The Girls of Saigon

Thumbing thru an old Gourmet Magazine today and ran across an article by David Halberstam titled, "The Boys of Saigon." It was about war correspondents eating and bonding in Saigon during the days of the Vietnam War. All guys, of course. I did a little Googling and found a masters thesis on female war correspondents in Vietnam. Obviously an exotic enough subjuct for a thesis. No Martha Gelhorns. This got me into a subject I think about a lot, which is the different experiences in this world that both men and women bring to writing. Men can write about war, and guy adventures, fights, whoring, hunting, all kinds of life and death stuff involving knives and explosives and danger, and women write about what? Having babies, cooking, cleaning, relationships, caring for elderly parents? The guys get all the exciting stuff and we're left to write the "cozies."

I like it not so. This is one of the things that one can do absolutely nothing about except grouse and whine. Things are a little different now. Girls even get to do athletics. In "my day" there were intramural sports and the GAA, the Girls Athletic Association, which would have meant social death in my high school. I guess on some level it's like being an ex-slave--nothing anyone can ever do to make it up to you. Won't happen. The nose must forever stay pressed against the window. Now missing out on violence is, of course, a mixed blessing and one that many men would undoubtedly opt for, and God knows there is more than enough violence against women, but that does nothing to balance the equations.

The title of the Halberstam article was "The Boys of Saigon," and they had an intense but interesting and fruitful time and I doubt if any one them would change places to have endured childbirth and gone to secretarial school. In fact, "The Girls of Saigon" sounds like hookers or some oddball Playboy spread.

End of rant.

We had ribs, coleslaw and baked beans tonight, so the diet, as always starts tomorrow. The eating sounded good in Saigon, and the personal chef sounded even better.

Grapeshot