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My Words Are Mine

There was another Super Ma’am freak-out this week, and this time from a black trans woman mocking a “no neck bitch” after she was called “sir” in a place of business. As many who follow me know, I spend a fair bit of my time attempting to refute the common anti-trans stereotypes that are so often thrown around, and it’s frustrating to see “my own people” willfully playing into those stereotypes instead of challenging them.

We do a great disservice to children by not teaching them the proper place of emotions, as they can be used for good or destruction. The power of raw emotion, and the critical importance of tempering them, is something that I discuss frequently, and will always discuss when the opportunity rises. An emotion can be either a fire that burns or a piece of steel to be forged. Isolating that emotion to a concrete building and letting it burn itself out is certainly a valid choice, but it isn’t my preferred one–instead, use the anvil of reason and the hammer of creativity to turn the lump of steel into a sword. Don’t let it be a fire that engulfs you; use it to create, like the song above, “Your Fall From Grace,” which I wrote while in the throes of anger–and it shows, being the most angry song I’ve ever composed. 

But more to the point, we need to discuss perceptions, word choice, and human interactions, because the “Learn your pronouns!” stuff has to stop. 

Anyone with even a passing interest in psychology or economics (the study of human action) will realize very quickly that words like “he” and “she” are selected by the user automatically, with little or no cognition put into them at the time of usage. From very, very early ages, we are taught when to use “he” and when to use “she,” just as we are taught when to say “please” and when to say “thank you.” No one has to put any thought into it to determine whether to say “please” or “thanks” when the occasion comes up; it happens automatically and without deliberate selection. When making a request, one says “please.” When receiving something, one says “thanks.” 

The power of the human brain is that it’s capable of shifting much of our interactions into auto-pilot like this. We don’t have to think about whether to say “hello” or “goodbye” when we run into someone, which frees our brain to think about other things (while it also controls our breathing, movement, heartbeat, and other necessary functions). Just ponder for a moment how exhausting it would actually be, when faced with any person, to have to dedicate any amount of thought to whether you’re supposed to say “hello” or “goodbye.” This is a useful feature, and one would hope that everyone would be aware of it, but this doesn’t seem to be the case.

Whether to say “sir” or “ma’am,” or to refer to someone as “he” or “she” is similarly automatic. When we ask someone to call us a different pronoun, we are asking them to dedicate part of their conscious thought to casual conversation–we are asking them to do work. We are asking them to throw a wrench into an automatic process in the course of a conversation and to instead deliberately ponder whether to say “hello” or “goodbye.” This is not an easy task, even for the most “woke” person out there, and we should never be upset when someone slips back into auto-pilot in conversation. Neither should we be upset when someone does it intentionally, of course–at least, we shouldn’t simply allow that emotion to burn uncontrolled in the forest of our life. 

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it many more times: I get called “sir” every single night at work, most commonly over the phone. Sometimes, though, people do it in person. As accepting as my co-workers are, and as visible as they are putting aforementioned deliberate effort into calling me “she,” the truth is that if I got bent out of shape and went on a wild, emotional tirade every time this happened, I wouldn’t still have a job. No one wants to work with someone so unpredictable, unhinged, and uncontrolled, nevermind that it would also mean that I regularly lashed out, chastised, and drove away paying customers. I work as a female and live as a female, and my coworkers are among the most accepting people I’ve ever met (realistically, probably more accepting than I am), but a lot of this acceptance is due to the fact that I’m not an insufferable cunt. 

That’s what this is really about, of course. While “he” and “she” are programmed into us at very early ages and are selected automatically and unconsciously, this doesn’t change the fact that the other person’s perceptions of me are what their brain uses to determine which to use. Rather than forcing that person to put in the work to consciously choose which pronoun to use, if am the one who wants to change their speech, then the onus falls onto me to alter their perception of me. If their brain determines I am more masculine than feminine, they will say “he.” If their brain determines that I am more feminine than masculine, then they will say “she.” Why does this need to be pointed out to any adult?

I am not entitled to make them think about me a certain way, or to make them use certain words when referring to me. This is true in general, but it must be recognized in particular with those people who intentionally use the non-preferred pronoun. 

An ordinary occurrence, to be honest. Also of note: there is no chance I’m going to be kicked from LRN.

But, as mentioned previously, why would I give “Pussy ass leftist” the power to make me upset? This would require that I care about his opinion, and I don’t have the energy to care about the opinions of random dipshits. Who does? There are a few people who could genuinely hurt me by intentionally misgendering me, and they’re the people least likely to do so. They may still slip occasionally, but if they can make the effort to call me “she,” then I think it’s only fair that I make the effort to adjust their perception of me, and to overlook any accidents. It’s generally called “being an adult.” 

I firmly believe that the greatest threat facing western society today is that we have stopped teaching people how to temper their emotions, or the value of doing so. What else can I think when congressional officials talk of being “morally right, but factually incorrect?” What else can I think when a person sees a photograph of coal miners, acknowledges they are coal miners, and then writes a lengthy article about how upset they are about the “blackface,” despite acknowledging that it isn’t blackface? What else can I think when, following the election of Donald Trump in 2016 on largely jingoist slogans and emotional appeals, there was an onslaught of people recording videos of themselves crying and flipping out, and sharing them for all the world to see? This is the Era of Unbridled Emotion, and that’s dangerous, because emotion has not ever been a valid pathway to truth. Feeling something is true won’t make it true. Emotion doesn’t keep the jet in the sky, or the automobile moving. 

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” they say, and we similarly see this playing out in New York following its Minimum Wage increase, with restaurant owners forced to raise prices, and customers shocked at how much more expensive it has become to eat out. The result was both predicted and expected: fewer people eat out, so some of the wait staff is fired. After all, the Minimum Wage is a direct price floor on the cost of labor, and price floors always create surpluses; a surplus of labor is called “unemployment.” When you raise that price floor, you simply get… more unemployment. This is basic economics, but many adults today simply don’t want to hear it, and instead truly believe that their feelings on the matter, that “everyone deserves a ‘living wage,'” will somehow make all this work out. 

I digress.

An emotion is nothing more than an internal reaction to external stimuli. It is our own proclivity and inclination that determines our reaction to the external stimuli, and even if we can’t actually change how we feel, we can and absolutely should limit the scope of those feelings in our behavior and beliefs. It isn’t easy, but I don’t know why anyone thinks that it should be. It’s supposed to be more difficult to resist animalistic impulses and overcome them. But it isn’t just for “the good of society” that we need to relearn this art; it’s far more important than that, because…

Controlling one’s animalistic tendencies is what it means to be human. 

 

Identity & Conflict

Through most of my life, I considered myself a boy. I was such a dude that it still bothers me to see men wearing pink, and I’ve said countless times that the shirt that says “Real men wear pink” is stupid–real men avoid wearing pink at all costs. I wore boxers, shaved my head, and had a bad ass goatee. No one in their right mind would have looked at me and suspected that I was anything but ordinary heterosexual male.

I drank beer, ate steaks, had a wife, knew how to work on automobiles, knew how to repair washing machines, and all the usual stuff. Yet the person there in that pic–that’s me. That person in that pic who five minutes before or after would have laughed at a guy for wearing a pink shirt–that’s me. That person who would have sneered if someone offered him a wine cooler over a Bud Light–that’s me.

Recently, Caryn Harlos has called me a revisionist making the party look silly because I say that Nolan was, and always was, an anarchist, even if he identified in the past as a minarchist. Speaking as a transgender person, I know exactly how this goes, and that’s why I bring all of this up. There is a lot of truth to the idea that a M2F trans person will embrace the most masculine aspects of being a male. It’s not an accident that I shaved my head, had a goatee, lifted weights, wore muscle shirts, and all the other shit. One might say I was overcompensating.

Yet the truth always bled through, often unbidden and without conscious intent, and I wondered about it for years. I remember remarking to a friend several years ago that I am, and always have been, an enthusiastic supporter of LGBT rights, but that I wasn’t sure why. I’m not gay or bisexual, so why should I be such an Ally that it consumed probably 10% of my political discussion? It didn’t make much sense. This was the transgenderism bleeding through subconsciously, without my knowing it or realizing it.

Of course, you could ask my ex-wife (from whom I divorced for reasons entirely unrelated to any of this) about other ways my transgenderism bled through. I mentioned in Dancing in Hellfire that my cousin enjoyed wearing makeup when we played various games, but as early as kindergarten I loathed makeup. Our kindergarten teacher forced us all to put on lipstick to kiss a paperplate (making a thing for our parents), and I resented her from that day forward. Makeup was for girls, and I wasn’t a goddamned girl. Only because I was a freak (what people today would call “goth”) did eyeliner get a pass, and only then because it looked so freaking awesome, and that was much later.

There were always periods, though, no matter how masculine I presented myself, and no matter how generally conformist I was to sexual stereotypes of heterosexuality, it always bled through. I’ve described being transgender and having to repress it as desperately needing to breathe, but being able to breathe only in short, very sporadic gasps. But no matter what I did, no matter how I attempted to hide it–often from myself–it always bled through. My grandmother would find women’s clothing hidden between my mattresses. I wore them when I could, while at the same time hating myself for wearing them, knowing that I was betraying some other part of me.

It was conflict, pure and simple.

Conflict between who I was and the identity that I proclaimed–the identity that I believed in.

And now look at me.

Who would ever have guessed that the person in the above pic was not truly the person he identified as? Who would have guessed that the goatee, the shaved head, the muscles, the Bud Light, the steaks, and all the other things… were just ways of masking the true behavior that underwrote so much of what I said and did?

Because it’s true. I wore my girlfriend’s prom dress before she did–and she thought it was hot. I had long hair through most of high school, too. At one point, my hair fell below my breasts. This same girlfriend gave me tons of panties, yet at every given moment I’d have insisted that I was not even a cross-dresser, that I was adamantly against the notion of transgenderism. I’m sure that I’ve in the past said “Boys are boys and girls are girls, and that’s that.”

When the True Self conflicts with the Expressed Self, there are contradictions–often glaring contradictions.

It would be the height of transphobic ignorance to look back at that first pic, of me with a goatee, and say that I was clearly just a male, that I was only a male, and that I was not, even then, transgender. I most certainly was. I was even female then. I simply repressed it because, for various reasons that are often unique to the individual, I could not accept it, and I was not ready to accept it.

Several, several years ago, I mentioned to a friend that if my ex-wife and I ever divorced, I would move to California and get a sex change operation. I told this to another friend, too–one that you could almost call a boyfriend, except that it wasn’t like that for me. When he brought this up again a year later, I adamantly denied it. Even though I had told him to his face that I felt like a girl and wanted to pursue that, when he mentioned it later, I abjectly refused to admit that I’d said that. I told him he was taking it out of context and making it to be a much bigger deal than it was. Readiness often comes in phases, rarely does it come all at once.

Nolan’s early writings, particularly his written declaration of the case for a Libertarian Party, have anarchism bleeding through it in exactly the same way that transgenderism bled through so much of my life, even as I identified as a male and sought desperately to hide any indication that I wasn’t quite normal. We see in Nolan’s other writings exactly the same conflict that we saw in me when I said “real men don’t wear pink.” Coming to term with oneself and making that final leap is often extremely difficult, but it shines through, and nothing can dim the inner light of the true self.

