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 Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  The gruesomeness of what might happen flashed before my mind. No—no way was I going to die. I wouldn’t let myself be murdered by this thug. The image of my parents, my three younger sisters, and my brother came to my mind, and in that instant I felt a surge of power rise from deep inside me. My fear was transformed into rage. Glaring straight at the man sitting two feet from me, I yelled at the top of my voice, “You turn this car around right now and drive me into Harvard Square.” The driver looked at me but didn’t respond. He seemed stunned. “Do you hear me?” I screamed. His voice was oddly quiet. “Sure,” he said, “if that’s what you want.” We were approaching the light, and it was green. “Make a U-turn here at this light.” I said making my voice as steely and cold as I could. And that’s what he did, exactly as I told him. Slowing the car down, he turned around and headed back in the direction we had come. But I wasn’t letting my guard down for a moment. “Now you follow my instructions,” I said, trying to sound as though I really was in charge. And for the next ten minutes—which felt like an hour—I gave the orders as we drove back to Cambridge. No polite conversation, no small talk. “Take this exit,” I said. “And now a left here.” “Okay, straight down Mass Ave.” As we neared Harvard Square, I breathed easier, knowing I could jump out of the car and make a scene if necessary. There was no way I was going to let him find out where I lived, so I directed him to the center of Harvard Square and, when we reached the kiosk at the entrance to the subway, I said, “Stop now.” Opening the car door, I stepped onto the sidewalk, slamming it behind me and losing myself in the crowd. My knees were shaking as I made my way slowly to the muffin shop around the corner, where I sat down and ordered a cup of tea. It remained untouched while I replayed in my mind the experience I’d just been through. What if I hadn’t screamed at him? I thought. Where would I be now? Deep in the woods somewhere? Being stabbed to death? There was no need to berate myself. I’d learned my lesson. I was grateful to be alive. But I did make a pact with myself, swearing never to hitchhike again in my whole life. I kept that promise. I also decided not to tell my parents what had happened, knowing how distraught they would be. It would be more than ten years before I shared the story with them. And as I walked home to my apartment, I repeated to myself something I had believed as a child but had forgotten about as a young adult: “I really do have a guardian angel.”

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  Throughout high school, I had no romantic life to speak of. I was too awkward, too shy, too much of a mess to date. I was invisible to the boys at my high school because of my blackness, because of my size, because of my complete indifference toward my appearance. Because I read so much, I was a romantic in my heart of hearts, but my desire to be part of a romantic story was a very intellectual, detached one. I liked the idea of a boy asking me out, taking me on a date, kissing me, but I did not want to actually be alone with a boy, because a boy could hurt me. The men I talked to online allowed me to enjoy the idea of romance and love and lust and sex while keeping my body safe. I could pretend to be thin and sexy and confident. I discovered forums for rape and sexual abuse survivors, where, as with when I read The Courage to Heal, I saw that I was not alone. In those online forums, I saw that horrible things happened to so many girls and sometimes boys. I saw that however bad my secret was, many people had far worse secrets. In IRC chat rooms, I talked to people in the BDSM community, and I learned about safe, sane, and consensual sexual encounters, where power was exchanged, but you could have a safe word to make things stop when you wanted them to stop. I learned that there were people who would take the right kind of no as no, and that was powerful, intoxicating. I wanted to know so much more about safe ways to say no. I had a more expansive vocabulary, now, for what happened in the woods. At twelve years old, I had no such words. I just knew that these boys had forced me to have sex with them, had used my body in ways I did not know a girl body could be used. Thanks to books and therapy and my new friends online, I knew ever more clearly that there was a thing called rape. I knew that when a woman said no, men were supposed to listen and stop what they were doing. I knew that it wasn’t my fault that I had been raped. There was a quiet thrill to having this new vocabulary, but in many ways, I did not feel like that vocabulary could apply to me. I was too damaged, too weak to deserve absolution. It was not as easy to believe these truths as it was to know them.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  85I am taking small steps toward the life I want. For the past twelve years, I have lived, rather unhappily, in rural America. As a black woman, this has been trying, at best. If I’m being honest with myself, other than graduate school, where I didn’t have a choice in where I lived, I have been hiding. I’m afraid to live in a city where, at least in my mind, everyone is thin, athletic, beautiful, and I am an abominable woman. I spent five years in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula—a place I didn’t even know existed until I moved there to attend graduate school. I lived in a town of four thousand people. The next town over, over the portage bridge, had seven thousand people. In my town, the street signs were in both English and Finnish because the town had the highest concentration of Finns outside of Finland. We were so far north that my blackness was more a curiosity than a threat. I was a woman out of place, but I did not always feel unsafe. There were the abandoned copper mines and the vast majesty of Lake Superior and so much forest cloaking everything. During fall, deer hunting, so much venison. The winters were endless, snow in unfathomable quantities, the aching whine of snowmobiles. There was loneliness. There were my friends, who made the isolation bearable. There was a man who made everything beautiful.