Pride

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 The Divine Comedy (1950)

  16. Conrad III (reigned 1137-1152) joined Bernard’s crusade in 1147.17. Law here as elsewhere = “Religion.” See Conv. ii. 9. [image file=image_rsrcA6E.jpg] C A N T O X V IIn profound reverence for his ancestor, and not without a sense of his own derived dignity, Dante addresses the spirit with the ceremonious plural ye, said to have originated in Rome, though no longer in use there; and hereon Beatrice (only moderately interested in Florentine antiquities, and so standing a little apart, but keenly alert to all that may affect the moral or spiritual weal of her charge) checks his rising vanity with a warning smile. Dante, full of such lofty joy as would on earth strain the mind to bursting, questions Cacciaguida as to ancient Florence, whereon he, in the speech of an earlier day, tells the date of his birth and the place where his forebears dwelt, declining, in enigmatical terms, to say more of them. The population of military age was then but a fifth of what it had since become, and the narrow limits of the territory of Florence kept the blood of her citizens pure. Would that it were so yet! But lust of power, the confusion resulting from Papal ambition, and the fatal quarrel between the Buondelmonti and Amidei, have ruined all, and have given unwieldly bulk to Florence while polluting her blood. Then follows a dirge on the great families of ancient Florence, introduced by tragic reflections on the tide-like instability of all earthly things. Many of these families are mentioned by name, others are indicated by their characteristics or their blazon. Count Hugo ennobled the six families that bear his coat of arms, with various differences, though Giano della Bella had since joined the people. The Gualterotti and Importuni were already in Florence, but the Buondelmonti were not yet—would that they had never been!—their neighbours. The Amidei and their associates were held in honour. Alas that Buondelmonte broke his marriage word with them, and gave rise to all the internal strife of Florence. How much ill had been avoided if God had plunged him into the Ema as he rode into Florence. But it was fated that she should make her sacrifice to that torso of Mars, at whose feet he was slain. [image file=image_rsrcA5N.jpg] AH PUNY blood-nobility of ours! If thou makest folk glory in thee here below, where our affections sicken, it shall be marvel to me never more; for there, where appetite is unwarped, I mean in heaven, I gloried me therein. Yet verily thou art a mantle that soon shrinketh, so that, if day by day there be nought added, time goeth round with the shears.1 With that ye that Rome was first to allow wherein her household doth least persevere, my words began again;2 whereon Beatrice, who was a little sundered from us, smiled, and seemed to me like her who coughed at the first trespass writ of Guinivere.3

• From Escape (2007)

  Senator Reid is a mainstream Mormon who’s proud of his religion but outraged by the FLDS. He was the first to testify. “In the West, we have a live-and-let-live attitude,” he said. “We try not to bother our neighbors and we expect the same from them. But polygamists have taken advantage of this attitude to form a sophisticated, wealthy, and vast criminal organization that has gone largely unchecked by government agencies.” “A sophisticated, wealthy, and vast criminal organization …” The leader of the Senate was comparing polygamy to organized crime. These were words I never thought I would hear. Even though I was well prepared, I was nervous because I felt the enormity of my responsibility. I knew that my testimony might help free others trapped in polygamy. I spoke from my firsthand knowledge of FLDS practices and crimes. The senators listened intently when I explained why a woman trapped in the FLDS could not turn to the local police for protection because the police are FLDS members who use their power to protect the church. I told the senators I was thirty-five years old before I realized that the rights guaranteed to all Americans by the U.S. Constitution also applied to me. I said it took me a year to realize I was a person and not an object. I ended my testimony by saying, “I stand here today to ask that this government, my government, show up for FLDS children the same as it does with respect to all other citizens. This would not be religious persecution, just equal protection and equal enforcement under the law.” It was a shining moment. But even in the grandeur of that Senate hearing room, the FLDS was close at hand. Willie Jessop, who tried to hunt me down within hours of my escape, sat directly behind me. He’s one of Warren Jeffs’ former bodyguards and enforcers who were known in the community as “The God Squad.” Now Willie Jessop frequently serves as a spokesman for the FLDS. I knew he was trying to intimidate me with his presence. His tactics of intimidation were familiar. He and his construction crew stalked me in Salt Lake City in the aftermath of my escape—with my eight children from the FLDS. So five years earlier I had been his prey, but now he could only listen as I told U.S. senators about my experiences in the FLDS. My Senate testimony capped an extraordinary sequence of events for me since the publication of Escape. September 25, 2007, was another unforgettable day. Warren Jeffs had been tried on two counts of being an accomplice to rape for arranging the underage marriage of a fourteen-year-old girl to her nineteen-year-old cousin. On that September day, my boyfriend, Brian, and I were watching TV, waiting for the verdict.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  C A N T O X V I In profound reverence for his ancestor, and not without a sense of his own derived dignity, Dante addresses the spirit with the ceremonious plural ye, said to have originated in Rome, though no longer in use there; and hereon Beatrice (only moderately interested in Florentine antiquities, and so standing a little apart, but keenly alert to all that may affect the moral or spiritual weal of her charge) checks his rising vanity with a warning smile. Dante, full of such lofty joy as would on earth strain the mind to bursting, questions Cacciaguida as to ancient Florence, whereon he, in the speech of an earlier day, tells the date of his birth and the place where his forebears dwelt, declining, in enigmatical terms, to say more of them. The population of military age was then but a fifth of what it had since become, and the narrow limits of the territory of Florence kept the blood of her citizens pure. Would that it were so yet! But lust of power, the confusion resulting from Papal ambition, and the fatal quarrel between the Buondelmonti and Amidei, have ruined all, and have given unwieldly bulk to Florence while polluting her blood. Then follows a dirge on the great families of ancient Florence, introduced by tragic reflections on the tide-like instability of all earthly things. Many of these families are mentioned by name, others are indicated by their characteristics or their blazon. Count Hugo ennobled the six families that bear his coat of arms, with various differences, though Giano della Bella had since joined the people. The Gualterotti and Importuni were already in Florence, but the Buondelmonti were not yet—would that they had never been!—their neighbours. The Amidei and their associates were held in honour. Alas that Buondelmonte broke his marriage word with them, and gave rise to all the internal strife of Florence. How much ill had been avoided if God had plunged him into the Ema as he rode into Florence. But it was fated that she should make her sacrifice to that torso of Mars, at whose feet he was slain. AH PUNY blood-nobility of ours! If thou makest folk glory in thee here below, where our affections sicken, it shall be marvel to me never more; for there, where appetite is unwarped, I mean in heaven, I gloried me therein. Yet verily thou art a mantle that soon shrinketh, so that, if day by day there be nought added, time goeth round with the shears. 1 With that ye that Rome was first to allow wherein her household doth least persevere, my words began again; 2 whereon Beatrice, who was a little sundered from us, smiled, and seemed to me like her who coughed at the first trespass writ of Guinivere. 3 I began: “Ye are my father, ye give me full boldness to speak, ye so uplift me, that I am more than I.

