TAKING A STAND AGAINST HATRED AND IGNORANCE

I received the ignorance-filled, anti-Muslim email below from a devout Christian, and wrote a reply to everyone on the sender's list, which appears below the email. Rather than merely shake my head in disapproval and delete it, I decided to take a stand against ignorance and the perpetuation of hatred-infused sentiments masquerading as patriotic, "good Christian" values. I decided to use education as my weapon against xenophobia. Writing a "reply to all" message to people I don't know is always risky, but worth it if I can even broaden one mind. As the late great Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel said, "To be is to stand for." I stand for fair-mindedness, as much as I can.

On Sat, Jun 18, 2016 at 10:51 AM, [name deleted] wrote:
[I abridged this by removing two irrelevant paragraphs at the end that had nothing to do with food labeling, but with Sharia law.]

Make sure the grocery buyer in your household reads this.

There should be more leading Australians like Dick, he gets to the bottom of important issues and anything that amounts to selling out Australia is very important.

A WARNING FROM DICK SMITH:
You may be aware that " Dick Smith " chain franchise stores are being pressured by the Islamic Council of Australia to gain 'Halal Certification' otherwise they will be proscribed and banned from Muslim custom.

This is their response:

A MESSAGE FROM DICK SMITH.
"We at Dick Smith 's have received a number of letters from people asking if we will be putting the Muslim Halal logo on our food.

To acquire Halal certification, payment is required to the endorsing body (the Islamic Council) and involves a number of site inspections of both our growers and processors in order to ensure that our practices comply with the conditions of Halal certification.

It is important to note that this does not reflect the quality of the food being processed or sold – it only means that the products are approved as being prepared in accordance with the traditions of the Muslim faith.

We are aware of an increasing number of large companies both in Australia and overseas, such as Kraft and Cadbury, who have obtained accreditation to use the Halal logo. We don’t believe they have done this because of any religious commitment but rather for purely commercial reasons. Perhaps these large organizations can afford to do this.

While we have a choice however, we would prefer to avoid unnecessarily increasing the cost of our products in order to pay for Halal accreditation when this money would be better spent continuing to support important charitable causes where assistance is greatly needed.

We point out that we have never been asked to put a Christian symbol (or any other religious symbol) on our food requiring that we send money to a Christian organization for the right to do so. Others would add that money paid to ANY Muslim 'organization' (and you had better believe it: these people ARE 'organized') can easily find its way into the hands of Islamic extremist-fanatics and murderers, irrespective of assurances to the contrary.

What other assurances do we accept from Muslims? Oh, that's right, 'Islam is a religion of PEACE'! How less Australian can companies get, than to place money into the hands of those who seek to exploit us?"

This is an example of how the leaders of Muslims in Aus./NZ. are bullying large commercial organizations (especially in the food industry) into paying what is no more than blatant extortion money. The amazing part is that these weak-kneed organizations (Cadbury/ Schweppes/ Nestles/ Kraft etc.) actually pay the large sums demanded by these self-appointed religious bureaucrats.

Of course, the manufacturers promptly pass this levy on to unwitting consumers as cost increases. Next time you buy a block of Cadbury's chocolate, look for the Halal Certification seal on the wrapper. So, regardless of your own religious faith, you end up subsidizing Islam.

How many more warnings do people need?
Check the produce on the shelf and don't buy anything Muslim extorted.

THANK YOU FOR READING THIS RIGHT THROUGH TO THE END.
You'll forward, yes?

NO, I WON'T. BUT HERE'S WHAT I REPLIED:

Dear __________,

This assertion that purchasing food with a Halal certification is supporting Islam (with the further implication that Islam means "terrorism") is completely false and unnecessarily inflammatory. That's like saying that the Kosher label supports Jews or Israel. A RIDICULOUS ASSERTION. Kosher-labeled products do not indicate a support of Jews, only that Jewish food restrictions have been kept in mind during the production of the food, so that Jews can know that the food is safe to eat, per their religious traditions. The same applies to Halal food--in fact, Muslims also prohibit the eating, per the bible, of "unclean" animals that eat waste products, like pigs and shellfish.

I do agree, however, that no store should HAVE to pay for Halal or Kosher certification, because that is an optional extra expense to be determined by the ultimate financial gains they might receive from doing so--in terms of extra business from observant Muslims or observant Jews. That is a store's choice.

Being an observant Muslim does not mean that one is a terrorist or Islamist. Many of my students this year come from Muslim families, to my Jewish home, for lessons, and they are some of my most respectful and talented students--as are their parents.

