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Just an Expression

2/10/2019

I have a part-time position at a university of applied sciences in Austria, and twice a month I travel across the border to the new, modern campus that resembles an airport terminal. On the first day of classes in September my supervisor held an orientation session for all the master’s level students enrolled in English classes, and she requested that all English instructors be present for the event.

I have worked at the school for four years, and in that time I have had five or six different native English-speaking instructor colleagues. Most tend to be American expats and very few tend to stay on the job more than a year or two. This past September, I had two new American colleagues, a man and a woman, both in their thirties. I happened to meet them for the first time in the hall outside the lecture hall just before the orientation started. We cordially introduced ourselves to each other. They struck me as friendly and enthusiastic, and after a few minutes of small talk, we entered the lecture hall together and took seats near the front of the room.

The American woman sat down next to me and continued her small talk to fill the time before the orientation began. She is an attractive, stylish woman, my female colleague, and her speech is crisp and articulate. I pegged her as a native Californian that day, but I could have that wrong. She informed she had a full-time instructor job in Vienna, and had previously spent a number of years in Prague. When she discovered I lived in Hungary, she asked a few questions about the country and what it is like to live there.

“It’s quite pleasant,” I replied, purposefully keeping my answers as general as possible to avoid having to wade into any long-winded descriptions and elaborations.

“That’s surprising to hear,” she said incredulously. “I read an article last week that said the country was sliding toward a dictatorship.”

I chuckled and nodded. Her eyes narrowed, as if she were gauging my reaction to her declaration.

“Yeah, well, don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” I said lightly, ending the sentence with a small smile.

She opened her mouth to respond, but remained silent. It took me a couple of seconds to notice that she was no longer really looking at me, but was focused instead on something behind me on the far side of the room. A dismayed expression settled over her face. She tapped me on the elbow with her manicured left hand and then pointed briefly at the door.

“Oh my God!" she said, before I had a chance to turn my head. "What is that doing here?”

I finally turned around to see what that was, but the only thing I noticed was a small group of students chatting by the door.

Sensing I was not seeing what she wanted me to see, my new colleague added, “Above the door.”

The source of her discomfort was a richly-carved wooden crucifix, no more than forty centimeters in height, affixed to the ocean of whiteness above the entrance. I must admit, I was rather surprised to see it myself, but for me the surprise was rather pleasant.

“That shouldn’t be here,” she continued after thirty seconds had elapsed. Her tone was hushed, almost conspiratorial.

“It's a Catholic country,” I offered. “And I've heard the people around these parts are quite religious.”

“So?” she snapped, shooting down my explanation as soon as it hit the air. “That makes no difference. That belongs in a church, not here.”

I took a second to examine her face, which had become pallid under the fluorescent lights. There was no doubt about it. The sight of the cross genuinely offended her. But it was more than mere offense. Her eyes revealed faint traces of disgust. Unable to look at her anymore, I averted my gaze to the fold-out desk before me and pretended to be intrigued by the wood grain lines on its lacquered surface.

“I’m going to bring this up with the dean,” my colleague said after a moment had passed. “It's inappropriate.”

I kept looking at the flowing wood-grain lines. “Hey, can I ask you a question?” I said. I did not wait for her to respond as I turned back toward her. “Which god do you believe in?”

The query caught her off guard and her eyes revealed the whites she had encased within elegantly-drawn eyeliner frames.

“When you saw the cross above the door you said ‘Oh my God,’” I said flatly. “So what god do you believe in? You obviously don't believe in Him.”

She looked at me as if I had just uttered some obscene joke. I could sense that I had instantly become the most ridiculous person she had ever met. I might as well have asked her if she believed in the tooth fairy or the Easter bunny.

“I’m an atheist,” she replied matter-of-factly. Then with a tinge of flustered impatience, she added, “It’s just an expression, you know.”

“What is?”

“Oh my God.”

“Yes, of course."

I could think of nothing else to say. Luckily, my supervisor called for everyone’s attention and began the orientation. My new female colleague started taking notes; I spent most of the orientation examining the fine craftwork of the cross above the door.

I have seen my female colleague at the school a few times since then. We smile and courteously say hello, but she shows little interest in stopping to chat whenever we happen to bump into each other in the halls. I have not been in that big lecture hall since the orientation in September. Occasionally, I pause and wonder if the cross is still in there above the door.

Next time I’m at the school, I’ll make a point of checking.

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My Only Real Regret in Life Thus Far

2/9/2019

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As is the case with everyone, I can comfortably utter the following line from the song My Way, made famous by none other than Frank Sinatra – Regrets? I’ve had a few.

