Fear

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  I thought about it for a moment. “That’s true. It was like that. But in the dream it wasn’t about being gay. It was about being a man or a woman. Do you know what I mean? I always feel like I have to prove Tm like other women, but in the dream I didn’t feel that way. ’m not even sure I felt like a woman.” Stone Butch Blues 153 The moonlight illuminated Theresa’s frown. “Did you feel like a man?” I shook my head. “No. That’s the strange part. I didn’t feel like a woman ot a man, and I liked how I was different.” Theresa didn’t respond right away. “You're going through a lot of changes right now, Jess.” “Yeah, but what do you think about my dream?” Theresa tossed a pillow at me. “TI think we should go back to sleep.” Whatever kind of response Pd wanted from Theresa, that wasn’t it. But the subject wasn’t put to rest so easily. Toward the end of the summer Edwin and Grant came over to our house. Jan dropped by later with some shopping bags. Jan and her new lover, Katie, looked real uncomfortable, like they’d been fighting, “This is a real crisis,’ Grant stressed. “We either got to change how we look or we’te gonna starve to death! Katie got some wigs and some makeup. There’s a few jobs, like in the department stores. Jesus, I don’t know about you, but I need work. It’s only for a while, until the plants reopen.” Katie and Theresa retreated to the kitchen. Four stone butches trying on fashion wigs. 154 = Leslie Feinberg It was like Halloween, only it was creepy and painful. The wigs made us look like we were making fun of ourselves. Grant told me, “I put one on, now it’s your turn, Jess.” Edwin shook her head while she held up a mirror for me to see. I threw the wig on the floor. “I look more like a he-she with the wig on than with a goddamn DA.” “Well, have it your own damn way,” Grant yelled. “Leave me alone, Grant,’ I shouted back at her. “You think you’re the only one who’s scared?” Grant faced me nose to nose. “What the fuck am I gonna do if I get evicted, huh?” I didn’t want to fight with her. “Look, Grant. If it works for you then do it. But nobody’s gonna hire me with that fucking wig on. And makeup’s not gonna do it, either. I need a bushel basket to hide who Tam.” Jan got up and left, just like that. Ed went into the kitchen to tell Katie that Jan had left. Grant and I grudgingly shook hands. “Honey,” I said to Theresa, “if you don’t mind, Ed and Grant and I are gonna look for Jan and maybe gtab a couple of beers, OK?” I knew Theresa wanted me to stay, but Katie was real upset, too, so Theresa

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  When they finally released him he was no longer a human being. He described to me one night his last thirty days in jail, the agony of waiting to be released. I have never heard anything like it; I didn’t think a human being could survive such anguish. Freed, he was haunted by the fear that he might be obliged to commit a crime and be sent back to prison again. He complained of being followed, spied on, perpetually tracked. He said “they” were tempting him to do things he had no desire to do. “They” were the dicks who were on his trail, who were paid to bring him back again. At night, when he was asleep, they whispered in his ear. He was powerless against them because they mesmerized him first. Sometimes they placed dope under his pillow, and with it a revolver or a knife. They wanted him to kill some innocent person so that they would have a solid case against him this time. He got worse and worse. One night, after he had walked around for hours with a batch of telegrams in his pocket, he went up to a cop and asked to be locked up. He couldn’t remember his name or address or even the office he was working for. He had completely lost his identity. He repeated over and over—“I’m innocent. . . . I’m innocent.” Again they gave him the third degree. Suddenly he jumped up and shouted like a madman—“I’ll confess . . . I’ll confess”—and with that he began to reel off one crime after another. He kept it up for three hours. Suddenly, in the midst of a harrowing confession, he stopped short, gave a quick look about, like a man who has suddenly come to, and then, with the rapidity and the force which only a madman can summon he made a tremendous leap across the room and crashed his skull against the stone wall. . . . I relate these incidents briefly and hurriedly as they flash through my mind; my memory is packed with thousands of such details, with a myriad faces, gestures, tales, confessions all entwined and interlaced like the stupendous reeling façade of some Hindu temple made not of stone but of the experience of human flesh, a monstrous dream edifice built entirely of reality and yet not reality itself but merely the vessel in which the mystery of the human being is contained. My mind wanders to the clinic where in ignorance and good will I brought some of the younger ones to be cured. I can think of no more evocative image to convey the atmosphere of this place than the painting by Hieronymus Bosch in which the magician, after the manner of a dentist extracting a live nerve, is represented as the deliverer of insanity.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  In one of those things where you put your head through a hole and people pay to throw garbage at you!” “No circus has that anymore,” said my mother. “Stop it, Shep.” By the time I went down to eat dinner, everything was as usual. I looked at my father and felt a sickening sensation of love nailed to contempt and panic. The last time I made a typing error and the lawyer summoned me to his office, two unusual things occurred. The first was that after he finished spanking me he told me to pull up my skirt. Fear hooked my stomach and pulled it toward my chest. I turned my head and tried to look at him. “You’re not worried that I’m going to rape you, are you?” he said. “Don’t. I’m not interested in that, not in the least. Pull up your skirt.” I turned my head away from him. I thought, I don’t have to do this. I can stop right now. I can straighten up and walk out. But I didn’t. I pulled up my skirt. “Pull down your panty hose and underwear.” A finger of nausea poked my stomach. “I told you I’m not going to fuck you. Do what I say.” The skin on my face and throat was hot, but my fingertips were cold on my legs as I pulled down my underwear and pantyhose. The letter before