Creepy Christianese

Hey there,

So I know I said I'm signing off for greener blogging pastures, but I haven't figured out where I'm going yet, so I think I'll stick around here for a few more posts if that's ok with you.

One of the things that irritates me about my blog title are the words "hipster" and "housewife" simply because I'm not really either of those things. But the one thing that is true about my blog title is "Christian." I am definitely, definitely a Christian.

And in being such I have opinions on what can be called "the bubble"; the evangelical Christian subculture.

I'm going to bring up only three, and sorry guys, you're in the spotlight here. Disclaimer: I am certain my very own husband has been guilty of what I am about to describe so be assured, I am not being judgey- just venting.

Creepy Christian practice #1: Referring to your wife in any and all available circumstances as "smokin' hot", a "stone cold fox," etc.

It's wonderful to be attracted to your wife- we assume you are- afterall you married her- but why must you refer to her as if you are both teenage mall walkers. And folks, guess what, you're not. You're grownups, probably with kids. And your wife is a complicated human being. Reducing her to a "fox" is kinda demeaning, even if you have the best intentions.


Creepy Christian practice #2: Referring to your wife at all times as "my bride". I am not sure why this skeeves me out so much. Maybe because the word bride when uttered outside of an actual wedding makes me think of "Bride of Frankinstein" or even "Bride of Christ." Hey I know the bride of Christ is a beautiful theological concept but it still creeps me out. Sorry friends, just being honest.

Creepy Christian practice #3: Sharing an email address with your wife (or husband.) This isn't quite as popular as it was a few years back, mostly because, I guess, people don't even really use their email addresses as much as they used to- what with twitter, facebook, tumblr, etc blowing up the internets. What sharing an email address says to me is "We don't trust eachother enough to have two separate email addresses" but what I think it's meant to say is "We have no secrets! We share everything! We're so happy!" Though we believe that when people are married they become one person- the two become one - I have a hard time understanding that (again) complicated concept reduced to the idea that either party is not allowed to call anything their own.

Someone told me the other night that vow renewal ceremonies are the kiss of death. In the world of marriage counselors and therapists it's widely known that an elaborate public declaration of "vow renewals" usually comes during a reprieve from a rough patch in a marriage. And it almost certainly indicates that the marriage is seriously struggling. I think all these wacky practices are kind of similair- as if to publicly declare "My marriage is good!" "I'm attracted to my wife!" we think we are somehow insuring ourselves against marriage trouble, or perhaps worse, trying to tell the world that all is well when it is not.

I think what we tell the world is not nearly as important as what we tell eachother. When my husband tells me "you are beautiful" it means alot. It's usually when I've dressed up for some rare night out and in that moment I feel like I did when we were dating. But ya know, I don't need him to tweet, blog, or even talk about that moment. It's enough to just experience it.

Aspirational Asphyxiation

Waaaa, Waaaaa, Waaaaa, Waaaaaaa


Hear that? That's the sound of Debbie Downer, and that's who I'm about to be for a second.

I went to Anthropologie today with my friend Tina, which I love- that is going to Anthropologie and hanging out with Tina. We started the day at Tiny Boxwood's with bowls of coffee and a great chat- during which I slapped my knee in a fit of giggles not once but twice. In fact, at Anthro I got these super awesome orange plastic glasses with the $40 left on my Christmas gift card from my mom. And I love them. They brighten things up, they remind me of Spain.

This all has the makings of a great time- obviously- but on the way home Tina and I got into a chat about a few things I'd like to bring up here.

I've been mulling over this idea that I started a year ago- this Hipster Christian Housewife thing- and I've been thinking about how it feels like a too tight sweater, or pair of jeans. I really really really want it to fit, but no matter how much I suck in it's just not happening.

We'd decided I would spend a year as a "stay at home mom" for the most part- working only on the weekends at Ecclesia Houston, leading worship, which is my love. I thought I would intentionally try things I've always been intimidated by (cooking, scrap booking, baking, you get my drift) during this "year of living domestically" and blog about it. I thought it's be funny.

But the thing is, what I've done mostly this year is write. I haven't learned to cook. I've baked one or two batches of cookies (maybe) and I started a scrap book about a year ago and got about two pages into it. It's just not me. And I'm a little sad about it. I'm a little disappointed in myself because I'm a mother and a wife and I love being a mother and a wife, but I'm also a writer, an artist. And what I learned when I cleared the calendar of must-do's- is that I wrote, and I wrote alot. And I wrote some pretty good stuff.

I'm just not sure if I'll keep this title going much longer- because I'm not a "mommy blogger" - I'm not a "wife" or a "jesus" blogger, I'm just me, Cameron. An imperfect person who is definitely not good at everything I try to do or be.

When I was in Anthropologie I got that old familiar feeling, that 'not good enough', not 'organized' enough, not 'domestic' enough. Like- if only I had that set of matching French glass wear, if only I had that perfect bedspread or hand soap- I would be o.k. I would be a better "housewife."

