In comparison to other mountain ranges where I’ve spent time – like the Andes, the Himalayas, the US Sierra Nevada, or parts of Alaska, the Pyrenees seem strangely, unnaturally tranquil.  Yes the peaks are majestic and formidable in appearance, especially this time of year when they lie covered in snow, but wandering through these mountains, I often feel like something is missing.  There’s something very quiet and unimposing about them, and they do not wholly feel like real wilderness.  Somehow they make the world seem smaller to me, rather than endlessly vast like some settings can do.

I rarely spot animals apart from sheep, cows and horses, all of which roam unmolested.

And the mountains sleep.

While once the people that could handle living in the mountains were of hardy stock, used to hardships and extremities, now you mostly run into day-hikers and skiers, and vacationers. The mountains are no longer wild.

They almost seem domesticated –  tamed, subdued, not quite alive enough.

But once, not so very long ago, these mountains were teeming with bears.  The bears were such a real threat and a constant presence, such a part of the consciousness of the people who lived in the region, that they made appearances in myriad folk tales, songs, games, and incidentally in carnival tradition.

The “Caça a l’ors/Chasse de l’ours” or Bear Hunt takes place several days after the first day of carnival, The Pantolonada (which I described in my previous post).   As described by the official Carnaval website, “The Bear Hunt is a brief moment of collective release, very lively and often crude.”  It is one of the more unique traditions I’ve seen pretty much anywhere I’ve been.

On the night of the Hunt, dozens of women take on the character of hunters, and dress in men’s hunting clothes and arm themselves with rifles.  A group of men dress in full bear costumes that are equipped with a gigantic brown, red-tipped dildos, a foot or two in length.  (Yes, you read me correctly.  The annual tradition is for all of these men in bear costumes to wear gargantuan strap-on dildos).  The rest of the men dress as flirtatious, provocative young women.

At 8 o clock in the evening the party begins in a small but central square of town about a block from the castle.  Musicians play and people slowly gather.

Many dozens of men dressed as women, dubbed the “Rosettes”, coyly flirt and giggle.

Music is played and dances are danced.

Occasionally a man in a bear suit will stalk through the gathering crowds and grab either a Rosette or a real female, hump them vigorously, and move on.

By 9 PM the square is crowded, both with costumed participants and many onlookers.  Suddenly with a resounding shout, the hunters march single file into the plaza.

They hang out in the square for awhile, drinking, smoking, and swearing.

Then they gather together, chanting and waving around their weapons,  charging up, getting ready  for the hunt, ready to see blood spill.  Testosterone, or something like it, fills the air as they cheer.

They get into position on one side of the plaza, waiting to confront the bears.

The bears gather on another side of the square and a path is cleared between them and the Rosettes, who clump together in the middle of the plaza in a terrified gaggle.  The bears, after a winter in their dens, are aroused into a frenzy by the provocative, coquettish Rosettes.  The bears make several false attacks, sending the Rosettes screaming and regrouping.

Finally the bears charge the Rosettes, and all mayhem breaks loose.

THIS is definitely the video to watch if you want a clear sense the ensuing craziness:

The bears, upon reaching the hoard of screaming Rosettes, aggressively grab, squeeze, hump, fondle, poke and prod them, pull them to the ground, pick them up, climb on them, etc.  All the while the Rosettes fight them off valiantly.

After some minutes of screaming and sexual assault, a group of stuffy looking men dressed in English-style hunting clothes blow bugles, indicating the hunt has  begun.

The hunters charge into the slavering pile of sexually voracious bears and feisty but violated Rosettes…

…and heroically struggle with the bears until they are able to overcome them long enough to cut off their penises (the strapons obviously) and save the Rosettes.  The hunters give the thankful Rosettes the gigantic dildos as trophies.

The hunters leave the bears for dead, but then bear keepers ( Los Orsatèrs / les montreurs d´ours) come along and revive them, and put them into chains.

The chained and chastened bears are made to do a traditional dance while a band plays. The bear keepers’ job is to keep the bears under control for the rest of the evening.

Every now and then a bear escapes and grabs and mauls an unsuspecting female in the crowd.  These bears mean business too – the moment you are off your guard, they will see you and grab every part of you, particularly genitalia, or they will pick you up, carry you away and jump on top of you. (Yes I was mauled by a bear, so I speak from experience).

My advice: it’s best, as a female, to attend this event with a large male friend, if you don’t want to be assaulted and symbolically bear-raped.

After some traditional dances and mingling and more bear assaults, there is a beauty contest – each of the Rosettes goes up on a small stage erected on one side of the plaza and introduces themselves.  There is then a vote for the most beautiful Rosette who becomes queen for the evening.

Everyone then sojourns to a party tent to drink, listen to music and make merry.

St. Pançard is of course present, to encourage his people to enjoy the wonderful festivities…

…and to dance and enjoy them himself:

While the Bear Hunt obviously represents the villagers of the Pyrenees overcoming nature and taming it, there is also another layer of meaning in the interesting tradition.  According to what I’ve read, the Bearnais (the people of the Bearn region) considered the bear to be a savage version of man himself, symbolizing primitive male sexuality.  Apparently there are many stories about young village women who are charmed into the mountains by bears, seduced by their virility.  The christian church (at least in this area) took the bear as a symbol of the devil, representing the temptations of the flesh.

The Carnival website explains this further, “Standing on its hind legs, the bear looks remarkably like man;  its cunning and intelligence have also made him our equal. During Carnival this primitive man, this brute who lives in all of us, wakes up and temporarily gives free rein to his frenzy and fantasy.  The only thing differentiating humans from this animal is the fur. In order to turn him into a civilized man, it suffices  to shave and at times castrate him…”

Traditionally the Bearnais combined fear of the bear with reverence, fascination, and even jealousy.  They saw themselves in this animal, and decided to control its qualities they could not themselves actually emulate, unsure whether to see them as desirable or diabolical.

But in the end is this really what they had wanted: A world where their mountains can be covered in sheep whose only concerns are fattening themselves up, and bears are made to dance to our music?  The bears were their mirror, a wilder more savage, more bestial version of themselves, reflecting their passions and violence and desires.  So what does it mean that all the bears save a handful in the Pyrenees have been killed?  Perhaps the land here, these forests and mountains, are a little in need of more that is savage, and not just in mockery.

But it WAS a good party.

We moved to Pau in a February two years ago, and I wasn’t entirely sure how much I would like living here; it seemed very charming but also very subdued. But one day about two weeks after our arrival, we were doing some exploring when we stumbled upon the “Pantalonada,” a procession that marks the first day of the Carnival celebration in Pau.   I fell in love with the spirit and exuberance that I saw that day, and I realized that there was more to Pau and the Palois than meets the eye.  For an outsider at times the Palois may seem a bit close-minded, a bit exclusive and hard to connect to, but they also know how to PLAY and be joyful.

Pau is the most important city in the Béarn region

Carnaval Biarnés (Carnival of the Béarn region) has roots in Italian Carnevale and Comedia dell’Arte, however it is also delightfully regional and very unique.

I will be putting up posts throughout the following week, giving you a taste of all the different colorful and sometimes bizarre festivities that will be occurring. The photos I will be posting are a mix of images and videos that I have captured from 2010, 2011 and 2012.

Let me take you on a bit of trip through the magic of Carnaval Biarnés, starting with the Pantalonada!

***

I missed the first 30 minutes of the Pantalonada this year, so the first 11 images are NOT mine, but are taken from the Carnaval Biarnés website.  They are photos from last year, and you’ll notice it was an overcast day and they are all a bit too grey. But you’ll still get the gist of how carnival commences.

The Pantalonada, the first day of Carnival, celebrates the arrival of Sent Pançard (which in the Oc languages kind of translates to Saint big belly). Sent Pançard, a delightfully fat and grotesque character with a pig’s nose, is the patron saint of the festival.  He represents all sorts of sinful human qualities – lust, greed, gluttony, etc.  Every February he storms into town and encourages all the people of Pau to be as debauched as possible in the 11 days leading up to Lent.

Sent Pançard prepares to charge into Pau

Sent Pançard and his entourage making their way through Pau

Every year the “bourgeois” of Pau place a barricade in the street to keep St. Pançard out of town.

