she unwraps the traditional gifts:
first, the brush-comb-and-mirror set,
pale pink marbling
with gilded edges—
they lie heavy in her hand;
then the jewelry box,
gold and cream
lined with velvet—
it plays “Fascination”
the new thirteen-year-old
hands them back to her mother and says
“Narcissus was a man.”
Narcissus was a man who fell in love with his own appearance—he spent all of his time gazing at his reflection in a pool of water.
***
Clytie
I can see you sitting there
looking up to your love
watching his every move
through the sky
like the girl who waited
every day at the corner
so to follow him to school
I knew his timetable
where he sat for lunch
and which afterschools he had practice
gradually your life changes
from human to plant
till you are finally immobilized
by your adulation
and unrequited love
if only you’d known
he wasn’t a god at all
but just some bunch of hot air
Clytie was a young woman in love with the Sun god. She would sit outside all day and watch him. Eventually she turned into a sunflower.
If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.
What? Why is honesty rude?
What kind of society considers honesty, truth, to be less important than—what? Social cohesion?
And that assumes that people will be offended by the truth. If the truth is about them, I suppose that’s an accurate assumption. But what does that say? About people.
And actually, even if the truth isn’t about them, I suspect many people would be offended by the truth when it challenges their own views. And what does that say?
More likely, truth has simply been trumped by self-interest. Because if honesty does offend, for whatever reason, then the truth-speaker will be alienated, ostracized, a social outcast. (Though, as far as I’m concerned, social inclusion is of dubious value…)
But if we’d’ve been honest every time rights collide, speaking up about the limits of freedoms, perhaps everyone wouldn’t feel so frickin’ entitled all the time. To everything.
If we’d’ve called each other out, on anything, on everything, we’d be leading more authentic lives.
Many of my neighbours have their tvs on all the time; as a result, they do very little thinking on their own. Not only because there is no silence, typically required for thought, but also because they’re exposing themselves so relentlessly to a worldview censored by a handful of conglomerates motivated primarily by self-interest. And then, because there’s nothing going on in their heads, they can’t stand the silence, so they keep the tv on all the time… But do I say “Shut that thing off and wake the fuck up!”? Of course not. That would be rude.
A couple of them also take RV trips. Do I point out that they’re leaving a huge ecological footprint, that they’ve contributed to climate change, that they’re partly responsible for the increasing number and severity of storms, and that, therefore, they’ve been rather selfish and inconsiderate? No. I ask whether they had a good trip.
When I see a woman performing femininity, do I tell her she’s making it hard for those of us who’d like to be taken seriously, for our knowledge and our skills, not for our clownface and shoestilts? No.
So as it is, superficiality has become a habit.
Those of us with half a brain, who are trying to live an authentic life, a morally responsible life—we’ve been silent too long. We’ve been polite too long. We’ve been dishonest too long.
So I’m sure this has happened at least once to every woman. You’re standing in front of an elevator, waiting for it, and a man comes up and presses the button.
Oh is that what that’s for? I saw the button, with an upward-pointing arrow, and I understand that elevators go up, but you know, I just never put the two together!!
I was just waiting for it to know that I was standing there.
I thought I might try to push the button, but then I thought, no, I’m just not strong enough.
So I was just standing there.
Or maybe I did push the button (you know, I just don’t know?), but the system doesn’t recognize buttons pushed by people with uteruses. Which is why you had to push the button. You’ve got a penis!
So good thing you happened to come by! I could still be standing there!
So the other day I started reading iron shadows by Steven Barnes. He’s apparently a bestselling author. Which is really disturbing.
Because four sentences in, he describes a woman as “a small wiry brunette”. Seriously? Does anyone actually identify women by their hair colour any more? That’s so—1940s. Isn’t it? I check. The book’s copyright is 1998. Okay. Guess not. Guess the tradition of objectifying women lives on.
We don’t do that with men. We don’t objectify them by their hair colour (or anything else, for that matter). Their hair colour for godsake. She’s a brunette. Or a blonde. Or a redhead. As if all women with brown hair are what, interchangeable? Because they’re completely defined by—the colour of their hair?
Not only that, but he had to mention her size. Small. Of course. If she’s going to be a heroine, she has to be small. I’m surprised he didn’t tell us how large her breasts are.
And whereas she’s small, he’s “enormous”. Of course he is.
