Topic 60: 'Men Say'

Carol:

What Planet Did You Say You Were From?

For some reason when Stephen Spielberg’s film adaptation of Alice Walker’s book The Color Purple came out, it caused a bit of a to-do that had not happened when Walker’s book came out in 1982. The controversy seemed to be a gender thing, and it seemed to polarize the male and female faculty at our college here in central Arizona around whether or not the film portrayed men as the stereotypical bad guys, whether or not it unfairly manipulated emotions—the New York Times had criticized Spielberg for “fashioning a grand, multi-hanky entertainment that is as pretty and lavish as the book is plain” (source: Maslin), The College even sponsored a Brown Bag Lunch panel to analyze the merits and flaws of the movie. The discussions about The Color Purple, femaleness and maleness, were kind of fun and allowed for some (usually) good-natured public debate that drew in not just faculty but staff and students as well.
I remember a more intimate conversation with several women over lunch where we established a kind of litmus test for men. We liked men who liked The Color Purple. In fact, several of us loved men who liked The Color Purple, and we admitted  that, in fact, we preferred the company of men who did not fall on the “macho male, groin-scratching” end of the gender scale  just as we didn’t fall into the “girly-girl eye-lash fluttering” end, not that we used those terms. I think we even got so far as to categorizing men on the campus by whether or not they would like the movie. A very intellectual conversation, indeed.

It was the eighties and we had been reading Carol Gilligan’s In a Different Voice (1982) and Women’s Ways of Knowing would be published the year after our debates about The Color Purple in 1986. It was probably about that same time when I got into a very heated argument with a (male) lawyer about whether women lawyers had to “act like men” in order to be successful in the legal profession and what it even meant to “act like a man.” I think I got angry because I was also struggling at work with what it meant to “act like a professional” in a college community where male faculty and administrators still significantly outnumbered females (I served on several committees where I was the only woman).

Somewhere beyond all the academic jargon about male vs. female cognition, male vs. female communication strategies, that light lunch room banter about women who liked men who liked The Color Purple was comforting. What men say or think or feel, or what women say or think or feel, did not have to be so black and white, pink or blue; it could be a brilliant hue of purple.

Thank goodness, The Color Purple was released before the expression “chick flick” became popular. That would have stopped the conversation cold. I hate that label. Not a lot of women use the expression, but men I know who would never call a woman a chick seem to have no problem saying “Oh, that new Julia Roberts movie…isn’t that just a chick flick?”  My  husband?  He never says that.  After all, he married a woman who loves men who like The Color Purple.
 

Source: 

Maslin, Janet. “Film: the Color Purple from Steven Spielberg. New York Times. December 18, 1985.

Megan:

Say What You Mean

According to the Internet, and also a lot of books, men and women are genetically incapable of communicating with each other, which seems to bother women more than men. A quick search of this topic title led me to numerous articles like “What Men Say and What They Really Mean.” Some of them are written by men, some by women. Why don’t men just say what they mean? This is the sort of thing that frustrates me to no end.

I know women don’t always say what they mean, but I think that’s because we have been socialized that way. We have a history of not being heard, and we have been trained to be nice and quiet. Maybe that’s not the case anymore, but I remember when I was a kid, one of the ways we girls put each other down was by saying someone was “too opinionated.” I had (have) a strong, intelligent mother and a feminist father, so I wasn’t raised that way, but some of my friends were and that way of thinking is contagious when all you want to do is fit in.  The brainwashing was mostly beaten out of me (or replaced) when I went to a women’s college and learned to speak up, be heard and not only share my opinions but also defend them. Yet sometimes I still can’t say what I mean.

What excuse do men have for not saying what they mean?  Aside from the usual polite reasons, I honestly cannot think of why men would say one thing, but mean another, except to lie.  The men in my life – my family and friends all seem like straight talkers to me. The prison, of course, was different. The inmates were constantly speaking in code, or lying, or trying to manipulate and condition staff. I once had a radicalized terrorist try to get information on building homemade bombs but instead of saying “bombs,” he said a famous brand of running shoes. Of course, I didn’t pick up on it at the time because … well, how could I?

Anyway, aside from prisoners who undergo a different and terrible kind of socialization, which affects more than just what they say, I still haven’t figured out why men don’t (or can’t) say what they mean. Or maybe they do. Maybe the people who write these columns are just trying to sell stuff, so they target insecure women in lousy relationships. Or maybe because I’m not in a relationship, I really just don’t care whether men mean what they say.

Actually…
That IS what I mean.

Topic 59: The Valor of Ignorance

Carol:

Biting the Apple: It’s Not All About Eve

            The best way to determine whether an apple is sweet or sour
            is to eat it. Only thus can one decide what at sight is a doubtful condition of the
            apple. (Adna R. Chaffee, Lieutenant-General U.S.A. Retired)


I don’t know anything about the background of the Indian Wars, the Spanish-American War, or the Boxer Rebellion. Adna Chaffee not only fought in all of those wars, but he rose in rank to become the Chief of Staff of the United States Army from 1904-1906. I know this because out of a slight vexation with T#59 “The Valor of Ignorance,” I googled the topic. 

Lieutenant-General Adna Chaffee

Finding Homer Lea’s 1909 book The Valor of Ignorance online, I started reading it, which is how I came across Chaffee’s introduction to the book. His use of the apple gave me the hook I needed to think about Topic #59 in a different way, that is after spending two hours looking up Chaffee and Lea and pondering the significance of the book’s title.  Frankly, it scares me to think that a “bite the apple” strategy determines what wars we get into, or which side we choose to fight on.  So, I left my reading behind before I got to the actual text of the book.
I will have to return to Lea another day to find out how his book title relates to predicting the rising prominence of Japan’s military might in the early 20th century or why it became required reading in Japanese military schools (source:  Roger Yung).

 

Chaffee’s “bite the apple” quote did lead me into thinking about less world-shaking situations that might exemplify the notion of “valor of ignorance.”

