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 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.

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

  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. “Hey! Why are you hanging out with the blacks?” “Because I am black.” “No, you’re not. You’re colored.” “Ah, yes. I know it looks that way, friend, but let me explain. It’s a funny story, actually. My father is white and my mother is black and race is a social construct, so...” That wasn’t going to work. Not here. All of this was happening in my head in an instant, on the fly. I was doing crazy calculations, looking at people, scanning the room, assessing the variables. If I go here, then this. If I go there, then that. My whole life was flashing before me—the playground at school, the spaza shops in Soweto, the streets of Eden Park—every time and every place I ever had to be a chameleon, navigate between groups, explain who I was. It was like the high school cafeteria, only it was the high school cafeteria from hell because if I picked the wrong table I might get beaten or stabbed or raped. I’d never been more scared in my life. But I still had to pick. Because racism exists, and you have to pick a side. You can say that you don’t pick sides, but eventually life will force you to pick a side. That day I picked white.

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  Myths are archetypal stories that simply and directly touch the core of our being. They remind us about our deepest longings, and reveal to us our hidden strengths and resources. They are also maps of our essential nature, pathways that connect us to each other, to nature and to the cosmos. The Greek myth of Medusa captures the very essence of trauma and describes its pathway to transformation. In the Greek myth, those who looked directly into Medusa’s eyes were promptly turned into stone ... frozen in time. Before setting out to vanquish this snake-haired demon, Perseus sought counsel from Athena, the goddess of knowledge and strategy. Her advice to him was simple: under no circumstances should he look directly at the Gorgon. Taking Athena’s advice to heart, Perseus used the protective shield fastened on his arm to reflect the image of Medusa. This way he was able to cut off her head without looking directly at her, and thus avoided being turned into stone. If trauma is to be transformed, we must learn not to confront it directly. If we make the mistake of confronting trauma head on, then Medusa will, true to her nature, turn us to stone. Like the Chinese finger traps we all played with as kids, the more we struggle with trauma, the greater will be its grip upon us. When it comes to trauma, I believe that the “equivalent” of Perseus’s reflecting shield is how our body responds to trauma and how the “living body” personifies resilience and feelings of goodness. There is more to this myth: Out of Medusa’s wound, two mythical entities emerged: Pegasus the winged horse and the one-eyed giant Chrysaor, the warrior with the golden sword. The golden sword represents penetrating truth and clarity. The horse is a symbol of the body and instinctual knowledge; the wings symbolize transcendence. Together, they suggest transformation through the “living body.” ‡ Together, these aspects form the archetypal qualities and resources that a human being must mobilize in order to heal the Medusa (fright paralysis) called trauma. The ability to perceive and respond to the reflection of Medusa is mirrored in our instinctual natures. In another version of this same myth, Perseus collects a drop of blood from Medusa’s wound in two vials. The drop from one vial has the power to kill; the drop in the other vial has the power to raise the dead and restore life. What is revealed here is the dual nature of trauma: first, its destructive ability to rob victims of their capacity to live and enjoy life. The paradox of trauma is that it has both the power to destroy and the power to transform and resurrect. Whether trauma will be a cruel and punishing Gorgon, or a vehicle for soaring to the heights of transformation and mastery, depends upon how we approach it. Trauma is a fact of life.