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  Many EMTs showed up and 83 percent of them were hot. They were kind and full of empathy, and they winced each time they looked at my foot. Eventually they sort of splinted it and dragged me out on this contraption and lifted me onto a gurney and from there it was fine. They had trouble finding a vein, so I ended up with bruises in all the wrong places. While waiting for the EMTs, I texted my person that I had an accident. I wanted to play it down, but I was slowly realizing I had really injured myself. At the hospital, I got X-rays and the technician said, “Your ankle is very, very broken,” which is not to be confused, I guess, with just regular broken. My ankle was also dislocated. They couldn’t operate that night so they had to realign my foot. That is exactly as horrifying as you think it is. They gave me fentanyl, that stuff Michael Jackson took to sleep, and told me I wouldn’t remember a thing. They were right. When I regained consciousness I asked, “Are you going to do it now?” I got a nice little pat on my leg for that. I was grateful for the pharmaceutical industry. Two other strange things were going on. My heart was beating in an irregular rhythm, which I am pretty sure has been the case for years, and I had a really low hemoglobin count. They were not going to send me home, so I got a room I would end up staying in for ten days. My ass became so sore I was ready to remove it surgically. I barely got any sleep, especially in the early going, so my mental state was not great. Every so often nurses would take my “vitals” and poke and do other inscrutable things to me. I hate being touched, so that was a particular treat. They did, mercifully, have appropriately large hospital gowns, but it was a very small comfort. There is so much indignity to being helpless. At this particular hospital, they took vitals at eleven p.m. and three a.m. and seven a.m., so I’m not sure when sleep was supposed to happen. They also took vitals throughout the day. I learned a great deal about hospital routines during those ten days. I basically became an expert. In the next room over was a woman who said, “Hey,” every twenty or so seconds. She liked to pull out her IVs and was a troublemaker. She was elderly and I felt bad for her because I don’t think anyone visited her the entire time. I was not so lucky.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  50I am terrified of other people. I am terrified of the way they are likely to look at me, stare, talk about me or say cruel things to me. I am terrified of children, their guilelessness and brutal honesty and willingness to gawk at me, to talk loudly about me, to ask their parents or, sometimes, even me, “Why are you so big?” I am terrified of the awkward pause of those children’s parents as they try to respond appropriately. I do not have an answer to that question, or I do and there simply isn’t enough time or grace in the world to offer that answer up. And so I am terrified of other people. I hear the rude comments whispered. I see the stares and laughs and snickering. I see the thinly veiled or open disgust. I pretend I don’t see it. I block it out as often as I can so I can live and breathe with some semblance of peace. The list of bullshit I deal with, by virtue of my body, is long and boring, and I am, frankly, bored with it. This is the world we live in. Looks matter, and we can say, “But but but . . .” But no. Looks matter. Bodies matter. I could easily become a shut-in, hiding from the cruelty of the world. Most days it takes all my strength and no small amount of courage to get dressed and leave the house. If I don’t have to teach or travel for work, I spend most of my time talking myself out of leaving my house. I can order something in. I can make do with what I have. Tomorrow, I promise myself. Tomorrow I will face the world. If it’s late in the week, there are several tomorrows until Monday. There are several tomorrows when I can lie to myself, when I can hope to build stronger defenses for facing the world that so cruelly faces me. 51I have two wardrobes. One, the clothes I wear every day, is made up mostly of dark denim jeans, black T-shirts, and, for special occasions, dress shirts. These clothes shroud my cowardice. These are the clothes I feel safe in. This is the armor I wear to face the world, and I assure you, armor is needed. I tell myself this armor is all I need. When I wear my typical uniform, it feels like safety, like I can hide in plain sight. I become less of a target. I am taking up space, but I am doing so in an unassuming manner so I am less of a problem, less of a disturbance. This is what I tell myself. My other wardrobe, the one that dominates most of my closet, is full of the clothes I don’t have the courage to wear.