Bunny Hopping

I think I may have discovered a lingering - not lingerie - prejudice within my soul-searching, people-loving, Christ-seeking self. I say 'linger' because it first blipped onto my radar over two years ago, bringing me up short as an odd epiphany burst in my brain, scattering previous misconceptions on the matter into the void where hurtles and collides all manner of discarded thought.

For the case of this writing, I am using this variation of the definition for prejudice: an unfavorable opinion or feeling formed beforehand or without knowledge, thought, or reason. These feelings I have identified are not hateful, nor do they incite me to the point of exacting either physical or verbal harm on another. No, what these feelings stir within certain windowless corridors of my mind is annoyance, on whose heels follows rather quickly awareness.

This mental malingerer first appeared on the scene February 8, 2007. On this day an ex-stripper, ex-Playboy model from Texas - a fitting origin for one who was larger than life on a several different planes - by the name of Anna Nicole Smith died of a drug overdose at the age of 39. (I am 39 this year; it is difficult to imagine death robbing me of the chance to hit my 40's.) During her life, her body and her choices paved the way for her media celebrity without much evidence of her brain actively participating in the fray. After making Playmate of the Year - a pinnacle achievement - and divorcing her high school sweetheart first husband, Anna Nicole married an obscenely wealthy octogenarian oil tycoon while she was yet in her mid-20's. He passed away a few years into their marital bliss -- which is not surprising as she would have been a healthy handful for a robust young man let alone an aged billionaire with lusty tastes. She spent a good many years embroiled in a bitter lawsuit over the estate. From her first marriage she had a son who lost his life to drugs at the young age of 20; she also left behind a 3-year old daughter. Riding the coattails of earlier success stories, Ms. Smith tried her own hand at a reality-based show; she was continually portrayed as a vacuous, doped-up, dumbed-down, boobies-and-blond caricature of a woman. Pathetic in a nutshell. None of this conjured up the makings for a three-dimensional, in-depth, and worth-watching public personality. Not to me, anyhow.

Her death was covered and dissected and regurgitated, along with blow-by-blow analysis of why and where it all went wrong and who was the real father of her baby girl and endless interviews with publicity-seeking 'close friends,' by every news agency on television and online. Each day brought urgent developments, dished out for public consumption by folks like Matt Lauer and Ann Curry of THE TODAY SHOW, whose media talents I felt could and should be much better utilized with real news. I mean yes, it was tragic for anyone to die in that manner at a relatively young age (thank you, very much). It was doubly tragic that she lost her son and now her daughter was left without a mother. But, she chose to live as she did: live by the sword, die by the sword. Surely, somebody of true social importance had passed away, a real movie star, a Pulitzer-prize winner, a scientist, a social activist or major religious figure, heck, even a nobody young woman who chose to keep her clothes on and actually put attentively raising her kids above raising her cup-size for attention?

All perfectly good and witty opinions based on prejudice must come to an end.

It hit me while I was sweeping the kitchen floor, getting under the counters' edges and beneath the fridge. The blank eye of the TV stared at me, indignant at having been switched off by my irritated self after discovering more Anna Nicole coverage on a reputable news station that was decidedly not 'E! News.' Suddenly, POW! -- the freight train hit me. Would my death be more important because I chose not to gyrate around a pole for money while strange men ogled my body? Because I chose to remain fully dressed and out of the glossy pages of porn magazines? Because I chose to value my brain and decisions more than the lure of this world's money and pleasures? Further, was I more important than this ex-Guess model who slipped and fell victim to a prescription drug addiction? To men who treated her like a big juicy slab of prime rib ready to be devoured at their leisure? To a world that watched while she painted herself into a narrow corner and reduced her to celluloid fodder? Somewhere along the line, this mother of two lost her life-navigator-system and fell to wandering aimlessly through a one-dimensional life. If I was judging all of this using the yardstick of my developing-Christian perspective, I had measured Ms. Smith unjustly. I should not have considered her measurements . . . at all.

I cried for her as I should have done when first I heard the news of her death. I cried knowing that even as I prayed for her and those hurt by her passing, I had missed the chance to pray for her while she lived. I prayed for other lovely lonely women who sought attention and fame, or infamy as some cases often turned out, at the high cost of their sexuality, their individuality, their spirituality. I thanked Anna Nicole, posthumously as the case may have been, for opening my eyes to this invaluable lesson.

Except, the lesson was not learned. Not fully anyway. On Tuesday of this past week, I experienced another jolt. While in the kitchen (what is it with the kitchen and epiphany?) preparing a fantastic fish taco feast for dinner, my ears picked up the high-pitched strains of a girlish giggle. It sounded like this girl was repeatedly flubbing marriage vows. I asked what my daughter was watching on the living room TV set. She informed me it was a wedding show. Kendra Wilkinson, another ex-Playboy bunny, reality-show blond bomber, ex-live-in-girlfriend-to-nasty-ol’-Hugh-Hefner, was marrying Hank Baskett, a fine-looking hottie (Sarah’s description) of an NFL player for the Eagles. I rolled my eyes, still chopping the red cabbage, and tried to endure the next few minutes. But, after hearing Kendra gush about how her life had been transformed by this man’s undying love and devotion to her every need, while the sun’s reflection glinted off the whirring blades of the paparazzi-filled hovering helicopter overhead, and the crowd oohed and aahed from the transformed lawn of the Playboy mansion, I lost it. “Uh, yeah, right. Okay-y-y-y, then-n. . . “ Sarah, quick to discern the vast quantities of unspoken sentiment inherent in that statement, shot right back, “Mom. Just because she posed naked and is on a show you don’t like does not mean she is not a person. She is allowed to have feelings. Just like you,” she drew a breath, “and I thought you said Christians are not supposed to judge people. That is up to God!”

Well, I was proud of my daughter in that moment. No, not for defending a bunny I hoped my cat would never drag onto our back porch. No, not for exposing herself to empty programming which wasted perfectly good gray matter . . . and, yes, the chances were high that she enjoyed getting in that dig about my faith as she was not venturing with any apparent interest into that arena of belief herself. But, her core statement she spoke with conviction. All people mattered. All people were supposed to matter. Just as with Anna Nicole, I had formed - without much thought, little reason, and biased knowledge - an unfavorable opinion of this woman which kept me from allowing her any validity. I had more compassion for addicts, wife-beaters, and murderers. How was that possible? Because I detested the pornography industry and knew the pain, loss, and warped perspectives it engendered in so many, and because these two people seemed to go willingly into that dark night, I downgraded their human status. I fell prey to the media-hype, didn't do my own thinking, and thus became a bit one-dimensional myself in that area.

While I won't be picking up a Playboy magazine any time soon, I will remind myself that the women inside those slick pages are also somebody's daughter, mother, sister, aunt, friend, and the cornerstone of my faith says they, too, were created out of divine love and are worthy of my prayers.