• From Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture (2018)

  I have had people who are otherwise loving and kindhearted tell me that they just don’t understand how people who go through this can get up in the morning. I have had people tell me that they would rather be dead than be what I am. I have heard people say that they just don’t believe that it can be that bad, that PTSD doesn’t exist, that families don’t do things like that, that I’m just doing it for the attention. (I will tell you right now that if someone were to offer me one crisp dollar bill for every single bit of attention being a survivor has ever gotten me, I would take the dollar.) Will everyone react that way? No. Of course not. And most people who do are not doing so out of malice; they just don’t know any better. It still doesn’t make it all right. I never want to stop anyone else from telling. For many people, all of the terrible responses are even more of a reason to be open, to be radically honest, to reveal the places that they have been hurt the most deeply. It helps lots of survivors to talk about it, and I want us to talk about it whenever and however we want. I will always listen. I want us all to listen. The more of us who come out as survivors, the harder it gets to ignore that there is too much to have to survive, the harder it gets to pretend like this doesn’t happen or it only happens to certain kinds of people. But that doesn’t mean you have to give your whole story to anyone who asks. Not telling my story doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I don’t have to be open about my experiences, about all of them or even any of them, to be a real survivor. I am a real survivor because I survived, even if some days it feels like I didn’t survive at all. Other people do not get to tell me what my experience means, or where they would like to place me in their pantheons of suffering. There is great danger in letting those around you determine what your experience means to you, and I have found that one of the best ways to combat that is to keep my story for myself. You can keep it to yourself today and tell tomorrow, and you can tell everyone you know and then never talk about it again. You don’t owe anything to anyone. Your story is not the currency you exchange for love, for understanding, for getting what you need. You are allowed to get what you need without justifying why you need it, regardless of what you choose to reveal and what you keep private. No one is entitled to that part of you and you have no responsibility—none—to make your experience easier or more palatable by constructing a narrative other people find acceptable.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  After an hour or two of anxious talk, he relaxed a bit and seemed to return to the jovial Walter I’d come to know. We agreed that we would travel together on any future trips. — Walter wasn’t the only one who was facing new financial pressures. When a conservative majority took power in Congress in 1994, legal aid to death row prisoners became a political target, and federal funding was quickly eliminated. Most of the capital representation resource centers around the country were forced to close. We had never received state support for our work, and without the federal dollars we faced serious financial challenges. We scraped along and found enough private support to continue our work. Teaching and increased fund-raising responsibilities got piled on top of my bulging litigation docket, but somehow things progressed. Our staff was overextended, but I was thrilled with the talented lawyers and professionals we had working with us. We were assisting clients on death row, challenging excessive punishments, helping disabled prisoners, assisting children incarcerated in the adult system, and looking at ways to expose racial bias, discrimination against the poor, and the abuse of power. It was overwhelming but gratifying. I received a surprising call one day from the Swedish Ambassador to the United States, who told me that EJI had been selected for the Olof Palme International Human Rights Award. They invited me to Stockholm to receive it. I had studied Sweden’s progressive approach to the rehabilitation of criminal offenders as a graduate student and had long marveled at how focused on recovery their system appeared. Their punishments were humane, and their policymakers took rehabilitation of criminal offenders very seriously, which made me excited about the award and the trip. That they were giving an award named after a beloved prime minister who had been tragically murdered by a deranged man to someone who represented people on death row revealed a lot about their values. The trip to Stockholm was planned for January. They sent a film crew to interview me a month or two before the trip, and the crew also wanted to speak with a few clients. I made arrangements for them to interview Walter. “I can come down for this interview,” I told Walter. “No, you don’t need to do that. I don’t have to travel, so I’m okay to talk to them. Don’t spend time driving all the way down here.” “Do you want to go to Sweden?” I asked, half-joking. “I don’t know exactly where that is, but if you have to fly a long way to get there, no, I’m not too interested. I think I’d like to stay on the ground from now on.” We laughed and he sounded fine. He then became quiet and asked one final question before we hung up. “Maybe you can come and see me when you get back?

