religion

Scene from an L.A. Thanksgiving

March 22, 2026March 22, 2026 by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

THANKSGIVING 1991

The sweet, cloying scent of death was veiled by the sharpness of cleanser in the antiseptic lobby of the Home. Chrome handrails lined the light pink walls. A hunched elderly man clutched onto the railing as he shuffled along in slow motion. Each step looked pained. Pasty white skin, his eyelids drooped over his small black eyes which seemed vacant, as if not only his body but his mind had abandoned him.

I took in the scene and it momentarily robbed me of breath. Old scared me, sometimes worse than not getting there.

Grandma sat perched on the edge of the maroon love seat, her floral print polyester dress hung to her calves and gathered tightly around her short, crossed legs. She clutched the strap of her white vinyl purse between her bony hands resting in her lap.

“Well, it’s about time,” She sniped, as if I were late. It was 4:00 p.m., exactly when I was told to be there.

“You look lovely, Grandma.” I leaned down and kissed my grandmother’s soft white cheek. The old woman gave me a vain smile. At 84, she had flawless skin, virtually wrinkle-free, and her steel gray eyes were still rather piercing.

“And you look like you got your clothes at the Salvation Army. Why don’t you dress properly?” She spoke in a clipped English accent though she’d lived in the States for over seventy years.

I wore my hole-free black jeans, and oversized beige cotton shirt, which I actually tucked in. I even put on a bra for the occasion. The woman was delusional expecting more than that. “You ready to go, Gram?”

She stood and straightened her dress, then squared her petite shoulders and rose her chin up. “I’ve been ready to get out of here since the day your mother stuck me in this place.”

We walked to my Civic parked in the lot behind the building. I was annoyed by her bitterness, my mother’s effort to her care more than sufficient in my view. It had been the right decision to have her committed. Gram almost killed herself overdosing on medication she’d mistakenly taken twice within minutes on more than a few occasions. She was losing her memory, and her once sharp mind could no longer manage life on her own.

It was getting dark, but bits of electric blue sky peeked through the thickening clouds. The air was crystal clean, sharp with moisture. A storm was coming. It was easy to feel in L.A., maybe because they’re so rare. I settled Gram in the passenger seat then took a deep breath, sucked in the sweet wetness and released it slowly to shake off my growing anxiety.

“Try that lane, it’s moving. Don’t just sit here. Go around them. You should get off the freeway, the side streets are faster…” Grandma had a lot of suggestions though she’d never driven a day in her life. Between driving tips she talked incessantly about the ‘crazy people’ she now lived with. She swore her roommate stole her ruby necklace, one she claimed she got on Safari in Africa, though she’d never owned one and had never been anywhere but England until her teens, then the States the rest of her life. She was sure her neighbor across the hall was coming into her room at night to watch her sleep, though had no explanation why. Then she was sure she’d forgotten something back at the Home but couldn’t remember what, then couldn’t remember where we were going. She remembered after prompting, but then didn’t want to go to her evil daughter’s who had stolen everything she owned and had her ‘put away.’

I pulled into my parents’ driveway, alongside the row of rosebushes my mom and I had planted years back, a long narrow island of long-stem yellow and red roses that separated our driveway from the neighbor’s. I stopped behind my sister’s minivan, turned off the car, and looked at grandma who stared straight ahead, seemingly unaware we had arrived.

“You ready to go inside?”

“I told you, I’m not going in there. Why are we here?”

“For Thanksgiving, Gram, remember?”

“Well, I have nothing to be thankful for. Take me home.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” It was cliché and a lie and I felt stupid for saying it, parroting my mother’s Pollyanna tripe. I considered telling grandma I know what hopeless feels like, and I too lived with a pervasive sadness and fear of the future, afraid of what’s to be, or not to be. But there was no point really. Gram didn’t acknowledge feelings, and she never showed fear. “Are you coming into the house with me or not?”

Grandma refused to get out of the car and I wasn’t about to make her. She’d always been contentious, but she’d had a quick wit and delivered it with sharp humor, both of which left her years ago, as did the radiant beauty she once possessed. She was on the fringe of life now, on her way out and almost invisible. Surely she felt it too. Maybe so many old people lose their minds because the reality of their marginal existence is just too degrading. And terror consumed me right then, bearing witness to my future.

I got out of my car and took a deep breath of crisp, wet air, then released it slowly as I went to the back of my Civic and lifted the hatchback, gathered the pie, and the green bean casserole I’d made this morning, then slammed the hatch shut and walked to my parents’ Valley-Ranch, single-story home.

Roasting turkey and smoky firewood wafted from inside as I stepped up onto the landing and then came through the iron screen door into the house I was raised, yet never really felt at home in. I passed the bookshelves neatly packed with encyclopedias and novels into the spacious, modern living room. A large open space wrapped around the centralized fireplace to the open dining area.

