Boxing with Transgender Shadows

 

Fighting against an enemy that doesn't exist. 

If memory serves, and it does less and less these days, it was 1978. Boston. We were in the basement of the Unitarian Universalist Church on Boylston Street. It was the Thanksgiving Dinner for the Boston Chapter of the Daughters of Bilitis, the first lesbian civil and political organization founded in 1955 by eight women in four couples, including Del Martin and Phyllis Lyons.

We had reached out to Sheri Barden and Lois Johnson, the founders of the Boston Chapter, for legal help with our child custody case - the first in Bristol County, MA. They, in turn, had invited us to several small gatherings in their five-story brownstone walkup in the South End. But this - this was our first EVENT. We were about to be in one room with more lesbians than we thought existed in the whole world.

For two Roman Catholic, fairly sheltered young women from the mill towns of Fall River-New Bedford who had no idea but were just finding out what our love for each other had gotten us into, the idea was daunting.

We had come down from Portland, ME where we were living to help set up the room and transform it from a dingy church basement to a welcoming space for women who would not be able to celebrate the holiday with their families or children. Neither would we, which was part of the glue which held us all together.

There were only about half a dozen women who had arrived and most of them were in the kitchen, tending to the turkeys in the oven and hovering over all of “the sides”. Sheri asked if we would help Martha set up tables and chairs. Young and strong and looking for a place to put all our anxious energy, that seemed a good thing to do.

That’s when I saw her. I pegged her immediately as either a teacher or a librarian. Long, pleated wool skirt and wool jacket with patches on the sleeves. White blouse with Peter Pan collar. Knee socks and penny loafers. Straight hair, parted on the side and held with a barrette. Glasses. Horn-rimmed. Teacher or librarian, for sure.

Except, when she went to move a large, oblong table, I almost gasped at the ease with which she lifted it and carried it across the room to place it in the center of the room. She just hoisted that sucker up like it was made of paper. And, all by herself, she steadied it, unfolded the legs, then flipped it over, standing back for a moment to check her work and the position of what was obviously “the serving table”.

Then, she walked - sort of a half-march, with deliberate energy - over to get another table. There was something about her “energy”. I was drawn to it and confused by it at the same time.

Sheri came out of the kitchen, came over to me, and said, “Ah, I see you’ve found Martha.” “That’s Martha?” I asked, maybe just a little too loudly. If Martha heard, and I’m sure she did, it didn’t distract her from her task.

Sheri (Claire) Barden & Lois Johnson

”Yes, my love, that’s Martha. She’s transgender.” “She’s WHAT?” I said, this time more softly. Sheri smiled, “Trans. Gender. You know, like Christine Jorgensen.” “Really?” I said, sounding like a 6th grader at the museum, discovering a new creature I didn’t know existed, except in science books.

”Yes,” laughter Sheri, “We have them here, too. Queer people are everywhere.” I cringed. I mean, it was 1978. I was just getting used to the word ‘lesbian’. “Queer” was still a derogatory term - like the ‘N’ word for a person of color.

”Martha used to be a scientist at MIT. She’s brilliant. Really brilliant. A leader in her field of study. She had her surgery a year or so ago. She decided that since she was no longer he, she would no longer work as a scientist because there were no women scientists in her department. So, she became a secretary. She wanted to stand in solidarity with most of the other women at MIT and take on the same role they did. MIT objected but finally gave her a “transitional” position in the secretarial pool.”

”But wait,” I said. She used to be a man, but now she’s a woman. What is she doing in a lesbian organization? I mean, if she’s now a woman, shouldn’t she be heterosexual?”

I’m sure Sheri wanted to laugh, but she didn’t. “Honey,” she said, “first thing you have to understand is that Martha has ALWAYS been a woman. She was assigned a gender at birth and tried to live into that identity but she realized it was making her sick. So, she got help and now she is who she has always been - the way God made her and not what her parents wanted.”

”Okay,” I said. “I got that part. But, she’s a lesbian . . . .?

Now Sheri chuckled, “Yes. Because gender and sexuality are two different things.”

I repeated it out loud. “Gender and sexuality are two different things. Of course they are. I’ve just never thought about it before. Whoa,” I said, “I’ve got so much to learn.”

”We all do,” Sheri said, “Not every woman here understands Martha either. So, you go over and let Martha know that she is welcome here. And, while you’re at it, get some tables set up. We’ve got about 100 women who’ll be here in about 30 minutes.”

I tell you this story to say that there is a part of me that understands the confusion and anxiety some people feel about transgender people. I’d be lying if I said that I just simply added the “T” to the Alphabet of LGBT, stirred lightly and then drank the Queer Kool-Aid.

Human beings are complex creatures and Nature is a lot more random than we were first taught. There is a delicate interplay of genetics and body chemistry, combined with emotion and physicality, which are influenced by family and culture and religion, which all lead to an individual’s perception and understanding of themselves. Or, confusion about who they know themselves to be.

I understand the confusion. I don’t understand the cruelty.

I live in Delaware. We just elected the first transgender person to Congress, Representative Sarah McBride. Sarah is smart and gentle and kind and dedicated to and laser-focused on serving her constituents. She served first in the State House of Representatives and now serves in in Washington, DC.

She has not been treated well in the Lower Chamber of the Federal government. She hadn’t even been sworn in when Republican Nancy Mace, a Representative from South Carolina with a real hunger for the spotlight, introduced legislation that would bar transgender women from using women’s restrooms and other facilities on federal property. The GOP majority proved just how low the Lower Chamber can get and passed that legislation.

What is it with the MAGA-Republicans and their fascination with genitals? I don’t get it. I mean, it’s just pee!

Well, it gets worse. Last month, Rep. Mary Miller, referred to McBride as "the gentleman from Delaware, Mr. McBride," when recognizing the lawmaker for a floor speech last month. Last week, the Rep. Keith Self, R-Texas, introduced her as “Mr. McBride.” Sarah, always classy, gently said, “Thank you, Madame Chair.”

"I mean, he is allowed to live his life — in fact, I spent 25 years on active duty defending his right to live his life as he chooses. But I don't have to participate in his fantasy," Self said.

Rep Sarah McBride and Rep. Keith self

I think the only "fantasy" is the one in Self's head. He needs to put down whatever magazine he's been reading and spend some time reading the reports of scientists and doctors who have been studying gender for decades.