Could we just reverse the description with nothing odd happening, that test for sexism? “The man, a small, wiry brunette with an ugly bruise on his left cheek, wore a yellow unisex utility uniform. The woman was enormous, but barely conscious.” Not only do you find it odd to hear a man called “a small, wiry brunette”, you no doubt found it a bit disgusting to hear the woman called “enormous”.
I am, goddamnit, still a little forgiving, so I read on.
But the very next woman—or maybe it’s the same woman, since the next bit happens two months earlier—the very next woman “nibbles” on dry wheat toast. Because we can’t have a woman actually eating with guilt-free enthusiasm.
And she has “an oval face framed by a cascade of small soft blonde ringlets”. Small again. And soft. And blonde. And ringlets. Ringlets?!
In case we missed it, “Her habit of peering out from behind them sometimes made her resemble a mischievous child peeking through a fence.”
In 1998. And published by Tor.
No wonder women can’t get published. As long as this insulting crap is deemed worthy. Is bestselling.
When will men finally get it? When will they finally get it right?
Robert J. Sawyer. He’s the only one. The only male sf writer who’s smart enough to create a non-sexist world.
No. And I tried so hard, Axio, after you left last night. I worked at it for another two hours. It’s just not clear at all. Can you help me again tonight?
All right—I should be able to get away.
Wonderful!!
Lasthenia, please be more discreet passing these notes back and forth. People will begin to notice us.
Well maybe it’s time they did. I get so angry! None of the other students have to pass notes, they murmur freely to each other whenever they have something to say. (Which is all the time.)
None of the other students have soprano voices.
None that we know of. Haven’t you wondered about that new student? The one who sits in the back—never says a word— Also has a beard.
Stop now, Plato has come in.
See that’s the problem with this disguise. Not only does it cut us of from the men, it cuts us off from each other too.
But otherwise we couldn’t be here, and we’d be even more cut off. Now please! If Plato sees us, he’ll think we aren’t paying attention, and I’d hate to offend him so!
Do you think he’s going to continue with the concept of justice? I was thinking about that on my way here this morning. And I think the problem is that we associate justice with goodness. Look what happens if we don’t do that: something can be just without necessarily being good.
That’s an interesting idea. So the person to whom the guns were entrusted gives them back when the owner, though no longer in his right mind, requests them—the action can indeed be just, but not good.
Yes, and it can be just to charge everyone the same amount (or to charge anything at all) for medical services, but not good.
But that doesn’t get us any closer to defining justice, to deciding what is and is not just.
Well to me, it’s a lot like mathematics.
Meaning you don’t understand it?
Very funny. No, meaning it’s a matter of equations, of strict equivalences.
Go on.
Well that’s all very fine with numerical relations, but it’s impossible in human relations—unless we treat people like numbers. An example: for one child, taking away a toy is punishment, for another, the mere suggestion of it is enough.
Because the children are different emotionally, the impact will be the same even the action needs to be different.
Exactly, because numbers just have quantity, but people have quality as well—emotional quality, physiological quality, situational quality.
Hm. So are we saying justice has no place in human relations?
Oh shit, Aristotle’s getting up to speak. If he rants and raves about women again like he did yesterday, I swear I won’t be silent this time.
No, Lasthenia, you mustn’t! If you speak out, all will be lost!
If I don’t, all will be lost. If he’s allowed to continue, uncontested, he will soon persuade the others—you know how he can talk. And he’s rich too.
So?
Well, don’t you see? Plato is getting old. Unless he names a successor, the Academy will close, then Aristotle will open his own school. He knows Plato will never ask him to carry on the Academy, his ideas are too different. And as far as I know, he hasn’t named anyone. Has he sent any word to you about it?
To me?
Well why not? You heard what Speusippus said he said about you, “Axiotheo alone has the mind bright enough to grasp my ideas.”
Yes but that doesn’t mean he’s going to name me his successor. Sometimes I think he knows I’m really Axiothea. And he knows as well as I that if the next director were a woman, the state would stop its funding. And unlike Aristotle, my father is not physician to the King—I have no private backing to keep a school going.
What about Samothea? She was head of the Hyperborean University in Cornwall.
True enough. I don’t know how she managed. I would think enrolment as well as funding would decrease. But she’s a Briton, things must be different there. No, Plato would be wise to name Lycurgus or Demosthenes.
