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.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
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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