Bourgeois Palois hiding behind the barrier they hope will keep Sent Pançard out of Pau

Sent Pançard’s entourage reach the city “gates.”  Pançard’s gendarmes confront the guards,

and then his army of “bouffons” tries to break through the barrier

 but they fail.

The Palois however are persuaded to let Sent Pançard into town when he offers them a few barrels of wine.

   The bouffons proceed to break down the wall

***********************************************************************

If you liked this post, here are some other Annotated Zoetrope posts you might enjoy:

Sure enough I googled and found all sorts of amusing articles with titles like:

Obama Under Fire for Not Saying ‘God’ in Thanksgiving Speech

These actually reminded me of a similar debate I’ve read about in articles that criticize the President of France!  Articles like the following:

Sarkozy sparks French debate over God and faith

(Reuters) – President Nicolas Sarkozy’s increasingly frequent and positive references to God and faith have drawn fire from critics who accuse him of violating France’s separation of church and state.

Well ok, they are actually almost polar opposite situations, highlighting how different two Western countries can treat the issue of religion in politics. It’s amazing that these two countries both ostensibly operate secular governments and yet have such an absolutely divergent perspective on the inclusion of expressions of faith in public discourse by politicians.

Now those Americans that REALLY had a problem with Obama’s non-mention of God last Thursday are not the majority (I hope!) – but it’s a little scary to look at some of the immediate comments to an article on this issue: (https://www.facebook.com/ChristianPost.Intl/posts/10150389766918635)

Etc etc.  Oh America.

In this video three women debate the issue as though it were really important:

obama-criticized-for-leaving-god-out-of-thanksgiving-address-27415676.html

One of these women (no surprise a Fox news commentator) said the following:

“I think that every President, now forget about his personal beliefs, he represents the United States. You know the Mayflower compact going back 400 years talks about thanks to God, George Washington, first American President to talk about Thanksgiving under God, and I think it’s a mistake for any American president to give thanks without SOME reference to a higher cause and a higher being. Period.”

Ok so THAT seems a bit extreme, no?  The US doesn’t really require its politicians to be THAT religious all the time…right?

Hmmm…right???…

I think in the US we have gotten frighteningly accustomed to the way politicians kowtow to the religious, and basically all have to wear FAITH on their sleeve (even if it’s not really their faith).  I find it mindboggling that this OVERT faith is considered an essential ingredient for wise political leadership.

As a child I was a little weirded out by the fact that our money all said God on it, and that everyone always swore on the Bible, even people that weren’t Christian, to prove they really meant something.  But I guess I sort of got used to all that.  I mean that’s just how the US is, how it’s always been right? It’s only now, stepping away from it all for awhile into this very different environment, that these very non-secular things in our ostensibly secular society have regained their total weirdness for me.

For example the French would find it absolutely bizarre that anyone who claims that God needed him to run for President would ever be taken remotely seriously by the general public, but that he would then STOP being taken seriously because of infidelity rumors.  This would seem SO backwards to the French.

Look at some of the French backlash to their own President mentioning God and Faith in speeches on occasion from an article written in 2008:

“

French President’s Religious Mixing Riles Critics

French President Nicolas Sarkozy is drawing criticism from opponents for his frequent and increasing talks on religion in society, which critics say is a very “un-French” thing to do.

Sarkozy broke a taboo last December when he emphasized France’s Christian roots at a speech in Rome basilica, referring to France as “the eldest daughter of the Church” and stating that “the roots of France are essentially Christian.”

Some say his speeches, including his latest in Saudi Arabia’s capital city, ignore a French law separating church and state.

“A speech citing God not only on every page, but on every line, creates a fundamental problem for the republic,” argued Socialist Jean Glavany at the National Assembly last Wednesday referring to Sarkozy’s speech earlier in the week on providing state subsidies for faith-based groups.

“This is not respect for the separation of church and state,” socialist opposition leader Francois Hollande said, according to Reuters.“This is an ideological stand that makes religion into an instrument to promote French products civilian nuclear plants for Muslim countries,” he said. “Mixing religion and foreign policy is illogical and wrong.”

Although the 1905 law aimed at undercutting the vast influence the Roman Catholic Church once wielded in France, church leaders now are reserved about any reforms that could upset the status quo and revive anti-clerical movements.

The strict separation of church and state began with the enactment of law in 1905 that grew into a kind of political correctness that made bringing religion into public affairs a major taboo.”

Now maybe the French go too far – for example in September when they banned prayer in the streets.  This kind of hardcore attempt to eradicate any trace of religion from the public sphere not only seems a bit authoritarian, but it will surely ultimately create a negative backlash, particularly within the French Muslim community.  Secularism does not have to be that extreme – however, can we in good “faith” really call ourselves secular when a leader is not considered electable unless he talks about God all the time?  What kind of secularism is that?  And was the US always like this – or has it gotten worse?

Dude, Pacifica, it’s just a blog.  Write whatever the hell you want, whenever you want.  You don’t have to be so precious about it ALL of the time.  Just write something, it doesn’t matter if it sucks.  Put it up anyway – it’s YOUR blog – for FUN, remember? Sometimes, sure, why not, spend a day (IF you ever have a whole day of time to yourself again…!) working on a long involved post full of carefully chosen and formatted photos and a variety of related themes or researched information.  But it doesn’t have to be like that every time! 

I know that at this point you have a whole ridiculously long list of ostensibly awesome ideas to write about that you feel you couldn’t  possibly do justice in a short post, but I’m sure you probably also have plenty of other half-baked ideas that you could jot down a few notes about and call them a post.  Throw a random question, an idea, an undeveloped thought up there – it doesn’t have to be fully digested and worked through.  You don’t have to be FAIR.  You don’t have to go and try and find as many sides of an issue as possible and you don’t have to tie it to a bigger and bigger theme.  It can just be tidbit, a nugget, a kernel.  Write a paragraph and press the publish button – it doesn’t have to MEAN anything.   You could even JUST pose a question and not even try to answer it at all.  This is a free format and there are no mistakes.  It is not permanent, it is not printed, it is JUST a blog.  THAT was the point when you started – to have a place to play with ideas and to just write and not worry about the outcome.  So when did you forget?  Seriously chill out.  It’s better to post and have it not be incredible, than never post at all.  It’s a BLOG – decent sometimes is good enough.  Go for decent and maybe you’ll surprise yourself.  Just go for something.  Just write. Stop thinking about it and just do it.

Love,

Yourself

P.S.  Don’t you DARE “edit” this stupid letter to yourself. That’s not the point!

Several people this week have pointed out something that I was already  acutely aware of – that I have failed to post ANYTHING in this space for ….FOUR months.  (!)  Sigh.

I think about writing a new blog post literally every day.  But I always come up with a reason not to do it, mostly having to do with convincing myself I don’t have enough time.

But this blogging procrastination is not your garden variety procrastination – it’s perfectionist procrastination, a much more insidious and neurotic strain.  Mind you I am very good at both varieties of procrastination but generic procrastination is more what I do when I am putting off things I think I will NOT enjoy – like heavy-duty, highly obscure statistical research for some boring article I have to write on some obscure, boring subject .  With that sort of thing, of course I wait till the very very very last minute to actually complete the task, all the while stressing out every minute before I actually start, worrying that I’ve probably already put it off too long and I really should have started it earlier. Then in order to distract myself from the discomfort of these concerns I obsessively check facebook, news headlines, my email inbox and exchange rates.  And then finally when I start the thing that is so very boring, it is a massive struggle not to stop every few minutes to again check facebook, news headlines, exchange rates –  and ANYTHING else that is SLIGHTLY less boring than that thing I’m supposed to be doing.  (9:35 AM:  click xe.com, 9:36 AM click facebook,  ”that person I haven’t seen in 10 year is cooking dinner, cool”  9:38 AM click xe.com “Wow…how interesting – the dollar/euro exchange rate has moved from 1.3521 to 1.3519 in the last 3 minutes…wow…hmmm!”; 9:42 AM – click gmail  -  inbox: 1829 unread messages, 9:44 AM click gmail inbox: 1829 unread messages; 9:46 AM click Facebook  ”Hmm that person I met that one time is on their way to Florida…hmm”;  9:48 AM click gmail  -  inbox: 1829 unread messages; )  THAT is the fine art of generic procrastination.

