Paul E. Fallon's Blog, page 34
March 7, 2018
Free! Stuff!
[image error]Do you know anyone who needs another tote bag? How about a coaster, or a click pen inscribed with an organizational logo, or pretty much any of the stuff that comes in the obligatory goodie bag we all receive at a conference, sometimes even at a luncheon?
A couple of years ago, I began giving the staff handing out these things a polite smile, “No thanks, I don’t need it.” In return I got baffled looks and uniform replies, “But it’s free!”
To quote my philosopher brother, “Free is a very good price.” And when I find something that I can actually use, discounted to the incomparable price of zero, I take what’s offered. Sometimes two. I’ve even been known to sort through the [image error]goodie bag, right on the spot, to see if perhaps the lip gloss has SPF 15, in which case I will fish it out and put it in my pocket. But I’m never tempted to take stuff I don’t need. Because even free stuff carries a cost: the societal cost of creation and the personal cost of possession, to carry, store and eventually throw away.
Note that I refer only to things I ‘need’ because, in truth, there is nothing that I want. I long ago realized that my existence resides an idiosyncratic limbo of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s famous poem: ‘How am I different from everyone else? Let me count the ways.’
I am a woefully deficient 21st century American, an economic mutant born without the consumption gene so essential to our consumer economy. I appreciate beautiful things, objects that reflect the imagination and skill of the maker. But I have no wish to own them. Macy’s Department Store, Mahoney’s Landscape & Garden, Museum of Fine Arts: all equally enjoyable places to stroll. Never do I see anything in them and think, “I want that.”
Thanks to my housemate, perhaps the most perfect person in the world, our house looks rather nice. His vintage prints, antique breakfronts, upholstered chairs, and silver candlesticks almost obscure the dining room table I scoffed from the curb.
[image error]Sidebar on that table: a non-consumer coup. Not only was it free, not only did I save it from the landfill, the timing was perfect. I had just completed renovating the dining room (I may not much like things that move, but I’m fastidious about permanent attachments). I dreaded having to shop for a table. Then I found this grand slab of solid oak, large enough to accommodate twelve, only a block away. Drag it home, Pledge it down, toss a cloth over it, and no one sees the cracked shellac or the ciggie burn in the corner.
Being practically perfect, my housemate is a pretty good consumer, which means he buys a good amount. He’s also a savvy purchaser, with some kind of credit card that yields many benefits. Alas, those benefits have expiration dates, and if he hasn’t claimed enough credit goodies, they offer him free magazines. Which he accepts.
First we got Time, then New York and People; followed by Southern Living, Food and Wine, and The Economist. Lately, Bloomsberg litters our breakfront. I understand the allure of free magazines, but my housemate only reads online. The magazines exist for no one, except maybe me. I used to get back issues of The New Yorker and The Atlantic from the library, now I have a dentist office’ worth of glossies in my own dining room.
The magazines are nice to have around, though when the subscriptions end I will return to my old habit of library journals. One day, when the pile was high and he wasn’t dipping into it, I asked my housemate why he subscribed to them. His answer echoed the voice of every conference staffer barking totes, “Because they’re free.”
February 27, 2018
Sit Still
Is there any more gruesome punishment these days than having to sit still, and listen? I’m beginning to believe we simply can no longer do it.
I’m old school. When I go to a performance, I arrive on time, take off my coat in advance, turn off my phone, put my program down before curtain, even unwrap any cough drops if I anticipate a tickle. Then, I put my hands in my lap and sit quietly. If I must move, or remark to my neighbor, I do it during a break or applause.
I am a shrinking minority. Theaters now sell candy and wine that patrons can take to their seats. People arrive late, leave early, talk throughout. I take deep breaths and try not to be annoyed, though I am. This is not a ten-dollar ticket at the Cineplex, it’s five times that, or more, for a live performance. Beyond bothering me, these distractions disrespect the performers.
I am intrigued by theories that human evolution is speeding up, in response to a world that gallops ahead even faster than our ability to absorb it. Perhaps our ability to sit still, like opera, is antiquated. We denote no value to passive absorption.