I had to point this out to you because emails like the one you sent are contributing to the xenophobia and hatred that are rising in this country like never before. As a peace-loving, proud member of the interfaith community, as well as a practicing Jew, I cannot stand by and not stand UP.

Thanks for listening to my "counter-rant."

Blessings to you,
Susan

Underappreciated Resource for Fiction Writers

How The Bible Can Help Build Character—Fictional Ones, That Is…

If you want to study how to write multidimensional, realistically imperfect characters, with complex backstories and universally recognized flaws and attributes, look no further than the Hebrew Bible. Show me a flawless hero in the Five Books of Moses—I challenge you. And show me a reader of the Bible who can’t identify with at least one person depicted there, in some compelling, and possibly life-changing way.

Why, one might wonder, is a book designed to teach and serve as Law, replete with flawed examples of humanity? Some Bible readers would say that such questions are moot, applicable only to fiction; they would assert that the people of the Bible are not “characters,” but ancestors—real people—and they must be portrayed truthfully because the Bible is nonfiction, a historical record. Others, who read the Bible as historical fiction, might argue that the omniscient narrator point-of-view of realistically flawed characters allows readers to decide, based on their own perspectives, which characters to connect with as they read, and also to find new connections with each rereading as their own perspectives about life evolve over time. In either case, some readers might complain that it’s difficult to feel connected to, or even sympathetic toward, characters we would only emulate by being the opposite of them. I would point out to such readers that all of us read stories, in a way, to find and define ourselves, and every person can find aspects of their own character within the ultimate compendium of human traits known as the Bible.

• If I want to portray a story of a nonconformist who follows only the supernatural stirrings within his own heart and soul, defying social norms to do so, because he knows somehow that he is right about society’s need for a new way of thinking, I need only study the story of Abraham. 

• To create a complex tale of deception and extortion among family or friends, I can find material within the biblical scenes about blind Isaac; his scheming son, Jacob; his impulsive son, Esau; and their manipulative mother, Rebecca. 

• For a novel centered on dangerous sibling rivalry that almost destroys a family and alters society itself, I could find source material in the ancient stories of Jacob and his twelve sons. 

• To portray a boy whose deep friendship with another boy is gossiped about as “gay,” a boy who stands up for his friendship even if it means challenging authority, I need to study the Bible story of David and Jonathan—the original “bromance.” 

• If I want to share a story of an outcast, morally corrupt young woman who redeems herself by risking her life for the sake of a greater social good, I can study the tale of Rahab, the prostitute, who saved a city from complete destruction. 

• If I want to create a political tale of a paradoxically noble, yet self-centered leader whose downfall seems to be an addiction to sex, I could borrow from the story of King David (not to mention some recent historical figures).

• And if I decide to depict a story of a boy with psychic gifts, good looks, and charisma, a boy who evokes as much bitter envy as he does awe, a boy who becomes victimized by the ones meant to protect him, and then uses his gifts to reverse his fortune change the world, that’s the story of Joseph, son of Rachel and Jacob.  

Etcetera… You get the idea. The archetypes of most multidimensional characters have already appeared in the world’s best-selling, longest-existing collection of tales of humanity. The bible is not just for religious study; it’s not just about laws and wars and punishments; it’s not just about obedience to God and warnings about defiance of commandments; the bible is the fountainhead of all humanity-based writing. Amen!

A Poem About How Assumptions Inform Perspectives

View from a Different Bench                 

By Susan L. Lipson

He sits on a bench in the mall,                            

Eyeing passersby,

Unaware of my spying

From another bench, across the hallway lined with shops.

His gaze scorches a snapping, young mother

Who is berating her crying toddler,

Slapping her tiny hands as they grab at her mommy’s thighs,

Shushing the child as she begs to be picked up.

I see an invisible speech bubble above the watching man,

And in it the words: Pick up your baby, you ingrate!

Some of us would give anything to be blessed with a child!

You don’t deserve to be a mother!

Yes, I agree! I say to myself,

Missing my days with my crying toddlers,

Imagining myself sitting on the bench beside him,

Sharing our feelings,

Connecting with this stranger through our mutual love for children.

And then I hear him bellow from his bench

At the unappreciative mom:

“Can’t you make your kid shut up?!

Some of us are trying to enjoy a peaceful day here!”

Some of us.

