Diffident Dealings; or, Cobblers!

I would not want to convey the impression that Daniel Deronda is the only book I know, but it is the book on my nightstand, and since my library currently resides in another country I find myself returning to it often. Nor should I complain, for George Eliot is by no means a meagre resource on matters manly. Today’s errands caused me to look up a certain passage, as I reflected on my reserved disposition in the face of compound annoyance:

…a great deal of life goes on without strong passion: myriads of cravats are carefully tied, dinners attended, even speeches made proposing the health of august personages, without the zest arising from strong desire. And a man may make a good appearance in high social positions – may be supposed to know the classics, to have his reserves on science, a strong though repressed opinion on politics, and all the sentiments of an English gentleman, at a small expense of vital energy. Also, he may be obstinate or persistent at the same low rate, and may even show sudden impulses which have a false air of daemonic strength because they seem inexplicable, though perhaps their secret lies merely in the want of regulated channels for the soul to move in – good and sufficient ducts of habit without which our nature easily turns to mere ooze and mud, and at any pressure yields nothing but a spurt or a puddle.

The supermarket, no doubt suffering under Barack Obama’s socialist grip, had run out of food. Men and women harangued the long-suffering staff: ‘where is the food? Why is there no food here?’ A delivery, so they were informed, was awaited (actually, they were told that a delivery was waited on, instead of for, but I will hold back my ire over such grammatical bagatelles in the spirit of general diffidence with which I confronted my day). Faces of incredulity were shot back at the redundant shelf-stackers. ‘Has it come to this? Has America come to this?’

Yes, we have no bananas.

I only wanted some bananas and some Greek yoghurt with honey, but there had been a rush on these staples and the shelves lay bereft of nourishment. I left the acrimony behind, as if by some strange Lamarckian process my soul remembered the Blitz. Wailing and crying does not rebuild one’s house. Reserve allows for the necessary welling of strength and courage, and with these qualities, and with uncomplaining graft, one rebuilds one’s house.

Off to the cobblers for me. My Chelsea boots were worn to the quick. I thought a place I’d seen in Harvard Square would be reliable. I should have known not to judge a book by its cover, even though it does have a lovely art nouveau shop front, in wood and plate glass, dating to 1913. First of all, the door was locked. More socialist cutbacks? I waited, diffidently. When the cobbler appeared, he unlocked the door and then waved a cursory finger at me to come in. Not sure why he didn’t open the door for me, but I pressed on. Within 45 seconds he had talked up the price for soles alone on the Chelsea boots from $47 to $80, with all kinds of nonsense about having to ‘build up the toe’. With the heels on top I was looking at $110 for repairs to shoes that had cost me $90 (half price, of course). I tried not to sneer, and told him rather plainly that his quote was ridiculous. Telling me to suit myself, he tossed my shoes back at me across his tasteful counter, and I quietly left his tasteful shop, wondering if the real cobbler was bound and gagged in the back. Perhaps this was a narrow escape.

Retreating to the library, I simmered gently within earshot of an Israeli fellow who talked so loudly on his telephone that it is some wonder he even needed one. I resolved to wait until he had finished his conversation – that is only polite – before pointing out to him the seven signs instructing him not to engage in telephone conversations. He carried on at length, however, so I moved calmly to another room without huffs, puffs, or performances.

In short, I have held together my vessels of mud and ooze. I returned home to find the most marvellous testimonial (duly posted) from ‘Sonny’, whom I do not know, and raised to him a glass over dinner. I did so, he will no doubt be heartened to learn, with no great expense of vital energy.

To Some Women

For your poise, elegance and grace; for your indefatigability in the face of repression; for your sober reasoning; for your compassion, sympathy and spirit; for your independence; for your knowledge of when to be demure, and when to be defiant; for your infinite complexity – trusting that you will recognise yourself among those included hereby – I salute you!

Whatever International Women’s Day means, and I cannot seem to find an acceptable harmony of approach between those nations that celebrate it, I trust that you will make the best of it.

Eric Bloodaxe: Teacher and Mentor

I had the great fortune, aged seven, to spend a year in the class of Mr. Eric Jacks, Primary School Teacher. Mr. Jacks was a complicated man, but a man of straight talking and straight justice. He once asked me to draw for him an icon of Eric Bloodaxe, which thereafter adorned his classroom door for many years. Eric Bloodaxe, a tenth-century Scandinavian king, was famed for his prowess and his strength. It was this with which Mr. Jacks identified; that and a reputation for merciless punishment, which can also go a long way.

