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Returning to Detroit from an academic conference, my head
was still buzzing with what I had learned from the feminists. All of
them were doing work in feminist deconstruction, and joyfully working
out its implications. Following their lead, I came to see that the organized
world is a text that expresses male domination. Furthermore, I understood
that the male principle is domination. If that text could be deconstructed,
domination itself could be overcome and the female principle -- warm,
nurturant, and life-giving -- would be able to emerge.
The shuttle bus took me to long-term parking and I found
my little car, waiting for me where I had left it. Without even thinking,
I opened the door and began to get in. And that was when the thought
hit me. Getting into the car ... why obviously the car was a female
and, expressing a masculinity which I now understood to permeate me
to my core, I was about to about to enter her and use her for my own
purposes in just the same way that men have used women for thousands
of years.
I stepped back from her, astonished by the power of my
insight. For I saw that there was a larger dimension involved than my
simply entering this car at this time. Indeed, it became clear enough
to me in this moment, the whole pattern of male domination over the
female was present here. And this was so perhaps least of all with regard
to my entering the car and forcing her to do my will. More important,
I came to realize, was the fact that the car itself, while clearly female,
had been interpenetrated by male desires; her beautiful feminine essence
warped and degraded by the domination of the phallus.
At that point I decided that I had to deconstruct the
car; not for her sake alone, nor even for the sake of all the females
of which she was a part, but for myself and all males as well. Crippled
and driven by our own phallic assumptions, we had been deprived of the
beauty that could exist if the female principle were allowed its sway.
In a small way, I saw, I could start here. I could remove the influence
of male domination from this beautiful car and leave her to express
her female essence in a way that she, and only she, would determine.
I began with the item that first struck my attention:
the driveshaft. Driveshaft, get it? This was obviously a penis. In the
trunk was a hacksaw. I took it out and began to cut through. It was
hard work, and it was hot, but as I gave up my doubts and hesitancies,
it was as if I had discovered a new source of energy, for the work appeared
to become lighter. And, indeed, as the hacksaw bit through the last
of the metal, and as the driveshaft fell away from the car, I too felt
lightened, relieved of a weighty burden that I had carried all my life.
Now, it was plain to me, I had passed the point of no-return. I was
committed by my own actions. I could not turn back.
Next I turned to a more subtle instance of the domination
of male values -- the steering system. Think of it. You turn the steering
wheel a certain amount and the car turns by a similar amount. So rational,
so logocentric, so cold, so quintessentially male. This would never
do. With my hacksaw I cut out a length of the steering column and, in
its place, I inserted an old inner tube that I had been carrying around.
Fastened to both ends of the gap in the column, the inner tube would
act like a large rubber band. Now, turn the steering wheel and perhaps
something will happen. And perhaps it won't. So full of freedom! So
intuitive! So warm! So feminine! Irigaray herself could not have done
better.
Next my attention fastened upon the wheels. The wheels,
with their fullness and roundness, seemed to me at first to be contrary
to my overall judgment. Could they be a feminine element in the car?
But then my thought led me to recognize the subtle sexism inherent in
their use. For each of these wheels was penetrated and subservient to
an axle, whose bidding they were forced to do. Moreover, it was the
wheels that were burdened with the punishment of the road. The axles
needed to do nothing but turn. Master and slave. Here it was again.
Moreover, as I thought about the matter, an even deeper level of offense
made itself known to me. Each axle penetrated and dominated two wheels.
Not only were the poor wheels raped and dominated, they were devalued
as well. This could clearly not be allowed to pass. I removed the wheels
from the axles and placed them in the front seat. Henceforth, they would
ride in the position of honor that they deserved. The axles, now in
contact with the road surface, would have to endure the suffering which
formerly they had imposed on gentler others. Let justice be done. They
deserved no pity.
Finally, I came to the part of the car that seemed most
obviously male. It was the engine. Gas drinker, fume maker, taking from
Mother Nature and giving back junk. This was what it meant to be male
expressed in its essence. And for what were these lovely hydrocarbons
consumed ? Speed, power, the lust of going ever faster. Competition,
domination ...The male image was unavoidable. Certainly no woman has
ever been interested in stuff like that.
But as I thought about the engine the thought occurred
to me that this image of the engine serving the purpose of domination
had, literally, only scratched the surface. For when I began to think
of what was going on within the engine, my horror and my shame came
unbound. For there, within the engine, where outsiders could not see,
the most terrible scenes of male brutality occurred. The engine, I came
to realize, ran on rape. The pistons penetrated the cylinder heads and
they did this each time the crankshaft turned. This was not only rape,
it was gang rape and it happened with unbelievable speed and under the
most appalling circumstances. Two thousand, three thousand, four thousand
... up to six thousand Rapes Per Minute! And the heat, the pressure,
the sheer unrestrained violence! Tears in my eyes, I ripped the cylinder
head from the engine and placed the poor battered dear in the rear seat.
Never again would this be allowed to happen. Never.
But my new consciousness understood that simply rescuing
the cylinder head would not suffice. Payment would have to be exacted
for the crime. Moreover, punishing the pistons would not be sufficient.
The entire infrastructure of male domination that supported, encouraged,
and even demanded this outrage would have to suffer as well. The sun
was beginning to set as I took my hacksaw to the pistons, and I knew
that my work had just begun. After the pistons, the connecting rods
would have to go, then the bearings, the flywheel, the crankshaft, the
engine casings... they would all have to pay.
It was mid-morning when I cut up the last piece of the engine. My
heart relieved of its guilt, I put a plant where it had been. Mother
Nature and the car could now be one. But I was tired. The night had
been long and hard. I wished I could get into the beautiful car, now
restored to her pristine state, and drive her home. But I knew that
this was not to be. I would impose my male will on her no longer. She
was free to go her own feminine way. I began the long walk home, wondering
where her path would lead her.
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