My note on McShane's “Implementation” article indicates what I have learned from it (a) about its author, (b) about Lonergan, and (c) about implementation of Lonergan’s transcendental method. My sheaf of quotations from the article may offer a focus – not distorting, I hope – different from the reader’s own.

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:My Story:Evolving ObesitiesAnonymous OneI am a 66–year–old Caucasian woman. I have always had, either in perception or fact, a “weight problem.” In my childhood and early teens when my weight was within the normal range, I felt fat and was always trying to lose weight. After gaining weight in college, I had a weight problem in body as well as mind. Weight concerns have consumed much of my energy (...) over the years. I have spent most of my life evolving toward a healthy way to manage my weight.Act 1: Obesity as MetaphorI can’t remember ever not feeling fat. Growing up I felt humiliated and shamed by my body, even though I was not overweight, just bigger than my peers, with a pear shape and heavy legs, thighs, and ankles. In high school my BMI, although not used at the time as a measuring tool, was 22.8. Yet despite these facts, I was made to feel fat.In my family being overweight was tantamount to sin. My father and sister were tall and skinny; my mother was petite and shapely. I took after another genetic code—the dumpy ones with knocked knees—the grotesque branch of the family tree. Hand–me–downs from my sister were supposed to fit me, but we were too different, and the difference was not celebrated.Other things were at play, a perfect storm of conditions that contributed to my feelings of worthlessness. I really shouldn’t have been born. The earth should have opened up and swallowed me. Of course I was not conscious of reasons for these feelings at the time. That awareness came later. But these feelings of loss, grief, terror, and terrible wrongness were the context of my struggles over the years.I developed a pattern of binge eating, which satisfied two contradictory impulses: my need to nurture myself combined with my desire to punish myself. The intensity of a binge–eating episode was also an avenue for rage. I was young so the extra calories didn’t result in weight gain, but the behavior had begun to take root.Stepping on the scale was like the final judgment. The scale did not measure weight; it measured value. I would see the number, as would the person weighing me, and my failure, as a person, would be evident. My secret shame would become public. I would be declared guilty for the worthless grub that was me.Nothing else mattered: that I was an A student; that I was kind and compassionate; that I had friends. These facts had no bearing. All that counted was the number on the scale. That number sent a shudder of condemnation down to my very soul. That number threatened to hurl me into a bottomless abyss from which I could not escape.I avoided being weighed. I was a very obedient youth, with an exaggerated respect for authority drilled into me by my father. The one time I ever cut class was in high school. I skipped health class where I had heard we would be weighed.The situations when I could not avoid being weighed confirmed my worst fears. Before one gym class we were publicly weighed in [End Page 96] assembly–line fashion. As I stepped off the scale my gym teacher yelled out “Diet” for all to hear. Doctors who knew nothing about me, to whom I had been sent for various required physicals, told me to lose weight.In the mysterious and internally logical way that the mind works, my weight became a metaphor for all that was reprehensible in me. With no comprehension of why I was so unhappy, it was easy for me to fixate on my weight. It was too horrible to contemplate that I was the problem. The problem with me was my size, my body.As I look back now, I am angry that because of its shape, this perfectly wonderful body was judged as wrong, and that there was no compassionate voice loud enough to contradict this message. But at the time I felt no anger. To feel anger over being made to feel bad requires self–respect... (shrink)

In the beginning was an aborted word. The first example of a woman’s literary criticism in Western tradition, or more accurately the first miscarriage of a woman’s criticism, occurs early in the Odyssey. High in her room above the hall of suitors, Penelope can hear a famous minstrel sing that most painful of stories, the Greek homecoming from Troy—significantly, the matter of the Odyssey itself. That is no song for a woman. She comes down the stairs to protest. “Phêmios, other (...) spells you know, high deeds of gods and heroes, as the poets tell them; let these men hear some other, while they sit silent and drink their wine. But sing no more this bitter tale that wears my heart away. It opens in me again the wound of longing For one incomparable, ever in my mind— His fame all Hellas knows, and midland Argos.”It seems a reasonable request. But her words meet an immediate brutal rebuff from an unexpected source: her own son Telemachus. “Mother, why do you grudge our own dear minstrel Joy of song, wherever his thought may lead? Poets are not to blame, but Zeuswho gives what fate he pleases to adventurous men.Here is no reason for reproof: to singthe news of the Danaans! Men like besta song that rings like morning on the ear.But you must nerve yourself and try to listen.Odysseus was not the only one at Troynever to know the day of his homecoming.Others, how many others, lost their lives!”9Men like to hear the news; women must learn not to take songs so personally! And Penelope gives in. Marveling at the wisdom of her son, she goes back to her room and cries herself to sleep.Telemachus’ words do not seem very much to the point. Penelope had not asked Phêmios to stop singing, after all, or to sing something fit for women; she only asked him to choose some other adventure. And to reproach her for not considering that others besides Odysseus had failed to come home seems irrelevant as well as cruel. The fact that others feel pain is hardly a reason for her not to feel it. Penelope cannot bear even to name her husband, but Telemachus seems to take pleasure in saying “Odysseus.” By proclaiming his own indifference to pain, he argues just like a man. And that, of course, is the point. The scene has been contrived exactly to show his new maturity. He proves himself no longer a boy in the time-honored fashion, by rejecting any tenderness of heart and by putting down a woman. Henceforth he will be equal to the suitors. Lawrence Lipking is Chester D. Tripp Professor of Humanities at Northwestern University and director of the program in comparative literature and theory. He is the author of The Ordering of the Arts in Eighteenth-Century England and The Life of the Poet, which won the Christian Gauss Award of Phi Beta Kappa in 1982. His previous contributions to Critical Inquiry are “The Marginal Glass” and “Arguing with Shelly” . The present essay was originally given as a lecture at the School of Criticism and Theory in the summer of 1982. It is part of a book, Abandoned Women and Poetic Tradition, which is to appear in 1984. (shrink)

As media reports have made widely known, in November 2009, the ethics committee of St. Joseph’s Hospital in Phoenix, Arizona, permitted the abortion of an eleven-week-old fetus in order to save the life of its mother. This woman was suffering from acute pulmonary hypertension, which her doctors judged would prove fatal for both her and her previable child. The ethics committee believed abortion to be permitted in this case under the so-called principle of double effect, but Thomas J. Olmsted, (...) the bishop of Phoenix, disagreed with the committee and pronounced its chair, Sister Margaret McBride, excommunicated latae sententiae, “by the very commission of the act.” In this article, I take the much discussed Phoenix case as an occasion to subject the principle of double effect to another round of philosophical scrutiny. In particular, I examine the third condition of the principle in its textbook formulation, namely, that the evil effect in question may not be the means to the good effect. My argument, in brief, is that the textbook formulation of the principle does not withstand philosophical scrutiny. Nevertheless, in the end, I do not claim that we should then “do away” with the principle altogether. Instead, we do well to understand it within the context of casuistry, the tradition of moral reasoning from which it issued. (shrink)

Laudato si’, with its articulation of a familial ecology reflecting Francis’s Latin American context, expands the subject of solidarity in Catholic social teaching and thought. Yet, this ecological vision of family fails to attend to the problem of gender subordination latent in Catholic social teaching, including in its approaches to ecology. A vision of solidarity that eradicates gender and ecological subordination must elaborate a familial ecology characterized by both mercy and equality.

Through her stories and mine, my sister and I allow the outside world to see the ways in which we grapple with a critical health incident along her journey of living with lupus. Lupus is a chronic, autoimmune disease that is difficult to recognize and to diagnose. The ambiguous nature of the disease creates considerable confusion for the ill person as well as her support system. Using an illness narrative, I analyze a real life event linked to chronic illness, (...) invisibility, living loss, liminality and family—and more specifically, to social support within the sibling relationship. (shrink)

The revised and updated edition of Nietzsche's disputed final work, including textual research supporting its authenticity and translations of his final correspondence. Reportedly written in the mental institution at Jena following his celebrated mental collapse in Turin, and smuggled out by a fellow inmate to avoid the tyrannical eye of his sister (with whom he confesses to an incestuous relationship), My Sister and I is a reflective counterpoint to the megalomania and stridency of Ecce Homo.

