Nudity in the Floating World by ChicoDowning on Blogster

I’ll kick off my final blog with the following image: hairy, shriveled phalluses and sagging, postnatal breasts. Hundreds of them. Everywhere. Painted, decorated private parts, as far as my grimacing eyes can see from my position atop Hayes Street, surrounded by over 60,000 rollicking drunks in costumes arguably more outlandish than the nudists’ lack thereof (depending on your level of comfort with the aging human form). Just when I begin to think the parade of freaks is too distantly subaltern to bear a moment longer, a mobile Strip Club complete with birdcage-enclosed pole dancers and a fully-stocked bar rambles by me, and I know I’m home.

Of course, I’m talking about San Francisco’s Bay to Breakers, a footrace that invites thousands of people from around the world to share in the city’s (in)famous free spirit. Sure, it’s a spirit of crudeness, hedonism, and indecent exposure, but it’s much more than that. It’s the spirit of a freedom so uninhibited that our current president, who uses the word “freedom” more often than Jeff Bridges’ “Dude” Lebowski uses the other F-word, would take one fleeting glance at Sunday’s race and retreat to Crawford forever. It’s the kind of freedom that permits public urination on a massive scale; that bends the definition of “open container” to exclude rolling keg-stands down the middle of San Francisco’s main thoroughfare. It’s freedom that allows a portly sixty-year-old man to walk naked down the street and be greeted by gleeful girls begging him to pose for a photo. Is it responsible? Is it ethical? Maybe not, but regardless of its ethical standards the Bay to Breakers has been running for 97 years, and any attempts to suppress the flaunting of 60,000 unique identities have shriveled like, uh, "manhood" in the fog.

B2B08: The freedom of relief

Standard Bay to Breakers tomfoolery

Let me try and tie this into the literary curriculum before I get carried away in the absurdity of Sunday’s 11-kilometer Frat Party-slash-Pride Parade. The genre of Multi-Culturalism comes down to one simple element: tolerance. While the spectacle of exposed male genitalia pranced around in public isn’t something I necessarily enjoy, I’m inspired by the fact that such a stigmatic, outrageous (not to mention illegal) “expression of self” is so readily tolerated- without conflict, violence, or protest. While many are probably disgusted, they understand the exhibitionists' right to express themselves, and peaceably tolerate this despite their own personal objections. Therefore it boggles my mind that Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Voices, a fantasy novel which gives an alternative account of the Prophet Mohammed’s legend, has actually managed to elicit a death-edict from the Muslim World. The fatwa imposed upon Salman Rushdie is an example of the same censorship and totalitarianism that thousands take to the San Francisco streets each year to rebel against. In fact, had Islamic leaders been in attendance last weekend to survey the mass-demonstration of beer-guzzling, homoeroticism, and women whose faces were their only body parts covered, I’d wager that a fatwa would be declared upon the entire Bay Area. And you know what? Good.

When a group of people who take themselves too seriously try to silence self-expression because they’re intolerant enough to take offense, it’s our civic obligation to “get naked” and throw up a big, fat middle-finger. True free-speech advocates like Salman Rushdie keep their defiant “bird” extended even under threat of retribution- retribution that can include years of exile, execution, or simply being hauled downtown, bare-assed, for disturbing the peace. Not only do I think Rushdie is completely justified in his refusal to surrender to religious extremists, but I believe it’s his duty as a writer— as a “responsible citizen of the Floating World”—to speak his mind, especially in the face of outside intimidation. He’s a martyr in the mold of Arthur Miller’s John Proctor: without the courage of those willing to stand strong for our basic and essential freedoms, the Floating World becomes a witch-hunt; a McCarthy trial. And while they don’t quite provoke the controversy that surrounds Rushdie's stories, Bharati Mukerjee’s Jasmine and Kazuo Ishiguro’s An Artist of the Floating World also constitute personal celebrations of self-expression and freedom. More than anything else, our duty as responsible citizens is to value and retain the individuality that defines us. Only then, when suppression of the human spirit is eliminated and the global community is one big, drunken footrace of undressed Narratives, can we hope to hear the “subaltern voices” that account for the billions of distinct identities inhabiting this Floating World.

As Burton’s text proclaims, “Firstly, to be a citizen of the floating world is to recognize and acknowledge the narratives that constitute our identity” (p. 131). In simpler terms, our “floatation” is dependent on our ability to conjure the many distinct, often conflicting inner-workings that make us who we are. The character Ono in An Artist of the Floating World struggles mightily with this in his journey from traditional Bohemian artist to war-time propaganda peddler. In post- WWII Japan, where the country’s defeat has made those with military ties scapegoats for the nation's shame, Ono laments his fall from prestige and contemplates whether or not he’s to blame. He is haunted by the nostalgia of his former prowess, and is unsure as to whether or not he should abandon his pride in the propaganda artwork that once gave him so much meaning. In this uncertainty lies Ono’s pitfall: he ceases to fully appreciate the narratives that make up his identity, particularly his narrative as an artist. He fails to understand that his unique individualism, including the expression of self that he’s poured on to canvas, is nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, it’s the single thing that he should be most proud of, regardless of his bitter community’s eagerness to throw around blame. By allowing himself to feel apologetic and embarrassed for something that constitutes his distinctive identity—by regretting that which makes him who he is—Ono surrenders to the intolerant; to the extremists. In order for Ono to be a “responsible citizen of the floating world” he must advocate individuality, even when confronted with adversity. Otherwise he’s just a guy “wearing clothes” to conceal his identity, and he sets a precedent whereby other subaltern voices will be muted.

