The Proper Topper

I think we can all agree that one of the most enjoyable things about the Royal Wedding was the array of whimsical hats worn by the guests, with top honours going to Princess Beatrice for pulling off a Philip Treacy masterpiece of millinery madness. Of course, I have always liked hats - apparently, as a child, I would wear multiple hats at once, such that my parents developed a "Two-Hats” nickname for me. I've become especially devoted to hat-wearing since living at this latitude, where the practice is crucial to staving off heat stroke, sunburn, and squinting. Indeed, I almost never go out without one, and I’ve learned that hats can come in handy in surprising ways.

For one thing, they are conversation-starters, and I have met many interesting people through hat-related discussions. I vividly recall an encounter in Atlanta where a lady exclaimed with delight “Well, look at you, wearing a hat!” As I replied “Honey, you can do it too!” it occurred to me that since I had just addressed a stranger as “honey,” it was clear that my acclimatization to Southern culture was proceeding apace.

Finally, hats can help you appear put-together, even when your hair is a disaster. Today was such a day. Late this morning I resolved to drag myself to the gym for an exercise class. It is the end of the semester, and I’m exhausted, but I figured aerobics was better than grading, so off I went, grabbing a baseball cap on the way out the door to conceal my unwashed hair.

As I approached the athletic center on campus, three young women were walking in front of me, and I could overhear their chatter. One turned to her friend, and playfully said “…you totally jewed me on that!” For my readers who are not familiar with the nuances of West Texas anti-Semitism, “to jew” is a verb meaning “to cheat” or “to swindle.”

I was immediately angry, and started to think about how to respond. I said to myself “now, don’t go all Inglourious Basterds on them, that won’t help…” but I needed to say something. As we entered the building, it became clear that they were going to the same class that I was, and I thought “Good. This will give me time to think.”

To help you picture the scene, it was a Zumba exercise class. Zumba is essentially aerobics that appropriates various Latin, hip-hop, and middle eastern dance styles. I’m not very good at the Latin parts (see earlier post “The Curse of the Merengue”), but it’s fun, and it doesn’t involve sitting at my desk and thinking about film. On the contrary, today it involved doing hip shimmies and thinking about anti-Semitism.

As I gyrated around the room and tried to keep up with the choreography, I weighed my rhetorical options. Do I bring up my Jewish grandfather, who died in WWII in the effort to bring down, y’know, Hitler, and query as to why she felt it was acceptable to defame his character? I nixed that because I didn’t want the point to be “don’t use ‘jew’ as a verb because there might be a Jew, or a Jew-affiliate in earshot,” but rather, “just don’t be a racist.”

I considered asking if “to jew” meant that you rendered someone analogous to one of God’s Chosen People, or perhaps a descendant of Holocaust survivors. I stepped away from that option too, since the Holocaust is something of a conversation-stopper.

As the class was winding down, and we were stretching our hamstrings, I settled on a Socratic approach. At the end of class, I grabbed my bag, put on my hat, and approached the three students. I introduced myself, and this being West Texas, they responded with a friendly hello. I continued in a high and cheerful voice:

“I wanted to ask you something. I couldn’t help overhearing you when we were walking into the building. You mentioned to your friend that she had ‘jewed you’ - could you tell me what that means?”

I gazed at her with what my friend Amanda calls my “bullsh*t naïve question look.” Her face fell. She replied:

“Oh, no, that’s just something we’ve always said at home.”

I lowered my voice to the “don’t mess with me” timbre I use on bad students:

“Never say it again.”

I have no doubt that she grew up with this, and has never thought about the implications. She quickly apologized:

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It’s not so much about offending me, as it is about perpetuating stereotypes.”

Her friend chimed in, with “She’s a really nice person!”

“I’m sure she is, but it’s what nice people do, or don’t do, that allows evil to persist.”

She started to cry, so I put my hand on her shoulder, and said “I’m not out to devastate you, but your words matter. Get it?”

“Yes ma’am!”

I exited the scene with “Ok, have a good one!” and walked off to get my Zumba card stamped (if you fill the card, you get free stuff!).

While walking through the parking lot, I thought, “you know, I’m a good teacher.” As I got into my car, I took off my hat. It was then that I noticed that I had been wearing my National Civil Rights Museum baseball cap. It displays the name of the museum, and the numbers 306. The museum is located at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, and Martin Luther King Jr. was standing on the balcony of room 306 when he was assassinated. Not only do hats protect you from the elements, but it turns out they can lend moral authority as well.