More Liberated Than Ever

I am glad to be back to digging in to politics, race, class, and especially gender on right be done. The last job I took was all consuming, so all consuming that I quit. So I'm back. I'm trying to be a bit lighter, a bit sillier, and a bit less mean, but there's only so much a coot like me can do, so here goes.

I am buying new furniture.

In this case, the furniture that I am considering buying is AWESOME! It is unbelievably cool, elegant, and efficient. Essentially, I am buying Murphy Beds on steroids. But you don't have to trust me on this account. Check out the video of this furniture transitioning HERE.

This bed is called the Ito, like "If the glove don't fit..,"

And I know you aren't reading this because you are interested in the living section of People magazine, although you might be, but that's not why you're reading this. However, for the last 6 years, it has been the basic tenant of this blog that every action we have is always already laden with prejudice, and that extends to the furniture we buy.

So how is my furniture purchase laden with prejudice? Well, this is a purchase made necessary by choices driven by a liberation philosophy. On the opposite end of liberation philosophy is "Extreme Mascunility." A major tenant of extreme masculinity is that men must subjectify themselves, that is to say that they must be the subjects of their actions, instead of the objects. This is an obvious corollary to the objectifying that men do with women, notably in the famous meat grinder Hustler cover seen here.

She looks cold.

By the way, the image on the left was this year's December Playboy cover, as posted on Sharenator.

So much for keeping it light...

Like the boy scouts, the subjectified man must always "be prepared." If we are not prepared, we may find ourselves objectified, and we all know what objectification leads too, right ladies? (For reference, see Hustler's 1978 cover.)



Subjectified men are large and in charge. It is a sad fact of history that whenever too much masculinity gets comfortable, something gets conquered. In the latest installment of the ridiculous reality show that is Extreme Masculinity, American suburban men are conquering their landscapes with their McMansions. After all, our home is our castle, and we must rule all we can see.

Being prepared, and being large and in charge are as closely related as newly weds in Arkansas (that one was for you, Steph), and both play a substantial role in how men choose to live. In a society where capitalism is corrupted by commercialism, wherever there is a need, there is something to fill that need, and sometimes if there is no need, there is a marketing campaign that will create a need.

Picking up our dogs poop with a bag may be the time-tested way of dealing with that problem, but Martha Stewart will sell a pooper scooper (see left) that will do it for us faster, cleaner, and more wastefully. Renting a rug shampooer, or hiring someone to shampoo a rug would objectify us, so we buy a cut rate carpet shampooer to do it ourselves. Once a year or so, we need a truck, so we buy a truck and haul it around with us for the other 350 days. Our cars are awesome, our televisions are terrific, our tools can repair anything, our collections are complete, our technology is up-to-date, our carpets are shampooed, and our pooper is mother-fucking scoopered. Don't worry, we think to ourselves, we got this.

Metastasizing McMansion complex.

In order to keep all of this preparation in our homes, we need a garage for our truck(s), a basement to store our carpet cleaner, a shed for our tools, a room dedicated solely to our televisions, and so on and so forth. Thus was born the McMansion. A real man never has to make a choice. If we want something, we conquer it.

But we are all always already both subjects and objects in life. We are all reliant on our societies, our families, our friends, our coworkers, our communities, and yes our government, just as they are all reliant on us. Human beings are super-socializers by nature and necessity. And the line between subject and object is as imaginary as Obamacare death panels. The true path to liberation isn't encapsulating ourselves in fiefdoms made of ticky-tacky. Men must liberate ourselves. We must stop taking our lessons from "Preppers," and start reinvesting in our neighborhoods and our families.

With all of this in mind, I decided that liberation means living smaller, slower, and more socially. I decided that not "conquering" means living sustainably with a lifestyle that is more familiar in the rest of the globally developed nations, particularly in Europe and Japan. That means making choices and setting priorities. That means making do, which is the part of "being prepared" that I chose to keep from extreme masculinity.

It is sad that we are losing the philosophy of "making do" in all of this commercialized ecstasy. It is sad because study after study shows that people are happier when they do prioritize, and when they make do. Study after study shows that the house, the car, the job, and even Martha Stewart's Pooper Scooper can make us happy for up to a year, but usually more like six months, and it is simply not worth the debt,  the stress, the carbon footprint, the water demands, and the deep neurotic need to objectify the people in our lives. Because after the six months of happiness are over, the problems remain.