Dad tended the fire and poked an iron rod at the burning logs. Sparks flared and sucked up into the chimney. My brother-in-law, Larry, seemed short and narrow standing next to my 6’3″, 220-pound father, though the men looked remarkably alike, even with twenty-five years between them. Each had speckled gray hair and short-cropped beards and wire-rim glasses. Dad wore navy Dockers and a long sleeve flannel shirt. As always, Larry looked like he’d just walked off the set of The Big Chill — Levi’s, maroon Izod sweater, and those over-complicated sneakers.

“Hey,” I announced. “Happy Thanksgiving.” I set the food I’d brought on the slate bench that wrapped two sides of the fireplace, then kissed and hugged my father. He gathered me up in his big arms and drew me in against his barrel chest.

“Hello, Baby.” It was his only term of endearment for me. “Happy Thanksgiving.” He released me and I felt abandoned amidst the pack again.

“Hey Lar. How ya doing?” I inquired when he didn’t.

“Good.” That was it. Larry didn’t turn my question around.

“Grandma’s in the car and won’t come out. Can you please go talk to her, dad?”

My father sighed heavily and shook his head before handing the iron poker to Larry and going outside. Larry rested the end of the poker on the slate bench, held it like a staff and stared at the fire, clearly uninterested in engaging with me. He was a devout Jew, a conservative, directed, precise, with no interest in abstractions like feelings. And Larry dismissed most anyone who wasn’t of like mind or income.

I collected my food and went into the kitchen. “Happy Thanksgiving everyone!” And that moment I felt glad to be there, to have family to be with. They were all I had, all I’d ever really had, as my mother so often reminded me. Everyone else came and went in L.A.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” everyone said in unison, except Scott. My eight-year-old nephew sat at the kitchen table and consumed a finger full of the custard from the pumpkin roll he’d taken a scoop out of when he thought no one was looking.

My sister Carrie sat in front of baby Adam strapped in the portable car seat on the kitchen table. She was feeding him spoonful’s of mushed-up yams that dribbled out the side of his mouth. The gross factor didn’t seem to faze her. Her mass of flaming red hair was pulled back into a tight braid and hung down her back practically to her waist. She wore a Spanish-style gauze dress with a colorful, rather loud floral pattern of red roses, and mid-calf tan cowboy boots with sharply pointed tips.

I set the food down on the stovetop above the oven where my six-year-old niece, Jessie, stood basting the turkey. Mom stood behind her, hand over her granddaughter’s and together they squeezed the soft plastic ball, sucking up gravy into the tube then squirting it back on the bird.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Auntie Ray.” Jessie looked adorably cute in her black velvet dress, her long, strawberry blond hair pulled back in a high ponytail.

“Happy Thanksgiving, baby.” I whispered as I bent to kiss my niece’s head, and before fully straightening I received my mother’s quick kiss on the cheek. Mom was barely five feet, and shrinking with age.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Dolly.” My mother had three terms of endearment for me. Dolly, Face, and ‘my baby,’ as I was her last born. “Is Grandma giving you grief?”

“She still in the car. Dad went to get her.”

“Well, she wouldn’t come in if I went out there.” Mom’s aged, sun-baked skin glowed with beads of sweat that ran along the side of her gaunt face onto the brown plastic frame of her large glasses. “She only listens to your father.” She took the baster from Jessie, pushed the turkey back in the oven and shut the door, then wiped her forehead on her shirtsleeve. “Go wash your hands, Jessie Rose,” she instructed her granddaughter. “Then see if you can help your mother with the coleslaw.”

“I’m feeding Adam now, Mom.” Carrie was in a huff. “I’ll get to it in a minute. I told you I should have brought Maria to help.”

Mom didn’t respond. She busied herself and tuned out, a technique she’d honed to avoid conflict. She got a carton of whipping cream from the fridge, poured the cream into a plastic bowl then set up the electric mixer.

I retrieved the coleslaw my sister brought from the fridge and took it back to the kitchen table. A bottle filled with dressing was on top of the cabbage mixture and I poured it over the shredded leaves until the bottle was drained. Jessie sat down at the table next to her older brother and started coloring, but within moments they were fighting, Scott hording the markers regardless of his sister’s shrill protests. Carrie ignored them. Like our mother, Carrie had the ability to shut out what disturbed her. But the kids bickering annoyed the hell out of me.

“Knock it off, you guys.” I spoke loudly to be heard over the mixer. “Scott, give your sister half the pens. And Jess, don’t grab. Ask.” I got Jessie’s attention, but Scott grabbed the only pen Jessie had out of her small hand. She tried to grab it back nearly knocking a stack of dishes off the table. “Stop! Now! Both of you.” The last bit sounded like I was screaming because mom had switched off the mixer. I grabbed half of Scott’s markers and set them in front of Jess. Carrie looked up from feeding Adam and narrowed her eyes at me, but at least the kids stopped fighting.

