and read this post from Jenell Paris. Best thing I’ve read all month. If I could write half as well as she does, and have a fourth of her grace, I’d be a better teacher and a better human being.
Archive for September, 2004
Warning: Graphic Language Coming.
I know I’ve been linking to him a lot lately, but Ampersand has a fine post up today on “gendered insults”. It seems that some folks on the blogging left (the famous Atrios the most obvious offender) have been using language that ought to be confined to our brethren on the right: the language of “real men”, “pussies”, “smack downs”. He links to someone I ought to be linking to: Des Femmes, who has these two terrific posts on the subject . Here’s a sample:
Rough language isn’t the fucking issue. Using “pussy” for “coward” is far more than rough language: it’s language that intentionally marks a class of people–women–as weak, inferior, and bad.
These “liberal” people whose posts anger me don’t use raghead, kike, nigger, chink, wop, faggot–words that might apply to men. They use words that specifically target women, and their name-calling is a standard technique of establishing psychological control. If they won’t even pretend to be nonsexist, you can kiss wage equity goodbye.
UPDATE: I was remiss in not including Lauren from Feministe; she’s got a fine post on the subject as well.
Well, amen. Let me add my two or three pennies.
When I talk to my women’s studies classes about the origin and meaning of these gender-based insults, many of them are stunned. (You’d be amazed how few understand that “suck” is derived from “cocksucker”, and thus to say something or someone “sucks” is to use anti-gay/anti-woman language. They are also stunned that “asshole” is also anti-gay, misogynistic speak; “asshole” is invariably only used for men, despite the fact that women also possess this part of the anatomy — it is used to refer to men who allow themselves to be penetrated like women.) What they want to know, of course, is when and how one can continue to use these words without perpetuating gender violence. Do we have to stop swearing altogether, they ask?
People like to cuss because it makes them feel powerful. Even for relatively articulate folks it can be difficult to find “normal” words that give the same degree of satisfaction! In our culture, there can be an almost sensual pleasure in unloosing a torrent of profanity. When I was a child of six, I marched around the house saying “fuck”, “fuck”, “fuck”, “fuck”. I had no idea what it meant, but I knew it was a bad word and it got quite a reaction. I remember that saying “fuck” made me feel big. Clearly, for some folks in the blogosphere, that desire to feel “big” is irrepressible.
So I tell my students that they will have to find their own way through this complex issue. As for me, I don’t cuss much; it wasn’t something any of my role models did when I was a child. I do think, however, that if one is going to use these words, one has to save them for “safe places.” In environments where you can be certain as to how these words will be received, I think it’s sometimes acceptable to cuss with abandon.
But different people have the right to use certain words that others don’t. I often think about this story:
My former pastor at All Saints Pasadena, Scott, was and is an avid basketball player. He played in college, and even now, in his late 40s, plays lots of pick-up games. He could often be found on courts in Northwest Pasadena, where he would frequently be the only white man around. He tells the story of the first time he was playing three on three basketball with five black men, and in the heat of the game they all referred to each other as “niggas.” At first, he was uncomfortable. Though he knew these men as well as they knew each other (a couple were All Saints parishioners!), he knew perfectly well he could never use that word himself. He understood that the “n” word, when used by black men for each other, has an infinitely different set of meanings than when used by a white man. Scott said that words like this were “in-the-family” words — they could be used freely and safely by insiders who would understand the intent of the speaker. As much as his fellow players liked and respected and trusted him, Scott knew that as a white man, he could never be so much a part of “the family” that he could use the “n” word as a term of endearment. Never.
Scott’s realization about the “n” word applies just as equally to gender-based insults. I think intent counts for only a little in life. As Amp said today:
I am saying the question we should be asking ourselves is not “am I personally pure and good of heart?” but “is what I’m doing, regardless of my good intent, contributing to the problem?”
When folks hear us speak, they hear us speak not as disembodied persons but as men and women, white and black and Asian and Latino, gay and straight and bi and rich and poor and so forth. This is evidently true in the blogosphere. Thus any man who uses the word “pussy” for another man opens himself to the charge of misogyny, regardless of his intent. Any white person who uses the “n” word opens himself or herself to the charge of bigotry, regardless again of intent. Can “insiders” use this language? Yes. When feminists publish Bitch Magazine, I honor their goal of redefining that word. But I cannot ever use that word safely.
Of course, followed logically, this means that straight white men will have fewer opportunities to cuss than other folks. Then again, we don’t know what it is to be injured by words that target our heterosexuality, our whiteness, our maleness. Resisting the temptation to use words that others can speak or write is hardly a great sacrifice — rather, it’s a small but significant way of acknowledging our profound privilege.
Our rector’s sermon yesterday at All Saints Pasadena was on friendship in a time of polarization. (If and when it gets posted, I’ll put up a link to it).
We’re 43 days away from the election. On any number of issues — Iraq, gun control, abortion, homosexuality, the respective war records of the two major candidates — it goes without saying that we are a deeply divided nation. But I’m not sure that that is necessarily anything new.
