This upcoming Christmas will be the third that I spend without seeing my brother. To no longer see him, my nieces or my sister-in-law during the holidays was not a decision that was made lightly, but was one that, as an academic, I was nonetheless compelled to make. And it's all because I put my foot down with regards to an indecent decoration that has somehow come to embed itself unironically into our Christmas iconography: the infamous Leg Lamp.
Every white, well-to-do kid who grew up in Bush Jr.'s warmongering America had a father who loved A Christmas Story. I mean this film checks all the Boomer boxes: romanticization of schoolyard violence, the sanctification of guns, unabashed and unnecessary racism against Italians and Asians. But no 1980s film—not even a Christmas flick—would be complete without the objectification of a woman's body.
The Leg Lamp goes far beyond a crass joke, despite what many believe. Its intent is clear: to imbue our most celebrated holiday with an undeniable sexual element, an offense that Ralphie's mother recognized, protested and was of course ignored about.
You might think maybe I'm being dramatic about this. Maybe it's a little tasteless, but it's just a leg. As I've said before, though, context is key: this is 1950s America, before Playboy, before Pornhub. Ralphie was being entertained by a radio for crying out loud. Thus it follows that this lamp got his mind racing in ways our dopamine-addled brains would be hard-pressed to imagine. Make no mistake: both Ralphie and his dad were undoubtedly busting to this lewd light fixture on the reg, presumably right on up through the new year. Ralphie's mother was distraught for a reason.
And look, I don't want to give the impression here that I can't appreciate a nice leg, or am otherwise put off by the female body. My wife has wonderful legs. But what message is this Leg Lamp sending to my daughter? It's not telling her to use her God-given extremity to shoot a soccer ball, to pirouette, to high jump, or to skate but to only, ONLY be an object of the ever-present male gaze. So it goes it is that my young impressionable daughter, upon entering her aunt and uncle's house for what should be a warm, cheerful and wholesome evening, is instead greeted with a grim reminder of her true place in the objectifying society in which we live.
Cue Christmas, 2021. I walked into my brother's house and there it was, glowing in the living room. Now an ornament I could look past. Maybe even a table lamp. But this thing was damn near four feet tall. I told him you may think it's an ironic Christmas joke, or an ode to your favorite movie, but I study this type of thing for a living and it's deeply harmful, so please put the Leg Lamp away or at the very least turn it off so we can't see the fishnets. He smirked, slapped me on the back, and offered me a beer.
And so we left.
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