They sway on nosebleed-high platforms. Their naked, milky thighs stick to the seats on the No. 1 train. Their soft, sweaty upper arms make contact with anyone sitting next to them. Who are they? They are the skinny ladies in the "band-aid" dresses that I see on the train on Friday nights, going out for a good time.
I'm all for a good time, of course, but why all the flesh? Why the pressure of being rail-thin enough to wear these teeny, tiny dresses that barely cover their butts, swaying atop platform soles (about 2-3 inches high at the toes, and soaring 6-7 inches at the heels) that would make a tayu reach for her yakko's shoulder. But there ain't no yakko available, at least not at the beginning of the evening. Almost as bad is the day-wear - looser dresses, equally short, which one can neither sit down in comfortably nor climb stairs in without giving everyone a free show. We had shows, too, when I was a kid, but they weren't supposed to be free.
Lest anyone think I am letting older women off the hook, consider the yards of middle-aged cleavage spilling out of low-cut tops among the older set on the way home. Honestly, I hate to be a killjoy, or sound that much like a frump - properly foundated middle-aged cleavage can work, but not at Target lingerie prices. Add in that at least 50% of the people on the train on any given day are visibly overweight, and you get the not-very-pretty picture.
Are guys off the hook? Mostly, because guys always seem to dress with their own comfort in mind first. So yeah - flipflops, baggy shorts, stretched out t-shirts - nobody is going to grace the cover of GQ in these outfits, especially with that ultra-important guy heatwave accessory - the wet washcloth draped over the top of the head. But at least I don't have to involuntarily look at so many exposed body parts, unless you consider knobby knees offensive (a knobby knee person myself, I can't really complain).
Recently, there have been reports of a serial groper on the Upper East Side. The guy is built like a jockey, apparently - 4'11" and about 120 pounds. I don't in any way want to condone his actions, but if the people he's groping are dressed like the women I see on the train, it could be considered a crime of opportunity.
Look, we used to push the envelope as far as our parents would let us - halter tops (which, in spite of various excesses, I have rarely seen in the past 20 years), braless by definition, were a summer fashion staple when I was a kid (joke - "You can borrow my halter top." Response: "I have nothing to halt!"). Cut off jeans shorts (remember Daisy Duke was just a descendant of Ellie Mae Clampett, who herself was a descendant of Lil' Abner's Daisy Mae), and the dresses were exactly finger-tip length (longer than they frequently are now). Guys were just as bad, wearing cutoffs so short their balls hung out when they sat down. Amusing, yes, but there's a time and a place.
Is there hope? Yes. As the current heatwave drags on (and on, and on), I am seeing more and more women opt for long skirts and sundresses that sweep the ankles. When made out of linen or cotton or rayon, fabrics that absorb moisture from the air and are cool to the touch, they are amply better than exposing your skin to the sun and subsequent heat, if not UV rays.
And the wearers don't stick to the seats on the No. 1 train.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
About My Stalker
"I never met him, but then, a lot of people who have never actually met me hate me" - this from my academic advisor years ago, after I showed him what was, to this date, the nastiest rejection letter I had ever received from a journal editor. Since I had mentioned that I was his advisee in the cover letter (something I never did again), I wondered if the guy was taking his dislike of my advisor out on me. The above quote, which I have never forgotten, was his response. And his advice was simple - academic publishing can be nasty. If you are going to stay in it, grow a thicker skin. I have, and I still publish - in online journals, here and even on paper occasionally.
But publishing takes all kinds, even more now that there are so many fora out there for expressing oneself in virtual print, if not physical. I have heard from colleagues in martial arts/academic publishing of potential authors who seek to grind whatever axe they have, along with the occasional threatening reactions when their masterworks are rejected as being in some way unsuitable for publication. Generally speaking, these overreactions have been, as one of my Texas friends puts it, "all hat and no cattle," but unfortunately, there are times when martial arts could be said to deserve its violent reputation. I know of no one in martial arts publishing who does not take these threats seriously. A little paranoia beats complacency when you are talking about people who train themselves, however metaphorically, to hurt other people.