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

  Reply to Objection 3: All sorrow is an evil of punishment; but it is not always an evil of fault, except only when it proceeds from an inordinate affection. Hence Augustine says (De Civ. Dei xiv, 9): “Whenever these affections follow reason, and are caused when and where needed, who will dare to call them diseases or vicious passions?” Reply to Objection 4: There is no reason why a thing may not of itself be contrary to the will, and yet be willed by reason of the end, to which it is ordained, as bitter medicine is not of itself desired, but only as it is ordained to health. And thus Christ’s death and passion were of themselves involuntary, and caused sorrow, although they were voluntary as ordained to the end, which is the redemption of the human race. Whether there was fear in Christ?Objection 1: It would seem that there was no fear in Christ. For it is written (Prov. 28:1): “The just, bold as a lion, shall be without dread.” But Christ was most just. Therefore there was no fear in Christ. Objection 2: Further, Hilary says (De Trin. x): “I ask those who think thus, does it stand to reason that He should dread to die, Who by expelling all dread of death from the Apostles, encouraged them to the glory of martyrdom?” Therefore it is unreasonable that there should be fear in Christ. Objection 3: Further, fear seems only to regard what a man cannot avoid. Now Christ could have avoided both the evil of punishment which He endured, and the evil of fault which befell others. Therefore there was no fear in Christ. On the contrary, It is written (Mk. 4:33): Jesus “began to fear and to be heavy.” I answer that, As sorrow is caused by the apprehension of a present evil, so also is fear caused by the apprehension of a future evil. Now the apprehension of a future evil, if the evil be quite certain, does not arouse fear. Hence the Philosopher says (Rhet. ii, 5) that we do not fear a thing unless there is some hope of avoiding it. For when there is no hope of avoiding it the evil is considered present, and thus it causes sorrow rather than fear. Hence fear may be considered in two ways. First, inasmuch as the sensitive appetite naturally shrinks from bodily hurt, by sorrow if it is present, and by fear if it is future; and thus fear was in Christ, even as sorrow. Secondly, fear may be considered in the uncertainty of the future event, as when at night we are frightened at a sound, not knowing what it is; and in this way there was no fear in Christ, as Damascene says (De Fide Orth. iii, 23).

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  That’s when I made a mistake. I moved further back into the station, away from them. In doing so, I moved further from the exit or any possibility of help. Some mistakes in life are not punishable, others teach you a lesson you never forget. When I heard their footsteps growing closer, I knew better than to hide behind the pillar. It’s far worse to be caught cowering, I reached inside the bag and pulled out a small handful of elderberties. Their tart taste heightened my senses. They stained my hands with the color of battles won and lost. I set the rest of the berries down on the platform, wishing Ruth could have known I had found her elderberties in the winter in this paved city. I wanted more time with Ruth. I wished I had thanked her for breathing a little life back into me. I positioned my house keys between my fingers so that my fist bristled with coppery spikes. I was trapped between the end of the station and the three faces getting closer. They are the hunters; I am the prey. For just a moment, before it began, I cursed Ruth for making me hope again. Then I let go of everything except the moment confronting me. The leader of the pack emerged. He reached for my face. “What have we here?” he asked, almost gently. I blocked his hand with my own. He smiled. Now it had begun. My spiked fist was out of their sight. I didn’t reveal my readiness. His buddies leered and sneered. But his smile was harder to stand up to. It reminded me of a cop’s smirk, meant to force me to admit powerlessness. “What the fuck are your” he asked quietly. “T cart tell what you are. Maybe we should just find out, huh, guys?” His taunts and threats rolled off me, not because I was impervious to them, but because I was filled to overflowing. I tried not to listen. It didn’t matter what he said. It didn’t matter what I answered. All that was important was the action, the positioning of their bodies and mine, the juxtaposition of matter and space, open throats and unguarded kneecaps. At the instant the action exploded I would have a moment to strike, to change the relationship of forces. When one of their punches connected with my body, when 282 = Leslie Feinberg blood filled my eyes, when I could no longer catch a breath—I would be theirs. I braced myself against the leftover grit of elderberries between my teeth. Any moment it would erupt. Any moment.