Eric Bloodaxe

It is a cliché that everyone remembers a good teacher, but what that means, or how it comes to be, is rarely explained. I have had twenty-five years to reflect on my encounter with Mr. Jacks, and I cannot escape the conclusion that his influence was truly profound. Mr. Jacks taught the curriculum, just like all the others. But most importantly, Mr. Jacks taught the difference between right and wrong; between courage and stupidity; between tomfoolery and vandalism; between good manners and slovenliness. It was in that class, at the tender age of seven, going on eight, that I learned self-reliance, self-defence, and discipline. Mr. Jacks taught boys how to be men.

I cannot, in good faith, provide a biography of this man. A child carries a small and skewed set of memories into adulthood, and my account will certainly say more about me than it will say about him. Nevertheless, I maintain that I was shaped and directed by this man whom I did not really know, in ways of which he himself was probably not aware. And for every me, there are hundreds of men who passed through this able mentor’s hands. He taught, I should think, for forty years. Woe betide us if we underrate the power of teachers!

I had not before seen a male teacher. In fact, I was under the impression that all teachers were women. It was a fearful day, therefore, when I was inducted into Mr. Jacks’ care, in loco parentis. He announced to the assembled class that his name was Eric, and he wrote it on the blackboard in cursive script. I recall his languid and rather fluid handwriting (later replaced with stern block capitals as commentary for shoddy work). Cursive script had been banned up until this point at school. And until then, no teacher had ever had a first name, let alone divulged it. This was transgressive, exciting, and also scary. Did he mean to speak to us as people?

Any sense of familiarity was soon followed by an unequivocal introduction to authority. A beating stick, broken into two halves, was produced, with the (I am sure apocryphal) tale that it had been broken on the behind of an unruly boy, before corporal punishment had been outlawed in England. Mr. Jacks lamented the demise of the cane, but liked to threaten its reprise in exceptional circumstances. In one fell swoop, he had gained our trust, and then our respect. For one knew implicitly that it would not be advisable to cross this man, but that fair play would be rewarded.

There used to be more latitude given to teachers in the exercise of their authority. Mr. Jacks always claimed that many parents had given him permission thoroughly to discipline their children, and his full-throated shout alone was enough to petrify the most agitated. Yet he was not a dictator, and the ethos of his authority could carry down to those he taught. A bully, he averred, was a coward. Always. The best cure for being bullied, therefore, was to punch the bully on the nose. Invariably, this cured the problem, and it came with a good deal of manly satisfaction. Mr. Jacks despised cowardice, and taught that the key to self-reliance lay, more often than not, at the end of one’s own arm.

It was not all fisticuffs and shouting, however. I felt that Mr. Jacks was a tender, Godly man, whose vigorous manliness did not get in the way of his love of tradition, the fine arts, the religious calendar, and the piano. He introduced me, and the rest of my cohort, to the ballet. Imagine compelling thirty scamps to sit through The Nutcracker Suite, which lasted for an age. He sold it to us. Could not balance, poise, elegance, and all the finest qualities of the finest footballers be inculcated through ballet? Maybe that was a cheap trick, but I’ve always remained convinced of it. Mr. Jacks had us singing ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God’ (Matt., 6:33) in rounds, and loving it, as he roughly chopped out chords on the school upright piano. If anyone mucked about, he’d bring his whole weight down on the bass keys like so much thunder. Music was joy; music was force. These things he taught us, without telling us.

Mr. Jacks was also the man to see for school drama. He always had a spare play up his sleeve, and directed ridiculously ambitious performances with complete confidence in his young cast’s ability to remember its lines. Of course, they would go wrong like all school performances do. But the sense of engendered trust was invaluable, and I think a rare thing for children to feel. Trust inspires responsibility and arouses an awareness of consequence. You cannot put that kind of thing on a school curriculum, but that does not mean it cannot be taught.

School was only nominally about the three Rs. School was substantially a preparation for a life among people who would judge you on intangible qualities – style, comportment, manners. Mr. Jacks critiqued our posture, corrected our speech, taught us that cursive script (having allowed us to bring in our own fountain pens – this was a coming of age). We had a class competition to see which of us would be chosen to write to the Queen. I forget the occasion, but I didn’t win and it still hurts.