I recently attended an event where I anticipated a high level of attention: a two-hour poetry reading by two talented poet/friends. There were perhaps sixteen people in attendance on a bitter cold day, all middle-aged acquaintances of the featured poets. Over the course of two hours people came in late, fiddled with their phones, shifted their coats, whispered to one another, put their coats back on, and left early.
A guy passed the hat right in the middle of a poem. Then he noshed on a brownie brittle, then another, then another. The woman in front of me reached over as if to bring attention to his noise, then thought better of it. I held no such constraint; I tapped him on the back and asked him to stop. Meanwhile, the woman started chatting with her neighbor, which induced another woman to shush her. Instead of a contemplative event, the poetry reading felt more like designated quiet time in a fidgety kindergarten; no one could quite keep his hands or voice to himself.
Throughout the distractions two thoughtful people continued to share wondrous images of telomere, grasshoppers daubed into Van Gogh, November light, and queried how I greeted each day: cross or star-crossed? They wove constructs that challenge an audience under the best conditions. I had to work very hard to imprint their ideas.
Am I just an old crank? Why can’t I just put these distractions aside? Part of it is cultural, in a Western European sort of way; I was taught to sit and listen. Last year I attended a performance of an African-American play at The Strand in Dorchester, where the audience shouted out to the actors: a sort of call and response. It took me some time to adjust, but then realized what was going on was pretty cool, even if I didn’t feel comfortable participating.
When I was in architecture school, my acoustics professor described why it’s important to design a concert hall to be silent below the level of 15 decibels. This seemed extreme, given that 20 dB is a common threshold for human hearing. “When Pablo Casals reaches the final strain of sustenato in a cello solo, the room must be absolutely silent. Everyone will be so rapt, not a sound will be heard.”
[image error]I wonder if that design criterion still holds. I’m pretty sure we’re all going to sit still less, listen with less focus, create more meaningless noise, and learn to accept (endure) more distractions. The beauty of Pablo Casals, and of poetry, will simply have to be more persuasive if it is to rise above the din.
February 20, 2018
Half Hour Away from Being Old
Last week I was invited to a friend’s house for dinner: at 5:30 p.m.
I can still recall dinners at eight, though it’s been years since I attended one. Most of my friends invite guests at seven. Six-thirty is my preferred start time when I host. If there’s a movie or performance wrapped into the evening, people might gather at six. But 5:30? Never before.
Anyone who came of age in the 1970’s knows the measure of getting old. Janis Ian laid it out for us in ‘Tea and Sympathy:’
Lunch at Half-past noon,
Dinner prompt at five
The comfort of a few old friends long past their prime
When we’re twenty, we consider being old is a diminution, a litany of all we’ve lost. But on the far side of sixty, the list of all the things I’ll never do again liberating. With no further need to prove myself I can decline cocaine and cigarettes, shooting guns and tequila, arm wrestling, support groups, charity runs, company parties, lobster, candied apples, and cotton candy.
A few years ago I might have included marijuana on that list, as reefers only render made me withdrawn and bemused. But I retain the right to toke up again if pain kicks in.
I plan on being a great old person; it’s a period of life that plays to my strengths. The early bird special pairs two things I love: good value without a crowd; my personal attitude grows sunnier every year: just ask anyone who knew me back then; and I’ve always spoken my mind. It will be bliss when those nuggets get burnished as wisdom.
I’ve also prepared well for growing old. I cut ‘Over 60: A Healthy Obsession will Keep You Busy’ from the Boston Globe back in the day of print news. These days, it’s yellower and wrinklier than I am, but its advice still rings true. I am a man of many projects—borderline obsessions—most of them healthy.
Although I only have a half hour uptick in my evening meal to be officially old, I suspect it may take ten, twenty years to breach that gap in time. Just because I am looking forward to something doesn’t mean I need to rush it. I’ve got a great gig going: plenty of time, plenty of interests. If I’m lucky, getting old will simply shift active engagement into more passive pursuits. By then, dinner at five won’t be an absurd concept. It will be welcome nourishment before that long, long night.
February 13, 2018
Tomorrow Finally Arrives at Amazon
After several months and many snafu’s, the full color, coffee table version of How Will We Live Tomorrow? is available to order through Amazon.