Using a feminist hermeneutic, Autumn Reinhardt-Simpson attempts to set out in this article how a third- or fourth-wave intersectional reading of the stories of Hagar and Sarah and Leah, Rachel, and their maids can become a source of both truth and healing within feminist activist communities today, particularly those working for reproductive justice. Reinhardt-Simpson identifies several issues within the stories such as societal acceptance of women who seek power only within patriarchal constructs or to benefit the aims of patriarchy, as (...) well as issues that divide women both then and today such as class, race, and status and the way that women relate to each other within a patriarchal structure. Reinhardt-Simpson concludes that a liberatory reading of these stories can point us toward reconciliation with our sisters. (shrink)

My sister Sarah and I are just waking up one morning when Mom comes into our room and opens the window. "Get your clothes on, you two," she says. "It is a beautiful day, and we're going on a walk." I'm too tired to go for a walk. I look over at Sarah, and I can tell she does not want to go either. "But mom," Sarah pleads, "every day is a beautiful day... and, besides, it's going to be (...) just as beautiful INSIDE as it will be OUTSIDE.". (shrink)

This chapter contains sections titled: Mere Social Conventions Pseudo‐Pathologies Pathologies and Decisions Pathology and Utility.

Identities ascribed to research staff in face-to-face encounters with participants have been raised as key ethical challenge in transnational health research. ‘Misattributed’ identities that do not just deviate from researchers' self-image, but obscure unequivocal aspects of researcher identity – e.g. that they are researchers – are a case of such ethical problem. Yet, the reasonable expectation of unconcealed identity can conflict with another ethical premise: confidentiality; this poses challenges to staff visiting participants at home. We explore these around a case (...) study of ‘follow-up’ staff, observed during an ethnographic study of a Kenyan HIV ‘trial community’, which included participant observation, conversations, and interviews with staff (n = 79) and participants (n = 89). We found that because of the need to maintain confidentiality and because of some suspicions towards researchers, research staff drew upon alternative identities – presenting themselves to non-participants as relatives or friends, rather than as researchers. Several staff experienced this as necessary but uncomfortable. Simultaneously, staff and participants forged close relations in line with their fictional identities, which however also posed challenges because they entailed personal responsibilities that were difficult to live up to, due to limited resources, and the trial's limited duration. Similar challenges may arise in transnational HIV treatment programmes and should be explored further in that context. (shrink)

This article is concerned with issues of solidarity and silencing within feminist practice, and with possibilities for responsible and respectful cross-cultural criticism. It analyzes claims about principles of feminist practice and democratic solidarity that were articulated as justifications for the conflicting positions taken by feminist organizations in Haïti and feminists elsewhere in the Caribbean with respect to the legitimacy of Haitian president Aristide’s removal from power in February 2004. The central, and contentious, issue that arises in this post-coup “war of (...) the press releases” is the extent to which outsiders can legitimately contest evaluations that a group makes of its own society’s political affairs. Any easy resolution of that issue in this particular case is complicated by questions of bad faith and self-interest, so I turn at the end of the article to Fuyuki Kurasawa’s account of global justice as “social labour” in defence of human rights to see what resources his “cosmopolitanism from below” can offer us. (shrink)

In 2020, it is clear that racism must be a moral priority for white American Catholics, as for all white Americans. To face racism maturely, our consciences need more robust formation than we received as children preparing for First Reconciliation—or as adolescents at Confirmation, when we were instructed that we must be prepared to act boldly to defend our commitment to Christ. One way to build a racially-mature conscience is to seek feedback from anti-racism accountability partners, as the author did. (...) Another is to explore the distinction in Catholic moral theology between invincible and vincible ignorance—what we can know and what we cannot—in order to discern whether an action or inaction is moral. Much of what liberal whites claim we can’t know without input from Blacks is readily available if we have ears to hear. (shrink)

This article examines 17 substance-abusing women's perceptions of their mothering practices in the context of a residential substance-abuse treatment program for women with children and pregnant women. Using in-depth semistructured interviews and observations of treatment groups, the participants' cultural knowledge about mothering is explored. Although the women in this study described how their substance-abusing lifestyle had a negative impact on their children, they also detailed practices that illustrated that they felt capable as parents. The women were silent about how race, (...) gender, or class arrangements affected their lives; their stories, however, showed active avoidance and manipulation of the contemporary ideology of mothering. (shrink)

The achievements of Anna Julia Cooper are extraordinary given her life circumstances. Driven by a desire Cooper called "a thumping within," she became a prominent educator, earned her Ph.D., and influenced the thought of W.E.B. DuBois and others. Cooper fought for her educational philosophy, but despite her contributions, her apparent elitism has shaped contemporary assessments of her work. I argue that her views must be considered in social and historical context.

The achievements of Anna Julia Cooper are extraordinary given her life circumstances. Driven by a desire Cooper called "a thumping within," she became a prominent educator, earned her Ph.D., and influenced the thought of W.E.B. DuBois and others. Cooper fought for her educational philosophy, but despite her contributions, her apparent elitism has shaped contemporary assessments of her work. I argue that her views must be considered in social and historical context.

: The achievements of Anna Julia Cooper are extraordinary given her life circumstances. Driven by a desire Cooper called "a thumping within," she became a prominent educator, earned her Ph.D., and influenced the thought of W.E.B. DuBois and others. Cooper fought for her educational philosophy, but despite her contributions, her apparent elitism has shaped contemporary assessments of her work. I argue that her views must be considered in social and historical context.

In the early 1990’s, many feminist philosophers found that the practice of the women´s movement as well as those of other new social movements, could be articulated most adequately in terms of citizenship. The classical political vocabulary of citizenship seemed to offer a viable alternative to the vocabularies that until then had been dominant in feminist political theory: the individualistic, rights-oriented discourse of liberalism, and the structuralist, interest-oriented perspectives of socialism and marxism.