When such a conflict arises, how shall we form an understanding of the person? Through their often-confused and often-contradictory expressions and positions, or through the inner light that bleeds through no matter how adamantly it is denied, and is only embraced much later in life? Should we embrace the identity of the person as they express themselves while clearly embroiled in internal conflict, or should we be more understanding and accept their internal conflict as just that–internal conflict that was only resolved much later in life? Nolan denied being an anarchist and expressly stated that he was a minarchist with exactly the same fervor and tenacity with which I stated that I was a normal heterosexual male.

But I was never a normal heterosexual male, and Nolan was never a minarchist.

So, no. Caryn Harlos is wrong. Nolan was an anarchist, even back then, and it clearly bleeds through in his early writings in exactly the same way that female clothing bled through my otherwise-normal male adolescence. That I claimed to be a normal male didn’t make me one; that Nolan claimed not to be an anarchist didn’t prevent him from being one. It merely prevented him from coming to terms with what was already then shining through.

But apparently I’m a revisionist for saying that, clearly, Nolan was always an anarchist. If so, then I’m a revisionist for saying that I was always transgender.

Moreover, I can claim right now to be a minarchist. That won’t make me one. I could just as easily call this site “The Minarchist Shemale” and write pretty much the same things, though occasionally throwing out contradictory articles about how we need a state to protect us from a state. None of that would make me a minarchist, though–it would only make me confused about who I am and what I believe.

I’d rather take the word of the person who has worked through that confusion and expressed an identity that is in accord with their inner identity than to arbitrarily cling to the confused contradictions of someone struggling to come to terms with their identity.

But that’s just me…

The Blood I Cried

Want to read the whole story? Well, now you can! For a limited time (until June 15), Dancing in Hellfire is finally available for sale, for only $3.49. You can buy it here, through this very site, using PayPal or a typical credit/debit card (payment is processed by PayPal, so I don’t see the info), after which you’ll be given access to the book as both a PDF and an ePub.

Introduction

Whether being four years old and watching one of my parents’ friends shoot up peanut butter on our couch and dying before my eyes; whether being effectively kidnapped at the age of eight by my meth-addicted mother and forced to endure a summer of being too poor to buy food, with our water turned off due to non-payment, and with mom being beaten mercilessly by a violent alcoholic; whether coming to terms with her disappearance like something out of a murder mystery show; or whether being transgender in the midst of all of this and trying desperately to come to terms with it while surrounded by a fundamentalist Christian family that forced me to not merely repress who I was but also to forget who I was, I have seen a great deal of tragedy.

It’s strangely easy to forget how devastating all of this must truly have been, even as I was the one who experienced it, because it’s easy to forget how it truly felt to lie awake, crying and listening to the sounds of shattering glass as my mother was thrown brutally through windows. It’s easy to forget how angry I have the right to be at my father and grandmother, for forcing me to oppress myself and attempting to turn me into something that I am not.

Today I am a transgender woman and resident of the state of Mississippi. This is as frustrating, difficult, and dangerous as one would expect, but I survive, and I roll with the punches. I have no choice, just as I had no choice those early mornings as I bore witness to horrific domestic violence.

So this is my story–a story of how low human depravity can sink, but also how the human spirit can stand resilient and refuse to surrender. However, I know that I am one of the lucky ones. The majority of people who endure such childhood trauma, and who are forced by religiously oppressive authorities to repress their own natures, are not so fortunate. Most of the former lose themselves in a sea of drugs that allow them to forget, while the latter often lose themselves to the blade of a razor. Yet I know, because I have lived it, that we can survive the struggles–and not merely survive, but become stronger through them.

Where to begin, in this sordid tale of devils and demons?

My family is exactly what one would expect of a north Mississippi lower middle class / upper lower class white Christian family; it was only a few years ago that I first heard the acronym WASP, but I have to admit: aside from its redundancy, there is no more apt description of my family. They are almost stereotypical in how typical they are of an ordinary white fundamentalist Christian family from the southern United States.

Everyone in Mississippi isn’t like that, however, which is a point I’ve tried to stress in the past: Mississippi does contain many people like myself. As a friend recently put it, “We grew up in an area that is run-down, poor, and stupid, over all, where most of the populace is indoctrinated by religious nonsense to the point where they can’t even recognize rational thought. We pushed through what it takes to fit in here, and we defined ourselves. That’s something to embrace and be proud of.”

My friends and I have reached the end of a long and grueling journey that was filled with adversity and people who would use any means at their disposal—terrorism, fear, violence, and coercion—to bend us to their wills, and we’ve looked back at the paths we traveled and rejoiced that we survived and stayed true to ourselves. Friends are priceless when one is transgender in a family full of fundamentalist Christians.

Both of my paternal grandparents would reject me entirely—they do not yet know, and they will be among the last to know, since I see them only a few times a year. “You don’t know how they’ll react,” I’ve had people tell me. “Give them a chance. Sometimes people surprise you.”

With all due respect, those allies and friends have no idea the type of people we’re really dealing with. My Mississippian friends know better, too; they know that there is no chance that my family will ever welcome me at Christmas dinner as a female. When my grandfather (who, for the record, is on his tenth or eleventh wife) learned that my sister was living with her boyfriend, he wrote her a lengthy letter, wherein he quoted Biblical passages and called her a whore. When my grandmother found girls’ clothes hidden between my mattresses, she wanted to send me to a foster home and asserted that she would not have that in her house. If they had thought I was gay, they would have sent me to one of those awful “pray the gay away” camps.

This isn’t to say that I’m perfect, and acknowledging my own faults and mistakes will be the most difficult part of writing this. I have made plenty of mistakes and stupid decisions that brought people around me severe difficulty and hardship, particularly regarding past relationships.

My memory is also not perfect, and I am likely to make mistakes, and, given that some of the information comes from extremely unreliable sources (like my father), some of that can’t really be helped. It doesn’t matter, though. The point of this is to show how awful parenting shaped me, and the countless lies that my dad told me are part of that. I strive for honesty, integrity, and sincerity in all things. Consider this my vow that everything within is, to the best of my knowledge, the unaltered truth, except that names have been changed.

South Pontotoc

I was born premature, thankfully, since the umbilical cord had wrapped around my throat and I was choking to death. This was surely a result of my mother’s cigarette smoking and eating painkillers while pregnant. My father insists that she didn’t do drugs while she carried us, but… Yeah, she did.

I certainly don’t remember my birth, but I do remember some things from shortly after my birth. Though my family says there is no way I could remember it, my introduction to the world came with overwhelming confusion: I was in some sort of cradle, and the back of my right hand hurt because a number of needles and tubes penetrated my flesh. The details are blurry and fuzzy, as one would expect from such early memories, but the needles burned and itched. They irritated me, and I wanted them out. I was afraid and confused, with no idea why these things penetrated my hand and no understanding of what was going on. I knew only that I was hurting and helpless to do anything about it.

Confusion—pure confusion. I didn’t even have a sense of self. I had no idea that I existed, that I was a baby in a hospital, and that I was a being. I could feel the needles in the back of my hand, and they hurt. The pain, however, was not unbearable, and wasn’t the main facet of that moment. It was confusion. I was not afraid—I didn’t have enough self-awareness for the confusion to make me scared. I simply knew nothing. I was a blank slate, onto which was being written reality in the ink of experience. I didn’t even know that I was a blank slate. I knew only that I hurt, and that I was confused. I was not in the arms of a loving mother whose warmth brought me comfort. I did not stare up and into the eyes of a nurse who was delighted to see a baby growing healthier by the hour. I was not being cooed by an older brother, or rocked in the cradle while a loving grandparent read a story. I was alone and hurting in a room bathed in fluorescent light.

That was my first experience with the world. That was how I was introduced to the universe—in the sterilizing, emotionless light of an empty hospital room, not the gentle and soothing light of a home. I heard the beeps and sounds of monitoring equipment, not the joyous laughter of a loving family. I lie alone in a hospital contraption with the shrill, uncomfortable hospital sheets, not wrapped in a blanket and the arms of a doting mother.

And the worst part—the indisputable worst part—is that I remember this.

The first few years of my life were probably normal, about what anyone would expect from a southern, lower middle class white family that subsisted more on the successes of previous generations than the merits of its own. There were some oddities, though, and signs even then of who I really was, but it was the mid-80s. It wouldn’t really be fair to blame my parents for not recognizing and embracing that I was transgender.

Of course, I was born male, “with a penis and everything.” But whenever all of my underwear was dirty, my mother would put me in my sister’s panties; it wasn’t a punishment, to clarify. Being the clever child that I was, I began hiding all of my underwear, just so that I could tell my mom that I didn’t have any, and so that I could wear panties instead. Somewhere around three years old, I took all of my underwear and threw them into the back of a closet that no one ever opened, and then I reported to my mother that, strangely, all of my underwear was suddenly gone.

So when I say that I’ve been transgender since birth, it’s as close to “since birth” as one can get. I couldn’t have been older than three years old at that point, because my sister hadn’t begun kindergarten herself. I knew then that I preferred women to men: I loved my mother and sister, and, even at that age, I had a deep appreciation for feminine beauty. I also thought that my Aunt Diane was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, and my mother used to make fun of me for my enamorment with my aunt.

My experience with men at this point was limited to my father (who was fat and not overly pleasant to look at), my brother (who was thin, but who had nothing on my mother), my grandfather (who was also overweight, and a jerk), and my Uncle Danny (who has always been an asshole). Although it’s typical for young boys to love their mothers, I wanted to be just like mine, and I suspect that had a lot to do it with, but who can say? I was three when it began, and I simply wanted to be a girl.

I had a blanket (what most people would call a “blankie,” though I never called it that), and it was one of those cotton-threaded ones similar to fishnet. I refused to sleep without it and my pillow. The pillow actually wasn’t that important, but the pillowcase certainly was. I rubbed the pillowcase between my finger and thumbnail, sleeping on the central heating vents in the floor and driving my father crazy with all of it.

A Look at My Father

I would love to say that my father isn’t a bad man.

But he is.

That’s a difficult thing to say and accept, but I have to stress that it doesn’t really make me love him any less, and that the dominant emotion I have for my father is pity. Even so, I would be lying if I said that he was a good man who simply made some mistakes; that isn’t the case at all. He’s a bad man who has made some good decisions, not a good man who has made a few bad ones.

His own childhood was no walk in the park, damaged by my alcoholic and abusive grandfather beating the hell out of my grandmother. Though not much of that has been shared with me, I can certainly relate to what he has said, and it’s clear the recollections are as painful to him as it is for me to recall the abuse my mother endured at the hands of alcoholics.

At some point, my grandparents divorced—Go, grandma!—because my grandmother wouldn’t put up with the abuse. My grandmother is easily worthy of her own story, because she is an unsung hero of the feminist movement without even trying. In the sixties and seventies, she left her violent husband and blazed her own path in Mississippi, won the house in the divorce, and then worked at a college until she retired at the age of 67.

True to the family history, my grandmother endured her own screwed up childhood, and was even sent away by her mother to live with Uncle Bill and Aunt Edna on their farm. Evidently, Aunt Edna didn’t like my grandmother one bit, and was very unkind to her. What internal strength caused my grandmother, in what must have been the 40s, to graduate as the valedictorian of her class? What quiet resolve allowed my grandmother to learn the necessary skills to work in the administration section of a college during the 60s?