“This is ridiculous, Mother.” Carrie stood, wiped her son clean with the cloth she kept on her shoulder. “There is nothing for the kids to do here anymore. You don’t even have cable. They don’t want to be here. And I don’t blame them. They can entertain themselves all day at home. We should just have Thanksgiving at my house from now on.”

“No way,” I protested. I’d never felt welcome in Carrie’s home, always the unwanted guest she felt she had to invite. I looked at my mom standing at the counter near the sink, poised with the mixer over the bowl of whipped cream. I recognized my mother’s pinched expression and felt her rush of distress. “We’ve had it at home since we were born. Thanksgiving should be here.”

“You have no idea what a total hassle it is dragging three kids everywhere.” Carrie picked her son up out of the car seat and held him to her. “You only have yourself to worry about, Rachel. It’s harder for everyone having it here. If you won’t think of me, then at least think of Mom.”

I stared at my mother. “I am.” Mom looked down, busied herself with the cream. Thanksgiving was the only holiday our mother still hosted. She’d mentioned many times how much she enjoyed preparing for it, looked forward to “having the whole family safe in the nest,” even if just for a night. Carrie had co-opted all birthdays, Hallmark occasions and every Jewish holiday from Hanukkah to Passover at her 5,600 square foot McMansion in Agoura Hills. Maids and caterers graced these parties which made it easier for all in some ways. But what Carrie didn’t get is that everyone needs to feel needed, and slowly but surely, she was robbing our mother of purpose, and pleasure.

“So, I hear you’re dating that new guy you’ve been playing racquetball with.” The words seemed to fall out of mom’s mouth as if to fill the exaggerated hush.

I glared at my sister. “Well, we’re not exactly dating…”

“What do you call it then?” Carrie held her son and stroked his back in slow circles. “You’ve been playing racquetball for almost a month like every other day with him. And he’s taking you to Love Letters Saturday night, in Beverly Hills. If that’s not meant to impress, I don’t know what is.” Adam laid his little chin on her shoulder, looked at me, and burped. “I’m going to go put him down, Mom.”

“Night, beautiful.” I whispered softly as he passed, his saucer blue eyes half-mast. And I was sucked into the black hole of Want as I stood at the table tossing the coleslaw.

“Well, are you seeing him or not?” Mom handed each of the kids a whipped cream coated circle of blades. She used to give them to Carrie and me. My mouth literally watered as I watched Scott and Jessie lick off the cream.

“We’re just friends, Mom. We go out to dinner after racquetball sometimes, and we’ve hung out the last couple of weekends, but I really don’t think it’ll go anywhere.”

“Why not? And how do you know this after a month?” Mom’s thin, painted red lips stayed in a tight, flat line. “What’s he do?”

“He runs his own company shipping freight. He’s a consultant, sort of like me, but a lot more successful.”

“And what’s his name?”

I had my mother’s attention, and smiled. “Lee.”

“Does he have a last name?”

I knew why she was asking, of course. “Messer. Lee Messer.”

“Messer…” She contemplated aloud as she scooped the whipped cream into a crystal serving goblet. Then her countenance filled with lightness and she smiled. “Isn’t that Jewish?”

I shook my head, annoyed. I refrained from revealing him agnostic, afraid of dimming her brightness I was momentarily basking in. “What difference does it make, Mother? A last name doesn’t brand him a believer, and if he was, I couldn’t be with him. I’m still an atheist, mom.”

“Then you’re an idiot.” She said it deadpan, like the words just fell out of her mouth without filtering through her brain. She didn’t intend to be mean. It was almost an expression of endearment. She meant ‘idiot’ sort of like ‘my beautiful baby…’ “You condemn yourself to the fringes and then complain you’re lonely. And I know you are. What woman wouldn’t be still single and childless at 33?” My mother had a way of proceeding from instinct rather than intellect and was clueless how cutting her words were. “Why can’t you just accept who you are and embrace your community like your sister. I guarantee if you did, you’d find the life you’re still looking for.” She shook her head and turned away to put the filled goblet of cream in the fridge then went to the stove and stirred the pot of chicken noodle soup.

“Living among the faithful whose belief in money supersedes the moral gospel they espouse isn’t the community I’m looking for, mother.” I sighed and shrugged my shoulders to shed my mounting tension. “And over scheduling every minute of the day with extraneous activities so I don’t have time to think, or create anything, isn’t the life I want either. I don’t want to be Carrie, Mom.”

“I don’t want you to be your sister, Rachel. I want you to be happy, and taken care of.” She stared at me like she was stating the obvious, then her expression softened to empathy, and she frowned. “My beautiful Face, why do you always insist on the hardest path.”

I’d blown it again, pushed my mom away. Non-conformity was disruptive to the woman’s psyche. And Lonely crept in, abandoning me to the outside again from the chasm now between us. I set the coleslaw aside, near Jessie. My niece was coloring a house with stickish smiling people inside. Scott’s picture showed planes dropping bombs and people on the ground getting blown up. He looked up at me.

