I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Author: Sheila Morris

  • Self Pay


                   The temperature in the waiting room was cool as I signed the doctor’s daily appointment register at the front desk.  I was number eight on the afternoon’s sign-in sheet.  I looked at the line across from my name, and the moment I had dreaded for months was upon me.  I had played and replayed the question in my mind.

                 Any changes to insurance since last visit? Yes / No     

                I circled “Yes” and spoke to the young, attractive receptionist, who was intently focused on her computer screen and hadn’t appeared to notice me.  Her expression was harried, as if she was so far behind in her duties she would never catch up.

                “Excuse me,” I said.  “I circled ‘Yes’ today for change of insurance because I no longer have insurance.”  I looked apologetically at her and spoke in my best “inside” voice.  I didn’t want the other people in the room to hear me confess my failure to produce the key to the kingdom of good health care.        Her fingers froze on the computer keyboard.  Her reaction confirmed my biggest fears.  She sighed heavily and began to disassociate herself from her mental and physical connection to the World of Important Matters.  Without glancing at me, she began to rummage through manila file folders in a drawer beneath her workstation.  At last, she pulled a single form from a folder, wrote something on it, attached it to a clipboard, and pointed to a round glass holder containing four ballpoint pens.  “Fill this out and bring it back to me when you’re finished,” she said flatly.  “Bring an ID with you, too.”  She still hadn’t looked at me, and as I picked up the clipboard, I had a sinking feeling that I was wearing Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak.

                I selected a pen and sat down to complete the form.  It took me longer to pull my driver’s license out of the stubborn leather slot in my billfold than it did to finish the paperwork.  Name, address, telephone number, date of birth, emergency contact, social security number.  The remainder of the lengthy document required detailed insurance information, but that had been marked through with a large “X” by the receptionist when she handed me the form.  She had written SELF PAY above the “X.”  In red ink.  I felt a sense of impending doom.  

               I couldn’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t have health insurance, and I had recently celebrated my sixty-fourth birthday.  Eighteen months ago, my employment was terminated due to a medical disability from ophthalmic herpes zoster, or shingles, in my right eye and other places in my head and on my face.  I participated in my employer-sponsored COBRA plan during those eighteen months for ongoing coverage, but on day one of the month nineteen—BAM!  No more insurance.  I had explored alternatives for personal insurance policies, but costs were prohibitive.  Medicare, the government-sponsored program for senior citizens, wasn’t available until my next birthday.  Alas, I was like a tightrope walker on a rope suspended high above a river rising as quickly as the price of my medications.  I was alarmed.  No, beyond alarmed.  I was afraid of a future with no insurance safety net.

                I took the clipboard and ID to the front and laid it down on the receptionist’s desk.  She was again immersed in her computer screen and clearly involved in the World of Important Matters.  Then, without looking up, she said, “Thanks.  Have a seat, and I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”  My Invisibility Cloak worked well, I thought.

                I returned to the chair I had claimed and sat down.  I looked around the large waiting area and saw five other people waiting to see Dr. Thong—one of a group of four dermatologists who shared the practice.  Their business had clearly expanded in the ten years I had been an “established” patient.  The building was the same as when I first started coming to see them, but now the group occupied the entire space.  The entrance was moved, and the lobby area was much more elaborate.  A new, large, trendy flat-screen television hung from the wall to allow good visibility from any vantage point.  One of the major cable news networks showed financial data from Wall Street at the moment, but the sound level was appropriately low and inoffensive.  The brown faux leather chairs were definitely an upgrade from the uncomfortable ones in the previous lobby, too.  The quiet room shouted first-class.

               Two hands on a large clock on the wall near the front door marked our waiting time.  I was at twenty minutes when I heard the receptionist call my name.

           “Miss Morris,” she said.

           I rose and walked to her desk.  For the first time, she looked at me.  Not smiling or friendly, but she did look.

         ” Here’s your ID.  Someone will call you in a few minutes.”  She had placed my ID on the counter.  Was it possible my I nvisibility Cloak had been stolen while I listened to the financial news?

         I picked up my driver’s license and sat down again.  I busied myself for several minutes with re-arranging the items in my billfold so that my ID was easier to reach.  That done, I daydreamed about the old days when I had good health and little interest in doctors or insurance.  Occasionally, the door to the examination rooms opened, and a nurse called someone’s name.  At thirty-three minutes and counting, I noticed that only two of us were left in the waiting area.  Time must truly be money for Dr. Thong, I thought.

           “Miss Morris,” I heard.  I was startled from my musings about the lobby, doctors, medicine, and insurance.

          I stood and walked toward the smiling lovely young nurse who held the door to the examination rooms for me.  She was dressed in a loosely fitting blue uniform that looked like the ones worn by actors in the medical dramas on television nowadays.  Not the super-starched white uniforms of the medical series of the 1970s like Marcus Welby, M. D., but she looked good in blue.  She was pretty in that wholesome all-American look and seemed very efficient as she carried what I presumed was my chart.  Her smile belied her no-nonsense demeanor.

