Carol Hoenig2013-05-24T13:19:05-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=carol-hoenigCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Carol HoenigGood old fashioned elbow grease.Simple Babblers Aboundtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.32264062013-05-07T11:54:34-04:002013-05-07T11:59:28-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/
I actually think that many of the people who define themselves as Christians often miss the mark when it comes to what the Bible teaches. For instance, it is recorded in Matthew 6:9-15 that Jesus instructs believers how to pray. It doesn't say to try to change God's mind or get him to bend to their will, but rather, to have his will done. Yet, I can't help but see such contradiction when I compare so many Facebook statuses from before the most recent presidential election to after it. An abundance of self-described Christians were praying that Obama would not get elected again. Some even saying it was all about God's will. After all, how could God want such a man in the White House?
Fast forward to today, though, and many of these same people are slandering the president, posting lies about him as though they were facts, without at all confirming what is true. Anyone who has read my past blogs about religion knows that I have journeyed from coming to the Lord to eventually coming to my senses. Even though there are verses that have created friction, as well as all-out wars, I still appreciate the positive messages to be found in the Bible, from loving thy neighbor to doing unto others as we would have them do unto us, but there is another one that I think I need to heed, Proverbs 20:19: Whoever goes about slandering reveals secrets; therefore do not associate with a simple babbler.
When it comes to these "simple babblers," here is the thing that is most apparent: It really wasn't God's will that these people wanted, but their own. However, they will make excuses, all in the name of religion, to justify their actions, in spite of the fact that Romans 13:1 states: Let everyone be subject to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God.
Again, I don't believe in the infallibility of the Bible, but as for me and my house, I will not associate with these babblers.]]>Fostering Pringletag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19392242012-10-07T18:44:37-04:002012-12-07T05:12:02-05:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/
It's been a couple of years since I toyed with the idea of caring for a foster dog in order to be a way station of sorts until there is a permanent home available. Until now, I had reasons (excuses?) not to do it -- a daughter's wedding, an elderly father whose life was diminishing, and the fear of the unknown. Just what kind of dog would I be strapped with? Well, my daughter has since married and my father recently took his last breath so it was just a matter of fear of the unknown. Yet, I did adopt Harpo (who was named Rufus when he came into the North Shore Animal League) about a year and a half ago. He'd been saved from a kill shelter and is a very sweet boy who has found his forever home with me. His only demand is that I pet him -- a lot. Still, after watching the documentary One Nation Under Dog and reading about the puppy mills and seeing all the animal rescue places that need help, I decided to put my fear aside and take the challenge, which is how I got Pringle.
Often, we see the after photos of these dogs that have been saved. They look healthy and groomed. Pringle, who is about nine years old and has no teeth, was as well-groomed as he could be, but I have to admit that, initially, I was a bit disturbed by his appearance since his facial features reminded me of a possum. I hate possums. They freak me out. Still, I faced my discomfort for the dignity of this little one.
When I first got him, about four days ago, he was trembling and shell-shocked. He put up with me petting him, but preferred to go to his little bed (one that had been Harpo's that Harpo wanted nothing to do with) and curl up there. It seemed as though Pringle didn't want to be a problem. Yes, of course I'm projecting here, but that is how I took it since he never relieved himself in my home and would eat the mush I put in front of him, licking his bowl clean. He was frightened of the stairs, seemingly having little idea how to navigate them; therefore, he allowed me to carry him up and down, but that was as close as he preferred me to get. He didn't respond to my whistle or when I encouraged him to come to me and, upon eating his food and doing his business outside, he would just skulk to his bed, after I carried him upstairs. I worried that he might be deaf since he didn't seem to respond to any noise.
The second day, Pringle followed Harpo outside, but didn't express much interest in him. When he came back inside, I sat on the floor, seeing what he'd do. Hesitantly, he wandered over to me and rested a paw on my leg. Be still my heart. Then he shifted away. I work from my home office upstairs so I carried him up with me. Later that afternoon, he wandered into my office and rested on the blanket I had put there for that very reason. When I went downstairs to prepare dinner, I didn't bring him down with me, but waited and watched. Sure enough, slow and steady, he came down the stairs to see where I was. Then, when I asked Harpo if he wanted to go out, Pringle dashed to the back door. He heard me! Then, later that afternoon, a slight growl came from his skinny, little body when he saw Harpo outside on the deck waiting to come inside.
