Tuesday 31 October 2023

A Plucked Chicken or a Pile of Secrets?

I am once again dipping a tentative toe into the debate around gender. Over the course of the last couple of years or so, and perhaps even longer, there has been a distasteful politicalisation and weaponisation of this debate, for the purposes of scoring political points, and opening up fresh fronts in the culture war to firmly establish the line between Us and Them.

As part of this, certain right-wing politicians have rather hyperbolically claimed that the acceptance of trans women represents an erosion of women’s rights, and an attack on the very concept of womanhood. They rail against ‘gender ideology’ as though their own position was any less ideological.

As part of this culture-warring and riling up of their core voter base, there have been sneering attacks on certain politicians perceived to be on the more liberal side that “they can’t even tell you what a woman is!” This is, in part, due to those politicians’ self-defeating efforts to hedge their bets for fear of losing votes from the more conservative parts of the electorate, when they’d be far better off actually taking a stand, but there you go.

Others have written thoughtful responses to this supposedly clever ‘gotcha’ question, ‘What is a woman?’ However, I’d like to do something rather politicianly myself, and respond by answering a different question instead.

Can I define a woman? I could attempt to, but as a cis-gendered male, I'd much rather let each woman define themselves. Instead, I shall try and answer a question I am somewhat better qualified to tackle; ‘What is a man?’ After all, why is the question always 'Can you say what a woman is?' There seems to be an obsession in certain conservative circles with trans women that doesn’t apply to trans men.

So then, what is a man? Is it a plucked chicken, perhaps, or nothing but a miserable little pile of secrets? (Score one point for recognising each of those). Should we instead ask, ‘Why should we call them a man?’

I will answer with reference to the man I know best; myself. Firstly, I don’t believe my biological make-up really comes into it all that much. A woman is not (or at least should not be) defined by her body, any more than a man is (or ought to be). I was born biologically male, but I am not a man because I have a penis and lack a womb.

I look, sound, dress and act the way we have traditionally expected a man to look, sound, dress and act. I have taken on some of the roles, responsibilities and (occasionally unearned) privileges that society has traditionally given to men, and my interests and pastimes are amongst those traditionally associated with men. Others perceive me as a man, and the language they use with regards to me is that used of men; I am 'he' and 'him'.

These are far less important, however than the simple fact that I feel in myself that I am a man. Society identifies me as a man because I appear mannish and do mannish things, but much more important is that I identify myself as a man. Others perceive me as a man, and I happen to agree with them. I perceive myself to be a man, as I understand the word, and therefore I am a man.

If someone who happens to have been born biologically female tells me that they are a man, then I will do him the courtesy of believing him, and in no way feel that my own manhood is somehow eroded or threatened as a result. How can it be? His manhood is his own, and mine is my own. Neither impinges or impacts on the other. I don’t look at any other cis-gendered man and think ‘If he is a man, then what am I?’.  Why then should I do so with a transgender man? I define myself according to my own understanding of what a man is and ought to be, and I let others do the same.

Nor do I feel like my rights as a man are somehow “diluted” by the addition of another individual to the pool of men. Rights aren’t a pie; more for someone else doesn’t mean less for you.

I find myself rather curiously in agreement with Conservative Prime Minister Rishi Sunak when he recently said, “A man is a man, and a woman is a woman. It’s just common sense.

Hear, hear! Men are men. Women are women. Whether they are cis or trans doesn’t enter into it. If you’re a man, you’re a man, regardless of whether you were born male or female, and likewise you are a woman if you’re a woman. That’s not at all what he meant of course, but I don’t care about that.

The exact configuration of your organs at the moment of your birth is of far less importance to me than your present comfort, wellbeing and happiness. Tell me how you perceive yourself and how you’d like to be addressed, and I will do my imperfect best to respect your wishes, remember your preferences and believe that you know yourself better than I ever could. That is my gender ideology.

