The movie ends and silence fills the room more thickly than Billie's last aching note. I am afraid to look at the class still,and busy myself with the television buttons. The teacher, Patrica Dominguez, asked me to bring in a 30 minute listening activity. Something fun and upbeat. I believe the word she used was “danceable,” but I just couldn't do it. When most of what Argentine's know about music from the U.S. Is Rhianna and Eminem, I felt I had to do something a little bit different.
I've always loved jazz music. On my Fulbright application I proposed to teach English through the lens of Jazz culture and history. From its ricky-tick rhythm birth in the streets of New Orleans to the smooth pluck of Charles Mingus' bass, jazz has tapped our feet and trilled our sorrows through an eventful American decade.
So, because it's important for me to share meaningful aspects of US culture, instead of “Umbrella” I brought in a Billie Holiday song called “Strange Fruit.”
The class was a group of third year translation students. Their pronunciation is not as good as the language students I have, but their skills at reading and analyzing text are well-developed. I opened the lesson with a brief history of Jazz's beginnings from the 1920s-1940s, then a more profound look at Billie Holidays life leading up to the first time she sang the song in the Culture Club. Then I passed the copies of the lyrics I had made, minus a few of the words that they were to fill in.
Do you know the song? It gives me chills every time I hear it. Imagining Billie singing it for the first time in volatile New York City in front of a mixed race audience, her fingers leaving sweat marks on her evening gown as they clenched and unclenched the fabric, sends my heart racing. I wanted to bring this aching lament to my students as a song that meant something- a representation of one of the many diverse American faces who stood up for what they believe in- a representation of the fighting reformist spirit that makes me proud to be a United States citizen.
I found a youtube video of Billie singing with only piano accompaniment at my friend, Mauro's, house, and he helped me to download it and put it on a DVD. I was excited to bring it n but anxious to see how the students would respond. And here I was, fiddling with the television set at the end of the video, feeling in a very small way like Billie did as she waited in silence after the last line fell, waited to see what would come next. I looked up and saw eyes wide open. I saw an older woman in my class with tears in her eyes. I saw dropped jaws and forgotten pens. I saw understanding reflected in the profundity of their breaths.
“What did you think?” I asked, and greeted the wave of responses as I imagine Billie greeted the roar of applause that eventually filled the saturated silence of the jazz club- grateful to have said something that mattered to me, and even more grateful that it mattered to someone else.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Clubbing in Buenos Aires
Last night my English roomates and I went to a bar called Museum. I envisioned a more stately affair, replete with butlers/curators showing off traveling disco mania exhibits and offering crustless sandwiches. I expected a coat check where they would call me madame and compliment my grandmothers silver broach that I wore tied up in my hair. I expected women in dainty white gloves and dapper gentlemen in shirt tails and shiny cuff links. I anticipated being fanned and lavished upon by rapturous argentines as I recounted, in my impeccable Spanish, my opinion of the current economic crisis and possible solutions. They would occasionally offer, of course, to bring me another drink which I would obviously decline since no lady should ever be caught drunk in a Museum.
Why would you call a club a "Museum" if not to insinuate such things? If you want to have a sweaty warehouse with half-naked women massaging their breasts and clean-shaven creepers sidling up to any moving target with only pick up lines and pungent cologne to warn of the incoming attack, why not call the place something (anything!) other than Museum?!
Museums are places of higher learning, of expanding ones grasp of the world and once I realized there would not be attractive men dropping grapes into my mouth while expounding on the history of the founding of Rio de la Plata (and telling me how beautiful and goddess like I was), I felt a little jilted.
Well, I guess the case could be argued that it was a species of experiential education, like one of those anxiety-filled "choose your own adventure" novels in which one must frantically choose between fording across a pack of recently awoken abominable snow men or delve head first into a lava pit with only an icy-hot pack to protect from the blistering heat. A lesson in survival, really.
We weren't wrestling yetti's nor crossing volcanos, but it felt every bit like an extreme sport. Maeve, Flora and I set ourselves up in a circle, dancing, at first, very subdued so as not to call attention to ourselves. I have often read how the female of a species, such as a duck, are physically nondescript and tend to blend like wallflowers into their natural habitat to avoid the onslaught of predators. Natural selection has encouraged this process- if the ducks were found out by the wily fox sniffing around below their nest, next years ducks or peacocks would dissapear in a whirl of stomach acid and saliva and then what?
