“Intriguing, humorous, inspiring, delightful.” These are my comments about this 2001 German film (with English subtitles) by Doris Dörrie that we watched several nights ago. Of course we checked it out from our favorite video/DVD store … the Bayfield Library.
Though billed as a comedy the film reveals the value of meditation as well as the benefits of self-discovery. At the same time, the film portrays our all-too-human failings and self-doubts with humor and compassion.
Plot: Brothers Uwe and Gustav are adrift in mid-life crisis. Uwe’s wife leaves, taking their three sons and infant daughter with her. Gustav, a Feng Shui consultant, longs for greater fulfillment in his life. He plans a trip to Japan to deepen his meditation practice. Uwe, lost and alone after his family’s departure, insists on accompanying him.
What results is a tumultuous journey for them both. After checking into their Tokyo hotel Uwe and Gustav accidentally exit out a different restaurant door than the one they entered. Suddenly they’re homeless. Without passports, directions, money, or Japanese language skills they’re forced to rapidly confront their fears and anxieties.
A scene at an ATM machine in Tokyo was priceless (and extremely reminiscent of Frances’ and my early travel experiences in Central America). Uwe inserts his credit card in the ATM to withdraw money, then Gustav follows suit when no money or card is forthcoming. They both lose their cards, of course, and then they’re truly on their own. The first night the brothers sleep in cardboard boxes, side by the side. The next day they visit a department store where they steal a tent to ensure that future nights will be spent in greater comfort.
Ultimately, these men realize that there is a freedom in not understanding what’s happening around them and in not living by the rules. It’s certainly not easy for them to come to this conclusion but it seems to be a necessary step in order to shed their fears of the unknown before they submerge themselves in the daily rituals of Buddhist life.
Much of the first section of this movie was intimately familiar. When Frances and I traveled in Central America last winter, we didn’t speak the language well and we soon recognized our vulnerability. It was also true that as outsiders we weren’t expected to know or follow all the cultural rules or mores. What freedom!
Eventually Gustav and Uwe find their way to Sojiji Monastery where they confront a new set of challenges. Each morning they rise at 4:30, bathe in cold water, join the monks in early morning meditation, eat breakfast, and devote themselves to hours of cleaning, scrubbing, washing, sweeping. They—and the viewers—quickly discover that their perseverance is exhausting. Cleaning floors and toilets is difficult and physically challenging. Sitting in meditation is painful. Sweeping leaves from one spot to another in the outdoor garden is mindless…. Or is it?
“Buddhism requires us to be truly present, to live in the moment,” said director Doris Dörrie about her intentions in making this movie, “It’s very difficult, but that’s part of the attraction.”
And, soon enough, the brothers reap the benefits of their seated meditation practice. They become witnesses to the thoughts that stream through their minds, they allow emotions to surface, and, eventually, they reach a place of greater serenity.
By movie’s end, Gustav and Uwe leave their monastery retreat and return to Tokyo, slipping easily and comfortably back into their tent that is set up at the edge of a tennis court and next to a train track. The first night back one of them suggests that they chant the heart sutra they learned at the monastery. The other agrees, and you then hear their chant emanating from the tent walls.
Somehow through days and hours of seated meditation and repetitive chores these brothers have allowed themselves—as director Dörrie explains—to give up hate and envy and the aggression that results from these disquieting states and to achieve a much-needed state of serenity. They’ve learned nothing and everything in a few short weeks.
Gustav and Uwe’s meditation practice reminded me of what I’ve often experienced during years of teaching t’ai chi chih moving meditation. Over and over, I witness students arriving at class rushed, hurried, uncentered, out of sorts. Soon after we begin to move, though, a hush settles over the room. And, after a 40-minute group practice, I look around the room and feel the incredible change in energy that’s occurred. Our group practice has welcomed each of us into this moment—now—where we stand quietly, relishing the peace and serenity. Often these moments of peace can be fleeting. But the more regularly we practice, the more quickly and easily we can get to that elusive state of tranquility.
In “Enlightenment Guaranteed” both Gustav and Uwe experience positive change. It takes the extreme situation of foreign travel to begin that change. But, by the end, you’re convinced that they’ve changed forever.
