I want to talk about the bathroom.
I don’t mean this in a political way, even though our politicians appear to be in the midst of an epic and awkward public argument over bathroom assignment based on birth certificates and the presence or absence of telltale anatomy.
No, I want to talk about the bathroom because this weekend I visited Old Economy Village, a historical site where the Harmonists, a group of religious zealots from Germany, formed a community in the early 19th century. As I toured one of the typical brick houses that would have housed 6 to 8 people, I was reminded that there used to be no such thing as a “bathroom.”
The nice lady docent, who wore a long, blue skirt and bonnet from the period, showed us a small closet that she called the “bathroom” where residents took a “bath” by pouring about a panful of water into a small, round hole in an iron container and dabbing particular body parts with, I presume, a sponge or cloth.
The docent surmised that, like everyone else who lived during that period of history, the Harmonists in Old Economy Village were quite accustomed to the foul and unavoidable smells of people and animals and probably thought nothing of it.
At least there is evidence that they made their own soap. I hope they used it.
But that only addressed one purpose of what we think of as a bathroom. Perhaps the most important daily necessity was accomplished with a bedpan, which visitors could see under every rope bed and straw or feather mattress.
I have only once been invited to use a bedpan. That was when I was giving birth to my first son and the attending nurse insisted that I empty my bladder so I wouldn’t inadvertently create a “splash zone” when I got to the pushing phase.
I looked at the plastic container that the nurse wanted to wedge under me.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“You really should try,” the nurse tried to convince me.
“NO,” I replied, irritated that the nurse did not appear to care that I was extremely busy birthing a baby.
When she kept insisting, I finally cut her off.
“I don’t want to use that bedpan. I’LL HOLD IT,” I said. (And I did.)
Back to the Harmonists… they were not terribly busy birthing babies since the community had taken the unusual step of adopting celibacy as the most expedient way to wait for the Second Coming of Christ. But they all used bedpans, which had to be emptied outside, likely in what the docent referred to as the “outhouse” located somewhere in the animal and root vegetable shed.
This makes me wonder if they ever washed their hands… or worried about their carrots and potatoes.
My point to all this is that using the bathroom was a lot more repugnant before it got political.
Right now, I’m grateful for modern conveniences like indoor plumbing, running water, anti-bacterial hand soap and the right to Just Say No to a bedpan. And no matter what your political position is on what body parts belong or don’t belong in a designated bathroom, I hope there is one rule we all agree on:
Wash your hands.
***
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/14730981@N08/23914726805″>18th century room, alms house</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/”>(license)</a>