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  I couldn’t wait till we left the reception. Annie rode with her arms around my neck and her face Stone Butch Blues 211 against my back. By the time we got to her home both her shoes were gone and the exhaust pipe had burned a hole in the hem of her dress. “Pay it no mind,” Annie said. She was drunk. When we got to the porch she threw her arms around me. “You comin’ in, darlin’?” “Naw,” I said. “I gotta get ready for work in the morning,” She looked down at her stocking feet and back up to my face. “I ain’t gonna see you again, am I?” she asked. I looked down at my shoes. “I don’t think so.” She nodded. “Why not?” It hurt my heart the way she asked it. “Tm afraid I’d fall in love with you,’ I said. It was partly true, but it sure didn’t tell the whole story. It’s one thing for the magician to reveal the art of illusion. It’s another thing to tell a straight woman that the man she slept with is a woman. That’s not what Annie agreed to get into. Sooner or later it was going to blow up. And after this afternoon, I had even more reason to fear the explosion. “What’s wrong with falling in love? What’s the matter with you guys, anyway?” she slurred. “Tve been hurt, Annie. I need time.” “Shit, I thought you were different. You ain’t any 212 = Leslie Feinberg different from any other guy who stands to pee.” “Well,” I shrugged, “maybe just a little different.” “You tell that woman who hurt you ’'m gonna come after her and rip her to shreds. She spoiled it for the rest of us.” Annie’s smile faded. “Ain’t no use us standing out here talkin’, is itP You best be goin’.” I nodded. We looked at each other for a long moment. I took the keys from her hand and unlocked the front door. I kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Hey, thanks for what you said to Wilma back there.” “T meant every word of it.” She looked me straight in the eyes. “Thanks for everything, darlin’.” I smiled and turned to go. She stood on the porch and watched me kick-start my bike. “Hey,” she yelled over the roar of the engine. “What?” I cupped my hand near my ear to hear. “The wabbit.” “What?” “Kathy’s wabbit.” I nodded and strained to hear what she was repeating. “Kathy’s wabbit isn’t a girl, it’s a boy!” I FELT LIGHT-HEADED AND DIZZY. My stomach clenched. I was about to heave my guts up. The worst part of it was I knew I couldn’t leave the injection-mold machine I was working on. If I switched it off, the plastic would harden throughout the machine. The machines ran continuously—the repetitive sounds were the music we worked to in the molding department.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  It turned out to be true that 42" Street was filled with all-night theaters. Admission was three dollars for kung fu movies endlessly strung together. I chose a theater and entered an all-male world. The theater smelled like stale cigarettes and reefer. Many of the seats wete broken, something I didn’t discover until I sat down and landed on the sticky floor. The men nearest me checked me out and went back to staring at the screen. I loved the movies. They seemed to share a theme. A young man is faced with a powerful enemy. He’s forced to find a teacher who can train him in monkey style, praying mantis, tiger, eagle claw, scorpion. The twist is that the teacher is not powerful enough on his own or dies before the young man is ready. It always takes some special combination of skills and insights to defeat the foe. The hero was honorable—marked by humility and discipline and was very respectful, if not chaste, with his girlfriend. But every time a woman appeared on the screen, the men around me shouted, “Eat that pussy! Puck that bitch!” At first it scared me. Then I realized, with the exception of me, this was an all-male audience. Who were they talking to if not each other? Was each man who shouted from his stoned stupor trying to convince the men nearby that a woman could still make his dick hard? That no matter how the weight of the streets had crushed him he was still a real man? I kept putting off going to the bathroom, but after a while I just had to. The stench hit me as I opened the men’s room door. An older man was sitting on one toilet, a needle stuck in his arm, nodding. The tile was gummy with crud. There were no doors on the stalls. Most of the toilets were overflowing with shit and toilet paper. I snuck into the women’s bathroom. It was musty from lack of use. Just as I was zipping my pants back up, the door opened. “What are you doing in here?” a man in a red blazer asked me. I let my voice settle into rough. “Taking a shit. Do ya mind?” I pushed past him and went back to my seat. By the time I’d seen each film twice I began to doze. The next morning I walked, asking directions of nearly everyone I passed, till I was on the doorstep of the first rental agency I’d found in the Voice. “Do you have anything cheaper?” I asked the woman agent. “You want an apartment or a dump? Two hundred-fifty—that’s a bargain.” I thought about it. “When can I move in?” “Here’s the keys,” she said. I reached for the keys, she pulled them back. “That’s one month rent, one month security, and a finder’s fee: $750, payable now.”