me became distorted beyond recognition. I thought I might faint or vomit, but I didn’t. I was held up by a feeling of dizzying suspension, like the one I have in dreams where I can fly, but only if I get into some weird position. At first he didn’t seem to be doing anything. Then I became aware of a small frenzy of expended energy behind me. I had an impression of a vicious little animal frantically burrowing dirt with its tiny claws and teeth. My hips were sprayed with hot sticky muck. “Go clean yourself off,” he said. “And do that letter again.” I stood slowly, and felt my skirt fall over the sticky gunk. He briskly swung open the door and I left the room, not even pulling up my panty hose and underwear, since I was going to use the bathroom anyway. He closed the door behind me, and the second unusual thing occurred. Susan, the paralegal, was standing in the waiting room with a funny look on her face. She was a blonde who wore short, fuzzy sweaters, and fake gold jewelry around her neck. At her friendliest, she had a whining, abrasive quality that clung to her voice. Now, she could barely say hello. Her stupidly full lips were parted speculatively. “Hi,” I said. “Just a minute.” She noted the awkwardness of my walk, because of the lowered panty hose. I got to the bathroom and wiped myself off. I didn’t feel embarrassed.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  It was in the early days of sexual intercourse and there were no Marquis of Queensbury rules to hinder. It was fuck and be fucked —and the devil take the hindmost. It has been that way ever since the Greeks—a blind fuck in the mud and then a quick spawn and then death. People are fucking on different levels but it’s always in a swamp and the litter is always destined for the same end. When the house is torn down the bed is left standing: the cosmosexual altar. I was polluting the bed with dreams. Stretched out taut on the ferroconcrete my soul would leave its body and roam from place to place on a little trolley such as is used in department stores for making change. I made ideological changes and excursions; I was a vagabond in the country of the brain. Everything was absolutely clear to me because done in rock crystal; at every egress there was written in big letters ANNIHILATION. The fright of extinction solidified me; the body became itself a piece of ferroconcrete. It was ornamented by a permanent erection in the best taste. I had achieved that state of vacuity so earnestly desired by certain devout members of esoteric cults. I was no more. I was not even a personal hard on. It was about this time, adopting the pseudonym Samson Lackawanna, that I began my depredations. The criminal instinct in me had gotten the upper hand. Whereas heretofore I had been only an errant soul, a sort of Gentile Dybbuk, now I became a flesh-filled ghost. I had taken the name which pleased me and I had only to act instinctively. In Hong Kong, for instance, I made my entry as a book agent. I carried a leather purse filled with Mexican dollars and I visited religiously all those Chinese who were in need of further education. At the hotel I rang for women like you would ring for whisky and soda. Mornings I studied Tibetan in order to prepare for the journey to Lhasa. I already spoke Yiddish fluently, and Hebrew too. I could count two rows of figures at once. It was so easy to swindle the Chinese that I went back to Manila in disgust. There I took a Mr. Rico in hand and taught him the art of selling books with no handling charges. All the profit came from ocean freight rates, but it was sufficient to keep me in luxury while it lasted. The breath had become as much a trick as breathing. Things were not dual merely, but multiple. I had became a cage of mirrors reflecting vacuity. But vacuity once stoutly posited I was at home and what is called creation was merely a job of filling up holes.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  The ark is so full of bric-à-brac that it has become a stationary building above a subway in which the smell of linoleum prevails and predominates. Gather together all the significance hidden away in the interstitial miscellany of Bloomingdale’s and put it on the head of a pin and you will have left a universe in which the grand constellations move without the slightest danger of collision. It is this microscopic chaos which brings on my morganatic ailments. In the street I began to stab horses at random, or I lift a skirt here and there looking for a letter box, or I put a postage stamp across a mouth, an eye, a vagina. Or I suddenly decide to climb a tall building, like a fly, and once having reached the roof I do fly with real wings and I fly and fly and fly, covering towns like Weehawken, Hoboken, Hackensack, Canarsie, Bergen Beach in the twinkling of an eye. Once you become a real schizerino flying is the easiest thing in the world; the trick is to fly with the etheric body, to leave behind in Bloomingdale’s your sack of bones, guts, blood and cartilage; to fly only with your immutable self which, if you stop a moment to reflect, is always equipped with wings. Flying this way, in full daylight, has advantages over the ordinary night-flying which everybody indulges in. You can leave off from moment to moment, as quick and decisive as stepping on a brake; there is no difficulty in finding your other self, because the moment you leave off you are your other self, which is to say, the so-called whole self. Only, as the Bloomingdale experience goes to prove, this whole self, about which so much boasting has been done, falls apart very easily. The smell of linoleum, for some strange reason, will always make me fall apart and collapse on the floor. It is the smell of all the unnatural things which were glued together in me, which were assembled, so to say, by negative consent. It is only after the third meal that the morning gifts, bequeathed by the phony alliance of the ancestors, begin to drop away and the true rock of the self, the happy rock sheers up out of the muck of the soul. With nightfall the pinhead universe begins to expand. It expands organically, from an infinitesimal nuclear speck, in the way that minerals or star clusters form. It eats into the surrounding chaos like a rat boring through store cheese. All chaos could be gathered together on a pinhead, but the self, microscopical at the start, works up to a universe from any point in space.