Tuesday 10 October 2023

Live? Laugh? Love?

It’s been a while, but I’ve had some more thoughts that might be worth writing down. There are of course greater things going on in the world that I could be discussing right now, but I lack the words or the perspective to do them justice. My current thoughts are in relation to the old topic of free speech, which I’ve discussed multiple times before, but more specifically about laughter, humour, offense and happiness.

The first thing to say, of course, is that humour is incredibly subjective; more so perhaps than any other area of expression. What one person finds funny, another finds utterly boring, or perhaps even offensive. Just within one individual, what they might find amusing in one mood is distinctly unfunny in another.

That caveat aside, I think there are some things worth saying. This is all brought about by the news stories in the last couple of weeks about former actor and failed politician Laurence Fox. While being interviewed on GB News, he made some extremely misogynistic remarks about a female journalist, and was roundly criticised from all sides.

He has, perhaps predictably, dug his feet in, complaining about his treatment and the imfringement of his free speech, and blamed the too-easily-offended and the world at large. One of the things he said though, struck me as revealing.

"I realise that the new woke world is low and laughter and high on offence..."

What this tells me is that Mr. Fox has failed to understand something; he has failed to understand that it is possible to laugh without laughing at someone. It is possible to tell a joke that doesn't have someone else as the butt of it. It is in fact possible to be happy without knowing that someone else is miserable, and possible to experience joy without making someone else sad.

Mr. Fox's words brought to mind a couple of lines from a poem I read years ago (and which a bit of Googling has informed me was written by Brian Jacques of ‘Redwall’ fame):

Bullies never smile, they sneer.

Bullies never laugh. They jeer.

In the case of Fox and the many people like him, they seem very apt. However, if anyone ever dares tell them that they are bullies they (someone ironically) become very offended and bewail modern peoples' lack of good humour.

There is this persistent idea that there is something humourless, po-faced and deeply un-fun about modern discourse. Individuals like Fox and certain tabloid newspapers complain of ‘politically correct kill-joys’ or ‘woke snowflakes’, the ‘professionally offended’ who can’t bear to hear anyone say anything mean about anyone without clutching their pearls and 'cancelling' people left and right (but mostly right).

I have said before that I believe nobody has the right not to be offended, but that everybody has the responsibility not to offend, or at least not without very good cause. Offense can be an important tool for shocking us out of our apathy, but that’s very different to being the butt of a mocking joke. Laughter is a blessing, but there is such a thing as cruel laughter, and cruelty is always to be opposed.

Sometimes one hears people complain that ‘you can’t joke about anything anymore’. This is patently untrue, but the idea that people are more humourless or more easily offended is, I think, incorrect.

Something has indeed changed, but it’s not that people are less inclined to laughter and more inclined to offense. People have always been offended, they’ve always been hurt, they’ve always felt insulted and belittled. What has changed is that they now have the confidence to say so. We have this idea that people ought to be kind to each other, and when they’re not, we express our disapproval through our words and our wallets.

It is, of course, possible to laugh at someone in a way that isn’t mean-spirited. One can (and should) laugh at oneself, and you can invite others to laugh with you. But that’s rather the point. You can join in the laughter when someone laughs at themselves, and do it in a way that is good-natured and kind. We can find humour in each other’s flaws and foibles without mocking or belittling them or the person themselves.

Humour is subjective, but if you can’t laugh without laughing at someone else, if your happiness is predicated on making others miserable to make yourself feel good, then you’re a poor excuse for a human being. I can only hope that one day the jeering is entirely drowned out by the warm laughter of those who take delight and joy in each other’s differences, not use them as an excuse for cruelty and mockery. The quality of the laughter will be better, and because we are all laughing together, there will be so much more of it to enjoy.

Tuesday 9 May 2023

In the Place which is no place

A bit more writing for you. Something a little bit weird today, stemming from some thoughts I had about the way we often tend to think about the afterlife. I'm not even sure what it is. Poetry? Theology? Whatever it is, I hope you enjoy it.


