Second String Heroine

Back around 2005, I ran into a Baptist missionary who spotted my kippah and basically took that as permission to attempt to missionize at me.

I defended myself, using the basics of the knowledge I have of Christian theology and texts that I learned specifically to fend off missionaries.

We went back and forth and back and forth, and he wouldn’t leave me alone for… oh, probably the better part of an hour.

And then…

Then this part is seared into my memory. I have nightmares about it.

He smiled at me and said that, with my knowledge of the Gospels, I am sure to be one of the Elect when the time comes.

I asked what the hell that meant.

And he told me. He told me in a tone of utmost sincerity–even envy, because to his belief system, it was a good and enviable thing…

Because to be one of the “Elect” is to be one of the 144,000 Jews who accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior at the Apocalypse. This will happen when all of the Children of Israel have been Gathered in the Land of Israel; war will break out, the Assembled Jews will have the Gospels preached to us, and 144,000 Thousand–Twelve Tribes times Twelve Apostles times One Thousand–Jews will spontaneously convert to Christianity.

Once that occurs, all of the Jews die in the Apocalypse, but the Elect ascend to Heaven to be Jesus Christ’s personal escorts down to Earth for his Second Coming (the rest of the Jews go to hell for eternity, in case you’re wondering).

In short…

He told me that I existed to be a human blood sacrifice to bring back his god. I was not a person to him. I was nothing more than a means to that end.

And he was jealous. Jealous of the fact that he viewed my knowledge of his religion, something that I had learned specifically to fend him and his kind off, as proof that his religion was right and correct and inevitable. That in learning it, I had made myself more valuable to his worldview.

Jealous that, because I was more valuable, because I existed to die for his god, I would meet that god before him.

It was terrifying, to be told that I was to die… and he thought that it was a good thing.

This is how Evangelicals view death. Not as something to be avoided, but something to seek, something that is a positive, and not just for themselves… but for everybody.

That was illegible up until a boy raised on Maya archaeological sites, David Stuart, was awarded a MacArthur genius grant (the youngest ever at 18) to study the glyphs. he was able to read them as well as his first language, solved several codes, and then other academics were able to easily translate codices and ruins. that was over 30 years ago, so now we are working with about 50 fully translated Nahua codices and hundreds of fragmented ones. there are many beautiful ruins and ancient sites like these all over South America, but the Spanish did make sure to build on top of many very important ones. restoring pyramids and temples that were plundered and destroyed by conquistadors and centries of war before them is crucial to ancient Mexicatl research, but the colonial churches above so many of these sites are also unfortunately historically important sites themselves. Mexico city is also an ancient city; it would be really difficult to excavate where families have built their homes for over 20 generations. 

I didn’t want to get arrested so I just never asked my mom for spaghettis after that. Lesson, learned. Don’t ask mom for spaghettis or she’ll call the damn police on you. 

So I have this memory in my head, and it goes unquestioned until I say it outload for the first time a few months back and as soon as I say the words “When I was six, my mom called the cops on me for asking for spaghettis” My adult logic slams into place and is like “Hang on. Your mother definatly did not call the police on a 6 year old for asking for spaghetti.” 

So obviously that’s not what really went down. I call up my mom to tell her how I remember it and on top of her figuring out why her kid has always been really cagey around spaghettis for the last 3 decades she tells me what really happened. 

So on that night, a man tried to break into our house through the front window. It was just my mom, and her kids so she did what she felt she had too and shot him in the head. He’d been wearing a helmet, which landed on the floor under the window.

Now I just want ya’ll to put yourselves in my moms shoes for a minute here. This woman has just taken a human life. The trauma of that- the instant agony, the panic, the guilt, the fear- all of it hitting her at once, her only solace the knowledge that her children are safe. She protected her daughters. No matter the cost to her soul- her children are safe.

he wrote a book that’s all about grappling with death and pain and wanting to take them into your own hands… literally the first line of the book ends with “the first step to eternal life is you have to die.” it’s the narrator visiting all these different support groups for different diseases like cancers and blood parasites as a ~tourist in order to feel healthy and alive and free (note: most people who died of aids didn’t die of the virus itself but of opportunistic infections and aids-related cancers). it’s about how “on a long enough time line, everyone’s survival rate drops to zero.” like yes it’s intricate rituals, but it’s very specifically men sharing bodily fluids and blood. it’s about reclaiming death and using it as a symbol.

it’s about feeling abandoned and forgotten and ignored by the establishment and wanting to burn everything down because of that, about an entire generation of gay men trapped in a great spiritual depression, waging a war, a revolution, for their lives but one that was not acknowledged publicly for years while they suffered. it’s about living double lives, becoming someone Different under the cover of darkness, someone Stronger and Braver who could rage against the system the way you never even dreamed of doing in the daylight

it’s about being a member of A Club (where the initiation is a kiss that burns your skin) that exists everywhere and nowhere, and being able to immediately pick out someone else who’s In The Club just by looking at them even though no one around you has a clue, and you just nod at each other and acknowledge your shared experience and save your actual interactions for secret back rooms and basements—except pretty soon other people can tell there’s something Unsavory going on with you because you start exhibiting physical signs that you can’t hide anymore including bloody lesions on your face.

it’s about “only in death will we have our own names since only in death are we no longer part of the effort. In death we become heroes” + david wojnarowicz wearing a jacket in 1988 that said “if i die of aids – forget burial – just drop my body on the steps of the fda”. it’s about “his name is robert paulson and he is fortyeight years old. his name is robert paulson, and robert paulson will be fortyeight years old, forever” + this panel from the AIDS memorial quilt that reads “my name is duane kearns puryear. i was born on december 20, 1964. i was diagnosed with aids on september 7, 1987 at 4:45 pm. i was 22 years old. sometimes, it makes me very sad. i made this panel myself. if you are reading it, i am dead.”

literally every line of this book (and the film) mean More if you read it through this lens. “you aren’t your name. you aren’t your family. … everything you ever love will reject you or die.” taking the sentence “i am the toxic waste byproduct of God’s creation” that is the worst thing anyone could fear about themselves (and like.. it’s literally homophobia. especially re: gay men during the aids crisis) and weaponizing it because it means you have nothing to lose. tyler saying fuck the police and telling the police commissioner that “the people you’re trying to step on, we’re everyone you depend on. we’re the people who do your laundry and cook your food and serve your dinner. we make your bed. we guard you while you’re asleep.”

Translation:

"Luccas Neto (Brazilian YouTuber) is accused of making Portuguese children talk like Brazilians"

"Luccas Neto, who just celebrated his son Luke's first birthday, is becoming the target of criticism among some Portuguese families. The reason? Luccas Neto has become such a success that Portuguese children are starting to talk like Brazilian people.

That's right: the little ones have lost the characteristics of their local dialect and adopted the speech of the 29 year old YouTuber, who was born in Rio de Janeiro.

"Other parents who spoke with the Portuguese newspaper revealed they don't leave their children alone with tablets or phones, especially when they watch Luccas Neto.

DESTROY PORTUGAL PORTUGUESE