Forocoches hackea la web de "Locas del coño"

Around eleven-thirty two women come in together, wearing identical jeans.
The shorter of the two has cropped hair like a swimmer, while the taller woman
wears her hair pulled back. Both of them have on jogging shoes, one a pair of
Nikes, the other Asics. The tall one looks around forty or so, with glasses and a
checked shirt, the shorter woman, a decade younger, is wearing a white blouse.
Both have little daypacks on, and expressions as gloomy as a cloudy day. Neither
one says very much. Oshima relieves them of their packs at the entrance, and the
women, looking displeased, extract notebooks and pens before leaving them.
The women go through the library, checking the stacks one by one, earnestly
flipping through the card catalog, occasionally taking notes. They don't read
anything or sit down. They act less like people using a library than inspectors
from the tax office checking a company's inventory. Oshima and I can't figure out
who they are or what they could possibly be up to. He gives me a significant look
and shrugs. To put it mildly, I don't have a good feeling about this.
At noon, while Oshima goes out to the garden to eat his lunch, I fill in for
him behind the counter.
"Excuse me, but I have a question," one of the women comes over and says.
The tall one. Her tone of voice is hard and unyielding, like a loaf of bread
someone forgot on the back of a shelf.
"Yes, what can I do for you?"
She frowns and looks at me like I'm some off-kilter picture frame. "Aren't
you a high school student?"
"Yes, that's right. I'm a trainee," I answer.
"Is there one of your superiors I could talk to?"
I go out to the garden to get Oshima. He slowly takes a sip of coffee to
dissolve the bite of food in his mouth, brushes the crumbs from his lap, and comes
inside.
"Yes, may I help you?" Oshima asks her amiably.
"Just to let you know, we're investigating public cultural facilities in the
entire country from a woman's point of view, looking at ease of use, fair access,
and other issues," she says. "Our group is doing a yearlong investigation and
plans to publish a public report on our findings. A large number of women are
involved in this project, and the two of us happen to be in charge of this
region."
"If you don't mind," Oshima says, "would you tell me the name of this
organization?"
The woman whips out a business card and passes it to him.
His expression unchanged, Oshima reads it carefully, places it on the
counter, then looks up with a blazing smile and gazes intently at the woman. A
first-class smile guaranteed to make any red-blooded woman blush.
This woman, strangely enough, doesn't react, not even a twitch of an
eyebrow. "What we've concluded is that, unfortunately, this library has several
issues that need to be addressed."
"From the viewpoint of women, is what you're saying," Oshima commented.
"Correct, from the viewpoint of women," the woman answers. She clears her
throat. "And we'd like to bring this up with your administration and hear their
response, so if you don't mind?"
"We don't have something as fancy as an administration, but I would be happy
to listen to you."
"Well, first of all you have no restroom set aside for women. That's
correct, isn't it?"
"Yes, that's right. There's no women's restroom in this library. We have one
restroom for both men and women."
"Even if you are a private facility, since you're open to the public don't
you think--in principle--that you should provide separate restrooms for men and
women?"
"In principle?" Oshima says.
"Correct. Shared facilities give rise to all sorts of harassment. According
to our survey, the majority of women are reluctant to use shared bathrooms. This
is a clear case of neglect of your female patrons."
"Neglect...," Oshima says, and makes a face like he's swallowed something
bitter by mistake. He doesn't much like the sound of the word, it would seem.
"An intentional oversight."
"Intentional oversight," he repeats, and gives some thought to this clumsy
phrase.
"So what is your reaction to all this?" the woman asks, barely containing
her irritation.
"As you can see," Oshima says, "we're a very small library. And
unfortunately we don't have the space for separate restrooms. Naturally it would
be better to have separate facilities, but none of our patrons have ever
complained. For better or for worse, our library doesn't get very crowded. If
you'd like to pursue this issue of separate restrooms further, I suggest you go to
the Boeing headquarters in Seattle and address the issue of restrooms on 747s. A
747's much bigger than our little library, and much more crowded. As far as I'm
aware, all restrooms on passenger jets are shared by men and women."
