Original Post Date: June 8th, 2009
Men are often attacked - in that subtle way, in which women are exquisitely apt - with the phrase "chivalry is dead."
I had intended on cooking dinner with the Muse, and then settling into a little blogging foreplay with regard to the recent Convocation up at my local University. Some incredibly talented people recently graduated, and provided me with the circumstance (and pomp, of course!) to write. But that intention, as Louis Armstrong sang to me and my taco meat sizzled, was halted, completely, when the divine Slut demanded my attention be turned immediately to a different direction.
In that subtle way, in which women are exquisitely apt.
In Her defence, she was probably just jealous. I was thinking of other women. When the heart aches, as mine has been unexpectedly recently, one tends to linger on the longings. And so, I did. "I wish I had a girl to cook with. I wish I knew a gal that was interested in listening to Franky, or reading poetry. A gal that was interested in drinking wine with me at three in the morning and dancing in the rain."
I had no intention of lingering on the subject any longer than the 3 minutes and 26 seconds of "La Vie en Rose". More so endangers the soul on an evening already filled with so much promise. But it was too late. She caught me. As I thought of my enjoyment of the olde jazz, and finding a woman that would get lost in it with me, I heard the ancient war-cry in my head:
"Chivalry is dead."
The voices of at least 4 wonderful women that I know echoed Her in my head: their scoffs and footstamps supporting their exasperations. How could I resist a reply? And so, the Muse and I made love over chivalry. Necrophilia at its finest.
Whenever I first hear the phrase, no matter its source, amongst the first thoughts that enters my head is almost self defeating: I'm chivalrous. The irony of making the claim does not escape me, of course. And certainly, based on the wisdom of that irony, I never attempt to reply with it seriously. But let's be serious. I'm chivalrous.
I buy the women that I love flowers unexpectedly, when the mood strikes me. And it does - on many more occasions than just holidays. I open doors for people. I do not rush to be front of the line, though I desire my Starbucks just as much as the next guy. I make sure that the women at my table always have the opportunity to order first. I will shiver while a woman wears my jacket. And I will lie and say that I'm not cold.
And though those are the traditional chivalrous acts, none of those is what makes me chivalrous.
I can certainly understand the counter-argument. I'm often late with birthday gifts, if they come at all. I probably stare at your ass as you precede me through the door. If I'm pressed for time, I may pretend not to see you as I head to the line-up. I don't always insist on paying and I believe in "going dutch". And when I feel that my sense of kindness is being abused or unappreciated, I decline a request by saying "you're not fucking me, so do it yourself". When male critics overhear, my reply from under my warm jacket is a hearty "I believe in equal opportunity."
And I do. Heh.
I can hear my incorporeal accusers - those who know me best, perhaps - let their spears loose in a concentrated volley: How can someone so insensitive, arrogant and dirty minded possibly be chivalrous?
They have a point. I do ask women if they squirt.
My only reply can be: the same way that the clumsy and lumpy can be graceful. A friend of mine redefined grace as a quality not inherent in sitting with stature, but in being able to have someone else walk away a failure, thinking themselves a complete success. (And by that definition, I thank the gods for the number of graceful women I have in my life!)
Equal opportunity redefined chivalry. It changed the battlefield of romance and civility. When princesses might be knights in disguise, the rules of engagement change.
When women were objects, the conduct was straightforward. Women were to be placed on a pedestal, not used as a footstool. The mindset and actions that accompanied that maxim were chivalrous. But now objectifying, itself, has become the murder weapon. We lay blind, unable to tell if a woman desires a kiss on the cheek or a professional hand-shake. We are expected to read body language but taught never to look at the body. We are to make the same amount of money, but are expected to buy the ring. We are to be "just friends" but never pigs. Assassins lay hiding in every corner.
It is no wonder at all how chivalry has come to die. When it invited the times of this dangerous tomorrow into its house, it dressed ceremoniously naked. How could it survive?
And as I hear, unceremoniously, the obituary of chivalry I cannot help but think that its resurrection is stifled by the oppression of the speakers. "Chivalry is dead" - and I die a little. For I can do nothing to give it life in those moments, any more than I could have had a woman appear magically to cook dinner with me tonight. I must ask them to join me first. And so, too, for chivalry to live in this new world, women must first invite it to do so. In that subtle way, in which women are exquisitely apt.
That is no small feat. It certainly takes courage and skill to live as a worthy princess in this world. It's going to look different. It's going to feel strange. But every woman I have ever heard utter the war-cry is capable of it.
I cannot prove to you that chivalry is alive in me; that we can walk together as equals, whilst I hold you on a pedestal. But I can do it, and with the greatest of ease. It comes naturally to me, this new age dance, and its pleasures are immeasurable. But I cannot do it alone. It cannot be done alone. That's not how this world works.
Let's do it together.
- Z
Addendum:
This discussion is not to suggest, in the slightest, that men are exempt from their due part of the resurrection, which takes just as much devotion as it does for a woman. Men who hide earnestly behind the murder weapon, and live as if the death was something to honestly celebrate are hardly men at all.
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