Having
grown up in America, I realize I am biased in what I'm about to
state, but here it is, anyway: I'm still completely baffled by the
way foreign languages have both masculine and feminine nouns. It remains a ludicrous idea to me. 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, not people or animals.
The
ultimate saving grace of our system of writing and speech is that we
only have one way to say “the.” When you consider how much other
languages over-complicate saying “the,” we have a wonderfully
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 sex parts, and maybe I'm being
too literal about it, but clearly, they don't.
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 buffoon, 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.
That
got me thinking—in as much as it made me paranoid. If, by some
miracle, I'm wrong in my criticism of masculine and feminine nouns,
then the inanimate objects inhabiting my very own apartment could
secretly be experiencing self-aware, gender-influenced lives—just
animals with a pulse, like us. For all I know, the pencils, lamps,
notebooks, lighters, books, computer, and desk so familiar to me
might become sentient and stage raging debates about gender inequality
and sexism when I leave my residence—kind of like Toy Story,
but with a pencil, an oscillating fan, and a computer instead of
Woody, Buzz and Bo Peep.
Let's
explore what would happen if that were the case. Only kidding! This
actually happened.
After
reheating some cold pizza in a toaster oven and devouring it, I
departed my apartment and leave 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-reminiscent car, the inanimate object
population of my apartment 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 way 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 interjected.
“Ladies, please, let's not bicker amongst 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?”
My
pencil waddled on its eraser and stood upright to address my
possessions.
“Woman,
you might be due for a virus scan, if ya catch my drift.”
This
boorish remark was met mostly by the jeers it deserved, though the
radio and the desk, with their obvious machismo leanings, still voiced their audacious approval.
“Only
kidding, dames!” Mr. Pencil laughed sleazily. “Any-hoo, 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 have a dishwasher installed 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 bright ideas for 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 declared.
“Yeah,”
my pencil sharpener said. “Dude, you didn't know I was a dude?
Seriously?”
My
once-upright pencil nearly toppled to the carpet but managed a
slanted posture in his moment of trauma.
“Oh,
sweet Lord, what have I done?!” my pencil shrieked.
But
he regained his composure, reconsidered the many 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.
“I've
been an insensitive fool all this time,” my pencil said.
“Whether pencil, dishwasher, radio, or fat refrigerator, we should
all be treated with the same respect and kindness. Heck, when you put
our obvious sex-differences aside, inanimate objects like us are all
pretty much alike. We're all inhuman, ya know? Let this be a day of
everlasting celebration in Nick's apartment, 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 searched for
the proper key to unlock the door. My pencil reverted 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. After I explained to the toaster that I got Sunday mixed
up with Monday again, I got the scoop on the dispute from my garbage
can, and my mind was obviously quite blown. I stroked my chin and
wondered, “Should I do a story about this? Yes, and then a movie.”
