Recently, I attended a literary event at an acquaintance’s home. I was apprehensive at first because I didn’t know any of the (younger) guests, but felt my social anxiety receding after some friendly, getting-to-know-you banter around a warming fire pit. That was one moment.
The next moment, a chasm opened when one of the attendees who had mentioned that she was staying with friends who’d just had a baby boy said, “I can’t believe my friend and her wife would mutilate their baby! I thought I knew them better.”
“Did you say something?” asked our host?
“Of course not! Then I wouldn’t have had anywhere to stay.”
“Good point.”
What ensued was a 15-minute circle jerk of righteous indignation over why anyone would allow their child to be circumcised. One guest compared circumcision to slitting a child’s eyelids. Another said the practice should be criminalized.
Since I had never met any of the guests before, and, frankly, I’m afraid to express a non-conforming opinion these days, and, oh yeah, both my sons, ages 29 and 27, are circumcised, I just sat and listened, while beads of sweat broke out across my forehead and my insides roiled at what felt to me like harsh judgments about the choices I made in 1992 and 1993.