• From Escape (2007)

  A man has spirit wives in heaven, where he fathers spirit children. (Becoming a spirit child is the first step on the journey in coming to earth.) We also held fast to the belief that our father was once a spirit and then came to earth to get a body and try to prove that he is worthy enough to become a god. Grandma said that the prophet had to be very careful about whom he shared this information with because several men had turned against him when he introduced them to this holy covenant of marriage. So with deep feeling she told me how my great-great-great-grandfather became one of the first men to live the principle of celestial marriage, which is only given to God’s most chosen. It was not for everyone. The prophet Joseph Smith said that this one principle would condemn more men than it would save. But it worked for my great-great-great-great-grandfather, who had seven wives. His sons had many wives, too, and according to Grandma, the principle of celestial marriage had been a blessing to all in our family who practiced it. I felt like the luckiest little girl to be one of God’s elite and a spirit who was the most chosen of all his spirits before I came to earth. Proof of that was that I had been born into a faithful bloodline. I was FLDS royalty. The culture really believes in the value of bloodlines. Only a spirit who was strong and worthy would be selected to be born into one of the royal lines. Understand that we were taught to believe we were better than everyone else in the entire world because of our beliefs. Since I had been selected to come to such a royal bloodline, my grandmother told me that I had the chance to become a goddess if I lived polygamy and proved worthy. It was our own version of the Cinderella story. Just having the opportunity to live in a plural marriage was sold to me as a special blessing that few would ever have. Grandma explained that our family always held fast to the principle of celestial marriage, especially after the Mormon Church issued a manifesto against it in the 1890s. Fearing prosecution, her family fled to Mexico with other Mormons who were devoted to polygamy and determined to keep practicing it. When she was ten years old her family came back to the United States. The official policy of the Mormon Church became, and still is, that those who practice polygamy are not in harmony with God. But the adherents who believed polygamy was a requirement for their salvation began a fundamentalist movement in the early years of the twentieth century. The grassroots movement slowly gained strength, and it was several years before it became an actual organization, complete with a prophet.

• From Escape (2007)

  No one knew how hard I had worked for my degree or how much it meant to me. This was my shining moment. Merril and my father came to my graduation but got there late and missed the beginning. I smiled when I walked across the stage to receive my bachelor of science degree. Marriage to Merril had ended my dream of becoming a doctor—he’d never have allowed it. But I was proud that my marriage had not compromised this moment, and I was grateful in the deepest part of my being that my pregnancy had survived the accident. I wasn’t sure what the future held. Now that I had my degree, I would have to move back to Colorado City and, for the first time since my marriage, live a day-to-day life as Merril Jessop’s fourth wife. Morning sickness continued to plague me. It finally stopped the day before my daughter was born. Merril came to her birth; thankfully, no one else did. She was a beautiful baby. She weighed seven pounds and was in robust health. I was as exhausted as I was relieved. Merril was captivated by the baby from the moment he saw her. When she was three weeks old, he decided her name would be Betty. It was his favorite name and he had been waiting to give it to a favorite daughter. Merril played favorites with his children. It was always clear who they were. A favorite child always had more status over his other children. They were held up and honored before the entire family. It would be years before I realized how exalted Betty’s status would be in our family and how it would impact on our lives. When she was born on July 2, 1989, I was simply grateful that she was alive and healthy. Now I had a son and a daughter. Arthur had a baby sister. Within my chaotic world, I had an island of love. I was twenty-one years old. Move Home A week after I moved home from college, Tammy and I sat down for a long talk. In nearly four years of marriage, I’d grown closer to Tammy than any of the other wives. Tammy played both sides of the family. She’d flatter Barbara and Merril but often used her power to protect others. In the early years of my marriage her backstabbing was kept to a minimum. Merril had always been financially stable, but a dispute with the state over land he leased for a gravel business that was not resolved in his favor sent him into a financial crisis. He was hit with a $90,000 fine, which left him on the verge of bankruptcy. The repercussions for our family were terrible.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  Charles had been selected by Farnland to dance in some Balanchine rip-off. It was all cheap schmaltz and feeling. Neither classical nor contemporary. It existed in that middle ground of hazily choreographed vaporware. He would not have considered it had Farnland not mentioned to him that his former apprentice ran PNB and would be interested in seeing some of Charles’s tape if it included parts of this new work. It was a blatant quid pro quo, Charles knew. Don’t say anything about fondling the little boys and he could have a chance to dance for PNB, which was not a great company, it was true, though it was a little better than he could otherwise reasonably hope for. But the knee, which had started to burn at the start of fall, now throbbed regularly. “Maybe you should take it easy. Lay off,” Farnland said with real human kindness in his voice. Charles watched Farnland’s hand rise just a little, like he meant to reach out for him. Charles shifted away at the thought of that touch, and Farnland’s hand fell back into place. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m more than fine. I’ll live.” “We can get Viktor to dance for you. It’s no problem. He’d probably love it. No need for you to make it worse just for a rehearsal.” Charles cleared his throat and stood a little taller. He summoned what heat he had left burning in him and bore down on the choreographer. “It’s mine,” he said. “I’ll dance it.” “You could have a long career, Charles. Teaching. Dancing isn’t the only thing.” The choreographer slapped Charles’s thigh with the back of his hand—“Think about it. Don’t be dumb. You know how many teachers end up gimps? And why?” “I’m doing your faggy little dance. Ease off.” Farnland wet his lips as though he had received something appetizing. Charles watched his eyes go glossy and distant. It was the same expression that came across Farnland’s face during rehearsals when he watched Viktor shadow Charles, learning the overly emotive choreography of the middle section. It was supposed to be drawn from The Four Temperaments but lacked that piece’s emotional reserve. On Viktor, Farnland’s choreography was hectic, scattered. On Charles, because he lacked Viktor’s speed, it had a certain gravitas. Or so Charles liked to think. But during rehearsal last week, he had looked up to see Farnland watching Viktor as he made some adjustments to the ending combination. That same distant, wantful gloss of the eyes, the subtle shifting of the lips as the music wound up to its slow conclusion. “Well, just remember, we’re all after the same thing.” “Right. Pathos.”

