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Camouflage shorts and shirt in contrasting pattern. Ankle-high socks with leather sandals. Graying hair in a pompadour. Man-purse. Shopping for tractor parts in the flea market.

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School Dance Misogyny Mystery

Dear DJ Splatz (or whatever you clever name is),

I’ll have to admit that I was somewhat surprised, and pleasantly so, when you called down a young man at our school dance this evening for getting a little out of control. Slinging his shirt around and dancing in an overtly sexual manner, he was clearly out of line at a middle school dance. I commend you for calling chaperons’ attention to it and insisting that he leave the dance. At the time, I thought that such a strong response was entirely called for and set a much-needed example for students, and my opinion of you improved greatly. You later began talking about the need to have “good, clean fun,” and while I thought, “My definition of that term is probably different than yours,” I very much appreciated the sentiment.

The next song you selected for the dancers, though, seemed to negate everything you were trying to accomplish with that warning. I’d never heard the song — for I don’t listen to such trash — but the lyrics of the refrain stood out clearly: “To the window, to the wall, / To the sweat drip down my balls (MY BALLS).” At least that’s the lyrics that lyrics007.com displayed when I Googled “window wall sweat drip balls.”

Really? You’re going to reprimand someone for sexually explicit dancing and then play that song? When I read the rest of the misogynistic lyrics of this piece of garbage, I wondered how producers could have cleaned it up for a radio-ready version, so filled it was with the lowest, most degradingly misogynistic profanity imaginable. Which lyrics do you think were going through their mind as the song played, the radio version or the vile original? Of course, we don’t have to wonder about the lyrics coming out of their mouths, but it is particularly distressing to see a bunch of sixth-, seventh-, and eight-grade girls singing (who are we kidding? it’s rap: it’s merely talking, shouting, or mumbling to a generally-computer-generated beat) shouting about sweat dripping off their — well, you get the picture.

So, in closing, if you find yourself this evening wondering why that boy was dancing like a sex fiend, I’d suggest you review the lyrics of the songs you play.

Sincerely,
A Teacher Who Will Probably Never Let His Daughter Go To A Dance He Doesn’t Personally Chaperone

Open Letter

Dear Typical Parents:

I think it’s about time that we all sit down and have a little chat. While we don’t have a great deal in common, we should have in common one important thing, and that is the interest in the well-being of our children.

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In the old days, parents’ job consisted mainly of protecting physically their children. They made sure their children were warm and fed. They protected them from the dangers of invading armies as best they could. They protected their children in a thousand and one ways, great and small, but almost always physical.

Those days are long gone, but our responsibility to protect our children remains. Only now, the dangers from which we are shielding our children are much more insidious because they are not readily, physically apparent. These dangers are all the more deadly because they threaten not the physical, but the spiritual. They threaten not the destruction of the body but the destruction of the soul. I’m speaking, of course, of our children’s mindset, their worldview, the lens through which they see the world and the matrix by which they interpret reality.

The pervasive worldview of our culture is carnal. It’s physical. It’s driven by a pathological inability to forego a momentary pleasure in the interests of a longer-lasting good. It ridicules self-denial and worships at the altar of immediate and total gratification, usually physical.

My wife and I are trying to raise our children in such a way that they understand that the “now” is often not as important as what’s to come, that the physical is never as important as the spiritual, that the mental always outweighs any pleasures that come through our senses. This is difficult because it runs counter to everything our culture — through advertising, through music, through casual conversation — everything our culture promotes. In other words, my wife and I are trying to raise freaks. Not freaks of nature, but freaks of society, freaks of culture. We’re trying to raise kids that understand that sex is not everything, and that it comes with some pretty important responsibilities, that it’s pleasure is secondary and subordinate to its ultimate purpose, which is procreation.

I wish I could say that our concerns with society deal with a number of other issues, that it isn’t only the sex, but unfortunately our society has made it so that it is only about the sex. One only need look at the recent Lena Dunham advertisement for the Obama campaign, which draws direct correlations between voting and sex — let’s be frank: when you watch the ad, she’s simply talking about the first of many sexual experiences a woman is expected to have in the guise of “serial monogamy — to see how deeply embedded in our culture this obsession with sex really is. One only has to read Kristin Iversen’s mocking commentary on the critics of the ad to see how obsessed our culture is with pushing sexuality on younger and younger children:

Does Dunham say how important it is that the first time be special? Yes. Does Dunham comment that her first time voting was what made her a woman? Sure. Is all of this amusing and charming and only blush-inducing if you are a 10-year-old girl, in which case, why are you watching this, you can’t vote anyway? Also, yes. (Source)

Our whole culture seems obsessed with it, willing to do anything for it, and increasingly expecting others to pay for the responsibility of it. It seems willing to trade of any good in a Faustian bargain for short-term ecstasy.

That is not the priority I want my daughter and son to have. And I hope it’s not the priority you want your children to have.

Unfortunately, the things my daughter comes home from kindergarten saying, drawing, and doing make me think that, if that is your priority, if you are consciously trying to raise children who put the spiritual (and you’re almost free to interpret that as liberally as you wish at this point) over the physical, then sadly, my friends, you are doing a very poor job of it.

