Well, maybe I won't take the road to Heaven, then. Maybe I'll just take the elevator...

[This is closely related to my previous entry, so maybe reading it before this one would be a good idea, though it is not strictly required to understand my points.]

After talking to my husband and a classmate (two fellow atheists), I have come to the conclusion that my views on being a good person are highly influenced by the Catholic church. 

I don't want to make this a personal blog (there already is one for that, and I call it a journal), so I will briefly explain where I'm coming from with the Catholic reference: I was born in a religiously apathetic family, but of Catholic background, I was never taught anything religion related at home, but I did go to a Catholic elementary school, and I believe my education occurred 60% at home and 40% at school. (I won't claim that's the case for everyone.)

I wasn't forced by anyone in my family to take my first communion (in fact, they didn't even bring it up), but I was encouraged to do it at school. And though in that particular school, it happened to be optional, I decided to go through with it.

Enough about me now. Moving on to the actual topic in question: are feelings or actions what makes us good or bad?

Well, my basic thought on being a good or a bad person is "you are what you feel" rather than "you are what you do". But why? Why do I think feelings are what makes us good or bad, when it's actions that have an influence in others? Well, here's where religion comes to participate.

I had mean classmates in elementary school, and my mom (who was brought up by a very Catholic family, but wasn't particularly Catholic herself) always taught me that I needed to be a good person and not have bad feelings about them. I was told I needed to always have good feelings, so if someone hurt me, I wasn't supposed to hurt them back, if someone did rude things to me, I should always wish them good, because it wasn't my place on Earth to return the bad that was done to me, God would eventually decide who was good and who was bad, and those people weren't worth having bad feelings about. 

I think that is an excellent approach (and I will probably use it some day if I ever have kids of my own, of course, though, I'll leave God out of it) but I think maybe I did take it a bit too seriously. I started to think that if a bad person put bad feelings in my mind, then I was becoming a bad person myself, by even having those feelings, and then God wouldn't be happy with me, because he knew what we all felt at all times, so He wanted me to not have bad feelings, and to always stay good.

I actually removed the God parts cause I don't even believe that the concept of a God as humanity knows it is remotely possible, but I did stick with the whole "always have good feelings", and even today, what hurts me most about people doing 'bad' things to me is that they put bad feelings in my mind, thereby, making me a bad person.

My husband told me, after reading what I'd written about feelings in my previous entry, that, based on my high standards, everybody must be a bad person, because there isn't and hasn't ever been one person in the entire history of humanity who has never, not once in their life, been invaded by bad feelings. 

He then urged me to come up with a name, "name someone who's never had a bad feeling in their entire life" and then he said "Jesus doesn't count, cause he's a mythical creature". Well, I wasn't going to say Jesus, because I know he's a mythical creature and my husband had asked about real people, also because even if Jesus had existed, I would not have a way to know what his feelings really were. But the thought did occur to me, the thought that the one person I'd been taught had nothing but goodness in his soul was Jesus. That disappointed me, because it made me wonder: have I been basing my entire concept of good vs evil on a mythical creature? Have I let religion influence me more than I thought? Truth is, if I have been expecting to be like an unrealistic fictional character who was supposed to be more divine than all of us anyway, then maybe I have been too hard on myself all this time...

With my classmate, the conversation went in a different direction. He said if you have bad feelings but good actions, then you're twice as good, because you're having to go against your feelings to act good, and that requires a lot more effort than to just be good cause you feel it that way. He separated the whole process in three (as opposed to my simplistic two) stances: desire, intention, and result. Where the nature of the desire does not make someone completely good or completely bad, as that part of the process is beyond our control. The result also shouldn't determine a person's goodness, because, again, results are unpredictable and uncontrollable, to some degree. It is the intention that makes you good or bad. To put this into perspective, I'll just use the example he used: you can feel envy because someone else is doing better than you in school, but you don't intend to hurt that person, because you are actually good and you don't really want to act on your envy, then comes the action, you recommend a book for them to study from (in good heart) and it turns out that confuses them more and they fail the test. Are you a bad person for feeling the envy? Are you a good person for actually recommending a book you thought would help them? Or are you a bad person because the book turned out to hurt them? Well... It is clear to me that he made an excellent point, and that, as well as everything I later discussed with my husband, made me rethink the entire concept I had, which was based solely on irrationalities (and by that, I mean religion).

