1. Paul Theroux’s essay Being a Man explores the author’s understanding of society’s expectations of men. Describe what it means to “be a man,” according to Theroux. Does Theroux accept this definition of manhood? Justify your answer with three examples from the text.2. Amy Cunningham’s essay Why Women Smile explores the concept that women smile more often than men, and for different reasons. Explain why women smile according to Cunningham, and describe her response to this circumstance. Does Cunningham believe women should smile as much as they do? Justify your response with two examples from the text.3. The essay Looking at Women by Scott Russell Sanders explores the biological and social implications of men’s attraction to women. Describe Sanders’ attitude toward the way that men perceive women, and explain the result of this perception, using three examples from the text.
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WHY WOMEN SMILE
After smiling brilliantly for nearly four decades, I now find myself trying to quit. Or, at
the very least, seeking to lower the wattage a bit.
Not everyone I know is keen on this. My smile has gleamed like a cheap plastic nightlight so long and so reliably that certain friends and relatives worry that my mood will darken the
moment my smile dims. “Gee,” one says, “I associate you with your smile. It’s the essence of
you. I should think you’d want to smile more!” But the people who love me best agree that my
smile which springs forth no matter where I am or how I feel-hasn’t been serving me well. Said
my husband recently, “Your smiling face and unthreatening demeanor make people like you in a
fuzzy way, but that doesn’t seen’; to be what you’re after these days.”
Smiles are not the small and innocuous things they appear to be: Too many of us smile in
lieu of showing what’s really on our minds. Indeed, the success of the women’s movement might
be measured by the sincerity-and lack of it-in our smiles. Despite all the work we American
women have done to get and maintain full legal control of our bodies, not to mention our
destinies, we still don’t seem to be fully in charge of a couple of small muscle groups in our
We smile so often and so promiscuously-when we’re angry, when we’re tense, when
we’re with children, when we’re being photographed, when we’re interviewing for a job, when
we’re meeting candidates to employ-that the Smiling Woman has become a peculiarly American
archetype. This isn’t entirely a bad thing, of course. A smile lightens the load, diffuses
unpleasantness, redistributes nervous tension. Women doctors smile more than their male
counterparts, studies show, and are better liked by their patients.
Oscar Wilde’s old saw that “a woman’s face is her work of fiction” is often quoted to
remind us that what’s on the surface may have little connection to what we’re feeling. What is it
in our culture that keeps our smiles on automatic pilot? The behavior seems to be an equal blend
of nature and nurture. Research has demonstrated that since females often mature earlier than
males and are less irritable, girls smile more than boys from the very beginning. But by
adolescence, the differences in the smiling rates of boys and girls are so robust that it’s clear the
culture has done more than its share of the dirty work. Just think of the mothers who
painstakingly embroidered the words ENTER SMILING on little samplers, and then hung their
handiwork on doors by golden chains. Translation: “Your real emotions aren’t welcome here.”
Clearly, our instincts are another factor. Our smiles have their roots in the greetings of
monkeys, who pull their lips up and back to show their fear of attack, as well as their reluctance
to vie for a position of dominance. And like the opossum caught in the light by the clattering
garbage cans, we, too, flash toothy grimaces when we make major mistakes. By declaring
ourselves non-threatening, our smiles provide an extremely versatile means of protection.
Our earliest baby smiles are involuntary reflexes having only the vaguest connection to
contentment or comfort. In short, we’re genetically wired to pull on our parents’ heartstrings. As
Desmond Morris explains in Babywatching, this is our way of attaching ourselves to our
caretakers, as truly as baby chimps clench their mothers’ fur. Even as babies we’re capable of
projecting onto others (in this case, our parents) the feelings we know we need to get back in
Bona fide social smiles occur at two-and-a-half to three months of age, usually a few
weeks after we first start gazing with intense interest into the faces of our parents. By the time
we are six months old, we are smiling and laughing regularly in reaction to tickling, feedings,
blown raspberries, hugs, and peekaboo games. Even babies who are born blind intuitively know
how to react to pleasurable changes with a smile, though their first smiles start later than those of
Psychologists and psychiatrists have noted that babies also smile and laugh with relief
when they realize that something they thought might be dangerous is not dangerous after all.