For us, the solution was the same (or so we thought) though the problem was inverted. Our prerogative was not procreation (though the men seemed to ardently believe it so), but rather freedom to be disconnected from any life cycle or mating ritual. To be in stop-time and escape our own image, the compatibility of male and female anatomy, to be a formless amoeba undulating anonymously to ABBA on the dance floor. So we wriggled cautiously, attempting to blend into our natural habitat of strobe lights and lithe bodies. I think we must have done an unconvincing job of it because soon we were no longer dancing but fending for out lives as the foxes descended. Any and all evasive tactics were fair game- errant elbows, foot stomps, swinging fists that we pretended, in our dancing queen ecstasy, to lose control over and catapult accidentally into the fast approaching crotches of an annoyingly loafer-ed Fabio. We soon realized that blending in was not only ineffective, but inspired the exact response we had hoped to avoid. Puzzled, it took a few more Jack and cokes and a minor mid-boogie tumble for us to realize that if you really want to be left alone, dance like a complete idiot.
Soon we were busting out moves we wouldn't even try in the privacy of our own homes, sashaying and MC Hammering and air guitar-ing our way to freedom. I guess our night at the museum wasn't so devoid of useful knowledge after all.
Why would you call a club a "Museum" if not to insinuate such things? If you want to have a sweaty warehouse with half-naked women massaging their breasts and clean-shaven creepers sidling up to any moving target with only pick up lines and pungent cologne to warn of the incoming attack, why not call the place something (anything!) other than Museum?!
Museums are places of higher learning, of expanding ones grasp of the world and once I realized there would not be attractive men dropping grapes into my mouth while expounding on the history of the founding of Rio de la Plata (and telling me how beautiful and goddess like I was), I felt a little jilted.
Well, I guess the case could be argued that it was a species of experiential education, like one of those anxiety-filled "choose your own adventure" novels in which one must frantically choose between fording across a pack of recently awoken abominable snow men or delve head first into a lava pit with only an icy-hot pack to protect from the blistering heat. A lesson in survival, really.
We weren't wrestling yetti's nor crossing volcanos, but it felt every bit like an extreme sport. Maeve, Flora and I set ourselves up in a circle, dancing, at first, very subdued so as not to call attention to ourselves. I have often read how the female of a species, such as a duck, are physically nondescript and tend to blend like wallflowers into their natural habitat to avoid the onslaught of predators. Natural selection has encouraged this process- if the ducks were found out by the wily fox sniffing around below their nest, next years ducks or peacocks would dissapear in a whirl of stomach acid and saliva and then what?
For us, the solution was the same (or so we thought) though the problem was inverted. Our prerogative was not procreation (though the men seemed to ardently believe it so), but rather freedom to be disconnected from any life cycle or mating ritual. To be in stop-time and escape our own image, the compatibility of male and female anatomy, to be a formless amoeba undulating anonymously to ABBA on the dance floor. So we wriggled cautiously, attempting to blend into our natural habitat of strobe lights and lithe bodies. I think we must have done an unconvincing job of it because soon we were no longer dancing but fending for out lives as the foxes descended. Any and all evasive tactics were fair game- errant elbows, foot stomps, swinging fists that we pretended, in our dancing queen ecstasy, to lose control over and catapult accidentally into the fast approaching crotches of an annoyingly loafer-ed Fabio. We soon realized that blending in was not only ineffective, but inspired the exact response we had hoped to avoid. Puzzled, it took a few more Jack and cokes and a minor mid-boogie tumble for us to realize that if you really want to be left alone, dance like a complete idiot.
Soon we were busting out moves we wouldn't even try in the privacy of our own homes, sashaying and MC Hammering and air guitar-ing our way to freedom. I guess our night at the museum wasn't so devoid of useful knowledge after all.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Sweaty spandex and beef tummy aches
Hello, Yassou, Hola, Ola!
Well, here I am, a former vegetarian salivating in the beef and wine capital of South America. I only lasted about 10 hours after touching down in a rather turbulence-ridden flight before I succumbed to the temptations of cow and pig dangling before my eyes (thankfully, in their cooked form). I could see the twinkle in the eye of that conniving woman working at the carniceria. Just like a drug peddler, really. Or the evil stepmother in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. "Just one bite, my pretty." Now I'm hooked.
Oh well, for any of you who know my father, my being a vegetarian really wasn't in my genes.
Buenos Aires is BIG. I guess I forgot, or neglected to realize, what a large city it is! Over ten million people, if you also count the expanding 'burbs. It is a bustling place that does remind me a little of Europe (or, at least, the Europe I have seen in photos, since I have never been there), but I think that people who say Buenos Aires is the Europe of South America are missing the point. The city breaths Cumbia, dance music which originated in Colombia (I think), ricocheting off the winding side streets, woman with gold teeth and striped t-shirts stretched taut across their burgeoning bosoms selling piping hot empanadas, and buses labeled with bright bubble letters careening through red lights and ignoring the waves of would-be passengers on the streets as if the drivers were doing all of this for fun and customers were at the bottom of their list behind sending a spray of dirty water on the woman in white. Yup, I am definitely in South America.
