Having grown up in America, where many struggle to learn one language, I realize I’m biased, but here it is: I don’t get why foreign languages have both masculine and feminine nouns. It’s ludicrous to me. I wish it was a joke, but it’s not. In Spanish, for instance, the restaurant is a man but the library is a woman. What? Who made the official ruling on that? And more importantly, why? It's nonsense. Restaurants and libraries are places with no regard to genitalia.
The saving grace of the English language is that we only have one way to say “the.” When you consider how much other languages overcomplicate saying “the,” we have a beautifully simple system. It's realistic, too, because it's kind of insane to constantly think of inanimate objects—lifeless things like shoes and spoons—as having male and female parts. They don’t! There’s no need to genderize shoes and spoons.
I'm sorry if that seems insensitive or xenophobic, and it should be noted that every once in a while I do act like a fucking idiot, but I have never heard a foreign language teacher (or anyone else) explain the need for masculine and feminine nouns in a convincing fashion. German, French, and Spanish should all drop at least one “the.” Ultimately, I think other languages just have a weird, lingering tradition of smooching and banging scissors and hammers together as though they are Barbie and Ken dolls. They’re not!
Human beings don’t even require rigid definitions of gender. Anytime I’ve called someone a “she” or “her” or a “he” or “him” after forgetting that they announced they prefer to be called otherwise, I feel shitty and I say I’m sorry, that I’ll do a better job next time. That’s a human being I dissed on accident--one who feels like a misfit, as I do, but for different reasons, who has feelings and perhaps a soul as I do. By contrast, if I said a windmill was a feminine noun, defenders of the Spanish language might scream, “WRONG!” Who cares if the windmill strikes me as feminine, if I’m forced to play this silly game at all? Is the windmill going to feel upset and disrespected? No! It’s made of and powered by unsentimental things. Stop defending the windmill out of sensitivity that means nothing to the damn windmill.
Let's explore what would happen if that were the case. Only kidding! This really happened. Hell, the Spanish, German, and French languages are all legit--so why not this?
###
After reheating some cold pizza in a toaster oven and devouring it, I departed my apartment and left for work. To translate in Spanish, this means that I ate some pizza—which is feminine, mind you—left my manly apartment, and departed for my masculine job.
By the time I pushed through the effeminate door on my down the macho fire escape to my dude-like car, the inanimate object population of my loft became abuzz. Everything I owned had an important meeting to conduct. My computer, a female, turned on and voiced an announcement.
“All things small and portable, gather in the living room for today's debate...”
My refrigerator, a cold and robust woman, exclaimed a protest.
“What about me? I weigh 300 pounds and I can't move!”
“We can hear you from the kitchen, Mrs. Refrigerator!” my computer snapped. “We can't risk you coming here and scratching the linoleum floor. Ever hear of a security deposit, you buzzing old...”
Slinking toward the gathering of objects at the base of the masculine desk and the effeminate computer, my cozy wool blanket spoke up.
“Ladies, please, let's not bicker among ourselves. We're in this together, remember?”
“Thank you, Miss Blanket,” my computer said. “You're right. Now, in regard to today's long-awaited debate on gender inequality, Mr. Pencil asked—no, DEMANDED—to have opening remarks. So much for ladies first, I suppose. Your remarks, Mr. Pencil?”
“Woman, you might be due for a virus scan, if ya catch my drift.”
This ignorant remark was met mostly by the jeers it deserved, though the radio and the desk, with their machismo leanings, voiced their approval.
“Only kidding, dames!” Mr. Pencil laughed sleazily. “Anyhoo, in all my years as a sliver of wood with a graphite tip, I have never heard anything so absurd as the accusations of Mrs. Computer here--that my brotherhood of inanimate objects and I are in any way, shape, or form sexist.”
Overhearing this, my dishwasher disagreed.
“You said my place was in the kitchen!” she accused.
“Anyone think we should put a dishwasher in the living room?” my pencil asked in a facetious tone. “Does that make sense to anyone? No. OK, and mind your manners, Mrs. Dishwasher. That's one topic done. You got any other brilliant complaints in that big, Pentium processor or whatever-the-hell-it-is brain of yours?”
“You pig,” my computer said.
“Pigs are masculine, so thank you.”
“My other complaints include not just sexism but your overall bigotry,” my computer said. “Nick's notebook and his oscillating fan can't get married, even though they're in love.”
“Yes, Mr. Fan blows my pages with LOVE!” my notebook declared.
My oscillating fan waved a soothing hello, then turned away toward the other wall...
“That is an abomination!” my pencil said. “Good lord, a notebook and a fan doing such a thing. Disgusting.”
“You're just jealous because I don't love you!” my notebook shouted at my pencil. “Nobody loves you, Mr. Pencil.”
“Why, that's not true. On many occasions after dark, I have indeed found love by plunging myself into the pure and delectable hole of Mrs. Pencil Sharpener.”
A moment passed, one that escalated from shock to awkwardness to sheer delight among Mr. Pencil's enemies.
“Pencil sharpener is a masculine noun,” my computer told him.
“Yeah,” my pencil sharpener said, surprised and wounded. “Dude, you didn't know I was a dude?”
My once upright pencil nearly toppled to the carpet but managed a slanted posture in a moment of shock.
“Oh dear God, is it true?!” my pencil wailed.
Then he regained his composure, reconsidered the errors of his ways, and in no uncertain terms, he saw the light—literally, since Mrs. Lamp clicked on when he posed dramatically in the direction of her bulb. He had a momentous speech to give to the things in my apartment.
“I've been an insensitive fool all this time,” my pencil said. “I’ve denied myself the truth. I was brought to a state of pure belonging and ecstasy every time I got inside Mr. Pencil Sharpener, and I’ve come to a sudden realization. Whether pencil, dishwasher, radio, or fat refrigerator, we should all be treated with the same respect and kindness. Heck, when you put our sex-differences aside, inanimate objects like us are all pretty much alike. We're all inhuman, you know? Let this be a day of everlasting celebration at Nick's place, for we the masculine and feminine nouns have finally learned to live together in perfect harm—”
“He's home early!”
That was my lamp, warning the others as I crossed the fire escape and fumbled for the key to unlock the door. Old habits are not as easy to break as a pencil, and my pencil regressed to being a jerk.
“How dare you interrupt me, Miss Light!”
“You can't talk to her that way!” my blanket chastised.
The objects continued to argue and insult each other in this manner, right up to the moment I walked inside and saw the supernatural spectacle. It took me a minute to compose myself and accept everything I witnessed. I gotta say, if you’ve ever spent a few weeks in the Fond du Lac psych ward as I have, it’s easier to come to grips with something like this.
As to why I had to hurry back home, I explained to the garbage can that I forgot to turn the fan off, and Goddamn money doesn’t grow on trees. Then I spoke to my toaster. She gave me the scoop on the dispute.
Obviously, my mind was blown. I stroked my chin stubble and wondered, “Should I do a story about this? Yes, and then a movie. No. A movie trilogy--the likes of which the world has never seen.”
I grabbed Mr. Pencil and began writing. For the first time in my pencil’s life, he felt at peace with a man holding him. But he took a longing glimpse at Mr. Pencil Sharpener and waited eagerly to get worn down to the nub.
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