Consider our cave-dwelling ancestors. Some Neanderthal took the first bite of an unknown animal, vegetable or mineral not knowing what it tasted like or whether it was safe. Well, maybe the first one to take the risk was just hungry, not a hero. It was the second one, maybe the Neanderthal’s now widowed mate who skinned it, roasted it or removed the seeds and tried again.  That showed “valor of ignorance.” How many early American oystermen got sick before they figured out that eating raw shellfish in months with an “R” was safe? 

Consider  too our ancestors who were explorers, pioneers, homesteaders. They migrated from the known to the unknown in search of something different— fewer wild beasts, better climate, greater tolerance of religion, more opportunity for work, or just plain curiosity.  In 1735, a group of about 250 “Switzers” (Dutch, German and Swiss) arrived in South Carolina to form a colony at Orangeburg near the banks of the North Edisto River.  Those on board the ship from Rotterdam included 5 brothers and sisters (Source: Geneology of the Rumph Family): David, Jacob, Abraham, Peter and Catherine Rumph. There was certainly some valor in the risk they took to leave behind everything to immigrate across the world, even given the promise of reimbursement for their expenses and free provisions for a year. What conversations took place at the dinner table with their parents, what stories did they hear about the New World that made them bite the apple and take the journey?

Consider, finally, another action that might require “valor of ignorance,” the leap of faith called marriage. The Rumph siblings who immigrated to South Carolina in 1735 married into local families over the next decade. In 1741, Catherine Rumph married James Pendarvis, who had inherited the vast landholdings and slaves of his father Joseph in 1735. In 1745, David Rumph married James’ sister Mary Ann Pendarvis. The Switzer Rumphs married the two wealthy but illegitimate mixed-race children of Joseph and his mistress of many years, a Black woman named Parthena (Source: Pendarvis). What conversations took place, what stories were ignored, prejudices set aside that made them bite that apple?

Ask Adam.

Sources: 

Adna Chaffee biography:
Genealogy of the Rumph Family of South Carolina.
Lea, Homer. The Valor of Ignorance. Harper & Brothers, 1909.

Pendarvis: The Blurred Lines Racial Lines of Famous Families. PBS: Frontline 

Yung, Roger. Who is Homer Lea?

Megan:

The Valor of Ignorance

 Today’s topic reminds me of the proverb What you don’t know can’t hurt you. On one hand

it suggests that one is brave if ignorant of danger, but it might also mean that being ignorant is an example of bravery.  I’m comfortable with neither of these analyses, yet Western culture is inundated with other proverbs extolling the virtues and benefits of ignorance – such as Ask no questions, hear no lies.  There is no need to bother with critical thinking or analysis when it is so much easier to bury one’s head in the sand.

The Valor of Ignorance is a little known book written by Homer Lea, published in 1909. Born in Colorado in 1876, Mr. Lea was a student of military history and politics.  He traveled to China during the Boxer Rebellion to offer his services and was made lieutenant general in Kang Youwei’s  army. After helping to liberate the Boxers, Lea traveled through Hong Kong and Japan and met Sun Yat-sen. He returned to the US for health reasons and published his book which predicted the Japanese Pacific invasion and the Pearl Harbor attack. He had hoped the book would become compulsory reading in the US’s military academies – a goal supported by Generals Chaffee and MacArthur-- but it was panned by critics and sold poorly in the US.  Meanwhile in Japan, it sold 84,000 copies in its first 3 months.  I’m not really suggesting that Lea gave the Japanese the idea (a little knowledge is a dangerous thing), but rather that America may have dismissed its warning because ignorance is bliss.

But Valor means courage. Courage is perseverance in the face of danger. If we accept that the title is ironic, then we can recognize the dangers of willful ignorance. Indeed, not all proverbs are pro-ignorance. Ben Franklin’s words are probably the most famous: The only thing more expensive than education is ignorance. Common sense tells us that It IS better to light a candle than curse the darkness which will help you to seek and ye shall find.   And Lea would probably admit that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. He would especially agree that a prophet is not recognized in his own land.

Sources:
http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/proverbs.html

Happy Thanksgiving!

Have a happy holiday. 

See you next Monday.

Topic 58: On Being Eye-Minded

Carol:

 The Eyes Have It

 What I remember from my high school science classes is not much, especially since back then I got my science mostly from fiction. Now I get it mostly from the “Science” Section of the New York Times, and it often sounds like fiction.  Let’s take genetics, for example, and eye color.

Here’s what I remember from high school without looking anything up after 44 years. Genetics has to do with genes, chromosomes and  DNA. A guy named Mendal (a monk or priest?) experimented with plants (or seeds, or both) and tracked traits from parent plant to child plant.  In Biology class, we had to fill in a chart showing eye color based on inheritance of dominant  Brown  or recessive   Blue traits. We get ½ our genetic material from Mom and ½ from Dad. I have blue eyes, so I am Blue/Blue. My husband has brown eyes, but our kids have blue eyes so Marc must be a Brown/Blue. What were the chances that Brown Bully Eyes hubby and Baby Blue Eyes wifey would have blue-eyed children? Fifty-fifty, toss of a coin.

Blue/Blue Kid #1

Now for the facts.The guy’s name was Mendel, he was a Moravian monk, and he experimented with pea plants.  According to a NY Times book review  it took the scientific community a while to catch up to the 19th century monk scientist: : “Mendel's findings were completely neglected for 35 years before being rediscovered in 1900. It took scientists another 50 years to deduce the structure of DNA. Since then genetic research has proceeded at breathtaking speed” (Magurran).

What  have scientists learned about eye color since I slept through my high school science classes?

•    Blue eyes are increasingly rare in America;  about ½  of Americans had blue eyes in 1910, today 1 in 6— nothing to do with genetics, only partly due to immigration patterns, mostly due to changing marriage patterns (in 1910, 80% of people married within their ethnic group); by 1960,  level of education became the more dominant factor(source: Belkin based on a 2002 study).

