Heretic Hereafter Podcast

Katharine Strange
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Heretic Hereafter is about figuring out how to live the good life after leaving Evangelical Christianity. Whether you're religious or not, join us for a weekly dose of humor and reflection that helps us look past the superficial for life's deeper meanings. heretichereafter.substack.com

  1. 6h ago

    I Thought I Had Gender Roles Figured Out. Then I Had a Son.

    In a moment of tween desperation, I asked my mom whether I could try out for cheerleading. It was the late 90s and the girls at cheer camp seemed to have cracked some secret code to girlhood: their hair was always perfectly styled; their lips impeccably glossy. If I could just don that pleated skirt, I was sure their power would rub off on me and I’d stop being the middle school weirdo. “Girls shouldn’t cheer for boys,” my mom replied, “they should cheer for themselves.” Cryptic, vaguely feminist sayings like this occasionally sprang from her mouth, despite her staunch Complementarian beliefs (Complementarianism is the belief that men and women hold separate but equal roles in church and family life and that these roles are prescribed by God). Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. On the one hand, Mom would insist that all women had a divine calling to marriage, motherhood, and subservience to men. Then she’d turn around and spout off a defiant little opinion that hinted at her own internal conflict. I never became a cheerleader. Instead, I grew into a youth group superstar and then a know-it-all Christian college freshman. There I decided that it made no sense that I by dint of my femaleness was assumed to know less about faith than some random dude. I rejected my parents’ complementarianism and became an egalitarian and a—gasp! —feminist. And yet, the sexism of my upbringing hadn’t left me. I still believed marriage and motherhood were my ultimate calling and doubted my ability to get by without the guidance of either my father or a husband. The truth was, I’d never been taught to cheer for myself or believe myself capable of big things. Still, I imagined myself one day raising a fierce feminist daughter who would grow up to achieve great things. And then I had two sons. Boys were not entirely foreign to me—I had two younger brothers whom I’d spent a large chunk of my childhood mothering. But I wanted to do things differently. When my first son, A, was born, I bought him gender neutral clothes and toys—blocks and balls and a doll he’d occasionally poke in the eye. I was going to raise him to be a sensitive little feminist. Then one Christmas, a family member received a set of Dollar Store plastic samurai swords and A, then 18 months old, shrieked, grabbed one, and immediately began chasing people around the house, whacking and stabbing them. Even as I laughed at the spectacle, I couldn’t believe his tiny bloodlust. He didn’t watch TV; he’d never even seen a sword before. How did he know what it was for before he was even potty trained?!?!? Until A was born, I’d always thought of gender as something that was, largely, culturally programmed. But the sword incident, coupled with his fascination with vehicles, left me questioning this assumption. There was something innate to this small human that loudly insisted I AM A BOY!!!!! If masculinity is a spectrum, A has always been on the extreme end. In our liberal Seattle neighborhood, where plenty of little boys are painting their nails and belting songs from Frozen, there was my little warrior, dressed in head-to-toe camo, toting a Nerf gun to the park longer than he was tall, while I follow along behind, cringing and hoping my neighbors didn’t think I was in the NRA. Now a high school freshman, A is in the thick of the work of adolescence: figuring out who he is. While I appreciate that our culture has evolved from suffocating gender roles and casual playground homophobia, I’ll admit that our culture’s shifting social mores around gender roles has left a bit of a vacuum, into which, I project all my anxieties about raising a good men. So, over the next two months I want to look at gender roles. Here are some questions I have: * Is gender innate, culturally constructed, or both? And does the answer change how we think about it? * Are gender roles inherently limiting? Are they ever helpful? * How do we deprogram ourselves from our own internalized misogyny? * How has the church’s emphasis on restrictive gender roles shaped how we understand ourselves/our spirituality? * What can non-binary, trans, and genderqueer people teach us about gender? * What about the whole “toxic masculinity” label—is it helpful? Should we chuck it? How can we criticize the power structure without denigrating individuals caught in it? * How do we talk positively about masculinity without downplaying or dismissing women? * What role does virtue play in “becoming a man/woman”? * What about coming-of-age rituals? Are they more necessary for boys than girls? * Why does the phrase “be a man” squick me out so much? What should we be saying instead? * How do we express our gender identity through clothing, hair, and other signals? * How much of gender performance is an attempt to gain power in a misogynistic society? And here are some resources I’m looking at: * Jennifer L.W. Fink ‘s Substack, Building Boys Bulletin and her book Building Boys: Raising Great Guys in a World That Misunderstands Males * Richard Reeves’ Of Boys and Men * Liz Cooledge Jenkins ‘s Nice Churchy Patriarchy * Kristin Du Mez ‘s Live Laugh Love * the podcast The Art of Manliness Now I want to hear from you! Do any of my questions intrigue you? Do you have other deep thoughts or questions about gender roles? Has your view of your own gender changed over time? Do you have any books, podcasts, or people I should consult to learn more about gender roles? I’d love to hear from you in the comments or via email or DM. BONUS MATERIALS: * American church vs. French church * how DO straight guys sit??? * “One of the best abilities in life is to figure out who you actually want to be.” Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Heretic Hereafter at heretichereafter.substack.com/subscribe

