Saturday, April 29, 2006

stupid earl. (some anthropological observations)

{i am at the bus stop}
Whenever I find myself in places that make me feel terribly uncomfortable and accentuate my awkwardness, I’ve found I can survive many less than savory situations by being an anthropologist. Once that’s established, I can then proceed to distance myself from any unwanted stimuli by analysing and intellectualizing anything and everything, especially things that are disturbing and/or overwhelming. My last few visits to particular eating establishments inspired me to write down a number of observations that have been accumulating over a long while.

After I get used to the dim light & extraordinarily loud, obnoxious music (& finish searching the menu for something meatless yet still containing some amount of protein) I am continually confronted by the fact that most popular chain restaurants are replicating & perpetuating binary gender roles overtly & unapologetically. This is not necessarily a trait of all restaurants in this culture. I can name many, many restaurants that do not create this type of space; however, on multiple visits I’ve noticed that Earls is a perfect example of a rigidly gendered environment. Not only is the space gendered, it also replicates the conventionalized gender roles of a capitalist patriarchy.

I suppose it’s no worse than any bar, but I never go to bars or nightclubs so I don’t have as much experience with analysing those spaces. It’s horrible to be in there because it seems every time I’m there I have to bite my tongue and never reveal my observations. I’m always there with very conventional people who just don’t understand & anything I say is lost on them, or I’m there with my dad, who finally has regenerated his taste buds after chemo obliterated them, & wants to enjoy his favourite caesar salad in silence. But I am digressing. I will now describe this little microcosm of patriarchal hegemony.

The first thing I always notice is that the interior decorating generally has a theme that we might categorise as being ‘masculine’ (in this culture) – dark mahogany wood, rough-hewn stone fireplaces, everything big & angular. With enormous squishy dark brocade chairs pulled up to the tables, it makes me think of a Victorian patriarch’s library. (belonging to Earl, yes?) There is usually a large bar area in most Earls restaurants, complete with large screens endlessly showing sports games with only males playing, of course – because, you know, serious sports fan don’t watch women play, even if they’re really ‘hot’ tennis players or wearing beach-volleyball bikinis! Men are behind the bar, concocting alcoholic potions, and in the kitchen, preparing all the food. They do this all fully clothed, whilst the far-less-clothed women are flocking together by the door, waiting.

Women are the waiters here. According to my informal counts at 3 different Earls restaurants, women outnumber male waiters 5 to 1, and any males in that position tend to be responsible for cleaning off the tables, instead of bringing out the food & drink. Regardless of exact numbers, I have noticed a pervasive phenomenon. Our ‘Earl’ plays the Pygmalion-patriarch in ensuring these women are dressed identically, in little black skirts and high heels – terribly impractical for being on one’s feet all day, but essential, of course, for accentuating the curves of the buttocks and the breasts, which are barely encased in tight lululemon pseudo-‘yoga’ shirts that tend to have necklines plunging to just above the solar plexus. Thoroughly hairless skin, tanned & layered with make-up, hair on the head artificially coloured to either unrealistic blonde or improbable black. Individual identity becomes negligible. They are sculpted into the ideal ‘attractive’ female in the culture; there is no variation, nor is there anything androgynous, or, rather, sexually-neutral about their look.

In this way, I see them as being essentially made into another product at Earls, commercialized into a sexualized serving object – these ‘Earls-girls’ have had their individualities blurred in this adherence to a hyperfeminine stereotype. They may cater food to all members of the public, but they cater aesthetically to the ‘male gaze, here where (to paraphrase John Berger) men look and act, and women appear (and serve). Women are evaluated and valued on the basis of what Laura Mulvey calls, ‘to-be-looked-at-ed-ness’.

Some people get quite indignant when I bring this up, telling me I’m prudish, or try to tell me that it’s the women’s choice to look this way, and perhaps they like it. Firstly, it’s not a question of prudishness – breasts are not offensive to me at all. After all, I do possess them myself (though quite subtly). And secondly, I don’t doubt that some women don’t mind the extra money they supposedly get for being the ‘pretty piece of flesh’ serving up, well, pieces of flesh. I don’t doubt that some need no coercion to dress this way, and they have no qualms about being hired based on their appearance (and, it seems, bra-cup size). But even if they feel they are being empowered, does it really changed the fact that people are still exploiting them, that their sexuality and appearance is being exploited? I’m not sure it does.

I guess it’s like in pornography. I really don’t accept the whole argument of the potential for it being a source of empowerment for women. (or anyone, really.) You can create something with the best, most empowering intentions, but what happens to it when it’s devoured and re-interpreted, mis-interpreted by the masses – is it still truly empowering? Can something empower someone truly even as it continues to contribute to their exploitation? The post-modern thing to say might be that if one believes they are empowered, that’s all that matters. But I don’t know. I think that’s just more than a little sketchy & naïve to see that as empowerment. Even if they are willing to be subjected to the ‘male gaze’ (among other things), I really do believe that they are simply conforming to the hegemonic norms of ‘beauty’ and ‘femininity’ in this culture that are constructed and enforced for male benefits, which highlights male power. So neither pornography based on women’s desires nor women dressing up to serve the male gaze is going to overthrow any patriarchy, or convince anyone otherwise about their beliefs about women’s rights and status, which, contrary to the beliefs of many, are still an issue! As Audre Lorde would say, these sorts of tools will never dismantle the master’s house.

