Ten years later, you get hauled up before a committee

I had been working with “posts” to my “blog” for a while before it occurred to me that a post I published on Saturday Evening was a Saturday Evening Post. You wouldn’t think it would have taken me that long, but it did.

This Saturday, I want to honor Benjamin Franklin who assembled the first Saturday Evening Post and also Howard da Silva, who plays the part of Franklin on Broadway and in the movie version of 1776. John Adams prevails on him to write the Declaration of Independence. Franklin declines on the grounds that his prose doesn’t have the necessary gravity.

 Mr. Adams
But, Mr. Adams
The things I write are only light extemporania
I won’t put politics on paper
It’s a mania
I refuse to use the pen in Pennsylvania

Howard da Silva makes a great Franklin, but there is more to his story than I knew. He was born Howard Silverblatt in Cleveland in 1909. He was charged as “a troublemaker” by fellow actor Robert Taylor and called before the House Unamerican Activities Committee. He refused to answer their questions and was promptly blacklisted.

I suspect that Stan Freberg knew that. You never really know about Freberg. It is true, nevertheless, that in his History of the United States, Volume 1, Freberg presents a little dialog between Franklin and Jefferson. Jefferson is trying to get Franklin to sign the Declaration of Independence. He calls it “a little petition I’ve been circulating around the neighborhood.” Franklin is reluctant.

Jefferson:      Come on and put your name on the dotted line.
Franklin:        I got to be particular what I sign.
Jefferson:      It’s just a piece of paper
Franklin:       Just a piece of paper, that’s what you say.
Jefferson:      Come on and put your signature on the list.
Franklin:       It looks to have a very subversive twist.
Jefferson:      How silly to assume it. Won’t you nom de plume it today? You’re so skittish, who possibly could care if you do.
Franklin:       The un-British Activities Committee, that’s who.

My guess is that Freberg knew da Silva or at least knew about him and that’s why the un-British Activities Committee shows up in the song. You sign a harmless piece of paper, Franklin whines, and “ten years later, you get hauled up before a committee.”  He also says he’s too busy to be messing with politics. “You know,” he says, “every Saturday evening, I bring out the mag.”

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Owning Less

I own a lot of books and I own different ones for different reasons.  I’m going to have to get rid of nearly all of them soon and I find myself stumbling over how different those reasons are from each other.  That’s what this post is about.

The default date Bette and I have chosen for moving out of our home here in Southwest Portland and moving into a retirement center of some sort is 2017.[1]  That isn’t a hard date.  It’s the time when we want to be ready to move—we’ve chosen a place and made some early payments and located ourselves at the top of whatever list we want to be on—not the time when we absolutely will move.  Still, I am mindful of my father’s often-repeated maxim that it is good to “pre-think the inevitable.”

Wherever we move, we will have something like a fifth of the space for books that is currently occupied by books where we live now.  We need to get rid of four fifths of our books.  It’s hard to say it out loud and take it seriously.

That brings me to the question of why I have the books I have.  Some of the books I have are biographically significant.  I have the revised edition of Dolbeare and Edelman’s American government text, which has a nice little recognition of me in the acknowledgements and the substantially different treatment of the federal bureaucracy that I had asked for.  That doesn’t seem like a book I should get rid of.  I have the copy of Jim Davies’ Human Nature and Politics which I was reading when I called him at the University of Oregon and told him I was blown away by the book and wanted to do doctoral studies with him.  That’s what got me to Oregon.  I have my brother John’s signed copy of his Galapagos: Exploring Darwin’s Tapestry, which, in addition to being a well-conceived, well-written, and beautiful book,acknowledges my contributions to its present form.  I’m not going to give books like that to the Salvation Army.

I have reference books.  I have a lot of reference books.  Most of them are biblical commentaries or cribs of one kind or another.  Some are etymological collections I couldn’t find elsewhere..  And there are some reference books that you really need to have within arm’s reach, even if you could go to the library and find them.

I have books I read over and over.  If I designed a graphic like this Venn diagram, the red spot would be a great deal larger.  I read The Lord of the Rings over and over.  I read the four Lord and Lady Peter Wimsey books quite a bit.  I read Ursula LeGuin’s Hainish Trilogy and EarthSea books.  And other, less respectable collections as well.  I want to keep the books I read over and over, no matter how big the red spot gets.

