Coming out Christian

Talk of the Quad: Running and eating: an open letter

I used to be an avid runner. I tackled all distances: 1600m, 5K, 10K and even a half marathon. A full marathon wasn’t quite in my wheelhouse back then, but I was enamored by every single aspect of the sport: the scenery, regardless of if my legs took me through a rural or an urban route, the euphoria afterwards and, most importantly, the drive to be better. The simple things captivated me, too: clicking “Save My Run” on my antique Garmin 405 and the gasps when I would say, “I went on an X mile run!” I loved everything.
I started out as a sluggish, out-of-shape teen, but I slowly grew stronger as a runner. My runs became progressively longer and my pace followed suit—becoming quicker and quicker over time. I joined my school’s cross country team, and within one academic year I went from a junior varsity runner who took nearly 20 minutes to complete a three-mile course to a speedy varsity runner, finishing courses in as little as 16 minutes and 51 seconds. My love for competition grew with each run or race that I completed. With each finished course, however, I grew increasingly competitive with myself, taking my body and mind to their utmost extreme levels.
To put it simply, I stopped eating. I was cognizant of the harm it did to my body, yet I chose to ignore it. I tried to subdue the aches, pains, numbness and countless headaches because I valued becoming better. I valued my speed, but I sacrificed my sanity. A gallon-sized jug of water was fastened at my hip. Many thought it was only for my hydration, but I used it to mitigate my hunger. Everything in my body screamed at me, but I ignored that too. Instead, I chose to hone in on nutrition labels, calories and macronutrients. I thought I was helping myself; I truly did. My race times continued to drop, and so did my weight, even though I had nothing to lose.
My love for running faded fast, as did the color in my eyes and my smile, too. I withdrew from running and spiraled into a life of self-loathing. I hated myself. I hated the constant aches, pains and worries. I hated everything. Running provided balance, and without it I was a loose cannon. I spewed sadness, guilt and anxiety, and I continued to do so—on and off, left and right—for months.
Much of what plagued me back then—nearly two years ago—still lingers over my head. Though the pressure to become a better runner isn’t with me now, I’m still caught in a net of self-loathing. I can’t navigate my days comfortably; my arms, my legs, my shoulders and my chest are all littered with healed slashes that remind me of my weaknesses and pain. They represent the worst days.
Not all my days are bad, however. Some are remarkably good, and I find myself grateful for those days. I’m grateful to be here—to be surrounded by vibrant trees, falling acorns and the ocean. I’m grateful for the experiences so far, but I’m still struggling. I’m struggling to do the simplest, most basic things.
At Bowdoin, I can’t be “normal” without plunging into a full-fledged war with myself. I can’t make meal plans with someone without coming close to cancelling, nor can I enter Moulton or Thorne without anxiety looming over my shoulder. I can feel my throat tighten. I can’t go one meal, let alone one day, without being riddled with food insecurities and anxieties.
Everything that is a part of me—my insecurities, my damaged self-perception, my struggles with running—has been so deeply ingrained that it feels normal. This all feels normal. My lack of happiness some days feels normal, as well as the pessimistic view I have of myself. I don’t want it to be normal for me, but it is.
I wish my relationship with running was better when I initially started. I wish I could go back and yell at myself. In fact, I’m desperate for that chance. I’d be able to circumvent so much unnecessary pain—both emotional and physical—and I’d be without permanent reminders on my body. I’d be free of constraints and I’d be free of myself. I’d be liberated. Sadly, I’m forced to trudge onwards—forced to face my consequences each time I look in a mirror or down at myself.
Jonathan Calentti is a member of the class of 2020.

Talk of the Quad: Humanity trumps ideological differences

The sky sprinkled dirty rain when we arrived in Lisbon, Maine. The five of us sat in my car freaked out, excited and laughing. We got out and walked to the mega-church. A sign read, “Welcome Donald J. Trump.” I let out a protracted sigh that translated as a “what the hell am I doing here?”
Some background on me. I’m a privileged, liberal, Jewish kid from Washington, D.C. I went to school with congressmen’s children and once took my pants off in front of Malia Obama (long story—it was a track meet). I do not fit the typical demographic of a Trump rally.
Around 3 p.m. last Thursday, a friend of mine asked if I wanted to go to the Trump rally in Lisbon. Being young and always on the quest for the ironic, I said “of course.”In all fairness to myself, I also thought the rally was historically significant and worth checking out.
I spent a lot of time thinking about what to wear to the rally. Trying to hide my identity, I settled on some jeans, a fleece-lined flannel and a backward Nationals hat (maybe a giveaway?).
I topped it all off with a cigarette that dangled out of my mouth.
I recruited three other friends to come to the rally. Each of them was also somewhat out of place at Trump rally. Two were persons of color, one was a member of BCA and the other fit my description as a privileged, liberal, Jewish kid (but he was from Los Angeles).
What first struck me about the rally was how close it was to Bowdoin. Lisbon is only 30 minutes from Brunswick.Trump signs sprayed through Lisbon’s scenery. The town was definitely excited for the billionaire’s arrival.
Standing in line for the rally, I was struck by the vastly different ages of people there. In front of us, there was a group of high schoolers. Behind us, there was an elderly couple. Wishfully, I wondered whether or not these people were all Trump supporters. Perhaps they, like me, wanted to check out the event for irony’s sake.
Unfortunately the event was sold out and people, including us, were turned away. Even though I had wanted to see Trump speak, this gave us the opportunity to talk to some of his supporters.
I quickly changed the way I spoke. I picked up on my grandmother’s southern drawl and started using “y’all.” One of my friends asked why I was using a southern accent in Maine. I said I didn’t know, but it just seemed to fit.
We went up to two middle-aged women from North Yarmouth. They were friendly, but a little put off by my southern accent. They had gotten tickets for the event, but arrived too late. The seven of us had a nice chat until one of my friends brought up that two protesters had been removed from the mega-church.
One of the women speculated that the protestors were hired by the Clinton campaign. “Every protester that has gotten themselves beat up or beat up people at all Trump rallies were hired by Hillary,” she said.
When I asked the other woman if she thought it was true, she answered in the passive, “It was proven.”
I think those three words best describe Trump’s campaign and the election. Those words imply non-specificity. They suggest someone “proved” it, but they don’t say whom. Finally, and most importantly, they demonstrate the distance Clinton and Trump have from each other. Rarely on Bowdoin’s campus do I interact with a Trump supporter. I suspect these women rarely come into contact with a Hillary supporter. I knew what they were saying was false, but they were convinced that it was the truth.
My adventure into the ironic proved to be a learning experience. The country is polarized; exploring other viewpoints has become satirical. Not understanding and not conversing with people that have different opinions has left us isolated. I disagree with perhaps everything Trump supporters believe. But his supporters are people. If they can respect me then I must respect them.
Jack Arnholz is a member of the Class of 2019.

