What To Do About That Rapey Song

This is a post about Christmas songs. And Shel Silverstein. And sex. And good wholesome naughtiness. All, I hope, without the side effect of sermonizing too much. Guess we’ll just have to see how this goes.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside was written in 1944 by Frank Loesser, who performed it with his wife at parties, according to Wikipedia. In 1949, it was featured in the movie Neptune’s Daughter starring Esther Williams and Red Skelton. You know this song, of course. It’s a duet, a clever weaving of two monologues: a woman who says she has to leave, and a man who is seducing her to stay.

Lately it’s gained a bit of notoriety. Not because it’s about sex, because that’s actually a recurring theme in winter songs. Let It Snow celebrates the fact that the weather outside is frightful, so good thing we’re inside and together and hey, how about it? Walking in a Winter Wonderland is a little tamer, but even then they’re looking forward to a little necking in front of the fire. Evidently the human response to cold weather is to have sex (which makes sense; at least it’s warm).

But Baby It’s Cold Outside, while pretty much the same theme as Let It Snow, is quite a bit edgier. It’s known as “the date-rape song” thanks to lines such as:

The neighbors might think (baby, it’s bad out there)
Say what’s in this drink? (no cabs to be had out there)

I simply must go (but baby, it’s cold outside)
The answer is no (but baby, it’s cold outside)

I’ve disliked the song for years for that exact reason. It makes me anxious, not cozy.

I’m not alone in this feeling. Seems like we could just let it die a quick death, but it’s hard to kill Christmas songs. Last Christmas by Wham!, anyone? Instead, several people are scrambling around doing damage control.

This article from the Washington Post is an example of one perspective. It maintains that at the time the song was written, it was all about women’s empowerment because a woman staying overnight with her lover could expect to come under fire from society. And that is a point. The woman in the song is obviously reluctant to leave, and keeps pointing out all the people who are going to be scandalized if she doesn’t go.

The problem with this patch-up is twofold:

  1. He never offers to protect her from any of the vicious fallout she’ll receive for staying the night with him.
  2. Lady, please. If you don’t want to go, grow a vagina (as the egalitarian saying goes) and say Yes. Stop saying No if you don’t mean it. That confuses good men. (Men unlike your lover who—if you ask me—will ditch you as soon as the family pressure comes bearing down for him to make you an honest woman.)

Others, finding that explanation insufficient, have decided that the song is a total loss as-is. They’ve rewritten it to illustrate proper sexual consent. One version features lyrics like this:

I really can’t stay (Baby I’m fine with that)
I’ve got to go away (Baby I’m cool with that)

My mother will start to worry (Call her so she knows you’re fine)

I ought to say no no no (You reserve the right to say no)

 

Okay, so I admire the effort… but it’s like drinking flat root beer. Instead of a predatory lover, now you’ve got somebody who:

  1. Doesn’t want her to stay at all but is too nice to say it outright
  2. Is missing all of her flirty hints by earnestly supporting her rights

Either way, the song gets increasingly awkward as it goes. At least in the original song, you’ve got some sizzle and fun.

That’s the problem with sanctifying things. They’re unobjectionable and a good example, but boring. Like characters in kids’ shows, who always make the right choices. Sometimes you’ve just got to be a little naughty for interest.

Shel Silverstein, for example, was a master at writing funny, somewhat macabre, poetry. Kids like them because, well, they’re so wrong.

For instance, Abigail who loved the beautiful pony, but her parents wouldn’t buy it for her. She said she’d die if they didn’t, and they said that nobody ever died from not getting a pony, but guess what? She did die. And her parents were very sorry. The author’s note at the end said, “Show this to your parents if they won’t buy you something you want.”

Or Clarence, who bought new parents. And if your parents nag you or get tired or yell at you, it’s because they’re wearing out and you need to buy new ones too.

Obviously these poems teach a terrible moral. But the kids know it’s wrong and enjoy it.

One reason why the original Baby It’s Cold Outside is (was?) fun is because of the tension of “I must go” and “I want to stay.” It’s naughty.