Kids begin to invite their parents to indulge them with “scary” approach-avoidance games; they
love to be chased or tossed up into the air. (It’s interesting to note that as adults, we go through
the same gosh-that’ s-shocking-and-dangerous-but -it’ s-okay-to-laugh -and-smile cycles when
we listen to raunchy stand-up comics.)
From the wilds of New Guinea to the sidewalks of New York, smiles are associated with
joy, relief, and amusement. But smiles are by no means limited to the expression of positive
emotions: People of many different cultures smile when they are frightened, embarrassed, angry,
or miserable. In Japan, for instance, a smile is often used to hide pain or sorrow.
Psychologist Paul Ekman, the head of the University of California’s Human Interaction
Lab in San Francisco, has identified 18 distinct types of smiles, including those that show
misery, compliance, fear, and contempt. The smile of true merriment, which Dr. Ekman calls the
Duchenne Smile, after the 19th century French doctor who first studied it, is characterized by
heightened circulation, a feeling of exhilaration, and the employment of two major facial
muscles: the zygomaticus major of the lower face, and the orbicularis oculi, which crinkles the
skin around the eyes. But since the average American woman’s smile often has less to do with
her actual state of happiness than it does with the social pressure to smile no matter what, her
baseline social smile isn’t apt to be a felt expression that engages the eyes like this. Ekman insists
that if people learned to read smiles, they could see the sadness, misery, or pain lurking there,
plain as day.
Evidently, a woman’s happy, willing deference is something the world wants visibly
demonstrated. Woe to the waitress, the personal assistant or receptionist, the flight attendant, or
any other woman in the line of public service whose smile is not offered up to the boss or client
as proof that there are no storm clouds-no kids to support, no sleep that’s been missed-rolling into
the sunny workplace landscape. Women are expected to smile no matter where they line up on
the social, cultural, or economic ladder: College professors are criticized for not smiling, political
spouses are pilloried for being too serious, and women’s roles in films have historically been
smiling ones. It’s little wonder that men on the street still call out, “Hey, baby, smile! Life’s not
that bad, is it?” to women passing by, lost in thought.
A friend remembers being pulled aside by a teacher after class and asked, “What is
wrong, dear? You sat there for the whole hour looking so sad!” “All I could figure,” my friends
says now, “is that I wasn’t smiling. And the fact that she felt sorry for me for looking normal
made me feel horrible.”
Ironically, the social laws that govern our smiles have completely reversed themselves
over the last 2,000 years. Women weren’t always expected to seem animated and responsive; in
fact, immoderate laughter was once considered one of the more conspicuous vices a woman
could have, and mirth was downright sinful. Women were kept apart, in some cultures even
veiled, so that they couldn’t perpetuate Eve’s seductive, evil work. The only smile deemed
appropriate on a privileged woman’s face was the serene, inward smile of the Virgin Mary at
Christ’s birth, and even that expression was best directed exclusively at young children. Cackling
laughter and wicked glee were the kinds of sounds heard only in hell.
What we know of women’s facial expressions in other centuries comes mostly from
religious writings, codes of etiquette, and portrait paintings. In 15th century Italy, it was
customary for artists to paint lovely, blank-faced women in profile. A viewer could stare
endlessly at such a woman, but she could not gaze back. By the Renaissance, male artists were
taking some pleasure in depicting women with a semblance of complexity, Leonardo da Vinci’s
Mona Lisa, with her veiled enigmatic smile, being the most famous example.
The Golden Age of the Dutch Republic marks a fascinating period for studying women’s
facial expressions. While we might expect the drunken young whores of Amsterdam to smile
devilishly (unbridled sexuality and lasciviousness were supposed to addle the brain), it’s the
faces of the Dutch women from fine families that surprise us. Considered socially more free,
these women demonstrate a fuller range of facial expressions than their European sisters. Frans
Hals’s 1622 portrait of Stephanus Geraerdt and Isabella Coymans, a married couple, is
remarkable not just for the full, friendly smiles on each face, but for the frank and mutual
pleasure the couple take in each other.
In the 1800s, sprightly, pretty women began appearing in advertisements for everything
from beverages to those newfangled Kodak Land cameras. Women’s faces were no longer
impassive, and their willingness to bestow status, to offer, proffer, and yield, was most definitely
promoted by their smiling images. The culture appeared to have turned the smile, originally a
bond shared between intimates, into a socially required display that sold capitalist ideology as
well as kitchen appliances. And female viewers soon began to emulate these highly idealized
pictures. Many longed to be more like her, that perpetually smiling female. She seemed so
beautiful. So content. So whole.