Talk of the Quad

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

Adira Polite

Contributor

October 21, 2016

This past summer, I became a born-again Christian. I have since harbored a burning desire to share this experience with others.

I was raised in a Christian household, however, as I moved into high school, I began neglecting most Christian teachings. I left little room for God within my life of rebellion. I usually justified these actions by highlighting the hypocrisy of the Church. Like many, I wrongly equated the Church—which is a broken and earthly institution—with the divine Word of God. I thus rejected Scripture due to human hypocrisy and fraudulence.

This year, everything changed. I first began to sense shifts during the second semester of my sophomore year. It began with a sudden disdain for Bowdoin’s hook-up culture. I gradually began to sense a darkness within the College’s social culture. This was not merely a recognition of youthful pitfalls. Some might call it the beginnings of a spiritual awakening. Others might say I was “finding” myself. For me and most other born-again Christians, it is obvious that God was chasing me. I became aware of the works of certain forces that semester, but I could not give the forces a name.

It was during this time that I also became more aware of a subtle emptiness within myself. In hindsight, this void had been present for years. It was not especially invasive; in fact, I had always been a fairly happy person. On paper, my life was amazing. I had a privileged childhood, seventeen years of elite education, great friends, hobbies and good grades. I was not fighting severe depression or dealing with family woes. Still, I did not know Fulfillment.

One day during this past spring break, my mom brought home the film “War Room.” The movie’s plot centers around a mother who is able to rebuild her broken family with the assistance of Jesus Christ. This suffering woman is transformed into what believers often call a “prayer warrior.” I initially approached the film with skepticism and slight annoyance. However, about halfway through the film, I was overcome with unexplainable awe. Within days, I had repressed the movie’s message; fortunately, the film had already planted a seed of faith within me.

The turning point began at the onset of summer. I spent the first half of the summer conducting research on mass incarceration and the media as part of the Mellon Mays program. I spent almost every waking hour reading and writing in solitude. As I studied the oft-concealed history of our country, I began to see past the elite’s web of lies. The deceptive illusions blinding the public became startlingly apparent. This realization heightened my desire for knowledge. As my understanding of reality began to defog, it became obvious that a key piece of this puzzle was missing.

Though I had become aware of the forces of darkness, the corresponding Light was my last and most precious discovery. As I was researching inside Helmreich House one July day, I found myself lost in an internet hole. I was deep in this study session when a source referred me to the Bible. Strangely enough, in my search for knowledge, I had inadvertently turned to the Book that I had previously deemed outdated. Needless to say, I was shocked by my findings. Within the prophecies describing the End of Days, I saw my own research. I saw the chaos and deception that characterizes modern society.

As we all know, this summer was especially violent. As I read, I realized that all of the brutality, confusion and destruction that we are seeing—such as increasing turbulence in the Middle East, government conspiracy and spikes in natural disasters—has been foretold. Not vaguely—specifically. In that moment, my spiritual understanding came full circle. I spent years attempting to ignore my Christian upbringing. This summer, it came back to me in the most alarmingly beautiful manner.

After the Mellon Mays program ended, I began interning at the Innocence Project in New York. By no coincidence, my New York home was that of my mom’s good friend—a minister. In the city, my faith in Christ flourished. The Innocence Project—a nonprofit law clinic that serves the wrongly convicted—taught me the value and necessity of servitude. My days there strengthened my commitment to serving the underserved. On August 14th, I dedicated my life to Christ at a Brooklyn church.

Since that day, life has taken on a new meaning. Frankly, the insignificance of the physical world is now glaring. I have begun to understand the Spirit. Moreover, I now understand the true meaning of good and evil. I know it sounds crazy, and that’s because it is. Our world is obsessed with explaining life through logic and reason; as a result, our world is broken. That was my old world, and broken it was.

I did not understand the term “born-again” until this ineffable transformation happened to me. I say “happened to me” because this transformation occurred by no action of my own. I had immense doubts and could not see past the facades of religious constructs. I was not searching for God when he found me; it is solely by His grace that I am found. Because of this transformation, I am able to truly see clearly for the first time in twenty years. I now know Life. And I am whole.

John 9:24-25: “Then again called they the man that was blind, and said unto him, Give God the praise: we know that this man is a sinner. He answered and said, Whether he be a sinner or no, I know not: one thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see.”
Adira Polite is a member of the class of 2018.

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