Nude Men

original.”
    “What aspects of men have you discovered recently through books?”
    “You don’t need to repeat ‘through books.’ We’ve already said it many times.”
    “What aspects of men?”
    “A certain aspect. A certain way that they think about women.”
    I nod encouragingly.
    “I need sound,” she says.
    “Hmm.”
    “I mean words.”
    “Go on.”
    “Men, in the books I’ve read, say and think things like: ‘That cute little cunt Cindy.’ And the narrator says, concerning the main character: ‘Intelligence in women has never much interested him.’ And then this one: the male character thinks, ‘She does know something. All cunts know something.’ ”
    “I read that book!” I exclaim. “It’s John Updike’s Rabbit Is Rich, right?” I don’t mind if they hear me now. In fact, I’m sure they’d be impressed that I was able to recognize a novel simply by hearing some of its sexist lines. I glance back to check if they’re listening. They’re not talking, but they’re not looking at us either. They’re watching people walk by.
    “So it shocked you also,” she says.
    “That’s not the word, exactly—”
    “Don’t deny my feelings.”
    “I’m not. I’m expressing mine.”
    “Well,” she says, “it was unpleasant to learn such things from those books. And the only way men will change—and I’m not talking about you; you’re not a man—is for women to talk about men in the same way. And we’ll just see how pleasant men find that.”
    The children in front of us are playing more loudly than ever, and their mother is screaming at them. Good. Hopefully, their noise completely muffled what my mom just said.
    “What do you mean, I’m not a man?” I ask softly, close to her face.
    “Don’t change the subject.”
    I grab her arm, a bit tightly. “What do you mean, I’m not a man?” My voice wavers. I knew she had a low opinion of me, but this beats everything.
    “Why do men find it so upsetting to be told they are not real men?” she says, disengaging her arm.
    “It has nothing to do with gender,” I tell her. “Women find it upsetting to be told they are not women. What do you mean, I’m not a man?”
    “Don’t take it so badly. I meant it as a compliment. I meant you are a person. People are individuals, first and foremost. Then they have ages. Then they have nationalities. Then they have race. Then they have religion. Then they have social class. Then they have childhood and education. And then they are females or males, but that’s far down the list. You are a person. You don’t have all the jerkiness that the majority of men have. Or do you? Do you ever act or think in any way that is degrading to women?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “I know you don’t. That sole quality makes up a hundred times for all your other weaknesses combined.”
    “Thank you.” That’s got to be the nicest thing my mom has said to me in years.
    I glance back. To my great embarrassment, the two men are staring at me silently. I smile faintly, to seem at ease, and turn away.
     
    D isney World: Bright pastel colors everywhere. Everything so happy. The people so fat, and so much flesh uncovered, and thick lips eating hot dogs, and shorts bunched up in the crotches because the big thighs pull them up at every step, and the other fat families taking turns being pushed in the wheelchairs that you can rent.
     
    S ara tells us she has a new philosophy of life. She explains it like a scientist: “The solutions to problems are in the words themselves. For example, the solution, when you’re depressed, is that you’ve got to take a deep rest. Get it?”
     
    “H ow tall are you?” my mother asks Sara.
    “Five feet seven and a quarter.”
    I’m sure she’s telling the truth, because I’m five ten, and she’s just about three inches shorter.
    “That’s very tall for a girl with such a low number,” says my mom.
    “What number?” asks Sara.
    “Your age. Eleven is a low number, wouldn’t you say?”
    “No. I’d say it’s a young age.”
    “No. It’s a low number. That’s more objective. Just because you’ve only lived a few years doesn’t mean you’re young. Especially in your case,” she says, sweeping her eyes very notice-ably over Sara’s body. “It just means your number is low.”
    Sara nods, as though she understands, accepts, and likes this.
     
    W e go to pavilions called Horizons, Universe of Energy, and World of Motion, in which there are