• From Escape (2007)

  If the state funded a charter school, it would do so based on the school’s total number of students. The rate per student was the same as it was in Phoenix. This meant that we could generate enough income from a charter school to hire competent teachers from outside the community. Win-win, it seemed to me. I told the school superintendent, Alvin Barlow, that if we used computers in the classroom, we could make them more efficient and actually help decrease class size. Some teaching could go on in the computer lab, but it could be done by a lab tech instead of a teacher. This would free up teachers to spend more time in the classroom. Kids could do math and reading drills in the computer lab that would support their classroom studies. I had taken several courses in computer programming and writing HTML—hand-coding Web sites. I knew I could develop software specific for our curriculums. Barlow was impressed. He wholeheartedly supported my idea for a charter school. I was a well-respected teacher because I had a talent for teaching any child to read. Parents whose children had reading problems would go to Barlow and ask for their child to be put in my second-grade class. Merril also thought the charter school plan was a good idea and gave me the go-ahead. I asked Merril before I started writing the proposal if we needed to run it by Uncle Rulon first. He said he’d talk to the prophet about it but didn’t see any problem. I don’t know if Merril ever did have that conversation, but several of the prophet’s wives knew I was writing the charter, so I think he knew what was going on. I worked on the proposal night and day. My cousins, Jayne and Lee Ann, both teachers, also pitched in. We got our proposal in the night before the deadline and then took a big breath. We were proud of what we’d accomplished and now had to wait and see what happened. A month later, we were invited to Phoenix to present our charter. There had been a hundred entries. Most of the presenters were school administrators or superintendents with much more experience than we had. Jayne and I felt like kids. Of the twenty proposals presented before ours, only one was given the green light. The stakes were high. Our turn finally came. We were questioned repeatedly. One of the women on the board finally put a halt to the questioning. “I want this school. It contains the best assessment plan I have ever seen.” One of her male colleagues concurred. He liked the innovative ideas we had in our proposal and wanted to see how they’d work in practice. The board had concerns about whether we could build a school the size we’d proposed over the summer. I said that would be no problem. The community was used to building things fast.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  At a party the previous year, Charles had seen Farnland whispering in Viktor’s ear, his hand at the small of Viktor’s back, pulling at the oversize burgundy silk shirt he wore. Viktor with a plastic cup of champagne, giggling, his hand on Farnland’s chest. Charles had seen it, and the Farnland had seen him see it. But what was there to do about it? “Nothing to miss,” Charles said. “He hates you,” Mats said with glee. “He hates you so much.” “You run over his cat or what?” Alek asked pointedly. “Keep me out of the splash zone.” “Maybe he wants to fuck,” Mats said. “Oh, most definitely,” Alek said. “And to skin Charlie alive. Maybe it’s a Buffalo Bill thing. He wants to wear you .” “I’m not his type,” Charles said, but then, his eyes falling on Viktor at the front of the room, he felt a bit of regret. “You did show up late.” “Smelling like last night’s garbage.” “It wasn’t garbage, trust me,” Charles said, turning to look over his shoulder at Alek. “Oh, Sophie is going to love that.” “Say more. Don’t leave us hanging.” Mats moaned. “Don’t tell me about Sophie,” Charles said to Alek. “You don’t know anything.” They lapsed into silence. Charles could feel Alek’s pointed stare, the heat stabbing him between the shoulders. There was a time during the summer when Alek had made a go at Sophie, all earnest kisses and declarations. They had gone to a movie and then a concert in the park, standing close together, she wearing one of Charles’s old flannels and Alek holding on to her hand as they swung around in a slow circle. Then they had drunk beer in the woods around a fire as the air was settling down and getting cooler, and Sophie had been on Alek’s lap. Charles came to the same gathering with a friend, and at first Alek blushed when they saw each other, but then he wrapped himself around Sophie. You can’t hold on to her , he had wanted to say to Alek then. The world had blasted away every other part of her life: her parents were dead, her sister was dead, nothing remained to tether her to the world as they knew it. She had only herself and dance. Alek could never hold on to her. No one could. Charles felt proud of her talent. Not that it had anything to do with him. But he felt proud that he could recognize it and what it meant. Yeah, there would be shitty years of auditions and open calls. But nobody who watched Sophie dance could say she didn’t have real charisma. She danced in that way that made it seem natural. Improvised almost. But never sloppy.

