Silence isn't Golden Anymore

    This is your formal warning.

    I am telling you now, but this is long overdue. I am making it clear, so that you will not be surprised. 

    I will not be silent anymore. Not to spare your feelings. Not to keep the dinner conversation light and friendly. I'm done. Beating around the bush has gotten us nowhere.

    I've been going back and forth on whether I should write this or not. This is a time to amplify the voices of the marginalized, a time to let them speak for themselves. I don't want to take up space when there is so little to go around as it is, because that only compounds the problem. Another privileged voice in a sea of privileged voices. But then Orlando. Then Alton Sterling. Then Philando Castile. 

    Then I remembered the words of those wiser than I am.

    So this is it: If you say something racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, Islamophobic, Anti-Semitic, xenophobic, ableist, agist, or bigoted in any way, I am going to say something too. That's it. You don't get to say whatever you want without consequences around me anymore. You don't get to live a carefree life wherein all your friends or loved ones give you a free pass to mutter a few ignorant things because they love you and they don't want to hurt your feelings. I can't worry about your feelings anymore. Black people and trans people and Muslim people and queer people need for me to stop worrying about your feelings, because it isn't feelings at stake for them. 

    White people, straight people, Christian people, cisgendered people, we tiptoe around one another. No one wants to be told that they believe something that is actually rooted in bigotry. It makes us feel guilty. It makes us feel culpable. I get that. I get the discomfort. I've felt the discomfort. I have also been blessed to have people in my life who challenge me when I say something terrible. I praise Jesus for those people. They make me better. I want to be better. Being better means taking corrections when they are given. Being better means understanding that sometimes I'm wrong, and that's okay as long as I actually do something about it. 

    Being better means loving and respecting people who have less privilege than I do enough to speak up for them, to fight for them. 

    Being better means loving and respecting you enough to tell you when you've said something wrong, when you're believing misinformation, when you're standing on the side of the oppressor instead of the side of the oppressed. 

    There is no room for awkwardness now. There is no space for fear and trembling. People are dying. While they die, a host of humans just like me argue against the tragedy of it, argue against finding solutions for it, because it feels better to deny a problem than face it head on. After all, if there's a problem, and people like you created it, and people like you benefit from it, then it's people like you who have to fix it. And most humans can't stomach being part of the problem. And most humans don't care enough to be part of the solution. 

    People like you... People like me. That's why I'm speaking up. Maybe people like me will actually listen to someone like them, because they definitely aren't listening to anyone else. I have a voice. I have the freedom and ability to stand up and fight back when others can't. I'm done making excuses for my silence, and I am done making excuses for yours. I am done sweetly overlooking the comment you made about Beyonce or Caitlyn Jenner. I am done with telling myself "this isn't the time" "don't start a fight" "don't make it awkward" "they won't listen anyway."

    I am done with allowing you to believe that I am not outraged and deeply offended by bigotry, and injustice, and the systems in place that allow it to carry on unchecked.  

    I will be kind. I will do my best to be patient - though it isn't one of my strengths. Jesus loves you, and I love you too. This isn't because I want you to suffer for your misconceptions. This is because enough is enough. I love you too much to allow this to go on. I love my black friends, and Muslim friends, and LGBT+ friends, and Jewish friends too much to let them go undefended. 

    

For you, if you are hurting.

    I haven't done this in a while. I only blog when I feel I have something that needs to be said. This is definitely one of those times. Please, bear with me.

