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Oct. 23, 2013 - Freedomain Radio - Stefan Molyneux
55:24
2513 How A Man's Heart is Murdered

The Causes and Consequences of Male Disposability.

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I'd like to talk about a sad but really essential topic with you today.
I hope you will make it through.
Really, really important stuff.
When I was five or six years old, I lived on Priory Crescent.
Near Hermitage Road in London.
Not too far from Crystal Palace.
There were three TV stations back then.
BBC One, BBC Two and ITV. BBC One would have like three cartoons a week.
BBC Two...
I don't know.
I don't even remember what was the unbelievably boring stuff.
I just remember seeing people playing a really sweat-inducing game called Mastermind.
Which are peppered with difficult questions while they sweated under Gestapo-style lighting.
And then there was ITV, which was a bit more of a rock and roll station, like the City TV in Toronto.
Every three months they'd play a Bond movie and the whole country would shut down.
And I remember, I think it was on BBC One, there was a Lassie film.
Lassie, not just a very sweet Indian drink, but also a remarkable dog.
And the Lassie film had, like in the previews for it, and sort of the watch tonight, they'd show like 15 seconds of the film.
And one of them was a guy in wartime Machine gunning.
Machine gunning going off.
And my brother and I were dying.
Dying to watch this Lassie film.
My brother actually had somewhere to go that night.
I can't remember if he had to go somewhere.
He was a little older than I. And he was really, really sad that he didn't...
Like he wasn't going to get a chance to watch the war film.
Now I watched the film and...
As it turns out, there really wasn't much of worse stuff in it, a lot of boring dog stuff, and, you know, that was the only thing was in the preview.
But I was thinking about that hunger to see feral battle in action, even sitting through a dull dog film to see a few seconds of rat-tat-tat body-shredding war footage, and this was a huge deal.
When I was growing up in England in the 70s.
I was born in 66.
I grew up in the 70s in England.
And dear God, we were war-obsessed.
All of us.
We bought model airplanes, Spitfires, Messerschmitts.
And we knew the size of artillery shells, anti-aircraft shells.
I was a fan of the Hurricane.
My brother preferred the Spitfire, because the Hurricane could take more damage and survive.
No projection there!
And all we did was we played war games.
Rehearsals for death and murder.
That was what we called recreation back in the day.
And I was thinking, because I went to boarding school from when I was six to when I was eight, where, you know, lived at school.
And I remember spending a Christmas at school, too.
What the hell happened with my family?
Good Lord, what a mess.
With three other very sad boys.
They had no place to go at Christmas.
We were sitting with the one lonely teacher who stayed behind and we were sitting in this giant hall designed for hundreds of boys with one small corner, plastic cups, and some of the saddest petrochemical desserts you could imagine.
And so I thought, well, maybe boarding school provoked some of this stuff, but this Lassie film, I'm pretty sure, was on the air before I went to boarding school.
So boarding school, of course, is a traditional way to eviscerate the empathies of the ruling classes so that they can order the proletariat to their deaths on a regular basis with no sense of horror at what they're doing.
I remember reading, when I was doing some research on World War I, I did some reading, and one of the greatest assholes in history was the British commander.
World War I ended November 11, 1918, at 11 o'clock in the morning.
And one of the biggest assholes in history was the British commander who sent his troops on an attack mission at 7 o'clock in the morning on the day when armistice was going to be declared.
And he knew in advance that the war had only four hours left.
And he still sent his men off to die to attack the Germans.
Just monstrous.
And I can guarantee this guy came from a boarding school.
Like Churchill.
Murderers make great war leaders.
I was a big Churchill fan.
I've written a whole novel with Churchill as a character.
I remember when I was eight or so, after boarding school, in a British public school, and I stood up to answer a question about a Churchill speech, and in my little tremulo voice, I remembered and recounted the Churchill line.
Never in the history of human conflict has so much been known by so many to so few.
It's war obsessed.
We were all war obsessed.
We all did almost nothing except go out and do battle.
Hands became Pistols, we dropped sycamore seeds spiraling down as benevolent bombs from outstretched wingtips.
I've got a whole scene of this in one of my novels of kids playing war.