These are questions to which I would love answers, but I’ll never have them, because they are not things that my grandmother is willing to discuss. Questions about her past are met with short answers, and I can’t blame her for not wanting to talk about it.

On one particular drunken rampage, my father held a gun on my grandfather so that my grandmother could limp out of the house. While I truly hate that he had to do such a thing in the first place, I’m also jealous that he was old enough to do something about it. When my mother suffered under Everett’s hands, I was in the second grade, and too young and weak to do anything to intervene.

For years, my father insisted that he was drafted to Vietnam, and he even talked about how he was called a murderer and spit upon when he returned. Eventually my sister and I realized that there’s no way this is true. Either he was actually the oldest between him and his brother (and thus wouldn’t have been drafted), or the Vietnam War ended when he was 16. In this little alternate reality he had constructed, he had to be older than our mother was (which was blatantly false—she had always been recognized as the older one), his brother had to be lying about his own age, and almost everyone had to have falsified birth records.

He changed his story to say that he was in Vietnam during the 80s, through another offensive that we did, but I have been unable to find any military record for him. Whether he actually fought in Vietnam, he did mislead us into believing he’d fought in the Vietnam War, which is a lie of such magnitude and scope that one has to marvel at it.

He is a religious man, though it’s hard to tell by his behavior: heavy drug usage, constant lies, and steady manipulation. Although he is less religious than other family members are, his secularism is applied selectively, and he’s generally as fundamental as everyone else is. He continues to believe that President Obama is a Muslim, is more or less openly racist, and is a diehard Republican, despite that he’s effectively a ward of the state who benefits substantially from liberal policies.

I obviously don’t see eye-to-eye with him, but we do have some similar interests. It was he who introduced me to Fantasy literature and tabletop gaming, both of which almost immediately became passions for me. In turn, I exposed him to the tenth installment of a popular roleplaying video game, and I’m still happy that I was able to show him to something that he enjoyed so immensely. He must have played through it a dozen times, and he certainly discovered more of its secrets than I ever would have.

There is some kinship between us, and I do love him, despite the numerous differences, and in spite of the fact that he has done me far more harm than good. More than anything, I pity him, because his childhood evidently destroyed him; he is one those who did not escape unscathed. He was swallowed by the mentality that the world owes him something, and oblivious to the reality that the world will never give it.

The rifts between us began because I was not the son that he wanted. He hated that I loved sleeping on the heating vents—I’ve always loved heat. I wouldn’t sleep anywhere else. I had to sleep on one of the floor vents, and the heat had to be on. There in the floor, I had the pillow and pillowcase that I refused to sleep without, and the blanket that I required as I slept.

My father hated all of these things. We went to visit some relatives at one point, and I left my blanket and pillow at home. With no other way to shut me up, my parents took me to a store to get a new pillow, and there I went from one to the next, tearing open the plastic just slightly, and “testing” it until I found one that was satisfactory. When we got back to our trailer a few nights later, dad went outside and told me to bring my pillow.

As I stepped out into the night air, I saw him kneeling just outside the small stone circle beside our front steps. It had once been a flower garden—conceived during one of mom’s highs, when she was bolstered with energy from painkillers. The high wore off, but the flowers remained in that little circle of rocks—at least for a while. Then they died, shriveled, neglected, and forgotten.

Almost like a demon out of a child’s horror story, there was my dad, grinning devilishly and eagerly, urging me to throw my old pillow onto a mess of crumbled newspapers soaked in lighter fluid as he held his flaming lighter above it. “We need to burn it!” he said, but I refused. There was no need to burn it. They were already making me throw it away—they were already making me discard this pillow that I loved and had slept with every night for years. Was that not enough?

“We need to burn it!” he said again, as I ran inside and cried to mom that dad wanted to burn the pillow that I loved. It may seem strange that I had such attachment to a pillow, but I did, and both of my parents knew it. My father certainly knew very well that I loved that pillow.

That’s why he wanted to burn it. Because I loved it.

We didn’t burn random things, and I doubt that we ever burned anything there at all. He wasn’t content to force me to throw away this pillow, the symbol that I was an emotional person and not the crass son that he apparently wanted. The pillow had to be destroyed in flames because I loved it, and because “real men don’t love.” This silly, feminine weakness, this emotional attachment to an object—it had to be gotten rid of, and in the most dramatic way possible.

It was not the pillow that my dad wanted to burn.

It was my heart.

My mother intervened, though my father came inside and continued insisting that we needed to burn the pillow, because he was afraid that I would be able to talk my mother into letting me keep it. One has to wonder why it was an issue that I wanted to keep it. In the end, I placed it gingerly on top of the garbage can in the kitchen and told it goodbye. I hated to do so, and I cried, because it didn’t make sense to me.

It’s understandable that I developed such strong emotional ties to objects, as neither parent spent much time with me, and there was not much hugging in the family. Mom and dad were always high on one drug or another, lying on the couch and borderline comatose. I don’t know how Brandi handled it then, or what she did in order to get through the long and miserable days, but it was surely as awful for her as it was for me. Unlike our older brother, we didn’t have friends with whom we could go hang out. Or, at least, I didn’t. Brandi was friends with a girl who didn’t live too far from us, and I hope that my sister was happy then.

Aunt May and Kay-Kay

For a while, mom did work, as did my father. While Brandi and Eric were gone to school and my parents were at work, I was babysat by our great aunt who lived next door, a relatively kind woman who I remember as mostly humorless. My father fleeced her out of most of her money, just as he did to my great-grandmother, and just as he is currently doing to my grandmother. However, I was too young to comprehend that, and there isn’t much that I remember about Aunt May.

It was horrendously boring at Aunt May’s. There were few places worse for my pre-school self. I wasn’t allowed to take my Nintendo, which left me there alone with an eighty-year-old woman and very little to actually do, because there was no one to play with and nowhere to play at. Aunt May wasn’t unkind, but she was also not particularly joyful. I don’t blame her for that—she was a very old woman, and probably not happy to babysit a four-year-old.

I should have been outside having fun, rather than sitting in a living room with an eighty-year-old woman and playing with paper dolls that she cut out of a magazine. Of course, such things seem droll only from a modern perspective, but I was accustomed to video games and cartoons, the heightened entertainment possibilities of the late 1980s. In the 1880s, a child would have been thrilled to sit on a couch in an air-conditioned house and idle away the hours with paper dolls.

However, imagine the horrified response one would get if a modern child was asked to spend day after day in that environment, with only a very old woman as company. There would probably be allegations of child abuse, though I’m not making that claim. However, many modern parents would likely consider that to be, at the least, borderline child abuse. To me, it was simply boring, and the time passed so slowly that I probably lived more moments there at Aunt May’s house than all the moments I have lived since.

I don’t intend any of this to be disparaging to Aunt May. I have no doubt that she did the best she could, and significantly better than many people in her position would have. Still, I dreaded those days when both parents had to work, and it was routine for me to ask mom each afternoon, “Do you have to work tomorrow?”

Aunt May had a moustache, as well, but I never noticed it. It wasn’t until I was a teenager and I was shown a picture of her that I learned she had a moustache. I was pre-kindergarten when I spent time with Aunt May, so the idea that a woman didn’t have facial hair wasn’t in my head yet, so it seemed perfectly normal to me. My father had a moustache and Aunt May had a moustache. Cars had tires, and houses had walls.

One horrible day, as Aunt May sat in her recliner, concealed from view of the kitchen as I sat on the couch near the front door, there was suddenly a crash in the kitchen. The backdoor entered into the kitchen, and I will never forget the fear that fell over this old woman’s face. Someone had broken in through the back door.

She and I hid in the living room, cowering in the corner behind her chair. I don’t believe she ever called the police (she didn’t have a phone), or did anything about it, but my memory of that ordeal is vague. I recall only the noise, the unmistakable terror in her eyes that I was able to recognize even at four years old, and the hiding.

Because she was very old, it simply wasn’t possible for Aunt May to always babysit me, and I had another sitter called Kay-Kay—a hefty, middle-aged woman who seemed to be doing pretty well in life. She had a house, at least, which I recognized to mean that she was okay—we lived in a trailer, and most of the people we knew lived in a trailer. Living in a house… That was a grand thing to me. I didn’t mind that we lived in a trailer, and I was much too young to know that being the child of two fast-food workers (even if they were supervisors) who raised Confederate flags, shot up heroin, and ate Xanax made me the definitive example of “trailer trash,” but I knew that it was a great thing to have a house.

Kay-Kay was an ordinary woman, and there was much going on beneath the surface that most people never saw. As I sat in one of her bedrooms, playing a video game, there was suddenly a banging on the door and people shouting, demanding to be allowed inside and promising that, if Kay-Kay refused, they would tear the house down.

Although I was shocked and scared at first, Kay-Kay put my fears to rest by handling it expertly. She answered in an almost aloof way, as though she had no concern about it. Even as they banged and screamed, I was unafraid, because Kay-Kay didn’t appear to take it seriously. After a minute or so, the banging stopped, and then the rhythmic pounding echoed through her home, coming from somewhere in the back.

“They’re going to tear the house down!” I shouted to Kay-Kay, scared once more. In my head, I had the image of two enormous, burly, and angry men outside with huge hammers, smashing away the bricks and crashing through the walls.

“Oh, no, they’re not, sweetie,” came Kay-Kay’s reply as she dropped to a knee and hugged me. “They’re just mad. They’ll get over it and leave in a few minutes.”

Sure enough, Kay-Kay was right: they did leave shortly thereafter. In actuality, they probably just had given up on the front door and gone to try the back door. Finding it locked, they banged and shouted some more, and then left. I never learned what it was about, and Kay-Kay asked me not to mention it to my parents, which made sense: that isn’t the sort of thing a mother wants happening at the selected babysitter’s home. I didn’t stay quiet, though, and that was the last time Kay-Kay ever babysat me. It was also the last time that I saw her.

The Rise of Tumult

There was a “friend of the family” called Doc, and I liked him a lot. Everyone liked Doc—he was a friendly, charismatic person. Being my parents’ friend, he was heavily on drugs, but Doc was also in a motorcycle gang, which created a problem, because shooting up was explicitly against the gang’s laws. Just to be clear here: this is the world I grew up in. This was normal to my three-year-old self. On any given day, I was likely to see one or both of my parents shoot up heroin with a buddy who was in a motorcycle gang, smoke a joint or two, and collapse onto the couch in a stupor and droning out “Yeah…” to no one.

I watched my mother, laid out on the loveseat, look to my father on the other side of the living room. She held up, toward my father, a syringe full of some red liquid, and then she asked in a seductive voice, “John, do you want some of this?” And as she spoke, she pressed in the syringe and sent a jet stream of this stuff—whatever it was—flying across the living room. They were both out of their minds, just high as hell.

Disheveled, frantic, panicked, and terrified, Doc stopped by our trailer and wanted to sell my father a half-pound of weed for fifty bucks. My father had twenty dollars he could pay. Knowing my father, it’s amazing that he had any money, but he did, and he explained to Doc what he had.