Now, on the fourth full day, he navigates the stairs quite well and comes up to me, placing his paws on my legs and lets me pet him. He even allowed me to run a brush through his fur. And, he dashed away when he saw me heading his way with a wet paper towel to clean off his snout after eating. (A dog with no teeth needs a bit of help to clean up afterward.) I laughed out loud to witness the energy he suddenly had.
I went in to this venture with the mindset that my home is going to be a stopover for these dogs that were abandoned, abused or ignored, but I've been asked by some friends, how will I be able to give Pringle up to a forever home? That is part of the challenge, but it is very much the reward, too. However, I expect each foster dog that I take in will come with his own story and some will give me a far bigger challenge than Pringle, who helped me overcome my fear of the unknown. You can see a photo of Pringle here.]]>Invisible Rootstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.16709972012-07-16T10:57:36-04:002012-09-15T05:12:02-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/
My mother, who's been gone now for four years, which doesn't seem possible, used to love to recite numerous poems and lamented the fact that schools no longer required students to memorize verses. One of her favorites was Joyce Kilmer's "Trees." I can still hear her as she'd be going about her chores reciting, "I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree." For some reason, even though I grew up in rural upstate New York where trees were plentiful on our property, I always thought of the two maples growing heavenward on our front lawn as Mom continued her recitation.
Like my sister, and my brothers, too, I am feeling sick to my stomach, and it's not just about how those two trees have reached their demise. Rather, it's another reminder that life goes on and there will be a time when someone will pass my childhood home, if it is still standing, and not have any idea that there were two beautiful trees that growing children were challenged to climb and then adolescent boys managed to reach the top while a mother yelled from below, "Be careful!" They will not know that there were family get-togethers below those trees while a father played his guitar and led sing-alongs.
Time that included many years of harsh winters hasn't been kind to those trees, though. Like my father, who is growing weaker daily, the two maple trees' roots are precarious, and a strong wind could cause serious damage to our house just a few feet away. The decision to have them taken down was discussed among my siblings and me, even though we all knew what would be best. Just like when we knew it was time to let our comatose mother go. Just like when we knew it was time to admit our father in a nursing home. Just like the time when we had to have Charlie, Dad's faithful companion, put down -- all in that order. And now we have to let go of another part of our history; however, we will always have the roots, my siblings and me, even if they aren't visible.]]>Santorum Reminds Me Why I Wrote 'Of Little Faith'tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12952602012-02-24T16:40:47-05:002012-04-25T05:12:01-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/
But I began to witness the cracks in the foundation. For instance, there was the young boy from my church who claimed a faith in Jesus but used his father's gun to take his life, leaving behind a note asking that his family pretend he'd never been born. I couldn't help but think of the failings of 1 Corinthians 10:13 in that young boy's life. ("God is faithful, and he will not let you be tested beyond your strength but with your testing he will also provide the way out so that you may be able to endure it.") I suppose suicide could be considered a way out.
Then there was the minister whose brother suffered with a brain tumor. The minister claimed his faith, the same faith that could move mountains, and trusted his savior to heal the brother. Sadly, the brother died and the minister went on to blame himself, thinking perhaps a bit of doubt in his heart was the deciding factor on whether his brother lived or died. What an unnecessary burden to carry.
Eventually, I began to give serious thought to what I was being taught. What followed was a matter of separating myself from this church I'd been immersed in for several years. Yet, it wasn't easy since I was warned what could happen if I gave a voice to my questions: The "father of lies" would lure me away from the gates of heaven. I clearly remember the day I was curled up on my living room couch in the fetal position while sobbing. I had reached a point where the hypocrisies and paradoxes needed to be addressed. I couldn't ignore them any longer. But that didn't mean I wasn't going to go to hell, which is why I was devastated.
When my pastor came to see me to find out why I'd stopped attending church, I explained my reasons in detail. He told me that most believers wouldn't entertain such questions since they'd probably reach the same conclusion I had, which can be very scary. Oh, I knew about scary, but should getting to such a place as heaven be based on threats and fear? Basically, the pastor and I parted ways.
