You have no manners (and neither have I), part 5: Mangia, mangia!
As we have seen already, our deeply held feelings of propriety include matters of language and matters of physical contact (for instance, in the form of handshakes, kisses, and hugs in social settings). Today I have one word for you: Food.
Much of what we eat and how we eat is socially determined, from a very early age. If you grow up in a culture where drinking milk is considered healthy, you may find it very hard to actually believe that milk is bad for you—as it is indeed, if not for you personally, then for a great number of adults who can't quite digest milk and yet continue to drink it. If you come from an Asian culture—Japan, for instance—you might find the idea of drinking milk absolutely revolting, and you might find it hard to imagine why on Earth some people would even think of drinking glasses and glasses of the stuff.
You see, the beliefs are so deeply held that we can't quite grasp them; we can't question them; and we can't imagine that other people might see things differently.
Our beliefs about food go well beyond nutritional matters; they include matters of hospitality, of times and spaces shared together. Someone might think like this: Everyone knows meat is an essential part of one's diet. Meat is good for me. I like meat. Meat is good for you. You should like meat. You must like meat. You have no choice but to like meat. I'm going to serve you meat, and if you don't eat it you're not only crazy but rude as well, since you're telling me that I'm wrong to like meat. Mangia, mangia!
In 1988 I went to Berlin for the first time, when the Wall still divided the city. I stayed with a friend of mine for a week, a Brazilian of German descent whom I knew from our shared adolescence in São Paulo. A friend of his—a purely German woman—heard about my presence in the city, and she decided to invite me for dinner. She didn't tell me this, but she wanted to show the distinguished guest something typical of her land. Off I went to her home. Ten or twelve people met: friends of hers, friends of my friends, the sort of incoherent assembly that comes together once and once only. The centerpiece of the meal was a German delicacy, which my hostess had prepared at great cost to her: Eisbein. That's pig's knee. Yes, the knee of a humongous pig, served whole on a plate, with bones, gristle, ligaments, tendons, fat, and a little bit of meat hidden behind the rest of the pig's anatomy.
Each guest was served an entire knee. Plus trimmings, of course—potatoes, cabbage, and whatnot.
I sat looking at it for a long time. It was impossible, this late in the game, for me to pretend I was a vegetarian, or a vegan, or a fish eater, or a monk from a strange sect that only ate pasta and ice cream. No. I had to eat the pig. It had been prepared especially for me, lovingly, by a dedicated German hostess who had gone out of her way to welcome me, a complete stranger, into the bosom of her home.
It wasn't dinner, it was vivisection. The pig looked so pig-like you could hear its squeals. You know what it said? It didn’t say, “Hello, Pedro, I'm delighted to be eaten by you. I'll do my best to go down your throat smoothly. Trust me, we're on the same side here.” No. It said, “I’m a pig, for goodness’ sake. I should be playing in mud right now. If you eat me you’re nothing but a blue-eyed devil.”
After the longest time I took a thin slice of meat from one side of the knee, removed the fat and other anatomic paraphernalia as well as I could, and ate a small forkful of it. One of the guests, a hearty Pole, turned his attention to me. “What's your problem?” he asked. “Are you sick, or something?” He had finished his Eisbein already, and on his plate there remained only the bones. He had consumed, devoured, masticated, and sucked off everything else in his sight.
It has been reported that, in certain Arab communities where hospitality is of the utmost importance, a host might KILL you if you refuse his or her hospitality. It was the awareness of this risk that led me to consume a few more forkfuls of that fateful pig.
Where I come from, the pigs are congressmen and senators. We don't eat them, man!
Pedro
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Reader Comments (12)
'Nothing but a blue-eyed devil' -- I like that....
I have an (American) friend whose then prospective (French) mother-in-law cooked for the said friend steamed brains on their first meal at the mother-in law's house. The friend has always regarded this act as the opening salvo in hostilities that have lasted twenty years or so. But, who knows?, perhaps the brains were kindly meant...
I am more fortunate as I have, perhaps the only, French mother-in-law who can't cook and so although she might serve me something that looks like steamed brains it will only turn out be something much more anodine gone wrong, which is quite endearing really as she never makes a fuss about me or anyone else not eating her productions. And (bliss) she never makes jokes about English cooking.
But how did you fare with the pig Pedro? Is there a polite way out of such a predicament that doesn't involve eating the creature (which might , for some, be physically impossible) or feigning a fainting fit or heart-attack? Was your German friend mortally insulted or does she now always bring up the subject of your incredibly dainty appetite whenever you see her?
kind regards
Lisa
Lisa, this event happened 20 years ago. At the time my notion of politeness led me to eat parts of the pig. Today I wouldn't have done it. Whenever I'm invited to dinner I announce my restrictions outright, although it doesn't always guarantee my comfort... A French poet once wrote this line: "Par politesse j'ai perdu ma vie." I believe self-preservation should come before politeness! And I believe a great deal of "politeness," as practiced in many cultures, is in fact terribly harmful to the individual.