• From Escape (2007)

  The fact of our birth meant we were precious spirits—one in a million—and when the last days came, we would be the ones who would be lifted up to heaven in the rapture. So by the time you’re born into the FLDS culture, you’ve already won a lottery of sorts. You’re a spirit chosen to do God’s work on earth, which is priceless. When God gives one of his children so much, it carries a lot of responsibility. Over and over we’re told, “Where much is given, much is required.” So while I thought it was strange and uncomfortable when people stared at me, I did not feel embarrassed. I was one of the pure and select. I looked down on the people who thought I looked strange. They were wicked and less evolved. Tammy insisted on sitting next to Merril on the flight from Las Vegas to Los Angeles. Cathleen and I sat two seats behind them. We changed planes in Los Angeles. Merril had two empty seats on either side of him, and after Tammy grabbed one, I took the other. This infuriated Cathleen, who took an empty seat next to Tammy. But she felt like the outsider and started pouting and sniveling. Merril made some snide remark and Cathleen stormed to the back of the plane where there were empty seats. Soon we could hear her sobbing. The other passengers stared at us and tried to fathom our strange behavior. The several other couples from Colorado City pretended nothing was amiss out of respect for Merril. Tammy felt victorious now that Cathleen had been reduced to tears and exiled to the back of the plane. Then Tammy took aim at me. How could I abandon my sister wife? How could I be so selfish and inconsiderate? I ignored her until that became impossible and then I blurted out that I had no intention of babysitting Cathleen. Merril started to laugh. It was the first time he seemed engaged with any aspect of the trip since his tearful parting with Barbara. It was a long flight. The drama continued almost nonstop. I put on my headphones and watched the movie. During this era in the FLDS, some people had TVs in their homes, and it was not uncommon to occasionally go to movies in theaters. While I had contact with the outside world in some limited ways—mostly through school and college—being on a plane was unusual to me. But when we finally touched down in Honolulu I was exhausted. Merril and I walked off the plane together and someone came up to us and threw leis around our necks. A tourist photographer took our picture. Tammy barged in and said that she and Cathleen were also part of the couple. She insisted that another picture be taken of the four of us together.

• From The Sexual Outlaw (1977)

  Yes, we had fought dedicatedly and sometimes bitterly for this royal street, and now it was more symbolically ours than any other place in the world. And if they dig a cavern to replace it, we will cruise in it. The day is warm, and there's the atmosphere of a fair. Thousands of gays on the Boulevard wait festively for the parade, or form informal “parades” along the sidewalks-dozens of homosexuals holding hands openly, some dressed in colorful regalia, some subdued; for some the less clothes the better, exhibiting tanned bodies proclaiming our unabashed sexuality. And ever-loving Lesbians, some butcher than even the butch muscled men, some femmer than the manikins in the Frederick's of Hollywood windows; yes, and the older gays—homosexuals, phase! —are here, though not as many as one might hope for—not here, the older ones who still secretly cherish the ancient guilts, light symbolic nightly candles to Judy. The cruising today is furious but not serious. Furious because perhaps ninety per cent—a solid majority, for once—of the thousands here are gay, not serious because, after all, we have come to see our very own independence day parade. Still, I hope an occasional couple will slip, or has slipped, behind a wall or between buildings to do it, and I myself feel the revolutionary temptation. But this is not really that kind of day. The atmosphere veers toward euphoria, a euphoria that comes from pride in being open—even if your courage was bolstered only for this day and by the great numbers of us here. Well, what better day for this display than the Fourth? After all, we too were at the Boston Tea Party-one out of ten of us, or one out of six, depending on what Colonial Kinsey kept count. I would not march in the parade. I wanted an overview, wanted to move, listen, see, absorb it all—and, besides, I don't really like “joining” anything. Walking down the festive street, I felt a crazy mixture of pride and apprehension. Apprehension because I couldn't help remember past gay parades—the tacky floats populated with withering bikinied boys throwing kisses to the clouds, moldy gay leaders riding in chauffeured limousine convertibles, flanked by a squad of marching acolytes. Oh, I had longed then for the ostensible unity and dignity of the civil-rights parades, everyone simply marching and singing, no floats, no limousines, Martin Luther King walking with the people. God knows the first perceptible augury of this gay parade was grim. A gay gentleman renowed for his grindingly monstrous “taste” had days earlier arranged to register an elephant—an elephant—in a local hotel; one had to assume the elephant was gay. Television cameras had devoured the spectacle to spew it out later on their news screens, the elephant registering at the hotel to hail “Gay Pride Week” (proclaimed generously by the mayor, thank you, for gay accomplishments!).