Some people believe that lasting change is impossible to achieve. But, instead of viewing change as a simple route from one way of being to another, it’s helpful for us to view our path toward peace and enlightenment as a spiral rather than a straight line.
We’re always circling back toward where we began but, with each cycle, each circle, we move forward. Now, in this moment, we have more information and more experience to inform us than we had in the past. We need to trust in ourselves enough to believe that with each day and with each experience, we gain greater wisdom and expand our ability to love and accept ourselves and others.
That’s why we call meditation a practice. It’s never perfect. The best we can do is devote ourselves to it. That, believe it or not, is enough.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Just Another Rock in the Road or ... ?
A rock protrudes from our dirt driveway. We’ve driven around it—avoiding it—for many months. It threatens our tires and the undercarriage of our vehicles. It reminds us of an exceedingly large nose. And, as I discovered over Memorial Day weekend, it’s large, very large. It’s also hard … very, very hard.
Last weekend I confronted the large proboscis. First, I dug and I dug and I dug. Then I hammered, and hammered, and hammered. Yesterday Frances bought a new blacksmith hammer and a mason chisel at the local Ace Hardware. After the first 15 to 20 smacks, she broke the handle off the hammer. Next she tried hammering with the back end of the ax, with some success. Let’s just say the rock doesn’t look much like a nose anymore.
Still, we’re debating a further course of action. Should we continue to chip-chip-chip away at the point of the “nose” until it becomes rounder, less invasive? Should we dig deeper and wider, reach to the rock’s base, upend it, and roll it out of the sand and clay and down the driveway into the ditch? Could we handle such tremendous weight?
Should we use a hose or power washer to flood the surrounding hole with water in hopes that sand will be displaced and the rock will sink deeper into the earth … deep enough to re-cover and forget about? Or should we construct a homemade bomb, position it beneath the stone, and blow it out of its resting place?
Perhaps we could reroute the driveway—build up the ditch—so that the nose can remain, a well-anchored monument to stability. Or maybe we could refill the hole and order truckloads of additional dirt and gravel to ensure its proper burial.
I’ve realized—thanks to a friend—that this rock is an apt metaphor for our struggles with the bar across the road. Earlier this month Frances and I tried to halt exotic dancing performances at the bar. We quickly discovered that we have a very large, very heavy, very immoveable obstacle in our path. It seems intractable because it is rooted in the culture, in the local politics, and in the relative disinterest of a community struggling to survive by whatever means possible.
I’m dumbfounded. My research on exotic dancing exposed a tremendous lack of information, misinformation, and widespread misconceptions about the adult entertainment industry. Several weeks ago (see May 18th blog, “Springing into Dangerous Territory”) I wrote on the topic expressing my anger and dismay.
We live in a world where woman-hating is buried so completely that we ourselves don’t recognize it when it surfaces. Though people laugh and joke about exotic dancing, it is not humorous. It’s a seriously offensive and extremely destructive influence on the lives of the women who work in this business and, quite likely, the women who live with men who frequent such a place.
Since writing that blog I’ve read testimony by a 14-year veteran manager of strip clubs who testified before the Michigan House Committee on Ethics and Constitutional Law in 2000. He described the strategies used by managers to convince young women to strip relying on peer pressure, “programming,” and praise to build self image. Later, he acknowledged, self esteem is gradually destroyed and these same women often realize that the only way they can stand to perform is if they are drunk, drugged, or often, both.
Kelly Holsopple, co-founder of the Metropolitan Coalition Against Prostitution in Minneapolis, Minn. conducted research on women’s experiences in strip clubs in 1998. Having worked as a stripper for 13 years, she was uniquely qualified to examine stripper-customer interactions, to explore women’s thoughts on stripping, and to survey the extent of sexual violence that occurs in strip clubs. Reading her research and her detailed descriptions of private “dances” that strippers are expected to perform was—for me as a woman—physically, psychically, and spiritually offensive.
I admit, the more information I uncover—no pun intended—the angrier I become. But I also know that my body cannot tolerate extreme anger over an extended period. I do NOT want a bar that offers exotic dancing directly across the road from me. Nor do I want to move. But if the local community does not object to this business, how likely is it that Frances and I can succeed in banishing it ourselves?
