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.

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.

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