• From The History of Christianity II: From the Reformation to the Modern Megachurch (2017)

  353Lecture 36—The Challenge of 21 st -Century Christianity õWhen Osama bin Laden and his Al-Qaeda collaborators murdered thousands of people in the attacks on September 11, 2001, it seemed like an all-out declaration of war on Western/Christian civilization. ENCOUNTERS IN AFRICA õHuntington’s thesis has some uses, but it also has some problems. Consider the clashes between Christians and Muslims in Africa. During the decades following World War II, nationalism became increasingly appealing to Africans. õAs they pushed for independence from the colonial powers of Europe, some people came to see Christianity as a foreign, imperialist ideology, while Islam became associated with African independence from white rule. And later on, Islam could imply a kind of tactical and ideological neutrality from the two sides of the Cold War. õYet by the mid-1990s, the Cold War was over. Most African countries had been independent for a quite a while. Christianity on the continent was thoroughly Africanized; it would be hard to walk into, for example, Daniel Olukoya’s Mountain of Fire and Miracles church in Lagos and say it was an instrument of Western imperialism. Meanwhile, African Muslims were increasingly aware of themselves as part of a global Muslim community, the Ummah. õIn a place like Sudan, the Muslim Brotherhood was now less associated with Sudanese nationalism and linked more closely with transnational networks of theologically conservative, politically radical Muslims. This ideological self-awareness informed the government of president Omar al-Bashir in the early 2000s. õWhen a largely Muslim militia, the Janjaweed, started murdering huge numbers of Sudanese Christians in the South, religion became a primary lens for outsiders trying to understand the genocide. But this was also a story of nomads who made a living herding camels and cattle (the Muslims) taking out their economic frustrations on a largely sedentary farming population (the Christians).

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  The hood was strangely comforting, but comfort can be dangerous. Comfort provides a floor but also a ceiling. In our crew, our friend G was like the rest of us, unemployed, hanging out. Then he got a job at a nice clothing store. Every morning he went to work, and the guys would tease him about going to work. We’d see him headed out all dressed up, and everyone would be laughing at him. “Oh, G, look at you in your fancy clothes!” “Oh, G, going to go see the white man today, huh?” “Oh, G, don’t forget to bring some books back from the library!” One morning, after a month of G working at the place, we were hanging out on the wall, and G came out in his slippers and his socks. He wasn’t dressed for work. “Yo, G, what’s going on? What’s up with the job?” “Oh, I don’t work there anymore.” “Why?” “They accused me of stealing something and I got fired.” And I’ll never forget thinking to myself that it felt like he did it on purpose. He sabotaged himself so that he’d get accepted back into the group again. The hood has a gravitational pull. It never leaves you behind, but it also never lets you leave. Because by making the choice to leave, you’re insulting the place that raised you and made you and never turned you away. And that place fights you back. As soon as things start going well for you in the hood, it’s time to go. Because the hood will drag you back in. It will find a way. There will be a guy who steals a thing and puts it in your car and the cops find it— something. You can’t stay. You think you can. You’ll start doing better and you’ll bring your hood friends out to a nice club, and the next thing you know somebody starts a fight and one of your friends pulls a gun and somebody’s getting shot and you’re left standing around going, “What just happened?” The hood happened. — One night I was DJ’ing a party, not in Alex but right outside Alex in Lombardy East, a nicer, middle-class black neighborhood. The police were called about the noise. They came busting in wearing riot gear and pointing machine guns. That’s how our police roll. We don’t have small and then big. What Americans call SWAT is just our regular police. They came looking for the source of the music, and the music was coming from me. This one cop came over to where I was with my computer and pulled this massive assault rifle on me. “You gotta shut this down right now.” “Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m shutting it down.”