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  Because doctors know the challenges the obese body can contend with, they are surprised to learn I am not diabetic. They are surprised to learn I am not on a hundred medications. Or they are not surprised to learn I have high blood pressure. They look at that number and offer stern admonitions about the importance of losing weight and getting my numbers back under control. This is when they are happiest, when they can try and use their expertise to force me to discipline my body. As a result, I don’t go to the doctor unless it is absolutely necessary even though I now have good health insurance and have always had every right to be treated fairly and kindly. I don’t go to the doctor even though I’ve had an undiagnosed chronic stomach condition that is, at times, debilitating, for at least ten years. Doctors are supposed to first do no harm, but when it comes to fat bodies, most doctors seem fundamentally incapable of heeding their oath. 82On October 10, 2014, one of my greatest fears was realized. I was in my apartment, commenting on stories from the graduate student for whom I was serving as thesis adviser. I had been having stomach pain all that week, but I often have stomach pain, so I paid it little mind. Eventually, I went to the bathroom and experienced a very intense wave of pain. I need to lie down, I thought. When I came to, I was on the floor and I was sweaty, but I felt better. Then I looked at my left foot, which was facing in an unnatural direction, the bone nearly poking through the skin. I realized, This is not good. I closed my eyes. I tried to breathe, to not panic, to not think of everything that would happen next. At the same time, there was a plumbing crisis, but I couldn’t cope with that and my fucked-up foot, so I just moved the plumbing issue to the corner of my mind. When you’re fat, one of your biggest fears is falling while you’re alone and needing to call EMTs. It’s a fear I have nurtured over the years, and when I broke my ankle that fear finally came true. Thankfully, that night, I had my phone in my pocket, so I pulled myself into the anteroom of the bathroom, hoping for a signal. My foot was starting to hurt, but nowhere near as badly as I thought it should hurt based on years of watching medical dramas like Chicago Hope, ER, and Grey’s Anatomy. This was Lafayette, Indiana, a small town, so 9-1-1 answered promptly. While on the phone with the kind operator I blurted out, “I’m fat,” like it was some deep mark of shame, and he smoothly said, “That’s not a problem.”

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  Over the course of the ten days, I listened to other people snoring very loudly, making growly sounds. The temperature fluctuated wildly. I became constipated. I wanted to shower very badly but couldn’t. Instead, I was bathed by nurses’ aides who had things like dry shampoo and the body-sized equivalents of moist towelettes. I was given a lot of good drugs and I really enjoyed that part. I had to face the severity of my injury and that I would be out of commission for quite some time. I had to cancel a few events and disappoint people, but I was going to be housebound for six weeks. I arranged, with my university, to teach my courses online while I recuperated. I was well taken care of by the medical staff, but they were not good communicators. I became a throbbing mass of fear, loneliness, and neediness even though I was rarely alone for any amount of time. Everything was out of my control and I love control, so all my trigger points were being pressed at the exact same time. I was absolutely terrified going into surgery. I realized I have so much life yet to live. I did not want to die. I thought, I don’t want to die, and it was such a strange thought because I’ve never actively wanted to live as much as I did when I had to face my mortality in such a specific way. I began to think of all the things I still wanted to do, the words I had yet to write. I thought about my friends, my family, my person. I don’t do fear very well. I try to push the people I love away. I worry that I’m not allowed human weakness, that this makes me not good enough. I was not at my best during the hospital stay because so much was out of my control and the bed was too fucking short and the hospital gown did not make me feel safe and I couldn’t bathe and I couldn’t really move and I wasn’t eating because the hospital food was gross. I am not much of a crier, so I didn’t really break down for several days, until one morning when the doctor told me I wasn’t going home anytime soon. I tried not to sob. I tried to cry in that neat way that delicate ladies cry in movies but . . . I am not a delicate lady. When a nurse would peer in, I’d rub my eyes and bite my lower lip so I might appear stoic, and then when they looked away, I’d start crying again. I babbled all kinds of sorrowful stuff. It was a low point, one of many.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  Four years later, I moved to central Indiana, a much bigger town, a small city really. In the first weeks, I was racially profiled in an electronics store. Living here never got better. When I lamented how uncomfortable I was and am here, local acquaintances often tried to tell me, in different ways, “Not all Hoosiers,” much in the same way men on social media would say, “Not all men,” to derail discussions about misogyny. There is loneliness. The confederacy is alive and well here though we are hundreds of miles from the Old South. There is a man who drives around in an imposing black pickup truck with white-supremacist flags flying from the rear. My dental hygienist tells me I live in a bad part of town. There are no bad parts of town here, not really. In the local newspaper, residents write angry letters about a new criminal element in town. “People from Chicago,” they say, which is code for black people. On campus, pro-life students chalk messages on sidewalks like “Planned Parenthood #1 Killer of Black Lives” and “Hands up, don’t abort.” My blackness is, again, a threat. I don’t feel safe, but I know how lucky I am, which leaves me wondering how unsafe black people leading more precarious lives must feel. Friends in cities have long asked me how I do it—spending year after year in these small towns that are so inhospitable to blackness. I say I’m from the Midwest, which I am, and that I have never lived in a big city, which is also true. I say that the Midwest is home even if this home does not always embrace me, and that the Midwest is a vibrant, necessary place. I say I can be a writer anywhere, and as an academic, I go where the work takes me. Or, I said these things. Now, I am simply weary. I say, “I hate it here,” and a rush of pleasure fills me. I worry that I can’t be happy or feel safe anywhere. But then I travel to places where my blackness is unremarkable, where I don’t feel like I have to constantly defend my right to breathe, to be. I am nurturing a new dream of a place I already think of as home—bright sky, big ocean. I’m learning to make a home for myself based on what I want and need, in my heart of hearts. I’ve decided that I will not allow my body to dictate my existence, at least, not entirely. I will not hide from the world.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  I went to my classes. I taught. I studied. I tried to make friends and did, with a small measure of success. On weekends, I played poker at a casino in Baraga, the Ojibwe reservation about forty miles away, hunched around the table with strange men, where I was intent on taking their money, which often I did. I still didn’t sleep much. I kept eating, trying to find some kind of peace. And then, one day, I was walking home from the gas station across the street, where I had gone to buy cigarettes. I wore a knit cap on my head, a ratty T-shirt, and pajama pants. I looked terrible, but no one at the Citgo cared. I didn’t care, either. A man started calling after me, shouting, “Hey, Casino Girl,” which only made me want to run. I assumed that he was going to make fun of me because I had long become accustomed to people, men mostly, calling out cruelties from their cars, their bicycles, when they walked on by—letting me know exactly what they thought of my body. This was not that. He followed me to my apartment and up the stairs, so I quickly closed the screen door, latched it, and stared out at him. “You play poker at the casino,” he said, and I nodded, reluctantly. I tried to place him but couldn’t. He looked like every other white guy I saw around town—dark, shaggy hair, a beard, wearing flannel and denim and work boots. “You’re always talking shit at the poker table. Do you wanna come hang out with me and my friends?” He pointed toward the distance. “Absolutely not,” I told him, wanting him to go away, but he was mighty persistent. I was unsure what he wanted from me, but I knew it couldn’t be anything good. Maybe he wanted me to go meet his friends so they could hurt me. Maybe he wanted money. I ran through the possibilities as he kept yammering on. Finally he said he needed to get back to his friends, and I closed my door, unsettled. I couldn’t sleep that night, staring at the ceiling, worrying about the strange man who followed me home. He kept coming back, night after night, and would always knock, then stand on my porch when I finally came to the door, talking to me through the screen, never trying to come inside. Eventually it dawned on me that he was trying to ask me out. We went out to dinner at the nearby Ramada, which had a lousy restaurant but a good bar. His name was Jon. He was a logger. He loved to hunt and fish. He loved Lakers basketball. He had never lived anywhere but Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  This boy and I were riding bikes in the woods when we stopped at the cabin, this disgusting, forgotten place where teenagers got up to no good. His friends were waiting and then we were standing inside the cabin and Christopher was bragging to them about things he and I had done, private things, and I was so embarrassed because I was a good Catholic girl and I already felt so very guilty that Christopher and I had done things we should not have done. I was confused because I had no idea why he would tell his friends what I had never told anyone, what I thought was our secret, what made him love me or at least keep me around. His friends were excited by the things Christopher said. They were so very excited, their faces flushed and their laughs raucous. While they talked around me, I felt smaller and smaller. I was scared even if I couldn’t recognize the strange energy running through me. I did try to run out of there once I realized I was not safe, but it was no use. I could not save myself. Christopher pushed me down in front of his laughing friends, so many bodies larger than mine. I was so scared and embarrassed and confused. I was hurt because I loved him and thought he loved me, and in a matter of moments, there I was, splayed out in front of his friends. I wasn’t a girl to them. I was a thing, flesh and girl bones with which they could amuse themselves. When Christopher lay on top of me, he didn’t take off his clothes. This detail stays with me, that he had such little regard for what he was about to do to me. He just unzipped his jeans and knelt between my legs and shoved himself inside of me. Those other boys stared down at me, leered really, and egged Christopher on. I closed my eyes because I did not want to see them. I did not want to accept what was happening. As a sheltered, good Catholic girl, I barely understood what was happening. I did understand the pain, though, the sharpness and the immediacy of it. That pain was inescapable and held me in my body when I wanted to abandon it to those boys and hide myself somewhere safe. I begged Christopher to stop. I told him I would do anything he wanted if he would just make it all stop, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t look at me. Christopher took a long time or at least it felt like a long time because I did not want him inside me. It did not matter what I wanted.