The political science books that I have kept around as markers for a path I might be moved to take some time will have to go.  It won’t be hard to do without the books, but it will be hard to say out loud that I will never actually pursue this or that very interesting path of inquiry.  Evolutionary psychology will probably fall into that category, as will brain studies, world culture conflicts, and nearly everything about contemporary politics.  The books on the psychology and sociology of intimate relationships, about dating and true love (not the same thing, in my experience), and histories of marriage in the West since the Industrial Revolution, will have to go.  I will make an exception of Gary Chapman’s The Five Languages of Love because it has been such a good book for Bette and me and because it is about the need to find and learn the language your partner understands best.

No more new novels in paper form.  Probably Kindle books or whatever has replaced Kindle by that time.  Or I will buy them and read them and pass them along.  And then if I have to read them again (that red spot), I will try to get one from the library.

So—as you can see—it isn’t the books that make this hard.  It’s the rationales.  I have become the person I am in large part by reading and internalizing the information and the arguments in these books.  Now I’m going to have to find out how well I do without the books.  The reasons for having books are so powerful; the reasons for not having them seem, somehow, weaker.

Well Dad, it’s time to “pre-think the inevitable.”  Maybe I’ll start on it tomorrow.


[1] We have looked at a few places.  There are some very good places in Portland.  But now we run into decision criteria, like is “good enough” really good enough or does it have to be the best of the available options?  Do we want the best place or the place with best access to downtown Portland?  We haven’t looked at a place I couldn’t be happy, but where I am living has never been the biggest single determinant of whether I’m happy.

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Can we owe a debt of forgiveness?

We are a credit-driven society.  We know all about debts.  You see something you want to buy, you give the merchant your credit card (thereby acquiring a debt) and when, eventually, the bill comes, you pay it, thus discharging the debt.  That’s how it goes.  Being “forgiven” this debt is nearly inconceivable[1].  Even bankruptcy doesn’t do that.[2]

It is our individualism that makes this so clear.  If you didn’t buy it, then you don’t owe a debt for it.  But we weren’t always so individualistic and our notions of forgiveness come from a setting that was much more collectivist than we are.  The people of Israel were bound in a covenant with God.  You don’t get much more collectivist than that.

A part of this covenant with God was that there was a collectivity (a tribe, let’s say) that owed a debt.  It was an obligation.  Often it was clear how the debt was to be discharged, but it was not always clear just who was to do the discharging.  That’s where forgiveness comes in.

Let me give a simple example.  Redemption was a part of the Israelite covenant.[3]  Leviticus 25 offers a good example.  Every Israelite properly belonged to God, therefore there would have to be some limits put on the length of time anyone could be a slave, even if he sold himself into slavery.  Selling yourself into slavery is like hocking yourself at the pawnshop.  You probably shouldn’t have allowed things to get that bad, but you did.  You screwed up so badly, let’s say, that you really don’t deserve to be redeemed.  We can imagine that, can’t we?

The interesting thing about the Israelite covenant is that it really didn’t matter whether you deserved to be redeemed or not.  You belong to God.  You are not, to use an expression with New Testament overtones, your own.  God deserves for you to be redeemed, to be restored to Him.  You may not deserve it, but God deserves it.  And for that reason, someone has a debt.  It is not a debt to you.  It is a debt to God.  The debt is discharged when someone—probably a close kinsman—goes to the man who owns you and pays him the money he demands to release his claims on your labor.  You have now been redeemed.  You don’t belong to yourself now because you never belonged to yourself.  You belong to God again, and not to the slave owner to whom you had hocked yourself.

We are now in a position to reconsider the forgiveness of debts.  Raymond E. Brown, in a lecture on the beginnings of the church, says that he thinks that Matthew’s “debts” is historically richer than Luke’s “trespasses.”  Brown’s idea is that you “trespass against” someone by committing an act against him or her.  “Trespass” is a clear act.  But you can owe a “debt” to someone you don’t know.  Brown thinks that Matthew had the covenant obligations in mind.  I might “owe you” redemption, for instance.  If you are from my tribe and if you were sold into slavery and if I am your closest kinsman, then I owe you your freedom.  I may not know you.  If I know you, I may not like you.  But because we both belong to the covenant of God and because you should have no other owner than God, I have a debt to you.  I am to find you and make the transaction with your owner that will restore you to God.

