When most women get ready in the morning, they reach for lipstick, mascara and concealer. For Caroline (not her real name), 29, the makeup routine also includes glue, a brush and a mini-fork. It’s not an emergency fondue kit. She’s a Chinese-American hellbent on forcing a crease, or a fold, onto her eyelids and these are her tools. First she sweeps the glue above her eyes, then uses the fork to hike up her eyelid, and presses it into place. The skin stays folded for most of the day. She says it makes her eyes look bigger, prettier, and as some might argue, more Caucasian.
Sound unusual? Hardly. In Japan and Taiwan, stores sell tubes of eyelid glue and pre-cut tape that women use to create a fold. Other girls, says Caroline, “hold their eyelids back with toothpicks to ‘train’ them into place.” But for those who balk at sticking toothpicks and forks in their eyes (visions of “A Clockwork Orange”) there is a third option — plastic surgery — where a permanent crease is stitched into place and excess fat is sucked out of the eye socket.
While the procedure, formerly called blepharoplasty (from the Greek “blepharo” for eyelid, and “plasty” which means to shape) has been around since the ’70s, more and more women — and increasingly, men — are having it done. According to the American Academy of Facial, Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery (AAFPRS), 167,000 blepharoplasty procedures were performed in 1998. Asian-Americans represented 7.5 percent of all patients undergoing facial cosmetic surgery in 1998.
Plastic surgeons say it is the most common procedure elected by Asian-Americans (and Asians in the Orient), followed by rhinoplasties and breast augmentation. Although the surgery is casually known as “the Asian eyelid surgery” it is not undergone solely by Asians. It’s basically a good old-fashioned “eye lift,” which gives the eye a fresher, younger appearance by pulling the skin up and back. The surgery isn’t always done for cosmetic reasons. Normal aging can cause eyelids to droop and obscure vision; in some cases a blepharoplasty can be a necessity.
Naturally, the Asian eyelid surgery is a sticky issue and questions posed about it are often met with silence, a blast of anger or both (some critics call it “barfoplasty” because it makes them so sick.)
Carrie Chang, a 29-year-old Stanford graduate, is so horrified by the surgery that it inspired her to launch Monolid magazine in December. “Asians are becoming pro-assimilation and monolid is a buzzword for yellow power and not being ashamed of it. It says ‘I don’t want the surgery,’” says Chang. Monolid’s premiere issue featured a profile of the band “Superchink” and a poem called “Recipe for Round Eyes” by Janice Mirikitani.
And while no one interviewed said they had the surgery to look more Caucasian, discussing it inevitably dissolves into a game of semantics. “People say, ‘I want to look prettier, I want to look more awake.’ But what does pretty mean? How does it come to mean a Western eye? As a historian, we have to look at how words come to mean what they mean,” says Elizabeth Haiken, assistant professor at the University of British Columbia and author of “Venus Envy: The History of Plastic Surgery.”
The word used by most of the women interviewed for this article was “makeup.” They cited a problem with eye makeup as their primary incentive for having the surgery. Others said they simply wanted to look more “awake” or have a larger eye because it’s universally prettier.
“I’ve never had a patient come in and specifically say, ‘I want to look Caucasian,’” says Dr. Marc Yune, a Korean-American plastic surgeon and spokesman for the AAFPRS. “In fact, they specifically say, ‘I don’t want an American eye, I don’t want a round eye.’” Dr. James Penoff says the number one factor that drives women to his Honululu office is complaints they can’t wear false eyelashes.
The surgery creates the indention of the eyelid right on top of the eyeball that makes it stand out — where women normally put eye shadow. As Penoff, a spokesman for the American Society of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery explains, roughly 50 percent of Asians do not have the crease because they lack the levator muscle that holds the crease up, kind of like a window shade. As a result, the Asian eye has a smooth, solid look. But there’s more to the surgery than appearance. There is also the functionality issue, says Yune, because the smooth lid can cause entropion, when the eyelashes point down and poke in. And without a crease, you’re more apt to have sagging skin that can hang down and obscure vision.
The surgery is quick but expensive — about $3,500 — and the recovery, as with most plastic surgeries, can be painful. Hie Shun, a recovery room nurse in her 30s who had it done last year, says she had to sleep in a semi-standing position and “when you lay down, it feels like the swelling is burying you.” While some people truly require eye surgery for drooping eyelids that can obscure vision, why go through all this?
Mary Andres, a clinical psychologist and professor at the University of Southern California, offers two explanations. Altering the eyelids is one way for Asians to distinguish themselves from their peers. “If you’re Asian and work in an all-Asian office and you dye your hair blond, it’s going to make you look different from everyone else. So you’re not necessarily trying to make yourself look Caucasian.”
Another theory, says Andres, is that the surgery is an indicator of internalized racism. “This surgery is the antithesis of self-esteem, when you don’t like who you are and how you look.” She pauses for a moment. “You know, I really don’t see why people are doing this. It’s not like they have a goiter they have to hide from the world.”
But some may feel they do. The eye is the Asian feature most often reduced to a caricature in popular culture. “Think of Charlie Chan movies or the Mickey Rooney character in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s,’” says Haiken, the author of “Venus Envy.” “Those were awful, so it’s not surprising that eyes are the one feature that Asians want to change. Most people probably don’t have a conscious desire to look white, but there’s such a history of racism and prejudice against Asians in this country.”
And on the playground. “The first thing kids do in school is make fun of your eyes,” says Chang of Monolid. “They’ll stick their fingers under their eyes and pull them until they’re slanted. In books, heroines always have big eyes and the villains always have small, piggy eyes. These little things do affect you.”
All of which can consciously — or subconsciously — inspire someone to get plastic surgery. As Heather, 21, explains in halting English: “Sometimes Asian eyes look cold or hard. I look warmer after surgery. My family likes it. I look smooth. My friends have done it and they really like it. We don’t want to be American. We just want to have bigger eyes.”
In many Asian communities, the surgery is seen almost as a rite of passage for teens and young adults. Or as Haiken puts it, it’s the Asian equivalent of Jews getting nose jobs for their 16th birthday. Many choose to go abroad to Taiwan or Korea to have it done. Yune says 90 percent of his blepharoplasty clients are female, with the majority of high school or college age. Likewise, the number of blepharoplasties he performs jumps during winter break and the summer. And more often than not, it’s accompanied by subtle — or not so subtle — pressure from parents.