Perfectionist procrastination happens in the following way.  When I get a fresh exciting idea, all I want to do is drop everything else and delve into it – cut class, forget work, not buy groceries, not make dinner, etc etc in order to get started and WRITE.  But usually I don’t drop anything – instead I try to wait for some “free time” to write, a time when I am relatively unburdened by other more pressing responsibilities.  As I wait, the idea starts to expand, and multiply, like a bacterial culture, growing organically and linking up with other themes or ideas. Suddenly an idea that I thought was going to just be a few anecdotal paragraphs becomes a complex, many tiered essay-ish idea that will require a lot of time and effort, and maybe some research, photo editing, and fancy formatting, to get it on the blogsite in the way I imagine it.

And there is no turning back from an immense idea, no going back to the nice simple, fresh, innocent initial thought – it’s all or nothing.  And so – at least lately – more often than not it means I do nothing.

And the longer I wait to write a new idea the harder it becomes – the more I feel indebted to it, like I owe it a chance or something.  And there is also a pecking order – I owe more to the older ideas because they’ve been waiting longer.  So all the NEWER new ideas get put on the backburner until I find the time to write the older new ideas  (which ultimately shrivel into old, unwieldy ideas).

It is true I am short on time at the moment; on top of my job and everything else I usually have going on here, I am also taking an intensive French course at the local university plus a number of dance classes – so I’m in class, on campus (for the ridiculously long, languorous French lunch breaks…!), or in transit a total of 35 hours a week (plus there’s homework).  So finding the time for complex blog posts is kind of impossible.  And even when I DO have a free day – the hypothetical unwritten blog post  will have to compete with all the letters I should have written, chores I should have done, errands I should have run, books I should have read, and other miscellaneous tasks I should have accomplished.

But still – I should definitely have the time to write a blog post every few weeks, even given all that.

But it’s the perfectionism that keeps getting in my way…

On Saturday a new comment arrived, but this time it was in response to a post I wrote in April about turning 30.  (If you have not yet read this post, “The Burial of Life as a Young Girl,” you might want to do so now in order to understand the context).

I read the first sentence of this man’s comment and was a bit confused, read the second and third sentence and started to feel uncomfortable, and then by the fourth I thought it had to be someone’s idea of a joke.  But then I read on, and felt more and more nauseated.

At first I wanted to just delete it and erase this person and their perspective from my blog and my memory.  But then I changed my mind – because I think sometimes it helps to shine light in dark places.

So instead I will include his words here in full and share them with all of you. For anyone who is confused as to why there is any insecurity around turning 30, read on.  For anyone who wants to understand why many women in the workplace STILL feel there is no option for them but to play either the role of slut or bitch, read on.  For anyone who wants to know what kind of shit women in even more sexist countries deal with, read on.  For men who respect women, but have never really understood why women complain about sexism, read on.

***

 I suspect that Mr. Mel has few options, to marry her at age 30+. I predict the marriage will only last 3 or 4 years since once Mr. Mel starts getting regular sex from her it will charge up his confidence to approach younger women. Happens every time to guys who marry 30 year old chicks. Often they’re guys that just don’t understand female psychology simply cause they’ve been sex starved for so long. Giving him a regular dose will only stimulate his confidence to find a fresher set of strawberries in the sexual supermarket.

 Can’t believe she waited to marry that long. Look at what 8 years did to her. Too much partying, chasing athletes and late night romance novel reading. She better have a good job at this point, cause who would hire her? I live in a country where all the men try to get rich and start businesses because it means you can hire secretaries that you have NSA sex with and dump em when they get frigid. It is an incredible set up if you can get it. Most of the guys are able to get hot blondes. The only problem here is that businesses are so coveted, because it means easy sex, nobody gets a loan from the male bankers. Those a#%^&a*!%; only dole out loans to old flaccid men to protect their egos. I heard about the sexual harassment laws in the US and me and my buddies, including the women, think it’s a farce. It’s understood here that women trade sex for their position in life, that’s why they get cushy jobs. If you want an easy life you have to pay, and there’s only one thing society wants from young women, but this setup is not trivialized and rejected by our women like American girls always do. If you give women the cushy jobs without getting any sex then you’re simply a chump and you end up with an entitled stone cold biyatch. This is happening to America all around, and it is why you read about their men wanting to fly to other countries where their money means something.  If America allows their women to get away with acquiring jobs without trading sex then it’s a doomed country.

 Who would want to live there if you have to hire hags who spend hours contemplating their bad choices on blogs? It’s like being forced to hire an old prostitute who has no clients. 30 year old Mel is already looking tired and witch-like in appearance, unless Mr. Mel is like 50 yrs old there’s no reason to settle for a 30 year old flesh hankie. Where I’m from, Brazil, she’d be forced to become a call girl or marry Mr. 50 which would be an appropriate future for these American princesses.  Instead America lets her value as a spouse whither away as she catches up to episodes of Tru Blood. If she wanted into the club Mel should’ve blown the bouncer, it’s only fair because she’s simply not pretty enough to trade her mere presence for access. She has to start trading sex for her trophies. She’s at the age where she has declining value and must act as men wanted her to act 10 years ago. I suspect this is something this chick has avoided her entire life out of hatred of sex  and how much her looks were tied into her level of comfort. Hard to admit it, I know, but America allows women to bury their heads in the sand when they’re hot and only pop out when they’re becoming gray, wrinkled and desperate.

***

This was the first time anything actually nasty has been said on my blog and it completely took me by surprise.  I’ve had a few commenters disagree with me or not quite get what I’m trying to communicate – and though at first that inevitably leaves me with a sad, sinking little feeling, it quickly evaporates when I remind myself that hearing other points of view is part of the fun of making creative things public.

But this was different.

While some of the stuff he said was so extreme that it bordered on farcical, it was too long, developed and too deeply full of hatred to be anything but sincere.  By the time I finished reading my mouth was hanging open, my heart was skittering around nervously and I felt a deep, slimy nausea.  I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach – it was the physical manifestation of oppression.

It is always hard for me to read ugly thoughts from ugly-hearted people, but this was particularly difficult to read because it put a voice and direct, unmistakable words to how I know many men think.  This was the voice of machismo.

***

This man’s comment was actually the perfect counterpoint to my essay; without realizing it he demonstrated precisely the social phenomenon that I was describing. He attempted to denigrate every woman who has not fallen into the trap of believing that their main asset is their body, telling the ones that are under 25 or so that they are arrogant, conniving and frigid if they aren’t trading sex for power and getting married, and all women who are approaching 30 and beyond that they are desperate hags, with no value at all.

I feel I don’t need to bother arguing about how wrong he is – I think the idea that you are done being beautiful by your late 20’s is absolutely ridiculous, and the idea that women should marry young and should be trading sex for jobs is even more ridiculous.  That really is not the issue.  More important is to use this example to demonstrate how men attempt to make women feel insecure in order to give them more power over us. As soon as we’re grown up enough to have poise and a true sense of our own self-worth and a sense of who we are and what we want, that is when they try to hit us the hardest.

***

What is this man’s story?  Is he your average Brazilian?  Does he really speak for his countrymen as he claims, or is he just unusually misogynistic?  I have to wonder about a man who trolls the internet seeking out the blogs of women who seem to have a sense of self-worth and self-respect, and then spends such a great deal of time writing impassioned missives attempting to completely degrade them.

His wacky analysis of “Mel,” (who from his world view is a stand-in for basically any woman who could be ‘stupid, arrogant, and frigid’ enough to not get married in their early 20′s!) was so off the mark that it made me laugh.  And his entire analysis of “American princesses” told me so much more about him than he will ever understand about us.