I have a debt to God, but because of that debt, I owe an action to you.  If I did not take that action for whatever reason, I would need to be forgiven by you and by God, since I had transgressed against both.  It is for that reason, Brown argues, that “forgive us our debts” reaches so deeply into the community.

As Christians, we don’t have the covenant obligations our Israelite forbears had.  In fact, the apostle Paul struggled over and over with the question of just what we did owe each other.  Paul thought that living the life of the Spirit ought to make questions of what Christians owed each other practically obsolete.  But Paul was a pastor, so he knew these questions weren’t obsolete.  What do the strong in faith owe the overscrupulous?  What do husbands owe wives?  What do those with the charism of administration owe to their congregations?[4]

Whatever specific behavior we owe—or the attitudes that support the behavior—we owe to people who “belong with us” because they “belong to God.”  The debt we owe, using Matthew’s phrasing, is a debt of action and not taking the needed action is failing to discharge our debt.  Anyone who has been given the gift of encouragement and who withholds encouragement from a brother or sister has not paid the debt he owes[5].  Anyone who has been given the gift of administering the affairs of the church and who has not done so has not paid the debt he owes.

The conclusion here is that owing an action to a brother or sister is not quite as straightforward as owing a debt on your credit card.  When we pray “forgive us our debts,” we mean “forgive us the debts we have not paid.”  We mean, “forgive us the debts of which we have already defaulted.”

It’s a very pushy notion.  That is one of the many reasons I like Pay It Forward.  It isn’t about divine grace, but there is a divine sort of pushiness about it.  As the attorney says, “You accepted the gift.  You’re obligated.”


[1] The sources of our word forgive are difficult, but interesting.  The prefix, for-, probably means “away” in this word.  You give away the expectation of payment when you “forgive” a debt.  You give away the justification for the anger you are “holding”—and on a good day, you might even give away the anger itself—when you “forgive” an action that a neighbor has committed against you.

[2] If you are bankrupt, your bench (the Italian banca) is broken (the Latin rupta is probably clearer than the Italian rotta) and you can’t do business in the marketplace anymore.  Chapter 11 is an entirely new chapter in bench-breaking.

[3] Leviticus 25: 47—51 describes this

[4] A charism is a gift, of course.    All the gifts of the Spirit are charisms.  Or charismata, if you absolutely must.  I just love the idea that church administrators are charismatic by definition.

[5] There is a very relevant list in Romans 12:3—13.

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And how are we feeling today?

The question I want to ask today is this: “How do you know how you are feeling?”
But as I was thinking about it, a scene came to mind. I don’t know what it’s a scene from. Maybe the scene is such a cliché that it isn’t worth asking about. In this scene, a man is in a bed in his hospital room and a nurse comes in and asks, “How are we feeling today, Mr. Jones?” What is that “we” doing there? It isn’t the royal “we.” It isn’t a collective “we,” as if the patient and the nurse had some way the two of them were feeling. Is there some advantage to the “we” form: it’s more empathic, less intrusive, more hopeful? I don’t see it.


I want to say that we don’t really know how we are feeling, ordinarily, because there is always a context and what we know takes that context into account. So let’s say that I’m the guy in the hospital bed and when the nurse asks me “the question,” I say, “Let’s find out. I will need to consult the oracle.” The oracle I would have in mind, if I said that, would be my body.  (Naughty Nurse comes up when you google “How are we feeling today?”)
But don’t you just know how your body feels? No. I read a really interesting piece of research about endurance. They were studying cyclists and what happens as they drive these cyclists to exhaustion. The treatment that worked best in staving off exhaustion was rinsing the mouth with sugar water. You might want to stop and read that again. No sugar intake. No new calories. What there was was the promise of new calories. It was the promise, not the calories, that released the extra energy.
How would that be? There is, it turns out, a center in your brain that decides whether the very last drop of energy should be released for use by the muscles. It’s a pretty conservative center—in my own mind, I picture the Federal Reserve System—and it hangs onto (does not release for your use) quite a bit of energy. “It” has the energy and “you” do not. You have to stop and catch that division. When you get the sugar water rinse, this center believes that new energy resources are going to be available soon (they are not) and releases a substantial part of its reserve, which you now get to use.
So my body tells me what it wants to tell me and, having no alternative source of information, I take its word. I always imagine that I am asking the “how am I feeling” question in absolute terms. Like taking a temperature. My temperature is 99.1 degrees: end of story. So if I imagined there were a “feeling good” scale (let’s say 100 points and anything above 80 is really good), I would be expecting a number. The oracle says, “You are currently at 67.”
The dilemma I am digging at is that I really don’t think that the oracle has an absolute scale in mind. I think it has a relative scale in mind. Even if I ask “how am I feeling today,” it answers “you are feeling well enough to/not well enough to” do something in particular. So I ask how I am feeling and the oracle says, “Well, you’ve got three meetings this morning and you don’t really want to go to any of them so you’re not feeling very well.” Or I ask how I’m feeling and it says, as it did this morning, “You’re going to go to church and teach an adult education course that you have been thinking about nonstop for about three weeks. You feel fantastic! I’ll give you a 90.”
In this way of thinking about it, the oracle consults what it knows about what I have to get up for, how I feel about those things, and gives me the number I asked for. It gives me a number (65) that sounds as if it belonged on an absolute scale, but it calculates that number by scanning through my physical and emotional systems and comparing them to the upcoming tasks. Then it gives me the number. And if a nurse were actually asking, I would say, “Oh, 65.” Actually, I’d say, “Oh, not all that well yet.”