Ah, but wait. There’s more. Right here in the land of “Delaware Nice.”

A Delaware lawyer and a state lawmaker have filed a federal complaint that seeks to have the state prevent transgender girls from playing on girls’ middle and high school sports teams.

Yet in Delaware, where students are permitted to play on school teams that match their gender identity, there are no known transgender athletes to ban. Nor have there been in recent years, if ever, state officials said.

That reality, however, hasn’t stopped attorney Thomas S. Neuberger and Sussex County Republican Sen. Bryant Richardson, who have long sought to keep transgender girls off girls’ track, swimming, volleyball, and other teams.

Should the state “illegally refuse” to comply, Neuberger and Richardson want the Trump administration to issue an order “terminating all federal educational funding” to Delaware.

Forfeiting those federal dollars would be a major blow to Delaware. Currently, the state gets about $336 million annually — about 10% of the total cost to run Delaware K-12 public schools — from the feds.

And, what does our Governor, Matt Meyer, a Democrat, have to say about this? His spokesman, Nick Merlino, reported this, “Gov. Meyer doesn’t believe that trans girls should be playing in girls’ sports, but ultimately he defers those decisions to the leagues and localities.”

That’s NOT what Matt Meyer said when he was seeking our endorsement. He said he was supportive of Gender Identity and Affirming Medical Treatment Decisions.

During the campaign, Candidate Matt Meyer repeatedly said, “Every Delawarean deserves the freedom to be healthy, prosperous, and safe,” adding “One of the greatest dangers to our youth today is that they too often are taught not to love their true selves.” He also promised to “promote and support a culture of inclusivity and fairness in our schools.”

Yes, Governor Meyer will be hearing from this constituent who voted for him.

In contrast, here’s what Spenser Cox, the (Republican) governor of Utah (yes, you read that right. Republican. From Utah) wrote:

Gov. Spenser Cox (R) Utah

Finally, there is one more important reason for this veto. I must admit, I am not an expert on transgenderism. I struggle to understand so much of it and the science is conflicting. When in doubt however, I always try to err on the side of kindness, mercy, and compassion. I also try to get proximate and I am learning so much from our transgender community. They are great kids who face enormous struggles. Here are the numbers that have most impacted my decision: 75,000, 4, 1, 86 and 56.

• 75,000 high school kids participating in high school sports in Utah.

• 4 transgender kids playing high school sports in Utah.

• 1 transgender student playing girls sports.

• 86% of trans youth reporting suicidality.

• 56% of trans youth having attempted suicide.

Four kids and only one of them playing girls’ sports. That’s what all of this is about. Four kids who aren’t dominating or winning trophies or taking scholarships. Four kids who are just trying to find some friends and feel like they are a part of something. Four kids trying to get through each day. Rarely has so much fear and anger been directed at so few. I don’t understand what they are going through or why they feel the way they do. But I want them to live. And all the research shows that even a little acceptance and connection can reduce suicidality significantly. For that reason, as much as any other, I have taken this action in the hope that we can continue to work together and find a better way. If a veto override occurs, I hope we can work to find ways to show these four kids that we love them and they have a place in our state.

He vetoed the anti-trans bill.

I understand how transgender can be confusing. I don’t understand the cruelty. I have some ideas about the ferocious rise of testosterone - which affects men and women - as well as the rise of racism and misogyny which prevented otherwise intelligent people from voting for a Black woman for POTUS. I think what we’re seeing with transpeople - especially transwomen - is all part of the MachoMale culture that is all part of the new administration.

The MAGA folk seem to be boxing with Transgender shadows, against an evil that is a projection of their own insecurities about gender and sexuality.

I am certainly more than willing to give people the same space to learn and grow as I was afforded, but you’re not allowed to be mean and cruel just because you don’t understand and have a hard time accepting. And, don’t hold an entire state program financially hostage because they are not bending to your perspective.

I am asking for my governor and other elected representatives in government to take a lesson from the Governor of Utah, When in doubt, however, . . . always try to err on the side of kindness, mercy, and compassion.”

That’s some pretty good advice, right there. It’s one I learned in a church basement in Boston MA in 1978 when I was anxious and afraid and in doubt about my own gender and sexuality.

Thanks to a transwoman named Martha who helped to teach this woman how to be a good person.

 

 

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Your Citizenship is in heaven

Betty's Appalachian Sweet Corn Pudding

She was, without a doubt, the most genuinely kind, sweet, gentle soul I’ve ever met, so much so that, in my eyes, anyway, she sometimes rounded the corner of reality and almost became a caricature of herself - even to her, which made her giggle despite herself. Her husband, on the other hand, was a rumpled, crumpled, withered shell of a man for whom the adjective ‘cantankerous’ found a new depth of meaning.

Jack was my Hospice patient and like many on the Western side of Sussex County suffered from COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease). After years of smoking unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarettes and inhaling farm petrol and Monsanto and God knows what else in the steel mills, his disease process was now classified as “end stage”. He was on continuous oxygen therapy, delivered via nasal cannula, and was now receiving nebulizer treatments - liquid morphine delivered via a supersaturated mist of water - four times a day.

Like my experience with many COPD patients, he, as Hospice professionals like to say, “had a few control issues”. Well, if you aren’t in control of your breathing, you’d have “control issues,” too. But Jack, well now, Jack’s issues with control were Black-belt level. He could bark orders laced with denigrating insults that would make a Drill Sargeant feel like a novice.

After 54 years of marriage, Betty was a pro at deflection. She reminded me of Emma Webster, Tweety Bird’s Granny, who seemed to manage the ongoing war between Sylvester the Cat, Tweety Bird, and Hector the Bulldog with nonplussed charm and delight. Nothing ever dampened her spirit.

Unless you crossed her. And then she could whip out a cast iron skillet from thin air, hold it up like a stop sign until, as she said in her cheeriest voice, you “changed your tune,” and then she’d go right back to dusting counters with the sweetest smile you ever did see, chirping her pleasantries if only to herself, if need be.

She seemed to be holding in her heart a secret interior story that she listened to rather than paying any nevermind to what was going on around her. I suppose, if she did, she’d just crumble and she knew that was simply not going to happen. Could not possibly happen. Not in this life.