         “And how are we doing today?”  She motioned me to follow her past the maze of tiny rooms with the doors shut.

         “Well, it’s not my best day, but I’ve had worse.”  I walked as fast as I could to keep pace with her.

          She smiled on, indicating a room with an open door, and I went in first.  I sat down on the large, gray, leather exam chair with a thin layer of white paper pulled over it to prevent my germs from being spread to the next person.  The agreeable young nurse continued smiling as she sat on a stool across from me.  She studied my chart thoughtfully.

         “Are we having any new problems today?” she asked.

         “Actually, I am,” I replied.  “I have a new trouble spot on my face that’s been there for two months.  It’s probably like the other ones Dr. Thong biopsied last year, but he always wants to know about the ones that don’t go away.”  I had a history of malignancies from skin cancers on my face, and any lesions from the herpes virus that refused to disappear in a reasonable time were suspicious, according to Dr. Thong.  He was scrupulous about early detection of any potential problems.  I had always admired that quality in him.  An ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure.  Wasn’t that what my daddy had always told me?

         I saw the nurse was taking notes, and I added, “Oh, and I got a tick bite about six weeks ago when I was in Texas.  It still hurts and itches, and I wondered if it’s okay.  It’s in an awkward spot at the top of my right hip, and I can’t see it.”

        “Tick bite,” she said, and wrote more.  Her good humor seemed to be fading for some reason, though.  The perky smile was gone, and that made me uneasy.  “I see you’re due for your annual full-body check today.  I also see you have no insurance.  Do you still want to do the exam?”

          I was taken aback by the question.  Was it possible to not have an annual check-up?  The thought had never occurred to me.  I had been having annual checkups, well, annually, for my entire life.  My mother took me every year when I was a child, and I continued each year of my adult life.  So, at sixty-four years of age, I’d had my share of regular doctor visits.  Of course, I reasoned quickly, maybe that just applied to my primary care physician.  The dermatologist might be different.  But, then, they had never given me a choice before.  What was going on here?  My anxiety level leaped ahead several notches.

         “Well, yes,” I said.  “I’ll go ahead with the full-body exam.”

         “Okay.”  Closing my chart, she stood up and went to a cabinet in the little room.  She retrieved a large neatly folded piece of white paper and handed it to me.  “Here’s a sheet for you. Get undressed, and Dr. Thong will be with you in a few minutes.”

         I took off my clothes and unfolded the white paper sheet.  It was enormous and unwieldy, but I managed to cover my naked body in what I imagined was an absurd look.  I now sat on paper and was covered with paper.  When I moved, the paper made an annoying crackling sound.  I was very uncomfortable and quite cold.  My mental state matched my physical discomfiture.  Would that man never get here?  I looked at my watch, and my 2:00 p.m. appointment had lasted forty-five minutes so far.

         Shortly thereafter, I heard whispered conversation outside my door followed by a quick knock and the appearance of Dr. Thong with yet another nurse.  They were both dressed in the same spiffy, blue, multi-purpose unisex uniforms.

         Dr. Thong looked remarkably the same every time I saw him.  He is a small Asian man in his late forties with flawless skin and an inscrutable expression.  His eyes betray nothing, but they are not unkind.  When I worked as a stockbroker before my retirement, he indulged in small talk and liked to give me his favorite stock tips.  He amused himself that way, and I was happy to have something to distract myself while he inspected my complexion.  Post-retirement chitchat was limited, however.

         “So, let’s have a look at you,” he said with no preliminaries.  He began with my hands and arms and made his way to my back.  “And, where is this tick bite that everyone is so concerned about?  Oh, I see it now.”  He muttered something to the nurse who wrote feverishly on my chart. 

         “Okay, nothing to worry about there.  It’ll get better on its own.”  With that dismissal, he moved around to the front and concentrated on my face.  “Now, let’s see this other problem a little closer.”  He hummed to himself thoughtfully.  “How long has it been there?”

         “A couple of months,” I said.  “It just doesn’t want to go away.”

         “Well, let’s see if we can make it go away faster.”  He motioned to the nurse, who handed him a contraption that looked like a bug spray can.  He gave three quick squeezes that made loud puffs of very cold air that hit the offensive red spot on my face.  Then, I felt an unpleasant burning sensation.  He took another look, appeared satisfied, and returned the can to the nurse, who struggled to write notes and handle the can simultaneously.

         “That should do the trick.  Very good luck,” he said.  “No problems.”

         “Thank you,” I said.

         He turned to leave and had his hand on the door.  “Anything else this time?”

         “No,” I replied.