About 15 years ago, I published an article in an academic martial arts journal. It was my first major article on the meaning of martial arts practice, and it summarized what I had learned in grad school about performance theory which I applied to the practice of traditional (i.e. non-sport) budo. It being a small journal and all, there was not much in the way of recognition for awhile, but eventually it was reprinted several times. I am still somewhat proud of it in essence (though I cringe at some of the actual writing - was that me?) - it was my first effort at putting some organized thoughts on paper on the subject, and though my thinking has become more complicated, I think, on the whole, that it still holds up.
About 5 years ago a colleague got in touch with me that a grad student somewhere had written a "rebuttal" to my then 10-year-old article. The colleague, the editor of a set of on-line journals dealing with martial arts, combat sports and stage fight choreography, wanted to publish the piece, but he wanted to publish it alongside a response from me. Since I had not really looked at my article since preparing it for its last reprint, I agreed. He sent me the grad student's essay.
Let me say at this point to the uninitiated that academics often relish fights in print, and while the print stuff is often fairly sedate and entertaining to readers, it often stands in for real antipathy between the authors. I have worked at academic conferences where the organizers would go through lists of potential invitees, noting that if so-and-so was invited, then another so-and-so would refuse the invitation, and so on. They would then try to decide which of the two was more germaine to the proceedings, and invite accordingly (inviting both would inevitably mean that both would refuse). It sounds trivial, but it's not. Academics invest a great deal of themselves in their work. Like budoka with big egos, the professional frequently becomes personal. Combine the two together and the situation can become truly combustible.
It was this relishment that spurred my colleague on this project, and I knew it. Fight! Fight! Fight! At the outset, I thought it was funny that the grad student, whom at this point I will call "KG" (not even his real initials, but it is easier to write), would consider his article a "rebuttal" since I had really couched my article as an investigation into whether performance theory could be laid on to budo. In fact, as a more ethnographic writer at the time, it was a little out of my usual ken to write something that dealt with theory at all, but sure. Some of the writer's points were okay, as far as they went. One of the sources he charged me with not consulting had not actually been published until years after my article had appeared (which I pointed out). One of his big points was an error in my transliteration of exactly one proper name, a point I conceded, except to point out that other writers frequently took transliteration liberties. Mine had been based on the way that people in Tokyo had actually pronounced the name, was all. Had I based my transliteration on the actual spelling of the name, I would have probably come to his same conclusion, but in the context of the entire article, it seemed an extremely small nit to pick. I concluded by more or less thanking KG for prodding me into a second look at my earlier work. I also suggested that he should write more about his own ideas rather than spend time trying to make his reputation by pulling down someone else's, but this is a not uncommon tactic (however tiring) in academia.
The two pieces were published side by side. I figured end of story. I figured wrong. KG wasted no time in sending an email blast, saying my response was "wrong," and that he was going to continue to prove me "wrong" by writing yet another follow up (leaving aside the idea of "wrong" in a theoretical article once again was an oxymoron). What bothered me was not so much the content, as the tone. I don't believe I was "wrong" in sensing that there was menace in his response, an implied physical threat. It concerned me enough that I did a search to figure out that at least he did not live in my neighborhood. For his part, the publisher decided he did not want to print a "response to a response to a response," as he put it, so he told KG he was not interested in the follow up piece.
The feeling that I got from this exchange, and subsequent ones, was this: not only were my ideas "wrong" in KG's eyes (everyone's entitled to his opinion), but that somehow my even being here was wrong. KG is not by any means the first man I met or heard from who felt that women should not practice budo, let alone teach, or have something to say about it. In my dating life (ancient history at this point) I met my share of clods who did not like women - thought there was something strange about them, "they're not like us," or that women should, in the words of a (very) former colleague of mine, "know their place." So for me, as a woman, to have an actual opinion, published in an actual journal on martial arts, was simply beyond an affront - it was an insult to budo manhood. The implication was that in stepping out of my "place," someone should push me back in.
