I took several different kinds of pills at three different junctures during my twenties. The first and third time I took it, I cried so frequently and so uncontrollably that I had to go off of it within months. The second time I took it I also took zoloft. I lasted a year, during which I also contracted painful UTIs. I have also tried condoms and a diaphragm. They both gave me horrible yeast infections. I thought about trying the depro shot, but my girlfriends who took it got fat– so I abandoned that idea.

My story is similar to the stories I read in the NYT’s reader’s comments that day. There are more stories too– one of my girlfriend reports that the pill makes her feel lonely because she has to shoulder all of the work that goes into thinking about fertility–traditionally a couple’s concern; another of my friends hasn’t had a period for three years. Her father put her on the pill when she was 16 and she hasn’t been off since. She also suffers from acute anxiety. In addition, according to the AP, there is now a major lawsuit against the “patch” due to the death of several women. Lawsuits have also been brought against NuvaRing (a hormonal ring that is inserted inside the vagina) and Yaz, a pill.

A couple of years ago, I declared that I would never use hormonal birth control methods, nor condoms, again. I was sick and tired of side effects, and found it supremely unfair that fertility management had become a women’s issue only. After some research, I discovered the Fertility Awareness Method(FAM). It is one of several new plans that use tracking methods to establish the time of the month during which a woman ovulates so that she can either avoid, or plan, her pregnancy. This method includes taking one’s temperature in the morning, checking cervical mucus, and recording all of it to establish the overall pattern of ovulation.

Here is where my story gets weird. Excited by this new, free, non-hormonal, non-invasive method of fertility management, I went to my doctor to discuss it. To say that she was unenthusiastic about the idea is to put it mildly. I then brought the idea to my friends. I got responses ranging from: “sure, it might be ok for you, but most women are too irresponsible to do all that work,” to “isn’t that the rhythm method?” (it’s not) “there is no way that could ever be accurate.” Finally, I turned to the internet. Over and over again, I found women deploring the pill, but little to no information on this alternative form of fertility management. I finally found a sympathetic nurse practitioner who wore groovy sandals, and a fascinating article on Slate.com called ‘Your Grandmother’s Birth Control Might Actually Work’. Both gave me the information I needed and the courage I was looking for to try out this new way of doing things. What I didn’t realize then, was how much I would not only get a new way of doing things– but a new way of thinking.

To me, now, this method is so much more than birth control. For the first time in my life I feel like I understand my body, it’s cycles, and the moods that are attached. Over time, I have become completely attuned to the smallest changes in my body and spirit, learning the hints that are naturally and uniquely mine. It’s thrilling and empowering and I wish I had known this before I was 33. Even more than that, I have gained an entirely different and profound respect for what it means to be a women who is capable of giving birth. I feel like I am working with my body and psyche, instead of against it. In other words– this isn’t a one size fits all approach, but a way of understanding my body that is tailor-made for me! And, when I have a partner, I will be working with him, instead of alone. That is to say, men have to be involved in the question of conception with this method, since during a woman’s fertile period we both have to abstain from intercourse (but of course, not from romance). I have been so surprised and so moved by the impact that this seemingly minor change in my life has wrought in me, that this entire question of natural fertility management has become a social justice to me.

I routinely ask women about their birth control and whether they have heard of FAM. Some have, most haven’t. The ones who have talk about it with the same kind of reverence and belief that I feel. The ones who haven’t pose all sorts of reasons that this could be impossible– as if I were some kind of fertility goddess who is uniquely positioned to undertake such a laborious project (I’m not). Women tell me that they are too irresponsible (“but you are able to hold down a job!”); that it takes too much time (“it takes as much time to take your temperature for 30 seconds in the morning as it does to get a glass of water and swallow a pill”); that there is no way they could abstain for sex for 12 to 36 hours a month (“but you haven’t had a boyfriend in two years and you haven’t died”).