When I talk like that, people think I'm being a martyr. When I say I like living smaller, slower, and more socially, they think I mean that my conscience likes it. But when I look at the Ito above, I realize that modern engineering has made it possible to live comfortably and truly happily without all the toys, and without the McMansion. And when I see this beautiful desk that we will be putting in for one of the boys, I am glad that I am handing on that realization to the next generation. Because when we live small, we bump into one another. And when we bump into our loved ones, our neighbors, and our community, we are forced to think differently, and stretched to be happier, more liberated people.

Thanks for reading again after all this time.

Dancer in the Park

A grand jete. Photo by Franny Schertzer

Yesterday, I took my son to the zoo. We found a park in between the giraffes and the camels and started doing our game I call "Jetes." If you have any dance training at all, you'll recognize a jete as a leap. From ballet it has been adopted by almost every other form of dance because, hey, dancers love to leap. As we play jetes, my son and I leap around going as high in the air as we can and shouting, "jete, jete" at the top of our lungs, regardless of the company we are keeping.

It is an unusual game, but it is a game that has inspired a great deal of other children (and some teenagers) to replicate us. Dance is the purest embodiment of joy in the universe. There is no barrier, no limb or appendage, no part of your consciousness between yourself and an expression of energy and exuberance when you are allowing yourself to give way to dance. And watching my son reflecting my amateur park dancing, I felt pride that my son was so uninhibited and expressive. In liberating myself from masculanization, I discovered a fulfilling emotional life, and I have given my son the chance to free himself.

Another family was nearby, and our lyrical steps soon led us into their midst. A five-year-old boy in a soccer shirt and pair of shiny sport shorts approached me to ask, "What are you doing?"

Kensington Park by Jospephson.

I answered, "We're doing jetes. It's a dance move."

From behind his gender drag, he asked me, "Can I see it again?"

So I did a couple of straight jetes and a ballet move that I enjoy a great deal called a grand allegro. Of course, I am terrible at these. At 6'4" and 185 pounds, my allegros are more floppy fish than soaring swan. Pretty soon, a passel of kids was chasing me around the little enclosure of grass, surrounded by the braying of animals at the zoo, the humphing of camels, a caw from a peahen, an occasional spurt of laughter from a distant hyena, and we were all leaping for the sky with our arms held suborbital over our heads.

Five children and myself leaped about on the grass as their dads watched, with expressions on their faces like I was turning leading their children out of Ireland with a pan-pipe of homosexual deviancy. However, it was not long before one of the dads pulled himself out of his bewilderment and did what men so often do when they are uncomfortable. He turned to violence.

He pulled aside the boy in gender drag and introduced him to a karate chop, then encouraged the boy to practice on him. The dancers in the park were soon ninjas on the attack. Even my own son, seeing that all of the other boys had been transitioned to acts of violence on one another, started to practice making Bruce Lee sounds while his joyful facial expression crumpled into the closest approximation of hate and intimidation that his chubby cheeks could muster.

The dad who had turned away from the deviant behavior of dance to the socially acceptable simulated violence was scowling himself, which is apparently the appropriate facial expression for men at play. I redirected my son and the girl back to peaceful and joyful dance, but my heart wasn't in it. The little boys knew their place. They had been successfully trained to know that "dance" involved pink tutus and girly slippers. Their momentary confusion that dance was something fun and powerful was just a lapse in judgment, promptly cured by Dad's reminder that they should be pretending to hurt one another.

I was reminded of one of the most instructive gender-training moments of my childhood. My own first ballet class ended in crying as I realized that I was the only boy. My fear of what it meant to be feminized drove me to wander the hallways with tears streaming down my face. If I was doing something that was for girls, did that mean that my friends, who refused to play with girls, wouldn't play with me anymore? What about all the finery that I saw on the dance floor? The tutus and leotards that I didn't own only served to show me how foreign ballet was from the life for which I was being trained. 10 years later, I started taking ballet again, this time in the early stages of a teenage rebellion that would form my belief in the necessity of men's liberation.

Virtual image by Jie Loon.

Still, for a brief moment, on the plain between the giraffes and the camels at the Denver Zoo, I was able to imagine a world where small boys were not introduced to violence as a matter of course. In this world, it is acceptable and encouraged for boys to spend their afternoons learning about jetes and grand allegros. In the world to come, perhaps even my future grandson's generation, the default game of choice with a dad will not be pretend to beat each other up, but express yourself through clumsy, but powerful, leaps.