 

 

 

Betty and Jack were from “dirt poor” but “land tough” Appalachian stock. The genetics of Scotch-Irish, German, and English people who had fled the hardships and poverty of Europe, combined with the Native American tribal communities who had lived there for centuries, gave them not only the resilience and tough exterior they needed but an internal emotional and spiritual strength that helped them shape their own Appalachian culture through language, music, religion, and agriculture. And, food. More on that in a minute.

”Their people” - both Jack and Betty’s - had settled in Northwestern Pennsylvania where they worked the farms and then migrated to the East to work the coal mines or down to the steel mills in Pittsburgh or the textiles, shipbuilding, and iron production of Philadelphia. Like our biblical ancestors who wandered around wherever there was water and grass for their flock, they moved anywhere there were jobs. 

Jack and Betty had faired pretty well. Jack “lucked out,” Betty said and had gotten a good-paying job in the steel industry. Betty was able to stay home and raise their three girls, although she did work part-time in the school cafeteria when the girls got older. She carefully saved her small salary as the downpayment for their manufactured home in a trailer park outside the city limits.

Eventually, as the girls graduated high school (an accomplishment neither Jack nor Betty had been able to achieve) and left home, they sold their home in PA and moved to another manufactured home in Sussex County, Delaware, where the property taxes were low and the cost of living was more affordable.

The girls were all married and had kids of their own. They had good educations and good jobs and had married well. They had good cars and nice homes and enjoyed wonderful family vacations, living a modest middle-class life that was well beyond even the wildest dreams of their parents.

Jack and Betty were very proud of their family. You’d never know it by Jack, though. He seemed to have been in a perpetual bad mood for most of his life. One day was particularly bad. Betty and I had been talking about a documentary she had seen on television the night before about the slavery of “the Indians and the Blacks,” she said, “in Appalachia. Can you believe that? Slaves? In Appalachia?”

”Why,” she said, “I had no idea. I mean, we were all dirt poor. I didn’t have my own pair of shoes until I was 14 years old. Mama did her best but life was hard. Slaves? How could there be slaves? Who had the money to own them?” she asked in the purest innocent ignorance.

That’s when Jack exploded. “Oh, you feel bad for the Blacks and the Indians, do you? What about the White slaves? Huh? What about us? Do you feel bad for White slaves?”

Betty looked bewildered. “Joseph Arlo Smith, what are you talking about?” she asked.

That’s when Jack told the story that had been eating at his insides since the time he was seven years old and his mother died and his father sent him down to a neighbor’s farm to work his field.

“I was only seven years old but I worked like a grown man, plowing, planting, weeding, harvesting. I slept in the barn on the hay, just like the other work animals, with just a thin blanket to cover me. I ate the leftovers from the farmer’s table. I ate in the barn, just like the other work animals. I remembered some of the letters they taught me in school and I tried to read some, from the newspapers in the trash. I didn’t see my family except for Christmas and Easter Day.”

Jack started to have a bit of difficulty breathing. “Jack! Jack! Now, don’t get yourself all upset. Let me get your rescue inhaler.” Betty said. Jack shook his head. “No! Don’t give me that. I need you to listen to me, Betty. I’ve never told you this part before. You need to know this. You need to listen to this. Ain’t no one heard this before.”

”I always thought Daddy had sent me there because he couldn’t care for us, what with Mama gone. One day, the farmer came in and told me to get my stuff and leave. He couldn’t afford me anymore. And I thought ‘Couldn’t afford me’? What in the heck was he talking about?”

”So I walked home and Daddy was waiting for me in the truck. Drove me right down to another farm on the other side of the county but this time, he said I wouldn’t be coming home anymore. Not for Christmas. Not for Easter. This was going to be my new home and I’d better be good and I’d better work hard and behave.”

”I was 12 years old. I saw the man give my father some money. And that’s when I figured it out. I only had a little bit of education. I could read some, but I was pretty good at reading the writing on the wall. My father had sold me. He had been collecting my salary from the other farmer. This one had just bought me outright.”

”Do you know what that means, woman? White slavery! That’s what it was. White slavery. By my very own father! So, don’t go talking to me about the poor Blacks this and the poor Indians that! What about the poor Whites? We was sold into slavery, too. What about us, huh?”

There was no discussion this time. Betty got up and got his rescue inhaler. “Here now, puff on this, Jack, and calm yourself down.”

Jack took some puffs and then, wiping the tears from his eyes he looked up at her and said, his voice raspy and his breath labored, “And, you wondered all those years why I am the way I am. You always asked me why I couldn’t be more affectionate, especially to the girls. You asked why I never held your hand. You asked why I always had to be in such a bad mood all the time. You wondered why I wouldn’t go to church with you, even on Christmas and Easter, why I didn’t want the chaplain here to come visit.”

”Well, now you know. How can you show love when love’s never been shown to you? Why go to church when God never came to me, not one time in the field when my back was breaking? Not one time of the many times I cried myself to sleep at night, out in the barn, sleeping on the hay, with only the animals to hear me?”

”So, when I was 15 years old, I got up early one morning and walked down to the stream to wash myself. When I came up out of the water it came to me. I could just walk away. I could just walk and keep on walking. And so, I put on my clothes and I did just that and I never looked back.”

”But somehow, I found you, Betty. I want you to know that you are the one miracle I ever prayed for. You were more than any miracle I could have asked for. You gave me three beautiful girls. We have a good life. But, this . . . stuff . . . being so many years a white slave . . . well, it’s just been a cancer eating me up all these years. It’s killing me, Betty. Squeezing the air right out my lungs.”

”So, I had to get this off my chest. I didn’t mean to. But, you know, with all this stuff about the Blacks and the Indians . . . . and with the chaplain here, and all . . .I couldn’t hold it in no more . . . Forgive me, Betty. That’s what I mean to say. Forgive me, Betty. Understand, please. I do love you, Betty. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my whole life. I don’t want to lose you.”

Jack could hardly breathe. His lips were turning blue. He was holding on so hard to the armrest of his chair that his knuckles were white. Betty was comforting him as she set up his nebulizer. Wiping the sweat from his brow. Gently stroking his hair, wet with sweat, back from his face.

“There, now. Easy, now. Rest now, Jack.”

After a few minutes, Jack was breathing easier. He tilted his head back on the headrest of his recliner as Betty lifted the metal arm on the side of the chair which lifted his legs. “You stay right here, Jack, and I’ll fix you something. Okay?”