    My dad was the best dad in the world. Don't bother arguing; I won't hear you. He was. Most kids love their dads, some respect or idolize them, and I was no exception, but I have one more thing to add these: I admired my dad. Still do. He was a spectacular human being.
    Every person he ever encountered could have told you that. He didn't see class, or wealth, or appearance. When he looked at you, he saw you, just a person like him, no better, no worse, a person, who deserved love, and respect, and joy. Everyone was important to him, the guy in the drive thru at Taco Bell, the cashier at Wal-Mart. Everyone.
    Last summer, my dad left this world to be with Jesus. I will never forget it. It was the worst day of my life. My mom, my sister Jessie, and I were/are shocked. It was the last thing we expected.
    I've been a Christian since I was 15 - that's 11 years, in case you were wondering, and I know my Jesus. I know Him. I put my trust in Him because He convinced me of His love, convinced me He was worthy of my faith. He has proven Himself to me time and time again. Steadfast and true, He is my refuge, my peace, my all. But I couldn't make sense of the loss. I couldn't understand why the Lord would take my father from me. I don't believe that God causes every death, but with my dad, I knew, Jesus took him. I just couldn't find a reason for it.
    I was furious. I felt betrayed. I felt hopeless. I felt alone.
    The pain was indescribable. 
    I railed at God, my Heavenly Father, who was supposed to be there for me, who always had been. That first night, by myself in the quiet in the dark, I couldn't hold back the sobs. I couldn't hold back the torrent of anger. I didn't know if I'd ever be able to trust Him again. That terrified me.
    "Aren't you supposed to be comforting me right now?!" I demanded. "WHERE ARE YOU?"

    I knew He was there; I could feel His presence, but it was like He was standing on the other side of the room. Not holding me the way I expected, not answering, just listening while I spewed vitriol.
    The next night, I was mad at Dad, my earthly dad. He left. He must've thought Mom, Jessie, and I were strong enough to lose him, but I told him he was wrong. We wouldn't survive this, I said. I didn't believe we would.
    Still, Jesus stood in the corner, listening.
    The third night, the tears returned, like clockwork, and a single thought broke through the agony: Remember, the Lord has always been faithful.
    I could remember. I allowed myself to recall all the times He'd been there, He'd answered my questions and prayers, He'd helped, He'd healed. Jesus had never forsaken me.
    And He spoke, not audibly, but the Bible says His sheep know His voice. It's clear, quiet and peaceful deep within the heart. He told me He'd been waiting, keeping His distance, while I was angry, while I raged, until I was ready to hear Him, ready to let Him comfort me. In fact, I realized, if He'd tried to console me before, I'd have only gotten angrier. I wanted to be livid. The poison had to be expelled.
    And I understood then, so clearly, He'd allowed it, He'd let me behave and feel like I did because He loved me and it was what I needed.
    Can you imagine that? Just think about it for a second. He didn't deserve my wrath; my father's life, his loss, was not about me, but between him and Jesus. It wasn't my place to call God out on that decision, to call God a traitor because I was hurting, but He took it, took all that venom, for me.
    I don't have the mercy to do that. If someone is unjustly angry with me, I stand up for myself. I tell them they're wrong and an idiot, and they should apologize for slandering me. Even if they need to be mad, I have to defend myself. It's not fair to me, and I tell them so.
    But not God. No, the Creator of the universe is better than I am. He not only let me scream and snarl, He listened. He understood. He didn't stop me. He didn't leave.
    An eternal God, maker of all things, gave me space, something so small, but so huge.
    That is Love. 
    I knew then that I'd be okay. We'd be okay. My God is faithful, and scripture says, "He makes all things work together for the good of those who love Him, who are called according to His purpose." He loves me.
    He loves you too. 
    Whatever you've been through, however you're hurting, no matter what you've done or who you are, He loves you. He wants to heal your brokenness. He wants to make you whole. He wants to give you peace and joy and life abundant. He wants carry you through it all, giving you exactly what you need, working all things for your good.
    He wanted me to tell you that.
    Jesus loves you. Let that powerful truth wash over you because there is nothing greater in creation.

    I leave you with a little bit of Bible, because it says it better than I do, and a song, because it was written in a time of loss, and Mom, Jessie, and I sang it for Dad's memorial. It says it perfectly.

"O taste and see that the LORD is good; happy are those who take refuge in Him." - Psalm 34:8

"But Zion said, 'The LORD has forsaken me, my LORD has forgotten me.' Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these might forget, yet I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands..." - Isaiah 49:14-16a

I'm a virgin. You're a slut.