Though my expertise is not in American history, I am well aware that at other times in our past, we have been similarly divided. To imagine that the election battles of our childhoods were somehow more civil and less momentous is false recall. I remember campaigning for Jesse Jackson in 1984 (which made me an easy target of derision in my conservative high school), absolutely convinced that Ronald Reagan represented the greatest threat to civil liberties and world peace that the world had ever known. Back then, of course, the big fear was still nuclear war. We were still months away from the rise of Mikhail Gorbachev; some Democrats seriously suggested that if Reagan were re-elected, nuclear war might result. I — at 17 — was among those who thought that a very real possibility. Nothing we are coping with now seems to be of quite that level of import!
Still, there’s no question that the current political climate can put a strain on real friendship. I’ve been struggling a lot with this issue lately. On a few issues (okay, more than a few), I have passionate political opinions. On any of those issues, I have friends or relatives dear to me who hold the opposite view. With most of them, I’ve chosen to place cordiality ahead of honesty. We simply don’t talk about our political differences much, because we both know the risk it poses to our friendship. With a few, a special few, I’m willing to take that risk. These are folks with whom I share a commitment to civil language even in the face of provocation. We’ve worked out ways to go over our differences together without jeopardizing the relationship. Two things are key here: a self-deprecating sense of humor and a commitment not to take oneself too damn seriously. That doesn’t mean making light of one’s own convictions. But it does put limits on how much certainty one is going to allow oneself.
The problem with the blogosphere is that we are mostly just “cyber-friends.’ Our exchanges are purely verbal, and the words we type appear without the kind of nuance we would put in a conversation. Folks seem to feel free to say things to each other in the blogosphere that they might not say to each other’s faces. It’s also easy to be misunderstood; what was intended as humor is taken seriously and vice-versa. For serious discussion, this medium has serious limitations. (An example of this is this extremely long recent comment thread at Alas, a Blog on abortion. It wanders everywhere, and by the end, gets nasty, despite Ampersand’s pleas to maintain a civil tone. I finally opted out, acknowledging that I wasn’t being helpful myself.)
I don’t think quietism (a withdrawal from public life) is an acceptable solution, tempting as it may be. We all have an obligation to wrestle with these issues. But we need to be mindful of the hearts and minds and souls of those with whom we wrestle. For those of us who call ourselves Christian progressives, we must be mindful of the possibility that Jesus may appear to us in the guise of what we would cheerfully call a troglodytic traditionalist. We can hope and pray that our brothers and sisters in the conservative world will be equally open to the possibility that Christ is coming to them in an equally surprising guise.
So here’s what I’m pledging to do. I’m going to spend the next 43 days working and praying for Democratic victory. I might even throw in some fasting, too. I am also committing to spending time listening to my friends who support the president, and really hearing them. I’m not just talking about redoubling my WASPy politeness; I’m talking about connecting with conservatives. Where I disagree with my progressive friends (usually, only on abortion rights), I’m going to practice that same kind of active listening. In spoken and written word, I pledge not to question the intelligence, character, or good intentions of those who hold other views — despite what will be severe temptation to do so. And I want to challenge my readers:
What will you do in the next 43 days? How will you reach out across this ideological divide to connect with and show friendship to those with whom you disagree? (This can be in cyberspace as well as in “real life.”) Over what issue do you find friendships are strained most easily? (Oddly, for a straight man, I find that I have a hard time with folks who are not willing to accept same-sex marriage; that includes half my family and at least half my friends.) I’m not asking folks to lay aside their righteous anger — I’m asking them to find ways to stop that anger from causing further injury to an already wounded body politic.
Okay, I said I’d leave it until Monday. I’m back to the old design now. I found it difficult to read my own blog! Too bad Typepad won’t let me have this layout with the pink, however.
Again, until Monday.
…I’m experimenting with this cheery design. Does this make the blog easier, or harder to read? What questions, if any, does it raise?
On that note, I’ll be back Monday. If overwhelming opposition arises from my small but loyal (and beloved) readership, I’ll go back to the old design. If not, I’m proudly sticking with this.
Not every straight man can pull off so much pink, but frankly, I think I can.
Go at once and view the winners of the online chinchilla show.
And then, go and view what will soon be Matilde’s newest accessory — her hammock!
Here is our girl being groomed. Click to enlarge.
Who would have thought that two posts on housecleaning would draw more comments than virtually any other topic I’ve posted on in recent months? More than 2000 separate hits in the last 24 hours, as well as some 60 comments. The issue of paying other folks to clean up one’s own living space has touched a series of nerves in a great many people, many of whom had made lengthy and thoughtful comments. I’m grateful.
Not long after welcoming in the cleaning team this morning, I’m heading off to the dentist. Two crowns need to be put on. I think this raises my total to six. Thus, I only have time for a brief post this morning.
First off, I just wanted to briefly note how wonderful it was to be back with my youth group once again on Wednesday night. The kids who were frosh (no one says “freshmen” anymore, not even for high school kids, in our circles) when I started working with the program are now in college — three of them in my classes! What an amazing, moving privilege it is to see these folks grow up. And what a difference a summer makes! It’s amazing how much growing teenagers can get done in three months. Boys AND girls who barely reached my shoulder a few years ago look down on me! I’m not yet a parent, so this is as close as I’ve ever come to witnessing these kinds of transformations. I’m so humbled that I get to be part of their lives. We have a busy year ahead.