Jack nodded. Betty looked at me and said, “I’m going to need your help in the kitchen. You, my dear, are going to help me make Appalachian Sweet Corn Pudding.”

I followed her into the kitchen as she spoke, her voice lower than normal so as not to disturb Jack, but with that same, sweet, kind, gentle lilt that seemed not to have been disturbed at all by what we had just heard.

As we busied ourselves opening cans of corn and creamed corn and getting the eggs and milk from the fridge and the cornstarch and sugar from the pantry, Betty chatted merrily in her usual chirpy cadence.

I think I was more stunned than I realized. Jack’s story had shaken me to my core. The story and the raw honesty and emotional pain of it all were finally hitting me.

Just as I opened my mouth, Betty turned to me and said, “We are making Appalachian Sweet Corn Pudding because that’s the one thing Jack remembered his mother made and it’s the last thing she made before she died. I knew it was special to him for that reason, but I . . . I . . . I had no idea . . . . .”

And, with that, she collapsed into my arms and cried and heaved and sobbed. I whispered softly, “Of course you didn’t know. How would you know? He never told you. I’ve got you, Betty. You go ahead and cry. I’ve got you.”

She cried and cried some more and then, just as suddenly as she started, she stopped, took a deep breath, dried her eyes with a tissue she had retrieved from her pocket, and then shoved it back in, hard. She took another deep breath, and said, “So, we’re going to make my grandmother’s Appalachian Sweet Corn Pudding. Because it will make Jack feel better. It will make Jack know that he is loved. And, because it will help you know something about my people, and why we may be poor but we are strong and good and kind.”

”You’ll help me make this,” she said, in the kindest but firmest directive I think I’ve ever been given. “I’ll give you my recipe. You’ll go and see Mrs. Jones down the street and visit with her while the corn pudding cooks. And then, you’ll come back and have a dish with us. And, you’ll know what love tastes like.”

In this morning’s Epistle, St. Paul writes to the beloved people of Phillipi in Northern Greece from his jail cell in Rome - although some scholars say Ephesus or Caesarea - somewhere between 60-62 BCE.

He says something that has always caught me as a most beautiful way to talk about the power of The Resurrection. “But our citizenship is in heaven,” he says, adding, “He (Jesus) will transform the body of our humiliation that it may be conformed to the body of his glory . . . ".

I think I understood those words much better after I had tasted the first spoon of Betty’s Appalachian Sweet Corn Pudding. Cynics will say that it was probably the sugar but I felt instantly transported to my status as a citizen in heaven.

I also understood why Jack had been so transformed every time Betty made him some sweet corn pudding. For just a few moments, all the years of his humiliation were washed away as the memories of his mother’s love flooded every corner of his being.

“Salvation is of the Lord,” we are taught to say, meaning that salvation is a gift from God, not earned through human effort. In the Black church, you’ll often hear folks repeat the words of Nehemiah, “The joy of the Lord is my strength," meaning that finding strength and resilience in faith and joy in God's presence is crucial for navigating life's challenges.

Sometimes, the gift of salvation comes from unexpected sources. The joy of the Lord can be found in surprising places. I don’t know this for sure, but I suspect Jack and Betty were saved, in some small part, by the joy of the memories of love that were cooked into the Appalachian Sweet Corn Pudding.

I know I am, every time I eat a spoonful. Here, try some and see for yourself. It’s delicious as a side dish - I often make it at Thanksgiving - but it’s fine all by itself. When no one is looking I even eat spoonfuls of it - cold - right out of the dish in the refrigerator.

It’s my passport that tells me that, while I’m here on this earth, I’m just a resident alien. My Baptismal Certificate is my Green Card. My citizenship is in heaven.

I’m a citizen of heaven. I have tasted love.

Betty’s Appalachian Sweet Corn Pudding

3 eggs

½ cup melted margarine

½ cup white sugar

1 (16-ounce) can whole kernel corn, drained

2 (15-ounce) cans cream-style corn

2 teaspoons cornstarch

½ cup milk

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Directions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Grease a 9x13 baking dish; set aside.

Beat eggs until fluffy in a large bowl. Stirring constantly, pour in melted margarine. Stir in sugar, whole-kernel corn, and cream-style corn until well combined. Dissolve the cornstarch in the milk; combine with the corn mixture. Stir in vanilla. Pour the mixture into the prepared baking dish.

Bake in the preheated oven until the pudding is puffed and golden, and a knife inserted into the center comes out clean. It will take about 1 1/2 hours.

NOTE: Telling Secrets is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. https://elizabethkaeton.substack.com You can also find me on BlueSky The Rev Dr. Elizabeth Kaeton @ekaeton.bsky.social

#TheIdesOfTrump

 

You know things are serious when the Introverts arrive

Today is known as the Ides of March, which refers to March 15th, famously associated with the assassination of Julius Caesar in 44 BC, a date that has become synonymous with foreboding and misfortune, popularized by a line in Shakespeare's play "Julius Caesar, “Beware the Ides of March.”

The background story is this: In ancient Rome, the Senate had the real power, and any titles they gave Caesar were intended to be honorary. They had conferred upon Caesar the title of "dictator in perpetuity," but when they went to where he sat in the Temple of Venus Genetrix to give him the news, he remained seated, which was considered a mark of disrespect. Thus offended, the Senate became sensitive to any hints that Julius Caesar viewed himself as a king or — worse — a god.

Many had tried to warn Caesar of a plot to assassinate him, including his wife, Calpurnia, who had begged him not to go to the Theatre of Pompey that morning. According to Plutarch, he passed a seer on his way. The seer had recently told Julius that great harm would come to him on the ides of March.

Julius recognized the seer, and quipped, "The ides of March have come." The seer remarked, "Aye, Caesar; but not gone." When Julius arrived at the Senate, he was set upon by Brutus, Cassius, and the others, who stabbed him dozens of times. He slowly bled to death, and for several hours afterward, his body was left where he fell.

Today, many in this country are noting #TheIdesof Trump in several ways to protest the man who, when he was sworn in as POTUS, did not place his hand on the bible. Many consider this as disrespectful as Caesar sitting when he received his title. But, that’s the least of the long litany of disrespectful acts perpetrated by this one man.