    My brain is awash with thoughts, angry thoughts, sad thoughts, thoughts about pounding my forehead against a wall in the hopes of knocking out some of the thoughts. The main thought? I'm a virgin, and anyone who isn't is a slut.
    Before you freak out, let me say that this is not my thought. This is the thought of society, which has been all my life trying to drill a notion into my head, a notion of what a female should and should not be. Ever since I was very small, too small to remember how small, I've been told that what I needed to be was a fence post, sitting on the line, stationary and harmless.

    First, some background information. I'm a Christian. I love Jesus. I can't help it. He's more amazing than I can tell you, and He's more real to me than everything else on the planet, so I'm stuck this way. Because I'm a Christian, because of my own personal understanding of the nature of life and the Word of Christ, I have chosen to abstain until marriage.
    This is what Jesus wants for my life, and I'd be happy to bust out a Bible and have a calm, rational, friendly discussion with you about it, but this isn't the time for that.
    No, this is the time for the words "slut" and "virgin" to be thrown together into the ocean in matching pairs of cement boots, because these words suck. They suck.
    Why? Because we have this dichotomy in place, a line which must be toed, we fence posts, a line between virgin and slut.

1. Virgin

    Virgin is a specious and insidious label for those, like me, who've never had sex. "This makes us, in a patriarchal society, a precious commodity," she said, doubled over, dry heaving relentlessly.
    In our culture, women tend to be valued primarily because of our bodies and what we have or have not done with them. Women's bodies are considered the prize, and in really terrible cases, the right of men, so if a woman has "saved herself" for a man, she is the ideal. She is, in effect, the perfect possession, unblemished, unhandled, uncontested.
    But there's a catch: Virgins must be pure, but not prudish.
    Prudish is a fun word. It's an arbitrary designation with no actual qualifiers or quantifiers. Some call me prudish simply for never having had sex. Others would call me prudish only if I couldn't laugh at a dirty joke or a sex scene in a comedy, or didn't at least do some stuff - cause some stuff is necessary, right? Like there's something wrong with you if you don't do at least some stuff..., prude.
    The problem is this: We're operating under the assumption that virginity is a tangible thing, valuable to someone besides the person to whom it belongs, that is, the virgin him/herself. It isn't.
    I've never had sex, but that does not make me more valuable or better than someone who has. I've never had sex, but my virginity, for lack of a better term, is not in a box I carry around with me, ready to hand over to the first man who puts a ring on it.
    My virginity is for me and me alone. It has no inherent value, so whether I "lose" it or not, my worth remains the same. I'm valuable, and my experiences have no impact on that fact.

2. Slut
 
    Slut is a foul and hateful label for women, as I'm sure you know, who are deemed sexually promiscuous. Synonyms for slut include: slattern, whore, harlot, tramp, slag, ho, etc., etc. Note that these words have no male equivalent, not unlike the word virgin, the definitions for which usually contain a word for female. In fact, the root word of virgin, virgo, literally means young woman. Remember what I was saying about women being appraised for our bodies...?
    In our society, a woman who has extra-monogamal sex, whether with or without shame, is vilified as a slut: a worthless, used up, disgusting old sack of a person, deserving of neither love nor respect. She is ridiculed and despised wherever she goes, and often, her past, her "crimes," if you will, follow her, indelible and unforgivable.
    But again, a woman's sexual experience is not currency. It isn't a commodity, so why do we treat women who have much as having lost all their social capitol?
    A woman who's had lots and lots of sex is no less valuable than a woman who's had none. Let me put it another way: A woman is valuable because she is a person. People are valuable intrinsically, so our worth is beyond equivocation. It's there. It's real. It ain't budgin'.

