How Greta Answers Stupid Questions

Everything about the village was wild—wind that pierced through woolen clothing, the harsh sun that scorched skin, mountains arching their jagged backs, the roads and roads that went to nowhere and more nowhere beyond that.

Metal gates divided the mud building from the dirt street outside. The compound had a dirt yard, hand-dug well and small garden.

Tibetan children--cracked, red cheeks, wide smiles, dark hair, fierce eyes--ran towards the white men as they began calling towards the house. 

Two women, dressed in Tibetan clothing, came out of the house to meet the guests as well. They, too, were wild, hard, lean…but white. Blue eyes, not black. The older, Greta, had white hair around her temple that blended into the auburn. She spoke with authority, using simple, unexaggerated words.

     “This is the orphanage,” her voice was quite, deep. “Most of the children have been here for over a year.”

The four American men walked close together, taking pictures of the building, children, compound. They had heard of this orphanage during a visit to a nearby factory, and were here to see the children.

After showing them the kitchen, laundry room and bedrooms, Greta led them to the classrooms. Seven wooden desks, a cracked blackboard and a cupful of pencils.

Anna motioned for the men to come outside, where a dented wooden table had been set with yak butter tea and peanuts. 

Greta then told the four men how she and Anna were sisters from Germany. They had moved to this village to start an orphanage after hearing a Tibetan pastor speak in their church.

As she spoke, it became obvious that life in this unforgiving valley was hard, often cruel.
Villagers were suspicious of the white women.

Winters were long, bitter.

Little electricity.

Most food came from whatever they could grow.

Paper for lessons was used and reused.  

The nearest city was three days by horseback.

But they stayed, taught and took in each child. Only yesterday one of the younger ones had asked to be baptized.

Greta finished her story and sat with her hands folded. A moment passed before one of the men cleared his throat and asked, “Where are the leaders?”

Confused, Greta wrinkled her forehead, tilting her face towards him.

     “My sister and I run the house. We teach, cook, clean—“

     “I know,” he interrupted. “But where are the leaders? Where are the men? You need men.”
Anna, who had been standing next to her sister, stiffened.

Greta leaned forward, hands still folded. She did not smile.

     “You want men? You lead,” she stared, unblinking at the man. “If you give up your life, move here and live here, I will follow you. Want to see men leading? Then you do it.”

The Not-So-Weaker Sex

Make no mistake--this is power.

Being a feminist and being feminine can be the same thing. Women can wear makeup and bras without automatically assuming a position of inferiority to our counter genders or crushing our differentiating looks, physical makeup or abilities in order to be taken seriously.

Men who require women to act like men in order to earn respect are of the lowest intelligence and possess the highest insecurity in their own sexuality.

What makes me different also makes me independent and fierce.

Because I have the ability to literally grow a human inside of me, I am not a lesser person but one of incredible power.
At most, men can stand by helplessly, set to forever wonder what it feels like to have a hand, a kick, a footprint, a summersault, hiccup and sneeze exploding from within.

Weaker sex? Please.
I am only a weak feminist if I think what separates me from a man makes me weak.

What separates women from men makes them strong, independent and oh, so fierce. 

Human rights and women’s rights are synonymous. Therefore, a true feminist realizes that she may celebrate her femininity, should she choose to do so, without compromising her power as a human or her rights as an individual.

“I, myself, have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is. I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a door mat or a prostitute.” – Rebecca West

How I Became Shark Bait

In college I convinced no fewer than four girls that I had been bitten by a shark. Maybe it had to do with them all being blond, or maybe they had never seen someone with a 13 inch scar that ran across her belly.
     "Oh my God!" Blond Girl would say. "What happened to your stomach?!"
From the intonation of horror, one might assume I had an alien bulging from my belly-button.

When the first girl asked, I facetiously said "Oh, shark bite" thinking she would understand the absurdity and laugh with me. But she didn't. She really thought I had been bitten by a shark.

 So, using a combination of information gathered during the Discovery Channel's "Shark Week" and my impeccable lying technique, I wove a story too real not to believe and too lucrative to take seriously.

