I don't remember exactly what grade it was, though I think it was third grade. We were at a museum on a field trip and the tour guide stopped the class in front of a statue of a fat, naked bald man.
"Is this a man or a woman?" She said.
A flurry of hands shot up. One, called on, said, "A man."
"That's right," she said. "How do we know that the statue is a man?"
I raised my hand high and was called on. "Because he doesn't have any hair," I said.
"No," said the tour guide. "You can tell because he has a penis." Now, everyone and his brother could see Mr. Wiggles, but most of us knew better than to be talking about it in mixed company.
Today, I took Anna, Avery, and Will to eat at Chick-fil-A. There was one lady who looked a little slow, God bless her, and was dressed in the sexless uniforms typical of fast-food joints. Her hair was short. Her face was not dinstinctively feminine. There was little that was distinctively feminine about her.
Avery, the yellow-haired child, said to me, "What's his name?"
"I don't know what her name is," I said.
"Maybe we should call him Ketchup Boy," she said.
I nodded thoughtfully - the employee was spending a lot of time around the condiment station. "How about 'Ketchup Girl'?" I said.
"Okay," said the yellow-haired child.
In Target today it struck me just how oversexed our culture is. Every woman's magazine I saw advertised tips on better sex. Diets and Sex. Diets and Sex. It's all the magazines advertised. Even Martha had a magazine: Diets and Prison Sex. Well, I didn't see the last one, but I've sent the idea to Martha. Sigh. So many dead trees, so little good sex.