    Back to fence posts. Fence posts are built into the line, supporting it, affirming it. A fence post never questions whether or not it should be a fence post, and a fence post will never hop out of its hole, shrug off its fence, and roll away to the middle of the field where there is no fence to define it, no pit to contain it, tno safe little role for it to fill. A fence post in the middle of a field? That would never happen! For surely, it would cease to be a fence post.
    Exactly.
    A fence post has no autonomy, no agency. A fence post has no choice. A fence post is an object to be acted upon, rather than acting itself. I am not a fence post. And neither are you, but when we step out of bounds, beyond the perfect blend of sexy and pure, when we sway too far one way or another, we become the targets of contempt, particularly, when we're leaning toward the slut side of the spectrum.
    We're supposed to be fence posts! If we do something that we've been told is contrary to our cookie  cutter nature then we aren't fence posts anymore, and what's the point of us? If we aren't, we're no longer feminine or desirable or worthwhile. And once that label "SLUT" is slapped on us, we're in trouble.

    We live in a society where it's tough to be a woman in the best circumstances. Sorry, that's the truth.

• 96% of sexually objectified people are women.
• Every 9 seconds a woman is beaten or assaulted in the US. 
• Female United States citizens have a 1 in 5 chance of being raped. 
• 70 - 99% of women worldwide will experience street harassment. 
• 32,000 women are impregnated as the result of rape every year in this country. 
• In Afghanistan and Dubai, a woman can be imprisoned for being raped. 
• 3 women are killed by domestic violence everyday in the US, and 4 women daily in South Africa.  
• Women make 77¢ for every dollar a man makes, and the numbers get worse for women of color with Black women making 64¢ and Latinas 55¢.

    Need I go on?
    It is bad enough without having to worry about whether or not we are adequately fitting the role we are supposed to play as the subtly seductive virgin, especially when there are real consequences to falling out of line.

    Where am I going with this?
    I'm going to Steubenville, Ohio, where a girl's sexual assault was filmed, and then she, the victim, was labeled a slut. I'm going to Montana, where a 14 yr. old was raped by her teacher and the rapist only got 30 days. I'm going to Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, where Rehtaeh Parsons was assaulted, then faced relentless bullying and slut-shaming, and then took her own life. Then there's Salt Lake City and Elizabeth Smart. And Port Coquitlam, British Columbia and Amanda Todd. The ramifications of being called a slut are dire.
    We live in a culture that tells us that it's the slut's fault if she's abused or miserable, and she ought to kill herself for it, because she's vile now and no man will ever want her. We live in a culture that tells girls that if something happens to them, they were asking for it or they weren't smart enough. We live in a culture that tells girls that there's only so much worth to go around, and if we drop even a couple of points on the scale of desirability, then we're screwed and we'll never get that value back. We live in a culture that tells girls that everything they are and ever will be is contained in their body parts.

    We have to learn to respect women as human beings, not as a series of orifices to be utilized.

    Someone has to break the cycle.
    Teach the boys and men in your life to see females as people, people deserving of their compassion and respect, people with all the complexity and power and potential that they have. Show them their actions and words have potency, for good and for ill, and to be mindful of what they say and do and how they say and do it. Let them know that without them the struggles that girls and women face are many times harder to overcome, that patriarchy, which perpetuates the idea that men are mindless, power-hungry, self-serving brutes, hurts them too by making them seem like creatures that are small compared to the wonderful and complicated beings that are males.
    Teach the girls and women in your life that they are as feminine as they ever need to be, because they're female - and that's the only requirement for it. Tell them that they're beautiful, because they're human and singular. Tell them that they are more than pretty or cute or sexy or gorgeous, because they have bodies that can tear down and build up, minds that can solve any problem that attempts to thwart them, powers to harm and to heal, and a soul that is miraculous, truly astounding and incomprehensible, and fighting to be defined by sex is so small compared to the enormity of who they are. Teach them that they are so much more than the chains society wraps around them and the words others sling at them like mud, like stones that tear at their flesh and seek to render them incapacitated. They are people, and they are more than fence posts, more than virgins, more than sluts. More.