Doc in turn explained that he had to get out of town. “Had to,” he said, and my father understood what that meant. The gang somehow learned that Doc was shooting up, so Doc had to get out of town before they found him and forced him to run “The Gauntlet.” Because, apparently, that actually happens. My father bought the weed, and Doc fled, but it was to no avail, and he was later found dead.

We frequently drove north to visit my Aunt Diane and Uncle Danny (the man who would later go to prison for murder and, in all likelihood, killed my mother, though there is no body or evidence), as well as our cousins. One of these trips proved to be one of the most traumatic experiences of my childhood.

As Brandi and I rode with dad in his yellow truck, in a secluded area where the road was surrounded by steep ditches that spelled death for anyone who lost control and went over, a truck driver decided to pass us. The trucker blew his horn a few times, and then he went for it. As he passed, he veered to the right—or dad swerved to the left. The enormous side view mirror of the rig crashed through the window beside dad and sent a spray of glass shards through the cab of our truck. Luckily, neither my sister nor I sustained any injuries.

The fault was probably my father’s (driving under the influence of one drug or another), but the reason officially given was that the highway wasn’t wide enough to pass. This excuse came much later in the day, after the trip got significantly worse.

We passed through Memphis as we traveled, and came upon an intersection. Not paying attention, I couldn’t tell you exactly how it happened, but there was shaking and noise. We rear-ended another vehicle. It’s possible that my father didn’t stop quickly enough, and it’s possible that he pressed the gas too hard and too quickly after the light turned green. Regardless, we hit the vehicle hard and sent it careening into the intersection. Reportedly, it traveled fifty feet from the impact.

The woman driving that car died on the spot with a broken neck.

Someone obviously called the police, and they arrested my father. The police placed Brandi and me in the back of the police car with him, which made us feel as though we were also being arrested, and that is terrifying when you’re four or five years old and have no comprehension of what is going on. As though we were playing out a scene in a movie, the very same trucker who had hit us earlier happened upon the accident, and presumably told the police that dad was driving erratically. The next thing I knew, the trucker was banging on the glass beside me, shouting obscenities at us—not just at our dad, but honestly at the five-year-old children, too. I was terrified, confused, and frightened out of my mind, and it didn’t help that dad, with his hands cuffed behind his back, was frothing at the mouth, rocking the police car, and demanding to be let out so that he could fight the truck driver.

My sister and I were taken to the hospital, and police, doctors, and therapists repeatedly questioned us about the accidents. We were separated from our father, but also from each other, and that made the experience more traumatic than it had to be. We were finally told that we would be going into the care of Aunt Diane and Uncle Danny briefly, and they were the ones who picked us up from the hospital. My grandmother acquired a good lawyer for my father, and he was able to go to rehabilitation rather than prison, or something to that effect.

For a long time, my nerves were absolutely shot, and it was nearly impossible to get me into a vehicle, which is probably the normal response of a four year old child after being in two accidents in a single day, one of which resulted in a death, all because the parents didn’t mind driving after eating a bunch of pills. Naturally, their solution was to shove pills down my throat, giving me what they called “nerve pills” that were probably Xanax or Klonopin. This was the only way to get me into an automobile for several months after the accidents, because otherwise I would scream and throw fits. Eventually the anxiety faded, but knocking me out with drugs was the only way to get me into a car for a while.

Things returned to what we considered normal, though that isn’t to say that either of my parents stopped doing drugs. I doubt either parent was clean for any notable period, and they continued inviting friends over. These parties, while they were more or less tame and consisted of people drinking, doing drugs, and playing spades, would not constitute “normal” for most kids.

On one such occasion, one of the people with whom they were hanging out decided that it would be a brilliant idea to inject peanut butter. Presumably, he’d heard that “The high is incredible, man!” and wasn’t much interested in maybe asking a doctor before doing something so horrendously and creatively stupid. According to my father—who is a known pathological liar, it’s worth remembering—the man died on the spot, so they took him home and left him on his couch, dead. I have no memory of this, but it allegedly happened sometime around my fifth birthday.

I started kindergarten, and I loathed it. Up until that point, my life was fantastic. I could wake up whenever I wanted, spend the entire day watching cartoons and playing videogames, snacking whenever I desired, and just doing anything I pleased. Then suddenly I couldn’t do that any longer; I had to wake up at a specific time, go spend the entire day in a boring school, and then only had a few hours afterward to do the things that I enjoyed doing. As early as kindergarten, it struck me as absurd: if the point of life is to be happy, as everyone constantly insisted to me, then why did I have to go to school?

We were poor—dirt poor, as you might expect, given the heavy drug usage. Although both parents were managers at various fast food restaurants at times, my mother eventually quit working altogether and got onto disability for her migraines. It was with tremendous excitement that we were approved for food stamps, and we waited for weeks with palpable eagerness in the air, though I had no idea what it even meant. There are two times that I distinctly recall the entire family waiting anxiously for something to happen, and the anticipation was identical on both occasions; we waited for food stamps and we waited for our cable to be activated with the same sense of impending thrill, as did I, even though I had no understanding of what either meant.

Being approved for food stamps felt like having a birthday, and so did the cable company finally coming out, after weeks of waiting, to connect our cable television. While I understood that having cable meant that we would have Nickelodeon, there was no way that I understood the concept of food stamps, so my excitement was surely nothing more than a mirror of my parents’ own eager anticipations. It was just months after this that I began school, and that mom became convinced that dad was not really working, that he was only disappearing while he was supposed to be at work.

It was a school day when it happened, because we were supposed to be in class, but mom kept us at home. My much older brother, my slightly older sister, and I were told that we were leaving dad, and I’m sure I handled that as well as any six year old child would, which is to say with naked emotion untempered by the jaded self-control we are taught to exercise in later years. I didn’t understand what was going on, but I was devastated nonetheless. First, the life I had come to know and love was wrecked by having to go to school, and then what little semblance of it remained was being irretrievably shattered by this upheaval. I spent the entire day in tears, as did my sister. Whatever was going on between our parents had nothing to do with us, and our lives were being cast into the hurricane because of it.

Too young to truly understand what was really going on, my primary concern was whether to leave my father “the good Nintendo” or the bad one. They both worked, but one of them was much more difficult to get working. Both my dad and I were big on video games, and so was my older brother, and even my mom and sister played occasionally. There were lots of family moments when we all took turns, and we even had a device that allowed four controllers to be used.

I agonized over that decision far more than a six year old should, and my mom didn’t give the situation nearly as much attention as it deserved. My entire world, prior to school, consisted almost entirely of playing video games. That I even debated which one to leave was a tremendous indicator of how much I loved my father, how much I didn’t want to leave, and, above all, how poorly equipped I was to cope with the chaos I suddenly was confronting. Mom was tearing our family apart, breaking it into two pieces, and she never sat down with my sister and me to explain what was happening, to assure us that we’d still see our dad, or to promise us that it would be okay. While to some extent that’s understandable, since she had to pack and load things up, the utter failure to remember that she was literally wrecking her youngest kids’ lives is very difficult to excuse.

To make matters worse, she was cowardly about it, too, because all of this happened while my father was at work. We lived in a trailer on my grandfather’s land, and it’s very likely that my grandfather was the one who alerted my father to the moving truck that was at his home. However, seeing as my grandfather later offered to shoot my mother for my dad, I doubt he would have showed the restraint simply to inform my dad of what was happening.

Regardless, dad pulled up while we were finishing and preparing to leave. The next little bit is a blur of anger, hostility, and shouting from which I am able to pull very few details. In a flash, dad went from anger to pleading, but mom refused to listen; her mind was made up, and she cranked the car, put it into gear, and hit the gas. Dad threw himself into the side of the car and then hit the ground, fell onto his back, and then lie there in the grass. My sister and I screamed and cried—our dad had just been run over!—and mom shouted at us to stop yelling. I gazed out of the back window at my father as we drove away, and there he was, lying unmoving in the grass, and all I could think was the horrible thought, “Dad is dead.”

There in the back of the car, crying quietly, having just watched my father die from being hit by a car, I sat at the age of six years old, being shouted at by my mom to shut up because I freaked out when I saw her kill my dad.

Want to read the whole story? Well, now you can! For a limited time (until June 15), Dancing in Hellfire is finally available for sale, for only $3.49. You can buy it here, through this very site, using PayPal or a typical credit/debit card (payment is processed by PayPal, so I don’t see the info), after which you’ll be given access to the book as both a PDF and an ePub.

Emotional Attribution

“No one can make you feel anything.”

One of the people who has greatly influenced me said that to me once–actually, he said it several times. It didn’t take much introspection for me to realize that he’s absolutely correct: emotions are internal things. They are internal reactions to external stimuli. While we lack control over the external stimuli, we have full and total control over our reactions, and we are not at the mercy of our emotions.

How many times have we heard something like, “That makes me so angry,” or, “You make me so sad”? I’m sure we’ve all uttered similar phrases, and I know that I have, yet the truth is that these statements are incorrect. It would be correct to say, “I react angrily to that,” and, “I react sadly to you.”

Saying something or someone “makes us” feel an emotion is a convenient way of pretending like we’re victims, and an insidious method of passing the blame from oneself to the external stimuli. “You make me angry,” after all, is a statement that carries some kind of implication of wrongdoing–the person is doing something they shouldn’t be. This usually results in a misguided apology: “I’m sorry [for making you angry].”

In fact, just moments ago I sent an email to a colleague about how a cop parked beside me made me nervous. In the email, I corrected myself: “I react nervously to the external stimulus of a police officer nearby.”

Because the cop didn’t make me nervous. I’m fully aware of what the police are: they are footsoldiers of the state, its lowest level enforcers. They are pirates and thugs who inflict their violence and evil openly, and nothing more than that. Yet despite all their immoral power, they cannot make me nervous, because they cannot determine my internal reactions. Through all their aggression, theft, malevolence, hatred, and murder, they cannot make me feel anything.

Believe it or not, I’m going somewhere with this, and I’m going to show many ways that this manifests and, often, contributes to the Victim Complex dominating western society. I like looking for underlying causes, and this is certainly one; the misattribution of internal emotions to others obviously has ties to the Victim Complex. Instead of properly taking responsibility for how one feels, it is blamed on others, and it is demanded that others change their behavior, instead of the “victim” changing themselves.

Over the weekend, I read this:

This is curious for a number of reasons. First, there’s nothing “annoying” about being trans. Whether one feels annoyance over something is internal. It would be more accurate to have simply stated, “I’m annoyed.” Nothing can make her annoyed, after all. That’s an internal feeling, and she controls it. Or, at least, she should, rather than letting it control her.

Next, she assumes that she knows how others feel. And what do they feel? The need to compliment trans people so that trans people feel validated. Good god, it’s such a mess of confusion, arrogance, and presumed omniscience.

How does she know that other people “feel the need” to compliment her appearance? Perhaps it’s just a “want.” While it’s obviously one or the other, since sans aggression people always do things they either want or need, it’s quite presumptuous to assume that others need to compliment her appearance. Notice, however, that she didn’t say that; she said “feel the need,” because it’s too easy to be called out saying, “…people need to compliment your appearance…”

It’s simply a euphemism that masks the presumptuous nature of the statement. If she’d said “need” instead of “feel the need,” I daresay she’d have gotten much less support. Regardless, she claims to know what others feel, and what they feel is “need.” How does she know this? Has anyone ever told her, “I feel the need to validate you by complimenting your appearance”? Bloody unlikely, but possible.