How do I know?

When my daughter comes home with a picture she drew in school that she later explains is the plan by which Friend A wants to conspire to break up the “relationship” of Friend B with her boyfriend (these are all three kindergarteners, mind you) so that Friend A can have the young man for herself (again, these are kindergarteners); when my daughter comes home explaining this in great, illustrated detail, explaining all the steps necessary, using the terminology “break up”, “boyfriend”, “fall in love with”, and “twist”; when my daughter comes home with these images and ideas and norms, I am afraid you and I are at the very least with how conscientiously we are trying to raise our children. And at the very worse, that you are consciously raising your children to have goals and plans diametrically opposed to mine and my wife’s.

I am having to explain things that, quite frankly, I don’t want to have to explain. At five years old, she’s too young to know what a boyfriend is in any real, experiential sense, whether her experience or vicariously through the experiences of those she calls her friends.

You might not be doing this consciously, and indeed, I hope and even doubt that you are. However, the fact remains that you are teaching my daughter that I really do not want my daughter to learn. You are teaching my daughter through the example of your children, who throw up their hands and say, “I don’t care” with such derision that it even disturbs my daughter, though she has begun doing it herself. You are teaching my daughter by allowing your children to listen to the sex-infused popular music of today without even explaining, it seems, that “sexy” is not a word that needs to come out of a five-year-old’s mouth. Through your children, you are teaching my daughter so many things at five years of age that I thought she would not encounter for at least, in the very worst case scenario, another year or two.

Still, I should be grateful. You have made me more thankful than ever that, through some odd, unlikely grace, I found myself married to a Catholic woman and eventually baptized into the Catholic church myself. You have made me exponentially more vigilant about the crap — sorry, but there’s no other word for it — that today’s culture is trying to shovel on her. You have taught me that it’s never too early to be on guard. You have reminded me that my promise to my daughter and son, of which I remind my daughter almost daily when she’s frightened by this or that by simply asking “What’s my responsibility” and knowing that the response is always “To protect me”, is my primary responsibility on Earth today and that every other Earthly responsibility is secondary or tertiary at best. I don’t mean to sound bellicose, but you’ve reminded me that I am in a war for my own soul and, until they can defend themselves, my children’s souls.

All the same, it would be so much easier if I knew we were all on the same side. Sadly, I’m not sure we are. Still, it’s good to know where we stand. You and your children will be in my prayers, but my own children’s spiritual well-being will be in my prayers and my conscientious, purposeful deeds.

Regards,
The Girl’s Dad

Lent 2012: Day 9

A proud man is seldom a kind man. Perhaps nothing more needs to be said — especially considering how tired I am…

The quoted excerpt is from Father Frederick Faber’s Spiritual Conferences, excerpted here.

A Toast to Refined Consumerism

We are a consumer culture. The fact that the manufacturing industry is diminishing while the service sector continues to grow (relatively speaking). When all one’s basic needs are met, consuming can flourish. In such a state, we can begin to invent perfectly useless products and services that add nothing quantitative to one’s life and only barely had a qualitative measure for some brief moment until the novelty wears off.

Standing in line to return a product at Best Buy today, I noticed such a product: the ProToast Toaster.

For less than forty dollars, you can buy a toaster that not only produces tasty toast but also affirms your choice for Favorite Football Team.â„¢

If only it could help you with your Fantasy Football standings…

Puzzles and Dolls

“Do you dream of being a princess?” coos one of L’s Christmas gifts before offering game-play options.

Why does L have such an obsession with princesses? It’s not like we initiated it, though we’ve done very little to encourage or to discourage it. (Relatives are a different story!)

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Granted, L has watched the films several times: Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, The Little Mermaid, and several other princess films. She has a few princess books — usually thick books we refer to as “the princess collection” and “the other princess collection.”

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“Do you dream of being a princess?”

My concern is not necessarily the notion of being a princess; it’s the notion of being a twenty-first century princess, a highly sexualized image that encourages girls to flirt in grade school and has teen fashion magazines offering advice on the cover for how to have a “sexy beach” hair do.

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“It’s a long way off,” some might say. “She’s only four.” When I hear stories of six-year-olds getting cell phones, though, I realize the pressure begins shortly.

Or perhaps it’s already begun, the pressure to meet society’s standards of what a “Real Girl” is like. Perhaps that’s what the princess obsession is all about.

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Perhaps. It’s somewhat depressing to think that we’re entering a period during which peer pressure is as influential as — if not more than — parental influence. There’s a balance there that we are just beginning to feel out. Its contours are still nebulous because the actual relationships and ratios are still unclear. In the end, it’s all about awareness.

If only it were that simple.

Posted

“No trespassing,” he said. “It’s posted no trespassing.”

I’d ridden my bike over to a construction area to snap some shots of the site.

It turned out that I wasn’t the only one curious: a family was cycling here and there, just as intrigued as I was. They bumped their way down a staircase, and the girl called out “Hello, fellow biker!” as she rode below.

