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Arts and Culture

Who’s Your Mummy?

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Posted on Sep 15, 2011
Photo by Mr. Fish

By Mr. Fish

The strip mall was configured like a wide V and was called Victory Square, the shape suggested by its title being the lazy sort of half-truth that made me wonder why anybody would ever trust a grown-up to tell the truth about anything. This was in Forked River, N.J, and I was there every Wednesday and Friday afternoon in the fall of 1971 for ballet class with my twin sister, Dawn. We were 6 years old and I was the only boy in the class, except for Ernie, a puny kid in leg braces who always wore a desperate expression on his face and, although dressed in a leotard, never danced. Instead, he merely moaned and periodically let out a pitiful little cry when the dance instructor’s assistant manipulated the persistent toothaches that were his knees and elbows, which I now assume must’ve been atrophied by some sort of muscular dystrophy. I liked having Ernie around, if only because without him it would’ve been impossible for me to fool myself into imagining that I possessed a stunning masculine grace while executing the goofy faux-karate moves I substituted in place of the pirouettes and side leaps practiced by the rest of the class.

“Where the hell are you going before class starts?” asked my mother, dropping herself into the driver’s seat of our blue Dodge Dart and jamming the cigarette lighter hard into the dashboard with her thumb. “And how is it that you’re on time?” she asked my sister, pulling a menthol True Green out of its pack and screwing it into her teeth. “I drop you both off at the same goddamn time!”

Dawn and I were sitting in the back seat with our ballet cases resting on our laps, having been commanded there only moments earlier by our mother who had remained behind to speak with Ms. Jenny, who had some concerns regarding my tardiness. “Some concerns?” I wanted to blurt out before being shoved out the door and pointed toward the parking lot. “I’m wearing a skintight polyester white turtleneck that snaps between my legs!” I imagined myself shouting. “My older brother gets guitar lessons, wears sneakers and jeans and an Italian horn necklace, carries a switchblade comb and throws his shit into a gig bag like Pete Townshend, while I’m locked in the bathroom hunched over in front of the toilet holding my breath and crossing my eyes and cinching myself up like Shirley Temple—concerns?! Let me tell you who might have some concerns!”

The truth of the matter, of course, was that I liked ballet class, not so much because of the dainty little slippers I got to wear or because of all the pliés and toe pointing I got to do, but rather because I found it deeply gratifying to know that I was doing something that required real guts to do. In fact, considering the laughter and fake throw-up noises made by my friends upon hearing of my enrollment in the class, dancing ballet was a little bit like getting to live inside fire twice a week and emerging from the flames completely unscathed by the experience. It was a new sort of heroism that I was anxious to explore, having absolutely no interest in traversing the well-worn paths of gender competency as endured by every little boy force-fed misogyny and sports-infused machismo since time immemorial. After seeing my brother drop a Frisbee once and then spend the rest of the afternoon sobbing inside a pile of damp leaves in the backyard, I was determined to chart a different course into manhood. The way I figured it, anybody could learn how to throw a lousy football or spit on a girl, but try working on an arabesque with microfibers riding up your ass crack while a middle-aged woman in Capezio shoes wrestles with a crippled child who is screaming bloody murder in the corner of the room, the whole time surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors megaphoning an inferred sissiness that an entire sub-industry of psychiatry and theistic intolerance has been trying to remedy with shock treatment and threats of eternal damnation for generations—that will make you bulletproof. That will make you dangerous.

“He can’t get past the hobby shop window,” sighed my sister in answer to my mother’s question. “He’s in love with that stupid mummy model.”

“I told you to forget about that stinkin’ model!” said my mother, practically slapping herself on the forehead like an exasperated cartoon character. “For the hundredth time, you’re not getting it! It’s too expensive!”

The mummy model that she and my sister were talking about was built from an original 1963 Aurora Model Kit and displayed in the window of Master Hobbies, which was two doors down from the dance studio. Each Wednesday and Friday my mother would pull up to Butler’s Drugstore and drop Dawn and me off, saying that she’d be back in an hour. Then she’d drive away. We would then walk in the direction of the Dance Expressions studio, located at the far end of the alley created by the incomplete convergence of Victory Square at its V. We would enter the alley and, yes, I would pause to press my nose up against the window at Master Hobbies and marvel at the 9-inch plastic mummy on the other side of the glass and my sister would continue on alone, past the pizza place and into the dance studio door.

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bodhidharma's avatar

By bodhidharma, September 22, 2011 at 5:44 pm Link to this comment

Yes, it is very edifying that who the monsters are may very well depend on whose eyes you are looking through.  Which is why it is so important that we maintain our ability to empathize. This is so easily lost when looking at the world through the lens of a particular ideology, whether it is conscious and well defined or not. Also it is important not to let fear cloud our vision of those we consider our enemies.  Sometimes a little understanding of the fears motivating the other side can go a long way to resolving our differences. I am reminded of when McNamara talked to the North Vietnamese 20 years after the war.  McNamara said we were trying to prevent Vietnam from becoming a communist Chinese satellite. The Vietnamese ambassador said “We had been fighting the Chinese to remain free for 400 years. Don’t you know anything about our history?”