What Franklin’s statement highlights is that a successful representative democracy relies on the active involvement and participation of its citizens. The Constitution is not self-correcting, so it requires the constant attention and devotion of all citizens.

My local Indivisible Group is joining with my local ACLU group in a demonstration on Route One/Coastal Highway. From 9-11 every Saturday, they will be carrying signs and singing songs. Last week a few Very Rude MAGA folks (are there any other type?) tried to “counter-protest,” but they didn’t just line up on the other side of the highway with their signs and songs.

No, a few trucks parked behind the line of protestors, brought out their flags and started playing - really loudly - one of the most confusing favorites of the MAGA crowd. That would be The Village People singing YMCA.

I know, right? Go figure.

The police were called and, I am told, the MAGA folks dispersed, but reports are that it got a little tense for a little while. Because, you know, MAGA is so dedicated to Free speech - unless you’re saying something they don’t want to hear.

There is also a Postcard Campaign in effect, #IdesOfTrump, which is an effort to break Hank Aron’s record of having received over 900,000 postcards by sending a million (at least) postcards to the White House on Pennsylvania Ave in Washington, DE, addressed to, as Garrison Keillor calls him, The Occupant.

The idea is that while no one thinks he will read any of them (he notoriously doesn’t even read his daily security briefings), he will know if a record has been broken, and that millions of people detest him and his policies so much that they are willing to use their First Amendment Right and tell him so, by whatever means they can.

Yesterday, I sat in my church Parish Hall from 10 AM-12 noon with as many as 15 other people who came and stayed for as long as they could and wrote out postcards. I bought a package of 200 blank postcards from Staples. We all pitched in and bought stamps (they are now $.56 a piece) and sat at round tables, commiserating with each other as we each wrote out our postcards.

Some of us decided to make the return address “SCOTUS Building, One First Street NE, Washington, DC 20543.” That way, if the White House wanted to “return to sender” our message might fall on deaf ears but our postcards wouldn’t be lost.

Some of the folks poured their hearts out into their message, filling the whole back side of the postcard with what they saw happening in their lives and the lives of others, and what they feared would happen to them if Medicare and Medicaid were cut or eliminated or privatized.

I wasn’t going to tell them that their message would never be read. Not by the POTUS or, in fact, anyone in his Cabinet. That didn’t seem to be the point. Their intention was the point. Their energy was the point. Their being in their church building, at table with their fellow church members - people with whom they pray and sing every week - now sharing stories of what they had seen and heard and what made them anxious, and being heard and validated was the point.

Others of us just wrote short, angry sentences, punctuated with exclamation points and marked by certain words being underlined several times for emphasis. Some of my personal favorites were: “You’re FIRED!” “Elon is not my POTUS (but neither are you.)”. “History has its eye on you.” “God is watching, and She’s not pleased.” “You make Jesus do a face-palm six times before breakfast.”

Here’s the thing: We did this quietly. No letters went out. No invitation appeared in the church e-newsletter or Sunday bulletin. There was no announcement posted on the web page. We wanted to be respectful of the members of our congregation who - for some reason that completely escapes our comprehension - voted for and continue to support this administration.

Our efforts were very last minute - less than 72-hour notice. And yet, fifteen (15!!) people came to the parish hall on a Friday morning within a two-hour period of time. We got 200 postcards written and stamped. A few people came by and dropped off their postcards which they had written at home.

One of us elected herself to take the postcards to the local town Post Office this morning to mail them from there. I would LOVE to see the look on the face of that postal worker when that happens in that sleepy little town, wouldn’t you?

Better get used to it. We decided that next time - and there will be a next time, and we’re not going to wait until next year, but we’ll join whatever movement is happening at the time - we will be ready. We will have postcards made up ourselves or we will purchase some that have been professionally made. We will print the addresses - both to the sender and the return address - ahead of time on the computer.

Personally, I think there is a real power to subtly. I loved the fact that the US Army Chorus sang, “Do you hear the people sing” from Les Misérables at the White House Governor’s Ball. Donald and Melania Trump were in attendance. The song, in case you don’t know, is about protesting an oppressive King. This left many wondering if the song was chosen because The Occupant likes show tunes or because it was an intentional troll.

Over three million people have viewed the video on Tik-Tok, which, given the controversy over that social platform, seems totally delicious - not to mention the DEI policies which are still in obvious effect in the military.

What’s that old expression? If you want to make someone listen, whisper. In the musical Hamilton, Aaron Burr advises Alexander Hamilton to "Talk less. Smile more. Don't let them know what you're against or what you're for".

Well, I’m not for that last part, but in my experience smiling while protesting and resisting confuses the heck out of those who would wish to silence you. This makes the protest even more effective. We learned all of that from Martin, didn’t we?

My favorite story happened with equal subtlety during one of the protest demonstrations of the 1999 killing of an unarmed 23-year-old Guinean student named Amadou Diallo who was shot with 41 rounds by four of NYC’s plainclothes police officers. The civil disobedience protest was at City Hall, led by then Bishop Suffragan Catherine Roskam. Many Episcopal priests were in attendance.

Everyone was standing quietly and calmly but did not move when the police told them that they were breaking the law and needed to disperse. A policeman moved forward to face one of the male Episcopal clergy, wearing a fine black suit and white clerical collar, who standing next to Bishop Roskam, wearing the purple shirt of her office.

The police officer said, “Father, I have to inform you that you are breaking the law.” The priest said, “I understand, officer.” The policeman said, “I’m sorry, but I have to arrest you.” The priest said, “I understand, officer.”

As the police officer was placing plastic handcuffs on the priest, he was heard to say, “Well, you Episcopalians sure do put the ‘civil’ in civil disobedience.”

As the White Rabbit said to Alice, “Don’t just do something, stand there.”

I am convinced that’s how we’re going to win in two years at the midterms and again, the White House in four years - not by losing our civility or compromising our integrity and values but, rather by protesting and resisting while keeping intact everything that makes us citizens and patriots.

I know. I know. I’m sometimes angry enough to spit. Some people are angry enough to return to the original, root meaning of The Ides of March.

Don’t. Let. Them.

The assassination in Rome in 44 BCE that was meant to save the Republic actually resulted, ultimately, in its downfall. It sparked a series of civil wars and led to Julius' heir, Octavian, becoming Caesar Augustus, the first Roman emperor.