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

  Reply to Objection 3: As the Philosopher says (Phys. viii, 4) the movement of an animal, whereby at times an animal is moved against the natural inclination of the body, although it is not natural to the body, is nevertheless somewhat natural to the animal, to which it is natural to be moved according to its appetite. Accordingly this is violent, not simply but in a certain respect. The same remark applies in the case of one who contorts his limbs in a way that is contrary to their natural disposition. For this is violent in a certain respect, i.e. as to that particular limb; but not simply, i.e. as to the man himself. Whether fear causes involuntariness simply?Objection 1: It would seem that fear causes involuntariness simply. For just as violence regards that which is contrary to the will at the time, so fear regards a future evil which is repugnant to the will. But violence causes involuntariness simply. Therefore fear too causes involuntariness simply. Objection 2: Further, that which is such of itself, remains such, whatever be added to it: thus what is hot of itself, as long as it remains, is still hot, whatever be added to it. But that which is done through fear, is involuntary in itself. Therefore, even with the addition of fear, it is involuntary. Objection 3: Further, that which is such, subject to a condition, is such in a certain respect; whereas what is such, without any condition, is such simply: thus what is necessary, subject to a condition, is necessary in some respect: but what is necessary absolutely, is necessary simply. But that which is done through fear, is absolutely involuntary; and is not voluntary, save under a condition, namely, in order that the evil feared may be avoided. Therefore that which is done through fear, is involuntary simply. On the contrary, Gregory of Nyssa [*Nemesius, De Nat. Hom. xxx.] and the Philosopher (Ethic. iii, 1) say that such things as are done through fear are “voluntary rather than involuntary.” I answer that, As the Philosopher says (Ethic. iii) and likewise Gregory of Nyssa in his book on Man (Nemesius, De Nat. Hom. xxx), such things are done through fear “are of a mixed character,” being partly voluntary and partly involuntary. For that which is done through fear, considered in itself, is not voluntary; but it becomes voluntary in this particular case, in order, namely, to avoid the evil feared.

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  Reading this manuscript, I was impressed by how often I experienced “aha” moments as I recalled my own observations in my work with traumatized and often addicted people. I could now understand and interpret these observations in a new way—and not only my clinical observations, but also my own personal experience. And that’s important, for, as Peter recognizes, the therapist’s attuning to his or her own experience serves as an essential guiding light leading the healing process along the right path. Peter Levine and the reader complete their mutual journey with an exploration of spirituality and trauma. There is, he writes, “an intrinsic and wedded relationship” between the two. For all our rootedness in a physical body, we humans are spiritual creatures. As the psychiatrist Thomas Hora astutely pointed out, “all problems are psychological, but all solutions are spiritual.” With this book Peter Levine secures his position in the forefront of trauma healing, as theorist, practitioner and teacher. All of us in the therapeutic community—physicians, psychologists, therapists, aspiring healers, interested laypeople—are ever so much richer for this summation of what he himself has learned. GABOR MATÉ, MD Author of In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction PART I Roots: A Foundation to Dance On We must go down to the very foundations of life. For any merely superficial ordering of life that leaves its deepest needs unsatisfied is as ineffectual as if no attempt at order had ever been made ... —I Ching, Hexagram #34 “The Well” (circa 2500 BC) N CHAPTER 1 The Power of an Unspoken Voice When a man has learned within his heart what fear and trembling mean, he is safeguarded against any terror produced by outside influences. —I Ching, Hexagram #51 (circa 2500 BC) O MATTER HOW SELF-ASSURED WE ARE, in a fraction of a second, our lives can be utterly devastated. As in the biblical story of Jonah, the unknowable forces of trauma and loss can swallow us whole, thrusting us deep into their cold dark belly. Entrapped yet lost, we become hopelessly frozen by terror and helplessness. Early in the year 2005, I walked out of my house into a balmy Southern California morning. The gentle warmth and soft sea breeze gave a lift to my step. Certainly, this was the kind of winter morning that makes everyone in the rest of the country (with the possible exception of Garrison Keillor of Lake Wobegon) want to abandon their snow shovels and move to the Southland’s warm, sunny beaches. It was the beginning of a perfect kind of day, a day when you feel certain that nothing can go wrong, when nothing bad can possibly happen. But it did. A Moment of Truth I walked along, absorbed in happy anticipation of being with my dear friend Butch for the celebration of his sixtieth birthday. I stepped out into a crosswalk ... ...