Natalie [not her real name], a 29-year-old Korean-American, had the eyelid surgery done her junior year of high school, largely because of nudging from her mother, who had it done as a child in Korea, and feeling insecure about her eyes. “In Korea, once you reach a certain age, you just do it. It was more encouragement than pressure from my mother, but I wouldn’t have considered plastic surgery myself.” Then later she concedes, “Well, it could be considered pressure because she told me it would make my eyes look prettier.” She didn’t tell any of her friends she had the surgery, and now, long out of high school, most of her friends have only known her looking one way. “It’s not a very p.c. thing to be making your image more Western.”
It’s also not a very p.c. thing to discuss eyelid surgery in Asian communities, although it’s heatedly whispered about and tips are traded back and forth. When Asians whisper “Does she or doesn’t she?” they are talking not about hair color, but eyelid surgery. “After a while, you can tell who’s had it done,” says Caroline, “and people will say things like, ‘Go to Taiwan, it’s cheap!’ Or, ‘Don’t go to Korea, they botch it!’”
Some, like Hie Shun, are thrilled it’s a topic of conversation. “God, it’s great to talk about this because you can’t talk about these things with other Koreans, and my American friends just don’t get it. When I got it done, my hairdresser, who’s Korean, yelled at me, ‘Who did this to you?’ But a couple of weeks later, once my eyes ‘settled,’ she loved it.”
Hie Shun, who is in her 30s and lives in Atlanta, says when she was younger, she wanted to change the shape of her eyes but eventually “got over it.” Then it became largely an issue of makeup. “God, when I think about all the money I spent on makeup. I’ve never been able to wear mascara because my lashes point down and it would leave me with raccoon eyes.”
Hie Shun says the surgery was “no big deal” and compares it to having a mole removed, or getting a makeover. “People think plastic surgery is going to hugely change you, but it won’t. My mother was really worried that my face would change so much that people wouldn’t recognize me. But it’s a subtle subtle change. My boyfriend, who’s American, can’t even tell the difference.”
While plastic surgeons are aware that the eyelid surgery is a topic of hot debate, they don’t think that patients are trying to make themselves look more Caucasian, or trying to pass themselves off as Westerners. “The Asian eye is beautiful and they’re only trying to enhance it. People have always wanted to accentuate their eye — think of the Egyptians with their heavy kohl eyeliner and gold masks,” says Dr. Robert Harvey, a board certified plastic surgeon and member of American Society of Aesthetic Plastic Surgery.
Yune says it is a misunderstoond procedure. “People think they’re trying to change their culture but they’re only trying to change their look.” He says he is interested in having the surgery himself to “open up his eyes,” but quips, “I haven’t found a plastic surgeon that I completely trust!”
But Chang says changing your look is tantamount to erasing your culture. “The surgery is trying to get rid of something that is so distinctly ethnic. They’re not trying to wipe out a race but a racial characteristic.” In the premiere issue of Monolid, she wrote an essay about being confronted — and subsequently horrified — by relatives in Taiwan who urged her to get the surgery done. She wrote: “Just whose dictates of beauty were these anyway? … Never has self-loathing been so utterly transformed into the sine qua non of the Asian aesthetic.”
For Soo-Young Chin, an assistant professor of anthropology at the University of Southern California, having the eyelid surgery done at birth, as some parents choose to do to their children, is no different than circumcision or a clitorectomy. “When I was studying in Korea, I saw a lot of women with double lids. I asked one woman why, and she said it was because her whole generation was born that way. Obviously her mother had had it done to her at birth, and never told her. Well, she’ll figure it out when she has kids of her own.”
But she is also quick to point out that adults should be allowed to do whatever they want to their bodies. “It’s not like the eradication of the surgery is going to cause racial tolerance. But I am critical of people who do the surgery ignorantly, without thinking of the consequences.”
When I ask Chin if she would ever have it done, there is a long pause.
“Why?” she snaps. “Is there something wrong with my face? I think it’s silly to think there is only one standard of beauty. And let’s face it, most people aren’t beautiful, they’re just mediocre.”
Caroline, who still greets most mornings with glue and a fork, reports that one of her eyes “flipped” on its own, so that she now has one fold. “When my eye spontaneously flipped, I loved it. I was so happy. Some days when my eyes are puffier the crease will be temporarily gone and I freak out. Then I lie down and put cold pads on my eyes to reduce it.”
But after a lot of thought and some nudging from her mother (“Your cousin got it done, so-and-so got it done and they look great”), she decided not to have the surgery. “Sure I’d like another fold, a matched set. But as time goes on, you get used to your face. And having lived with my eyes for this long, it doesn’t matter anymore. What you see is what you get it. And I’m just glad I’m 100 percent me.”
Faster than you can say “chicken schwarma falafel babaganoush please,” health clubs are booking classes that sound more like exotic meals than workouts. At just about every health club in New York, you can go Korean, Brazilian or Israeli, with a little Indian or a side of Thai.
Ethnic workouts have always existed — think oily Greco-Roman wrestling — and were especially big in the early 1980s, during the height of the video workout craze. (Remember “Buns of Steel” with that silly man telling us to “squeeze out those cheeseburgers”?) But back then, ethnic workouts were marketed to their same demographic. Big sellers included the Irish “Jig Don’t Jog,” “Woman! Free Yo’ Soul,” the Yiddish dubbed workout tape “Putting on the ‘Shvitz,” and the short-lived “Afrobics” craze.
But now ethnic workouts have moved into America’s gyms. Says Peg Jordan, R.N., author of “The Fitness Instinct” (Rodale Press, 1999), “The backbone of American aerobics up until now has been white girl, cheerleader, up-and-down moves. And people are really sick of that.” Amen from this white chick.
And somewhere along the line, people forgot that workouts are supposed to be fun. Jordan says that the new generation of ethnic workouts provides a kinder, gentler way to exercise. “I got so sick of aerobics instructors shrieking at me, ‘Do the helicopter! Do the helicopter!’ With ethnic workouts you get to kick off your shoes and dance to live drummers. For the first time we’re addressing the pleasure principal of workouts. I call it the seventh sense, the instinct for movement. Once you’ve connected with it there’s no going back to rigid, repetitive aerobics.”
In addition to helping white people look less idiotic on the dance floor, ethnic workouts are also a great way to get your heart pumping (and not only because your Latin dance instructor is so hot). “I’m all for any kind of workout which is getting people to move their bodies,” says Lisa Sasson, a professor of sports nutrition at New York University who has consulted for Claudia Schiffer. “Exercise isn’t just touching your toes or running on a treadmill by yourself for 20 minutes. You have to have fun too, and what better way to do it than by samba-ing or dancing to live drummers?”
A word of warning: Since many of these workouts can be strenuous for the uninitiated, Sasson stresses the importance of stretching before and after working out. “You need to work up to a certain level to take some of the more advanced classes,” says Sasson. And this is no time to play Captain America. Be realistic about what kind of shape you’re in and consult your doctor before starting any exercise program.