The real issue, of course, is that hormonal birth control is a multi-billion dollar industry that has somehow convinced the mainstream medical community, and most of society, that women are helpless sheep who have no control over their own sexuality. I resent that. Of course, this industry claims they are doing this for women– but when women are dying, or suffering from depression, I have my doubts. And the reason why I see sinister motives writ large all over this industry that claims they are for women (all of the CEOs of companies that produce hormonal birth control methods are men, by the way) is that methods such as FAM are not even presented as an option. If we are supposedly so in favor of sharing with women the information and choices they need to make their own decisions– then why aren’t young women in high school (57% of youth in high school are sexually active) taught about natural ways of working with their fertility, instead of told to take a pill and feel liberated? Why don’t doctors present their patients– men and women– with real information about it? Why aren’t thermometers handed out next to free condoms in bathroom bars? Why doesn’t Planned Parenthood hand out pamphlets about FAM at their rallies?

As long as women don’t understand their bodies, and are taught to take invasive medications because they have no self-control over their own sexual desires, people, somewhere, will make truckloads of cash.

If we teach girls– young women– about how their beautiful bodies really function, and how we can treat ourselves with gentleness and respect… imagine the impact that might have on areas like self-image, weight issues, interactions with boys and men, STDs… the possibilities are endless. (And while it is true that FAM does not protect women from STDs, it is also true that women who understand and are careful with their bodies and spirits will do more not to engage in high-risk sex). So, instead of saying ‘hurrah’, the pill has turned 100 years old, I am saying something else. Something is wrong: STDs are on the rise particularly among young women, girls are pressured to have sex at younger and younger ages, and porn featuring women brutalized by men is rampant; indeed, porn addictions are spiraling out of control. This leads me to ask– are we really liberated? Are we really respected?

And, doesn’t respect begin in the most fundamental place possible– between women and herself? A respect that concerns her own natural, beautiful, unique way of being…her own gorgeous sexuality?

He introduced his girlfriend, a chubby girl with buck teeth and heavy blonde highlights, and a teacher. When he found out we were educational researchers he grew animated: “What do you think about No Child Left Behind?” he asked about the controversial education bill that Obama was planning to reauthorize. He said that he would tutor his girlfriend’s students after school and that they could barely comprehend what they read. We agreed that it was a problem. Our conversation continued to range over various topics—a self-described redneck with a deep Southern accent, our new friend had plenty of opinions: about the oil spill in the gulf of Mexico, the immigration bill in Arizona, and the like. There was an air of sympatico in our motly crew—my gay Chicano friend; the White, Kentucky born redneck; and me, a biracial nomad dressed in fancy L.A. clothes. Perhaps the sympatico prompted our new friend to tell us what he did.

Or perhaps we could have been anyone, and he just needed to talk.

When the conversation turned to the war in Iraq, our new friend told us that he was a veteran. He laughed, his face redder, and took a gulp of the strong Kentucky bourbon in his hand. “I was a patriot,” he said. “When 9/11 happened I was 19, sitting in an excellent psychology class at community college. I just got up and walked out of class. I went home…” he trailed off. “When I joined the army I was a patriot. I thought the world was coming to an end that day, 9/11. They sent me to California, to Barstow, for a year for training. It was fine, great, I was pumped. That first year in Iraq was great—what a money making racket they have over there! Money making racket! But I didn’t complain. Those private companies in Iraq– because of them I had hot water, air conditioning in my hut. I could take a shower whenever I wanted. But then we went to Ramallah.” His fleshy face darkened and he looked older than his 28 years. A country music song screeched on over the loudspeaker and his girlfriend tugged excitedly at his arm.

“Who is this?” she wanted to know.

“Jimmy Buffet,” he replied. “New Buffet. Quit askin’ me! I don’t know anything!” Laughing, he turned back to us.

“What happened in Ramallah?” I asked, curious.

“We shouldn’t have been there,” he said shaking his head slowly. “I’ve got this guilt. So much guilt. It was bad. Bad things happened. We should never have been there.”

“What things?” I perisisted.

“They were in the middle of a civil war,” he explained. He launched into an explanation of the Sunnis and Shias. “I couldn’t tell a whole lotta difference between them. Some prayed one way, the others prayed the other. Saddam Hussein was a bad dude, he was. But he kept order. When we came in—we shouldn’t have been there. Can you imagine another country coming in here the middle of our civil war?”

I tried to imagine. I thought about the racial warfare in our American cities and our schools, more racially and economically divided in 2010 than they were shortly after Brown vs. Board of Education, the seminal civil rights act of 1954. I thought about the civil war that seems to be happening between the lower and upper classes in our country—the separation of people between black and brown and white, Republican and Democrat, immigrant and non. I imagined some foreign leader stroking his chin… hmmm. Some people believe one thing, others another. They aren’t getting along and have bad leadership. We should go in there. Go in there and restore democracy.

