Gender Madness

I was in Berlin for business some years ago, and in my free time I was visiting the place using the public transport.

On the Berliner S-Bahn, a human being sat opposite me, and I could not make my mind whether “it” was a man or a woman.

It was, probably, the future.

Endowed with manboobs that could have been real – if very ugly – boobs, “it” sported a masculine haircut in John Wayne style. The expression was fully neutral, and deprived of that angry, vaguely aggressively look you never fail to notice in the fat lesbian, at least when you notice she is a lesbian; a fat lesbian who will also generally accompany her bitchy attitude with other distinctive signs of the breed: extremely short hair, or tattoos, or a general air of “I don't give a damn what you think of me”. (I think extremely bad of you still, dude).

At the same time, “it” had a clearly delicate skin, such as I had never noticed in a man. His facial traits were not masculine, but not feminine either. He looked in the void with an expression fully unable to express any feminine or masculine trait.

I continued to observe this freak show as closely as I could without being noticed, sure that I would have found some sign allowing me to clearly state whether that strangest of being was a strange man or a strange dyke. I did not dare to ask, as I did not want to be unkind to a person who might simply be un-feminine or not masculine, but perfectly straight otherwise (a phenomenon rather spread in Germany).

I could find any answer. The person remained a riddle. Ten good minutes of observation were not enough to find an answer. To this day, I haven't made my mind as to what it was. Never have I experienced the like again: not even here in London, where freak shows abound; but you see, they are willing freak shows, whilst the other one seemed utterly oblivious of his/her/its own disquieting strangeness and with no desire to advertise any particular agenda. The episode left me puzzled and mildly shocked, like seeing an animal that is either a strange dog or a strange cat, but none of the two.

It never happened to me again; but it is very clear to me that gender confusion is on the march. The number of people walking around London who, whilst clearly being males, do not walk, talk, or behave as such is clearly on the rise.

They are invariably young; they dress in ways meant to let them look ephebic; they speak in a hushed, soft manner, and gesticulate in a delicate way. They walk as they were afraid to thread the ground, often with inward-looking feet. The obvious, eternal signs of manliness are clearly not there, and by that I do not mean walking like a gorilla and spread one's legs like an aspiring street criminal, but simply the quiet assertiveness, the implicit strength a man will put in everything he does. Look at not only the way of walking and talking, but at the different way a man and a woman even take a glass from a table and you'll know what I mean.

These people cannot be all fags. Some of them certainly are, but the phenomenon is far too spread.

What I think they are is: the sons of single mothers.

Grown up without a father, and probably very often without any male relatives near them; now largely deprived of male teachers; bombarded with an image of the male that all too often conjures an idiot, a good for nothing, or a pleasant servant of his wife (cue countless movies, or TV ads), these poor boys grow up unwittingly absorbing not only some of the mannerisms of the women around them, but the general outlook toward life. Gone is the assertiveness, the chutzpah, the dominant attitude; in come the sensitive attitude, the soft tones, the walking on eggs, the espousing of the most stupid causes, the support for she males of all sorts, and the increase of uncertainties about their own identity.

A mother can't really say “man up!” to his own boy. She is very unlikely to pat him on the shoulder when he dared to confront a bully, or to cross fists with some minor idiot. She will probably not encourage him to be competitive, to give his best, to win and be proud, to lose and do better; least of all, she will teach him to be proud for his black eye.

How will, then, these poor boys grow? In a world deprived of manliness. Of course, many of them will grow up to be straight. But it will be the uncertain, or at least the weak straightness of mama's boy, the sensitive attitude of the sissy, the castrated vision of the world that sees in men a problem, and an enemy in patriarchy.

How such a sissy can be of any satisfaction, or give any real assurance of security, to a woman who is not a flame-throwing drake is beyond me. Nor will even the drake be ever satisfied with the sissy, because God has made things so that two dysfunctional individuals will never make for a functional marriage.

And so we see more and more of them, the faggot-trousered, sissy-coiffured boys walking on eggs, with inward bent feet; talking like girls, because they don't know any better.

Have pity of them. They are the last victims of the feminist culture of emancipation.

M