“I don’t believe in God either, Grandma.” He stared at me as he spoke to her.

“Oh, of course you do.” Mom glared at me over the stove top but spoke to her grandson. “You don’t know what you believe at eight.”

“I did. I knew from the beginning of Saturday school what the rabbis were preaching was a bunch of crap.” I was being combative, to be sure, but my mother was so dismissive that I felt the need to validate my nephew’s pejorative statement. “And if religion is so damn important to family togetherness, why did it break up ours?” She’d chased away her first child, my half-brother, when Keith converted to Born Again Christianity to marry.

“You shut up now, Rachel. Don’t encourage him.” It was hard to see my mom’s brown eyes glaring at me behind the large glasses, but I felt her irritation.

Mom busied herself, and I felt bad I’d come back at her so aggressively. Her reaction to Keith’s conversion had fundamentally scared me. Though she didn’t disown him exactly, she made it impossible for him to attend family occasions. The last time Keith brought his family to Thanksgiving, mom cornered his 4-year-old son — her first grandchild — in the kitchen and told him he was really a Jew, instead of the Evangelos Christian my nephew was being raised. I feared the battle to come when, if I had kids, since I had no intention of raising them with any religion.

“You two at it again?” Dad scowled at me as he came into the kitchen. I felt the familiar twinge of fear, not just from his size, but growing up I’d felt the wrath of his temper. “You still fighting windmills, baby? Don’t confuse your mother with facts, Rachel.”

Mom stuck her tongue out at him in a coquettish kind of way, just the tip, childlike. Dad laughed.

“Grandma and Larry are cowering in the living room so they don’t have to listen to you two go at each other. And I don’t blame them.” Dad went to the liquor cabinet above the utility closet in the pantry and got the big bottle of gin, brought it back in the kitchen and proceeded to make martinis.

“We almost ready to sit down?” Carrie came into the kitchen and dad handed her his first completed drink. “Thank you, Dad.”

“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.” Mom opened the oven and pulled out the turkey. My seemingly fragile little mother was impressive to watch, straddling the open oven door and hauling that heavy bird onto the stove top. The turkey could have made the cover shot for the November issue of Good Housekeeping. It was golden brown, dripping with juice, and it smelled of garlic, oregano and paprika.

“For you, my dear.” Dad handed mom a martini.

Mom wiped her hands, then the sweat from her face on the dishtowel and then took the wide rimmed glass with a gracious, “Thank you, honey.” She leaned back against the counter and contentedly sipped her martini. “Why don’t you girls start serving the salad.”

Carrie put her drink on the linoleum countertop and got the salad from the fridge. “Jessie Rose. Please go into the dining room and get everyone to sit down for dinner. Scott, go help your sister, please.” Her tone was as stern as her expression and her son only hesitated a second then followed his sister from the kitchen.

Jessie took her drawing to show off, but she and her brother left their mess of markers and pad pages scattered on the kitchen table. I began collecting them to make room for serving the salad. Carrie set the salad bowl on the table and glared at me.

“My children are Jewish. I’m raising them to have an identity and a community, both of which you seem to sorely lack. So keep your fucking mouth shut about what you believe, whatever the hell it is, or isn’t, around my kids.” She didn’t give me time to respond. She grabbed her half-empty martini and walked out of the room.

I watched my sister disappear into the dining area. The satiny fabric of the heavy white drapes that covered the back glass wall of the living room glowed warm and shimmered with firelight. I heard Larry ask his wife if she was OK, and Carrie say “dandy,” but she was “just so tired of her” (my) “crap.”

Then grandma piped in with, “You’re all full of crap.”

I looked at my mom. She glared at me, then emptied her martini and put the glass in the sink behind her. Her displeasure wrapped her like a shroud, and she transferred it as she spoke. “Please serve the salad now, Rachel Lynn.”

I did. I turned my back on my mother and put salad onto plate after plate until the kitchen table had no space for more, then carried them two at a time and served everyone before sitting to eat. Larry was touting his lucrative new strip-mall development in Malibu. Carrie beamed proudly at her husband. Dad nodded with respect. I shook my head but held my tongue. It was foolish to question the need of another 7–11 obstructing the views and scarring the fragile ecosystem along the coast to people who viewed personal wealth as social progress. I knew my opinion was unwelcome among them. Like grandma, I too was almost invisible, or at least wanted to be. And I no longer felt glad to be there. We hadn’t even gotten through the salad this time before I wanted out.

My craving to get high grew exponentially as I crawled along in traffic on the 101 in the rain after dropping grandma off. Brighter than twilight from the streetlights, with five lanes of unfettered highway, and it was beyond irritating how inane L.A. drivers became when it rained. My ire rose with every ten-minute mile, and I felt a desperate need to shed the evening.