  2. Aug 26

    Love in the ER

    Two weeks ago, my husband shook me awake at 4:00 a.m. “I’m going to the emergency room,” he said. I tried to blink myself awake. Never much of a complainer, Ryan had grown increasingly miserable over the past few days due to a pain in the roof of his mouth. That night, the pain had kept him from sleeping. I think I mumbled something along the lines of, “What? How?” as I sat up in bed. “I’ll take an Uber,” he said. My sleep-fogged brain considered this. My pillow was calling to me. And Ryan had taken himself to the ER alone before—Boxing Day 2014 when we had a toddler and a newborn and he’d stepped on a (shockingly sharp!) toy excavator, slicing a deep gouge into his toe. Then, like now, I knew it was a gray area sort of injury: requiring immediate medical attention, but not something life-threatening. And here he was giving me an out to back to sleep… “No, I’ll take you,” I murmured, mentally running through the tasks this would require, what I needed to bring, whom I needed to notify. ***This summer I’ve been thinking about what it actually takes to make community work. Much has been written about the loneliness crisis, growing rates of estrangement, how we are replacing eye contact with screen staring. Somewhere in the past few months I heard the phrase, “Everyone wants a village, no one wants to be a villager,” and I wonder, could it really be that simple? Is our lack of community simply our own fault? *** Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Ryan and I wound up at Seattle’s Harborview Medical Center. It’s a level one trauma center that I only knew from newspaper write ups about gunshot victims. I’d hoped that 4:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning would be relatively quiet, that he’d get a quick exam, maybe some pain medicine, and we’d be on our merry way. We were greeted by five security guards, two police officers, and a metal detector. The waiting room benches hosted sleeping forms surrounded by piles of plastic bags and dirty backpacks, the tell-tale baggage of homelessness. Nurses seemed to know many patients by name—frequent fliers, I guessed. This ER felt like the last, fraying threads of a broken safety net. Here were the disabled, the poor, the mentally ill, the addicted. And yet people fell through the cracks here, too. As we waited, I witnessed security eject two patients who were acting aggressively. Even as I was relieved at their removal, I wondered where they would go. ***Culturally, we are going through a profound shift in the way we understand relationships, and I think this has a lot to do with geography: for most of human history, community was not chosen but default. It was the people in your tribe, your extended family, your neighbors. Humans were tied to land and to ancestral homes. Waves of migration and industrialization disconnected many of us from the lands of our ancestors. Increasing economic pressure pushed generations of striving young people towards college education and the metropolitan hubs of various industries. Now, many of us have unprecedented levels of choice in where we live, what we do for work, and whom we associate with. The digital revolution, helped by the pandemic, further fractured the connection between place and relationship. Now your closest confidante might be someone you only chat with online and you may spend more time focused on parasocial relationships with podcasters or influencers rather than with friends you see in real life. Real life? Who has time for that? *** A few hours after arriving, Ryan was finally taken to an exam room—and by “room” I mean “tiny alcove with curtain.” En route to our alcove, we walked through corridors lined with patients on gurneys—there didn’t seem to be a spare inch of space. Some patients slept in chairs hooked up to IVs. In the alcove stood a bed crowned with a variety of tubes and monitors. I looked around—there was no place for me to sit. The expectation, I realized, is that people come to this hospital alone. Indeed, no one I’d seen in the waiting room was accompanied. *** In the course of my 40+ years, I’ve said many goodbyes. I’ve moved 16 times. I have clashed with church communities whose beliefs I no longer held. I’ve gone no contact with family members. Maybe all of this had led me to a certain amount of overthinking on the topic of relationships and community. I notice how much time people in my community spend trying to optimize ourselves and our kids: we’ll do anything for work, anything to give our kids an extracurricular edge, even if these things (like travel sports) make us broke and miserable. There’s always a fear of being left behind. On the rare occasion that I’m able to get together with my neighbors we always find ourselves saying things like, “this is so fun” and “we should do this more often,” and yet…we don’t. We’re too busy, too tired, too introverted, too awkward. We’ve forgotten that the most important part is just showing up. *** The doctor apologized for the lack of chair and found one for me. Ryan and I spent eight total hours in the emergency department. Apart from fetching snacks, I was pretty superfluous to the process, but Ryan thanked me for coming. His pain improved. The doctor examined and scanned him before referring him to a dentist because apparently, doctors don’t do mouth stuff? Ryan felt silly and annoyed that we’d wasted so much time in the ER on what was likely a dental issue. “It’s not a big deal,” I said. “Remember last summer when I thought I was in anaphylaxis and called 911?” The paramedics had been very kind as they showed me my lack of swollen lips and tongue in the mirror. During our 19 years of marriage, we’ve interacted with emergency medical services 6 times, with only half of those being necessary. Sometimes you just don’t know. ***In a culture that’s obsessed with productivity and efficiency, it’s a radical act to choose inconvenience. That’s the story of the Good Samaritan, and the best of our caregivers and teachers. Most times I opt for efficiency—I am hurrying along my kids or growing impatient with the elderly person slowly climbing the stairs in front of me. I like getting things done, checking off tasks. But in the ER, I was reminded that presence trumps productivity. As we waited in our alcove, I heard a procession of doctors and nurses trying to cajole an elderly patient into getting an MRI. She was scared of the machine. One by one, the staff used active listening skills to validate her feelings while offering potential solutions. It was a terribly inefficient and deeply loving process. ***Thinking of those lonely people in the ER, I can imagine that it was a complex web of circumstances that brought them there—trauma, poverty, systemic racism and other barriers. It would be facile to think that deciding to act more “villager-like” would solve these complicated problems. And yet, I know that small moments of presence actually do help. We all need to be seen; we all need people we can rely on. That trust-building is a slow, inefficient process AND it’s the only way we make progress towards solving big problems like homelessness and addiction. So, even in this hectic season of back-to-school and various professional upheavals, I am going to try to be an inconvenience and let myself be inconvenienced, too. Missed a Post in our “Stuck Together Summer” Series? Here They Are! * Stop Threatening to Move to Canada * “We’re Doomed”: Great Card Game, Terrible Outlook on Life * A Post for When You Hate Everyone * Text That Friend You’re Thinking About * The Hardest Goodbye * A Police Defunder Has Some Regrets * The Other Third Places We Need Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Heretic Hereafter at heretichereafter.substack.com/subscribe

