November 8th, 2009

dorothyday

Confessions of a Would-Be Teenage Clinic Bomber, part III, or,

Sentimentality, Envy, Vainglory Make a Toxic Trifecta All Right
(and Authority-Seeking & Prudery don't help any either)



I've described so far how, if you take seriously the teachings of the prolife movement as they have been expounded upon by all levels within it since the earliest years, it becomes not only a sane-seeming thing to do but a moral imperative to plan acts of violence that to everyone else look just like terrorism; in this penultimate installment I have tried to vivisect the mental traits and temptations that wind people into this cocoon-trap and make it so hard to see the internal contradictions and dishonesties of it all, make it so easy to become tools of natalists, xenophobes, union busters, the intellectual heirs of Fr. Coughlin and Henry Ford and Henry Cabot Lodge in all ways that can be numbered--


Sentimentality

Sentimentality as the ruling passion passing for ethics in prolifism is pretty obvious once you start looking at what is okay with prolifers. Not just the death penalty (Seamless Garment folks are few and very far between) which after all is being applied to people who are guilty of something if not what they've been charged of: they're adults and thus sinners and so it really doesn't matter to your rank-and-file prolifer who can't imagine themselves ever being on Death Row (unless it's in the context of the godless liberal Death Camps of the NWO Apocalypse) nor anyone they know; the saying that prolifers only care about people from conception to birth sounds like a cheap shot, but when you combine it with the ferocious opposition to everything that would reduce infant mortality and improve quality of life and longevity across the board that is the rule and not the exception among prolife conservativism, it's hard to argue with - and even that becomes a mockery, a pretense, when you consider things like the disregard for prenatal health that goes along with toxic environments and inadequate nutrition let alone the forced abortions of the Marianas sweatshops and so on; but the really blatant hypocrisy of prolifism, and how it depends on the ability to compartmentalize so drastically that one can simultaneously care "passionately" about the plight of the unborn - and not care about them at all, when they're not the right sort of unborn.

I refer, of course, to the rampant indifference (at best) to casualties of war - which even the most naive and unimaginative prolifer over the age of twelve has to admit includes women and children, and some of those women must statistically be pregnant ones.

To take an author in our sphere, Orson Scott Card, whose rhetoric is entirely typical of the Wanderer crowd of the Seventies - ,Collapse )
truth

Confessions of a Would-Be Teenage Clinic Bomber, part IV-finis

Enough of abstractions - mere chronology instead


In autumn of 1999 I was in Barnes & Noble where my selfish restiveness often took me of nights being single and thus "having no responsibilities" when I wasn't teaching CCD (but my father had sneered at me that I didn't really have a vocation, did I? and I couldn't just become a nun because I was "scared of men," - and so I didn't), and selfishly enjoying a cup of green tea with honey while I distracted myself from my poverty and lack of prospects and family troubles and how I couldn't protect people I ought to be able to protect - why DID they have to spoil a lovely outing and the illusion that everything was fine at home now that I was no longer there to cause friction with unsolicited laments about the dog being beaten before them and I with no more to offer than feeble platitudes? - and the general fear that the cosmos was uncaring and God nonexistent or worse yet as malicious and brutal as our religion painted Him settled down to look at the newest Pratchett novel that I had just discovered, with a moderately-pleased anticipation.

I wasn't expecting any trouble - yes, this was one of the "Witches" books, but I was even back then sufficiently enlightened to not be scared of Occult Cooties any more, and did not worry that merely reading about Good Witches not sufficently denatured and intellectually separable from actual Occult Practices (as in the Oz books) might be a Danger To My Soul, as many* in my denomination let alone religion still taught; I thought it would be a light, snarky take on the Anne Rice vampire craze and its potrayal of angsty aristocratic bloodsuckers as infinitely more sympathetic than the mundane mortals around them - and it was.

It was also a hell of a lot more*. Take this exchange from page 275 and following between a witch and a cleric of Om, the deity who came back from near oblivion in Small Gods:


"What's that you're singing?" Granny demanded.

"It's called 'Om is in his Holy Temple.'"

"Nice tune," said Granny. "You take comfort from it, do you?" Collapse )