Fortunately, I have learned how to cope with regret over the years and now rarely dwell in regret for extended periods of time. On one hand, I have learned how to seek repentance for my past and current wrong actions, trespasses, failures, and sins. On the other hand, I have also learned to let go of past failures and disappointments that were consequences of right action by viewing these failures and disappointments as necessary. In other words, there was something in those situations that I had to face and learn from – often the hard way.

I don’t spend much time wallowing in regret because I am genuinely content with my place in the world and welcome the challenges and joys I face day to day. Nevertheless, there is one aspect of my life where I still occasionally feel pangs of regret – not having more children.

Though I have been blessed with a beautiful and happy little boy – who has enriched my life in ways I cannot even begin to describe – I sometimes wish my wife and I had had more children. I won’t go into the history of why we did not have more than one child. To be honest, I cannot even pinpoint the exact reasons myself and, as I mentioned above, I am truly blessed with the one child I do have.

Yet every now and then, usually during some cheerful moment I am sharing with my son, or when I catch a glimpse of a family with several children, or late at night when my consciousness lingers in that no man’s land between wakefulness and sleep, I feel a slight pang of regret – a cold finger that emerges from some netherworld to cruelly caress my spine.

I am usually able to melt the ice the touch leaves behind rather quickly, but sometimes it lingers, like late-spring frost, and then I must wait for the sun to rise above the horizon for the last frigid traces of this regret to dissolve completely.

Thankfully, it always does, and whenever it returns, it is a little fainter and less cold.

Me and my son, Mátyás in Budapest - December 2018. In the background, Saint Stephen I of Hungary.

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Two Steps Forward, One Step Back; Or, How Demons Dance

2/9/2019

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This is by no means an original observation, more a note-to-self - a piece of string tied around my forefinger.

I believe many of us regard the progression of evil in purely linear terms – as a relentless advancing movement forward. Of course, that is the way evil likes to portray and market itself – as an unhindered perpetual march forward, as an unstoppable juggernaut it would be futile to oppose – but even the most cursory examination of evil’s actual progress quickly reveals these assessments and assumptions to be false. True, evil has progressed and is continuing to progress as I write these lines, but its progression has been and remains far from purely linear in nature.

As far as I can tell, evil does not progress forward from one stage to another in a single series of steps for a number of reasons.

Firstly, despite appearances to the contrary, evil is simply not powerful enough to ceaselessly crush everything in its path like a steamroller. It can certainly utilize blitzkrieg tactics once in a while to surprise its opponents and occupy large swathes of territory like an invading army, but the initial gains these kinds of attacks yield are quickly tempered by the logistical reality of having to occupy and subdue the conquered territory. As military history has demonstrated countless times, this is no easy task. Lighting war assaults can stretch supply lines and leave behind determined and tough pockets of resistance that are incredibly difficult to identify and flush out.

Secondly, linear progression goes against the ultimate goal of evil, which is the damnation of souls. If evil’s only goal was to physically extinguish humanity, it very well may have won or lost the war ages ago for one simple reason – people would have clearly understood the threat evil posed as a concrete reality. In other words, people would be more willing to take a definite stand against evil if it were simply a matter of physical survival because physical existence is considered real and defensible (for many, it is the only real thing in the world and the only thing worth defending).

Contrary to popular belief, physical annihilation only interests evil once spiritual annihilation has been achieved, and spiritual annihilation requires more than just conquering territory or ending lives. Physical annihilation can be attained through force; spiritual annihilation cannot. Spiritual annihilation requires freely given consent and superfluous surrender. Thus, the progression of evil is not about superior firepower and straight line tactics – the progression of evil relies of subtle firepower and advance-retreat tactics because this is the only way it can achieve its ultimate goal of having people willingly surrender their souls to damnation. In essence, evil relies on trickery much more than it does on straight-up warfare, and the only way it can truly win is by getting us to consciously trick ourselves.

Problem-reaction-solution and baby step tactics are often-discussed when the progression of evil is assessed. Evil has certainly utilized both of these, and there is considerable overlap in all of the tactics evil employs; however, none seem as effective and prevalent as the “two steps forward, one step back” tactic which, in my opinion, adheres the most closely to evil’s ultimate strategy of damning souls through freely given consent, of freely allowing ourselves to be not only led into temptation and surrendering to it, but convincing ourselves that the evil within the temptation is not as evil as we had initially considered it to be.

How does the “two steps forward, one step back tactic work?”

First step forward

Evil sets an objective that might help it attain its ultimate end goal. It seeks to achieve this goal in step two, but does not reveal this. Instead, it merely floats the idea or subtly introduces the evil through minor actions or events. Reaction to this is gauged.

