It occurred to me recently that
sexism is rampant and insidious when it comes to science and culture. Many of
you are thinking: “And you’re surprised
because?” It’s not the rampant part that caught my attention; it’s the
insidiousness. I’m not sure exactly how this came on my radar. Retirees have a
lot of time for ruminating.
I believe I was posting on Facebook
about something philosophical or spiritual and mentioned Pascal’s Wager. Or maybe it was one of those daily mishaps that
have us muttering: Murphy’s Law. This
prompted me to begin collecting these “owned” phrases of our language and
culture.
My list quickly expanded to
science, and included Ockham’s Razor
(for which I had no idea of its meaning but have since looked it up and hence
corrected my original spelling) and Mobius
Strip (which I can easily fashion from a piece of paper). I scribbled these
on the back of an envelope, confident that the list would somehow grow into a
blog post one day.
More of these phrases that I’m describing
as “pride of ownership” came to me as I was driving to Vermont recently to
visit my sister. Fortunately, I carry a small note pad that I was able to fish
out of my purse, along with a pen, without weaving out of my lane on the
Interstate. I’m quite good at fishing by feel. I’m often forced to do that to
find my earplugs in the tray on my bedside table when Jagdish begins snoring in
the middle of the night. I’ve also learned to write short reminder notes in the
dark.
So, tools in hand, or actually on
the passenger seat (the pad) and in the center console (the pen), I jotted down
other phrases as they came to me. As you might expect, some of them were
torturous versions of their proper selves.
Somewhere around the Massachusetts/New Hampshire
border, one of the CDs keeping me awake led me to write: Elton’s John. Of course, Brits will tell you Elton wouldn’t have a
john; he’d have a loo. But Elton’s Loo
doesn’t fit my blogging needs. That quickly led me to Paddy’s Wagon and soon after that, Fanny’s Pack. I was feeling quite clever at that point, and I had
not had even a drop of wine.
Greek mythology and the Bible
provided a source for several additions to my list. The most obvious was Achilles’ Heel. And hot on Achilles’
heels, Pandora’s Box, Noah’s Ark and Jacob’s Ladder. I was on a roll. Somewhere around the mid-trip rest
area and after a lot of figurative head-scratching, I added the Midas Touch and Gordian Knots.
As I neared the New Hampshire/Vermont
border, it dawned on me: few of these names that show pride of ownership are
female. The only familiar phrase I had come up with was Pandora’s Box. That was only after I had first thought of Achilles’ Heel, which (in a fit of
anatomical exploration inspired by the song “Dem
Bones”) eventually connected me to Charlie
Horse, too.
When I returned home and started to
organize my notes, I realized that concepts and ideas were always paired with
men’s names. It’s Pascal’s Wager and Ockham’s Razor and Murphy’s Law. Only the inconsequential utilitarian objects on my
list were named after women. A pack, a box—both female ownership. The wagon, the
ark, even the ladder—male. An insidious show of sexism if ever there was one.
One area where women have
historically been recognized as “owners” is in the naming of hurricanes and
tropical storms. It took until 1978 for the National Hurricane Center to
finally share the glory of devastation with men, and that was done in phases;
(North Pacific storms in ’78; Atlantic Basin in ‘79.) I suppose I should look
upon this as a great equalizer in the “pride of ownership” battle. As my mother
always said, “Thank the Lord for small
favors.” Small favors indeed.
And as I always say, “Thank the Lord for a fine red wine, no
matter whose name it carries.”
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