We were practicing for slaughter throughout our childhoods, obsessed with war.
All we read were World War II comics or the occasional World War I comic.
I remember reading the story of one man who joined the army, and he didn't want to wear the army boots.
He wanted to wear something more comfortable, and so the sergeant major made him walk around and around and around for like a day and a half until his shoes wore out and said, that's why.
And then he said, here I have a book with a bullet hole in it.
These are the army regulations which I carried in my chest pocket, and they stopped a bullet from an enemy.
The regulations literally will save your life.
Yeah, right.
Because if the wind had taken it one inch to the right, regulations would be meaningless.
Well, this is the degree to which they tried to teach us something about what it meant to have rules and to be subjugated.
Obey the rules or you will die.
Of course, if you obey the rules, you end up in the battlefield to begin with, which, you know, I think somewhat increases your chance of dying.
So we were war-obsessed, battle-obsessed, murder-and-slaughter-obsessed.
Full of the prickly-nettly anti-heroism of returning for falling comrades and getting shot in the leg and tumbling down and being dragged to safety and under whistling bombs and pinecones became grenades and Trees became not beautiful things to take shelter under, but convenient bullet stoppers to hide behind.
This is what we called our childhoods.
Little more than a rehearsal for adding our digits to the butcher's bill of war.
I genuinely believe that if war had been declared when I was a boy, I would have felt a shiver of anticipation.
And if things had not changed, had I not discovered philosophy, if I had not changed, if I had not snatched my heart back from the feeding frenzy of the vampires who were eating it and eating me so that I would murder at will, murder at whoever the leaders pointed at.
As generations of my family had done before, as aristocrats we were heavily involved in the military.
My uncle on my father's side Took part in a bombing raid over Dresden in 1944 that killed my grandmother on my mother's side.
We had a long history of being killbots, of being murder pointers.
Go kill!
Yes, sir.
Everybody talks about magic spells that can...
Cause death.
Voodoo.
Well, it's called the chain of command.
These are magic spells that cause death.
Go kill.
Yes, sir.
So, it's probably in the DNA, or at least in the family history, to obsess with war.
So, how did it come about?
I actually am quite a tender-hearted person in many ways.
And how did it, now at least, I did rescue...
You know, snatch back my heart from the zombies who wish to swell their ranks by eating upon it.
Caused me to join them.
How did it happen that I became so war-obsessed?
And not just I, but everyone.
You could not find a peaceful comic book.
And we're not talking like fantasy.
War.
War.
This is important to understand.
I mean, you know, we're not talking Marvel Comics universe battling with magic shields and lightning bolts above Manhattan in a peaceful world, except for the fights of superheroes and villains.
I mean, the comic books I read were, you know, genuine death in Burma, you know, shot through the leg and then eaten by a tiger and stuff.
It was all Saving Private Ryan and very little, if any, Batman.
American combat can be fantastical because America's not been invaded, right?
Inside of Canada, 1812.
Male disposability.
I wrote a line of this novel about war.
The generals threw the soldiers into the slaughtering gunfire as a petulant child throws his lead soldiers into a fireplace.
Or as us and them in Pink Floyd's The Dark Side of the Moon says, generals sat while the lines on the map moved from side to side.
Male disposability.
The foundation of our society.
Somebody pointed this out about Elysium, that it's the man who has to be disposed of so that they can type legal into the program.
Because, you know, you can never type illegal back in again.
But it's the man who must always die.
It's the man who must always be sacrificed.
It's Jesus who must be sacrificed.
It's always the man who must die to save the world.
I mean, this is women and children first and Titanic lifeboats and all that kind of stuff.
Male disposability.
You can't have war without male disposability.
So, I was primed for this.
I was prepared for this.
I and millions of other boys in England and other places, I'm sure.
Primed to become slaughterhouse already programmed murder robots.
How?
How is this achieved?
Well, it's quite simple.
The way that male disposability is achieved is for authority figures in particular to never take the tiniest bit of interest in the inner lives of boys.
Let me say that again, because this is the root of war and the slow suicide of the West.
Male disposability is achieved by the relentless encircling, walling in, in a circular well of authoritarian indifference, brick by brick, ignoring every and any possible manifestation of the inner life of boys.