It seems that we’re back to the same questions that Frances and I confront with our rock in the driveway: Dig it out? Cover it over? Drive around it? Blow it up? Reroute the road?
When Frances hammered on the rock several days ago, she realized that the small chips she broke off looked like black granite. Then she came up with a new solution for the rock in our driveway: make it into floor tiles for our living room floor. Now if we could only come up with a unique solution for the bar across the road …
Creative options anyone?
Last weekend I confronted the large proboscis. First, I dug and I dug and I dug. Then I hammered, and hammered, and hammered. Yesterday Frances bought a new blacksmith hammer and a mason chisel at the local Ace Hardware. After the first 15 to 20 smacks, she broke the handle off the hammer. Next she tried hammering with the back end of the ax, with some success. Let’s just say the rock doesn’t look much like a nose anymore.
Still, we’re debating a further course of action. Should we continue to chip-chip-chip away at the point of the “nose” until it becomes rounder, less invasive? Should we dig deeper and wider, reach to the rock’s base, upend it, and roll it out of the sand and clay and down the driveway into the ditch? Could we handle such tremendous weight?
Should we use a hose or power washer to flood the surrounding hole with water in hopes that sand will be displaced and the rock will sink deeper into the earth … deep enough to re-cover and forget about? Or should we construct a homemade bomb, position it beneath the stone, and blow it out of its resting place?
Perhaps we could reroute the driveway—build up the ditch—so that the nose can remain, a well-anchored monument to stability. Or maybe we could refill the hole and order truckloads of additional dirt and gravel to ensure its proper burial.
I’ve realized—thanks to a friend—that this rock is an apt metaphor for our struggles with the bar across the road. Earlier this month Frances and I tried to halt exotic dancing performances at the bar. We quickly discovered that we have a very large, very heavy, very immoveable obstacle in our path. It seems intractable because it is rooted in the culture, in the local politics, and in the relative disinterest of a community struggling to survive by whatever means possible.
I’m dumbfounded. My research on exotic dancing exposed a tremendous lack of information, misinformation, and widespread misconceptions about the adult entertainment industry. Several weeks ago (see May 18th blog, “Springing into Dangerous Territory”) I wrote on the topic expressing my anger and dismay.
We live in a world where woman-hating is buried so completely that we ourselves don’t recognize it when it surfaces. Though people laugh and joke about exotic dancing, it is not humorous. It’s a seriously offensive and extremely destructive influence on the lives of the women who work in this business and, quite likely, the women who live with men who frequent such a place.
Since writing that blog I’ve read testimony by a 14-year veteran manager of strip clubs who testified before the Michigan House Committee on Ethics and Constitutional Law in 2000. He described the strategies used by managers to convince young women to strip relying on peer pressure, “programming,” and praise to build self image. Later, he acknowledged, self esteem is gradually destroyed and these same women often realize that the only way they can stand to perform is if they are drunk, drugged, or often, both.
Kelly Holsopple, co-founder of the Metropolitan Coalition Against Prostitution in Minneapolis, Minn. conducted research on women’s experiences in strip clubs in 1998. Having worked as a stripper for 13 years, she was uniquely qualified to examine stripper-customer interactions, to explore women’s thoughts on stripping, and to survey the extent of sexual violence that occurs in strip clubs. Reading her research and her detailed descriptions of private “dances” that strippers are expected to perform was—for me as a woman—physically, psychically, and spiritually offensive.
I admit, the more information I uncover—no pun intended—the angrier I become. But I also know that my body cannot tolerate extreme anger over an extended period. I do NOT want a bar that offers exotic dancing directly across the road from me. Nor do I want to move. But if the local community does not object to this business, how likely is it that Frances and I can succeed in banishing it ourselves?
It seems that we’re back to the same questions that Frances and I confront with our rock in the driveway: Dig it out? Cover it over? Drive around it? Blow it up? Reroute the road?
When Frances hammered on the rock several days ago, she realized that the small chips she broke off looked like black granite. Then she came up with a new solution for the rock in our driveway: make it into floor tiles for our living room floor. Now if we could only come up with a unique solution for the bar across the road …
Creative options anyone?
