As a kid, cooking terrified me, and I wasn't a kid who terrified easily. It wasn't the doing of cooking so much that terrified me, but the idea of cooking. The idea of cooking scared not the crap out of me but the identity out of me.
You know how with many languages--actually with one fourth of the world's languages--there's such a thing as grammatical gender? In these languages, all objects--not just those with obvious biological gender such as men and women, bulls and cows, but all objects--are classified by gender. That's why, in a language like Spanish for example, we have not only 'el hombre,' masculine for 'the man,' and 'la mujer,' feminine for 'the woman;' but also 'el machete,' masculine for 'the machete, or big knife,' and 'la mesa,' feminine for the table. Languages using grammatical gender most often use only two: masculine and feminine; a few, like German, also employ neuter. English doesn't mess around with grammatical gender. We English-speakers don't bother classifying all objects according to masculine, feminine, or neuter. That's why first time language learners studying certain foreign languages often find the business of grammatical gender completely crazymaking.
But grammatical gender is a matter of language and therefore a terror only for language learners. The idea of cooking, when I was growing up, presented a different kind of terror for me, not a language terror but a terror linked more vitally to biological gender: let's call it self-conscious gender.
I should say in calling it self-conscious I'm not suggesting a condition of shyness or awkwardness--although, in my case, shyness and awkwardness were certainly both there to be seen. I'm thinking more of self-conscious in the sense of how one sees oneself, how one takes the measure of oneself. So, when I say, as a kid, I was terrorized by self-conscious gender, what I'm saying is that biological gender, as well as the socially approved sexual orientation linked to that gender--were much on my mind. Something I suspect we all experience: I didn't know how to see myself. I didn't know how to take the measure of myself.
What, you should be asking, does all this have to do with cooking?
In my childhood, much as in Spanish, all objects were classified by gender. For example, sports--baseball, football; not necessarily tennis--were like 'el machete,' the big knife: masculine. Household chores, like cleaning and cooking, were like 'la mesa,' the table: feminine. I've suggested first time foreign language learners often find grammatical gender completely crazymaking. Well, believe me, for a kid growing up for the first time, self-conscious gender can be just as crazymaking.
My family, my relatives, my schoolmates were all I had for a reference frame--as with studying a language, that Beginners' Spanish textbook is all you have to go on. Within my reference frame, cleaning and cooking weren't the only things classified as feminine. The list was a long one. It included fussiness about clothes--feminine, too much time spent grooming--feminine, a fear of getting dirty--feminine--although gardening, which was bound to get you dirty, was definitely feminine--feminine too was avoiding bullies, or showing an interest in the arts--music, dance, or poetry--and absolutely feminine was taking pleasure in the outdoors, not, of course, as a place to play touch football--that was masculine--but the outdoors for itself, for the grasses, the trees, the birds and changes of season. All of these were dangerously feminine.
Puzzling to me was seeing a few of my schoolmates take up some of these feminine interests--something I hadn't the guts to do. I had schoolmates who drifted into the arts. Others who seemed to enjoy dressing nicely. A few who weren't particularly aggressive. It wasn't until years later that I figured out these schoolmates could make the choices they made because they weren't terrorized by self-conscious gender. These schoolmates, the ones painting pictures, playing piano, reading books--some even cooking--from an early age, these schoolmates were able to take the measure of themselves, to see themselves--and to be comfortable with what they saw.
I have spent so much of my life looking over my shoulder, not only in my childhood but also deep into my adulthood. In fact, there are still moments when I take a quick glance. What am I looking out for? I'm looking out for--what shall I call him?--the Accuser. The Accuser, should he show up, will point and say--loudly so all can hear--'Aha, I've found you out! Now we can all see what you are. There's no pretending any more.'
I knew as a child--even as a teenager--if I should so much as show the slightest interest in one of these feminine behaviors--going on a nature hike, writing a poem, avoiding a bully--learning to cook--the door would fly open and there would be The Accuser, pointing and saying loud enough so that all might hear--my parents, my aunts and uncles, my teachers, my schoolmates--'Aha, I've found you out! Now we can all see what you are. You're a faggot. Or, worse yet, maybe even a girl. There's no pretending any more.'
And so I overcompensated. I lived a super masculine life--deliberately--although not necessarily because I wanted to. I stayed away from boys who--as my parents might say--were 'that way.' Although I fled playing team sports and instead hid in my room reading books, I was always very careful to make light of my reading and to show a great interest--entirely fake--in spectator sports. For effect, I smoked a pipe, although you'd never catch me in a suit and tie. When the opportunity came along--although I was secretly trying to dodge military service--I elected a regular, as opposed to reserve, commission (i.e., more manly), opted for a combat arm, and deported myself reasonably well in Korea and Vietnam.
Self-conscious gender made me, you might say, what I was never meant to be: a warrior--albeit a reluctant warrior.
So, where does this leave me? It leaves me right here. Sixty-seven years old. I'm happy. I live a good life. I do go on nature hikes, although don't ask me to identify a bird. Sports? Well, I do get together with friends to watch the Broncos, but I do it mostly for the pizza and the conversation. I'm an avid reader; I don't make light of it; I'm proud of it. And some of it's poetry. As for suits and ties? Well, I'm a jeans guy. Although I know it makes absolutely no sense, there's still this leftover voice whispering in my head: suits and ties are for men that are "that way."
What about cooking? I still don't. Or so rarely it hardly counts. If I do cook, it's only to give the Accuser one more shot. It's to give him a chance to come into my kitchen and say, 'Aha, there you are, trying to cook! You're not a cook. The whole world knows. There's no pretending any more.'
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