In other words, the only time that authority will take interest in boys is to select, display, and punish.
The whole time I was in boarding school, nobody praised me for anything, but I did get caned on the ass.
Because, you know, it's really important for semi-pedophiles to get their S&M fetishes off.
On little boys, you know, six or seven years old, cane them on the buttocks.
It's hard to get your gratification if you're a creepy perv without that kind of punishment mechanism set up.
The same goes for spanking as a whole.
I mean, boarding school as a whole is designed to, as I mentioned, is designed to allow the ruling classes to sacrifice the lower classes for the sake of the financial classes.
Thank you.
I do that.
You come in and the prefects, the older boys, relentlessly torture you, which seals up your capacity for vulnerability and therefore empathy.
And then you become an older boy and you torture the younger boys, which prepares you to send young men to their deaths in the final four hours of an endless war.
I mean, I don't think this is just my experience.
Male disposability is universal enough that I think it's everyone's experience.
Just think back, if you're a boy, or if you have brothers, just think back on your own childhood.
How many times did caregivers, parents, teachers, and priests, for the most part, how many times did authority figures Show a deep and abiding curiosity about your inner life.
What you thought, what you dreamt, what your preferences were, what your fantasies were, what you loved, what you hated, what you dreamt at night.
The movements of your heart, the tides of your personality.
Well, you can't have government education, particularly for boys, in the way that it is, right?
If boys' preferences are to be taken in any way seriously.
Just think back.
How many times did parents, teachers, and priests sit down with you and ask you, What you thought, how you were doing, what motivated you, what didn't motivate you, what you loved, what you hated, the songs, the books, the movies, the characters, the colors, the paintings, the portraits, the pictures.
What did you like, dislike, love, hate?
What moved you, what motivated you?
Who sought to understand you as a human being, as a unique individual, if you were a boy?
I bet no one.
I remember!
I went to Camp Bolton when I was a teenager in my early teens.
My mom would just send me up week after week after week so she could...
Do other things.
And I remember one counselor, one chem counselor, I stayed up with late one night or maybe two nights, and we talked about astronomy, the stars, light waves, the speed of light, and relativity.
And I remember very clearly, I wrote about this in The God of Atheists, but he very clearly said to me, which I remember to this day, everyone thinks that Frankenstein is the monster, but Frankenstein is the name Of the doctor who created the monster.
Yes, my first inkling of what my childhood and my parenting was actually like.
Everyone thinks the child is the monster, but it's the parents who are monsters, if there is to be monstrosity in the situation.
When I first moved to Canada, I was 11 from England, and we stayed in Whitby for a couple of months with my mother's half-brother, and we moved to Toronto.
I don't know why any of this stuff happened.
My mother's story was that we needed a fresh start, whatever that means.
And what she basically meant was we were getting old enough to tell other people about our abuse, so we needed to be moved to a new isolated area, which is why we had to leave all of our friends and contacts there.
But I was in grade 8 in Whitby for a couple of months, and then when we came to Toronto, I was dropped back into grade 6.
And I spoke out in class.
I did something...
You know, immaterially wrong.
And I had to write lines.
I will not speak out in class.
But I had sprained my left...
I'm left-handed.
I had sprained my left hand falling off a bike.
And so I couldn't do the lines.
I came in at a big-ass bandage on my wrist.
Tensor bandage.
I said to my female teacher, I couldn't...
I didn't do the lines.
I couldn't do the lines.
She said, well, double tonight then.
Write double the lines.
And I was looking a bit agog.
Like, do you not see that I have a big...
Bandage on my wrist?
No.
Of course not.
Didn't obey extra punishment.
Or maybe she thought that I was right-handed.
Maybe she hadn't even noticed in the class for months.
Maybe she hadn't even noticed I was left-handed.
So I ended up telling her and we postponed the punishment or whatever happened.
You know, how many times did anybody sit down with you for an hour or so and...
Ask you why you drew something.
Ask you why you like a particular movie or a particular song.
What moves you about it?
What do you think about it?
What images does it provide for you?
How many times did anybody attempt to help you or be curious about or explore your inner life, your thoughts, your dreams?
How many times?