Friday, May 29, 2009
We were There!
Yesterday’s news reported a 7.1-magnitude earthquake rocking Honduras. It rocked us too. A mere four months ago we were there … right at the epicenter. Or close.
We spent almost a week on Roatán, one of the Bay Islands off the north coast of Honduras. That island—a favorite stop on our seven week trek—was a 1-1/2 hour ferry ride from the mainland. It was also nearest to the reported epicenter of the earthquake, just 80 miles northeast of La Ceiba in the Caribbean Sea.
We traveled through many of the areas reportedly affected by the earthquake. Our journey took us from Cancún, Mexico, through Belize, and on to Honduras via water ferry. From there we bused from Puerto Cortés to La Ceiba. En route we changed buses at a shopping mall in San Pedro Sula. There a hotel receptionist, Raul Gonzalez, reported to the Associated Press that guests ran into the street in their pajamas when the 2:24 a.m. earthquake struck. “It was really strong,” he said, “I have never felt anything like that.”
Our bus continued on to La Ceiba, crossing the Democracy Bridge in El Progreso. That bridge spans the country’s largest river, the Ulua. It collapsed yesterday. We passed over that river. We took that bridge.
We also stayed two nights at the Gran Hotel Paris in La Ceiba in mid-January. Our stay was accidental. A previous hotel, the Monserratte, where we’d roomed both before and after visiting Roatán and before flying to Guanaja, was filled. It was raining. In desperation we hauled our backpacks to a nearby plaza where we’d seen another hotel.
The Gran Hotel Paris had space available and, as it happened, was a much better choice. Rooms were smaller but the hotel itself was cleaner, livelier, and had a more relaxed atmosphere than the Monserratte.
“People were running for the door,” said Alfredo Cedeno from the Gran Hotel Paris, about yesterday’s tremors. “You could really feel it and you could see it—the water came out of the pool.”
We sauntered past the aforementioned pool on our way to breakfast at Gran Hotel Paris. And we watched children playing in that same pool through the restaurant’s glass windows. We walked next to that pool. We ate beside it.
According to the Associated Press report two children died and 40 people were injured as a result of yesterday’s earthquake. It terrified residents through much of Central America. And, since we rode a bus—twice—over the now-collapsed bridge, breakfasted—twice—next to this now-waterless pool, and swam and snorkeled in the Caribbean waters near where this six mile deep earthquake occurred, it almost felt as if we were still there when the earthquake struck.
It’s curious that just a few days or a week in a hotel, on an island, or riding a bus can make a city, a hotel, a bridge, or a country seem so familiar … and almost like home.
We spent almost a week on Roatán, one of the Bay Islands off the north coast of Honduras. That island—a favorite stop on our seven week trek—was a 1-1/2 hour ferry ride from the mainland. It was also nearest to the reported epicenter of the earthquake, just 80 miles northeast of La Ceiba in the Caribbean Sea.
We traveled through many of the areas reportedly affected by the earthquake. Our journey took us from Cancún, Mexico, through Belize, and on to Honduras via water ferry. From there we bused from Puerto Cortés to La Ceiba. En route we changed buses at a shopping mall in San Pedro Sula. There a hotel receptionist, Raul Gonzalez, reported to the Associated Press that guests ran into the street in their pajamas when the 2:24 a.m. earthquake struck. “It was really strong,” he said, “I have never felt anything like that.”
Our bus continued on to La Ceiba, crossing the Democracy Bridge in El Progreso. That bridge spans the country’s largest river, the Ulua. It collapsed yesterday. We passed over that river. We took that bridge.
We also stayed two nights at the Gran Hotel Paris in La Ceiba in mid-January. Our stay was accidental. A previous hotel, the Monserratte, where we’d roomed both before and after visiting Roatán and before flying to Guanaja, was filled. It was raining. In desperation we hauled our backpacks to a nearby plaza where we’d seen another hotel.
The Gran Hotel Paris had space available and, as it happened, was a much better choice. Rooms were smaller but the hotel itself was cleaner, livelier, and had a more relaxed atmosphere than the Monserratte.