         “Goodbye, then.”  He was gone.  No biopsies, no be sure to make an appointment for six months, no admonitions to wear sunscreen, nothing.  Just three puffs, and he was up, up, and away.  I sat transfixed and horrified by the visit.  I felt a “disconnect” between this doctor and my well-being.  I had a vision of being dismissed as an old woman whose health no longer required attention in a world of cheerful young medical professionals who moved briskly from one tiny sterile room to the next without making eye contact with the patients in those rooms.  It was a scary feeling.

         “You can get dressed now,” the nurse said.  “Just carry your chart to the checkout desk.  Follow the arrows.”  With that, she was gone, too.

         I glanced at my watch.  It was now 2:50.  My annual body check, complete with tick bite and face freezing, lasted approximately five minutes.  It took me longer to retrieve my driver’s license from my billfold for the receptionist. 

         I got dressed and followed the signs to the checkout desk.  A middle-aged woman wearing tiny reading glasses looked away from her computer screen to take my chart that now read SELF PAY.  I saw her comparing numbers in columns highlighted with different colors on a laminated sheet of paper.  Evidently, charges were relative, and she wanted to verify the amount for each procedure.

         “The total for today is $128,” she said sweetly.  “Will that be cash, check, debit or credit card?”  She paused, and then added, “I see no follow-up appointment is scheduled.  Do you think you’ll want to come back next year?”  Her tone was hopeful, and I saw she must be an asset to the practice by facilitating a warmer atmosphere during the payment process.

        “Debit card,” I said and handed my plastic card to her.  “I’m not sure about coming back, but thanks for asking.  I’ll call if I have a problem.”

        She quickly handled my payment and gave me my receipt.  I thanked her again and exited through the lobby area.   The hands on the clock on the wall showed 3:10 p.m.

         I officially joined the ranks of millions of Americans who are uninsured with little fanfare.  I now totally understood the magic of the phrase, “Your co-pay today is $35, and I’ll be happy to file your insurance claim for you.  May we schedule your next appointment?”  I complained each year that my co-pay increased.  I complained loudly that Dr. Thong was an “out-of-network provider,” which made my annual deductible higher for him.  And, of course, I complained regularly about the exorbitant cost of insurance.  Who didn’t?  It was acceptable cocktail-hour conversation.

        Now, we see through a glass darkly, I thought.

        In the spirit of fair play, I located my statement from my appointment with Dr. Thong the prior year.  I had two biopsies and an annual exam that day.  The office visit was $90, and the biopsies with laboratory analysis totaled $574.  I paid the $35 co-pay on the day of service, and my insurance carrier negotiated a reduction of $388 for reasonable and customary charges against the bill.  The insurance company eventually paid $45 to Dr. Thong, and I owed the balance of $196 to apply toward my annual deductible.  On the surface, my “self-pay” visit this year saved me $103.  Not to mention the fact that I no longer pay those outrageous insurance premiums.  Why don’t I feel better?

                  ———————————————————————————–

    The debate on healthcare reform and public policy in the United States follows the political fortunes of the fortunate.  In a country that prides itself on offering hope and freedom for all, we often reserve quality health care for the few who are wealthy enough to afford it.  The issues are complicated, and the systems and their operatives are deeply entrenched by decades of corruption and abuse that will make positive change a battleground for many years.  To sum up succinctly, it’s a mess.

    As my daddy used to say, “When you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s hard to remember your initial objective was to drain the swamp.”

    On March 23, 2010, the Affordable Care Act became law in this country.  It’s an attempt to wrestle some of the alligators that love to snap at the reasonable objective of quality health care for every citizen.  This particular swamp won’t be drained quickly or completely, as an assault on the law continues by its opponents through the judicial system in 2011.   For me personally, Self Pay is over since I turned 65 in April of 2011 and am now covered by Medicare, but that’s another story with a different swamp of alligators.

  • A Prize Fighter Named Pain


    A PRIZE FIGHTER NAMED PAIN

               Let me introduce you to my new friend Pain…well, not really new…and not actually a friend.

                I’m learning to live with him, but he’s a stubborn, persistent adversary.  I must have known him intermittently through my more than six decades of life, although the encounters were brief and unremarkable.  Painful episodes are the children of Pain.

                I met Pain himself three and a half years ago.  The mature, grown-up Pain.  He came to my body through the hardest part of me—my head.  He moved into the right side of my scalp and down my forehead to encircle my right eye and cheek.  He followed the nerves that travel through my face.  He had a cute little name that rhymes with Tingles.  Shingles.  Such a harmless name for the devil who rules my life.  He moved into his new home with the excitement of a pioneer staking a claim for a homestead in the Wild West during the glory days when every vista was unexplored territory.

                Pain is a hard worker.  He never sleeps.  He is relentless in his pursuit of control and domination.  Medicines amuse him with their efforts to ease his grip.  He is like a prize fighter whose gloves are cinched for eighteen rounds.  Medication sends him to the corner to be renewed, but he’s up and ready when the bell sounds.  He is a bold opponent who stoops to cheap shots during the fray.

