What Westboro Baptist Church Can Teach Us About Peace

This semester in my Composition classes, the Westboro Baptist Church (WBC) was often the topic of conversation. In a unit on rhetorical analysis, I used their website to teach analytical tools. From the upside down flag to the music, page layout, words and blatant appeal to emotions, the WBC people seem like a cartoon because they are so overdone.If you don't know what the WBC is, they are a small group of people- mainly the family of the leader, Fred Phelps, who came to national attention for their protest of the funeral of a young man killed in a hate crime in Laramie, Wyoming. Matthew, a gay college student, was lured into a truck with two men whose sole intent was to rob him. They drove him outside of town, beat him, took his wallet and shoes and tied him to a fencepost. Eighteen hours later, he was found by a bicyclist who thought he was a scarecrow until he saw the chest moving from Matthew's labored breathing. Matthew later died in the hospital and both perpetrators are still in prison. The WBC put a counter on their website- back when the world wide web was gaining popularity and not all bumper stickers had a website address on the bottom- with the "number of days that Matthew Shepard has been burning in hell" for being gay. The WBC bases their gospel and teaching on sex, mainly that it's the worst thing in the world to be gay and most of the bad things that happen are because of either being gay or supporting those who are gay. The church also discusses the opposite of love, which they claim is hate and decided to protest Matthew Shepard's funeral. This caused a national outpouring of opposition. Then Westboro decided to picket all sorts of events, from Fred Phelps is an attorney and he does do a good job of defending his group and winning challenges under the auspices of Freedom of Speech. These days the group focuses on homosexuality and soldiers killed in combat.

This makes the group easy to discuss from a rhetorical standpoint so I use them. You can imagine the reactions, ranging from outrage to a desire to shut the group down and discussions of burning at the stake and large caliber artillery. Then come the thoughts on

the differences between morality and democracy and decency. Once students get past their emotions, which can take some time, we attempt to discern the true purpose of the group and how powerful they really are.

The WBC has been active in Oklahoma this year, staging numerous protests against homosexuality and those who accept what I know to be a naturally occurring phenomenon. They decided in November to picket in McAlester, Oklahoma, at a funeral for a young man killed in combat. The unit on rhetorical analysis was over, but my students brought the protest to my attention. They asked for extra credit for attending the counter-protest, which is a common practice anytime the WBC people show up anywhere. Sure, I'll be happy to give you chump change as an excus

e to go see some real life up close and personal. Go right ahead and jump outside of your comfort zone. Four students went to the protest and reported back on the six prot

esters from WBC - including two children- and the thousand or so counter-protesters. The police had to surround the protesters to protect them from the citizenry. Lots of news and media hype. Someone slashed two of the tires on the church van, and nobody in town would fix the flats so the WBC had to have their van towed to a nearby Walmart. The students were giddy. We had discussions in class about the ethical dilemma of free speech and slashing tires (or worse).

I offered that if I had been there and had the opportunity, I would have endeavored to stop anyone from causing harm to the WBC people. No way, said the students. They got what they deserved.

But there are reasons and deserve has nothing to do with it. Chief among these reasons is that I remember the life and teachings of Dr. King. When effecting social change, we have got to follow the four steps of direct action and always act peacefully, taking full responsibility for our actions. It's cowardly to sneak up like a guilty thief and slash someone's tires. It takes no responsibility and works agains

t peace. How? Because in doing so, we justify the hateful actions of that group. They now have something to point to in order to further their own argument. He who angers you, controls you. And in taking a non-peaceful action, you negate your own efforts to restore sanity and serenity in the world.

Unless sanity and serenity and peace are not your primary intentions. In that case, go nuts.

The WBC decided to hold a couple of protests in Norman last weekend. The first was at Harvest Christian Church to protest women speaking in church and women pastors. The second was at Trinity Baptist and the third at Journey Church, to spew the regular hateful rhetoric. I put out a call on Facebook for friends to join me in counter protest. Three ladies showed up, one with her two little girls. We took our signs and attended the counter protests.