Those airheads? Maybe they speak well, but they say nothing.
How would you know? You never listen! You’re always too busy distracting me with these notes!
I listen when there’s something worth listening to. And Aristotle is not worth listening to.
Give him a chance.
A chance? Did you hear what he just said? Axio, I have to speak out!
No, Lasthenia, be careful of winning a battle only to lose a war! The time isn’t right!
The time is never right!
That’s not true. Wait until this mess with the Macedonians has passed. Everything’s at loose ends now, our voice will get lost.
But when everything’s tight, there’s no room for our voice.
No, listen, we have to wait until the men feel secure. If we rise now, we’re just one more threat. Their response will be irrational, flung out of fear. When things are settled, when they are sure of their own position, then they can listen to the arguments about ours.
No! They were ‘secure’ last century. And look what happened. Already Aspasia and Diotima are unacknowledged, forgotten. We hear only of Socrates, not of the women who taught him. And yet Diotima’s social philosophy and her theories on nature have never been surpassed. And Elpinice and Aglaonice—what has happened to them, to their work? The surer the men get of their ‘position’, the surer they are to ‘put us in ours’! Perictyone alone is remembered, her papers are still read, but only because she’s Plato’s mother; you watch, as soon as he’s dead, she’ll be buried too!
No, that won’t happen, I don’t believe it!
It will! Axio, it has! Who is credited with the golden mean concept? Pythagoras, not Theano! She was brilliant! Mathematics, medicine, physics, psychology, named successor to his Institute at Croton—but is her name ever mentioned? And Theoclea, and Myla, Arignote, Damo— Axio, it’s gone on long enough! We have to do something, we have to speak out!
We?
No—you’re quite right—you!
Me?! You’re crazy! Why me?
Well no one knows me from a hole in the ground. But if Axio—if Axio stands up as a woman— Plato will have to acknowledge you! You’re his favourite—he’ll have to support you! And so will all the other students: either that or retract their past judgements, admit error. And you know how unlikely that is.
Oh Lasthenia, I don’t know. You don’t know what you’re asking. As I said, I think Plato knows. And if I expose myself, I expose him. I’d be putting him in a very awkward position. You’re right, he is old, and what with the way things are, he may lose the Academy altogether if I— No. I owe him, he’s let me attend his classes, even though I am a woman.
You’d be putting him in an awkward position? Look at us! Plato has given you less than you deserve! That’s no cause for gratitude! You owe him nothing!
But Lasthenia, you’re exaggerating about Aristotle. His system of formal logic, remember his seminar last week? You must admit that what he proposes is an excellent way of thinking.
Does he think we’re capable of it?
His three types of soul, vegetative, sensitive, rational—
Ask him which type women have.
Happiness as the aim of all human action—
Whose happiness?
Lasthenia, he’s not that bad!
Axio listen to him! “For the female is, as it were, a mutilated male”—not that bad??
Axio, I beg you—think of Arete. She’s eleven now. In a few years, she’ll be ready to come to the Academy, she can’t learn everything from her father. She’s very bright, you know that. I gave her Perictyone’s paper On Wisdom to read a fortnight ago. Do you know, she understood it? And questioned very well! Do you want her to bind her breasts too, paste on a beard and learn to swagger—do you condemn her as well to silence in school?
All right. All right. Maybe it is time. But Lasthenia, I can’t stand up to Aristotle.
What do you mean you can’t stand up to Aristotle! For a man interested in empirical data, he seems positively blind to the reality of women. Just tell him the facts, tell him what we can do, what we are. And his logic—it’s so weak, even I could make it collapse.
But look at who’s here—they’ll laugh— I can’t speak. I’ll squeak.
Axio, I’ve heard you speak. You’re intelligent, you’re articulate—you can so speak. Just pretend you’re speaking to me Axio, as you do every evening—go, you can do it!
…all males had to have their DNA on file with the government.
…all newborns had to have their paternity established by law.
…all males discovered to be fathers had their wages garnished at the source to support the mother of the child for six years (assuming she would be the one to be with the child 24/7 for the first six years and could not therefore obtain employment and therefore financial self-support) and the child for 18 years (half-support from the 7th year).