I can see him rather clearly.  His IP address was in Arlington, Virginia.  Perhaps he does business in DC.  Maybe he’s spent a lot of time in the states.  He has clearly not had any luck with women.  He has been rejected right and left.   He does not understand why flashing his money around and bragging about his high-powered job is not doing the trick. His tailored clothes, slicked back hair and cheesy pick-up lines don’t work. The only explanation for this must be that American women are ignoring him in the hopes of marrying someone with an even better job and more money – because that is all women ever go for, right? He hates that the rules seem different here; he hates American women for making him feel powerless and insignificant.

It sounds like he secretly covets “cold” American women but now sees they are mystifyingly out of his league. He wants them to bend to the age-old rules of money=power=sex, and his only explanation for why they don’t is their American arrogance, and their grievous miscalculation of their sell-by date.

***

I am disgusted by this man, but at the same time I feel deeply sorry for him.  He speaks as though he knows what moves the world, but he is missing out on the best stuff of life; the more he hates women, the less likely it is he will ever feel love.  He knows nothing about relationships that are based on a foundation of real chemistry and then built up with love and respect.  He knows nothing about the growth and learning that happens in relationships. He knows nothing about how much he could learn from the right woman.

He operates under a template that is so pervasive even in the US, and is SO bad for everyone.  Men who objectify women like this are not only incapable knowing how to love a woman, but are incapable of being loved in return.  They not only insist on giving all women a superficial value based on looks, age, and willingness to put out, but they also undervalue themselves in the process.  They themselves become convinced that they are not worth anything but the sum total of their money and power, because they think that is the only thing that women want from them. It’s a tragic paradigm in which no human virtues can exist, because everything that is beautiful and lovable about us is a non-currency.  Women are denigrated into nothing but declining-value objects to men, and men believe that women only want them for their money and power, and not for who they really are.  No one is loved, no one is loving, everyone is insecure, and no one is happy.

***

An open statement to this man and all men like him:  There are many of us who do not seek money or power.  And if that were what we were interested in we would seek by ourselves, not gain it via a man.  You have nothing to offer me, or women like me, and I understand this is what scares you.  You have no power over us.  The last card you have left to play is to insult us for being adults and not being the malleable creatures you would wish.

What do I want? An intelligent, compassionate person committed to growth, who knows how to love generously and without fear.  I understand this also scares you, because bottom line, your denigration of women is part rooted in a fear that you are not actually worthy of a woman’s love.  You try to convince yourself it’s all a game of money, sex and power to make your inadequacies as a man seem less pertinent.  And that is why you will never have us.  Because you are unwilling to look at yourself and become a better man, become the man that is worthy of a good woman’s love.

***

“It is amazing how far we have come since I was growing up. The fact that women do so many different kinds of jobs now – that is one of the US’s greatest strengths.” – My father

In a way the Brazilian’s comment had very good implications.  In some ways it showed how far the US has come because ultimately his entire letter was a large complaint about how US women do not conform to the “Brazilian” idea of a woman’s place.  We have in many ways moved beyond the ‘woman-as-object’ paradigm.

But the reason I couldn’t just write this man’s comment off as absurd and crazy and forget about it, is because although I may personally believe this man is horrible and pathetic, the sad truth is that his is not just a lone crazy voice; he actually speaks for millions of men who feel the same way.  Reading it recalled me to the eternal vulnerability of being female, in a world where for many men we are just a collection of warm holes.

Although I’m from a country where, generally speaking, people cannot talk like this man in public, his ideas are certainly there under the surface, in the minds of angry men who do not know how to love.

And I have to wonder – how often do these exact sentiments get uttered jokingly by businessmen, frat boys and so many others, who are trying to be cool with their friends or peers by showing off their complete disdain for females.  And what about many of my dearest male friends, who ostensibly truly respect women?  When they are alone, out with the guys, how often do they say derogatory things about us?

The thing is that even in jest, these ideas have power and influence.  They affect us all, just as racial and homophobic slurs and jokes, even when they are made without real malice, add to the horrible difficulty of understanding and accepting one another.

When I saw this man’s thoughts, I felt very small for a moment.  I believe in myself, but sometimes it is truly frightening as a woman to stand and look directly into the face of sexism and see it not only for its ugliness and violence, but also for its pervasiveness throughout the world.  And I have to ask myself, am I big enough and strong enough to stand up to that?

I have to admit something very sad – for a fleeting moment this man actually succeeded in making me feel insecure.  For a moment some shivering, fragile part of me actually thought, “Perhaps he is right…maybe I am no longer beautiful.”  It was only a whisper, but I heard it and I marveled at it; it showed me how deeply ingrained the idea that 30 is a small death for women is in our culture.  It’s rare to hear the idea spoken so forcefully and clearly as this man voiced it – but it’s still there, a slow disease, a meme that works its way into the fabric of everything.

***

I am a feminist.  Unfortunately it is not so socially acceptable in the US to admit this anymore, because people tend to assume this encompasses an irrational hatred of men.  But for me – being a feminist is not at all about male-bashing – I love men.  It’s partially because of how wonderful I think men can be that I am a feminist – because I think feminism is about helping men be better and happier too.   I think being a feminist means you understand that while things have certainly gotten better for women, there is so much still left to be done.  It is about recognizing that sexism hurts us all, men and women alike, and undermines society in general.

My idea of what feminism should mean:

Fathers loving their daughters, believing in them and showing them they are special, beautiful, and capable of anything.

Mothers teaching their sons to respect them and respect other women, teaching them to believe in themselves and know they are worthy of love, not for what they have but for who they are.

Men being brave enough to fall in love with a woman, and want her for more than just her body and what it represents; showing her every day how beautiful she is and how much he respects her; believing in his own value as well as hers; being brave enough to be worthy of a good woman’s love.

And Women believing in their own beauty, intelligence and strength and not listening to all the other voices; remembering that age makes them wiser not lesser; showing men they are more than their money and their position by loving them for who they are instead of what they have; respecting men who respect women; being true to themselves and respecting each other.

***

I think in part I wrote a lot of this as a little request to all the amazing men I know.  I think it’s important for well-educated men who have a high respect for women to see how we get treated and talked about and why so many of us have such a complicated relationship with our own bodies and faces and place in the world.  It’s important for you to understand the prejudice we are actually often faced with.

You have the power to support women, however you also have the power to add to the weight that is holding us down.  Please make the right choice – please remember your words and actions have power.  If you love us and believe in us, it is your responsibility to fight against this attitude with us. Every voice against this kind of ignorance and ugliness helps dispel the darkness.

***********************************************************************

If you like this post, here are some other posts you might like:

On anorexia and compulsive exercise:

http://zoetropic.wordpress.com/2010/10/14/girl-in-the-gym/

A vignette about the reinforcement of beauty norms in children:

http://zoetropic.wordpress.com/2010/10/04/do-you-want-to-be-ugly/

]]> http://zoetropic.wordpress.com/2011/07/13/machismo-alive-and-well/feed/ 15 zoetropic http://zoetropic.wordpress.com/2011/07/06/a-love-of-layovers/ http://zoetropic.wordpress.com/2011/07/06/a-love-of-layovers/#comments Wed, 06 Jul 2011 21:37:49 +0000 zoetropic http://zoetropic.wordpress.com/?p=1962 ]]> From the Seattle airport:

I was absent here for awhile – occupied with several houseguests and lots of work.  Now I am on the move again; I’ll be taking eight flights through eight airports (Pau, Paris, Charlotte, Chattanooga, San Francisco, Seattle, Anchorage, Kenai) in ten days.

Although this trip is just bringing me from the place that I currently live, Pau, to a place that’s always been a home, Alaska, I still feel a slight hint of adventure as I go along.  Traveling is always like that for me.  I love the moment of release, of freedom, that comes the minute I pick up my small suitcase or backpack, ready to journey.  There is something about stepping out onto a sidewalk into crisp, energetic early-morning air, when everyone else around me is heading to work but I am heading somewhere else, somewhere different and new, that I find kind of intoxicating.

Early morning in the Gare de Pau, Platform 2

In fact I think one of my favorite feelings in the world is standing on a platform of a train station, waiting to board a train heading towards the as-of-yet unknown. Air travel, I admit, is not quite as exhilarating.  On some level I seriously dislike it- I hate the dry, stale air, the unused cramped sensation in my limbs that makes me feel like it must be my first day as a farm animal, the over-priced over-cooked food, dehydration, all the long lines, the grumpy travelers, and the way flight attendants are required to smile.