     "I was boarding when it came up behind me and bit me," I whispered, trying to sound emotional. "It was a bull shark...which are the meanest." (Shark Week Fact)
     "So, like, were you legs inside the shark's stomach?" Blond Girl's voice was breathy with empathy.
     "Oh,  yeah, it was terrifying. I just remember trying to punch it's nose or eyes."  I lifted up my shirt and her eyes grew round. "You know how most people get attacked in three feet of water?" (Shark Week Fact)
     "Yeah," she moved closer.
     "Well, it's true. That water wasn't deep so my dad ran in and hit the shark. It let go. Bit my board in half though."
     "You are soooo lucky to be alive."
     "Yeah. I had cut my finger on some coral earlier and didn't think much of it, but the doctor said they can smell a single drop of blood in over 10,000 gallons of water." (Shark Week Fact...I think.)
The Blond by now was shaking and nodding her head in absolute agreement. I could have told her the shark had two legs and she would have believed me.
     "Do you have scars on your back?" She asked. "It bit you leg first, right?"
     "Yeah," I pulled down my shirt. "I've had to have over seventeen plastic surgeries, and they still haven't fixed the start on my stomach. The only thing that really saved my back was that my board got in the way. I could have been paralyzed."
I felt sure that she would question why I was swimming under my surfboard or how someone could survive being bitten in half by a freaking bull shark. But she didn't.

She later called her mother and recounted my horrific tale of nautical terror.

The real story of my scar involves no sharks, surf boards or devious coral. The thing stretches from (literally) one side of my stomach to the other, arching upward towards my ribcage like weird, white snake stretching in the sun. It looks like a frown, especially when I wear a sports bra to go running.

I'm probably the only person in the world who gets blackheads on her belly.

Let me backtrack.

I am probably the only person in the world who gets blackheads on her belly because the massive scar on her stomach has pulled her skin into a thin, papery canvas that is perfect for catching dirt.

But it's my ebenezer, the reason I still breath in and out each day. Looking down at my mottled non-runway-approved stomach is how I am reminded that I should have died when I was eleven.

The real story involves a 9 cm by 11 cm tumor that almost cut off the blood supply to my heart, a medical evacuation out of China, lots of throwing up blood, morphine, a gay nurse getting pissed off at my dad and more.

Truly a TLC worthy story.

Before surgery, my dad convinced me to write "Please Take Pictures" on a piece of paper and stick it on my stomach so the doctors would see it when they stripped me of all my clothing. That is my father; even when faced with the large possibility that he would lose his daughter in a matter of hours, the man knew that it was more important for her to laugh than feel sorry for herself.

When I told my family the shark story, no one laughed harder or louder than my father.

These Are MY Reproductive Organs, Not Yours

The public is generally in favor of requiring birth control coverage for employees of religiously affiliated employers.
Would they be as much in favor for coverage for vasectomies?

If any woman ever doubts that it’s still very much a man’s world then do the following: Suggest that the government require vasectomy coverage for employees of religiously affiliated employers and watch how quickly men will grab their crotches and run.

Please note: I am highly in favor of women having more access to birth control. However, how is it that in order to keep the government out of my religion I now have to keep them out of my reproductive system? WHEN did the two coincide?

Many believe abortion to be wrong and believe birth control to be a type of abortion. So, for the government to demand those who hold this religious value to cover the cost of birth control it looks like this:

Birth control = abortion

Covering cost of birth control = covering cost of abortion

Why would the government think it's okay to ask this of religious sects?

Let's be clear:

• Women are in no way inferior to men.
• If women don’t want babies, they should not have to have babies. 
• If women want birth control, they should be able to get birth control.
• If women want to get pregnant, then they have the freedom to do so.
• If women, for some religious reason, find it immoral to take birth control then the government should respect her religious rights and the rights of her religious employer as well. 

Some may be thinking: "But, you would be the one to benefit from this, dummy."

Would I absolutely love having the cost of my birth control covered each month by my religiously affiliated company? Yes, but everything comes with a price and the price for that particular luxury would mean allowing the government to violate my right as an American.

You can't have your cake and eat it, too.

I'd rather keep the church and state separate, even if that means paying for my own d*** birth control.