She doesn’t stop there with her omniscient assumptions, though. She goes even further and asserts that what they feel is the need to make her feel validated. So she knows what they feel, she knows what they need, and she knows what they want to “make” her feel. Quite a powerful bit of mind reading, and all based on the errant idea that one can make another feel anything at all.

It’s curious that she’s assumed others want her to feel validated, a sentiment she implicitly rejects; she didn’t say it, but what is “incredibly obvious” is that she rejects the notion that she needs validation from compliments. This rejection causes her to reject the compliment.

What Does She Want?

I’ve recently come face-to-face with the SJWs who have invaded libertarianism, and this is clearly one of them. The overall sentiment of her message is that she’s offended by compliments. Of course, that’s not quite the case. She assumes that she knows why people are complimenting her (attributing emotional needs to them in the process), and what she is annoyed/offended by is not the compliment, but all the things she has assumed about the person giving the compliment.

She’s not necessarily offended by being complimented. She’s offended when those compliments are given by needy people who want her to feel validated by the compliment. How does she know this is what they want? Either she has the gift of telepathy or she doesn’t know, and I don’t believe in telepathy. So she will assume this or not by whatever arbitrary internal reactions she has; if the mood strikes her, she assumes you’re a well-intentioned person motivated by the need to make her feel validated. Maybe sometimes it’s “just a compliment,” but we can’t say. In fact, only she can say when she chooses to interpret a compliment as a kind gesture and when she chooses to interpret it as a well-intentioned person fulfilling their own emotional needs. After all, it is her interpretation.

This would be fine, really, if she understood that it was solely upon her how she took the compliment. Even if the person meant it in such a way, it’s still solely upon her whether she accepts it as anything more than a nice word, and still solely upon her whether she reacts with annoyance.

This is the essence of the SJW, though. If you tell her she’s ugly, she’ll be offended. If you say she looks like a boy, she’ll be offended. If you say she is mentally ill, she’ll be offended. If you say she looks pretty, she’ll be offended.

Being perpetually offended is not a skill.

Having been dealt a hand in life that didn’t allow me the luxury of feeling sorry for myself by painting myself as a victim of actual fucking kindness, I have never seen much point in being offended.

Don’t get me wrong. I know it’s a “thing” to compliment trans people. I’ve experienced that countless times. Whether such people want me to feel validated or what, I don’t know. I’m not Jesus Christ. I have never asked what they want, even when they say things like “…in my experience, trans people could use a compliment…”

Who doesn’t appreciate a compliment?

I could assume his motive was simply to make me feel validated, but that doesn’t really seem to be the case. When men compliment other women, is it an attempt to make the woman feel validated? And here we’re getting to it, aren’t we? The answer is usually “No.” Often, it’s to make the woman feel better after having a bad day, reminding one’s wife that she’s beautiful, making her smile, or any number of reasons that have nothing to do with validation.

And that’s just it; that’s precisely it. “I’m trans, so if you compliment me, I’m going to interpret as you feeling the need to validate me, and that’s offensive.”

Her words suggest that she’d like to simply have no one speak of her appearance at all. You can’t tell her she’s ugly; you can’t tell her she’s pretty. It puts anyone interacting with her into a lose/lose situation–no matter what, she’s going to be offended. I would venture the assumption that she would say that she wants to be treated as any other woman, but that can’t be the case–you are allowed to compliment a woman’s appearance without it being interpreted as an attempt to validate her.

She doesn’t want equality. Like so many of the SJWs, she pays lip service to equality, but what she actually wants is special treatment–you aren’t even allowed to compliment her. She *sigh* wants to be treated like a special snowflake, handled with kiddy gloves, such that even complimenting her makes her into a victim.

And if she reads this, she’s surely unfriended me by now. It doesn’t matter; I warned people Saturday morning that I was no longer going to just ignore posts like that. It’s so blatantly wrong.

We are not victims, and we don’t have to choose to be victims. No one has the power to make you feel anything, and no one has the power to make you a victim. You’re only a victim if you choose to be. Until you give in, you’re a fighter, not a victim.

So fight.

Take control of your emotions and recognize them as internal reactions that you control, and that no one else can control. Self-ownership includes one’s emotions. Don’t surrender them. We’re not pathetic animals controlled completely by emotional impulses that we can’t affect. We can affect them; they’re our emotions, and no one else’s.

One Nod and the World Gets Smaller

I was thinking this morning about how Trump hadn’t even lasted a week before he had blood on his hands–which, of course, isn’t surprising, more is the pity–and it really occurred to me what an extraordinary amount of power American presidents hold, so it’s no wonder they all become mass murdering lunatics.

These are people who can kill someone with only a nod. One nod, and a drone drops a bomb in Yemen, killing the target and probably a few civilians with it. One nod, and the military invades a sovereign nation. One nod, and an enemy combatant is sent to Guantanamo Bay to be tortured and incarcerated without a trial.

I can’t even imagine essentially having the power to point at someone and then watch them die, with no one able to do anything about it. The only people who possibly could do anything about it are overwhelmingly uninterested in the whole affair, even when 230 civilians are murdered, while they have no problem showing interest and devoting attention to the firing of a random waitress from a Cracker Barrel. And even if the American President did have to explain his actions to Congress or the American People, all he has to do is say “ISIS!” and that’s it.

Press a button, enter a launch code, hundreds of thousands die.

Nod, hundreds die.

Give a thumbs up, dozens die.

My world is unaffected.

That’s the most dangerous part of all of this. There is a reason that Trump wouldn’t nod his approval for a drone strike in China or Russia–those nations could fight back. China and Russia could return the “favor” by dropping bombs on American cities. Oh, it would be a bloodbath, and no one would have an easy time of it, but it would certainly happen. Iraq, Syria, Yemen, Somalia, Sudan, Pakistan, and all these others that we’ve attacked, however, are incapable of striking American cities. But if bombs started falling on American cities, we would sue for peace quickly against these nations. The only reason that we’re so uninterested is that we are unaffected.

Even North Korea, perhaps the most advanced of our self-created enemies, doesn’t have the ability to strike American cities. There’s no chance that any of these less-advanced Middle Eastern countries in whose affairs we’ve interfered for decades, often via wars that devastated their economies, could possibly retaliate except through guerilla terrorist tactics.

The invading aliens are too advanced to be destroyed with weapons. The only hope is to infect them with bacteria.

When I’m God, everyone dies.

Considering how much like a religion statism is, and the faith we place in government that it holds the answer to all life’s problems, and given how extraordinarily powerful the American head of state is, the metaphor is more appropriate than one might think.

Of course, all of this was true for Obama, as well–notorious winner of the Nobel Peace Prize who went on to be responsible for more deaths than Fidel Fucking Castro. It applies to every American President going back a very long time. They’re omnipotent, for all intents and purposes, sitting at the very top of humanity’s pyramid. If it truly came to blows, it’s doubtful that China and Russia could combine to take out the United States, after all, and individually neither stands a chance.

The biggest, toughest, strongest man in the prison, and he’s also a black belt.

And the only people he must answer to are only semi-resistant of this atrocity, with only about 7% of them resistant to it regardless of who is making the world smaller. There’s another 15% or so that are resistant to it, but their resistance depends upon who is exerting the power. If a Republican, then Democrats resist. If a Democrat, then Republicans resist. Nearly half the population doesn’t care enough to find out what’s going on.

Meanwhile, the world just keeps getting smaller.

I’m no Constitutionalist, but we do have constraints within the Constitution that would actually prevent the president from having this power to assassinate pretty much anyone he wants: Congress has the authority to create Letters of Marque and Reprisal. These are used in lieu of declarations of war, and are much more limited in scope. A letter of marque against Osama Bin Laden, for example, would have prevented the 16-year-long War in Afghanistan and the 14-year-long War in Iraq. It’s basically Congressional permission for authorized people–privateers, although, in an era of the standing army, it’s not inconceivable that the marque could be carried out by the military–to capture or kill someone, if capture is impossible.

I don’t know about you, but when someone says, “Hey, we could have avoided this war that has lasted sixteen goddamned years,” my interest is usually piqued. This war has lasted more than half of my life. Throughout more than half of my life, we have been fighting in Afghanistan, and the situation doesn’t look like it’s going to change any time soon. It’s worse now than it’s ever been–truly a victory for statism, since now we must keep the military there in an insane attempt to fix the problems caused by our military fighting there.

Congress really shouldn’t have the power to point at people and say, “Die!” either, like Lord Soth or something, but at least we know how dysfunctional Congress is. The dysfunction is a good thing, because it prevents these power-hungry lunatics from accomplishing anything. It’s more egregious than ever, too, with a reasonably decent Supreme Court Justice having a hard time getting the cloture vote. These people can’t agree on anything. There’s no chance that the Senate could get sixty votes authorizing an invasion of another country, or authorizing a drone strike. It would be considerably easier to authorize a letter of marque, given how much less responsibility that places directly on them, but they’d still have a difficult time accomplishing anything.

And when we’re talking about the power to point at a spot on the map and drop a bomb there, we want there to be lots of roadblocks built into the system, almost so many that it’s impossible to get them actually drop the bomb. Personally, I’d prefer it to be legitimately impossible, but…

Regardless, we should all be able to agree that no one person should have this sort of power. We’re worried about the power that Kim Jong Un unilaterally wields in his own nation, yet the power our president wields absolutely dwarfs that of North Korea’s. Kim Jong Un can point at a North Korean citizen and sentence them to death for whatever reason he wants, and that’s terrible, but the American President can point at anyone and sentence them to death for whatever reason he wants. And the only people to whom he has to justify it are overwhelmingly uninterested in even hearing the justification, because waitresses are getting fired from Cracker Barrel and transgender people are having a hard time finding restrooms.

Rantings & Ravings Reboot Ep 01

As I explained in the intro, now that the iron appears to be having an effect and my anemia is lessening, I plan to be more active–it also helps that I’ve just forced myself to proceed anyway, of course–and that means a return to podcasting. I’ve been planning to reboot Rantings & Ravings for a while, and this is episode 1: “Ryancare & Russians.”

Note: I’m certainly not doing anymore podcasts in this voice. I sound so angry. This is actually due to the fact that I edited out most of the pauses; you can tell from some of the less edited podcasts that, when recording, I tend to talk about like Obama, with a pause following every 3 or 4 words. That fits with the inflections better, but removing the silences makes it sound… like a continuous raving rant. That’s actually not intentional.

In this episode, we discuss the GOP’s attempts to modify the Affordable Care Act, and the effects we can expect that to have. Spoiler: it will really piss off the GOP’s voter base. They already have trust issues so severe that they rejected the establishment and elected Donald Trump. With him betraying them, as I predicted in this video:

… and with Paul Ryan–who already drew their ire by siding against Trump–working to further undermine their implicit desires, the 2018 midterm elections will be The Reckoning for Republicans. It will be a bloodbath that pours Democrats into office, a trend that will continue with a sure Democrat victory for the White House in 2020.

The Stupid Comment of the Week is quite possibly the most stupid thing that anyone has ever said to me, no joke. It’s seriously that stupid. The Anarchist Shemale will not be held responsible for drivers whose heads explode when they hear the stupidity and thereby have an accident. It is advised to not listen to this segment while driving.