• From Paul and Matthew Among Jews and Gentiles: Essays in Honor of Terence L. Donaldson (2021)

  Being Ioudaios therefore did not mean for Paul the enjoyment of any obvious social privilege—whatever the promises once made to his ancestor Abraham might have been. This did not mean, yet again, that Paul’s Jewish identity was not important to him. It plainly did “matter” to Paul; indeed, quite literal y—just as being, for example, a “Vaage” matters to me. It defined Paul’s family of origin, the matrix of his earthly identity, his social site in the world. But being Ioudaios did not make Paul eo ipso a man with social power. It did not make him “strong” in any immediate or other way. Instead, it described simply and sufficiently how he got the sort of “skin” he was “in” and thus who his “kinfolk” were. The same fact, however, also makes it clear that not all Ioudaioi were created equal; certainly not with respect to the practice of leisure with its literary delights and political “perks.” And for that same reason, being Ioudaios would not have answered all the questions or concerns that a person such as Paul conceivably might have any more than being Greek or Roman or a “Vaage” would. In other words, being Ioudaios did not necessarily “save” you from all your other afflictions especial y if and when you were a “poor” one as Paul apparently was. With Paul, you might be proudly Ioudaios but simultaneously find yourself welcoming “in Christ” a heretofore unthinkable “salvation.” And this would be not because you were looking to be “saved” from “Judaism” but, rather, because being Ioudaios did not encompass everything that was your life. It did not define the only identity you might hope to desire. It was not the only problem to be addressed. Not surprisingly, not all Ioudaioi agreed with Paul that a “Jew” actual y could do or think what Paul had done and said. But Paul obviously did insisting “in Christ” that he still belonged to the ancestral group that he called those who were physei Ioudaioi. This is, conceivably, what ought to make him at least an interesting historical point of reference for contemporary thinking about Jewishness; although it also likely will be the reason why those who insist on an ethno-geographical understanding of this identity will continue to dismiss him as an insignificant runagate. 38 See, e.g., Catherine Jones, “Theatre of Shame: The Impact of Paul’s Manual Labour on His Apostleship in Corinth” (Ph.D. diss.; University of St. Michael’s College, 2013). 58 58 59 3 The New Creation Motif in Romans 8:18–27 in Light of the Book of Jubilees Ronald Charles