The first one was fine. There were only five or so WBC people and about fifty of us, including some bikers, some high school kids and assorted feminists. Women were the most prevalent, and we concentrated on slogans of peace and love and acceptance for all, and in enjoying the fellowship. At

the second protest, there were a lot more people, from bikers and Army wives and children to Zombies holding signs proclaiming "I was promised brains". The mood was almost prurient, with many people getting too close to the protesters and emotions running very high. I brought two dozen donuts and passed them out as though we were all at a picnic. I used the opportunity to diffuse emotions and met a friend I only knew through FB. Mr. David Slemmons, outlaw poet and peaceman extraordinaire. Another friend, a former student, attends Trinity and was glad to see me. I was glad to see her too. The thing is that the WBC people feed off of negative emotions. That's why they carry offensive signs, wear upside down flags that they walk on and sing ridiculous songs about death and destruction. They are easy to hate and they want that hate. I'm certain that they don't even believe their own rhetoric. Today on their website they had slogans proclaiming their gratitude for breast cancer. Huh?

This group is not that powerful. They are only fifty people strong, if that. They are easy to resist because they are so ridiculous. It's just like anything in life: an exercise in not taking it personally.

One of my students called me from Bowlegs, Oklahoma. Yes, it's a real place. The semester is over, but the WBC was coming to his town to protest the funerals of three of his friends killed in a car accident. In a car accident. Why does this require a funeral? Same reason they wanted to protest the death of a little girl who died in a house fire: retribution for slashing tires. There are always consequences of our actions. My student commented that he thought there would be a rumble, since "everyone in Bowlegs is armed." Perhaps with this one, the WBC has bitten off more than they can chew. They may have the legal right to protest, but eventually their luck will run out and someone is going to get more than a slashed tire and a punch to the face. They have already had their church attacked (from which they drew much media attention) and he worried that there would be even more problems.

I advised him to attend the counter protest if he wanted but to suggest that people focus on drowning out the WBC and keeping the attention where it needs to be- on the family of his friends and their time of grief. I knew that the bikers would show up to drown them out and that others would come to join hands and somehow create some peace from the chaos. I reminded him of Dr. King and how in his letter from Birmingham Jail, he said that "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." I think this experience will stay with him for some time. I know it will stay with me.

In times of great inequity, injustice and blatant disregard for what is right, it matters what we do and how we act. Our children will follow the example we set since they will ultimately enact our principles.

Peace.

Matrix

Apologies, but today this is more of a diary entry than social commentary. I just need to catch my breath.

My life is a series of matrix scheduling nightmares. Right now I've got three overlays going on. The first is my work schedule, then my school schedule and finally, my general exam schedule. Make that four overlays. I need recreation and food and sometimes, sleep. Let me break it down for you. And yes, I still maintain that I am the busiest lazy person in the world.

Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning, without fail, I get up between 5:00 and 5:15 in the morning. I refer to this ungodly and heinous time of day as "Oh-Dark-Thirty". I am not pretty and I am not good smelling and I am not in a good fucking mood. Just your basic monster. Pretty sure I'm the conception of what your kid thinks is hiding under their bed. I could bite the head off of a bat. If I managed to shower the night before I can get up at 5:30. I leave my house at 6:30 and pick up my commuter at 6:35. He is usually late. I have left him twice. If I don't get on the road by 6:45, I will be late and I just can't do it. We grunt good morning and he promptly falls asleep on the drive. I put in my iPod and motate down I35 at lightning speed, then turn on 59 and head East. It's a back country road, no doubt. But there just isn't a main thoroughfare to Ada, Oklahoma so it's the backroads. I blow through Wayne, OK with no problem. Around Rosedale I usually hit a bit of traffic- a farmer out to check on cows. Either I pass and we wave or I just wait and know he'll be turning to the side of the road and into a field.

It's Byars that's a problem. There's a bar-cum-breakfast restaurant where all seven of the locals hang out. I like them. None are younger than 75 and they wave as I go through. It's called Gigi's. I'd like to stop in for some breakfast if I get up early enough. I go the posted 35 through here, not because I've ever seen a cop, but because there are lots of loose dogs around. Some sleep in the street. Others meander aimlessly. I don't want to get an alignment.

There is also an assortment of other four-legged critters in this town which seemingly eschews the whole idea of barbed-wire fence. Twice now, I've seen a mule hanging out, walking towards Gigi's for some biscuits and gravy. It's more common to see the cows outside the suggestion of a fence. Several homes on Main street sport horse pastures and one had a deer strung up on the front porch. I assume he was part of the winter menu. I'm all for that. You could sell him to a local organic shop for lots of money as organic and free range. Hormone free. But I bet the family would rather eat him and I don't blame them a bit. Deer meat is one of the only meats that this vegetarian will completely devour. Anyway, that's Byars. I zooooom on through 59 and eventually make my way to 3E which takes me the final 13 miles into Ada.