Furthermore, Trump, Russians, and hysteria are discussed, since that’s always in the news, and we consider the implications of the Clown Sightings that people seem to have forgotten about, as well as what it might mean that the FBI isn’t looking into it. Schools were actually locked down because of alleged clown sightings, but the FBI hasn’t bothered to check it out? There’s something certainly odd about that, and the parallels between clowns and Russians are too much to ignore, so we speculate the possibility that–seriously–the entire clown sightings thing was a Psy-Ops campaign by intelligence agencies to study the effects and spread of hysteria.

We also discuss the absolutely absurd assertion that the Russians are competent enough to “hack the election” of the world’s foremost superpower and the most technologically advanced nation in human history, but are simultaneously too incompetent to click four things to change their Date & Time and keyboard settings.

Finally, there is an overview of Reductive Reasoning and how it applies to the boy/girl dichotomy, the nature of definitions, and abortion. Each week in this segment, I’ll be picking an issue and applying Reductive Reasoning to it. This week wasn’t meant to dive fully into gender or abortion, but sought to use them as examples to explain the concept.

Thanks for listening, and I hope you enjoy the reboot. 😀

Conscription: The Bane of Self-Ownership

It’s been a while since the United States implemented conscription–what we now call “The Draft” since we’ve turned it into the lottery that no one wants to win–and there remains a lot of negativity attached to it. The last time there was any serious talk about conscription was during George W. Bush’s presidency, and my father was so convinced that the draft was imminent that he routinely suggested that I go ahead and sign up. The high school had just required us to take the ASFAB, and I scored very highly, which caused Army Reserve recruiters to pester me pretty extensively. When the recruiter insisted twice that there were no reserve units deployed to Iraq, my father thankfully made him leave.

I don’t know whether my father ever served in the military or not. Through most of my life he insisted that he fought in the Vietnam War, and my sister and I realized as adults that this couldn’t possibly be true. He said that he had been drafted out of high school into the Navy. I don’t know enough about the draft to know whether conscripts served in other branches, and I don’t really care, but he asserts that his recruiter told him he would be able to choose a submarine as his assignment, only to ultimately not be able to. Who knows? Nothing my father says is ever really true. At best, it’s a lie with a bit of lean toward the truth.

When I went through a difficult patch around 20 years old, I contacted the Navy about recruiting. Much to my dismay, I had to again take the stupid ASFAB, as well as a Navy-only code-breaking thing at the end, and it took all day even though I finished the test in about two hours. That’s the worst part of any standardized test. Just hand me the test and let me leave when I’m done. Don’t make me sit around for five hours waiting on other people to finish.

There were a few oddities, though. First, it was my intention to enter the nuclear research program. I hadn’t yet entered college, but one half-truth after the other led to the realization that, unless I had a BA, then I was going to enter the service at the lowest possible rank–which, not being arrogant, is a tremendous waste for someone of my talents. Handing me a gun and sending me to the frontline is probably the least effective way to put me to use–and yes, I realize that the Navy doesn’t really fight on the front. That’s not the point. However, I had a BA, then I would have no need or desire to enter the military.

The $5,000 signing bonus didn’t sound particularly appealing. That buys a ten year old car. I’m sorry, but if I’m signing my literal life over to you and essentially becoming your slave for a period of time, and if this gives you the right to basically tell me to go and die, then five grand isn’t going to cut it. Not by a long shot. Up that to fifty grand, and then we can talk.

It was hilarious, though, how the recruiter kept going on and on about how much money he makes by being in the service. In fact, he stopped by the bank while taking us to take the ASFAB, and made quite a show of transferring one thousand dollars from one account to another. I don’t know if the other kids bought it or not, but it was clearly a scripted piece of bullshit. After the test, he said he would treat us to lunch, at which point he began looking around the car for change, and then ordered us each two things from the dollar menu at McDonald’s. What a farce. I’ve taken clients to lunch before, and it has never crossed my mind to take them to McDonald’s, scrounge around for change, and then tell them to order from the dollar menu and drink a cup of free water. Coming after his display of how much money he has, it was really funny. No doubt, he had no more or less money than any average person–probably less, really–and the accounts he manipulated at the bank were official navy accounts for exactly that purpose: impressing impressionable teens.

The main killer, though, was when it turned out that I was qualified to join the nuclear program, but was told that I couldn’t apply to it until after I was in boot camp, at which point the decision would be made about whether I would be accepted.

Yeah, no. I’m not doing that.

They might fool people who aren’t qualified to join nuclear research programs with that sort of thing, but not me. I can tell you exactly how that would have played out. “You didn’t get accepted. Now march, maggot!”

At the moment, the American military is completely voluntary, and that’s a good thing–if there’s going to be a military, then at least it’s voluntary. I’m not particularly fond of the recruiting tactics, though. I hate that many young men and women just have no real options for making a better future for themselves than joining the military. I hate that recruiters know that and use it to their advantage by targeting poor and minority communities. One of the few Michael Moore documentaries worth a shit is the one where he confronts some recruiters on this sort of predatory behavior.

It’s voluntary at the moment, but that doesn’t mean it will stay that way. Conscription, however, isn’t a tool to protect the country. This is common sense, and it takes only a moment to think about it. It’s common knowledge that, immediately after Pearl Harbor, countless people joined the military. This is exactly what we’d expect if the United States–or any country, actually–was attacked by a foreign power. Just imagine what would happen if Russia stormed the beaches of California. Conscription wouldn’t be necessary to fill the ranks. We’d have people rushing out to California with guns loaded in their trucks without even bothering to enlist, they’d be so willing and so anxious to protect their country.

Conscription only serves the purpose of making people go and fight wars they don’t want to fight.

While there are pacifists, cowards, and sympathizers in all countries, if people want to fight, then they will volunteer to. That’s what it means to want something, after all. It’s readily apparent, and historically documented, that one of the things that make people want to fight is a foreign attack against their homeland. So while pacifists, cowards, and sympathizers wouldn’t want to fight, most people would, and I’m not seeing much benefit from making pacifists, cowards, and sympathizers fight. In fact, they’d probably do more harm than good.

Arguing this point with a friend a few years ago, he replied, “Yeah, but then they’d have to be sent through boot camp and trained, so there would be a delay…”

What a remarkable thing to say. That delay will exist whether the enemy attacks and people volunteer, or whether the enemy attacks and people are drafted. The only way to prevent that is to have a perpetual conscription requirement, which some people have campaigned for, where every adult must spend 2 years in the military or Peace Corps or something. I’m obviously not a fan of such an idea.

The very idea is stomach-churning. By what right does the government kidnap me, put a gun in my hand, and tell me to go and die? Shouldn’t I be the person who gets to make the determination that a cause is worth fighting for? Why does the government get to make that decision for me? So let’s call it what it is: enslavement. Literal enslavement, at that.

If the government needs soldiers, then the government has two options. It can either enslave people against their will, or it can offer people more stuff to enlist. If the government really wanted my service, they could have upped their bonus to fifty thousand dollars. However, force is what people use when they don’t want to compete. So instead of competing with non-dangerous employment by offering me a better wage and better signing bonus, the government chooses instead to circumvent that whole process and simply kidnap and enslave me.

If it ever so happened that the government needed more soldiers, they wouldn’t take the obvious route of offering people more money and more perks. They may make some token effort of doing this–raising the signing bonus to $5500, for example, as though an extra $500 will entice many more people to risk their lives for Uncle Sam–but they wouldn’t put any serious effort into it. Why should they? They hold the ultimate trump card: force. They don’t have to compete with free market jobs if they don’t want to, and they don’t have to expend much effort trying to compete, because they can just force people to join.

It’s bad enough that the state enslaves us through taxation and steals a sizable chunk of the fruits of our labors for itself. Conscription, however, allows the state to take 100% of our labor and to dictate exactly what that labor is. Maybe it’s digging trenches in Europe and fighting people who haven’t done anything to you. Maybe it’s taking and abandoning one hill after another in Vietnam, where success is measured in body count rather than territory. With conscription, you belong to the state. Your life belongs to the state, and it can effectively order you to end your life.

Now American society is asking whether women and transgender people should be required to sign up for selective service. Obviously, the answer is “No.” Instead of asking whether this archaic vestige of state supremacy should be expanded, we should be pointing out that it has no place in anything that calls itself a free country. If the cause of a war is just to a person, then that person will enlist to fight it. If the cause is not just, then they won’t. We cannot steal this agency from people. Their lives don’t belong to us or to the government. We don’t get to tell them to go die for a cause they don’t think is just. We don’t get to kidnap and enslave them.

Sure, we have an all volunteer military right now. But we’re only one major terrorist attack away from throwing that away, and tradition won’t stop people when the cards are down. Other people generally have few qualms about throwing away other people’s lives. The draft isn’t just some idea. It’s an omnipresent threat to every American, that we are never more than a moment away from becoming slaves to the government, and being sent to die in other parts of the world. It must be abolished. We do not belong to the government, and our lives are not its to throw away.

Solving the Transgender Bathroom Thing Once and For All

First, I’m tired of hearing discussions about how transgender people will deal with restrooms, and how wider society will deal with transgender people dealing with restrooms, because the much more serious problems of how police deal with transgender people needs to be addressed first. Seriously, on the scale of priorities, “bathrooms” is way down on the last from “prison” and “jail.” Right now, transgender women are locked away in men’s cells and being treated as men by police officers, meaning that they’re regularly being molested and strip-searched by male officers, not to mention being placed–as women–into cell blocks filled with typically violent, horny men. And we’re discussing bathrooms. Again.

So I’m going to propose a solution that will decide the matter once and for all. It’s easy to implement, and it will permanently solve the problem. However, you’ll have to bear with me, because what will strike you as an extremely radical, possibly insane, idea will take some time to adjust to, but I think you’ll agree it’s the only way. So let’s not beat around the bush. What is the answer?

Co-Ed bathrooms.

I’m not joking.

First, it must be pointed out: what business does the state have recognizing anyone’s gender and forcing them into segregated areas based on that gender? We’ve done all this before, when people whose race was black were segregated off from people whose race was white. It’s just accepted still that it’s okay to do this in regard to gender, but it actually isn’t, and I think you’ll agree with me by the end of this. Just as governments, businesses, and people have no moral authority to segregate people based on race, neither do they have the moral authority to do so over gender. And here is where we meet our first hurdle:

“Ah, but boys and girls can have sex… You put a bunch of naked boys and girls in a bathroom together, and there’s no telling what will happen.”

And… No. That’s wrong.

In the 1890s, a psychologist named Ivan Pavlov did an experiment where he rang a bell each time before he fed his dog. It did not take long–a few weeks–for the dog to begin salivating any time the bell was wrong. It is called Classical Conditioning, and it is the phenomenon that we come to associate one thing with another. In the case of Pavlov, the dog associated the bell with food, and thus hearing the bell caused the dog to salivate.

I hate to break this to you, but we’ve all been conditioned to associate nudity with sex. Now, I’m not a nudist, and though I do enjoy wearing only a bra and shorts, I’m not comfortable enough in my skin to just run around naked all the time. This, too, is conditioning–I’ve been conditioned to think that there is something about my body that must be hidden, and in time I’ve become so accustomed to wearing clothing that not wearing clothing feels unnatural. In fact, there are generally only three instances during which a person isn’t wearing clothing:

  • When about to shower.
  • When changing clothes.
  • When about to have sex.