The music, food preferences and driving habits are the same, but Buenos Aires does feel very different than the rest of South America on one very basic level; diversity. It is a city that is made up of about 90% whites, 7% mestizo (people of indigenous and spanish mixed descent that populate the majority of Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia and parts of Colombia), 2% black and 2% Asian. In Brazil, where everyone happily agrees that their background is a "confusao" (confusion), here the racial lines are more strictly drawn and adhered to.
That being said, I am still a blonde, burned anomaly. Today I went walking to the bus station to purchase a ticket to El Bolson, a city in Patagonia where I will be working on an organic farm for a couple of weeks until my job/research begins in mid-march. Perhaps I looked a little silly, sporting my favorite fanny pack (yes, I have more than one), my pale skin already the color of undercooked beef and wearing stretch pants. From up above I heard a mans voice, and though it was deep and resonating, the content of his declaration led me to believe it was probably not God.
"Oye amor, que culo que tienes!" (Hey love, what an ass you have!)
The window washer was enamored, it would seem. I gave him my best scowl and slowed my walk so my butt wouldn't jiggle as much, wishing very fervently that I had not chosen spandex.
Burnt skin, sweaty spandex and rumbling tummy (ooooh the meat is killing me) aside, I am very happy to be here. Thank you to everyone back home in Ann Arbor, across the States and the world who has helped me either in figuring this all out, supported me as I fretfully planned, and for all of those who listened. I am so thankful for this experience, but more than ever, grateful to my family and friends whom I hold close to my heart. You mean the world to me.
Besos, Beijos, Felakis, and Kisses.
Well, here I am, a former vegetarian salivating in the beef and wine capital of South America. I only lasted about 10 hours after touching down in a rather turbulence-ridden flight before I succumbed to the temptations of cow and pig dangling before my eyes (thankfully, in their cooked form). I could see the twinkle in the eye of that conniving woman working at the carniceria. Just like a drug peddler, really. Or the evil stepmother in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. "Just one bite, my pretty." Now I'm hooked.
Oh well, for any of you who know my father, my being a vegetarian really wasn't in my genes.
Buenos Aires is BIG. I guess I forgot, or neglected to realize, what a large city it is! Over ten million people, if you also count the expanding 'burbs. It is a bustling place that does remind me a little of Europe (or, at least, the Europe I have seen in photos, since I have never been there), but I think that people who say Buenos Aires is the Europe of South America are missing the point. The city breaths Cumbia, dance music which originated in Colombia (I think), ricocheting off the winding side streets, woman with gold teeth and striped t-shirts stretched taut across their burgeoning bosoms selling piping hot empanadas, and buses labeled with bright bubble letters careening through red lights and ignoring the waves of would-be passengers on the streets as if the drivers were doing all of this for fun and customers were at the bottom of their list behind sending a spray of dirty water on the woman in white. Yup, I am definitely in South America.
The music, food preferences and driving habits are the same, but Buenos Aires does feel very different than the rest of South America on one very basic level; diversity. It is a city that is made up of about 90% whites, 7% mestizo (people of indigenous and spanish mixed descent that populate the majority of Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia and parts of Colombia), 2% black and 2% Asian. In Brazil, where everyone happily agrees that their background is a "confusao" (confusion), here the racial lines are more strictly drawn and adhered to.
That being said, I am still a blonde, burned anomaly. Today I went walking to the bus station to purchase a ticket to El Bolson, a city in Patagonia where I will be working on an organic farm for a couple of weeks until my job/research begins in mid-march. Perhaps I looked a little silly, sporting my favorite fanny pack (yes, I have more than one), my pale skin already the color of undercooked beef and wearing stretch pants. From up above I heard a mans voice, and though it was deep and resonating, the content of his declaration led me to believe it was probably not God.
"Oye amor, que culo que tienes!" (Hey love, what an ass you have!)
The window washer was enamored, it would seem. I gave him my best scowl and slowed my walk so my butt wouldn't jiggle as much, wishing very fervently that I had not chosen spandex.
Burnt skin, sweaty spandex and rumbling tummy (ooooh the meat is killing me) aside, I am very happy to be here. Thank you to everyone back home in Ann Arbor, across the States and the world who has helped me either in figuring this all out, supported me as I fretfully planned, and for all of those who listened. I am so thankful for this experience, but more than ever, grateful to my family and friends whom I hold close to my heart. You mean the world to me.
Besos, Beijos, Felakis, and Kisses.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
What Broken Trumpets and Missing Arms Taught me about Myself
Dizzy Gillespie's trumpet was sat upon in 1953. A drunken fan or an awkward land-mover stumbled upon it as it sat placidly and very much alone on the band stand. Dizzy picked it up, played it, and he loved it. Can you imagine? Someone sits on that part of you that is metal and pipe and button and has become your best tool of self-expression and instead of hurling the broken thing at the wall, or perhaps more appropriately at the oaf who rubbed his butt cheeks upon it, you play the damned thing. You play it and you like it.