But beyond the discomfort there is still a lot to enjoy.  Once I’ve checked in, gotten rid of the burden of luggage, and passed unscathed through security, I relax and begin to appreciate my surroundings, as strange as that might sound.

Rocking chairs in the airport of Charlotte, North Carolina

Part of my enjoyment of airports comes from this feeling of nothing particular to do apart from the need to move my body from Point A to Point B.  Real life hangs suspended for the day and the hours spread out in front of me, as of yet unportioned, unscheduled. There’s a deliciousness in knowing I can choose to fill them in any way I want.  I could read, write, watch a film, wander the magazine and book aisles, or sit brazenly at an airport bar and order a cold, overpriced, wonderful beer and drink it all alone as fast or as slow as I please.  I could watch all the people streaming by or settle in next to a group of them and listen in on their conversations.

It’s sort of a similar feeling to the one I’d have as a child at the beginning of a sick day off from school, when the day was suddenly reclaimed as mine, entirely mine.  Even within the confines of the walls of an airport or the walls of your own home, an unbroken day can feel pregnant with possibility.

When I’m on a layover, enticingly close to some city or other that remains unseen and unknown due to time constraints, I usually feel like I never quite touched down.  Time hangs suspended in a bubble, dangling just a little bit above the real world.

Airports have more in relationship to each other than to the world outside, and nothing feels quite grounded in reality until you are spit out into baggage claim at the end of your journey.

Airports have always seemed more like space stations from old science fiction to me – hovering above the earth slightly, a world unto themselves. Their own atmosphere, food and water in measured plastic boxes, and long windows looking out on a desolate atmosphere that barely seems to support life apart from alien flourescent yellow creatures zooming around on four wheels or extending orange flag-like limbs.

Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris

Air travel is the most disconcerting of all kinds of travel.  Because you cannot see or feel your movement through space and across the planet, you must rely on a vast imagination or else a complete disassociation from the strangeness of being transported almost magically from one environment to an entirely different environment.  Air travel makes everything dreamlike for a few days until I forget how strange it is to be in this new place and stop vaguely feeling the question hovering over my body of how I got there.  Perhaps it’s not so different from how my cats feel as they are transported in vehicles or even in elevators from one place to another without the capacity to smell everything along the way and thus absorb the distance traveled.  While they know perfectly well they are somewhere new, how they came to be there and where it lies in relationship to the familiar are unanswerable questions.

With my human brain and human skill for abstraction I can look at a map or google earth and maybe be able to imagine that kind of travel in a vague hypothetical way, but I will never truly be able to absorb how it could be possible to travel as fast as we do in airplanes and have it feel like nothing at all.  I understand the physics of it, but my body remains confused.

I think that’s why the kitsch you find for sale in every airport becomes sort of comforting.  The little tourist stores selling knick-knacks and curios give you a watered down reminder of where you are - mini eiffel towers in Charles de Gaulle;

How you know you're in Alaska

smoked salmon, Ulu knives and a wide variety of moose paraphernalia in Anchorage; and t-shirts that say “tar heel” in Charlotte (a nickname for people from North Carolina dating back to the civil war).  Even if I never get to step outside the airport, it feels necessary to see how a place represents itself and what it highlights as memorable, unique and kitsch-worthy.

Many airports clearly hope to be more than personality-less junctions or purveyors of kitsch.  They seem to be in a kind of identity crisis – wanting to be the gleaming evidence of a sparkly modern new world, and divert our attention away from the airport’s primary purpose – to act as a people sorter, shuffling us together and separating us out again into our proper containers to be carried away to the next port.  Airports struggle to be interesting, classy, even enjoyable in order to somehow distract people from the actual lack of glamor of flying.  Airports often even try to be museums (for example SEATAC and San Francisco International);   Paintings and sculpture, at times visually arresting, at other times just totally bizarre, are scattered around every corner.  However, because of the location, most of these pieces are seen more as “decoration” than “Art” and travelers tend to walk right on by without so much as a second glance.

If airports aren’t the right environment to cultivate art appreciation, they are places capable of momentarily breaking down certain behavioral norms. Conduct that is inappropriate in the outside world is acceptable in an airport; we are all allowed to act homeless and sleep in random locations, settle in on the ground with our possessions spread out around us.  Men in business suits sit on the floor to plug their laptops in or curl up in corners to take little naps.  The rules are different.

There is a sense of community, but also a glorious anonymity in an airport. Everyone is a traveler – no one will stare at you as though you are something curious or out of place.  It is an amazing equalizer – we all belong there as much as anyone else.

The only place I’ve ever felt as wonderfully anonymous was New York City – a city where anything goes, completely full of people who have seen it all, and are too much in a rush to be curious. In that sort of a place there is so much chaos and movement that many create the personal space they are craving by putting walls around their own minds.  It’s in THESE sorts of places that it is ideal to people watch, step outside the self for awhile and become a true observer.

Walking through an airport in the ebb and flow of countless  other bodies, with nothing significant to root me to my location on the planet and nothing around me to give me the context of my life beyond that moment, I like to let my identity fall away for awhile.

I become the silence that fills the little spaces between all the voices, beeps, whirrs and hums.  I become nothing but a little floating bubble of consciousness contained in a moving body- my thoughts become so simple, and I just listen and watch and take in.

I love to watch people spilling off an airplane, still colored somehow by a tint of the place they were in.  They seem to carry a little of the air with them from this other place and you can almost smell the different flavor, as they spill in waves towards you.

In airports I love to pause for awhile and watch the people streaming by, listening for their accents, trying to guess where they are from and where they might be going, and make up stories about their lives.  I love watching all the faces and body types, all the styles of clothing for example which women choose comfy clothes, versus the women who wear high heels and full layers of makeup.  All these faces, a constant stream of details to absorb – each simultaneously unique and part of some archetype.  Looking at all that variety, and all the patterns, feels satisfying, nutritional.

In airport hubs hundreds of people arrive from a different direction every few minutes – from so many countries and cities, all converging in this one place and then within minutes or hours breaking away again, splitting from those they travelled with, joining up with others, and then splitting away again, until finally they reach their homes or hotels or the houses of family or friends.  As sterile of an environment as airports seem, they actually full of more diversity than most places we go.  An airport hold thousands of different stories in a given moment, only to be refilled with new stories in the very next moment.  I do love to tune into the movement, the life, the kitsch, the voices, the faces, and the stories for a few hours now and again, and then be on my way to my own destination.  See you in Alaska!

If you wanted to dream about something that was not on the master list of approved dreams, you had to fill out a special application.  The procedure often took quite some time, so most people just opted for the more common dreams on the list – why complicate matters?

When I woke up I was amazed and amused by this dream – not so much for its content in and of itself, but for what it said about how much my brain had been struck by what I had learned about the day before.

I heard from a German friend of mine that in Germany people are not allowed to just name their children whatever they want. There is a book called the “International Manual of First Names” containing all the names a parent can choose from to legally name their children.  If you want to name your child something that is not on the list you have pay for an application that must then be sent to the Standesamt, the German civil registration office, for approval.

There are certain rules you must follow if you want your name to pass.  For example:

• Names must indicate the sex of the child.  If a first name is used as both a girl and boy’s name, it must be followed by a second first name that is clearly gender-descriptive.  Example: names like Jessie, Dominique, Erin, Robin or Andrea (which is usually a girl’s name in the US and in Germany but a boy’s name in Italy), must be followed by a second name that is blatantly male or female.

• Names from other languages are allowed, but must be common names somewhere in the world.  When applications for names from other cultures that are not already on the list are made, the Standesamt calls foreign embassies to verify that in fact this is a normal name in another country and that it is gender specific.

• You cannot name your child after a product.  Recent requests for Ferrari, Porsche and Pepsi-Cola were rejected, however Pepsi-Carola was approved as a girl’s name –  the council apparently decided this was technically not a product name.  You are also not supposed to give children place names (so no babies named Berlin or Seattle).  The Standesamt however has been known to make exceptions, for example the name Dakota was approved, for although it is a place name, they argued that the “a” on the end of the name made it sound like a girl’s name. The same argument was made for Lafayette.

