Michelle Motoyoshi's Open Salon Blog

How To Eradicate Abortion

Thu, 1 Nov 2012 16:11:42 -0400

It doesn’t happen often. Okay, maybe it’s never really happened…until now.

I’ve had a stroke of absolute genius.

I know how to solve the abortion issue. It’s very simple. So simple, in fact, that I can’t believe someone hasn’t proposed this before. Or maybe they have, and I just don’t read enough to know better. (In my defense, with such an abundance of quality TV to watch, who has time to read? I mean, why read Shakespeare when you can watch mothers turn their four-year-old daughters into high school whores on Toddlers and Tiaras? But I digress…).

Here’s the solution to the abortion issue: legislate the penis.

You see, it dawned on me one day as I watched 16 and Pregnant that it takes not only a WOMAN, but also a MAN to make a baby. Both must contribute to conceive a child. Up ‘til now, most abortion legislation has targeted women, and we’ve seen how well that’s worked. There remain a distressingly large number of women who think they are perfectly capable of making important life decisions for themselves.

I think it’s obvious that allowing women to make their own choices regarding their sexuality and reproductive plans only results in their making the right choice for their present life situation, which, in turn, results in (heaven help us) lower rates of unwanted births, lower rates of teen pregnancy, and over time, even lower crime rates[ii]. Unless forced to do so, women won’t necessarily make the “Right” choice, and although we live in a country that values freedom for all individuals (which I’m pretty sure women are), we must use whatever authoritarian means at our disposal to enforce what we think is the one true choice.

So, instead of placing this onerous responsibility upon fragile female shoulders, let’s hand it to the males of our species. They are the stronger and more capable gender, as millennia of ruthless, sometimes savage, patriarchal oppression clearly demonstrates.

Here are a few simple pieces of legislation that we can enact to address the matter.

The first law we should pass = Make it illegal for men to engage in sex for any reason other than procreation. Known as the “Every Sperm is Sacred” law[iii], this legislation would prohibit men from engaging in any activity (including but not limited to masturbation) where they might shoot their life-giving wad into anything that cannot produce a child or into anyone with whom they would not want to raise one. Properly enforced, this legislation could prevent untold numbers of booty call babies, rufie rugrats, and oopsie infants. Eliminate those, and you’ve eliminated the vast majority of potential abortions.

Any man found violating the Every Sperm is Sacred law shall have to surrender one complete testicle. Furthermore, should a conception result from said violation, he shall be required to raise the resulting child until the child can support him or herself, which according to present trends, should only be about the age of 25, or if the child is a loser, for life.

The second law we should pass = Prohibit any male from squirting his man juice into any woman’s baby oven until 1) he has a full-time job that can support himself and a child and 2) he has the desire and emotional maturity to marry and have a family. This legislation would ensure babies are only born to at least one responsible adult. More importantly, it would also ensure that men would only engage in sex for procreative purposes, which again would ensure no irresponsible sperm meets any unprepared egg to create an unwanted life form. Imagine how many abortions that would prevent! The penalty for violating this law shall be the same as that for violating the Every Sperm is Sacred law: one ball and 25 years to life.

Now I can hear all you males wailing in protest. You have your needs; you have your drives, unlike the millions upon millions of women who seem more than willing to satisfy them. You can’t be expected to jail your Johnson, to stable your stallion, to package your meat. But I say, you can and you must! Come on, men. Lead by example. Put aside your porn and your rape fantasies and show us how chastity is done. If we women can’t be trusted to make the “Right” decision, then you will have to rise to the occasion by not rising to the occasion. You bear the burden of sexual responsibility so that no more unwanted children are conceived. Like I said, it takes two to make a baby. Maybe it’s time for you to own your half of that equation.

[ii] Leavitt, S.D. and S.J. Dubner, Freakanomics:A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything, Harper Perennial, New York, NY, 2009

[iii] Tip of the hat to Monty Python. Thanks for that one!

How To Eradicate Abortion

Thu, 1 Nov 2012 16:11:17 -0400

It doesn’t happen often. Okay, maybe it’s never really happened…until now.

