Un-Wanted: Random magazine subscriptions.

Has anyone else encountered this phenomena? It started shortly after I moved into my new place near the heart of this dear city that's now been my home for almost NINE years! I opened our mailbox to find a copy of Redbook, a women's magazine, addressed to me. This is the only magazine to come monthly (so far) and with its target audience being women who want it all - career, family, immaculate home, killer wardrobe, loads of time to contemplate self as goddess, with all being on their own terms - it's the one magazine that even comes close to being something I'd flip through from month to month.

The magazines, or solicitations for magazine subscriptions, have become increasingly more bizarre. I next received The Source, AKA The Bible of Hip Hop Music, Culture, and Politics. Then Ebony started sending me weekly letters asking me to submit payment for a subscription. I'm honored the people at Ebony think I am a cool-enough white girl to receive its publication - I just want to know how they heard about me. Later there was an offer for Guitar Player. And yesterday's selection? Latina!

Anyone think I should be worried? I can't imagine why anyone would steal my identity to send ME these magazines that, as far as I can tell, I haven't paid for. Those are great lengths for a stranger to go to provide me with a wide and wild variety of reading material.

Or should I take all these glossy pages as a message from the universe to expand my horizons and include handy casserole recipes, hip-hop, black empowerment, and Latin flavor? Perhaps my Christianity Todays, Runners Worlds, and Pastes are in need of new friends? Can The Economist, Marie Claire, and Real Simple be next?

I'm baaaack...but not in the Poltergeist, creep ya out sort of way.

I am embarrassed to say it's been about two years since I've published on this blog. It's a relief to say that since my last post, the North Carolina Executive Cabinet has instituted a de facto moratorium on capital punishment due possibly to their realization that decisions of life and death had been placed in their hands and found it difficult to sleep at night with thoughts of bloodied fingers dancing in their heads. I can't blame them for avoiding tough decisions -- I do it all the time. Before the conundrum of how we should kill people to punish them for killing people put a halt to killing people, the State put to death two more souls. Unfortunately, the finger-pointing and indecisiveness of our elected officials did not come soon enough to save Willie Brown, Jr. and Samuel Flippen. I hope they are resting in peace and the people left behind -- the friends and family of both the victims and the executed -- have been able to find some peace as well.

Although I am thankful the death chamber down the street has remained unoccupied for over a year, that's not why I decided to start posting again. I am in the midst of applying for graduate school and am wrestling with writer's block. And not the playful, horsing around with your sibling wrestling. This writer's block is more so of the Jacob wrestling God kind. So before I blaspheme and run, let me just say I'm hoping the task of putting down the not so important thoughts out of mind will help knock lose my block so I can share my more important ideas with the fine people at NC Central School of Law and NC State School of Social Work. Here's hoping!

We Killed a Simple Man.

It's that time again, folks. Killin' time in North Cackalacky. After taking a hiatus for several weeks surrounding St. Valentine's Day (because you just can't show love with lethal injection), the State scheduled the execution of Patrick Lane Moody for last Friday, March 17, coincidently, St. Patrick's Day. Indeed, we in the Bible Belt State of North Carolina killed a man on his patron saint's feast day. Folks, I don't make this stuff up.

Although I find it impossible to justify any execution, this senseless death is particularly hard for me to stomach. There is no doubt Patrick Moody was guilty of killing Donnie Robbins September 16, 1994; Patrick confessed to first-degree murder and conspiracy midway through his trial. You could argue that Patrick wasn't a good person and I might agree; after all, he did kill someone and had planned to kill someone else years before. I have nothing when it comes to making excuses for Patrick Moody's actions.

But do any of us have excuses for the wrongs we've done? Yes, I haven't ended a life per se, but my God says that being angry at my brothers and sisters (meaning anyone and everyone) is paramount to murdering them. Lord knows how many times I have been angry at someone. I wince when I think back to this morning when, within a two-minute span of time I behaved or thought about behaving badly to at least half a dozen people, all out of frustrated anger. If we were to mix North Carolina statutes and God's law, I would have been found guilty and sentenced to die six, maybe more times, all before my morning cup of coffee.