  3. Aug 12

    The Other Third Places We Need

    Wild Waves/Enchanted Village, Seattle’s schlocky amusement park, is closing and I couldn’t be sadder about it. While significantly crappier than a Disney Park or even a Six Flags, running around Wild Waves is a rite of passage for many Seattle-area adolescents. It is THE end-of-year good behavior field trip that makes students think twice about racking up detentions. It’s not just Seattle—since 2020, at least 10 major American amusement parks have closed and many regional parks are struggling to return after pandemic losses. Nor is it just the rollercoaster lovers that are in trouble, other classic teen hangouts like malls are in serious decline. High school dance attendance is down too, blamed largely on teens preferring screen-based activities like gaming and scrolling. Where are the teens supposed to go? Is this just another sign of the times? Am I merely weeping for my own Millennial nostalgia, shaking my fist at a generation that would rather be playing Roblox? Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Online Connection is Still Connection…Right? It’s not like kids these days are digital hermits. Observing my own teens and their friends have showed me that many of their online activities are, in fact, very social. My sons love to game with friends while chatting away over headsets, alternatively strategizing and trash-talking. Likewise, technology enables teens to stay connected outside of school in ways an elder Millennial like me could only have dreamed of. Heck, we were confined to the world of desktops, dial up, and, if you were lucky enough, AIM chats. (Pity the rural kids like me, who were beyond the reach of AOL.) This heightened connectivity is also seen in the sprawling online presence of events like prom. This dance, one of the few to survive the decline, has spread into cyberspace, with kids planning (and posting) elaborate “prom-posals” and girls hopping into online groups to share which dresses they’ve purchased so that—gasp!— no one shows up in the same ‘fit. And yet, while the average teen has a higher quantity of social connections, the quality of these interactions has changed. Instead of tying up a family landline with marathon phone calls, many kids now mainly communicate via brief DMs. And that text-based communication has its downsides: it’s both less stimulating to the brain and lacks context clues (like facial expressions and tone of voice) leading to higher instances of misunderstanding. Studies show, we need face-to-face interaction to form deep relationships, but our technology is increasingly crowding out this option. Gaming systems have shifted away from in-person together play (via shared account and split-screen) to siloed play on separate accounts and screens. While older technology like the Nintendo Switch makes multiplayer, in-person gaming easy (provided you have enough controllers), many popular games and systems (such as Roblox or Xbox’s Halo) set up a ridiculous amount of hurdles to in-person gaming. There’s also a serious downside to real-life events turning into social media spectacle. This technology is, by nature, performative—are you actually having fun at the prom or are you merely performing having fun for your followers? If so much of your social life revolves around your platform, can you ever completely forget the virtual audience? Teen brains are already wired to see peer acceptance as a life-or-death situation, adding parasocial pressure is like throwing gasoline on an open flame. Why Community Needs Physical Space No matter how much we enjoy connecting online, it turns out people need face-to-face interaction, and these interactions need to happen somewhere. In their book, The Great Good Place American sociologists Ray Oldenburg and Karen Christensen argue for the need for “third places”—spaces that are neither home or work (or, for kids we could sub in “school.”) Think cafes, barbershops, parks, gyms, or churches. According to Oldenburg & Christensen, the characteristics of a good third place are: * Open and inviting (drop-in vs. need an appointment) * Comfortable and informal * Convenient * Unpretentious * Has “Regulars” (and possibly a host of some kind) * Conversation is the main activity * Laughter is frequent Thinking specifically of kids and teens, third spaces ought to have fairly clear expectations for behavior and some light (emphasis on light!) adult supervision—i.e. you don’t jump in the mall fountain or security will kick you out. The Third Spaces Most Cities Are Missing Seattle, like many cities, has an abundance of third spaces that primarily cater to a particular type of person, namely, white young adults with plenty of cash. Think $5 cups of drip or $20 cocktails, pricey gyms with saunas and “wellness spaces.” Most don’t exactly fit the above criteria when it comes to being “unpretentious.” Each wave of gentrification strips away diversity from our variety of gathering spaces, like the Vietnamese pool hall and the Black barbershop, and instead brings in even more businesses aimed at hipsters. Even brew pubs that pitch themselves as “family friendly” are typically geared towards parents of young children. While it’s great that these often include a play space, they’re typically a snooze for kids over 5. Many parks are, similarly, lacking in features that appeal to older kids and teens. Basketball courts and baseball fields appeal to athletes, but it would be great to see more parks designed with spaces that are conducive to a casual hangout. Is there a landscaping equivalent of the 1970s “conversation pit”? Likewise, adolescents don’t feel welcome in many public spaces. Teens are often loud and prone to showing off, sometimes by engaging in risky behavior and boundary-pushing. When teens hang around playgrounds, they are often viewed with suspicion by parents of younger kids. I’ve been guilty of this, too, not sure when or whether to push back on teens’ rowdiness, reverting to passive-aggressive commentary when a kind, direct request would be more effective. The Future of Third Spaces for Teens Last time we were at Wild Waves, my kids having disappeared into the hoard of free-range teens, I lay on my lounger and frantically googled: “Wild Waves still for sale?” and “Wild Waves price?” fantasizing that there was some sort of crowdfunded future where I could help buy back the theme park, thus ensuring future Seattle teens the magic of janky wooden rollercoasters and overpriced hotdogs. Sadly, I discovered that Wild Waves and the surrounding parcel of land sold last fall for $456 million, which is a little out of my price range. I looked around at the diverse group of people enjoying the park—folks of all ages and races, folks who splashed out on the VIP cabanas and those who brown bagged it—and felt keenly the loss of this place. Communities need a variety of third places serving diverse groups of people, not just those who are willing and able to spend $10 on draft beer. If we want to solve the loneliness crisis, we would do well to look at our built environment and ask: do we have enough third spaces? And if so, who do they serve? Seattle has a few bright spots amongst all its tech bro-ification. Lately, I’ve seen more fliers for community centers which stay open for “Teen Late Nights,” providing recreation and hang out space with the kind of loose supervision kids this age need. Likewise, many teens in my area like to go for boba afterschool, which is sweeter than coffee and usually around the same price point. And I’m currently writing this while posted up at a picnic shelter near the skatepark where 3 tweens, including my son, are practicing their tricks. And yet I wonder if this is too little, too late. It seems to me we have two options: one where we are increasingly isolated, reliant on gig workers, exorbitant extracurricular activities, and overnight delivery to try and fill the void where community once was, or we can try to pull out of this late-stage capitalist nosedive and, instead, invest in each other. All people need networks of relationships and, therefore, we need a diverse ecosystem of third places. As for the future of Wild Waves? The investment firm bought the theme park with plans to demolish it. In its place, they’ll build a 1-million-square-foot warehouse. It feels too apt for a culture that puts so much value on accumulating stuff and makes so little room for people. Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Heretic Hereafter at heretichereafter.substack.com/subscribe