By the middle of the 19th century, the bulk of America’s smile burden was falling
primarily to women and African-American slaves, providing a very portable means of protection,
a way of saying, “I’m harmless. I won’t assert myself here.” It reassured those in power to see
signs of gratitude and contentment in the faces of subordinates. As long ago as 1963, adman
David Ogilvy declared the image of a woman smiling approvingly at a product clichéd, but
we’ve yet to get the message. Cheerful Americans still appear in ads today, smiling somewhat
less disingenuously than they smiled during the middle of the century, but smiling broadly
Other countries have been somewhat reluctant to import our “Don’t worry, be happy”
American smiles. When McDonald’s opened in Moscow not long ago and when EuroDisney
debuted in France last year, the Americans involved in both business ventures complained that
they couldn’t get the natives they’d employed to smile worth a damn.
Europeans visiting the United States for the first time are often surprised at just how often
Americans smile. But when you look at our history, the relentless good humor (or, at any rate,
the pretense of it) falls into perspective. The American wilderness was developed on the
assumption that this country had a shortage of people in relation to its possibilities. In countries
with a more rigid class structure or caste system, fewer people are as captivated by the idea of
quickly winning friends and influencing people. Here in the States, however, every stranger is a
potential associate. Our smiles bring new people on board. The American smile is a democratic
version of a curtsy or doffed hat, since, in this land of free equals, we’re not especially formal
about the ways we greet social superiors.
The civil rights movement never addressed the smile burden by name, but activists
worked on their own to set new facial norms. African-American males stopped smiling on the
streets in the 1960s, happily aware of the unsettling effect this action had on the white
population. The image of the simpleminded, smiling, white-toothed black was rejected as
blatantly racist, and it gradually retreated into the distance. However, like the women of Sparta
and the wives of samurai, who were expected to look happy upon learning their sons or husbands
had died in battle, contemporary American women have yet to unilaterally declare their faces
their own property.
For instance, imagine a woman at a morning business meeting being asked if she could
make a spontaneous and concise summation of a complicated project she’s been struggling to get
under control for months. She might draw the end of her mouth back and clench her teeth – Eek!
– in a protective response, a polite, restrained expression of her surprise, not unlike the
expression of a conscientious young schoolgirl being told to get out paper and pencil for a pop
quiz. At the same time, the woman might be feeling resentful of the supervisor who sprang the
request, but she fears taking that person on. So she holds back a comment. The whole
performance resolves in a weird grin collapsing into a nervous smile that conveys discomfort and
unpreparedness. A pointed remark by way of explanation or self-defense might’ve worked better
for her – but her mouth was otherwise engaged.
We’d do well to realize just how much our smiles misrepresent us, and swear off for good
the self-deprecating grins and ritual displays of deference. Real smiles have beneficial
physiological effects, according to Paul Ekman. False ones do nothing for us at all.
“Smiles are as important as sound bites on television,” insists producer and media coach
Heidi Berenson, who has worked with many of Washington’s most famous faces. “And women
have always been better at understanding this than men. But the smile I’m talking about is not a
cutesy smile. It’s an authoritative smile. A genuine smile. Properly timed, it’s tremendously
To limit a woman to one expression is like editing down an orchestra to one instrument.
And the search for more authentic means of expression isn’t easy in a culture in which women
are still expected to be magnanimous smilers, helpmates in crisis, and curators of everybody
else’s morale. But change is already floating in the high winds. We see a boon in assertive female
comedians who are proving that women can dish out smiles, not just wear them. Actress Demi
Moore has stated that she doesn’t like to take smiling roles. Nike is running ads that show
unsmiling women athletes sweating, reaching, pushing themselves. These women aren’t overly
concerned with issues of rapport; they’re not being “nice” girls-they’re working out.
If a woman’s smile were truly her own, to be smiled or not, according to how the woman
felt, rather than according to what someone else needed, she would smile more spontaneously,
without ulterior, hidden motives. As Rainer Maria Rilke wrote in The Journal of My Other Self,
“Her smile was not meant to be seen by anyone and served its whole purpose in being smiled.”
That smile is my long-term aim. In the meantime, I hope to stabilize on the smile
continuum somewhere between the eliciting grin of Farrah Fawcett and the haughty smirk of
Cunningham, Amy, “Why Women Smile.” The Norton Reader, Shorter Eleventh Edition. Ed.