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Standing at the Intersections: Navigating Life as a Black Intersex ManSean Saifa WallAs I sit down to write this narrative, my mind is reflecting on the past year. This year has seen numerous protests against state–sanctioned violence with the declaration that “Black Lives Matter”. As a Black intersex man, I have witnessed the impact of state–sanctioned violence on my family and my community, both from the police state and (...) medical community. I charge the police state and the medical community with state– sanctioned violence: Each targets non–normative bodies—the former through incarceration and execution, and the latter by means of surgical and hormonal intervention. As a Black intersex man, I stand at the intersection bearing witness to how this violence has incarcerated my friends and loved ones as well as being subjected to medically unnecessary surgical intervention. Although this is where I stand now, both socially and politically, I have not always existed here.I was born in the winter of 1978 at Columbia–Presbyterian Hospital in New York City. I was the youngest of five children and one of three children in my family who were born with an intersex trait now known as androgen insensitivity syndrome (AIS). At the time, AIS was referred to as “testicular [End Page 117] feminization syndrome.” Upon receiving my medical records years later at the age of twenty–five, I noticed scribbling and a barrage of notes indicating the process by which the doctors assigned my gender as female. Although I had ambiguous genitalia, which caused some initial confusion among the doctors, XY chromosomes were not enough for me to be raised as male. My mother was told I would be raised as a girl and, according to the medical records, “function as such.”Unlike my sisters who were also born with AIS, my mom was not swayed by the surgical recommendations doctors made about my body. As a matter of protocol, my sisters’ gonads were removed in infancy, however, my mom made the decision that my testes would remain with me until they had to be removed.Because of intense pain in my groin area, my testicles were removed when I was thirteen years old. The pain that I felt following the surgery was perhaps the worst pain that I have experienced in my entire life. After surgery, my pediatrician prescribed estrogen and Provera as a hormonal replacement regimen. Fatty deposits changed the shape and contours of my face. Once robust and chiseled thighs now harbored cellulite. The beginnings of facial hair and prominent body hair became wispy and nonexistent. What was hard and defined became soft.At no point did anyone ask me what I wanted to do with my body.I actually missed the effects of my natural testosterone such as a deepening voice, increased hair and muscle mass; when I asked if I could take both testosterone and estrogen after surgery, my mother remarked, “You would look too weird.”The hormone therapy was coupled with intense social conditioning. I feel as if the social conditioning for young women raised with AIS is suffocating. When doctors prescribed hormones for me to take, my mother constantly reminded me how “beautiful” the little yellow pills would make me. As a means of reassurance, my pediatrician told my mom that “a lot of fashion models” have AIS and that I would most certainly be beautiful. In our dominant US culture, gender norms can already be oppressive, but for women with AIS, there is the impact of gender norms and the underlying fear that women with AIS are not really women since they have XY chromosomes. I did not succumb to the pressure to be more feminine, but actually gravitated toward masculinity. Before transitioning to live as a man, I considered myself a butch woman. When I came out of the closet at fourteen years old and presented as a masculine young woman, I never felt safe. Because I dated women who were more feminine than I, my relationship with these women seemed threatening to men who repeatedly reminded me through harassment and threats that “I was not a man.” Of course, I wasn’t trying to be a... (shrink)

This article, drawing on selected feminist magazines of the 1980s, particularly Feminist Arts News (FAN) and GEN, offers a textual ‘braiding’ of narratives to re-present a history of Black British feminism. I attempt to chart a history of Black British feminist inheritance while proposing the politics of (other)mothering as a politics of potential, pluralistic and democratic community building, where Black thought and everyday living carry a primary and participant role. The personal—mothering our children—is the political, affording a nurturing of alterity (...) through a politics of care that is fundamentally antiracist and antisexist. I attempt to show how Black feminist thought can significantly contribute to democracy in the present and how Black British history and thought, as fundamentally antiracist and anticolonial, can generate a reinvention much needed in the present of a shared British history. I argue for feminist intervention premised upon a politics of care, addressing through activist mothering the urgency of Black absence from prestigious institutions. Such debilitating absence in Britain inhibits the development of scholarship, distorts feminist history and seriously concerns potential Black feminists. From diverse texts, I develop a genealogical narrative supplemented through memory work. This ‘gathering and re-using’ privileges Black women's theorising as a crucial component of the methodological metissage, which includes auto-theorising to develop ideas of resemblance in relation to Black British feminism and feminist kinship. The resultant ‘braiding’, I suggest after Lionnet, questions the absence of intersubjective spaces for reflection on Black British feminist praxis, indicating a direction for British feminists of all complexions. Attentive to the 1980s as historical context while invoking the maternal, I consider what is required to engage generationally, counterwrite the academy and pursue a dynamic process of transformation within a transnational feminism that challenges Black British absence from academic knowledge production, while nurturing its presence. (shrink)

The article considers the changing position of women and the family from the Second World War until today using the UK as its example. It offers a theoretical perspective by setting out to examine the possibility that the rise of second-wave feminism both reflected and spearheaded an aspect of demographic transition to non-replacement populations. It considers the tension between the formation of ‘sexual difference’ to enable reproduction and what it calls the ‘engendering of gender’ in lateral relations which are indifferent (...) to procreation. With the achievements of feminism as a political vanguard and the demographic transition as its socioeconomic base, women were no longer defined by the family; their definition ceased to depend on procreation. The article proposes that the new use of the term ‘gender’ entered the political arena to become a key concept of feminism to indicate non-procreative sexuality and sexual relations that need not be heterosexual or biologically procreative. Judith Butler’s well-known suggestion that ‘gender’ troubles the status quo in a revolutionary manner cannot be sustained. Rather than disturbing the universe, the advent of ‘gender’ reflects the transition to a new demographic order. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Feminist Studies 45, no. 1. © 2019 by Feminist Studies, Inc. 235 Vivyan Adair Stigmata: A Memoir of Pain and Resistance For some of us poverty is not experienced from a distance or from the position of an audience member or critic, but as the most pressing truth of our existence, past or present and our core sense of identity. —Roxanne Rimstead, Remnants of Nation: On Poverty Narratives by (...) Women Shame My own mother—with four children under the age of seven by the time she was twenty five—taught, nurtured, and loved us ferociously but struggled and utterly failed to keep us fed, sheltered, and safe. We clung desperately to her fragile dignity, grace, and laughter, against all the forces of a cruel and indifferent world. Yet, in the end she was crushed by the weight of our shame and our raw, unrelenting pain as my brothers and sister and I were bent and broken and taken from her; with scars that never faded; injuries, infections, and ailments for which we found neither respite nor repair; with feet mangled by cheap, used Salvation Army shoes; the gnawing void of hunger and insecurity clawing at our tender backs; public indignities and humiliations for which I still can find no words. With access to neither medical insurance nor care, when my already fragile, toddling sister’s forehead was split open by a car door slammed in frustration, my brother and I had to pin her tiny body to the ground as 236 Vivyan Adair my mother sewed the angry gash together with needle and thread, practicing the meticulous dressmaker’s stitches for which she had received a modicum of acclaim, but so little reward. My sister somehow endured, but registered the pain, the terror, and the trauma with a brand, a stigmata, an angry and frightening scar as an indelible sign of our poverty, visually cleaving her very forehead in two, for the remainder of her life. In our school cafeteria “free lunchers” were reminded with a large and colorful sign to “line up last.” In that auditorium each fall we were coerced up onto a makeshift stage, with the promise of first dibs on free milk. There, our pristine school nurse sat upright and sucked air through her teeth as she donned surgical gloves to cautiously check only the hair of poor hungry children, one by one, for lice. I burned and choked and raged with shame, as our far more decent working-class colleagues and friends, in color-coordinated Sears sweater sets and matching tartan knee high socks, averted their eyes from our reluctant genuflections, while silently spooning their mac and cheese and sipping their Tree Top from tiny Dixie cups. In dilapidated and unsafe housing often without heat, hot water, or lights and with access to only public bathrooms, I developed a stubborn case of ringworm, scabies, and a series of painful urinary tract infections. When my second grade teacher would not excuse me every hour or so—because, as she said I was “willful”—I could not help but wet my pants in class. My schoolmates guffawed at my flea bitten legs, my ducttaped shoes, my crooked and ill-serviced teeth, and the way my siblings and I stank. Kids, teachers, and strangers stepped away from us intuitively and then, with great shows of distress, feigned concern and then outrage and disgust. Regularly our teachers excoriated us for our inability to concentrate in school and our refusal to come to class with proper school supplies, calling us out as greedy when we tried to take more than our share of free lunch. Whenever backpacks or library books came up missing, we were publicly interrogated and sent home to think about our offenses, often accompanied by notes that reminded my bewildered mother that she should be working twice as hard to make up for the discipline and order that had supposedly walked out the door with my father. And when occasionally we cried foul and lashed out, our behavior was used to justify even more elaborate punishment that exacerbated the effect of our growing anomie. Vivyan Adair 237 Guilt As children, our disheveled and unkempt bodies were produced as... (shrink)