“People were running for the door,” said Alfredo Cedeno from the Gran Hotel Paris, about yesterday’s tremors. “You could really feel it and you could see it—the water came out of the pool.”
We sauntered past the aforementioned pool on our way to breakfast at Gran Hotel Paris. And we watched children playing in that same pool through the restaurant’s glass windows. We walked next to that pool. We ate beside it.
According to the Associated Press report two children died and 40 people were injured as a result of yesterday’s earthquake. It terrified residents through much of Central America. And, since we rode a bus—twice—over the now-collapsed bridge, breakfasted—twice—next to this now-waterless pool, and swam and snorkeled in the Caribbean waters near where this six mile deep earthquake occurred, it almost felt as if we were still there when the earthquake struck.
It’s curious that just a few days or a week in a hotel, on an island, or riding a bus can make a city, a hotel, a bridge, or a country seem so familiar … and almost like home.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Out from Under the Forest Canopy
“Bear,” yelled Frances, 10:00 pm Friday night. I raced downstairs as she flipped on the deck light. We peered cautiously through the patio door glass … nothing.
Soon a smallish black bear weighing about 200 pounds—probably a yearling—wandered into the light on the south deck. It calmly pressed its body between the deck rails … and disappeared.
How did Frances notice the bear in the darkness? Engaged in her nightly stock market review, she heard an unfamiliar sound at the patio door. Claws scratching? A nose bumping? She glanced up to find a bear staring directly at her.
The tradition in the North Woods is to stop feeding birds throughout the summer months or to commit to a daily ritual. Unwilling to abandon our feathered friends, each morning we carry two bird feeders, two hummingbird feeders, and a pan of corn out of the house. And each evening we haul seeds and feeders back inside. We hope that these huge black robber barons will refrain from including our home in their nightly stops.
When I removed a bird feeder from the deck railing earlier in the evening, I recalled a small pile of sunflower seeds--spillage--that remained. Most likely, that minuscule portion inspired this close encounter.
Suddenly I couldn’t remember whether the goose corn was safely inside for the night. “No,” said Frances. I immediately volunteered to retrieve it. “You will?” she replied with amazement. I quickly donned a headlamp, headed for the basement, pounded on the inside of the basement door, and gently eased the door open. No bear in sight. I grabbed the corn and hurried inside.
Monday afternoon—Memorial Day—Frances, Namaste, and I, were each busily engaged in our individual outdoor projects. Again, Frances sighted a bear. I abandoned my work in the garden as Frances bolted toward Namaste. He is our loyal home security guard and genetically wired to bark ferociously and chase bears up trees. Unfortunately, we’ve heard stories that bears may pick up small dogs, carry them up a tree, and toss them to the ground.
This daytime visitor, probably the same bear from several nights before, slowly ambled through the woods on the south side of our house. Finally it stopped and watched us. Then it continued on, paused, lifted its nose, sniffed. It repeated this behavior as we watched quietly until it turned directly toward us and started to run. Frances yelled, Namaste barked, and the bear halted.
Frances carried a hyper and shaking Namaste inside. Mr. or Ms. Bear continued to watch carefully, still not convinced that it was time to depart. I shouted into the woods, “Bear, you need to leave. This is our house and you are not allowed in our yard. Go!” Without argument, the bear turned and walked quietly away.
Soon a smallish black bear weighing about 200 pounds—probably a yearling—wandered into the light on the south deck. It calmly pressed its body between the deck rails … and disappeared.
How did Frances notice the bear in the darkness? Engaged in her nightly stock market review, she heard an unfamiliar sound at the patio door. Claws scratching? A nose bumping? She glanced up to find a bear staring directly at her.
The tradition in the North Woods is to stop feeding birds throughout the summer months or to commit to a daily ritual. Unwilling to abandon our feathered friends, each morning we carry two bird feeders, two hummingbird feeders, and a pan of corn out of the house. And each evening we haul seeds and feeders back inside. We hope that these huge black robber barons will refrain from including our home in their nightly stops.
When I removed a bird feeder from the deck railing earlier in the evening, I recalled a small pile of sunflower seeds--spillage--that remained. Most likely, that minuscule portion inspired this close encounter.
