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The Jaguar's Heart 3: Tough Love Nun

In which I remember Sister Mary fondly. (Public, so share if you wish.) Transcript below.


Hi, all. Welcome to this episode of The Jaguar’s Heart.

Today I’d like to talk about compassion, because it’s the number one thing that comes up when people express surprise over my beliefs. My books are filled with compassion, they say, which makes it startling that I am a professed conservative. Because, I’m told, conservatives “are stereotyped as leaning into their callousness.”

I wish you could see my expression when this comes up. Or maybe I’m glad you can’t. I don’t enjoy hurting people’s feelings, and “wow, that thing you just said is awfully bigoted” isn’t something I like revealing to people I think are well-meaning. But it’s honestly as exhausting as ‘all Hispanics are lazy’ or ‘all women are histrionic.’ Ugh.

But let me talk about compassion, and “callousness.”

If you were lucky enough to have two good parents, one of them probably kissed your knee when you scraped it… and the other one told you “if you hadn’t done that stupid thing, you wouldn’t have scraped your knee.” It’s the same dynamic that makes it necessary, for the sake of balance and best outcomes, to have someone comforting you about stuff that’s bothering you, and someone else helping you with ideas when you’re ready to solve it. Too much comfort is enabling in a bad way; too much problem-solving can be brutalizing, particularly if you’re not ready to hear it. But you need both.

One of the challenges of being a parent was figuring out how many walls I wanted to stand back and let my kid run into. My instinct was to protect her from everything: it’s the worst thing in the universe, seeing your children unhappy, and having to sit still while it happens is so, so bad. I can’t even describe it. But I also knew that to grow up healthy, she needed to get hurt and recover from being hurt, because that’s the only way to demonstrate to a new human being their own resilience. And, for maximum health, I had to let my kid discover that some things can’t be overcome or changed just because she wanted them to be different, and that this wasn’t the end of the world.

This is on my mind, somewhat, because I recently went back to my high school alma mater for various reasons… and one of the people still working there is my former guidance counselor, a no-nonsense nun who was high on the “solving problems” end of the scale and low on the “giving comfort” side. When I hit senior year and we started having discussions about college, I went to her for the requisite session about what I wanted to study. I told her, proudly, that I was going to go for a degree in aerospace engineering.

“Maggie,” she said. “That’s stupid. You’re not an aerospace engineer. You’re never going to be one. You didn’t even decide to take a fourth year of math because you hate math. Why don’t you pick something you’ll actually be good at?”

Well, you can imagine my outrage. I loved science fiction, I felt passionate about humanity’s future in space, and my dad was an engineer and by God Almighty, I was going to be an engineer! And… I left high school, went into college, and failed calculus twice, and the second time, when I dropped out mid-semester, I thought, “Okay, so maybe I hate math and I’m bored by engineering and this probably isn’t the greatest idea.” I switched majors from engineering to art, and went on to get my degree, and now I am a career artist/writer and from this distance I can see that Sister Mary’s ‘callousness’ wasn’t intended to hurt my feelings. She was trying to save me the grief and wasted time she could see coming my way like a freight train. (And the financial hit too, because I went to college on a scholarship that required me to maintain a 3.0 grade average, and the consistently poor grades I was earning in my engineering classes were threatening my ability to keep that scholarship.)

Now, maybe there’s some alternate universe where her rough advice inspired me to work twice as hard, and I became that engineer. That’s still not an indictment of her advice, because at the time, she was correct: I wasn’t invested in that path, scholastically, and it was patent from my behavior and my grades. The only way I could have succeeded was by making an enormous change to my behavior, and committing myself in a way I wasn’t committed when I went to her. Either way, her advice was necessary: either as a wake-up call that I had to do better, or as an observation that I needed to pursue something I actually cared about.

Is it callous to warn people that reality isn’t going to compromise with them? I don’t think so. It hurts to hear, and God it hurts to say it. It’s painful to let people run into the wall because you know they won’t listen to anything but experience. It’s awful to watch people suffer unnecessary pain, and it hurts to make them feel bad to prevent it. But not all the compassion in the world will change human nature, and it won’t change reality, and it’s not kind to pretend otherwise.