•    Blue-eyed people have a common ancestor;  scientists at the University of Copenhagen, after 10 years of genetic detective work, found a single ancestor six-ten thousand years ago whose genetic mutation was responsible for blue eye coloration (source: Science Daily 2008).
 

•    Genetic coding related to eye color is much more complex than originally thought. Scientists from the Netherlands  identified three new genes that, in combination with genes already identified, account for a a range in the color spectrum that can’t be described with the broad terms “brown,” “blue” and “green” (source: Science Daily 2010).

Blue/Blue Kid #2

Unfortunately for our 19th century monk, modern genetics has also  shown that everything we learned in school based Mendel’s notions of dominant and recessive genes is wrong. It has to do with irises, melanin and brown pigment,  Chromosome 15 and Chromosome 19, lipochrome and brown-yellow pigment,  etc. etc. etc. (Source:Bickford).

When it comes to predicting your next baby’s eye color, forget the coin toss and forget Mendel, and throw away the paternity tests.  Hug the kid and love those big blue/gray, hazel with yellow specks, amber with a touch of violet EYES.

 Sources:
 Bickford, Larry. “All About Eye Color.” The EyeCare Reports.
 Belkin,  Douglas.  “Blue eyes are increasingly rare in America.”NY Times Online
 Blue-Eyed Humans Have A Single, Common Ancestor
 Magurran, Anne. “Gives Peas a Chance.” Aug 12 2001 NY Times online
      

Megan:

Reflections on The Daily Theme Eye

The idea for this weblog project came from an essay in our book of topics called “The Daily Theme Eye.” The unknown author describes how an assignment from the Harvard English Department to write daily on a topic of his choosing required a natural acuity of both vision and composition.  He was delighted by the project and found that "[i]It became needful, then, to watch for and treasure incidents that were sharply dramatic or poignant, moods that were clear and definite, pictures that created a single clean impression" (23).

I have “The Daily Theme Eye”, but I am incapable of summoning or applying it at will. I have been keeping a journal for more than twenty years, and for the past ten years have directed myself to write daily even if I have nothing to say. I can look up what I was thinking about or doing on this day last year, five years, ten years ago. I have the idea that if I write everything down, I can eventually chip away the excess and find a book.  This, I based on the infinite monkey theorem  which supposes that given enough time, a monkey hitting keys randomly on a typewriter would eventually type the complete works of William Shakespeare. I was so enamored of this idea – which was first presented to me (incorrectly) as an explanation of the chaos theory – that one of the titles of my senior thesis was “The Chaos Monkey’s Shakespeare.”

I haven’t always kept up the daily journaling. Months passed between entries while I worked in the prison when I deliberately chose not to record what I’d seen or done so that I would not remember it. I am sorry for that now, but still, I have managed to fill 40+ sketch-books – tens of thousands of pages -- with the most useless and repetitive self-involved moaning, interrupted occasionally by clear and poignant observations.  Writing on a daily basis, without the benefit or direction of a theme, can be useful and therapeutic, as in the case of an exercise in stream-of-consciousness; but other times it feels more compulsive than creative.

Occasionally, I have manipulated myself or other people into awkward or dangerous situations so that I could write about them later. I have taken other people’s tragedies and spun them into stories. It was a great relief to realize I am not the only writer who has done so, in fact, our anonymous author commented that his daily theme assignment “ …has turned the panorama of existence into a play, or rather a thousand plays, and brought after sorrow or pain, the great comfort of composition” (22). I think of them as stories, rather than plays.  In college, one of my friends was robbed at gunpoint, and another almost died of a rare blood disorder. I used both of those events in my senior project. I justify it because that is what writers do. David Sedaris, who is one of my idols, remarked in one of his stories that his sister had told him a family anecdote and then forbid him to write about it. “But why?” He said, “You’re not going to use it.”

10 years worth of journals

Source:
Essays and Essay Writing: Based on Atlantic Monthly Models. 1927. Ed. William M. Tanner, M.A. Boston Little, Brown and Company. 

Sedaris, David. “Repeat after me.” Dress your family in Corduroy and Denim. Little, Brown and Company, 2004. (page unknown – audio book).

Topic 57: Etiquette for Ancestors

Carol:

We Gather Together

The feast of Thanksgiving fast approaches, which shall be commemorated as ordered by our President Lincoln in his proclamation of October 3 in this year of our Lord, 1863,

           I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States,
           and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign
           lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a
           day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in
           the Heavens. (Source: Proclamation of President Abraham Lincoln, October 3,
          1863)

Thanksgiving, Civil War Camp, 1861

 As much as we  sorrow at the continuing strife of this tragic War, we gather at table to praise the courage of our Pilgrim ancestors who arrived as weary strangers upon this great country’s eastern shores. We give Thanks as humble servants of our Lord by sharing our abundance with both kin and stranger, neighbor and wayfarer. In order to conduct ourselves in a manner worthy of our forefathers and our Faith, we must remember that, as we have been taught that “cleanliness is next to Godliness,” so we may say the same about comportment. We have only to follow the guidance of two books on our library shelf, the Holy Bible and George Winfred Hervey’s  The Principles of Courtesy: with Hints and Observations of Manners and Habits (1856).
 

First, let us put into mind that Honor takes precedence above other rules of comportment when we welcome others into our home. Mr. Hervey directs us to serve our guests as determined by their “title, birth, rank in profession, age, sex. marriage, and hospitality” (197).  
 

How, then, does Mr. Hervey guide us in honoring our Thanksgiving guests? The stranger takes precedence over all others. We follow Biblical teachings when we offer service to wayfarers:  first at table, first in respect. Hebrews 13:2   ”Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” As our own ancestors were “strangers in a strange land,”  immigrants filled with both trepidation and hope, we extend courtesy to those who may be far from home, praying in turn that our kin who are far from us receive the same hospitality.