Even with how much sense those arguments made in my head, I am still having a hard time breaking up with the idea that feelings are all that matters, I still have it deep within me that having bad feelings automatically makes you a bad person...

I was told by one of my religion teachers that the best time to die is either immediately after a confession or during prayer, because that is when all your bad feelings are forgiven by God and removed from your mind/soul. There are very few religious concepts that stuck with me from my school years, this was one of them.

I actually believe in the power of confession, I mean I think confession is a very cool concept, even without the God part.

In fact, I still practice confession to some degree. Even though I haven't done it with a priest since I was about eleven years old, I confess whenever I have bad feelings, generally it is to my husband, sometimes it is just to myself, in the form of writing.

By confessing I feel I get all my bad feelings out of my mind, and I can go back to a clean start. There's no absolution needed, though, because I don't believe in sin, and I don't believe in the religious power of priests; but there is the forgiveness. When I confess, I find it much easier to see that my bad feelings were not so bad to begin with, and to forgive myself for feeling them at all...

So, I guess the point of this entry is, after talking to people who showed me different insight in the matter, I have realized just how influenced by religion I have been regarding the "good vs evil" concept, and just how irrational and hard on people it is for anyone to believe that bad feelings are all it takes to makes us bad, considering it is virtually impossible to always have good feelings about everyone; after all, there's always someone who brings out the worst in us.

The road to Heaven is paved with lies...

Just how much truth is too much truth?

After watching last Monday's House MD episode, "The Social Contract", I got to thinking about life and truth and lies and social contracts...

I'm not going to spoil the episode (I'm only going to suggest people to watch it), but I am going to try to come up with an answer to the eternal question: just how honest is too honest?

I consider myself an honest person, as honest as one can be, actually. 

For one, I don't out right lie, I don't say I think your shoes are pretty if I think they're ugly, maybe, though I could think they're pretty one day, and a year later I could change my mind and think they're rather ugly, can't say it hasn't happened, but that's changing my opinions, evolving, growing, if I were consistent throughout my entire life, there would be no growth and that is actually quite a depressing thought.

But as far as honesty goes, as far as saying everything that is in your head, I just don't think that's possible, I don't think society is ready for that yet. I sure do it with my husband (in fact, I fell in love with him because he not only put up with my brutal honesty, but he was also very appreciative of it), but it seems like the more you are open about your feelings, the more people are likely to shut you down and consider you someone they do not want to be around.

The question is, though, how much of that 'not saying what's in your mind' is actually lying, and how much of it is just part of the social contract?

See, I think you're lying if you say something you know isn't true, but sometimes, the social contract forces you to shut up about things that are actually true. Is hiding the truth a form of lying? Not at all. Sometimes you just shouldn't tell your wife you think she's not the brightest bulb in the box, or sometimes you shouldn't tell your daughter that you think she's less smart than average (I know I said I wouldn't spoil it, and I hope that's not more than you were willing to know about the episode), and maybe you do think it, but you're not saying it, because you know it isn't correct, because you know nothing good will come out of it. But which is it that makes you a horrible person: feeling it or acting up on it? 

Well, a part of me wants to believe there are no bad people, but that just ain't so, so let's just go on the basis that some people are good people, and some people, well, they're not.

There's someone who repeatedly tells me "Everybody has had bad feelings, that doesn't make them a bad person", well, really? Are we not bad people if we have bad feelings? Are we better people if we do

 feel those things, but just censor them, just keep them in deep enough that they don't come out and make us act on them? I don't think so.

I think what makes you a good person is not whether you say those things or not, it's whether you feel them or not. What comes out of your mouth is completely irrelevant compared to what is in your heart. 

What's the use in doing good actions, if they're based off of bad feelings? What's good about a person who feels envy, desires revenge, wishes bad onto others, but then doesn't do anything that will reveal they feel that way? Would they be good just cause they're good at hiding just how bad they really are?