To make a long post a little shorter, KG went to several colleagues, including the publisher of the original article, all of whom declined his piece. In several cases, the publishers emailed me to ask what the guy's problem was, to which I really had no answer, since I did not know. Every time he was rejected, I would be sought out, first by email, then, most recently on Facebook, by KG, to let me know the latest, accompanied by a challenge of some sort that we should have a discussion on why I was "wrong." This has gone on - no kidding - for five years.
He sent me a copy of his piece at some point, which I did not read. He's entitled to write it, but it is (ahem) not my place to actually have to read it unless I feel like it.
Finally - success! An FB post last week to let me know that he had finally found an online publisher willing to put his piece up, in spite of "efforts by [my] cabal" to prevent it (this amused a colleague: "you have a cabal? Cool."). This happy news was accompanied by yet again another demand as to why we cannot communicate "like adults" so I can hear firsthand yet again why I am "wrong." A challenge to respond! (And again, an implied threat).
So I responded - I blocked him on FB. You attempt to strike, I block - should be easy enough for even KG to understand.
But publishing takes all kinds, even more now that there are so many fora out there for expressing oneself in virtual print, if not physical. I have heard from colleagues in martial arts/academic publishing of potential authors who seek to grind whatever axe they have, along with the occasional threatening reactions when their masterworks are rejected as being in some way unsuitable for publication. Generally speaking, these overreactions have been, as one of my Texas friends puts it, "all hat and no cattle," but unfortunately, there are times when martial arts could be said to deserve its violent reputation. I know of no one in martial arts publishing who does not take these threats seriously. A little paranoia beats complacency when you are talking about people who train themselves, however metaphorically, to hurt other people.
About 15 years ago, I published an article in an academic martial arts journal. It was my first major article on the meaning of martial arts practice, and it summarized what I had learned in grad school about performance theory which I applied to the practice of traditional (i.e. non-sport) budo. It being a small journal and all, there was not much in the way of recognition for awhile, but eventually it was reprinted several times. I am still somewhat proud of it in essence (though I cringe at some of the actual writing - was that me?) - it was my first effort at putting some organized thoughts on paper on the subject, and though my thinking has become more complicated, I think, on the whole, that it still holds up.
About 5 years ago a colleague got in touch with me that a grad student somewhere had written a "rebuttal" to my then 10-year-old article. The colleague, the editor of a set of on-line journals dealing with martial arts, combat sports and stage fight choreography, wanted to publish the piece, but he wanted to publish it alongside a response from me. Since I had not really looked at my article since preparing it for its last reprint, I agreed. He sent me the grad student's essay.
Let me say at this point to the uninitiated that academics often relish fights in print, and while the print stuff is often fairly sedate and entertaining to readers, it often stands in for real antipathy between the authors. I have worked at academic conferences where the organizers would go through lists of potential invitees, noting that if so-and-so was invited, then another so-and-so would refuse the invitation, and so on. They would then try to decide which of the two was more germaine to the proceedings, and invite accordingly (inviting both would inevitably mean that both would refuse). It sounds trivial, but it's not. Academics invest a great deal of themselves in their work. Like budoka with big egos, the professional frequently becomes personal. Combine the two together and the situation can become truly combustible.
