#and his ilk are predatory toward men

[ryukisgod]

I’m begging men who pay “dating coaches” to realise women are not the fish, women are the bait, YOU are the fish, and the “dating coaches” are the fishermen.

“Dating gurus” survive on the desperate men who pay them, the way a fisherman survives off the fish he catches. Women are the lures these podcasters/YouTubers etc dangle in front of lonely men in order to get them to sign up for a course and hand over their credit card details

[tyrinnissylvante]

Origins: No Light Without Darkness

The crowd atop the arena's bleachers were quiet as the four individuals rose up the mechanized platform on its track. Tyrinnis twisted her dual eyes across them, panning over the faces that stared at the group with anger, fear, and the occasional awestruck. They hadn't expected her and her companions to survive. 

Those they had defeated were on the opposite end, prone with their own wounds, each one laboriously breathing. One gruff man narrowed his eyes at the woman as their eyes met, her knitted brow of instinctive concern was met with nothing but distaste from the wounded. Of course, how else would he look at her? But he was alive, and she was content with this. 

The woman stretched herself to stand at her fullest height, switching her glowing staff to the right hand now and planting it into the stone beside her leather boot. The violet robes cast across her form swept around her feminine form, contrasted by her long strand of braided locks that whipped around her shoulder and clung to the contour of her chest and torso. 

"Errol," she spoke softly, her tone kept quiet as not to alarm him, accent trilling over the full plum lips that pursed with her companion's name. "Perhaps now would be the best time to put your wordsmithing to work?" The sound of metal clanking could be heard somewhere around the arena, but what concerned her more was the fact her friend didn't reply. 

She turned a concerned look over to the human at her left. Errol's was panting, turning away from one of the others and sweeping his brow of the damp sweat. In one smooth motion, she watched his broad arm swiftly grab at his dagger, a spell preparing in the opposite into a defensive position. The man's rugged profile the was focused on something else in front of them. 

Her gaze trailed after his, looking at the bulk of a Norn approaching them in spiked black leather. His low voice echoed across the stone with nothing but amusement at the pests in front of him. "They were weak!" his heavy baritone commanded. "Now you will face me, a true champion! And you -will- fall!"

"We will not," Tyrinnis interrupted the man, stepping forward with a confident narrow of her eyes on the man. "You will suffer for your sacrilege! The Gods would not bless us to see us falter, and you, as with others of your ilk, will die this day unless you take the knee to divine justice." 

The slaves were silent. Her companions were silent. The lieutenants were silent. "Yeah!" Errol yelled out to compliment Tyrinnis' claim. Excellent wordsmithing indeed. He stepped up beside her, his blood and sweat pulling at his chin, the gash at the side of his cheek a concern that the woman noted almost instinctively, but this was not the moment to be distracted. 

"Ha!" The commander let out with an exhaled laugh. "Ha! Ha ha ha!" He guffawed once more. "And who is going to stop me? You're all worthless, and now you will bow before me and -I- will be your God, woman!" But he didn't move toward her with his sword. Instead, it turned with an unforgiving pierce into the nearby lieutenant's chest. The man on the ground gurgled up blood, the crimson spewing out of his helmet. 

The group gasped almost simultaneously. Each reacted in their own way. One knocked an arrow and let it loose, one gripped their hammer and cast a boon on its strike, and Errol... he ran forward with a predatory growl that nearly surprised the woman had she not been in a brief shock for the commander's disregard. 

It was much to her own surprise that she abandoned her group then, rushing over with a quick run to the man that was bleeding at the edge of the platform. It was everywhere, pooling around her as she dropped to both knees. The staff fell from her right hand, both arms stretching outward to embrace the man against her own chest, staunching the wound with the violet robed breasts. "You will not die this day," she assured him with a determined whisper. 

Light developed around her, even as she felt him slipping into the dark void beyond this realm. But she still held him, the man dying in her arms. He hadn't deserved such fate, this betrayal, following his path as he saw best. Even with his last breath, she kept him held against her, summoning more of that healing light that fell in waves, cascading from her form like a tempest of restorative magic, drowning the man in it. "Gods bless me, should you ever... this one deliverance. Just once," she cooed, her bottom lip quivering, proverbial beating heart sharing with his still one. 

Then, he took a breath once more, pulled from the precipice of death and revived in the light's baptism. She took one as well, panting as she pulled back to look into his eyes, those silvers almost as surprised as he was. The woman peeled back his helmet as if to confirm what had just happened, meeting him face to face now both in reverence of the miracle. 

The Gods had granted her a resurrection, but at what cost? 

That answer came almost immediately. "Bitch!" she heard the commander behind her, the clank of his armor having been drowned out by her magic. She was helpless to stop him, his large hand grabbing the right side of her skull, metallic digits slinging her left and into the nearby stone pillar. Crack! Was that her skull breaking? Then the high pitched tone that pierced her mind. It was all she could hear as a bright light flashed in her vision, leaving her blinded and sinking down onto the floor. 

"Errol!" she wanted to call out to him, but all that was with her now was the ringing in her head. Everything was foggy, the blur of her friend's form dancing in the distance as she lulled to the side of the stone pillar, clawing her bare hands for the staff that was just outside of her reach. 

A rumble was heard, the stone shaking beneath them with the haunting low whir that sent shivers through the ground. Crack! The platform snapped somewhere, the sound of it coming deafening and high-pitched, throbbing head sending her into a drunken sway. She felt the hands, two, then four, then six. Each of them grasping for her, collapsing their hold around her arms, torso, and eventually her legs and lifting her away from the collapsing platform. She was safe. Her friends were too. 

But the realization came too late. "You saved us, we're saving you," the unfamiliar voice assured her with its own unrecognizable accent.  The armored men slinging her into one of their pairs of arms. A faint view of the others came in a slow-motioned dream, the outline of Errol erupting into a spurt of crimson beneath the blade of the commander. She couldn't reach him, her bare right hand reaching its long caramel digits for him. Her white magic coalescing faintly over her fingertips, preparing the spell. 