Eduardo and our new friend were talking animatedly as I came out of my reverie. “I can give you an example,” our friend was telling Eduardo. “A lotta the Muslims there, they have two wives. They take their houses, split them down the middle. There are an equal number of tents on either side—we bought one of these from a dude.” The waitress interrupted him to ask if he wanted any food as the kitchen was about to close. “Not Calamari,” his girlfriend squealed. “Sorry guys, lemme take care of this,” and a debate ensued. When he turned back to us he was unfocused. Scattered. We prompted him to resume.

“This truck bomb came in. Loaded with explosives. So we wired off our place, put up a sign, paid a translator to write it in Arabic. It divided the road—it said take that road, not this road. The road leading to our place, we were told to shot immediately if anyone came down it.” His voice slowed down. He looked at the beer that tilted towards his lap in his unsteady hand. He continued. “I think he was illiterate. I…well…Some poor illiterate bastard. At the time I didn’t think that much about it… but now….” his face was still, fleshy, red, and his eyes looked away from ours. He spoke slowly, every word long.

Every word as if he had rehearsed it in his head a million times.

“I was a patriot when I signed up. But now… Osama Bin Laden said he blew up the World Trade Center because he didn’t want White people in the Holy Land. So what? We don’t need to be there. All of us Americans sitting around with our dicks in our hands. I ain’t got no problem with Muslims. If they want the Holy Land, just take it.” He reached towards the full glass of Maker’s Mark standing on the bar.

He spent six years of his life in Iraq. He joined when he was 19. This evening, drunk in a bar, he almost cried in front of two strangers as Jimmy Buffet played on the loudspeakers. I didn’t know what to say to him. I don’t know what to say now. None of my words can take away what he did.

None of my words can take away what we did to him.

My mother has a theory about love that involves a wonderful shoe metaphor. Christine, she tells me. Marriage is like buying a great pair of shoes. If you get a pair that pinch slightly… or if the heel is a half inch higher than you are used to, well, even if they are the most beautiful color and succulent, Italian leather, you will still be limping about by early afternoon. Conversely, she continues, a good man is like a pair of comfy slippers. You put those puppies on your feet and you just think—golly, I wanna wear these to work, to happy hour… all day!

It’s a great metaphor and one I apply willing as a rule of thumb to my own dating life. I have also used it to successfully advise at least one couple, now engaged. To return to the unfortunate and untrusting woman-friend, I wonder if a different shoe metaphor could help her.

I am a self-confessed internet dater. Confessing that I actually dated off of craigslist.com—when it was still safe to do so, might age me. I’ve also used match.com and some of their new spin-offs that claim to be more long-term romance oriented. And I used these sites with an open and willing heart and mind; my sister met and married off of Catholic match.com and I figured that is was as good as any other way to meet someone. But I am no longer quite so sure about that.

I had many good dates, and an “almost relationship”. But more than that, I had awkward, not-quite-it dates. I have since decided that internet dating doesn’t work… for me. It may work for other people, but for me, internet dating is like looking for a pair of blue, velvet high heels.

Indulge me in this metaphor: you have a party to go to. You have an outrageous blue, lace dress, and you decide that the only thing you need to complete this incredible, 80′s-throwback party outfit is a pair of dark blue, velvet, 3 inch heels with a t-strap fastening. So you go out to hunt for them. You hit downtown. Uptown. Vintage stores. The Mall. Boutiques. Macy’s… but no dark blue, velvet, 3 inch heels with a t-strap fastening to be found. Panic sets in: the party is in less than three hours! So what do you do? You buy the next best thing. Perhaps they are blue three-inch heels, but patent leather. Or, you find blue velvet flats. Or perhaps you can’t find blue at all…and settle for black velvet heels.

Now—the corollary. Let’s say you are out for a nice, easy, Saturday stroll. You are walking happily along when out of the corner of your eye you see them. Red, velvet shoes! Now, you had never before realized that red velvet shoes could look so good. In fact, they look… really, really goooood. And you realize… you have to have them. You rush into the store, try them on, and… WOW. They are perfect. They will go with all of this season’s cocktail length party dresses. And they would even look great with jeans. You buy them. You are thrilled. You parade around with your red velvet shoes, and show them off to anyone who is willing to indulge the story.