It was this relishment that spurred my colleague on this project, and I knew it. Fight! Fight! Fight! At the outset, I thought it was funny that the grad student, whom at this point I will call "KG" (not even his real initials, but it is easier to write), would consider his article a "rebuttal" since I had really couched my article as an investigation into whether performance theory could be laid on to budo. In fact, as a more ethnographic writer at the time, it was a little out of my usual ken to write something that dealt with theory at all, but sure. Some of the writer's points were okay, as far as they went. One of the sources he charged me with not consulting had not actually been published until years after my article had appeared (which I pointed out). One of his big points was an error in my transliteration of exactly one proper name, a point I conceded, except to point out that other writers frequently took transliteration liberties. Mine had been based on the way that people in Tokyo had actually pronounced the name, was all. Had I based my transliteration on the actual spelling of the name, I would have probably come to his same conclusion, but in the context of the entire article, it seemed an extremely small nit to pick. I concluded by more or less thanking KG for prodding me into a second look at my earlier work. I also suggested that he should write more about his own ideas rather than spend time trying to make his reputation by pulling down someone else's, but this is a not uncommon tactic (however tiring) in academia.
The two pieces were published side by side. I figured end of story. I figured wrong. KG wasted no time in sending an email blast, saying my response was "wrong," and that he was going to continue to prove me "wrong" by writing yet another follow up (leaving aside the idea of "wrong" in a theoretical article once again was an oxymoron). What bothered me was not so much the content, as the tone. I don't believe I was "wrong" in sensing that there was menace in his response, an implied physical threat. It concerned me enough that I did a search to figure out that at least he did not live in my neighborhood. For his part, the publisher decided he did not want to print a "response to a response to a response," as he put it, so he told KG he was not interested in the follow up piece.
The feeling that I got from this exchange, and subsequent ones, was this: not only were my ideas "wrong" in KG's eyes (everyone's entitled to his opinion), but that somehow my even being here was wrong. KG is not by any means the first man I met or heard from who felt that women should not practice budo, let alone teach, or have something to say about it. In my dating life (ancient history at this point) I met my share of clods who did not like women - thought there was something strange about them, "they're not like us," or that women should, in the words of a (very) former colleague of mine, "know their place." So for me, as a woman, to have an actual opinion, published in an actual journal on martial arts, was simply beyond an affront - it was an insult to budo manhood. The implication was that in stepping out of my "place," someone should push me back in.
To make a long post a little shorter, KG went to several colleagues, including the publisher of the original article, all of whom declined his piece. In several cases, the publishers emailed me to ask what the guy's problem was, to which I really had no answer, since I did not know. Every time he was rejected, I would be sought out, first by email, then, most recently on Facebook, by KG, to let me know the latest, accompanied by a challenge of some sort that we should have a discussion on why I was "wrong." This has gone on - no kidding - for five years.
He sent me a copy of his piece at some point, which I did not read. He's entitled to write it, but it is (ahem) not my place to actually have to read it unless I feel like it.
Finally - success! An FB post last week to let me know that he had finally found an online publisher willing to put his piece up, in spite of "efforts by [my] cabal" to prevent it (this amused a colleague: "you have a cabal? Cool."). This happy news was accompanied by yet again another demand as to why we cannot communicate "like adults" so I can hear firsthand yet again why I am "wrong." A challenge to respond! (And again, an implied threat).
So I responded - I blocked him on FB. You attempt to strike, I block - should be easy enough for even KG to understand.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Obon
Yesterday, I took part in the Obon celebration sponsored by the New York Buddhist Church. The NYBC has been celebrating Obon in a public park for over 60 years, and so, like many traditions, there is a lot that is the same from year to year - the parade around the circle, the particpants dressed on yukata or happi coats, the opening address and benediction, the heat. The biggest part of the tradition, of course, is the dancing - there are usually two circles of dancers, the inner circle composed of members of the Tachibana dance group, leading the outer circle composed of everyone else - church members, other performers and members of the audience.
In Japan, this sort of celebration is very local, and there are hundreds or more that take part on hot, sticky nights in different city neighborhoods. In NYC, the party is held in the daytime on a Sunday afternoon. Drinking is kept to a minimum, and the practice is held more closely to Buddhist ritual than it ever is in Japan, for Obon is a folk tradition that may actually predate Buddhism. Like many other practices (lion dancing in Chinatown comes to mind), Obon takes on amplified meaning outside its homeland - ritual, religion and folk tradition all in one.