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  The subway cat was crowded. I had never had the opportunity to observe people this way. Most of the riders looked asleep on their feet, their eyes glazed over. Others buried their noses in newspapers and books. I suddenly realized that at least a few people were doing exactly what I was doing, They were looking at people; they were looking at me. The woman sitting across from me stared as though I was from another planet. She nudged her boyfriend. “Is that a guy or a girl?” He looked at me from head to toe. “How should I know?” I hoped we would arrive at 42°* Street soon. “Hey,” he demanded, “are you a guy or what?” I stared back at him with my flat face on. “Hey, I asked you a fucking question. Are you deaf?” I didn’t answer. He got up and stood over me, holding the straps for support. He leaned near my face. I could smell beer. “I’m asking you one more time, you motherfucker. What the fuck are you?” The train stopped at 42 Street and the doors opened. He was blocking my escape. “C’mon, hon,” his girlfriend tugged at him. I stood up. We both squared off nose-to-nose. I clenched my fists at my side. “C’mon, hon,” she cajoled. “You promised me you wouldn’t get in a fight again today.” They both turned to get off the train. I decided to stay on. “You fucking faggot,” he shouted at me. “Fuck you,” I yelled back at him. “It’s a guy,” he told his girlfriend. I got off at the next station and walked back down 8* Avenue toward 42" Street. If I made enough money, maybe I’d go back to Buffalo. At that moment I believed it. “Looking for fun, honey?” A woman stepped out in front of me on the sidewalk and opened her fake leopard coat to show me her black bustier. “Let me take good care of you,” she pursed her lips and hooked her arm through mine. I remembered coming out as a baby butch and being nurtured by the strength of pros like her. Once I had been on their side in the world. Now I was seen as a trick. I pulled away from her in horrot. “Fuck you,” she spat on the sidewalk in front of me. I noticed a squad car parked diagonally across the intersection. I heard sirens racing up behind me. I neared a small throng of cops. One of them pushed a Black drag queen in fishnet stockings up against a squad car and cuffed her hands behind her back. She turned her face toward me. He/p me, she asked wordlessly. I dont know how, my eyes answered. Two cops were hovering over another drag queen who was sprawled on the asphalt. The blood bubbled out of a wide crack in her forehead. One Stone Butch Blues 251

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  about the war. I don’t even know how you feel about it, My lips were close to her cheek. “I read those leaflets you bring home.” Theresa turned to look at me. “But what do you think?” I shrugged. “What do you mean? I hate wars. But JFK didn’t ask me if I wanted to start one. They’re gonna do what they want to do. Why are you asking me this?” Theresa pulled my knees against her sides with her elbows. “T hate this war, Jess. It’s got to stop. There’s protest rallies on campus almost every day. If anyone from the staff gets spotted at one, we can get fired. But ’'m thinking about going to the big rally next week anyway.” I whistled. ““You could get fired for going?” Theresa nodded. “I can’t sit by and watch, Jess. It’s gotten to the point where I feel like I’ve got to do something.” I lay down on my belly in the cool sand. “It’s funny to hear you talk like this. You know, I didn’t realize before how different our jobs are. All this stuff’s going on where you work. It doesn’t touch us at the factory, except when one of the guys gets drafted or killed.” 