Second step forward

The evil course of action is implemented, often in a severe or extreme manner. The goal set in the first step forward is achieved here. This is met with opposition only after the damage has already been inflicted.

One step back

Evil is finally resisted and it deliberately takes a step back to feign weakness or seem diplomatic, but it leaves the achieved goal and the consequent damage it has caused intact. Those resisting evil feel as if they have won some sort of victory, as if they have forced evil into some kind of compromise. There exists the illusion of regained territory, but nothing has been gained at all because the territory evil won in step one remains firmly within its control. In other words, it has advanced while its opponents have been pushed back.

Cue the music again

Evil begins planning its next “two step forward, one step back tactic” on the same battlefield to gain further ground if needed; or it opens a new front somewhere else if all of its objectives on a given battlefield have already been achieved.

Be especially wary of the “two steps forward, one step back” tactic whenever you see it unfold in larger contexts – political, social, economic, etc. Any perceived victories in these realms tend to be particularly Pyrrhic. I currently see the tactic unfolding in the arena of mass migration where evil appears to be taking a decisive step back by agreeing to the sanity of border controls, stopping ships, and second-guessing the goals it has achieved through the so-called refugee crisis of 2015. At the same time, mandates for “safe, orderly, and regular migration” at the global level have already been pushed through.

The only thing of I am unsure of is this – can Good utilize the same “two steps forward, one step back” tactic? My intuition says no because it would involve compromise with evil in order to work. Put another way, Good would need you to take both of its steps back, repent, and proceed once more from where it originally started only after repentance.

Does that make sense, or am I missing something?

To sum it up, demons wage war through dancing; it is imperative that we adamantly decline any demon’s offer to join it for a three-step, regardless of how courteously or persuasively the invitation to dance is extended to us.

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No Csíksomlyó Pilgrimage This Year

2/8/2019

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I have iced my plans to participate in the annual Csíksomlyó Pilgrimage to Translyvania this June. The young man who organizes the trip for my village's residents every year recently informed me the group will be traveling to Csíksomlyó the week before Pentecost this year in order to see Pope Francis, who will be visiting the region and holding a mass at that time.

Though I can understand the young organizer's and many of the pilgrims' motivation to travel to Csíksomlyó the week before Pentecost - they have all been to the Pentecost pilgimage many times, but have never attended a mass held by the Pope - I personally have no interest in seeing Pope Francis, nor am I interested in anything the Pope has to say. What for some of my fellow villagers amounts to a "once in a lifetime opportunity" is for me "something I would avoid at all costs."

Of course, I could make plans to travel to Transylvania independently for Pentecost a week later, but I believe part of the joy of the Csíksomlyó Pilgrimage is getting there with a group of like-minded pilgrims and savoring the sense of community that dominates for the rest of the week; thus, I believe it is more prudent to simply wait until next year - which is exactly what I am going to do.

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Is Eliminating Cursive Writing from Education a Good Thing?

2/6/2019

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My son is learning how to write cursive. His first grade class had mastered printing by Christmas and they are well on their way to writing words from memory in cursive. By the end of the year, my son will likely be able to write a sentence or two from memory, which is quite an achievement when you consider he could not write at all at the beginning of September.

When I sit with him in the evenings as he completes his writing exercises, I cannot help but marvel at the magic and beauty that is writing, and how this medium of communicating ideas and emotions through written symbols separates us from all other creatures on the planet. If someone asked me to name five distinguishing features of our species, I would certainly include writing as one of them, for I can think of few things that have had such an immense influence on our development.

Teaching cursive is still a part of the national curriculum here in Hungary, but many countries in the West consider longhand obsolete and have excluded it from their curriculums. When I was a first-year high school English teacher in the Bronx, New York, I was shocked to learn that most students could not read or write cursive script. My students used printed block letters in their own work, but when I examined the quality of their penmanship, I quickly realized barely any had really mastered that skill either. Aside from being terribly depressing, this reality started me thinking that perhaps dropping cursive from the curriculum had not simply been a bad idea, but perhaps a malicious one as well.

Educators who argue against cursive writing see it as a superannuated technology with no viable place in our new and exciting Digital Age - this despite the many studies citing the psychological and cognitive benefits of learning longform writing. In the vast majority of schools today, children are taught to master some form of legible print writing in grades one, two, and perhaps three, and are then seated before a keyboard to learn "digital skills."