This is really going to be of interest only to a few, but I’ve meaning to post on it:
At All Saints Pasadena, talk among the adults is often about the current crisis in the diocese. The departure of three traditionalist parishes over the issue of homosexuality has been a galvanizing moment, it seems, for liberals and conservatives alike.
One interesting byproduct of all this has been the rapprochement between Bishop Jon Bruno and All Saints itself. When Jon Bruno was elected bishop in 1999, it was a bitter blow to All Saints Pasadena. We are the largest parish in the diocese by far (as well as the “flagship of progressivism”), and we had our own candidate for the mitre and the pectoral cross. Jon Bruno, who came from humble roots in East Los Angeles, graduated from working-class Cal State LA , played pro football and had careers as a cop and a restaurateur, was seen by many at affluent All Saints as insufficiently “Episcopalian” in his background and demeanor. Los Angeles’ previous bishop, Fred Borsch, had been a Princeton theologian; the All Saints candidate to replace him had a doctorate from UCLA and was also noted for his subtle and sophisticated theology. Bruno won election by running a grass-roots campaign from the floor, relying on his formidable people skills and the diocese-wide sense that it was time for a change. He won overwhelmingly; the All Saints candidate — a good and quiet man — ended up badly defeated and left the diocese.
From 2000-2003, Jon Bruno was “mysteriously” not involved in the confirmation of our youth at All Saints. Somehow, someway, suffragan bishops were found to perform that holy task. In 2002, when suffragan bishop Chet Talton came to confirm our youth and adult confirmands, one lay leader at All Saints called Talton “All Saints’ favorite bishop” in a welcoming speech — a phrase that was widely interpreted as a not-so-subtle dig at Jon Bruno! (I confess that made me grumble a bit from my pew!)
But then came Bishop Bruno’s brave vote at General Convention last year to consecrate Gene Robinson as the first openly gay bishop in the Anglican Communion. Bruno followed that up in May by blessing a same-sex union; he is now fighting hard against the three renegade conservative parishes. Guess who is now the hero at All Saints? Guess who confirmed our kids this year, and will confirm them again in 2005? Guess whose formidable people skills are now seen as a huge asset in the “struggle” over homosexuality?
Old wounds have been healed and new friendships formed as the bishop of Los Angeles and his largest parish join forces; the turmoil in the diocese and across the Anglican Communion has had some unanticipated blessings. I couldn’t be more pleased, even as I still think we ought to let the disgruntled conservatives leave with their buildings and their prayer books…
Off to the dentist.
I want to post soon about our first Wednesday night youth group meeting at All Saints, but that will have to wait a bit.
I’m really provoked (in a healthy way) by what some folks wrote in the comments section in my post below on housework. Samples:
Hmmm…this is one of the classic critiques of western, middle-class feminism, that “freedom” can and should require the back-breaking labor of poorer people, especially women and those of color…
Doesn’t it make you feel creepy? Would you feel differently if it were a black family cleaning your house, or a poor white family?
I’m thinking that it’s no solution to solve the “housework argument” by hiring someone to do the work. That someone who does the work can’t opt out, you know? You feel guilty about this Hugo, because you know it isn’t a life you would choose for yourself. You know that the person who does the work still goes home and does the same thing for herself/himself.
I wouldn’t hire someone if I could. I was just raised to clean up after myself. I think hiring someone to clean up after me has many troubling implications. I’m uncomfortable with the idea as a feminist, as someone who is trying to help low-income people, etc.
Of course, others took a more supportive tack, but naturally, I’m stirred up (again, in a healthy way) by the critics.
It’s clear that our own socio-economic backgrounds play a big role in this.
I did not grow up rich, at least not by the standards of my peers in my hometown of Carmel. I was raised by a single mom who made ends meet as a part-time lecturer in philosophy at a community college (a job that only became full-time the year I graduated high school). The two cars of my childhood were a 1975 Ford Pinto wagon and a 1980 Datsun B210. Admittedly, I grew up three blocks from the beach. And admittedly, though money was often tight around the house, my mother came from a background where domestic help was generally present. Even though it was a stretch, we did have a “cleaning lady” come in two days a week when my brother and I were small. Her name was Diane, and I remember her chocolate chip cookies and the fact that she drove a Barracuda muscle car.
My grandmother had had a full-time domestic servant named Alzina, a black woman from Oakland who helped raise my mother and my aunt. Alzina started working for my family in the early 1930s, and she continued to do so into the late 1970s. On childhood visits to my grandmother’s home, I can remember Alzina as an omnipresent family figure whom I saw as being as much a fixture of our life as any of my cousins or uncles or aunts. I knew she worked for my family, but I also didn’t see how the fact that we were paying her precluded her from being a member of our family. We always hugged and kissed Alzina whenever we saw her, just as we did our grandmother. Long after she ceased to work for the family, she still was a frequent guest at family functions.