The morale of this shoe metaphor is this: internet dating, to me, is like shopping with a purpose. You create a list of criteria in your head and look for someone to fulfill it. When you can’t find your hyper-idealized mate, you settle. Or at least, in your head you are settling. But settling is never a good way to begin a relationship. The shoes pinch. He lies about his age. You don’t trust him.

Conversely, when you are bopping around in your ordinary, everyday life and happen upon an awesome guy—well, what a catch! What a find! Suddenly the world sings out and it seems as if everything has conspired for you to meet this man who you never imagined would make you so happy.

Me? I am currently happy not internet dating. And these red, velvet shoes I am wearing? Purrrrrrr…. They fit just dandy.

Hiya. Read your blog post – interesting and thoughtful and compelling. Thank you for sending it on.

Inevitably, though, some disagreements.

Honestly I think there’s major slippage when your argument frames the church’s sexual abuses within the larger context of loose sexual mores.  First, there’s considerable evidence that this sort of thing has been going on for a long, long time (including by Horatio Alger, who interestingly enough subsequently became the unofficial spokesman for the American Dream – at this point the jokes practically write themselves).

I won’t disagree that our sexual habits perhaps need some tending to (Tom Wolfe’s essay “Hooking Up” is good on this and somewhat similar to your argument), but the problem as I see it is that you let off the hook the very institution that, and the very people who, should take responsibility for this sort of thing and use the occasion of its own housecleaning to address the issue meaningfully and seriously.  When the church fails morally, I can’t agree that this is just the unfortunate outcome of a sexually laissez-faire culture (what these guys were doing is pathological and criminal, not merely the result of an overly permissive culture), and more importantly, the church only compounded the problem by putting the need for institutional over addressing the very issue of sexual impropriety.  In this, I think it’s guilty of an even worse crime than the ones the alleged pedophiles have been accused of – prioritizing silence over honesty and institutional solidity over moral integrity, which in effect sanctioned all that followed.

Of course another large problem is that there’s a caricatured idea of religious chastity, of which those opposed to religion are perhaps equally guilty, which presents it as merely uptight puritanical repression rather than what you spoke of on Monday night, which is that sex (in Millay’s words) clarifies the pulse and clouds the mind, and disables one perhaps from making deeper and more meaningful connections to the world.  Fair enough, and I think if perspectives like yours were more widespread we’d have perhaps a better chance of developing a more thoughtful cultural attitude toward sex.  But the fact is that the church itself in the public eye has presented itself merely as repressive, restrictive, and absolute, full of moral condemnation until you confess, sinner, confess and be absolved!  Paternalist power-grab, seems like to me, and a moral variation of Naomi Klein’s argument in ‘The Shock Doctrine’ (blow up what’s there and rebuild it in your image).

I’ll agree that the media are guilty to some degree of hypocrisy, except that the media do not present themselves as moral leaders and the church and its denizens do.  But it seems to me that the real outrage is directed less toward the accused priests themselves and more toward the church for its complicity in covering up the crimes – again, showing it cares more about protecting itself and circling the wagons than about its flock.

Now, all that aside – if the church had done precisely what you’ve done, which is use the occasion of the scandals to address the larger issue of sexuality and morality (after, of course, first fixing the problem and ensuring the safety of its children), admitting sin and temptation are within all of us and taking a Christ-like (not Christian, mind you*) sense of humility and honesty toward the difficulty of keeping our humanity in a world that doesn’t seem terribly interested in it, then I’d have a lot more respect for the church instead of just respecting individual Catholics like you.

(* the difference is that I don’t (obv.) believe in Christ’s divinity and am certainly not a follower, and am actually kind of opposed to the very idea of “following”), but I appreciate what he offered up, sort of like a superior Emerson.)

As a person who has devoted her career to protecting and helping children, more news of the sexual assault on minors is like pouring gasoline onto an already open wound. A great deal of my energy goes to finding ways to keep my hope and faith alive that some small part of my work, and my colleagues’ work, can actually contribute to making the world a safer place for children. My faith is tested daily.