The tall woman frowns at him severely, her cheekbones jutting forward and
her glasses riding up her nose. "We are not investigating airplanes .747s are
beside the point."
"Wouldn't restrooms in both jets and in our library--in principle--give rise
to the same sorts of problems?"
"We are investigating, one by one, public facilities. We're not here to
argue over principles."
Oshima's supple smile never fades during this exchange. "Is that so? I could
have sworn that principles were exactly what we were discussing."
The woman realizes she's blown it. She blushes a bit, though not because of
Oshima's sex appeal. She tries a different tack. "At any rate, jumbo jets are
irrelevant here. Don't try to confuse the issue."
"Understood. No more airplanes," Oshima promises. "We'll bring things down
to earth."
The woman glares at him and, after taking a breath, forges on. "One other
issue I'd like to raise is how you have authors here separated by sex."
"Yes, that's right. The person who was in charge before us cataloged these
and for whatever reason divided them into male and female. We were thinking of
recataloging all of them, but haven't been able to as of yet."
"We're not criticizing you for this," she says.
Oshima tilts his head slightly.
"The problem, though, is that in all categories male authors are listed
before female authors," she says. "To our way of thinking this violates the
principle of sexual equality and is totally unfair."
Oshima picks up her business card again, runs his eyes over it, then lays it
back down on the counter. "Ms. Soga," he begins, "when they called the role in
school your name would have come before Ms. Tanaka, and after Ms. Sekine. Did you
file a complaint about that? Did you object, asking them to reverse the order?
Does G get angry because it follows F in the alphabet? Does page 68 in a book
start a revolution just because it follows 67?"
"That's not the point," she says angrily. "You're intentionally trying to
confuse the issue."
Hearing this, the shorter woman, who'd been standing in front of a stack
taking notes, races over.
"Intentionally trying to confuse the issue," Oshima repeats, like he's
underlining the woman's words.
"Are you denying it?"
"That's a red herring," Oshima replies.
The woman named Soga stands there, mouth slightly ajar, not saying a word.
"In English there's this expression red herring. Something that's very
interesting but leads you astray from the main topic. I'm afraid I haven't looked
into why they use that kind of expression, though."
"Herrings or mackerel or whatever, you're dodging the issue."
"Actually what I'm doing is shifting the analogy," Oshima says. "One of the
most effective methods of argument, according to Aristotle. The citizens of
ancient Athens enjoyed using this kind of intellectual trick very much. It's a
shame, though, that at the time women weren't included in the definition of
'citizen.'"
"Are you making fun of us?"
Oshima shakes his head. "Look, what I'm trying to get across is this: I'm
sure there are many more effective ways of making sure that Japanese women's
rights are guaranteed than sniffing around a small library in a little town and
complaining about the restrooms and the card catalog. We're doing our level best
to see that this modest library of ours helps the community. We've assembled an
outstanding collection for people who love books. And we do our utmost to put a
human face on all our dealings with the public. You might not be aware of it, but
this library's collection of poetry-related material from the 1910s to the mid-
Showa period is nationally recognized. Of course there are things we could do
better, and limits to what we can accomplish. But rest assured we're doing our
very best. I think it'd be a whole lot better if you focus on what we do well than
what we're unable to do. Isn't that what you call fair?"
The tall woman looks at the short one, who looks back up at her and opens
her mouth for the first time. "You've just been evading the point, mouthing empty
arguments that avoid taking responsibility," she says in a really high-pitched
voice. "In reality, to use the term for the sake of convenience, what you're doing
is an easygoing attempt at self-justification. You are a totally pathetic,
historical example of the phallocentric, to put it mildly."
"A pathetic, historical example," Oshima repeats, obviously impressed. By
his tone of voice he seems to like the sound of that phrase.
"In other words you're a typical sexist, patriarchic male," the tall one
pipes in, unable to conceal her irritation.
"A patriarchic male," Oshima again repeats.