• From The History of Christianity II: From the Reformation to the Modern Megachurch (2017)

  346The History of Christianity II JAPANESE DOMINATION õFrom 1910 to 1945, Korea was under Japanese domination. The Japanese wanted Korean subjects to sever all relations with missionary groups and other foreign organizations, and to take part in the rituals of Japanese traditional religion, Shinto. õIn the Shinto worldview, Japan was a paradise created by the gods, and participating in Shinto rites at public shrines was a required demonstration of political loyalty. The Vatican saw that Korean Catholics were in a tight spot and signed a concordat with the Japanese government in 1936, basically saying that Catholics can do that; their activity at the shrines is not idol-worship but an act of patriotism. õProtestants got into more tangles with the Japanese government: They pushed back against Japanese efforts to turn Korean schools into secular, Japanese-language operations. Christians were accused of trying to assassinate the governor general, and when some Korean activists got together in 1919 to sign a declaration of independence, nearly half of them were Protestant. õIn the government’s eyes, Christianity in general, and Protestantism in particular, seemed like a cult devoted to overthrowing the regime (even though most Korean Christians advocated for nonviolent resistance). Japanese troops burned churches, arrested and executed Christian leaders, and at least once herded Christians into their church and set it on fire. AFTER DIVISION õWith the end of World War II, the Allied powers ended Japanese rule in Korea. American forces occupied the south, and the Soviets held the north. This situation led to the establishment of two rival regimes: the Republic of Korea in the South, and the communist Democratic People’s Republic of Korea in the North. Under the leadership of

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  She didn’t touch me. Later that night my mother came home from work. She found my cousin with a bandage over her ear and my gran crying at the kitchen table. “What’s going on?” my mom said. “Oh, Nombuyiselo,” she said. “Trevor is so naughty. He’s the naughtiest child I’ve ever come across in my life.” “Then you should hit him.” “I can’t hit him.” “Why not?” “Because I don’t know how to hit a white child,” she said. “A black child, I understand. A black child, you hit them and they stay black. Trevor, when you hit him he turns blue and green and yellow and red. I’ve never seen those colors before. I’m scared I’m going to break him. I don’t want to kill a white person. I’m so afraid. I’m not going to touch him.” And she never did. My grandmother treated me like I was white. My grandfather did, too, only he was even more extreme. He called me “Mastah.” In the car, he insisted on driving me as if he were my chauffeur. “Mastah must always sit in the backseat.” I never challenged him on it. What was I going to say? “I believe your perception of race is flawed, Grandfather.” No. I was five. I sat in the back. There were so many perks to being “white” in a black family, I can’t even front. I was having a great time. My own family basically did what the American justice system does: I was given more lenient treatment than the black kids. Misbehavior that my cousins would have been punished for, I was given a warning and let off. And I was way naughtier than either of my cousins. It wasn’t even close. If something got broken or if someone was stealing granny’s cookies, it was me. I was trouble. My mom was the only force I truly feared. She believed if you spare the rod, you spoil the child. But everyone else said, “No, he’s different,” and they gave me a pass. Growing up the way I did, I learned how easy it is for white people to get comfortable with a system that awards them all the perks. I knew my cousins were getting beaten for things that I’d done, but I wasn’t interested in changing my grandmother’s perspective, because that would mean I’d get beaten, too. Why would I do that? So that I’d feel better? Being beaten didn’t make me feel better. I had a choice. I could champion racial justice in our home, or I could enjoy granny’s cookies. I went with the cookies. — At that point I didn’t think of the special treatment as having to do with color. I thought of it as having to do with Trevor. It wasn’t, “Trevor doesn’t get beaten because Trevor is white.” It was, “Trevor doesn’t get beaten because Trevor is Trevor.” Trevor can’t go outside.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  I thought you were a stranger. We’re good then.” It became a tool that served me my whole life. One day as a young man I was walking down the street, and a group of Zulu guys was walking behind me, closing in on me, and I could hear them talking to one another about how they were going to mug me. “Asibambe le autie yomlungu. Phuma ngapha mina ngizoqhamuka ngemuva kwakhe.” “Let’s get this white guy. You go to his left, and I’ll come up behind him.” I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t run, so I just spun around real quick and said, “Kodwa bafwethu yingani singavele sibambe umuntu inkunzi? Asenzeni. Mina ngikulindele.” “Yo, guys, why don’t we just mug someone together? I’m ready. Let’s do it.” They looked shocked for a moment, and then they started laughing. “Oh, sorry, dude. We thought you were something else. We weren’t trying to take anything from you. We were trying to steal from white people. Have a good day, man.” They were ready to do me violent harm, until they felt we were part of the same tribe, and then we were cool. That, and so many other smaller incidents in my life, made me realize that language, even more than color, defines who you are to people. I became a chameleon. My color didn’t change, but I could change your perception of my color. If you spoke to me in Zulu, I replied to you in Zulu. If you spoke to me in Tswana, I replied to you in Tswana. Maybe I didn’t look like you, but if I spoke like you, I was you. — As apartheid was coming to an end, South Africa’s elite private schools started accepting children of all colors. My mother’s company offered bursaries, scholarships, for underprivileged families, and she managed to get me into Maryvale College, an expensive private Catholic school. Classes taught by nuns. Mass on Fridays. The whole bit. I started preschool there when I was three, primary school when I was five. In my class we had all kinds of kids. Black kids, white kids, Indian kids, colored kids. Most of the white kids were pretty well off. Every child of color pretty much wasn’t. But because of scholarships we all sat at the same table. We wore the same maroon blazers, the same gray slacks and skirts. We had the same books. We had the same teachers. There was no racial separation. Every clique was racially mixed. Kids still got teased and bullied, but it was over usual kid stuff: being fat or being skinny, being tall or being short, being smart or being dumb. I don’t remember anybody being teased about their race. I didn’t learn to put limits on what I was supposed to like or not like. I had a wide berth to explore myself. I had crushes on white girls.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  When we first met Abel, he smoked a lot of weed. He drank, too, but it was mostly weed. Looking back, I almost miss his pothead days because the weed mellowed him out. He’d smoke, chill, watch TV, and fall asleep. I think subconsciously it was something he knew he needed to do to take the edge off his anger. He stopped smoking after he and my mom got married. She made him stop for religious reasons—the body is a temple and so on. But what none of us saw coming was that when he stopped smoking weed he just replaced it with alcohol. He started drinking more and more. He never came home from work sober. An average day was a six-pack of beer after work. Weeknights he’d have a buzz on. Some Fridays and Saturdays he just didn’t come home. When Abel drank, his eyes would go red, bloodshot. That was the clue I learned to read. I always thought of Abel as a cobra: calm, perfectly still, then explosive. There was no ranting and raving, no clenched fists. He’d be very quiet, and then out of nowhere the violence would come. The eyes were my only clue to stay away. His eyes were everything. They were the eyes of the Devil. Late one night we woke up to a house filled with smoke. Abel hadn’t come home by the time we’d gone to bed, and I’d fallen asleep in my mother’s room with her and Andrew, who was still a baby. I jerked awake to her shaking me and screaming. “Trevor! Trevor!” There was smoke everywhere. We thought the house was burning down. My mom ran down the hallway to the kitchen, where she discovered the kitchen on fire. Abel had driven home drunk, blind drunk, drunker than we’d ever seen him before. He’d been hungry, tried to heat up some food on the stove, and passed out on the couch while it was cooking. The pot had burned itself out and burned up the kitchen wall behind the stove, and smoke was billowing everywhere. She turned off the stove and opened the doors and the windows to try to air the place out. Then she went over to the couch and woke him up and started berating him for nearly burning the house down. He was too drunk to care. She came back into the bedroom, picked up the phone, and called my grandmother. She started going on and on about Abel and his drinking. “This man, he’s going to kill us one day. He almost burnt the house down…” Abel walked into the bedroom, very calm, very quiet. His eyes were blood red, his eyelids heavy. He put his finger on the cradle and hung up the call. My mom lost it. “How dare you! Don’t you hang up my phone call! What do you think you’re doing?!” “You don’t tell people what’s happening in this house,” he said.