In 1787, after the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia, Elizabeth Willing Powel, the wife of Philadelphia's mayor, asked Benjamin Franklin what kind of government the delegates had created. Franklin famously said, “A republic, if you can keep it.”

What Franklin’s statement highlights is that a successful representative democracy relies on the active involvement and participation of its citizens. The Constitution is not self-correcting, so it requires the constant attention and devotion of all citizens.

Let’s keep this republic. Let’s keep our democracy. Participate to the extent that you can, in the way that makes the most sense to you. Don’t compromise your values or integrity or what you love about being an American citizen.

As the White Rabbit said to Alice, “Don’t just do something, stand there.”

Telling Secrets is a reader-supported publication here and on Substack. To receive new posts on this blog, scroll down the far left column and click on "Follow". To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber at Substack https://elizabethkaeton.substack.com. I am not on Facebook or Twitter, but you can also follow me on BlueSky @ekaeton.bsky.social

Missing the mark . . .

 A little story about Hank and Rhoda

From time to time, we all miss the mark. That’s just baked into our DNA as humans. We fail. We just do. We fail, I think, because sometimes we settle into safe assumptions. We fail because sometimes we lower our expectations of ourselves - and our relationships with others.

We miss the mark, I think, because we forget what the mark is and where it is. We forget what it is this life is all about. Why we are here.

Let me give you an example. I want to tell you a story about Hank and Rhoda. Hank was a Hospice patient of mine. That’s not their names, of course, but Hank and Rhoda could be any couple in the rural area of Sussex County. Or, anywhere, actually.

Of all the stories I heard about Hank these two about Hank and Rhoda became the bookends of all the stories of their 57 years of married life together.

Hank met Rhoda when he was 19 and she was 15. Rhoda was on vacation with her family in DE and when she and her two sisters walked to the dance hall they went by Hank's house where he was outside washing his car. That’s when he first laid eyes on her. He was totally smitten.

At the end of her vacation, Rhoda went back home to PA and Hank went into the Navy. At the end of his Navy career, he was stationed in Philadelphia and decided, just on a whim, to look up Rhoda.

He went to the addresses he had for her only to find that her family had moved. Hank started calling everyone with her last name listed in the phone book (remember those?), asking them if they had a daughter Rhoda. He called and called and called all day and into the evening until he found her.

He surprised her one night when she was leaving her job at the A&P store and showed up in his Navy uniform. To hear him tell it, he instantly won Rhoda's heart. At the time Rhoda was already sorta-kinda "engaged" to someone else, but, she admitted with a shy smile, that once she saw Hank in his Navy uniform, she broke off her relationship with the other guy. Hank and Rhoda have been together ever since.

The second story is one that is more recent. A few years ago, Rhoda needed to be admitted to a local skilled nursing facility for a few weeks of IV antibiotics. Once she had the dose of medicine, she was allowed to come home for a few hours but had to be back at the facility by bedtime.

Hank was always used to Rhoda taking care of him, so when she came home he still expected her to clean the house, do the laundry, and cook his meals. One day, while she was home, they had a disagreement and he was fussing and she decided that she was not coming home for the day anymore until she was discharged because she was just not able to do the regular housework and he just did not understand.

That night, he called his daughter and daughter-in-law and wanted a family meeting. He wanted an explanation of what exactly was wrong with Rhoda, for goodness sake, and why she was mad at him. And then, when they did, his family told me, he cried. They had never seen him cry. His "girls" told him that maybe he needed to do something special for Rhoda to show her he loved her. They suggested flowers.

 

Then Hank, probably just a little embarrassed, allowed his sadness to turn to anger. "She knows I love her and I have never bought flowers in fifty-some years and I am not going to start now," he thundered. Well, Rhoda wasn't going to give in either. She wasn't going to come home until Hank apologized.

The next morning, Hank called the florist and ordered "a dozen of their prettiest roses and he said he didn't care what the cost was". Then, he took the roses and his cane and took his unsteady self to the second floor of the Skilled Nursing Facility where Rhoda was staying.

The story was that no one was certain who cried more - Hank or Rhoda - but Rhoda called the girls that evening, crying happy tears and saying "In 50-plus years he's never given me flowers, much less roses." The girls said, "This story just goes to prove that it's never too late to give flowers and tell someone that you love them."

Well, yes. That is one thing that the story just goes to prove. It also proves that it’s not so much the expectations we have but the comfort we feel in the assumptions we have made about ourselves and others and our relationships.

And, it is also true that life often tests us and finds us wanting but it’s never too late to rise to the challenge and exceed everyone’s expectations, even our own.

 

Lent is such a time. It doesn’t have to be grand and glorious or dramatic and tested on the battlefield. Forgiveness and redemption can be held in a simple bouquet of roses, brought by an aging, fragile body, to a spouse of almost 60 years, and contained in a contrite heart.

 

I have learned that the most powerful three-word sentence in the English language – after “I love you,” is “I am sorry.” That one small sentence – said with truth and oftentimes courage – can melt a wall of ice built by anger and heal a heart broken by disappointment or betrayal.

 

Lent is such a time to examine our assumptions about our relationships, to take another look at the priorities in our life, to ask “What’s really important to me? What do I value most and how do I demonstrate that in how I live my life?”

 

Lent is a time to take out our household budget and see it as a statement of our theology – of what we believe about God. How we spend our money, where we place our treasurer, is a statement of our expectations and assumptions about ourselves and our family and God.

 

Lent is a time to admit our flaws and faults and those times we have trespassed against others and seek forgiveness for our trespasses and to forgive those who have trespassed against us.

Lent is a time to check where it is we have placed the mark in our life and, if we keep missing it, to make a few adjustments. Either we need to lower our expectations or step up our game. Maybe it’s that we need to do a little of both. 

 

The nuns of my youth used to call this process “making a good examination of conscience”. It always sounded so sterile to me but it’s actually not a bad description. They encouraged “an examination of conscience” daily, at the end of the day, to confess how we had missed the mark, and to determine to make adjustments so that, when we awakened the next morning, we would, as they said, “start on the right foot”.

That sounded too much like Sisyphus to me. Remember him? He was the guy whose whole life was to roll a huge boulder up a steep hill. When he finally got to the top, the boulder would go down the other side and his job was to then push it back up again.