I called Lee a hundred times in my head, imagined him coming over, us hanging out and playing Tavli all night. Talking. Laughing. Sharing… Safe with someone who actually liked me. But as I pulled onto my driveway doubt crept in. Inviting him over at 10:00p.m. might imply I was asking him to stay the night, and I had no intention of sleeping with Lee. Intercourse with him would not fulfill me, or enhance the connection we already shared. It would only complicate the friendship I was hoping to maintain.

This excerpt is from the ‘novel memoir’ DISCONNECTED, a coming of age novel for women about a romance that never should have been.

Ever fall for someone you KNEW you shouldn’t, just to be with SOMEONE?

Rachel sought what most women did—to be successful, married and in love, have healthy kids. It was hard enough attracting a man when she wasn’t heroin thin or chic like most Hollywood women, or sparkly, but not too bright, as her mom insisted females should be. But in the 1990s, finding a man wanting an equal partner, a woman beside him instead of behind him, seemed the impossible dream.

Then along came Lee…

“Smart, Honest, Vivid, Poignant,” Contemporary Historical Romance with a very sharp edge…

Aging Well

March 4, 2025 by jcafesin, posted in aging

I’m a ‘sit on the couch and eat ice cream’ type of person. I don’t live that way. I workout 5 days a week, 5 miles or more a day, watch little TV and rarely stream ’cept when I’m working out and weekend movies. If I had no desire to live an active life, I would have continued to sit on the couch in front of the TV and eat a lot more than just ice cream as I did throughout much of my childhood.

Thing is, no matter how healthy I live, I’m still going to die. And while we all know this fact, generally by the time we are 5 yrs old, we don’t think about it much unless there is a life-threatening scare or we’re facing old age, like when we turn 60 or so. Then, regardless of what older folks tell you, and how we distract ourselves with work or hobbies or relationships, we think about death a LOT.

Am I living right? Getting the most out of this short life? Have I experienced enough? Have I loved enough? Have I had enough fun? What can I do to get the most out of the few years I have left?

What to do with aging…

The idea of heaven is vulgar. I think The Good Place played that hand well. At the end of the series, they were all up in heaven and got so bored after doing everything they could conceive they elected to become nothing, or ‘one with everything’ depending on how you view the afterlife. And ‘getting to see’ people you’ve loved in the hereafter is equally vulgar. Sure, you’ve loved them, but I bet you’ve fought with them too. Can you imagine spending eternity — forever — with your mom and dad and siblings and spouses? No thank you!

I am a devout Atheist, meaning I don’t believe in god, or even the possibility of one. I don’t believe in an afterlife, or spirituality, whatever that means. Hitler (Trump) and I end up the same. Dead is dead. End of game. Life is over and there is no ME anymore. I did not exist before my birth and I cease to exist after I die.

It’s easier to believe in the Christian version of death. Less scary thinking your existence is eternal. That’s why, to date, 31+% of this planet identifies as Christian. Muslims, the second largest religion on Earth, also offers an afterlife in paradise or hell. Islam, Hinduism, and Buddhism also preach forms of life after death, so it’s no wonder that 84% of humanity identifies with a religion.

The roughly 14+% of the rest of us living day-to-day knowing that we all become nothing after death is core scary at best.

We all want to feel our lives have significance. Substance. Meaning. That we matter! It is why social media exists — it plays on our desire to be seen. Every time we get a Like on our instastory, or see a high view or engagement count we all get a hit of dopamine straight into our brains. We may be shy, or awkward in groups or crowds, but no one wants to be invisible through life. We revel in being seen.

Now, facing old age, and likely 20 to 30 yrs on the outside before ceasing to exist, I’m at war with myself daily on how to spend the limited time I have to live, to BE ALIVE. To matter.

What does it really mean to MATTER? Three generation drops from now and most won’t remember today’s trending influencers, to our current or past pop/rockstars, to our great grandfathers. I know this intellectually, but emotionally I too want to be remembered by more than just my remaining family, and when they go, so does my memory, my significance. It’s hard, if not impossible to imagine not existing, though at 4:00am I lay in bed too often now panicked by the notion.

Kick back, honey, I tell myself as I stare at the glowing stars I stuck on the bedroom ceiling during the series Heroes when it got too bloody to watch throughout. I should just do what I feel like doing when I get up in the morning and quit pressuring myself to be someone. I already am to my kids, and a few friends. The problem, the war in my head that loops till twilight: ‘Why isn’t that enough for me?’

Close to 30 yrs ago a friend asked me to describe my perfect day a decade forward. From waking up till falling asleep that night, describe in detail what that day looked like to me. Let’s just say I didn’t get close. [Expectations. They’ll screw you every time.] I was supposed to be a known author long ago. I was supposed to have a house in Marin to leave to my well-adjusted, accomplished children. Married to the love of my life. My work read by tens of thousands, my words helping my readers become more personally and socially aware, live better lives.