                When the sun goes down and the day ends, Pain only works harder.  Sleep and Rest flee from him.  He is their biggest fear and worst enemy.  He loves the darkness of the night because it reminds him of his own nature.

                Pain pummels me with a ferocious pounding unmatched by mortal foes.  I understand him better now, and I know his tactics.  I know that he leaves after a long fight to make me think that I’ve won.  I step into the center of the ring with my hands held high in a victory salute.  It’s clear—Pain is the loser.

                But, then, he comes back.  Sometimes to the head that now bears the scars of our warfare.  Sometimes with a fatigue that makes movement impossible because I have hit a wall that may as well be made of concrete.  Always to my eyes, which blur and burn and water incessantly as they produce protein deposits that splatter the annoying eyeglasses that now must replace other forms of vision correction.  As I grow older and my immune system weakens, Pain appears stronger and more powerful.

                I have a rendezvous with Pain, as the poet once said of Death.  I meet him when and where he chooses, and we engage in our struggle in quiet isolation.  The stakes are high in this duel with no seconds available to offer assistance and no valiant rescue on the horizon.

                 It is just Pain and me.

     

  • It’s Only Paper


    CONFESSIONS OF A FINANCIAL ADVISOR

                Forty years is a long time or a short time, depending on your perspective.  For example, if you’re talking about your work, career, job, employment, occupation, profession—it’s a long time.  If, on the other hand, you’re talking about life expectancy, it’s definitely short.  Context is everything.

                In order to spend forty years in some variation of giving advice to people about their financial futures, I had to be in love with numbers.  The love affair began at an early age when in elementary school my mind grasped the concept of “1 + 1= 2.”  Imagine the simplicity and order and, yes, the comfort of that equation.  Consider, then, the possibility of “2 – 1 = 1.”  Astounding.  Okay, maybe not astounding, but certainly intriguing to my young mind.  Addition, subtraction, multiplication, division.  Numbers could be manipulated and re-arranged in combinations that hid secrets or unlocked them.  Context was everything.

                At some point in my educational process, numbers were combined with dollar signs.  Dollar signs represent currency values, the medium of exchange for goods and services, or “must-have’s” and “can’t-resist’s.”  We become accustomed to seeing numbers with this “$” in front of them.  We learn that good news for us is a dollar sign followed by a large number, if it indicates what we have.  Bad news is a dollar sign followed by a big number, if it signifies what we don’t have.  Again, context is everything.

                Eventually, the numbers and dollar signs blur with the addition of a comma and several zeroes, which means that the numbers are so big that you don’t even want to discuss them.  Millions become billions that grow into trillions, and then someone wins the lottery.  Someone else loses her retirement savings.  A national election is won or lost as a result of the number of zeroes in the unemployment levels.  New words are discovered for numbers with dollar signs.  Net income before taxes, and net operating losses before moving corporate headquarters overseas.  Deficit—a nice, neat word for spending more than we have.  Surplus, a term of endearment.  Generally accepted accounting principles, a floating lifeboat in an ocean of corruption.  Stock markets that run up like bulls when greed has a green flag, or down like bears when fear chases them to their dens.  Ratios, which have something divided by something else. Price/earnings ratios.  The words melt in your mouth, not in your hands.

                Once upon a time, numbers were written by hand and manually checked for accuracy.  Checked and cross-checked to make sure that “1 + 1” still equals 2.  Long ago and far away, hamburgers with all the trimmings cost $0.25, and a gallon of gas was the same price.  Silver quarters and silver dollars were the currency of choice.  A penny saved was truly a penny earned.  And a copper one, at that.

                In the midst of those days, I consummated my love affair with numbers and became an accountant.  Not just a plain old accountant, but the ultimate—a Certified Public Accountant.  It wasn’t easy.  Professions rarely admit new members graciously, and it took three attempts for me to pass the entrance exams.  But, I knew my numbers wouldn’t disappoint me, and they didn’t.  They welcomed me into a world of debits and credits and spreadsheets that generated financial statements and the obligatory returns of the Internal Revenue Service.  It was a world I inhabited and embraced for twenty years.

                During that period, from 1968 to 1988, my faithful adding machine with the little spool of white tape that could be checked, torn off, and stapled to paperwork as a record of accuracy was my constant companion.  Regardless of the task, numbers were printed on white tape and preserved.  How could there be a shred of doubt about anything when numbers supported your position?  Need a bank loan?  Net income must be high.  Paying income taxes?  Taxable income must be low.  Which brings us to another new word—reconciliation, a word commonly used in domestic disputes but also invaluable in financial circles.  Numbers must be “reconciled” to tell different stories to different audiences.  Their historical framework must be plainly visible to the untrained eye.  Context is everything.