I know that for some readers, that last paragraph may well be infuriating. Issues of sex, class, and race all figure into Alzina’s presence in our lives. I am abundantly aware of that! I know that the kind of “fictive kinship” we practiced with Alzina might seem patronizing and exploitative to some, but I also know that Alzina was not only well-paid, she was loved. Her job helped her and her husband buy a home in Emeryville (near Oakland). My family were the only white folks at her wedding. My family were the only white folks at her funeral when she died in 2002, in her late 90s. It was a relationship that transcended the servant-employer relationship, and while I know I’ve sounded like a Marxist lately, I’m pretty clear on the fact that financial interdependence does not preclude genuine love.
Okay, I’m getting emotional at the keyboard. I’m tearing up, fifteen minutes before class.
I was raised to believe that it is perfectly acceptable and normal to employ other folks in one’s home to cook and clean. I was also raised to believe that one could never consider oneself to be superior to one’s employees. My grandmother often told me that “a gentleman never lets anyone feel beneath him.” Call it elitist noblesse oblige if you will (though there isn’t a lot of noblesse growing up with a Pinto), but it was an ethic rooted in a commitment to treating everyone with whom one interacted with kindness and dignity. I don’t think that employer-employee relationships in the home are necessarily exploitative; I think they need to be marked by mutual trust, respect, and kindness. I think employers must pay not only a legal wage, but a wage that reflects the dignity and importance of housework.
When Efrain and his family come to clean my townhouse tomorrow, they will be welcomed. They will be well-paid. And I will do my best to make them see just how much I appreciate their hard work.
Tell me, dear readers, what am I missing?
I’m still thinking hard about the ethics of hiring folks to clean one’s house. (Quite the discussion in the comments section here).
I’m fairly certain that poet/novelist/philosopher/ethicist Wendell Berry does not hire folks to clean his place. He’s a leading figure in many circles, beloved of many radical Christians for his prophetic call for a return to simplicity, for pacifism, for justice, for a rethinking of our relationship to nature and the land.
This is my favorite poem of his; it’s posted in my office:
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
I often say to myself (without success, usually): “Hugo, don’t tax your life with forethought of grief.”
The NY Times reports today:
It may fall into the category of Things You Knew but Could Never Prove, but a new survey by the Department of Labor shows that the average working woman spends about twice as much time as the average working man on household chores and the care of children.
The average working woman, for example, spends about an hour and a half a day caring for other members of the family, the average working man barely 50 minutes. Likewise, the average working woman spends more than 1 hour 20 minutes on household chores, the average working man less than 45 minutes.
Almost as many women as men hold jobs, the Labor Department said: about 78 percent of women, compared with 85 percent of men. But two-thirds of all women said they prepared meals and did housework on an average day, compared with only 19 percent of men who said they did housework and 34 percent who said they helped with meals or cleanup.
I wish everyone to know that I vacuumed up chinchilla droppings today. (And my goodness, does Matty leave lots of droppings).
I hate doing housework. I don’t like it when my fiancee does housework, either. Honestly, my preferred solution is the typical middle-class solution: hire a cleaning team.
We’ve been employing the same family for about six months. Every other Friday, a family of five arrive. Dad, Mom, and adult aunt don’t speak English; they are Mexican immigrants of indeterminate legal status. (And no, I ain’t asking). The two kids (perhaps 10 and 8) handle the translating when my fiancee isn’t around. All five rapidly set to work cleaning the house (after a now-customary formal greeting of Matilde the chinnie, who greets them by begging for walnuts). Though I usually leave the team alone, I note that there is no gender-based division of labor among the family. Vacuuming and toilet scrubbing is done by all.
I have mixed feelings about hiring folks to clean my house. (Obviously, we clean it ourselves at other times as well). I like having the same people come regularly. I don’t use a corporate “maid service” referral agency, because I don’t know how much those services actually pay their workers. I pay my team directly, and I know what I pay them works out to almost three times the minimum wage per family member per hour, which I think is a just sum (and more than what I paid the few times I used a maid service).
Still, I wonder about paying poor folks to clean up my messes. I know they need the work, and they do a damned sight better job than I can or would do. I’m not sure how it affects my socialist- feminist credentials to say: “Oh, I do my share of the housework — I pay someone else to scrub my toilet.” Of course, paying someone else to do one’s (literal) dirty work liberates one to have time for other pursuits, like blogging and running. And if the wage is just (which I believe it to be), and if the working conditions are adequate (which I believe they are), then I don’t think it’s unethical.
Or maybe I’m just fooling myself.
I got to the office late this morning, so this will be relatively quick. And personal.
I live in the congressional district of Adam Schiff (D-Glendale), but I’m only a few miles from the neighboring district of Congressman David Dreier (R-La Verne). Congressman Dreier, one of the highest ranking California Republicans in Washington, is now being “outed” as a gay man by a number of publications, including Hustler Magazine. See here, here, and here. A former student of mine who is active in California politics told me in 1998 that Dreier was gay, and for that reason would never run for senate or the governorship. Some folks think it’s remarkable that it’s taken this long to come out (as it were…)
I loathe the idea of “outing” someone. I am a firm supporter of gay and lesbian rights, and I am happy to work to defeat any legislator of any sexual identity who opposes those rights (which Dreier does). That said, I’m a great believer that one’s private life and one’s public life do not necessarily have to reflect the same values. That sounds like an endorsement of hypocrisy, and on one level, I suppose it is.
