She was a fast machine she kept her motor clean
She was the best damn woman that I ever seen
She had the sightless eyes telling me no lies
Knocking me out with those American thighs
American thighs are AHmazing! Precision well-oiled instruments that annihilate....tension? What happens between these thighs? Who desires these thighs? Can America own my thighs? I own my thighs and my thighs alone. Hands off America.
Who decides which thighs can or cannot meet? Can they meet in secret? (Thighs shuffle quietly, under the radar, NO CORDUROY.) Or, thighs are the great liberator. Thighs join the military. Killer thighs (in fishnets with red patent leather)... Nothing is more American than that. Can these thighs vote? Can they be seen in public? Embarrassed thighs hide in long skirts and pants. Are they illegal thighs? Fearful thighs not knowing who to trust? Why are THEY making decisions on MINE or yours? Who are THEY? CAN THEY BE WE?
Why are some thighs more precious than other thighs? Is it purely subjective, Savile Row vs. Milan, extra fine English Wool vs. Pucci silk jersey? (Which by the way both make excellent coverings for American thighs). I love these thighs, and your thighs. Maybe thighs are ok, if they can be more than just American. Our thighs hold so much promise.
Why American Thighs and not hair, eyes, and breasts? I once had a melanoma removed and the doctor likened it to a small chicken breast. Reduced to pure meat. No face, just flesh. Raw material. Remade, reimagined. A fresh start. The more you think of thighs the more ridiculous you feel, or not.
The codes of gender and ethnicity are casually laid upon us at birth without our knowledge or consent. As we “grow up” we realize this and are forced to either accept or challenge it. I challenge it, with ornate multiplicity. Come be enveloped within my American Thighs. Manufactured identity can be daunting and freeing; come vacillate with me between genders, between scales. Become a unique other. Be the viewer and the viewed, submerged within the detail of objects presented as spectacle. The beauty of the crass, individual, and undefined is explored. I ask “What is class?” In asking this what and who we value is challenged. As Mary Poppins would say: “A spoonful of sugar helps….”