                And, then, one day towards the end of that time of long ago and far away, the numbers were swallowed by a machine called a computer.  They were devoured and simply vanished from their connection to the people and values they represented.  All control of reality was relinquished to a keyboard attached to a screen.  As I watched those screens over the next twenty years, numbers with dollar signs zoomed through cyberspace and into a Twilight Zone of futuristic projections with reckless abandon.  New Age economics clashed with Old World mathematics.  Did “1 + 1” still equal 2?  No one really cared.  Numbers were about possibilities, and the hopes and dreams of financial freedom with a few chronicled trends tossed in for good measure.

                By the year 2008, hamburgers with all the trimmings, in the world of the here-and-now, up close and personal, cost twelve quarters, and they weren’t really silver ones.  A gallon of gas cost more than the hamburger, and the price was determined by a four-letter word group called OPEC, which was run by men who lived across the Big Water and not just down the street.

                Since it’s impractical to carry enough quarters to buy hamburgers today for a family of four, we traded our coins for paper currency that is lighter in weight, which makes it easier to transport, and also encourages a whole new industry of manufacturing wallets and pocketbooks.  To ensure that Americans will purchase several of these to carry their currency, we have created “designer” brands with diverse colors, shapes, and sizes for the discriminating consumer.  Our paper dollars require protection and easy accessibility with a pronounced element of style.

                The paper money supply is monitored by various governmental agencies and the vast wasteland that is the financial media.  In the 21st century, it is now possible for all computers to talk to each other and for bank customers to swipe debit cards that look like credit cards to quickly access money from their bank accounts for purchasing goods and services without actually producing the paper.   Abracadabra.   Whoosh – the money flies out of one account and into another one as long as you remember your personal identification number which is subject to theft unless you protect your identity by paying more money to watchdog security systems.   Additionally, hundreds of thousands of advisors and analysts can experience the joys and frustrations of instant mass information, which bombards us every time we refresh our television or computer or iPad or iPhone or some other newer screens yet to be developed.   Experts are available for every topic.

                Question: “What do I need to do to save for retirement?”

                Expert #1: “You are alone. You need to do it yourself.  Stay tuned to my television show, and I will teach you the secrets that have made me the gigantic success I am today.  Subscribe to my newsletter.  Buy my books.”

                Expert #2: “You are not alone, but you can do this yourself.  If you call my toll-free number, someone will personally help you in this time of financial uncertainty.  We are your friends.”

                Expert #3: “You cannot do this by yourself.  You need to work with an advisor who understands your needs and objectives.  Professional advice is the surest way to success.  We care about you.”

                You see the problem.  So many experts, so little time.  And context?  Clearly, it isn’t everything any more.  Context is defined and massaged to frame five-minute segments on twenty-four-hour, seven-days-a-week news programs.  In five minutes, answers are given to economic questions that have plagued theorists for years.  Five minutes later, different responses to the same questions create confusion for the listeners brave enough to stay tuned.  In the immortal words of Andrew Shepherd, the President in The American President, “It’s a world gone mad, Gil.”

                As for me, my forty years with numbers were good ones and passed too quickly.   The people behind the numbers were always real and taught me many lessons that I would have never learned without them.  From parents planning for their children’s education, to seniors securing their estates for their families, to the gay and lesbian couples who were forced to find alternatives in planning for their futures because they had no legal status, I saw that the use of financial resources often reflected the caring character of my clients who owned them.  I am grateful to those clients and friends for their trust, which I diligently tried to earn through the values instilled in me by my dad—treat everyone equally and with respect because every person matters.  And, most importantly, keep your sense of humor.

                Once in a while, when you lose that comedic edge and worry too much about the numbers and dollar signs, try to remember that it’s only paper, after all.  And, for perspective and context, avoid watching more than one financial guru at a time on CNBC.

  • Body Ink – Revisiting the Obama Presidency


    THE TATTOO

          I  got a tattoo two years ago in November, 2009.     I think it’s beautiful. It’s an elaborate cursive “T” in the standard bluish-green tattoo ink used by first-time tattoo getters. It originally stood for Teresa, my life partner of the past ten years.

    Now, I notice all tattoos with greater interest and find a wealth of visible body art on display. Most of what I see is far more creative and in much brighter colors than my three-inch alphabet letter on the inside of my left wrist. However, other people’s ink creations don’t put a damper on my enthusiasm for my own ink.

    The young man who performed the artistry tried to hide his surprise when I walked into his business and announced I wanted a tattoo. I told him I mulled it over for fifty years and thought that was an adequate amount of time to consider anything you truly wanted to do. He was very kind during the painful process, and I was grateful for the xanax I took as a precautionary measure.

