The Feminist Lie

Exactly…….Another example of how well the evil Liberal Progressive Agenda has worked.

I’m expecting future confinement of women within houses and not being able to leave without a male escort. I expect this to happen in Europe where the Muslims roam free, bigly.

Why do women wear dresses, use lipstick, powder their faces, hang jewelry off their ears, style their hair, fit themselves in tight pants, dab perfume, shave their legs and privates, walk in high heels, show cleavage, tilt their heads, hit the beach in bikinis, cause staring in tight sweaters, and otherwise prey on the nature of boys and men, who are defenseless against this massive conspiracy? Why do women make those provocative noises when making love? Why do they wiggle when they walk? Could the burka right at least some of these wrongs, or would you rather be dead?

One of my dumbshit single buddies told me that 90% of all women are battered. Which was wierd because he was eating them raw all these years.

One thing that ‘feminism’ means to me is that women should have the same rights as men to be left unmolested. This article basically says that society not only cannot guarantee that right, but seems to think it ridiculous to try.

Here’s an analogy for you: tens of thousands of stores have all kinds of desirable items left right out there in the open, unprotected. They are deliberately marketed and made more appealing than their intrinsic worth. Yet if someone tries to steal them, we have security guards and surveillance cameras and cops with guns ready to shut that anti-social behavior down. We don’t just let people hot-wire Mercedes and drive them off the lot…. saying “boys will be boys” and that people are dumb for leaving their cars out in the driveway.

So we [Gerold’s male society] are generally more interested in protecting cars and X-Boxes than in protecting women’s “goods” from depredation. That’s the deeply depressing message that women have to come to grips with every day.

Conviction rate of 5% here:
http://www.dailypress.com/news/crime/dp-nws-rape-convictions-20150529-story.html

Compare to felony MV theft at 75% conviction rate:
https://www.bjs.gov/index.cfm?ty=qa&iid=403

This is interesting:
“A large majority of robbery (73%) and rape (56%) convictions also resulted in prison sentences.” Gee! See any discrepancies there? How about here: “Within the violent offense category, release rates varied greatly. Just 13% of murder defendants were released compared to 61% of those charged with assault. Fifty-six percent of rape defendants and 44% of robbery defendants were released before the court disposed of their case.” Again, going by these actions, women are worth less than property.
https://www.bjs.gov/content/pub/ascii/fdluc00.txt

Empower Women Protect Children (and protect women when needed)
[really long but apropos of this post – eventually]

Preface: This story refers to a female with the name of Jenny. I encourage you to understand the word Jinn as the word has meaning in the anglo name Jennifer, at least to me.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jinn

Jin (Arabic: الجن, al-jinn), also romanized as djinn or anglicized as genies (with the more broad meaning of spirits),[1] are supernatural creatures in early Arabian and later Islamic mythology and theology. An individual member of the jinn is known as a jinni, djinni, or genie (الجني, al-jinnī). They are mentioned frequently in the Quran (the 72nd sura is titled Sūrat al-Jinn) and other Islamic texts. The Quran says that the jinn were created from “marijin min nar”.[2][3] They are not purely spiritual, but also physical in nature, being able to interact in a tactile manner with people and objects and likewise be acted upon. The jinn, demons[4], humans, and angels make up the known sapient creations of God. Like human beings, the jinn can be good, evil, or neutrally benevolent and hence have free will like humans.[5]

I find it interesting that Forrest Gump’s love interest is named Jenny.

This story begins while I was attending Emory University School of Dentistry in 1970. My graduate dorm suite-mate was a grad student in the Fine Arts department. He was sponsored at Emory by a professor from Morehouse College and he was a person of color with African lineage – and a 10 inch ‘Fro when I first met him. He previously had worked producing photography on Madison Avenue – Calvin Klein type ads. He exposed me to African art and literature and became a dear friend. Also we discussed the philosophy of Madison Avenue. So when I found myself in Kenya and Tanzania I appreciated my experience even more. I visited an open air store in Nairobi that featured ebony wood carvings and sculptures as well as other sundries and souvenirs. The store had some striking figures, Makonde like in nature. I ended up acquiring two different carving. One I call the Black Buddha. The other one I never photographed as it was somewhat inappropriate for most people. I say it was a representation of a Shetani.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shetani