This year's celebration was a true illustration of Margaret Thompson Drewel's idea of ritual as a spiral rather than a cycle. The crowd was much larger than it has been in recent years. At one point, we had three circles of dancers. I found myself noticing all kinds of things. An old woman, supported by family members, her body contorted by what looked like late stage Parkinson's (my uncle died of the disease), determined to dance anyway, no matter what - and she did too. When I saw her later, she was making her way around the circle unassisted, and while she was not able to follow the steps very well, the painful looking jerkiness of her movement had softened. A silly, middle-aged woman danced "Tanko Bushi" with her little dog jumping excitedly at her feet. A very, very old man, braving the heat, his body hunched over, waved his hands and shuffled along with us, the smile on his face suggesting that he was far away, in both a different time and place.
By the last set of dancing, the shadows of the trees had cooled off the slate plaza somewhat. I was invited into the inner circle of dancers, an honor, and more people from the audience joined too. By the end of the 40-minute set, the inner circle seemed to melt into the other circles (by this time four in all), and, though I am bad at estimating numbers, we may have had as many as 200 people, all moving to the rhythm together. The sense of harmony, the audience members hanging on the edge, including tough-looking bully boys in backward-facing caps, with gentle grins on their faces, seemed to suggest that in a corner of Bryant Park, on an almost obscenely hot day, a little piece of the world bobbed and swayed in unison and seemed very right.
I have danced at Obon for most of the past ten years. I consider it a way of honoring my friends and family who are gone, as well as simply having a great time. But this year was different. We all have occasions, like when the team wins, when we feel like part of something larger than ourselves. It takes rhythm and movement, however, to feel like part of the universe.
In Japan, this sort of celebration is very local, and there are hundreds or more that take part on hot, sticky nights in different city neighborhoods. In NYC, the party is held in the daytime on a Sunday afternoon. Drinking is kept to a minimum, and the practice is held more closely to Buddhist ritual than it ever is in Japan, for Obon is a folk tradition that may actually predate Buddhism. Like many other practices (lion dancing in Chinatown comes to mind), Obon takes on amplified meaning outside its homeland - ritual, religion and folk tradition all in one.
This year's celebration was a true illustration of Margaret Thompson Drewel's idea of ritual as a spiral rather than a cycle. The crowd was much larger than it has been in recent years. At one point, we had three circles of dancers. I found myself noticing all kinds of things. An old woman, supported by family members, her body contorted by what looked like late stage Parkinson's (my uncle died of the disease), determined to dance anyway, no matter what - and she did too. When I saw her later, she was making her way around the circle unassisted, and while she was not able to follow the steps very well, the painful looking jerkiness of her movement had softened. A silly, middle-aged woman danced "Tanko Bushi" with her little dog jumping excitedly at her feet. A very, very old man, braving the heat, his body hunched over, waved his hands and shuffled along with us, the smile on his face suggesting that he was far away, in both a different time and place.
By the last set of dancing, the shadows of the trees had cooled off the slate plaza somewhat. I was invited into the inner circle of dancers, an honor, and more people from the audience joined too. By the end of the 40-minute set, the inner circle seemed to melt into the other circles (by this time four in all), and, though I am bad at estimating numbers, we may have had as many as 200 people, all moving to the rhythm together. The sense of harmony, the audience members hanging on the edge, including tough-looking bully boys in backward-facing caps, with gentle grins on their faces, seemed to suggest that in a corner of Bryant Park, on an almost obscenely hot day, a little piece of the world bobbed and swayed in unison and seemed very right.
I have danced at Obon for most of the past ten years. I consider it a way of honoring my friends and family who are gone, as well as simply having a great time. But this year was different. We all have occasions, like when the team wins, when we feel like part of something larger than ourselves. It takes rhythm and movement, however, to feel like part of the universe.
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