    Thanks to my friend Robert for mentioning the tattoo tip to Teresa who went with me and congratulated me for my somewhat mellowed bravery. She couldn’t watch and said she had no interest in getting one to match mine. I was fine with that, but I’m glad I have this outward symbolic marking. I don’t intend to make another statement with ink and needles any time soon. Whatever possessed me to get a tattoo after dreaming of getting one for so many years?

    The  year 2009 began with no dramatic foreshadowing to indicate the earth was about to rotate on a different axis.  A new President took office in January in these Estados Unidos, and his campaign message of hope revitalized a people whose lives lacked faith in their leaders and themselves.  The air we breathed was filled with a sense of expectancy, lofty idealism, and expanded news coverage on an hourly basis of our First Family’s settling in at the White House.

    I, like slightly more than half of the voting population, beamed with pride in the goodwill we received from other countries around the world that shared our optimism for a new direction of peace and prosperity beaming from a fresh colorful face so clearly symbolic of our national melting pot.  Peace, prosperity. As opposed to wars and recession with their inherent problems of joblessness and free-floating anxiety. A new day dawned, and I basked in the warm glow of loosening the shackles of despair that caused me to cringe in horror for the past eight years of the prior regime.  The Bushes were gone—long live the Obamas.

    Unfortunately, the financial markets didn’t share my optimism and took a precipitous nose dive, reaching their lowest point since 1997 in March of 2009. In October of that year, unemployment rates surged to their highest levels since 1982, and in the same month, the Norwegian Nobel Committee announced its decision to award the Nobel Peace Prize to President Barack Obama for his “extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples.”  While many viewed this as premature praise for an unworthy recipient, I smiled and said nothing.  The Bushes were gone—long live the Obamas.

    The stock market rebounded, and financial services firms prepared their typical gazillion-dollar bonuses for the end of the year as many Americans coped with everyday problems of finding food, shelter, clothing, and health care for their families. Oops—did I mention health care? Our fearless leaders shouldered the burden of developing comprehensive reform of the healthcare system, which is the priciest in the world and offers so little for so much to so few.  I prescribe spending an afternoon in a hospital emergency waiting area and observing the uninsured first-hand.

    Finally, after much ballyhoo in the halls of Congress and an embarrassment of ignorance displayed daily on national news, a reform bill passed and was signed into law by the President.  We needed a real fix, and I’m not talking about illegal drugs, but we acquiesced for a generic version to accommodate the opposition in the halls of Congress…

    It is now the summer of 2011 and I still hope for peace and prosperity, although I confess I find little difference in the Obamas. The symbolism of his presidency and potential for delivering on his message of hope appear to be lost in endless press conferences that lack substance. I fear his leadership abilities are suspect. Perhaps, though,  the system is beyond Thunder Dome today and too corrupt for any leaders to make substantive change. Our people continue two wars in places I will never know, and each Sunday I see the names of American soldiers who died on foreign soil during the previous week.

    I long for peace and offer this prayer to the Great Spirit who weeps for us. May the Nobel Peace President discover the courage within himself to stand and deliver on our hope for a world without senseless destruction of men and women and children in every corner of the earth.  May all those people in the unemployment lines find work so that they can provide for themselves and their families.  May we become a nation that cares for our own and welcomes all people who sacrifice as they choose to discover our American dream, regardless of the disappointments they encounter.  May we have the courage to let go and move on in our lives when they spin out of control.  May we somehow set the world on a better axis.

    My tattoo reminds me of what is important in my life.  Teresa brings fun and passion to the adventure of everyday living. She is the salsa for my meat and potatoes, and I adore her. The “T” now represents more than a name for me—it’s a permanent reminder of Thanksgiving for a full life.  Who knows?  I may even get another one this year.

  • Of Faith and Hope


    PRIESTHOOD OF THE BELIEVER

     

    “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

    —Hebrews, Chapter XI, Verse 1

     

                Whenever I speak on social justice issues, or, more likely now, do readings from my books, someone invariably asks me about my religious beliefs.  Some people opt for a subtle approach and others want to make sure I clearly understand their perspective.  Last year I participated in a panel discussion on memoir at a book festival in South Carolina, and the moderator called attention to the three authors’ different backgrounds that influenced their work, including a remark about my life as a lesbian activist.  Following our discussion, the audience was invited to ask questions.

                We took turns responding to typical inquiries regarding memoir as a genre, difficulties in the publishing world these days, and whether our books provided cathartic experiences for unresolved issues in our lives.  It was a lively interchange, and I enjoyed the questions and listening to the answers of the other panelists while I added my own opinions.  As time for our session was about to run out, the moderator asked for one final question for any author.  I saw a hand raised in the back of the auditorium, and a microphone was passed to a man who stood up and reached for it.

                I sensed this was my question before he said anything.  He was a tall man with vanishing silver hair and nicely dressed in dark pants, white shirt and a tie that was an indistinguishable color to me from my seat onstage.  He did, indeed, direct his remarks to me.