I feel lucky that North Carolina doesn't hold me to the same standards as God does: God is merciful, whereas we in the state of North Carolina are merciless.

Case in point: Patrick Moody was kicked around as a kid. Neither of his parents liked children, and therefore neither of them wanted anything to do with Patrick. His stepmother paid nothing but cruel attention to him. Before his eighteenth birthday, Patrick had been beaten nearly every day of his life, shot, and hit by a truck. Extended family, teachers, social services, and the local church failed to see the hell on earth Patrick was growing up in; or, if indeed people recognized such a horrible place, no one lifted a finger to save Patrick from it.

Can you imagine what feeling worthless can do to a person mentally and emotionally? Can many of us claim we've ever felt that not one other individual in the world cared a damn for us? At his trial, experts testified Patrick's intelligence quotient measured between 60 and 81 points. North Carolina law prohibits the punishment of death for anyone exhibiting an IQ of 70 or below if the defense can prove the lack of mental capacity manifested before the defendant turned 18 years of age. Now, I know we don't want every Tom, Dick, and Jerry to claim they're retarded just to beat a first degree murder rap, so there is some, albeit little, valid reason such a stipulation exists. However, if you murder someone after your 18th birthday and have somehow slipped undetected through the proverbial social services crack, how are you supposed to prove you were never given a chance in hell to distinguish between right and wrong?

Reading interviews given by Patrick prior to his execution cuts to the core of my soul. I learn of a man who is remorseful, who, if given the opportunity to live, would want to spend his days meeting with school children to warn them against the decisions he's made. As much as I or anyone else would want to see Patrick Mooday as a villain, all I see is someone who was manipulated into doing the unthinkable by someone he cared about. I did mention Patrick killed someone he thought was beating on his girlfriend, didn't I?

Yes, this all sounds like the Dukes of Hazzard run amuck, but it isn't. It's someone's life...Or was someone's life. How many more men and women on death row have similar stories of childhood abuse and bad, bad choices? Are we really that different from these so-called monsters? How many of us had made decisions we wish we could do over, but instead must live with the consequences?

Hmm...To live with the consequences. Maybe not such an easy punishment to swallow.

Love Comes in All Shapes and Sizes

But as a columnist, I tend to focus on the triangle type. You can read my first (and subsequently latest) thoughts on the matter in this quarter's Dirty Dish Online magazine. You'll find "Love Triangle: Navigating the Single Life in Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill" under the Issues section.

Happy reading.

Comments No-More

Just a note to future loyal readers, as it appears no one really reads any of my rantings as of yet.

I chose to delete some comments made in regards to my blog -- not because I relish the power to censor, but the messages really weren't an attempt to comment or begin dialogue regarding the thoughts I shared. Instead, these individuals were attempting to promote their own blogs. Little do they know that no one reads mine either...

If you choose to leave your thought-provoking, personalized thoughts on my page -- no matter what they say -- your comments will be respected and kept up. Sterile, mass-produced comments will not.

A (Young) Good Man is Hard to Find

If only Mr. Chalk would convince Christian men ages 21-35 (preferably men who are missions-minded and like the idea of a strong-willed wife) of his philosophy...

Pastor, 100, gets married for third time
Associated Press (1/16/2006)

MORRIS CHAPEL, Tenn. - Rev. James Rual Chalk quoted from his favorite book of the Bible, Genesis 2:18 which states: 'It is not good for man to be alone.' Then, for the third time in his 100 years, he tied the knot Sunday with longtime friend Evelyn Johnson, 68 at the House of Mercy.

Chalk preached in the same pulpit the week before on his birthday. A fixture in the community, the preacher (who also works as a contractor) has known Evelyn since 1982. Her husband died in 1999, and his second wife, Lois, passed a year ago after a long illness.

