As a person who cares deeply about ending poverty and its systemic causes, as well as reversing the disastrous consequences of climate change, I know I should remain silent.
I should tuck my personal feelings into my vest pocket, keep a low-profile, and roundly support the lovefest that has been unfolding here in the United States for Pope Francis during his visit.
But I’m conflicted.
And I’m tired.
Continue reading “quiet sadness on the pope’s visit”
“Who am I to judge a gay person of goodwill?”
Several friends and news organizations posted what seemed to be a startlingly positive quote from Pope Francis I on Facebook and other media today.
From most reports, it appears Francis’ statement was made in reference to gay priests, not LGBT people in general. When asked about “how he would respond to learning that a cleric in his ranks was gay, though not sexually active,” he responded in Italian, “Who am I to judge a gay person of goodwill who seeks the Lord? …You can’t marginalize these people.” His response, of course, presumes that a gay priest “of goodwill” is keeping his vow of celibacy, and therefore living the life the Vatican expects all gay Catholics to live.
Continue reading “pope hope quotes”
My sister Sally’s return address stuck out on the corner of the padded parcel envelope that someone had crammed into my mail cubby in the faculty lounge. I removed my gloves and carefully extracted the package from its tight squeeze, fearing that Christmas cookies, or what have you, might have been crushed. It was that time of year again. From Thanksgiving to New Years, my large family sent small gifts and packages to my work address in the City (the postal service in Brooklyn was not to be trusted), and most times the people at the elementary school knew better than to cram a package of cookies into a five-by-five-inch cubby.
As I freed the last corner of the envelope from the metal rim of the mailbox, I could tell that the contents were not crumbly at all. Rather, whatever was inside felt soft and pliable, like a small quilt or pillow. Continue reading “working-class heirlooms”
I had that classic shot of Manhattan from the airplane window as I flew up the Hudson on the way into LaGuardia, parallel to the City’s skyscraper grid, as if the flight pattern had been directed specially for Continental Airlines and the City of New York by Woody Allen or Nora Ephron. I swear I heard Gershwin playing, possibly on the crackly airplane headphones, but I can’t say for certain. As I watched the World Trade Towers, then the Woolworth, Con-Ed, Flatiron, Empire State, Pan Am, and Chrysler buildings rise and fold below me like a pop-up book, the words passed through my head: “I could meet someone there.”
Continue reading “meeting someone in new york”