No, in my opinion, you're good if you're good inside, and you're bad if you're bad inside. It's easy as math. Sometimes good intentions hurt others, sometimes good feelings have bad consequences, that doesn't make a good person bad, so why should it go the other way around? 

I know we have no way of knowing other people's feelings, all we can base ourselves on is their actions, but actions are controlled by the mind, feelings are not. Actions can be dishonest, feelings can't. So the answer to my question about whether it is feeling a certain way or saying it that makes you a bad person is a very easy one: with or without the social contract, with or without the control of our mind over our words, we can be good or we can be bad, so why bother shutting up?

Society forces people to censor themselves. Would the world be better if we all had frontal lobe damage? Yes, I absolutely believe it would be better, so let's all grab hammers and start banging each other in the forehead with them...  

Βut please don't burn Victoria's Secret bras, they're too cute!

This is an entry about feminism.

I don't have the English version for it, yet. But, if you're feeling bold, you can read the Spanish one in the meantime!

Oh the holy lies of Christmas

Have I always been a cynic? I guess. I don't know if you actually become a cynic or if you're born one, but by the time I was, say, seven, I was already a little bit cynical and learning "the truth about Santa" didn't help.

Before I start my story about Santa I'm going to make a brief summary of what a typical Christmas was like in my household: we're in Argentina, so it's summer in December here. Unlike what some people think, we don't change the date of Christmas so it'll fit the right weather, we just have a hot Christmas. It's not really that big of a deal, it can be quite fun if you make it work. Because it is so hot at that time of the year, we celebrate Christmas Eve more than the actual Christmas day. We have a late dinner (that is around 10 pm) and we wait up until midnight, which is when we open presents, then we have a toast and stay up pretty much all night and on the 25th we just get together to eat leftovers and have a pool day. It's definitely different, but it's not bad, it's certainly traditional for us and as shocking as it may seem to some of you. No, we don't miss a white Christmas, since we've never had one around here.

My family consists of my mom, dad, and two older sisters. When we went to my grandma's house on Christmas Eve, though, we'd share the holiday with my grandma, who was a widow, my single aunt who lived with her, my married aunt, her husband, and her two kids. The youngest one of the two is five years older than me, so I was left far behind when it comes to adult stuff.

We would usually go there early and help out with the last dinner details. On Christmas Eve (unlike every other celebration) we would have dinner in the kitchen. That was odd to me because the dining room was where the fancy eating took place, and my grandma made sure that every celebration was a good one, but the Christmas tree was in the dining room, so we would eat in the kitchen because we didn't want to scare Santa away.

Dinner went by with a lot of heated political arguments, some boring anecdotes from before I was born and the usual "airing the dirty laundry" my aunts did when they had a drink too many. I got bored. I was a kid, the only kid around, and there really wasn't much going on that would entertain me... 

Around midnight (normally 15 minutes prior) my (married) aunt would pretend like she was sick to her stomach (let's just say she would not have won an Oscar with her performance) and go "lay down" in the bedroom next to the dining room (the layout of the house is really strange because it's an old Italian house and, well, it's odd, let's leave it at that). A little bit after my aunt went to bed, my oldest cousin would go check up on her, only to come back with the shocking news that he had seen Santa fly away. He would then hold my hand and slowly walk me to the dining room (quite a long walk), while we talked about whether we thought he'd brought presents, because he (my cousin) hadn't seen any. There were always presents. I was lucky that way, I know, and I shouldn't be complaining about their lies, I should be thanking them for giving me beautiful Christmases, but if there's anything that hurts me it's being lied to, I can take anything but a lie, so I'm particularly sensitive about this topic.

After we opened the presents, every one of my relatives would ask me which present I liked more, "do you like this new doll?" my single aunt would ask "is it the one you wanted?", it always was, my single aunt always got me exactly what I wanted. "What do you think about this awesome book?" my married aunt wanted to know, she always got me educational presents, and I always thought that education should only happen in schools, and that Santa should worry about entertaining me, not so much about educating me, since, to the best of my knowledge, he was no teacher.