So this Princess America decided to dive headfirst into ethnic workouts. When I told a friend I couldn’t meet for drinks because I had 16 exercise classes to attend this week, he said, “What? Are you trying to fit into a size 2 dress by, like, Saturday?”
That would take more than a week, sweetheart, and some major liposuction. But in seven days I cartwheeled, kicked, shimmied, drummed and sang, wiggled my booty, jiggled my breasts and learned to love my tummy. I have never been in so much pain in my life. And I loved it.
The first stop was a Krav Maga class (pronounced krav ma-GAH). Developed in 1948, it’s the official self-defense system of the Israeli army. There are no rules and there is no underlying philosophy. (Which reminds me of an arms dealer I used to date who liked kick-boxing because all he had to do was “hit and be hit.”) The classes were held at an Upper West Side preschool.
The class started off with good old-fashioned jumping jacks, sit-ups and push-ups. Then we paired off to practice simple self-defense moves, such as kicks, blocks, punches and choke holds. The instructor, Rhon Mizrachi, has been practicing Krav Maga since he was 8 years old, and is a former Israeli paratrooper.
Rhon has the kind of posture I’d seen only once before — on a 5-foot-tall Cuban prison guard, during a journalism-school field trip to a Manhattan jail. Both men are short, stocky and look like they’re about to rip your arms off and eat them for lunch. But Rhon — with a voice that’s smooth as butter and olive green eyes — is an excellent and attentive instructor.
He explained that Krav Maga is based on simple moves that anyone — man, woman or child of any size — can quickly learn. It isn’t about being able to balance on foot, spin and kick at someone’s head to defend yourself. Its simplicity is one reason Krav Maga has been used by California, Arizona and Illinois police departments. It teaches you to go for the jugular — or the eyes, groin or nose — with all you’ve got. “We have three principles in Krav Maga,” says Mizrachi, his eyes widening. “No. 1, the ability to receive pain. No. 2, the ability to deliver pain. And No. 3, the desire to survive.”
Katrina Kothe, the highest ranking female instructor in the United States, explains the beauty of Krav Maga this way: “It doesn’t matter if you’re fighting a big guy who can bench 250 pounds. I mean, thank God that men have groins because you can hit them there and knock them out.” Umm, yes, I also thank God men have groins but it’s not for the same reason.
Girls, you know when you imagine the perfect pair of shoes, head down to Manhattan’s West 4th Street and realize that a glorious shoe designer has created them and they exist just for you? That’s how I felt about Edna Lima’s abada capoeira class. It’s the workout class I’ve been waiting for all my life.
Remember Wesley Snipes’ cool fighting scenes in “Blade”? That’s capoeira (cap-o-WHERE-ah), a Brazilian form of martial arts disguised as dance. It was originally created by African slaves in Brazil who wanted to practice self-defense without alerting their masters. The class, held at the chic Duomo Gym (owned by former Mr. America Rich Barretta), is taught by Edna Lima, a wiry 38-year-old Brazilian with waist-length dreads and an ear-splitting grin. She put on a tape with kicking beats, and we went to town.
Capoeira looks like a cross between martial arts and vogueing. Or imagine that your local dojo was suddenly taken over by drag queens and you’ve got it. The basic position is a squat, with lots of side and front lunges. In a nutshell, capoeira is madness. Kicks are done in a handstand position. Push-ups are done on your side — on one leg — with your ear pressed to the floor, as if eavesdropping. To do a pull-up, we supported ourselves on our arms with our legs in front, while scuttling across the floor, backward. At one point, the class formed two lines facing each other and cartwheeled down the room. Cartwheels! I haven’t done one since I was 12. By the end of the class, I felt like a rock star and a superhero. I felt like Trinity from “The Matrix.” I was sold.
One hour and five buckets of sweat later, I asked Edna to describe capoeira’s appeal. “Many workouts separate body and mind. You go to the gym and check e-mail, watch TV. It is a parking lot for your body. But not with capoeira. It demands physically and mentally. And you built like sculpture.” She also reminded me that, above all, capoeira is intended for self-defense. “We use entire body as weapon. The elbow, the head, the spit. We bite, you know.”
While biting workouts don’t exist — yet — there does seem to be a growing trend toward violent combat workouts that is alarming some fitness experts.
“There’s an Iranian ‘We beat you!’ class that’s really big in L.A.,” says Jordan. “It fits in with a feeling that many people have that if they don’t punish themselves, they’re not getting a good workout. I interviewed Jane Fonda once and she said that after a six-hour hike with Ted, she’ll do an hour of weights and an hour of cardio. And I said, ‘Jane! Are you nuts? That’s like eight hours of working out!’ And this is the type of workout role model that we’ve all grown up with.”
Luckily, that’s all changing. Lisa Hufcut, director of group fitness programming at New York Sports Club, chalks up the popularity of ethnic workouts to the recent reinvention of low-impact aerobics. “Until now, ‘low-impact’ has been almost a dirty word in fitness. But the cultural dance classes are a great way to work out and still be gentle on your knees.”
Hufcut says the club tries out four or five different classes a month, and she always has her eye on new trends. She has even plucked Chinese and African musicians from the New York subway to perform during classes. (I’m waiting for her to scoop up the guy in Times Square who sambas with the blow-up doll.) The Washington branch offers Irish step-dancing classes, and Indian dance moves will soon be added to the fitness lineup. “It’s a great opportunity to experience different cultures under one roof. It’s kind of like Disney’s ‘It’s a small world.’”
Which is precisely what amuses one professor of media, sports and society. Todd Boyd teaches at the University of Southern California and is the author of “Am I Black Enough for You? Popular Culture from the ‘Hood & Beyond” (University of Indiana Press, 1997). “In my mind, exercise is inherently boring and monotonous,” he says. “It’s inevitable that the style of workouts is going to change.
“On one hand, ethnic workouts are another example of the nonmainstream being allowed to exist in the mainstream. The population is changing and we’re starting to realize that. But here, culture is reduced to difference. It’s like when Americans eat Indian food and think they know something about India. Or if you start to assume that because you belly dance, so does everyone in Turkey. Well, then, you’re just a …”
“Turkey?” I offer helpfully.
“Yes.”
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Feeling pumped, I decided to end my week by trying a different type of capoeira, called angola. I showed up at a small Chelsea building and spent 30 minutes pleading with the teacher to let me attend the class. When he finally said yes (through a translator), I realized I was in the right building, but the wrong class. But what the hell, I’ll give it a shot. Mestre Joao Grand, old yet sprightly, looks like someone straight out of the “Buena Vista Social Club.” The students formed two lines and slowly twisted, tumbled and somersaulted down the studio like jungle cats. I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing. Luckily, a sweet-natured student named Will Sears took pity on me and showed me the basic moves, which are performed in a low squat.