As a trusted adult, students have come to me to share all manner of things: one was gang-raped as part of gang related initiation, another lived in a homeless shelter, another crossed the U.S.-Mexico border by himself, another was a prostitute, another lived in a refugee camp, another was a child soldier.  The list of what I have been told goes on and on. Some of the things I have been told have less social shock value, but have been obliterating painful for my students all the same: the effects of divorce, of living in a hook-up culture where having sex with strangers is perfectly acceptable, or of just plain ol’ feeling alienated from classmates. I attribute much of the pain they experience to adults and our sense of entitlement to live out our “issues” at the expense of kids– and I am particularly furious about how irresponsible sexuality affects our children.

The continuum between adults’ insatiable need for constant sexual expression  and how our children are sexualized is rarely discussed. By which I mean– where is the firm line between healthy sex and exploitative sex? We live in a world where we consistently divorce our loving, emotive hearts from our sexual bodies: whether it is recreational sex between “consenting adults,” or hypersexual behavior pictured on billboards, TV, the internet, magazines and movies at every turn. Is it  really all that surprising that all this cultural training in how to separate the physical sex act from our deepest emotional needs can influence how an unhealthy individual thinks about the appropriate ways to touch children? Is it really surprising that our culture could lead a person to mistake affection with seduction, and cause frustrated desire to become exploitation?

And yet, the secular media– while promoting rampant sexual expression in tabloids, TV, and the internet to great financial gains– is shocked to discover that priests are also susceptible to the insanity that our culture has wrought. It’s the wildest case of throwing stones with one hand, while sinning with the other, that I have ever witnessed.  Yes, it is particularly horrific when trusted advisors– priests, educators, mothers and fathers– abuse the children in their care and then cover it up by any means necessary.  And, I am the first person to say frankly that there is plenty of misconduct by members of the church–just because one calls him or herself a Catholic does not mean that person is a true believer and has changed their behavior to follow.  But the reasons that many journalists are citing as particular to Catholicism, thus making the sexual abuse of children somehow more likely in the Catholic world, are just plain bizarre.

For example, many cite celibacy, and the fact that priests don’t marry, as the cause of their abusive behavior; yet having a sexual relationship with their wives has hardly stopped millions of fathers from raping their sons or daughters. Others take a punch at the priesthood being reserved for men: Maureen Dowd’s op-ed in the New York Times claims that this latest scandal means that nuns should take over the church. Now, we can talk about female leadership in the church at another juncture (and I have written about it elsewhere) but I can’t believe that this laissez-faire claptrap about women somehow being impervious to power corruption is actually still circulating in mainstream opinions. Finally, plenty of secularists like to say that the priest-pedophile scandal is just one more reason that organized religion is bad.  (Here, people also love to trot out the Crusades as if this religious war is somehow worse than the European Holocaust, Chechnya, Sierra Leone, or Rwanda). Now, why “organized” religion is inherently evil is a mystery to me. I personally love having an organized schedule of masses, a proper time period to go to confession, and a nice calendar where religious holidays come at predictable times year after year.

In the end, all of this–the pain, the sense of betrayal, and the anger– creates a question for me: will the latest scandal hurt my faith, or lead me to grow deeper in love and imitation of Christ? For yes, evil and suffering exist in the world and it shakes my faith deeply. And yes, Catholicism is a flawed and human organization that fails frequently, and miserably, to imitate pure good and beauty– which is Christ. But for me, the only answer I can give is that I have to continue to follow those whom I trust– the people who follow those people who follow Christ. As Peter replied to Jesus when he asked if Peter would leave him, as all the others had done– “Where else is there to go, Lord? Only you have the words that make me live.” Or, as expressed in a recent editorial:

“it [can be] impossible to understand why the Church can be hard and motherly at the same time with the priests who go wrong. It can punish them severely and ask them to serve their sentence and make amends for the evil (it has already done so in the past, and will always do so),but without snapping, if possible, that thread that binds [the priests to the Church], because it is the only thing that can redeem them. It can ask its children to “be perfect as your heavenly father is perfect,” not so as to demand of them an impossible irreprehensibilty, but so as to remind them of a tension to live the same mercy with which God embraces us (“be merciful as your heavenly father is merciful”). This is why the Church can educate, which, in the end, is the real question being challenged by those who are accusing it (“See, even the priests do wrong, and badly wrong. How can we trust them with our children?”) as if the Church’s being teacher all depended on the behavior of her children, and not on Christ, on that presence which – amidst all the errors and horrors committed –makes possible in the world an embrace like that of the father to his prodigal son…

This is the embrace of Christ, in our wounded and needy humanity, far greater than the evil we can do. If the Church, with all its limitations, had not this to offer to the world, even to the victims of those barbarities, then we would be lost. Because the evil would still be there, but it would be impossible to overcome it.”