Suddenly I couldn’t remember whether the goose corn was safely inside for the night. “No,” said Frances. I immediately volunteered to retrieve it. “You will?” she replied with amazement. I quickly donned a headlamp, headed for the basement, pounded on the inside of the basement door, and gently eased the door open. No bear in sight. I grabbed the corn and hurried inside.
Monday afternoon—Memorial Day—Frances, Namaste, and I, were each busily engaged in our individual outdoor projects. Again, Frances sighted a bear. I abandoned my work in the garden as Frances bolted toward Namaste. He is our loyal home security guard and genetically wired to bark ferociously and chase bears up trees. Unfortunately, we’ve heard stories that bears may pick up small dogs, carry them up a tree, and toss them to the ground.
This daytime visitor, probably the same bear from several nights before, slowly ambled through the woods on the south side of our house. Finally it stopped and watched us. Then it continued on, paused, lifted its nose, sniffed. It repeated this behavior as we watched quietly until it turned directly toward us and started to run. Frances yelled, Namaste barked, and the bear halted.
Frances carried a hyper and shaking Namaste inside. Mr. or Ms. Bear continued to watch carefully, still not convinced that it was time to depart. I shouted into the woods, “Bear, you need to leave. This is our house and you are not allowed in our yard. Go!” Without argument, the bear turned and walked quietly away.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Beach Time at Little Sand Bay: Sunday, May 17, 6:15 pm
I've needed rocking for a long while. Broad, watery arms hugging, then releasing. Hugging, releasing. Sunlight dancing on the shores of longing. So still. The rocking rhythm dances toward me, then backs away. It's quiet but for the rhythmic lullaby of water on rock, sand.
I sit in peace. Dog body close at hand. A slight quiver of nose, quick turn of head announce a presence. Quickly felt, and gone. Sunlight's liquid dance sparkles; hot fireworks V toward early evening, breaking like a wave on shore.
I sit in peace. Dog body close at hand. A slight quiver of nose, quick turn of head announce a presence. Quickly felt, and gone. Sunlight's liquid dance sparkles; hot fireworks V toward early evening, breaking like a wave on shore.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Springing into Dangerous Territory
Green enfolds me. It creeps out of the forest ... closer, closer. Soon green will hang, leafy, above me; lie, mossy and glowing, beneath me; and press its tender glossy arms around me in a months-long embrace. Becoming green.
It’s been a strange spring. The forecasted exotic dancing at Gill Net Tug Bar began the first weekend in April. The bar lies directly across the road from Same Spirit. It claims the other end of the 40 acre parcel purchased by the previous land owner. Frances and I are not happy about this new business plan. Obviously, the bar operators are not making enough money selling booze so they've decided to throw in some women's bodies and see what it gets them.
Male dancers performed over Mother’s Day weekend. Then a Tuesday night Town of Russell board meeting last week ensured that the bar is good to go for up to six performances this year. Frances and I fought with a torrential burst of energy to prevent the bar from segueing into this new territory. To no avail. My objection: men’s violence against women. It’s a hard road to travel. Men demand their rights and freedom to do as they please. Women want to believe that their men don’t act as obnoxious, violent, and degrading of women as they suspect.
Interestingly, the First Amendment to the Constitution protects the right of bar owners to offer women’s bodies up as tempting hors d’oeuvres for their male customers to sample. That, by the way, is the same Amendment that prohibits the U.S. Congress from making laws “respecting an establishment of religion.” What a weird web we weave. Freedom of religion equates with freedom of sexual slavery.
When you look up information on our Founding Fathers, you soon discover that this bizarre flip from protecting religious freedom to protecting men’s ongoing use of women as sexual objects isn’t so unexpected. A listing of the men present at the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia, PA in 1787 (Bill Bigelow, based on writings by Charles A. Beard and Forrest McDonald) reveals that the majority of these 55 men were lawyers, judges, doctors, bankers, all men of wealth and privilege.
Hmmm. Were these men present to draft the Constitution in order to protect assets they already owned: slaves, property, bonds, estates, plantations? The authors of our Constitution were white, upper class men. Today, over 220 years later, we can boast a slight increase in diversity in the ranks of our current government officials, corporate heads, and world leaders. Still, they typically share a common ground: wealth. And a common goal: protecting their wealth and privilege.