I have lived a lone life. For a long time, well into my thirties, I attributed that to my personality — I’m a loner, not a joiner. I also attributed it to my work life — part-time, relief, occasional, and done-at-home, none of which tend to result in the development of collegial friendships. And I noticed early on that any female friendships I had quickly dissolved when the other woman got married. And especially when she had kids. And friendship with men simply isn’t possible: time after time I tried, but it seems only gay men can accept a woman as a friend; straight men were always after a sexual/romantic relationship. Or assumed I was.
And all this was okay mostly. Between the minimum work-for-pay to pay the bills, the household chores typically done by the husband as well as those typically done by the wife (though very little of each, admittedly), the passion I had with being a composer and a writer (first literary, then academic, now comic) and a runner — there was no time for friendships, no time for social activities. But now, now that finally my obsession with my self is smouldering…
Now I seek kin. Well, that’s not exactly right. I’ve always sought kin. And mostly found them. Dead. Chopin, Socrates. Or unreachable by fame. Vangelis, MacKinnon.
Now I seek kin who are alive and accessible. And find none. I have too little in common with women who have spent the last thirty years married (and, worse, mothering). And even less in common with the men who have spent the last thirty years married. Lesbian women? The few I’ve met, like straight men, seem to be seeking attachment. And despite my non-attachment to a man and my very feminist views, my hormones are still — whenever they make their presence known — straight.
So where are the unattached straight women? Am I the only straight woman to have gone through life solo?
A while ago I received a summons to appear for jury selection. So I dutifully drove to the courthouse on the day in question ready to establish my fitness to serve. No, that’s not true. I drove to the courthouse on the day in question ready to answer their questions – and curious as to whether one or both of the lawyers would decide they’d rather not have me on the jury.
The judge welcomed us — all hundred of us, it was standing room only — and briefly described the upcoming trial and the jury selection process. He then said, “If there is anyone with hearing problems who has trouble hearing what’s being said in the court room, please raise your hand.” The process was off to an impressive start, I thought.
We were a motley crew of housewives, electricians, social workers, administrative assistants, metal fabricators, and restaurant owners. I know, because as we were called one by one to stand before the lawyers, that information was provided to them. We weren’t asked if we had any prejudices, if we had any issues with the law that had been broken, or if we would be able to render a fair decision. (‘Yes, but the relevant issue is whether my prejudices would get in the way’; ‘Yes, I don’t think possessing marijuana should be illegal, nor do I think selling it should be illegal – especially as long as selling alcohol is lega’l; and ‘That depends on what evidence is presented and how it’s presented – and your definition of ‘fair’.’) Which means that the lawyers’ decisions to accept or reject us were based solely on what we looked like and what we did for a living. So much for prejudices and rendering a fair decision.
Oh, and we were asked to look the accused in the eye. (“AAGH!”)
And then, if we were accepted, we were asked this question: “Do you swear that you shall well and truly try and true deliverance make between our sovereign the Queen and the accused at the bar, whom I have in charge, and a true verdict give, according to the evidence, so help you God.” Well, ya should’ve asked that before. Because first, I don’t know what the hell “true deliverance make” means. Second, as for being able to give a true verdict, if we knew what the truth of the matter was, we wouldn’t have to have a trial now, would we? And third, I’m atheist, so I’m not putting my hand on that. ‘Reject’ both attorneys say at once.
Well, no they didn’t, actually, because I never got a chance to say any of that. The required thirteen jurors were selected before my name was called. And I have no idea why the chosen thirteen were chosen. Why was the college instructor rejected? Because she might ask too many questions and get too few answers and, therefore, hang the jury? Because it would be too inconvenient for her to be away from her job for two weeks? And why was the steelworker accepted? Because he smiled at the judge and seemed like an awshucks kinda guy? Or because his employer would reimburse him so the five dollars an hour we’d be getting paid wouldn’t be quite so appalling. (Mind you, that’s just if the trial goes on for more than ten days; for the first ten days, we aren’t paid at all — which means it may well cost us to be a juror, given the ten days’ lost income.)
What’s even more appalling, of course, is that someone’s future is at stake. Whether or not the accused spends time, possibly years, in prison is up to people who aren’t even getting paid.
‘Course why should they be? It’s not like they’re qualified. Their names were drawn out of a hat and they were chosen largely on the basis of their appearance.