• You are not allowed to name a child after a last name, like Shakespeare, Einstein, Lincoln or Obama.  However the council can bend this one on occasion, as there are certain names with a precedent of being both first and last names, for example Martin, Davy or Christie. Recently the name Anderson was approved after a lengthy and bitter appeals process.

• You may not name your child “evil” names.  So no baby Satans or Hells or Beelzebubs.  You could arguably name a baby Judas if you were give it a second name to distinguish this baby from Judas Iscariot.  Jihad was recently approved as a name after a dramatic legal dispute.  The Standesamt’s rejections were overcome in the end due to the political incorrectness of suggesting this Islamic concept was “evil.”

• You also may not give your child an excessive number of names. The longest name yet to be approved was 5 first names.  However hyphenated names count as one name, so you could hypothetically fit 10 names in disguised as five if you really, really wanted to –  for example:  Sophia-Marie Jessica-Alba Angelica-Elizabeth Patricia-Marissa Emily-Amanda, might be deemed, legally speaking, an acceptable first name for a baby girl.

A name also must not endanger the “well-being of the child.”  This is where the rules get particularly murky.  The Standesamt individually goes over names that raise red flags as potentially damaging to a child and eventually makes a legal verdict.

Given the horrors some children suffer through when they have names deemed humorous by their peers, perhaps a BIT of regulation is not a bad thing.  However the thing about the Standesamt that I find so interesting and so hilarious is how seemingly arbitrary so many of the rulings on these names are.  Yes, some babies have been protected from some pretty absurd names.  However some names that I think are kind of cool and interesting have been rejected, while an equal number of pretty silly names have been accepted.  It all seems to depend on the bias of the folks inside the Standesamt and the vague, and bizarre arguments they end up making either for or against.  This is bureaucracy at its most hilarious, yet (relatively) harmless.

For example:

A German couple who wanted to honor their favorite actress, Whoopi Goldberg, by naming their child Whoopi, had their application rejected because, among other things, the name resembles the English expression ‘making whoopee.’  I sincerely doubt German schoolchildren would be familiar with this expression, however the name was deemed inappropriate.

The name ‘Calotta’ was rejected because it was too similar to the French word ‘calotte,’ which means cap.  Huckleberry was rejected because it was considered “strange,” and because Huckleberry was deemed by the Standesamt to be an outsider in Mark Twain’s novels, and therefore not an appropriate basis for a namesake.

The Standesamt ruled the names ‘Legolas’ and ‘Nemo’ were acceptable baby boy names.  Tiger has been rejected as a first name, but recently a baby girl was allowed to be called Emma Tiger because the famous German actor Til Schweiger named his own daughter that in 2002 (which he was only able to do because she was born in Los Angeles), so the Standesamt ruled that the name has gained public recognition and therefore public acceptance and would no longer pose a threat to the well-being of a child.

Here is a quick reference of recent decisions for you in case you are considering having a baby in Germany and you’d like a bit of guidance.

Names recently allowed (most of these were okayed exclusively for one gender):

Emilie-Extra * Birkenfeld * Domino Carina *  Speedy Biene * Prestige * Fanta * Godot * Ineke *  Dior * Gor * Adermann * Julius Caesar * Galaxina * Cosma-Schiwa * Winnetou * Jazz * Kiana Lemetri *  Jesus * Büb  * Lynik * Wanek * Michael Cougar * Claus-Maria *  Lafayette * Pebbles * Latoya * Tanisha * Cheyenne * Chelsea * Ibanez Sophie * Bo * Laurence * Alisha * Uragano * Mikado * Sweer * Johannes-Marie * Merle * Raven * Maha * River * Roi * Gerrit *  Alke * Singh * Sundance * Tjorvven * Ogün * Leines * Luc * Mienaatchi * Beke * Mete * LouAnn * Emanuele * Pumuckl * Kolle * Mercedes *

Names recently rejected (some because they inappropriate for a certain gender, others because it was decided they were inappropriate altogether):

Berlin * Grammophon (Gramophone) * Hanuta * Crazy Horse * Porsche * Champagne * Puhbert * Tom Tom * Holgerson * Rosa  (as a middle name for a boy) * Schmitz * Holderson * Lindbergh * Ronit * Lord * Lenin* Navajo * La Toya * Sputnik * Stone * Schroder * Jenevje * Micha  (as the only first name for a boy) * Josephin * Rosenherz * Ogina * Heydrich * Megwanipiu * Marey * Bodhi * Jona * Pfeffeminze (Peppermint)* Borussia * Noah ben Abraham * Mechipchamueh * Venus (as a second name for a boy) * Cezanne * Schmitz *Moewe* Zooey * Kiran * Cezanne * Frieden-Mit-Gott-Allein-Durch-Jesus-Christus (Peace-With-God-Alone-by-Jesus-Christ) * Pushkin * Cain * McDonald * Simona (for a boy) * Woodstock* StorenFried * Agfa * Pillula * The symbol Pi

***

As someone with an unusual birth name, I really believe in the right to give one’s child an interesting, unique name.  So when I heard about this book of names I was momentarily appalled – in my American-ness as much as in my unique-named-ness, I hated the idea of so much state control that the government could actually tell you what is right or wrong as a name for your own child.

After all,  I love having a unique name.  It’s difficult for me to imagine what it’s like to have a name that lots of other people have, because for me my name has always been so deeply, utterly personal.  In fact it’s pretty weird to think that somewhere out there, there probably are a handful of other Pacificas. I am so accustomed to being the one and only person with my name around me, that a bit of my brain would shatter if I ever met another one

So I think unique names are great, and I will probably come up with some strange ones for my list of potential names when I have my own children.

However…

HOWEVER.  All this business about creative freewill gets quite foggy for me when it turns out so very many people have such horrible taste and are willing to give truly ridiculous names to their children for the sake of a good laugh.  In reading up a bit on “unique” baby names, I have learned that “creativity”  is certainly not always a good thing (especially when it comes to naming defenseless, vulnerable little newborns who have absolutely no say in the matter and will just have to live with the choice you make).

You’ve probably already heard about plenty of celebrity babies with interesting names:  Audio Science (Son of actress Shannyn Sossaman), Bluebell Madonna (Daughter of Singer Geri Halliwell), Daisy Boo (Daughter of chef Jamie Oliver), Pilot Inspektor (Son of actress Beth Riesgraf and actor Jason Lee), Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily (Daughter of television presenter Paula Yates and Singer Michael Hutchence), Dixie Dot (Daughter of television presenter Anna Ryder Richardson), God’Iss Love Stone (Daughter of Singer Lil’Mo), Jermajesty (Son of Singer Jermaine Jackson), Fifi Trixibell (daughter o Bob Geldof and Paula Yates, also parents to Peaches and Pixie), Sage Moonblood ( Son of Sylvester Stallone and Sasha Czack), Moxie CrimeFighter (Daughter of Penn Jillette (also father to Zolten)), Satchel (Daughter of  Spike Lee and Tonya Lewis Lee), Rocket (Son of Robert Rodriguez (also father to Racer, Rebel, Rhiannon, and Rogue), Tu Morrow (Daughter of Rob Morrow), Bogart Che Peyote (Son of David “Puck” Rainey), et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

You may, from this list, be under the impression that the US penchant for naming children somewhat ridiculous things is isolated to the rich and famous.  It turns out that people all over the US have a great fondness for bizarre names, pun names, joke names, and every other variety of bad names that make the above listed names seem within the realm of normal.

Through studying the US census, Michael Sherrod and Matthew Rayback put together a list of 2000 of some of the very worst names given to children in the US.

Mr. Sherrod and Mr. Rayback discovered names like Monster Moor, Goblin Fester, Cheese Ceaser, Leper Priest, Garage Empty, Hysteria Johnson, Nice Deal, Butcher Baker, Lotta Beers, Emma Royd, Post Office, Good Bye, King Arthur, Infinity Hubbard, Please Cope, Major Slaughter, Helen Troy, and variety of spinoffs of Ima Hogg (like Ima Pigg, Ima Muskrat, Ima Nut and Ima Hooker).