• From The History of Christianity II: From the Reformation to the Modern Megachurch (2017)

  79 LECTURE 9 RELIGIOUS DISSENT AND THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR T his lecture continues the story of the British Reformation in the 17 th century. The first generation of Puritans set sail to the New World with the hope that they, or at least their ideas, would find their way back to England one day. They thought Massachusetts Bay would provide a blueprint for the perfect Zion that Puritans back home would build as soon as a reasonable king or queen gave them the chance. This lecture is all about how that did not happen. While Puritan leader John Winthrop and his colleagues were toiling away in New England, the original England was barreling toward civil war. 80 The History of Christianity II CHARLES AND HIS CHALLENGERS õ In 1625, Charles I took the throne, which made him monarch of three kingdoms: England, Scotland, and Ireland. From the beginning, the staunch Protestants in the House of Commons, particularly the Puritans, worried that Charles would be too kind toward Catholics and was perhaps even a crypto-Catholic: After all, he had married a Catholic French princess, Henrietta Maria. 81Lecture 9—Religious Dissent and the English Civil War õ They feared that he would liberalize England’s penal laws, which since the time of Queen Elizabeth had made life miserable for Catholics by banning their worship, restricting property ownership, and forcing all public servants to swear allegiance to the monarch as the Supreme Governor of the Church of England. õ Charles favored the men in Parliament and in the church who hated the Puritans and liked vestments, pageantry, and incense in their worship. This was group known as the Arminian party. He gave the office of archbishop of Canterbury—the most powerful position in the church—to an Arminian named William Laud. õ Laud ramped persecution of the Puritans. He banned ministers from preaching predestination, said they had to use the official Church of England prayer book, and preach wearing fancy clerical dress—all things the Puritans hated. Laud had some leading Puritans pilloried in the stocks and their ears cut off. õ King Charles and Laud managed to infuriate the Scottish as well. Recall that leaders of the Scottish Church, or Kirk, preferred a more Calvinist, Presbyterian form of worship and polity. So when Charles ordered them to use a prayer book that was almost identical to the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, riots broke out. The Church of Scotland decided to antagonize Charles and Laud by abolishing bishops from their church entirely. õ Meanwhile, Charles was making it a habit to work around Parliament whenever he could. He raised taxes without consulting Parliament and appointed his best friend, the duke of Buckingham, to lead a few disastrous military expeditions in Europe. Buckingham was an incompetent leader and almost universally loathed by the king’s subjects. When he was assassinated in 1628, Charles spent days in bed crying while people celebrated in the streets.

