You know those experiences that you never imagine yourself having until you find yourself in one feeling dazed and confused? For me, attending a Chippendales performance was one of those.
I will (shamefully) admit that I swoon and blush like a pubescent middle school girl when confronted with an overly-oiled perfect set of six-pack abs but, prior to this performance, I wouldn't say I was extremely enthusiastic about watching “Magic Mike” come to life. I couldn't be sure that I would be able to watch a 3-hour performance of thoroughly lubricated men parade their half-naked bodies in front of a crowd of mostly hot-and-bothered cougar types and be ok with myself coming out the other side. So, naturally, I decided to drink. I’ll admit, these guys put on a fun show. And with each over-priced cocktail that I knocked back, I found myself caught up in the music and the frenzy of female arousal that swirled around the concert hall like a heavy perfume. Unfortunately, no amount of rail vodka could help me to shake the nagging irritation at the underlying sexism of it all. While the barbie-esque blonde next to me instagramed furiously and shrieked with delight as each new costume crumpled to the stage, I held back my annoyance and told my feminist rage to shut up. In “traditional” strip clubs, i.e. those that cater to a male audience (and yes, I have been to one of those too…it was a strange Thursday night when a group of us thought it would be a fun “adventure’) the women are just…there. They “perform” per say, but mainly they are a living fixture within the overall decor. They don’t interact with their patrons unless the patrons desire it. The man holds the power. In the strip club for the female equivalent, Men also have the power. What’s up with that? We, the women, have a show put on for us and although our $40 ticket came from real money what we see (or don’t see), as well as what we certainly never get to touch, is decided by the strippers. The man’s prized possession, his penis, is treated like some sacred gem that can’t be exposed to the stage lights or “uncorrupted” female eyes for too long because it might shrivel up and die. It’s a constant reminder that any awareness and power in our own sexuality will always be out of reach, just beyond that campy, over-sized “CENSORED” sign. We can ogle the prize bulls but only from the safety of our chairs where our arousal can be contained. If you want the chance to get near the stars you have to pay $20 per person just for, wait for it…a picture. Men can get a lap-dance for less. Beyond the basic levels of suppressed sexuality, equally as troubling was the image of the “ideal” male that Chippendales promotes as every woman’s fantasy come to life. The archetypes of men were paraded in front of us like a well-toned sushi buffet…with more beef than seafood. Beyond the “perfect” bodies what I got was that if my guy is not a hip hop dancer, fireman, cowboy or soldier with an encyclopedic knowledge of sex positions that he can execute perfectly…then he is not a real man. It’s a frustrating reinforcement of the unattainable standard that women think they are supposed to seek out in a mate. One particularly bizarre moment was a “military” scene where the men marched out in United States Coast Guard uniforms to the music of Enrique Iglesias’ “Hero” while a billowing American flag was projected on the screen behind them. Maybe I was being overly-critical and missing the “fun” of it all, but watching those pretend, proud soldiers strip down to their star spangled boxers and discard their uniforms into a pile on the dusty stage, it all struck me as very far off from patriotic. Am I glad that I went? Kinda. Would I do it again? Probably not. I understand women’s excitement and enthusiasm for these types of shows. I get that they seem sexy, dangerous and naughty. I just hope that these same women recognize that what the Chippendales sells is not realistic and that their product is not something that is attainable in real life.
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Let’s talk a nice, light topic for a Friday afternoon: RACISM. Why racism? Because I heard something today that pissed me off. Here’s how it started. I’m driving to work listening to The Diane Rehm Show on NPR because she’s my girl and I have the same interests as those of my 70-year-old grandma. Today the panel was discussing the Michael Dunn case in Florida. If you haven’t heard of it then you’ve probably heard of the George Zimmerman/Trayvon Martin case. If you haven’t heard of that than climb out from your swamp hole and join the real world. Here’s a summary of what happened in the most recent case: “Dunn, who is white, killed 17-year-old Jordan Davis in November 2012 after having an argument with him over loud music in a convenience store parking lot where Davis sat in an SUV with three young friends. Dunn fired 10 shots, including three at the SUV as it was fleeing” (The Huffington Post). The jury, who maybe misinterpreted the meaning of “a white man shooting after a fleeing car occupied by three black kids,” did not reach a verdict on the top charge of murder which resulted in a mistrial for that charge. The NPR panel discussed the Stand Your Ground law and the similarity to the Zimmerman case. I do not have enough authority to really comment on the integrity of the trial or the legal actions involved but I can look at the situation and all I can say is….really!? According to CNN, Dunn’s defense was that Davis had a weapon, either a gun or a lead pipe even though police reports indicated that the teens were unarmed. While I understand the importance of discussing these cases in a manor that gives equal consideration to both parties, I find it so infuriating to listen to any calm, unbiased dialogue about something that is so clearly an issue seeped in blatant racism. Davis and his friends were listening to loud music, sure, that might be annoying, but does that motivate murder? For most normal people, no. This was something much more deeply rooted. During the end of a slow lunch shift as a few of my coworkers and I stood around trying to look busy whenever a manager passed, two of my companions started what I can only call “Arab-bashing.” I can’t say I haven’t been in this uncomfortable position before. It may not always be about Arabs, other times it’s been about Asians, gay people, Indians, whomever…but I’m ashamed to say that I usually say nothing or just walk away. One coworker, will call him R, literally says, “Of all the races, I hate Middle Easterns the most.” Today I walked away again but I did say something first. I told them that my boyfriend is Arab. This wasn’t a lie, my guy is from Lebanon and he also happens to be awesome. I walked away to go refill somebody’s water cup and I was surprised to find R waiting for me when I got back. He wanted to explain himself. He said that the way Arabs tips is what pisses him off. When I replied that the few don’t represent the masses he went on a rant about how we give all of the money to Pakistan and then they shoot us. I really did just walk away this time. It made me sad to realize something about racism and, more directly, the Dunn case. The older a person gets and the longer they are isolated from the “other” the less likely it is that anyone can ever bring them back from the brink. Dunn’s actions weren’t an instinctual, defensive reaction. He attacked because something as simple as loud music triggered his anger at a perception of an entire race. Loud music = obnoxious black kids = thugs = everything wrong about America. It offended him in a deep part of his personality that has been conditioned by years of exposure to inaccurate ideas. How can the average person combat that in every day encounters? Am I right to walk away? When I engaged I was talked over. I could probably point out every flawed bit of information that R was spitting out but it wouldn’t change his mind in the slightest. It may seem like a huge jump from a few racist jokes muttered between coworkers to premeditated murder but it’s a progression that can happen. We can separate ourselves from the things that offend us and never attempt to understand. I’m happy I spoke up. But I also feel frustrated. I can see it from R’s perspective. He’s not well-educated and he most likely never will be. I doubt he’s left the state of Virginia more than a handful of times in his entire life. I get why he believes in the things he says, however wrong they are. But I can’t forgive him for it and I don’t want to go along like they don’t bother me. If I don’t speak up, I may not be pulling the trigger or telling the joke, but the damage is still done. |
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