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  One night, I crawled to the door of the resident faculty member on my floor, a woman who, during my freshman year, had imitated me in a game of charades by widening her arms and waddling around the room until someone guessed my name as the clue. When she finally woke and came to the door, I was cold and sweating and clammy. Campus security took me to the local hospital, where the doctors discovered I had gallstones. I called my parents, terrified, and my dad told me not to worry. He told me to close my eyes and that in the morning, he would be there. I did as he said and when I woke up, there he was. That is the kind of father he has always been. I had emergency surgery, and my gallbladder was removed. It turned out the high-protein diet I had been on for the summer had not done my gallbladder any favors. I spent about ten days in the infirmary, and ended up with a wicked new scar, tender to the touch. During my recovery, I was still in pain, and before long, doctors discovered that the surgeon had left some gallstones inside me—such tiny objects causing so much pain. I was rushed to Mass General in Boston, my first ambulance ride, and I was scared again, but also excited in the way of a child who does not quite understand mortality. This time, both my parents came and fretted over me until I was better. Before long, I went back to school. I had lost weight with all the sickness, so once again, I had work to do to make my body bigger and bigger and bigger and safer. 19Though I mostly sat in the counselor’s office silently and sullenly, I continued to go to therapy throughout high school. I didn’t make a lot of progress, but it was a space where I could escape the pressure of needing to earn good grades at an aggressively demanding school. I could escape from being an unpopular and awkward teenager who was desperately lonely. I could escape from being a disappointing daughter. Eventually, I was assigned to a woman counselor and she gave me a copy of The Courage to Heal, by Ellen Bass and Laura Davis. At first, I hated the book because it included a “workbook,” as well as cheesy exercises I couldn’t possibly take seriously. The language was too flowery and full of affirmations that also made me distrustful.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  At home, I tried to be the good girl my parents thought me to be, but it was exhausting. On so many occasions, I wanted to tell them something was wrong, that I was dying inside, but I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t find a way to overcome my fear of what they might say and do and think of me. The longer I stayed silent, the more that fear grew until it dwarfed everything else. I couldn’t let my parents see who or what I had become because they would be disgusted and they would discard me like the trash I knew myself to be, and then I would not only be nothing, I would have nothing. There was no room in my life for the truth. I know, now, that I was wrong, that my parents would have supported me, helped me, and sought justice for me. They would have shown me that the shame was not mine to bear. Unfortunately, my fearful silence cannot be undone. I cannot tell that twelve-year-old girl who was so scared and alone just how much she was loved, how unconditionally, but oh, how I want to. How I want to comfort her. How I want to save her from so much of what would happen next. I played the part of good girl, good daughter, good student. I went to church even though I had no faith. Guilt consumed me. I no longer believed in God because surely if there were a God, he would have saved me from Christopher and those boys in the woods. I no longer believed in God because I had sinned. I had sinned in a way I hadn’t even known was possible until I learned what was possible. It was lonely and terrifying to be unmoored from everything that had been so important in my life—my family, my faith, myself. I was alone with my secret, pretending to be a different kind of girl. To survive, I tried to forget what had happened, those boys, the stink of their breath, their hands taking my body from me, killing me from the inside out. 13Before this terrible thing happened, I had already started to lose my body. I was too young, in a sad semblance of a relationship with a boy who knew too much, wanted too much. I wanted too much too, but he and I wanted very different things. Christopher wanted to use me. I wanted him to love me. I wanted him to fill the loneliness, to ease the ache of being awkward, of being the girl always on the outside looking in. When I met him, we had just moved to the area.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  50I am terrified of other people. I am terrified of the way they are likely to look at me, stare, talk about me or say cruel things to me. I am terrified of children, their guilelessness and brutal honesty and willingness to gawk at me, to talk loudly about me, to ask their parents or, sometimes, even me, “Why are you so big?” I am terrified of the awkward pause of those children’s parents as they try to respond appropriately. I do not have an answer to that question, or I do and there simply isn’t enough time or grace in the world to offer that answer up. And so I am terrified of other people. I hear the rude comments whispered. I see the stares and laughs and snickering. I see the thinly veiled or open disgust. I pretend I don’t see it. I block it out as often as I can so I can live and breathe with some semblance of peace. The list of bullshit I deal with, by virtue of my body, is long and boring, and I am, frankly, bored with it. This is the world we live in. Looks matter, and we can say, “But but but . . .” But no. Looks matter. Bodies matter. I could easily become a shut-in, hiding from the cruelty of the world. Most days it takes all my strength and no small amount of courage to get dressed and leave the house. If I don’t have to teach or travel for work, I spend most of my time talking myself out of leaving my house. I can order something in. I can make do with what I have. Tomorrow, I promise myself. Tomorrow I will face the world. If it’s late in the week, there are several tomorrows until Monday. There are several tomorrows when I can lie to myself, when I can hope to build stronger defenses for facing the world that so cruelly faces me. 51I have two wardrobes. One, the clothes I wear every day, is made up mostly of dark denim jeans, black T-shirts, and, for special occasions, dress shirts. These clothes shroud my cowardice. These are the clothes I feel safe in. This is the armor I wear to face the world, and I assure you, armor is needed. I tell myself this armor is all I need. When I wear my typical uniform, it feels like safety, like I can hide in plain sight. I become less of a target. I am taking up space, but I am doing so in an unassuming manner so I am less of a problem, less of a disturbance. This is what I tell myself. My other wardrobe, the one that dominates most of my closet, is full of the clothes I don’t have the courage to wear.