Opportunity Doesn't Have To Knock if You Give It the Key

          The mistake that most of us make in life, the biggest missed opportunity, is in seeing every day as a continuation of the day that preceded it. The "here I go again" attitude that so many of us have as we boot up our computers each day, or check in at the office, or pick up the phone to utter the same business-like greeting, or paste on a smile for a customer/client, is the attitude that also makes us feel as though sleep were but a short interruption in the same loooooong work day. "Same old, same old," too many say, shrugging, when asked, "So what's new with you?" 

          We ought to view each day as a new beginning, a new opportunity to make our mark, to change our path, to find new opportunities and goals. We need not continue where we left off yesterday just because we spent yesterday pursuing goals that no longer apply today. Finishing a pursuit is not necessarily synonymous with personal fulfillment; sometimes we finish merely out of compulsion to follow through, as an end in itself. Persistence is an attribute only when one persists passionately, not perfunctorily. 

          The point is, we can change course at any time as we grow our selves to our highest potential, and we MUST change course when others, or obstacles, hinder our progress. We cannot rely on repetition alone in striving for excellence; we must willfully deviate from our patterns to enhance innovation and passion, and to force ourselves to see the newness and growth potential in each new day.

THE GAUNTLET, a short story by S. L. Lipson

          I still can’t believe Mimi’s here, in spite of Mother having tried to convince her yesterday, on the phone, to cancel her train ticket because “Lia’s not up to hosting visitors, no matter what she told you.” Mimi apparently argued with her because I heard Mother answer in a cold, snippety way, “Fine. Then you’ll just have to ‘hang out’ with your little cousin in our house—no outings. And don’t expect me to serve you like a guest, either; we’re all recovering here. Got it?” I guess Mimi got it, because I’m hanging out with her now, in my room. I can’t stop smiling.

I shudder slightly as Mimi tickles my eyelid with “midnight blue” eyeliner, to accentuate my blue eyes. “Stay still, Lia, or you’ll end up with major cat eyes!” She smiles as I giggle. “You know, I have to tell you,” she says, “I felt so bad after I mailed you the purple hair extension and then found out you had to have chemo and lose your hair again.”

                                                                             

“Don’t feel bad! I’ve been wanting to clip it into my wig to make it look cooler, and now that you’re here, you can show me how! It’s right there, in my top drawer, waiting for you.  Mother forced me to get this poofy, weird doll hair, and I hate it.”

“Well, to be honest, it’s not a wig I would have chosen.”

“I told her I wanted a natural hair wig, but she says they cost too much to use just for a temporary time.”

Mimi rolls her eyes. “She’s a freakin’ doctor…. Have you tried just not wearing a wig at all? Some female celebrities purposely shave their heads, right?” Mimi finishes my eyeliner and steps back to examine her handiwork.

“But I look weird bald. Mother says it makes people uncomfortable.”

“Show me.”

“No, it’s embarrassing.”

“Seriously? This is me you’re talking to.”

I hesitate, and then take off the wig. My new hair underneath is about a quarter-inch long now, very fine and light auburn, like the hair in my baby pictures, except I have pointy sideburns.

Mimi smiles. “It looks kind of punky, like you trimmed your sideburns that way. I like it.” She runs her palm over my head. “Soft, too, like a baby’s head. Nice.”

Grinning, I joke, “Maybe I could get a part in an alien movie, right? My sideburns look like Spock’s on ‘Star Trek’.” I hold up my hand in the form of Spock’s “Vulcan” greeting.

“Live long and prosper!” she says, like a Vulcan. The look in her eyes shows me that she is thinking about those words, as if they were a prayer for me, not just saying them. “Now give me your cute face so I can finish your eyes. You need a little mascara and some shadow. Then we’ll add a tiny bit of blush.”

She removes the packaging as I lean toward the mirror and study my eyeliner. Not too heavy, like some of the “scene kids” at school, but thick enough to make me look kind of…edgy, I guess. Especially because of the contrast with my vampire coloring. But I like the look. I feel cool. “Thanks for bringing me my own makeup, Mimi. I never would have been able to buy it myself. First, Mother wouldn’t give me the money for makeup. And second, I’d have no clue what to buy.”

Mimi shakes her head. “I still can’t believe you’ve never worn makeup.”

“I’ve never done a lot of things that girls my age do. Thanks to cancer.”

As she applies the rest of the eye shadow—pale pink on the lid and indigo in the crease—she says, “Well, I’m glad I could contribute to your proper teenage persona. I hope you’ll use it and feel beautiful.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “Oh my gosh, I just remembered the first time I used mascara.” She smiles nostalgically. “I didn’t think the brush looked coated enough so I kept dipping it, and then my eyelashes looked all clumpy, and I tried to wipe some off, but then I smudged it all over, and I ended up looking like a raccoon!” She brushes the lightly coated mascara wand over my tiny lashes, holding her breath.