Angola capoeira is much slower than Edna Lima’s version, and I colossally sucked at it.
After three hours, the entire class sat in a circle and grabbed instruments for the roda, where students are allowed to play or spar. Will set me up with a conga-like drum and showed me what to do. I gave it a good whack.
“Like this?”
“Uh, yeah. But quieter.”
At one point Will leaned over and whispered to pay attention to the lyrics because it would soon be my turn to sing. No way, uh-uh, forget it. While the workout was fantastic — my thighs burned for days — it unearthed awful memories of fourth-grade music class where I would invariably get stuck with a lame instrument, like the triangle. Conclusion? Totally traumatic.
On to belly dancing. While the instructor looked graceful and sinewy and sexy, I looked like a paraplegic chicken trying to take flight. The instructor also defied feats of nature by being able to dance — to rhythm! — using only her breasts. There was so much pumping and thrusting that the class even made me blush. But all together, it was a blast and I’ll definitely be back.
By the end of the week my lactic acid levels were hovering at stellar heights, and I was too pooped to attend any more classes. But I may rest up and hit the rest of the ethnic workouts, just to say I did. They include “D’s Hip Hop Body Shop” at Manhattan’s mammoth Chelsea Piers, Afro-Caribbean dance, Filipino stick-fighting and a modern Samurai class in Queens, which includes a section on legalese in case a lawsuit ever arises from an attack.
It’s a wide, wonderful world of slimming down out there.
Thucka-thucka. Thucka-thucka.
That is the sound of the black helicopters flying over my house. No, I’m not a paranoid conspiracy freak, but a resident of Queens living smack in the middle of the deadly St. Louis encephalitis outbreak.
St. Louis encephalitis is a mosquito-borne viral disease that can affect the
central nervous system and cause a deadly swelling of the brain. It first appeared in the United States in 1962, in St. Louis (hence the name.)
Since then, outbreaks have occurred in Chicago, Delaware, Houston, New Orleans and St. Petersburg, Fla. (Chicago was home to the country’s worst outbreak, in 1975, with 2,500 cases.) But this is the first time the disease (and its causative virus) has appeared in New York City.
The disease first appeared in New York on Sept. 2. As of Thursday, there had been 11 confirmed cases and three deaths. The city is investigating 65 other possible cases. The latest incidences involve a 15-year-old boy and a 38-year-old woman from the Bronx.
“Until now, the youngest person who had a confirmed case was 58 years old,” said city health department director Neal Cohen at a press conference. “Younger people, given stronger immune response, generally have milder forms of the illness. So this is not an unexpected finding; it is not a signal that we have a new turn in this outbreak.”
The virus can be traced to the interaction of four players: songbirds, mosquitoes, humans and warm weather. Unusually warm weather, which is what New York has experienced since December, causes mosquitoes to breed rapidly in polluted areas. Culex pipiens mosquitoes contract encephalitis after snacking on infected birds, and then transmit it to humans.
I called up Dr. William Reisen, an entomologist at the University of California at Davis and a specialist in mosquito-borne viruses. He told me that many of his bug colleagues are hastily booking trips to New York, “drooling at the thought of seeing the encephalitis mosquito.”
“The question is, how the heck did [the virus] get up there in New York? Nobody knows,” he says. Reisen says he was just “shocked” that it appeared in New York. The most likely answer, he says, is that an infected bird, probably from the Midwest, booked some major frequent-flyer points by traveling all the way to New York.
New York is a city of 8 million people, so 11 confirmed cases out of 8 million doesn’t seem bad to me. With such small numbers, can this truly be called an epidemic?
“The medical community is currently arguing over whether it is an epidemic,” says Dr. Varuni Kulasekera, a research scientist at the American Museum of Natural History whose specialty is mosquitoes. “I would really call it an outbreak. The population explosion of mosquitoes is really what makes it an epidemic.”
Reisen, however, points out that there more pressing problems facing New Yorkers. “It pales in comparison with the number of people who have E. coli in upstate New York,” says Reisen. “I don’t mean to put this down, hon, but more people probably get flattened by cabs everyday in Manhattan.”
Both doctors assured me that the chances of contracting encephalitis are incredibly slim. Only one out of 100 people who are bitten by an infected mosquito will develop symptoms, and only one out of 500 will die from the disease, according to Reisen.
The symptoms of encephalitis are flu-like — fever, sore throat, lethargy, general crumminess — and can be “vague.” But they can lead to Bell’s palsy, convulsions, lack of coordination and death.
And the best way to prevent contracting encephalitis? “Well, don’t get bit,” said Reisen.
To that end, New York has been waging a full-out war against the mosquitoes, and is determined to kick some major ass. The mayor’s Office of Emergency Management is using 11 trucks, five helicopters and a crop duster to dump 3,000 gallons of the insecticide malathion over all five boroughs, and will continue to do so until the first frost. Typically, New Yorkers are more concerned about the effect of the pesticide than the mosquitoes. Reisen says there’s nothing to worry about.
“It’s more of a problem if you’re the guy handling it,” says Reisen. “It’s not like we have a Rachel Carson/’Silent Spring’ situation here.”
The outbreak hasn’t made much of a dent in the lives of New Yorkers. People aren’t fleeing the streets in terror, ` la “Independence Day.” Personally, I’ve seen New Yorkers get more outraged fighting over the last piece of discounted brie at Zabar’s supermarket.
As for my own response: Well, I haven’t stocked my room with mosquito netting or a pith helmet. Just yesterday I found a mouse in my bedroom, and that’s much more terrifying to me than a mosquito. But there is one positive outcome: I told my brother, who never reads a paper, that encephalitis mosquitoes are attracted to garbage. He’s been taking out the trash religiously for a week now, which is nothing short of miraculous. I don’t know how long this is going to last, but in the meantime I’m hiding all my newspapers from him.
And as I’m writing this, Hurricane Floyd is sweeping toward New York and Mayor Giuliani is hours away from shutting down the city. What could be next: a swarm of locusts and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?
I am lying flat on my back, naked, holding my butt and legs up in the air while a middle-aged Brazilian woman peers at my crotch. She leans a little closer and moves her fingers between my flesh. While this is a position normally reserved for bedroom activities, it’s business as usual at the J. Sisters International Salon in midtown Manhattan.