We then look to age as the precedent. Mr. Hervey would remind us to be careful not to offend:  “None but the very aged ladies, however, are to be offered the precedence in virtue of their years” (197). Among our younger guests, the ladies take precedence, and the married over the single. In the case of the gentlemen, rank is afforded the man of letters over the man of industry according to “the laws of precedence” (198).

Once we are seated at table, we choose our words to  avoid gossip and controversy. Unpleasant, coarse or unduly intellectual topics are not only rude when both Ladies and Gentlemen are present, but they are harmful to the digestion. Silence shall be maintained both during and after the Blessing. After a respectful pause, humility and restraint in conversation shall prevail.

Should you wish further guidance on choosing polite conversation topics and maintaining rhetorical decorum, I recommend  another of George Winfred Hervey’s  popular books, Rhetoric of Conversation: or, Bridles & Spurs for the Management of the Tongue (1854).

As we gather together this Thursday, whether as a stranger at someone else’s table or as the host to friends and family, we should all be mindful that Pilgrim Brewster, President Lincoln, and Mr. Hervey would all concur that we can best be guided  in our comportment, indeed in all our affairs, by the simple words of the childhood hymn, “Be Ye Kind to One Another.”

Sources:
 
Hervey, George Winfred. The principles of courtesy: with hints and observations on manners and habits. Harper & Brothers:1856. Making of America Books.
  

Megan:

Etiquette for Ancestors: A Guide to (Polite) Haunting  

When haunting the home of your descendants, a ghost (or spirit, phantom, shade, soul or specter – however you like to think of yourself) should adhere to the same three rules you followed when alive and visiting relatives. Just because you are dead, there is no excuse to be rude.

1.    Stay clean
Poltergeists are the most destructive and least welcome spiritual guests. If you’re constantly breaking things and scaring the children, there’s a good chance that your beloved family will either move or get someone in to perform an exorcism. So, don’t break stuff, and put things back where you find them. When you’re a guest, living or dead, it’s best to be as unobtrusive as possible.

2.    Accept drinks/food
Yes, I know you’re dead and you can’t technically eat, but that hasn’t stopped people from leaving food and drink as offerings for the ancestors for thousands of years.  This tradition is common in cultures around the world. Mexicans have the Dia de los Muertos. Filipinos, Koreans, Japanese, Nepalese, Chinese and some African tribes all observe similar traditions and leave food as an offering for their dead ancestors. As with their living guests, this is a sign of hospitality, in addition to honoring you for the gift of life.

3.    Do not overstay your welcome.
The final rule is very important. There is no preset time limit to haunting the house of your descendent. Following the previous rules may enhance everyone’s experience and enable the visit to be extended. It depends on the goal of the visit. If you are there simply to observe and are undetected, then you can stay as long as you want. If it’s a more interactive visit, then it depends on how happy your descendents are to see (hear, smell, touch) you. Some living people are comfortable with the idea of an open border with the spirit world, but others are more conservative. They may appreciate you giving them a hand during the grieving process, helping them find the will or the money buried under the porch, but in the end, they may prefer to meet you on the other side. 

It goes without saying that once your descendents have vacated a property, it is not appropriate to continue to haunt it. It’s not your home; you have no legal claim to it. Again, such behavior may lead the occupants to move or call in the exorcist. No one this side really knows what that entails, but it’s an awkward and unpleasant experience for everyone involved. But if you follow those three simple rules, then you may met with welcome rather than annoyance, or fear.

Topic 56: On Boasting of Weakness

Carol:

The Chic of Weak

 I haven’t seen a comic book in a while, but the ones I read when I was a kid had advertisements in them. One famous ad showed a “ninety pound weakling” being humiliated in front of a girl by a bully kicking sand in his face. But, he could beat the bully and win the girl by following the Charles Atlas “dynamic exercise” program. What a perfect gimmick for an audience of ninety- pound boys who were already feeding on the nerd to superhero fantasies of Superman, Spiderman, and Batman.

 For a male, being viewed as weak was never an acceptable image of attractiveness, and the worst thing you could taunt a boy with was to tell him, “You fight (throw, walk, whine, etc.) like a girl."  Dating rituals reinforced the notion that girls were weak . A boy walked on the outside of the sidewalk  to protect his girlfriend from getting splashed with mud or, I supposed, being run over by a runaway vehicle.  He was supposed to open doors for her and carry her books.  The little lady needed taking care of... Such was the chivalric code of the 1950’s
 
For a woman, manners and fashion styles often accentuated the image of females as “the weaker sex,”  reflecting the class lines between women who labored and ladies  who leisured.   In  European cultures, 18th and 19th century middle and upper class women went to great lengths to appear fragile. They wore pale make-up often mixed with arsenic or used whiteners containing mercury, lead or zinc oxide and hid their complexions under hats, gloves and parasols to protect their delicate pallor.

Late 19th Century ball gowns

Women achieved the exaggerated hour-glass shape by cinching in the waist with unforgiving corsets and bulging out the hips with hooped crinolines. Breathing and movement were difficult, sometimes injuring internal organs. Although it would be unseemly for a woman to openly boast, she nevertheless would take great pride in achieving a waist circumference of 15 inches.   Fainting, or swooning, was fairly commonplace: “…when a woman of the higher social classes encountered something offensive to her elevated moral sensitivities, she responded with a simple faint” (Colagrande). It was fashionable for ladies to carry a vial of smelling salts as intricately designed as a piece of expensive jewelry. So widespread was the belief in women’s weakness that doctors considered corsets and stays a “medical necessity” to keep them upright.