Some may say, “You’re just a woman. What do you know?” It’s true ... I represent the rights of a minority class whose voices are seldom listened to and, when heard, often discounted, ridiculed, or ignored. Why would anyone listen to strippers or prostitutes? Other women may, when they’re not worried about what their men might think.
Even so, the stories of strippers and prostitutes seldom surface because sex workers reside in the lowest realms of society, buried deep in a morass of shame and disgust. We know deep inside ourselves that these professions are demeaning to all of us, women and men. Still, we smile, joke, and wink about venues that offer exotic dancing because we are told that men cannot control their sexual appetites just as they cannot control their ever-expanding desire for power.
In 1998 researcher Kelly Holsopple conducted a set of interviews with over 40 strippers and gave a 250 question survey to 18 others. She found that all of these women were physically assaulted during their careers as strippers.
When asked for examples of what their customers did, they said men had “yanked their hair, arms or ankles; sprayed beer, flicked lit cigarettes, or spit at them; pelted them with ice, coins, trash, condoms, room keys, pornography and golf balls; bit, licked, slapped, punched and pinched them; and ripped or tried to tear off their costumes.” (Galena Gazette, Dec. 18, 2007) Healthy, positive self-esteem would be impossible to achieve in a workplace like this.
My thought? This abuse was all part of the “entertainment.” These women weren’t really women, they were simply the body parts their jobs required them to reveal. Women’s body parts don’t have rights now, do they?
It’s been a strange spring. The forecasted exotic dancing at Gill Net Tug Bar began the first weekend in April. The bar lies directly across the road from Same Spirit. It claims the other end of the 40 acre parcel purchased by the previous land owner. Frances and I are not happy about this new business plan. Obviously, the bar operators are not making enough money selling booze so they've decided to throw in some women's bodies and see what it gets them.
Male dancers performed over Mother’s Day weekend. Then a Tuesday night Town of Russell board meeting last week ensured that the bar is good to go for up to six performances this year. Frances and I fought with a torrential burst of energy to prevent the bar from segueing into this new territory. To no avail. My objection: men’s violence against women. It’s a hard road to travel. Men demand their rights and freedom to do as they please. Women want to believe that their men don’t act as obnoxious, violent, and degrading of women as they suspect.
Interestingly, the First Amendment to the Constitution protects the right of bar owners to offer women’s bodies up as tempting hors d’oeuvres for their male customers to sample. That, by the way, is the same Amendment that prohibits the U.S. Congress from making laws “respecting an establishment of religion.” What a weird web we weave. Freedom of religion equates with freedom of sexual slavery.
When you look up information on our Founding Fathers, you soon discover that this bizarre flip from protecting religious freedom to protecting men’s ongoing use of women as sexual objects isn’t so unexpected. A listing of the men present at the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia, PA in 1787 (Bill Bigelow, based on writings by Charles A. Beard and Forrest McDonald) reveals that the majority of these 55 men were lawyers, judges, doctors, bankers, all men of wealth and privilege.
Hmmm. Were these men present to draft the Constitution in order to protect assets they already owned: slaves, property, bonds, estates, plantations? The authors of our Constitution were white, upper class men. Today, over 220 years later, we can boast a slight increase in diversity in the ranks of our current government officials, corporate heads, and world leaders. Still, they typically share a common ground: wealth. And a common goal: protecting their wealth and privilege.
Some may say, “You’re just a woman. What do you know?” It’s true ... I represent the rights of a minority class whose voices are seldom listened to and, when heard, often discounted, ridiculed, or ignored. Why would anyone listen to strippers or prostitutes? Other women may, when they’re not worried about what their men might think.
Even so, the stories of strippers and prostitutes seldom surface because sex workers reside in the lowest realms of society, buried deep in a morass of shame and disgust. We know deep inside ourselves that these professions are demeaning to all of us, women and men. Still, we smile, joke, and wink about venues that offer exotic dancing because we are told that men cannot control their sexual appetites just as they cannot control their ever-expanding desire for power.
In 1998 researcher Kelly Holsopple conducted a set of interviews with over 40 strippers and gave a 250 question survey to 18 others. She found that all of these women were physically assaulted during their careers as strippers.
