One thing you come to realize is that you may be poised, like a diver, arms pointed, feet ready, for a dip into hypocrisy. Because when it comes, particularly when it comes two blocks away from your own residence, you bemoan its existence. Loudly. You cringe at the thought of what it will do to your property value, to the reputation of your community, and to the atmosphere of your small town Main Street. You wonder how you will explain to your young daughters the taunting, hulking banner with provocative dancing women obnoxiously and unavoidably displayed on your walk to the post office and diagonally from one of their favorite restaurants. You hope the City Council can find a way to banish the establishment to at least the outskirts of town, to where the drunken imbeciles won't puke on your sidewalks or drive into your parked cars. Not in my backyard, you say. We have got to get this "business" moved. There's got to be a way.
And then you realize there isn't a way. Not right now. Not legally. Not without a book of matches and an accelerant. You become more educated. You realize more fully the plight of the the dancers. You realize they are victims in so many ways. You find out about the possible prostitution, about past rumors of organized crime and drug deals and forced labor. You look around, and you realize that what many see as victimless entertainment leaves a string of victims: the long-time shop owner next door who can no longer be open in the evening, the apartment-dweller above with the young children, the "dancers," and every other young girl who walks past and is told that she is worth more with her clothes off than her clothes on. These victims become your message.
It is at this point that you realize you're in the deep end of the hypocrisy pool. At least you do if you're me. Because the goal is to move the business. But the message is of the collateral damage. And removing the business will merely make the victims someone I can't see, in a neighborhood in which I don't live, where I am not directly affected. And then I see that my problem isn't with evil, isn't with victims, it's with my discomfort and inconvenience.
Dear world: I repent of this hypocrisy. At least I will try to. I repent because in the past strip clubs were just a punchline for me, in the same way my town is a punchline to others. I casually ignored all the ways sex is sold in culture. I will joke no more.
I cannot prevent every strip club in the nation from business as usual. I cannot protest or speak out against each one individually. But I can take the matter more seriously. I can speak about it as more than harmless, victimless tomfoolery. I can work all the more fervently each day to teach my daughters where their worth comes from. I can take the lead of the citizens of another community, the community that endured the most recent strip club from this owner on their own Main Street, the citizens who cared enough about the damage and the evil and the ethics to come to our town and help long after theirs was safe. Ambivalent acceptance and a mere shrug of the shoulders is no longer an option.
We are only a few weeks into this experience in my backyard. So far I've been so busy pointing out what's wrong there that I've been unable to see what's wrong with me. Hypocrite. This is what I've learned thus far. I am certain there will be more.
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