Five Dunns sit squished in a white Prius, bellies bursting with lime margaritas and bean burritos. As we turn onto Denver St. and pull up outside our house, Papa Dunn rips a big one. Noses wrinkle, eyes roll, disapproving groans ensue. He lets out a chuckle and quickly exits the vehicle as I, trapped in the middle seat in intense olfactory discomfort, must wait for my sister and cousin to move before I can escape. Once clicked free from the sulfurous inferno, the suffocating bath of toxic air, a gaseous microcosm of patriarchy, I confront the inconsiderate culprit: “Really? You couldn’t have held that for two more seconds?” Call me ageist but I think it’s OK to assume a 60 year old still has adequate autonomy over his anus. This is a matter of unabashed privilege.
Mama Dunn, the all too modest breadwinner in our family, nods in silent agreement with my grievance. She has dealt (more like smelt ha ha) with this for almost thirty years now and knows protest is futile. But strangely, she never attempts retaliation. No all fiber diets. No wake-you-up-with-a-fart-to-the-face radical resistance to rude flatulence. You see, no matter what, Mama Dunn doesn’t fart. Like, ever. For a long time I’d thought her incapable. In our household, the precious rare occasion she let something escape was a spectacle! No matter how weak the squeak, it was a big fucking deal. The two times I remember it happening, my sister and I went bonkers. Through riotous laughter we’d scream to everyone around “GUESS WHAT??? MOM FARTED!!!!!!!” She smiled sheepishly while scolding our hysterical reactions and “dirty” language (the f-word was forbidden, we had to soften it to “fluff”). Farting, both as a concept and an action, is a highly censored subject, and is undoubtedly the next frontier for feminist critical analysis and deconstruction.