Da bulls

The headline read, “4 gored during annual Running of the Bulls.”

 

It’s hard to say how many people were surprised when they saw this. I’m guessing it’s somewhere in the vicinity of zero. Now, if the headline had been, “4 abducted by slug-like space aliens during annual Running of the Bulls,” that would have come straight out of left field.

 

Fortunately, I can approach the issue with some degree of levity, because none of them sustained life-threatening injuries during the weekend’s festivities in Spain. One of them took a horn near an extremely sensitive area recognizable to any self-respecting proctologist, but he’ll supposedly be fine – assuming there aren’t any long plane rides in his immediate future. If there are, he may want to bring his own inflatable seat cushion in the event of turbulence.

 

If this seems like a cavalier take on an attack by a 1,700 lb. beast, consider what prompted the incident. Six toro bravo cattle, each one of which will likely be killed by matadors in the evening’s bull fights, are placed in corrals in Pamplona. A rocket is set off to mark the beginning of the run, and the corral gates are opened, exposing the bulls to a fevered throng of locals and tourists, who start running because … well, there are bulls loose. They’re big and they’re angry and they have weapons on their heads that make nightsticks look like homemade slingshots. A mighty chase ensues, and is somehow considered fun. Apparently Spaniards have yet to be introduced to the winning combination of dart boards and grain alcohol.

 

It’s not like these four unlucky celebrants were gored while shopping for espresso machines at WalMart. They were gored during an event in which the goal is to not be gored; they just weren’t very good at it. So no, the headline wasn’t exactly surprising.

 

What’s surprising is that the tradition has lasted as long as it has.

 

“Tradition” is really the key word, here. As a piece of language, it’s used as a one-size-fits-all defense of some pretty bizarre behaviors; various cultures will rationalize certain outdated practices simply by invoking their claim to tradition. If it was tradition, for example, to paint all newborn babies like footballs and play pass with them in an Olympic-sized swimming pool filled with Jell-O, there’d be a group vehemently arguing that we should maintain the ritual solely because it’s been happening for a while. Never mind that it’s humiliating, pointless, and a total waste of perfectly good Jell-O.

 

Not to knock the whole concept of tradition. Some of our traditions are benign and serve as nice cultural calling cards. I grew up in a French-Canadian household, and one of the heritage’s traditions is to use a pair of spoons to play percussion along with a piece of music. Typically, you hold the spoons loosely together like a pair of chopsticks and bang them lightly between your free hand and your thigh, producing a tinny clack-a-lack sound reminiscent of loose peanut shells rattling around inside a coffee can. It’s an off-beat musical instrument, to be sure; spoons groupies are pretty rare, and you don’t exactly see Eddie Van Halen toolin’ on the spoons during “Running With the Devil.” But it’s a sweet and harmless way to connect to French-Canadian culture, and it evokes a pleasant reminiscence of the community’s roots. It’s a tradition worth keeping.

 

Others have been ditched, and rightly so. For about 1,000 years, from the 10th Century to the early 20th, foot binding was a common tradition in China. It was horrifying, and generations of young girls were victimized by it. As early as age 6, and sometimes earlier, a girl’s toes would be broken and then wrapped in bandages that had been soaked in a mixture of herbs and animal blood. This was to prevent the feet from growing and developing normally. The girl’s feet would break and become highly deformed, typically not growing beyond 4-6 inches. When the practice was thankfully abolished, you can be certain there remained a contingent that said, “But wait! We’ve been doing this for a thousand years. It’s tradition!”

 

Well, so was human sacrifice, which was arguably even more odious. A lot of ancient civilizations practiced sacrifice, but it was something for which the Mayans and Aztecs were especially notorious. The ritual went something like this: Tobey, the god of bad haircuts, was angry one day because everyone in the Mayan village of Boogersnot got really awful buzz cuts with lightening bolts shaved into their temples. Tobey had to be appeased, and how do you appease an angry god? Why, you whack someone, of course! Not quickly or painlessly, either. Burning, beheading and burying someone alive were all popular options at the time, and if there was an active volcano handy, then woo-doggy, it was party time in Mayaland. It was like the ancient version of a community block party, only a virgin died and there was no barbecue. So it wasn’t like a block party at all.

 

Ritual sacrifice is a lot less common now. I’ll be bold and call that a good thing.

 

How is it, then, that the very concept of tradition is used to justify these senseless and outdated antics? Granted, letting bulls run loose through a downtown neighborhood is less offensive than, say, burning Helga at the stake for wearing sandals on a Saturday. But there are animal rights issues to consider, not to mention the unspeakable wound in that pour tourist’s derriere. The fact that festivities end with an animal being slaughtered for entertainment isn’t exactly a point in Pamplona’s favor, either.

 

Maybe we ought to just give the bulls some spoons and let them perform an outdoor concert. That, my friends, would be a tradition worth holding onto.