I would hazard the guess that the average person becomes inexplicably 25% more likely to masturbate or feel the urge to masturbate while changing clothes, but that is just a guess. The sound of running water and the location–the place where we, you know, use the bathroom–being a not-very-sexually-appealing-place surely override the other associations, so it often feels rather natural to stand naked in the bathroom while waiting on the shower to warm up or the tub to fill with water. Again, these feel normal because we’ve been doing it that way for twenty to sixty years. It would be weird if we did it some other way. I live alone, and it still feels weird on those occasions when I’ve removed all my clothes, am waiting on water to run, and have to run into the kitchen because I forgot my lighter or something. On a few occasions, I’ve even put some clothes back on before doing so, simply because it feels weird.

But why should it feel weird? We enter the world naked. If anything should feel weird, it should be wearing clothes. But we begin wearing clothes almost immediately, so any discomfort we experience from it happens when we are three months old. By the time we are old enough to really think about these things, we’ve become more comfortable, simply out of habit, with wearing clothes than not wearing clothes.

It’s my guess that the entire clothing thing began not because our species needed to keep warm–since we originally hailed from the plains of Africa–but because men with “lesser packages” wanted to hide that until after some sort of marriage or mating ceremony had been performed. I’m serious. Because clothing began with the loincloth, and between men and women it’s men who have something dangling out there with something to see. Is it really that hard to imagine that the entire trend began because a select group of men on the smaller side felt insecure, and so began wearing loincloths? I don’t think it’s that hard to imagine; in fact, I really do suspect that is how the entire ordeal started.

I mean, if you were a man in 150,000 BCE with limited machinery, wouldn’t you be quietly seething, angry, and thinking, “We should cover these up! It’s not proper! No one wants to see Big Jim flopping around all the time during his dance around the drum circle!”

Anywho.

My point is that there isn’t anything inherently sexual about nudity. In fact, it’s just the natural way for a human to exist: naked. We could make the case that we wear clothes because of cold weather, and there’s certainly something to that, though it wouldn’t have been a problem in the very, very beginning.

However, the only time you’re likely to see a naked person is either when you’re about to masturbate or when you’re about to have sex. At all other times, you and the other person are fully clothed. Think of “being naked” as the ringing bell, and think of sex as the food. We hear the ringing bell, and because we only hear the ringing bell when we’re about to eat the food, we’ve become conditioned to associate the ringing bell with about to eat. So any time we see nudity now, in almost any context, it brings up sexual thoughts. Don’t believe me?

Don’t even try to say that you felt no arousal whatsoever when you saw the above picture. I did, you did, everyone did. There might even be some 15 year old kid reading this and masturbating to it right now, and why? Because we’ve been conditioned to associate nudity with sex.

So of course, yes, if you took three naked boys and three naked girls and put them in a closed room together, they would almost certainly end up having sex. Because even seeing the other sex naked will make them excited, and the next thing you know, yes, they’ll be having sex. But, again, these people have already been conditioned. We have to think of a world where that conditioning doesn’t exist. We have to think of a world where nudity isn’t automatically associated with sex.

And, thankfully, nudist colonies and beaches provide us with those examples.

I’m not going to find any links because many of these sites show a lot of children and teenagers in completely non-sexual images, yet they do appear naked. But even a fourteen year old girl and a fourteen year old boy who find themselves alone on a nude beach don’t have sex, because that conditioning has already been broken. To them, it’s just like seeing the other person in clothes; it’s not sexual.

So what bathroom should transgender people use? The same bathroom everyone else uses.

Schools across the country should implement co-ed bathrooms on a curve, year by year: the first year, it’s kindergarten. The next year, it’s kindergarten and first grade. The next, it’s kindergarten, first, and second grade. Then, it’s kindergarten, first, second, and third grade. And that should repeat until those kids who broke the association of “nudity = about to get laid” in kindergarten would be college students, and colleges would adopt the same policies, starting with those once-kindergarteners who are now freshmen, and continuing until they graduate. Within only 16 years, we will have completely solved the problem, and done society a tremendous amount of good in the process.

For example, as Jim Sterling points out in one of his videos, penises are considered okay to appear in popular media. There is a game on Steam right now called “Floppy Penis Attack” or something like that, where your goal is to play as a floppy penis putting your head in another floppy penis’s anus while avoiding getting a floppy penis in your anus. It’s considered funny. Haha, floppy penises.

Yet at the same time, Watch Dogs 2 explicitly apologizes and issues a patch because one of the female NPCs in their game actually had a vagina that, if you killed her in the right way, players could actually see. The moral of the story? Penises are okay, vaginas are not. Breasts face the same kind of crap. Men can go totally shirtless and it’s no problem at all, even if they have manboobs that make me feel insecure about my boobs. But a woman with even the smallest cup size isn’t allowed to go shirtless. Again, it’s because of classical conditioning: we’ve been conditioned to associate vaginas and breasts with sex.

If you want to talk true egalitarianism, then this is how it is implemented. It’s not implemented by laughing at the floppy wieners and frothing at the mouth over a poorly drawn vagina.

This is an artificial vagina.

Just like Jim uses artificial penises in his gags quite often, the artificial vagina is perfectly normal, and perfectly acceptable. There’s nothing more sexual about the vagina than the penis. And there’s nothing explicitly sexual about either; it’s only because we only bring them about when we’re about to have sex that we’ve come to associate them solely with sex.

So if you really want to fix the transgender bathroom thing, the double standards on nudity, and all the other silly crap that should really take a backseat to the transgender women thrown into male prisons where they are raped a reported two thousand times, then this is the way you do it. That’s the plan. Co-ed bathrooms, starting at kindergarten, and going up each year until nudity is normalized.

I’m not saying that we should accept people running around naked in the streets. But hey, if they want to, why shouldn’t they be able to? By that point, no one would care, and no one would think, “Oh my god, there’s a naked chick jogging! She must be looking for sex!” because that association will have been broken.

And that association needs to be broken, because we’re talking about freaking bathrooms, where people go to piss and shit–bodily functions that are gross, unappealing, and unavoidable. No one is thinking about getting laid when they’re squatting over the toilet or standing at the urinal. No one. And no one wants to have sex with someone who is squatting over the toilet or standing at the urinal. We would know this, if we hadn’t gotten so far wrapped up in our conditioning that we’ve simply come to accept it as truth and as the way things naturally are.

But things naturally aren’t that way. Break the conditioning, and all of this crap stops being an issue entirely.

I realize that you, the person reading this, have similarly been conditioned to associate nudity with sex, and this may very well make it extremely difficult for you to separate the two things even theoretically. But I promise you that it’s possible, and that we have countless examples of people doing exactly that. Again, I’m not going to provide links, but fifteen minutes on Google will teach you everything you need to know about nudism. And, once more, I’m no nudist, but they’re correct. We only associate sex with nudity because we’ve been conditioned to, just like Pavlov’s dog only associates the bell with food because the dog has been conditioned to.

So just stop conditioning the dog.

Defending a Previous Post: Sociology isn't a Hard Science

I read an article earlier about how the claim that the alt-right is a response to SJWism is one that has no evidence to support it, so I wanted to take the time to defend the assertion. However, it must be observed that sociology and the study of culture are not hard sciences, and a demand for confirming evidence of such claims isn’t quite fair. Why?

Because we can’t provide any evidence to back the assertion that the Civil Rights Movement was a response to decades of racial abuse of a white majority against a black minority. “It’s common sense, though!” right? Maybe, but there’s no evidence to support the claim, and there never can be.

We can point to specific events in the lives of Martin Luther King, Jr. and use it as evidence to say, “This example of racial discrimination spurred his action,” but that’s a far cry from being evidence for our generalized statement. Similarly, we can’t provide evidence for the statement that Rosa Parks was a part of the Civil Rights Movement because of systemic racial abuses; we can only provide evidence for the statement that Parks was a part of the Civil Rights Movement because she was not happy with how buses treated black Americans. The generalized statement that she participated because of various abuses cannot be substantiated.

This is, in fact, the essence of sociology, and the reason I titled the article as I did. When discussing the alt-right, we can only point to specific individuals and the reasons those individuals give to gather direct evidence. If we then want to extrapolate from their stated reasons and generalize an underlying current, then that current, by its very nature, cannot be demonstrated and can, by the people from which it was extrapolated, always be denied.

What if MLK Jr. pointed only to specific injustices he had suffered as the reasons for his involvement, and what if Parks, Malcolm X, and others did the same? Anyone who stated that the CRM was a response to widespread abuses would be unable to provide evidence for that claim; only specific events applying to specific people can have evidence. If they denied that they were motivated by general abuses, rather than specific ones, we would be unable to prove otherwise.

So the best we can do is provide indirect evidence for the claim, and even this will be tenuous, as all soft science evidence is. Once more, to summarize, this is because sociology consists entirely of taking individual and specific examples and extrapolating patterns. This involves evaluating numerous alt-rightists and their stated reasons, and combing through those reasons for unifying themes.

This doesn’t mean that we should be ready to accept any sociology claim without scrutiny and substantiating evidence, but it tells us quite a lot about what kind of evidence even can be presented, and what forms the evidence will take. As another example, Friedrich Hayek’s The Road to Serfdom is filled with allegations and sociological explanations, yet it contains not one piece of hard evidence that a society of people “falling for the promises” of central planners will produce serfdom. By its very nature, all such evidence will be anecdotal.

Sorry for the small image.

Before we continue, it has been stated elsewhere that making this assertion is “waving off” the alt-right. I disagree entirely. Just as explaining a murderer’s motive is not excusing his crime, neither is explaining a political movement’s undercurrent waving it aside. The catalysts that created the alt-right are still there and, clearly, still problems. It serves us well to know how the whole thing came about, and this passes no judgment on the value of what, exactly, came about. I could tell someone that “Bob murdered his wife because she was having an affair” without expressing any disdain over Bob’s actions or motive, and without expressing any sympathy with Bob because of his motives. The statement imparts no approval or disapproval; it is simply a statement of motive.

It’s not hard to hop on over to YouTube and find alt-right people like Mark Dice, Milo Yuanwhateveris, The Non-Believer, Autopsy87, and Atheism is Unstoppable to find out exactly why these people went from “whatever they were” to alt-rightists. Only on very are occasions will they outright state their reasons for switching political ideologies, and this makes sense: I’m not sure that I could state the clear, objective reasons that I migrated from Republican conservatism at 15~ to Democrat to Communist to Libertarian to Anarchist, either. It’s a slow process of gradual change. Nor can I point to any specific moment when I went from “agnostic”–as people say, though it’s a misnomer–to atheist. Most atheists can’t, because we sort of just notice at some point down the line that we no longer believe in any deity. There’s usually no epiphany, and no story to tell. Just a gradual series of small evolutionary changes [pun intended].