All of which BEGS the question, Why don’t we have professional jurors? People who are trained not only to recognize and resist personal prejudice, but to recognize and resist loaded language. People who understand the difference between fact and opinion, and who know what an argument is, and the difference between an inductive argument and a deductive one. People who can identify and evaluate unstated assumptions, and who understand relevance, the difference between correlation and causation, and the difference between necessary and sufficient conditions. People who understand the many ways to reason incorrectly and who know how to evaluate personal testimony, sources, and studies. People who are paid according to their qualifications and contribution.
Seriously, why don’t we have professional jurors? Is it because we want a jury of our peers to decide our fate? Why in the world would most people want that? Most people’s peers couldn’t tell the difference between good evidence and bad evidence if their – your – life depended on it! Is it because we think that in a democracy such decisions are best made by the common people? Right, well, maybe that’s the problem with democracy. We have professional judges; our judges are trained to be clear and critical thinkers (notwithstanding the one mentioned above). And since jurors often bear more responsibility for the judgements to be made in our courts, they too should be trained, qualified to do the job.
While both ‘the soaps’ and ‘the game’ have been criticized as poor viewing choices, only the soaps have been dismissed as fluff. However, a close examination reveals that, in fact, the soaps have more heft than the game.
In both cases, the central theme, and that which drives the action, is winning. In the soaps, what the players are trying to win is money, power, love, and/or happiness. These are pretty substantial goals. In the game, however, the players are trying to win – the game. Frankly, it verges on circularity (you play the game in order to win the game), which comes close to utter triviality.
And while both sets of players use strategy, often involving manipulation, the strategy of the soaps is considerably more complicated than ‘Go left, fake, then go right.’ In fact, I would venture to say that the soaps is to the game what chess is to checkers.
With regard to setting, the soaps have a bit of an edge: while a well-furnished room is the norm, at least the set does change. (One has the well-furnished office, the well-furnished den, the well-furnished living room…)
With respect to dialogue, again the soaps have the edge: there is some. (Actually, I expect the game players speak to each other too, but for some reason we never get to hear their dialogue; instead, we are privy only to a voice-over commentary, explaining the action, rather like a Greek chorus – as patronizing now as it no doubt was then.)
While the characters of the soaps are more gender-inclusive, the characters of the game are more race-inclusive. (And in both cases, they’re rich.) I’d call it a tie here.
As for plot, again I’d call it a tie: in both cases, the events are terribly predictable. I’d venture to say one is hard put to distinguish one game from another or one soap from another – only the characters give it away.
In the cinematography category, the game is superior for its long shots, but the soaps are superior for their close-ups. Again, a tie. However, in the soundtrack category, the soaps walk away with the prize.
As for sex and violence, I’m afraid the soaps lead the game on both counts. There is simply no sex in the game – unless you count the occasional ass-pat (but that is so very elementary, it hardly even counts as foreplay). And while there is a lot more physical contact in the game, of a violent-seeming nature, and while injury must therefore be frequent, it is seldom permanent; in the soaps, however, people get hurt all the time, in rather long-lasting ways. Death is even rarer in the game; not so in the soaps.
One might point out that the game is real, whereas the soaps are not, and on that basis alone claim victory for the game. Unfortunately this very ‘advantage’ backfires: given the level of injury and death in the soaps, it’s to its credit that it’s not for real; in the game, however, real people get hurt.
Tally up the points and I rest my case: the soaps are pretty substantial stuff compared to the schoolyard play of the game.
I am so very sick and tired of hearing ‘I can do whatever I want on my own property!’ The latest instance concerns a neighbour who has stuck some of those new solar lights in front of her cottage, lakeside of course.
Thing is, they don’t have an on/off switch. So what she’s done on her own property means the rest of us will have to see her lights every night, all night, for the rest of our lives.
If we lived in the city, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad; they’d get ‘lost’ in their surroundings. But we live on a lake in the forest. Where the stars are amazing and the moon glimmers across the water. And now there are a dozen lights at eye level a little to my left whenever I look out at night. They stand out like a middle finger.
I can understand the desire for outdoor lights in order to see where you’re going, but then turn them off when you go to bed. Or in this case, cover them. And I can understand the possibility of all-night lights deterring wildlife, but motion-sensor lights would be a better choice, if only for the startle effect.