In the Place which is no place


I died, and left my body behind me.

I didn’t walk along a corridor,

For I had no body, and no feet.

I didn’t push open the great doors,

That I found before me,

For I had no hands, and no arms,

And I didn’t cross that great, wide floor.

I didn’t squint against the brightness of the light,

For I had no eyes to see, and in that Place,

There was neither light nor darkness.

I didn’t shrink from the loudness of the song and the silence,

For I had no ears to hear,

and in that Place there was neither sound nor stillness.

I didn’t at last stand before the Throne,

For I had no legs, and there was no throne.

They didn’t gaze down at me, for They had no eyes,

And I didn’t tremble at the depth and the weight

Of the Love that shone out of Them.

They did not speak, for They had no mouth,

“Well, My precious child?”

I knew what They asked,

but did not know how to answer.

How, in that Place and in that Presence,

Where all the lies I had ever told to myself,

Burnt away like grass in the fire,

Could I look at Them with the eyes I no longer had,

And explain what I had done, and what I hadn’t?

So many things, done and undone.

Said and unsaid.

Thought and unthought.

I had no lungs, no throat, no lips, no tongue,

No eyes to close, no tears to fall.

I had no answers, in the Presence of the Answer.

And I needed none, for They knew already.

They asked not because They did not know,

But because I needed to.

I didn’t bow my head down low,

For I had no head, and there was no down.

I did not kneel, for I had no knees.

I did not wait, for there was no time.

And though They were the only Judge,

They did not pass sentence,

For the hands and feet They no longer had still bled,

and the price that could never be paid,

Had been paid in full.

 There was no door to open.

I did not stand and pass through it.

And beyond it everything that was not light was music.

The heart that I no longer had burst with Joy.

The lips I didn’t have overflowed with song.

The tiny spark within me fanned by the presence of the Flame.

I left the memory of my body behind me,

and at last I truly lived.


Copyright Thomas Jones 2023

Monday 5 December 2022

Beyond the Garden Gate

A bit more writing for you. This is an idea that has been knocking around in my head for a little while, and which I've finally gotten around to writing down. I won't say too much because I don't want to spoil the ending, but my inspiration will be obvious. If anyone has any suggestions for a better title, please let me know. This one is strictly a working title.


Beyond the Garden Gate

John stamped over to the greenhouse, yanked the door open and stepped inside. He knelt and picked up the tray of young cabbages, trying not to moan as his knees and hips reminded him that he was no longer a young man. He straightened, and his back added its voice to the litany of complaints.

In reality though, he barely felt the merely physical pains. He was smarting too much already to pay them much notice. His whole body was thrumming with hurt and anger and resentment. He and Mary had had another argument. “Argument”. Call it what it was; a blazing row. The house stood by itself in the midst of a huge garden, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Miss Potter up on the hill had heard them. Nosey old busybody that she was, always wandering about the countryside looking for gossip, the hard-faced bitch.

Mary always seemed to be angry these days. He knew what had set her off this time. The Cothills down in the village had just had another grandson. Their third, John thought. Mary would never admit it, not in a hundred years, but he knew she resented the fact that they’d never had children. Not for want of trying, at first at least. But either something wasn’t right with him, or it wasn’t right with her, or the Lord had just never seen fit, and now they were both far too old. No children, no grandchildren, no-one to look after them as they headed slowly downhill.

That was why he had to keep up the garden. Keep growing the vegetables, keep selling them, keep sending them off to town to grace the dinner tables there. Couldn’t stop, because if he did where would the money come from? Where would the food come from? They had already complained that the last hamper was too light, and warned that they’d have to buy their vegetables elsewhere if he couldn’t make up the shortfall. Something else to worry about. They were poor enough as it was. Couldn’t even afford to buy himself baccy nowadays, unless he happened to catch a couple of rabbits that he could sell in the village.