Thankfully, over time, I managed to shake off the guilt and learn more about how all those books of the Bible came to be. I no longer was blindly following what organized religion was teaching, but probably spent more time trying to understand the origins of faith than many routine church-goers. Over time, I felt the need to share my spiritual journey from "coming to the Lord to coming to my senses" by writing what began as a memoir. However, not too much time passed before I realized that my story would be much clearer if I allowed some fictional characters, all who had a part of me in them at one point or another, flesh out the story. As I stated earlier, I wrote the first draft in six weeks, often not stopping to eat or sleep, I was driven to get it done; however, several years and just as many more drafts later "Of Little Faith" was completed. Recently, one reviewer wrote the following to me: "I am reading your new book and loving it. I think it's a brave move."
Brave, perhaps, especially in today's climate where religion seems to be pulling the strings of many of our politicians. But I can't help think that the term "free will" has gotten lost in the noise.]]>The Gift of Heartbeatstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12816992012-02-16T18:05:00-05:002012-04-17T05:12:01-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/The Art of Hearing Heartbeats (Other Press) that I knew how I was going to approach writing about this magical novel. Julia Win, a young woman who is searching for her father and is amazed to discover he had a life before she was born, a life that he never spoke about, states: "What do we know about our parents, and what do they know about us?" It was here that I rested the book on my lap and considered the question. I suppose it touched a nerve in me because my dad's life is coming to an end. His memory is pretty much shot so any opportunity to find out about who he was as a young man is over. But even if he had sat me down years ago and shared with me all his adventures, both small and large, his dreams, and his desires, would it have revealed who he really was then? Would he have cherry-picked what he wanted to share and leave the rest unspoken?
Of course, I had many chances to find out about who he was, but I was too busy living my life, raising my children, taking my own journey, and perhaps didn't realize that years later I'd start to wonder about this man who came home daily from his day job and then work on the farm only to repeat it day after day. Human nature often encourages us to live in the present and my dad and I did just that, but when the present has little to offer, especially for an elderly man living out his last days in a nursing home, the past becomes much more important to a daughter wanting to know much more about her father. I found myself somewhat envious of Heartbeat's Julia, since she was provided with heart- wrenching details about the boy who would someday become her father.
It's reminders like these in novels like Sendker's that make me appreciate thoughtful literature. Recently, an interviewer asked me to share with him how I felt a writer gives a story importance. I'm not sure I made my point, but when I started thinking further about it, it's stories like The Art of Hearing Heartbeats that show how our very existence is important. This became all the more clear when Julia dreamt of her father as a young boy and wanted to comfort him in his pain, but was unable to do so. In this dream, her father the man consoled her father the young boy, doing what Julia was unable to do. Again, I thought of my father in the nursing home and how my siblings and I are forced to be the parents of this man-child. It's not a part any of us want to play, but one that time has put upon us.
Without a doubt the author wasn't thinking about an old man in a nursing home in Upstate New York when he was writing this novel, which by the way was translated from the German by Kevin Wiliarty. Instead, there's an Eastern spirituality to this story that takes place in the mountains of Kalaw. On the surface, Heartbeats is a love story about a young crippled girl and a young blind boy: she sees for him, he walks for her. And it's about a daughter who discovers who her father was before she came into the world and how she not only came to an understanding of why he had to do what he did, but forgiving him, as well. What a gift that is.]]>In Praise of Solitudetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.11930842012-01-12T19:29:55-05:002012-03-13T05:12:01-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/Republic of Noise: The Loss of Solitude in Schools and Culture. Not much later did I find a review copy in my mail. It seemed like the perfect book to read when most who were looking in the face of 2012 were considering resolutions, resolutions like going to the gym more often, stop smoking or well, you fill in the blank. However, for me, as I was reading this book, I'd realized that over the last year I'd done less reading and much more Facebooking, tweeting and watching television shows because I thought it would make me feel more connected. Only trouble is, it tended to make me feel so much more disconnected. I realized why when reading Senechal's thoughtful work where she writes in the introduction, "This book examines ways in which individuals, schools, and culture are pushing solitude aside. It looks at what solitude is; why we need it and avoid it; and what can happen when we drive it away."