Was it callous for Sister Mary to tell me to re-evaluate my choices? On the contrary. I think she gave me that advice because she cared about me and didn’t want me to suffer. Her other choice—to tell me ‘oh, that’s great, go for it!’ would have been the cowardly route. It would have made her feel better, at the cost of me not hearing something that might have saved me from suffering. That I didn’t want to listen to her advice wasn’t on her: it just meant that in this case, I had to learn from experience that I was wrong.

But at least she tried to help. It didn’t sound like help back then. But looking back on it now, it’s plain to me that she had my best interests at heart.

Compassion, then, isn’t always a kiss on the knee. Sometimes, it’s pointing out that you shouldn’t have done the thing that got your knee scraped. Sometimes, it’s telling people ‘that thing you think will make you happy… won’t.’ And this… this is the defining characteristic of conservative compassion. The “callousness” we’re accused of isn’t callousness. It’s “this won’t work, no matter how much we wish it will.” It’s “this will cause more suffering than it alleviates.” It’s “we agree that this is a terrible thing, but we don’t think any of the ways you believe it could be solved… will solve it.” To mistake that for callousness is incredibly unkind.

Some of you will think ‘yes, but some people really are awful,’ and I agree. But that’s not a conservative failing. It's a human failing. And many terrible people have disguised their cruelty as compassion so they could exercise it at will, shielded by the defense that they care.

Me, I much prefer to comfort people who are having a hard time. But I also don’t believe in protecting them from reality… because telling someone that things will work out when all evidence makes it clear that it won’t… isn’t my definition of kindness. No matter how it sounds to the person receiving it, warning them that something’s not going to work isn’t meant to hurt them. It’s meant to save them from further pain. I know that’s hard to hear when you’re unhappy. But that doesn’t make it untrue.

I feel concrete examples are useful, so I’ll bring one up. I am skeptical of universal healthcare. I have never yet heard a universal healthcare plan advanced that I felt would work in America, with its specific laws and geography. I didn’t think the Affordable Care Act was a good idea. When I said so to a friend, though, she asked me if I wanted her elderly mother to die. I said, “Of course I don’t want your elderly mother to die,” but she insisted on bringing the conversation back to that point (which, I’m sorry to have to say, is a form of emotional hostage taking; if it’s subconscious, then all right, but that doesn’t change that it’s not a rhetorical strategy used by people who want to have a rational discussion). My instinct—to say ‘this is impractical’—should not inspire accusations of cruelty. It should inspire questions that will help us find a good answer. “Why do you think that?” “What do you think might become a problem?” “How do you think we could solve it?” are essential questions, and using them to brainstorm solutions brings us to something that might work. But you can’t get to ‘might work’ by ignoring people who say ‘this doesn’t look like it will work, for these reasons.’

The Affordable Care Act did pass, and I believe that friend’s elderly mother is insured. I have four friends with families, with small children, who lost their health insurance because of that act, though… and I myself got my hours cut at my job because allowing me to work over thirty would have triggered their legal responsibility to give me health insurance. Even though I didn’t need or want it, they had to, so they thought it would be best just not to employ me for 30+ hours.

I have not gone back to that friend and said, “Did you want my friends to lose their health insurance? Do you want them to die?” Maybe I should have.

This, then, is one of my philosophical touchstones. No matter how good some things would be, in theory, I can’t look away from the fact that, in practice, a lot of good things don’t work. There’s a reason they say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

People have asked where the “secret signs” of conservatism are in my books, because they can’t see them. So here’s my clue for you today. Look for the places where things can’t be changed, and how characters react to that… and recognize how often compassion is something we extend while understanding that sometimes, you can’t have the things you want, exactly the way you want them. That empathy is often deepest when facing that tragedy. This is a rich mine for stories, because the conflict between what we want and what’s possible is a human constant, and as someone who both loves people and knows that some things can’t be changed, I am always finding new themes to explore in that space… new stories that teach me how to accept and adapt to circumstances to find the best path forward, which is not always the path I thought I wanted, and new stories that help me try new ways to extend that compassion to people, without lying to them about the obstacles they face.

Compassion is a virtue that belongs to us all. Thank His name.

Anyway, that’s all I got. Thanks for listening to this bleeding heart. Jaguar out.