Sisyphus did this daily. Every day. That was the sum and substance of his life. Well, that may have been okay for the nuns - and God bless ‘em at it, as my grandmother would say - but that was not the mark I had set for my own.

There’s so much more to this one, wonderful, wild, precious life we’ve been given - no matter the limitations of our assumptions and expectations - not to spend at least some of the time dedicated to love and forgiveness and joy.

I encourage you, during this Season of Lent, to “make a good examination of conscience”. Or, as the rappers say, “check yourself before you wreck yourself.”

It’s never too late to say, “I’m sorry.” You’re never too old to say, “I love you.”

And, to love wildly, generously, lavishly, and wastefully, the way God loves us.

Consider the lilies . . .

Worry as a lament

One of my grandmother’s favorite Bible stories comes from Luke 12:22-34, sometimes referred to in shorthand as “The Lilies of the Field.” I first heard her recite it from memory when we were on the strike line in front of the factory where she was ladling out soup and I was handing out pieces of bread.

My family was very involved in the Labor Union Organizing Movement, mostly at the textile mills in Fall River, MA, where I grew up. They were part of the founding of the International Lady Garment Worker’s Union (ILGWU), on Third Street. My grandmother would make certain that, as the weeks and months of the strike continued, “the men” had something to eat.

She would make a huge vat of soup and many loaves of bread, load it up on my shiny red Radio Flyer wagon, and we would make the several-mile walk from her house down to the factories to meet the men at the strike line.

The memory that is keenest in my mind is the time we arrived and, not only were the men in line, but there, off to the side, were their wives and children who were also hungry and had come, hoping for something to eat.

There was no mistaking the tension in the air but it became very real when I heard my grandmother suck her breath between her teeth. I also heard her whisper a prayer to Jesus and one to Mary, to make sure her son got the message:

Hey there! We need a little help, here, sir. Remember what you did near Bethsaida near the Sea of Galilee, when you fed four or five thousand from five loaves of bread and two fish? Well, here we are, in Fall River, near the Taunton River. We’re going to need that kind of miracle now. Mary? Please make sure your son hears this. Okay? Amen.

The tension grew thick enough to cut with a knife. Anxiety was written over everyone’s faces, but you could almost hear the pleas from the eyes of the women and see the fear on the faces of the children.

My grandmother’s brow was furrowed. That’s when I started to feel scared.

I don’t know what happened, exactly. There was no bolt of lightning. No thunder. No chorus of angels, singing.

I remember feeling a gnawing in the pit of my stomach. It hurt. And then, it didn’t.

I looked up and saw my grandmother’s face. It was relaxed. She was smiling. I heard her say, “Okay, everybody! Get in line. We’ve got some good Portuguese Kale Soup here, and bread that I made this morning. Lots of people here today, but you know, it’s okay. Don’t worry. We’ll just add some water to the soup and everyone will eat hearty.”

The soft sound of human laughter seemed to reach the men who had been moving determinedly toward us. They suddenly stopped and, like the Red Sea, they parted. One of the men motioned to the women to come first, with the children. They were hesitant at first, but the hunger in their bellies animated and moved their feet and they came forward with a cup they had pulled from a place deep in their pockets.

I stood next to my grandmother, tearing off pieces of bread and handing them to the children and their mothers until they were fed. The men came next for their soup and bread. As she served, my grandmother recited the story from Luke 12:

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothes.”

It was as quiet as a communion line in church. The soup ladle occasionally clanged against the pot like a sanctus bell. “Consider the lilies, how they grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.”

People were quiet but smiling, now, as they came forward in the line. As I struggled to tear off a piece of bread from the loaf, you could hear the “rip” in the silence of the crowds. “If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you—you of little faith!”

I heard my grandmother’s voice over the scraping of the last ladle of soup was given out. ”And do not set your heart on what you will eat or drink; do not worry about it. ^{. . . . . .} But seek God’s kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well”.

Without logic or reason and despite this being the largest crowd ever, we realized that the last person had been fed.

We took a moment to let that reality sink in. Everyone had been fed.

Not much, to be sure. Just a half a cup or so of soup and a small piece of bread. Just enough to stop the rumbling in their stomachs. Just enough to fuel their body’s energy to keep on. Just enough to restore the hope in their hearts that God, at least, if not the owners of the textile mills, was hearing their prayers.

I realized then, two things. The first was that worry is a form of prayer. It is part of an ancient lament that has been part of the human enterprise for eons. My child’s mind wondered that if we did not lament, if we did not raise our minds and hearts and voices to God in a passionate expression of grief or sorrow or anxiety, how would God know that we need help?

St. Paul assures us that “The Spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words.” The Psalmist wrote that even as “a deer longs for a water brook,” so do our deepest longings find their way to the ears of God.

I have come to know that the expression of raw emotion - the most piteous plea, the loudest, wailing cry - is heard in the deepest chambers of the heart of God. I believe that is what happened that day. God heard our worry. God heard our anxiety.

God can say, “Be not afraid.” And, “Do not worry about your life,” and “Consider the lilies,” because God knows that Jesus taught - and some of us listened - that when we feed the hungry and cloth the naked, we are feeding him.

Some of us have come to know the truth of what Teresa of Avila wrote in her poem, "Christ has no body but yours, / No hands, no feet on earth but yours".

So, no, I am not ashamed to worry. I am not ashamed to wring my hands and pace the floor. I am not ashamed of the occasional rising tide of anxiety in my soul. I know that these are forms of lament. I know these to be ancient prayers I share with my ancestors.

I know that God is listening. God’s time is not my time, but God hears.

I also learned something else that day. I learned that, sometimes, communion is not just bread delivered on a silver paten and wine administered from a silver chalice.

Sometimes, the holiest communion is provided from a large vat, administered in a tin cup, and delivered from one small hand to another in a jagged piece of bread.

As the government, which is once again presided over by little men of enormous incompetence and cruelty, runs perilously close to the brink of destruction, the tariff wars rage, and the dark clouds of a recession begin to gather, please consider the lilies of the field, yes, but know that our worries and anxieties are laments that are precious to the very heart of God.

Oh, ye of little faith! Know that God’s time is not our time but God knows the sound of the human cry because God has made it in the suffering and hunger, the cries and laments of Jesus.

Forgiveness: Part I

When is it time to say when?