Does the oracle distinguish between physical and emotional challenges? Let’s say I slept badly last night and the work I have to do in the morning is mostly physical. The oracle knows my schedule and says, “85, get right to work.” If I slept badly and the morning’s work is to deal with a line of students who are not happy about their grades, the oracle might say, “60. This is going to be a really tough morning.” In this speculation, the oracle matches my sleep-deprived state against the physical work and sees no difficulty (hence 85) and against the emotional strains of dealing with unhappy students and sees a lot of difficulty (hence 60).
If the oracle is going to do a schedule-based scan and report to me an absolute-looking number and if I don’t have any alternative source of information, what should I do? Maybe I should take the oracle’s way of coming to a conclusion a little more seriously. Maybe I just don’t answer the question “How are we feeling today?” or even “How am I feeling today?” Maybe I look first at the work there is to do—that sounds stoic, I suppose—and ask “Do I feel well enough to do THAT?” The oracle’s answer, I’d imagine, would almost always be, “Yes, you feel well enough to do that.”
So then I get up and do it. Would that work, do you think? Or is outpsyching the oracle mostly a waste of time?

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One -cize Fits All

As a regular part of our reading and listening and speaking, we blow by the most amazing caches of information. As a practical matter, we would all agree that the price of attending to this is that we are forced to ignore that. And that and that and that. That is most often just the right thing to do. If you can’t hold an intention in mind and screen out “distracting” information, you probably can’t work effectively. On the other hand, it is good to take a look, now and again, at what you are passing by.

I want to think about what we mean when we say that something has been “politicized.” Let’s start with “personalized” greeting cards. First there were greetings that I sent to you. Then there were “depersonalized” cards. These cards were commercially available and, because they had been depersonalized, cheap to produce. “Personalized cards” say “Happy graduation, dear daughter” or “Peace on Earth from Our Family to Yours.” The question these cards pass over is this: what were they before they were “personalized?” To answer that, you need to have a word that fits into a question like this one. “No, this batch hasn’t been personalized yet; they are still just ___________________,”

It’s a little bit of a puzzle. I used to run without socks. I liked the feel of my foot in the shoe. Then, when I had to wear an orthotic, I had to wear a sock on that foot. But, since I still didn’t like socks, I didn’t wear one on the other foot. Friends would rag me about it sometimes. “Look” they would call, “ You have one sock on and one sock off.” If I was running well at the time, I just smiled and waved and kept on running. If I needed a break, I would stop and try to carry the topic a little further. “Well,” would say, “you are right when you say I am wearing only one sock. But when you raise the question of how many socks I am not wearing, you have moved into one of the dark regions of philosophy.” Generally, that was long enough to catch my breath, and I went on down the road—usually, not being chased by angry villagers.

No one likes to have something “politicized.” If you like opening a question to the preferences of all the people who will be affected by the decision, you call it something else. Accountability? Democracy? Neighborliness? Most commonly, we call it “the way it should have been done.”
It should have been done by the bureaucrats who, after all, know how to write rules that don’t contradict themselves. It should have been done by the judges who, after all, know what the Constitution says. It should have been done by the President and the Speaker in a private meeting. The All Stars in the recent, hugely underwatched Major League All Star game should have been chosen by the managers, not the fans.