Daddy Kisses

According to Stroller Derby blog http://blogs.babble.com/strollerderby/2010/09/22/should-dads-kiss-their-daughters-on-the-lips/ "An anonymous woman, who signed her letter “Want My Husband’s Lips for Myself,” finds her husband’s habit of kissing his 5-year-old daughter on the mouth to be “a sexual gesture and very inappropriate.”"

The writer's opinion derives from the belief that man are unable to control their sexual desires. We used to say that women were bringing it on themselves when they were raped because everybody knows that men can't control themselves. Second wave feminism, meanwhile, has rightly convinced that blaming the woman for their sexual assaults is wrong, but we haven't internalized the necessary corrolary that men are fully and completely in control of their sexual urges.

Masculinity makes men out to be animals, incapable of true relationships with women because they become sex machines the second they get a peck on the lips. I say, kiss your daughters, kiss your sons, kiss your friends. Liberate your lips! Let's have a national kiss your loved ones day and continue our liberation from masculinity.

Red Tent or Speak Easy?

Over the past several months, I have joined my wife on perhaps the most magnificent and meaningful activity of human life. Week after week, I have watched her grow my child. During that time, I have attended 9 appointments to her midwives, and witnessed her give birth. I have witnessed and felt more than I knew I could or was welcome to witness and feel. Most of the time, I was the only dad in the waiting room. I attended and helped to plan a baby shower where only one man showed up (thank you Damian). Throughout the entire process, women and men alike were astounded when it was made evident that I had done my research and that I had opinions on how Luca would start his life. Like the Tide commercial that ran during these last Olympics ("To their mom's, they're always kids"), the entire process was aimed at moms, and the word dad never even came up.

However, I was welcomed by the midwives and doulas, and the women in my life who wanted to talk about the baby. If I felt uncomfortable, it was only because there was a bouncer to the door of my masculinity asking, "Are guys really supposed to be here? Oh yeah? What's the password?" At my wife's first appointment, the midwife proceeded with the gynocological exam without asking me to leave the room, and casually offered to show me the cervix. It was clear at that moment that the flap to the door of the "Red Tent" was wide open, and it was only my self-oppression, my inner-masculinity-bouncer, that kept me from going in. But I went in. What was the pass word? A simple, "Thank you, yes."

Manifesto To Eliminate Masculinization (Part One)

Men are caged by fear, suffering and unhappiness. Suicide rates, self-destructive behavior, and neurotic violent tendencies belie this fact. This group must consciously support the quiet and radical revolution already under way. We must free men!
The women’s liberation movement cannot succeed until men too are freed from traditional gender’s tyrannical grip. Only a concerted effort to liberate men will provide significant race and national origin equality. Anti-gay bigotry, above all other kinds of prejudice, is rooted in the maniacal maintenance of traditional masculinity (hereafter “masculinity”). Therefore, the next logical step in the continually progressing civil rights movement must be the liberation of males from masculinity.
The women’s equality movement has begun to liberate men, kicking and screaming, but only with a more concentrated effort on the destruction and reconstruction of masculinity can we advance the freedom of men. Likewise, without a full frontal assault on masculinity, women’s is ended, and will not be able to progress, because women and men are intimately connected. Many women share their most intimate relationships with men, and so long as a man is suffering, so too will any person of empathy who loves that man. Suffering is the root of all fear, and fear is responsible for paralysis and retreat. When suffering does not bring about fear, it brings anger. Men should be angry that they are suffering at the whim of improbable oppression. However, all too often, that anger irrationally becomes violence against those who most desire to end their suffering. Too often, that same suffering is turned into violence that is used to make sure that other men suffer. This society can end the suffering of men. Society must direct its anger at masculinity itself and, finally, after millennia of the most insidious and malicious oppression, we must liberate ourselves.
In the next couple of weeks, this blog will publish a manifesto of freedom for men and all persons who have ever had any relationship with men. Acknowledging that if men are freed, it is due to feminist and critical race thinkers, this writing is not a work of academics, but a work of punditry and passion at best. In the next entry, the nature of the Masculization process will be shown to be a cycle of violence filled with bribes and punishments. After that, different specific functions of masculinity will be highlighted for elimination, from capitalism (an inherently masculine and violent method of societal interaction) to the male eviction from the home.