Before she could cast, the collapse came with a roar opening up the earth beneath and swallowing everyone she knew in one with her enemy. It left nothing but a black blurry pit that overwhelmed her senses. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. She heard nothing but the ringing, the screaming, then... silence. 

[lifeaftermeteor]

New York, New York 205 December 24

Relena followed Narantsetseg into their shared suit in the Upper East, the other woman having arrived with the ESUN staff motorcade just a few minutes prior.  “How was the flight in?” she asked as she shut door shut behind her.  She tailed the other woman into the adjoining bedroom and took a seat in the armchair by the wall.

“Awful,” the other woman replied with a groan as she heaved her suitcase onto the chest at the foot of her bed and beginning to unpack.  “But then, it’s always awful when you’re traveling commercial.  You?  How was your vacation?”

Relena pursed her lips into a thin line.  “It was good.  My friends are doing well.  Met some new acquaintances.”

The woman shot her a knowing glance over her shoulder.  “Get to enjoy the NYC nightlife without the press tailing you?”

“Perhaps,” Relena replied, fighting a grin.  After a moment, she stood and moved toward the door.  “I’ll put some coffee on.  I picked up our gowns yesterday.  Yours is in your closet already.”

“Thanks love.  I’ll be out in a bit.”

Relena moved through the suite and into the small kitchenette, pulling down two coffee cups from the small cabinet overhead.  She filled the small coffee machine’s water reservoir and checked the auto-fed pod supply to ensure it had been restocked before pressing the ‘brew’ button.  She leaned back against the kitchenette’s bar and drummed her fingers against the countertop while she waited.  Her thoughts kept drifting backward in time to the previous day and the very long night that preceded it.  The catharsis of letting go for just a day was proving exceptionally difficult to shake and transitioning back into her official self felt like an unwieldy challenge.

Narantstseg returned as the coffee machine beeped to alert them that their drinks were ready.  They each grabbed a cup as the older woman passed Relena her tablet.  “We got the attendee list.  Finally,” she explained.  “Should be the first thing up.”

Relena turned the device on and began to skim the document that appeared.  It held all the names and titles of the usual cast of characters.  Political elites, business entrepreneurs, local talent.  She glared down at the tablet as if it was somehow at fault for her having to attend yet another one of these functions.  In her opinion, they all swirled around giving the older generation too much credit than they were worth while ignoring the work happening in the trenches.  At least she had Narantsetseg this time.  They could stand in the back and quietly judge from afar.

The thought made her smile but when she flipped to the last page of the document, she drew up short.  “Preventers?”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Narantsetseg nod.  “Yes, the President thought it appropriate given the ten-year anniversary of the ceasefire this week.”

A wise political move, Relena thought and began to read the names hoping that perhaps Sally had made the cut.  But then—

Mr. Wufei Zhang, Deputy Director, New York City Branch Office

“Sonuvabitch.”

Narantsetseg snorted into her coffee.  “That’s a rather severe reply,” she said once she’d recovered.

Relena flushed and looked up at her.  “Sorry – it’s just – I just met this man the other day and he said nothing about coming to the gala.”

There was the briefest pause, and when Narantsetseg spoke next, the protective streak was on full display.  “Is that a problem?”

“No, no definitely not,” Relena assured, her brain already spinning with sudden excitement.  She hadn’t expected to see him again so soon.  She had to prepare.  And then her thoughts turned to her gown and her optimism fell.  She glanced back toward her room, deflated.  The dress she’d picked was understated – a pale blue with classic lines and a modest neckline.

Sensing her distress, Narantsetseg asked, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just…I have to go shopping.  The dress I have won’t suffice for the evening any longer.”

Relena watched a slow, predatory grin appear on the other woman’s face, her eyes sparkling.  “Than what would ‘suffice?’”

Taking a deep breath and setting aside the tablet, Relena declared, “Narantsetseg, I’m going to war tonight.”

The other woman laughed heartily and set aside her coffee, a new mission acquired.  “Then let’s go find you one that will let you raze cities to the ground and crush men’s souls.”

Relena walked into the opulent banquet hall wearing a gown of stardust. [1]  Head high and shoulders back, she strode into the ballroom carrying all the power and rebellion of her generation.  Cameras flashed and diplomats greeted her with kind words and wayward eyes – the dress left little to the imagination and served as a reminder to those that knew her that little girl Darlian was long gone.

But she wasn’t here for them, in truth.  Relena moved through the crowd with a grace and political poise artfully constructed, piece by exquisite piece, through years in the spotlight.  She slipped in and out of policy debates, familial gossip, and as many questions on her dress as her work.  As she navigated the masses, she searched for her actual target.

She eventually found him on the second floor leaning against the balcony, observing the machinations of ESUN policy from afar.  As she approached, she recognized the way his eyes locked with hers: it was taking conscious effort not to look elsewhere.  She smiled sweetly at him.  “Agent Zhang.”

“Ma’am,” came the clipped response.

“You clean up nicely,” she told him.  And in truth he did, his tuxedo all clean lines and a slim cut.

“You don’t look half bad yourself.”

She felt herself bristle instinctively, years of etiquette training going into override at the…challenge?  Disdain?  No, no… She knew better now and watched the muscles his jaw clench as he looked away, his eyes returning to the partygoers in the ballroom below.  No, it’s an opening.  Forcing traditional decorum to the sidelines, she allowed herself a dry laugh.  “Good to know I’m not the only one that feels out of place,” she admitted, taking a furtive look around.  A few curious glances, but nothing too concerning.

“You don’t look out of place,” he murmured, his voice betraying his sincerity while his eyes still avoiding hers.

There it was, she thought.  The closest she’d get to a compliment in public.  It was more than enough.  “Thank you,” Relena told him, her words earnest, “but it took years of practice, often reluctant.  Besides, none of this pageantry can really compare to yesterday.”