Matthew Rayback on the genesis of their book :

In the beginning, the idea for the book came from a group of names collected by the hard-working digitizers and indexers at Ancestry, who keep a running list of funny things they see in their work.

But from there, the project took us down a slippery slope of madness and confusion. Why would anyone name their child Hell Grimes? Or Lucifer Carmendo? Take the name Title Page. Or how about Magenta Flamingo? Ghoul Nipple? Mann Pigg? The list goes on and on. And on. Mary A. Belcher. Deuteronomy Temple

…The census changed the way I saw the world: partway through the project, we gave up on the list and started just thinking of any topic we could. Clothing? Try these names on for size: Shirt Duggan, Fedora Spurlock, or Socks Brockington.  How about numbers? We found every number from one to twenty, by tens to a hundred, and thousand, million, billion, and infinity—all as first names.  Hungry? Have a sandwich with Sandwich Green, Hoagie Hoagland, Mayo Head, or Tuna Fish. And keep in mind that almost every first name in this book shows up multiple times.

After a while, we were more surprised by what we didn’t find than what we did. Take, for example, the seven deadly sins: we found 149 people named Lust, seventy named Greed (with forty-two named Avarice), twelve named Sloth, twenty-four named Wrath, seventeen named Envy, and 830 named Pride. But for some reason, there was no one named Gluttony. So it’s okay to name your kid Wrath Gordon or Envy Burger, but not Gluttony? (Although I think Envy Burger is a good substitute.)

Today, I can’t go anywhere without wondering if the things I see will show up in the census…”

***

I don’t think the heart of the problem of these horrendous names are the names themselves, but rather bad parenting… and bad parenting is not for the most part regulable,  even in Germany.  While it is distressing to think about what kind of parent would name their child Ima Hooker or Leper Priest, the name on its own may not be as harmful to children as the German government suspects it is.  In fact I expect that their name will be the least of their problems if they have parents like that.

For their book Sherrod and Rayback ended up interviewing American adults who grew up with names like Candy Stohr, Cash Guy, Happy Day, Mary Christmas, River Jordan and Rasp Berry, with surprising results.  They found that on the whole folks with these sorts of names were actually quite proud of their names and happy to be unique.

According to the results of these interviews and a number of recent psychological studies, strange and silly names don’t have as much of a negative impact as once was thought.  When people have weird names and don’t do as well in life as people with normal names, the causal relationship to the effect of name itself is weak.  

In a study by psychologist Martin Ford, an assistant dean at George Mason University in Virginia, Ford found no correlation between the popularity or social desirability of a given name and academic or social achievement. “This doesn’t mean that a name would never have any effect on a child’s development,” he explained. “But it does suggest that the probability of a positive effect is as large as that of a negative effect. It also suggests that a name is unlikely to be a significant factor in most children’s development.”

I still lean towards trusting  Johnny Cash and Shel Silverstein over the the German Standesamt on this one… 

“And he said, “Son, this world is rough

And if a man’s gonna make it, he’s gotta be tough

And I knew I wouldn’t be there to help ya along

So I give ya that name and I said goodbye

I knew you’d have to get tough or die

And it’s the name that helped to make you strong”

If you like this post, here are some other posts you might like:

On the attitude problem of the French-

http://zoetropic.wordpress.com/2011/01/26/the-parable-of-france-and-the-mediocre-pants/

On random stuff from the Czech Republic:

http://zoetropic.wordpress.com/2011/04/29/the-most-random-things-ive-learned-about-czech-culture-this-week/

On American vs. British eating habits:

http://zoetropic.wordpress.com/2010/10/25/culture-clash-americans-vs-brits-at-restaurants/

In my mind, one of the very most enjoyable parts of traveling is coming into contact with the everyday parts of a culture that seem truly strange to the traveller and really highlight how different what’s considered “typical” or “funny” or “beautiful” or “delicious” or “appealing” might be depending on the location.

I ran into a few fun cultural oddities while in Prague, and a few more while reading up on the Czech Republic.  If you are interested in knowing more about things like “beer baths,” hip-hop marionettes and beetle absinthe, read on!

***

The infamous alcohol absinthe is such a famous brew in the Czech Republic that I wasn’t particular surprised to pass by an Absinthe Museum, replete with absinthe ice cream and absinthe coffee (to go!).  I was a bit more surprised, while in a convenience store to run into this apparently widely available beverage – Beetle Absinth.

The bottle contains a very large insect known in English as a Spiny Devil Walking Stick – or in Latin Eurycantha horrida.  Next time I’m in the Czech Republic I’m determined to be game enough to try it.

***

Marionettes are a particularly popular toy and art-form in the Czech Republic – there is even a National Marionette Theater. Gobs of stores all over Prague sell these beautiful dolls and the shopkeepers will often dance them around in front of the store to attract visitors.  We ran into this particularly talented and rhythmic Pinocchio one evening, who was a step above the rest:

And another combination of folk-art and pop culture…

***

As a testament not only to the Czech love of beer, but the Czech love of cats, we found this amazing mural in a restaurant called the Two Cats.

Closeup of the CAT BEING MILKED FOR BEER and then being offered the beer to drink.  Not quite sure what the business man is doing…

And for more evidence of the Czech passion for beer – here you can learn about the Beer Spa:

***

I ran into this video today and it just made me so happy.  Watch the first version I’ve included (without subtitles) and just TRY to imagine what the song might be about.

And now watch it with English Subtitles.  I can’t really express how happy this makes me….

The song, Jožin z bažin, is by Czech musician and comedian Ivan Mládek.

***

It’s so nice that after having gone through 40 years of very difficult communist rule, the Czechs can laugh about it.

***

This restaurant would probably not go over well in Great Britain or the United States after we all learned about Mad Cow disease…

***

I cannot decide if this is horrible, beautiful, disgusting, amazing or all of the above, but I definitely want to go see it.  The Church of Bones.

***

Semi-functional modern art with a comic twist-  the Peeing Men outside Franz Kafka’s house.

According to the Visiting Prague website:  ”These statues…created by famous Czech artist and sculptor David Cerny…are not just peeing, with the stream of water they write quotes from famous Prague residents. They move realistically by means of an electric mechanism driven by a couple of microprocessors swivels the upper part of the body, while the penis goes up and down. These statues became so popular among visitors that now you can send SMS message from mobile phone to a number, displayed next to the sculptures and the living statue then ‘writes’ the text of the message, before carrying on as before.”

***

Although this video looks suspiciously like a joke, it was actually the Czech Republic’s official 2009 entry to the Eurovision Song Contest.  Sadly, it did not get any votes.

***

While some things about art and culture deviate greatly from place to place, it’s amazing how completely identical CERTAIN things have become.  I bring you Česko Slovensko má talent (Czechs and Slovaks Have Talent!)

Same nervousness, same pre-performance, incredulous glances from the judges and audience.  Seemingly the same female judge as on all “Got Talent” shows.  Same surprise talent from otherwise dowdy individual. Same enrapt faces of judges.  Same post-performance exhilaration.  This formula clearly works on people across the planet…

***

Here’s a video of the President of the Czech Republic ostensibly stealing a pen.

I know this video has already kind of gone viral, but since it IS of the President of the Czech Republic, I had to share it again.

The president’s defense?  That he does this all the time!  ”It is what people do regularly. They keep notepads and pens from such events,” he said.

If you’d like to read another post about Prague please see:  Prague: Image and Impression

On Saturday night I stood outside a bar with a group of friends, waiting to get in. There were about a dozen of us – men and women all in our late 20’s and early 30’s.  We were kept waiting while streams of young women in their teens and early 20’s were ushered inside.  The bouncer had glanced at our group, and then proceeded to unwaveringly ignore us as he scanned the rest of the crowd, hand-picking those to be let inside.

We had spent all day out partying, the guys holding a bachelor party, while we ladies simultaneously held a bachelorette party. The groups merged around 1 AM and danced together until the bar we were in closed.  Everyone voted to continue the festivities, so we found ourselves standing outside one of the few places open past 2 AM in Pau.