It depicted a Shetani standing behind a woman whose baby’s face could be seen crowning from her punani. The statue was about 20 inches tall. She was in a plantation squat on her haunches. The shetani was feeding her a potion from a small gourd. The demonic devil looking creature would scare the best gargoyle Europe has to offer. He had a large mouth with hippo like tusks extruding. Large wing like ears and a phallus that was as long as his legs. It certainly would grab your attention when you saw it. I valued it very much yet seldom let others view except guests in my home on Bay Street. So, along comes H. Ivan. Since I had been on Bay Street for half a dozen hurricanes and never had more than a 4 foot surge and wet carpets down stairs; I placed most possessions upstairs. I placed the two Makonde works on the half-way-up stair landing. I could not imagine water being above that level. Well, anyone who lived on Bay Street knows what happened. I took shelter in my former dental office and it took three days before I could return to my home, or what was left of it.

It is difficult to recall those days and I have great empathy for those who now suffer the devastation delivered by Mother Nature. It is quite emotional for me. My stairway leading up to the top floor was totally gone, as was everything I had downstairs, walls and all. My detached garage was filled to the brim with 20 years worth of tools, a truck, a jon boat, custom cabinets, you name it. It was all gone. Where did it go? Most of it was across Bay Street in the Bay Street Swamp. This was before the brick wall was constructed – before the crash of 2008 when developers had intentions for the disturbed wetlands and endangered beach mouse habitat.

I lost more than the “things”. I lost a community of neighbors and friends. I think there are only three or four other houses on Bay Street that are pre Ivan, or maybe one or two more at the end of Bay Street in Villa Venice.
Almost all friends and neighbors I had known – all left and did not come back. “The whole neighborhood has hysteria” is what I thought following the storm. People crying, exhibiting abnormal behavior, hysterical came to mind.

It is interesting to me that the word hysteria comes via Latin and Greek ORIGIN
mid 17th century (as an adjective): via Latin from Greek husterikos ‘of the womb,’ from hustera ‘womb’ (hysteria being thought to be specific to women and associated with the womb), related to uterus.

My Emory suite mate and his philosophy-doctoral-student friend, who specialized in Leibnizian philosophy, both told me it was used to describe women who cannot/will not have children – i.e. without womb