The Sparkling Words

    I'm terrible with titles. Embarrassingly terrible. I'm currently writing a series of books (in the fantasy genre, of course), and you wouldn't believe how many titles I suggested for it. Each one received a small, ambivalent nod and a quiet "hmm..." from my sister, who would rather die than say, "I'm sorry, Abbie, but that's the stupidest title I've ever heard. Get it together." I'm terrible, and my sister agrees.
    When it came to choosing a title for this blog, I was, as I've come to expect, as hopeless as ever. So I chose a title which makes no sense whatsoever out of context. Sorry 'bout that, but I am going to rectify the situation. You are welcome.
    When I started writing, I was in second or third grade. I wrote a play. It was about a princess. It was roughly eight pages..., which means it was four pages of wide ruled paper, front and back. Since then, the writing hasn't stopped, though it has evolved - and hopefully improved. I wrote mostly poetry and songs in the beginning - not good ones, mind. Then, in the year of our Lord 2001, I was introduced to the mother of all fantasy stories, the story which has been forever seared into my soul, and by which, I judge all other stories...

Can you hear the majestic theme music? Can you?

    My life was changed forever by the great, nigh incomparable, J.R.R. Tolkien. That man managed to write something that has so profoundly changed me I still can't describe it. Not many stories can compete with all that courage and cowardice, light and dark. It instilled in me the incontrovertible need to tell stories; I was possessed with the desire. I started writing a story, a story that has been growing in my mind for eleven years. Yep, eleven years. I know, you're only now beginning to realize how nerdy I am, right?
    It was going to be a screenplay originally, until I realized in 2008 that I had WAY too much story for a movie. It was just going to have to be a book. BUT who was I to think I could write a novel? Novels are hard, y'all. I mean, I don't know if you've thought about it, but earth-rockingly talented and brilliant people write novels. Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, J.K. Rowling, and Victor Hugo, just to name a few. More than that, have you ever read a good book? Have you noticed that the good ones, the excellent ones, reach into your mind and dare it to consider ideas it has never before approached, and they all seem to contain some beautiful truth, some concept that, given the right momentum, could completely transform the world? It's amazing. The phenomenon bound between the covers of certain stories, not many of them, only the select few, the ones that have actually succeeded in changing the world, can be summed up, for me, in two words: They sparkle. The words glitter off the page and jump into a person. And it is glorious. 
    Don't ask me how it happens. I didn't even know how to describe it, until one night, when I finally tried to explain it to my eternally patient sister, crying, "They're words sparkle! My words don't sparkle dang it!" I can't tell you how it works. Believe me, if I knew, I never would have been afraid to write a book, but I was, and sometimes, I am. The hope remains, however, that I will muster the skill, but part of me thinks it's something a person is born with, some magic inherent in a few superhumans. Don't get me wrong, even if I wasn't born with it, I'm going to keep writing. I'm addicted to it now. Sometimes..., when I'm all alone in front of the computer, sobbing as I type, I whisper quietly to the keyboard, "I wish I could quit you..." Haha! Just kidding!
    Or am I?
    Anyway, that's the story. Hope it clears up any confusion. 

I Am Not Jesse Spano: Feminism in Reality

    I'm a feminist.

    There was a time I was afraid to use that word in the company of some people. It has a certain connotation with my generation, because we grew up in a post-women's lib world which included a little trope known as the straw feminist. The first and most memorable straw feminist I encountered was the unreasonable alarmist Jesse Spano on Saved by the Bell. Remember her? Wasn't she annoying? And then she became addicted to caffeine pills and that was mildly disturbing yet weirdly amusing...

She was so excited, SO EXCITED!

     Anyway, she used to call Slater a pig and rant about the inequality of society, but, as I'm sure you'll recall, all of her arguments were stupid. Just stupid. Because of this type of insanity, the pervading idea of the time is that "feminists are illogical, angry, and a nuisance." I never bought into that lie, but I was afraid to align myself with the movement for fear of being painted with the same ignorant brush. 

    Not anymore.

    Here's the truth: A feminist is a person who believes that people should be treated equally regardless of gender. That's it.

This guy is my favorite.