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  Because doctors know the challenges the obese body can contend with, they are surprised to learn I am not diabetic. They are surprised to learn I am not on a hundred medications. Or they are not surprised to learn I have high blood pressure. They look at that number and offer stern admonitions about the importance of losing weight and getting my numbers back under control. This is when they are happiest, when they can try and use their expertise to force me to discipline my body. As a result, I don’t go to the doctor unless it is absolutely necessary even though I now have good health insurance and have always had every right to be treated fairly and kindly. I don’t go to the doctor even though I’ve had an undiagnosed chronic stomach condition that is, at times, debilitating, for at least ten years. Doctors are supposed to first do no harm, but when it comes to fat bodies, most doctors seem fundamentally incapable of heeding their oath. 82On October 10, 2014, one of my greatest fears was realized. I was in my apartment, commenting on stories from the graduate student for whom I was serving as thesis adviser. I had been having stomach pain all that week, but I often have stomach pain, so I paid it little mind. Eventually, I went to the bathroom and experienced a very intense wave of pain. I need to lie down, I thought. When I came to, I was on the floor and I was sweaty, but I felt better. Then I looked at my left foot, which was facing in an unnatural direction, the bone nearly poking through the skin. I realized, This is not good. I closed my eyes. I tried to breathe, to not panic, to not think of everything that would happen next. At the same time, there was a plumbing crisis, but I couldn’t cope with that and my fucked-up foot, so I just moved the plumbing issue to the corner of my mind. When you’re fat, one of your biggest fears is falling while you’re alone and needing to call EMTs. It’s a fear I have nurtured over the years, and when I broke my ankle that fear finally came true. Thankfully, that night, I had my phone in my pocket, so I pulled myself into the anteroom of the bathroom, hoping for a signal. My foot was starting to hurt, but nowhere near as badly as I thought it should hurt based on years of watching medical dramas like Chicago Hope, ER, and Grey’s Anatomy. This was Lafayette, Indiana, a small town, so 9-1-1 answered promptly. While on the phone with the kind operator I blurted out, “I’m fat,” like it was some deep mark of shame, and he smoothly said, “That’s not a problem.”

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation28 taken with Rachel that he offers to work for her father for seven years if he only will let them get married. And her father agrees—though he’ll fulfill the bargain on his own terms, not Jacob’s. ‹ When the time comes for the wedding, Jacob goes into the tent to spend the night with his bride. But his new father-in-law has slipped Leah into the tent, and in the morning, Jacob discovers that he is now married to the wrong woman. Jacob’s father-in-law tells him that he will have to work for another seven years to gain Rachel for his wife. ‹ Jacob fulfills this commitment and, by making some shrewd moves, becomes a wealthy man. But that, in turn, generates resentment in the extended family. With jealousy and conflict rising, Jacob decides to return home, even though it means facing Esau. ‹ As Jacob nears his homeland, he sends messengers with gifts for Esau, but he remains afraid. We’re told that he spends the night wrestling with a man, but we’re not sure who that man is or why the struggle started. The encounter has a dreamlike quality, mirroring the struggles that have shaped Jacob’s life. ‹ As the wrestling goes on, neither is winning. The mysterious man demands that Jacob let him go, but Jacob says, “I won’t let you go unless you bless me.” Finally, the man asks, “What is your name?” When he’s told “Jacob,” the man replies, “You will no longer be called Jacob. You will be called Israel, because you have striven with God and with human beings and have won.” That’s what the name Israel means: “one who strives with God.” ‹ By wrestling with this mysterious man, Jacob is engaged in a deeper struggle with God himself. At the end of the story, Jacob says he’s amazed that when wrestling, he saw God face to face yet survived. Note, however, that we’re not told God is in the struggle until the end. Instead, we see Jacob pursuing the struggle in the hope that it will end in a blessing, which brings life. ‹ The next day, this surreal encounter comes to fruition in practical terms: when Jacob must face a human adversary, Esau. He must swallow his pride and bow