I don't know exactly what this means. I don't own a trumpet. I am not a musician. But I do know that sometimes I feel sat upon, and often my instrument of self expression feels destroyed.
Once, when I was traveling in Brazil, I left my journal in a bus. No one stole it from me, no lardy oaf purloined it from my purse. But the loss of this journal, filled with the “me” that I thought could exist solely through its dog-eared pages, filled me with rage and loss. I didn't write for months, staunchly preferring silence over self-reflection.
I still can't remember what I thought or how I felt during those months of silence and I still hate that bus for speeding away even as I waved my hands wildly and jumped up and down like a very bouncy gringa, the realization of my stupidity hitting me a second too late.
There was a man at the airport who was missing half of his arm. He had tiny fingers connected to his elbow; wriggling little things that reminded me of the drowning heads of worms poking through rain-soaked soil.
How did he lose it? Was he born without the feel of a forearm, the knowledge of what it's like to clap hands after a play, the heat of a woman pulsing through her sweater against both his hands, through one, and out the other? Or did he lose it in an accident, the luckless victim of chance as a metaphorical fat man misplaced his center of gravity and sat? And how does he deal with it? How did he respond? How does he survive without the all-important hand, used literally and symbolically, an instrument that connects us so deeply with ourselves and others?
I am twenty three years old and I have never known true disappointment. My life's most crushing defeats were being wait-listed at snobby east coast colleges and not winning the swing dance Halloween contest this past fall. Who can teach me to synthesize defeat with hope?
I don't know exactly what this means. I don't own a trumpet. I am not a musician. But I do know that sometimes I feel sat upon, and often my instrument of self expression feels destroyed.
Once, when I was traveling in Brazil, I left my journal in a bus. No one stole it from me, no lardy oaf purloined it from my purse. But the loss of this journal, filled with the “me” that I thought could exist solely through its dog-eared pages, filled me with rage and loss. I didn't write for months, staunchly preferring silence over self-reflection.
I still can't remember what I thought or how I felt during those months of silence and I still hate that bus for speeding away even as I waved my hands wildly and jumped up and down like a very bouncy gringa, the realization of my stupidity hitting me a second too late.
There was a man at the airport who was missing half of his arm. He had tiny fingers connected to his elbow; wriggling little things that reminded me of the drowning heads of worms poking through rain-soaked soil.
How did he lose it? Was he born without the feel of a forearm, the knowledge of what it's like to clap hands after a play, the heat of a woman pulsing through her sweater against both his hands, through one, and out the other? Or did he lose it in an accident, the luckless victim of chance as a metaphorical fat man misplaced his center of gravity and sat? And how does he deal with it? How did he respond? How does he survive without the all-important hand, used literally and symbolically, an instrument that connects us so deeply with ourselves and others?
I am twenty three years old and I have never known true disappointment. My life's most crushing defeats were being wait-listed at snobby east coast colleges and not winning the swing dance Halloween contest this past fall. Who can teach me to synthesize defeat with hope?
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Here, These Nipple Tassels will Jog Your Mammary
I met up for beers with my friend, Joe, yesterday. He is currently participating in “Movember”- a Mens Health Awareness month in which the most masculine (i.e. hairy) testicle-possessors grow out their 'staches to new and creative lengths in an attempt to raise money and attention for prostate cancer research. Joe was successful on both accounts, however if you measure the attention qualitatively, I am sure we can all agree being called “creep” and “child molester” are less than desirable responses.
It made me wonder, though, at the different ways men and women “raise awareness” for their gender-specific causes. Joe and all of his friends signed up to participate in this “Movember” drive, and it became like any other testosterone-driven competition like snot-rocket shoot-outs or hand-stand beer-bonging. Namely, who can look the stupidest the longest. As Joe mused over the organic make-up of his upper lip hair which allowed it to be so effectively and stylishly cut by his teeth, I couldn't help but feel not only disgust (he was eating his mustache!) but jealousy.
When I got home I checked out the website on-line. It's a completely irreverent and completely successful event to corroborate in the fight against a serious issue, prostate cancer. The creators hope to change the usual reluctance and irregularity of men's doctor check-ups by “making[ing] men's health fun” and “putting the Mo [mustache] back on the face of American men.” (The Official Movember Website, http://us.movember.com/whatismov/content/What-is-Movember/) The site mentions Tom Selleck, Hulk Hogan and Borat as their ideal Mo-sporters.