But that brings us back to why it’s a toxic song for our culture. Even today, sexual consent is widely misunderstood. Several times after Trump’s infamous description of sexual assault, I saw people (men and women both) defend it by saying that women bought Fifty Shades of Grey (the extremely horribly written trilogy about a dominant/submissive sexual relationship), so how can they complain about what Trump said? It’s like people don’t get the difference between consenting sex and sexual assault.

It’s not sex that’s the problem. It’s sex that’s forced on someone who doesn’t want it.

Baby It’s Cold Outside is about someone who wants capitulation, not consent. I don’t trust the man and his dismissive answers to her concerns, his smooth compliments, and his pleas for her not to disappoint him. I’m not convinced he’s going to let her leave if she insists.

Since this song is played over and over every single year to a society that can’t keep sex separated from sexual assault—well, I think it’s a problem. Explaining it away just justifies to all its listeners that its okay for a man to “wear a girl down” (another lyric in the song). Merely rewriting it to “clean it up” kills the thrill.

I see two options:

  1. Rewrite it creatively, so that there’s still tension but not that of a predatory male and a wavering female. Good luck with that.
  2. Just stop playing the dang song already.

And the second option is, really, the best option. Glad we had this discussion.

Now, since it’s cold outside, I think I’ll turn the lights down low and see if my man and I can warm things up. I’m pretty sure he’ll consent.

Listen to Your Heart

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I hate this graphic.

But it’s a Bible verse! What’s the problem?

One thing that a lot of people don’t seem to understand is that a spiritually abusive Christian system is always based on Bible verses. I remember when a friend read an early draft of my novel, and came back saying, “I’m surprised that the church in your story uses these verses about grace. I thought they’d just ignore those.”

No, they don’t ignore the verses. They isolate them and redefine them to fit their own ideas (just like they do to the people involved). Then they pile their own teachings on top. That way, when someone notices something wrong, the teachers can always dig up that tattered, smashed, and almost unrecognizable verse and say, “See? It’s based on God’s Word. Your problem isn’t with me, it’s with God.”

The verse in this graphic is the source of a lot of grief to those of us who came through an abusive system. It was used to make us suppress our instincts, give up our passions, and conform to whatever our “authorities” wanted us to be.

It’s actually part of a longer passage in Jeremiah where God is alternately rebuking and lamenting Judah’s idolatry, interspersed with hope that He will heal and redeem them. I can’t give an informed interpretation of the passage in its larger context. Most of us can’t.

All we ever knew was this one snippet: “The heart is deceitful and desperately wicked.”

We all know that’s true to an extent. History amply demonstrates how wicked human beings can be. Our own friends and family show us greed, manipulation, and anger. In fact, we ourselves know our own selfishness, covetousness, and fear. The problem isn’t that the verse is false, it’s that it’s used as an all-encompassing truth.

Abusive teachers point to this verse and tell us, “See, you can’t trust your heart. God says so. So if you want to do something that I don’t like—you have to give it up. If you feel that something is wrong—you need to ignore your instincts and obey what I say.”

Obviously it’s never presented that baldly. But it permeates the system.

A story:

One of my children exhibited symptoms of Sensory Integration Disorder. From the time she was a baby, loud noises (applause or sirens, for instance) would send her into a meltdown. She didn’t interact easily with other people; they insisted on touching her, looking her in the eyes, and invading her space. Sudden changes in schedule, such as a substitute teacher instead of the one she was used to, sent her into a tailspin. Although it was exhausting, my husband and I did our best to give her an environment where she could be comfortable.

I instinctively knew that she wasn’t being defiant when she couldn’t manage to follow orders. But others in our church at the time didn’t understand that. One woman in particular, who set herself up as a mentor to me, frequently engaged in power struggles with my daughter and was determined to win. The fact that my daughter was so reactive was a judgment on my own parenting—which I felt every single time.

Obviously I should have pushed back. I should have said that as her mother, I understood her needs, and I wasn’t going to stand back and watch this woman cause her grief. Instead, I let it go on for years, hardly ever protesting. Why?

Because my heart, the one that understood my daughter, was deceitful. I couldn’t trust it. It was clearly communicated to me that I was afraid to discipline her properly, so I instead had to bow to the ideas of my “authority” who saw a child’s rebellion where my (deceitful) heart saw confusion.