Did I want too much? I lay in bed wondering why it matters to me that I’ll leave no real imprint on history. Who does, really. Albert Einstein comes to mind. Hitler does too, but oh so very few. And even those names will fade with time, buried under layers of more history.

I want to fall asleep and stay asleep through the night like I used to. I don’t want to be getting up 4 times a night to pee! I’d like to tell you that impending death looming doesn’t feel like the proverbial ax over my head since no one knows when they’ll die, or that age is ‘just a number’ and ‘it only matters how young you feel,’ but that’s all bullshit. You can skydive on your 90th but that doesn’t keep you from being old, and likely rather reckless with fragile bones.

I sigh heavily, then throw the blanket back and roll on my side trying to cool down with my third hot flash of the night. The weight of aging gets harder to bear with each passing year, month, day. Hate to tell ya, there ain’t much upside to getting old. We likely have more life experience, but we aren’t any wiser, most of us stuck in patterns of behavior we adopted in childhood, and the reason history keeps repeating itself.

Look at my phone on the nightstand next to my bed. It’s only 5:10am. I can get up and spend much of the day SMM my latest work to get read and try to ignore the fact that I viscerally hate marketing. Or I can laze the day away writing whatever moves me, reading, baking, building, get a massage, stream Netflix if I feel like it because why the hell not enjoy BEING ALIVE with the limited time I have left…

An Atheist on Morality

August 24, 2022August 25, 2022 by jcafesin, posted in atheism, atheists, christianity, christians, conservatives, far-right, jewish, muslim, Uncategorized

**Einstein did not believe in God, as many [mistakenly] claim.**

Albert Einstein said, “My position concerning God is that of an agnostic.” He clarified with, “The word God is, for me, nothing more than the expression and product of human weaknesses, the Bible a collection of honorable, but still primitive legends. No interpretation no matter how subtle can (for me) change this.”

Atheist don’t believe in God either. Not any god/s. Ever. Unlike Agnostics, open to the possibility of a ‘higher power,’ or ‘collective, sentient being,’ Einstein believed in neither. Agnostic is politically correct, less threatening, especially during his time, born a Jew, and existing on federal and university funding.

I am an Atheist. I do not recognize the Old/New Testament, and related works illuminating the adventures of a divine being as anything more than fiction—parables by some wise, some ignorant, but guaranteed partisan male scribes with an agenda to dominate and control human behavior. (The defense that organized religion was necessary to reign us in when we were small warring tribes has been [and still is] proselytized by every power-hungry, self-proclaimed ‘person-of-god’ out there.)

So when I need money, [as an Atheist] why don’t I go rob someone. Or shoplift?

When I’m attracted to my neighbor’s husband, why don’t I hit on him, get intimate if he’s into it?

When I get pissed off at the driver on their cellphone that just cut me off, why don’t I just shoot her?

Snatch & Run, even drive-by’s these days, and the odds of getting caught for these crimes is somewhat nominal if I’m discreet. Fear of being busted is not the main motivation that prevents me from committing these, and ‘lesser’ crimes like lying, cheating and behaviors that most others would agree, religious or not, are moral infractions.

If I believe I answer to no higher power, where do I get my morality?

Einstein said, “We have to content ourselves with our imperfect knowledge and understanding and treat values and moral obligations as a purely human problem—the most important of all human problems.”

Believer or not, what are your ‘Moral Obligations?’

Mine, as an Atheist and a Human being, is to support our continued evolution. Part of my Moral Obligation is to reproduce, and extend the magnificent, wondrous, glorious feelings of being alive to someone else, as it has been gifted to me. In keeping with this particular Moral Obligation, bringing kids into the world comes with more Moral Obligations. Reproducing requires me to care for my progeny above myself, especially through childhood, teach them things I’ve learned so far, and to lay a foundation of trust, respect and love that my parents neglected to give to me. But my moral obligations extend far beyond having kids.

I am born owing Humanity that came before me, and everything on this planet that supports us.

We all are. Global warming, climate change, believe in them or not, what is your Moral Obligation to creating a more sustainable future for everything here? It may seem we have little control over our environment, but we have more than we think, or at least are practicing. My M.O. is to do better at preserving life, and the earth itself from our crap—our toxic emissions, our trash, our fecal waste, killing forests for toilet paper, over-farming, over-fishing, fracking, and the list goes on and on.

Another M.O. I follow is to THINK, a lot, about most anything and everything. Research, question, and learn are all important M.O.s. So, I research how I, as just one person, can fulfill my Moral Obligation to care for our planet better and came up with a lot of ways:

Use LED or CFL lightbulbs
Stop eating beef
Stop eating fish unless it is sustainably caught
Drive a fuel-efficient vehicle
Recycle
Use recycled products

Sure, I can use the excuse that as only one person doing any of these things won’t matter to the big picture. But I’d be denying one of my Moral Obligations to do better at preserving life here. Praying for better weather won’t change anything. I must actualize the action items in the list above to do my minuscule part in insuring life here continues long after my time, and that my children’s children’s children evolve to more fully embrace our spectacular creativity, our ingenuity, our capacity for kindness and our amazing ability to share love.