The subaltern articulates far more confidently in Bharati Mukherjee’s Jasmine, the story of an Indian village girl’s continuous re-discovery as she moves from East to West. Jasmine evolves from a little girl in male-dominated India to a modern, independent American woman. Similar to Ono, she struggles with the clashing of her complex narratives, her past life as an Indian Hindu constantly lurking beneath the surface of her ever-changing identity. Unlike Ono, however, Jasmine makes no apologies; from an early age she combats the hurdles that a psychic’s daunting predictions impose upon her. Even when she’s sexually assaulted upon her arrival to the United States, Jasmine refuses to be a victim; she quickly and systematically exacts revenge on her attacker, and moves on. Jasmine rejects the rigidity inflicted upon Indian women (both as a woman in India and as an Indian in America), and consistently changes her narrative track to satisfy her desire for freedom. This is particularly admirable in that Jasmine comes from a situation of poverty, death, and stagnant permanence—while her family festers in India, Jasmine embarks on three distinct, life-altering adventures, forging relationships that would never be possible were she to retreat to an existence of mourning in her home-village. Jasmine’s spirit of individualism is undeniable, and that’s the defining characteristic of a citizen of the Floating World. Even when Jasmine abandons her lover and adopted son to move to California, the words of her fellow-eloper (Taylor) offset the unethical, irresponsible implications of her departure: “It’s a free country” (239). Jasmine is free, and her unapologetic individualism does a lot to lend voices to the subaltern in the Floating World.

I have to mention that I wholeheartedly disagree with the assertion that we are to have learned some valuable lesson from the “Salman Rushdie affair” (other than to ignore the whining of overly-sensitive zealots telling us what to do). The survival of our unique identities depends on our ability to express ourselves wholly and without restriction, regardless of arbitrary “codes of ethics” established to dictate what we can and can’t say. In fact, I find “political correctness” to be a plague on today’s world—we’ve become standardized; diluted to the point where Freedom of Speech means very little. We’re lodged so far under the thumb of societal norms, so intimidated by the pressure to be “P.C.” and avoid the backlash that occurs when we fail to adequately suck up to each individual group, that a novel of “magical-realism”-- a fairy tale-- can whip an entire religion into a lynch-mob.

Folks need to understand that not everyone is going to respect what a group stands for, and, well, they’re not obligated to. While religion might constitute the most revered, sacred aspect of one person’s life, he or she must realize that there will always be some jerk out there taking target practice on the Koran, or lighting fire to the Holy Bible. While this might anger and offend (it offends me as a Catholic), we must acknowledge that it's not our right to dictate how others express themselves. Thus, there's no point in getting riled up, issuing religious death-edicts, and creating further hostility in an already-tense multi-cultural community.

This is why today's political correctness is so pathetic: people are sissified into taking extreme offense to things that, while certainly insensitive and disrespectful, could just as easily be ignored. When some knuckle-head vandalizes your Blog with ignorant hate speech, smile, and take solace in the fact that he’s probably a sexually-frustrated loser. When a herd of overweight naked men take to the streets next May for the 98^th Bay to Breakers, simply focus your attention on all the beautiful women in similar minimalist attire. When a smart-aleck novelist insults your most sacred religious convictions, take a deep breath, and remind yourself of the eternal damnation that person will soon endure in hell (that is, if you believe in that sort of thing). Meanwhile, rest assured that society's over-sensitivity is being met by a throng of middle-fingers from those irrepressible citizens of the Floating World.

Life’s too important to be taken so seriously. It solves nothing to resort to violence over something as silly as one individual disagreeing with another's beliefs. Everyone's entitled to an opinion, and as long as Salman Rushdie refrains from physical attacks on Muslims he’s perfectly within his bounds to criticize religion. And though I'm somewhat at odds with the author's disdain for organized faith, I have to take Rushdie's side in terms of the conflicting views on Ethics in his infamous affair— what's "ethical," writing a little story about Mohammed, or putting a hit out on someone over it? Similarly, while many will look at the Bay to Breakers' drunken revelry as an unethical, asinine display of lewd behavior, I didn’t witness a single fistfight, argument, or suicide bombing. In order to be responsible citizens of the Floating World, our duties are simply to express ourselves, tolerate each other's views (even if we secretly would like to enact fatwas over each other's insolence), stand strong in support of our freedoms, and enjoy the party. As a stupid movie wisely suggests, “There’s no sense getting upset when a bunch of idiots give you a hard time. The universe tends to unfold the way it should.”