He stumped out, carrying the tray of young cabbages. Ah yes, the rabbits. The garden backed onto a wood, and it was crawling with them. Not to mention the mice, badgers, birds and other pests who made it their job to despoil his garden and snatch the very food from their mouths. He’d set traps and snares, put up netting, tried to close up the gap under the gate and still they got in.

He reached the bed he’d prepared and set the tray down with another groan. How much longer could he keep this up? He was an old man, and he could tell that his strength was failing. His hearing was going too. Soon he wouldn’t be able to hear Mary going on at him, so that was something at least.

Always going on. Always something wrong. Always something he hadn’t done, or something he had. Never a kind word. Never a smile. Never a thank you for all the hard work he did to keep them fed. Never a bloody help around the garden either. At least she could cook. Her rabbit pie was more than half decent. His stomach rumbled. He’d get these cabbages planted, then he’d go in for a sandwich.

He picked up the trowel and leant forward, digging a hole and putting one of the plants in. His knees hurt. His back hurt. His hips hurt. He planted another one, and another, stabbing the soil with his trowel as though he could pay the earth back some of the pain and anger and sadness and disappointment and resentment and fear that filled his life.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Looking up, he saw a rabbit hop out from behind a cucumber frame. It froze, staring at him with wide eyes. He stared back at it, and for a moment they were both absolutely still.

“Oh no you don’t!” he snarled under his breath. There was a rake on the ground near him and he snatched it up, leaping to his feet. The little bastard immediately bolted. “Stop, thief!” He sprinted after it with a speed born from rage and desperation. The creature had made itself an avatar for everything that was unfair and unjust and unhappy about John’s world, and he was going to get his revenge.

The rabbit darted here and there in a wild panic, and he moved to try and cut off it’s escape, ready to strike with the rake and break its back if he could. It rushed in amongst the cabbages, then darted through the potatoes, going faster now. The little demon would have got away completely if it hadn’t run headfirst into the gooseberry net. It thrashed around in a frenzy of fear, but only got itself more thoroughly tangled.

John grinned. “Got you, you little bastard!” He snatched up a large metal sieve and stepped forward to slam it down on the rabbit and trap it, but at the very last moment, thrashing around wildly it tore itself free. Still in a blind panic, it turned and bolted straight into the tool shed.

John was breathing hard, trembling with exertion and excitement. “You won’t get away this time…” he growled. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “I know you’re in here,” he called in a sing-song voice. “You’re in here somewhere!”

He glanced around. He had a large number of flowerpots in here, stored upside down. Maybe it had got in under one of them… He moved up to the first and carefully turned it over, ready to grab at anything that made a move. Nothing. He turned over the second. Nothing. The third…

At that moment there was a sound from the rusty old watering can in the corner. He spun towards it but as he came up a shape burst out in a spray of water and the stink of wet fur. John yelled and tried to stamp his boot down on it but it darted away, leaping for the window. He swore; it stood slightly open and the beast forced its way through the gap, knocking over three plants that he’d placed on the sill. He heard the pots shatter on the path outside.

John stared at the empty window, panting. His shoulders slumped, and all the aches and pains came flooding back as the anger drained away, worse than ever. He sighed. He’d wasted enough time, and slowly stumped back to the cabbages.

He got them done, and thought about heading in for a bite. He was hungry enough. But Mary would be in the kitchen. If he went back in, she’d start tongue-lashing him again. Or worse still, she’d say nothing, and there’d just be silence, hot and heavy and tense. He couldn’t face that. Not yet.

He went back to the tool shed and got the hoe. The onion beds needed doing. Perhaps after that he’d go back inside. Perhaps. Or he could stay out here by himself. Better to be alone. Better to be lonely than to face her anger and resentment and disappointment again today. They had to go to town tomorrow, and they’d be sat in the gig for an hour each way. Best to stay out of her way for now, and maybe by tomorrow they’d both have calmed down a bit. Enough to be civil at least. Maybe.