  4. Aug 5

    A Police Defunder Has Some Regrets

    I’ve been following with rapt attention the new NPR/Seattle Times podcast, “We Keep Us Safe” which investigates the murder of 15-year-old Antonio Mays, Jr. at the Capitol Hill Occupied Protest (CHOP) in 2020. This summer, we’ve been looking at what it takes to make community work. This new investigation of CHOP highlights the challenges of building a society from scratch apart from traditional institutions like the police. What Was CHOP? For those of you unfamiliar with CHOP, it was a protestor takeover of Seattle’s Cal Anderson Park and several blocks around it after the Seattle Police Department abandoned its East Precinct station in June of 2020 after several days of protest after the murder of George Floyd. The media portrayed CHOP, varyingly, as either a Summer-of-Love-type sit-in or a lawless hellscape. Anxious to cut through the hype, I visited CHOP and witnessed both its promise and problems first-hand. Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. There were many positive things happening at the park: tables offered free food and water to anyone who wanted them. There were medical personnel on hand and teach-ins using the “human microphone” technique many folks learned during the Occupy Wall Street protests. People were exchanging ideas and vigorously debating how to create the post-racist, just society so many of us were crying out for in those dark days. But while there were many in the park there to learn and vision together, the vibes weren’t exactly peace and love. Homeless people, some behaving erratically, had also streamed into the encampment. And as my friends and I sat eating tacos on the baseball field, we witnessed a group of masked men surround someone who was recording video. The group began shouting at the videographer, threatening violence. I’d seen enough and decided not to stick around past dark. Four days after my visit, 15-year-old Antonio Mays, Jr. would be murdered and his friend gravely wounded right in front of the abandoned police station. Questions remained: who killed Mays and why? And how had this protest against racialized violence ended up taking the life of a Black teenager? The Investigation In the days after Mays’ murder, rumors swirled: he was a gang member or a troublemaker, there to cause mayhem and possibly harm CHOP protestors. Having witnessed the various groups of people filtering in and out of CHOP, I all too easily accepted this explanation, figuring we’d probably never get the whole story. But reporters from our local NPR station and The Seattle Times were able to reconstruct a timeline of the murder using hours of security camera and livestream video scraped from social media. This, combined with eye-witness interviews, led to some startling revelations about why Mays was at CHOP and who likely killed him. The whole podcast is available now; I won’t spoil the conclusions for you because I think it’s worth a listen. The Aftermath The podcast begins and ends by interviewing Antonio Mays, Sr. As much as his son’s death has been held up as a symbol for this or that movement, we ought never forget that Mays was a kid. He was a musician, an aspiring BBQ pitmaster, a son, a brother, a classmate, a friend. As a parent, I can’t help but put myself in his family’s shoes. How awful to lose a child, how awful to not know why. Mays, Sr. wants justice for his son. No one has yet been arrested for the murder. Given the many errors in the criminal investigation, it’s unclear whether his son’s killer will ever face legal consequences. Here’s the thing I’ve come to understand about the push for police reform: it’s not all or nothing. While political polarization and media sensationalism painted the sides of the debate as either “the police are great, they can do no wrong” or “abolish all police,” many would-be reformers are just regular people like the Mays family who want the police to investigate serious crimes while not abusing their power to harass or harm people of color. Was Defund the Answer? I attended multiple Black Lives Matter protests in 2020. We were fed up with biased policing and with the government-sanctioned murder of unarmed civilians. We dreamed of a world where people experiencing mental health crises were met with a helping hand rather than guns drawn. One of our main chants during this time was, “Defund the police, 50% at least!” During this time, I tried to be careful about what I said in front of my kids, not wanting to overwhelm them. Still, they picked up on more than I realized. My eldest, then 8, saw a newspaper headline about the protests. He asked, “So they’re going to fire all the racist police and then we’ll have only good police leftover?” My heart ached at his question; I so wished that we could give him a justice system that was actually just. While many Seattle City Council members publicly commented in favor of drastically cutting the police budget, in the end, the budget was only cut by 14%, some of that in the form of individual salary cuts, but most coming from moving services like 911 call centers and parking enforcement out of the police department. Following the debate, the police chief resigned, and police officers left the department at a rate of about 150 per year between 2020-2022. While KIRO news reported this attrition was primarily due to the political climate, their sample size was small (12ish exit interviews out of 400ish departures). Other factors that could’ve influenced this wave of departures include things like poor staffing ratios and mask and vaccine mandates. Regardless of why police left, many of their positions wouldn’t be filled until years later, leaving Seattle with some of the lowest numbers of police per capita of any large city in America. These staffing drops have often been cited as the cause of increased response times and the feeling that, in Seattle, “the police don’t do anything.” Looking back on those “defund” demands now, what we were clamoring for was police accountability. Seattle had already gone through a federal consent decree and had an Office for Police Accountability, and yet little seemed to change. Taxpayers, were, understandably upset, particularly after police overreaction to peaceful protests in 2020, which included a small child being maced. To me, “defund” felt like a last resort, hitting the department where it hurt: its wallet. And yet, as much as the me of 2020 would’ve liked to chuck out the whole police department and start over from scratch, what happened at CHOP is illustrative of what can happen in the absence of police: namely, untrained vigilantes who self-appoint themselves as “security” creating the violence they’re trying to prevent. In my opinion, “defund” was too much, too soon. It was (understandably) reactionary, but it made little meaningful progress towards the slow, hard work of reform. What Would Justice Look Like? Reforming our institutions often feels impossible. There are entrenched interests heavily invested in preserving the status quo, including groups like police unions. Both communities of color and police often feel under attack, making dialogue difficult. But there are bright spots amid all this mess, people who are crossing party lines and doing the important, community-building work of accountability and relationship-building. The first person who gives me hope is Detective Cookie. She’s a South Seattle icon (she even has a park named after her!) a police officer who started an after-school chess club and is a frequent fixture at schools and neighborhood events. Even as the community has lauded her work to build trust between the police and the community, she’s faced discrimination within the police department and pushback for trying to hold it accountable. I’m so heartened to see the community rally around Detective Cookie; we need more police like her. The second group who give me hope are the teachers, counselors, and community workers I see engaging in restorative justice, a concept I hope will be more widely rolled out in our community. Groups like Community Passageways mentor at-risk youth, moving people out of the criminal justice system and towards productive employment. Is this reform work quick and easy? Absolutely not! Our criminal justice system is akin to a container ship that takes miles to come to a stop once the brakes are applied. Turning the ship around is a slow and arduous process. But, as tempting as it is to give into frustration, to throw up one’s hands and storm out of the city, we must stay patient, we must notice small steps and work towards creating more of them. If you want to help with police accountability and reform, there are options! You can host a block party or attend a community safety meeting. You can donate to groups in your area that are promoting restorative justice and advocate for it in your schools and institutions. As much as we grieve the injustice of police violence, we have to remember that this is generational work. As the proverb says, “The best time to plant a tree is thirty years ago. The second best time is now.” Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Heretic Hereafter at heretichereafter.substack.com/subscribe