136 = Leslie Feinberg Theresa nodded. “I know, honey. This is the first time in my life I’ve had a job where I can see what’s going on in the world. All day long I hear people arguing about things that are happening. I used to just listen. But now I care. Now I’ve got feelings about what’s going on and I want to help try to change things.” I held up one hand to stop her. “Slow down, honey.” I flopped over on my back. I wondered why her words scared me so much. “Is that why you brought me out here today? To talk to me about this?” I shielded my eyes from the sun to watch her face. She shook her head. “I brought you out here so you wouldn’t call Ed right away—not till we talked first.” I frowned. “Why?” Theresa smiled and lay so close I could feel her breath on my ear. “You know one of the things I liked best about you when I first got to know your” I was being handled, but gently, so I didn’t mind much. “Tell me,” I smiled. Theresa laughed. “You were always the peacemaker. Whenever the butches got tanked up and hot under the collar, you found a way to step in and defuse things. I even noticed that sometimes when two of the older butches would get mad at each other they would drift over to you one at a time and you’d talk to each of them and there wasn’t a fist fight.” I turned my head to look at her. “There’s a point here, I’ll bet.”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  When Theresa looked up I saw tears in her eyes. She pulled my head down and kissed me all over my face. “I love you too, Jess,” she whispered in my ear. Theresa and I both heard the commotion outside the bar at once. She put down her beer bottle and ran outside. I grabbed our bottles in case we needed to break them to use as weapons. We both stopped dead in our tracks outside. Justine was on her knees. A cop stood over her. His club hung loosely at his side. I saw the blood streaming down the side of Justine’s face. It was a sultry hot evening in July. A number of people had drifted outside the bar in order to drink their beers. Two cop cars were parked in front of the bar. Four cops faced us. “Get inside, all of you,” one of the cops barked. None of us moved. The cop standing over Justine grabbed a handful of her hair. “On your feet,’ he ordered. She stumbled as she tried to rise and fell back onto the concrete. Theresa slipped off her high heels. “Take your hands off her,” Theresa told the cop. Her voice was low and calm. “Leave her alone.” Theresa walked slowly toward the cop with the high heels at her sides. I held my breath. Georgetta took off both her stilettos and held one in each hand. She walked over to Theresa. They exchanged a look I couldn’t see and stood side by side. The cop put his hand on his gun butt. Somehow we all knew instinctively that none of the butches should move. Stone Butch Blues 139 I heard Peaches’ voice. “What’s goin’ on out here?” We glanced at each other. “Uh-oh,” she said. Theresa’s voice was low like a moan. “Leave her alone.” She and Georgetta inched forward until they flanked Justine. Theresa’s arm draped across Justine’s hunched shoulders. Justine grabbed Theresa and Georgetta’s arms and pulled herself to her feet. When Justine wobbled, Theresa wrapped one arm around her waist to steady her. The cop unholstered his gun. “You fucking slut,” he sputtered at Theresa. “You fucking perverts,” he shouted at all of us. Another cop pulled on his arm. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” Slowly, the four cops retreated. I exhaled as the cops drove away. Theresa and Georgetta held Justine in their arms as she cried. I started to rush to Theresa but Peaches wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “Give ’em a minute, honey.” She advised. We formed a larger circle around them. Theresa turned and fell into my arms. I could feel her body trembling. “Oh god, are you OK?” I whispered into her hait. She buried her face in my neck. “I’m not sure yet. Pll let you know in a few minutes.” “T thought he was gonna shoot you,” I told her. 140 = Leslie Feinberg Theresa nodded. “I was so scared, Jess.”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  One nurse approached my bed. I could still smell the faint scent of urine on the sheets even after they'd dried. Would she take me away if she smelled it too? She studied her clipboard. “Goldberg, Jess.” It frightened me to hear her say my name. “I don’t have a signature on this one,” she told the orderlies. They all left the room. “Goldberg, Jess,” the old woman shouted over and over again. After lunch I snuck back into my room to get my yo-yo. Paula was sitting on her bed, staring at her slippers. She looked at me and cocked her head. She extended her hand to me. “I’m Paula,” she said. “Nice to meetcha.” A nurse came into the room. “You,” she said, pointing at me. I followed her back to the nurse’s station. She held out two paper cups. Beautiful colored pills rolled around in one, the other was filled with water. I stared at both cups. “Take