He set to hoeing, letting himself get into the rhythm of the work, letting it drown out everything else. Scriiiitch. Scratch. Scratch. Scritch.

Suddenly movement again. John looked up in time to see another rabbit, or perhaps the same one as before, dart out from behind the blackberry bushes and streak towards the gate. Out of habit John leapt up to give chase, but the rabbit was under the gate and off into the woods before he could get close. He slowed as he reached the gate, and watched as it galloped away into the woods and out of sight. He envied it. If only he could run off into the woods. Just squeeze under the gate and disappear. No garden. No worries. No work. No Mary. He stood and stared for a long time after the beast had vanished from view, his hoe forgotten in his hand.

Eventually, he sighed and shook himself. The light was starting to fade, and he was famished. Mary would probably complain about him not coming in for lunch. Make it a deliberate slight. “You do it a’purpose!” she’d say in her querulous, whining voice. Well, yes. He had.

He did a quick tour of the garden to see that everything was right, and give himself a few more peaceful minutes. While he was doing so, he picked up a few things that the rabbit had dropped as it ran. “Too small to sell,” he muttered, “but I can use them to make a scarecrow.” He had an old hat he could use too. Maybe he’d do that before he went back in. It wouldn’t take long. Carrying the two shoes and the little blue jacket, Mr. McGregor turned and headed back to the tool shed.


Copyright Thomas Jones 2022

Wednesday 26 October 2022

I Hope That They Cry at my Funeral

This one is going to be a little morbid, and more than a little maudlin so I apologise in advance, but it's something that's been knocking about in my head for a while.

It involves the many people I've encountered who have said something to the effect of, "I don't want anyone to be sad at my funeral. I want it to be a celebration of my life, not a mourning of my death. I want people to be happy that I lived, not sad that I died." I understand the sentiment, and it makes sense. Indeed in a way it's extremely praiseworthy. No-one should want other people to be sad. However, it's not a sentiment that I share.

You see, I do hope people are sad at my funeral. That is, I don't want people to be sad for its own sake. Rather, I hope that I will have lived the kind of life that other people will be sorry to see end. I hope I will have been the kind of person who people are sad to see go. I hope people will miss me. I hope they will mourn me. I hope the event of my death is indeed a sad one for the people I leave behind. I also hope that there are a lot of them to be sad. People whose lives I've touched and who wish to come and say goodbye.

And I don't just want them to be sad; I too want them to be happy I lived. I want them to be proud of me, and proud that they knew me. I want them to feel grateful for the time we had together. I want them to think of me and smile through the tears. 

This is a very tall order, so I'd better start living that sort of life, and being that sort of person, because it won't happen by itself.

In the meantime, in thinking about this, I have once again been moved to poetry:


I Hope That They Cry at my Funeral

 

I hope that they cry at my funeral,

I hope that they’re sad I’m no more,

That they’ll grieve when I’m gone,

Once my life is all done,

And at last I have passed through the door.

 

I hope that they weep at my funeral,

As they gather from miles around,

With slow, heavy tread,

And with low-hanging head,

To consign me at last to the ground.

 

I hope that they’re quiet at my funeral,

Standing there silent and still,

With tears in each eye,

as they carry me by,

And with no-one there thinking me ill.

 

I hope that they sing at my funeral,

With gratitude, heartbreak, and pride,

The song swelling loud,

From the hearts of the crowd,

To be heard by those passing outside.

 

I hope that they stand at my funeral,

With hearts and with heads held up high.

With smiles through the tears,

As they think of the years,

That we shared before saying goodbye.


Copyright Thomas Jones 2022.