“I beg of you, Doctor, please don’t let Dr. Moore see my mother again. My sisters and I do not want him talking with us anymore.”So concluded my first conversation with Samir Zadeh. Our meeting had been purely accidental; as I walked onto the elevator going down from the Surgical ICU, he and one of his sisters were already on, coming down from another one of our hospital’s ICUs, from a floor above. Samir was a man in his early (...) 50s, and his sister, whom I would learn was actually a few years older, appeared younger than he. They were talking quietly when the doors opened, but as is often the case in elevators, especially in a hospital, as soon as I entered, their conversation stopped. We rode down to the bottom floor in silence. As we exited, I let them go first, a courtesy I had been taught by my parents, and they both thanked me, in the usual social way, and walked out into the lobby and then out of the building. I walked the same way.It was when we were about 25 feet from the building that Mr. Zadeh and his sister stopped, so that I caught up to them. As I did, Mr. Zadeh, a large man, maybe 6 feet tall and 250 pounds, with thinning hair and a well-groomed mustache, turned and said my name aloud, “Dr. Finder, may you be so kind as to talk?”. (shrink)

Background: Studies from Western countries show that doctors working in neonatal intensive care units find withdrawal of treatment to be their most difficult ethical dilemma. There is less knowledge of how this is experienced in other economic, cultural, religious and educational contexts.Objectives: To explore and describe how Indian doctors experience ethical dilemmas concerning the withdrawal of treatment among critically sick and/or premature neonates.Method: Qualitative data from interviews was analysed according to Giorgi's phenomenological approach. The subjects were 14 doctors with various (...) levels of neonatal experience, recruited from two state‐owned NICUs in India. Main outcome measures: description reflecting the nature of ethical dilemmas and how they are experienced.Results: All doctors reported situations where the question of withdrawal of treatment was experienced as the worst part of their job. They felt that they lacked training in how to handle such dilemmas, and some had never talked about ethics before. They were especially concerned about non‐medical considerations that do not feature in current treatment guidelines. In describing their personal experiences, the informants mentioned their sense of responsibility in situations where they were aware that their decisions would influence a family's economy and reputation, availability of food and education for siblings, other children's access to equipment in the unit, and the use of resources in an underprivileged population. Sometimes lack of resources, usually ventilators, forced them to make decisions about which babies should get the chance to live. Other reported dilemmas included difficulties co‐operating with uneducated and poor parents.Conclusion: While Western doctors seem to focus on the rights and problems of the individual child, Indian doctors tend to refer to consequences for other children, for parents and society. There is a need for further research in this field, and for the development of guidelines on how to cope with differences in resources, and how to handle different patient groups’ cultural and religious concerns. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Learning to BreatheFive Fragments Against RacismB. Venkat Mani (bio)For Dr. JLW, for all Black academics and students1. Air HungerI know you, Derek Chauvin. You may think that we first met on May 25, 2020, in Minneapolis. I was called George Perry Floyd. For you, I was just another Black man, a potential criminal. For me, you were not a police officer, but the knee that stands for racism. You (...) kneeled on my windpipe for 9 minutes and 29 seconds. Those were neither my first nor my last memories.You may choose not to recognize me, as you always have. But I do. I recognize every bone, muscle, tendon, pointy curve of the cap, every contour of your strong, heavy, determined, calculating, conniving knee that presses on my windpipe with a false sense of racist superiority. 9 minutes and 29 seconds. As often as you can.We have a history. You have never missed the opportunity of kneeling on my windpipe. You hauled me into your slave ships from various African ports along the Atlantic, then you kneeled on my windpipe all over your cotton and tobacco plantations in the Americas. We met again on schooners from Indian shores journeying across the Indian and Pacific oceans. With slavery banned in the British empire, you turned me into an indentured laborer. You made me put my thumb imprint on a document you created, in a script I could not read, of a language I could not speak. Then you threw me thousands of miles away in Mauritius, Fiji, and numerous Caribbean islands, pressing on my windpipe on sugarcane plantations. My wife, children, sisters, mothers, aunts, brothers, uncles, nephews, nieces, grandparents, great grandparents, we all have lived through those fatal 9 minutes and 29 seconds: on water and land. Repeatedly. Consistently. Incessantly.You want specific dates? April 8, 1857, Barrackpore, Northern India. My name was Mangal Pandey, you called me a Sepoy. You hanged me for standing up against my subjugation by your British East India Company. Against your rule over my land and my people. With your many titles [End Page 41] and names: Major-General Sir Henry Havelock, Lieutenant-General Sir Colin Campbell, Brigadier-General Charles Windham, you rampaged through the streets of Delhi, Meerut, Lucknow, killing anyone in your way so I could be a jewel in Victoria's crown. January 29, 1863, Bear River, Idaho. I was one among the Shoshone of Bia Ogoi, you were Colonel Patrick Connor. You came to us on a frigid morning and killed us by the hundreds. November 15, 1884, the Congo Conference, Berlin. You were called Chancellor Otto von Bismarck and were acting at the behest of sharecropping interests of King Leopold the Second. Your name for me was a "savage." You set up a society to civilize me while you plundered my bounty. You started drawing lines through land, rivers, mountains, deserts. For you, it was the Scramble for Africa. For me, bloody murder. You knelt on my windpipe, smoking a pipe with tobacco my people had grown. April 13, 1919, Jallianwala Bagh, Amritsar. You were called Brigadier General Reginald Edward Harry Dyer. For you, I was just a troublemaking native disrupting the civilized business of the Empire. You surrounded our peaceful gathering in Amritsar and opened fire. Your Nobel Laureate Rudyard Kipling claimed that "you did your duty as you saw fit." By killing us in thousands until the bullets ran out. Rikki Tikki Tavi. May 31, 1921, Tulsa, Oklahoma. Inspired by Jim Crow, your knees came running to us in mobs to massacre us. October 19, 1926, Imperial Conference, London. Your name was Field Marshall the Right Honorable Jan Christian Smuts. For you, I was one among the many "colored" subjects from the Cape Colony. You spoke vehemently against mixing my people with your people. Eloquently, I was told, in favor of apartheid.You know very well, Chauvin, that our acquaintance neither begins in 1857 nor ends in 1926. I could take you on a grand tour of the world and give you all the dates when you appeared in different forms. Your self-induced conviction of racial supremacy over me remained the same... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Eric Doyle OFM: Hidden Architect of the Retrieval of the Franciscan Charism by Brenda AbbottRobert J. Karris, OFMBrenda Abbott, Eric Doyle OFM: Hidden Architect of the Retrieval of the Franciscan Charism. Durham, UK: Franciscan Publishing, 2021. Pp. vii + 388. 16 photos. £15.00. ISBN: 9781915198013.Father Eric Doyle, OFM, a member of the Province of the Immaculate Conception, UK, was born in 1938 and died in 1984. He was (...) highly talented and educated, steeped in the Franciscan tradition, a superb and humorous communicator. He was just right for his time, he was ahead of his time, and he may be just what Franciscans need today in their time as they continue to renew themselves in the spirit of St. Francis and in Franciscan Christology and spirituality.Abbott sets down her goal: "My purpose and goal in publishing this book is that something of the man and his vision will be communicated here, and that a new generation of Franciscan friars and scholars, as well as believers and unbelievers more widely, may be inspired by this vision and become aware of Doyle's enduring and precious legacy" (ii). She accomplishes her goal through an introduction, fifteen chapters which mainly delve into Doyle's Franciscan Christology and spirituality, and a conclusion. Endnotes follow each chapter. The book, which is very well-researched and written, ends with two appendices and a bibliography. Abbot has marvelously achieved her goal.The introduction is followed by: chapter 1, "Early Life: 1938–1970"; chapter 2, "The Friar"; chapter 3, "The Teacher"; chapter 4, "The Shepherd and Evangeliser"; chapter 5, "The Scholar"; chapter 6, "The Mystic"; chapter 7, "The Franciscan Theologian (Part 1)"; chapter 8, "The Franciscan Theologian (Part 2)"; chapter 9, "The Franciscan Theologian (Part 3)"; chapter 10, "The Franciscan Theologian (Part 4)"; chapter 11, "The Ecologist: Our Sister Mother Earth"; chapter 12, "The Ecumenist: Our Brothers and Sisters in Christ"; chapter 13, "The Post–Vatican II Theologian"; chapter 14, "The Prophet: A Franciscan Legacy (Part 1)"; and chapter 15, "The Prophet: A Franciscan Legacy (Part 2)."In the space allotted me, I provide three snapshots of Eric Doyle. First is the assessment of Doyle from an outside source, Bishop Thomas McMahon, who in his eulogy said: "He put profound truths in a very [End Page 249] simple way and conveyed always a sense of the numinous. … [He was] vivid, articulate, deeply learned, intensely human, hugely alive, full of mischief, unsparing of self … a contemporary Francis. His Franciscan spirituality permeated his total thinking" (174). I underscore Bishop Mc-Mahon's emphasis on St. Francis and his spirituality. I see implied here Doyle's teaching about the Absolute Primacy of Christ—that Christ is head of all creation and conqueror of sin and death, and that the reason for Christ's incarnation is not sin but love—demonstrating Doyle's retrieval of the best from the Franciscan tradition.The second snapshot points to two areas where Doyle was ahead of his time. First, he was a TV personality. Abbott dedicates pages 117–23 to Doyle as a wonderful TV presence. From 1971 to 1984 he was on four hundred programs of The Big Question. One reviewer noted: "The length, breadth and width of his discourse … is colossal … This man is an original, a non-pareil; before they made him, they broke the mould" (121). Second, in his book on Francis's Canticle of Brother Sun, first published in 1980, Doyle anticipated many of Pope Francis' teachings in Laudato Si'. As Abbott says: "Foreshadowing much of Pope Francis' encyclical Laudato Si', Doyle demonstrates how belief in the universal brotherhood and sisterhood of creation can help us create a better world" (270).The third snapshot is an indication of how Doyle's legacy continues in print. Doyle's St Francis and the Song of Brotherhood has been reprinted a number of times, most recently in 1997 by Franciscan Institute Publications as St. Francis and the Song of Brotherhood and Sisterhood. It has been translated into five languages: Italian, German, Portuguese, Korean, and Japanese. Under the imprint of Tau Publications is My Heart's Quest: Collected Writings of Eric Doyle, Friar Minor, Theologian, edited by Josef Raischl... (shrink)