I apologize to all who ordered the book back in December, when Amazon named it a #1 seller and then cancelled all orders, for reasons I have never been able to determine. This time ‘round I ordered one myself and tracked it just to make sure.
Still – ordering it not for the feint of heart.
Here is how to proceed:
Go to Amazon and search How Will We Live Tomorrow?
You will encounter one of these unappealing messages.
ORDER ANYWAY!
This is a print on demand book; the only way to trigger an order is to place an order. I don’t know why Amazon doesn’t offer a message block that explains this, but there you have it.
Next – wait! It will take 4-6 weeks for your order to go from Amazon to the printer, get printed, and then get delivered to you.
Can’t wait? Order How Will We Live Tomorrow? – ebook edition in less than a minute. It includes all the same stories, without images, accessible on almost any mobile device.
Want both? Folks who purchase the hardcover can order the ebook at half price.
February 6, 2018
Homosexuals Rub Shoulders at The Met
Dapper gents in green ties have eyed each other across the galleries of The Metropolitan Museum of Art for over a century. There’s nothing new in that. What’s new these days, green ties long discarded, is that we get to do it among throngs of art aficionados: old and young, fat and fair, straight and gender fluid: all of us perusing a pair of exhibits that embody different aspect of homosexual experience. On a crowded winter morning, it seems the entire world is enthralled by two of our most distinguished, if oddly paired, peers: Michelangelo and David Hockney. Each show is important in specific ways. Together, they provide a contrapuntal vision of how homosexual hands enhance our world, though I don’t recall the word ‘homosexual’ used in either gallery’s extensive notes.
‘Michelangelo: Devine Draftsman and Designer’ (hurry: ends February 12) is a glorious celebration of drawing. Although Michelangelo considered himself first and foremost a sculptor, and the Sistine Chapel ceiling demonstrates masterful painting, Michelangelo’s drawings are also extraordinary. The show inverts our usual sense of finished product; it includes a few sculptures and paintings in support of the drawings, although many of the drawings were originally produced as studies in advance of permanent execution in oil or marble.
[image error]The exhibit is not encyclopedic; rather it’s comprehensive within its precinct. It chronicles Michelangelo’s entire drafting career, from apprentice to elder artist, and includes works by his teachers, peers, and apprentices. Since drawing is so often about process, I appreciate the detailed notes about Renaissance production. How pin-prick holes transferred outlines to walls or ceilings when the drawings were pasted in place and rubbed with charcoal; the crosshatch method Michelangelo learned from his master, Domenico Ghirlandaio, and then refined to a higher level; the stylus grooves that were later filled with luminous gouache highlights. These drawings, composed of thousands of staccato lines, rise off their paper, transcending their plane into three dimensions.
The Michelangelo galleries are appropriately dark, the rather small objects spotlighted, the appreciative crowd clustered tight around detailed images of sinewy muscle. For that is subject of Michelangelo’s drawings: men’s muscles. Over, and over and over again. There are a handful of virgins, a few cherubic nymphs, but mostly Michelangelo drew portions of men in shadowy light, not unlike the mid-20th-century photos in magazines like Physique Pictorial. There are occasional faces, and a few hands. But mostly Michelangelo drew buttocks and thighs and torsos and shoulders, all rippling with testosterone. The accompanying notes itemize an equally impressive list of male patrons and companions. The word ‘homosexual’ doesn’t appear in the exhibit, because the term was not coined until the nineteenth century. Also because it would be redundant.
Coming out of Michelangelo’s shadows of insistent scratches rendering incomplete masculinity and entering David Hockney’s brilliant light and saturated colors is fresh, liberating. In the Hockney galleries, the term homosexual is passé, superseded by more recent terms: gay, homoerotic.
David Hockney (hurry slower: on view until February 25) may have been an out gay man since before sodomy was legal in England, and his images may have been inspired by the Physique Pictorial’s that fetishized Michelangelo’s perfect forms, but in truth, David Hockney’s art is not homoerotic. It’s not erotic at all. Two androgynous creatures squirting white stuff from phallic Colgate tubes into each other’s mouths may be Pop Art with social commentary, but it’s hardly erotic. A gigantic painting of a Southern California pool with a lone pair of his recently departed partner’s empty sandals is heart wrenching, Eros removed. A paired portrait of Christopher Isherwood, turning his profile toward his much younger partner while Don Barchardy looks straight ahead without even acknowledging the older man isn’t about erotic charge. It’s about what remains as passion fizzles; it’s about homosexuals grasping for a depth of connection too long denied; it’s about trust, commitment; it’s about fear.