The salon is named for seven Brazilian-born sisters: Jocely, Jonice, Joyce, Janea, Jussara, Juracy and Judseia Padilha, whose claim to fame is introducing Americans to their hometown phenomenon of “Brazilian bikini waxing.” What it is: a very thorough waxing where every bit of hair — and I mean every last bit — is removed except for a thin landing strip. Think porn star. Think pain. But also think fanatic devotion.
Celebrities love this procedure. Kirstie Alley has said, “It feels like a baby’s butt, only all over.” Paula Yates, the widow of INXS rocker Michael Hutchence, flies over from London to have it done (salons in the U.K. refuse to do it for hygienic reasons). The salon’s walls are covered with celebrity photos and their signed testimony to the miracles of waxing. “You’ve ruined me for anyone else!” scribbled Jennifer Grey (or is she talking about her plastic surgeon?). “You’ve changed my life!” crowed Gwyneth Paltrow.
So I decided to see how a Brazilian bikini wax was going to change my life. I knew it was going to be a funky experience from the get-go. When I called to make an appointment, the “hold” music was the Wu-Tang Clan. And inside the salon, which is housed in an elegant townhouse on West 57th Street, thumping Brazilian music fills the air (probably to mask the screams of the clients).
I’m led into a small room by Juracy, my J sister of the day. She doesn’t speak much English but she knows enough to tell me to take everything off and lie down. She runs her hands down my legs and pulls them away abruptly. “Ohhh, you shave!” she says, clucking and frowning at me in disapproval. She makes me feel like I’ve just been caught cheating on a test. “Well, I’m Mediterranean, you know, and shaving is just easier.” The frown deepens. “You let it grow and come back see me in three weeks.” This woman means business.
Juracy grabs my legs and bends them toward my chest, and plants a hand under each knee. It’s hard to act nonchalant when you’re bare-assed, twisted into a yoga position and giving a stranger a bird’s eye-view of your nether region. As I’m concentrating on the cherubs and moldings on the ceiling (just like being at the doctor’s!), Juracy spreads baby powder all over my crotch and butt. And I mean all over, inside and out. This woman is not shy about touching strangers. She tilts me up slightly, frosts my butt with warm wax and wham, bam, there goes the hair. I didn’t even know I had hair down there. (Yup, everyone does. Butt waxing is part of what differentiates a Brazilian wax from a regular wax.) The pain isn’t bad at all but I become alarmed when she grabs my labia, folds them back and spreads wax on them. Riiiiiiiip. I gasp and my eyes bug out. “Owwwwwww.” Juracy grins.
She twists my body from side to side as she works her way up, and at one point my leg is thrown over her shoulder. I feel like she’s going to cart me off to the woods, cave-man style. The waxing is over in about 15 minutes. Then Juracy goes over my body with tweezers, plucking stray hairs. And for the grand finale, she grabs my pubic hair between two fingers, pulls it up, gives it a good whack with scissors and dusts me off with more baby powder. I’ve been too afraid to look until now. I peer down at my body. It’s a mess, glowing red and swirled with baby powder. Ugh.
I walk over to the mirror and once I get past the stricken look on my face, I see for the first time the magic Juracy has performed. My pubic hair has been shaped into a neat little upside-down triangle, with the point ending right above my lips, which are clean and smooth and bare. I feel like a 12-year-old, but a naughty, Lolita kind of 12-year-old. This is hot. Then the pain sets in. I can’t think straight.
So why do women go through with this? “Part of it is the thong thing. It’s not attractive if you’re hanging out of it,” says Suzanne Biallot, the company spokeswoman. Suzanne was being very polite. What it really boils down to is sex. Women get it done because it makes sex better. Jonice, the youngest J sister, offered her explanation to the New York Observer last year.
“Makes you sexy. Makes you fashion. When I don’t have my bikini wax, I don’t feel like to have sex with my husband. I feel dirty. And even himself say, ‘Try a bikini wax!’ I feel free. I feel clean. I feel sensuous even when I take a shower.”
My friend Chad’s girlfriend had one done recently so I asked him if, as with Gwynnie, a Brazilian bikini wax changed his life.
“I didn’t think I’d get into the bald eagle look until my girlfriend surprised me with it,” he said. “She made certain the lights were off and when I felt her it was like, oh my God, an unbelievably primal welling of emotion. First from the shock and then from the whole little girl eroticism of it. It’s hard to describe. I guess it was like tasting forbidden fruit. Oral sex was definitely better because there was no hair to get in the way. Even regular old missionary position sex was better though too. Until she started growing stubble.”
Sexiness aside, what about safety? Is it bad to remove all your pubic hair?
“Nope,” says Dr. Sandor Gardos, a licensed clinical sexologist and all-around groovy guy. “We’re not entirely sure what the purpose of pubic hair is. The best theory is that it helps trap pheromones, the odors that make you sexually attractive.” He also pointed out that waxing is preferable to other forms of hair removal, like depilatories, which can be too harsh for mucus membranes.
When I explained the ins and outs of a Brazilian bikini wax to the good doctor, he was vaguely alarmed at the image of the aftermath. “Oooooooh, you’re going to have some unsightly little bumps and it’s going to itch like a motherfucker when it grows back. Not to mention that ugly 5 o’clock shadow.” Thanks for pointing that out, doc. It’s been a week since my wax, and so far I haven’t gotten any ingrowns or bumps. Suzanne, the J. Sisters spokeswoman, suggested using a loofah to prevent ingrowns. A loofah? Is there no end to the Brazilian tolerance for pain? Ahhhhhh!
So as I was limping back to my office, I started to wonder what else can be done to pubic hair. Why is it that women can cut, dye, trim and straighten their hair, but not their pubes? Personally, I think everyone could benefit from a little trim now and then. Why not a special design for special occasions? Bring on the pubic hair topiary! Why don’t we celebrate our pubes instead of yanking them out? In the ’70s we did, or at least fashion designer Rudi Gernreich did. He gained notoriety designing the first topless bathing suit. But his last hurrah was perhaps the greatest — the “pubikini,” a sliver of fabric that wrapped around the hips and crotch in a V-shape to reveal a thatch of pubic hair dyed green. You can read all about in “The Rudi Gernreich Book” (Rizzoli, 1991), written by his model/muse, named, deliciously enough, Miss Moffitt.
Or let’s say you get a Brazilian and are feeling a little breezy with the autumn winds coming along. My friend Ben tipped me off to merkins, or pubic wigs. They’ve been around since the 14th century, when randy aristocrats would wear them to conceal oozing syphilis sores. One man in London is single-handedly trying to bring about a merkin revival. Rick (“Muff Daddy”) Stonell, owner of the Archive and Alwyn salon in London, offers a wide variety of custom-made merkins and a “full-service pubic salon.” (They also do regular hair for the straight-laced types.) Stonell started with chin wigs and from there, it was a natural progression … south. So the first question I ask Stonell is, “Why?”