There's nothing in there about stupidity or man-hating. Nope. I am happy to claim feminism now. My tweets and Pinterest boards are full of feminism, and for awhile, I tried to restrict myself in the number of feminist things I shared, particularly on Twitter, but not anymore. If someone doesn't agree with me, they can unfollow me. Not hard. 

    I am done apologizing for standing up for what I believe. I am done feeling like I'm somehow in the wrong for thinking this way, and I am done with believing that there's nothing I can do to change things. 

    We live in an unbalanced world. We live in a world that teaches us that to be feminine is to be weak, a world that teaches little girls that the best thing they can be is pretty, and that if they aren't "pretty" by society's standards then there's something wrong with them. We live in a world that teaches us that a girl with no sexual experience is worth more than a girl with much.

    Why do we accept this crap? I'm fed up. I'm done with it. I'm done with hearing my friends tear themselves down, because they "aren't good enough." I'm done with teenage girls telling me about their anorexia and bulimia, their binge drinking just to forget everything they feel, and their cutting themselves just to feel something. I don't want to hear about another friend who has been harassed, or assaulted, or abused (emotionally, physically, etc.), or raped. I'm done with a culture that allows this garbage. Are you?

 

This is the right time for a Doctor Who moment, right?

    Wanna know how to fix it? Wanna know something you can do? 

    First, what you have to understand is that the little traces of sexism we see are indicative of a much larger problem. We see women objectified and sexualized daily. Advertisements with a half-naked woman as the selling point, or with a damsel in distress and fictional images of women who are hot but kinda stupid, "strong" but overtly sexual, or smart but sexually fixated, like Amy Farrah Fowler on Big Bang Theory, who is terribly funny but makes me want to scream... are a huge part of the problem; these images are deeply ingrained in us both individually and as a society. When a woman is portrayed as an object, she no longer has the ability or right to make her own decisions. When a woman is seen first and foremost as sexual, as opposed to as a person with a brain and a soul, it makes it "okay" to treat her as less than human, less than a man. This is the kind of thinking that leads to sexual harassment, domestic abuse, and rape among other things, because "she was asking for it," "it's no big deal," "she's over reacting."

    Now, here's what you can do: When you see sexism, don't condone it. Yep, it's that simple. If a TV show or movie has female characters who are objectified, degraded, hyper-sexualized, etc., don't watch it. If an advertisement is denigrating or misogynistic, don't buy the product it's selling. If these advertisements appear in a magazine you read, tell the magazine to stop running that ad. And if the magazine won't..., stop buying the magazine. Call out sexism on Twitter and Facebook. Miss Representation has a wonderful #NotBuyingIt campaign designed specifically for this purpose. Get other people on board with you by starting a petition if necessary. Money talks, and if these companies know that they aren't going to be making as much of it, they change things. 

    Another thing you can do is tell people when they are being sexist. Tell a man that his catcalling isn't a compliment; it's harassment. Teach boys that you can't touch a girl without her consent and that sending her text messages asking to see her boobs is also harassment. Teach high school guys that "no" means no, drunk means no, unconscious means no, "I don't want to" means no, "please stop" means no, and any other greater or lesser indication that she might not want to do that with you means NO. 

      We can stop this. We have more power than we believe. We can change the culture in which we live, and it is high time that we did. We can make a better world for women and girls, and if the world is better for women and girls, it's better for men too.

Clara Oswin Oswald: A Theory

    I watch Doctor Who. I love Doctor Who. I've even written episodes of Doctor Who, which I would quite gladly show Steven Moffat. I created new companions, who are stellar, if I do say so myself. The companions story lines are completely drawn out, and they are sufficiently wibbly wobbly and timey wimey. You hear that, Moffat? Wibbly Wobbly! Anyway, this post is for Doctor Who fans. Not that non-fans can't read it..., but it won't make any sense to you, so feel free to skip it.

SPOILER ALERT: If you haven't watched the first half of the 7th series, run. Run now!