                “Miss Morris, I was wondering how you reconcile your life with what the Bible says about homosexuality.  I know that God loves you, but He hates what you do.  Why don’t you change?”

                I was prepared for the question since it was a familiar one to me, but I paused to assess the restlessness of the audience before I spoke. Yep, everyone was ready to move on.

                “The few Bible passages that refer to homosexuality are typically taken out of context and require deeper discussions than we have time for here,” I said.         “Change is a word that implies choosing.  My life has involved many choices, but my being a lesbian is not one of them.  I’m not sure that anyone really knows how God feels about my life—including me.”

                You get the picture.  For those of you who ask these questions, and I think you know who you are, I want you to know that I appreciate your concerns.  I usually answer with as much candor and humor as time allows and direct the conversations to other topics.

                In real life, when time is not an excuse and levity and brevity beg the deeper questions, my journey of faith has no glib explanations.  I am surrounded by the ghosts of generations of family members who relied on their convictions about God during the difficulties they faced throughout their lives.  One of my eighty-three-year-old mother’s favorite sayings to this day is, “God is on His throne.  No matter what comes, we know that God is on His throne.”  This phrase comforts her in the confines of the Memory Care Unit where she lives and assures her that everyday problems are temporary and serve some greater purpose.  It also relieves her of any personal responsibility for outcomes that aren’t suitable.  It’s an expression she’s used frequently in her life when someone contradicts her opinions and she wants to end discussion.  After all, what else is there to say when she declares that an omnipresent and omnipotent Deity reigns over us?  In some deep inner place, my mother’s faith sustains her.

                Certainly this core belief system came partially from her mother, who lived a life of constant struggle as a single mother in the Great Depression.  Left with four children when her husband died unexpectedly, my grandmother waged wars against poverty and, ultimately, herself when she fought the more difficult battles of loneliness and depression.  A letter to her sister in 1954 following the death of their father illustrates her convictions that surely passed to my mother: “I know Papa has gone to heaven, and that is where I want to meet him.  The Old Devil gets a hold of me sometime.  I slap him off—and pray harder for the Lord to help me be a better Christian.  I realize more that I need the Lord every day, and I want to love the Lord more and try to serve Him better.  He alone can take away these heartaches of mine.  I want to have more faith in Him.  I have been so burdened, and I want to be happy.  Serving God and living for Him is the only plan.”

                My grandmother’s belief that faith was the only solution to the multitude of problems she faced and that there were higher levels of faith beyond her grasp was reinforced by the teachings of the little Southern Baptist church she attended every Sunday.  The sweat and, often, tears of pleading preachers for more trust and more commitment stirred their listeners’ emotions and created an environment of permanent unworthiness, or as Paul writes in the New Testament, “For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God” (Romans, Chapter III, Verse 23).  My grandmother’s efforts to “have more faith” included a daily ritual of reading Bible passages using the rudimentary skills she acquired during a schooling that was limited to a third-grade-level education.  I can still see the outline of her sagging body framed in light through the thin partition separating the kitchen from the enclosed porch that served as our bedroom while she sat at a small table and I lay in the darkness wishing she wouldn’t get up so early.  But, there she would be, struggling to read godly guidance in the ungodly hours before dawn so she could be dressed and ready to walk to work by 7:30 a.m. six days a week.

                Shockingly, my grandmother on my daddy’s side glossed over the deeper issues of faith in favor of a focus on hope.  You may remember the famous quote from the Bible in the thirteenth chapter of I Corinthians: “In a word, there are three things that last forever, faith, hope, and love; but the greatest of them is love.”  For this paternal grandmother, the greatest “thing” that lasted forever was hope.  She wasn’t concerned with the intricacies of faith nor did she exhibit excessive “love” toward others outside of her immediate family, but she attended the same Southern Baptist church faithfully every Sunday.  Her hope was for humor, however.  Her belief was that in every Sunday church service she could find something or someone—or, preferably, both—that she could use to entertain her family at the dinner table later.     

               The preacher was irreverently skewered on a regular basis.  “Brother Latham is such a handsome man, but his sermons bore me to tears.  Same old talk about sin every Sunday.  Everybody knows he’s against it by now.  He needs to come up with a new position or a new topic.  And, did you see those poor little children of his?  They look just like their mother, bless their hearts.  God didn’t answer any prayers there, if you ask me.”  The pious friends who seemed to take church so seriously were open season for my grandmother as well.  “Did you see old lady Shead?  Her face was twisted in such a tight knot it looked just like all that hair she has wadded up on her head.  She must have fifty hairpins holding it together.  She looked like God gave her some secret bad news this week, or maybe He put a burr up her butt.”  And she was off and running as my grandfather and I laughed hysterically at her assessment of our churchgoing experience.  No one, and nothing, was sacred at that table.  She was a woman in charge of her home and family and most of the conversations that took place within both.  I worshipped her.