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zonth_zonth's avatar

By zonth_zonth, September 22, 2011 at 1:00 pm Link to this comment

In order to disarm the envious, we must take to the street on crutches.  Only the sight of our collapse can humanize.”  Cioran

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Shenonymous's avatar

By Shenonymous, September 20, 2011 at 12:33 pm Link to this comment

While Mr. Fish’s reminiscence is delightful for what it is,
but seeing the Mummy with a different mindscape, in the
movie of the same name the Mummy, who prowls the
world leaving death and destruction in his quest to find
the means of reincarnation for his equally ancient lover,
a princess, it depicts a resurrected ancient Egyptian priest
who was mummified alive but who becomes a metaphor
for the indestructible monster marauder that lays waste to
whatever stands in its way or intentions.

The ancient dramatized tale of immortality is provided by
sacred (magic) tana leaves that when brewed can provide
eternal uninterrupted existence).  This is vividly remindful
of modern alchemical Tea Bags and the obstinance of the
current political Tea Partiers.  It is my opinion that
Republicans are Mummified one-time humans whose only
intention is to dominate the American population for their
own clannish self-serving corporatocratic purposes. 

The Republican Mummies are only stoppable by a ray of
light that in the original story…from a stone goddess, will
burn the rules of Republican conduct, that in turn will crumble
the Party into a heap of babble (that might now describe them
but becomes intensified beyond their salvation).  Translation
of what that ray of light means in the context of today’s reality
is the re-animation of the Democrats to unite themselves as
liberals whose primary concern is and always has been the
common welfare of the American people.  Unrelenting ugly
Republican Mummies speak in choral unison to destroy the
democratic process of the Constitution of the United States by
destroying the Constitution itself, its Amendments and Bill of
Rights in their attempt among several lethal objectives to
decimate the voting rights of millions upon millions of
Americans.  It is going to take a concerted effort of
Democratic factions:  the poor, the middle income wage
earners, supporters of unions, teachers, small farmers, the
returning military, the law enforcement, the firefighters, and
others slated to be disenfranchised such as women and their
right to their own bodies, all non-Christians, non-whites
(brown, black, red, and yellow), gays and lesbians, immigrants,
college students, etc., to consolidate and find the means to
stop them.  The Republican Party is the Party Against the
People.

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By john crandell, September 17, 2011 at 10:03 am Link to this comment

Jack Kerouac? no no no no..  There was truly something pathetic about that guy,
despite the eternal genius of his words, wordsaying.

I’d say Allen Ginsberg, instead.

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Queenie's avatar

By Queenie, September 16, 2011 at 8:20 pm Link to this comment

What beautiful children you and Dawn were, Mr. Fish! And that dog on the bed in back of you with his eye on the picture taker. I bet you miss him/her.

I was in New Jersey at the same time you were just a kid, giving birth to my daughter (at Mt. Holly) who is now 40 years old with twins of her own. Small world.

May I just say that your writing is wonderful. Right up there with Steinbeck and Dickens.

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By gerard, September 16, 2011 at 6:44 pm Link to this comment

No,  my dear.  Chomsky is very much alive.  The tribute was to all those mentioned—alive in the spirit if not in the flesh. I frequently run across him on Amy Goodman.

I’m thinking here of one polio kid I very much knew who is still very much alive.  There was no Salk or Sabin for him, unfortunately.  I remember rushing my three kids to get injected with something which wasn’t a vaccine, but it was all there was at the time.  Then waiting in fear and trembling for three weeks or so.  Three kids on the block were afflicted. The next year the first vaccines became available. It was a sad time. That generation deserves memorializing.

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By gerard, September 16, 2011 at 6:44 pm Link to this comment

No,  my dear.  Chomsky is very much alive.  The tribute was to all those mentioned—alive in the spirit if not in the flesh. I frequently run across him on Amy Goodman.

I’m thinking here of one polio kid I very much knew who is still very much alive.  There was no Salk or Sabin for him, unfortunately.  I remember rushing my three kids to get injected with something which wasn’t a vaccine, but it was all there was at the time.  Then waiting in fear and trembling for three weeks or so.  Three kids on the block were afflicted. The next year the first vaccines became available. It was a sad time. That generation deserves memorializing.

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EmileZ's avatar

By EmileZ, September 16, 2011 at 4:16 pm Link to this comment

@ Gerard

CHOMSKY ISN’T DEAD YET!!!

Here is a link to one of my favorite recent lectures….

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iebK7VVDayY

It is from April 20, 2011 (420 dude… Hitler’s B-day) which I suppose might qualify it as old-timey, but I am fervent in my unqualified insistence that it is worth viewing anyway.

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By gerard, September 16, 2011 at 3:31 pm Link to this comment

Addition suggested for the sake of unity and heart:

“And Jack Kerouac and Mario Savio. And Kate Millett and Geronimo. And Bugs Bunny and Noam Chomsky.”  Add:  ... and all the little polio-crippled kids screaming in the corners of dance floors all over that once-upon-a-time America.”

(in memory of and tribute to the “polio-generation” before Salk and the Russian guy)

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EmileZ's avatar

By EmileZ, September 16, 2011 at 8:26 am Link to this comment

Doesn’t mesh all that well (in my mind) with Allende’s “Jump if you aren’t a mummy” (mummy=facist), but a fine article nonetheless.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YUx5Zp0Z9A

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EmileZ's avatar

By EmileZ, September 16, 2011 at 6:16 am Link to this comment

I am quite fond of Charles Laughton’s Quasimodo.

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