The short one ignores this and goes on. "You're employing the status quo and
the cheap phallocentric logic that supports it to reduce the entire female gender
to second-class citizens, to limit and deprive women of the rights they're due.
You're doing this unconsciously rather than deliberately, but that makes you even
guiltier. You protect vested male interests and become inured to the pain of
others, and don't even try to see what evil your blindness causes women and
society. I realize that problems with restrooms and card catalogs are mere
details, but if we don't begin with the small things we'll never be able to throw
off the cloak of blindness that covers our society. Those are the principles by
which we act."
"That's the way every sensible woman feels," the tall one adds, her face
expressionless.
"How could any woman of generous spirit behave otherwise, given the torments
that I face," Oshima says.
The two women stand there as silent as icebergs.
"Electra, by Sophocles. A wonderful play. And by the way, the term gender
was originally used to indicate grammatical gender. My feeling is the word 'sex'
is more accurate in terms of indicating physical sexual difference. Using 'gender'
here is incorrect. To put a linguistic fine point on it."
A frozen silence follows.
"At any rate, what you've been saying is fundamentally wrong," Oshima says,
calmly yet emphatically. "I am most definitely not a pathetic, historical example
of a patriarchic male."
"Then explain, simply, what's wrong with what we've said," the shorter woman
says defiantly.
"Without sidestepping the issue or trying to show off how erudite you are,"
the tall one adds.
"All right. I'll do just that--explain it simply and honestly, minus any
sidestepping or displays of brilliance," Oshima says.
"We're waiting," the tall one says, and the short one gives a compact nod to
show she agrees.
"First of all, I'm not a male," Oshima announces.
A dumbfounded silence follows on the part of everybody. I gulp and shoot
Oshima a glance.
"I'm a woman," he says.
"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't joke around," the short woman says, after
a pause for breath. Not much confidence, though. It's more like she felt somebody
had to say something.
Oshima pulls his wallet out of his chinos, takes out the driver's license,
and passes it to the woman. She reads what's written there, frowns, and hands it
to her tall companion, who reads it and, after a moment's hesitation, gives it
back to Oshima, a sour look on her face.
"Did you want to see it too?" Oshima asks me. When I shake my head, he slips
the license back in his wallet and puts the wallet in his pants pocket. He then
places both hands on the counter and says, "As you can see, biologically and
legally I am undeniably female. Which is why what you've been saying about me is
fundamentally wrong. It's simply impossible for me to be, as you put it, a typical
sexist, patriarchic male."
"Yes, but--" the tall woman says but then stops. The short one, lips tight,
is playing with her collar.
"My body is physically female, but my mind's completely male," Oshima goes
on. "Emotionally I live as a man. So I suppose your notion of being a historical
example may be correct. And maybe I am sexist--who knows. But I'm not a lesbian,
even though I dress this way. My sexual preference is for men. In other words, I'm
a female but I'm gay. I do anal sex, and have never used my vagina for sex. My
clitoris is sensitive but my breasts aren't. I don't have a period. So, what am I
discriminating against? Could somebody tell me?"
The three of us listening are flabbergasted and don't say a word. One of the
women clears her throat, and the jarring sound reverberates through the room. The
clock on the wall loudly ticks away the seconds.
"I'm very sorry," Oshima says, "but I'm in the middle of lunch. I'm having a
tuna-spinach wrap and had eaten half of it when you asked me over. If I leave it
much longer the neighborhood cats will make a grab for it. People throw away
kittens they don't want in the woods near the sea, so this neighborhood is full of
cats. If you don't mind I'd like to get back to my lunch. So excuse me, but please
take your time and enjoy the library. Our library is open to everyone. As long as
you follow the rules and don't bother the other patrons, feel free to do whatever
you'd like. You can look at whatever you want. Go ahead and write whatever you
like in your report. We won't mind. We don't receive any funding from anywhere and
pretty much do things our own way. And that's the way we like it."
After Oshima leaves the two women share a look, then they both stare at me.