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  He or she must learn to hear the “unspoken voice” of the body so that clients can safely learn to hear and see themselves. This book is a master class in how to listen to the unspoken voice of the body. “In the particular methodology I describe,” Levine writes, “the client is helped to develop an awareness and mastery of his or her physical sensations and feelings.” The key to healing, he argues, is to be found in the “deciphering of this nonverbal realm.” He finds the code in his synthesis of the seemingly—but only seemingly—disparate sciences that study evolution, animal instinct, mammalian physiology and the human brain, and in his hard-won experience as a therapist. Potentially traumatic situations are ones that induce states of high physiological arousal but without the freedom for the affected person to express and get past these states: danger without the possibility of fight or flight and, afterward, without the opportunity to “shake it off,” as a wild animal would following a frightful encounter with a predator. What ethologists call tonic immobility—the paralysis and physical/emotional shutdown that characterize the universal experience of helplessness in the face of mortal danger—comes to dominate the person’s life and functioning. We are “scared stiff.” In human beings, unlike in animals, the state of temporary freezing becomes a long-term trait. The survivor, Peter Levine points out, may remain “stuck in a kind of limbo, not fully reengaging in life.” In circumstances where others sense no more than a mild threat or even a challenge to be faced, the traumatized person experiences threat, dread and mental/physical listlessness, a kind of paralysis of body and will. Shame, depression and self-loathing follow in the wake of such imposed helplessness. The American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) “deals in categories, not in pain,” in the incisive words of psychiatrist and researcher Daniel Siegel. Central to Peter Levine’s teaching is that trauma cannot be reduced to the diagnostic traits compiled by the DSM under the rubric of PTSD, Posttraumatic Stress Disorder. Trauma is not a disease, he points out, but rather a human experience rooted in survival instincts. Inviting the full, if carefully graded, expression of our instinctive responses will allow the traumatic state to loosen its hold on the sufferer. Goodness, the restoration of vitality, follows. It springs from within. “Trauma is a fact of life,” Levine writes. “It does not, however, have to be a life sentence.” In our suffering lies also our salvation. As he shows, the same psychophysiological systems that govern the traumatic state also mediate core feelings of goodness and belonging. Peter’s astonishing awareness of and attention to nuanced detail as he observes and describes his clients’ “unfreezing” are at the heart of his teaching, as are his techniques to guide and facilitate his process.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Reply to Objection 3: Melchisedech is described as “without father, without mother, without genealogy,” and as “having neither beginning of days nor ending of life,” not as though he had not these things, but because these details in his regard are not supplied by Holy Scripture. And this it is that, as the Apostle says in the same passage, he is “likened unto the Son of God,” Who had no earthly father, no heavenly mother, and no genealogy, according to Is. 53:8: “Who shall declare His generation?” and Who in His Godhead has neither beginning nor end of days. OF ADOPTION AS BEFITTING TO CHRIST (FOUR ARTICLES)We must now come to consider whether adoption befits Christ: and under this head there are four points of inquiry: (1) Whether it is fitting that God should adopt sons? (2) Whether this is fitting to God the Father alone? (3) Whether it is proper to man to be adopted to the sonship of God? (4) Whether Christ can be called the adopted Son? Whether it is fitting that God should adopt sons?Objection 1: It would seem that it is not fitting that God should adopt sons. For, as jurists say, no one adopts anyone but a stranger as his son. But no one is a stranger in relation to God, Who is the Creator of all. Therefore it seems unfitting that God should adopt. Objection 2: Further, adoption seems to have been introduced in default of natural sonship. But in God there is natural sonship, as set down in the [4109]FP, Q[27], A[2]. Therefore it is unfitting that God should adopt. Objection 3: Further, the purpose of adopting anyone is that he may succeed, as heir, the person who adopts him. But it does not seem possible for anyone to succeed God as heir, for He can never die. Therefore it is unfitting that God should adopt. On the contrary, It is written (Eph. 1:5) that “He hath predestinated us unto the adoption of children of God.” But the predestination of God is not ineffectual. Therefore God does adopt some as His sons.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Accordingly there is a twofold contrariety in the passions of the soul: one, according to contrariety of objects, i.e. of good and evil; the other, according to approach and withdrawal in respect of the same term. In the concupiscible passions the former contrariety alone is to be found; viz. that which is based on the objects: whereas in the irascible passions, we find both forms of contrariety. The reason of this is that the object of the concupiscible faculty, as stated above [1214](A[1]), is sensible good or evil considered absolutely. Now good, as such, cannot be a term wherefrom, but only a term whereto, since nothing shuns good as such; on the contrary, all things desire it. In like manner, nothing desires evil, as such; but all things shun it: wherefore evil cannot have the aspect of a term whereto, but only of a term wherefrom. Accordingly every concupiscible passion in respect of good, tends to it, as love, desire and joy; while every concupiscible passion in respect of evil, tends from it, as hatred, avoidance or dislike, and sorrow. Wherefore, in the concupiscible passions, there can be no contrariety of approach and withdrawal in respect of the same object. On the other hand, the object of the irascible faculty is sensible good or evil, considered not absolutely, but under the aspect of difficulty or arduousness. Now the good which is difficult or arduous, considered as good, is of such a nature as to produce in us a tendency to it, which tendency pertains to the passion of “hope”; whereas, considered as arduous or difficult, it makes us turn from it; and this pertains to the passion of “despair.” In like manner the arduous evil, considered as an evil, has the aspect of something to be shunned; and this belongs to the passion of “fear”: but it also contains a reason for tending to it, as attempting something arduous, whereby to escape being subject to evil; and this tendency is called “daring.” Consequently, in the irascible passions we find contrariety in respect of good and evil (as between hope and fear): and also contrariety according to approach and withdrawal in respect of the same term (as between daring and fear). From what has been said the replies to the objections are evident. Whether any passion of the soul has no contrariety?Objection 1: It would seem that every passion of the soul has a contrary. For every passion of the soul is either in the irascible or in the concupiscible faculty, as stated above [1215](A[1]). But both kinds of passion have their respective modes of contrariety. Therefore every passion of the soul has its contrary. Objection 2: Further, every passion of the soul has either good or evil for its object; for these are the common objects of the appetitive part. But a passion having good for its object, is contrary to a passion having evil for its object. Therefore every passion has a contrary.