Anchovies on Pillowcases

There was a tradition, during the 18th century, in Pennsylvania, upstate New York, the Ohio Valley, when those folks who already lived there traded with the new folks who were just arriving. Some types of food, not a lot of variety, but many, many furs, going in the one direction. Kettles, guns, knives -- mostly metal stuff, manufactured stuff, going in the other. Made sense. Both groups were better off. Free trade!!!! No tariffs!!!

Of course, someone actually had to do the trading. A surprisingly small number of folks were traders, usually working alone or with one family member. A lot was required: language skills, human skills, fearlessness, trust, wisdom, economic calculation gritty physical endurance. Both native and newcomer were traders between communities. Just imagine the first time arriving in such a strange place, carrying all your riches on your back. Their lives were often short, for one reason or other.

My interest was piqued (yes, piqued!!) by a small detail. When arriving in a community, whether native or newcomer, there was a cleaning ritual. Arriving folks would be given a bowl of water, to wash their hands and faces. Most of the time there was not much improvement in actual cleanliness. So, why this washing?

New arrivals had always passed through forest. Forests were considered by both parties as places of menace and filth. Not a benign playland. No Bambi. Cleaning after being in the forest was a ritual of passing into civilized society and putting the dirt behind.

When I was a good catholic youth, churches always had a bowl of holy water (yes, such a thing existed!!) at the doorway. On the way in or out, you were to dip a finger in the bowl and make the sign of the cross. Another ritual of passing into the civilized, and leaving the detritus of the world behind.

Forward, again, to the new american obsession, the ritual hand cleansing offered at some places. Originally begun as a defense against the influenza virus*, it has become something a bit more confusing. It is available, but not required. The utensils sit, visible, an appeal to conscience and civility. These are mysterious devices, which spurt a liquid on our hands; magically, the liquid disappears. We never know when one of the the cleansing devices will pop up, in a very strange place.

And then, there is this: A quarter of the folks surveyed walking down the street in the north of England have poop on their hands.** No reason the think the north of England is unique.

Wow! A huge literature on most/least effective ways to get folks to wash their hands when leaving bathrooms. Turns out the most effective is a cleansing trough outside of the bathroom, in plain sight of both genders; embarrassment is more effective than lecture. I haven't seen any troughs installed at, say, TGI Friday's, or even places lower on the pecking order, if there are any.

Alert Reader is sighing, knowing that more poop discussion was inevitable. Not if, but when.

My children, and their friends, take multiple showers each day; the showers are randomly timed. On occasion, the showers signify entering or leaving the house, but not always. Why take a shower in the middle of the day, neither coming in or going out? They have no explanation, and think I am odd to be asking about something so ordinary (see Tough Questions).

But there is yet another side. Through high school, at least, kids no longer take showers after phys ed class, team practices, even games. All of these are activities in which there is actual dirt, not symbolic dirt. But, no showers. I remember, so long ago, showers after gym class -- what we called it then -- and of being unclothed in front of the other kids. Difficult. And, after a while, not do difficult. I used to think the newer approach to group showers displayed increased homophobia. Yet, who could be more homophobic that a group of catholic high school boys in 1960? I am open to speculation.

But more about dirt. I read a book about dirt, a long time ago.*** The whole point: We think dirt is soil, grime, mud, dust, filth -- it goes on. Real you-can-touch-it dirt stuff. But the book looked at dirt as a social construct: The anchovy on the pillowcase is a central image of dirt. Dirt is something where it shouldn't be, like weeds are plants where they shouldn't be. Granules from the outside of the home become dirt inside the home.

Washing our hands was a symbol in the 18th century. Probably now, too. But now, in the shower age, there is confusion about washing. Looks like we don't really try to get the poop off when we leave the bathroom, and we didn't in 18th century washing rituals. But all those showers!!!

I'm beginning to think that the polite requirement of washing hands before leaving the bathroom is equivalent to emerging from the forest -- a pretend cleanliness ritual, that signifies the transition from the dirty place to the clean place. But doesn't really clean. A lot like the parental five-second rule: if you can pick it up within five seconds of it hitting the floor, it's safe for child consumption. No, it isn't.

Washing hands isn't enough any more; we're past the washing rituals of the eighteenth century, and have jumped forward into some other space. Washing hands in hospitals and some other settings is a health issue. Maybe. But maybe it is also a sign of confused internal life, metaphors gone wild. Showers taken when some impulse or other is felt. And, maybe William James was right, and there is strength where there is a fear of dirt. Yup. Me and Billy Jim.

Plumber's apprentices are told: It may be poop to them, but it's our bread and butter.

That takes care of that.

*Old joke: Giant cockroach goes into a bar. Asks for a beer. Bartender brings the beer. Giant cockroach thanks bartender, then begins to beat on the bartender, knocking him down and kicking him on the ground. Then the giant cockroach leaves the bar.
New customer enters the bar. Sees the bruised and bloody bartender, and says "Wow, what happened to you?"
The bartender explains, "You know, there's this nasty bug going around...." Ba-dum-dum.

**I am told I need to have a citation. Cynical doubters please see The London Times

***Mary Douglas: Purity and Danger

Enough with the footnotes. This is a blog, not a dissertation.