January 2000

"Laissez le bon temps roulez!" (Favorite New Orleans saying)

"Show your tits! Show your tits! Show your tits!" (Phrase heard far more frequently on Bourbon Street)

     I spent New Year's Eve this last week in New Orleans, La-- home of the Cafe Du Monde, The Desire Cafe, Lucky Dogs, Bourbon Street-- and one of the world's biggest non-stop parties. New Orleans (especially the French Quarter) is one of the few US cities where you can walk down the street and feel the literal weight of history-- you expect to walk around a corner and see someone who stepped out of the pages of a 19^th century novel-- I know I always imagine seeing Kate Chopin's Edna Pontillier when I walk past some art stores; I imagine the sensuous ocean caressing her skin and feel sad for her "solitary soul." New Orleans is often quite wonderful-- street entertainers are amazing and the feeling of stepping along with people like Hemingway and Chopin, Fitzgerald, Whitman and Ginsberg is inexplicably intoxicating. Go on a history tour, see the city's cemeteries, go to Marie Laveau's house of voodoo and learn something.

     I will tell you that there is something about this city when it is at its wildest that makes even the most reserved person shuck off Puritan morals and turn into someone who Howard Stern would dig hanging out with. One of my closest friends, an attorney who speaks at least four languages fluently, who is the strongest and one of the most intelligent women I know, showed her breasts (which were, I will admit, magnificent) several times. For beads. Yes, for beads. The plastic ones-- the ones you're going to put in a drawer, maybe. The ones that are worth about $1.50 (unless you're on Bourbon street, that is). She was not drunk-- in fact, she made the decision quite soberly because she wanted no regrets. In the French Quarter the concept of showing your breasts to total strangers as barter for plastic beads (some of them are quite fancy and fun) is pretty ordinary. Really, unless you've been to the Quarter at Mardi Gras or some other very festive night you'll think it's weird but it was really fun-- and not degrading at all.

     At least not that night. Something about New Year's (and I imagine this is the way Mardi Gras feels too) was happy, the shows were free and fun and consensual and all those things that adults like to do.

     BUT. (You knew this was coming, right?)

     That happy feeling of enjoyment was not long-lived. We spent a total of four nights in New Orleans. We had bought beads of our own and tossed them off our balcony room (sometimes seeing much more than we bargained for in return I'll tell ya'). I took to giving the fancy beads out to anyone who could tell me the name of certain Shakespeare plays-- later, after a few drinks, the authors got more obscure. I like to think those folks I gave beads to will go and read some of those writers but I don't kid myself. They were, after all, just cheap plastic beads. But on the last night we were in town the mood seemed to change, shift, and really, it turned ugly.

     I was tossing beads happily to passers-by who were delighted that they didn't have to do anything in return for them. A group of drunken college-age men (the kind I have in my classrooms, the kind who hold doors open for me, the kind who I often really like) came wobbling down the street. They saw me tossing beads and yelled the typical "throw me somethin'" that is one of the favorites of quarter living. I threw some beads, not asking for anything but a little of the same kind of fun feeling you get on Hallowe'en passing out candy to kids. One of the guys started yelling at me to "show them my tits." Well, sorry, bub, but even when I am drunk I don't show those in public. I don't mind others showing theirs but I'm just too embarrassed-- not to mention the fact that I had as many of those beads as I wanted, and the deal is I throw you something, you show me something-- not the reverse.

     When I smiled, shook my head no, and said "Happy New Year" instead, most of the bunch just good naturedly wobbled towards better pickings than shy old me. But one guy yelled "screw her man, she's a hick" (which bothered me less than you would think) but then he changed his mind and decided that I was not just a hick but a "whore" for not showing him my boobs. Man was I surprised! I mean, in my good old Southern Upbringing, it's completely the opposite there-- whores don't keep 'em covered! And, I didn't think that those who showed their breasts for fun were doing anything wrong, either, but the attitude the guy showed really made me think. I was a little surprised and thought I'd stop tossing the beads-- the fun was pretty much over for me.

     Later, as we strolled down the street, the happy feeling I had on the 31^st was gone. The crowd was much, much younger-- many of them were there for an upcoming bowl game and college fight songs rang out in the air. Cops seemed much less cheerful. Groups of men gathered beneath balconies and began chanting "Show your tits" over and over again. They jostled for position and good camera angles. It was one of the most aggressive things I have seen in quite some time and my husband and I, who had both enjoyed ourselves the night before just went back to our hotel room to talk to our friends and sip our left over New Year's champagne.

     What I am wondering, and the point of this long story, is what these two sides of the behavior on Bourbon street means? What does it show us, tell us, about sexual politics in the new century? We were comfortable and glowing with fun on one night, and the next night, the hostility of the men made me wonder how these mostly educated, college type, men-- ultra middle class folks-- could hate women so much. What do you think? It really makes me want to re-read Naomi Wolf's Promiscuities to see what she has to say about this again. I think she has some theories, and I will have to apply them to this situation. I think probably the person who was a jerk to me personally was just in general a jerk. But what about those crowds of men, many of whom undoubtedly are good guys? Perhaps my discussion with Stephanie Brown about the movie Fight Club is in this same arena. Are men mad at women, to that extent, and are they hiding it just under the surface of civility? Or have these jerks just been around forever, and are likely to stay around? And what about our freedom to do this sort of thing, for fun, if we want to? Consensual sex is great-- degrading sex doesn't seem that way to me.

     I'm interested in other people's opinions on it. Write to me, and if we get into a debate on it, I'll post it to the site with this article.