The author looks closely at how solitude is defined. For me, whenever I hear that word, it brings me back to my childhood where I grew up on a farm in one of the most rural parts of New York State. I spent hours in my bedroom writing, playing albums, and just thinking. There was only one television in the house at the time with about five stations. Sometimes I ached with loneliness, hungering to be socially connected with others. Yet, even though I now live in suburbia a short train ride away from Manhattan, I believe it was this way of life that taught me how to be okay with being alone; how to entertain my thoughts without interruption, and it was Senechal's book that was the nudge I needed to mentally get back to that mindset, "If we do not spend time alone with our writing, we may decide that it is really the blogs, tweets, and texts that count -- after all, they are reaching people and making it out into the wide world."
Before anyone reminds me that I am actually adding to the cacophony of sorts by posting this, I have no intention of no longer using the Internet to express myself. However, I will put less time logging on to see who is doing what in "real time" and will, instead, read more, write more and, well, savor the solitude.
Diana Senechal, who has worked in New York City public schools and is a curriculum advisor at Columbia Secondary School, goes into great detail about how our educational system is failing students. How can these students learn when their teachers must adhere to strict standards so that they can't fail? The author explores this in great detail in her chapter titled, "The Workshop Model in New York City."
The question this book asks is "What happens when constant communication replaces thoughtful reflection?" I'm not saying that the immediacy of the Internet is harmful, but rather how we tend to thrive on it. Instead of engaging with each other or just ourselves, it seems we are seeking something "out there" while ignoring real sustenance for thought.
Naturally, I'm not giving up on social media. If I did, you wouldn't be reading this right now. However, I am going to be more cognizant of how I spend my time and ditch much of the clutter. After all, the author reminded me that "solitude gives us room, at least in the mind, to take a break from the churn."
]]>A Part of Satan?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8982582011-07-15T09:12:54-04:002011-09-14T05:12:01-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/
What I find fascinating in all of this is that those who wouldn't be invited to this rally because they are considered "part of Satan" since they are gay, according to Michele Bachmann, still yearn to be a part of the Christian world. This is very clear in "Raw: A Poetic Journey" published by NuWine Press, edited by Aimée Maude Sims with a foreword by musical artist Jennifer Knapp. "Raw" is a collection of writing by people from a variety of backgrounds, races, denominations and (gasp!) sexual orientations. Poet Tricia Lea Douglas writes, "I have finally accepted that I can be both a Christian and a lesbian."
Well, sadly, that isn't the case with many of the fundamentalists who believe that they are the true interpreters of the Bible. Yet, while reading the poems of this collection, in which one poet writes about thinking of God as mother, I couldn't help but consider how we often create a Supreme Being in our minds, hearts and souls in order to justify what we want to believe. We often cling to the Bible verses that validate our beliefs and try to explain away the rest. The reason being is that we cannot make sense of many of these verses or cannot rationalize how they contradict each other, so we pick and choose and base our faith on what we want to believe, whether one is liberal or fundamentalist.
(Full disclosure: Aimée, the editor, approached me for help in promoting her book and then asked if I'd write a blurb for the back cover. I don't know if she'd read any of my other posts here, such as "My God Can Beat Up Your God" or "Being Skeptical," but I was cool with writing something for this book. Even though I don't claim any particular faith any longer, and even consider myself an agnostic, I take issue with those who make themselves judge and jury in the name of their God. Therefore, it was my desire to support this book's message. It's a message I'd rather share than the message of those spouting ignorance and hatred.)
Aimée writes, "Raw calls the Christian church back to its purpose as a place of healing, not wounding. It sends a message that faith trumps bigotry -- and in the process helps each of us own our identity and live with purpose."
Purpose. That's an interesting word. I suppose when it comes right down to it, we'd all like to have a purpose, a reason for being here. Yet, when some are told that they aren't what God intended, the pain is, well, raw, their purpose ostensibly less so. The poems in this book express this thought beautifully.
In the last sentence in the blurb that I gave "Raw," I write, "If these individuals can find the strength to believe -- then perhaps we all can." Perhaps, yes, but certainly not in the God that Rick Perry and his ilk believe. Yet, it does seem that no matter whom we are and what we believe -- moderate or extreme -- we tend to create a version of God to support those beliefs.