I then checked out the Breast Cancer Site for a quick comparison and was overwhelmed by the pink color scheme which gave the impression that some diabolical and congested child had puked copious amounts of Pepto-Bismol all over my screen. There were no cool events with heroes like Hulk Hogan or ridiculous pictures of men in Aviators, gold chains, half-turtle necks and Fu Manchus, which I guess means that women are just classier in the way they deal with cancer. There are tons of walks that happen all the time, all over the place. These walk events are “a great way to show your support for the cause,...[build] community and [raise] awareness” and “make important strides in the fight against breast cancer!” You can also buy your Breast Cancer Awareness gear in the “Gifts and Delights” section. Don't forget to purchase your “Real Men Wear Pink” t-shirts.
We women fight nobly for our causes. We strap on symbolic pink ribbons and march in solidarity, we hold Oprah's hand and anything into which we can blow our noses. We sing songs. We hug. Where's the fun in that? And, more importantly, where is Borat?
Now, as a touchy-feely, everyone-share-their-feelings kind of woman, I am sort of playing devil's advocate. But only sort of.
I'm not just talking about revolutionizing the way women deal with fund-raising, though that certainly could be a start. Consider for a moment how much more fun would be had at a Breast Cancer Awareness walk if everyone was handed a free pair of nipple tassels? What if, then, nipple tassels became the new pink ribbon and working women at the office all banded together and strapped on their sparkly chest ornamentation to their once drab blouses and hedged bets on who could last the longest and/or win that free trip to San Francisco for the “Hangin' In Their: Breast Cancer Nipple Tassel Gala Event” complete with guest appearances from Gwen Stefani and Hole's Courtney Love. Breast Cancer Awareness Events could be the new Carnaval with an altruistic twist!
Maybe these same adventurous women could make t-shirts that combine all the harrowing facts about cancer normally delivered rather depressingly and instead write catchy phrases such as “Let me jog your mammary-- every 2 minutes a woman is diagnosed with breast cancer.” I'm envisioning maybe a picture of a large, levitated, Salvador-Dali-ish breast with a dog collar and leash and the owner calling out, from the mysterious world beyond the t-shirt, “C'mom, Mammary, time for a jog!”
But before I take an even deeper nose-dive into irreverence and really piss off a lot of nice women, I think we have to move beyond just the way we fund-raise and get at the deeper issue, here. Men understand something that perhaps their historical privilege has facilitated more expediently than for their female counterparts: Our bodies are FUNNY.
They get that it's a riot when someone farts, especially when it's your grandma, and especially when she looks surprised afterward. It's funny when a sneeze overtakes us and we are left with the carnage of mucous splattered across our neighbors leather coat. It's funny when our feet forget to pay heed to the laws of gravity and stumble into puddles, parking meters, and piles of horse shit. There is nothing more funny than reality, especially ours, because we can appreciate the value of self-deprecation!
And men seem to get this in a way that women still can't, or aren't allowed to. They find the sight of their trotting bodies bouncing in the early morning breeze giggle-worthy, and the more apparent each appendage (and I'm not talking arms, here), the more they revel in the hilarity of it all. Women tend not to laugh at each other when running, and those that do generally have no friends. Men can also manipulate their bodies and publicly display these ridiculous mutations to find joy, i.e. Joes' creeper 'stache. I don't know many women who stylize their armpit hair as a gag, or let that unibrow grow to win a bet.
But maybe we should!
So why don't we? Men seem to have an awful lot of fun farting and sneezing and drinking and peeing and we're stuck holding hands and crying on the side lines.
I think a lot of it goes back to perceptions of women as beautiful things. We were appreciated for our womanly charms, pinched and squeezed and sutured into ambulatory art forms whose every move and word was choreographed to fit the image men had made for us. Our bodies were not our own-- we could not revel in our toe nails, our tail bones, the soft patch of down on the upper lip. We could not giggle at the sweet earthen smell of our armpits in the morning, or the layer of dirt that snuck under our breasts at the end of a long, vigorous day. We had to hide these small wonders, these subtle jokes meant to be shared together. But instead we sprinkled powders and potions and consumed chemicals, trying to erase these comical human aspects and, in the process, losing the ability to love and celebrate them. If we weren't perfect in our soft, clean, supple serenity, we were not doing our jobs right as women and we were therefore akin to devil-workers.
Whew, this got depressing real fast. I don't mean to sound all fire-and-brimstone about the state of womens' psyche. I am talking about history, here, something which is a part of our cultural memory but remains merely that-- a memory. Certainly we see manifestations of this memory in our lives today, but these incidences are not as pronounced. As a sex, we have come a long way, fighting hard from corsets to jeans, from suffragists to Secretaries of State. I am pleased and proud.
