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Atwood, and Christ, on the Cultures of Objectification and of Rape

December 3, 2018

First Margaret Atwood:

Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing

The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of 
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent 
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.

I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads 
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge 
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can't. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape's been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it's the smiling
tires me out the most. 
This, and the pretence
that I can't hear them.
And I can't, because I'm after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don't let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I'll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner. 
That's what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body. 
They'd like to see through me, 
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look--my feet don't hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn.
Credit:

From Morning in the Burned House by Margaret Atwood. Copyright © 1995 by Margaret Atwood. Published in the United States by Houghton Mifflin Co., published in Canada by McClelland and Stewart, Inc.

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/helen-troy-does-countertop-dancing

And then Carol P. Christ:

Does Leda look like she is in the throes of ecstasy to you?

When I put myself in Leda’s place, mimicking her facial gestures, it seems to me that her eyes are wide open in expression of surprise, shock, or fear. To me she is not conveying: “wow, this is great,” but rather: “what the fuck is happening to me?”

I am not suggesting that the fresco artist had any real sympathy for a woman who was being raped. He (I assume the artist was a he) does not portray her as resisting, but rather as passively accepting her fate.

This is what rape culture looked like in ancient Pompeii.

But what about the twenty-first century archaeologists? They “ignore” the fact that they uncovered an image of rape and describe the look on the face of Leda as “sensual,” a term indicating that they view Leda as positively enjoying being raped. Did they also know that they would garner headlines by portraying the image as sexy, but might find their discovery ignored if they called it a rape fresco?

This is what rape culture looks like today.

Read the rest here:

This Is What Rape Culture Looks Like: Then and Now by Carol P. Christ

 

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