Late 19th Century bound feet

While American and British women were shrinking their waists, Chinese women were shrinking their feet. The practice of foot-binding in China had been practiced for over a thousand years. A dutiful daughter of the upper class who wanted to marry well was expected to accept the torture of binding her feet from a young age, and a young woman with a   “golden lotus” of 3 inches in length was something a family could boast about. So weak were her stunted feet that she could barely walk, producing the tiny steps and mincing walk that were considered elegant and erotic although a man who made a good match with a small-footed woman often never actually saw her feet bare.  Foot binding was outlawed in the early 20th century, but it took another forty years or more before the practice was completely eradicated (source: “Bound Feet—a History”).
 

The  torture tools of 21st century fashion have gotten more sophisticated. American women have exchanged their corsets for Botox, 5- inch heels, tanning salons, tummy tucks and breast implants. In 2008,in the United States more than 10 million cosmetic procedures were performed, both surgical and nonsurgical (source: American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery).  And the numbers have risen dramatically for men who are foregoing Charles Atlas for ab, pec and butt augmentation.

All this emphasis on physical perfection, artifice over nature in a Barbie and Ken world, is enough to give me the vapors. Where are my smelling salts?


Sources:
A Brief History of Fainting
Bound Feet-- Origins
Cosmetic Surgery Statistics—Articles Base.com
The Way We Look

 

Megan:

Harry Potter and the Weakness of Twilight

I’m not one of those people who dress up or go to the midnight book releases or premieres. I’m not into costumes. Or standing in line.  But I do have a deep and abiding love for Harry Potter. I’m not sure that it is a weakness, but it did interfere with my responsibilities last Friday. I didn’t write this essay on time because I was too excited about seeing The Deathly Hallows, Part 1. That’s one of the signs you have a problem, isn’t it? Another sign is hiding your habit, or feeling shame about it. I’m sort of embarrassed to say that I saw the movie again yesterday. In fact, I manipulated the situation so that I saw it with my mother at a time when my dad wasn’t available, so I would get to see it again with him.

I came to the Harry Potter series relatively late.  The first four books had already been published when the first movie came out, and I hadn’t read them on principle (the principle being I was a rebel. Pop culture had NO effect on me!). My best friends in college were obsessed though, and dragged me to see the movie in a fancy San Francisco theater. All the children running around in capes and waving wands with lightning bolts drawn on their foreheads amused me. I liked the movie, (my friends did not) and decided to read the books.

Where JK Rowling wrote The Sorceror's Stone.  Edinburgh, Scotland.

By the time the fifth book, The Order of the Phoenix, was published, I was living in England.  That was when I discovered that the English and American versions were different. The American versions have been dumbed down. The title of the first book had been changed because the publishers decided that the more “accessible” Sorcerer’s Stone should replace the original Philosopher’s Stone. 

Otherwise, the Americans might not realize the books were about magic. (I have to admit that as much as I loved living there, I never met a British person who wasn’t a bit condescending towards Americans. They seemed to think of us as the dumb jocks of the world – big and strong and good in a fight, but not on their level intellectually.)

The writing is not particularly impressive. I could say the same about the Twilight Saga (which I also love, and that is a weakness), but they are not meant to be literary masterpieces. They are fairy tales: stories that spark the imagination with themes of loss, love, redemption – and magic! Rowling may not be Tolkien, but she has a similar and clever grasp of fantastical phrases. Those crazy-fun words! Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin – the names of the school houses are practically onomatopoeic: Gryffindors are proud, brave. Ravenclaws are sharp, intelligent. Hufflepuffs are a bit dopey … and Slytherins are suspicious and serpentine. Most importantly, these books get children (and adults) reading in an age of video games and the Internet and 1000+ channels on TV.

When the final book was published, I was up early waiting outside the only bookshop in my little English town. I was determined to read only the first 5 chapters because I had stuff to do, and I wanted to draw out the pleasure of reading it. After 5 chapters, I kept reading straight through to the end, stopping only to use the toilet and to turn on the light when it got dark. The next day, I read it again.

I was a little depressed that the series was over, but also relieved. I thought, maybe now I could get on with my life… and then I remembered there were still three films to be released. Now there is only one left. I do not rue the end of an era; I look forward to a new beginning. And, there are still two Twilight movies left… 

This could be the view from Hogwarts. Scotland, 2010.

Service Delay...

Today's essay will be posted later than usual, because someone insisted that we go see the earliest showing of Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows. That same someone was too excited to write her essay. Instead, she drew a cartoon trying to deflect the blame. Enjoy...

 

EDITED TO ADD: The movie was great. But there will be no essay posted here today. Check back on Monday for "On Boasting of Weakness."

Topic 55: Perfume and the Lady

Carol:

 What the Lady Wants: A Common Scents Approach

        

As often happens when I get stuck, the conversation at  breakfast  centered on today’s daily theme.  I had always bought my mother scented soaps or cologne for Christmas because that was the aisle my Dad pointed me to when we went shopping at the drugstore on Christmas Eve. So, I asked my husband, who buys perfume and why?

The Elegant French Actress

The allure of French sophistication:  Marc’s gift of choice is Chanel  #5, a sophisticated  blend of scents first sold in the 1920’s. Marc prefers cologne over perfume because it’s cheaper. He may not know  that Chanel’s “Eau de Cologne” was discontinued in the 1990’s, but he can buy “Eau de Toilette” which is cheaper than the “Eau de Parfum.” Besides price, what’s the difference? One is concentration, that is the strength of the essences which go into the blend. Another is what I call the “snob factor.” The distinctive perfume bottle is filled by hand and includes pure rose oil and jasmine from the provencal region of Grasse, the center of France’s perfume industry. The scent is described by its maker as “Grasse jasmine and neroli, May rose, sandalwood, Comoro Islands ylang-ylang and vanilla interface with strong, smooth sensuality.” The cost of a bottle of Chanel #5 Eau de Parfum? It currently sells for around $260 an ounce, the Eau de Toilette” around $50 for a 1.2 ounce spray bottle (source: Macy’s.com)  Why is Chanel #5  Marc’s gift of choice? Well, you know, it was that beautiful woman in all the ads, the French actress who is such an elegant lady, Catherine Deneuve.