“It’s a body ornament, body furniture, really. We’ve gone through piercing, branding, shaving. People want something more natural,” he says. Although what’s natural about a fuzzy pink heart hovering between your legs is beyond me.
Stonell’s merkins come in three sizes: small, medium and “Oh my God, bring out the bush whacker!” Customers come in for repeated fittings. “We don’t mess around,” says Stonell. They can be cut and dyed into any shape. His favorites include corporate logos, bull’s eyes, stars and stripes, targets and love hearts. “We even had a lord come in and pick one out for his wife. We suggested the family crest. It’s really all very interesting,” he says about his line of work. That has got to be the understatement of the year.
The merkins are held in place by a transparent G-string or fastened onto pubic hair with adhesive glue. They’re made from human hair, nylon, or — no joke — yak belly hair.
“I had a yak sweater once and it smelled when it got wet,” I muse out loud.
Stonell grows silent.
“We don’t have that problem,” he replies.
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I’m still wondering how a Brazilian bikini wax changed Gwyneth’s life, but her publicist won’t return my phone calls. Maybe it’s the reason she broke up with Ben Affleck?
I can honestly say that waxing has changed my life, but not in the ways you would think. Just last Friday I was crossing the street with merkins on my mind and got hit by a cab. It smacked me in the leg and by some weird reflex I never knew I had, I jumped up on the hood of the cab so I wouldn’t get run over. I’m staring the cabbie in the eye and the nice old couple in the back seat are horrified. I roll off the hood, finish crossing the street and buy a cup of coffee. After the adrenaline wears off I end up in the emergency room, where a cute scuba-diving fireman asks me out in the waiting room. So all is not lost. And by the way, the waxing hurt more than getting hit by the car!
Another note: Getting waxed is also like getting a haircut. No matter how good the hairdresser, you need a few days to get used to it and wash and style it yourself. I love my pubic crewcut even more after a week. Just walking down the street is fun because you glide. Running errands is a blast, and I would cheerfully walk 20 blocks for a cup of coffee. Plus, getting waxed is one of those hidden female pleasures, like wearing trashy lingerie under a business suit. It’s your little secret that makes you walk around with a smile, and puts an extra swagger in your step.
So would I do it all again? You bet your merkin I would.
When Megan, 29, goes to see her therapist, she never has to talk about her mother, lie on a couch or engage in an hour-long dialogue. What she does do is elbow her way past dozens of college students to the cluttered office of Lou Marinoff, a guitar-playing philosophy professor-cum-therapist. “I went to talk to him because I was in a lot of debt. So we talked about the political and economic history of the last 20 years. It was very cool,” she says.
Marinoff is at the forefront of a movement called “philosophical practice” — philosophy professors setting up shop as therapists. A professor at City College of New York, Marinoff has been in practice since 1991 and recently published “Plato Not Prozac!” (HarperCollins). He is also the president of the American Philosophical Practitioners Association, which has certified about three dozen people in the United States. While using philosophy as therapy is relatively new in the U.S., Europeans have been doing it since 1981. The trend is huge in Europe, especially in Germany, which claims more than 100 counselors.
So what exactly is philosophical practice? Marinoff calls it “therapy for the sane.” In a nutshell, it’s using the 2,500-year-old tradition of philosophy to solve everyday problems, like work, relationship and family issues. His point is that philosophy wasn’t meant to be confined to dusty academics, or a bunch of bearded, sandaled, toga-wearing Athenians. It’s a return to what philosophy was meant to be — a guideline for a way of life.
Marinoff became a therapist by accident. “Honestly, I never envisioned myself doing this,” he says. In 1991, he was working at the Center for Applied Ethics at the University of British Columbia. He spent a large part of his day fielding calls from members of the media seeking his opinion on sticky social issues like abortion and euthanasia. “Pretty soon, ordinary people would call up asking questions, or just walk in the door. So we counseled them,” he says. The rest, as they say, is history.
Marinoff describes his role as that of a philosophical midwife, where he helps clients (never patients) extract their philosophical views — not with forceps, but with the Socratic method. So Socrates, who was put to death for corrupting the youth, is helping to set them straight again. “The whole point is to make people become philosophically self-sufficient,” Marinoff says.
What also fueled Marinoff was his dissatisfaction with traditional therapy. “It’s normal to have problems, it’s normal to have emotional distress. But doctors treat it as a disease and medicate people to oblivion,” he says. He is also quick to point out that philosophical practice may not be for everyone, and stresses that he is not striving to replace medicine. “If you’re dysfunctional, can’t work, can’t think, then no, your first stop shouldn’t be to a philosopher. And sometimes the best course of medicine can be Plato and Prozac,” he says.
What also sets Marinoff’s brand of counseling apart is its emphasis on personal responsibility (he’s a big fan of Ayn Rand and her “virtue of selfishness.” While Rand may not be the cuddliest of the philosophers, she does deliver a good kick in the pants when needed.) “We’re not delving into the past but looking into the present. Traditional therapy can become an endless dialogue, where you feel you have to tell everything about yourself to your therapist. I don’t care what you did when you were 4,” he says. Likewise, the course of treatment for philosophical practice is usually short, a few sessions or a few months.
Reaction from the psychological community has been mixed. Many applaud the use of philosophy in treatment but pepper their praise with strong caution. They point out that training to become a philosophy professor has nothing to do with training to counsel patients, and worry that a philosopher could misdiagnose or harm a patient. “A lot of problems come from people having screwed-up values, and since philosophers are people who think a lot about values, in that sense I think it’s a good thing,” says George Howard, a psychology professor at Notre Dame and past president of the theoretical and philosophical counseling division of the American Psycholgical Association. “My mom has common sense and good people skills. That doesn’t make her any more qualified to be a therapist than a philosopher. If someone is decomposing in front of your eyes, you really need a skilled clinician, not a philosopher, to deal with it,” says Howard.
Dr. Jeffrey Schaler, a psychotherapist and adjunct professor at American University, appreciates that philosophical counseling, like psychotherapy, is a discourse that involves secular ethics. But he has other bones to pick with Marinoff. “First of all, I don’t think it should be called ‘Plato Not Prozac!’ — ‘Socrates Not Prozac’ would be better,” he says. “Plato’s views on human relationships are bad. He believed in the goodness of eugenics and achieving an ideal caste of people who could govern others. Socrates, on the other hand, advocated self-governance and autonomy.”
Schaler is also opposed to licensing philosophical practitioners, which could lead to them being covered by health insurance. “Would you expect your insurance to pay for you to speak with a pastor? It’s a bit of doublespeak, isn’t it? Are these people suffering from a medical condition or a philosophical one?” he asks.