[image error] [image error] [image error]
[image error]
David Hockney is a welcome antidote to Michelangelo. The broad flat colors of Poolside Splash are the perfect foil to Michelangelo’s frenzy detail. Hockney’s drawingsare not an amalgamation of small strokes, they are sinuous lines that reinforce, even celebrate, the two-dimensional medium. David Hockney does not create mass; he illustrates character.
[image error]Each exhibit is worthwhile: Michelangelo satisfies my intellect; David Hockney nourishes my soul. Together, each becomes deeper, profound.
These two shows at the Met also renew my sense of good fortune, to live in a time when it’s (mostly) okay to be homosexual. To loiter among all sorts of people gushing about art derived from a homosexual sensibility, yet still be able to meet the eye of a stranger with a strong chin; parse lips into the faintest smile, nod to one another, and acknowledge without a word, that we belong to the same club.
January 30, 2018
Call Me White
I stayed awake for three days straight during senior year fraternity rush. All day socializing with prospective members, late night parties back in the halcyon days of age 18 alcohol, topped by after-hour meetings deciding which guys to offer a bid. Who did we want to welcome as fellow Phi Delts? We took it very seriously.
When a freshman caught enough attention, an upper classman was designated to be his mentor, made sure he met all the brothers, and tried to keep him away from rival houses. At the after-midnight meeting, each mentor made the case for giving his guy a bid.
I was assigned to ‘Jerry.’ Jerry was unlike any other freshmen touring our fraternity; he was black. The previous year, 1975, a black student had visited our house during rush, but he didn’t gain much consideration. A single member could squash any potential brother, and ‘Harold’ was blackballed when his name got mentioned. Two black freshmen joined another fraternity that year; the first African-American fraternity brothers at our school. I was determined that 1976 was the year we’d follow suit. Jerry was a good guy; and besides, it was time.
I agonized how to present[image error] Jerry at our midnight meeting. I described his high school background, his interests, that he wanted to study EE and play football. What I never said—ever—was the most obvious thing about Jerry. I never uttered the word ‘black.’
According to the Oxford English Dictionary there are up to 50,000 adjectives in the English language. Most of us use no more than 500. Rarely do we apply more than two or three to embellish a particular noun. The most appropriate adjective is the one that best differentiates. Which is why, if I hadn’t stirred myself into a PC muddle, I would have described Jerry as ‘the black guy’ and everyone would have known exactly which freshman I meant.
I couldn’t bring myself to describe Jerry as black. No one ever called me white, a meaningless descriptor in the ubiquitously white world I inhabited. Yet the term black seemed targeted, prejudicial; a word blacks might choose among themselves, but not one I was allowed.
A variety of terms have[image error] described me over the years: chubby, devout, curly-haired, geek, husband architect, father, skinny, secular, balding, writer, cyclist. No one ever called me white, until I went to Haiti. There, I was called ‘blan,’ a Creole derivative of the French world for ‘white’ that’s applied to foreigners of any skin color. An African-American in Haiti might be called ‘blan’ while a fair-skinned native would not. In my case, there was no confusion; I am ‘blan’ in every respect.
In Haiti I began to think of myself as white, which, after all, is a minority human shade. I started calling myself a ‘white guy’. It felt awkward at first, a betrayal of color-blind liberalism.
When I returned home, I realized that whitewashing racial terminology would not make racism go away. On the contrary, as long as white people feel so much in control that we don’t even have to acknowledge the dominant attribute of our privilege, we propagate our superiority.
Whatever happened to ‘Je[image error]rry’ and my ridiculous attempt to champion a young man while pretending away his most obvious characteristic? We gave Jerry a bid, but he didn’t accept it. He joined the other fraternity, perhaps because he wouldn’t be the only black guy. The following year, the Phi Delts gave bids to other black guys. One joined; the next year a few more. Change happens over time. These days, fraternity men come in all colors.