Historians will happily tell their students the stories of great figures from the past (usually men), whose private lives were appalling and whose public service exemplary. (My favorite example is always Caesar Augustus, to whom we credit the Pax Romana, who issued edicts against adultery, and who had a stunning appetite for twelve year-old girls). Americans (unlike Europeans) are troubled by this. (Obviously, I’m troubled too by Augustus’s abusive behavior — but he is a colorful extreme.) We persist (sometimes for murky theological reasons, sometimes for pop psychological ones) in insisting that our leaders have coherence between their public pronouncements and their private behavior. I don’t think that’s healthy. I think it excludes from leadership those who might have tremendous chaos in their private life, but who might have exceptional gifts to bring to the sphere of public service.
Full disclosure: I take this personally. Here’s why:
I’ve been divorced three times. I teach women’s history. Are my credentials as a teacher of feminist history and theory called into question because of my failed relationships with women? Does the fact that I have repeatedly “fallen short of the mark” in my private life mean that I cannot still advocate for the pursuit of that mark? I’ve spent years and years struggling to match my life and my language, and Lord be praised, I’ve come a long, long way. But I don’t think my personal affairs need to be exemplary for me to be an effective professor, even in a field (like gender studies) where the lines between the personal and the academic realms are always blurred.
Of course, I acknowledge that there is a difference between the kind of hypocrisy of which I write and the actions of Rep. Dreier. When I fail in my private life, few people are hurt. My students, should they come to know of my failings, may be disillusioned — but I’m not directly injuring them by failing to live a life of complete integrity. On the other hand, when Dreier votes for legislation that is harmful to the LGBTQ community, his lack of wholeness is doing colossal damage. That difference, I suppose, may justify “outing” him. As so often, I’m conflicted.
If I were to run for public office, I would expect my troubled personal history to become a campaign issue. Fortunately, I long ago let go of such ambitions!
One of my failings is a penchant for self-indulgent introspection. I’ve been doing that a lot lately, but this one felt good.
I want to follow up a bit on my post below that touched on issues of male body insecurity.
First off, let me say that I am always wary of what I’ve heard called the “suffering Olympics”: the competition among groups to prove that they are somehow more oppressed, more mistreated, more misunderstood than anyone else. Whether it’s Israelis and Palestinians, Armenians and Turks, Cal fans and Cub fans, men and women, I’m not interested in the tiresome squabbling to prove whose pain is greater. I’m especially displeased by men’s rights organizations that focus on the myriad ways in which they imagine that men are victimized in contemporary culture! (Trish blogs a lot about these fellows, invariably accurately). I’ve never had much time for the men’s rights movement as a whole. I’ve met a lot of these guys, and I’ve never encountered so many so determined to hold on to their own self-righteous anger. I struggle a lot with self-righteousness — but I’ve got the good sense to see it as a character flaw rather than something to be celebrated.
That said, I do think we are blind to the pain and anguish that a growing number of men in our society are experiencing around issues related to body image. The stories are everywhere; this article from last week’s Telegraph indicates it is not an exclusively American phenomenon. (You may have to register to get it). Sample:
For years, women have complained that the beautiful, thin models used in advertisements leave them feeling overweight and inadequate. Now research has shown that men suffer exactly the same feelings of inferiority when they see adverts featuring attractive, muscular males.
Images of “bare-chested beefcakes” or toned athletes promoting aftershave, sunglasses and clothes leave ordinary men increasingly unhappy with their bodies, fuelling eating disorders such as anorexia and bulimia, excessive exercising and encouraging the use of “quick-fix” drugs such as steroids.
Anyone who is even a casual observer of American film can see the transformation in the ideal male body over the past forty years. John Wayne, Gary Cooper, and Clark Gable had bodies that were firm but hardly “ripped”; by comparison, 40 year-old Brad Pitt and 40-something Tom Cruise today flaunt bodies that put almost every guy half their age to shame. Interestingly, as gender roles become increasingly blurred in our society, popular culture starts to do two similar but very different things. We idealize smooth, almost feminine “metro-sexual” boy-men (Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio, David Beckham) who have clearly adopted a traditionally female self-regard; at the same time, we idealize caricatures of traditional masculinity (the Rock, Vin Diesel, and yes, in some ways, Governor Schwarzenegger). Neither extreme is helpful to young men struggling with self-image issues. Brad Pitt’s beauty is as elusive as the Rock’s biceps.
A number of recent books have explored this transformation and the rise of male anxiety; I recommend two in particular:
The Male Body, Susan Bordo
The Adonis Complex, Harrison Pope et al
There are many others — I haven’t been able to keep up with them all!
At times, some folks come dangerously close to blaming women (shocker, that) for the rise in male body-related anxiety. For example, the Telegraph writes:
…there is growing pressure on men to look good, as women take on more “male” roles.