But it just ain't me. And that's the truth.

I think we should look closely at the things we aspire too, that we envy- is it a perfect "mommy" whose kid's eat organic home made something or other on matching vintage dishwear? Or is it something else?

What I realized today is that Anthropologie's job is to sell me stuff, stuff and more stuff. Stuff I definitely don't need. And really, that's the job of all media- from magazines- to blog's - to Disney. Wanting to be something you think you're not is what drives our consumer culture. It just does.


All that to say, this hipster housewife may be signing off soon, in pursuit of something a little more close to home.

Disclaimer: Hipstamatic- like Anthropologie- makes everything look much cooler that it actually is, in this case, my dining room.

you have loved me so well

Today was the sort of day I dream about: busy from sun up to sun down doing what we love: music. I am pinching myself.

This morning our friend Brooke Schwab made another "impromptu" video for us, for a website called Sounds That Matter. I found Crystal because she had included my brother's band, The Damnwells on her site and I sent her a message, hoping she might like The Rebecca West too. Hooray, she did! So she's going to post a video of our latest song.

This song is special. They all are. But this one especially. We wrote it for and about our friend Sarah Chidgey Hughes and her husband Eric. Sarah passed away in February after a short battle with a very aggressive cancer. She was 28.

It's called 'you have loved me so well'. The song is a love letter from Sarah to Eric- it's what I imagine she would say to him now.

I can't wait to share the song and the video with you. I hope you like it.

After the video, we got ready to go to the new theater at The Houston Ballet's new building. Our friend Melody, who is a principal dancer with the HB choreographed a piece to one of Matt's songs, and today was the dress rehearsal. We've got alot of years of history with this song. It's the only instrumental I've ever known Matt to write, and it's been a part of us for so long. Melody's piece brought it to life in a way I could never imagine. I was so proud of my husband. I thought, all the years of apologizing for being a musician, all the struggle, and the uncertainty-- this is what it's all about. This is the payoff. I was/am so proud of him, as an artist, a songwriter and person.

He said "You know, when you're in the black box theater and they close that door, and the lights go down, everyone in that room is an artist, and everyone has worked their %^& of to get there." And you know what, he has worked his %&* off and today was a well deserved acknowledgement of that.

LYRICS

Got a request for the lyrics to our new songs - we've put up live versions (video) here: VIDEO


Here's "Lost and Found"

Lost and Found


Sink full of dishes and she just can’t think
Skin pale and tender where there used to be a ring
Did I say
Did I say
Did I say the Sinner’s Prayer?
Did I hold my breath?
Did I leave him there?

Lost and Found
In and Out
Up and Down

Mailbox is full of bombs and he just can’t pay
Bed neat and tidy on the side she used to lay
Did I say
Did I say
Did I say the Sinner’s Prayer?
Did I hold her hand?
Did I lose her there?

Lost and Found
In and Out
Up and Down

Lace up my shoes and button up my shirt
Things I would say if I could find the words
Did I say
Did I say
Did I say the Sinner’s Prayer?
If I look, if I search, if I seek will I find you there?


C)camerondezenhammon/firedancermusic/ascap 2011

I bought a leotard from American Apparel and I'm not proud of it

As I was driving down Westheimer tonight with my favorite poet and friend Tina, I was reminded of a little indiscretion of mine that I feel I should 'fess up to.

I bought a leotard (unitard? bodysuit?)from American Apparel. My friend Lindsey was kind enough to accompany me around the city last weekend looking for cheap, cool clothes for a music video we were getting ready to make it Marfa, Texas. I've never made a music video, in fact, I don't think I've really ever even seen myself on video, let alone singing and trying to not look like an idiot, so needless to say I was nervous.

Time was running out, the mercury was hovering right around 100 degrees, and from the dusty aisles of Buffalo Exchange I had a eureka moment- "American Apparel will definitely have what I need."

Basics, that's what they're good for, right? As long as you stay away from the gold lame body stocking and certain other bizarre items you can't really go wrong? But some months back the gnawing in my gut about American Apparel's sleazy hiring and advertising practices (championed by it's ultra sleazy owner) moved me to declare a boycott. Ok, maybe I just said it once in a FB post or something but I meant it.

In the heat of the moment (literally) I broke down and crossed the evil threshold of AA, only to walk out $26 lighter with a blue bodysuit under my arm that I will, never, ever wear. Not to mention that the girl that sold it to me was wearing black satin disco shorts I am certain qualify as a crime against humanity. And I think she may have also been 14. I wanted to call her mother.

There really is no moral to the story, except that tonight Chris Seay reminded us that being a pastor or and artist (or a writer or a HUMAN BEING) is not about being perfect or about being someone else's idea of who you should be- be who you are- it's ok, that's exactly who you were made to be.