Wufei’s dark eyes looked up at that, considering the admission of her own discomfort but choosing not to engage.  Instead he said, “I imagine getting covered in neon powder is rather memorable.”

“I was talking about the chocolate chip pancakes actually.”

This earned her an incredulous laugh from Wufei as he shook his head and took a sip of champagne to avoid responding as he recovered.  She smiled back.  After a beat she moved to stand closer, joining his surveillance of the crowd, and asked, “So why would the Deputy Branch Director be avoiding the fray tonight?”

At the question, he sobered.  “I was thinking.”

“Of?”

“The President made a statement condemning the protests in the colonies,” he replied.  “I had the…sick feeling that we’ve been here before.  We know how it ends.”

Relena happened to agree with him, but heard herself say, “He only has a few days left.”

“So we should consider it a success if he leaves without starting a war.  But who says the one coming in after him will be any better?”

Her thoughts flashed to Michael Reuson and felt a glimmer of hope.  Maybe, maybe if he can win… But she shook her head, trying another tack.  “Regardless of what the President may think personally, the statement itself was condemning the violence alone, not the right to organize, not the right to protest.”

Wufei considered this a moment and said, “I could argue the ‘intent vs. semantics’ angle but we’ll leave that one alone for now.  At what point does the right to oppose the system which oppresses you become something illegal?  When does it change from an ethical requirement to resist to violence?  When you face a line of police in riot gear?  When you throw back a tear gas grenade that they threw first?  Does someone have to die first?”

“Violence of any sort should be discouraged,” Relena replied.  “People should be allowed and protected to say what they think – even when it’s bigoted or ethically wrong – but they also should accept the consequences of those statements.  You impose punitive measures on a colonial economy you should expect resistance.  You burn cars and vandalize businesses, you should expect jail time.”

“So…physical or financial injury.  To one or the other side.”

She sensed a trap.  Hesitantly, she answered, “Yes.”

He thought about this for a moment before asking, “What about mental injury?”

This gave her pause. “How do you mean?”

“Select ESUN officials argue that the L5 diaspora within their national borders pose the single greatest threat to national stability since the war,” he explained, avoiding naming names in the present company.  “They say we’re the remnants of an extremist group that blew up their own people to make a point.  We had a chance at home, and we wasted it.  We don’t get another.”

Relena noted the use of ‘we.’  They were no longer speaking in theoreticals.  She ground her teeth and said another silent prayer that the upcoming election would turn the tide away from repeating history.  “The President and his ilk who think along such lines are jingoistic idiots.”

Wufei smirked at her, an acknowledgement of the solidarity.  “I happen to agree with you, but there are a lot of people out there – including several in this room – who feel the same way he does.”

“A government cracks down on dissent, which leads to violence and abuse, which instigates more dissent, which leads to greater crackdowns,” Relena mused.  “How would you recommend the ESUN break the cycle?”  When Wufei hesitated, she prodded. “Come now, Agent Zhang. A thoughtful man like yourself must have some proposals.  You would not stand there and rail against the system without offering solutions. So, what would you do?  If you had the resources and political clout to change the situation on the ground?”

“You’re talking thousands of people.  Most of them undocumented.”

“Which is easier to help than a few million, believe it or not.”

He was quiet for a time, but then answered, “Amnesty.”

“How so?”

“We’re…proud,” Wufei told her, his gaze inward as the gears in his head turned.  “Charity is a loss of face and is therefore unacceptable. But it’s unreliable anyway because it’s pulled by the fickle political climate of the present times.  Many of these people consider themselves criminals of some kind: blockade runners, undesirables and exiles, separatists and rebels.  That’s reason enough for most national governments to cut off assistance and throw people into camps under the veil of ‘security’ and ‘sovereignty.’  The war’s been over for a decade but with no home to go back to, there’s no closure.  These people need forgiveness for their crimes, be they real or socially contrived, and they need acceptance.  So long as they remain on the outskirts of society, nothing will change.”

“That would take significant grassroots outreach,” Relena noted.

“And a lot of political buy-in from the ESUN,” Wufei added.

Relena slipped into silence as gears started turning in her head.  Eventually she shook herself loose of her thoughts to find Wufei’s eyes on her again, watching her ruminations.  She offered him a conspiratorial smile, which he returned with his own.

But then she watched him close himself off and straighten where he stood, his eyes watching something behind her.  Relena turned and found Narantsetseg walking toward them.  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’re heading out.”

Relena felt the disappointment rise within her chest, and she was half-tempted to wave the woman off so that she could stay longer.  But decorum was returning and she well aware of the eyes on the trio of them.  “Yes, okay,” she sighed.  “I’ll be there in just a moment.”  Narantsetseg withdrew with a nod and a curious glance in Wufei’s direction before heading toward the stairs.

Turning back to Wufei, Relena withdrew a small card from her clutch.  “The next time you want a verbal sparring session, Agent Zhang,” she said, holding the card out to him, “call me.”

He took the card with palpable hesitation, looking down at the cleanly printed information before raising his eyes again to meet hers, curious and uncertain.  She smiled at him in a way she hoped would reassure and turned away.

She joined Narantsetseg at the staircase and they moved through the crowd as a unit, threading their way through clusters of politicians and business elites and other such movers and shakers of the world.  Relena resisted the urge to look back up at the balcony, but only just barely.  They escaped the crowd through the front doors and burst out into the winter air before climbing into the waiting sedan at the entryway.

“So was that him?” Narantsetseg asked the car doors had shut them in together.

“Who?”

“The man you were talking to all evening.  Was he the one you came to do battle with?”

Relena laughed, feeling her cheeks begin to burn.  “Perhaps.”

“No ‘perhaps’s.  It was definitely him,” the other woman countered with certainty.  “Who is he?”

“A Preventer.”

“An idealist.”