Well, with me, it was practically zero.
Practically zero.
To all intents and purposes, it was precisely zero.
And that is the root of your disposability.
Nobody takes any interest in your inner life.
You are mocked for having feelings.
You are mocked for crying.
You are mocked for being sensitive.
And this walls you up, seals you up, Everybody becomes, as the song says, another brick in the wall.
When I was a boy in school, female teachers mostly, and male teachers to some degree, they all were annoyed at me because they didn't do my homework.
Because I didn't apply myself.
I was lazy.
If effort matched ability, Mr.
Molyneux, you'd be an A+. Nobody asked me why I wasn't applying myself.
I had a physics test one week when I was 14 or so.
Science test.
And I was studying, and then my mom leaned up against some crappy-ass tin shelf that we had.
And it fell over.
It fell on me.
Books and papers and all that.
My mom was hysterical.
I had to fix it up.
Calm her down.
Took an hour or two.
Studied a little more.
Got a little panicked because I needed to get some sleep.
And my mom...
I had a typewriter in my room because I used to write stories even when I was a kid.
Wrote my first novel when I was like...
Oh, gosh.
14?
And my mom was writing some obsessive letter to some lawyer about some doctor and she was up most of the night smoking like a chimney and the rat-a-tat-tat of the keyboard from an electric typewriter would regularly wake me up.
Dragged my ass out of bed.
Didn't do well on the test.
Barely passed.
Got it tossed on my desk with the sneer of contempt from the teacher.
Not a very good showing.
Of course, nobody asked.
The possibility that we might inquire as to why a boy might not be applying himself.
It's incomprehensible.
We just insult him.
We just say that he's equal to everybody else in opportunity and home life and security and stability and simply attack him then for his laziness.
I mean, I got my first job when I was 9 or 10 years old.
I got my first real job when I was 11 in a bookstore.
I think I worked pretty fucking hard.
I worked harder in my childhood.
Most people work their whole lifetime.
You know, don't tie an anvil to someone's fucking leg and then say he's a lazy-ass swimmer for not keeping up.
But the idea that anybody would ask...
I had no choice.
I couldn't tell my mom Stop typing.
I'm trying to get some sleep because then she'd blow up and scream at me and maybe throw the typewriter at me and then I wouldn't get any sleep at all.
I couldn't get up and go sleep in another room because then she'd be upset about that and follow me and demand to know why I was moving and all this and that and the other.
I mean, I just sit there and try and get some sleep in between the random rapid smoky typing.
I got like a 57 in the test or something like that.
Pretty fucking good.
I mean, you try it.
That's an A in abuse land.
That's an A+. But the idea that any of the hundreds of teachers that I had throughout various countries and various schools when I was a kid, the idea that any of them would ask me why I was not applying myself, why I rarely did homework, why I was not keeping up.
That would be to inquire as to my inner life and my motivations and my circumstances and my environment.
Who the hell wants to do that?
Jesus, you find out about that, you might have to fucking do something about some poor kid in a terrible situation.
No, no, no, no!
You lazy!
You lazy, white boy!
Well, it's alright.
It's alright, mama!
Because philosophy has its vengeance.
And the only time that people take interest in you is when you are annoying them.
Thank you.
And so your experience is indifference until you're annoying them.
That's all you get as far as attachment goes.
You're worthless to everyone.
The best you can hope for is indifference.
What you are much more likely to receive is irritation, annoyance, frustration, punishment.
Who takes an interest in you?
Who is curious?
Who was curious when you were a child about your inner life?
Well, if no one, then eventually you want to kill, you want to die.
I mean, so angry, right?
And so hopeless.
And so non-existent in a fundamental way.
And you can't kill unless you're already dead inside, right?
And the best way to kill the inner life is to starve it of light and sight and hearing and oxygen and impression and connection.
And curiosity.
Nobody really cares about who you are.
If the only time that you show up for people is when you are annoying them, or when they can select and single you out and punish you, well, how could you end up not being disposable?
I mean, who wants to live in that kind of vacuum fundamentally anyway?
And the enormous irony, this sort of pisses me off.
The whole thing pisses me off.
But this sort of pisses me off.