“…treat values and moral obligations as a purely human problem,” Einstein said. In other words, morality is determined by human beings, not handed down from on-high by some obscure being requiring blind obedience invented by men looking to control the ignorant masses.

Religious or Atheist, we all must recognize and actualize our Moral Obligations to each other and this planet for humanity to survive, and thrive.

—

Cited Notable Facts:

Murder rates are lower in more secular nations and higher in more religious countries where belief in God is deep and widespread. (Jensen 2006; Paul 2005; Fajnzylber et al. 2002; Fox and Levin 2000)

Within U.S., the states with the highest murder rates tend to be highly religious, such as Louisiana and Alabama, but the states with the lowest murder rates tend to be among the least religious in the country, such as Vermont and Oregon. (Ellison et al. 2003; Death Penalty Information Center, 2008)

Rates of most violent crimes tend to be lower in the less religious states and higher in the most religious states. (United States Census Bureau, 2006)

The top 50 safest cities in the world, nearly all are in relatively non-religious countries, and of the eight cities within the United States that make the safest-city list, nearly all are located in the least religious regions of the country. (Mercer Survey, 2008)

Domestic terrorists of the American far right are driven by zeal for heretical distortions of Christian theology. (Paul de Armond, DOJ, 1999) Christian nationalism [is] a serious and growing threat to our democracy. (Robert P. Jones, TIME Magazine, 2022)

Raising Kids Without Religion

April 29, 2022April 29, 2022 by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

My husband and I raised our children without religion. We gave them no religious identity (as in claiming to be Christian or Jewish because of our parentage). We are both devout atheists, and I use the term devout with purpose. We don’t believe in a higher power, or any gods, or even the possibility of one. We are not agnostic. We believe awareness begins by the sixth month of gestation, and ends at death. Upon birth, our combination of chemistry defines individual uniqueness, so often mislabeled as a ‘soul.’ No heaven, or hell. No rebirth awaits us after death. Reincarnation is a myth. There are no second chances to get living ‘right,’ and we never ‘ascend to a higher plain of existence.’

You, me, Hitler, all end up the same. We cease to exist upon death. Only our contributions throughout our lifetime remain when we die.

Frightening and harsh though this may seem to believers, the fantastical bible stories and the ‘jealous’ malicious god, (Exodus 20:4-5), described in them never resonated with us. Much to our parent’s chagrin, we grew further from all religious ideology with their spiritual indoctrination. Ancient dogma conjured by men to control the masses by creating an outside deity that could not, and by its own commandments, must not be questioned, religious leaders were telling us not to think. They required blind faith, and neither my husband nor I were willing to buy into thoughtless beliefs.

We agreed before having kids that we’d raise them without religion. We could not teach them what we do not believe, and what we both feel is fundamentally destructive at this point in human development. The value system we hoped to impart is based on a keen awareness of self, and others, our planet, and the immense responsibility each of us have to preserve all life here.

Picture a bull’s-eye, we told our kids, like the Target logo. You are the center dot, obviously, as you can only perceive and participate in life while living. The first ring out from you is your immediate family; the second is your extended family and friends. The next ring is your community, then your country and then the world. And all rings must be considered when making choices and/or taking an action.

The Target philosophy is a model for a thriving society. Consciously considering the radiating effects of our actions forces us to think before we act. Our ability to think conceptually, project into the future, then alter our behavior to achieve that projected outcome is what separates the human race from all other life forms here.

There was no need to sell our kids on religious dogma such as promises of heaven, or threats of hell. We taught our kids not only to be considerate and responsible to family and friends, but to humanity as a whole, and all things on this Earth. We expect them to honor their debt to those before them by striving to deliver a better world to those here, and those yet to be.

As atheists, we are considered by many to be heathens– uncultured, uncivilized people. Our parents are constantly trying to convert us, under the delusion that we are what they were raised to believe, whether we admit it or not. They vehemently express their disgust in our ‘denial,’ and barrage us with threats that our children will be lost without a religious upbringing. My brother, a born again Christian, assures us that Christ died for our sins. He promises my children will be ‘saved’ after death from all wrongdoing if they just accept Him as their savior. He never stops to consider the catastrophic lack of responsibility this ideology instills in his, and every other blind believer’s behavior. My brother, and his brethren real estate brokers lie, cheat, and rob unsuspecting clients of their life savings without ever considering the destructive effects of his actions, believing in his own righteousness, having ‘faith’ in the forgiveness promised him.