The Earl’s-girls are so ingrained into the Earls restaurant environment that it seems quite difficult to dismantle Earl’s cushy little house, & they don’t seem to mind. What irks me most of as is the lack of people questioning this – do they really care that many of these girls aren’t even terribly good at their job, because their ‘hotness’ makes up for it? Is it that even if the men in the kitchen aren’t having a good day, and the meal is less than stellar, they can say, ‘well, at least the waitresses are hot!’ Do they even recognize that they’re drinking their man-beer (never a fluorescent green martini – those are ‘girly drinks’!) in the ‘Red Lite Lounge’? (How much more obvious can you be in evoking a brothel?) What is really so different in theory between Earl’s-girls and Playboy-bunnies?

I’m really not so sure there is a difference. Playboy*, of course, is clearly about overt sexuality, phallocentric male sexuality in particular, via the ‘consumption’ of images of ‘attractive’ women. But how different are food and sex, when compared for the possibilities for pleasure? At Earls, as in many restaurants here, it’s very easy to see how women are clearly transformed into products for consumption via the male gaze, along with the food they serve. Women may eat food at the restaurant alongside the men, but it is clear that Earl sees them little more as either further decoration (or detraction) from his uniform little harem of servers, there for the male’s viewing, and serving, pleasure.

Give me Cafe Mosaics with their subdued service! The skinny boys & tattooed girls wearing whatever they like! Serving food, & showing local art on the walls!
Or the King & I. Pleasant, fully clothed boys and a few girls in bow ties. That’s much better. Or Roots, where they all wear chef-outfits with personal embellishments, and you serve yourself, mostly. Gender-neutral and focused on nourishing food, 'tis what a restaurant should be.


*I don’t even want to start talking about Playboy here. I recommend Ariel Levy’s book "Female Chauvinist Pigs" as an thorough, well-written, & unapologetic look into that scene, as well as the miasma of bars/nightclubs/‘reality’ tv, etc, etc. It really highlights the pervasive extent of ‘Playboy’ culture and the continued exploitation of female sexuality, which is not only restricted to men – the reinforcement comes from females themselves, females of all sexual orientations.

because...

{bryna, standing in the field}
...it's like standing... on your head!

what beauty this is

{riverlot field}

driving home i see those flooded fields... how can people not know what beauty this is?

-- neko case, ‘fox confessor brings the flood’


There are some things I would like to tell the counter-protesters in Caledonia, Ontario who have issues with the peaceful protest by some people from the Six Nations.

Yes, it’s certainly inconvenient to have a road blocked for a month, isn’t it?

However, wouldn’t you agree that it’s also rather inconvenient to have the land you know taken from you and exploited for centuries, rather problematic to have your ancestors’ graves overturned and shoved beneath excessive unnecessary suburban development? Yes?

I just cannot understand how so many people feel no connection to the landscape. Or, if they can appreciate the beauty of it, it’s only in a very superficial way, like it’s picture painted especially for them, instead of something far more vast & powerful, & something they are part of. In the industrialized world, cities are not connected to the land, even though their sewers and cables and basements form a twisting labyrinth beneath the surface – cities float above the earth on a crust of pavement, and the boundaries between cities and the ‘wilderness’ is definitive. There is a binary, the ‘civilized’ and the non. This does not exist everywhere.

In Anna Maria Kerttula’s book 'Antler on the Sea', about Yup’ik, Chukchi and Russian relations in the village of Sireniki, she relates a conversation between a Yup’ik woman and a Russian visitor. The Russian is poking fun at the woman, because she is walking around outside in slippers. He says, ‘What are you doing, wearing those out on the tundra, you’re supposed to wear those inside the house, they’re for the home.’ She replies indignantly, ‘Isn’t the tundra my home?’

I think of my own forest that I know and love so much. I think of how comforting it is for me, how much more sane & like a real person I feel when I am there. How I know the certain trees by their bright splashes of lichen, trees with bark nibbled by the porcupine, the birch cradling the lost antler of a deer. The pussywillow tree, the fuzzy hanging candles of aspen blossoms, the woodpeckers in the rustling poplar. & the saskatoon bushes, the kalyna-berries, the waxwings calling. The curve of the hill at the edge of the earth, the eight deer wandering in the long grasses, white flashes, the soft silence when through the branches one will look you right in the eye. The sunlight coming through blackened branches, warm furnace of the woods. I lie in the field there & feel the earth under my back & my bones are filled with good. It fills me, the land fills me.

I think of my dad and I once, we were hiking up a ridge & looking over the Kananaskis Lakes to Elk Pass, & my dad said, “I look out over this land, and I just wish I were big enough to wrap my arms around it all, and just hug it.”