  5. Jul 29

    The Hardest Goodbye

    This summer, we’ve been looking at commitment and what it takes to make communities and relationships work. Sticking it out has its place, certainly, but what about its opposite, calling it quits? Is there ever a time when we are justified in stepping away from relationships, even one as sacred as that between a parent and child? Content Warning: suicidal ideation. If you or someone you know is thinking about suicide, please call or text 988 for help. During the summer of 2020, I debated going no-contact with my mother. While my social media feed lit up with photos of people retreating to childhood homes, praises for grandparents as backup daycare, and even intergenerational TikToks, I was staring at the bland cover of a self-help book that detailed the process of cutting off a loved one. I couldn’t even decide whether to read it. The library had been closed for months, so this book sat in a stack next to my desk, calling to me like the tell-tale heart each time I sat down to write. What was I going to do? Part of me was stuck in disbelief that things had gotten this bad. As a child, I’d idolized my mother. I remember going to JoAnne’s to pick out fabric for matching dresses, watching her lay out the pattern pieces on the fabric: her larger pieces in the center, my smaller ones filling in the gaps. I would ask her endless questions about her life before me, making note of how I ought to be in the world. My baby book catalogues my aspirations at various ages: ballerina, teacher, nurse, mommy—all her ambitions became my own. I loved her biting sense of humor and her creativity. Her smile, when she turned it my way, felt like stepping out of a cold shadow into sunlight. And if she often kept me at a distance, shooing me towards the TV whenever I broached the kitchen where she spent most of the day cleaning, cooking, and drinking white wine, well, I aspired to be less annoying, more useful. Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. We had our ups and downs. When I left home for college, she sank into a depression so deep I felt it even 500 miles away. She joked about how I “abandoned” her. When we’d lived together, I’d been adept at gauging her mood and avoiding her triggers, but on the phone it was difficult to take her emotional temperature and figure out the right thing to say. In the summer of 2020, our conversations felt like stepping on landmines. I wrestled with duty—what did I owe the woman who gave me life, who raised, fed, and clothed me? Who, as she often reminded me, “only lived” to be a grandma to my kids, then 8 and 5. I never doubted that she loved us. But I also could no longer ignore her increasingly erratic behavior. On our weekly Skype calls she was usually drunk and moody. One night, she accused me of not being grateful for the matching sweaters she’d recently sent my kids. I objected that I had thanked her on a previous call and promised to send a photo of the kids wearing them when the weather was…you know…more sweater appropriate? My explanation only enraged her further: she accused me of secretly hating the sweaters and her, before enlisting the help of family members to harangue me for my ingratitude. By now this was a familiar pattern. After many years of therapy, I’d begun to wonder about my mother’s drinking and the way my family readily accepted her version of events. As I’d worked towards having healthier communication in my own relationships, the difference between my household and my parents’ was thrown into stark relief. This new self-knowledge also made me question the past: had I always wanted to be just like Mom, or had that been my only safe option? I’d spent the previous several visits trying to set boundaries with her around her drinking. When confronted, she acted like she had no idea what I was talking about but eventually agreed to not drink around us, “since it’s so important to you.” But during her visits she continued to ask for alcohol, to purchase it under various guises (“it’s for the marinara.”) After she left, I’d find empty wine bottles hidden in various nooks throughout my house. After so much energy spent policing these boundaries, the forced separation of the pandemic came as a relief. I blamed our increasing distance on being COVID-cautious, but she could sense I was pulling away, which triggered more acting out. On a random evening, I might get half-a-dozen angry voicemails about what a terrible person I was. Sometimes she threatened to commit suicide since I obviously didn’t care enough about her to answer the phone. (When she did this, I’d contact family members who lived with or near her who would then call 911. Always take suicide threats seriously.) One of the hardest parts of having an addicted family member is the silence that surrounds the illness. In my family-of-origin, there was no accountability for what was said or done in a drunken haze. It was always explained to me that the alcoholic felt immense shame about their addiction, and we didn’t want to make that worse, did we? I was tired of being collateral damage. I dreaded each interaction with my mother. For a few hours before and after our weekly Skype date, I was tense and irritable, snapping at my own children. I realized I was displacing my own anger and grief onto them, the same way my mother had barked at me after visiting my grandma in the nursing home. But I had to do this, didn’t I? I was obligated to let my kids do a weekly videocall with their grandmother, even if she was drunk and sulking about God-knows-what? I was afraid of what she might do if I stopped talking to her. And I felt an ancient guilt: that somehow her addiction, her life’s many troubles, were all my fault. My therapist and I spent months gaming out possible solutions. She’d been the one to recommend that library book that had been gathering dust next to my desk. Finally, I got so fed up that I opened it and saw my feelings of fear, obligation, and guilt (FOG) reflected back at me. The author asked whether this could ever be the basis for any kind of healthy relationship? And I knew she was right. Still, it took several more months of hemming and hawing before I wrote my mom a letter. In it, I explained that the only way forward for our relationship was for her to work towards sobriety and to make a fourth step amends to me for the damage her alcoholism had done to our relationship. As I dropped the letter into the mailbox slot, I knew this was likely the end. I couldn’t remember Mom ever offering a non-sarcastic apology and I doubted she’d start now, even if it meant losing a relationship with me. The fallout was quick and predictable: more voicemails. Gifts and cards sent to my children. Other family members asking repeatedly what, exactly, I wanted from her, as if my demands had been complicated or finnicky. And then, quiet. Relief. The guilt is still there—I worry about her; I imagine what I could’ve done (could still do?) to get her to stop drinking. I still harbor fantasies that she will recover and we will rebuild our relationship. But as her disease progresses that possibility slips farther and farther away. Looking back now, I suspect that my mother suffers not only from Substance Use Disorder but also Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) and that her lashing out at me was likely due to what she perceived as rejection, a major symptom of that disorder. I have a lot of sympathy for her and I don’t blame her. Given her genes and life experiences, it makes total sense why she ended up this way. That doesn’t mean I’m willing to step back into the line of fire. Much has been written about the “trend” of estrangement. There’s little actual data regarding the reasons family members become estranged or how long they contemplated it before initiating. Is it possible that people are becoming estranged for rash and selfish reasons? Sure. People vary in their maturity and ability to negotiate conflict. Still, I bristle at the assumptions that tend to be made about those going no-contact: that we are big, whiny babies who don’t value others. For some of us, distance is the only way we can truly love each other. I acknowledge that my choice deeply hurt my mother and also negatively impacted other family members. If I could’ve seen any way to preserve our relationship without sacrificing myself in the process, I would’ve done it. But when I think about the foundations of a healthy relationship, I keep coming back to accountability. If a person can’t take feedback and course correct, I don’t think there’s any hope for a real relationship. It’s interesting to me that questions of atonement and forgiveness are at the heart of Christianity. As much as my gag reflex activates when I hear the phrase “a personal relationship with God,” this parallel between human and divine relationships is striking: we all screw up, we all hurt those we love, we all need a way back. I wish the theology that formed my mother and me had focused more on healthy repair rather than the unattainable pursuit of moral perfection. I wish we’d experienced grace and learned that a well-done repair actually strengthens relationships. Maybe things would’ve worked out differently for us. Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Heretic Hereafter at heretichereafter.substack.com/subscribe