Someday, I hope, I can stop calling myself a white guy. But not until white ceases to be the default color of power, and human skin shades become hues to celebrate rather than instantaneous ways to discriminate and divide.
January 23, 2018
Yet Another Bastion of Privilege: The Chaste Mouth
[image error]To be a white man in 2018 is to find yourself dug daily into ever deeper depths of Dante Inferno-like privilege. I recently learned of an entirely new arena in which my behavior supposedly reflects my precipice status: I don’t curse.
I have cursed, on occasion, in the past. A random ‘damn’ slips my lips even now, though it’s been years since I let out a satisfying string of expletives. I don’t use vulgar language in my writing; I agonized over whether to include ‘sh*t’ in a direct quote until my editor cautioned that masking the word would violate the quote. I don’t even raise my middle finger when I cycle any more, though I assure you many drivers deserve it.
My father cursed, like the Dickens, which likely explains my aversion to the practice. My housemate, the nicest person on the planet, lets four-letter streams loose. My brothers curse, probably my son as well, though he’s too careful to do so around me.
The day our President ranted against Haiti and African countries, reporters initially cited an ‘inappropriate’ word, without actually uttering it. The first banner headline I saw contained the term, ‘Sh*thole.’ Within hours, commentators said the actual word on air; banners spelled it in full. In less than one day, media protocol shifted. Whatever words a President chooses immediately enter common parlance.
In a recent New Yorker piece—a magazine that prints the F-word pretty casually these days—author Emma Byrne (Swearing is Good for You: The Amazing Science of Bad Language) says that the idea that we were once more courteous and less obscene is a fiction. “That attitude comes from a place of privilege. If you can be in this world, and not feel a level of intense frustration, upset, or even desperation such that you feel the need to sear, then you are in a very lucky position indeed.”
I am intrigued by Ms. Byrne’s notion, and admit to my own lucky position, but I’m not convinced her correlation is valid. I’ve always credited my chaste tongue with me being a prig more than being privileged. Sure, American subcultures that emphasize obscenities are more prevalent among marginalized people, but not all oppressed persons find escape in a curse. African Americans are often prolific and creative in bad-mouthing: Native Americans, not so much. Meanwhile, are any of us surprised to learn that Donny Trump can mouth a foul word or two without skipping a beat? And who, after all, possesses more privilege on our planet than that man?
January 16, 2018
Entertainment Tonight … and Tomorrow … and the Day After That
It’s inauguration anniversary week—one year since Donald Trump took the Oath of Office. Many will pen commentaries on whatever good or ill our President has delivered. I fall square in the camp that believes Donald’s a bully who’s diminished our domestic lives, compromised our world standing, and made the world an even more dangerous place to live. One thing I’ve learned from him: the world is not simply divided into win-win relationships or win-lose transactions. Trump has introduced an even baser level of human interaction: I only win when everyone else loses. The man and I possess diametric worldviews.
Nonetheless, I’ll let others articulate his policy faults or triumphs. I’d rather focus on an aspect of this man’s rise to power too much overlooked: his entertainment value. In this regard, The Donald delivers.
Donald Trump rose to power in 2015 and 2016, coincident with me pedaling the pulse of our nation. It was a time of national complaint, despite scant to data support our malaise. True, many got left behind in the recovery from the 2008 recession, but the recession was over. The military industrial establishment had finally achieved ideal stasis: a continuous war that can never be won but which occupies so few citizens, we foot the bill without real objection. Our social systems—healthcare, public education, taxes, immigration, equality, and environmental policies—were all flawed, but trending in mostly good directions. Our problems were real, but of first world amplitude. Still we complained.
[image error]
Democracy is a messy process, never complete. Responsible decision-making is too nuanced to bloom in the age of twitter. We yearned for a simple narrative.
Trump played the media and the populace like the astute barker he is, and we played right
along. Corporations appeared to have more influence over our day-to-day lives than government. As long as the stock market rolled in sync with Walmart’s replenished shelves, we figured we were doing all right, so why not choose an amusing front man for the political sideshow?