By everyone’s reckoning who’ve met, or know our children, from family and friends, to teachers, to restaurant servers, my kids are liked and well respected. They are courteous and conscientious, more considerate than most adults, and 90% of their so called ‘god-fearing’ peers. They are team players in sports, strive for excellence in their studies, both straight-A students from grade school forward. They share what they have, and compromise to ensure fair play. And they do all this, not by threats of eternal damnation, but because they understand their role in, and responsibility to humanity, and this planet we inhabit. My children are not lost. They experience no spiritual void. They find beauty and wonder in many things, like nature, and sometimes even in the nature of man.

With the advent of technology and advanced weaponry, our world has become so very small and fragile. We must stop pretending we are powerless, under the will of various deities, or follow the divisive rhetoric of religious leaders who preach if Christ exists than Judaism is wrong. If Allah rules than Christianity is a lie. Religion has become the problem, giving excuses, or worse, forgiveness for whatever crimes we commit. Christ will not save us from global annihilation. We are all responsible to save us from ourselves.

At the dinner table recently, my husband asked our now teen kids a simple question: “What are you?” Both answered: “Human.” Touché! Religion, skin color, and/or economic status, my children see no division between themselves and other people. This position is mandatory for the survival of humanity. We teach our children to recognize their radiating effects on all they touch, and not only acknowledge their mighty power, but embrace the responsibility that comes with it. Humanity’s future depends on each of us taking individual responsibility for the actions we take in life, not for rewards in an afterlife, but to enrich the lives we touch here and now, and to make it possible for those yet to be—the generations to come—to experience the unfathomable wonder in being alive.

Republicans, Religion and What’s Right

July 26, 2017July 26, 2017 by jcafesin, posted in Healthcare, holocaust, Trump

The Tea Party rally was just breaking up when I picked up my daughter from her day camp at Central Park. A woman standing at the fringe of the crowd held a big poster that read: “Gay Marriage is a SIN! God said NO on Prop. 8! God says preserve DOMA!” On the poster was a huge cross. My nine year old daughter asked me what her sign meant. I told her it was against human rights and the woman was a nutcase.

DOMA, the Defense of Marriage Act, was signed into federal law by Pres. Bill Clinton in 1997. It basically said that legally valid marriage is limited to opposite sex couples, absolving individual states from extending the financial benefits and tax credits to which only heterosexual couples are now privy. And who supported this unconstitutional Act denying civil rights?

–Republicans for Family Values
–The Tea Party (Republicans)
–Focus on Family (Republicans)
–Proposition 8 [banning gay marriage] supporters (And who were they? Proposition 8 got on the ballot backed by millions from the Roman Catholic Church, and the Mormon Church, and the Union of Orthodox Jewish Congregations, and, well, you get the picture.)

The foundation of this nation is based on a separation between church and state. The Establishment Clause of the First Amendment of our Bill of Rights prohibits the establishment of a national religion by the Congress or the preference of one religion over another, non-religion over religion, or religion over non-religion.

Our civil rights should not, MUST NOT be a determined by the church, or be beholden to any religious sect or organization/s. I am an atheist. I don’t recognize the Bible, Old or New Testament as truth, and as an American citizen it is my federal civil right NOT to believe according to our constitution. Christian morality doesn’t apply to me, or the many gay people who wish to marry. It should be in their civil right to do so. Yet senators, congressmen, presidents still choose religious ideology over constitutional laws that guarantees every U.S. citizen equal rights and protections.

Regardless of their religious persuasion, our elected officials have sworn to uphold our constitution, including The Establishment Clause of the First Amendment, and have no right to push their religion’s morality onto every American. Millions of our tax dollars have gone and will go to lawyers and court time over DOMA, absurdly prejudicial and preferential legislation originally meant to limit states financial liability, without understanding, maybe even acknowledging the cost to civil rights. Right-wing extremists like the Tea Party and Focus on Family have adopted DOMA as a monicker, preaching biblical text that says homosexuality is a sin and it should never be recognized as legitimate. But I don’t believe in the bible. And I don’t think being gay is a sin. Sin is a religious construct meant to control followers. I believe indifference to suffering and willful ignorance are the greatest evils.

DOMA was repealed, as unconstitutional, in 2013 under President Obama and a Democratic congress. The Republican Reich fought it out in court after court, appeal after appeal, blowing many more billions in tax dollars over a law that should never have been written, yet alone endorsed and enacted. If the right-wing had its way, DOMA would have stayed the law, limiting marriage and the benefits that come with the union to only heterosexual couples.

Who cares? You’re not gay. Doesn’t really effect you? Not your fight? There are bigger issues out there of import…

Watch out! Yesterday, it was denying gay rights, and today, it’s banning transgender from military service. Tomorrow our Republican government may outlaw a woman’s right to choose what to do with her body, or interracial marriage, or maybe Jews again, or Muslims this time, or… You and your ideology may be next on the chopping block of the religious Republican Reich.