Category Archives: bio

Raising a Non-Believer

A reader has just written to me:

“One was on an essay about Religion as a Cause of Strife in the World – you can bet she went to town on that!”

this is a comment you wrote on Ross’ India Diary and i have always wanted to ask you why you believe that Ross has arrived at an independent opinion/thought/decision regarding religion when it is the exact same opinion/insight you and your husband have. maybe mistakenly, but i’ve gotten this impression that you are very prideful that her belief is identical to yours and see it as a sign of her independent, intelligent thought. how much of a stretch is that really? how different is that to the child who grows up with the gospel every week at church and every day at home? how “independent” can that child’s outlook ever be due to that home conditioning?

It’s very true and completely unsurprising that Rossella, like most kids, shares her parents’ beliefs (or lack of). The more interesting question is: did how she arrive at those beliefs?

One of Richard Dawkins’ most provocative theses is that schools and even parents should not be allowed to proselytize children into religion at young ages. He points to lifelong traumas (both physical and mental) inflicted upon people (and cultures) from infancy, in the name of religion.

One might reasonably ask (many have) how Dawkins’ desire to promote atheism is any different from a religious person’s desire to promote religion. The logic here seems to be: “Atheism is just another belief. Why is it okay for you to preach what you believe, but not for religious people to do so?”

Here’s the “fundamental” difference: most religions teach their adherents – and particularly children – to accept certain strictures, norms, behaviors, etc. because someone in “authority” said so. Believers may be allowed to question up to a point, but sooner or later every religion comes down to “faith” – a necessarily blind (because unprovable) belief that there is some “higher power” out there which has an opinion about how you should think and act.

This is emphatically NOT how we raised our daughter.

My husband is a professional mathematician. This means that he thinks long and hard to come up with new hypotheses about how things behave in his particular realm of mathematics. When he can support his ideas with mathematical proofs, and those ideas are new, and important enough to be brought to the attention of his colleagues, he submits them (in the form of articles) to professional mathematical journals. There his ideas are judged by his peers for their truth and interestingness and worthiness of publication. If he gets something wrong, either he or one of his colleagues will figure that out. He thanks the people who point out his errors, and goes back to the drawing board.

The same thing happens in every scientific field. Ideas are developed, tested, and submitted to a jury of one’s peers. Sometimes an idea is proven wrong immediately, sometimes later, as more research is carried out. A few hypotheses survive the judgement of the scientific community and the test of time to become theories: which is to say, scientifically-proven facts.

All of this is done in a spirit of cooperative enquiry and (more or less) humility. No one can claim to know more than anyone else on the basis of some externally-granted “authority” – a scientist must be able to back his or her hypotheses with solid, provable facts.

I’m not a scientist, but I use the classic scientific method in my job every day: Does this work? If not, why not? What went wrong? Test one variable at a time til you find out where the problem is, then fix it. It’s a simple logic which can be usefully applied in many areas of life.

Given our professional and personal biases (and our penchant for arguing about EVERYTHING), Enrico and I have raised our daughter to prize inquiry, and not to grant authority blindly. We would be hypocrites if we had not encouraged Ross to think for herself and ask questions – to which we always gave grown-up answers.

This isn’t a totally easy way to raise a teenager: “Why do I have to be home at midnight?” In a family like ours, “Because I’m the mom and I said so!” doesn’t cut it. In Ross’ most exhausting, argumentative moments, I have gritted my teeth and consoled myself: “At least I know she’s not going to do something stupid just because her friends are doing it.”

And, mostly, she hasn’t. We raised her to think for herself, and she does think — and, most of the time, she comes to very sensible conclusions.

If Ross called herself an atheist simply in imitation of me and her father, I’d have no reason to boast of her independence of mind. Perhaps at 18 she hasn’t put as much thought into her beliefs as we have, but I don’t think she’s merely parroting us. She knows that she is welcome – encouraged! – to explore what others believe (Woodstock is an excellent venue for that), and decide for herself what she thinks of it all. Her father and I remain open to discussion. Ross is no fool, and very likely someday she’ll persuade me to something I hadn’t previously agreed with. It wouldn’t be the first time.

My Desire to Live

I remember a crucial moment in our friendship, our first serious conversation. I believe it can be called serious in spite of the fact that we kept drinking wine mixed with Zabov and the effects were felt ever more intensely.

