The Loss of Deflection and Projection:

Inanna’s Fourth Gate

In ancient Sumerian and Mesopotamian mythology, Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth, descends to the Underworld in an archetypal pattern of death and rebirth. This post is part six of a multi-part series, though each part is a separate subject and should stand alone. All previous posts are available at Modern Mythology.

During her descent to the Underworld, the gatekeeper, Neti, removes one of her godly powers at each of the seven gates, a process designed to mortify her ego.

“When she entered the fourth gate, from her chest the breastplate called Come, Man, Come was removed.” Wolkstein and Kramer

You want a piece of me? Come, Man, come.

The breastplate represents hardened protection over the heart—psychological armoring crafted over a wound so severe it has no redress. It arises from seeing how the world works and how you fit or do not fit in.

In my case, that meant growing up in an environment of alcoholism, domestic violence, and sexual misconduct while surrounded by a culture that devalued or openly despised women. These experiences shaped my understanding of the world and who I was in it, leading me to believe that women were weak, helpless, and stupid - and the laws written by men and stacked against us. We were powerless, but they needed us for one thing: having babies.

Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without them, am I right?

So, I went into battle. First, I decided that I would never marry and never have children. Smarter than the boys, I assumed I would first be tolerated, grudgingly respected, and finally loved. I became what we now call a Father’s Daughter. If I had to play the patriarchy game, I would win it. In full rebellion, I told myself I didn’t care what people thought of me.

Instead of Come Man Come, I could have named my breastplate: I Don’t Care. It deflected the energetic slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune and of everyone disapproving of me. Criticism hit the breastplate and bounced off while I laughed. Even 30 years later, if I see the thought, I don’t care, I have to stop, take a breath, drop into myself, and counter: I do care. I care deeply. Then, I let myself feel how much. Usually, it’s overwhelming.

Projection was the magical force field generated by my breastplate. I saw in others all the qualities I hated most in myself (loathing) or the qualities I strived to become (longing). I walked through the world with a running commentary: Idiot. I can’t stand her. Or He’s a genius. Imagine what he could do with my story. That person is so ____, fill in the blank. In this equation, I assumed I was neutral. I didn’t understand that longing and loathing are nasty forms of comparison called self-judgment. I projected my inner psychological life onto the world so thickly that I couldn’t see the real world. I didn’t see four-dimensional people, only my flat opinions of them, which were all based on my self-loathing, which made them two-dimensional and, therefore, not real - not like I was real.

The day I lost my home, I lost the ability to protect my ego from harm; it shattered. I was tossed into the vast ocean of helplessness - the childhood psyche created as I watched my father abuse my mother. I hated him, her, and myself for not knowing what to do or how to stop the madness. With no landing in sight, I struggled to keep my nose above water amid the profound sense of life-and-death danger as I thrashed in circles to find even the direction to swim. The flush of my face, the sting in my eyes, and the terror that rose off my shoulders became a fire that burns but does not consume. I lived inside the flame of an underwater welder. I could only hope the flame would eventually run out of dross.

But in that fire, I became glass. Shown only one step at a time, I learned to trust the invisible workings of a world that loved me. I woke up. The prompting was specific and practical. I knew what to do: get a newspaper and check the Domestic Help Wanted. I flipped through the noisy newsprint, and there it was as if a flashlight shone upon it, and the angels sang: what!

Domestic Help wanted. Alzheimer’s Care. Room and Board.

By grace, I landed with my re-mother, the glorious Phyllis Benbow, a wild crone if ever there was one. In her late 70s, she was unnaturally red-headed and missing the right side of her jaw, which she had lost to cancer. Everything on that side of her face had collapsed, and loose skin drooped over that eye. Formerly tall and now almost hunch-backed, she had the habit of looking directly at me through her clear eye, sharp and bright as a chicken. She could arrest the mind with her gaze.

Phyllis had traveled the world as a stage actor most of her life and favored dressing in costumes put together at the thrift store. She laughed heartily and wasn’t bothered by anything. She was providing hospice care for two bedridden elders in their own home: a man with cancer and his wife with Alzheimer’s. Her tenderness with them cut me to the quick. My only job would be to elder sit two nights a week while she attended A Course in Miracles meetings and went to church.

Without ever sleeping in my car, I had a middle-class roof over my head and a wise woman to love me—for now. My reprieve with Phyllis lasted for six months while I walked in the foothills of La Crescenta, singing the flesh back to my bones. When I returned from my hikings Phyllis would pat the side of her bed and ask me to talk. She was the first person I ever told about my family.

Phyllis demonstrated how to be harmless and defenseless. After a time, I recognized a steel in her spine, an openness to pain, and a willingness to forget about the future- the gentleness that is strength. Though she was close to the end of her life and giving end-of-life care to others, she didn’t fret. I wanted to be her if I ever grew up.

During that time, I attended an acting workshop where the teacher asked us to state our goals. Everyone wanted to be a movie star, but of course, only for the good of their audiences—fame and fortune as selfless service. When it was my turn, I heard myself say, ”I want to be a cool old lady.”

Phyllis is still my north star; this is my love letter to her.

It isn’t hard to see our culture’s breastplate, which is a lie machine. It deflects all the pain and suffering we have caused by rewriting history, demonizing anyone who disagrees with the dominant narrative, refusing to acknowledge any effects of racism or the centuries of slavery, the genocide of Indigenous peoples, the harms done to Nature by extraction capitalism, corporate greed, and pollution - our disconnection from our hearts. Compassion is called the woke virus. Even atheists now claim to be “cultural Christians” in the name of deflecting the very real pain caused by capitalist monotheistic patriarchal culture. They don’t believe in that god, but they do believe in dominion.

And projection? If you want to know what the powerful are up to while they distract you with the next Nazi salute, look at what they accuse others of: stealing taxpayer’s money. Federal agencies that feed starving children are called criminals. Even judges, now, are criminals. Even though they must run some internal story to justify their actions, they know who the real criminals are. And they know real people will be hurt and even die.

Deflections and projections protect them, but this too shall pass - as everything does. The United States will pass through the fourth gate. The gatekeeper will remove our breastplate, exposing the raw human vulnerability underneath. What will it take to force us to admit to the suffering we have caused? I shudder to think. The gatekeeper tugs on the breastplate as power brokers refuse to let it go. I feel the discomfort of the truth, and I welcome it.

Redress, the right action, arises organically from the compassion born of acknowledging suffering. We suffer under this system, too. With our breastplate firmly in place, we aren’t even aware of how much.

Can we do this? I don’t know. I only know we must. We won’t have a choice. The rich white men aren’t really in charge. They only think they are. Circumstances will arise that they cannot foresee or control. Even they can’t avoid their shadow. The ways of the Underworld are perfect and cannot be ignored.