I’ve had a stroke of absolute genius.

I know how to solve the abortion issue. It’s very simple. So simple, in fact, that I can’t believe someone hasn’t proposed this before. Or maybe they have, and I just don’t read enough to know better. (In my defense, with such an abundance of quality TV to watch, who has time to read? I mean, why read Shakespeare when you can watch mothers prepare their four-year-old daughters to be high school whores on Toddlers and Tiaras? But I digress…).

Here’s the solution to the abortion issue: legislate the penis.

Here are a few simple pieces of legislation that we can enact to address the matter.

[ii] Leavitt, S.D. and S.J. Dubner, Freakanomics:A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything, Harper Perennial, New York, NY, 2009

[iii] Tip of the hat to Monty Python. Thanks for that one!

It's Just Rain

Mon, 2 Jul 2012 12:07:00 -0400

My little girl and I stood that December evening on the edge of the bay and watched the sun surrender to the angry clouds clustering upon the horizon. The light of midday soon dissolved into premature dusk, painting the blue above a sullen gray. On the opposite side of the bay, just beyond the Golden Gate, we saw what the gray foreboded. It marched steadily past the bridge and across the water, a wall of wet swallowing up everything in its path, and in minutes, us as well.

“We better go inside,” I said.

“No, let’s watch. It looks neat,” she said.

“But, we’re gonna get drenched.”

“It’s just rain, mommy.”

We watched as the rest of the world scuttled indoors to wrap themselves in warm, dry things and fill their bellies with hot liquids of one sort or another. Indoors they could pretend the rain couldn’t touch them. Indoors they could ignore the discomforts that storms inevitably bring. Indoors they could revel in the light and warmth of day, artificial though it may be, and dismiss the reality pounding with a million wet fists around them.

But not us.

“It’s just rain,” I thought as that army of raindrops finally stormed our shore and trampled us, drenching us in seconds, chilling us to the core. “It’s just rain,” I thought, as the frigid water formed crystalline rivulets down our faces and along our arms. “It’s just rain,” as the winter water made the streets glisten with street light, transforming asphalt into a twinkling midnight sky.

“See? It’s just rain,” she said.

I smiled. “And it’s beautiful.”

***

Like all my friends, Naheed is beautiful in every way. She has black, wavy hair that tumbles playfully to her shoulders and frames a round, youthful face. Her dark brown eyes are deep as midnight, but twinkle like stars. Though sweet and modest, she quips and jokes like a mischievous, yet astute jester, but her words never cut or bruise. Her intelligence always shows, as does her compassion. I’m glad I can call her friend.

One afternoon, on Mother’s Day eve, my lovely friend Naheed sat across the table from me, taking delicate sips of her mocha, as we enjoyed one of our (too infrequent) coffee dates. Our conversation traveled the path it usually does, wandering from children to work to a potpourri of life’s joys and minor annoyances. We discussed them all with ease and humor, until we inadvertently stumbled on a hole.

“What are you doing for Mother’s Day?” I asked.

The light drained from Naheed. Her alacrity abruptly ebbed.

“It’ll be three years tomorrow since my mother passed,” she said. “I still don’t know what to do on that day.”

I could see the dark clouds on her horizon, could feel the distant rumbling of loss. I wanted to rush in and rescue her from her sadness. I wanted to find the right words to heal her pain. I wanted to dispel the storm that obscured the light in her eyes. Instead, I let it rain.

Memories poured from her, random, raw, and fresh as daybreak. They coalesced into images of a beloved mother and a strong, caring soul. They recalled a connection that would endure, despite the ultimate separation. They filled our space with sorrow, yes, but also with something more.

As I looked at Naheed and watched her tears gather and fall, it struck me that her tears were not an illness that needed a cure or an ugliness that required remedy. Quite the contrary. Somehow, surprisingly, tears made lovely Naheed even lovelier.

In that moment I realized, we don’t have to conquer all sadness. We don’t have to run inside and shelter ourselves from all pain. True, it can be dark and cold and overwhelming. But in the end, it’s just rain.

And it’s beautiful.

