So, I’m not very political and the tragedy in Virginia has seized all my emotional passion this week, but just before that tragedy, I was ready to sit down and write something about the Don Imus/Rutgers fiasco. I don’t know why I feel the need to add my thoughts to the mix or invite criticism, up to now this blog has been pretty light and safe, but nonetheless, it’s been ‘gridgening’ (a family word meaning to irk) me for awhile.

Like everyone else, I would like to say that I don’t condone Imus’ remarks, and like everyone else, I was rooting for the Rutgers’ Women’s Basketball team all along their journey. I am a huge sports fan so I don’t say this lightly; I was familiar with Stringer, with Essence, even with Heather Zurich who played in the same high school league as my own kids. I would also like to say that I have never, ever listened to Don Imus’ radio show; not once, not ever. In general, I don’t like that kind of humor, can’t stand Howard Stern, and would rather drive in silence. So, why am I nauseated and disgusted by the way it all played out?

Look, I’ve noticed for years that the culture of rap has been seeping into white society. First the white kids adopted the dress; low, baggy pants and chains, then the music, all of those CD’s with warnings and yes, I’ve heard them; I’m not debating the quality of the music which is a matter of personal taste and even perhaps a totem for an oppressed people, but this music is violent, often anti-woman, often anti-life, definitely obscene. I would also like to say, at this point, that I am no prude. I’m old, yes, but even my grown kids would tell you, I never censored their music or their clothes, am pretty open-minded for a mom. But, when a segment of society, no matter how justified, adopts profanity; really gross profanity, and sexism, as an emblem, even as a quasi-battle cry, and it’s influence is so far reaching and pervasive that it seeps into the culture of a whole society, the seepage is going to dilute the nastiness and the shock. Eventually, it may even devalue the message.

So you end up with a Don Imus or a skit on Saturday Night Live or even an impromptu improvisation in a middle class high school hallway that is a mistake, because humans do make them. And in reflecting the language, someone goes too far or may even sincerely believe they are being humorous and not offensive. Honestly, that’s what happened here. Bad choice? Yep. Racist? No. Not when high school kids are going to parties themed ‘pimps and hos’. The ‘gasp’ of horror has been removed from so many awful slurs, and this is a problem.

For years now my husband and I have noticed and lamented what we call the slow and steady degradation of society as reflected in popular media. This mouthful means that we can’t get over the language that’s used on prime time TV, not so much cursing, but words for bodily functions that gross us all out. Today, they are de rigueur, no one blinks. We’ve all accepted a kind of lowest common denominator of taste. Again, I am not suggesting that we adopt a conservative, right wing, family values platform, only that we hold ourselves to a higher standard of decorum and personal pride. Is it any wonder that a decline in taste is followed by looser standards for everything, be it twenty-somethings hooking up with anyone and everyone with no emotional commitment or celebrities using and audiences supporting and even demanding outrageous language and behavior that will, surely, offend someone?

The fault is not solely with Don Imus. He was doing ‘a bit’. Whether he was over the line or not doesn’t really matter. We have created a society where he might not have been. You can’t put it on the CD’s and in the movies and not expect cultural osmosis. I realize that as a white woman there are probably pieces of the argument I can never understand and I welcome anyone with a different point of view to respond; I would love to learn what I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like for the African American community to see their styles, lyrics, and language play out on white teenagers. I imagine it’s a mixed bag; a sense of annoyance (and we never get it right, either) but perhaps also a bit of pride; it’s always nice to know you can influence; there’s power in that and validation and hope.

I also wonder what it would be like for me if Don Imus had used a slur against Jews, because I’m Jewish. Since he didn’t use the ‘N’ word, I can’t compare it to the ‘K’ word. I have to think of something that makes it apples to apples. So if he said, ‘those big-nosed cheapskates’ (or shysters) would I have been offended? I have to say no. Rude? Yes. Bad taste? You betcha. Worth eight days of media coverage and press conferences and Imus losing his job? Give me a break. We should all have been outraged at his antics and our collective shock jock appetites long before this faux pas, long before he had the chance to sap the joy out of a group of young women who stand for heart, spirit and everything that is good about all of us.

Posted by Debra Borden at 09:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Here’s the question: Is it possible for a food experience to be so sensual that it approximates sex? This weekend I learned that the answer is ‘yes’. I have no interest in sounding like a restaurant reviewer, and besides, The Inn at Little Washington in Washington, Virginia and it’s chef, Patrick O’Connell have already won more culinary and hospitality awards then you could imagine, so five diamonds and multiple stars and all of that aside, let me just tell you that the highlight of a magical, multi-highlight weekend was for me, a simple piece of tuna covered in foie gras. In fact, I think highlight is too bland a word; it makes me think more of a sports video than a religious conversion, and let me tell you, after this meal I clearly saw the light and it’s name was goose liver.

Perhaps you think I’m being overly dramatic to compare dining to a celestial act. But the sensation of melting liver sliding down my throat on a magic carpet of perfectly black and blue tuna was languid and angelic enough to invoke prayer. I gush, I know. But let me tell you more. First, I consider myself somewhat of a ‘foodie’. This past month has seen me at the tables of Country, Babbo, Gin Lane, The Bar at The Modern and The Soho House. Let me give you our groups’ opinions respectively. Country: predictable. Babbo: too many organs (I’m sorry, this wasn’t my comment, it belonged to my husband, who feels that if you are going to serve exotic body parts you should at least call them something friendly like sweetbreads—which makes him think of muffins. Note to self; husband not invited on next trip to Umbria.) Gin Lane; barely average. The Modern: fabulous. Soho House; best for brunch. Now……you can see that a restaurant that moves me to mine my vocabulary for accolades will have to be quite something.

Now here is the other piece: I do not have a great stomach, meaning, I have no business mixing the rich and myriad flavors and genres of foods often found on tasting or other multi course menus. After my first meal at the Inn, sleep was long in coming, as my stomach protested, not violently but still, in its own nagging way. So what did I do the second night? Exactly the same thing: knowing full well that I’d be propped up, hands making small soothing round circles on my belly until at least 2 or 3 am. But did I protest or even hesitate? Not at all. And later, just as I predicted, my mouth was still hot and bothered, still stimulated, still saying ‘Oh Baby’ while my stomach said ‘not tonight dear’, but in this case, it was the one and only time where ‘no’ did not mean no. And in the morning…I didn’t regret a thing.

Posted by Debra Borden at 12:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)