continent. 1.4 (2011): 279—285. Concerning its Transitive Nature, the Conversion of Native Americans of Spanish Colonial California, Indoctrinated Catholicism, & the Creation There’s no direct archaeological evidence that Jesus ever existed. 1 I memorized the Act of Contrition. I don’t remember it now, except the beginning: Forgive me Father for I have sinned . . . This was in preparation for the Sacrament of Holy Reconciliation, where in a confessional I confessed my sins to Father Scott, who looked like Jesus, (...) at least in Western cultural representations of Jesus since the middle ages, and if Jesus put on a few pounds. Father Scott was long-haired, redheaded, bearded, chubby, and tall. When he left church with the procession of altar servers and Eucharistic ministers, yelling, “Sing a Good Song Unto the Lord,” he smiled, hands folded, and he gazed over his parishioners, and bounced along. For four months every year he lived among the Crow Nation in Montana, where towards the end of his tenure at Our Lady of Refuge, they adopted him as an honorary member of their tribe. * This is the prayer we chanted, holding hands, every night before dinner: Bless us oh Lord, for these our gifts, which we are about to receive, our bounty through Christ, our Lord, Amen. Then we all said, God bless the cook! When we were with my grandparents, Grandpa said, God bless Chicky, and Holly, and Harvey, and Boots—all the dead dogs. * My sister tells me that she sits next to a handsome man on a flight across the country. After chitchat, she withdraws her book. She’s reading Kevin Sampsell’s A Common Pornography . After a few moments, the handsome man also reads from his book—his leather-bound Bible. Sister thinks, Oh, Jesus—too bad. She falls asleep. Later, settled in Nashville, she opens her volume and out falls a Jesus-covered card that reads, You can still find God and Salvation! Because that handsome God-fearing young man saw that word— pornography . * I suppose Father Jim’s dark hair, beard, and glasses made me think doctoral-ly of him. He called while I was in the midst of a breakup, after I’d twice attempted suicide, and my mother was desperate for help. She somehow found and phoned him. And Jim, now years out of Our Lady of Refuge’s parish, twenty years since my baptism, years even since he’d left the priesthood and the Catholic faith, still made the effort to bring me back into the fold. He said, “Have you seen a priest?” I did not respond, as I was more shocked to hear his voice than anything, so I said, “How are you, Father Jim? Sorry, I guess I shouldn’t call you ‘Father.’” And I said, “Why did you leave the priesthood? Do you have a girlfriend?” He said that I should call him just “Jim.” He said, “Do you need someone to talk to?” I said, “Not really.” He said, “Call your mother; she’s worried about you.” That was the last time I talked to Father Jim. * Mother let me know just how disappointed Jesus was. I cried and cried, and said I was sorry. Into my hands she placed my missal, ordered forty Rosaries. She said next Saturday I would go to confession. I hated confession. Who wouldn’t? * I realize, of course, that this page is a kind of confessional. * The Kumeyaay, Ipai, Tipai, Chumash, Esselen, Rumsen—all Native Americans of Alta California—shared similarities in their religions. Southern Californian tribes made use of Datura, or jimpson weed, a hallucinogen, for religious rituals. In the creation, God made brother sky and sister earth. Brother and sister mated, and sister gave birth to all things on Earth, including people, but it was difficult to distinguish people from all other aspects of Earth because everything was alive: granite and obsidian, the Pacific and its waves, the San Diego and Los Angeles Rivers. Wiyot—a hero—was very powerful, born from lightning, the son of the Creator and a virgin. When Wiyot thought that human women’s legs were more beautiful than Frog’s, Frog became jealous and poisoned Wiyot. The dying Wiyot went to all the people’s villages, and he distributed his power among them. He said, “When I die, I should be cremated.” The people built the fire and funeral pyre. When the fire was ready, and the people about to place Wiyot’s body upon it, Coyote came and snatched away Wiyot’s heart. * My friend Nick told me once how he ate some jimpson weed and that he hallucinated for three days. His family took a road trip and, while driving over the Sierra Nevada mountains, he kept seeing dinosaurs roaming the open meadows and charging down snowy slopes. So it’s no wonder that Native Americans who ingested this plant would have developed religion. * Walking Castroville’s streets after school I got into fights but mostly watched other boys scrabbling on the asphalt. I went to Burger King for Whoppers. Me and my friends cussed. Antonio admonished me when I said, “damn,” while strutting a sidewalk alongside the church. He said, “Jaime”—pronounced Hi-May, which was what all the Mexicans called me—“you’re crazy, eh. Don’t cuss at the church.” He meant while at church, as in, within its vicinity. I said, “We’re not in church.” Once we’d crossed the street, Tony said, “Damn dude, you’re fuckin crazy!” * Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra raised the Eucharistic goblet to his lips, and candlelight danced on the blood’s tiny waves. Incense clouded the church so completely that some of the Pame natives grew nauseous. So, too, felt Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra later that night, as he bent over a ceramic bowl and vomited blood, not only the Lord’s, but his own, for poison had laced the sacred vessel into which he poured the sacrament. The physician tending to the sick prelate urged him to take the remedy he’d prepared. But Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra refused, said that he would pray, for he had never taken any medicine in his life, and he never would. * The Chumash of El Valle de Los Osos called themselves the Stishni, separating themselves from Chumash of other regions, those varying tribes of the central California coast that spoke mutually unintelligible dialects of their Hokan language. This made learning their languages impossible for the Spanish friars, to say nothing of translating the Doctrina. Thus the priests baptized few natives, despite the help that the tribes offered the fledgling settlements in the form of meat and acorn meal, which the Spaniards found repugnant. Some from these cultures, feeling threatened by the newcomers, shot flaming arrows into the thatched roofs of the mission structures. And why wouldn’t they feel threatened when priests chastised them for performing, for example, their Coyote Dance, wherein a man donning a coyote-skin-and-skull costume dances while a singer sings his tale, which laments the human feces strewn imaginatively about the Earth? Coyote, meantime, tries to get an onlooker to lick his genitals, and finally engages in public sexual intercourse with a female tribe member or two, then ends the dance by defecating. Though the Franciscans called such forbidden acts devilry , the Chumash maintained their Datura cult religion, along with the enforced Christianity. For the Chumash, the Earth was made of two enormous snakes that caused earthquakes when they slithered past one another—a vast