Kim Kardashian, a.k.a Faye Emerson

Wed, 27 Jun 2012 12:06:29 -0400

Faye Emerson. Do you know who that is? No? Neither do I. But apparently back in the day, she was huge. I was numbing my brain one day with an I Love Lucy marathon, and one of the characters retorted, “Faye Emerson.” The audience burst into laughter; I had no idea why, largely because I have no clue who Faye Emerson was. But in that moment of comedic ignorance, Faye Emerson became philosophically profound. Why?

Kim Kardashian.

To me Kim Kardashian represents much of what I detest about American culture and values. She has attained fame and fortune, even admiration and adoration, all because she’s a sexy exhibitionist – i.e. her sex video went viral. She hasn’t made the world a notably better place, as far as I can tell. She doesn’t educate (except possibly as a cautionary example). She doesn’t exemplify the virtues of hard work and perseverance. Perhaps she entertains some, but not with any craft she’s honed with years of training and dedicated practice (kinky porn moves notwithstanding). And yet she is routinely rewarded with money and attention. It ain’t right.

What’s even worse than her lack of substance is her omnipresence. I must be assaulted from all corners with pictures of her and gossip about her boobs and boyfriends that I couldn’t give a runny crap about. I hear about her, whether I want to or not. To find serious news about, say, what’s going on in Syria, I have to go dig through these smelly mounds of Kardashian garbage first. It bugs me - really, really bugs me - that this is what people want to know, that this is what we, as a country, invest our time and interest in. This is what we value? Really? Makes me want to buy a cabin in Montana, stock it with Kant and canned peaches, and wait for the apocalypse.

But now, thanks to I Love Lucy, before I run off and take a job as Unabomber, I think “Faye Emerson.” Faye Emerson makes me Zen, because Faye Emerson reminds me of the ephemeral nature of all things. I don’t have to let the Kim Kardashians of the world get to me. I don’t have to take them seriously. Time will sweep – is already sweeping – away all that bullshiksa like yesterday’s newspapers. In ten years, in five – hell, if we’re lucky, in one - some other annoying creature will have risen to take her place. Like all things on our dear planet, nay, in the entire universe, Ms. Kardashian is here today, Faye Emerson tomorrow.

Realizing this, I understand that my moments, (and all the people and things that I value in them) will be Faye Emerson, too, someday. I can spend those fleeting moments grousing about the trivial injustices of the world, the shallow personalities, the pervasive and glaring imperfections of our culture. Or I can spend them doing something that I really, truly enjoy.

Anyone up for shooting a potato cannon? J

Rain in June

Tue, 5 Jun 2012 15:06:35 -0400

June 4^th. An odd day for rain, but there it was, falling as if it were December, making the world cold and wet and gray when everyone had expected – nay, demanded – sun and warmth. The complaints blew through as steadily and sharply as the storm. “What the hell? Rain in June?” “This sucks.” “I’m going to get all wet.” “I just got my car washed.” “I’m never going to get a tan in time for swim season.” “It was so nice yesterday.” “I hate being cold.” And that was just me.

Umbrella in hand and gritting my teeth against the cold, I crossed the field to pick Kimiko up from school. After our requisite exchange of greetings and inquiries into the quality of our days, she peered from beneath the rim of her ever-present hat and said, “You know what I want for a treat today?”

“What?” I asked.

“Hot cocoa, with marshmallows and whipped cream. And we should get our TV buddies (the stuffed animals we bought together at Fanime) and watch The Simpsons,” she replied, as the raindrops tap-tapped on her hat, slowly and steadily drenching it and her. She hardly seemed to notice.

“It is perfect weather for it, isn’t it?” I replied.

I put away my umbrella, looked up at the gray above, and let the rain dapple my dry cheeks. It felt nice. Even in June.

Kimiko and I got all wet walking to the car that I just had washed and drove home. We curled up on the couch with our TV buddies, sipped hot cocoa with marshmallows and whipped cream, and completely forgot how nice it was yesterday or how it was supposed to be spring. I had a wonderful time.

Sometimes, when you accept the rain, you get your sunny day.