Eventually, my half-suppressed instincts clawed their way to the surface, and I drew some boundary lines. That was the end of my friendship with my “mentor.” For years I was bewildered and guilty, wondering I’d done so wrong.

Years later, I have a much better view of everything. My instincts were right. My daughter now has learned to cope with the overstimulation and is sociable and happy. She’s very much her own person, but not defiant. And all I did “wrong” in my relationship with the other woman was to listen to my heart, which she didn’t agree with.

*
As wicked as our hearts can be, the other half of the truth is that the heart isn’t always wrong. It’s not wrong to explore what you love and pursue the desires of your heart. Obviously that has to be balanced by reason, understanding, and a heavy reliance on God’s grace. But then, doesn’t reason need to be balanced by compassion and creativity? (The answer is yes.)

Another story:

A few years ago, my friend Amy (not actually her name) came to me in tears. Her childhood best friend was getting married, but didn’t ask Amy to be a bridesmaid. However, the bride had asked two other newer “best friends” to be in the wedding. Either the bride didn’t value her friendship with Amy, or simply forgot about her. Both options cut her deeply.

Her head told her that she had a right to be hurt, and she ought to talk to her friend about it. But her heart, bathed in the grace of the Holy Spirit, said something different. It told her not to spoil her friend’s wedding day with any suggestion that she was upset. So Amy listened to her heart. She talked to me and others about how hurt she was, but when the wedding day came, Amy was there with a smile. Afterward, she made a point to see her friend pretty often, and never mentioned anything except good about the wedding. As far as I know, the bride never knew what her forgetfulness cost Amy; and Amy herself forgave and (mostly) forgot.

*
For the meme above, I would react less to it if “Jesus” was saying, “You let it serve itself instead of remembering others?” The problem isn’t that we listen to our hearts or even follow them. It’s when we set our own desires above the good of others that things go wrong.

Also—just to mention it—the fangs on the heart really are kind of an overkill.

Phantom Enemies

ghost-1-1312149-1280x960One day on the battlefield, I looked up and realized I was fighting phantoms.

Before I go any further, I’m going to say this:

  1. I’m not going to apologize for being cautious around a person or situation that feels not-normal. I’m a woman and a mother, and God didn’t give me deeply-imbedded survival instincts just for kicks. I’m also a rational human being, so I can evaluate whether those instincts ring true or not; but meanwhile, if I feel uneasy, I will take precautions to keep myself and my children safe.
  2. Predators and terrorists are real dangers. That’s why they’re so frightening. The possibility of a zombie attack at the grocery store doesn’t make your throat close up with fear.

That said…

Two remarks recently revealed how hard I was fighting illusions.

The first was while I was having coffee with some other women. We were talking about what our kids enjoyed doing, and I lamented that I couldn’t let my children walk anywhere. “We live right off a highway and people drive fast. It’s just not safe.”

The others nodded, and one added, “And you never know what the Muslims will do.”

We were in a hipster coffee shop in a predominately white Christian town. In my middle-class suburban bubble, I hadn’t seen a non-white person all morning.

The second remark was in some discussion about transgender bathroom policies. Someone declared, “I work hard enough to keep my kids safe as it is, without this added risk!”

I’ve probably used a public bathroom with a transgendered person without knowing it. Still, I do think that we’d do well to acknowledge the risks of allowing predatory men easier access to women’s bathrooms. But I heard that comment and thought, “How many times have you had to defend your children against attackers this week?”

She would say, “Every minute of my day!” What she means is, “I’m on alert every minute of my day.” But as for actual attacks? In a typical week in my circle of friends, that would be zero.

What these two comments clarified for me was that I spend a lot of energy defending myself and my family against enemies who might be, but aren’t actually, attacking me. When I took a step back to see who my actual attackers are, I was stunned.

I’ve had a very good life, but not a perfect one. Throughout the years, people have hurt me. And that group of people—the one that I by all rights should be wary of now—has been

White

Middle-class

Heterosexual

American

Christians

It makes sense. That’s who I am, and that’s who I associate with. If I were to guard against the actual “enemies” who have hurt me, I’d be cautious around smiling men in dark suits who teach toxic theology. I’d protect my children from manipulative women who just “want the best” for my family. Stories of terrorists and predators would concern me, but an ordinary guy who assumes I’m not as good as he is because I don’t think like he does—that should terrify me.