A security guard emerged from one of the buildings, followed the family down the steps, said something, and left. It was all very civil. They wandered about for a while longer before they left, so I don’t know what he said, but it seems obvious that it wasn’t, “Get out now!”

Mystery building

Since I was in the area, I decided to cycle on over to the Mystery Building: a long structure that had the air of a conference center but was eternally empty.

It was as I was leaving that I had my encounter with the security guard — different site, different bloke. This one was driving a battered Ford that appeared to date from the late ’80s. He waved at me as he approached, so I stopped.

“No trespassing. It’s posted. You can’t ride a bike here.” He said it as if I were riding into a wedding reception: full of indignation, shocked that I would even consider pedaling through the parking lot.

Many possible replies ran through my head, most of them sarcastic.

  • I “can’t” ride my bike here? Well, clearly I can, because I’m doing it. Perhaps you meant to say, “You’re not permitted…”
  • There was no “No Trespassing” sign at the entrance; therefore, it’s not “posted.”
  • (Ignore him and ride on.)
  • Rats! This was my absolutely favorite place to ride.
  • Can you hold that pose for a moment. I want to get a picture for my blog.

It’s amazing how quickly I end up sounding like my students. Yet I managed to control myself and simply say, “Okay.”

The security guard drove off, stopping again to talk to a woman walking through the parking lot. For my part, I stopped to look carefully — oh so carefully — for a tell-tale sign. Nothing.

I ended the short ride at the new Clemson University International Center for Automotive Research facility.

I don’t know how occupied it currently is, but they have parking for a lot of cars…

Which I guess is somehow appropriate.

Ties

Growing up in a conservative church, I wore a tie every single weekend. (Every Saturday, in fact, not Sunday, but that’s an entirely different story.) And in my teens, in the late 80’s, it was critical that they not be just any ties. They had to be fashionable, which means today, they’re dated.

When we moved to Asheville years ago, I found all my ties among the clothes I’d packed away ages before. What a flood of memories those silly ties brought back.

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They were narrow, that was the most important thing. I would look through Dad’s ties, admitting that some of them had appealing designs, but they were wide enough to rival aircraft carriers.

While they had to be narrow, though, the pattern had to be fresh.

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And “fresh” is almost never “timeless.”

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My pièce de résistance, though, was my white leather tie. Probably not even two fingers wide, it was a classy statement all in itself.

After we found them and I took some pictures, we dumped them off at Goodwill. If there’s any justice in the fashion world (and there isn’t — only trends), they’re still sitting there.

Religious License

Here in South Carolina, the Department of Transportation began issuing religious-themed license plates. They have stained glass, a cross, and the words “I believe.”

I Believe' license plate back in S.C., 2 years after ruling | Religion | missoulian.com

One guess as to what happened:

A federal judge says South Carolina must stop marketing and making license plates that feature the image of a cross and the words “I Believe.”

A federal judge issued a temporary injunction during a court hearing Thursday after opponents said the plates violate the separation of church and state.

U.S. District Judge Cameron McGowan Currie said the case needs to be heard in court. In the meantime, the judge said the Department of Motor Vehicles cannot take any more orders for the plates.

Department spokeswoman Beth Parks said the agency stopped taking orders more than a month ago, after it collected the 400 needed to cover the cost of making the plates. She said they are in production, and none has shipped. (AP)

I’m sure there are many in the state who are appalled by this. Just another example of those damn goddless bastards trying to destroy religion in America. That’s what the Andre Bauer, the Lt. Governor, says:

For those who say this violates the Constitution by giving preference to Christianity, I think this lawsuit clearly discriminates against persons of faith,” Bauer said in a statement. “I expect the state attorney general to vigorously defend this, and it is time that people stand up for their beliefs. Enough is enough.” (Harold Online, cached at Google)

plate2Yet how could anyone argue that it doesn’t give preference Christianity? There are no other freaking choices! I’d have gone for a FSM plate myself, but I don’t think my wife would have appreciated it.

Nate, at Shots from the Battery, really hits on the important issue, though:

I really wish we could sue the fundegelical state lawmakers who are forcing us taxpayers to bear the burden of the litigation they knew they were inviting. It’s a waste of $$ that the state taxpayers cannot afford. (SFTB)

Every morning going to work, it seems like I hear about the state making more and more budget cuts because of the falling tax revenue. South Carolina is predicted to have a stunning 14% unemployment rate by the spring, and these nitwits are out trying to make a mindless religious point.

Bilingual Breakthrough

We’re getting ready to go to the zoo — just L and I, a newly forming bi-Sunday tradition. L is excited: she’s chattering on and on in her own way: 10% Polish, 20% English, 70% L-ese. (One of the problems with raising a bilingual baby is that you never know whether she’s trying a new Polish word, a new English word, or just making up something in her own language.)

In the midst of the babbling, L suddenly says, “Mamma, afant.”

“Afant? I don’t know what that is,” K responds, as always, in Polish.

“Afant!” declares L.

“Honey, I don’t know…” K begins, then L switches languages.

“Slonik!” translates L.

“Oh! ‘Elephant!'”