The Romantic Spanish Dancer

The mystique of Spanish romanticism: Carol’s gift of choice is Maja by Myrugia, a company founded around 1916 by a well-known Catalan family.  The Maja line of fragrances and soaps was introduced in 1918.  Carol prefers the soaps and bath gel because they are cheaper although the Maja “Eau de Cologne” costs about half the price of Chanel #5.  The fragrance itself is described as “a refined, subtle, oriental scent that beautifully blends citrus, lavender, spice, and woods” (source: Perfume.com). The soaps come in gift boxes with the distinct red and black package evocative of Spanish flamenco, and the box itself can be tucked inside a drawer to scent lingerie. Why is Maja Carol’s gift of choice? Well, it was that beautiful woman on the box, the Spanish dancer who is such a romantic lady. The scent? That too.

In the real world, no amount of perfume will make me as elegant as Catherine Deneuve or as romantic as a Spanish dancer. And, you won’t find a single bottle of perfume or scented soap in our house, not because we are too cheap to buy them.  I have become one of an increasing number of people who have developed allergies or  a sensitivity to various odors. Perfume and this lady?  Nonsense.


 Sources:
Chanel #5: Macy’s.com 
History of Myrugia
Myrugia Maja

Megan:

The Scent of Fear

When I was in high school I had a friend who, when he laid his clothes out at night, sprayed his shirt with 3 squirts of cologne. He told me this gave the scent a chance to be absorbed into the fabric without being overpowering. I observed this ritual many times, and although we were not dating and I was never close enough to actually detect the cologne on him, I grew familiar with the scent.

There are scientific reasons why smell is the sense most likely to trigger strong memories, and it has to do with limbic systems and maybe how close the nose is to the brain. If you punch someone in the nose hard enough, you can kill him. I know I didn’t go to medical school, but it seems to me that unwanted smell memories are like the non-lethal version of having your nose shoved into your brain.

Cologne and perfume companies count on this connection to sell their product and you can see it in their advertisements. You almost never see the actual bottle until the end (if at all). Instead beautiful people, with serious, tormented and anguished expressions interact briefly, are separated, and then a single word flashes on the screen like: “Longing”, “Echo” and “Eternity” or, for men, “Brut”, “Vaquero” and “Ultimo.”

 The best advertisements (and by best, I mean most honest in terms of what they are trying to sell) are for the Axe products, where a geeky looking guy sprays himself and hot women come running from every direction. These ads play with the idea that humans can sense pheromones, which according to my research is still unproven.  The ironic thing is that pheromones are generated by the natural scent of an animal, which is exactly what perfume and colognes are designed to mask. Instead of attracting a person based on your own unique smell, you buy it in the store. Which means that you take a risk that the people you are trying to attract hold some prior association…

I’m not the only person upon whom this friend left his mark. I was not his girlfriend, but for almost a year we spent nearly every waking moment together.  At the time I considered him my best friend.  When I crashed my car at 16, it was because I was yelling at him in the passenger seat. And even after our friendship ended, I continued to glance in a rearview mirror he’d shattered with his face.  But cars are sold, and people move away and it’s been more than a decade since I’ve laid eyes on him. Our friendship ended badly, and to this day if I detect the smell of Aspen cologne, my heart races, and I am afraid. 

Topic 54: Helpful Enemies

Carol:

The Beat of the Historical Conun-Drum

Most of my American history  textbooks seemed dull and lifeless. I guess I wanted someone to make it fun and to make it about me. I needed something more than dry facts to capture my attention. In 1956, that “something more” came directly to my house via the mailman. The Grosset and Dunlap We Were There series narrated  historical events through the eyes of fictional girls and boys. Twenty-five books arrived at my door between 1956 and 1959 when we moved to Canada, and they turned me into a historical time-traveler. 

Colonial America became my favorite destination. We Were There At the Boston Tea Party (1956) gave me the time frame, the 1770’s. Johnny Tremain (1957) supplied the characters, and a family trip to Williamsburg provided the locale. In my story, I  walked the length of the Duke of Gloucester Street after school, and we worshipped at the Bruton Parish Church, where I might catch a glimpse Thomas Jefferson or Patrick Henry.

When we moved to Calgary, the books stopped coming and I got too old for Johnny Tremain. In Canada, I experienced history from a different slant, which forced me to re-examine my notions of friends and enemies, victory and defeat. We were learning  about New France, not New England, the Seven Years War, not The French and Indian War, and the hero was Montcalm not Wolfe.  At the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, 2000 French soldiers and Indians (mostly Algonquins) were defeated by 17,000 British and American troops. The Treaty of Paris (1763) gave possession of New France to Great Britain. (source: The Canadian Encyclopedia).

Trying to sort out the facts of history creates a conundrum, Who were the friends, who the foes? Some historians say General Montcalm was a “helpful enemy” to the British because he made strategic military blunders   Montcalm might be called a “helpful enemy” to the colonists because the huge debt incurred by the British during the “French and Indian Wars” compounded with the cost of governing the new territory and its mostly French inhabitants, led to tax levies that led to colonial unrest that led to the fall of the British and the rise of the United States.
 
A key military hero began to emerge in the early skirmishes of 1775, first at Fort Ticonderoga and then into Quebec. At the age of 15, he had enlisted in the Connecticut army and fought for a short time during the early French invasions that would lead to the Seven Years War. He became a patriot hero. But, in 1780 when he conspired to turn over the fort at West Point to the British,  Benedict  Arnold became the most  famous “helpful enemy” in American history.