    Recently we met Clara Oswin Oswald, the new and befuddling companion. Oswin, as we knew her at first, was the brilliant woman who'd been turned into a Dalek, but was in a spectacular state of denial about it. In the episode, we discover that she is a "total, screaming genius." She helps The Doctor, Amy, and Rory *tear, sniff*, escape from The Asylum of the Daleks. While assisting them, she does the unforeseeable and erases The Doctor from the Daleks collective memory, causing the race of bellowing, murderous, squids to cry in an unending cacophony, "Doctor who? Doctor who?!" Then she reappeared as Clara, the governess and barmaid, who helps save England from horrifying, carnivorous snowmen. 
    At the end of these episodes, she does two things: 1) She tells The Doctor, "Run, clever boy, and remember!" 2) She dies. Yes, it's very sad, but you get over it, because the intrigue caused by this character is understandably greater than normal. As a result of this intrigue there have been an outrageous number of theories. Most of which, I have to say, sort of suck. Yep, I said it. I'm sorry. I happen to have a theory, a theory I am loath to share by any other mode, because if it turns out I'm right, I want concrete evidence that I, Abbie Karlish, the unlikely genius, with the help of my sister Jessie and my dear friend Shalyn, wove together this theory. So, here goes...

The Theory:

    Clara Oswin Oswald is The Master or possibly a tool devised by him.

The Evidence:

1. Memory
    In the 5th series, the 11th Doctor's first season, we encounter a crack in the universe which devours everything it comes in contact with, effectively erasing them from time. The cracks wipe out Rory, and The Doctor says something - not for the last time, "If something can be remembered, it can be brought back." This comes into play when The Doctor himself is erased from time, and Amelia Pond, wonderful Amelia Pond, remembers him and brings him back.
    In the 6th series, we are introduced to The Silence, a religious order, which hinges on one fundamental belief: Silence will fall when The Question is asked. The Question being, "Doctor who?" Clara gave us The Question. Interesting. 
    The Silence is also what we call a species of melty-faced, impeccably dressed, electricity-bending aliens, which one is unable to remember once one has looked away from them. We don't know why, but it is terrifying! 
    Memory has played a gigantic role in 11's plot lines. Why? Why is memory always the focus? Even with Clara Oswin Oswald, who is constantly saying, "Run...and remember?"

2.  The Silence
    The Silence seems hellbent on destroying The Doctor. The Silence even created the perfect assassin to ice him: River Song. Unfortunately for them, that backfired. But The Silence still wants The Doctor dead, and The Question, which will apparently be asked at "the fall of the eleventh" has yet to be asked at said "fall." At first, I thought, "Huh..., I'll bet Clara's the backup plan," because doesn't it make sense that The Silence would have a backup plan? Of course, it does! But that's too simple; this woman clearly is in some sort of weird time loop, where she keeps living over and over but with no apparent memory of her past lives. She'd have to be more than that.
    There is something fishy about her. She seems weirdly obsessed with The Doctor, much like one River Song. She's not regenerating; she's just on repeat. She's too clever, too keen, too much of an anomaly, so what if she isn't merely the backup and the cause of The Question? What if she is the originator of The Silence? What if she somehow is the one who started this whole thing? But why? What could possibly be her motivation? Who would benefit from the fall of The Doctor, and who would benefit from The Doctor, with that remarkable brain of his, remembering?

3. The Master
    When The Master disappeared, he was sucked back into the time lock with all of Gallifrey, unable to ever again darken the door of the TARDIS..., OR WAS HE? 
   A. - We know that The Master is a genius, just like Oswin.
   B. - We know that The Master has made himself human before - and Oswin, at least, appears human, because he has a highly developed sense of self-preservation.
   C. - We know Time Lord's can regenerate as men or women (The Corsair), so it is possible The Master became a woman. I think he would enjoy it. I also think she would find herself inexplicably attracted to The Doctor - it's that whole love and hate, two sides of the same coin thing.
   D. - We know that "if something can be remembered, it can be brought back...," brought back, say, out of a time lock?
   Perhaps The Master is trying to liberate himself? I can see it. I can also see him formulating an exceedingly convoluted plan to make The Doctor the enemy of the universe, and thus, end him. Maybe he's found away to throw himself into The Doctor's timeline, but there's a glitch? But maybe just enough of his plan is bleeding through that he keeps telling The Doctor to remember? Or maybe he has complete control, and Oswin's just a pawn or big, fat liar? Maybe he's causing The Doctor to grow attached to this human girl, so that in the end, the damage is worse? Long story short, The Master has nothing to lose and everything to gain from a plan like this.

