From the Neck Up

“Does it really matter if the genders are different, as long as they are equal?”

April 1978


Mike’s class was late in the afternoon. Maybe he figured we were tired
and that’s why he ran such a loose class in such a nonchalant style. He had a PhD, and he knew his stuff, but he was young. He wore Levi’s and pearl snap button shirts. His mustache touched his lower lip; his hair hung in his eyes. He asked us to call him by his first name. We frequently met outside, sat on the grass and would just shoot the shit. That’s how he described it. He’d sit Indian-style, looking for an appropriate blade of grass to chew, and then he’d look up at the sky and squint as if God was giving him a question to ask. Then he’d begin with, “What if…” or “Didja ever think about…” or “Does it really matter if…” We were too far into the 70’s to call it a rap session, but that’s pretty much what they were. It was a derivative of the Socratic Method and would become the precursor of the Grand Conversation.
It was at one of our outdoor gatherings that he posed a question that he knew would be risky but my sense of it at the time and today is that he really was just wondering aloud.
“What if,” he began tentatively, and then rephrased his question. “Do you suppose that,” he hesitated, “I mean, is it possible that men and women are different?”
“Wait a minute. You can’t say that,” a middle age woman put her hand out like a traffic cop.
“Well, I mean, I’m not saying one is inferior and the other is superior. I’m just saying different.”
“No difference from the neck up,” a younger woman said angrily, bolting up from a supine position.
“Does it really matter if the genders are different, as long as they are equal?” Mike remained calm. He knew his comment was not received well but he seemed to be curious about whether they could at least see his point. Instead, the women began peppering him from all sides.
“No, that’s not right!”
“No difference from the neck up!”
“You’re wrong, Mike!”
“How can you say that!”
Mike didn’t say anything. I figured he was waiting for the storm to pass.
“That’s the same shit they talk when it’s about bein’ black! We different, but equal. That’s some bullshit. Everybody know what that mean: blacks aren’t equal! That’s what you’re really saying,” a heavy set black woman put in, speaking for the first time all semester.
“Solidarity, sister!” a waifish, freckle faced red headed woman cried out, her cigarette pointing to the sky along with her clenched fist salute.
“I ain’t your sister, ok?” the black woman replied sharply, more annoyed with the red head than she originally was with Mike.
“Well, look,” Mike began, trying to smooth things over, “I don’t think I’m a sexist or a racist, I’m just saying what if?”
“No difference from the neck up!” the younger woman said again, as if it was all that needed to be said on the subject.
“It’s not scientific but just in your own observations from everyday life, doesn’t it seem to you that men and women respond to any given situation in different ways?” he wasn’t going to give up. We were silent while the “neck up” woman shook her head.
I was plucking blades of grass and tossing them in the air. There wasn’t much of a breeze. Of the six guys sitting there, not one of us spoke up for Mike. I thought it was a fair question, but I was tired and hungry; I didn’t want to prove or disprove anything to anyone.
I began thinking about a Chinese place on Plummer that featured a gigantic plate of broccoli beef for three bucks. On the occasions I went there—late in the afternoon—the place was empty; no one was dining, and the cooks who sat in their white aprons, white t-shirts and white paper hats at a table nearest the kitchen, didn’t mind that I temporarily interrupted their afternoon tasks, usually cutting green beans. They chatted away in Chinese, usually laughing, but on some occasions their voices were low and serious. They never seemed angry though—always simultaneously focused on the task and the conversation.
“It was just a thought,” Mike said after the long silence.
“A sexist thought,” the red head put in, “and I really can’t believe you would say something like that.”
Mike didn’t answer except to shrug and look away. I felt like he was thinking of his weekend. He seemed like a guy who tinkered with cars or rode a motorcycle. There was something about him that made him seem not just unthreatened about not having the final word as most professors would; he seemed utterly unconcerned about it.
“Well, it’s about that time anyway, so let’s make like a real commuter school and jump on the 405 and get out of here. Don’t forget that paper is due next week. We’ll catch you on the flip-flop then. Don’t forget to tune in to those Not Ready for Prime Time Players. Great show.”
I wanted to say something to him, but I had a general rule of never speaking in any class and I chose at the last minute to keep my streak going. I stopped talking after when everyone in my freshman English class laughed after I posed the question why would anyone shoot the guy who shot the president? I kept my vow of silence for the next five years. The term paper that Mike referred to was an analysis of a Johnny Hart comic strip I was sure he would like it, and I thought maybe I’d say something to him after he read it. But I didn’t.
My stomach was growling as I got up and brushed myself off. I headed to the parking lot but instead of hitting the 405 I went west up Plummer for some solitude and steaming hot broccoli beef. I walked in and they were cutting green beans laughing with gusto. One of them saw me and said, “Mista Broklee Beefman, right?”
“That’s me. And a large Pepsi.” I sat down at a corner opposite theirs. The cooks started chattering amiably. I felt better already.