People may object to my rationale for Donald Trump’s election as flip and dismissive: I think it gets to the core of our problem. Americans have more say in our government than most people on this earth; we have enjoyed a high standard of living and freedom of expression for over two hundred years. We are quick to claim our rights, though less speedy to own the responsibilities those rights entail. Since anything taken for granted loses value, we grew complacent. Only an uninformed populace jaded to the political process could have elected a man like Donald Trump. That uninformed populace is us; elect a Very Steady Genius is what we did.[image error]
I’m surprised to hear people say, “He’s worse than I thought he would be.” Was no one listening through the anger, the double talk, the deceit? So far, Donald Trump acts exactly as I thought he would. One year in, what he does best is what he’s always done best: elevate hate and fear to a fever pitch that commands neither wisdom nor truth: only attention. That’s entertainment.
January 9, 2018
Rules of The Road
[image error]Everybody loves a guy on a bike. Except when you’re driving alongside one. Then you just want that bicycle gone.
As a man who cycles for primary transport, with a track record of pedaling pretty far, automobile drivers often pinhole me with complaints of reckless cyclists, while cyclists regale me with the injustices of folks behind the wheel. Like all conflicts in our divisive society, we’re more inclined to point out the other guy’s yoke rather than clean up the egg on our own face.
The rules of the road are simple: bicycles are supposed to follow the same procedures as motor vehicles; cars and trucks are supposed to accommodate bicycles. Great in theory; difficult in practice.
Bicycles. Cyclists are iconoclasts with an independent streak. We buck the trend of a world that celebrates all things fast and fossil fueled. We chafe under rules designed for larger, more dangerous machines. Most cyclists I know operate under the assumption, “If I can glide through that Stop sign or pedal through that red light without a problem, I will.” We rationalize this makes traffic run smoother, though in fact, we just like flaunting rules.
“I will because I can” is an egotistical stratagem. It assumes nothing will go wrong (like the bike slipping in the intersection), and ignores the uncertainty errant cyclists inflict on vehicle drivers. Better, I think, to operate on the assumption, “I will, only when no one is affected.” I don’t run a red light against an oncoming car, even if I know I can make it, because I don’t want to cast anxiety on the approaching driver.
Automobiles. Please, just treat us with the same rights as any other vehicle. Give us three feet when you pass. If the road is narrow or lined with snow, and we claim a full lane, slow down behind us. Drivers that pass too close are dangerous. So are drivers that abandon the rules of the road under the auspices of being nice.
The most dangerous situation I encounter sharing the street with cars is when drivers who have right-of-way yield to me. I understand, in theory, they’re benevolent. In reality, they create confusion and danger. The diagram illustrates the awkward place I find myself at least once a week.
I want to turn left. I am in the left lane, with my signal arm out, waiting for traffic to clear. The approaching car stops and waves me in front of him. But his vehicle blocks my view of anyone in the right lane. I wave him on because I don’t want to turn into a blind spot, even as I’m a target for any traffic coming up too fast behind me. The driver trying to be nice thinks I’m an a@#hole. Everyone is annoyed.
How to resolve this dilemma? Follow the rules of the road. Altering the hierarchy of right-of-way for a bicycle makes things less safe, not more. Yield to a bicycle exactly the same as you would for a car. If the driver opposing me moves on, I can see what’s ahead and make my left turn more quickly and safely.
There was a time when our public streets were a confusion of horses, pedestrians, trolley cars, and motor vehicles. Then the cars took precedence. Now, more and more cyclists vie for space. Drivers resent vehicle lanes cut back to create bike lanes.; it’s hard to give up something you think you own. But the streets are for all of us, and the more we share, follow the same rules, and accommodate each other’s differences, the better off we will all be.
January 2, 2018
Case Studies in Sexual Harassment
When I first heard about Harvey Weinstein and Kevin Spacey and Charlie Rose, about men with loose bathrobes and wandering hands who force penetration, I figured it was just another example of me being a stranger in this strange land. As a beta-male tuned to the cerebral rather than the physical, I have no context for understanding these perversions of privilege and power. I never coerced anyone from a superior step on the corporate ladder. Or did I?