  6. Jul 22

    Text the Friend You're Thinking About

    By my early 30s, I’d moved 16 times. I’d transferred schools 5 times, lived in 14 different cities, and moved boxes in and out of countless apartments and houses. I’d always considered this my social superpower: I knew how to harness the allure of being “the new kid.” I was both extroverted and judgy; I sorted people quickly and built friendships that blazed quick and hot. (There’s nothing like an expiration date to cement intense friendships.) The cycle was: meet, befriend, leave, over and over again. It took me years to realize that this supposed “superpower” was holding me back from real, deep friendship. Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Do We Still Need Friends? The Allure of the “Everything” Relationship It’s not just me who lacks friendship skills. From the “loneliness crisis” to viral content on “how to make friends as an adult,” it seems a lot of us are craving friendship. This lack feels baked into our culture. America doesn’t prioritize or center friendships, instead it’s largely oriented around romantic partnerships. (You can’t, for instance, share health insurance with a friend, no matter how close you are.) As many of our community affiliations (such as churches or civic groups) have dwindled in the past 50 years, more and more of our emotional and practical needs have fallen to our romantic partners. Our romantic expectations have never been higher: we want someone who will not only sweep us off our feet and do their fair share of domestic drudgery, they also need to also be our best friend. These expectations have given rise to what psychotherapist Esther Perel dubs, “The Everything Marriage”: “Everything that we wanted from a traditional marriage — companionship, family, children, economic support, a best friend, a passionate lover, a trusted confidante, an intellectual equal — we are asking from one person what an entire village once provided. And couples are crumbling under the weight of so much expectation.” (emphasis mine) Writing about this phenomenon for The Atlantic, author Rhaina Cohen calls it the “self-expressive” marriage: “spouses expected their partnership to be the site of self-discovery and personal growth.” (Gift link here.) As Perel and others have pointed out: expecting one person to be your everything generally doesn’t work. No one person is going to share all our interests, fill every single one of our needs, always be sexy and smart and interesting. Taking responsibilities for our needs means when one person can’t meet a specific need, we can find support in other relationships. I’m lucky to have a fantastic husband, but we don’t do everything together—he loves outer space and I love reality TV. I refused to see Project Hail Mary and he, in turn, doesn’t watch Love Island. We need friends to share our quirky hobbies with. We need them to help with care- and domestic work. We need people who’ll willingly listen to us complain about our spouses or our jobs or our kids. We need people to split the cost of a vacation house or a Netflix account. But for all these known benefits, many of us still struggle. Why Keeping Friendships Can Be So Hard & What to Do About It All the things that make friendship easy, like proximity and stage of life, can work against you as life goes on. That friend who lived down the hall in your college dorm now lives across the country. Things that were easy now take effort, and we only have so much effort to go around. Here is my Very Scientific List of Things that Make Maintaining Friendship Difficult: * Physical distance * Changing life circumstances: one friend gets married, has a kid or takes on other caretaking responsibilities, loses their job, etc. * Lack of clarity around the friendship. The label “best friends” hardly seems adequate for some of these relationships, which are more like platonic partnerships. But our culture/families doesn’t really understand ordering life around friendship vs. a romantic relationship. (More of this in The Atlantic article linked above) Yet maintaining friendships across these changes is possible! A highly scientific survey of readers on Substack Notes and on my Facebook revealed some great tips: * Embrace the awkwardness. If it’s been a while, things may feel weird at first. That’s okay! My tendency is to act like I know what’s going on, but I’m learning a better strategy is just to own your ignorance and ask questions (“What’s your kid’s name?”) People are, generally, pretty forgiving. * Get creative with technology: emails, group chats, Marco Polo, Facebook, and doing book clubs over Zoom were just some of the tools mentioned. * Reciprocity, but with grace. Friendships flourish when both sides do their best to connect while still understanding that sometimes it may be harder for one party or the other. * Irregular visits. Face-to-face time, even years apart, has a way of making it feel like no time has passed. * Understand there are different levels of friendship, and that’s okay. That person who used to be your confidante might be more of a casual friend now, and that’s okay. A healthy social network includes varying levels of intimacy. The Secret Friendship Ingredient? Accountability Growing up as the consummate “new kid” I was never lonely, but I also never learned how to work through conflict. I distinctly remember moving to my last elementary school in Missoula, Montana. My dad had retired from the army and announced: no more moves. Shortly thereafter, there was some kind of 4th grade blow up, and it felt like half the class was mad at me. I thought, “Oh well, I’ll probably move soon anyway, I can tolerate everyone being mad at me for a month or two.” Then I stopped short. There would be no more moves. Many of these same kids would be my classmates through high school! This was the first, but definitely not last, time I had to learn to be accountable (ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhh) Accountability, I’ve since realized, is the secret ingredient that makes relationships viable. More on that next week… What do you think? Are you good at staying in touch? Do you have routines or rhythms for how often you’re in contact with old friends? Please share your stories, tips, and questions in the comments. Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Heretic Hereafter at heretichereafter.substack.com/subscribe

