My Culture Involves Blasting Farts Whenever I Want

And The Atlantic says you can't ask me to stop

This week, The Atlantic’s Twitter account re-upped a recent article called “Why Do Rich People Love Quiet?” The article argued that rich, white people (the words “rich” and “white” are used interchangeably in the article) value quiet spaces, while non-rich, non-white people tend to come from loud, urban areas where keeping quiet is not the norm. I thought the article was fascinating for several reasons. First, I would have thought that saying “non-white people are all poor and live in the ghetto where it’s noisy and that’s why they’re loud all the time” would be considered unbelievably racist. But apparently that’s anti-racist — who knew? I am so glad that The Atlantic hired a non-white writer with blonde hair and blue eyes to tell me how all non-white people behave.

But even more interesting were the authors’ views on culture. She didn’t just argue that there are different cultural norms about noise, which is surely correct. She argued that when people with different cultural norms mix, a zero-sum battle for cultural dominance ensues. I had always thought that when people share a space, they reach an understanding about behavioral norms — in fact, I sort of thought that understanding is what culture is! But the author sees culture as fixed, inviolable, and attached to your race in an innate way. And, remember: That view is anti-racist, even though it’s also exactly what racist people believe.

This is a radical conception of culture. But it’s great news for me; I hope the idea that a person’s culture gives them carte blanche to violate other people’s comfort takes root. Because my culture involves blasting noxious farts into crowded spaces whenever the fuck I feel like it. And I’m glad that someone — finally! — is telling me that’s okay.

Like the author, I had run-ins with uptight WASPs in college. It started at orientation: When it was my turn to introduce myself, I stood up and said “Hi, I’m…” and then unleashed a window-rattling Jurassic Fart for the ages. It was a beauty — it knocked the glasses off the girl sitting behind me. Eager to impress, I kept going: I said “I come from…” and let out a long, elaborate squeaker that was so epic that I think it’s fair to call it The Gilgamesh Of Farts. In my culture, this would have made me an alpha male — I expected several women to accompany me in my bed after such a display. But I soon learned that my culture’s views on flatulence were not universal.

My first weeks of college were spent trying to fart my way into new friendships. I’d walk into my suite-mate’s room and say “Did someone order a…” and then knock the paint off the walls with an absolute H-bomb. I’d fart during dinner, I’d fart during movies — I’d raise my hand during class, and when called upon, detonate a hair-straightener that would send birds flying from trees. I thought I was going to be so popular! But, to my surprise, that was not how things went.

It turned out that some people were raised to not enjoy wallowing in a cloud of someone else’s ass stink. Apparently, it’s considered rude in some places to, say, put you ass inches from a sleeping roommate’s face, crow “cock-a-doodle…” and then blast a fart detectable in deep space. Who knew? But I came to college to broaden my horizons, so when I learned this, I decided to adopt my classmate’s norms. It seemed oppressive — why did their comfort trump the joy I got from ripping an absolute trouser-shredder whenever I felt like it? But I conformed anyway.

I carried this cultural shame into adulthood. I stopped farting on subway cars and stopped asking to make toasts at weddings just so I could fart into the microphone. Eventually, I came to feel that living in society requires us to consider each other’s well-being. Sure, my personal freedom matters, but other people’s comfort matters, too. We need to have rules that balance priorities in ways that work for everyone. And for me, that meant no more eating cabbage for three days straight, getting on the $5 airport shuttle, and releasing World War I levels of noxious gas just to be hilarious.

But now, The Atlantic tells me that we actually don’t need to balance priorities! It turns out that my culture trumps all other considerations! When I learned this, I let out a yelp of joy that reached to the heavens and a fart that probably registered on seismographs in Asia. Free at last — my anus was unshackled and ready to live its best life! I immediately cooked a gallon of chili and bought opera tickets. That night, I regaled the audience at La Bohème with rafter-rattling nuke toots from a sphincter that had spent decades under wraps. When people around me asked me to stop, I told them that unrestrained farting was part of my culture. And I think that they said “and what culture would that be?”, but it was hard to hear anything over the eardrum-shattering thunderclap of my flatulence.

I am so grateful that Ms. Gonzalez entered this rigid conception of cultural non-negotiability into the dialogue. If I ever see her in a restaurant, I plan to shake her hand, thank her, and then blast her entrée against the wall with a Krakatoa-level ass eruption. I’m sure she’ll laugh and say “What a beautiful expression of your vibrant culture!” And she will be right: My flower-wilting, borderline violent farts are beautiful. And she’s taught me that I have the right to inflict them on people whenever the hell I want.

Post-script: I’d be remiss if I didn’t share another article from the same author in which she recounts renting an house “on a quiet, cobblestone street” so that she could finish a novel. The article includes remarkable-in-light-of-her-other-article lines like “close quarters and endless sounds of sirens made revising my novel [in Brooklyn] untenable” and “I like to be alone.” Pretty amazing! From Twitter user Bill Zeiser.

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