They don’t, though, because they’re known enemies. It’s the unknown that scares me.

It’s good to be aware of trends, movements, and dangers. As I said to begin with, I don’t apologize for being careful in situations that make me uneasy. But the thing about phantom enemies is that you never, ever beat them. They always come back. So I end up enslaved to fear, which makes me want to follow anyone who promises safety… which is often someone who preys on fear for his or her own selfish ends. And in my life, that’s almost invariably been a white middle-class heterosexual American Christianish kind of person.

Phantom enemies deliver us into the hands of real ones. And that’s really what should scare us most.

Deborah: When Men are Weak

king-and-queen-1179013-639x462Apparently in some of the back streets of the internet, there’s a fight about whether movies should star “strong female characters.” The whole question makes me nearly sprain something rolling my eyes, so I don’t actually know much about it.

I did read a post on the subject, though. The author, a woman, wrote it in response to a man who objected to “strong females” in stories. He claimed that they usurped a man’s rightful, God-given place as the protector of the weak.

Among other points in her post, the author of the rebuttal mentioned the Biblical example of Deborah. And I thought, “You think you won a point. But you really lost it.”

The thing about Christian patriarchalists is that they know their Bible. They know it like Westley and Inigo knew their fencing forms. It’s kind of like a game, sparring with them. First they lay down the rules—you must argue from the Bible. Nothing else is authoritative. Then they show up with all their Bible knowledge and interpretation and demolish you. They know what you’ll say, and they’ve developed a reflexive response for it. Maybe, if you’re really good at holding your own, they might acknowledge—as Westley did to Inigo—that you’re an artist of stained glass window caliber.

But how is bringing up Deborah in a debate about female leadership an automatic loss?

Yes, we’re talking about the same Deborah, the Old Testament judge, whose story is found in Judges 4-5. She lived during the time before Israel had kings. The people listened to her for God’s words and judgements, especially during this time when a nearby king oppressed them.

Deborah sent for Barak, obviously a warrior of renown. She informed him that God wanted him to gather troops and go against the enemy general, Sisera, in battle. Barak kind of blanched at the thought and said, “I’ll go if you go with me.”

“Fine, I’ll go,” Deborah said. “But just so you know—you’re not going to get any glory from this. Sisera will die by a woman.”

So they went up together and Barak mustered his troops. They met Sisera in battle; it didn’t go well for Sisera. God routed his army, and he himself escaped on foot. He found the tent of an ally, whose wife—Jael—invited him in to rest.

(Jael is the stuff of nightmares to patriarchal men. She pretended to be friendly, waited till Sisera collapsed from exhaustion, and then drove a tent peg through his head.)

Israel won a definitive victory, and the entire next chapter is “the Song of Deborah and Barak.”

If you read the account straight through, you might not see where Deborah went wrong. That’s because you’re probably forgetting the most important principle for interpreting a Bible story about a woman: authority.

Who was in authority? It’s hard to get around the fact that it’s Deborah. She was even married but still looked to as the judge. But women aren’t ever supposed to be in authority over men, therefore Deborah’s judgeship was somehow not God’s best. Even though God doesn’t seem to have realized that.

The teachers I sat under pointed to the fact that Barak was so reluctant. If this warrior was too uncertain to go into battle without Deborah, what did that say about the men of the time? Exactly. They were all weak. That’s why there was a woman in charge—because there weren’t any good men to step up and do it.

So the story isn’t about Deborah’s strength, but Barak’s weakness. It’s not Deborah’s honor, but Barak’s shame. It’s not about a woman, it’s about a man.

And there’s obviously an element of that, since it’s such a point that the victory went to “a woman.” But without the Authority filter over it, the story in general kind of shrugs at the fact that Deborah’s in charge. The point is not woman or man, but God.

