Waking Up

As far as I'm concerned, my most irritating habit is my inability to get up in the morning. Admittedly, others might disagree.

At any rate, I've struggled for years with this problem, and have tried a wide variety of solutions, including putting the alarm clock in another room (I slept through it), using a wind-up alarm clock (I couldn't get to sleep because of the ticking), and using a zen alarm clock that woke me with a soft gong (actually, the gong was too soft; I was able to lie in bed, relaxing to it, for hours). Finally, I hit upon the perfect solution: I got married. Now, if I hesitate too long in turning off my alarm, my wife threatens my life, plants her cold feet in the middle of my back, or gives me a searing guilt trip. This, combined with the placement of my alarm clock (halfway across the bedroom) and the station I have it set to (irritating country) usually gets me right out of bed.

Unless, of course, my wife is in New York, in which case all bets are off.

Having talked to friends about this problem, I've discovered that we all have very different mechanisms for sleeping in. Some people are just heavy sleepers, while other people hit the snooze like it's a morphine drip, and still others actually enjoy their alarms. Personally, my problem is over-reliance on the snooze coupled with a tendency toward philosophical thought. In a nutshell, I either hit the snooze button too many times or I start thinking about the song that's supposed to be waking me up.

As I mentioned earlier, I have my clock radio set to a twangy, maudlin country-music station. The combination of bottleneck guitars, rough-hewn voices, and conservative lyrics is usually enough to hurl me out of bed. This morning, however, I got philosophical.

Bad mistake.

The band was Heartland. The song? "I Loved Her First." Here's the video:



If that takes too long to load up, here are the lyrics.

Admittedly, the video made me a little misty. The whole thing about fairy tales and tucking in is sweet, and since I'm a little fairy tale and tucking-in deprived right now, well, it just got to me, okay. Really, men are allowed to cry.

But as for the rest of it, doesn't this song sound like something that Ducky would say to Blane in Pretty in Pink? Think about it:

I was enough for her not long ago
I was her number one
She told me so
And she still means the world to me
Just so you know
So be careful when you hold my girl
Time changes everything
Life must go on
And I'm not gonna stand in your way

These are not the words of a father; they sound like something a jilted lover would say. "I'm not gonna stand in your way"? Jesus! Take a step back, Joe Simpson. From previous experience, I know how hard it is when your child discovers that you're not omnipotent. In fact, I've already taken steps to ensure that George will remain blissfully in the dark until at least her mid-thirties. However, "I was her number one/she told me so" is eerily reminiscent of the "I'm really good at french kissing. My daddy says so." line from National Lampoon's Vacation.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of mentioning this to my wife, who assures me that it's already on the playlist for my daughter's wedding. Hopefully, the wife will forget.

In the meantime, I now know which song is number one on the Purity Ball hit parade.

Speakers Corner

When I was in graduate school, I shared a number of classes with a guy named Charles. While much of my bachelor's work was in the social sciences, Charles had done his undergraduate work in Theater Arts. This, naturally, led to a significant difference in perspectives. Through much of my first semester, I found myself asking Charles what he meant. For example, in one class, he talked about "tonalities." According to Charles, teachers tended to speak at one "tonality," while students spoke at another. After I asked him a few questions, it became clear that Charles meant that teachers were thinking on higher levels than their students. I had thought that he was discussing the pitch of our voices.

In another class, Charles started stripping as a demonstration of ways to break through a student's comfort zone.

One day, towards the end of the semester, I asked Charles a question about his interpretation of William Blake. He exploded, telling me that I had been attacking him all semester, victimizing him, etcetera, etcetera. I was taken aback. Charles, among others, had often asked me to clarify my positions. Rather than be offended or insulted, I was appreciative. It seemed to me that lively discourse had done a lot to hone my ideas, not to mention my ability to think critically. All the same, I had clearly upset Charles, so I apologized for any perceived insults and stopped asking him questions. Class discussion dropped off.

The following semester, I found myself in classes with students who were more comfortable with rigorous debate. We'd often argue loudly and endlessly about some point of interpretation or teaching technique. After class, we'd continue the battles over cheap beers at the local dive bar, with breaks for South Park, of course.

I was in heaven.

Yesterday's post, Saving It For Daddy, inspired a little bit of heated debate. I understand that, on some blogs, direct confrontation between posters is considered rude and inappropriate. To be honest, though, I appreciated the fact that some of you had differing opinions, and were able to discuss them in a respectful and thoughtful manner. I was pleased that I was able to create a space where you felt comfortable discussing your opinions with each other. While I don't think that we'll be able to reach agreement on this issue, I like the fact that we are able to put our respective positions on the table and explain them to each other.


I don't feel like reasoned discussion is getting a fair showing these days. Rather than cool-headed, thoughtful participants, the United States has "ultra-Christian, fundamentalist, racist, patriarchal, homophobic, super-conservative crypto-fascists" battling "ultra-liberal, god-hating, man-hating, homosexual-recruiting, flip-flopping communists." I don't see much space for the rest of us in the public discourse. However, I can't help feeling that there is still a lot more that connects us than divides us, and I believe that we have many of the same ideals for our world, although we intensely disagree on the best methods for realizing those goals.