reptilian tectonics. In the 20th century, long after Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra and his cohorts had died, when asked by an anthropologist about religious contradictions, conflating the Datura and Christian cults, a Chumash man replied, incredulous: “But these are two different religions.” * When Portolá ordered that if by March 19th, the feast day of St. Joseph, the San Antonio had not arrived in San Diego Bay to relieve them, the Sacred Expedition to Nueva California would be abandoned, Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra prayed a novena for San José’s intercession. And lo, a lookout sighted the San Antonio ’s sails—what seemed to the priest a miracle—that very Saint’s feast day. Europeans would stay in California, and Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra would continue to reap a great harvest of souls for the Lord. By the end of mission secularization in 1836—sixty-six years after the San Antonio rescued the Spaniards—Native American populations in California had declined by seventy-three percent. * When Peter the Aleut would not renounce his Eastern Orthodox faith the padre of San Francisco had a toe severed from each foot with each refusal, totaling ten. The native Ohlones employed in this gruesome task—their obsidian chiseled knives tearing through skin and grinding bone—continued as per their orders, and cut off also each of Peter’s fingers (equals a total of twenty refusals). They quartered the martyr, spilled his bowels, as if from bear attack, attack by a bear in the shape of a Catholic. * Blessed Father Fray Junípero Serra absolutely believed that the slow rate of conversion for the native people was due to the influence of the Devil, who had been outraged by the coming of the Catholics to California, this region that he had long held in his dominion. * In his reception speech for the Nobel Prize for Literature, John Steinbeck said, “Man himself has become our greatest hazard and our only hope. So that today, St. John the Apostle may well be paraphrased: In the end is the Word, and the Word is Man—and the Word is with Men.” * In 1602, when Sebastián Vizcaíno and his friars sang mass on Catalina Island, as many as a hundred Pimungans witnessed the rite, asking by signs what it was about. According to Vizcaíno’s records, the Californians marveled not a little at the idea of Heaven and at the image of Jesus crucified. * Vizcaíno was brought to a prairie on Santa Catalina Island where the Pimungans worshipped their sun god. Upon the prairie they had placed an icon, a headless figure with horns protruding from the body, a figure that Vizcaíno predictably described as a demon. The Pimungans urged Vizcaíno not to approach the image of their deity, but he ignored them. He placed his crucifix against the wooden figurine and prayed the Our Father. Vizcaíno told the natives that his prayer was from Heaven, and that their god was the Devil. Vizcaíno held out his crucifix, encouraging the Pimungans to touch it and receive Jesus. He pointed at the sky and indicated Heaven. The Pimungans worshipped a sun deity, so they were impressed with this white man and his description of his god, for their gods seemed to be one and the same. It’s no wonder then that Vizcaíno’s diary reports the natives being pleased with this exchange. “Surely,” the diary says, “they will be converted to our Holy Faith.” * The Miwok women wailed and scratched at their faces when their men consorted with Sir Francis Drake and the other Englishmen who had landed on California’s coast in the summer of 1579. “The blood streaming downe along their brests, besides despoiling the upper parts of their bodies of those single coverings . . .they would with furie cast themselves upon the ground . . . on hard stones, knobby hillocks, stocks of wood, and pricking bushes.” Drake and his men fell themselves to their knees in prayer, their eyes Heavenward, so that the natives might see they prayed to God and they too might worship God then their eyes that had been so blinded by the deceiver might be opened. * Father Fray Antonio de la Ascención—Carmelite friar in Vizcaíno’s party—writes that the Indians of California can “easily and with very little labor be taught our Holy Catholic faith, and that they would receive it well and lovingly.” He calls for two hundred older and honorable soldiers to ensure brotherhood during the conquest, so that peace and love—the best tools to pacify pagans—should reign. The religious, the friar says, should likewise be wise and loving to easily quell animosities between Spaniards and the heathen, and therefore avoid war. The Spaniards should bring with them trinkets—beads, mirrors, knives—to distribute amongst the gentiles, so that they might come to love the Christians, and see “that they are coming to their lands to give them that of which they bring, and not to take away the Indians’ possessions, and may understand that they are seeking the good of their souls.” No women are to accompany the conquest, says Father Fray Antonio, “to avoid offenses to God.” * In 1955 Wallace Stevens admitted himself to St. Francis Hospital in Hartford, Connecticut. There, it’s rumored he converted to Catholicism before dying of stomach cancer, exclaiming to his priest after the baptism, “Now I am in the fold.” Stevens’s late-career poems seem less cynical, more in awe of being and death (read “Metaphor as Degeneration” from The Auroras of Autumn ). He could have chosen from at least three secular hospitals in Hartford at the time. * I was reading Stevens’s Collected Poems when I joined eHarmony and listed that as my “currently reading” book among the “more than twelve” books a year that I would read. I fell in love with my wife when she said, “Are you sending your work out to literary journals?” Prior to this, the first girl I talked to on the phone, when I explained my doctoral exams, said, “So, you’re like, reading Stephen King and stuff?” When I said not exactly she responded defensively: “He must be doing something right, since he makes all that money.” * Mom walked me, my brother, and sister, through the Stations of the Cross. We did this on Ash Wednesdays, or whenever she thought we needed extra God after church. It might’ve happened before church, though that’s unlikely because we were always late. Anyway, it’s easiest to walk the Stations of the Cross when there’s no one else around. To walk the actual Stations means one goes to Jerusalem and walks the Via Dolorosa to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. So the Stations elsewhere—usually paintings, or low-relief sculptures upon church walls—serve as a kind of virtual Dolorosa. Mom held our hands and started from the rear of Our Lady of Refuge: the First Station. Mom said we should say a prayer at each Station and to think of all the pain Jesus went through so that we could go to Heaven. It was hard to keep thinking about that one thing for so long. My mind went to that Saturday’s little league game, to the donut and chocolate milk (our after-church reward from Castroville Bakery), and as I grew older I thought about girls. When you’re thirteen you can’t not think about the girl’s butt in the pew in front of yours as she kneels and stands to pray throughout mass. * It grew increasingly juvenile to lie