In all, I've driven 72 miles before 8 a.m. when I teach my first class. My first class is at 8 a.m. It's a Comp 1 class, just like my 9 a.m., my 10 a.m., my 11 a.m. and my 1 p.m. class. I have an hour break for lunch but rarely take it since students continually need help or want to come by and talk. Hey, I dig it. I like students who come by to shoot the breeze. My 8 and 9 o'clock classes, I'm not sure if I'm teaching or not. I make coffee when I walk in the door at 7:45 and drink it through the first two classes. Usually by the end of class everyone has shown up. I wake up and the sun comes up and lately I've been thrilled to death, seriously relieved, that the time changed happened and I get an extra hour of sleep at night. I sleep better and am not exhausted in the mornings. Anyway, my 10 a.m. class always makes me laugh and I feel perky. At 11 o'clock my students and I go skipping into the class and everyone is raucous. They talk over each other and over me and I talk over them and we take the noise levels down and up and sometimes lose focus but bring it back to center again. And the students range from 18 to 40 so there's lots of rich discussions from multiple perspectives.

So there is noon, and I have lunch. I usually bring ramen soup and heat it up. Sometimes it's just a protein bar and once in awhile, I'll walk over to the Student Center and buy lunch. Meet a friend, talk to my kids and go outside for the first time that day. More often than not, I don't see the outside until after my 2 p.m. class. I've got 2 women in that class that regularly show up and 14 men. It's what my colleagues who have observed (there have been five observations- a story for another day) a "sausage fest". Testosterone poisoning for sure. I was walking in today and caught the tail end of a conversation about how I might be older but I'm still hot. I wear loud shoes for a purpose. Figure it out. I tangle with overgrown boys for a bit and pack up to leave at 2. All of my classes are very funny and sometimes thoughtful and sometimes insightful as heck. One of my students felt excited at the prospect of doing primary research so he packed up his country self and went to Oklahoma City to interview two homeless people- a male prostitute and a woman who had lived on the streets for over 20 years. I didn't know he was doing any of this. He left his id and money behind and slept in a park that night. He said it totally changed his perspective. Right on, brother!! Three others recently attended a counter-protest against the Hillsboro Baptist Church. Even though the protest, six WBC members and over 1,000 counter-protesters ended in two slashed tires, none of my students reported knowledge of that event.

We are to leave promptly at 2. My commuter never shows up until 2:05 and sometimes 2:10 and once at 2:45 but I yelled at him. I almost apologized after that but I was very grumpy. I should've apologized. It's not too late. I might. But by then the coffee has worn off. I am tired and stick my iPod back in and sleep on the way home. The best thing about a commuter is that he's willing to drive home. We always take my car but at least I get a nap. I think this is the reason I am still human. It's another 72 miles home and we arrive at 3:20ish.

That's my work day for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Tuesday and Thursday, we head out at 8:05 (8:10 due to lateness) and I keep office hours from 9:30 until 2. Then it's out again. I use the time to plan, grade papers and take care of the administrative crap that comes up. This Friday, for example, is East Central's Inauguration for the new president. This event, which I am required to attend, also requires me to order and pay for regalia to wear. Thanks. Regalia never, ever looks sexy, in case you wondered.

I love my job and what I'm doing. I'm lucky with administration and coworkers and students and the latitude to do what I need to in the classroom. It's overall pretty wonderful. I could only wish for two things: A window and some way to control the temperature. It's an office without any a/c or heating at all. Oh, and a pay raise. I'd like to be able to live on what I earn.

So that's work. I also take two classes the University of Oklahoma. They are my final two classes, ever. Strange to say but it's true. I've taken everything available in English Education and most other departments too. I love being a student and hope that this never ends, even as I finish a terminal degree. But on Wednesday nights, I get home from class, check the dog and cat and eat something, then go to class from 4:30 until 7. It's a teaching language class and I like it. I began my doctoral studies with Dr. Angelotti and he is my dissertation chair and closest adviser. I've written poems about his nose and shared with the class. It sort of goes on forever and at the end, hooks a little to the right in order to catch his reading glasses. He calls me a loose cannon but he's smiling when he says it and if I had an Italian dad, it would be him. He's in his 70's and thinking of retirement. Nobody will fill those shoes though. Not in my mind.