Sources:
Benedict Arnold
General Montcalm
We Were There


Megan:

When I looked up "Helpful Enemies" all I could find were bible quotes and video game tips. And then I got distracted by a mention of Super Mario Brothers and wondered if I could find a way to play the original game online, and I could and so I did for a while and it turns out I’m not very good. Not that I ever was; I never beat the game. I’d make it all the way to the monster on the 12th level and then hand my Gameboy to my brother so he could finish it for me, even though at that age, my brother was sort of my enemy. 

We didn't start on good terms

I don’t remember what it was like before he was born, but according to my mom I did not take his admission into the family very well. So, I guess that resentment carried into our childhood. For a long time he was nothing more than a living toy for me to play with and cast aside at my whim, and his lack of cooperation frustrated me. Looking back, I think I was the main instigator for our fights. And when he had enough and locked himself in his room, I would shove notes of apology  under his door until he came out and I could torture him some more.

 

About 1986

I started to tone it back once he grew taller and stronger than me. I think the last time I
instigated a physical fight, he sat on my chest and pinned my arms under his knees and slapped me repeatedly across the face. After that, the attacks were purely psychological. I used to be able to goad him into a rage, but at some point the roles switched and I was the one screaming and slamming doors, while he just stared at me calmly with no reaction. So he won the psychological wars too, but again, only after I started them.
 
We got along better after I learned to drive and had my own car, by which I mean, he grew more tolerant of me once I had something he needed.  But it wasn't until I left for college that I think we became friends. Before then, we really only managed to set aside our differences when we had a common enemy like a parent, a bully or a Panamanian drug lord.

Panama, 1995

 

When necessary, we banded together to fight crime.

Topic 53: On Going to Sleep

Carol:

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

Sleep disorders are on the rise; over 69% of the population have experienced insomnia.  Studies are showing that sleep apnea—which causes people to start and stop breathing repeatedly during the night—can be a symptom of more serious medical conditions and leave people in a chronic state of “sleep debt.” (source: Floyd Memorial Hospital website). Even our local newspaper The Prescott Daily Courier now includes a regular column by a local physician called “Ask the Sleep Doctor.” 

After lunch ZZZZ

The sleep-related idiosyncrasies in my immediate family could probably keep the Sleep Doctor’s column filled for weeks.  We are sort of a Goldlilocks and the Three Bears bedtime story: one  goes to bed too early, one  goes to bed too late, one moans and chases rabbits in his sleep (no, it’s not Marc), and one never quite makes it to bed at all. That would be me.

It isn’t that I actually have ever had trouble sleeping.  Ask Clarice and Mike, my friends from college days, whom I pressured  into driving all the way to beautiful downtown San Bernardino in 1971 to see my favorite French actor Jean Paul-Belmondo in Borsalino. Five minutes into the movie I fell asleep and woke up for the closing credits. They were not pleased. Or ask Marc about the time I dozed off during an afternoon performance  at the Old Town Theater in San Diego,  known for its theater-in-the-round intimacy. I was sleeping within arm’s length of the actors. Marc was not pleased.  Ever heard of the 1949 Kirk Douglas movie A Letter to Three Wives? I have seen it four times on Turner Classic Movies, and I have slept through the ending all four times—so which husband did Addie Rose run away with?

I also don’t have a problem sleeping on trips. As a seasoned traveler on a tight budget, I rarely get a room to myself. So, whether attending a professional conference with a colleague or vacationing with friends, I have my bag of sleep aids: ear plugs, trashy paperback, miniature reading light, and Lone Ranger-style eye mask.  I get my seven hours’ sleep, wake up alert and don’t need a nap.

The problem seems to be my own bedroom in my own home. There, I turn into the Princess and the Pea.  Too hot or too cold, can’t sleep. Marc snores, can’t sleep. Trashy novel, can’t put it down.. Mostly, I end up falling asleep on a couch in front of the TV, a bad habit  that started when I had my first apartment in college. My roommate had the big bedroom, and I had a little one that was really a doorless alcove that I could only get to by going through her bedroom where she studied late at night.  Maybe in a year, I only slept in my bed  four times. Aside to Readers—our apartment also had a bathroom that could only be reached by going through the front hall closet, and the bathtub itself was in another doorless alcove off the kitchen. I loved that place.

Okay, so I do compensate for my weird sleep patterns with naps.  I love taking little afternoon naps. The new term for adults is “Power Nap.”  Not for me. I prefer the old term “Cat Nap” because I like to find a spot in the  sun, curl up with a book, and just give in to drowsiness. Luckily, those sleep studies also show that as little as a half-hour afternoon nap lowers blood pressure, decreases stress, and raises productivity.

Hasta la siesta, Baby!

Dog and Catnap

A note about the images:

1. Carol's son, Marshall. 1984

2. Carol's father, Ed Scott. 1987

Sources:  

Sleep Statistics—Floyd Memorial Hospital and Health Services.
On taking naps—Happy Living homepage.
             

Megan:

Nightmares

If you google this topic, you’ll find site after site on sleep disorders, and ways to relax and fall asleep.  The level of stress in our lives is definitely affecting our ability to sleep well. Counting sheep is a traditional method of falling asleep, but have you ever actually tried it? My mind used to get so caught up in what the fence looked like, how high it was, what the other sheep were doing before they jumped, where they went after etc, it just didn’t work. Then I took a trip to Ireland with my friend and we saw an actual sheep jump a fence. And get tangled in it. So that ruined jumping sheep for me.

After that, I tried counting backwards from 100. It seems to work for people undergoing anesthesia on TV. Usually I lose my place around the 70’s or get distracted and start counting up instead. Mind wandering is okay, because sometimes it turns into a dream and that means you’re asleep.

When I was little, I would use the time before I fell asleep to pray sort of desperately to not have bad dreams. I used to have recurring nightmares about wolves. In one, I would let the dog out before bed, but when I let her back in she would be a wolf. Another I would dream my father could turn into a wolf.  But I wouldn’t believe it was him, so I wouldn’t let him in the house and then he would ride away on his bicycle (no longer in wolf form, obviously). Eventually I outgrew my fear of wolves, but not the nightmares.