But we have more to accomplish, ladies. And one thing that I want for myself, for us, for my granddaughters, is a renewed love (and a self-deprecating one!) of our bodies. Maybe it's too early for nipple tassels at Breast Cancer rallies, but I'd be happy if you'd laugh at my butt wobble in jogging shorts.
It made me wonder, though, at the different ways men and women “raise awareness” for their gender-specific causes. Joe and all of his friends signed up to participate in this “Movember” drive, and it became like any other testosterone-driven competition like snot-rocket shoot-outs or hand-stand beer-bonging. Namely, who can look the stupidest the longest. As Joe mused over the organic make-up of his upper lip hair which allowed it to be so effectively and stylishly cut by his teeth, I couldn't help but feel not only disgust (he was eating his mustache!) but jealousy.
When I got home I checked out the website on-line. It's a completely irreverent and completely successful event to corroborate in the fight against a serious issue, prostate cancer. The creators hope to change the usual reluctance and irregularity of men's doctor check-ups by “making[ing] men's health fun” and “putting the Mo [mustache] back on the face of American men.” (The Official Movember Website, http://us.movember.com/whatismov/content/What-is-Movember/) The site mentions Tom Selleck, Hulk Hogan and Borat as their ideal Mo-sporters.
I then checked out the Breast Cancer Site for a quick comparison and was overwhelmed by the pink color scheme which gave the impression that some diabolical and congested child had puked copious amounts of Pepto-Bismol all over my screen. There were no cool events with heroes like Hulk Hogan or ridiculous pictures of men in Aviators, gold chains, half-turtle necks and Fu Manchus, which I guess means that women are just classier in the way they deal with cancer. There are tons of walks that happen all the time, all over the place. These walk events are “a great way to show your support for the cause,...[build] community and [raise] awareness” and “make important strides in the fight against breast cancer!” You can also buy your Breast Cancer Awareness gear in the “Gifts and Delights” section. Don't forget to purchase your “Real Men Wear Pink” t-shirts.
We women fight nobly for our causes. We strap on symbolic pink ribbons and march in solidarity, we hold Oprah's hand and anything into which we can blow our noses. We sing songs. We hug. Where's the fun in that? And, more importantly, where is Borat?
Now, as a touchy-feely, everyone-share-their-feelings kind of woman, I am sort of playing devil's advocate. But only sort of.
I'm not just talking about revolutionizing the way women deal with fund-raising, though that certainly could be a start. Consider for a moment how much more fun would be had at a Breast Cancer Awareness walk if everyone was handed a free pair of nipple tassels? What if, then, nipple tassels became the new pink ribbon and working women at the office all banded together and strapped on their sparkly chest ornamentation to their once drab blouses and hedged bets on who could last the longest and/or win that free trip to San Francisco for the “Hangin' In Their: Breast Cancer Nipple Tassel Gala Event” complete with guest appearances from Gwen Stefani and Hole's Courtney Love. Breast Cancer Awareness Events could be the new Carnaval with an altruistic twist!
Maybe these same adventurous women could make t-shirts that combine all the harrowing facts about cancer normally delivered rather depressingly and instead write catchy phrases such as “Let me jog your mammary-- every 2 minutes a woman is diagnosed with breast cancer.” I'm envisioning maybe a picture of a large, levitated, Salvador-Dali-ish breast with a dog collar and leash and the owner calling out, from the mysterious world beyond the t-shirt, “C'mom, Mammary, time for a jog!”
But before I take an even deeper nose-dive into irreverence and really piss off a lot of nice women, I think we have to move beyond just the way we fund-raise and get at the deeper issue, here. Men understand something that perhaps their historical privilege has facilitated more expediently than for their female counterparts: Our bodies are FUNNY.
They get that it's a riot when someone farts, especially when it's your grandma, and especially when she looks surprised afterward. It's funny when a sneeze overtakes us and we are left with the carnage of mucous splattered across our neighbors leather coat. It's funny when our feet forget to pay heed to the laws of gravity and stumble into puddles, parking meters, and piles of horse shit. There is nothing more funny than reality, especially ours, because we can appreciate the value of self-deprecation!
And men seem to get this in a way that women still can't, or aren't allowed to. They find the sight of their trotting bodies bouncing in the early morning breeze giggle-worthy, and the more apparent each appendage (and I'm not talking arms, here), the more they revel in the hilarity of it all. Women tend not to laugh at each other when running, and those that do generally have no friends. Men can also manipulate their bodies and publicly display these ridiculous mutations to find joy, i.e. Joes' creeper 'stache. I don't know many women who stylize their armpit hair as a gag, or let that unibrow grow to win a bet.
But maybe we should!
So why don't we? Men seem to have an awful lot of fun farting and sneezing and drinking and peeing and we're stuck holding hands and crying on the side lines.