]]>How a Grandmother's Unfulfilled Destiny Inspired a Captivating Noveltag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8804372011-06-21T12:19:23-04:002011-08-21T05:12:02-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/Jerusalem Maiden (Harper) was recently published I was thrilled for her, but, admittedly, a bit hesitant to read it. What if it missed the mark? What if I found it boring -- or worse? For this reason I don't usually review friends' books, but with a sigh of relief, I can report that this novel is one of the few books that I can rave about and recommend without hesitation.
Even though I could relate to Esther Kaminsky's yearnings and spiritual questions, Jerusalem Maiden pulled me into unfamiliar territory, into the world of Jerusalem's Orthodox Jews. From very young, it was apparent that the protagonist's purpose in life was to marry once she was able to conceive so that she could begin giving birth, hopefully to sons, which was to help bring about the Messiah's arrival. Never mind that young Esther showed an impressive artistic talent; her role, as was all the Orthodox Jewish women's, was already preordained. The problem was that even though most everyone in her community accepted their lot in life, Esther was trying to figure out why God would give her such an insatiable desire to make "graven images" if she was never allowed to express it.
Early on, Esther's French teacher from a far different culture gently planted a budding seed in the young girl's mind:
It is very difficult to come up with a new way of thinking when you are forever exposed to your God's scrutiny -- or what you believe is your God's scrutiny. He sits in judgment inside your head, reading every errant thought, making you obsessed with following what you've been told are His decrees. And so you are confined --
Anyone who reads my posts knows that I have issues with extremism in religion. Yes, for years I was neck-deep in a Bible-believing church, one that interpreted "God's Word" for the congregation and made any one of us who expressed doubts to what was being taught feel that those doubts were inspired by the devil himself. Fortunately, I finally extricated myself from that church, but was inspired to write about that world in my yet-to-be published novel. Like Talia's protagonist, my protagonist, too, has desires that went against the fundamental, Bible-believing lifestyle in which she was raised. Therefore, with each page I turned in Carner's gripping tale, I witnessed similarities between those who are waiting for the Messiah to those who believe he's already arrived while the belief systems fueled by tradition and rules go hand in hand with oppression and ignoring the innate passions of its people.
Without a doubt, novelists' works are often inspired by the need to expose certain society failings and like Esther in Jerusalem Maiden, Carner's very real grandmother was not allowed to develop her artistic talent. Because of this, Carner explored what it was like to be a young girl in Jerusalem in the early 1900s. What she ended up with is a story that shows how these rigid beliefs often make a mockery out of the need to express oneself. With such profound sadness those who struggle to please his or her God often must deny themselves any sort of pleasure. The senses are forbidden to appreciate art in any form while the body is for procreating and laboring. Any distraction is considered a sin. With each page I turned, I kept asking, who'd want to serve that kind of God?
However, instead of preaching, Carner shows the hypocrisy through how a young woman's desire to please her God didn't agree with her yearning to express her handiwork on canvas. My heart ached for Esther as I watched her go through life suppressing her dream in order to do what she was told by the men who studied and interpreted the Torah, since she, a woman, was forbidden to do so. Sadly, even though this is a work of fiction that takes place many years ago, the story of religious oppression is all too familiar. Brava to Talia Carner, who lectures at international women's economic forums, for writing such a provocative novel, one that is bound to stir much discussion. ]]>Should Book Reviewers Be Paid to Review?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8754292011-06-11T18:13:15-04:002011-08-11T05:12:01-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/
There's a feeling of guilt on my part that I've let someone down because I didn't follow through, so I've gotten to the point where I usually demur when I'm queried if I'd be willing to "take a look" at such and such a title by such and such an author, even though some of these pitches are tempting and I think I could manage to fit in some time to read and review the work. Yet, it seems that when I do agree, by the time I get the thick, padded envelope in the mail, I realize that I'll quite likely be unable to get to it in any reasonable time, and it's certainly not because I don't enjoy reading or reviewing. The thing is, since I carry a mortgage, I must first put my energy into the paying gigs.
See, I'm in front of my computer all day critiquing manuscripts, publicizing and marketing other authors, and doing my own writing. By the time early evening rolls around, an hour when many others make time to read, my eyes and brain need a break. The shame of it is that there are fewer places to have one's book reviewed, thanks to so many publications eliminating the position or having folded altogether. So when I first began writing about books that I'd read from my own library, I was surprised, not to mention honored and willing, when the queries for reviews began to come across my desk. Well, I'm still honored and willing, but simply find that I need to put my energy into working for my clients, since that is what pays the bills, which leads me to wonder, is paying someone to review a book still considered unethical, as it had been in the past? Meaning, it would be easier to make the time during the day if I knew I'd be yielding something in return beyond a free book, not to mention the possibility of discovering a delightful story.