But philosophical practitioners argue that what makes their brand of counseling better is their emphasis on personal responsibility and values, which few counselors (apart from priests and rabbis) would address. There is also a heavy emphasis on the present. Thomas Magnell, professor of philosophy at Drew University and a practitioner himself, says, “Philosophical practice isn’t counseling in the traditional therapeutic model. It’s critical thinking and a process of reflection. Philosophers can contribute to this area because they have expertise in drawing out people’s beliefs. They have skills they may not even be aware of.”
So back to Marinoff and the philosophers (the dead ones). There’s no need to worry if you can’t tell the difference between Hobbes and Hegel, Pythagoras or Protagoras. “Your only homework is to bring your problem to me,” he says, although he occasionally sends patients home with prescriptions for books. The ideal candidate is someone who is open-minded and ready to explore his or her life philosophy. Marinoff once said in an interview that he’d have a better chance working with an ex-con than a philosopher, because “they think they already know all the answers.”
In many ways, “Plato Not Prozac!” reads like a traditional self-help book, with case studies and easily digestible sound bites. It also includes a crash course in philosophy, warning readers: “Don’t sue me over the D on your term paper if you are taking philosophy 101 and rely on this chapter for all your information. Think of it more as a crib sheet for cocktail parties.” And unlike a typical self-help book, it contains a Hit Parade of Philosophers in the index, which includes each one’s theme, refrain and greatest hit. For example, Marinoff’s description of Albert Camus includes a nod to Spike Lee:
Theme: existentialismRefrain: Do the right thing even if the universe is cruel or meaningless
Greatest Hits: “The Stranger,” “The Plague”
This all sounds reasonable but how does it really work? If I’m down, how consoling can a gloomy philosopher like Sartre or Neitzsche be? I tell Marinoff that I just broke up with my boyfriend. “So what’s Plato going to do for me?” I ask.
Marinoff pauses for a moment and lowers his voice. “Plato may not be the best person for breakups. I would consider Heraclitus and Buddhist philosophy on the impermanence of all things. We should never pin all of our hopes on one thing, or one person. You are only doing yourself a disservice if you think that any relationship will last forever.”
OK, that helps, somewhat. But I still feel crummy about the whole thing. What can I do about that? I ask.
“Life is like that. When you’re in pain it means you’re involved in life. You must accept the joys with the sorrow. It’s like what Heraclitus said: ‘You can’t step in the same river twice,’ meaning that life is flowing and the waters are constantly moving,” says Marinoff.
“And uh, if you just stand there, you drown?” I ask hopefully.
“Yesssss!” he crows. “Exactly!”
Heraclitus is also the one who said, “Disease makes health pleasant and good” so I’m not sure he’d make my Top 10 list of favorite philosophers.
If I were a patient of Marinoff’s, he would guide me through what he calls the PEACE process, the five stages of analysis. First, identify the Problem. Then take stock of your Emotions (Marinoff argues that this is where most therapists stop). Third, Analyze your options for solving the problem. Fourth, step back and Contemplate your entire situation, and how it fits in with your life philosophy. At this point, you understand the problem, take action and reach Equilibrium.
You also have to reach for your wallet. Marinoff charges $75 for an initial consultation, and then $100 per session (I think, therefore I bill?). Health insurance companies don’t cover it, although that may soon be changing in New York. Democratic Assemblyman Ruben Diaz Jr. of the Bronx has introduced a bill to create a philosophical practitioners licensing board, which may lead to third-party reimbursement. So why the interest? Part of it is that Diaz is the son of a preacher man (his father is the Rev. Ruben Diaz).
“He grew up in an environment where grappling with metaphysical questions is normal,” says Paul DelDuca, Diaz’s chief of staff and proud holder of a bachelor’s degree in philosophy. “This is something that could help a lot of people.” Right now, the bill is in the higher education committee with other alternative-therapy bills. If it does pass, who knows what could be next — Voltaire not Viagra?
Take us to your professor.
Since the time of Galileo, astronomers have pointed their telescopes at the heavens and asked, “Are we alone in the universe?” Now, that same question is being posed by historians, political scientists, psychologists and sociologists who don’t use telescopes but the more elusive instruments of the soft social sciences: research, oral history, theory and, finally, conjecture.
Recently, popular culture has been suffused by man-made aliens. From television shows like “The X Files” and “3rd Rock From the Sun” to movies like “Independence Day” and “Men in Black,” from the ad campaign for the Volkswagen Beetle claiming the car has been “reverse engineered” from UFOs to commercials in which ETs promote Hostess Ding Dongs, Quisp “the qwazy energy cereal” and Chilis restaurants, we can’t seem to get enough of these alternately adorable, wise and terrifying but always slimy creatures. They’ve even starred alongside Kenny, Cartman, Stan and Kyle in the premiere episode of “South Park,” called “When Cartman Gets an Anal Probe.”
Academia has usually been a haven from crazes involving paranormal phenomena, but now there are signs that alien nation has finally caught fire within the once cool walls of the ivory tower. In July, Stanford University professor emeritus Peter Sturrock and a panel of scientists from Princeton, Cornell and the University of Virginia reviewed a series of UFO reports. Their conclusion? Although the incidents had nothing to do with extraterrestrial intelligence, the panel called for more thorough investigations and criticized scientists’ reluctance to study UFOs. In April, Cornell University Press published “Aliens in America” by political scientist Jodi Dean, who teaches at Hobart and William Smith colleges. And in the fall of 1999, the University of Kansas Press will publish an anthology of UFO essays, written by professors from Johns Hopkins, Temple and Eastern Michigan universities.
Peculiar though it may be, the marriage of aliens with academia should come as no surprise. A university experiment first gave rise to the contemporary notion of aliens back in 1947. UFO mania kicked off in the United States that year on June 24, when amateur pilot Kenneth Arnold said he saw nine mysterious objects flying at supersonic speed across the Cascade Mountains near Mount Rainier. The press dubbed them “flying saucers” and the phrase stuck. Later that summer, a ranch foreman, W.W. Brazel, found strange, shiny material scattered near Roswell, N.M. Military officials called the debris a fallen weather balloon but some believed it was a flying saucer containing aliens. The story gained so much momentum that in 1966, Rep. Gerald Ford headed a congressional panel that looked into UFOs that included testimony by scientist Carl Sagan.
The Roswell sighting resulted from a classified experiment developed by scientists at Columbia University, New York University and Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. The team worked on “Project Mogul,” a program designed to search for evidence of nuclear blasts, according to an Air Force report. The fallen debris came from the broken balloons and radar reflectors.