I think I know what you and your French poet are getting at regarding politeness but can't help wondering if, in European societies and their descendants at least, you aren't pushing at an already open door; modernity has taken on so against formality (because we confuse it with artificiality, I think, and also because it is a lot of bother). French hand-shaking and bonjour Madame-ing are just isolated redoubts amid the hordes of authentically unpremeditating communicators all being frank and spontaneous and 'speaking as they find' and acting upon their sacred impulses. I would have thought sheer bloody rudeness blights more lives these days; the rudeness of the self-regarding (my time is just so much more valuable than yours), of the indecently hasty, of the over-purposeful, of the strong, of the noisy and even of the witty. But politeness, at its best, nourishes a 'douceur de vivre', for it is a gentle descendant of the chivalrous ideal by which, with a wonderful gratuitousness, we are gracious even particularly to those who cannot retaliate if we are not.
An Irish poet for your French one 'How, but in custom and in ceremony, are innocence and beauty born?'
kind regards
Lisa, I believe that every human capability and every human behavior have positive and negative charges. Politeness is no exception. The positive side of politeness is being aware, attentive, adaptable, helpful to other people. The negative side is excessive deference, submission, and self-effacement to the point where an individual suffers terrible abuse because he or she feels it's inappropriate (or "impolite") to react otherwise. Students who don't think for themselves, since they defer to the teacher; parishioners who defer to bigoted priests and pastors; citizens who defer to their president, even if he makes catastrophic decisions. I believe this excessive deference to authority is partly responsible for the chaos in which the world finds itself today.
Wow! from table manners to the state of the world in 5 comments. But hang on... Submission is not the same thing as politeness and I don't think you can blame the short-comings of democracy upon the 'courtesies of good morning and good evening'. It's not deference that makes politicians thick-skinned, greedy and generally porcine - those were the necessary qualifications that got them through the selection process in the first place. What to do? change the electorate? (Things could always be worse; weren't Stalin, Robespierre and Caligula just all far too sensitive to be able to cope with the coarsening hurly-burly of democratic politics?)
Good manners, whilst not producing universally good governance, do make the position of powerlessness much more bearable because one doesn't have to put up with the unpunctuality of princes, the insolence of office, the proud man's contumely etc which, as Shakespeare pointed out, do tend to cheese one off a bit. They also should make it possible to convey something that displeases your interlocutor (that there is no way you can either eat that, or accept their proposal of marriage in a million years, for example) without a fight breaking out or anyone feeling crushed and humiliated.
best wishes
Lisa, I love the conceit that Stalin was overly sensitive, hence his tyrannical evildoings. The logical conclusion is that an INSENSITIVE politician would be a better leader. Joke apart, a certain capacity to distance oneself from the issues, the problems, the fights is certainly helpful in eventually solving the problems and stopping the fights.
Lisa, I see a big danger in "teacher knows best, so shut up and listen." I consider a lot of pedagogy dangerous in itself; more often than not, the musicians I coach have been traumatized by their mean, incompetent teachers, by pedagogies which are not learning experiences but demoralizing, gratuitous torture sessions. As a half-joke I like saying that French music pedagogy as practiced in music conservatories can be resumed to three words from the teacher to the student: "Tu es nul." (In American English I'd translate that as "You're a big zero," or "You suck.") How polite is it for a teacher to say this to any student, in particular one who goes into the classroom full of curiosity and initiative, just to go home afraid and furstrated? I suggest you read Keith Johsnstone's wonderful book, "Impro." It unmasks many mysteries of the teacher/student relationship using the concept of "status negotiations" and explains convincingly why we need new teaching paradigms.
Now that I said my piece, I agree wholeheartedly with you that SOME PEOPLE ARE REALLY RUDE.
News just in - Brazilian anti-politeness campaigner complains 'Teachers are just not polite enough'. ...?
I have heard a lot of horror stories about French music teachers. If you put aside the simple meanness explanation I think the teachers' rationale would be that it's tough out there and they want to give their students a head start in developing a carapace of indifference to criticism, and weed out those who cannot cope with it at all, who would be better off pursuing a career as a dictator or quiet and blameless Normandy housewife. There are of course lots of flaws with this theory and you seem to have met lots of the victims of it. I also suspect that those who succeed under such a regime also end up a bit strange (if they were not already so - they've been surviving in a politeness-deprived environment)
The (French) piano teacher to whom I and my children go, is however, an angel in human form - but we try not to expect him to perform miracles...
Kind regards
I agree with you, there are lots of flaws in your theory about bad teachers! I believe bad teaching oftentimes comes about because of reasons that are ultimately political -- the protection of the status quo, which says, in short, "I have power over you." Of course there are many fine French teachers, sometimes even in conservatories! But let's not forget that the word "conservatoire" indicates the underlying philosophy of protecting the status quo. The French music-school system was largely developed under Napoleon. He had two priorities: train band members for the military, and train obedient non-individuals for the glory of the nation. Traces of this attitude remain within the system.