    It does have its flaws, of this I am well aware. But I can see it. I don't really trust Oswin - I hate to say it, but it's true. We haven't seen The Master in awhile. It's fairly unexpected, as I haven't seen anyone else thinking of it. Also, Oswin is the one who brought him out of his slummocky retirement, wallowing in his own self-loathing, like Scrooge McDuck in a swimming pool full of doubloons..., which I found worrisome rather than comforting, considering that she'd died already and knew to say the word "Pond." What was that? That was weird... I digress... The point is that you should think it over, and get back to me. 

P.S. - Steven Moffat, whenever you wanna see those episodes, you just give me a holler, pal.

Elijah Wood and the Value of You

    I like quotes. I can waste a good two hours just reading quotes online. There are entire websites dedicated to quotes! You can search for ones on specific topics or said by specific people, and you're all set. Sometimes the internet is stupendous.
    The other day, whilst conducting one of these searches, I needed to find some words regarding the value of human life. I read, and searched again, and read, and searched again, and read, but in the end, I only found two quotes that dealt with the worth of humanity. There were dozens of lines spoken or written by many brilliant people concerning the value of faith, or love, or perseverance, or humor, or hard work, but only two, two which spoke of the intrinsic worth of every human being. This is a problem.
    I have come to the conclusion that most people would say that human beings matter. Unfortunately, I have also come to the conclusion that most people do not live their lives according to that truth. In fact, I think, if you pursued the issue, most people would say that some people matter more than others. They might not say it quite like that, but that is what most of us think. I used to think it too. 

    As a teenager, I believed that some people were very valuable, particularly those I loved or admired, like Mother Teresa or Elijah Wood (whom I fully intended to marry until I was 18), but I never would have thought that their value was nonnegotiable. And I certainly never would have applied that concept to myself or to those I considered unworthy: criminals, jerks, people who wore Birkenstocks, etc. I prescribed to the opinion that value hinged on attributes. Beauty was valuable. Intelligence was valuable. If one was a hard worker, considerate, funny, and well-liked, one had much worth, but the removal of any of those virtues, or the addition of any flaws, resulted in the lessening of one's value.
    I was wrong.
    The truth needs to be said, and I'm going to say it, and you might not agree with me, but I submit that, whether we like it or not, people matter. 
    Every single human being has a value which is inherent, a quintessential worth from which we cannot be severed. Every human being is precious, priceless, in worth. Period. No qualifiers. No quantifiers. No ifs, ands, or buts. People are valuable simply because they are human.
    You may be clever, or pretty, or hilarious, or brave, but you are also valuable. You may be poor, or broken, or alone, but you are also valuable. You may be coarse, or stupid, or cold, or malicious, but, guess what, you are also valuable. It is not because of your qualities; it is one of your qualities. 

Who needs the ring, when I have you?

    Now, you may also be pretty and talented and outrageously wonderful, like Elijah Wood (whom I would still marry if he asked me), but your worth is not reliant upon or even augmented by these things. Pretty people aren't better than ugly people. Smart people are not better than stupid people. Nope. People are people are people, and everyone is worthwhile, and everyone is worth the same.

    Your value is immutable, inalienable, and divine. You were created with it. It is part of you. You matter. You are important.
    Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise, including you. And the next time you start to feel like a hopeless case, or a useless lump, or a waste of space/air, or any other terrible lie you've been told, remember the truth: You are worthwhile, precious, and loved, and nothing anyone says will ever change that.

"We're all human, aren't we? Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving." - J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows