Personhood

Abstract painting of a person by Paul Klee

I’ve been thinking about the idea of personhood a lot lately. Last summer, there was some election-year debate about whether corporations are people. This summer, the issue is abortion, where people of good will can’t agree on when personhood–and the rights that go with it–begins.

There are different ways to define a person–theologically, morally, legally–and it is possible to hold multiple views depending on your purpose. For instance, you can hold on theological grounds that a person is a single, natural human being created by God and, at the same time, believe on legal grounds that a social group or corporation is a person that can sue and be sued. Science is even opening the discussion of how much a person can be changed by artificial parts and technology and still be considered a person. If you have an artificial brain with human memories, are you a person?

Regardless of where you start and what decisions you make, the determination of personhood is philosophical, not scientific. Science can tell us if a being is human or alive, but it cannot tell us under what circumstances it is a person. There is a difference between the two. To be overly general, “human” is what you are, the DNA you have, and “person” is what you are capable of, the rights and responsibilities you hold. Attributes like agency, self-awareness, and emotion are considerations when conferring personhood. In the U.S., persons are recognized by law according to their possession of rights and duties.

I believe my children are human persons (even if they don’t believe it about each other)  but they don’t have the same rights I do as a legal person–they cannot vote or have free assembly or engage in a host of other civil activities. On the other hand, they can inherit money and property and have a right to due process if they ever get in big trouble. So, even among persons, there are differences.

And that is just right now, here in the U.S. during the 21st Century. The idea of personhood varies across cultures and history. My own forebears believed that personhood was only granted to white, male, property owners. There are cultures in which moral and legal personhood can be ascribed to animals and other non-human beings.

So all of these thoughts have been swirling through my mind as the women and men in Texas and around the country have been shouting back and forth about the rights of women and the rights of fetuses, about medical procedures and murder, about responsibility and privacy. Is it possible to determine a standard by which a fetus is a legal person? And whatever the answer, how do the rights of a pregnant women–a person–fit with the rights of a fetus she carries? What happens when the rights conflict?

Of course, the law can be guided by not based on theological standards of personhood–not least because our nation includes a vast array of religious traditions with differing points of view. We can be informed by science and ethics, tradition and other areas of law. Does personhood begin when a human ovum is fertilized? or when a being has the ability to feel pain? or the ability to survive outside the womb? or draws its first breath?

It would seem important that whatever standard we use be consistent across the range of personhood rights. Are there different stages of personhood–just as we now withhold the right to vote until adulthood? Should the standards used to determine personhood for a fetus be the same as those for born human beings? If so, do they have access to all the legal rights of a born human being, or just some of them? At what point does a person gain rights to health care and nutrition? (In my state, access to both have recently been significantly cut for pregnant women.) What happens when the rights of two human persons conflict? How should the law arbitrate between them? There are some people who think pregnant women should not be allowed to eat raw fish or raw milk cheese. Japanese and French women think that’s going too far.

Perhaps, since a pregnant woman can be considered by some as two united human persons, they are the ultimate corporate person. What would the law say about that?

 

These shoes are made for standing with Texas women

My Stand-With-Texas-Women shoes

A week ago today, along with a bazillion other people across Texas and the world, I watched the filibuster heard round the world. I knew I’d be angry about the content of the legislation being blocked (really, how do you protect women’s health by limiting care?) and inspired by Wendy Davis, who spoke for more than 11 hours and gave voice to the  experiences of women across the state. What I didn’t expect was the level of disgust I felt watching sworn members of my state government flagrantly violating rules and procedures. And the level of disrespect they showed their female peers in the Senate was shocking.

Lawmaking is like sausage making. It makes many people (including me) want to turn away. But this time, instead of making me the equivalent of a political vegetarian, the meat grinder in the Texas Senate woke up my inner activist. I headed down to the Capitol yesterday with more than 6,000 other sisters and brothers clad in orange to make our voices heard.

I also didn’t expect that last week’s filibuster and this week’s rally would give me some new heroes. I guess I had become too cynical–politics is seeming less and less like a public service for so many politicians. I never tell a child that s/he can grow up to be president because I am not sure that is a compliment anymore. I felt different watching the filibuster and participating in the rally. The Representatives and Senators who spoke inspired me and woke me from my cynical political slumber. (I realize that anyone who knows me might think that slumber was awfully restless, given as I am to the occasional rant. But talking is not the same as acting.)

There was one last thing I didn’t expect. Among the ralliers and speakers, it was clear that the issues at hand went beyond abortion and women’s health–and also beyond political affiliation. It was clear to those of us there that what used to pass as pro-freedom is really an intrusive set of public policies that limit human flourishing (except for the most wealthy and politically connected). Those who claim the “moral high ground” are willing to lie, cheat, and insult to get their way. Oxymoron, anyone?

I am now in the fray and a little bit awed by the powerful emotions the political process elicits from people who are deeply engaged in divisive issues. When you face political and moral opposition, sometimes things get heated. Sometimes people on both sides start using words and tactics that get everyone angry and off-topic. It doesn’t help children, women, families, and the poor–those we are claiming to help. So I am committing to the following principles as I work for access to quality health care, reproductive choice, and voting rights:

  1. Respect. Just because I disagree with someone does not mean I will use derogatory language or name calling about them or their beliefs. Even if they don’t return the favor. Vigorous debate yes; insults, no.
    This is a big one for me, based on a lesson I learned when I worked for the Planned Parenthood League of Massachusetts. I joined them as a volunteer before an anti-abortion activist went on a shooting spree, killing two and wounding five. I returned because they needed help in the aftermath and were too traumatized to bring in anyone they didn’t already know. For the next few years, our Executive Director and some of her colleagues met with representatives from the opposing side for a regular series of conversations. What it turned into was supportive relationships–friendships even–and some guidelines for how to hold your ground without being disrespectful. Their work was successful in bringing down the level of vitriol and violence.
    So, based on what I learned from those brave women, I will respect my opponents. I will call them by the political moniker they prefer–pro-life is that is what they wish. I will listen and have a conversation with anyone who wants to discuss touchy issues. And, because respect includes self-respect, I expect the same in return. When I am called an anti-baby anti-woman murderer, that is disrespectful. I understand clearly that you do not want to talk to me and I will leave you alone. If you describe my beliefs in disrespectful terms, I will correct you.
  2. Truth. One thing about health care of which you can be sure, including reproductive health care, is that it involves science. Right? So my viewpoints and my advocacy are going to be based on scientific evidence that is widely accepted. In my opinion, if you cite scientific evidence to support your case, it should be subject to scrutiny–especially peer review. Science is a search for truth, not a tool for political gain.
    Experience is also a way of knowing the truth. I will honor the experience of people whose lives have been and will be affected by my political actions and the proposals at hand. Where science and experience can’t inform us, we are left with opinion. And opinions, can witness to the truth, but they are not truth itself. Opinions can be philosophical, theological, moral, political, social, economic, or a zillion other kinds of opinions, but they are not facts. I have lots of opinions and share lots of opinions (I bet you do too) but it is really so much easier if we can admit that is what they are.
  3. Focus. There are plenty of people who can and will and need to delve into the minutia of getting a law passed or blocked. God bless them! Others of us are better at delivering care or getting out messages or raising money or registering voters. There are many ways to get involved, but for me, no matter what my task is,  it is important to stay focused on the people who will pay the highest price as a consequence of public policy actions: the poor, the young, those who have no powerful allies, and women. Sometimes it is easy to get lost in the work, so I will try my hardest to stay focused on the mission.
  4. Open heart. I am willing to learn and change and grow. It is the ONLY way to be in conversation with other people. If you show me respect and are willing to have a conversation, I am game! But it has to be mutual. Who knows, maybe we can find some common ground.
  5. Faith. I am a Christian who is pro-choice. I have lots of friends who are not Christians, who love their country, and are pro-choice. (I could mention a lot of other faiths here, but I am speaking for myself and how I intend to act with regard to my own faith tradition.) While I believe that there should be no establishment of religion in America (including Texas, y’all), my political motivations and decisions are informed by my faith. Did you catch that? It is possible to honor your faith and your God without dishonoring others. I won’t accept the use of religion to abuse or exclude people in the public square.

I have my orange protest shoes on and am ready to march! or email or sort mail or deliver bottled water. Whatever. My shoes are not exactly like Wendy’s, but then again my job is different from hers. I’ll see you at the altar, at the Capitol, and in the voting booth.

 

 

Haven’t we all felt like this Mary at one time or another?

May 25 is the feast day of Mary the Mother of James. Yea, Mary!!! But here’s the thing: no one really knows much about her. The only reason we know anything at all about her is because one of her sons became a follower of a radical rabbi in the 1st century. She ended up following them both around, sharing their work and helping to pay their way. So if you read about them, you will see her mentioned a couple of times.

Who hasn’t felt like this Mary before? She’s the “other Mary.” Not that she wanted it, but she didn’t get as much attention as her son or even the other Mary’s in her crowd. But would they have gotten as much accomplished without her help? Probably not. And when things started to come apart and her son’s friends were too afraid to deal with the fallout, she was there to help pick up the pieces.

There are not as many portraits or stained glass windows or even tchotchkes of her. So, today, I’m gonna give Mary the Mother of James her props by welcoming her to the Hall of Marys.

Can a sister get her own portrait?

Mary Cassatt inducted into the Hall of Marys!

It has been too long since my last post, and way too long since I inaugurated the Hall of Marys. Today is Mary Cassatt’s birthday and I can’t think of a better reason to break my online silence!

Mary Cassatt self portrait

Here are the reasons that Mary Cassatt was nominated (by me) and elected (by me) to join my sainted grandmother in the Hall of Marys:

1) She pursued her career in art despite objections from her family and the sexist attitudes of her male peers.

2) She once said, ” I am independent! I can live alone and and love to work.”

3) She was one of 3 women and the only American to exhibit with the Impressionist group in late 19th century Paris, which members included the likes of Degas, Monet, Renoir, and Pissarro.

4) She was a badass feminist who didn’t conform to the expectations the male dominated art world at the time–didn’t flirt her way into art shows, didn’t get married, and supported her art through her own work.

5) and too many other reasons, which you may feel free to add!

Reminders

Once a week, I volunteer at a center that serves women and men who are homeless or extremely poor. I’ve been involved in one way or another with the place for more than a decade, but I still get surprises every time I go…or maybe not so much surprises as reminders.

The first reminder is that there is no typical homeless person. I saw a man who looked like the stereotype–long hair held back with bandana, unshaved face, raggedy jeans–and another who looked for all the world like a physician, with bifocal glasses, a tweed jacket, and a gentle demeanor.

The second reminder was how generous people who are poor can be. They will pray for you, ask how you are doing, and help their friends in just about any way imaginable. They will tithe out of the paltry sums they get from minimum wage jobs or Social Security checks. Today, as I collected meal tickets, one of the regulars–a woman who carries her tiny dog around in her jacket–gave me a beaded bracelet. I knew better than to turn it down–accepting the generosity of others is a lesson learned early in this business.

a gift to pay forward

The bracelet sat on the desk next to me as I did my work. Just about everyone commented on and admired it. Before I left, I passed it along to another woman at the center that day. She needed a pick-me-up.

The third reminder is that the rules are different for people who live on the streets. They can’t be fully themselves. The woman who reminded me of this spent a good deal of the morning on the phone with a lawyer; she was getting help to keep custody of her kids. She got teary telling me about her situation–and who wouldn’t–but then she said, “No tears. Tears are a sign of weakness. Gangsters don’t cry.” I looked at her; she was not a gangster. “You can’t show weakness on the street,” she said. And, of course, she is right.

The last reminder for today was that shelter is more than a roof over your head. I live in a home that is safe and with people who will care for me if I am sick or in trouble. That is a gift. But it is also a gift to be with people who have very little. It is a cliche that they remind us of how lucky we are. Sure, sure. Being with people in extreme poverty also reminds me of how completely human it is to fear your own vulnerability even as you protect those around you who are vulnerable. The poor folks I have met remind me not only of what I have that sets me apart, but what we all have that brings us together. Sometimes, the people who make up your community are a kind of shelter, too. They give you a place to feel safe and they care for you when you are sick or in trouble. They won’t take advantage if you shed a tear. Sometimes, they will even give you a little bling for no reason at all.

What would Jesus eat?

Today, I need food for my body and food for thought. So I think I’ll have a Last Supper Bar:

I think it is already blessed.

And while I eat, I can feed my mind as well:

This will help you get through the day.

I checked and it is Kosher.

This is what happens when a teddy bear comes to life

Disclaimer: This post is in no way like a Seth Macfarlane movie. At all.

A little over two years ago, my husband brought home a puppy without asking. Seriously, he called me and said, “I am bringing home a puppy.” And then he did. I do not recommend this as a way to spice up your marriage. Basically, you are telling your partner, “either I get to keep this dog or you are the cruelest person alive.”

We have two children who adore puppies. They were going fall in love. I’d have to say no and then everyone would hate me for sending the cutest rescue dog in the world to an unknown fate. I was pretty sure I had an ally in our older dog. Lucy was going on 13 and she was not dreaming of a little brother. I prepared for battle when this came home:

This is Max, fresh out of Lost and Found.

I was doomed. Not only was he adorable, he was friendly. Licked everyone, made friends with the older dog, didn’t mess up the house. The kids were in love. I made my husband swear: we only tell them we are keeping puppy for the weekend.
Once we got inside, Lucy began setting boundaries and growled him into shape. He stopped eating her food, but kept making her fall in love. They played. When was the last time my 100-year-old grande dame actually played?
I thought I had an opening to oust him on Saturday night–he peed on our leather couch!!! But then he kissed and we made up. Sigh. By Sunday the kids had named him Max. He was ours. We groomed him, got him “chipped” and my son picked out a leash, collar, and dog bed.

All cleaned up

He is exactly what a teddy bear would be like if it came to life, all cute and snuggly. Not only does he give constant affection, he hugs you around the neck like a little baby. Every night, Max sleeps on my son’s bed and every morning he wakes on my husband’s head. He is also completely ridiculous. Like trying to scratch himself and walk at the same time. He gets bed head from sleeping on the sofa in front of my while I work and then stares at me all lopsided.
And in case you are wondering why these pictures are taken from above, making him look even smaller than he actually is, it’s because if you get down to his level this happens:

lick, lick, lick

Thoughts on ressurrection

In the past week, I have dreamed about my dad a couple of times. He died in 2007 and these dreams have been so awesome! Not filled with deep meaning or any sense of “prediction.” Just my dad showing up and doing whatever it is I am doing in my dream. Sometimes being really funny. I had started to worry I might have forgotten what his voice sounded like, or how he walked. But it was all there.

Shortly after Dad died, my mom had an unsettling experience–unsettling and a tiny bit comforting in a spooky way. (Is that possible?) Every night, she slept in her bed with a bunch of pillows lined up beside her due to some back problems. One morning, after she had been awake for awhile and had her breakfast, she walked by the bedroom. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw my dad sleeping in their bed.

She didn’t go in. He wasn’t really there, it was the pillows. She knew this in her rational mind. But for so long the lump in their bed had been him. It was so familiar! By staying out of the room, she had the feeling for a short time that he really was there and alive and she’d be able to see him again. She stayed out of the room long enough to feel that thrill and little bit of joy/fear.

In the years that followed–even to now–I see Dad sitting in church. The back of other men’s heads, the slope of their shoulders, look just like him. I never want these men to turn around and be who they really are. As long as they face the altar, they are my dad sitting in a pew.

I’ve heard many times (and sometimes said myself) that people live on through the lives of those they touched and taught. And I believe that is true. But in grief there is sometimes an effort to resurrect the lost one in our imaginations, reconstruct the physical person we lost using the sights and sounds around us.

My mom’s experience raised questions for her about what the disciples must have gone through after Jesus died. Did they have similar spooky experiences? For me, the little glimpses I get of my dad still choke me up…I am tearing up just writing this. I feel like I am actually in Dad’s presence again.

My dad.

I wonder about the experiences others have of lost loved ones. And, vainly, I am curious about what will make others think of me when I am gone. Will the back of a white-haired woman give my son a start? Will my daughter do a double-take when she hears a laugh that sounds familiar? As far as I can tell, it won’t be any of my unique mannerisms or traits or deeds that will make them think I am present with them again. The things that make you special are remembered in conversations and stories and artifacts. But what makes a loved one feel “there” is what is seen or sensed of them in ordinary encounters or routines, part of everyday life. Unlike the accomplishments and relics you leave behind, the way you are “felt” when you are gone is entirely out of your hands except for one thing– really being there before you go.

Cake in a Jar

I had a girl’s night out with my buddy Deb. Both of us really needed a night away from the kids and the dads. It was medicinal. And by medicinal, I don’t mean the wine or the awesome apps and dinner. Or even the live music. By medicinal, I mean the dessert:

Frosting
Cake
Frosting
Cake
Frosting
Cake
Frosting

 And a spoon. Absolute heaven.

Cake in a Jar. This isn’t the one I had, it is long gone.