“Hare describes people he calls psychopaths as "intraspecies predators who use charm, manipulation, intimidation, sex and violence to control others and to satisfy their own selfish needs. Lacking in conscience and empathy, they take what they want and do as they please, violating social norms and expectations without guilt or remorse. What is missing, in other words, are the very qualities that allow a human being to live in social harmony."
If one were to replace “violating social norms and expectations” with “establishing and maintaining social norms that reproduce the same psychopathic behavior,” one would have a very accurate description of human men—and how they relate to human women— under patriarchy.
This is what I bear witness to:
Condescending to them
Talking over them
Shouting them down
Ignoring their feelings
Ignoring their humanity
Dismissing their rights to physical autonomy
Physically grabbing, pushing, striking them
Subjecting them to verbal abuse, insult, and humiliation
Condoning and excusing their murders
Condoning and excusing their rapes
Celebrating violence toward them
Celebrating their dehumanization
Blaming them for their dehumanization
A whole society that promotes and celebrates it.
Myriad cultures worldwide that are built around it.
Sexual arousal being entwined in it.
Family structures supporting it.
Law supporting it, by enforcement or lack thereof.
Language reproducing it
Media reproducing it
Art reproducing it
Behavior controlled by it
Science justifying it
Religion divinizing it
Masculinity is a psychopathic death cult. Its prayers are muttered, shouted, whispered behind backs, written across billboards and magazines, screamed, scrawled, sung, rapped, worn on T-shirts, tattooed onto flesh, written into religious scripture.
We giggle and laugh about these words, as if there was nothing under them, as if the face of an adolescent girl coerced by poverty into rape-slavery in Bangkok, in Hong Kong, in London, in Los Angeles, in Small Town America could be erased from history and denied all meaning. Her face, and thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions, simply countless faces just like hers. We just call it prostitution, or “the game,” and go back to trading stories of chicks we banged or felt up or wanted to fuck but she didn’t want to and who is she to want anything? Humanitarian crisis: nobody gives a fuck.
Anyway, whatever, so what? Trot out some more Chris Rock wisdom, or drop some pimp lessons, or read the latest Maxim or Men’s Health article about How to Score a 10. Surely someone in the room can tell us all a joke about an ugly feminist, or a dumb blonde, or their crazy ex, or their stupid girlfriend, or their brother’s wife. Hold on, I’ll send you a picture of her tits. More giggles.
“She’s more beautiful than ever.” A random quote I hear from one of my man-neighbors as I write this, spoken to another man-neighbor as they cross paths.
Because what is her principle value? Her appearance.
Her sex. She is sex. She is the sex class. Beauty 2K compliant—the body, the parts, the revealing clothes, the face, the makeup, the magazine dream. Sexually available to any man, at any time. Not MY daughter/mom/wife/etc. Not MY property. Me. Mine. My. Me. Man.
Sexually available, unless of course she’s under protection (ownership)—under the timeworn tradition of signing away her freedom to one man in exchange for protection from others, also known as marriage. A global tradition of prisons for desires to rot, where a woman is given away by one man (her father) to another man (husband), and did you do my laundry? Did you pick up the kids yet? Why isn’t dinner ready?
If you’re having problems with your love (domination) life, perhaps you could look to those gestated in a more extreme version of subjugation. I hear that in (impoverished country), women treat a man the way he is supposed to be treated.
He, human being, sovereign individual, King of Castle.
Her, defined by him.
If she sleeps with everyone she’s this, but if she sleeps with everyone but me, she’s this. Ha ha ha, elbow nudges and eye winks. Giggles in hell.
Wait, let me get this straight: I have something growing in my body, my sovereign human body, and you want to write into law and enforce by the threat and application of physical violence the idea that what is inside me has a greater right to exist than I have to control what happens to my sovereign human body?
You must be out of your fucking mind.
But it’s not me, it’s her, so abortion, as they say, is murder. She shouldn’t have (fucked)(fornicated with)(been raped by) him, anyway.
Look at what she’s wearing. Why was she out so late? She has a reputation. Isn’t that what they say? Or some other bullshit write-off? Are there any boundaries to our callousness? Any depths to which we will not sink in destroying human integrity?
I will fight you to the death to preserve my humanity, my autonomy. How much more of it I have, because I’m not “her.”
How long I’ve smiled or nodded my head or dropped my eyes to the ground in the face of the ultimate in casual destruction.
How fucking tired of it I am.
This is not the universe I want to live in.
I am human, and I want to live amongst human beings.
Not psychopaths. Not victims. Not slaves. Not monsters.
“For if you give, you will get! Your gift will return to you in full and overflowing measure, pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, and running over. Whatever measure you use to give—large or small—will be used to measure what is given back to you." – Luke 6:38