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  The Della Pressa knew already how to govern, and Galigaio in his mansion already had the hilt and pummel gilt. 21 Great already were the Vair column, 22 Sacchetti, Giuochi, Fifanti, and Barucci; and Galli, and they who blush red for the bushel. 23 The stock whence the Calfucci sprang was great already, 24 and already drawn to curule office were Sizii and Arrigucci. Oh, how great have I seen those now undone by their pride! And the balls of gold adorned Florence in all her mighty feats. 25 So did their fathers who, whene’er your church is vacant, stand guzzling in consistory. 26 The outrageous tribe that playeth dragon after whoso fleeth, and to whoso showeth tooth—or purse—is quiet as a lamb, 27 was coming up already, but from humble folk, so that it pleased not Ubertin Donato when his father-in-law made him their relative. 28 Already Caponsacco had come down from Fiesole into the market-place; and good citizens already were Giuda and Infangato. I will tell a thing incredible but true: the little circuit was entered by a gate named after them of Pera. 29 Each one who beareth aught of the fair arms of the great baron whose name and worth the festival of Thomas keepeth living, from him derived knighthood and privilege; 30 though he who fringeth it around hath joined him now unto the people. 31 Already there were Gaulterotti and Importuni; and still were Borgo a more quiet spot, if from new neighbours they were still afasting. 32 The house from which your wailing sprang, because of the just anger which hath slain you and placed a term upon your joyous life, 33 was honoured, it and its associates. 34 Oh Buondelmonte, how ill didst thou flee its nuptials at the prompting of another! Joyous had many been who now are sad, had God committed thee unto the Ema the first time that thou camest to the city. But to that mutilated stone which guardeth the bridge ’twas meet that Florence should give a victim in her last time of peace. 35 With these folk, and with others with them, did I see Florence in such full repose, she had not cause for wailing; with these folk I saw her people so glorious and so just, ne’er was the lily on the shaft reversed, 36 nor yet by faction dyed vermilion.” 37 1. Dante deals with the subject of nobility in the De Monorchia, ii, and in Conv. iv. 2. The legend ran that when Caesar united in himself all the high offices of state, he was addressed as a plurality of individuals, “ye”; but as a matter of fact in Dante’s time the Romans adhered to the old-fashioned thou. “Nay, they would not address either Pope or Emperor save as thou” (Benvenuto). 3.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  But everything I observed was at the edge of consciousness, for I thought of myself as a sturdy cutter slicing through waves of cold air, as a tough, almost square vessel set on a straight course. Usually I’d sense I was permeable, insubstantial, at most a bank of moving air, a cold front, and only in conversation did I condense into a downpour of being. But now I was dense and potent. There were no eddies of empty time to swirl me off course, no horse latitudes of nothingness to becalm me. The headmaster found my information too upsetting to accept readily and I observed his dithering with scorn. I was summoning him to battle, but he kept fussing over how he should wear his uniform. “Well, of course Mr. Beattie is not a full or even regular member of the Eton faculty,” he said, as though that made any difference one way or another. He was performing all the tiresome operations of cleaning, fueling and lighting a pipe. “I suppose we’ll have to report him to the Federal—would it be the Treasury Department? Is the Bureau of Narcotics a subdivision of the Treasury?” “I don’t know,” I said, by now just a boy again. After the headmaster had covered every subsidiary issue, as though he were constitutionally drawn to the incidental, I brought him back to what was essential at least to me. “You must promise you won’t talk to Mr. Beattie until after I’ve gone home for Christmas vacation,” I said solemnly. “And then you must make sure he’s out of here by the time I get back. I don’t want to have to see him. That might be dangerous for me.” I thought the headmaster owed me at the very least this protection in return for my having saved the school. “Nonsense,” he said, peeved, “I can’t promise a thing.” He looked longingly at the closed door as though he hoped someone would open it and end this eternal interview. “And are you quite sure you haven’t become an addict yourself?” he asked. “Shall I have the Narcotics people bring you some of their interesting literature on addiction? I’m sure they have some splendid brochures, they should, our tax dollars, you know …” And he went on mumbling to himself until I was able to slip out. No one was worthy of me. I had twenty minutes to kill before my rendezvous with Beattie, an interval I resented, so habituated had I already become to the tight scheduling of the great man, the man of the world.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  White-people hair was smooth and slippery. He didn’t know how it would react to the trimmers. His own hair was woolly, fibrous. It came away in clumps, little balls of light brown fluff. It was easy to shear him. “Okay,” he said, turning on the clippers. “Let’s do this, I guess.” “That does not inspire confidence,” Charles said. “I’ll have to take it all off. I can’t do anything else.” There was a pause. He could feel Charles turning that thought over in his head. He thought he could suggest that Charles take care of the front and instruct him on how to do the back or the sides. He bit the tip of his tongue. “That’s okay,” Charles said. “Do it.” “All right,” Lionel said, and drew the trimmers back through the first, delicate layer of Charles’s hair. He enjoyed running his fingers though it again and again as he buzzed it all away. It seemed like such a shame to do it to hair this good, this beautiful. It hadn’t even started to thin the way his own had. Charles had the kind of face that was suitable for any kind of hair, but the curls suited him most, brought out the boyishness in him. Without them, he would be too severe, too intimidating, too much like a man. But it was too late, all gone. Charles caught whatever hair he could and piled it in a little mound on his lap. Lionel slid his fingers against the fuzzy scalp that was slowly emerging from beneath the hair. He occasionally scraped too close, and Charles hissed at him, which made Lionel hard. The reprimand reminded him of how they’d fucked. It was done in about twenty minutes, and Lionel was proud of how even it all was. “You look good,” he said, appraising him. “You look really good.” “Let me see,” Charles said, and went to the bathroom. He stayed in there a long time. Lionel could hear the water running. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, rocking his feet back and forth, testing the strength of his ligaments. He was chewing the edge of his lip raw. He could see falling snow through the window over the bed. It fell through the blue light of the street lamp, drifting sideways in the wind. It was accumulating on the sidewalk and the windowsill. He let the window up, and cold air blew in on him, clear and perfect. “I like it,” Charles said from the bathroom. “You did a great job. I feel tingly all over, raw.” He came from the hallway, rubbing water into his hair. He had been rinsing away the loose bits.

• From Escape (2007)

  I vowed never to surrender to either Merril or Barbara. I quietly began to figure out a survival strategy. I filed my tax return without telling Merril. I’d never done that before. I started to do a few extra things on the side to make money. I began selling NuSkin cosmetics. Merril knew about my venture but had no idea of my success. There were months when I sold $5,000 worth of cosmetics in a community where makeup was strictly forbidden. A banner month could net me $1,000. There was so much competition in the community among wives that when a man took one wife on a trip, the others would come and blow a few hundred bucks on cosmetics to stay competitive. I could even accept credit card payments by calling the number in to NuSkin. No one in the family suspected how much money I was making. It was one of the most empowering experiences I’d ever had. I was able to do it because I was married to Merril. Merril paraded me around town as his young trophy wife. Men would give their wives permission to buy cosmetics from me. Doing my own taxes and hiding money was the first time I’d ever gone against the teachings of the prophet. I didn’t care. I felt no guilt, no shame. This was the beginning, the fragile, tentative beginning, of mentally breaking free from the control of my “religion.” I still basically believed in the FLDS but thought Merril was corrupting and distorting its values for his own selfish and narcissistic ends. While I began putting energy into staying ahead of Merril and Barbara’s dirty little games, the rest of the family was intent on pampering Merril’s ego. Every year around Merril’s birthday on December 27 the family would perform a play or put on a program in his honor. His daughters usually took charge and orchestrated everything. For Merril’s birthday in 1994 one of his daughters did a new version of The Sound of Music. In those pre–Warren Jeffs years, we still watched movies and listened to the radio. Some families had TVs and their children watched videos. We were all familiar with The Sound of Music. Our extravaganza was going to be staged, in honor of Merril, at the community center, which could hold a thousand people. Margaret’s version of the musical was based on several polygamous families. She wrote parts for every child in Merril’s family, and by then there were more than forty. Margaret called it The Resound of Music.