Relena shook her head.  “We are the idealists.  We’re working global disarmament, remember?  Preventers deal in the real world.  They’re far more pragmatic.”

“You like him.”

She bit her lip and turned her eyes to the window to watch the city streets go by from behind tinted windows.  “He intrigues me.”  Narantsetseg was silent then, and Relena let the quiet settle between them for a moment.  After a time, she asked, “Do you happen to have the contact information for the Special Representative on L5 Diaspora Affairs?”

“I do,” Narantsetseg replied, already pulling out her phone.  “But he may be somewhere in the Federation at present.”

“That would be good if that’s the case.  His day’s just getting started…”

[1] Relena’s dress (courtesy the lovely Maevemauvaise) can be found here

[eichy815]

Yes, I *Do* Get to Comment About Sexism...

The #MeToo movement has been going strong for four months-and-counting...but some people are still finding ways to make it about their anger toward society rather than giving a voice to everybody who doesn’t have one.

First, for any of you who haven’t read them yet, allow me to reference two of my more recent editorial pieces:  “#MeToo: Oh, But Not You” (from November 2017) and “I Don’t ‘Consent’ To This Narrative” (from December 2017).

In the latter op-ed, I had cited actress Minnie Driver – who’d lashed out at actor Matt Damon back in December for characterizing the sexual misconduct of powerful male authority figures as being part of “a spectrum of behavior.”  In his ABC News interview, Damon had elaborated that there’s “a difference between patting someone on the butt and rape or child molestation.  Both of those behaviors need to be confronted and eradicated without question, but they shouldn’t be conflated.  I think it’s wonderful that women are feeling empowered to tell their stories and it’s totally necessary.”

Rebutting Damon’s viewpoint, Driver (who had dated Damon, for awhile) berated Damon during a lengthy tirade in which she’d railed against the male species for failing to be sensitive toward women (as a whole) amid the rise of #MeToo.

On Feb. 20, Driver gave another interview where she once again lit into Matt Damon (seemingly unprompted).  In a conversation with People’s Mike Miller, Driver name-dropped Damon by alleging that he “represented every intelligent, nice white male who feels it is their job to comment on the way that women metabolize stuff.”

She followed it up by ranting:

That somehow we should have a hierarchical system whereby touch on the arse is this, tits is this, you know, front bottom, back bottom, over the shirt, rape!  That there would be some criteria...Women get to be heard.  You get to be seen and heard and the accusers get to hear that and get to metabolize that and then there is due process and then there is healing.

Yet, she had also amended *those* quotations by insisting “there’s no way to move forward unless we do this together.”

So, as a self-described “nasty male” who also happens to be white, myself...allow me to discuss why Driver and her ilk are full of shit.

First, let’s look at where the #MeToo movement could be headed.  Most everyone would agree that the initial step should be to disempower the male authority figures who have faced allegations – Donald Trump, Harvey Weinstein, Larry Nassar, Matt Lauer, Kevin Spacey, James Toback, Bill Cosby, Mario Testino, Brett Ratner, Mark Halperin – from multiple victims whose claims are too numerous and too ubiquitous to be merely circumstantial.

Upon weeding out and overthrowing these offenders from their power positions, there will remain a whole different set of allegations under which the circumstances are murkier or grayer areas.  Whether it’s Aziz Ansari engaging in predatory behavior or Justin Timberlake supposedly being tone-deaf to white male privilege – many of these scenarios are going to require a lot more intensive listening, debating, and introspection.  

These “gray area” circumstances are what I believe that Matt Damon was trying to address, within his initial comments back in December.  Do I agree with him?  Partially.  Rape and non-consensual groping are both serious offenses, but rape arguably warrants a much harsher punishment.  I also agree with Minnie Driver when she says that the targets of either such act have the common right to be heard and see justice for the sins committed against them.

But acknowledging that there’s a “spectrum” of types of abuse is totally reasonable.  After all, The View’s Sara Haines has expressed this viewpoint on multiple occasions during her daytime talk show’s daily panel discussions.  Yet, Driver hasn’t raked Haines over the coals for having made those statements on The View.

What’s clear to me is that Driver is using whatever personal hostility she still wields toward Damon (in the aftermath of their breakup) – as well as the sentiments she harbors of misandry against males, in general – to make toxic blanket statements that reduce the discussion down to a male/female binary.

Damon didn’t express himself clearly.  He probably would have been better off just keeping his mouth shut, since he’s evidently unable to articulate the nuances of his viewpoint.  But if Driver thinks she’s some “crusading queen bee” by using sexist and racist language as an excuse to give Damon a public “dressing-down”...she is sadly mistaken.

Virtue-signaling much, Minnie?

Other “feminist” voices out there have joined Minnie Driver in trying to perpetuate gender wars.  Some of their motives (including Driver’s) might be well-meaning.  They don’t want survivors of sexual assault, sexual harassment, and rape to be silenced by society (or by its misogynistic power players).  They wish for survivors to overcome trauma and humiliation that they suffer in the aftermath of being victimized.  They desire the cultivation of a society where our children aren’t conditioned to follow such rigid gender roles in the first place.

But the shrill segment of these voices who continue to frame the problem as strictly a “male-versus-female” conflict are, quite frankly, doing a disservice to the movement itself.  In fact, they are creating the environment for a new binary culture (based on misandry, rather than misogyny) that will only exacerbate current tensions.

In early-January, Lindy West of The New York Times wrote a piece entitled “Why is Fixing Sexism Women’s Work?”  The purpose of West’s op-ed was to examine the question of why it should be incumbent upon targets of sexual crimes (in the case of her own argument, women) to argue for their own safety and equality.  She makes the case that high-profile men should join in the boycotts, surrender their wealth or power, and participate in self-deprecating acts in order to stand in solidarity with women.