The Jaguar's Heart 3: Tough Love Nun
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I was in a fine mood that evening, when I followed the scent of roasted meat to the cheldzan, the only building large enough for both clans to congregate… and even then, a handful of people had spilled from its entrance onto the road, where a second stewpot was sending delectable scents toward the lavender sky. I stopped beside it to receive a bowl and a flatbread scoop and wandered among the Jokka, listening to various conversations. A good half of the people there were eperu, which surprised me; somehow I thought of the third sex as the least populous. If I asked Winoña, would I discover that she’d counted all the sexes in the clans she’d met? I smiled.

The Jokka of Clan Edla recognized me, and wanted to talk—about injuries and sickness, yes, but also about recoveries and births—so the sky had set out stars before I finally made my way to the back of the cheldzan, where I found Daridil, Seper, and Koish in consultation. The lore-knower of Clan Edla, a spindly eperu named Dlona, made up the fourth in their discussion, and Winoña was listening behind the counter, wiping bowls.

“We are blessed here,” Daridil said. “Game is plentiful… the forest gives both fish and beasts, and water is for the taking. I once questioned the wisdom of staying, but the gods have made their will clear.”

“There’s enough for your clan,” Koish allowed. “I fear what would happen if we overburdened the area. The stories say that when we linger, we use up the sap of the land.”

“That won’t happen here,” Seper said. “We will be good stewards.”

“Do you even know what that will entail?” Koish said. “If you have too many mouths to feed….”

“Then, we find another way,” Daridil said.

“Probably by selling our excess members to clans who are failing,” Seper said briskly. “You know as well as we do, ke Koish, that many clans are hurting for labor and breeders. Particularly breeders. The nomadic ways are hard on us.”

Behind Koish, Dlona murmured, “Ke Seper has this right.”

Joining them, I said, “Are you trying to talk them into staying?” I smiled at Koish. “You know they have to make their argument.”

“They’re eloquent,” Koish said. “And if it were up to the clan, I’d probably have to move into that empty building tomorrow. But I have to do what’s right for them, whether it’s popular or not. And I’m not convinced. Although, I’ve heard something about a shrine?”

Daridil’s ears pricked. “Yes. To honor the gods and thank them for the gift of this place.”

“You can’t buy the favor of the gods,” Dlona said.

“Of course not,” Daridil said. “One honors the gods, one does not bribe them.”

“I like the idea.” Koish leaned over the counter and plunked his clay cup on it. “Give me a refill, ke anadi, and then Daridil and I will go talk. About fate and food, among other things.”

Winoña chuckled and filled the cup from a leather bag. “And so much useful discussion will be had after your… third, I believe? Cup of this?”

Koish snorted. “I brew my own spirits, ke Winoña. Your mild-tempered spirits will have to work harder to cloud my thoughts.” Raising his new serving, he gestured toward the door. “Daridil?”

“With you, ke emodo.”

Dlona watched them go with a long face, ears twitched backward. Then it sighed. “Do you have a spare cup, ke anadi? I think I may need it.”

“Trouble?” I asked.

The eperu eyed me, dour. “Everything under the sun and stars is trouble. It’s just a matter of how it arrives.”

Seper chuckled. “I’ll enjoy having you among us for the haul, Dlona.”

I looked from one to the other and canted my head. “It didn’t sound like Koish had made a decision.”

“Koish will make the right choice for the breeders, as he should,” Dlona said. “And the right choice is finding out if they do better here than abroad. And we know how they do abroad, so all that’s left is to discover how they do in one place. But I won’t take our wagon apart. In the case that we might need it.”

“I wouldn’t suggest anything else,” Seper said. “Let me take you to the new eperu. You’ll want to meet them. Then we can discuss the buildings, and our plans for the granary.”

Dlona’s eyes sharpened. “A granary, is it? Is that what the bricks are for?”

“Yes,” Seper said.

The other eperu grinned, showing blunted teeth. “Is it round?”

Seper laughed. “Yes, like in the stories. As you could probably tell me.” It canted its head. “You can tell me, can’t you? Nudet lost its lore-knower before it could pass on all that it knew to me….”