The Christmas when I was seven, or maybe I was six, I don't remember exactly but it's irrelevant, I got a red-bottomed doll who peed when fed, it was exactly what I wanted, I had been asking for that doll pretty much since May, and my single aunt, who always knew exactly what I wanted, had gotten it for me. (I should also point out that I am antisocial from birth, so when we had big celebrations, I would spend a few minutes on my own, just to calm down, because crowds make me uncomfortable.) I was playing alone with my doll, trying to make her pee that is, in a bedroom away from everything, with the doors closed (that bedroom had three doors, weird house I tell you), and it all came to me, it was revealed to me as if I had had some sort of divine epiphany: "there is no Santa". Mine was a particularly easy puzzle to solve, and I felt stupid for having taken seven whole years to figure it out. I felt cheated, underestimated, I felt lied to, used, I felt people had been playing with me for their benefit, as if all this time I had been the family clown that everybody mocked for giggles.

I didn't share my newfound secret with anybody, I kept it to myself and pretended like I was still that innocent (or, as I viewed it, stupid) little girl who believed in the magic of a fat man from the North who brought presents to kids who behaved. As time went by I told my parents and sisters, but for some reason (they probably forgot, since it's not really a big deal for adults) they failed to tell the rest of the family, much to my benefit.

Two more Christmases went by and I had the chance to turn the tables, I had the chance to be the one laughing at them for a change. They knew Santa wasn't real, they knew they were faking the whole thing, but they didn't know I knew, and I seized my opportunity to be the one deceiving them this time.

With a little bit of cynicism (back before I even knew the word) and a lot of pain inside, I pretended like I still believed, and watched them play their little games. I sat through the political discussions, through the boring anecdotes that never involved me (because the person who told them didn't particularly care to include me in her life, I was too young to matter), through the same dirty laundry as every other Christmas, through the stomachache and through the long walk to the tree, only this time I knew, this time the joke was on them, this time it was I who laughed at their expense. 

Only, of course, I didn't laugh, because it's like peroxide in a wound, it's cool to watch the blood foam, but it hurts like hell. Well I watched it foam time and time again, I watched that slug twist and turn with the salt on its belly, I watched it die slowly and painfully, and I rejoiced in seeing them trick themselves trying to trick me. It was sadistic and mean and I don't know why I did it, but I did, I guess I just wanted a little bit more pain, because knowing I was surrounded by liars wasn't enough, I guess.

I must say though, this doesn't include my dad, mom or any of my two sisters, they never really bought into the whole Christmas fiction, and they usually complained about this, so, even though I was hurt by the fact that not one of them told me the truth before I made a fool of myself in front of the entire family, I didn't intend to trick them into making me believe when I already didn't, I told them well in advance and I don't think they were a part of it.

For two Christmases I kept that up. In 1993 my niece had already been born, and since she was too young to understand, and since my mom had told them a million times that "Ceci hasn't believed in Santa for a long time", someone came up with the idea of mixing it up a bit and doing a scavenger hunt instead of the usual "Santa's here!" crap. It worked, it helped me change my view on Christmas, and it became a strong tradition in the family, so I have my niece to thank for that. If that condom hadn't broken, I would probably hate Christmas and think of it as the time people lie to each other, instead of what I think now, that Christmas is the time people share their love despite it all, the time when people forget about their turbulent past to experience beautiful traditions and celebrate that one more year has gone by and we're still friends...

Well it's safe to say I won't be telling my kids about Santa... (Will I even have kids? Who knows... Some days I want to have two of my own and adopt two more, some days I want to never have any, because the world is crowded enough as it is and I'd make a horrible mother anyway). Truth is, if I ever do have children (whether I decide to or it just happens), they will know there's a traditional character named Santa who brings presents to kids, but they will also know that he doesn't exist, because I now know parents don't lie to their kids so they can make fun of their innocence, they do it because they want their kids to believe in something, they want to see the glow in their eyes when they see the presents under the tree, but I just don't think all the glow in the world can make up for the disappointment in their eyes when they find out the truth. Well, that and I'm a horrible liar.