And, sorry, just before I get to that, until somebody has genuinely loved you and wants to know what you think and feel and keeps asking you questions and is there for you and helps you, Until you've experienced that, I'm telling you, you don't know what you're missing.
I'm telling you.
I can talk about it.
You can get a sense of it.
But until you've genuinely experienced love, somebody who really wants you to be happy, who cares to really learn what makes you happy, who helps keep you safe from the takers and the breakers of the world,
somebody who really cares about you, If you've not experienced that, I'm telling you, you don't really get what you've missed.
I didn't.
And once you get that, looking at your former empty, useless, trashy relationships, exploitive relationships, indifferent relationships, you know what it's like?
It's like trying to see a star behind the sun.
Until the sun comes, you can see the stars.
And you're like, hey, I guess they're pretty light.
The moon's pretty light.
But then when real love rises in your life, when through virtue and self-knowledge you earn the capacity and find the companionship for true love, well, then the stars all fade.
And daylight floods your world.
And I swear, my friends, you never knew how thirsty you were until you drank deep of the sweetest water.
You never knew how hungry you were until the buffet of the greatest food in the world spread itself before you.
But the irony, of course, is what are men most criticized for.
By women.
By society.
What are men most criticized for?
You men, you can't express your feelings.
Why can't you express your feelings?
You really got to express your feelings.
I don't know.
I'm not a mind reader.
You got to express your feelings.
Fuck that.
You don't think boys are born expressing their feelings?
Do you not think that boy babies cry and laugh as much as girl babies?
No, but you smash and grind your head repeatedly on the cheese-grating Berlin wall, forehead-buckling, soul-shredding indifference of others to the male experience of life, to the inner male.
You pound your head against that wall often enough and eventually you just stop doing it.
And the moms and the daycare workers and the nannies and the female teachers, women, rule the early life of boys.
And frankly, in my experience, most women who care for boys couldn't give a rat's fucking ass about their inner life.
Don't ask them questions.
Don't help them probe self-knowledge.
Don't have them try and figure out the causes of their feelings.
Do not train them to be open and connected to the world, to others, to life, to love.
Boys pretend fight all the time because they are really not loved.
Thank you.
Love is curiosity.
Love is seeking to understand the other, particularly the child.
My daughter feels something.
I want to know why.
She has a dream.
I want to know every detail.
She had a desire.
I want to know what she likes.
She likes a particular show.
I'll sit down and watch it with her and ask her what she likes the most and what she doesn't like and what stories are her favorites.
I want to know.
This is a treasure.
This is a tiny golden goddess.
Of things to learn about, of thoughts and feelings.
I wish it were a boy.
I don't wish she was a boy, but I wish a boy could experience that.
I wish more boys could, then we wouldn't have any war, and we certainly wouldn't have any predatory politicians and abusive cops and murderous soldiers.
So society...
He specifically and explicitly rejects everything that goes on in the heart and mind of a boy.
And then when that boy grows up, they say, hey, how come you can't express your feelings?
What's the matter with you?
Oh, man, they just don't.
They can't express their feelings.
It's like we raise boys in alligator pits where the alligators eye and slither and snap at them their whole childhoods.
And then when we...
Raise them up to manhood.
We take them into the swamp and we say, why?
Men are just irrationally skittish of alligators.
Poor men.
What a simple, dumb little inner life they don't have.
Men, they're just, they're horny, they're hungry, they're thirsty.
That's all that men really have.
Women have these complex inner lives, you see.
Men just have these very simple do-do-do inner life.
Yeah.
Of course it seems that way.
Because you irradiated the inner life of men through indifference.
You know, you wall off a plant and you put it in the basement and it fucking dies.
Then it poisons the air.
Male disposability.
Men are valueless.
Men are disposable.
Men are interchangeable.
Now, I have a picture in my basement when I was in boarding school.
I remember the day.
It was cold.
and we all sat in these rows.
Stacked, you know, like six or seven, in a sort of raised series of terraces, like a sports stadium.
And we sat there in rows, and I remember the camera went click, click, click, and sort of did this big panoramic thing.
Like 500 boys.
And I used to know the name of every single boy in that picture.
I can only remember a couple of them now, but I used to remember the name of every single boy in that picture.
