running a child abuse operation there, and he was going to stop it by force. Except that there was no child sex ring. It was a conspiracy theory that hatched on the internet and grew into a monster that walked in with a gun. A real gun.
Is death kind? Sometimes, it comes slowly, imperceptibly; you look up from the book you are reading, and he’s gone. He’s lain on the bed breathing shallowly for days. You wonder, when he slept, did he dream? Of what do you dream when you’re dying? Sometimes, death comes quickly, unexpectedly, in a van returning from a church retreat. Does death bestow any kindness on its victims before it stops their breath?
Was song or laughter still caught in the throats of the Baptists in the van when death crushed them? Where is their song now? Did it flow into the gurgle of nearby creeks or float up to mingle among the leaves of oaks? Were the victims blessed with one more grace before leaving, perhaps? A glimpse of blue sky. The red of a cardinal’s wing. The warmth of their friends’ hands? Did death allow them any comfort as they left?
What happens to a man in a war when one minute he’s charging with ferocity at an enemy, and the next he’s lying dead on the ground? Where did his passion go when the bullets hit? Where too his hopes, loves, and dreams? Are they coagulating in his blood and soaking with it into the earth? Or, as the fight goes on without him, do they float, lifting above his body in the breeze, catching thermals and rising to flow through hawks’ wings?
I’ve been thinking a lot about death since my dad passed away in January. I’ve been looking around me to see and hear, feel and breathe the grace of being alive. If people’s hopes and dreams and laughter and song are indeed floating among leaves–swaying and leaving dappled, sunlit patterns on the earth–if their passions and joys have soaked into the ground beneath our feet, then we must tread carefully and reverently. We must look and listen for them, and when our turn comes, may death escort us kindly to join them among the trees, in the air, in the rivers, and within the good earth.
In a part of St. Louis called St. John, an off-ramp from I-170 northbound curves north and west to meet St. Charles Road. This road, now the St. Charles Rock Road, had been a path for westward-heading wagon trains long before it carried Fords, Toyotas, and Mercedes.
The Lewis and Clark Expedition had traveled through here in 1804 on what later became a post and stagecoach road. In 1851 it was paved with oak planks, later with gravel (and thus the reason “Rock” was added to its name), and in 1921 with concrete. Every workday, I travel it a short distance in addition to my I-170 and I-64 routes.
The north exit to St. Charles Rock Road arcs beneath I-170 to a stoplight. Between the arc of the ramp and the road sits a triangle of green, a mini-wetland environment where scrubby trees, cattails, wildflowers, and grasses grow. Some birds make their homes there: red-winged blackbirds, sparrows, cowbirds, barn swallows.
One particular spring evening stands out for me. I exited the freeway to make the curve to westbound St. Charles Rock Road, an orange and pink sunset glowing at its end. As I slowed to a stop at the light, I rolled my windows down. A cool breeze carrying the scent of bar-be-que wafted through, and from the green space came the “conk-a-ree” call of a red-winged blackbird and the trill of a song sparrow’s melody. I breathed in the breeze–and the sounds carried on it–and smiled.
The city’s rush boomed all around me too as semi-trucks’ engines throttled down, and a 747 roared into the sky, human-made machine noise masking the songs and chirps of the birds and the rustle of grasses in the breeze. Between the beats of someone’s music and the clunk of traffic crossing above, I heard the male red-winged blackbird proclaiming his ownership of the green space. I heard the song sparrow’s trill and the swallows’ calls to their hungry babies, no doubt peering out from their mud homes among the rusted, green girders of the overpass.
And I was reminded that the birds have been raising their young and the breeze has been carrying their songs for many centuries before I stopped here to listen. Grasses and wildflowers have whispered tales to one another in the wind long before this spot became a bustling intersection filled with human noise and traffic.
This blackbird could be the far descendant of one who witnessed the quieter traffic of horse-drawn wagons heading west. That song sparrow’s ancestor might have trilled from a branch overlooking the streetcar line that once ran along this route. I was reminded in that moment that for the birds, the grasses, and the wildflowers, this is and has always been their home. We are just passing through.
As I looked around me at other people sitting in their cars waiting for the light to change, I wished they noticed these things too. I wish people could turn off their music, turn away from their cell phones, and roll their windows down to hear the music of ages past and the ages to come, the wisdom of place and time told by winged sages and the wind.
The bowl arrives
The willow’s reflection
a cardinal’s red
stark against blue
the dock graying
a boat’s metal
held by line
Hands in pockets
a thin figure’s
moment in time
If you’re still
you can watch
a flower closing–
of tired petals,
If you’re still
you can see
a bud opening–
of new leaves
A Journey Out of Funda-gelicalism
There is enough.
~creating community for clergywomen~
There is enough.
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