            When she moves out of my way so I can see my eyes in the mirror, I notice not my tiny lashes, but rather, the darkness of the “chemo rings” under my eyes. I mutter, “Speaking of looking like a raccoon…”

She notices, too, and blushes. “Darn, I didn’t bring you any concealer or base makeup. Sorry. I thought that would be too much for a first-time makeup wearer. I just brought what I use myself: eye makeup, blush, and lip gloss.” She rummages in the new makeup bag that she brought me, and pulls out the blush and lip color. “Turn toward me again. She brushes pink powder on my cheeks, and then instructs me to open my lips slightly as she holds the lip-gloss wand toward my mouth. She colors me like a work of art. “Okay, now turn around and look in the mirror. No one will notice the little bit of darkness under your eyes now. You look so pretty. See? Sooo pretty!”

            I see my exotic-looking eyes, cheeks with actual pinkness in them, and lips shining like pale, juicy plum flesh. I see a regular teenage girl, not a cancer patient. And I half-laugh, half-gasp. “Wow. I actually feel pretty.” 

Mimi sings, “I feel prettyyy, oh so prettyyy—’”

“I know that song! From ‘West Side Story,’ right?”

“Right! Remember the next line?” She waits for my reply, but I shake my head, so she sings, “I feel prettyyyy, oh so prettyyyy; I feel pretty and witty and gayyyy….” Then she smirks, and asks, “Did you realize that Maria was gay?”

“Yeah, right!” I laugh. “That song’s from the days when ‘gay’ meant ‘happy.’”

“Okay, how’s this one—just for you…” She waltzes around me, singing in a hilarious falsetto: “I feel prettyyy, oh so prettyyy, even though I feel SHITTY, oy vay!” She twirls at the end, and suddenly my bedroom door bursts open.

Mother stomps into the room, “What’s going on here? You call yourself a role model, Miriam?”

Mimi’s face has turned to stone. “I don’t call myself anything but Lia’s friend and cousin.”

Suddenly Mother looks at my face, all made up, and she erupts: “WHAT THE HELL IS ON YOUR FACE, LIA?” Before I can answer, she jerks her head toward Mimi, her eyes shooting daggers. “How dare you, Miriam! Don’t you know that makeup could be dangerous for her?! She’s got a weak immune system, for Chrissake! She could get an infection?! Why would she need makeup!” She thrusts her hand forward to ward off interjections. “And don’t tell me because her friends wear it. THEY aren’t sick! How DARE you do this without asking ME! Just like you set up this whole weekend visit with her, without asking ME whether she’d be up to such a visit in her condition! WHO KNOWS HER CONDITION BETTER THAN I DO? HUH, HERO? WHO!”

            We all hear Jason slam the front door, leaving the House of Chaos, as usual. Mother stiffens at the banging sound, and her nostrils flare over her pursed lips. Glaring at my pale face, she grasps my arm and turns me toward my mirror. “Look how pretty you look now, smart one! You’re a mess!” Mascara has dripped down my cheeks, and I look like one of the creepy, sad-clown paintings that Mother happens to love and collect. She growls at my reflection, “How could you be stupid enough to let someone put their makeup—and their germs—on you!”

“Mother, she bought me my own makeup—brand new!”

 “Oh, isn’t that sweet of your ‘cool cuz’?” Mother doesn’t look at Mimi (who is fighting tears, I notice). “Well, you listen to me, Miss Teenage Know-It-All: NO MAKEUP FOR YOU. Got it? If you want to look pretty so badly, put on your damn wig!” She picks up the wig from the dresser, and gritting her teeth, yanks it over my head. “There! Now go wash that crap off your face so you can look like a normal girl!” Mother storms out the way she came in, like a tornado.

I shut my door and whisper to Mimi, “Normal? Yeah, right.”

Mimi lifts off my wig, drops it on the bed, and rubs my head soothingly. We hug tightly till I pull away. “I need to wash my face,” I murmur. She sighs.

When I come out of the bathroom with a blank face, her eyes look fierce as she holds out the wig, with the beautiful strand of purple hair clipped in, and declares, “You’ve earned your stripe, Lia.” I nod and accept the wig as if it were a medal.

The End

Note: This short story is actually an excerpt from one of my forthcoming YA novels. Please leave feedback. Writing is about communicating, and I want to know whether my story has touched you in some way. Thanks.