I remember it vividly because at some point during the evening I went to the bathroom and I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked at my image but I couldn’t look myself in the eyes and feel like myself, as usually happens. I felt as if I was a third person, outside, staring at Rossella. I had exited my body and to re-enter I had to show myself that I was me. I started repeating my name to myself, the various facts of my life. I said, “You’re Rossella! It’s you! It’s me. I am Rossella.”

The American universities, in their application forms, ask you to write a personal assertion. It has to be something revolutionary and original. “The committee needs to understand that you’re a fantastic and fascinating person!” I don’t know what the hell to write except that I’m a strange sort who for some reason is in India and when she looks at herself in the mirror has out-of-body experiences.

“…You’re far away and you have the chance to discover yourself and think about yourself…”

I want to be worthy of my 18 years, yet I’m going through a period of childish curiosity. I’m not an expert in psychology, but this seems to be an oral/tactile phase when I taste, try, and touch everything. I’d like to have an infallible plan for my future, an ideal career and the right studies to do it beforehand. But I only want to rest after India, to do all those things that I’m terrified I won’t otherwise find time to do.

I want to fall in love, I want to find that love that makes your head spin and your breath come short. I want that unstoppable passion, not a flame but a conflagration.

My desire to live is equal to my hunger.

When something is good, I can stuff myself in a way that is, to say the least, NOT feminine, enjoying the wonderful flavor and the sensation of fullness that comes afterwards. When I like something, I can’t say no even to myself. Then comes the day when I look at myself in the mirror and realize that what were handles now look like a love-lifesaver! So I decide to put the brakes on, to concentrate on other things (generally less pleasurable), to diet.

But just as hunger and the smell of chocolate always win out, so my mind, the ideas, the energy, never stop. Everything keeps going in an unstoppable cycle, like that of my metabolism! The analogy life-food is banal, but I’m tired and insatiable. I had to express SOMETHING of what was going through my head today.

It’s frustrating not believing in god. You’re on a mountain at the top of the world, you’re a crumb in an enormous landscape whose beauty equals its size and you ask yourself why you want to cry at such a view? Total green, then, kilometers away, you see some of the highest mountains in the world, covered in snow. You barely have time to turn around when a cloud covers it, sliding like cotton candy among the peaks.

Where the hell does all this beauty come from?

MomComm: I think I know where Ross was standing when she had these thoughts. I remember vividly once walking along the back of the Chukker (i.e., the north side of the hill above the school). I looked up and suddenly saw the far, high Himalayas, and I wondered how it was possible that something so beautiful was there, and I was here to appreciate it. I still didn’t believe in god, but I could see why many people believe that gods live in the Himalayas.

Fair Weather Holiday

original

#1

There are boring days.

There are exhausting days.

There are days when you’re not yourself or days when you have so much energy that you would like the world to turn upside down.

Then there are the days which change drastically from one moment to the next, days which start normally, then transform when you least expect it.

I wake up a little later than usual with my usual Thursday Indolence – a day when my schedule is heavy and time passes slowly. The Indolence is so great that I put on sweatpants (that aren’t even mine) for the first time since I’ve been here. I try to make myself decent with a pair of earrings, with total lack of success. Not that it matters much to many, but I’m dressed like crap.

Breakfast is disgusting, but I eat it all the same because I’m hungry, like every morning.

I walk listlessly to school, trying to ignore the rumors that today might be a “Fair Weather Holiday”, convinced that I’ll be disappointed in the end. It’s a tradition that the school announces a surprise holiday at the end of the monsoon. Like every week, the high school meets for an assembly in the largest room in the school. A teacher gives a religious talk and asks us to pray, the principal says the usual stuff.

But something changes.

The high school director walks towards the end of the aisle to the stage, as usual, to give announcements. Those seconds of total silence during his walk are always uncomfortable. He reaches the stage, rests his hands on the podium, and brings his mouth close to the microphone. He doesn’t do this in his normal nervous manner, aware of the severe stares of the students. Something is different, he’s not nervous. He simply smiles, with the smile of one who knows [something]. He goes ahead with the announcements, future plans, schedule changes, various tasks. His tone is bored, sick of it all. He knows. He smiles and he knows. He knows he’s wasting time. By this time the students are impatient – they’re making fun of us. Fifteen minutes of assembly, it’s a normal day! And yet we were so sure!