There are places that do require payment for reviews, but, overall, there is still a stigma about the practice. To make it clear, however, I'm not suggesting paying someone to give a book a good review, but rather paying someone for their time to read and review a book. The question is, who pays? The publisher? The author? Or should the system remain as is, and have it be a matter of crossing one's fingers and hoping that the reviewer finds the time to follow through.
That said, the next blog you'll see from me will quite likely be a review for a novel I'm very much looking forward to reading. I just hope I can get to it in a timely manner. You know the saying, so many books, so little time.
]]>An Unsolved Mystery Inspires The Reservoirtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8389722011-03-22T15:02:05-04:002011-05-25T18:40:24-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/The Reservoir. Even though the story takes place in Richmond, Virginia about twenty years after the Civil War ended, there was a sense of urgency on my part to get to the book's conclusion. In other words, whenever I had to put the book down due to eyes that simply could no longer remain open, I looked forward to the moment that I could get back to this intriguing tale. What made it so absorbing was that The Reservoir started out to be a work of non-fiction, the author researching an actual court case about a young pregnant woman who was murdered. Or was she? Perhaps it was suicide, but we'll never know for sure, while this work of fiction helps us explore the possibilities.
I'm sure that there are dozens of court cases from long ago and not so long ago that could be springboards for fascinating novels, but as I kept reading this particular one where many of the characters are based on real people, it was as though the author, giving himself literary license to go into these characters' minds, was putting together a puzzle for the reader, which made this book a page turner for me. However, that's not to say that at times I didn't find myself exasperated by the journey I was being taken on, but I'm guessing the author, too, in his research, became exasperated: did this young, unmarried, pregnant woman kill herself out of desperation or did the young man, who considered her tempting, kill her in order to protect his good standing in the community? Or, was there something else, something even more sinister at play? Unfortunately, these are part of the missing pieces in the real story, and even though Thompson has maintained the sense of time and place by the descriptions of what people wore, along with the way they spoke, what really happened then will quite likely forever remain a mystery. Yet, I didn't want the story to end -- at least not in the way it ended.
To my delight, however, I discovered that on the author's website there are copies of newspaper articles about the crime (accident?) as well as pictures of some of the pieces of evidence from the court case.
Either way, we'll never know just who was wronged back then, but it's quite likely that I would have never heard of Tommie Cluverius, Lillian Madison or any of the others who were actual people involved in a gruesome situation had the author not taken a piece of history and written what is sure to be a riveting topic of conversation.
]]>A Sorry Lot, Indeedtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8323912011-03-08T18:17:52-05:002011-05-25T18:35:25-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/
Many of us know people whose hope for reward goes hand in hand with fear of punishment. It is often this fear that propels them to become zealots and they use Bible verses -- such as "Preach the word; be instant in season, out of season; reprove, rebuke, exhort with all longsuffering and doctrine" (2 Timothy 4:2 KJV) -- to justify their cause. These same people like to dangle the threat of hell and damnation to those who don't accept this belief while then exclaiming that God is a loving, forgiving God; it's just a matter of first rationalizing what is required to go down this condemnatory road.
So while these people, these fundamentalists, are doing their lord's work, such as speaking for their higher power on his behalf by telling the grieving families of dead soldiers that the death was God's punishment for America's stance on homosexuality, they are securing their place for everlasting peace. What's interesting and tragic is that these people tend to ignore Matthew 7:1: "Judge not, that ye be not judged."
I do wonder, though, if heaven weren't part of the bargain, just how these believers would be in our society. This thought actually reminds me of years ago when I believed that the Bible was inspired. I'm embarrassed to say that I was involved in a fundamentalist church, attended Bible studies (even led some) and had Christian music pouring through my house praising God for redemption. There was one song in particular by Evie Tornquist titled "If Heaven was Never Promised to Me" about how a believer should be grateful to have a relationship with God, even if that afterlife wasn't part of the deal. I also have a vivid memory of how two older Bible-believing women thought the song and very idea foolish, one of the women even pooh-poohing the idea by saying, "Why would anyone believe then?"