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  GLOSS. Otherwise; The sky is red and lowring; that is, the Apostles suffer after the resurrection, by which ye may know that I shall judge hereafter; for if I spare not the good who are mine from present suffering, I shall not spare others hereafter; Ye can therefore discern the face of the sky, but the signs of the times ye cannot. RABANUS. The signs of the times He means of His own coming, or passion, to which the evening redness of the heavens may be likened; and the tribulation which shall be before His coming, to which the morning redness with the lowring sky may be compared. CHRYSOSTOM. As then in the sky there is one sign of fair weather, and another of rain, so ought ye to think concerning me; now, in this My first coming, there is need of these signs which are done in the earth; but those which are done in heaven are reserved for the time of the second coming. Now I come as a physician, then as a judge; now I come in secret, then with much pomp, when the powers of the heavens shall be shaken. But now is not the time of these signs, now have I come to die, and to suffer humiliations; as it follows, An evil and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign, and there shall no sign be given it, but the sign of Jonas the prophet. AUGUSTINE. (ubi sup.) This Matthew has already given; whence we may store up for our information, that the Lord spoke the same things many times, that where there are contradictions which cannot be explained, it may be understood that the same sayings were uttered on two different occasions. GLOSS. (interlin.) He says, Evil and adulterous generation, that is, unbelieving, having carnal, and not spiritual understanding. RABANUS. To this generation that thus tempted the Lord is not given a sign from heaven, such as they sought for, though many signs are given on the earth; but only to the generation of such as sought the Lord, in whose sight He ascended into heaven, and sent the Holy Spirit. JEROME. But what is meant by the sign of Jonas has been explained above. CHRYSOSTOM. And when the Pharisees heard this, they ought to have asked Him, What it was He meant? But they had not asked at first with any desire of learning, and therefore the Lord leaves them, as it follows, And he left them, and went his way. JEROME. That is, leaving the evil generation of the Jews, He passed over the strait, and the people of the Gentiles followed Him. HILARY. Observe, we do not read here as in other places, that He sent the multitudes away and departed; but because the error of unbelief held the minds of the presumptuous, it is said that He left them. 16:5–125. And when his disciples were come to the other side, they had forgotten to take bread.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  When I walked into that holding pen, I was a smooth-skinned, fresh-faced young man. At the time, I had a giant Afro, and the only way to control it was to have it tied back in this ponytail thing that looked really girly. I looked like Maxwell. The guards closed the door behind me, and this creepy old dude yelled out in Zulu from the back, “Ha, ha, ha! Hhe madoda! Angikaze ngibone indoda enhle kangaka! Sizoba nobusuku obuhle!” “Yo, yo, yo! Damn, guys. I’ve never seen a man this beautiful before. It’s gonna be a good night tonight!” Fuuuuuuuuuck. Right next to me as I walked in was a young man having a complete meltdown, talking to himself, bawling his eyes out. He looked up and locked eyes with me, and I guess he thought I looked like a kindred soul he could talk to. He came straight at me and started crying about how he’d been arrested and thrown in jail and the gangs had stolen his clothes and his shoes and raped him and beat him every day. He wasn’t some ruffian. He was well-spoken, educated. He’d been waiting for a year for his case to be heard; he wanted to kill himself. That guy put the fear of God in me. I looked around the holding cell. There were easily a hundred guys in there, all of them spread out and huddled into their clearly and unmistakably defined racial groups: a whole bunch of black people in one corner, the colored people in a different corner, a couple of Indians off to themselves, and a handful of white guys off to one side. The guys who’d been with me in the police van, the second we walked in, they instinctively, automatically, walked off to join the groups they belonged to. I froze. I didn’t know where to go. I looked over at the colored corner. I was staring at the most notorious, most violent prison gang in South Africa. I looked like them, but I wasn’t them. I couldn’t go over there doing my fake gangster shit and have them discover I was a fraud. No, no, no. That game was over, my friend. The last thing I needed was colored gangsters up against me. But then what if I went to the black corner? I know that I’m black and I identify as black, but I’m not a black person on the face of it, so would the black guys understand why I was walking over? And what kind of shit would I start by going there? Because going to the black corner as a perceived colored person might piss off the colored gangs even more than going to the colored corner as a fake colored person. Because that’s what had happened to me my entire life. Colored people would see me hanging out with blacks, and they’d confront me, want to fight me. I saw myself starting a race war in the holding cell.