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Right out of the blue, it started appearing in my email inbox: Writer’s Almanac with Garrison Keillor. However, they were not recent postings. These were reprinted from, well, from “before the troubles”.

You may remember. It was after the height of the #MeToo Movement. Women were just beginning to feel some sense of power after the humiliation and disempowerment of having been sexually harassed in the workplace. People and organizations, governmental agencies, and even religious organizations were reacting quickly and strongly to the accusations women were making about sexual harassment.

The #MeToo movement began in 2006 as a grassroots effort by activist Tarana Burke to support survivors of sexual assault. The movement gained global attention in 2017 after actress Alyssa Milano tweeted #MeToo in response to sexual assault allegations against Harvey Weinstein.

A lot of good was done, nationally and internationally. #MeToo has helped to change attitudes towards sexual assault and harassment. It has also led to more people coming forward to share their experiences. The movement is now an international non-profit organization that continues to advocate for survivors and work to end sexual violence.

For the first time, the attitude of “boys will be boys” was no longer tolerated, and the unconscionably inappropriate behavior of grown men who felt neither cultural constraint nor legal accountability for being what could only be described as sexual predators was abruptly called into question.

Suddenly, swiftly, company heads were fired. Public figures were held accountable - most often by exposure of their behavior and public shaming on social and legacy media. Laws were written and passed mandating sexual harassment training in the workplace. Nondisclosure clauses in sexual misconduct settlements were banned in California, New Jersey, New York, Oregon, and Virginia.

Most importantly, the statute of limitations on sexual harassment and assault charges was lifted in many states and municipalities, and victims were allowed to seek legal remedy in a proper court of law. In New York, over 3,000 lawsuits were filed between November 2022 and November 2023 as a result of the Adults Survivors Act.

Even the Episcopal Church provided an open invitation to victims of sexual harassment and assault, no matter the year of the offense.

In 2018 the Episcopal Church held a "Liturgy of Listening" at General Convention in Austin, TX. to address the #MeToo movement. The liturgy focused on confession, healing, and lamentation and included first-hand accounts from victims of sexual harassment and abuse. Bishops - male bishops, some of whom had had rumors swirling about them for years - read the accounts.

The Bishops adopted a covenant to respond “more forcefully” to sexual exploitation and harassment and created a Task Force on Women, Truth, and Reconciliation. The church also removed references to gender from materials that clergy file with the Office of Transition Ministry.

To my knowledge, no Title IV complaints resulted from that liturgy or covenant.

And then, some stuff happened that seemed to have been engineered by lawyers to provide more “risk management” and “preventative litigation in the court of public opinion” than justice or, in fact, even concern for the victims.

In my opinion, Al Franken was one of those. Mr. Franken was a former entertainer who was the elected Senator from Minnesota. In November 2017, he was charged with forcibly kissing a woman a decade before. Seven other women came forward to say they had experienced unwanted advances from him. Many Democratic senators demanded his resignation, and he complied.

Many asked, then and now, did the punishment fit the crime?

In that same month and year, Minnesota Public Radio cut ties with Garrison Keillor after learning of allegations of inappropriate behavior with someone who worked with Keillor. The decision meant that Keillor's "The Writer's Almanac" and "The Best of A Prairie Home Companion" would no longer be broadcast.

I, like many others, was conflicted and yet devastated. On the one hand, I felt personally betrayed by someone who had entertained me and inspired me for decades. His “News from Lake Woebegon,” the weekly monologue laced with homespun stories and humor and often stitched with strong threads of morality and theology, had become my Saturday night sermon before I had to preach the next morning.

How could you not long to visit the fictional town? The original founders of what became Lake Wobegon were described by Keillor as “New England Unitarian missionaries, at least one of whom came to convert the Native American Ojibwe Indians through interpretive dance.

Who didn’t want to shop at Ralph's Pretty Good Grocery, where the motto was "If you can't find it at Ralph's, you can probably get along (pretty good) without it." Or, The Chatterbox Café, "The place to go that's just like home." Or, The Sidetrack Tap, run by Wally and Evelyn; "The dim little place in the dark where the pinball machine never tilts, the clock is a half-hour slow, and love never dies."

How could a man from a town in Minnesota where "all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average" behave inappropriately with women?

It absolutely goes without saying that the women who had the courage to speak out about inappropriate behavior ought to be believed and supported. Without question.

Keillor defended himself against the allegations. In an email to the Star Tribune, he reported that he meant to pat a woman on her back when she told him she was unhappy. He says her shirt was open and that his hand went up it about six inches. He says he apologized after she recoiled. He writes that he thought they were friends until he got a call from her lawyer.

Keillor was publicly shamed and humiliated and was fired from his job with NPR, the Writer’s Almanac, and The Poetry Foundation in disgrace.

Many asked, then and now, did the punishment fit the crime?

As we enter more deeply into the Season of Lent, my question has to do with forgiveness. When is enough, enough? When is it time to say when?

As a Christian, forgiveness is a central component of the teaching of Jesus. He emphasized that forgiveness should be limitless and not counted. “Seventy times seven,” he answered Peter when asked how many times he should forgive someone’s transgression.

I have always taken that to mean that forgiveness is a process that involves many layers. It often feels like peeling the impossibly thin layers of onion skin, one layer at a time, with all the attendant tears and emotions. “Seventy times seven.”

It is not anyone’s right to impose a timeline of healing on someone who has been hurt, betrayed, or assaulted. Some may need seventy; others only the seven. I’m wondering if the same timeline ought to be imposed on the public.

I will say this, there is something in my heart that was very happy to see the release of previous editions of The Writer’s Almanac in my inbox. I am delighted to find him writing again in a column here on Substack (Garrison Keillor and Friends). I am excited to learn that there is a digital (and CD) copy of the 50th Anniversary tour of A Prarie Home Companion, which features Garrison Keillor and some of the old favorites of that show.

I continue to hold in my prayers the woman who was inappropriately touched. I support her in her healing and recovery. I’m sure she felt even more deeply hurt and betrayed for many of the same reasons I did when I first learned of the incident. I don’t know if she’s found forgiveness. That’s not for me to know or determine. I don’t know if there’s been a reconciliation. That is a private, personal matter.

I only know that for me, forgiveness is now. “When” is now. For me, it is enough.

For this member of the public who felt betrayed by a public figure, the pastoral math assignment has been completed. Seventy times seven.