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Lecture 5—Moses and the Drama of Exodus 37 ‹ The pattern continues through plagues of thunder and hail, locusts and darkness. The narrative relentlessly subverts the pharaoh’s pretensions to absolute power and control. When the pressure mounts, he wavers and promises; when it eases up, he resists. Sometimes, he hardens his own heart; sometimes, God does it for him. The pharaoh is caught in a situation he can’t control, and it will lead to the demise of his oppressive regime. The Passover ‹ In chapter 11, God warns of the final plague: At midnight, he will go through the land of Egypt, and the firstborn in every Egyptian household will die, from those in the pharaoh’s household to slaves and livestock. But God will spare the people of Israel. He will “pass over” the houses of the Israelites and will not harm them. ‹ This final plague shows a chilling circular movement in the story. At this point, the kind of violence that pharaoh tried to inflict on others comes back to strike him. At the beginning of the story, the pharaoh had ordered that all the male children born to the people of Israel were to be killed. Now, at the end of the story, the pharaoh will be the victim of the violence he once tried to inflict. ‹ The narrative invites us to see the story from the perspective of the Israelites, who now prepare for this moment of deliverance. This is where the tradition of the Passover comes from. The Israelites are told to slaughter one lamb for each household. They are to mark their doorposts with the lamb’s blood as a sign to God to save those inside. The meat from the lamb is to be roasted and eaten with unleavened bread and bitter herbs. ‹ In Exodus 12, the fateful night arrives, and the plague strikes the households of Egypt. The death of the firstborn brings the pharaoh to the breaking point, and he tells Moses to take the people and leave the country. The release of the slaves shows the pharaoh’s loss of authority. And that is the disturbing side of Exodus—a vivid reminder of the difficulty of change. Few of us are ready to relinquish control when we think we have it. And at the moment of letting go, we must face the limits of our own power.

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation 84 internal brooding to speak directly to God, and he finds that telling the truth is a major step toward healing. The process is completed through forgiveness, which brings a restoration of relationship. Psalm 23 ‹Psalm 23, which begins, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” is one of the most well-known passages in the Bible. The hallmark of this psalm is its use of extended metaphor, depicting God’s relationship to people as that of a shepherd to his sheep. The evocative quality of this image allows the psalm to be connected to human experience in various ways, contributing to its broad appeal. ‹The psalm takes up the theme of life’s vulnerability. There is no sense of crisis here, as we’ve seen in some other psalms. But there is a sense that life can be uncertain, so that help and support are needed each day. Contrary to some of the inscriptions on the individual poems, the collection of psalms grew over time and explores themes of perennial interest. Lecture 12—Psalms: The Bible’s Songbook 85 ‹The sense of vulnerability is heightened in verse 4, which says, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me. Your rod and your staff they comfort me.” People hear this vivid imagery as offering assurance of God’s presence. Even as life slips away, people are not left alone. ‹In the final verses of the psalm, the imagery changes. God is no longer a shepherd but the host at a banquet. And people are no longer sheep but guests. The psalm says, “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life. And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” ‹As the imagery changes, the sense of vulnerability persists because there are still unnamed “enemies” in view. Yet the sense of protection and care also persists and even grows. God not only provides the basics but offers a life so abundant that it seems like a banquet. And if enemies treat a person with contempt, God offers a place of honor and dignity. Suggested Reading Brown, ed., The Oxford Handbook of the Psalms. Jacobson and Jacobson, Invitation to the Psalms. Questions to Consider 1. The psalms were written in a cultural context that differs from those of modern readers. In what ways do the ancient poetic images seem strange and difficult to interpret? In what ways do they remain accessible and engaging? 2. The lecture noted points at which the psalms use evocative imagery that can be connected to human experience in various ways. What possibilities does that present for interpretation? What problems might arise in the process?

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation38 ‹ In the final part of the story, the Israelites flee, but the pharaoh changes his mind yet again and leads his army in hot pursuit. The escaping slaves come to the sea with the chariots of Egypt behind them. We sense that all hope for deliverance is about to vanish. ‹ But here, the narrative shifts the level of the drama. It’s not primarily a conflict between the Israelites and the Egyptians but between the wills of God and the pharaoh and between their two different forms of power. T o demonstrate that, deliverance is brought about by God’s action. ● Moses tells the people, “Don’t be afraid. Stand your ground, and see the deliverance the Lord will bring for you today.” Then he adds, “The Lord will fight for you. You have only to be still.” ● This is one of the most peculiar battle scenes in the Bible. In it, victory is not won by force of arms. The people of Israel are simply to stand their ground. What they need is a way forward, and that is what they are given. ‹ Moses stretches out his staff over the sea, and the water parts. The people of Israel follow the path through to the other side. The Egyptian army follows, but halfway across, their chariot wheels get clogged with mud. Moses stretches out his hand, and the water flows back to its normal place, covering the Egyptians. ‹ The narrative has culminated in a dramatic reversal. At the beginning, the pharaoh wanted the Hebrew children thrown into the Nile. In the end, his chariots are thrown into the sea. His efforts to keep the Israelites enslaved have failed, while God’s efforts to free them have succeeded. Suggested Reading Fretheim, Exodus. Langston, Exodus through the Centuries. Lecture 5—Moses and the Drama of Exodus 39 Questions to Consider 1. What are the main characteristics of Moses in the story of the Exodus? What are his strengths? What are his weaknesses? What sort of a leader is he? 2. What are the main characteristics of God in the Exodus narrative? What do you find most compelling? What do you find most disturbing? Why?