“It used to be that women were much more focused on men providing financial security - looks and body shape were secondary to them having a nice personality. But now it looks like women may be wanting the whole package. Even if they don’t, that’s what males perceive.
In other words, as women gain economic and political power, they move from being “objects” to “subjects”; they become consumers who are able to exercise choices. According to this line of reasoning, as women become more autonomous, men become more decorative! Women’s progress is thus the root cause of male insecurity.
As you might guess, I don’t buy that line for one second. It’s an example of a classic kind of male myth-making that says that women’s advancement will always come at men’s expense. It seems to see self-esteem and wholeness as a zero-sum game, in which more for one sex means less for the other. It’s not very subtle, it’s decidedly anti-feminist, and more to the point, wildly inaccurate.
There are many different causes of this rise in male insecurity. (Some point to the mainstreaming of gay male sensibilities into the marketplace as a factor, for example). But my old Marxist training (once it’s in you, it’s always part of you) suggests that capitalism is the primary culprit. A culture in which only women are expected to have beautiful bodies is a culture that doesn’t maximize its profit potential. If only women wear make-up, buy designer jeans and diet pills, and have plastic surgery, then advertisers and other purveyors of these “necessities” are missing out on a mammoth, untapped market. In recent years, female body image disorders have become so widespread that it is difficult to imagine that the problem could get worse. Put another way, it is becoming difficult to imagine that women could spend more on their appearance than they already do; an exclusively female consuming public cannot thus guarantee continued bottom-line growth for the cosmetic, fashion, and diet industries. Enlisting men in this relentless and ultimately hopeless pursuit of perfection promises years and years of ever-growing profits.
Hmmm. Did I just lose all of my conservative readership? (All three of you?) Okay, sorry. You can take the boy out of Berkeley, but you can’t take Berkeley (and Marx) out of the boy. Still, I think there’s a valid point in the paragraph above.
But at some point, it becomes fruitless to talk about causes. It’s a fascinating and worthy historical exercise, but knowing why you feel a certain way doesn’t necessarily mean you know how to stop feeling that way!
My own credibility is tested here. I have struggled with body image issues for twenty years, ever since I was a soft, unathletic, almost chubby high school kid. I remember going to the beach one year in high school, and being teased because the shape of my torso made it appear that I had breasts. “Hugo’s got boobs!” is a cry that can make me wince after more than two decades. I’ve struggled with an eating disorder. (I weighed a soft 195 in high school; I’m a firmer 185 today; my best running weight was 165, my “low” during a period of intense dieting in 1992 was an emaciated 142. There was a widespread rumor in grad school that year that I was dying of AIDS.) I took up running to soothe my own anxieties about my body. It was only later that I discovered that (mirabile dictu) I actually loved to run. What began as a way of trying to conform to an impossible standard instead became a hobby that I treasure and adore in its own right. I was very lucky in that respect.
Time, therapy, and finding a sport I love have all helped to ease my own self-obsession. It has not vanished completely. Most of the men with whom I socialize are also runners and endurance enthusiasts, and most have confessed the same sort of personal history that I have shared. Even now, it’s sometimes difficult to separate what we do for love of the sport and what we do to fight to keep trim, athletic bodies. Even among my closest friends, there is often still some reluctance to admit the persistence of these anxieties — a reluctance that I don’t find shared by the women with whom we run, all of whom are much more vocal about their own struggles with body image.
When it comes to young men, we cannot confuse their silence with a sense of well-being. Getting young men to open up about issues of body image is difficult — but I’ve been part of many a youth group where it’s been done, and done well. The relief that young men (and not so young ones) experience is immense when they realize that they aren’t the only ones plagued with these doubts and insecurities. In a future post, I’ll try and write more about how I’ve experienced productive work with young men on this very difficult and painful subject.
But I’ve written enough for now. Got a test to write.
Over at Alas, A Blog, Ampersand posts some more thoughts in response to this earlier post of mine on abortion. As tempting as it is to respond to nuggets like this one:
By spreading the lie that it’s laws that make abortion possible, Hugo is being deceptive - except the main person he’s deceiving is himself.
…I’m going to honor my recent pledges to stay off the topic for now. I’m not emotionally up to it, honestly.
I was saddened by Trish Wilson’s post this morning, where she’s announcing that she’s considering taking a break from blogging. Here’s an excerpt:
I’m not sure how I feel about blogging at this point. I’m disappointed in the blogosphere. I guess I had fallen for the blogosphere’s image as being an Internet “utopia” and it is certainly far from it. The last incarnation of that dreadful “woman bloggers” debate was another disappointment that was even more disappointing because it was not unexpected. The same old shit comes up every three months. At least I got new readers out of it.
I know that blogging isn’t any different from the rest of the world, but I expected more from it than the usual nonsense you see everywhere else. Sometimes blogging reminds me of Usenet - the same old trolling, snark, and vitriol, too much time spent nuking porn spam, and an atmosphere akin to junior high school popularity contests. Frankly, life’s too short for that. I’m burned out from it all. I don’t even know how many people, if any, really read my blog. Sometimes I feel as if no one reads my blog. I know that’s my bleak mood talking, but I do wonder sometimes. I know I’m not alone. Plenty of other bloggers feel that way. That makes me feel a little better but not much.