Please, people, are you really that stupid? Do you really not see that what you do, even on your own property, affects others? On that basis, those others most certainly do have a right to ask you not to do something.
In the same way, your pre-1980 use of spray cans is justifiably subject to my complaint. It’s why I’m at risk for skin cancer now. Your excessive use of fossil fuels was partly responsible for the flood or drought that destroyed my house. (Let’s say.) Your actions often have consequences for me. Not immediately and not directly and maybe you’re too stupid to see any other kind of consequence, but nevertheless, most certainly, what you do affects me.
The really sad thing is that my neighbour doesn’t even notice the lights. She doesn’t believe me when I say I do. She’s that desensitized to her environment. Or that inattentive. She thinks I’m exaggerating the intrusion. I received the same response when I complained about the bright red Home Hardware sign that suddenly appeared nailed to a tree at the end of the lane. And when I’ve complained about any one of a hundred noises – dirt bikes, atvs, leaf blowers, weed trimmers, generators, chain saws. Those of us who see things, who hear things, those of us who pay attention to what’s around us, we’re the ones to suffer. The dullards who go through life with a ‘What?’ expression permanently on their face, who wouldn’t notice, well, anything, they’re the ones living happily. So in order not to go crazy, I wear earplugs most of the time now. And my reading glasses, so everything more than six feet past the tip of my nose is out of focus. The alternative is to become as oblivious as the rest of ‘em.
"We License Plumbers and Pilots - Why Not Parents?"At Issue: Is Parenthood a Right or a Privilege? ed. Stefan Kiesbye (Greenhaven, 2009); Current Controversies: Child Abuse, ed. Lucinda Almond (Thomson/Gale, 2006); Seattle Post-Intelligencer (October 2004)
"A Humanist View of Animal Rights"New Humanist September 99; The New Zealand Rationalist and Humanist Winter 98; Humanist in Canada Winter 97
have been previously published in Canadian Woman Studies, Herizons, Humanist in Canada, The Humanist, and The Philosopher's Magazine - contact Peg for acknowledgement details.
ImpactAn extended confrontation between a sexual assault victim and her assailants, as part of an imagined slightly revised court process, in order to understand why they did what they did and, on that basis, to make a recommendation to the court regarding sentence does not go … as expected.
What Happened to TomTom, like many men, assumes that since pregnancy is a natural part of being a woman, it’s no big deal: a woman finds herself pregnant, she does or does not go through with it, end of story. But then …
Aiding the EnemyWhen Private Ann Jones faces execution for “aiding the enemy,” she points to American weapons manufacturers who sell to whatever country is in the market.
Bang BangWhen a young boy playing “Cops and Robbers” jumps out at a man passing by, the man shoots him, thinking the boy’s toy gun is real. Who’s to blame?
ForeseeableAn awful choice in a time of war. Whose choice was it really?
Exile (full-length drama) Finalist, WriteMovies; Quarterfinalist, Fade-In.
LJ lives in a U . S. of A., with a new Three Strikes Law: first crime, rehab; second crime, prison; third crime, you’re simply kicked out – permanently exiled to a designated remote area, to fend for yourself without the benefits of society. At least he used to live in that new U. S. of A. He’s just committed his third crime.
What Happened to Tom (full-length drama) Semifinalist, Moondance.
This guy wakes up to find his body’s been hijacked and turned into a human kidney dialysis machine – for nine months.
Aiding the Enemy (short drama 15min)
When Private Ann Jones faces execution for “aiding the enemy,” she points to American weapons manufacturers who sell to whatever country is in the market.
Bang Bang (short drama 30min) Finalist, Gimme Credit; Quarter-finalist, American Gem.
When a young boy playing “Cops and Robbers” jumps out at a man passing by, the man shoots him, thinking the boy’s toy gun is real. Who’s to blame?
Foreseeable (short drama 30min)
An awful choice in a time of war. Whose choice was it really?
What is Wrong with this Picture?
Nothing. There’s no reason women can’t be the superordinates and men the subordinates. But life’s not like that (yet).
Minding Our Own Business A collection of skits (including “The Price is Not Quite Right,” “Singin’ in the (Acid) Rain,” “Adverse Reactions,” “The Band-Aid Solution,” and “See Jane. See Dick.”) with a not-so-subtle environmental message
Rot in Hell A soapbox zealot and an atheist face off…