  7. Jul 15

    A Post for When You Hate Everyone

    Do you ever have one of those days where you fantasize about throwing someone out a window? Not that you would ever actually want to hurt someone, but there’s just that “leave me the f**k alone” feeling? Part of living in families and communities that doesn’t get a lot of airtime are the low-level irritations and resentments that can build up in long-term relationships. During this “Stuck Together Summer” we’ve gotta talk about feeling pissed off at the people you, ostensibly, love. Bruh, Why You Mad? I’m not immune from petty annoyances. When my husband was home with me for two weeks after a recent shoulder surgery, I might have, at one point, complained about how loudly he was breathing. When I find myself angry at people for doing things like breathing or behaving in ways that are intrinsic to them (such as my kids for being loud and argumentative) usually the problem is…me. In situations like this, some people like to use the acronym HALT (Am I Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired?) to check on themselves, I prefer the acronym SWaTHS: is the sun in my eyes? Do I have a wedgie (or other uncomfortable clothing situation)? Am I thirsty? Hangry? Sleepy? If SWaTHS doesn’t reveal a culprit, the problem is often boundary related. Many of us raised in high-control religions were taught to ignore our needs. The trouble is needs don’t magically disappear because you’re ignoring them! They just fester into irritation and resentment. Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. What Boundaries Are (and Aren’t!) “Boundaries,” like a lot of therapy speak, is a term being widely misused across social media. People say “boundaries” to try and control others, to set ultimatums, and to generally say “this is a thing I don’t want to do and so I won’t because: therapy!” Boundaries, sadly, aren’t magic words that get other people to do whatever we want. Boundaries are decisions people make for themselves about what kind of behavior they will tolerate in order to protect their own mental and physical health. For example: Say your Aunt Bertha constantly brings up your bald spot and it drives you absolutely crazy. Not boundaries: You say “Aunt Bertha stop laughing at my bald spot or I’ll throw you the window!” Boundaries: You decide to mention to Aunt Bertha that her comments bother you. You decide that if she keeps bringing it up, you’ll have to cut your phone call or visit short. Notice here that your decision is about what you will do. You can’t control whether Aunt Bertha makes a crack about your appearance. You can control your response. Why Some People Hate Boundaries In my experience, most people are very respectful of boundaries if they’re framed in a gently, such as “I wish I could help you with your tuba solo, but I’m at capacity.” Some people, though, take boundaries EXTREMELY PERSONALLY because: * it triggers their guilt: were their previous actions hurtful and they didn’t know? * they have rejection sensitivity (common in ADHD) or other trauma related to boundaries * the previous arrangement (you being a doormat) worked well for them. When you set boundaries it threatens the status quo I’ve dealt with a fair amount of drama regarding pretty straight-forward boundaries around my kids’ needs for regular meals and bedtimes. It sucks to feel like you have to choose between good parenting and keeping the peace. But, regardless of how people feel about our boundaries, it’s important to stick to them. Their feelings are their issue, not yours. There are, however, more complex boundary situations. Boundaries with People Who Have Power Over You Boundaries are more complicated with people whom you depend on for housing, a salary, or other needs. It’s a lot easier to set boundaries with Aunt Bertha when she’s not the one paying your rent or watching your kids on the reg. For instance, if you have reason to believe that your boss will punish you for setting boundaries, you might have to take a different tack, such as lowering your expectations (“Bob always microwaves tuna, that’s just how it is”) or, if the situation is really bad, looking for a different job. Boundaries with People You Have Power Over For many of us, setting boundaries with people we have power over can be equally difficult. Having been on the receiving end of abusive bosses, I’ve been reluctant to do things like tell my babysitter to put her phone away and, you know, watch my kids. (We all want to be liked, right?) I have to remind myself there’s a difference between being clear about expectations and being a bad boss. Similarly, I’ve noticed how hard it is for many parents to set reasonable boundaries with their own kids. It feels easy to veer into being either over-controlling or too lenient. Newborns train us to respond to their every cry, but as kids get older, they need increasing amounts of what I’ve termed “brick wall parenting”: firm limits they can’t argue their way out of. Yes, you have to do your homework. No, you can’t play with fireworks. Setting boundaries isn’t being mean; it’s us acting as our kids’ frontal lobes until theirs have a chance to develop. Difficult But Worth It Most people do not enjoy conflict. For those of us who were raised to be doormats, setting boundaries can be especially anxiety-provoking. But being clear about boundaries actually improves our relationships—it teaches people how we prefer to be treated and shows us who is capable of honoring that and who isn’t. Failing to set and enforce boundaries often leads to resentment, which can poison a relationship. If you need a little boost for setting boundaries, here are a couple of mantras I employ regularly: * “Choose discomfort over resentment.” -Brene Brown * “Clarity is kindness.” -probably also Brene Brown? For further reading, I can heartily recommend therapist Nedra Tawwab, who offers down-to-earth, practical wisdom about boundaries in her book, Set Boundaries, Find Peace. She’s also a solid Instagram follow. How are you when it comes to setting boundaries? Do you agree or disagree that feeling “pissed off at the world” is usually the result of a boundary issue? Do you have any tips or tricks for setting and enforcing boundaries? As always, I love to hear feedback from y’all in the comments or via DM or email! Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. BONUS MATERIALS: * more about the importance of limits * this boundary-related humorous vid * and this one’s just for LOLs Get full access to Heretic Hereafter at heretichereafter.substack.com/subscribe