Wednesday 22 June 2022

Make Me Kind 2: Attempted Hymnody

I shared the poem/hymn I wrote in my last post on a couple of different Facebook groups, to largely positive responses. More than one person asked if it had been set to music. Then, both my Mum and my sister, who look at these posts when I share them to Facebook, as I often do, pointed out that as written the words fitted rather well to the tune of Ode to Joy.

With this in mind I went and expanded and reworked them somewhat. I now present the completed work here as my attempt to break into the (I assume) highly lucrative hymn-writing industry:



Make Me Kind

 

When the day is never-ending,

And I’m tired in soul and mind,

When my whole body’s aching,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

Though the world seems unrelenting,

And I find myself resigned,

To the constant heavy burden,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When I see the world’s injustice,

And I feel the chains that bind,

Though I’m weary from the struggle,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

Should another try to harm me,

And their lies about me wind,

As I’m battered and I’m bettered,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When debating with another,

And our views are misaligned,

Even when they strongly differ,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

When a person’s slinging insults,

And I feel myself maligned,

Where they’re hateful and they’re hurtful,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When I walk along with others,

And our lives are thus entwined,

Even if it’s only briefly,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

As we meet with many hurdles,

And we stagger, lost and blind,

When the journey's at its hardest,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

Out of all the earthly virtues,

Let me keep this one enshrined.

In my doing and my saying,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

While my faith keeps on sustaining,

And my hope goes unconfined,

Still above them and beyond them,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When my life is filled with gladness,

And the joys I’d lost, I find,

When all things to me are given,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

When I lay aside my burdens,

As I leave this world behind,

And at last, I stand before You,

Let them say that I was kind.

 

 

Copyright Thomas Jones, 2022


Wednesday 25 May 2022

Make Me Kind

Much ink has been spilt over the increasingly tribal, partisan, vitriolic nature of public debate and engagement, whether it be politics (broad distinction as it is nowadays, with almost every aspect of human life now a marker of political affiliation), religion, or even fandoms. It’s occasionally understandable. Sometimes when faced with someone whose views seem so obviously, wilfully wrongheaded and immoral, frustration, exasperation and righteous rage spill into insults and harsh rhetoric. I’m as guilty of that as anyone, even though I know it’s not the way to win people over, or to build a reciprocity of respectful, constructive dialogue.

To counter this, there have been many pleas for there to be more kindness, both in our private and public lives, and I think that this is more important than it first appears. 'Kindness' can sound rather twee, but really it's just love given expression, and we are informed that Love is the greatest of the cardinal virtues. When we fail to be kind, we fail to love.

Recently a few lines sprang into my head, and grew from there, and this is the result. I have written before about my wish to become a famous (and wealthy) hymn writer, and perhaps the below is my contribution to English hymnody, although as yet I lack a tune to set the words to. The lyrics stem from the fact that I am not always, or indeed often, a naturally kind person, so I need to be constantly reminded, even if the person I’m speaking to is so obviously, obnoxiously wrong about everything.

  

Make Me Kind

 

When the day is never-ending,

When I’m tired in soul and mind,

And my whole body’s aching,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When the world seems unrelenting,

And I find myself resigned,

To the constant heavy burden,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When others try to harm me,

And their lies about me wind,

And I’m battered and I’m bettered,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When a person’s slinging insults,

And I feel myself maligned,

Where they’re hateful and they’re hurtful,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When I see the world’s injustice,

And I feel the chains that bind,

And I’m weary from the struggle,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When I walk along with others,

And our lives are thus entwined,

Even if it’s only briefly,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When my life is filled with gladness,

And the things I’d lost I find,

When all things to me are given,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

While my faith keeps on sustaining,

And my hope goes unconfined,

Still above them and beyond them,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

Of all the earthly virtues,

Let me keep this one enshrined.

In my doing and my saying,

Make me kind, Lord. Make me kind.

 

When I lay aside my burdens,

As I leave this world behind,

And at last, I stand before You,

Let them say that I was kind.

 

©Thomas Jones, 2022