awake at night daring myself to utter a simple sentence. Even if I said I didn’t believe in God, wouldn’t He know the truth? He was omniscient, like a narrator. Even the idea of Him as a him ceased making sense. Not only did this come with a budding realization of my paternalistic culture, but due to the simple question of why? If God was everything, everywhere, all knowing, then why would he be a man? There’s that question: If God is a man then God must have a penis, and if so, what for? * The Catholic Church incorporates some modern scientific research into its dogma concerning the formation of the Universe, Solar System, and Earth, as well as evolution. According to Catholic doctrine, in approximately the fifth millennia BCE, humans began to worship the one true God. Those humans were Adam and Eve, though the Church says humans had been around for thousands of years prior to Adam and Eve. The Church claims to be infallible. Every time the Church changes its doctrine it remains infallible. * One Catholic writer, Tom Meagher, writes that “Modernism[—]the idea that we come to our beliefs individually through emotional or personal experiences[—]has crept into our Catholic schools.” * Catholics believe that evil spirits, given power through Original Sin, can imbue ordinary inanimate objects of everyday use. Thus, such objects should be blessed in order to induce in them the desire to serve the good. Such objects are not limited to, but include, “new ships and boats, railways and trains, bridges, fountains, wells, cornmills, limekilns, smelting furnaces, telegrams, steam engines, and machines for providing electricity.” * In The Sound of Music Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer sing together: “Nothing comes from nothing, nothing ever could...” * To explain competing theories on the very early universe, and pre-verse would be another book. What was the inflaton? Did (mem)branes collide, initiating the Big Bang, as opposed to Lemaître’s primordial atom, a singularity? Without a unified theory there’s gravity hanging out there, fucking everything up. We cannot make sense of the mechanics of the Planck Epoch—0-10-34 seconds into the Universe’s creation—named for Max Planck, who stumbled into the discovery of quantum mechanics in the early twentieth century. * My students often ask if I believe in God, since I espouse evolution, the Big Bang, Science, reject a strictly biblical or creationist theory of the Universe. I tell them that yes, I believe in God, though not the God that they imagine one must believe in. * When questioned regarding the rumor that, before his death, founder of quantum mechanics Max Planck had converted to Catholicism, he replied that he did not believe “in a personal God, let alone a Christian God.” * Physicist and Catholic priest George Lemaître, who formulated the theory and wrote the 1946 book The Primeval Atom Hypothesis , was made a household name by then-detractor Fred Hoyle, who pejoratively referred to the idea as a “Big Bang.” * Suicide is a mortal sin. To end one’s own life one must have despair, which is to lose hope, which is to lose faith, and to disbelieve in God. * Archaeology has uncovered graffiti in all of California’s missions—Indian pictographs inscribed into the adobe, covered with layers of whitewash. Native deities and depictions of cultural practices show that tribespeople never fully gave up their native traditions even after baptism and coming to the missions. There was something inside Native Californians that would never die. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:XY/XOLianne SimonAs a boy child I might once have thrived, but the loss of a Y chromosome in one of the first few cell divisions left me a faie half–girl struggling for life—like some changeling left in place of a human baby. My genetic mosaic of XY and XO cell lines created a fetal legacy of Turner Syndrome medical issues. Among these were delayed growth, a largely absent puberty, (...) and micrognathia—a small jaw that feminized my face. [End Page E11]At two I weighed just eighteen pounds. My parents worried they might lose their little boy, I was that frail. All I knew was I was the smallest of my peer group and had a cute pixie face. I imagined myself a high–spirited elfin princess, but was in truth shy—almost timid—and prone to tears.I first responded to the Gospel at vacation Bible school. One of the women there read me Bible stories. I didn’t understand them all, but I wanted to love Jesus and be a good girl.At nine I was the size of a 6–year–old. By then I’d started growing faster, so my mother stopped taking me to the doctors. I didn’t see one again until an emergency appendectomy in college.Fifth grade brought surprises. Jim melted my heart with his Beatles love songs and cute smile. I dreamed of being his bride. Karen was the first classmate ever shorter than me. We were best friends, but one day the principal said I should play softball with the boys instead of hopscotch with her.My parents allowed me dolls and tea sets, even an Easy–Bake oven. But wearing my sister’s clothes triggered a sad–eyed lecture—boys didn’t do such things. No dresses. No talking with my hands. No long hair. And no crushes on boys.If I prayed hard enough, if I was really good, maybe God would make me a real boy—tall and strong, fast and agile—like my older brother. Two years later, puberty cracked my high–pitched squeal of a voice and sent it sliding down to a mellower soprano. I grew taller, but didn’t get muscles or body hair, and I remained hopelessly uncoordinated. An inguinal hernia kept me from running very far.High school turned my prayers into pleas for mercy. I despaired of ever fitting in. Some Christians might not have welcomed a feminine boy, but the pastor of our Southern Baptist mission considered me one more sinner in need of the saving grace of a forgiving God. He led me to faith in Christ. As a new believer, I assumed I could be a boy for real. Maybe even find a girlfriend. Instead, the mask that allowed me to function socially crumbled, leaving me no place to hide.In the spring of 1970, I registered for the draft. Me fighting in Vietnam seemed a real possibility. Or at least spending time in prison for refusing induction. Except that a delicate intersex kid would never have passed the physical. Nearly perfect SAT scores won me a scholarship to Miami, so I left a supportive home in Illinois for a boys’ dorm in south Florida.My surname then was Klett. The worst of the guys called me Clit, or sometimes Clitoris. Others derided my small size and lack of virility. One propositioned me. Another used to pin me to my bed and lie on top of me until I quit struggling. Though he stopped each time I surrendered, my defenses lay in ruin.A few of the boys were nice. David took me for long rides on his motorcycle, with my arms wrapped tight around his waist. He treated me with gentle kindness and asked nothing in return.To escape the dorm, I studied in the library stacks, where only honors and graduate students were allowed. The next year I found a derelict building where the university stored old theatrical sets. It even had a quiet place to sit in the sun. Best of all—nobody ever went there.One day my imagination wandered through the wardrobe. What would I have worn... (shrink)