The pastor and his new wife, with their families combined, have four children, 10 grandchildren and 14 great-grandchildren.

Pat Griffis, a close friend of the newlyweds, said they now try to discourage Chalk from driving after he got a speeding ticket a few months ago.

Life and Death and the In-Between

Today I returned to Raleigh from spending almost a week with my parents in Hickory. Not familiar with North Carolina geography? Believe me, sometimes I wish I didn't know where this place was on the map.

I was called to Hickory because my dad had taken what we thought was a turn for the worse in regards to an illness that had hospitalized him 10 days before. I'm happy to report he's well on his way to a full recovery, all this from the 17 and rising doctors entrusted with his care. But still, if you are like how I was and have never spent more than a night in the ER waiting for cough medicine (the US Army's answer to routine health care for dependents), I'm here to tell you hospitals are scary places even when you are in good health and your loved one is going to make it.

First off, some people just don't make it home alive. And not all these folks are old and ready to let go either. As my dad was being transferred from the Cardio-Vascular Intensive Care Unit (CVICU) to a less threatening place within the hospital, our group of "Free George" supporters overheard that a boy I graduated high school with was fatally injured in a car accident the night before. Twenty-four years old, he had no warning his time was almost up. I'm 25: is the end of my life so near, too? While I'm not going to dwell on that thought too long, Ryan's death definitely knocked off any immortality complex I might have had.

Another delusion that bit the dust in the hospital waiting room was the idea that my parents would always remain the take-charge, super-hero parents I knew when I was a scrawny, know-nothing kid. In retrospect, I should have had this lesson mastered as my parents and I have disappointed each other countless times since I went off to college. Instead, it took seeing my dad hooked up to machines, tubes all over the place, and unconscious for 11 days for my little-girl notion to crumble. Although, we suspect my dad will be up and at 'em within a couple of months, these last few weeks have been a preview of what is to come for the Hebert parent-daughter dynamic. Hopefully this feature attraction won't premier for years and years to come, but who really knows when we'll be forced to stop leaning on our parents and start letting them lean on us?

I try not to think about it, but instead attempt to enjoy the in-between.

Self-Portrait of a Novice Photographer

Can the Vagina Build the Kingdom of God?

Now that I have your attention and have probably offended several by putting the word vagina anywhere near "God"...

But, seriously, I am in somewhat of a quandary. I am a Christian. I own a piece of a local church in Raleigh, Vintage21; not the 1970s-era building we meet in, but I have stock in the people who come to explore God through the person of Jesus Christ. We believe in lives lived not in some sorry-ass rat-race to accumulate stuff and prestige, but lived committed to building up people, redeeming God's people. It's really an exciting adventure, this life of Kingdom investment, and if you want to know more, come check us out one Sunday morning. Or write me -- but really it's better if you come (209 Oberlin Road).

So, because I believe in the power of God's grace and want my life to reflect such grace -- true redemption -- to others, I think really hard prior to my commitment to a project. Will my actions with this group help people to know Jesus Christ better? Will love be a by-product of my work? These are relatively easy questions to answer with a lot of things I do with my time, but I'm not so sure there are any easy answers when you're approached to take part in a community production of The Vagina Monologues.

Now The Monologues have received mixed reviews, and I admit, there are some lips even I'd rather not read, but the mission of these productions and its sister organization, V-day, is nothing but noble:

V-Day is an organized response against violence toward women. V-Day is a vision: We see a world where women live safely and freely. V-Day is a demand: Rape, incest, battery, genital mutilation and sexual slavery must end now. V-Day is a spirit: We believe women should spend their lives creating and thriving rather than surviving or recovering from terrible atrocities. V-Day is a catalyst: By raising money and consciousness, it will unify and strengthen existing anti-violence efforts. Triggering far-reaching awareness, it will lay the groundwork for new educational, protective, and legislative endeavors throughout the world. V-Day is a process: We will work as long as it takes. We will not stop until the violence stops.