• From Escape (2007)

  Some of Brian’s friends chided him about dating a little Mormon schoolteacher with eight kids. He told them I was the most amazing woman he had ever met, and he introduced me with pride when we went to parties. It felt surreal—happily so—to be dating a man who was a corporate executive. But most of all, I welcomed being included, for the first time in my life, in a world where ideas, culture, and education were respected. Once the UEP trust was in the hands of the state of Utah, an advisory board was created to suggest how its assets could be best utilized to benefit those still in the community and requesting help. Thirty people applied for the board and six were chosen. I was one of them. This was more than an honor for me, it was a vindication. After years of trying to protect myself from the evils of the FLDS, I was now aligned with those who were going to fight to undo the damage it had done to children and families. Even though Warren Jeffs was in hiding, his power was gradually being shut down. Arthur turned eighteen on December 20, 2005. Merril ordered him to leave everything he had and return to the FLDS. Arthur refused and told his father the religion had turned into something weird. Merril denied that it had, but Arthur held his ground. His life was going in another direction now. Merril was outraged. No son of his had ever stood up to him before. Arthur graduated from West Jordan High School on June 6, 2006. It was one of the proudest days of my life. Arthur had been on the honor roll for three years. During his senior year he was taking a full load of classes, including the ones he needed to make up for the year he had missed. He was also taking flying lessons and working part-time for my brother. At an awards dinner before commencement, Arthur was the recipient of a special award and a $500 scholarship given to a student who has overcome adversity. The principal didn’t list everything that Arthur had endured, but what he highlighted was enough to make the audience applaud. Two days later he received another $500 scholarship to the college of his choice from the Chamber of Commerce. When graduation day came and Arthur walked across the stage to receive his diploma, I leaped to my feet the moment his name was called, and clapped and cheered for my son. My heart was exploding with happiness. End Game

• From Escape (2007)

  “Merril and Warren already had their chance to work things through with me, and they both refused,” I said. “If Merril was interested in working with me, he would have done it three years ago.” “But Carolyn, he didn’t realize you were so serious then,” Dad said. “He doesn’t want his children living outside the community, and he wants you back. He’s willing to let you have your own house.” “Dad, Merril has never kept one promise he’s made to me. Why should he change now?” My father told me I didn’t need an attorney. He and Merril could find one for me if I was determined to continue in the courts. I could not believe what I was hearing. “Dad, do you think I’m that dumb? I’ll be keeping my attorney,” I said. “I am not going to live with Merril’s abuse any longer. I have a clear claim on my children and I’m going to fight for custody.” I had never stood up to my father before. It felt good. My father was still a true believer and did not feel I had the right to leave and take my children with me. He was helping Merril on principle: in my father’s eyes, Merril owned me the way he owned his car. Dad felt Merril was wrong to abuse me, and he’d never doubted me when I told him what was happening. But he felt now that Merril understood how serious I was, he might be less abusive to me if I came back. For my father, my salvation was at stake. If I broke the covenants that I’d made with God, I would relinquish all claims to any kind of salvation. So Dad was thinking of the big picture, and within that context, he genuinely believed he was acting in my best interest to encourage me to return. When Merril’s pressure on my father couldn’t get me to roll over, he turned to my son Arthur. He kept badgering Arthur to make me talk to him. I had been gone for only a week, but Linda told me the things Merril had already started to say about me in church. Merril accused me of being the worst kind of apostate and said I had turned traitor to the work of God by going to the authorities. He said I planned on destroying his children, and he even accused me of betraying my grandmother, who had stood faithful during the raid on Short Creek in 1953. During that raid, it was said that if one woman turned against the work of God, then every woman could lose her children and the men would be imprisoned. Merril put me in that category of being the one woman who would destroy the work of God in the last days and turn traitor to the prophet.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  I can swear that not even one volt of desire passed through me. I did my job; I simulated excitement. But I was scandalized when Mr. Beattie asked me to lick the bright red head, to roll my tongue around the head of his penis. I’d forgotten that this act was not as purely symbolic for him as it was for me. I remembered that he considered all this to be pleasure, as Herod thought Salome’s dance was fun until he heard what she wanted as a reward. At last it was over. Mr. Beattie told me to go on up to the dining hall for supper. He’d follow me in a few moments. He didn’t think we should be seen together, just in case. Sometimes I think I seduced and betrayed Mr. Beattie because neither one action nor the other alone but the complete cycle allowed me to have sex with a man and then to disown him and it; this sequence was the ideal formulation of my impossible desire to love a man but not to be a homosexual. Sometimes I think I liked bringing pleasure to a heterosexual man (for after all I’d dreamed of being my father’s lover) at the same time I was able to punish him for not loving me. My German teacher and Mr. Pouchet had not loved me. Tommy had not loved me. My dad had not loved me. Beattie was a friend of sorts, or at least an accomplice, but he was also a stand-in for all other adults, those swaggering, lazy, cruel masters of ours (how refreshing it was that at Eton the teachers were actually called masters). I who had so little power—whose triumphs had all been the minor victories of children and women, that is, merely verbal victories of irony and attitude—I had at last drunk deep from the adult fountain of sex. I wiped my mouth with the back of an adult hand, smiled and walked up to the dining hall humming a little tune.