This land hasn’t been in my family for millenia. My ancestors never knew it. But it’s a part of my self, it’s woven into my memories. So much has happened there to me. Skiing, running, wandering there & speaking to people I remember the sound of my breath echoing in cold ear-caverns, the calls of waxwings, the way the light looked when something was said to me that if I stand there long enough I hear it all come back. If I can feel so strongly to this forest – what would it be to have the stories of my people’s cosmogenesis, creation, history, and collected memories for thousands of years all cached in the same land? If humans had been created, right there, under the manitoba maple? If those small ridges in the hill are the ribcages of my ancestors?

When the stand of aspens I could once see from my window was suddenly cut down, I was devastated. The empty line of the sky made me nauseous for days. I felt severed. When I think of this, I realize I understand a very small bit of what it might be line to be forcefully evacuated from a homeland of ancestors, of your lineage’s history. How can people not see how psychologically damaging it is to relocate people, to take their land from them? This is unfortunately a major part of Canadian history, this process of forced disconnection.

If my forest was destroyed by people bent on building & buying, I honestly don’t know what I’d do. I cannot comprehend losing it. It makes me ache for anyone – & there are hundreds upon hundreds of cases here – who has had their land taken from them.

I recently wrote a paper on the linguistic links to place and landscape among the Inuit, and the ‘oral maps’ created that not only help in navigation, but in creating a sense of belonging, as when Mark Nuttall and Béatrice Collignon speak of the ‘memoryscape’. This is a powerful way of understanding place and its connection to people – people who do not live on the land, but live with the land, because they were created as it was created. & they know that there is so much knowledge stored in the landscape. Knowledge, memory, and the land becomes a living mnemonic; as you experience it, you remember, and it changes each time you visit, yet remains the same presence, the same force, the same place.

I am so grateful to my parents for raising me in a way that taught me to feel a connection to the land, despite dwelling in an pavement-covered environment. Teaching me respect for it and the value of connecting with the earth. Taking me to Kananaskis when I was less than a year old, my mother carrying me on her back up the mountain, around Marl Lake. My dad taking me to the creeks and lakes of the Windfall boreal forest, going mapless & learning to follow water and changes in vegetation to wind your way around, showing me places he loves and feels spiritual about. My grandma, always with earth caked under her nails, always in the garden with her raspberries and root vegetables, praising growth. It helps me to understand better and truly appreciate the different ways the land can be understood.

I just strongly believe in recognizing multiple epistemologies, respecting different understandings and ways of knowing. Maybe if the people in Caledonia actually thought about what it represents, what it means to live in “Canada, your home on Native land”, there might be a little bit of enlightenment. If they would think beyond the narrowminded, ethnocentric roadblocks in their own minds, their dominant truth that oppresses multiple others, perhaps the barricades could start to come down. If they cannot face this, that block will remain.


Friday, April 14, 2006

this poem isn't quite done

[crocuses in the garden]
(but the crocuses are opening already)
* * *
there is
no separation
in the worlds between us –

they lay like lichens bright on
the rocks clinging, a necessary
symbiosis, the strata giving life

to bright mosses, death revealing
layers of emulsion as the picture
becomes clear –

death is not a foreign language.
& there is no need for translation

there is no separation
just a transliteration, same
speech transcribed in another
alphabet;

or the transfiguration of
sound – death is just a different accent
from the same country, upon the same
words shifting through time
& place

but i need no passport to visit you
all i need to do
is speak to you
in any language

in a heartbeat
like waxwing wingbeats pressing
up to the trees

& you answer me
with a tongue like petals of crocus
pushing violet up
from your whole throat
now the earth

Sunday, April 09, 2006

earth day footprint

[walking over the edge of the earth]

If you go here: http://myfootprint.org/

you can have your ecological footprint calculated. This is mine:

CATEGORY
GLOBAL HECTARES
FOOD
0.5
MOBILITY
0.7
SHELTER
1.3
GOODS/SERVICES
1.5
TOTAL FOOTPRINT
4
IN COMPARISON, THE AVERAGE ECOLOGICAL FOOTPRINT IN YOUR COUNTRY IS 8.8 GLOBAL HECTARES PER PERSON. WORLDWIDE, THERE EXIST 1.8 BIOLOGICALLY PRODUCTIVE GLOBAL HECTARES PER PERSON.
IF EVERYONE LIVED LIKE YOU, WE WOULD NEED 2.2 PLANETS.

I am hoping that when I move into the city and my commute involves much less of the bus, I can reduce closer down to one planet and my 1.8 hectare. It's terrifying to know that the American average is 24 acres. I don't know how many hectares that is, but seems like it's a lot.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

flocks.


{waxwings in a tree, at riverlot.}

i am making another little chapbook of poe-hems, accompanied by photographs & collage-bits. it is called 'waxwing cloud' & should be finished by the end of this month... one reason why i haven't been putting things here is because i am saving them for the book. they shall be introduced in a tangible paper-form instead. (in the meantime, i will try to put up pictures & essay-like fragments... i have just been lacking in time & desire to spend more hours on the computer...)

now, i am not sure how many of these wee books shall come into being. if you are reading this & would like one, let me know if you want one or two or six. for then i shall be able to make just as many as i need to & none will end up sad & superfluous.

so. i will update more on this as it materializes...

take care. happy spring! vesna pryjshla!