A fitting relationship to my story and the macabre makonde art.

~~~
I was not immune to the depressing airs that filled the swamp of Bay Street following the storm. I am reminded of The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving.

”It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, to dream dreams, and see apparitions.”

With sadness I can recall wading through the debris across the street retrieving what little that was worth saving. One moment etched firmly in my mind as I trudged though the stinking quagmire in the stifling heat of late summer, is finding my heavy rubbermaid trash can floating in the chest deep muddy muck, and wading/struggling mightily to extricate it. There was not a soul to be seen in the then gHetto neighborhood to save me from the quicksand’s mire.

So it was that my African art was lost. Miraculously the black buddha was found under what had been my first floor. The Shetani, vanished into the Bay Street Swamp.

I raised two sons on Bay Street. When Ivan hit they both were in Iraq; Army Infantry, boots on the ground, rifles at ready. Luckily they both were granted emergency leave and helped my flagging spirits for two weeks before they returned to a real war zone.

Prior to my sons being deployed they were stationed in Fairbanks Alaska. While they were up there I was lucky enough to hire a woman from Fairbanks. I called it a fair exchange. Jenny was maybe 21 years old, smart and attractive and an excellent dental assistant. She was a woman of faith. She shared with me a desire to be a Christian missionary. I asked if she wanted to go to deepest darkest Africa and she indicated that she would like that. I suggested she go where the ebony wood grows.

Her minister and leader of her Pentecostal church was known to me when I was a mere boy watching television – when there were only two or three channels available – black and white only of course. He was an early televangelist. His sermons included large poster paper on an easel on which he drew pictograms and such. I vividly recall seeing him draw a man who had whip marks all over his back, fresh with blood oozing from the marks; as a boy. Kinda gruesome. And 60 years later he is preaching in Pensacola. I spoke with him personally. He knew about the Gheechie Ghetto in Savannah where my father was raised and where the preacher preached for years, sometimes out on the street. He knew first hand the suffering of all men, especially black men and women of the old South. We discussed the missionary mission for Jenny and her fiancé. I made a donation to further the goal of a mission to Malawi. Most funds came from the church.

Jenny did go to Malawi with her new husband. Before she left I told her the story of the shetani and how it was now roaming the Bay Street Swamp. I feared its spirit was loose – again taking the spirit of babies born to susceptible mothers. At least that is the message and metaphor I saw in the work of art. I told her to tell the local spiritual leader over there that I too was concerned about mothers whose spirit is taken away by a potion of bad medicine. Think alcohol and drugs that steal the souls of mothers and their babies… I know too well about this pandemic in America. I gave Jenny a crisp C-note for exchange, and asked her to share the tale of the shetani being loose in the swamp; to a shaman/priest. I wanted an ebony wood charm to combat any ill spirits flowing from the lost shetani. It could be very small – but something, please!

Jenny returned in 6 months or so for a short visit and to present me with the ebony wood gift from the spiritual leader of Malawi. The two figures, male and female looked very familiar. I had seen many similarly carved trinkets for sale while I traveled Kenya and Tanzania, tourist baubles. Our plane had landed in Uganda but due to Idi Amin and his ilk, I did not get off the plane. The wood of the gift was ebony wood and the statuaries were emblematic of the Masai or Kikuyu men and women of the hinterlands. But I failed to see how they could be an antidote to my worries. I studied them for months, straining to see some significance. And finally the Epiphany occurred.

The male figure will stand up straight, balanced on the base of the carving. The female figure will not stand upright because her base is canted so she fails to stand alone. To get her to stay upright, she must lean on the male figure. So for me, women need a male to lean on, who stands up to the temptations, whips, slings, scorns and arrows of life. You may say that is a stretch but it works for me. It takes men to be strong and upright and then women are empowered, able to function on their feet while protected. Like a male lion or any other alpha leader of a herd, pack, tribe or family. Do not get me wrong. Women are not inferior to men, just dependent to a large degree. So before anyone goes Kill Bill krazy, let me make this straight. My whole life has been devoted to the empowerment of women and the protection of children. I believe their strength stems from the protection of the male as a general rule of thumb. I was awed by the role of female fighters in Ken Burns’ recent NPR special on Vietnam. Ditto on those Kurdish female warriors. I hope I offend no feminists. Biology is biology. The African priest who gifted me the ebony wood couple most likely laughed at my simple predicament and worry.

Epilogue
In March of 2006 I took a trip to Washington DC. George Mason University’s Patriot basketball team made it to the Final Four of the NCAA basketball tournament that month. I have a story about a fixed, championship basketball game in DC in 1966. It involves John Booth, Dr. Mudd of ‘your name is mudd” fame, Mary Surratt and girls I kissed who lived in Mary’s historic house – now a museum.
But that is a story for another chapter, another time…

Anyway I was in DC at the invitation of Dubya. Mostly it was a fund raiser for him. Karl Rove officiated the events. Celine Dion was there in virtual reality for a performance. I met up with a former girlfriend while there. She was doing research at John’s Hopkins University. And I took in some of the local history. I had lived in Clinton, Maryland, just outside the District my senior year of high school. So I had some previous exposure to the city. Mostly in Anacostia, Georgetown and that Irish bar Harrigan’s where I could have a beer at 18.

This time I saw the Columbian District in a different way. I went to the newly opened National Museum of American African History and Culture. It was not fully completed but some displays were open. While there making the rounds I was joined by a man from Malawi. By his BEARing and by his two British handlers and the royal photographer I knew he was a man of importance. We began chatting. I told him of my missionary. The camera woman took dozens of photos of the man and I. We discussed the meanings of many of the displayed African arts. I have a suspicion he was there to meet me.

Talks evolved to the two headed hedgehog figure with many square-head vintage steel nails driven in the wooden bodies of the iconographic sculpture. It was two, hedgehog bodies, joined at the abdomen; thoraxes and heads pointing in opposite directions. He said every time the ‘rule’ was changed, they would drive a nail on the opposite end of the hedge hog’s body. The displayed piece had nail-quills covering the carving. I told him Washington is filled with political hedgehogs. He brought up Dick Chaney who had recently fired a shotgun at some lawyer’s face. We both broke out in great big belly laughs and were doing a back slapping-guffaw routine. The Brit handlers were at first concerned I was the touching the monarch but relaxed when I winked at them.

And to those feminists and non binary folk who question my male primacy doxy – I am not especially patriarchal by nature.