This article suggests a new approach to understanding the self-formation of subjectivity in the work of Michel Foucault that emphasizes the influence of his mentor, the philosopher and historian of science Georges Canguilhem. I argue that Foucault adapts Canguilhem’s biological–epistemological notion of ‘error’ in order to achieve two things: to provide a notion of subjective self-formation compatible with the claims of his ‘archaeology of knowledge’ and ‘genealogy of power’, and to provide an alternative to the phenomenological theory of the subject. (...) The notion of ‘error’ accomplishes these goals because it posits that experience is the result of knowledge, not vice versa. To illustrate the notion of ‘erroneous’ subjectivity, I turn to two volumes edited by Foucault: I, Pierre Rivière, having slaughtered my mother, my sister and my brother… and Herculine Barbin; Being the Recently Discovered Memoirs of a Nineteenth- Century French Hermaphrodite. Both juxtapose ‘subjective’ accounts of ‘abnormal’ individuals with ‘objective’ documents written by judges, psychiatrists and medical professionals in order to show how ‘erroneous subjectivities’ may transgress epistemological limits and form new concepts. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Secret Inside MeDiana GarciaGrowing up, our Chicano household was loud and boisterous. There were eight of us in one small house with one small bathroom. All five of us girls shared one bedroom so there was not much privacy, if any. Watching my sisters go through their puberty was isolating—I was never on the receiving end of the secret whispers and knowing looks I saw my mother (...) exchange with my sisters when they started menstruating. It made me feel “different” and excluded from that mother–daughter connection. My only comfort was that my sister, who was one year younger, had not started her period either, and we shared our fears that we were different from our other sisters.In 1979, when I was a senior in high school, I approached my mother and assertively told her that I had made the decision to seek out a doctor as soon as I turned eighteen years old because I felt I needed to get answers for myself and my sister. I was positive that something was not right. From the time I was about twelve years old, I would question my mom about why I hadn’t started my period. She always shooed me away saying that I was a late bloomer and that every girl starts at different ages, some at nine, some at fourteen years old. However, I always knew something was not right. I just knew.My mother was annoyed, but she said, “Alright mija, I’ve just been worried because you are a virgin and I don’t think I want anyone probing you down there.”I remember telling her something like, “Mom, at this point, if that is what needs to happen for me to find out, then so be it. But can you come with me to the doctor? Please?” [End Page 92]She said, “I know; I’m worried, too and yes, I’ll go with you.” My mom and I hugged, and I could feel the worry and tension in our hug. I was not sure if it was coming from me or her.The day of my gynecology appointment finally came. I had been looking forward to it for so long. This was my first experience as an adult other than having that grownup feeling the day I graduated from high school. The nurse told me to undress and to put on the paper gown and then left the room. I told my mother to stay sitting in her chair, that I did not want her to leave me for a second. The young doctor entered the room and introduced himself to us and asked me to sit on the examining table as he asked, “So, what is the reason for this visit?” I told him, “I want to know why I haven’t started my period. I feel like something is very wrong with me.”He had me lay back and put my feet in the stirrups, instructing me to relax. I reached my hand out to my mother and she stood and came by my side and held my hand tightly.He squeezed some gel on his gloved hand and again asked me to relax and to just let my knees drop back. His fingers with the cold gel probed and after a few seconds of probing he looked up and said,“What the heck?! There’s no cervix?”My mother and I looked at each other in confusion and then he said, “There’s nothing!”He then stood up and said, “Please get dressed and the nurse will show you to my office.” He exited the room, leaving us to look at each other with tears in our eyes, stunned at his outbursts.I will never forget his reaction or his words.A sympathetic nurse led us into the doctor’s office and we sat down.He looked at me and said, “You need to have surgery immediately or you will die of cancer.”I turned to look at my mother and we both started tearing up. I asked, “Why? What do you mean? I have cancer?”He said, “No you don’t. Not right now... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Journal of Aesthetic Education 37.2 (2003) 80-98 [Access article in PDF] Musical Spirituality:Reflections on Identity and the Ethics of Embodied Aesthetic Experience in/and the Academy Deanne Bogdan Music in/and My Life Several years ago, I attended a Pontifical High Mass at St. Stephen's Cathedral in Vienna. It was the feast of the Epiphany, a public holiday in the predominantly Roman Catholic country of Austria. 1 A "lapsed" Catholic (...) myself, my intention as part of the congregation that day was not primarily one of worship as it was to listen to a performance of the Pauckenmesse of Joseph Haydn, complete with soloists, full choir, and orchestra (in overcoats), including, of course, timpani.As I stepped from the brilliant winter morning into the narthex of that gothic splendor, the pungency of the incense propelled me into Proustian recollections of growing up female, Catholic, and Italian-Canadian in the cathedral parish in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada's steel town. My mother and father, first generation Italian-Canadians, whose own parents had emigrated as teen-agers, had been partners in a corner grocery located in another part of the city that was largely professional and white-Anglo-Saxon Protestant. Eager to assimilate (they never spoke Italian to my sister or me, and we never learned the language), my parents realized early on that their most valuable legacy to their two daughters would be the advantages of a solid education, religious and secular. For them that meant enrolling us in the local co-educational Catholic elementary school. Later we attended a convent secondary school as day students, and were the only members of our extended family, male or female, to attend university.It was memories of those elementary school years that were conjured up for me that crisp January morning at St. Stephen's. (In hindsight, I am struck by the synchronicity 2 of the fact that my original surname is Di Stefano, or rather "Distefan," as it had become in its anglicized form). 3 For a [End Page 80] whole complex of reasons, I identified strongly with my parochial school and the church that sheltered/shadowed it — a soaring pseudo-gothic structure reputed to have been replicated, stone by stone, wood carving by hand wood carving, from some European cathedral. The romance of that basilica — The Cathedral of Christ the King — its "daughter" school, and the priests and nuns who were our guides and teachers became my second family for the whole of my grade school education. For me, being at school was like a recognition scene. As Italian-American literary theorist Marianna de Marco Torgovnick writes: When I was a child, school was...a light-filled, wide awake world in which fear did not erupt except on rare occasions. I saw school as a place where I was valued for my intelligence, even though I was female — and this probably had something to do with my absence of fear there. I quite naturally chose to stay in school through college and into graduate school. It's in these relatively late years that I first became fully conscious of how even within the world of school I was and always would be female. 4My identification with my church/school centered around my musical development, which began at age four when the piano I grew up on arrived like a beacon in our home. Coterminous with my eager entry into first grade, piano lessons were begun with Sister Cecile, a somewhat nervous, gentle nun predisposed to mystical experience, who shepherded me through exams and recitals until high school. Because I could sight-read fairly well, I was regularly pulled out of class to accompany soloists and dancing groups rehearsing for annual Christmas and St. Patrick's Day concerts. Something about this made me feel special; I both reveled in and felt isolated by my difference from my classmates. I had found a sense of community through my music, and enjoyed a feeling of security in the knowledge that my schoolwork was strong enough... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Buddhist Resources for Womanist ReflectionMelanie L. HarrisA Buddhist understanding of unconditional love in dialogue with Christian social ethics addresses the utter disappointment in humanity when racism is exposed. This focus offers us yet another way into the dialogue of engaged Buddhism and Christian liberation theologies, and directly points to Buddhism as a resource for thinking about and healing from racism and other forms of oppression. My presentation today is (...) descriptive in nature, and as a Womanist scholar, I will lean toward the constructive—but I will leave room for our collective and communal discussion to help show us the signs of what a new vision of justice might look like as we learn to live together on planet Earth.womanist theology and the hard work of loveMuch of my work as a Womanist scholar and much of the field grounds itself inside of the nitty-gritty wrestling moments with Christian norms and concepts that disregard analysis that honors the complex subjectivities of women, including issues of race, class, gender, and sexual justice. Taking the call for social justice and the everyday lives and experiences of African and African American women seriously, Womanist theology and ethics are in fact forms of liberation theology. What makes Womanist perspectives unique is that they challenge Christian thought and all religious thinking to more fully engage the principles of love and justice. In the case of Christianity, Womanist scholars demand that those walking in the faith “practice what they preach” and respond to some of the following questions:• How are women of color treated in your religious tradition? Is gender equity normative in your tradition?• What is life-affirming in your religious tradition that honors the unique theological perspectives and voices of women of color?• How are women’s bodies honored, their sexualities spoken about, and their bodily choices and reproductive rights discussed?• How are women of color’s racial and ethnic identities and complex subjectivities honored by or embody the “touch of Jesus” or the “healing gaze of the Buddha” or the “prayers of Muhammad” or “the breath of Krishna”?• What are women of color’s unique perspectives on Earth justice? [End Page 107]• Finally, how are the stories of women of color whose bodies have been historically ravaged by rape and violence finding solidarity with stories of environmental degradation in which the sister/mother body of Earth suffers similar disembodiment and oppression?Looking into the hearts of Christian, Buddhist, and other religious perspectives and traditions Womanism offers a lens through which to examine understandings of God and the divine differently. It honors the perspectives of women of color, whose voices have been historically marginalized in normative religious thought and who have often experienced being dehumanized in society. In spite of this, many women who identify with the term “Womanist” have found faith, religious value, and restoration through an emphasis on divine embodiment, self-worth, and self-love.Over the course of the first and second waves of Womanism, scholars have raised important questions of how communal love points toward a moral imperative for Earth justice. However, more recently, third-wave Womanist activists and scholars are focusing on Earth justice and other social justice issues from a religiously pluralistic perspective. Third-wave Womanist scholars like myself have taken the term beyond the halls of Union “into the streets” as activists, have witnessed Womanist ideas transformed into political activism, and have experienced Womanist solidarity with women across various global contexts. Many of us are returning “home” to the conversation wiser and are more courageous than ever before and expanding the discourse by engaging religious pluralism, interfaith dialogue, and interreligious realities in hopes of finding new ways to confront multilayered oppressions.1buddhist resources for womanist reflectionIn 2009, Charles Hallisey of Harvard Divinity School and I received a grant from the Center for the Study of World Religions at Harvard to do something imaginative and creative. We invited several renowned Womanist and Buddhist scholars to Harvard to read Buddhist texts together in community and discuss whether there was anything inherent in both traditions that would expand Buddhist studies and broaden inter-religious dialogue in Womanist thought.There were some theoretical challenges and... (shrink)