That was quite likely one of the reasons for the tiny fissures that began to crack what I had accepted as truth during my religious journey. And over time, it became abundantly clear that the idea of everlasting peace in a place called heaven was the carrot and stick approach, one that was used to keep us fallible humans not only in line but subservient to an idea. It's also the same tack that parents use somewhere around Christmas time when they threaten their children that Santa is watching to see if they are good or bad. If they are good, well, they will get an abundance of gifts under the tree on Christmas morning, but if not, well then, a lump of coal is in their future.
But in the song "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town," children are then told to be good for goodness sake. Actually, that makes more sense to me. Why not simply be good because it's the right thing to do? It's as though some believe most of us don't have that innate compass telling us to do unto others as we would like done to ourselves. In turn, those same people who believe their faith is the only one to follow with vehement passion become arrogant, judgmental and display a misguided fervor that is dangerous to an independent society, which makes us a sorry lot, indeed.
]]>Where Will Books Find Their Champion?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8270342011-02-23T13:01:48-05:002011-05-25T18:35:25-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/
Back then, before a Borders employee was hired, we were to take an intensive test to assess our knowledge about the products we'd be selling. In other words, was this just going to be a job or did we have a passion for those goods? I have clear memories of the excitement I felt whenever I walked into that store, one filled to capacity, wondering what new book I'd come across that day and simply must own. Staff could not just point to a section, directing a customer to where the book should be, but had to walk the customer to the section, find the book and hand it to them. Sometimes it was like searching for a needle in a haystack, but the jubilation that abounded when the book was found was cause for celebration -- not to mention a sale.
Nothing seemed amiss when a couple of years later I transferred to help open the Park Avenue Borders in Manhattan where an entire floor was dedicated to music. Those were the days, my friend. We thought they'd never end. By then, I was a Community Relations Coordinator and then a National Event Specialist, my office in that Park Avenue store. Often, in order to take a break from my desk, I'd walk the sales floor and watch all those people browsing, searching for something they didn't know existed. At the time, there were rumblings in the industry about electronic books, but few seemed to think they would take hold. And they didn't. Not then, anyway. But what was happening was that the music sections were diminishing and then those eclectic book titles had to be special ordered. Yes, the corporate office made a lot of missteps, as so many of us witnessed at the store level, but we were forced to ride the wave until it was our department that was cut.
In 2005, it was the end of my career with the bookstore. I missed the days of being able to see what new titles were being shelved and recommending books to customers wanting something to read, but not sure what -- then those same customers returning because they appreciated the previous suggestion. Sure, Amazon has the "If you liked this, you'll like this" on their site, but Amazon doesn't know that perhaps the prior purchase had been a gift and nothing one would read themselves. In other words, there is no way to discuss just what one is in the mood for and the capability to browse, leaf through and make a decision after acquainting oneself with the book. However, with the announcement of more bookstores closing almost on a daily basis, it doesn't matter because that time seems to have reached its conclusion and both stores I helped open are part of the group to be closed.
One thing is certain though, we writers will still write and musicians will still perform, but will we be like that tree that falls in the forest when no one is around? In other words, I wonder who will champion these books?
]]>Valentine's Day Without the Angsttag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8230172011-02-14T16:03:11-05:002011-05-25T18:30:24-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/
Like I always did when my father makes such lucid comments, I laughed it off with a dismissive rejoinder, but I know that he was sincere in his concern. After having been married over 50 years, he lost his life partner, my mom, and it's obvious how lonely he feels. What he doesn't realize is that even married, I, too, was lonely much of the time. My ex was a workaholic and I played second, sometimes third fiddle to his ambitions. Yet, on Valentine's Day, there was usually the requisite bouquet of flowers and box of candy, as though they made up for the long absences. What he didn't seem to grasp is that I didn't want the frills, preferring his time, his companionship. Some people think that I gave up any hope for love by divorcing, but instead I exchanged the long stretches of loneliness waiting for him to come home with the ability to make my own plans. I exchanged my fear wondering what mood he'd be in when he did show up by finding peace and calm in the stillness of the night. What I discovered was me and maybe that's enough.