But if you find yourself locked in combat with a patriachalist over female empowerment, and the twisty logic, leaps to conclusions, and sheer vigor of his arguments have forced you to the wall—don’t bring up Deborah. He’s already got her properly boxed up and out of the way. All you will do is reinforce his point (to himself) that a strong woman is merely compensating for a weak man. A woman who is trying to be “strong” is therefore trying to “weaken” a man.

It’s right there in the Bible. Remember Deborah?

 

Orderly Umbrellas

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“So pastors are under God’s authority,” Bekah explained. “Families are under the pastors.” She held her hand in the air and moved it down levels as she spoke. “Husbands are in authority over wives. Wives are in authority over children.”

When Ty didn’t respond, Bekah added, “It’s all very orderly, anyway.” But of course Ty didn’t give “orderly” as much weight as she did. In the Fellowship, orderliness was nearly one of the Ten Commandments.

The FellowshipChapter 5.

The “umbrella of authority” is a concept that’s been around for many years. I was taught this very “order” as a teenager, although the charts I saw weren’t illustrated with patio umbrellas. It gives it kind of  an easy-living vibe.

It’s a clean, logical graphic that makes its point with a single glance: The Umbrella of Authority concept effectively protects Jesus from getting cooties from women!

Haha, not really. We all know that in Christ, men and women can approach God as equals. So this chart isn’t saying that a woman can’t get to Jesus except through her husband.

Of course, if you look at the husband’s share of life responsibilities, you’ll see that he’s supposed to be the spiritual leader. And underneath the woman’s cute little umbrella, you see “Submit to husband’s authority.” So a woman could approach God on her own, but to be honest, that really does mess up the Natural Order of the Family, doesn’t it? And God is a God of order, so he actually prefers you to go through the proper channels.

So… just go through your husband, okay?

There’s certainly nothing here that a man could object to. Shouldn’t a man lead his family spiritually? Shouldn’t he provide for his family? Shouldn’t he love his wife?  Well, then, what’s the problem?

What do you mean, these responsibilities don’t have to be limited only to husbands?

Oh. Hold on. We need to get something clear here.

You can’t shift these categories around. The umbrellas are impermeable when it comes to proper roles and responsibilities. You let a woman provide for the family or exert spiritual leadership, and the next thing you know, the husband will submit to her authority on some issues, and that’s it. The umbrellas disintegrate in a fiery, bloody, toxic meltdown.

This catastrophe completely incapacitates men. They won’t read their Bibles, won’t hold a job, won’t take out the garbage, nothing.* But they probably will look at porn and run away with another woman (probably some woman who usurped her husband’s authority, destroyed her home, and is now going to destroy yours). Why would you even want to mess with that?

No, this is the Natural Order of the Family. It looks great and worked really well in Victorian times, assuming you happened to be white and middle- to upper-class.

Just go with it.

Just hush.

Just obey.

It’s the Natural Order of the Family.

*Very recently, I read an admonition written by a man to younger women, advising them on how to find good answers to their questions. He explained that they were, first of all, to read their Bibles. Then they were to ask their husbands any questions they had. Don’t worry if you, the wife, knew more about the Bible than your husband did; your questions would motivate him to study! But the flipside is that he won’t read his Bible at all if you bypass his authority and seek out answers on your own.

I heard this same idea very often growing up. Men in patriarchal circles are badly prone to wind down to complete nothingness if their wives aren’t there to motivate, bolster, and reassure them that they are big strong leaders.

**By the way, why doesn’t Jesus have to do anything in this umbrella system?

***Seriously, it’s like its all dependent on our own works or something.

 

The Patriarchy Shop

The smiling man, dressed in a tailored dark suit, leaned over the polished oak and marble counter. “Welcome to the Christian Patriarchy Market! How can I help you?”

His new customer, a young woman, smiled tentatively back. “Hi. I’m looking for a new one of these, and I was told I had to get it here.”

She laid a large purse on the counter top. It was dark leather with “life” stamped on it in faded yellow letters. “I just turned twenty-two. I feel like I’m ready for a bigger one.”

His smile broadened. “I’ve got exactly what you need!” He opened a cabinet and withdrew another bag. It was much larger, and engraved into its smooth leather surface in flowing silver letters was Life.