It’s interesting that West makes these rather idyllic suggestions while praising the #TimesUp initiative.  Since “Time’s Up” is an example of a constructive effort to empower survivors (and discourage the aggressive acts, themselves, from the onset), it’s unnecessary for West to take it upon herself to dictate the terms under which men (or boys) should participate in the #MeToo movement.  She concludes her piece by saying it’s a male responsibility to abolish misogyny.  What she conveniently omits, on the flip side, is a statement proclaiming how females also have a responsibility not to normalize “female exceptionalism” or a hypothetical societal matriarchy – probably because both West and Driver are guilty of this sentiment themselves, and would in fact desire to see it come to pass.

Misogyny is EVERYONE’S responsibility to eradicate.  Powerful men have more influence when enacting institutional changes.  But socially and culturally, gender-based power struggles are only going to be inflamed and misconstrued if we try to replace one rigid binary (misogyny) with another (misandry).  The answer should be power-sharing and gender-neutral parity within our institutions; not gender-specific proclamations of exceptionalism or superiority.

A doctor wouldn’t treat/heal someone’s broken arm by proceeding to break someone else’s leg, right?

Now comes the point in the discussion where my critics will accuse me of harboring an #AllLivesMatter perspective.  Such insistence, folks, would be a pathetic example of deflection on their part.

On the her VictimFocus blog, psychology researcher Jessica Eaton expresses frustration with how people try to derail the conversation (about violence or discrimination toward women) as what she refers to as “whataboutery” or “whataboutism.”  Eaton recounts how she often gets personally attacked for empowering women and girls, even though she and her husband jointly run an organization called The Eaton Foundation to focus on male mental health issues.  Just because Eaton wants emphasis to be placed on female needs, that doesn’t mean she hopes to see male needs neglected by default.

Here, Eaton accurately diagnoses the problem:  patriarchy breeds male entitlement.  She is rightfully angered by the double standard where she receives praise when she focuses on men’s issues but experiences a toxic backlash whenever she focuses on women’s issues.

Yet, there’s a crucial ingredient in the recipe that Eaton overlooks, even if only implicitly.  Toxic masculinity, as most feminists would agree, has created and enabled androcentrism.  But, frequently (although not 100% of the time), the ire that Eaton describes coming from many males is also due to society’s overall failure to combat “toxic masculinity” with “healthy masculinity.”  Additionally, there’s a problem when we look at the dubious ways in which media commentators go about doing that (or, “fail to do that,” as the case may be).

This isn’t Eaton’s fault, at all.  Nor is it the fault of female empowerment activists per se.  Instead, it’s the fault of a one-sided media message that seeks to combat misogyny by placing “neofeminism” on some pedestal in the name of “evening things up.”

Eaton herself may not actually (or directly) be doing this.  But Minnie Driver certainly is.  Lindy West is veering extremely close to this zone.  And many women (and some virtue-signaling men) do this within our society on a daily basis.  This hateful defense mechanism isn’t any more justified than the misogynistic oppression that’s prevailed for centuries.

In a column for USA Today, Alia E. Dastagir criticizes the insinuation from many observers that an excess of false claims could threaten to derail the entire #MeToo movement.  Dastagir calls out this false objection as an excuse for misogynists to discredit female survivors as gold-diggers or fame-seekers.  She points out, in the words of UCLA gender studies professor Juliet Williams, that there’s a difference between “believe all women” and “believe women.”  

Dastagir’s overriding point is that the stigma of “slut-shaming” generates a culture of self-consciousness and humiliation that can often deter victims from reporting the horrible acts committed against them.  She’s right about this, unequivocally.  But that stigma also extends to boys and men who are survivors of sexually-charged abuse, harassment, and rape.  It extends to members of the LGBT community who also encounter such misogyny because we don’t fall into society’s neat little heteronormative boxes.

At this juncture in the discussion, Jessica Eaton would probably accuse me of “whataboutism.”  

But to deny this reality is heterosexist and cissexist.  It fails to acknowledge how white heterosexual cisgender females aren’t the only ones victimized by the misogynistic patriarchy that we all seemingly wish to transcend.  And, no, Minnie Driver – throwing in some catty little reference to how Matt Damon happens to be a “white male” is NOT doing anything meaningful to rectify actual systemic inequities.

With any type of discrimination against any group, there can be copious factors involved.  For example, gender-fluidity advocate and speaker Benjamin Di’Costa points out how religious fundamentalism so frequently exacerbates sexual trauma for LGBT survivors.  It’s a tough process, he concedes, to reclaim confidence or one’s own sexuality in the aftermath of a sex crime.  But unlike the various women whom I’ve previously cited, Di’Costa lifts up readers by reinforcing a message that finding the right lover is paramount for one’s happiness and sexual fulfillment.  It’s essential, he argues, that any intimate relationship be based on making love with someone who will be sensitive to each of our own individual needs.

Dorothy Espalage, a Professor of Psychology at the University of Florida, conducted a five-year empirical study on how misogyny and toxicity snowball from childhood into adulthood.  Bullies in middle school and high school, she generalizes, tend to be popular and powerful amongst their peers.  There is also a correlation between sexual harassment and bullying in adolescent perpetrators...starting in their K-12 years, and continuing into their adult-based careers and sex lives.

Espalage’s research identifies homophobic invective (such as “gay” or “fag”) inflicted upon students in a negative context when bullying occurs in elementary, middle, and high schools.  The common denominator is that “such homophobic language is used to assert power over other students” and “set the stage for the development of sexual harassment.”  Such mistreatment is exerted, according to Espalage, when female students fail to act “feminine” enough or when male students fail to act “masculine” enough.

She does acknowledge that boys (in schools) are more often the aggressors, especially when it comes to physical assault.  But, nonetheless, both girls and boys report being targeted by such aggression.  Espalage recommends Social-Emotional Learning (SEL) programs that “use activities and the teaching of skills like empathy, anger management, problem-solving, communication skills, impulse control, etc.”