When asked for examples of what their customers did, they said men had “yanked their hair, arms or ankles; sprayed beer, flicked lit cigarettes, or spit at them; pelted them with ice, coins, trash, condoms, room keys, pornography and golf balls; bit, licked, slapped, punched and pinched them; and ripped or tried to tear off their costumes.” (Galena Gazette, Dec. 18, 2007) Healthy, positive self-esteem would be impossible to achieve in a workplace like this.
My thought? This abuse was all part of the “entertainment.” These women weren’t really women, they were simply the body parts their jobs required them to reveal. Women’s body parts don’t have rights now, do they?
Friday, May 15, 2009
Green Goodness
It’s a glorious spring day! Clear azure skies. Full sun. Still. Twenty-six degrees. Yipes, 26 degrees!?!
As expected, May did bring flowers. Bayfield's spring promotion, “Bayfield in Bloom,” begins today. Businesses in the area boast a profusion of daffodils—-cream, yellow, amber—-that spill over front yards, beside signs, into ditches.
Several days ago Frances and I walked down a dirt road near our house and spotted tiny white wild strawberry blossoms in the ditch. The other side of the road was aflame with brazen yellow marsh marigolds. When we looked closer, we singled out purple and blue violets trembling in the grasses ... anemones and bellwort.
Each day envelops us in its expanding spectacle of green as leaves unfold, growing larger, and blue sky slowly disappears behind this lush canopy. Meanwhile, creeping ground cover, grasses, and plants push farther out of earth. I'm a child again. Marveling at the richness of rebirth that comes in all shades of green: forest, lime, evergreen, emerald.
I remember other spring days, decades ago, when my dad walked through the woods on our property, my sister, brother, and me trailing close behind. He pointed out a profusion of colors and spoke the names of wildflowers we picked, a Memorial Day honorarium in memory of his mother and father.
From Dad I learned to cherish the beauty, fragility, and elusiveness of shade-loving forest flora. After retirement he grew his own profusion of wildflowers in the front yard of his farm home. When he died, 10 years ago this June, we honored him by gathering bouquets of wildflowers—-from his front yard garden, the ditches, and the woods—-to place near his body. It was only right that this man of field and woods should be surrounded by nature’s royalty.
For me, spring is a sacred time. A time to hearken to nature's stirrings. The spirit of my ancestors, my farmer dad--his parents, too--and all those who've worked the land and walked its woods and fields and streams, is reborn in the green goodness of the earth.
As expected, May did bring flowers. Bayfield's spring promotion, “Bayfield in Bloom,” begins today. Businesses in the area boast a profusion of daffodils—-cream, yellow, amber—-that spill over front yards, beside signs, into ditches.
Several days ago Frances and I walked down a dirt road near our house and spotted tiny white wild strawberry blossoms in the ditch. The other side of the road was aflame with brazen yellow marsh marigolds. When we looked closer, we singled out purple and blue violets trembling in the grasses ... anemones and bellwort.
Each day envelops us in its expanding spectacle of green as leaves unfold, growing larger, and blue sky slowly disappears behind this lush canopy. Meanwhile, creeping ground cover, grasses, and plants push farther out of earth. I'm a child again. Marveling at the richness of rebirth that comes in all shades of green: forest, lime, evergreen, emerald.
I remember other spring days, decades ago, when my dad walked through the woods on our property, my sister, brother, and me trailing close behind. He pointed out a profusion of colors and spoke the names of wildflowers we picked, a Memorial Day honorarium in memory of his mother and father.
From Dad I learned to cherish the beauty, fragility, and elusiveness of shade-loving forest flora. After retirement he grew his own profusion of wildflowers in the front yard of his farm home. When he died, 10 years ago this June, we honored him by gathering bouquets of wildflowers—-from his front yard garden, the ditches, and the woods—-to place near his body. It was only right that this man of field and woods should be surrounded by nature’s royalty.
For me, spring is a sacred time. A time to hearken to nature's stirrings. The spirit of my ancestors, my farmer dad--his parents, too--and all those who've worked the land and walked its woods and fields and streams, is reborn in the green goodness of the earth.
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