I'm in the picture down at bottom, left my brothers in the picture.
And I used to know these names.
And, of course, this was 1972 or 1973.
I think it was 1972.
Camera technology is not the best.
Everything's kind of black and white.
And we all kind of look the same.
Why?
Well, we all have the same haircut because we had to go and get our hair cut every single week and write to our parents and so on, right?
I used to get into trouble because I'd write to my dad, Dear Tom.
I hadn't seen him in years.
So I write Dear Tom.
I say, no, you have to write Dear Dad.
I don't understand that.
To me, a father was something you did, not a label.
Dr.
Phil says it's a verb, not a noun.
Parent.
But of course, nobody asked me why I was writing Dear Tom, not Dear Dad.
Because you can't ask these things.
You just cuff the kid and say, write Dear Dad.
It's not Dear Tom.
It's Dear Dad.
Or you'll be punished.
Because nobody asks, right?
Nobody wants to know.
So this photo is still in my basement.
Maybe we should dig it up and scan it or whatever, share it with people.
So we're at the same haircut, and it's a black and white picture, and we're all in the same uniform, right?
It's a uniform school.
And, I mean, it's black and white, you can't tell the color of anyone's eyes or the color of anyone's hair, and so we all kind of look the same.
As the old poem says, like, petals on a wet black bough.
And I remember, I think there's a scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off as well, sewing better.
I remember being in the art gallery when I was a little kid and looking at a picture.
I can't for the life of me to remember what it was.
And what fascinated me was the background.
So there was some guy and a horse in the front of the picture, and he was riding down some busy street, some big parade.
And so for it being a parade, they needed lots of faces in the back, in the background, to make the guy and the horse look important and so on.
And they're holding little flags and cheering.
A couple of them throwing their hats in the air or whatever.
Now, in the back of the picture, there were these hundreds of little smudges to represent faces.
And they were faceless, right?
Faceless.
Just little, tiny little thumbprints.
Series of them.
All interchangeable.
That's how I felt as a child.
Not just in my family, but in society.
I felt interchangeable.
I felt undifferentiated, indistinguishable from everyone around me.
Like those creepy, big, gouged-out, three-finger bowling ball face masks in Pink Floyd's movie The Wall before the kids all fall into the sausage factory of education.
But...
I felt like a little blob of paint situated next to other little blobs of paint, and you look away and try and look back, you couldn't even find me again.
I was that indistinguishable.
All I could look at at that picture in the art gallery in London was the background, was the blobs of faces interchangeable, undifferentiated, indistinguishable, disposable.
You could take one away, who would care?
And they only served to highlight the importance of the grandiose, narcissistic battle warrior riding the horse in the foreground.
And I was fascinated, of course, and I felt very sad and yearning.
I wanted to go into the blobs of faces until they hovered above me like big, empty, vapid moons and shake and awake them.
To roam in the crowd and say, if you turn away from the warrior, you will gain a face!
An eye color, and hair color, and a style.
And you won't be in uniform.
If you turn away from the parade, you can walk through the back of the painting and become a person.
But you only exist here to serve the narcissistic vanity of the man on the horse, which is why you are simply blobs with no faces.
I felt that way.
I mean, that was my life.
I mean, this is how you look to a narcissist.
You're just a blob there to serve his ego, and you're interchangeable and disposable.
You can be sent to war.
You can be taxed.
You can be thrown in prison.
You can be harassed.
You can have your taxes raised.
They don't give a shit.
You're just a blob.
Cows get more sentiment from farmers than taxpayers and soldiers from leaders.
Each one of those background extras, the little blobs of paint, each one of them was disposable.
Now as a whole, you needed them.
Otherwise it would look kind of weird, a guy parading in front of no one.
They're all disposable.
And that is important.
Man's contributions are invisible because men are disposable.
The civilization that men have built, male scientists, male engineers, male economists, male entrepreneurs, the entire structure that shields the human race from the vagaries and pestilences and starvations and hail and inclement weather of nature, I mean, it's all invisible.
You can't talk about it.
Men are invisible.
A woman runs a business and everybody cheers.
All the other men who run businesses, you can't talk about it.
You can't mention it.