And... am I hallucinating, or did you really refer to a certain housewife in Normandy as "blameless"? My dear, it's for the courts to decide the issue of innocence and blame! ;)
You generously provide me with so much material to argue with that it is difficult to know where to begin.
Slightly insanely, I'll start with the ghost of Napoleon muttering "Zhe law of unintended consequences, eet gets you every time! - Fauré!, Ravel!, Dutilleux!, Debussy!, Boulez!! what are zhese pipple doing in my Consevatoire Nationale? - not one of zhem can produce a decent march..."
I would be wary about seeking the 'real' hidden meanings of either words or institutions in their origins. Don't both words and institutions change their meanings over time? The 14th century Italian institution that gave its name to music schools all over Europe and beyond, was an orphanage, dedicated therefore, to conserving orphans. It was called conservatorio before it became a famous music school. But the word seemed right to express the intention of conserving a musical tradition, (which is not per se, a particularly sinister intention I think). - In England, perversely or independently whichever you prefer, the word conservatory is almost exclusively used for a place where plants are protected from the winter and also where bicycles, rabbit hutches and old wellington boots are stored. Just how oppressive is that? When is a garden not a garden? When it's a Fascist plot?
To respond to your opening, contresense-induced quip; my suggested rationale for the imaginary ratty teacher's conduct was not an endorsement either of the conduct or of its defence, as my subsequent comments surely made clear. But as I am more interested in individuals than grand unifying theories, Itried to imagine what an aggressively unpleasant teacher might think he was doing. People rarely cast themselves as the villains in the stories they tell themselves about their own lives. - I'll try again, - take your Mrs Stark (in whom you must be interested since you invented her) - had your heroine Becky been made of less stern stuff and actually broken down in class, sobbing "Stop persecuting me you evil old bat sob...." Mrs Stark's first reaction would be one of pure surprise, - since what she's been doing to Becky is just (for her) so normal. Then she would say "Come, come my dear" (in that irritatingly patronising way people have when they've been a bit ruffled and are trying to re-establish the correct power-relation), "My dear do not take on so. Your teacher's dissatisfaction is not a death sentence but a rock you must learn to climb" (Oh no! she's been taking style lessons from Kahlil Gibran), "How well I remember one of my own teachers saying to me, 'Kirsten, Kirsten, I 'ave stuff een my freedge zhet isz more musical zhan you!' How we all laughed! He was a great man and full of such witty aperçues ... but," (after several years in psychotherapy) " we got over them, and managed to profit from his teaching. You must remember that for the true artist, the timid bourgeois conventions of politeness can have no place. We inhabit a high, harsh place where the only virtues are understanding and performance - and understanding cannot be shared if it cannot be performed. So, pull yourself together and stop dripping on your violin."
To explain bad teaching by power relations is something of an over-simplification. It's like explaining that Poussin's 'Adoration of the Golden calf' "is really" paint and canvas. Without saying anything untrue, one leaves out all that is human, meaningful and interesting. There are many more plausible explanations for bad teaching than there are bad teachers and the ones that come closest to the truth probably won't stoke anyone's sense of outrage or send them to the barricades.
When I was about eight I was sent to begin to learn with an appallingly bad piano teacher (well, perhaps she was an admirable woman in many respects but she was no good at teaching the piano). She was so forbidding that I don't remember her smiling, ever. She just didn't do encouragement and she had no gift for explanations - while, on the other hand, she did have a good line in ill-timed, derisive snorts. Looking at my books I see they are annotated frequently with NAILS!! and ROUND FINGERS ALWAYS!! in bad-tempered capitals. I remember trying to force my hands into impossibly immobile curves. (I used to forget to cut my nails before her lessons which must have meant that I wasn't playing with Round Fingers! the rest of the time..) Her room was full of dusty dried-flower arrangements and hideous china ornaments, - all malevolently poised to hurl themselves at the floor as soon as I looked at them. It was not a room in which you could breathe freely let alone move easily. Her piano was large and black and shining and inexorable; Miss Smith was tall and thin and .... dying of cancer. I don't know why she kept on teaching so close to the end.
I'll answer (humbly) your parting shot with a bit of my father's legal Latin - De minimis non curat lex -.
kind regards
Lisa, you make many good points that I concede willingly: the danger with assigning unnatural meaning to words, the fact that Fauré, Debussy, and Ravel were great musicians, the fact that destructive people might not destroy things and other people consciously. But as Plato once said, harm done unwittingly is if anything worse than harm done on purpose.
You end your entry by relating a tale of an archetypal EVIL teacher who had no business teaching children anything whatsoever -- the kind of teacher one would need YEARS OF PSYCHOTHERAPY afterward just to recover a little bit of self-esteem. Then... you seem to defend your teacher in some way, implying that, since the courageous lady was dying of cancer, there was something admirable to her tenacity in torturing children to the bitter end of her bitter life. But maybe I totally misunderstood you (as is my habit!).
Ipso facto.