Why does everything have to be “politicized?”


I think there’s a pretty good set of answers to that question, but they are legion and they are long. Here, I will content myself with pointing out that the virtue of the “politicize” charge is that is passes over the question of what it was—what was the decision rule—before it was “-cized.”

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Learning from Mistakes

Learning is always a good idea, but I’m not sure we learn more from our mistakes than we do from our successes.  I think it might be better to say that we learn different things.

During the terms I teach at Portland State, I show up at the transit center to take the express bus (#94) to the university.  By that time in the morning, I might or might not have had my coffee.  For that reason, I have sometimes taken the #64 bus instead.  That “take” is a “mis-take.”  What did I learn?  I learned that if the bus goes out of the center and turns left, I should get off as soon as possible.  If it turns right, I probably won’t even notice it because I expected it to turn right and I am already deep into my New York Times by then.

So taking the #94 when I intended to take the #94 is not a “mis-take.”  It is a success.  What do I learn from it?  Smaller things, I think.  I learn, for instance, whether at that hour of the morning the #12 bus, which follows the same route but stops for anyone who is headed downtown, is much slower than the #94.  That’s worth knowing, because there are a lot more #12s than there are #94s.  I learn whether at that hour the express bus is more or less crowded than the 12; whether the lights are on during the trip or not; whether the group of commuters who are always talking about something in a spirited way, are still talking to each other.

It might be better, then, to say that we learn big things–you’re going the wrong way–from our mistakes and little things–it’s only five minutes slower and they leave the lights on–from our successes.  If you are interested in learning as much as you can about the way you want to go, I’d think that successes would be preferable.  They are often less painful as well, which is another reason to choose them.

And finally, two of my three children were mistakes–well, unscheduled arrivals–and I have learned at least as much as I have from the one we had on purpose.

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Selling the New Job to Men

I read in the New York Times the other day that it is still hard to get men to do their share of the work at home and I want to think about that a little today.  Just to give you a sense of how this is going to line up, let me say that as a political scientist, I have studied power relations for many years.  Since “micropolitics” was just getting popular when I was just starting doctoral work, I studied a lot about power between persons.  Also, I have been attracted for some years now to gender studies.  The fact that some persons are men and some women makes a huge difference in how problems come up, how they are defined, and how they are resolved.

Now I want to start somewhere else.  Imagine that this is a “sermon” on power and gender and that I am going to start with three important texts. 

Text 1: Vaseline makes skin products for men and for women.  They are advertised separately to men and to women, which suggests to me that Unilever knows something about how products are chosen than ordinary mortals do.  The Vaseline products for women claim to make women’s skin soft.  The Vaseline products for men claim to make men’s skin strong.

Text 2:  John Gray has developed a special relationship with gender.  Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus was first published in 1992.  Today, nearly twenty years later, it’s hard to tell whether he is changing any minds any more or whether people who like the way he handles gender—different but complementary—eventually find his books.  In any case, Gray knows what Unilever knows.  Men buy products—and arguments—for different reasons than women do.  Not all kinds of arguments, probably, but arguments that bear on values or behaviors that are associated with being a man or being a woman.

Here’s Gray: “The instincts that sent warriors boldly into battle to defend themselves and protect their loved ones come into play when a modern man tries to listen to a modern woman.  To prevail, he must learn to duck and dodge.” [For context, the issue here is how men should respond when they are receiving blame and criticism from women.  In this setting, he probably has husbands and wives in mind.] “Instead of reacting to blame and criticism, a man learns to hear the correct loving message in her words and responds in ways that diminish friction and conflict.  Ducking and dodging allow a man to keep his cool and respond respectfully to a woman’s need to communicate.”[1]

Just to make this easier to visualize, picture the “blame and criticism” as a rolling pin.  The woman is beating on the man with the rolling pin—this is her blame and criticism”—but he is not getting hurt because he is ducking and dodging.  This is something evolution prepared him for, you see.  Going boldly into battle and surviving requires that you learn how to duck and dodge.  Nothing is said here about counterthrusts.  And if you duck and dodge successfully, you will “prevail” just as your warrior ancestors did.