Matt's blog has given me a clear glimpse into how discussion can degenerate into insults and abuse; like him, I reserve the right to employ extraordinary measures if I feel like things have gotten out of hand. However, conversations like the one in my comments section yesterday make me feel like my blog serves a real purpose, and make me very proud of the space that I have created. Most of all, they make me even more appreciative of the people who choose to read and comment on the things that I write.

I am now stepping off my soapbox. Thank you.

Saving It For Daddy

My wife majored in Philosophy, which means that we talk a lot.

Everything in our lives, from toilet paper to food to how we raise George is a major topic for discussion, and we endlessly go over the pros and cons, long-range consequences and short-term benefits of every action. We consider the hidden meanings of our decisions, and the broader relevance of our preferences.

In other words, we talk a lot.

I really like this. My own tendency is toward thoughtfulness and consideration, and I try to live a deliberate life. I don't like to take things for granted, so our endless talks are very important to me.

One of the most important long talks we've had involved planning our wedding. Although we endlessly discussed every aspect of the wedding, one of the biggest sticking points was the engagement ring. On the one hand, I wanted to give her a ring, and she wanted to get a ring. On the other hand, we both recognized that engagement rings are a thinly-disguised business transaction. In short, I was spending money I didn't have on a piece of jewelry with which I was purchasing exclusive drilling rights to my wife's vagina.

Honestly, this grossed us both out. The same went for her wedding escort. While my wife wanted her father to walk her down the aisle, we also recognized that this signified that her father was literally "giving away" control and ownership of his daughter. Given the rocky nature of her relationship with the old man, not to mention our own anti-slavery leanings, the undertone of this tradition was more than a little uncomfortable.

Ultimately, we decided that, given the feminist rejection of these traditions, our decision to embrace them was actually revolutionary. More to the point, she wanted a ring and a part for her father; I wanted to give her a ring and had no real opinion about her father. It was our own damned wedding, Andrea Dworkin wasn't kicking in for the cost, and we were going to do what we wanted to do. Screw the underlying meaning!

Recently, she came across an article in Glamour magazine that reminded us of these discussions. Apparently, so-called "Purity Balls" are becoming an increasingly popular trend among fundamentalist Christians. These events, at which daughters pledge to their fathers that they will preserve their virginity until their wedding night, are sponsored by churches, crisis pregnancy centers, and non-profit groups. The young ladies dress up in prom dresses, and their fathers dress up in tuxedos and suits. At some point in the evening, in the words of Mark Morford of the San Francisco Gate:

The daughter stands up, her pale arms wrapped around her daddy, and reads aloud a formal pledge that she will remain forever pure and virginal and sex-free until she is handed over, by her dad (who is actually called the "high priest" of the home), like some sort of sad hymenic gift, to her husband, who will receive her like the sanitized and overprotected and libidinously inept servant she so very much is. Praise!

The daughter's pledge states, in part:

I pledge to remain sexually pure...until the day I give myself as a wedding gift to my husband...I know that God requires this of me...that he loves me, and that he will reward me for my faithfulness.

The fathers then recite this pledge:

I, (daughter's name)'s father, choose before God to cover my daughter as her authority and protection in the area of purity. I will be pure in my own life as a man, husband, and father. I will be a man of integrity and accountability as I lead, guide, and pray over my daughter and my family as the high priest in my home. This covering will be used by God to influence generations to come.

I'm not sure that I can even convey how much this disgusts me. The image of "high priest" fathers "covering" their daughters is creepily incestuous, not to mention very Old Testament. Seriously, haven't these people read the story of Lot's daughters? It's even worse that these pledges occur at "Purity Balls." Why don't they call these events "Purity Dances" or "Purity Retreats" or something? "Purity Balls" sounds like something that dangled off Howard Hughes' overly-sterilized frame.


In Glamour, Jennifer Baumgardner notes that these events encourage the purchase of items like "a $250 14-karat pearl-and-diamond purity ring; for $15, you can buy a red baby-doll T-shirt with I'M WAITING emblazoned on the chest, its snug fit sending a bit of a mixed message." This reminds me of the sexy red chastity league scarf that Julia wears around her waist in 1984. There's something disturbingly cruel about clothes that proclaim chastity while encouraging lewd thoughts. More to the point, why are these fathers fetishizing their daughters' sexuality? Why is it such a huge concern? And why are they buying their daughters slutterwear if they want them to save it for marriage? What's next--shirts that say "my vagina is a temple of the Lord, but my hands are the Devil's playground"? How about "Chastity? You said a mouthful!"?

I understand the desire to protect one's daughter, to shelter her from harm, and to lead her to make the best possible decisions. However, I'd like to think that, when George is in her late thirties, and is ready to lose her virginity, I will be supportive and understanding.


All kidding aside, I've been through this with my little sister. When she lost her virginity, I knew about it. It made me nervous, on a variety of levels, but I had spent a lot of time with the boy that she was dating, and I trusted him. I realized that he would treat her well, and would give her a gentle and respectful introduction to sexuality. I also knew that my sister was intelligent, thoughtful, and capable of making decisions about her life. Ultimately, I realized that I had raised her well; in other words, a large part of my (relative) comfort with this whole situation lay in the fact that I had faith in my sister and my own child-raising abilities.

It seems odd that these people, who base so much of their lives on religion, have so little faith in themselves and their daughters.