  8. Jul 8

    WE'RE DOOMED: Great Card Game, Terrible Outlook on Life

    Summer started off with a bang in the Strange household—one of our kiddos pulled some epically bad behavior and, as a result, lost screentime privileges for two weeks! The one upshot of this arrangement is that he was B-O-R-E-D and willing to indulge in more boardgames than usual. Our new family favorite? A cheery little card game called WE’RE DOOMED! Why WE’RE DOOMED! Is So Compelling WE’RE DOOMED! imagines that the world is ending in 15 minutes, and only those who get a seat on an escape rocket will survive. The trick is, the rocket isn’t finished yet. The main choice on each turn is whether to contribute to the (shared) rocket project, or to perform actions which make it more likely that you, yourself, will get a seat on said rocket. Along the way there are fun complications like opportunities to steal or even “nuke” other players (thus eliminating them from the game.) Since the game is timed, all of this is all done with much shouting and rushing. I’ve played WE’RE DOOMED! a few dozen times now and have only succeeded in getting on the rocket once. Generally, everyone dies, but a few times we’ve managed to pull together and build a big enough rocket for all the (still-living) players. Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This game is the right level of fun, challenging, and silly. But the secret, nerdy reason that I like it? It’s a perfect illustration of the “tragedy of the commons.” Our Most Common Problem? The tragedy of the commons is an idea borrowed from economics describing a situation in which a group shares a common, scarce resource. Any one individual can try to hoard this resource for themselves at a cost to the community. Think overfishing, deforestation, or climate change. Once you understand the tragedy of the commons, you start to see it everywhere: it’s corporations putting short-term profits ahead of long-term financial stability (the financial crisis), it’s countries wanting to industrialize (and pollute) to gain an economic edge in the short-term while contributing to climate crisis in the long-term. What makes the tragedy of the commons so interesting is that it taps into that eternal tension between the individual and the community. What is fair? Who gets to decide? And should I take my “fair share,” or do I try to get one over on everyone else? The term “tragedy of the commons” was popularized by the economist Garrett Hardin, who wrote (of overgrazed “commons” or communal land): “Therein is the tragedy. Each man is locked into a system that compels him to increase his herd without limit – in a world that is limited. Ruin is the destination toward which all men rush, each pursuing his own best interest in a society that believes in the freedom of the commons. Freedom in a commons brings ruin to all.” — Garrett Hardin, The Tragedy of the Commons Hardin’s view, it seems, is that all people are inherently selfish and that we are, in fact, doomed to ruin all shared resources. The only solutions, in his estimation, are privatization and top-down government management. But is that actually the case? Crabbing Lessons We were on a big group camping trip this weekend, playing WE’RE DOOMED! in the evening and crabbing by day, which provided an interesting view into the tragedy of the commons. When you crab in Washington, you must buy a $35 license. You’re limited to a certain number of crabs per day, of certain species, and you may not collect crabs that are too small, molting, or the wrong gender. This is top-down government regulation meant to prevent over-harvesting of crabs, enforced by park rangers. Due to a broken boat, we were mostly limited to crabbing off the dock this year. We were not the only ones doing so—the space was fairly crowded with a diverse group of people: immigrants speaking a variety of languages, experienced crabbers, newbie tourists, a precocious 12-year-old crustacean expert, and a very nice guy wearing a very obnoxious Trump t-shirt. The crabs were pretty scarce this year. Following Hardin’s logic, you’d expect that competition would be fierce and the strangers wouldn’t be very friendly towards each other. But you’d be wrong. While my crew only managed to catch 6 crabs over 2 days, we were given many more by folks who were doing better than us. Folks who preferred bigger crabs, or Dungeness versus Rock Crab, were giving us crustaceans left and right. Folks shared tools and tips and repeatedly helped each other. A sort of gift economy developed on the dock, partly enabled by those government limits. Ronald Reagan Was Wrong If you grew up like I did, learning that Reaganism was next to godliness, you probably learned that the best way to deal with the tragedy of the commons was to privatize everything. In this view, government regulation is inefficient, unresponsive to the market, and likely to spawn cancerous bureaucracies. Yes, according to economists, government regulation or privatization were the only choices. Then Elinor Ostrom came along. She studied rural, traditional economies from around the world and found that these groups were perfectly capable of managing their own shared resources without privatization or state intervention. In order for these systems to work, Ostrom found that certain conditions needed to be met, including systems for monitoring and enforcing rules. This research won her the Nobel Prize and opened a whole new area of study in economics. Like the tragedy of the commons, once you recognize this shared resource optimization, you can see it everywhere. It’s why Wikipedia went from being something you should never cite (according to my high school English teacher) to a pretty reliable source. How to Win at WE’RE DOOMED! Solutions are possible. Problems like climate change, while complex and large-scale, are not unsolvable. What’s required, whether we’re governing global CO2 levels or a small neighborhood park, is pretty simple: we need to agree on a set of limits, and we need to have folks monitoring and enforcing those limits. Above all, we, like the crabbers on the dock, need to talk to each other. So, if you want to win WE’RE DOOMED! I’d recommend you don’t start playing when the timer flips. Instead, you should talk amongst the players and come up with quotas of how many resources each player must contribute. You should appoint a monitor, and that monitor should have an enforcement mechanism, such as “if you fail to meet your quota, you will be nuked and removed from the game.” Would we actually play this way? Absolutely not, it would be no fun at all! But it does give me hope, in a world full of naysayers and cynics, that we know how to solve big problems. We don’t have to settle for a WE’RE DOOMED! mentality. Heretic Hereafter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Heretic Hereafter at heretichereafter.substack.com/subscribe

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About

Heretic Hereafter is about figuring out how to live the good life after leaving Evangelical Christianity. Whether you're religious or not, join us for a weekly dose of humor and reflection that helps us look past the superficial for life's deeper meanings. heretichereafter.substack.com

Information

  • Creator
    Katharine Strange
  • Years Active
    2025 - 2026
  • Episodes
    68
  • Rating
    Explicit
  • Copyright
    © Katharine Strange
  • Show Website
    Heretic Hereafter Podcast