My second class is a curriculum theory course taught by the toughest professor in the College of Education. She got to where she is now, which is a very respectable place, by clawing her way through the patriarchy in a time when it was unpopular to do so. I like and respect her and always work hard. It doesn't take much to earn her respect either- just do what the fuck you're supposed to in the class and it will all be ok. woe to the unprepared doctoral student. I've seen her reduce grown women to a simpering mess. I make people laugh in the class and add some levity. Somehow she permits that and I enjoy being a nerdy clown. I think, in the process, I also help others to understand what she's saying. Critical pedagogy, after all, is a passion of mine. That class runs on Thursday from 7 until 10 p.m. and I turn around and get up at 5 the next morning for work. Friday is a sleepy day for this little muffin.

Then there is the debacle of my general exams. Did I mention that I adore my chair? Yes, well, he's also forgetful. There are new rules in the last year about when you can take your general exam and how long you have with your three questions. It used to be a semester and indeed, others in the College get longer. Then it was cut to three months, then four weeks. Your three questions are created by your committee and are to be answered in your finest academic prose with lots of "Probst argues...Freire comments that..Postman postulates..." and so on until you've effectively written only about 50% of your own thoughts. Pretty dry, but you can get through it. Like anything, academic writing is a tool that works better with practice. Lots of students were procrastinating and then putting off the exam until the next semester so they would have longer to work on it. Our department decided that students would get only four weeks with their questions, two weeks for revisions and then would orally defend to a committee.

My adviser forgot about my general exams.

Forgot. For two weeks despite my best reminders.

And I had half of the severely abbreviated time to do this. Clearly, though, it was communicated that the 50-60 page requirement would still be expected. You know, because I have nothing better to do.

Oh my freaking God. I did it. I wrote it. I texted my best friend constantly and probably annoyingly and had my battle buddy, Kim, work with me. She was in the exact same boat since we have gone through the program together every step of the way. That's her, to the right. We met at the library each weekend and on Fridays. We commiserated and wrote and whined and got kicked out of a room by the security guard wanna-be. I wrote at home and got up in the middle of the night and my house started to look like it threw up on itself. I sent my dog to my friend's house so he'd get fed regularly. One of my committee members hated my dissertation topic (one of the questions) but I sent it to my chair and he approved of it. So I only used very recent materials in the discussion. In all, I put in about 50 hours over two weeks, in addition to the stuff I normally do, just to get this in on time. I drank ginormous amounts of caffeine. I don't worry about my house because the neighbors next door with all the crap in their yard are awesome and keep an eye on the house for me.

And I did get the work done. I turned in about 50 pages, an hour and a half before the deadline. Now to wait for revisions. And don't worry, I'm setting automatic timers to call my chair to let him know when stuff is due.

Despite the rodeo that is my life, I do still have a lot of fun. I get time to write, which must be true since you are sitting there reading and I am here writing and together we make a transaction between writer and text and reader and meaning-maker. So I get to write. And I have friends. Really damn good friends who have been patient with my schedule this semester. I remember vaguely that I went to a Halloween party and that once I stayed over at Val's house when her husband was out of town. I run too. If I can't run or do something active at least 3-5 times a week, then I feel all out of sorts and bloaty and cranky and life just has no meaning. So I have been running. Not more than 3-4 miles but enough so that I feel like I've worked out. And there's yoga in the morning and a class on Monday nights. Amazing stuff, by the way. My yoga teacher uses a mixture of yoga, Chi gong and muscle activation techniques. We do some things that make the giant lump that used to be my rhomboid relax. Check out Thomas if you get a chance. And go to his classes. He's great.

Eleanor is hanging in there. She's a champ. At 14, she's now more literate than any other cat I've ever met and has more reading strategies than most people. Here's proof:
Big, the dog, lived through the experience. He escaped from my friend's house and ran home, across town, to our house.
Once I finished most of the work, I brought him home with profuse thanks for keeping him alive and walked. I love having him home. I get up in the morning and give Eleanor her tummy medicine- which she gets three times a day plus a pill for arthritis- and say good morning, rub his tummy and smooch his fuzzy doggie face. We went for a walk first thing when he got home. He goes off leash and we go around a huge field. It's a mile in circumference and by the end he and I are both content. But that night, he found an adorable kitty to play with. One with a big white stripe down its back. The rest is history.

So that's the story of my life lately. I'm tired from writing, though it's worth it, this effort. In a few weeks, class will end and the world will shift a little and I will change with it. Especially since I'm trying to rent out my house to move to Ada so I won't have to commute. That AND I won't have to teach until 11 on any given day. Whew! But then I'm writing a dissertation and doing research and getting settled and applying for jobs and so on and so forth. Life will slow down. Later.

Much later.

Good night, Moon.