Since then, academia and UFOs have remained blessedly separate. Until now.
Despite ufology’s stigma as an area of study for Weekly World News suckers and backwater eccentrics, a growing number of academics are risking their careers to come out of the extraterrestrial closet and openly study UFOs.
The best known and most controversial is Harvard psychiatrist John Mack, who uses hypnosis to determine if people have been abducted. Once the crème de la crème at Harvard, Mack built its psychiatry program from scratch and won a Pulitzer Prize for his 1977 biography of psychoanalyst T.E. Lawrence. Now he could be considered crème brûlee. Mack’s colleagues view him as an embarrassment and make no bones about it.
“I disagree with his conclusions and think he’s totally deluded,” says Dr. Paul Horowitz, an astronomer at Harvard who is currently working on the SETI (the Search for Extra Terrestrial Intelligence) project.
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Mack burst onto the scene in 1994 when he published “Abduction: Human Encounters With Aliens.” Although he wasn’t the first to write about abduction (that honor belongs to Whitley Streiber, author of “Communion”), he was the first academic to venture into the field armed with heavy credentials.
The book grew out of his relationship with Budd Hopkins, a New York artist and sculptor who runs a free support group for abductees. Hopkins, who had written three bestselling books based on testimony from his support group, began sending many of his self-proclaimed abductees to Mack for intensive interviews and investigation.
But these studies and the publications that chronicled them ultimately proved fatal to Mack’s academic career. Eventually, he quit teaching at Harvard and now runs PEER, the Program for Extraordinary Experience Research, a nonprofit, privately funded organization that researches alien abduction. The organization publishes a newsletter and offers a referral service to licensed therapists.
If Mack is the founding father of ufology, Dave Jacobs of Temple University may be its revolutionary son. He believes that aliens are trying to colonize America by breeding with humans. He did his doctoral dissertation on the UFO controversy at the University of Wisconsin, which was published by the University of Indiana press. Holding a conversation with Jacobs can be a frustrating experience, because he is armed with a flotilla of abduction stories he is quick to share.
In an utterly sincere voice, he tells me that aliens are conducting a program of physiological exploitation, where they are seizing human sperm and eggs to create hybrid alien babies. Their goal is to colonize America, and Jacobs predicts the integration will be a peaceful one. And then his voice falls. “I don’t like this. I hate this and I’m frightened by it,” he says, referring to the turn his career has taken. “If I had done other research I could have had a life. It’s hurt my life and my career. Even my kids are ridiculed in school.”
While Mack and Jacobs have willingly lent their names to UFO research and have become the stars in this scorned little galaxy, they are not alone. But their fellow ufologists can be as elusive as the aliens they are trying to find. As with many marginalized subcultures, ufologists are sometimes clannish, secretive and reluctant to speak with outsiders. Some hedge at merely acknowledging that a “scene” exists; one insider whispered that it was like being part of an “invisible college.” In fact, ufologists tend toward paranoia. Before granting me an interview, most grilled me on my attitudes toward extraterrestrial life and its scholars. In the end, many people declined to comment on the topic despite their having attended UFO conferences and published papers on the subject.
David Pritchard, a physicist at MIT, offers a case in point, although he was kind enough to grant me an interview of sorts. He’s conducted research with aliens, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. “It’s not like I go babbling to my colleagues about my interest,” he says. Reluctant doesn’t even begin to describe him, and cantankerous would be generous. In 1992, Pritchard and Mack held a conference where they examined people claiming to have alien implants. They found no evidence. When asked for details on the conference, he yelled, “Get the book!” And while Pritchard admits a subculture exists, he’s mum about the members. He became extremely agitated, and shouted, “I’m not going to talk to you about the culture and I’m not going to give you any names!” Gauging from his reaction, you’d think this was the 1950s and I was asking him to rat on some communists.
Gradually, though, I began to get a glimpse of the field as a whole. Ufology is interrelated to the point of being incestuous. It’s like following a choose-your-own adventure novel. Start with one person and it will eventually lead back to Mack. Along the way, ufologists bash each other and credit themselves with starting a movement or particular idea. After weeks of calling ufologists all over the country, I came away with another peculiar observation: These people seem to hate one another. Given that their common interests have put their jobs and reputations at risk, you’d think they might stick up for one another.
Perhaps this is best explained as guilt by association. Indeed, most of the professors I interviewed seemed to have a love/hate relationship with UFOs. They say they regret their decision and the ridicule that comes with the stigma of studying UFOs, but they continue to follow the path to Golgotha. “It’s fair to say my job marketability has decreased,” says Ron Westrum, who teaches sociology at Eastern Michigan. “I can pretty much count on not moving up in my department.”
If ufology is so scary and such a career stopper, why do it? For one thing, it’s a way for professors to claw their way out of their second-tier colleges and obscurity. If books like “The Celestine Prophecy” and “The Horse Whisperer” can make the New York Times Bestseller list, then aliens are a shoo-in. Schlock sells, and professors know this.
One example is the ultra-excitable Jodi Dean of Hobart and William Smith colleges. Her book, “Aliens in America,” explores how and why aliens have captured the popular imagination. As a woman in an almost exclusively male field, she is an anomaly. But more remarkable still, she wrote the book before tenure and was recently awarded the Faculty Award for Excellence in Scholarship. Dean says she was drawn to aliens because her first book, on feminism, had an audience of “about five people.” Of course, a cultural anaylsis of aliens in popular culture and actually saying aliens exist are two different things.
While her book was recently panned in the New York Times Book Review for endorsing the culture of paranoia, Dean argues persuasively that the current alien craze was ignited by the 1986 Challenger Shuttle explosion. Until then, she maintains, space represented freedom, adventure and prosperity. But when an ordinary woman like Christa McAuliffe was killed by her venture into outer space, suddenly the heavens again became a threat. The following year the first abduction book hit the shelves — Streiber’s “Communion” — and abduction theory was born.
While aliens translate into fun and profit for some professors, they infuriate others. Astronomer David Helfand of Columbia University says that he becomes exasperated and depressed when people claim to have seen aliens.
“It’s a sign of the rejection of knowledge as a valuable thing,” he says. “People are retreating into magic, myth and superstition.” Helfand says that while there could be life on other planets, “it doesn’t imply they regularly visit Earth nor have sex with humans. It’s total and utter nonsense.”
While traditional scholars can bemoan the deterioration of academic standards, scholarly ufology may be only the beginning of a cottage industry that takes aliens and their visits to earth as absolute facts. Recently, a teacher named Leah Haley wrote “Ceto’s New Friends,” a book aimed at children ages 4 to 8, to teach them how to cope with their extraterrestrial visitors.