I have certainly felt that way, Trish, and sometimes still do. (And I read your blog).
Corianne, though not planning to give up blogging, has also encountered a nasty troll in the blogosphere; she dealt with him here.
Christy has a lullaby.
Camassia experienced Bel Air Presbyterian Church, and… well, read it.
Annie shares a powerful witnessing memory from the front lines on abortion.
Building on Dr. King, Graham shares some of his recent sermon on racial justice.
Astarte has a terrific post on words and political correctness.
And Jay has a particularly powerful post on “bus ministries” and race.
I read lots and lots of blogs, every day. So many times I visit without commenting, wanting to drop an encouraging note, but feeling as if I have too little to say. I’m going to try and be better about that.
I had my first fall off my new bicycle yesterday. I’ve had my Shimano pedal clips for two weeks, and after some initial awkwardness have been doing reasonably well at clipping in and out of them. While riding with my fiancee (a veteran rider in her own right) through South Pasadena, I came to a four-way stop. Thinking I had the right of way, I began to head into the intersection. A BMW sport-utility had other ideas, however, and I had to put the brakes on hard. I came to an immediate stop, and my mind went completely blank. I had utterly forgotten how to “clip out” of the pedals. For one awful instant I teetered, and then collapsed in a most undignified heap in the street. Other than a slight strain to my knee, I sustained no physical injury.
Of course, when one falls off a stationary bicycle in the middle of the road, one’s first thought is not of injury! As soon as I had hit the asphalt, I felt my face flush with intense embarrassment. I got up, waved off the various concerned drivers, and walked to the side of the road with my bike. My gal came over to check me and the bike out, but all I could think of was the number of people who might have seen my fall. I was immensely grateful that no other cyclists were nearby at the time of my fall; it’s bad enough to embarrass oneself in front of motorists, but to fall over in the manner in which I did in front of other riders — ouch. I’ll admit it: I want to look competent! Decked out in new gear, on a nice new Trek 5000, I can pass for an experienced rider; forgetting how to unclip and falling over while completely stationary is ample evidence that I am anything but. Still, it’s all part of learning something new, and for the time being, I have to accept my inexperience. Honestly, falls like yesterday’s are probably good correctives for smugness.
I’m not giving up running for cycling, of course; I registered last week for my next marathon: the Saddleback Mountain Trail Marathon on November 20, which bills itself as “the toughest marathon in California.” (For those who know anything about marathoning, the fact that even elite runners can’t break three hours on the course ought to say something; the course record is a 3:16). I’ll admit it: if it didn’t appear to be so difficult, I wouldn’t be half as interested in running it! I’m not as fast as I was six years and twenty pounds ago, but like a lot of folks, my stamina has grown even as my speed has declined. I’ll be happy breaking five hours on a course like this.
I’ve been thinking about male body image again. We were at a nice dinner party last night, and I was seated next to an attractive couple in their early forties. Both are actors, both are in terrific shape and look at least a decade younger than their actual ages. The husband and I (I’ll call him Tim, not his real name) chatted about the “industry” and the struggle to keep in shape throughout the meal, and then dessert came out. (My fiancee was in charge of dessert, and had arranged all sorts of little cakes and tarts on to platters — all of it delicious, all of it fattening). I dove in with enthusiasm. Tim waved the platter away, though his eyes made it clear that he would like nothing better than to join me in a chocolate mousse or a fruit tart (or, as in my case, both). He’ll be going on auditions this week, auditions where he may well need to appear shirtless. Tim’s six-pack of ab muscles is part of his curriculum vitae, even in his forties. To play with words, how he eats affects whether he eats!
Driving home last night, I thought more about Tim. At first, I thought of him in terms of myself (how unsurprising.) I had a six-pack a few years ago when I watched my diet more rigorously; I settle for merely being “firm” today. I wasn’t happy when I watched everything I ate, even if it did pay dividends in terms of my speed on the track and in races. Of course, unlike Tim, my body is all but irrelevant to how I make my living. My students don’t care what I look like; casting agents care very much about what Tim looks like. But yet despite the fact that our different careers affected our different eating choices last night, I found myself jealous of Tim. I wan’t jealous of his six-pack; I was jealous of what I was interpreting as his greater self-control.
You see, those of us who work around body image issues (as I do) are not immune from cultural pressures! Being intimately familiar with “body history” and the origins of our own contemporary ideals are not prophylaxes against one’s own anxieties! Indeed, I know damn well I started doing so much work around body issues (and eventually, teaching entire courses on “body history”) because like so many women (and a rapidly growing number of men), I have struggled for years with what is often referred to as “body dysmorphia.” It’s gotten much, much better in recent years — but it hasn’t vanished completely. By the way, Brian has posted on this subject today; check him out here.
Sigh. I need to work up a whole post on male body image issues sometime soon. Though male anxiety about the body has similar features to women’s insecurity, there are also unique characteristics to men’s struggles that have been routinely under-reported and under-analyzed (often because so few men are willing to write about it!) I’ll try and touch on that in an upcoming post.