So many times, of course, a man is the primary earner in a family, particularly if the woman's staying home with kids.
And the woman comes home and the woman says, you need to do more to help around the house.
The man can say, my dear, we only have a house because I've been working for 10 hours.
So I don't have to lift a finger around the house because you are not spending 10 hours a day on housework, but I'm spending 10 hours a day on paying for everything in the house.
But the financial contributions of men to families, which is in fact a pretty good deal for the women, Well, this can't be discussed, right?
Can't be discussed.
It doesn't show up.
Basically, imagine a man saying to a woman, well, you've got to pay the bills because I'm willing to have sex with you.
I mean, that would be funny, right?
Ah, let my contribution to the relationship be having sex, which is great fun.
I'm willing to sacrifice the achievement of orgasm as my contribution to this relationship.
So now you pay for everything.
I mean, this is ridiculous, right?
But male disposability is male exploitation, the exploitation of men.
In war, in the economy, in relationships.
Male disposability is the prerequisite for the exploitation of men.
Viewing males as society-serving empty robots, as appliances, as revenue generators.
That is the essence of what is crippling and destroying the modern world.
In education, boys are basically viewed as broken girls.
If only we could get the boys to be more like the girls!
Wouldn't that be great?
Well, not really.
The idea that men Have an inner value to their own existence and their own experience and therefore must be negotiated with from a position of mutual respect is incomprehensible to people.
And it's not even incomprehensible like an admitted topic that people won't process.
It's not even an admitted topic.
You know, you go to some anti-Semitic jerk and you say, you know, Jews are equal or Jews are great.
It's incomprehensible to him because he's anti-Semitic.
But at least he recognizes the question.
The question...
What do men want?
It's not even a question.
Everybody assesses about what women want.
Oh, try and plumb the, what do women want?
Try and plumb the desert.
Freud turned himself into a Gordian knot, lower intestine map of the subway system in London pretzel into trying to figure this problem out.
Who tries to figure out what men want?
What do boys want?
And you write about this like Christina Hoffsammers does in The War Against Boys or anything.
People, I mean, it sinks.
It's like throwing a giant boulder into a tiny pond and having it disappear without a ripple.
And it's always blaming the victim.
Men's...
The boys' emotional lives are ignored, downgraded, mocked, rejected, scorned, bullied.
And then it's...
The men's fault that they lack the capacity for emotional expression when they get older.
Men are deficient because they were victimized as children.
It's like looking at a female victim of incest, of rape, child rape.
They've just got some weird sexual hang-ups.
Except the prevalence of female child rape is far less than the prevalence of the sole murderer of boys through the glacial Easter Island face masks of universal indifference to their experiences.
And write to me.
Operations at freedomainradio.com.
Write to me and tell me that I'm wrong.
I'd love to be wrong about that.
I would love for my childhood to be...
The exception.
I mean, it was the exception.
I mean, I had a rough childhood even by contemporary standards, but I think that this fundamental indifference to the emotional life of boys, look, is universal.
But tell me, write to me, tell me I'm wrong.
Tell me about all the great mentors you had who helped to teach you about yourself.
Men have a great inability to express their emotions.
Yeah, that's why male poets are so powerful.
Because the men who do survive with some capacity for emotional expression intact write the most glorious emotional poetry in the known universe.
Passionate, deep, intense.
The thought fox.
And if the sonnet's funny, witty, passionate, deep, Tell me men have no capacity for emotional self-expression.
And a woman cries and everybody rushes to give her what she wants.
And a man cries and everybody scorns and looks away, embarrassed.
Fuck you, world.
Fuck your double standards.
Fuck your icebox refrigeration of boys' hearts and then tapping them with the endless chisel and hammer of personalized, condemnatory criticism when those boys grow up cold after having been frozen by culture their entire boyhoods.
The idea from authority figures, parents, priests, and teachers, that we would inquire and pursue the inner life of boys, it's not even on the table as something which might possibly be something worth exploring at some point in the future.
The neutron bomb that goes off in the world of boys that irradiates and kills their hearts is such a universal phenomenon.
That it doesn't even show up on the radar of things that happen in the world.
The emotional abuse of boys.