My movement from Democrat to Communist, for example, was primarily because of the great Obama Betrayal, who won the Nobel Peace Prize and campaigned on the promise of bringing us peace, only to merrily continue the wars of his predecessor and starting several of his own. Around this same time, I watched Zeitgeist, which does contain some truth [more is the pity–sorry, my close parenthesis key is broken], and happily went on to Zeitgesit: Addendum and Zeitgeist: Moving Forward. The proposed Communist solutions sat well with me and made sense, but something about them didn’t sit right. I can tell you exactly what that “something” was: the assertion that “people don’t care about owning a good; they only care about being able to use a good… No one really cares whether or not they own a boat; they only want the ability to use a boat.” It made this claim as a way of justifying its communal property idea, but it never sat right with me.

It is, as one might say, “utter bullshit.”

It’s almost the exact opposite of what is true. In the majority of cases, people don’t care at all about using the good in question; they just want to own it. Can I provide evidence for this statement? No, because it’s a sociological one–it’s an extrapolation of some people’s identified behavior and an evaluation of the underlying current that unites the various exhibited behaviors. My brother-in-law, for example, owns a boat that he has never used. My landlord has a boat sitting in the yard that no one has used in at least a decade. Four wheelers, backhoes, boats–even my grandmother owns a tractor that she has never, ever used as long as I’ve been alive, and neither has anyone else. I have absolutely no doubt that we can all point to people who clearly just want to be able to say that they own something, and who don’t seem to care about actually using that thing.

Similarly, we could probably point to people, per Zeitgeist‘s claims, who don’t actually care about owning the thing, and who would just like to be able to use it. What are the numbers here? It’s unknown, really. All we can do is take partial surveys, and we can attempt to eliminate as much bias as possible, but in the end we can’t poll all 7 billion people on the planet. At absolute best, we could probably poll 150,000,000, at significant expense, but even then we wouldn’t be able to provide any hard evidence that it was actually scientifically sound to extrapolate from those one hundred fifty million and assume that the same pattern will hold true for seven billion.

I can go to the aforementioned Youtubers’ pages, after all, and carefully identify their stated and unstated reasons for being alt-right, and I could provide direct evidence to support the claims of why these particular people are alt-right. Mark Dice is alt-right because he is a fundamentalist Christian who believes the Satanic Illuminati is conquering the world, and using Satanic Hollywood to push its liberal agenda onto us. I could, in fact, then say that “The alt-right arose because fundamentalist Christians believe that globalism and modern liberalism are the work of Satan.” When pressed for direct evidence of this assertion, I could only point to Mark Dice and maybe a select few other people.

This would be woefully inadequate, though. The sample size is simply too small. Extrapolating from one single person onto an entire political movement is obviously folly, like polling one person prior to the election, having that person say that he thinks Trump will win, and then releasing the report that “Trump will win with 100% of the vote!” It would obviously be folly.

Before going further, I must again point out that we are always dealing with generalizations, and that anyone who would take a generalization and apply it as though the person using it meant it absolutely is using a deceitful and manipulative tactic. I might say “Dogs are good pets,” which is a generalized statement. Someone might say, “I guess you didn’t read about the pit bull that ate six kids. lol. Idiot.” This is a very common tactic, and it’s obviously deceitful, used to make the responder look like the one who is correct by, basically, shouting the loudest. My last article on the alt-right left plenty of room for exceptions, and stated so repeatedly regarding libertarians [though it still led to someone criticizing the statement “most of the libertarians that I know” as incorrect, even though the caveat is right there–“that I know”], but I’m on the record as pointing this out previously: we are never dealing in absolutes.

When we do go to various alt-right Youtubers, we do find a number underlying trends:

Hatred of political correctness and PC culture. I myself have criticized political correctness and the demonization of hate speech on several occasions, but I’m not alt-right. Clearly, this isn’t enough to warrant someone being alt-right.

Acceptance of LGB, but hatred of transgenderism. I’m not sure that there’s actually any acceptance of lesbians, gays, and bisexuals going on; I think instead that they’re simply accepting of LGB conservatives, in the same way that Democrats and outspoken LGBTQ groups are only accepting of LGBTQ liberals. However, even accepting LGB, the alt-right still has major hatred for transgenderism, to the extent that it’s almost a dead giveaway that someone is alt-right.

Criticism of BLM. Again, I have criticized Black Lives Matter as being racist, and it’s a statement that I have demonstrated. By definition, yes, BLM is racist.

Acceptance of police brutality. “The police are good guys. If they shoot you, you must have deserved it.” This ties into the above point, especially when a white person is shot, and they immediately start clamoring, “Where is BLM speaking up for this white kid who was killed?” Conversely, they may use this examples of police brutality against white people to write off the concerns of BLM. The Non-Believer has a video that does this, by showing a lot of police brutality against white people, he attempted to undermine the claims that police use brutality with racist motives by ignoring the brutality and addressing the racist part.

Male/Straight/White Pride. This is the indicator. This is, by a wide margin, the single best identifier of who is alt-right and who isn’t. It’s not universal–I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mark Dice talk of Male Pride, Straight Pride, or White Pride. So let me clarify this point–

They play identity politics, but as white people, straight people, or male people. Mark Dice has done this, repeatedly, by pointing out that Twitter turns a blind eye to racism committed by black people while banning any white person who says something racist. He does an excellent job of documenting such actions, and I’d almost say that Mark Dice isn’t really alt-right but just kinda exists in his own political group. Instead of arguing that the speaker’s skin color shouldn’t be a factor when determining whether they said something race, Dice argues that people with black skin color should be treated the same way. Again, it’s like my MLK point; it may have the same short-term result, but “how we get there” is critically important, as the method dictates the long-term result because it keeps skin color as a factor.

It is hard to provide any direct evidence that the alt-right is a reactionary movement to SJWism, because… it’s just kinda what happened. We all saw it. I’m more shocked that it has to be explained than anything, because… didn’t we all watch it happen, live, in real time? Didn’t we all hear the same complaints raised, the same objections, the same points? Didn’t we all notice the revulsion of Political Correctness with widespread usages of “nigga,” “fag,” and so on? Didn’t we all notice the “Proud White Male” bumper stickers? Not displayed publicly, of course, on vehicles or anything. No, certainly not–in the backgrounds of people’s videos.

How shall I explain that a circle is round?

We all saw the rise of identity politics on the left. Hell, identity politics has altogether conquered the left, to the point that the left has no other argument to make for itself and its positions. All they have left is identity politics; it’s the only card they have left to play. Democrats have stopped trying to argue for their ideology–whatever it once was–and now simply call everyone who isn’t a Democrat homophobic, Islamophobic, xenophobic, transphobic, or some other kind of phobic. We all watched this happen–live, in real time. I don’t recall seeing anyone try to make an argument for Hillary Clinton in the year-long fiasco that was the 2016 election. All I saw was people saying that if you didn’t vote for Hillary, you couldn’t call yourself an ally. All I saw was people calling other people “race traitors” for not supporting Hillary.

Again, all I can do is point to specific occurrences, and I’ve done so in the past, so I won’t do so again. Infowars brought us the video of a [white, it may be worth mentioning here] Hillary supporter calling a black man a race traitor for supporting Trump. They threw away all pretense of trying to argue for their candidate; instead it was, “We’ll just call everyone else names.” This isn’t uncommon.

We all saw it, right? No, it wasn’t universal and unanimous, but, generally, it was definitely true. And this is just the worst; it has been going on for a very long time. It was predicted, in fact, that there would rise a white, male, straight, Christian identity group to combat the left’s identity groups. I made the prediction in 2012 as I Over E, though that site has long been gone. Anyone watching should have been able to figure it out; it was right there, as plain as day. Why would people expect anything else to happen?

It is the same underlying trend that caused me to predict Trump’s victory as early as December 2015, and the same underlying trend that caused me to predict an upcoming civil war. I’m sorry to say, but it’s all right there, plain as day for anyone to look. There’s no hard evidence, no, because it’s impossible to provide hard evidence for generalized statements that were extrapolated from specific instances. Such is the nature of sociology. The writing is on the wall; one either sees it, or one doesn’t.

This Week in the Patriarchy…? Jessica Valenti, You Lunatic

Before I get too deeply into this foaming-at-the-mouth lunacy, I want to briefly turn to the definition of patriarchy, which Google, of course, handily provides:

Hm. Well, that was pretty cut-and-dry. As can easily be seen from the actual definition of the word, the United States is not a patriarchy. That Jessica Valenti would, in her liberal-soaked hysteria, resort to using such an inapplicable word to describe the situation in the United States serves as a wonderful example of exactly what is wrong with modern “progressives” and why Democrats just lost the election. So let me put it briefly.

Liberals, in case you haven’t noticed, you are preaching to the choir, and everyone who isn’t in your choir is absolutely sick of your raving, hyperbolic, nonsensical bullshit; everyone except dyed-in-the-wool Democrats are already sick and tired of the false dichotomy world you have attempted to craft, where either women are uncontestedly dominant or we live in a patriarchy, where any act of racism against a black person represents an oppressive neo-Nazi system, but where your frequent attacks against white people, men, and Christians go unchallenged by your very own condemnations of racism, sexism, and religious discrimination.

Yes, this, liberals, is exactly what you are doing wrong, and you are continuing to do it as though it didn’t just cost you the presidency, the Supreme Court, the House of Representatives, the Senate, a record number of governorships, and control of every single Federal three-letter agency. This psychosis–because no other word adequately describes it–that you are creating and fostering where either “Republicans lose” or “[We are now under] [t]extbook fascism!” This insanely polarized world where either “Regardless of the outcome, we need to work to mend and heal… as long as Hillary wins” or “Fuck you, you racist, misogynist pieces of shit, [White America],” and where we either have a matriarchy–which we obviously don’t–or we have a patriarchy.

That’s the true danger underlying this insane dribble that these people are putting forward, I’ve talked about it at length and in podcasts, in articles, in videos–everywhere. They can’t even comprehend that we might live in a world where there is neither a patriarchy nor a matriarchy, where things aren’t perfect for either sex, and where men have some advantages and women have some advantages. In their minds, we are not living in a matriarchy, and thus, we must be living in a patriarchy.

Let’s talk for a moment about the liberal idea that a person’s gender shouldn’t matter. Now let’s bask in the anger that “liberals” are displaying because that “glass ceiling didn’t shatter.” Excuse me… You can either say that gender shouldn’t matter, or you can say that it sucks a woman didn’t win the presidency. You can’t say both, because, unlike so many of the black-and-white false dichotomies you throw our way, this actually is exclusive: either something matters or it doesn’t. If gender doesn’t matter, then there is no glass ceiling, as it is utterly and completely irrelevant what gender the person is when they are elected President.

And going as far as saying that we are a patriarchy because we have a male president–allow me to ask, then, would that make us a matriarchy if Hillary had won? Of course not. Anyway, that aside, liberals have, again, moved the goal posts, and this is what is destroying the Progressive movement. You can argue that gender shouldn’t matter, or you can be upset that a vagina didn’t win the presidency. It’s a true dichotomy, and the way you moved the goalpost while pretending you are still fighting for the same equality and egalitarianism that began with the Civil Rights Movement is precisely why you’ve bled support.

It’s not because the White Supremacist, capitalist patriarchal oligarchy fought back.

It’s because you went from “Gender, race, and orientation shouldn’t matter” to “We want a matriarchy! Black supremacy! Special benefits for LGBT people!”

You know what? I already made a video about this subject. So I’ll just end this article now and post it here. It’s long, so grab a cup of coffee or tea, a cigarette, get comfortable, and watch.