So who I am owns a light blue leotard. And I'm not proud of it. Now you know.

Video killed the Radio Star

We're in Marfa, Texas making a music video for Lost & Found. I am learning so very much about myself these days. Well worn insecurities and strengths I didn't know I had- making their way to the surface. This is such a blessing and so fulfilling. The sound of the wind chimes, the train running through town, the dog's barking- the is the symphony of this place. It's exquisite. A good place to make something wonderful. Here's to it!

Year of the Zero: To Christian School, or Not to Christian School?

I don’t do mornings. My husband usually takes that shift. That’s why I was so taken aback when I dropped Sydney off at school, albeit an hour late, and was nearly toppled by the radiating calm of the little schoolhouse. The children sat around a handmade wooden table in front of placemats and table settings. “We’re about to serve tea,” Miss Virginia told me in a sing song voice, “You’re just in time!” Sydney sailed through the door and dutifully removed her shoes before taking her place. If I hadn’t known better I’d thought I was dropping my four year old off at a yoga class. One that I might enjoy myself.

I usually do pick up. I arrive at day’s end when the children, mine especially, are dirty, hyper and happy. Sydney’s lunch basket is usually nowhere to be found and I end up loitering and chatting with other mom’s while she fetches it. Lucy’s mom is a raw food chef. Juliana’s mom makes her own soap and aspires to grow all her own food. Jose’s mother is a Chinese medicine specialist. I’m not vegan, organic or particularly interesting but my fellow parent’s don’t seem to hold it against me. Sydney’s school is Waldorf- inspired; based on an educational system developed at the turn of the 20th century by Rudolph Steiner, a German scientist. Waldorf attracts ‘alternative people’, because it exalts ‘alternative’ teaching methods. Math is learned by measuring milk, eggs and oil for baking. Letters are taught first as shapes; this is the year of zero, “O”, and its corresponding spherical shapes- the earth, the moon, the sun.

We came here by accident. I’d signed Sydney up for a well-known Christian school replete with pressed uniforms and a strict code of conduct. The smartboards and orderly lines of children marching to and from their classrooms impressed me. I picked Sydney up after the second day of class and excitedly asked her “How was it?” She stared at her feet. “I can’t write my name, Mommy!” she pleaded, looking up at me with big, milk saucer eyes. “I’ll never write my name” she announced with finality and trudged toward the car. Sydney is young for her grade, and had turned four the day before school started. Some of her friends in her school last year were writing their names by year’s end, but her teacher assured me she would write when she was ready. When I went to talk to the principal after a week of long faces, I expected her to reassure. “Do you want her to go to Kindergarten next year?” she demanded before I’d settled in my seat across from her desk. “She doesn’t even know her numbers and letters! She’s clumsy with scissors!”

Who the heck is giving scissors to a four year old? I thought. I was hurt and embarrassed. The principal suggested I sign her up for two more days per week, at a additional cost, to be sure she “catches up.” After a weekend of hand wringing we pulled her out.

I thought a Christian school would always be the right choice for us. My husband and I are pastor's and enjoyed three years on staff at a church that happened to have a terrific school. Sydney started in the nursery there at 3 months old; it was a short walk from my desk so I was able to be at every recital, Easter egg hunt and mid day cookie party. After we moved on to another church staff position, one that didn't have a school, I assumed any Christian school would be as great. I marched into the biggest church around, and signed her up. I assumed it would fit us, but it didn’t. Shouldn't our daughter be in a Christian school? Can we trust ourselves to show her Jesus enough, without religious instruction being a part of her day? Sydney matches stripes and polka dots and calls herself a glitter artist. Maybe uniforms and straight lines aren’t for her?

We heard about a start up Waldorf School in town and pursued it like zealots. At home, Sydney and I were driving each other crazy, so home schooling was definitely out. Our pastor sent his children to Waldorf schools, and told us Waldorf is known for an emphasis on creative thinking, social responsibility, art and nature. I cried at our first meeting with Miss Connie. She was so kind, and a passionate believer; we began and ended the meeting with prayer. But Miss Connie was careful to tell us that her school would not be explicitly "Christian", though they would observe a variety of holidays and celebrations centered on the seasons.

Nine months later Sydney is a leader at “creative play” and relishes taking her friends through an elaborate game of “family.” She’s an artist, producing impressionistic watercolor maps of Earth, the letter o, and the number zero. She leads mealtime prayers, and thanks God for each thing He has made on our table. And she’s writing her name like a champ.

After meeting with Miss Connie again, we decided to turn down a coveted spot in our local public school’s gifted program for next year so Sydney can stay where she is. She’s happy here, Connie said. I watched Sydney play family in the garden, soaking wet from the sprinkler. I watched her water her plants, and carefully dust off an injured beetle. I knew she was absorbing knowledge of God that cannot be taught. I tucked the latest watercolor under my arm and went looking for her lunch basket.