Neglect is the most powerful and destructive and long-lasting form of abuse.
Scientifically, statistically.
The universal emotional neglect and abuse of boys is so foundational to our society that it is genuinely impossible to imagine a society where this did not occur.
We know more talk of changing this than we discuss using the political system to repeal gravity.
You repeal gravity, the entire structure of human life flies apart.
All the buildings, the dams, everything.
The skyscrapers literally become skyscrapers.
Floating around the clouds like rolling pins in a high surf.
We no more think of warming our hearts towards the warm hearts of boys than Than we do of imagining that we can change the position of the sun by twisting the dials on our clocks.
To suggest it is insane.
To imagine it's occurring is deranged.
We are that far from the emancipation of isolation of the human male child.
It is the warm hearts of men That will recoil from the brutality of our societies.
It is the warm hearts of men that will recoil and rage against senseless wars and imprisonments and the initiation of force against the peaceful.
We raise men cold, frozen, brutalized through the cold Medusa eyes of indifference.
And then, you see, we complain that the hierarchy The patriarchy of men is not very nice.
You reap what you sow.
If you do not open your heart to the tender and passionate inner lives of boys, you freeze them up in a tomb that will swallow you all.
You understand?
You turn away from boys and they will reach around and drag down the future and you with it.
Spurned and abused childhood always has its vengeance.
There is no escape from evil in this or any other world.
A cold and brutal attitude towards boys will Have its consequence.
We can no more escape the inevitable backlash of brutalizing children than we can escape the ill health effects of smoking or the squishy splat if we jump from a bridge.
The things we set in motion through the indifference to the inner lives of boys is a horrible machinery that eats men and women, boys and girls.
Rich and poor, eventually, equally.
When we turn the potentially compassionate negotiation potential of boys into cold-eyed, hard-fisted dominance matrices, win, lose, win, lose, win, lose, fight, die!
Well, they rule over us.
They become politicians.
They become Greasy, sweaty preachers.
They become the petty sadists of vice-principles.
They become the outward sadists of kill-bot soldiers.
They become the cop who pulls you over and harasses you.
They become the man who beats you.
And the solution has to come from women.
Men are generally so crippled by the interstellar emotional isolation that they experience as children that to expect most men to reach out in any kind of compassionate way is really asking the impossible.
It's like asking somebody who's been mauled 30 times by lions to become a lion tamer.
It's not going to happen.
You'll be too screwed up by it.
So that's the first reason.
The second reason, of course, is that women shape men.
Women dominate the boyhood of men.
Patriarchy?
Fucking insane.
Think of your first five or seven years of life.
It was all women, all the time, with all authority.
It may be a sort of a distant kind of vice-principal stalking the hallways kind of thing, but it was all women, all the time.
I was the only guy in the daycare I worked in, among dozens of women.
And boy, oh boy, did those boys flock to me.
Naturally, hungry for any kind of male attention.
Women have to solve this.
And women have largely created it.
Stay-at-home moms who are annoyed by their boys, who don't ask their boys why, what, and how they feel, who don't sit down In patient time, under slow-moving stars, to inquire as to the source and genesis and movements of their boys' minds and hearts, who patiently learn to help them explore and teach them to help them explore why they think, what they think, how they think, why they feel, what they feel, how they feel.
All the moms who are too busy for that, because, you know, hey, floor's got to be mopped!
Shit's got to be clean.
Kids got to be isolated.
Well, the moms who leave their boys isolated, who don't reach out out of resentment, right?
Who don't reach out out of compassion and say that men are the way they are because women don't teach them to learn about themselves.
The root of male disposability is female indifference.
Lack of female respect, lack of female curiosity, female contempt.
Because men are appliances that generally don't work the way that women want them to, so they must be banged and ignored and insulted.
And so often attacked.
And why is the majority of domestic violence disputes initiated by women?
Because men are supposed to provide X, Y, and Z, regardless of how they feel, regardless of what they want.
That's why male suicidality is so high.
Isolation.
Isolation, isolation.
We live for each other, not for the world.
And if there is no other The world is just a slow, walking, dusty tomb.
Women gotta fix what they broke.
And until they do, male disposability will ensure the disposability of the entire world.
Think about it.
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