"And through this having and giving and sharing and receiving, we too can share and love and have... and receive."

If I had been asked ten years ago what I thought about marriage, the answer would have probably been a bit pessimistic. Actually I never thought that I would be one of those people who get married, even less so one of those who marry young, but life throws curveballs, and the things that happen to us sometimes can be surprising.

Almost twenty years ago, at my friend's house, I played this sort of role playing game which we called "The Town". In "The Town" every one of us had a specific role, a family, a job and a group of friends. I was the single mom whose daughter's Kindergarten teacher always needed to call because she would forget to pick her up. I was an actress, or a businesswoman, or I had a beauty salon or an exclusive fashion store with my own designs. I was the self-sufficient woman who didn't need anything or anyone, and who cared more about herself than her daughter. It is ironic that I still believe, in some strange way, that I am that person, that person who is dettached from her emotions, who doesn't need more than her own company, who does not know loneliness and who does not know love (although it is very evident that I do need people's affection).

The difference between adulthood and childish games is that adults don't choose who they are, what life they have, whether they're going to fall in love or with whom. That is how I ended up not being the actress or fashion designer who is single and independent, with an apartment in downtown Buenos Aires and a mini cooper, or the cold lawyer or businesswoman who does not need friends because she has employees.

I was so convinced that I would never be able to have a long lasting romantic relationship that even today I feel the need to explain, or justify why Mike deals with me, or why I got married at such young age, or why my marriage isn't like any other, or even why my marriage hasn't failed yet.

My marriage isn't like any other mainly because it is a happy marriage even after five years. Because Mike and I are friends more than anything, because we both know that without speaking, without telling each other everything that goes on, our relationship couldn't survive.

Five years ago we married at the County Clerk's office, without guests and almost without photos (I'd actually prefer to say without photos so I wouldn't have to show them), without rings, a white dress, a bouquet or a veil, without something borrowed or something blue, and, above all, we married without really wanting to. Well, I can't speak for him, I don't know how much he wanted to marry, but I married not wanting to. I do not need a paper to accredit my relationship, I don't need society to validate our love, I don't need to promise anyone that I will love him until death do us part (a promise which, by the way, I don't even know if I will be able to keep), or that I am going to take care of him if gets sick, those things are mine and Mike's, they don't belong to a judge or a priest or a person who judges me without knowing me.

But not believing in marriage does not make my marriage a failure, it does not make my relationship fake, nor the love between us nonexistent, and, above all, it does not make me an unhappy or frustrated woman because I couldn't (or didn't want to) be that cold and self-sufficient businesswoman. Not believing in marriage, or in fairy tale love, only makes me work day by day for my happiness, and for the success of my relationship, it makes me see that love isn't something that, once you find it, lasts forever under the magic of having made a sacred promise, but as the result of mutual effort, of a constant struggle to outdo ourselves to always give the best of us, of giving and taking in a shared life, and of knowing that not everything is like one wants, dreams, or imagines it will be, and that it is easier to change that with which you dream than changing the world so it'll adapt to those dreams.

My relationship isn't successful because it's a legal marriage, or because I found my knight in shining armor who gives me everything I've always wanted. My relationship is successful because my partner and I want it to be, and because we both know that for that to happen we have to constantly work and go through moments that can be more or less painful, more or less gratifying, more or less tedious, and more or less memorable. But after all, that is what marriage is all about. Not like maybe I thought ten or fifteen years ago, about swearing eternal love and dealing with the consecuences, but about sharing life, about sharing all those things that life has that make us go "holy shit!"

In the end, the only thing I can certainly say after five years of marriage is that I don't know what opinion I will have of marriage five, ten or fifteen years from now, when today is as far back in my memory as the days I played "The Town" or like that cold Saturday in December when Mike asked me to interrupt the unpleasant cleaning of the oven with ammonia to kneel down in front of me and invite me to (legally) join him in the daily struggle to make life more pleasant and worth living, to which I laughed and responded "you were supposed to propose before I made an appointment at the city hall"... Well, after all it is possible that the independent, cold and rational woman is still living in me somewhere.