So, here it is once again Valentine's Day and I'm still single; mostly by choice. And, thanks to some very thoughtful young adult children, I still managed to get a couple boxes of candy.
]]>Why Historical Accounts Mattertag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8204452011-02-08T18:45:30-05:002011-05-25T18:30:24-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/Alexander and the Horrible, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day and every Dr. Seuss written. Quite likely, I was bopping around singing with Gloria Gaynor's hit song at the time and preferring to watch Taxi episodes as opposed to the news. It was easier to watch burnt-out "Reverend" Jim Ignatowski than try to sort out what was actually happening "over there." When I had been a student, I aced tests where I matched explorers with what they discovered, memorized the three ships that Columbus sailed to find the Americas and found the story of the pilgrims coming over on the Mayflower somewhat interesting. History from centuries earlier seemed to be of the utmost importance to my teachers while the Vietnam War and Watergate were topics barely touched upon. Maybe because it was too difficult to sort out while living through it.
Thankfully, I've become less apolitical over the years and often find myself reading accounts from those who lived during certain events that have become important anniversary dates, dates like November 4th over some thirty years ago. One such account is Robert Wright's recently published Our Man in Tehran: The True Story Behind the Secret Mission to Save Six Americans During the Iran Hostage Crisis and the Foreign Ambassador Who Worked With the CIA to Bring Them Home. (Other Press)
I have no strong memory of the hostage-taking, although I do recall when they were freed. I suppose it was because it coincided with President Reagan just taking office. And, I have no recollection of the "Canada Caper" where Ken Taylor, Canada's ambassador to Iran, is the "Our Man in Tehran."
I don't recall learning much about Iran all those years ago in school. I suppose the message conveyed was that they had little effect on our lives here in the states, so there was no need to become educated about a country whose people seemed as alien as Martians, so by the time the Iran Hostage Crisis occurred, it was barely a blip on my radar screen.
There have been many hostages taken from all over the world before and since that long, drawn out incident, hostages that didn't survive their ordeal, which makes me wonder if the more recent eclipses the others, putting them out of mind -- for those of us not directly involved anyway. This is why it's important that books like Wright's matter. They help us remember, or, if not remember since we had no memory of it in the first place, to have a better understanding of why what happened then influences what is happening today. I say "better understanding" because I often come to the page with ignorance and the inability to grasp the whys of what is happening to our world today, while wondering why I hadn't been taught without the complexities being sanitized or skimmed over.
Thankfully, there is no invented dialogue in an attempt to make Wright's book more interesting, yet the details are rich, the research meticulous. Naturally, the bigger story of this time in history has been told by a number of those who lived through it, the major players being former President Jimmy Carter, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, Ayatollah Khomeini and many others, but Our Man in Tehran is one that tells a smaller but important story, providing lessons of how we got where we got today, which is sometimes what history books miss.
]]>Too Quick to Point a Finger?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8063662011-01-10T11:47:28-05:002011-05-25T18:25:24-04:00Carol Hoenighttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/carol-hoenig/
Perhaps, also, I was too quick to point a finger at those pundits who are given a voice on the airwaves advocating opinions without fact, even suggesting harm to those who challenge their sensibilities, but had they not called for violence, had they not fabricated mistruths, then there wouldn't be this conversation about them being culpable in any way.
Yes, there will always be senseless killings by those who are unbalanced, but had Ms. Palin and those many angry Opinionmeisters not created an environment implying justification to take out those who disagree with their ideals, then we wouldn't be having this debate. People who are given a platform should be more responsible in their message. It won't be as dramatic or as entertaining, but it appears we've had enough drama for quite some time.
After reading the several disturbing articles in today's New York Times about the nightmare surrounding Gabrielle Gifford, I moved to the Arts & Leisure section and began reading Dan Saltzstein's "The Comic Who Explores Comedy's Dark Side" where Marc Maron is quoted telling Dane Cook, "You've got to have rage, man. Because I see the posture -- your posture is built for rage." Maybe encouraging rage in a comedian will get laughs from stage, but there's nothing funny about someone being shot because the shooter was stirred by those who have been given a podium and, in turn, credibility thanks to our country's insatiable hunger for misinformation. It's time we agree to learn to disagree without making threats to permanently snuff out the messenger. At least the finger pointing, to a degree, will be abated.