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  At the time, black South Africans outnumbered white South Africans nearly five to one, yet we were divided into different tribes with different languages: Zulu, Xhosa, Tswana, Sotho, Venda, Ndebele, Tsonga, Pedi, and more. Long before apartheid existed these tribal factions clashed and warred with one another. Then white rule used that animosity to divide and conquer. All nonwhites were systematically classified into various groups and subgroups. Then these groups were given differing levels of rights and privileges in order to keep them at odds. Perhaps the starkest of these divisions was between South Africa’s two dominant groups, the Zulu and the Xhosa. The Zulu man is known as the warrior. He is proud. He puts his head down and fights. When the colonial armies invaded, the Zulu charged into battle with nothing but spears and shields against men with guns. The Zulu were slaughtered by the thousands, but they never stopped fighting. The Xhosa, on the other hand, pride themselves on being the thinkers. My mother is Xhosa. Nelson Mandela was Xhosa. The Xhosa waged a long war against the white man as well, but after experiencing the futility of battle against a better-armed foe, many Xhosa chiefs took a more nimble approach. “These white people are here whether we like it or not,” they said. “Let’s see what tools they possess that can be useful to us. Instead of being resistant to English, let’s learn English. We’ll understand what the white man is saying, and we can force him to negotiate with us.” The Zulu went to war with the white man. The Xhosa played chess with the white man. For a long time neither was particularly successful, and each blamed the other for a problem neither had created. Bitterness festered. For decades those feelings were held in check by a common enemy. Then apartheid fell, Mandela walked free, and black South Africa went to war with itself. RUN Sometimes in big Hollywood movies they’ll have these crazy chase scenes where somebody jumps or gets thrown from a moving car. The person hits the ground and rolls for a bit. Then they come to a stop and pop up and dust themselves off, like it was no big deal. Whenever I see that I think, That’s rubbish. Getting thrown out of a moving car hurts way worse than that. I was nine years old when my mother threw me out of a moving car. It happened on a Sunday. I know it was on a Sunday because we were coming home from church, and every Sunday in my childhood meant church. We never missed church. My mother was—and still is—a deeply religious woman. Very Christian. Like indigenous peoples around the world, black South Africans adopted the religion of our colonizers. By “adopt” I mean it was forced on us.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  I turned and ran into the dead end. Teddy broke the other way. Half the mall cops followed him, half followed me. I got to the fence and knew exactly how to squirm through. Head, then shoulder, one leg, then twist, then the other leg—done. I was through. The guards hit the fence behind me and couldn’t follow. I ran across the field to a fence on the far side, popped through there, and then I was right on the road, three blocks from my house. I slipped my hands into my pockets and casually walked home, another harmless pedestrian out for a stroll. Once I got back to my house I waited for Teddy. He didn’t show up. I waited thirty minutes, forty minutes, an hour. No Teddy. Fuck. I ran to Teddy’s house in Linksfield. No Teddy. Monday morning I went to school. Still no Teddy. Fuck. Now I was worried. After school I went home and checked at my house again, nothing. Teddy’s house again, nothing. Then I ran back home. An hour later Teddy’s parents showed up. My mom greeted them at the door. “Teddy’s been arrested for shoplifting,” they said. Fuuuck. I eavesdropped on their whole conversation from the other room. From the start my mom was certain I was involved. “Well, where was Trevor?” she asked. “Teddy said he wasn’t with Trevor,” they said. My mom was skeptical. “Hmm. Are you sure Trevor wasn’t involved?” “No, apparently not. The cops said there was another kid, but he got away.” “So it was Trevor.” “No, we asked Teddy, and he said it wasn’t Trevor. He said it was some other kid.” “Huh...okay.” My mom called me in. “Do you know about this thing?” “What thing?” “Teddy was caught shoplifting.” “Whhaaat?” I played dumb. “Noooo. That’s crazy. I can’t believe it. Teddy? No.” “Where were you?” my mom asked. “I was at home.” “But you’re always with Teddy.” I shrugged. “Not on this occasion, I suppose.” For a moment my mom thought she’d caught me red-handed, but Teddy’d given me a solid alibi. I went back to my room, thinking I was in the clear. — The next day I was in class and my name was called over the PA system. “Trevor Noah, report to the principal’s office.” All the kids were like, “Ooooohhh.” The announcements could be heard in every classroom, so now, collectively, the whole school knew I was in trouble. I got up and walked to the office and waited anxiously on an uncomfortable wooden bench outside the door. Finally the principal, Mr. Friedman, walked out. “Trevor, come in.” Waiting inside his office was the head of mall security, two uniformed police officers, and my and Teddy’s homeroom teacher, Mrs. Vorster.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  It’s somebody’s gun.” “Officer, we really don’t know,” Bongani said. He slapped Bongani hard across the face. “You’re bullshitting me!” Then he went down the line, slapping each of us across the face, berating us about the gun. We couldn’t do anything but stand there and take it. “You guys are trash,” the cop said. “Where are you from?” “Alex.” “Ohhhhh, okay, I see. Dogs from Alex. You come here and you rob people and you rape women and you hijack cars. Bunch of fucking hoodlums.” “No, we’re dancers. We don’t know—” “I don’t care. You’re all going to jail until we figure out whose gun this is.” At a certain point we realized what was going on. This cop was shaking us down for a bribe. “Spot fine” is the euphemism everyone uses. You go through this elaborate dance with the cop where you say the thing without saying the thing. “Can’t we do something?” you ask the officer. “What do you want me to do?” “We’re really sorry, Officer. What can we do?” “You tell me.” Then you’re supposed to make up a story whereby you indicate to the cop how much money you have on you. Which we couldn’t do because we didn’t have any money. So he took us to jail. It was a public bus. It could have been anyone’s gun, but the guys from Alex were the only ones who got arrested. Everyone else in the car was free to go. The cops took us to the police station and threw us in a cell and pulled us out one by one for questioning. When they pulled me aside I had to give my home address: Highlands North. The cop gave me the most confused look. “You’re not from Alex,” he said. “What are you doing with these crooks?” I didn’t know what to say. He glared at me hard. “Listen here, rich boy. You think it’s fun running around with these guys? This isn’t play-play anymore. Just tell me the truth about your friends and the gun, and I’ll let you go.” I told him no, and he threw me back in the cell. We spent the night, and the next day I called a friend, who said he could borrow the money from his dad to get us out. Later that day the dad came down and paid the money. The cops kept calling it “bail,” but it was a bribe. We were never formally arrested or processed. There was no paperwork. We got out and everything was fine, but it rattled us. Every day we were out in the streets, hustling, trying to act as if we were in some way down with the gangs, but the truth was we were always more cheese than hood. We had created this idea of ourselves as a defense mechanism to survive in the world we were living in.