Nothing in this statement screams to me scary, ultra-liberal feminism or unreasonable, pre-menstrual hissy-fits. In fact, God abhors all the brutalities The Vagina Monologues and V-day labor to eradicate. He commands us to stay away from sexual relations with close relatives (incest) in Leviticus (18:6-18), says rape is equivalent to the attack and murder of your neighbor in Deuteronomy (22:26), and desires us to love sincerely, cling to what is good, and honor one another above ourselves in Romans (12:9 and 10). Although V-day doesn't credit God in their mission statement, He was the first author to suggest women (and for that matter, men too) were made to create and thrive in this world rather than just survive it. V-day wants to see a world where women live freely; with the Spirit of the Lord there is freedom (2 Corinthians 3:17). Is V-day unorthodox? You bet. Is the spirit of God in the Monologues? To my surprise, and the probable dismay of others, yes, He's in there.

With this revelation, have I decided to be "My Vagina was My Village?" That's yet to be determined after some more time talking to friends I trust not to run in horror, and of course talking to God, who isn't afraid of my or anyone else's vagina. But do I think being a part of such a production could mean opening doors to God's redemption, that women, through a no-holds-barred dialogue about rape and abuse, could begin to dismantle pain and look into the face of God to see someone deeply in love with them and wants nothing but love for them? Absolutely.

Life Cut Short

My ramblings are few and far between apparently. My first (and last) post was in August, when I took pleasure in announcing to the e-world how much I loved my new hometown of Raleigh, North Carolina. I regret to say that Raleigh and North Carolina lost much of its magic for me November 17.

November 17 I attended my first execution vigil. As I work, and now live, in downtown Raleigh, I can't plead previous ignorance of what happens on the occasional Friday morning at 1300 Western Boulevard, better known as Central Prison. I have passed the groups at the gates with their candles and prayers spoken over a loud speaker. Since moving to Raleigh to attend North Carolina State University (coincidentally located about a mile up the road from Central Prison) six years ago, there have been 26 such groups to bear witness to 26 State murders. I am ashamed I never joined them the first 25 times; I am ashamed it took a personal invitation to join the last group to honor the life of Elias Hanna Syriani, a 67 year-old father of four.

I didn't know what to expect or what emotions would be stirred by such a meeting. What exactly do you feel in a room full of people, all with an expectation that someone will die tonight, but too a hope that what's expected really won't happen? I didn't know Mr. Syriani personally - I only knew of him through newspaper articles I had read. Some portrayed him as a crazed monster that stabbed his estranged wife, Teresa, several times with a screwdriver in the presence of his 10-year-old son. And it's true, he did stab his wife over and over while his young son watched his mother's murder. This same father then spent the next fifteen years painfully regretting his thoughtless, cruel acts of violence, but never made any excuses for his crimes. He took steps to reconcile with his children and by some miracle of grace, all four children forgave their father of his crimes. His last pleas for life were made in order to protect Rose, John, Sarah, and Janet from the heartbreak of losing another parent prematurely. After reading all this and taking time to listen to friends' recounts of his time spent in prison, Mr. Syriani wasn't the monster I had read about in early accounts of his crimes: he was a man, a man who had made a terrible mistake. I left that night feeling both helpless and guilty.

I wish for the magic back. Not that I wish I hadn't stumbled upon human depravity, but that human depravity would cease to exist. I wish husbands would love their wives instead of killing them. If I can't be granted that wish, I wish I could say this was my last execution vigil, that the human desire to spill blood would finally be satisfied with the death of Mr. Syriani. It wasn't my last vigil, though: I attended the next one two weeks later to protest the execution of no. 1000 in the United States, Mr. Kenneth Lee Boyd. And I will be at the likely execution of no. 1007, Mr. Perrie Simpson, on January 19. Until then, I keep wishing no. 1007 won't be called.

From someone who was there: Tommy Tomlison, a columnist with The Charlotte Observer, writes about the execution of Elias Syriani in "Look inside the death chamber..."

Want more information on capital punishment? Check out The Death Penalty Information Center.