I think a lot of it goes back to perceptions of women as beautiful things. We were appreciated for our womanly charms, pinched and squeezed and sutured into ambulatory art forms whose every move and word was choreographed to fit the image men had made for us. Our bodies were not our own-- we could not revel in our toe nails, our tail bones, the soft patch of down on the upper lip. We could not giggle at the sweet earthen smell of our armpits in the morning, or the layer of dirt that snuck under our breasts at the end of a long, vigorous day. We had to hide these small wonders, these subtle jokes meant to be shared together. But instead we sprinkled powders and potions and consumed chemicals, trying to erase these comical human aspects and, in the process, losing the ability to love and celebrate them. If we weren't perfect in our soft, clean, supple serenity, we were not doing our jobs right as women and we were therefore akin to devil-workers.
Whew, this got depressing real fast. I don't mean to sound all fire-and-brimstone about the state of womens' psyche. I am talking about history, here, something which is a part of our cultural memory but remains merely that-- a memory. Certainly we see manifestations of this memory in our lives today, but these incidences are not as pronounced. As a sex, we have come a long way, fighting hard from corsets to jeans, from suffragists to Secretaries of State. I am pleased and proud.
But we have more to accomplish, ladies. And one thing that I want for myself, for us, for my granddaughters, is a renewed love (and a self-deprecating one!) of our bodies. Maybe it's too early for nipple tassels at Breast Cancer rallies, but I'd be happy if you'd laugh at my butt wobble in jogging shorts.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Dad Defines Organic
My father doesn't like anything organic on principle. I'm not quite sure he fully understands why, or what organic really means. It has the word “organ” with the suffix of “ic” so I wonder if he is under the assumption that organic beef refers to 'ic'-y cow organs, i.e. sloppily carved aortas dangling like wilted tomato vines from a drippy, bloodied heart.
Maybe I should say, “Dad, 'organic' does not refer to mashed up body parts,” and maybe he would say, “Really? Then let's ship out to Whole Foods! I hear they got a special on organic free-range chicken breasts!”
But free-range is another word that seems to get his panties all in a twist. I think he envisions giving chickens civil rights, or loaded shot guns and bullseyes they are encouraged to pin on any available farm hand. “You wanna let those damn chickens take over the White House?! What are you, on drugs?!”
His scorn even extends to milder food forms, such as produce. My mom bought dried cinnamon apple slices from Traverse City today and when he stumbled upon them in the pantry he called them banana poops.
I'm not sure why he is so allergic to the idea of agricultural fair play. This is a property developer (i.e. landlord) who has cut down the rent for his commercial properties just to keep his tenants afloat in this choppy economy, a man who refuses to let any Starbucks, Subway or McDonalds sneak its way onto Main Street. A man who buys all his Christmas gifts for his wife from Alex Gulko, the local jeweler, and 16 Hands, a novelty items store that has sold weirdly painted felt dolls for generations to confused Ann Arborites. A man who earned $120,000 at Ford Motor Company fresh out of his MBA program, eager to pave his way up the highway of the automotive industry, but took a detour and came back home after 2 years because he “just couldn't stand working for greedy, immoral men.”
You can't reject something until you completely understand it. My dad found out more than he wanted to about his bosses indiscretions with Detroit hookers and the misanthropic lay-offs of blue collar workers with oil grease and the imprint of car parts still etched across their strong, poor palms. My dad didn't see too much-- he saw just enough to make the educated, and morally right, choice to leave a place that was doing such wrong.
He left and started working with his hands. Started getting dirty in the basement, busting old PVC pipe and laying new foundations. He'd never held a hammer before, much less swung it, but he learned fast and once he saw something done, he never forgot it. He never forgot the hands of those blue collar men and when he heaved up a side of dry wall or hung onto the top rung of a tippy ladder to re-shingle a roof I wonder if he thought about those men, sweating and grunting and hurling and hurting through a days work so their bosses, whom they never saw, could take business lunches at five star restaurants and get drunk off of $500 bottles of wine.
My father is a self-made man and he believes our country is better off for encouraging men and women like him to make it. He believes in putting in an honest days work, taking care of his community, and fighting for small business.
Which is why now I'm the one confused over phonetics. Banana poops?
I guess I just want him to understand why I've fully rejected something. He doesn't realize how much of my childhood was spent marveling over the super-hero figure he embodied-- hurtling through the world in his rust-bucket truck, at the quick with his tool belt and measuring tape. This super-hero idolatry has eased into a milder, more profound sense of awe and respect at the fair, just and optimistic man whom I am lucky enough to call my father. I learned many a hard lesson from him, and we've had our share of battles (it's hard to demand an extended curfew, let alone permission to date, from a man who looks like a Greek Arnold Schwarzenegger and can wield power tools with surprising dexterity), but I have always taken to heart his credo to understand first, and judge second.