Text 3:  Let me introduce the author first this time.  This is Peter N. Stearns, Heinz Professor of History at Carnegie-Mellon University in 1979, when this book was published.[2]  Here are the beginnings of several consecutive paragraphs.  “While men returned to the family in a real sense in the twentieth century, they did not return in traditional male style for several reasons.  It was obviously difficult to regain control over children who were substantially trained in school and lured by the company of their peers.”  And a few lines later: “A rethinking of paternal purpose was almost inevitable when the continuity in work between father and son was disrupted.  And in the larger setting it was easy to think of one’s sons, and daughters as well, as people to woo.”

“The renewal of familial interest among men inevitably encountered the entrenched position of women in the home.  Even women dissatisfied with their domestic role or those who had entered the workforce could attempt to exclude the husband from the day-to-day authority in the family—including, of course, authority over the children—that served as their power base and the most obvious source of their self-definition.”

Those are the texts: Unilever, Gray, and Stearns.  Let’s take as the problem to be solved, the problem Stearns describes.  In the modern era, the men “come home” from the previously exclusive focus on their jobs, and find that they don’t know what to do.[3]  The men are now “sharing the breadwinning function” in a sense.  He works at Nordstroms and she at Weiden and Kennedy.  And the women are now “sharing the homemaking and childrearing function” but this is at the same place.  One place.  The breadwinning business takes them apart, but the homemaking/childrearing business throws them together.  And on this field, the women are the home team, complete with loyal fans, and the men are the visitors.

The women aren’t any better prepared for the presence of the men than the men are to define themselves by their time at home.  At a retirement presentation, either mine or Bette’s—I’ve forgotten now—the speaker warned the women that when their husbands retired, they would have “twice as much husband and half as much kitchen.”  There was laughter throughout the crowd, but it wasn’t uproarious laughter.  The women’s first reaction is to be delighted to have the help.  The work is set up as it had been, the decisions are hers (as they had been) the standards to be used are hers (as they had been) and the manpower is doubled.  Does anything about that definition of the situation look unlikely to you?  No?  Then wonder whether it would look unlikely to a man who had spent his adulthood studying gender relations and the uses of power.

Two questions remain: what are the options and how can they be sold?

The question of options looks simple at the beginning.  If the question is about what work—from here on out, “work” will include both maintaining the house and raising the kids—is to done at home, then he decides or she decides or they decide.  It’s easy to look at that list and pick “they decide” as the best one, and it might be.  Even so, there are good decisions and bad ones and if “they” decide by compromising their separate standards, the result will be ugly.

You would think it wouldn’t be that hard, but each of these adults is used to making decisions.  And each comes from a history in which certain tasks were done in certain ways and belonged to certain roles within the family.  It doesn’t make any sense to think that will all go away, particularly if the two central options—the ones on the basis of which the compromise will be crafted—are my way and your way.

Fortunately, there is another kind of compromise.  The man and woman can set aside their own ways, as best they can.  It won’t be very good.  Then they can devise a problem that needs to be addressed.  The crucial characteristic of the problem is that it is over there.  We are here and “it” is there.  The problem no longer lies between us, as if the game were tug-of-war.  It is now a problem of our devising and we will succeed together or fail together.

So that’s how to decide it.  The remaining question is how to sell it.  At this point, I’m going to collapse the question and deal with only one side.  Since the original question had to do with housework, I’m going to say that the man is the one it is going to have to be sold to.  Part of the work has already been done.  Women who are eager to have their husbands share the work must be willing to share the power.

Let’s say the question involves cleaning up the kitchen.  I pick that one because Bette and I have had some conversations about it.  The questions that follow haven’t been culled from any transcript of our conversations; they are just things I thought of at the time.  By when does the kitchen need to be clean?  Within half an hour of the end of the meal?  Before we go to bed?  Is tomorrow morning good enough?  What is the value of clear counters as opposed to clean counters when only one can be done?  How clean is “clean?”  What products are going to be used to get the job done?

Sharing the power and sharing the work are two aspects of the same transaction.

The gender problem Stearns addressed has these elements: men respond to the new definitions (new since the end of the Industrial Revolution) of work and domesticity by coming home to a setting they don’t understand and with highly suspect skill levels.  The children have nothing to learn from him so the traditional power base is gone.  There are “peer groups” now.  He is going to have to sell himself to his own children as a “good guy” and hope they like him.  He is going to have to either negotiate a power sharing with his wife or withdraw from the work at home so he won’t have to be dictated to.