And just last week, Cathy Young (reporting for the Los Angeles Times) found that reporters of sexual assault – even amongst adults – have been as high as 40% male (with attackers being females) within studied populations.  As documented by Young:

Scholars studying the subject have been attacked as apologists for misogyny.  Battered women’s advocates tend to explain away female violence as almost entirely defensive, despite evidence to the contrary.   One reason for this attitude is solidarity with women as victims; another is the dogmatic view that battering is an expression of patriarchal power...Abused men have faced widespread biases from police, judges and social workers, who tend to assume that the man in a violent relationship is the aggressor and to trivialize assaults by women.  Much of this prejudice stems from traditional sexism: battered men violate stereotypical expectations about manliness.  Yet, feminists perpetuate such sexism when they deny the reality of male victims and female abusers.  Equality should include recognizing women’s potential for abusive behavior.

Female-on-male violence is often assumed to be harmless, given sex differences in size and strength.  Yet women may use weapons – including knives, glass, boiling water and various household objects – while men may be held back from defending themselves by cultural taboos against harming woman.  Overall, studies find that female-on-male assaults account for 12% to 40% of injuries from domestic violence...Men also make up about 30% of intimate homicide victims, not counting confirmed cases of female self-defense.

Solving this problem – including all of the scenarios and epidemics that are being called out by the #MeToo movement – is complex...and requires all hands on deck.  I say this as a male survivor of various sex crimes, myself.  This is why you will never be able to convince me that the #MeToo movement should only include female voices.  That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t combat misogyny and the patriarchy – of course we should!  Misogyny and patriarchal “ideals” are what have gotten us to this undesirable point, in the first place.

But the initial step is much more nuanced and multifaceted than Minnie Driver would have us believe...

Again, as I stated in my November op-ed:  this isn’t an #AllLivesMatter argument.  If you try to accuse me of making an #AllLivesMatter argument, *YOU* are part of the problem.  

I fully anticipate getting peppered with heaps of statistics and case studies emphasizing frequency and quantity over individual crimes.  It’s funny that a lot of those same people are the ones who decry “slut-shaming” – even while they simultaneously try to “sissy-shame” or “male-shame” my voice into submission.  They will invoke “white male privilege” without giving one iota of consideration to what I’ve been through in my life.

But, until the day I die, I’ll continue demanding a voice for anyone who is silenced.  

Penis or vagina.  

Pale or tan.  

Old or young.  

Straight, gay, or bi.

Cis or trans.  

Wealthy or poor.  

Big or small.  

Tall or short.  

Monotheist, atheist, polytheist, or agnostic.  

Able-bodied or otherwise.

That isn’t an #AllLivesMatter approach – it’s called compassion.  It’s called embracing equality at its core.  It’s called being a human being.

The party line (or company line) from The Minnie Driver Brigade is that males shouldn’t get to have a voice in this conversation by virtue of the fact that we are males.  They insist that it is our turn to be silenced and our turn to listen.  Yet, despite their proclamations of desiring social justice, they don’t seem to have any problem with letting white, heterosexual, cisgender females take it upon themselves to try to begin controlling the narrative.

I will never stop calling out that type of stance (expressed by such an archetype) as being heterosexist, cissexist, ageist, racist, and ableist.  

If that makes me a “nasty gentleman”...I plead guilty.  And damn proud of it, too!

[beyondforks]

Book Review: The Alienist by Caleb Carr

The Alienist (Dr. Laszlo Kreizler #1) by Caleb Carr 

Genre: Adult Fiction (Historical Fiction/Mystery) Date Published: October 24, 2006 (first published December 15th 1994) Publisher: Random House

When The Alienist was first published in 1994, it was a major phenomenon, spending six months on the New York Times bestseller list, receiving critical acclaim, and selling millions of copies. This modern classic continues to be a touchstone of historical suspense fiction for readers everywhere.

The year is 1896. The city is New York. Newspaper reporter John Schuyler Moore is summoned by his friend Dr. Laszlo Kreizler—a psychologist, or “alienist”—to view the horribly mutilated body of an adolescent boy abandoned on the unfinished Williamsburg Bridge. From there the two embark on a revolutionary effort in criminology: creating a psychological profile of the perpetrator based on the details of his crimes. Their dangerous quest takes them into the tortured past and twisted mind of a murderer who will kill again before their hunt is over.

Fast-paced and riveting, infused with historical detail, The Alienist conjures up Gilded Age New York, with its tenements and mansions, corrupt cops and flamboyant gangsters, shining opera houses and seamy gin mills. It is an age in which questioning society’s belief that all killers are born, not made, could have unexpected and fatal consequences.

The Alienist is the first book in the Dr. Laszlo Kreizler series by Caleb Carr. I really wanted to read this book before the series started, but too many books, too little time. You now how it goes. Still, I've only seen the first episode, so it all worked out. The premise and the setting made the story very intriguing. Unfortunately, the rest fell pretty flat for me. I'd heard such good things, so I was disappointed when I didn't love it. 

It was devoid of emotion... almost like a textbook at times, but with conversations. I would expect that lack of emotion if it had been told from the point of view of the killer, but it wasn't. When it came to the murders, the writing was descriptive and clinical rather than graphic, again, like a textbook. Which is okay. We don't need graphic. And I get it. The story was geared toward the intellect, but the state of the bodies, plus the victims being children, and death is never pretty to begin with. All those things bring out emotions regardless, so the lack of emotion within the story made it all feel very detached and unnatural. 

I never felt like I got to know the characters either. I know the basics about them, but we never really get to know them. What I do know of them, wasn't always believable for their time period, and because of these things, I wasn't drawn in or invested in their story. Also, it was a bit predictable. I loved the setting though. It really felt like I'd imagine the late 1800's in New York City to feel like. Sometimes, it didn't feel too different than NYC today. 

You may like it though. What do I know? Most who've read it, loved it. So, give the book a try. It was certainly interesting at times!

Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1 January 8th, 1919 Theodore is in the ground.  The words as I write them make as little sense as did the sight of his coffin descending into a patch of sandy soil near Sagamore Hill, the place he loved more than any other on earth. As I stood there this afternoon, in the cold January wind that blew off Long Island Sound, I thought to myself: Of course it’s a joke. Of course he’ll burst the lid open, blind us all with that ridiculous grin and split our ears with a high-pitched bark of laughter. Then he’ll exclaim that there’s work to do—“action to get!”—and we’ll all be martialed to the task of protecting some obscure species of newt from the ravages of a predatory industrial giant bent on planting a fetid factory on the little amphipian’s breeding ground. I was not alone in such fantasies; everyone at the funeral expected something of the kind, it was plain on their faces. All reports indicate that most of the country and much of the world feel the same way. The notion of Theodore Roosevelt being gone is that—unacceptable. In truth, he’d been fading for longer than anyone wanted to admit, really since his son Quentin was killed in the last days of the Great Butchery. Cecil Spring-Rice once droned, in his best British blend of affection and needling, that Roosevelt was throughout his life “about six”; and Herm Hagedorn noted that after Quentin was shot out of the sky in the summer of 1918 “the boy in Theodore died.” I dined with Laszlo Kreizler at Delmonico’s tonight, and mentioned Hagedorn’s comment to him. For the remaining two courses of my meal I was treated to a long, typically passionate explanation of why Quentin’s death was more than simply heartbreaking for Theodore: he had felt profound guilt, too, guilt at having so instilled his philosophy of “the strenuous life” in all his children that they often placed themselves deliberately in harm’s way, knowing it would delight their beloved father. Grief was almost unbearable to Theodore, I’d always known that; whenever he had to come to grips with the death of someone close, it seemed he might not survive the struggle. But it wasn’t until tonight, while listening to Kreizler, that I understood the extent to which moral uncertainty was also intolerable to the twenty-sixth president, who sometimes seemed to think himself Justice personified. Kreizler . . . He didn’t want to attend the funeral, though Edith Roosevelt would have liked him to. She has always been truly partial to the man she calls “the enigma,” the brilliant doctor whose studies of the human mind have disturbed so many people so profoundly over the last forty years. Kreizler wrote Edith a note explaining that he did not much like the idea of a world without Theodore, and, being as he’s now sixty-four and has spent his life staring ugly realities full in the face, he thinks he’ll just indulge himself and ignore the fact of his friend’s passing. Edith told me today that reading Kreizler’s note moved her to tears, because she realized that Theodore’s boundless affection and enthusiasm—which revolted so many cynics and was, I’m obliged to say in the interests of journalistic integrity, sometimes difficult even for friends to tolerate—had been strong enough to touch a man whose remove from most of human society seemed to almost everyone else unbridgeable. Some of the boys from the Times wanted me to come to a memorial dinner tonight, but a quiet evening with Kreizler seemed much the more appropriate thing. It wasn’t out of nostalgia for any shared boyhood in New York that we raised our glasses, because Laszlo and Theodore didn’t actually meet until Harvard. No, Kreizler and I were fixing our hearts on the spring of 1896—nearly a quarter-century ago!—and on a series of events that still seems too bizarre to have occurred even in this city. By the end of our dessert and Madeira (and how poignant to have a memorial meal in Delmonico’s, good old Del’s, now on its way out like the rest of us, but in those days the bustling scene of some of our most important encounters), the two of us were laughing and shaking our heads, amazed to this day that we were able to get through the ordeal with our skins; and still saddened, as I could see in Kreizler’s face and feel in my own chest, by the thought of those who didn’t. There’s no simple way to describe it. I could say that in retrospect it seems that all three of our lives, and those of many others, led inevitably and fatefully to that one experience; but then I’d be broaching the subject of psychological determinism and questioning man’s free will—reopening, in other words, the philosophical conundrum that wove irrepressibly in and out of the nightmarish proceedings, like the only hummable tune in a difficult opera. Or I could say that, during the course of those months, Roosevelt, Kreizler, and I, assisted by some of the best people I’ve ever known, set out on the trail of a murderous monster and ended up coming face-to-face with a frightened child; but that would be deliberately vague, too full of the “ambiguity” that seems to fascinate current novelists and which has kept me, lately, out of the bookstores and in the picture houses. No, there’s only one way to do it, and that’s to tell the whole thing, going back to that first grisly night and that first butchered body; back even further, in fact, to our days with Professor James at Harvard. Yes, to dredge it all up and put it finally before the public—that’s the way. The public may not like it; in fact, it’s been concern about public reaction that’s forced us to keep our secret for so many years. Even the majority of Theodore’s obituaries made no reference to the event. In listing his achievements as president of the Board of Commissioners of New York City’s Police Department from 1895 to 1897, only the Herald—which goes virtually unread these days—tacked on uncomfortably, “and of course, the solution to the ghastly murders of 1896, which so appalled the city.” Yet Theodore never claimed credit for that solution. True, he had been open-minded enough, despite his own qualms, to put the investigation in the hands of a man who could solve the puzzle. But privately he always acknowledged that man to be Kreizler. He could scarcely have done so publicly. Theodore knew that the American people were not ready to believe him, or even to hear the details of the assertion. I wonder if they are now. Kreizler doubts it. I told him I intended to write the story, and he gave me one of his sardonic chuckles and said that it would only frighten and repel people, nothing more. The country, he declared tonight, really hasn’t changed much since 1896, for all the work of people like Theodore, and Jake Riis and Lincoln Steffens, and the many other men and women of their ilk. We’re all still running, according to Kreizler—in our private moments we Americans are running just as fast and fearfully as we were then, running away from the darkness we know to lie behind so many apparently tranquil household doors, away from the nightmares that continue to be