“This is ideal for a woman in your situation,” he explained. “See how much bigger it is. You’ve got a lot more space to serve others. There’s a special pocket here to store your heart — I assume you’ve got it locked away in a box and you’ve given the key to your father?”

“Well…” she said hesitantly.

“Because you’re ready for a lot more responsibility, you’ll see that this one has lots of different sections. Here’s where you put your church ministry, here’s where you add your advanced homemaking skills, and don’t forget to fill up this baby pocket with lots and lots of longing! You’d be surprised at how many women in your stage of life don’t give any thought to wanting babies, but you can’t start too soon.”

She examined the bag with interest. “It’s really lovely, but I’m not sure it’s everything I need. I really, really love working in the yard…”

“You can put that with homemaking skills!”

“… and I’m really good at organizing events…”

“Church ministry! But you’ll need to tuck it way down so it doesn’t spill over into all the rest of the bag.”

“And… to be honest, I really want to learn to fly a plane. I’ve kind of looked into being a private pilot.”

The man paused. Then he cleared his throat. “I don’t think there’s really room for something like that. You could get your father to authorize an add-on for missions, but I’ll be honest with you, it’s bulky and doesn’t really fit.”

“But my brother’s accommodates all of that!”

“The men’s line is designed a little differently, of course.”

She fingered the soft leather. “I’d noticed that. Well, anyway, this won’t really work for me, because I’m getting married this summer.”

The clerk’s face lit up with excitement. “Really? Oh, you should have told me that to start with! You don’t need this old thing.” He swept the bag off the counter. Opening another cabinet door, he withdrew a leather bag so large that it took two arms to lift it onto the counter top.

It was made of leather, dyed deep red and purple, and fastened with brass. Surrounded by intricate scrollwork were real gold letters spelling out LIFE.

“This is everything you need!” the clerk exclaimed. “Look at this capacity–you’ll never run out of space for your desires! Lots of room for serving, huge section here for children, just look at your household work space! And right here–almost the entire middle section–is dedicated to your husband. You’ll have a lifetime job just filling this up!”

He looked at her expectantly, but she didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm. “There’s no room here for piloting a plane. Or organizing events. What about knowing God? I was hoping that my new bag would have a lot of space for that.”

“That’s the great thing about the patriarchy design,” the salesman said. “Watch this.”

He walked around to the front of the counter and opened two large double doors on the front. Using both hands, he extracted a rolling leather bag, reinforced with steel and decorated with images of swords. “This is the married man’s bag. It’s extra-double capacity because once a man is married, he’s basically responsible for everything relating to his wife and family. Pretty hefty weight to carry. Aren’t you glad you don’t have to worry about all this?”

“Well, I could help carry it.”

“Oh, no! This isn’t designed for a woman! But let me show you the best feature here.” He opened the man’s bag. Then he picked up the woman’s bag and tucked it inside. “See? It fits right there in the section for ‘spiritual maturity.’ As long as you keep all your things there, you’ll know everything you need to about God.”

She pointed to a small zip pocket on the side of the woman’s leather bag. “What’s that for?”

The salesman’s smile was bright. “You just stuff all your bad feelings in there and zip it up. That’s the feature that makes our design workable.”

The woman stood silently, taking it all in. Then she burst out, “But I don’t want to put all my stuff in there! And that’s way too heavy for my fiance! What happens if I have too much to fit? Or if his bag tears open?”

The clerk was no longer smiling. “I thought you were a serious customer.”

“I am! There’s just some serious flaws in your design.”

“Excuse me. It’s not my design. It’s God’s design. This is the way it works. You can go shopping at some other bag shop, but I warn you, those are badly-made and will rip open at a moment when you’re least expecting it. You’ll lose everything.”

She cleared her throat. “Just curious… have you ever used the woman’s bag to see how it really works?”

The salesman gave a short, derisive laugh. “Well, no. I don’t think God even uses it. He’s male too, you know. So, can I ring you up?”

“I… think I need to think about it.”

“I warn you, if you walk out of here, you walk away from this exclusively-designed line and away from the God who designed it!”

The woman shouldered her small bag again. “I think I saw God in some other places. He really seems too big to fit in here, actually. And so am I.” She turned and walked out of the shop.