And so I did. I may have a pierced nose and a more lenient shower-taking policy than those who were raised in the uber-conservative 50s, but my progressive beliefs are not un-founded. I've read everything from Upton Sinclair to Fast Food Nation to all those “touchy-feely” (to borrow Dad's words) homeopathic magazines and while I know enough now to realize there is much more to learn, I feel it is safe to say that my decision to eat organically is morally (not to mention gastronomically) right. Perhaps us “liberals” need to re-frame the organic image, because we aren't all wishy-washy hippies who smoke pot and play in the dirt. Perhaps, to reach those staunchly fair and American men and women such as my dad, we need to re-frame this as a battle between the old guard versus the new, the common men against the Man, right versus wrong. Because, well, I like my banana poops, dammit, and I hope one day my father and I can enjoy mashed-up “organ-ic” mush that came from a healthy, happy, chemical-free animal together.
Maybe I should say, “Dad, 'organic' does not refer to mashed up body parts,” and maybe he would say, “Really? Then let's ship out to Whole Foods! I hear they got a special on organic free-range chicken breasts!”
But free-range is another word that seems to get his panties all in a twist. I think he envisions giving chickens civil rights, or loaded shot guns and bullseyes they are encouraged to pin on any available farm hand. “You wanna let those damn chickens take over the White House?! What are you, on drugs?!”
His scorn even extends to milder food forms, such as produce. My mom bought dried cinnamon apple slices from Traverse City today and when he stumbled upon them in the pantry he called them banana poops.
I'm not sure why he is so allergic to the idea of agricultural fair play. This is a property developer (i.e. landlord) who has cut down the rent for his commercial properties just to keep his tenants afloat in this choppy economy, a man who refuses to let any Starbucks, Subway or McDonalds sneak its way onto Main Street. A man who buys all his Christmas gifts for his wife from Alex Gulko, the local jeweler, and 16 Hands, a novelty items store that has sold weirdly painted felt dolls for generations to confused Ann Arborites. A man who earned $120,000 at Ford Motor Company fresh out of his MBA program, eager to pave his way up the highway of the automotive industry, but took a detour and came back home after 2 years because he “just couldn't stand working for greedy, immoral men.”
You can't reject something until you completely understand it. My dad found out more than he wanted to about his bosses indiscretions with Detroit hookers and the misanthropic lay-offs of blue collar workers with oil grease and the imprint of car parts still etched across their strong, poor palms. My dad didn't see too much-- he saw just enough to make the educated, and morally right, choice to leave a place that was doing such wrong.
He left and started working with his hands. Started getting dirty in the basement, busting old PVC pipe and laying new foundations. He'd never held a hammer before, much less swung it, but he learned fast and once he saw something done, he never forgot it. He never forgot the hands of those blue collar men and when he heaved up a side of dry wall or hung onto the top rung of a tippy ladder to re-shingle a roof I wonder if he thought about those men, sweating and grunting and hurling and hurting through a days work so their bosses, whom they never saw, could take business lunches at five star restaurants and get drunk off of $500 bottles of wine.
My father is a self-made man and he believes our country is better off for encouraging men and women like him to make it. He believes in putting in an honest days work, taking care of his community, and fighting for small business.
Which is why now I'm the one confused over phonetics. Banana poops?
I guess I just want him to understand why I've fully rejected something. He doesn't realize how much of my childhood was spent marveling over the super-hero figure he embodied-- hurtling through the world in his rust-bucket truck, at the quick with his tool belt and measuring tape. This super-hero idolatry has eased into a milder, more profound sense of awe and respect at the fair, just and optimistic man whom I am lucky enough to call my father. I learned many a hard lesson from him, and we've had our share of battles (it's hard to demand an extended curfew, let alone permission to date, from a man who looks like a Greek Arnold Schwarzenegger and can wield power tools with surprising dexterity), but I have always taken to heart his credo to understand first, and judge second.
And so I did. I may have a pierced nose and a more lenient shower-taking policy than those who were raised in the uber-conservative 50s, but my progressive beliefs are not un-founded. I've read everything from Upton Sinclair to Fast Food Nation to all those “touchy-feely” (to borrow Dad's words) homeopathic magazines and while I know enough now to realize there is much more to learn, I feel it is safe to say that my decision to eat organically is morally (not to mention gastronomically) right. Perhaps us “liberals” need to re-frame the organic image, because we aren't all wishy-washy hippies who smoke pot and play in the dirt. Perhaps, to reach those staunchly fair and American men and women such as my dad, we need to re-frame this as a battle between the old guard versus the new, the common men against the Man, right versus wrong. Because, well, I like my banana poops, dammit, and I hope one day my father and I can enjoy mashed-up “organ-ic” mush that came from a healthy, happy, chemical-free animal together.
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