What does Unilever know that would help us?  They know that men, by and large, will not buy a product that promises them softer skin.  They are hanging on to their masculinity with one hand already; they don’t need softer skin.  Stronger skin, now, is another matter.[4]  It’s not too hard to persuade a man that being strong is a good idea.  Nor would it be that hard to define any number of tasks by the strength they take rather than by the skill they take.  I remember when men started carrying babies in “backpacks” as if they were burdens.  Men are all over bearing burdens.  It might be the woman’s job to “carry the child” but it is the man’s job to “bear the burden.”  I expected any day to see a baby carrier with racing stripes.

What does John Gray know that would help us?  The same thing, really.  The reason I treasure Gray’s picture of the husband/warrior ducking and dodging so that he is still in the fight when his wife has worn herself out with the rolling pin is that it is so terminally silly.  Men need to be smart enough and strong enough to absorb whatever punishment their wives are going to dish out in the first fifteen minutes.  Knowing that accepting it without hostility and without retaliation will allow their wives to say what they really want to say, makes it worth doing.  This woman has important things to say, she just isn’t able to say them first and if her husband goes away or turns it into a contest, she will never get it said and he will never hear it.

Listening to her long enough to hear what she has on her mind is the smart thing to do and the loving thing to do.  What Gray has decided is that smart and loving aren’t enough; it has to be “the manly thing to do” also and if it is the manly thing, a lot of husbands will do it who would not do it otherwise.  The warrior/husband seems way too much to me, but I would be a fool to put my notions of what will sell the product up against Gray, who has, after all, sold a lot of product.


[1] Mars and Venus, Together Forever, page 95.

[2] Be a Man!,  pp. 149—151.  Despite the rousing title, and the exclamation point, which is part of the title, this is not a masulinist manifesto.  It is a study of the disordering of male/female relationships brought about by the Industrial Revolution and the variety of attempts in the modern era to recover our balance.

[3] The first title of Gray’s book Together Forever was What Your Mother Couldn’t Tell you and Your Father Didn’t Know.  I think that is the dilemma Stearns has in mind.

[4] And it is perfectly alright if the same product makes the skin both softer and stronger.  The question is which handle the marketing department wants to pick up.

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We Can Make Him Better Than He Was

Steve Austin, I think.  The six million dollar man. Bionic, of course.

They liked having a bionic man, I’m sure, but it wasn’t as difficult a decision as it would have been had he not been so badly injured in that crash.  It is a mark of how long ago the show was that he had to be so damaged before the decision to rebuild him  made sense.  I don’t think we are doing it that way any more.

The New York Times ran a really interesting article on that.  The lines are now being redrawn on how shy you need to be before treatment is called for.  If you read the article, you will see that it is more about evolutionary styles than about the creeping pathologization of our culture.  The article opens with a finely drawn example.  “A beautiful woman lowers her eyes demurely beneath a hat.  In an earlier era, her gaze might have signaled a mysterious allure.”  This is, however, an ad for Zoloft, an anxiety drug, and the caption attached to the mysterious woman is: “Is she just shy?  Or is it Social Anxiety Disorder?”

There was an article in the Times last year about a drug for women who don’t have as much sexual desire as they “should have.”  What if the women in question have just as much sexual desire as they want to have?  Are they still “sick?”  Do they still need to be diagnosed and treated?  It wasn’t hard to tell whether Steve Austin needed to be treated. Men who don’t have as much sexual desire as they want can happily take meds that will give them more.  The medicine is, in that case, an answer to an urgent desire.  But what if, as in the case of the women, the men were told that they really ought to have more sexual desire than they have?  Or that they should have less?

It is hard to determine, in many cases, whether the men and women are better off after having been diagnosed and treated.  The drug companies are definitely better off.

The evolutionary emphasis of the article is interesting too, and on another day, I would follow it.  It says, in brief, that most species are divided 80/20 into “rovers” and “sitters.”  The sitters look before they leap and then sometimes don’t leap even after having looked.  The rovers “Just Do It.”  Each is a valid evolutionary strategy, depending on the threat environment  Let’s just hope that the Pumpkinseed Sunfish, which were featured in one of the experiments described in the article, are not diagnosed and treated for their respective mania and depression.

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