                And so, this was the faith of my mothers.  The church was the teacher, the Bible the textbook, and the interpretations ranged from the holy to the inadvertently profane.  I listened and watched these women for as long as they lived and, throughout my childhood, absorbed their diverse values that blended with the Sunday School teachings and preaching of the Southern Baptist churches my family attended.  I learned to sift the messages and keep the ones that appeared to lessen my likelihood of going to hell when I died.

                Since I knew from the age of five or six that I had what the Bible lovingly called “unnatural affections,” I also understood the threat of eternal damnation that could be my fate, unless God wrought a miracle and transformed me from my evil thoughts and desires.  During my teen years I felt particularly wicked as I lusted after the girls in church and my favorite female high school teachers.  In 1963, when I was seventeen and felt the flames of hell licking around me, I read a small pamphlet called a Statement of the Baptist Faith and Message.  I thought I had discovered my saving grace, a distinctive Baptist teaching called “the priesthood of the believer.”  While this doctrine produced volumes of theological intrigue, my simplistic interpretation at that point in my life was that no one stood between God and me.  What a relief.  No need for confessions to a priest or, necessarily, to trust the ravings of Baptist preachers.  I was redeemed.  It was a doctrine that kept me tied to the church and allowed me to censor its bad tidings for more than forty years. 

               It carried me to a Southern Baptist Seminary where I, rather ironically, had my first lesbian relationship when I was twenty-three years old, a seven-year relationship mired in our guilt and my infidelity.  It carried me to a small Southern Baptist church where I had a lesbian affair with a married woman who was the Youth Director and another one with the preacher’s wife.  God and I didn’t consider this to be adultery.

                To say that my faith odyssey took a zigzag somewhere during the past fifty years is an understatement.  With a genealogy of six generations of Southern Baptists and a family tree that includes a great-great-great-grandfather who was a minister during the Civil War in a rural North Carolina Baptist church, it’s no surprise that I surrendered wholeheartedly to the faith of my forefathers.  I served as a minister of music and youth for five years in two Southern Baptist churches in South Carolina in the 1970s.  Even after leaving the ministry, I continued my membership in the church and its music programs for more than twenty years.  As the Southern Baptist denomination abandoned the doctrine that supported direct communication between the believer and Creator in favor of a collective acquiescence to a pervasive ultra-conservative leadership that led to the restructuring of its institutions of higher learning in the 1970s and ’80s, I stayed.  When the boundaries between church and state blurred and the denomination tookright-wing political bent, I stayed.  When the sermons of the ministers in the churches became a royal proclamation of morality as they and their leaders deemed it in the 1980s and ’90s, I knew my favorite doctrine was in trouble, but I stayed.  Yet, eventually, that faith turned to heretical unorthodoxy—a seismic shift in my core belief system.  Why?

                My work as a paid staff person exposed me to the inner power struggles of church leaders and the budget requirements of doing “something great for God,” as one minister explained to me in the midst of a burgeoning capital campaign.  I overlooked the hypocrisy of rancorous Wednesday night business meetings with the harmonious Sunday worship services.  After all, the music was what God and I had in common.  I didn’t forgive the preachers for their tirades against homosexuals, but I ignored them because God and I knew better.  The “priesthood of the believer” was such a comfort—until it wasn’t.  I was forever changed by a personnel matter, a blip on the radar screen of Important Events.  When the church pianist, a close personal friend, was fired for being gay, I ran out of excuses for God and me.  If God didn’t want my friend, I was sure He didn’t want me, and the feeling was mutual.  I was done.  

               Charting that journey on a blackboard entails an array of colored chalk that begins with white for the innocence of childish trust to green for the color of money in the church to red for the anger of betrayal by believers to gray for the edges of doubt and disbelief in the Deity of my mother.  “God” and “throne” are words that summon visions of clouds and enormous golden chairs from a Cleopatra movie in the ’60s—not a bad image, but not a convincing one, either.  My maternal grandmother’s duel with the Devil also evokes strong feelings for me, but they are feelings of sadness for her inability to achieve that higher level of trust she desperately wanted.  She never could be quite good enough, and I can’t believe in a Deity that inspires fear and irrational guilt.  As for my dad’s mother, her irreverence was an early confirmation for me of my introduction to the doctrine of “the priesthood of the believer” and gave me permission to begin to overcome feelings of shame when I faced the puzzles of sexual identity that were my life.  My grandmother definitely had a unique relationship with her God.  Her words and sense of humor helped free me from the somber sermons of damnation in my youth and encouraged me to think for myself.  I wonder if she knew.

                All paths lead somewhere, and mine returns to where the journey began.  My faith is in the rising and setting of the sun each day—with hope that I’ll live to see them, and with love for the laughter that makes each day worth living.