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| Yes, this is pretty much my mother every holiday... |
I just went home for Christmas. It
was glorious. Every time I opened the pantry, there was food. Meals appeared on
the table around six in the evening with scientific, predictable regularity. It
was varied: chicken fried steak, breakfast casserole, turkey, cherry pie, green beans, mashed
potatoes. It was endless: second helpings, third helpings, for twelve people.
It was beautiful: eaten atop a tablecloth; with real napkins; a knife, fork and
spoon to every plate; pitchers for the beverages; a centerpiece gaudily
blocking your view of the sibling across the table.
And it wasn’t just the food. When
you sat down to read in the easy chair, bookshelves placed to maximize space
greeted you near at hand. Lamps adorned end tables and strategic corners. Decorations—almost
unnoticed until you looked for them—lent a general air, a theme almost, to each
room. Don’t even get me started on the Christmas stuff overlaying all this.
Home. I roll out of bed, shake my head, and wander to the
kitchen; a bare white, frill-less affair which is (at best) merely clean. I
yank open the refrigerator, grab an egg I hard boiled the day before, whack it
a few times on the counter. The salt shaker is almost empty. I dust the egg
with it, eat it in three bites over the sink, and chuckle at the difference
between this and three days ago. Breakfast is served. Welcome to the key
difference between a bachelor pad and a home: civilization.
Webster defined “civilization” as “The
act of civilizing, or the state of being civilized; the state of being refined
in manners, from the grossness of savage life and improved in arts and
learning.” And I think access to this state is granted largely by the hand of
women. If you want to build a great nation, a great city, a good home, you need
the influence of women. Exclusive Y-chromosomes won’t cut it. Haven’t you ever
wondered why manners and women are often so closely associated? When someone is
rude and mannerless, the common thing to say is “chivalry is dead” not “manners is (are?) dead.” Women define polite
society in ways that are literally everywhere.
Entering a building? Open the door.
Walking along the street? Take the outside. Eating something? Pull her chair
out and serve her first. Going somewhere fancy? Wear stark black and white and
watch the colors, shades, and tones beside you become even more glorious by
sheer comparison. Setting the table for
stew? Use the forks and knives. Yes, we all know that no one will actually use the forks and knives , that they
will get dirty, that the twelve-year-old will get stuck washing three times the
amount of silverware the meal actually needs.
Need is pragmatic, utilitarian, male. The point is civilization—beauty. Speaking
of beauty, Beauty and the Beast made this point about the influence of the
fairer sex nicely. Remember how the Beast ate like a barbarian (or dare I say,
a barbar-Y-an)? It was practical, quick—and utterly unsuitable for company.
This is not to say that men cannot
build their own societies, their own civilizations, by themselves. Of course
they can. But I think they differ qualitatively from what we commonly think of
as civilization. The highest expression of male organization is not the
ballroom, the state dinner, Christmas, or the welcome mat inside a cozy
cottage. If civilization is the “state of being refined in manners, from the
grossness of savage life…” then the Y-chromosome version is the art of refined savage life. Put a bunch of guys
together for long enough, and they will produce hunting lodges paved in pelt
and accented in antlers. They will not build homes and families dedicated to
inviting others in; they will build armies and battleships, refined to the
startlingly sharp purpose of keeping other people out. The opposite of the welcome mat is the
bayonet.
Women gave us meals with seven
courses and thirty-two forks; men gave us carry-out pizza and that utilitarian (and
ugly) utensil the spork. Now there are days when I’m greatful for my barbarian bachelor
pad. It is disgustingly easy, charmingly disorganized, and there’s nothing to
dust under on the shelves. But refined relationships—civilization—do not
develop in a bachelor pad among the Y-chromosome crowd.
That takes the other half of
humanity.