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Lecture 1—The Bible as Dialogue 5 ‹In terms of plotline, the migration from Mesopotamia to Canaan is depicted as an act of trust, as Abraham and Sarah follow where God leads them. But the plot thickens when they experience famine, conflict, and apparent disappointment. Hope continues by only a narrow thread. Abraham is portrayed as courageous at some points and indecisive at others. Sarah can be both trusting and skeptical. And their varied strengths and failings are an integral part of the story. ‹The broader narrative continues as the people flourish in Egypt for many generations. But then there’s a political change, and they become enslaved. Here, the plot turns to issues of oppression and the need for liberation. The dominant figure is Moses, who will lead the people into freedom. Moses is sometimes bold and sometimes fearful. His opponent is the Egyptian pharaoh, who can be both arrogant and vacillating. ‹The moment of liberation is called the Exodus. It’s when the people leave slavery in Egypt and begin the migration through the desert toward Canaan again. But now the people are portrayed as contentious and unfaithful. Their struggle is not against the tyranny of the pharaoh but against the harshness of life in the desert and the conflicts that threaten to tear the community apart. ‹Throughout these narratives, one of the most intriguing elements is the portrayal of God. At times, God speaks clearly and graciously, but at other times, he seems inexplicable. Conflict may break out, yet God remains silent. God can show compassion for those who suffer and outrage at those who prove faithless. The varied aspects of the biblical portrayal of God are challenging, yet encountering them draws readers more deeply into the question of who God is. ‹The narrative thread continues in the books of Joshua through 2 Kings. These tell of Israel’s movement into the land of Canaan, where there is warfare and unrest. In time, the people establish a kingdom with its capital at Jerusalem. The most notable king is David, who helps forge a national identity. He’s followed by Solomon, who builds a temple to be the country’s center of worship. But unity is shattered when the kingdom is divided, and military invasions come. The northern kingdom is conquered by the Assyrians, and the southern kingdom is conquered by the Babylonians. In each case, people are taken into exile.

• From The Bible: A Biography (2007)

  But by the time Matthew was writing in the late 80s, these hopes were beginning to fade. Nothing had changed: how could the kingdom have come? Matthew replied that it was coming unobtrusively, and was working silently in the world like yeast in a batch of dough.75 His community was frightened and angry. They were accused by their fellow Jews of abandoning the Torah and the prophets;76 they had been flogged in the synagogues, dragged before tribunals of elders,77 and expected to be tortured and killed before the End.78 Matthew was, therefore, especially anxious to show that Christianity was not only in harmony with Jewish tradition but was its culmination. Almost every single event in Jesus’s life had happened ‘to fulfil the scriptures’. Like Ishmael, Samson and Isaac, his birth was announced by an angel.79 His forty days of temptation in the desert paralleled the Israelites’ forty years in the wilderness; Isaiah had foretold his miracles.80 And – most importantly – Jesus was a great Torah teacher. He proclaimed the new law of the messianic age from a mountaintop81 – like Moses – and insisted that he had come not to abolish but to complete the Law and the prophets.82 Jews must now observe the Torah more stringently than ever before. It was no longer sufficient for Jews to refrain from murder; they must not even get angry. Not only was adultery forbidden; a man could not even look at a woman lustfully.83 The old law of retaliation – eye for eye, tooth for tooth – was superseded: Jews must now turn the other cheek and love their enemies.84 Like Hosea, Jesus argued that compassion was more important than ritual observance.85 Like Hillel, he preached the Golden Rule.86 Jesus was greater than Solomon, Jonah and the temple.87 The Pharisees of Matthew’s day claimed that Torah study would introduce Jews to the divine presence (Shekhinah) that they had formerly encountered in the temple: ‘If two sit together and words of Torah are between them, the Shekhinah rests between them.’88 But Jesus promised: ‘where two or three meet in my name, I shall be there with them.’89 Christians would encounter the Shekhinah through Jesus who had now replaced the temple and the Torah.