injected into children’s skulls by people whom Nature tells them they should love and trust, running ever faster and in ever greater numbers toward those potions, powders, priests, and philosophies that promise to obliterate such fears and nightmares, and ask in return only slavish devotion. Can he truly be right . . . ? But I wax ambiguous. To the beginning, then! CHAPTER 2  An ungodly pummeling on the door of my grandmother’s house at 19 Washington Square North brought first the maid and then my grandmother herself to the doorways of their bedrooms at two  o’clock on the morning of March 3, 1896. I lay in bed in that no-longer-drunk yet not-quite-sober state which is usually softened by sleep, knowing that whoever was at the door probably had business with me rather than my grandmother. I burrowed into my linen-cased pillows, hoping that he’d just give up and go away. “Mrs. Moore!” I heard the maid call. “It’s a fearful racket—shall I answer it, then?” “You shall not,” my grandmother replied, in her well-clipped, stern voice. “Wake my grandson, Harriet. Doubtless he’s forgotten a gambling debt!” I then heard footsteps heading toward my room and decided I’d better get ready. Since the demise of my engagement to Miss Julia Pratt of Washington some two years earlier, I’d been staying with my grandmother, and during that time the old girl had become steadily more skeptical about the ways in which I spent my off-hours. I had repeatedly explained that, as a police reporter for The New York Times, I was required to visit many of the city’s seamier districts and houses and consort with some less than savory characters; but she remembered my youth too well to accept that admittedly strained story. My homecoming deportment on the average evening generally reinforced her suspicion that it was state of mind, not professional obligation, that drew me to the dance halls and gaming tables of the Tenderloin every night; and I realized, having caught the gambling remark just made to Harriet, that it was now crucial to project the image of a sober man with serious concerns. I shot into a black Chinese robe, forced my short hair down on my head, and opened the door loftily just as Harriet reached it. “Ah, Harriet,” I said calmly, one hand inside the robe. “No need for alarm. I was just reviewing some notes for a story, and found I needed some materials from the office. Doubtless that’s the boy with them now.” “John!” my grandmother blared as Harriet nodded in confusion. “Is that you?” “No, Grandmother,” I said, trotting down the thick Persian carpet on the stairs. “It’s Dr. Holmes.” Dr. H. H. Holmes was an unspeakably sadistic murderer and confidence man who was at that moment waiting to be hanged in Philadelphia. The possibility that he might escape before his appointment with the executioner and then journey to New York to do my grandmother in was, for some inexplicable reason, her greatest nightmare. I arrived at the door of her room and gave her a kiss on the cheek, which she accepted without a smile, though it pleased her. “Don’t be insolent, John. It’s your least attractive quality. And don’t think your handsome charms will make me any less irritated.” The pounding on the door started again, followed by a boy’s voice calling my name. My grandmother’s frown deepened. “Who in blazes is that and what in blazes does he want?” “I believe it’s a boy from the office,” I said, maintaining the lie but myself perturbed about the identity of the young man who was taking the front door to such stern task. “The office?” my grandmother said, not believing a word of it. “All right, then, answer it.” I went quickly but cautiously to the bottom of the staircase, where I realized that in fact I knew the voice that was calling for me but couldn’t identify it precisely. Nor was I reassured by the fact that it was a young voice—some of the most vicious thieves and killers I’d encountered in the New York of 1896 were mere striplings. “Mr. Moore!” The young man pleaded again, adding a few healthy kicks to his knocks. “I must talk to Mr. John Schuyler Moore!” I stood on the black and white marble floor of the vestibule. “Who’s there?” I said, one hand on the lock of the door. “It’s me, sir! Stevie, sir!” I breathed a slight sigh of relief and unlocked the heavy wooden portal. Outside, standing in the dim light of an overhead gas lamp—the only one in the house that my grandmother had refused to have replaced with an electric bulb—was Stevie Taggert, “the Stevepipe,” as he was known. In his first eleven years Stevie had risen to become the bane of fifteen police precincts; but he’d then been reformed by, and was now a driver and general errand boy for, the eminent physician and alienist, my good friend Dr. Laszlo Kreizler. Stevie leaned against one of the white columns outside the door and tried to catch his breath—something had clearly terrified the lad. “Stevie!” I said, seeing that his long sheet of straight brown hair was matted with sweat. “What’s happened?” Looking beyond him I saw Kreizler’s small Canadian calash. The cover of the black carriage was folded down, and the rig was drawn by a matching gelding called Frederick. The animal was, like Stevie, bathed in sweat, which steamed in the early March air. “Is Dr. Kreizler with you?” “The doctor says you’re to come with me!” Stevie answered in a rush, his breath back. “Right away!” “But where? It’s two in the morning—” “Right away!” He was obviously in no condition to explain, so I told him to wait while I put on some clothes. As I did so, my grandmother shouted through my bedroom door that whatever “that peculiar Dr. Kreizler” and I were up to at two in the morning she was sure it was not respectable. Ignoring her as best I could, I got back outside, pulling my tweed coat close as I jumped into the carriage. I didn’t even have time to sit before Stevie lashed at Frederick with a long whip. Falling back into the dark maroon leather of the seat, I thought to upbraid the boy, but again the look of fear in his face struck me. I braced myself as the carriage careened at a somewhat alarming pace over the cobblestones of Washington Square. The shaking and jostling eased only marginally as we turned onto the long, wide slabs of Russ pavement on Broadway. We were heading downtown, downtown and east, into that quarter of Manhattan where Laszlo Kreizler plied his trade and where life became, the further one progressed into the area, ever cheaper and more sordid: the Lower East Side.

Caleb Carr is the critically acclaimed author of The Alienist, The Angel of Darkness, The Lessons of Terror, Killing Time, The Devil Soldier, The Italian Secretary, The Legend of Broken, and Surrender, New York. He has taught military history at Bard College, and worked extensively in film, television, and the theater. His military and political writings have appeared in numerous magazines and periodicals, among them The Washington Post, The New York Times, and The Wall Street Journal. He lives in upstate New York. To learn more about Caleb Carr and his books, visit him on Goodreads and Random House.