Back to the quiet room. My friend told me that he would have recounted his life through moments of beauty. We worked to define those moments: those times when you sit slightly apart from the people who make up your given or chosen family and, watching them laugh and tease each other –feel utterly at peace; those moments when you catch sight of the gradations of blue that work their way up from the ocean to culminate in deep sky behind the sun; those moments in conversation or observation when such stark joy surges up through you that you laugh out loud.  ”God moments,” I called them.

He smiled and replied, “and you?”

I considered, hesitated. It occurred to me that I should tell my story through the people I love, but there was something behind those people… the place to which they belonged.

“When I was studying for my Master’s degree,” I said, “I wrote a paper for a geography class on imaginary landscapes.”

I wrote about how the landscapes of certain books during my childhood became almost as real, if not as real, as the time and space around me. The sensual vividness of my memories of the “world between the worlds” in C.S. Lewis’ Narnia Series was only challenged by the splashing of the ocean around the prows of a boat on which Edith Blyton’s characters sailed to adventure.

I couldn’t decouple the story from where they were set, I told my friend. He asked me where I had lived that I had liked the best.

“London,” I started. “I fell in love with London. It was a first love.”

I loved its great grey stone buildings and comfortable, winding streets. I adored the series of pubs, outdoor book fairs, and centuries old monuments that lined the Thames. I loved talking to gnarled old men about the latest West End play. It was that kind of love where you can’t catch your breath and it seems as if the world has become perfected. Everything is effortless. Everything is new. You laugh and it lasts forever.  I met my first serious boyfriend in London, an even-keeled Australian who would regularly gather his friends together, hand out pots and pans, and lead a riotous sing-along to The Cure and Morrissey. I would do interpretive dance.

“When T. moved back to Sydney,” I continued, “I would walk around the city confused, looking at the glittering rain on the cobble stones outside the glowing, yellow windows of a pub and wonder who I loved more, who I should choose: London, or this man I adored?”

My friend nodded his head, looking at me with deep brown eyes. “Who did you choose?”

“Neither,” I replied. After tiring of visa problems I moved to New York City.

“New York was like that second great love of one’s life. The one you constantly compare to your first– an uneasy peace,” I continued. “Unable to settle down, I became a serial monogamist and dated three great men in a row.”

They were frustrated relationships, as was my relationship to New York City. I knew that I should like it– it is one of the most magnetic cities in the world and had everything I had ever wanted. I loved the speed, the flurrying diversity, the disorienting cultural fusing, the noise and spice. I loved buying cheap earrings from street vendors and hitting bar after bar uptown and downtown. I wore gold and bright green with my Puerto Rican lover, ate in fine restaurants with my Jewish businessman beau, and walked dogs in the early morning snow with my live-in teacher boyfriend. Yet, I was stuck. I lived in-between the past and the future.

I looked over at my friend. “I wanted so badly to belong, to fit, to breath– but could only remember the ease of my first love, and feel the sense of longing for something, or someone, that would help me root.”

“I left New York,” I told him. “It was wrenching; I don’t think I have ever made such a hard decision!”

“What about your third love?” he queried. “Where, who–do you love now?” The room was dark now and more lamps needed to be lit. I looked into his kind, warm eyes, lent my head back against the sofa cushions and closed my eyes.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I haven’t had a third great love.”

I pressed his hand and thought about what I needed to do that next day. How I would walk out my door into the washed clean blue of Los Angeles and let my eyes drift across the sharp lines of its palm trees. I thought about how I had deepened in this place, grown more reflective about the intermingling of joy and suffering in my life, more aware of God, and more conscious of my own fragility and that of others.

“I don’t know,” I said.