Linda H. Peterson and John C. Brereton. New York: W. W. Norton and Company, 2004.
Looking at Women
Scott Russell Sanders
On that sizzling July afternoon, the girl who crossed at the stoplight in front of our car looked, as my
mother would say, as though she had been poured into her pink shorts. The girl’s matching pink
halter bared her stomach and clung to her nubbin breasts, leaving little to the imagination, as my
mother would also say. Until that moment, it had never made any difference to me how much or little
a girl’s clothing revealed, for my imagination had been entirely devoted to other mysteries. I was
eleven. The girl was about fourteen, the age of my buddy Norman who lounged in the back seat with
me. Staring after her, Norman elbowed me in the ribs and murmured, “Check out that chassis.”
His mother glared around from the driver’s seat. “Hush your mouth.”
“I was talking about that sweet Chevy,” said Norman, pointing out a souped-up jalopy at the curb.
“I know what you were talking about,” his mother snapped. No doubt she did know, since mothers
could read minds, but at first I did not have a clue. Chassis? I knew what it meant for a car, an
airplane, a radio, or even a cannon to have a chassis. But could a girl have one as well? I glanced after
the retreating figure, and suddenly noticed with a sympathetic twitching in my belly the way her long
raven ponytail swayed in rhythm to her walk and the way her fanny jostled in those pink shorts. In
July’s dazzle of sun, her swinging legs and arms beamed at me a semaphore I could almost read.
As the light turned green and our car pulled away, Norman’s mother cast one more scowl at her son
in the rearview mirror, saying, “Just think how it makes her feel to have you two boys gawking at
How? I wondered. “Makes her feel like hot stuff,” said Norman, owner of a bold mouth. “If you don’t
get your mind out of the gutter, you’re going to wind up in the state reformatory,” said his
mother. Norman gave a snort. I sank into the seat, and tried to figure out what power had sprung from
that sashaying girl to zap me in the belly. Only after much puzzling did it dawn on me that I must
finally have drifted into the force-field of sex, as a space traveler who has lived all his years in free
fall might rocket for the first time within gravitational reach of a star. Even as a bashful eleven-yearold I knew the word sex, of course, and I could paste that name across my image of the tantalizing
girl. But a label for a mystery no more explains a mystery than the word gravity explains gravity. As I
grew a beard and my taste shifted from girls to women, I acquired a more cagey language for
speaking of desire, I picked up disarming theories. First by hearsay and then by experiment, 1 learned
the delicious details of making babies. I came to appreciate the urgency for propagation that litters the
road with maple seeds and drives salmon up waterfalls and yokes the newest crop of boys to the
newest crop of girls. Books in their killjoy wisdom taught me that all the valentines and violins, the
waltzes and glances, the long fever and ache of romance, were merely embellishments on biology’s
instructions that we multiply our kind. And yet, the fraction of desire that actually leads to
procreation is so vanishingly small as to seem irrelevant. In his lifetime a man sways to a million
longings, only a few of which, or perhaps none at all, ever lead to the fathering of children. Now,
thirty years away from that July afternoon, firmly married, twice a father, I am still humming from
the power unleashed by the girl in pink shorts, still wondering how it made her feel to have two boys
gawk at her, still puzzling over how to dwell in the force-field of desire.
How should a man look at women? It is a peculiarly and perhaps neurotically human question. Billy
goats do not fret over how they should look at nanny goats. They look or don’t look, as seasons and
hormones dictate, and feel what they feel without benefit of theory. There is more billy goat in most
men than we care to admit. None of us, however, is pure goat. To live utterly as an animal would
make the business of sex far tidier but also drearier. If we tried, like Rousseau, to peel off the layers
of civilization and imagine our way back to some pristine man and woman who have not yet been
corrupted by hand-me-down notions of sexuality, my hunch is that we would find, in our speculative
state of nature, that men regarded women with appalling simplicity. In any case, unlike goats, we
dwell in history. What attracts our eyes and rouses our blood is only partly instinctual. Other forces
contend in us as well: the voices of books and religions, the images of art and film and advertising,
the entire chorus of culture. Norman’s telling me to relish the sight of females and his mother’s
telling me to keep my eyes to myself are only two of the many voices quarreling in my head.
If there were a rule book for sex, it would he longer …
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