Gallows Humor #5 -- Clothed in Innocence

Gallows humor #5  (posted on FB July 23; copied to blog 7/24.  “Clothed in Innocence”)

There will be memorial services for children killed by abortion on September 14, all over the country.  At least for now, I’m the memorializer-in-chief for the DC area.  I’m labeling my remarks about this event “gallows humor.”  Skip if offended.

This one is doubly offensive.  It’s pro-life, which offends one social sector; and it’s R-rated, which will offend another sector.

Unborn children are generally naked.  Nekkid.  Nude.  Unclothed.  That’s obvious on the surface, where naked-ness happens, but startlingly complex.

Shortly after the end of my dumpster-diving days, I was invited to debate some silly law in Maryland.  For some reason, I brought a child’s body with me.  Maybe to show it to the radio audience.  When my opponent asked what was in the jar, I told her.  She was a little freaked, but – admirably – had sufficient presence of mind for a conversation (not on the air).  I said it was a boy.  She asserted fiercely that sexual differentiation doesn’t take place that early – perhaps 10-12 weeks in this case.  I said it sure looked like a boy to me; did she want to take a look?  Definitely not.  She repeated her assertion: there’s no sexual differentiation at that age.

If an embryologist wants to explain the fetal clitoris to me, I’m interested.  But it’s the nakedness that interests me for the moment.  Why was I so ready to display the kid’s privates?  When do privates get private?  I don’t have an articulate rationale.

At a mixer years ago, I met an attractive girl from Wellesley.  Skip the chat: it was interesting, but this is about bodies.  She was very guarded, very defensive.  When we danced, she held me six inches away.  In her eyes, I thought I could see a high stone wall of protection around herself.  I thought I understood why; she had remarkable breasts, and had probably spent a lot of time swatting off uninvited guests.

Some time later, she invited me to her apartment in Boston.  Interesting evening.  She had an appalling roommate – very beautiful, very foul – who explained how to [bleep] a guy off.  How to use the most intimate and precious of human acts to communicate contempt and final rejection.  I had heard the phrase before, but had never imagined for a second that it carried meaning.

Anyway …  On the floor, buttons away, the historic breasts revealed in all their magnificence.  But I looked in her eyes, and the high protective wall was still there.  Still there, but pulled closer than her chest.  The wall was still high and bristling, but her breasts were outside the wall.  I didn’t want her breasts (well …); I wanted her trust.  I buttoned her up and fled.  Later.

I don’t understand that wall very well.  I approve; it’s an essential social construct.  But I don’t understand it well. 

I don’t think that babies are nude.  They may be naked, but not nude.  They are clothed in innocence.  They are wrapped in splendor and majesty.