“We should write those things down from now on,” Winoña interrupted, earning stares from all of us. “We can,” she said. “We don’t need to be limited to tallies on knots, which makes sense for roving clans that can’t store anything permanently. We have space here to keep records. We should keep records.”

“On what, though?” Dlona asked, frowning… but not objecting. Thinking, from its expression.

“Leaves?” Seper said. “Bark, maybe?”

“The stories speak of clay tablets….” Dlona plucked at its braided arm ruffs, as if counting knots on a tally blanket. "They also speak of paper, but not how it was made.”

“Clay we have in plenty,” Seper said.

“We should make clay tablets, then,” Winoña said. “So that what happened to Nudet doesn’t happen again.”

Seper’s grin had a challenging air. “And will you have us carve you out a new cavern to keep these clay tablets in?”

“Why not?” Her chin rose. “I already have to keep records to run a cheldzan and a storeroom. Or haven’t you noticed me using paint on the walls for it?”

“I haven’t,” I said, startled.

Seper chuckled. “Have her show you, Kediil. Dlona, if you like? We’ll make the way easy for ke Koish.”

“By all means, introduce me. You’ve hired some new eperu since Clan Edla came through last.”

They departed, leaving me with a spinning head. “That is what it looks like, isn’t it? Koish doesn’t think he’s made a decision, but he has.” I thought of his concerns. “Or maybe he’s just saying what we want to hear?”

“I doubt it.”

Did he even know he’d changed his mind? I rubbed my brow. “Do things always happen that quickly?”

“When they do,” Winoña said, “it’s usually because the conditions favorable to those changes were already developing, unseen.” She threaded her fingers together and rested her chin on them, smiling up at me. “You have that look again, like I’ve said something you didn’t expect and you admire me for it.”

“And if I said… yes… would you be disappointed?”

She giggled. “No! I want you to look at me like that all the time! Come here behind the counter, I’ll teach you to serve drinks.”

“Is that hard?”

“No, which means we’ll have plenty of time to enjoy one another’s company.” She glanced past me at the people crowding her hall. “Look at them, Kediil. How often have you seen so many Jokka in one place?”

“Rarely,” I said. “It’s noisy and hot.”

“But alive,” she said. “It’s so good to see so much life in one place.”

I’d expected her to laugh. But this comment, stated with such fervor, made me look again, and see, for just a moment, through her eyes. The eyes that counted and saw fewer people too often. The eyes that looked now and saw vitality and promise and hope of some different, better future.

I longed for the wind on my cheeks and the horizon before my eyes. But how much of that longing had been shaped by my desire to escape the captivity designed for me by fate, or the gods, or my family… all of them?

I stepped behind the counter and bumped her hip until she moved over. “Teach me how to pour things.”

“Is this an excuse to let me teach you something you already know?”

“Yes?”

She laughed. “Well, if you love the sound of my voice that much….”

 

***

 

I did not have to seek out Koish; he found me behind the Nudet building, settling my rikka for the night. I straightened, tucking my loosened hair back behind my shoulders, and waited.

“Derra’s caught a child.”

He didn’t need to say anything else. I knew Derra, a fragile, easily tired anadi who longed for children and had only been able to bear one so far. If Derra had conceived, Clan Edla would stay where the risks to her pregnancy could be minimized. Two anadi pregnant and another with a toddler would make traveling difficult… and, coincidentally, give Koish and Edla status in the new settlement. Fruitfulness was admired, no matter where on Ke Bakil you traveled, and clans rich in breeding anadi were granted a deference that no other Jokkad could claim.

“Will you stay?” he asked. When I hesitated, he said, “Or come back to check on Derra through her pregnancy?” I could hear his smile in the dark. “You’ll know exactly where to find us.”

“Ke emodo…” I sighed. “Yes. I’ll check on her. I won’t promise to live here, but I’ll come back from time to time.”

“Thank you. I knew you would, just as I know you understand why I’ve changed my mind.”

“We all serve the breeders,” I said, as if I had scooped the words out of Mardin’s mouth.

“Yes. Good night to you, ke anadi.”

Melon shuffled toward the end of his stall to bump my shoulder with his muzzle, and I petted it idly, watching Koish’s body until I could neither see nor hear him.

Yes, I understood. And I feared that I had my own reasons to change my mind, because I was not ready for the future. Are we ever?

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