The two recurring nightmares I have now are that I accidentally injure someone’s child, or that my teeth fall out. In the case of the children, I am usually babysitting and turn my back for a second and the kid drowns or falls or just disappears. Dreams about my teeth involve grinding them so hard they start to splinter and crack. I put my fingers in my mouth to try to stop grinding, but wind up biting off my fingers. When I have one of those nightmares, and snap awake in the middle of the night, I usually don’t bother going back to sleep.

After I started working in the prison, I used to dream that I was at work. Nothing exciting would happen, I’d just be doing my usual job of ordering books or answering questions. This lasted for months and I felt like I was at work 24 hours a day. Eventually, as the prison grew more violent and depressing, I started having nightmares about it too. I would have a hard time falling asleep before 2 or 3 and find it impossible to get up in the morning. But all that went away when I moved back home. I fall asleep easily and wake up alert and refreshed. Now that I’m not working, I sleep better than I have in years.

Topic 52: The Character of Horses

Carol:

Galahad and the General

 We live in a “planned community” grandly named “Equestrian Estates.” I suppose we originally thought of someday owning a horse, “for the kids.” But, for about 15 years we watched our neighbor laboring in his stall, pitching hay, raking up the muck and grooming his two horses.  He never rode them, and they never left their stall. It didn’t take long to realize we weren’t really horse people, whatever that means. Not that I don’t like the idea of horses. They touch some romantic spot inside me that evokes images of Black Beauty, full of graceful speed and freedom.

Crawley countryside, 2002.

The autumn of 2002 we flew into Gatwick Airport to visit Megan, who was studying  at the University of Sussex. We spent our first night at the Little Foxes Bed and Breakfast in Crawley, a short ride from the airport. Marc and I woke up very early and headed out to explore the quiet roads behind the hotel, enjoying the crisp, cool air and solitude. Suddenly, through a break in the hedgerows, we saw an open field with a large, stone house in the distance, and grazing nearby a…. unicorn? That’s what it looked like as its hot breath hit the cold air and turned to mist swirling up around its head. The horse began to slowly move in our direction. Five, ten minutes, and there he was, leaning over the fence. Marc stepped up for one quick velvet touch of the magical creature before we meandered on. I like to think its name was Galahad.

"Galahad" and Marc, 2002.

Sonoita countryside, 2010

Yesterday morning I woke up at the Walker Guest Ranch in southern Arizona  outside the little town of Sonoita. My friends Anne, Glady and I had found our way here the night before to the home of Glady’s niece Jody in total darkness  along a dirt road edged by trees. Much to my surprise, when I stepped outside on another clear, crisp autumn morning, I saw not  trees but an unobstructed vista of far-off mountains to the west and east.  A short walk from the main house stood a large barn with stalls, sheep and… horses. I grabbed my camera and headed for the stall where a large, gray horse stood quietly against the fence. As I got closer, I saw the beads braided into his mane. And, suddenly, there he was leaning over the fence, another magical creature. I was too timid to reach for his muzzle.

 I somewhat impolitely pumped the family over breakfast about the horse. He is owned by the Walkers’ daughter’s mother-in-law. He is actually called a  “blue,” (google “blue roan”). He is a stud horse, but he was imprinted right after birth (google “horses and imprinting”), so he is very gentle and friendly to people.  I could have touched that velvet coat. Oh, and his name is General. 

General, 2010

I don’t really know anything about topic #52 (google “horses AND character” if you’re curious). I do know this. Horses are kind of like boats. They stir up images of speed, grace and freedom. But, they require money and hard labor for their upkeep. I like the idea of horses.  I love the idea of horses, so long as they belong to somebody else.
 

Megan:

I can always tell which is the front end of a horse, but beyond that, my art is not above the ordinary.  ~Mark Twain

Some people are horse people, like some people are dog or cat people. I once spent 4 days riding through the hills in central Arizona, and it was pretty much the most fun I’ve ever had, but I wouldn’t say I’m particularly fond of horses. I think horses look melancholy (why the long face? Heh heh). I don’t know much about them except that they were indigenous to the Americas, died out and were reintroduced by the Spanish. The reason I know that is because two prisoners once asked me to settle a bet they had on the evolution and origin of horses. I told them “they were sort of both right“ but I’m not sure what came of the bet.

My early experiences with horses were negative. When I was in Girl Scouts, we travelled down near Bisbee to stay on a ranch and ride some horses. At some point during the trip I was accused of lying to the leader about something and was not allowed to ride after that. I had not lied, but it turned into such a production that by the end I was starting to think maybe I had done something wrong. For a long time after that whenever something bad would happen I would think  I had done it, and just couldn’t remember.

Another time, a neighbor had seen me talking to his horse (I was telling it my joke) and asked me to feed it while he was on vacation. He told me to break off a sheet of hay about thickness of the width of a hand. It occurred to neither of us that I was 10 and he was old and our hands were different sizes. So the horse lost 100 pounds while he was gone and he called to yell at me about it when he got back, and a couple weeks later the horse died. There was probably something else wrong with it, but I blamed myself. 

When I was 17, I had a friend who had two horses that she wanted to sell, Sassy and Cletus. I rode Sassy, who was actually my friend's horse, but it was nicer than Cletus, who belonged to her mother. Sassy was a wild mustang, which I thought was totally awesome (mostly because the cars were really cool). But then my friend said that it was not exactly a selling point, and asked me to stop telling people that the horse used to be wild. Anyway, they needed to be exercised into shape before being sold, so we spent Spring Break wandering through the back of Yarnell Hill exploring the abandoned mines and I learned some valuable lessons.  The first is, if you are female, you should definitely wear a bra while riding a horse. And the second: if the horse gets spooked and takes off at a dead run, you should NOT scream and let go of the reins. That encourages the horse to keep going. 

Me and Sassy, 1999.