In the meantime, my knee is fine today. I’ve got four classes to teach today and 12 hours to spend on campus, so it’s time to do some other work.
It’s another blazingly hot and muggy Saturday afternoon in Southern California; the steamy weather made for a difficult run this morning with my buddies. Fortunately, we were able to run through a series of sprinklers near the end of our 14-miler, and that was both a source of great relief and a fine flashback to childhood. (As a child, I played naked in the sprinklers in the back yard; I assure readers that for aesthetic, moral, and legal reasons I kept my shorts on while I cavorted this morning in various public parks).
I was thinking about this anonymous comment that appeared on my post immediately below. Here’s most of it:
I soon become confounded that one with a PhD. is constantly digging up embarrassments about or by men, being there is plenty from both men and women, which let solely women further bash on men—like this is the solution to any problem. Are you trying to get rid of your male or conservative audience? I am guessing, Hugo, that if you dug up similar tasteless articles regarding women and further let men “bashâ€, you would quickly lose your admiring female readers, barring a save of the occasional mea culpa.
I have an idea, but of course, this is your blog, maybe occasionally you could praise men and remind your sisters there are a FEW good ones out there. By the way, I should have asked first, what kind of audience are you looking for? You seem concerned who they are, please tell.
There’s a fair amount of snarkiness in the tone of the comment, but I’ll ignore that to focus on what I think might be a valid point: sometimes, I am harder on men. And given that I am a man, I think that’s appropriate.
As a man who teaches gender studies, I am regularly assumed to be one of two things. Either I’m gay (thus not a “real” man), or I’m some sort of sexual predator, (a wolf in sheep’s clothing) using a superficial and glib feminism as a ruse to seduce women. Mind you, any man who does gender-related work is liable to get both accusations thrown at him regularly. (I’ve long since given up trying to “prove the negative” around these charges; it’s just not worth the effort.) But while women are frequently suspicious of my motives for doing this work and teaching these courses, I find that the greatest hostility I attract is invariably from straight, conservative men.
I’m a great believer that men are obligated to hold other men responsible for their individual and collective misbehavior. I don’t think that those of us walking around with penises and Y chromosones are solely responsible for all the pain, suffering, and misery in the world (though we contribute more than our statistical share). But as a man, I am more keenly aware of my own failings and the failings of my brothers. I live life encased in male flesh, with male biology, with all of the damaging acculturation that we impose upon men in our society. I am very aware of my own failings — and aware that most of the ways in which I have failed in my life to be a fully loving human being have been ways in which other men have similarly failed. (Convoluted sentence; I’m too tired to rewrite it for clarity — you get the picture, I’m sure).
We live in a world where a code of silence prevents men from criticizing each other’s choices and decisions. When it comes to the way we treat the women around us, too few men are willing to stand up to the other men in their lives and say, “Dude, you’re messing up big time. Pull yourself together.” I’m not saying that that kind of constructive criticism doesn’t happen at all, but I think it’s fairly obvious that when it comes to any number of issues, women are much harder on their own sex than men are. Men’s work — at least that of pro-feminist men and of the mytho-poetic men’s movement — is about getting men closer to each other so that they can tell each other the truth. Learning to confront other men in love is hard work. Not enough of us do it.
In my work as a youth minister, I work with boys and girls and love them all. But I spend more time with the boys, and not merely because of church rules about adult-teen interactions. I can’t “role-model” appropriate female behavior for “my” girls. I can love on them — and I do — but I can’t show them how to live as a woman. With my guys, I have a higher charge; they are looking to me (as they will to any adult man younger than their fathers) for clues as to how to live incarnate as a male in this day and age. Because I know their uniquely male struggles and fears intimately, I can connect to them on a different level. And when necessary, I can be hard on them because I have already established a trust and a bond that is particular to a same-sex friendship.
I love men. I’ll say it loud and proud. I’m not sexually or romantically attracted to men, but I love them. I love “hanging with the guys”, be they teenagers or peers or older men. I love the jocularity, the cameraderie, and also the strangely wonderful moments of intimacy that with hard work men can create together. When I was younger, I feared and loathed my fellows; like a lot of “sensitive” guys, all my best friends were women. It was hard work to risk getting close to other men, and then to risk doing men’s work, and I still have a long way to go.
Upshot, anonymous: I’m harder on men for three reasons:
1. I’m a man.
2. I love men.
3. I love women.
Oh, and one more thing: I don’t try and attract a particular audience with this blog. If I were trying to acoomplish that, I would post on a narrower range of issues. (How many folks, besides me, are interested in gender studies, the Episcopal church, Anabaptism, sexuality, the consistent-life movement, marathon running, and chinchillas?) This blog is therapeutic for me — I can work out some of my own ideas (usually unedited), without having to worry about receiving a grade or a rejection letter from a publisher. I’m gratified that many people of all sexes (we don’t say “both” sexes in gender studies anymore) come by and comment. But I’m not trying to attract an “admiring female readership”, and I’m not tailoring my posting to avoid offending one particular sex…
Recent Comments