It took courage! In a room with three-hundred women and only forty men, this particular weekend seminar was not to be undertaken by wimpy or defensive men. I was prepared. To some degree I knew what I was getting into. But, as the four speakers churned the waters and the periodic comments about men brought laughter, giggles, hoots, and sometimes applause, I wasn't sure what would lie ahead for the smoldering-bellied Iron Johns in the audience.
The Marriott was just the right place for this scene. I didn't know why for some time into the seminar. I'll lead you into this slowly for it should not be simply stated. You need to have the mood in order to realize what "porcelain grace" means and how it feels to experience this unique gift.
There were four superb women presenters on the stage. The doctor-degreed, articulate panel launched into their work with deft proficiency. It was the presentation of a "new paradigm." They did acknowledge some of the work earlier people had accomplished, bringing us to this new era of connectedness and relationship. But the earlier people had all been men and it was obvious to everyone in the room, except, perhaps the men, the earlier writers could not have known about relationships and connectedness, for men know nothing of these things. I quibbled to myself. I knew there were some amazing exceptions to this broad-stroking brush painting out the work of Socrates, Jesus, Mark Twain, Freud, Fritz Perls, Carl Jung, Heinz Kohut, and on and on. Some men had come close to the truth, but no man could really contribute to the "new paradigm." It was clear this was the era of the woman and men were relics, dinosaurs, and would do well to get out of the way.
The climax came early on, when a woman said, "Maybe we can teach men how to relate and connect with one another." The other woman, shouting from the audience, screamed, "To hell with the assholes! Let them learn the hard way!" There was laughter, applause, and I shifted in my chair with some increasing discomfort. The woman to my left didn't seem to notice me and had not said, "Hello" or "Go to hell" since she sat down. I was in my seat first. It was obvious the women around me wanted seats together and I offered to move, twice, sensing I might be in some danger if I didn't. They insisted I should not move myself and everything was just fine. But the woman to my right, kept leaning around me to address the woman to my left and I felt more and more like a pillar, but not even useful enough to hold up the ceiling.
Panel talks proceeded and the articulate, perceptive, and vibrant tone of the subject matter increased throughout the morning discussion. I was more and more aware of my status as a relic in the midst of a new world order. The strident energy was building. I was beginning to think there had been an alien invasion injecting testosterone into the female population and the receptors were all in this seminar. It hadn't occurred to me I was the enemy, but I was feeling guilty for having repressed and subjugated women for thousands of years. I felt old. I felt limp and useless in this new world order. It all made sense to me. I could see the need for the relational theory that was being propounded. I, too, was aware of the limitations with the psychodynamic approaches to our problems and how thoroughly idiosyncratic all of our diagnostic criteria are. It did seem refreshing to hear the ideas of diagnosing on the bases of relational behaviors and the way people functioned in roles and family systems. It was certainly interesting. There was a lot of hopeful energy building in the room.
Nevertheless, I was aware of feeling very old, very guilty for having a penis and for everything I had done and failed to do to and for females throughout history and in my own lifetime. I noticed I could feel nothing in my crotch at all. I was numb. It became more than a passing thought that I might have been emasculated without my having known it. I looked down. There was no sign with my pants
on that anything had happened. However, I could not be sure I still had a penis and I was becoming more and more anxious. This seemed a relatively easy thing to check. I tried my Kegel muscles and couldn't tell if there was any sensation. Had I been anesthetized without my knowledge? I excused myself from between the two women, feeling a bit frightened of them. I began the long journey down the aisle, past hundreds of women. I was going to the "Men's Room." I was hoping the hotel still had a "Men's Room." I knew each of the women staring at me as I walked toward the great doors of the hall gleefully realized I was at least impotent. At one point it ran through my thoughts my penis might fall out of my pant leg in the aisle as I made my exit. Would they pick it up and dance and sing? Would I be arrested for being an exhibitionist by having left my severed penis in the aisle? Could I be charged with littering by a female Judge? It was upsetting!
I managed to escape the room. With great relief I found the "Men's Room." I opened the door and entered, breathing a deep sigh. I was inspired by what I saw. The room was beautiful. It was clean.
The tiled walls and mirrors were spotless. All the paper holders were filled and the soap containers had been filled, wiped clean. The wonderful room smelled fresh and clean. It was very comforting. Then I noticed the most redemptive aspect of this room, the urinals. You can't believe the urinals at the Marriott! These aren't your everyday public urinals. These are small pools. One could take a bath in these pools. The urinals are splendidly oval, white, porcelain. They generously protrude from their wall mountings. I looked at the line of them. I think there were about ten of them in the row.
What was even more comforting to me was the thought there was a need in the world for one room with ten urinals. Apparently there were that many intact penises requiring simultaneous services just in this one hotel. That was very comforting. I paused, drinking in the scene. Then it seemed this one FFurinal was kind of calling to me, "Chriiiissss, Chrissss." It was a soft, welcoming call. This receptive one urinal seemed to shine and stand out from the rest. It was very inviting. It seemed almost happy to have me walk up to it. The most wonderful thing of all began to happen at this almost sacred ceramic altar. I unzipped and found my penis. All the paranoid thoughts vanished and I began to feel lighter, freer, happier than I had been for several hours. The water in the pool resonated with the sounds of a great waterfall. I knew I was okay and felt rather proud, standing there, hitting the mark, and being very grateful the amputation had been a failure. Everything worked! I gave the chrome, phallic handle a gentle tug and listened to the mighty roar of water in the urinal, the feminine fluids, running a sudden torrent in a kind of urinal orgasm. What a delight!
Of course, I washed my hands. Then I wiped them, reading the admonition in English and Spanish, "If you leave this room without washing your hands, your mother will be unhappy." It said something like that. But, there was also a penal code to back up the warning. I did wash my hands and my dead mother has one more thing for which to be happy when she watches me from her heavenly theater.
Perhaps that is enough. Just to know I could find that "Men's Room" and then find my penis should be sufficient. But, alas, there was the re-entry into the seminar that was ahead of me. I looked at myself in the mirror. I noticed the bags under my eyes and the gray hair. I noticed the spots on my hands and realized I was very old. I knew I could not be very dangerous anymore. Perhaps the women in the seminar would have mercy on me, being so old and all. It wasn't as if I could rape anyone, even if I thought of it, which I never have. I didn't seem dangerous. I looked a bit pathetic. But, perhaps it was a disguise, for I still had my penis. I checked to be sure I had zipped up, for entering that room being unzipped would have probably landed me in Soledad State Prison, if not flayed or burned in a Marriott palm pot.
Bravely, I re-entered the seminar. I knew they all knew where I had been and what I had most likely done. But it didn't matter anymore. I knew I was a man, but I had a wonderful anima and she would be kind to me. My inner woman was with me and knew how to handle the rest of the seminar, now that I knew I had my penis and knew also there were those wonderful urinals waiting for my gift any time I wanted, no matter what was going on in this seminar. I could relax and listen and know I was MALE. I knew, even if they crucified me, my penis and my soul were intact and I was latently proud of being who I was, old, male. and all. I will never look at a urinal and take it for granted again. It will be forever a source of grace, porcelain grace, without malice, without judgment, and possibly with total acceptance. Alleluia! Alleluia!
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20 February 1993