The Beautiful Miss - soon to be Mrs.- Mel

Mel, the bachelorette, eventually went up to the bouncer and in somewhat tipsy, broken French tried to convince him to let us in. She attempted to explain to him that it was her bachelorette party. In French, bachelorette parties have an unusual name:  “enterrement de vie de jeune fille” – roughly translating to the burial/funeral of life as a young girl.

The bouncer flatly told Mel, a gorgeous 29-year old Canadian of Moroccan and Belarussian descent, that she was not a young woman at all and that he was currently only allowing genuine young women in.

Some of our group appeared ready to put up with this and wait, while one friend got so irate that he was on the verge of picking a fight with the bouncer, who happened to be twice his size.  We ended up leaving after making quite a scene, and probably making everyone who WAS let inside feel pretty good about themselves.

***

I thought, “So here I am on the other side of things.” I waited, observing myself cautiously to see how I would feel.

I was, until quite recently, a girl in my 20′s, and this was the first time I had ever run into a problem actually getting into a bar.  It was an interesting new phenomenon.  After it became clear that the bouncer had no use for us, I was waiting for the sting to kick in.  I was expecting at any moment to feel the insecurity, the rejection, to feel old and ugly, to feel bad about myself.  But it didn’t happen.  It never happened. I didn’t feel old or ugly.  I felt a bit tired (we HAD been dancing for hours already, and celebrating since mid-afternoon) but I realized that I still felt beautiful.  I had been feeling great all day – full of mirth and sparkles – and nothing that man could say or do – neither his rejection of me and my friends nor his definition of us as “old,” could change that.

I knew that the idea that everyone under 30 is young and everyone over 30 is washed up was a construct, but it’s really different knowing something intellectually and finding out how you actually FEEL about it.

This was one the first times I had really had my feelings about being 30 tested.  I had been able to stand there, and be judged “old” and not feel anything more than slightly sardonic about it. I smiled and thought, “I am more than all of this.  I am not just a person in a line.  I am not just my age.  I am more than the fine lines that are starting to show up on my face. I am more than my clothing and the size of my hips and breasts. You cannot define me.”

It felt like that moment near the end of one of the quintessential movies from my childhood, “Labyrinth,” when the heroine finally remembers how to say, “You have no power over me” to the Goblin King.

You have no power over me.  I felt light as a feather.  I felt suddenly like I could see right through the bouncer, right through the door of the club, right through all the people inside and everything happening in it, beyond and beyond for miles and miles.

Maybe it was just tipsiness, but being outside the bar seemed exactly the same as being inside.  It made no difference – all the people were the same. Each of them would get older every day just like me.  They would be what they are now until they became something different. We would all get wrinkles and grey hair and we would all die.  I am neither less nor more than anyone else, and I never was and never will be.  They are not too young and I am not too old.  We are each precisely what we should be at this moment.

***

It probably sounds silly to have been analyzing it so much.  I had never cared about being ABLE to get into bars easily before, and I have never been someone who frequents selective dance clubs.  If getting in never mattered before, why would not getting in matter now?  More than anything else it was a representative moment to me, where I could test the waters and feel what it might be like to have my twenties completely behind me and to be heading into something new and inarguably different.

I watched the pretty young women entering the bar.  They all had fresh young cheeks colored by blush and nervousness, they wore high heels, tight clothes and were caked in night makeup.  They presented themselves one by one to be looked over and giggled nervously as the bouncer motioned for them to pass.

And then I looked at our rag-tag group of ladies and smiled.  We were glorious.

We had all started the day at a baby shower – it had been a magnificently hot day for April so we were all wearing sundresses or jeans and t-shirts.   We wore flip-flops and almost no makeup.  We were sweaty from dancing and our hair was bedraggled.  We wore colorful scarves and sequins as sashes and bandanas, to show solidarity with the bachelorette who wore a pink nightgown over her dress. We looked more like we belonged on an all-female pirate ship than in a night club.  We looked like we didn’t give a shit – because we didn’t.  We had been having an absolutely awesome day with a bunch of really cool, fun women. We weren’t there to impress, to decorate the bar, to be coquettish, to get phone numbers, to play the part – we were there to have a good time with our friends.  And the bouncer could see this.  We weren’t what he was looking for.

***

Apart from the price of the drinks, nightclubs are mostly exactly the same wherever you go – it doesn’t matter if it’s Paris, New York or Pau –  selling the same mystique of purported exclusivity. The goal is to fill these places with young pliable women who are out to impress and with men who are willing to buy them drinks, creating a cocktail of youth, glamour, beauty, and booze, topped with a hint of sex.

The appeal of the “jeune fille” is not just her beauty – it is her freshness, her naivete, her readiness to please whether she sees it that way or not.  She all too often is ready to be what others want her to be, wanting to be wanted, feeling incomplete, so pretty but so incomplete, although she’s painted in confidence and her heels click audaciously with each step.

***

In high school and college I was confident and absolutely insecure at the same time.  I wanted to feel special, I wanted to be appreciated, and I wanted to feel powerful.  I wanted my insecurities to be quieted, if only temporarily.  I was pretty but I did not believe it and I tortured myself over it.

Tender 22

There is more change in me than just my cheeks being thinner and more sunken, and the skin around my eyes crinkling when I smile.  I also feel alright letting myself believe that maybe I am still beautiful, even if I look older and different now.  I try not to care  about having short legs, crooked teeth, a long nose, wide thighs, a bony chest and all those other things that used to bother me so much. I know that when I let myself feel beautiful, I become more so, regardless of all those “imperfections.”

I also do not need to feel substantiated, verified, authorized, or endorsed by men.  I’m not quite sure when that changed.  If I go out, I still want to feel pretty and confident, but it is different somehow.  When I feel beautiful now (although of course this still comes and goes), it’s a deeper feeling, a very peaceful one which confidence naturally accompanies, and it has nothing to do with what anyone else thinks.

Perhaps that is part of why women over thirty are not night-club prime material.  It is not because we aren’t beautiful or hot, it is not because we don’t dress well or we don’t have sex appeal.  It’s because by then we’re not as pliable and naive.  We don’t feel like we have to try so hard, we feel more comfortable just being ourselves. But once we get to THAT point, and start developing a stronger sense of our true value, we get told we’re old and don’t have any anymore.  It’s an amazing gimmick.

***

All your teens and early 20’s you are told you are too young, and you have to fight to be taken seriously, to be treated like an adult, to grow up, to be noticed.  And then, after just a tiny handful of years of being the “right” age according to cultural standards, suddenly you are “too old.”

And even during the “right” years you are still told you are too fat or too thin, too short or too gangly, too flat-chested or too curvy, too pale or too dark.  And just when you maybe start realizing that your body, while not perfect, is still beautiful, just when you start feeling good about yourself, they start hitting you with “you’re getting old,” and telling you you need all sorts of products to fix it and hide it.

Our society is totally obsessed with the 20′s, as though no other part of life is as great or matters as much.  Men and women both are convinced that not only must you use all your time in your twenties to develop a high-powered, successful career (because if you’re not something by 30 you will never be anything at all), but you had better develop a meaningful, deep relationship that turns into marriage (because if you don’t do this by 30, no one will ever want you later), and all the while you better have as much fun as possible in your 20′s because that’s when you’re young (after that everything gets harder and you have more responsibilities, and you’ll never be so carefree again).  And by the way you should think about having a baby soon too – because it’s harder the older you get.

We are told we must do all we can to squeeze every last drop of life out of our 20’s because after that everything is downhill.

**

I actually was happy to turn 30. I had felt there was something nebulous about my 20’s, like they were more of a dress rehearsal for something, and I now I was ready to truly become myself.

I think it’s been quite similar for a lot of my friends.  Some people had it together a long time ago, but most of us didn’t. Only now, on the cusp of 30, are we finally coming into our own in a way that wasn’t possible before.

So, with our 20′s behind us, we are finally more solid, we are more real, we are more confident, we are more skilled, we are smarter, we are happier. It doesn’t seem like it’s going to be all downhill from here.  In fact, I think I am ok with burying the jeune fille, so long as I can replace her with the wiser, happier, more capable woman that I feel I am becoming.  It seems like a fair exchange.