Finally he takes a breath, claps his fleshy hands on the podium, turns towards the principal. It’s a skit: they try to exchange jokes to keep us on tenterhooks when by now it’s so obvious. The school is already celebrating when finally he says it, announces that “today is a fair weather holiday”. He manages to take advantage of that fraction of a second before the yells get too loud to add that, not only do we not have lessons, we can go to the bazaar.

Something about this so unusual and incredibly beautiful day gives me and my new friends a great desire to overdo. Life is beautiful, we’re young, why not have an unforgettable day?

I learn that it comes naturally to me to be natural in any circumstance, and maybe that’s why I’m making new friends.

I’m without money, dressed like an American. Fortunately, I have my small digital camera with me; I’ve gotten into the habit of using it to make videos.

We enter a modest-seeming Indian restaurant and squeeze ourselves around one table. My new friends order a bunch of things whose names I don’t know, but I trust their authentic Indian good taste. I know some better than others, one girl whom I’ve never spoken with seems to know a lot about me and has no problem treating me as if she’s known me for a long time. For my part, I have no trouble telling her all my personal stuff.

We stuff ourselves on parathas, chole bhature, lassi, pau bhaji and aloo bhaji. Everything is exquisite.

MomComm: Ah, yes, the fair weather holiday. Other schools get surprise days off for bad weather, Woodstock gets one for good weather, to add a gift of extra freedom after being cooped up for so long by the relentless monsoon rain. I don’t remember what I did on any particular fair weather holiday, but I remember the breathless anticipation of hoping, expecting, knowing that it would be today, egged on by knowing little looks among the staff members, who try to keep the suspense going as long as possible, before the entire school explodes in joy.

The Junior-Senior Banquet

After weeks of various stresses and preparations, the famous JSB (Junior Senior Banquet) has arrived.

As soon as I woke up, coming out of my room, I saw many of my co-tenants wandering around the halls with their faces green with “vitalizing” masks and their hair wrapped in towels.

The estheticians from our favorite Beauty Parlor showed up at 10 to perfect nails and hairstyles, and remove any superfluous hair from more than 60 girls.

An entire day dedicated to beauty and excessive personal hygiene. But you need a day like that every now and then, especially for a group like us, so far away from our habitual consumerism!

Myself and one Sydney ventured into the kitchen, making cookies as a present for our dates.

Time passes among polishes, brushes, and tongs.

Finally it’s time to put on the dress that that poor tailor had to work so hard on, with all the modifications I asked him to make. The result is good, although I look like something out of a Disney film.

Our knights arrived, washed and ironed. The gray-black of their various jackets and ties contrast with the flowers and chocolates they bring. I walk down the stairs, awaiting the sound of general stupor… without success.

He who was supposed to be my cavalier shows up with a twinkling earring and the Ray Bans I had chosen for him the first day we went out together, and gives his flowers and chocolates to the plump little brown girl next to me, pretending that he doesn’t even see me. (The story of our breakup is complicated.)

My substitute date arrives late, with two sad roses and no chocolate, in fact I end up eating most of the cookies I made for him.

We arrive at school, where everything is decorated in a “Midnight Ball” theme, with stars and moons everywhere. Everything glitters, at a bar the younger students serve us cocktails – completely non-alcoholic. Every few seconds a flash blinds me.

When it becomes clear that my ex is eating his heart out (having seen the results of the dress, makeup, heels, etc.), I decide to make things worse by chatting with him, complimenting him for his sunglasses, and showing him that my nails are varnished in his favorite color. In the end, there’s nothing he can do but return to his date.

The food is extraordinarily good, although I eat fearing I will explode in my TIGHT little dress or, worse, make the dress explode! But everything goes smoothly, and then we’re dancing. Fortunately, my substitute date has a good sense of rhythm and, putting together our creative abilities, we manage to have fun making up any kind of dance.

Something lights up in me and I can’t help smiling with enjoyment when I note that my ex’s substitute date makes it impossible for him to look as good, by refusing to dance with him.

This is the first event anything like a party that I’ve attended in two months, what a strange sensation. The school dance – just like the OC! The girls look like sweets, or like little girls who play at dressing up like princesses. The boys are too tiny/skinny for their pinstriped suits. Everything was extremely ridiculous. I was at a party where adults were present and there was no alcohol available (almost) , and yet – I had fun!

Italian original