Like many adult males, the close of 2017 led me to consider my role in our culture of sexual harassment. Like most, I didn’t have to dig too deep to find questionable workplace behavior. Although the particulars of my stories may seem insignificant compared to other men. Inappropriate behavior, accentuated by a power imbalance, is always wrong.
In some respects, less egregious cases offer more nuanced perspective on where we cross the line. Three situations in my own career illustrate how sex contorts the workplace. Let’s call them the creep, the object, and the benefactor.
The Creep. One morning, twenty years ago, I was at work early, in the large pen of chest-high cubicles so common to architecture offices. I tossed a good morning to ‘Max,’ two cubicles over, but didn’t see him until several minutes later, when Max stood to ask me a question. This particular morning Max sported a bow tie, which complimented his clean-cut face, square smile, and preppy oxford in a perfectly Yankee way. “You’re so cute.” I gushed before I caught myself. Max blushed. I got a grip, answered his question, and we continued on. Twenty years on, I still recall, and regret, that comment.
The Object. A few years later, on a business trip to Phoenix, I went to the hotel pool after a long day of meetings. My principal, ‘Alan,’ was sitting in a chaise on the deck. I greeted him, asked if he wanted to swim. He declined. I swam my laps, got out, and toweled down. A woman on our team came over and said, “You know, Alan watched you up and down the pool the entire time.” Rumors around the office pegged Alan—divorced, with two daughters—as a closeted homosexual. It was also common knowledge that I was an out gay man. When my coworker told me of my boss’ steady eyes, I remembered how often Alan called me into his office, made sure I was in his car on site visits, kept me close at hand.
The Benefactor. The first time ‘Jake’ walked by my desk, my heart pounded out of my chest and burst toward him. The most instantaneous crush of my life endured through eight years of working together. I had little in common with this hockey playing hard rock surfer who wrung my heart and spun my tongue to blither. Before I approached Jake’s desk I always had to compose myself and check my breathing. During the years we worked together Jake met his future wife, got married, bought a house, had two children. He also got a pair of promotions, in part due to my mentoring and lobbying on his behalf. I never did anything physically inappropriate, though there’s something sad, maybe sordid, about loitering a weekend afternoon in a frigid MDC rink to watch a colleague’s adult hockey team, uninvited.
Do any of these three case studies constitute harassment?
The first: definitely. The unambiguous definition of harassment is: if a person feels harassed, then he is. But harassment is not limited by that condition. It doesn’t matter whether Max felt harassed by my comment. Even if it was a compliment, I was inappropriate. I knew it the moment I uttered those words; I know it twenty years on.
The second: I don’t think so. It may be true that Alan ogled me and arranged mutual proximity, but he never did or said anything inappropriate to me. I never once felt harassed.
The third: it’s complicated. When the roles flipped, I acted toward Jake much as Alan did toward me. I never did or said anything overtly inappropriate. Jake deserved the promotions he received, although other, less comely men and women I never championed, were likely deserving as well. If Jake felt harassed, then I harassed him. More likely, a simple cost-benefit analysis on his part reckoned that we had a mutually beneficial pact. I’m confident, though chagrinned, that he understood my attraction. But since I drew the bounds so tight, we mutually navigated an awkward reality.
Human relationships are delicate. The dance of give and take, the balance of affection, trust, and power vary over time. Every day is a constant stream of quid pro quo. This is especially true in the workplace, where we come together for the express purpose of creating economic and social gain.
Harassment skews that balance. The person with power in one arena coerces another in life’s intimate arena.
I hear many men bemoan the fact that it’s difficult to know what one can do and say in today’s hyper-sensitive environment. Where’s the sense of perspective? Can’t anyone take a joke?
I have no patience for this reasoning; I reject the Matt Damonian argument that harassment comes in shades. Our society is likely to enter a period of backlash, where even the most innocuous comment is analyzed for ill intent. Fine by me. For how many millennia have privileged white men been able to say or do whatever they want without repercussion? How long have we allowed the insistent denying of one powerful man supersede any number of credible accusations? Let us learn to hold our tongues and tie our hands. Let us stop pretending that we determine who is abused and harassed. Let us all reconsider our behavior in the workplace and in the public forum. We may not all be Louis CK or Roy Moore, Al Franken or Donald Trump; but we’ve all got some dirt on our hands.