them,” the nurse ordered. “Don’t give me a hard time.” I already sensed that giving the staff a hard time might mean never getting out of there, so I took the pills. Soon after I swallowed them the floor began to tilt as I walked. They made me feel like I was moving through glue. Stone Butch Blues V1 Every day I turned out more trivets and moccasins. I began to care about a woman who talked to ghosts I couldn’t see. And I discovered Norton’s anthology of poetry in the patients’ library—it changed my life. I read the poems over and over again before I began to grasp their meanings. It wasn’t just that the words were musical notes my eyes could sing, It was the discovery that women and men, long dead, had left me messages about their feelings, emotions I could compare to my own. I had finally found others who were as lonely as I was. In an odd way, that knowledge comforted me. Three weeks after ’d been brought to this ward, a nurse took me to an office. A man with a beard sat behind a big desk smoking his pipe. He told me he was my doctor. He said I seemed to be making progress, that being young was difficult, that I was going through an awkward stage. “Do you know why you're here?” he asked me. I had learned a lot in three weeks. I realized that the world could do more than just judge me, it wielded tremendous power over me. I didn’t care anymore if my parents didn’t love me. I had accepted that fact in the three weeks I’d survived alone in this hospital. But now I didn’t care. I hated them. And I 18 Leslie Feinberg didn’t trust them. I didn’t trust anyone. My mind was focused on escape. I wanted to get out of this place and run away from home.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  “All us old-timers are UAW,” he said. “T’ll be a union man on the day they lower my casket into the ground. You gotta have a union, young fella. If you don’t have a union, you better fight to get one.” I laughed. “Not too likely we'll get one here any time soon.” Scotty shrugged. “Well, you never can tell. There’s been talk. We need a union here. I’m too old to do it. You young ones, you’re gonna have to do it.” I sighed. “I wish we had a union, too. But I just want to keep my job, Scotty. By the way, what do you think about Bolt? He seems like a good guy.” Scotty wagged his finger near my nose. “Watch out for Bolt. He’s not really one of us anymore. He’s part gang foreman, part set-up man. Mark my words: When push comes to shove he won’t know which side he’s on. Don’t trust him.” 218 = Leslie Feinberg His warning disappointed me because I liked Bolt. But lucky for me, I didn’t really trust anyone. I felt a hand on my shoulder as I punched out Monday afternoon. “Hey,” Frankie spun me around. “Hey, Frankie. Listen, we got to talk.” She put her index finger to her lips. “It’s OK, I know.” I followed her out to the parking lot. “Pm really glad to see you and everything, Frankie. It’s just ?m scared. I’ve got a good thing going here. And the newspapers are talking about another recession.” Frankie stopped walking, “I understand, Jess. Don’t you think I get it?” “How did you survive this long?” I asked her. She shrugged. “Pm living out here in Tonawanda with my parents till I can save up for my own place. It’s not too bad. I stay at my girlfriend’s on the weekend.” I whistled. “You got a girlfriend? Lucky you.” Frankie pursed her lips. A car horn blared. “You know my girlfriend, Jess. Me and Johnny been together a year,” she smiled. “Just like the song.” I stopped dead in my tracks. “Who’s Johnny?” Frankie sighed. “You know Johnny. We worked together before the strike. We all played softball together.” I shook my head. “The only Johnny I remember was butch and I know you don’t mean her,” I laughed. Frankie widened her stance. “Yeah, that’s exactly who I mean. She’s waiting for me in our car over there.” “Hey, Jess!” I heard Johnny yell from the cat. “Cimere” “You must be kidding,” I whispered to Frankie. She put her hands on her hips. “She’s my lover, Jess. Do I look like I’m kidding?” My mouth hung open. I shook my head from side to side. “Honest, Frankie, I just don’t get it. I don’t understand.” Frankie smoldered. “You don’t have to understand it, Jess. But you gotta accept it. If you cart, then just keep walking.” That’s exactly what I did. I couldn’t deal with it. so I just walked away.