Eric Bloodaxe. Well, maybe not. But Mr. Eric Jacks was a king among the men in my life.

Ad Nauseam: Old Spice

Time was when Old Spice only needed a man on a surfboard and a chorus from Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana to let the world know that this was a smell for seriously rugged men. I’m not sure there was ever any truth in that, but I had no objection to the way it was being pitched. Things have taken a crass turn.

The latest ad, aimed jointly at women who have complete control over the grooming of their men and at men who quiver at the sight of a superior musculature, demands that women make frequent comparisons to the men in their lives and the loosely towelled jock on the screen. Assuring women that they may justifiably give up hope that reality will ever compare favourably to his robust frame, the actor suggests that at least a real man does not have to smell like a woman, or worse. I have previously stated my opinions about the importance of the olfactory sense (Firing up the Ol’ Factory), but I don’t much care for it being sold in this way.

For starters, the appeal to women relies on an extension of the derisory stereotype put forward by the good people at Dodge (Ad Nauseum: Dodge Charger). Women will be wowed by such simple fripperies as tickets to a show (exactly what show is irrelevant because men don’t care about such things, as long as you’re happy and prepared to have sex afterward), diamonds, strutting about on the deck of a yacht, and the sexual connotations of horses. There is no substance in any of this, to the point that women are supposed not to notice that the man here is portrayed as arrogant, narcissistic and conceited. A pleasant aroma will take care of any and all the defects of character, it seems.

Second, are men thought so utterly hopeless that a direct appeal to them is futile? Surely a call to their self-respect and dignity would be better. As I mentioned previously, a man’s smell should be based on the reflection, ‘what does my smell say about me?’ If the answer to that question is simply ‘I do not make choices for myself’ then that is a shame.

Ad Nauseam: Dodge Charger

A few television commercials which purport to know something about manliness have been getting my goat recently. I hereby offer a transcript of the Dodge Charger effort, as well as the ad itself:

I will get up and walk the dog at 6:30 a.m. I will eat fruit as part of my breakfast. I will shave; I will clean the sink after I shave. I will be at work by 8 a.m. I will sit through two-hour meetings. I will say ‘yes’ when you want me to say ‘yes’. I will be quiet when you don’t want to hear me say ‘no’. I will take your call. I will listen to your opinion of my friends. I will listen to your friends’ opinions of my friends. I will be civil to your mother. I will put the seat down. I will separate the recycling. I will carry your lip balm. I will watch your vampire T.V. shows with you. I will take my socks off before getting into bed. I will put my underwear in the basket. And because I do this, I will drive the car I want to drive. Dodge Charger: a man’s last stand.

I really thought we were beyond all this nonsense. If I were to nitpick, in a missing-the-point kind of way, I would observe that any man who really felt this whipped by his work and his wife would scarcely have the temerity to dig in his heels about a second-rate muscle car. And if this really were a man’s last stand, what a feeble whimper it would be to signal the end of masculinity! I have no life, no dignity, no self-respect, no courage, no volition, no conviction and no taste, but at least I have $26,000 worth of metal to hide in! To all the knuckleheads out there nodding along to this trash, allow me to enlighten you.

If your work is so benumbing that the best you can do is ‘sit through it’, I suggest you are in the wrong job. A little imagination will sort that out. Since you’re already in a job, a position of strength, getting another – a better – one shouldn’t be too daunting a task. If it’s broke, fix it. And if the person you claim to love is as absolutely horrible to you as the archetype of woman in this ad, might I suggest that you take matters in hand and bring the relationship to a conclusion. Of course, the real issue is with the advertiser’s notion of woman as a hen-pecking, nagging, domineering malignancy. Does it really need to be said that women are not actually like this? And if yours is, either take it on trust that you have not done well in the sexual selection stakes, and that you can do better, or take a long hard look at yourself. What are you doing to make her so miserable that she is after you all the time? No doubt being an absolute wimp who blows his salary on a Dodge Charger. Try a bit harder and you will find a pleasant change in her demeanour.

Footnote: at the point in the ad where the car appears, note the small print: ‘Do not attempt. Professional driver on a closed course’. If you’re looking for a domineering malignancy, look no further than the litigation averse political correctness of companies that do not actually have a shred of the conviction they purport to sell.