kmazz

My generation came of age during the rise of feminism, and one of the facets of traditional womanhood that it attacked was fashion. In particular, the dogma opposed high-heeled shoes. While they apparently make the foot and leg look seductive to males, for the wearer they misalign the spine, cause bunions and warp the foot in other ways, and result in insecure footing.

But if you thought stilettos were a bad idea, you ain’t seen nothing. Can this crop of offensive shoe designs have any purpose at all except a misogynistic one? What’s next, foot binding?

Is it the early rains? Being tired of lugging my painful foot around? I think it’s the hangover from watching evil run amok in Ken Burns’ “The War” combined with the malaise from reading The Bookseller of Kabul, yet another dispiriting account of what passes for life in Afghanistan.

Years ago, I saw the films Osama and Kandahar and experienced a bowel-shaking terror of the Taliban’s evangelical Islam. These films’ narratives centered on the female gender, and I could not help identifying with the characters.

There is no doubt that the Taliban, and other crusaders for fundamentalist Islam, stand for a travesty of everything human: free will, thought, feeling, artistic expression, the yearning for freedom and equality. Imagine a place where to laugh, dance or sing is suspect. Of course, if you are female in Afghanistan, chances are you will never have any reason to do any of those.

But women are just the ones who are in for the most brutal treatment, as a rule. The message I get when I ponder these pitiful states of being is that when history doesn’t go your way, whoever you are, you are really screwed. Things may eventually improve for humankind in general, the brutal war or ruthless regime may end, but in the meantime individuals will suffer to no end.

This is an apocalyptic condition. And those who believe the end of time has a set date, need only read the daily news to see it has already arrived for many people.

Back in July 2007, I used this space to provide some impressions of rapidly changing Italy, as a person who was born and partly raised there and who has spent some long periods of time in the country.

Today, one of my musings has been answered by this article in the New York Times.

“The world around us changed,” Mr. Tronco told me backstage, before the concert. “Immigrants started arriving. For Italians it’s still strange for the baker to be Chinese and the butcher Bengalese.”

And out of what could be a new melting pot, could emerge some amazing music. And film. and art. And design. And TV.

Today’s New York Times has the usual tales of woe: our new Iraqi allies, the Sunnis, are targeting our erstwhile allies the police and tribal chiefs, for death; it seems that the Bush friends who are managing the oil drilling on federal lands were taking favors from oil companies; a New Jersey town that drove out illegal immigrants is in economic hardship as a result; women no longer report being happier than men because they have a longer to-do list than ever; and ping-ponging rather than the procedural conference committee is now the way partisan bills become law. Sigh.

But hey, for those of us living in Portland, day to day eating is still a prize, as the Times finally gets around to
reporting.

It is really difficult in this day and age to experience discrimination as a white man, but there’s one Japanese restaurant in Beaverton where you can have just that. I won’t mention its name, just because I’m nice and I don’t want to cause trouble for it and therefore all the Japanese natives who depend on it for a delicious reminder of home, but I won’t be going back for more of that treatment. Not that the young woman owner would care, truth be told.

Three times we called and made reservations. Our reservations were taken. When we showed up, lo and behold, there was no such reservation on record. And none of the empty tables were available for us because they were set for people who did have their reservations on record.

The first time, we believed the line that a mistake must have been made and waited 45 minutes for a table, simply because I’d heard from Japanese clients that it was the best home style Japanese restaurant in the entire Portland area. And it was worth the wait. Soft and succulent scallops, blackened cod, and salmon. A mild but savory eggplant. Smoky soba. Sapporo on tap. The second time, it was on an off night and we only had to wait 15 minutes. The third time, we were simply turned away.

I don’t think the owner stops to say, “Oh, white person. I won’t seat them.” I think she simply doesn’t treat our call as importantly as she does the calls from Japanese. That is indeed a form of discrimination.

So, I’m ready to try some of the other homestyle, small plate Japanese eateries in town (I hear there’s a good one in Hillsboro), and even if they aren’t quite as good, the experience hopefully will compensate for it.