Maybe they figure me for Oshima's lover or something. I don't say a word and start
arranging catalog cards. The two of them whisper to each other in the stacks, and
before long they gather their belongings and start to pull up stakes. Frozen looks
on their faces, they don't say a word of thanks when I hand back their daypacks.
After a while Oshima finishes his lunch and comes back inside. He hands me
two spinach wraps made of tuna and vegetables wrapped in a kind of green tortilla
with a white cream sauce on top. I have these for lunch. I boil up some water and
have a cup of Earl Grey to wash it down.
"Everything I said a while ago is true," Oshima tells me when I come back
from lunch.
"So that's what you meant when you told me you were a special person?"
"I wasn't trying to brag or anything," he says, "but you understand that I
wasn't exaggerating, right?"
I nod silently.
Oshima smiles. "In terms of sex I'm most definitely female, though my
breasts haven't developed much and I've never had a period. But I don't have a
penis or testicles or facial hair. In short, I have nothing. A nice no-extrabaggage
kind of feeling, if you want to put a positive spin on it. Though I doubt
you can understand how that feels."
"I guess not," I say.
"Sometimes I don't understand it myself. Like, what the heck am I, anyway?
Really, what am I?"
I shake my head. "Well, I don't know what I am, either."
"A classic identity crisis."
I nod.
"But at least you know where to begin. Unlike me."
"I don't care what you are. Whatever you are, I like you," I tell him. I've
never said this to anybody in my whole life, and the words make me blush.
"I appreciate it," Oshima says, and lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I
know I'm a little different from everyone else, but I'm still a human being.
That's what I'd like you to realize. I'm just a regular person, not some monster.
I feel the same things everyone else does, act the same way. Sometimes, though,
that small difference feels like an abyss. But I guess there's not much I can do
about it." He picks up a long, sharpened pencil from the counter and gazes at it
like it's an extension of himself. "I wanted to tell you all this as soon as I
could, directly, rather than have you hear it from someone else. So I guess today
was a good opportunity. It wasn't such a pleasant experience, though, was it?"
I nod.
"I've experienced all kinds of discrimination," Oshima says. "Only people
who've been discriminated against can really know how much it hurts. Each person
feels the pain in his own way, each has his own scars. So I think I'm as concerned
about fairness and justice as anybody. But what disgusts me even more are people
who have no imagination. The kind T. S. Eliot calls hollow men. People who fill up
that lack of imagination with heartless bits of straw, not even aware of what
they're doing. Callous people who throw a lot of empty words at you, trying to
force you to do what you don't want to. Like that lovely pair we just met." He
sighs and twirls the long slender pencil in his hand. "Gays, lesbians, straights,
feminists, fascist pigs, communists, Hare Krishnas--none of them bother me. I
don't care what banner they raise. But what I can't stand are hollow people. When
I'm with them I just can't bear it, and wind up saying things I shouldn't. With
those women--I should've just let it slide, or else called Miss Saeki and let her
handle it. She would have given them a smile and smoothed things over. But I just
can't do that. I say things I shouldn't, do things I shouldn't do. I can't control
myself. That's one of my weak points. Do you know why that's a weak point of
mine?"
"'Cause if you take every single person who lacks much imagination
seriously, there's no end to it," I say.
"That's it," Oshima says. He taps his temple lightly with the eraser end of
the pencil. "But there's one thing I want you to remember, Kafka. Those are
exactly the kind of people who murdered Miss Saeki's childhood sweetheart. Narrow
minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty
terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really
frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe. Of course it's important to know
what's right and what's wrong. Individual errors in judgment can usually be
corrected. As long as you have the courage to admit mistakes, things can be turned
around. But intolerant, narrow minds with no imagination are like parasites that
transform the host, change form, and continue to thrive. They're a lost cause, and
I don't want anyone like that coming in here."
Oshima points at the stacks with the tip of his pencil. What he means, of
course, is the entire library.
"I wish I could just laugh off people like that, but I can't."