I have nothing against teaching children to type or use a computer, but my past experience as a teacher proved, to me at least, that learning cursive has immense benefits. Of the students I taught, the ones who knew cursive were, without exception, far more disciplined, focused, and articulate - both in writing and speaking. They were better at concentrating and tended to be less impulsive and disruptive. Interestingly, students who could write longhand were also immensely better at typing, which was likely linked to the fine motor skills they had mastered when they had learned cursive. Yet, despite the many studies showing the benefits of longhand - benefits I saw firsthand as a teacher - most school boards are increasingly opting out of teaching cursive to children, which makes me wonder if there is more to the story than the "it's obsolete" argument.

Putting all other considerations for its exclusion aside for a moment, I hypothesize cursive may be in the process of being banished from most curricula because of its inherent - wait for it - spirituality. By spirituality I am not referring to the occult or any sort of automatic writing, psychography, or spirit channeling made fashionable by writers such as W.B. Yeats, but rather to the metaphysical attributes of writing - the filtering out of the outside world, the calming of the noisy consciousness, and the drawing out of the inner Self that are, given the proper conditions, all part of the writing process.

This is more or less speculation on my part, but I am pulled toward the belief that writing, especially in longhand is, in essence, a metaphysical act. Given the right circumstances and the proper frame of mind, writing offers the potential for spirituality, for deep contemplation, and for genuine creation. I am not claiming that every act of writing is spiritual in nature, but like prayer or long walks in nature, writing can establish a frame of mind that opens up the writer to the possibility of spiritual experience in the form of peak experiences or epiphanies. Regardless of the method employed, writing contains spiritual aspects - there is something quite "mystical" about the transcription of thought onto paper through symbols, the direct live-wire connection, and the current that flows from the mind through the pen (matter).

Teaching cursive at an early age might lay the groundwork for this kind of experience. The flow and pace of cursive writing may best regulate and harness the flow and pace of thought. A student is essentially forced to block out distractions, turn their attention inward, and listen to what his or her mind is "saying." The thinking skills learned by extensive cursive writing can then perhaps be transfered to a keyboard and a computer.

Of course, I am not implying that writing, regardless of the technology employed, is purely and solely a spiritual act, but the potential is certainly there.  Whatever the case may be, I am pleased my son is learning to write cursive script. If he was not learning cursive at school, I would certainly teach him to do so at home because acquiring the skill appears to lay the foundation for deeper thought, concentration, and contemplation.

Despite arguments to the contrary, I believe excluding cursive writing from education is not only detrimental, but malicious. I am certain many will consider me a Luddite on this issue, but I am convinced that eliminating cursive writing from education is not only harmful, but intentionally harmful. That education systems around the world actively incorporate harmful pedagogy into their practice should surprise no one. A cursory examination of most curricula in the West instantly reveals that most of what is taught in schools today is indeed intently and purposefully focused on doing far more harm than good - the elimination of cursive writing is just one example of the many ways education systems are succeeding in doing just that.

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Freedom is Nebulous

2/5/2019

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No word is as nebulous as freedom. An amorphous shape shifter, it strikes a pose, lures in its prey. Siren song lulling while its surface glimmers, a thousand mirrors reflecting all the unsuspecting wish to see. Desires fulfilled; toils ended; power gained; spoils victored; vengeance had. Drawing in, it tugs towards its depths, to the vast, beckoning sea. It demands commitment; surrender. Once attained, it dissolves into shapelessness again and reveals new, unexpected forms. The rocks appear under the foam. The mirrors splinter. The vessel is destroyed and all watch in horror as the song begins anew, luring other ships to the rocky shoreline.

Unease grips me when I see the freedom banners raised, when the word is marketed as enthusiastically and persuasively as the latest dishwasher soap. I am in awe at the utter indefiniteness of freedom, for it can seemingly mean anything, to anyone, at any time. The greatest declared evil is its lack. Without freedom, we are told, only black holes remain. Ominous, roaming, dumb, gaping monsters devouring light; extinguishing even the hope of light.

Freedom must be fought for. Died for. Freedom is human. Freedom is divine. Humanly divine; divinely human. For we are not cogs, nor ants, nor mute stones in river beds being pushed by currents we can neither see nor control. Not born to be oppressed, we must struggle like convulsing fish in a net.

Yet I have always felt freest when all was declared unfree, and the most unfree when all was marching bands, smiling faces, and endless confetti rain. I have told many that I write to be free, that each scribbled word in a notebook was a spoonful of dirt extracted from the tunnel I am digging underneath the prison. Each sentence, a file grinding away at the cell bars.

But I might have it wrong. The shape shifter may have fooled me. Perhaps I am just a Jacob Marley, quietly and ruthlessly forging my own ponderous chain, word by word, link by link; and perhaps one day I will be forced to lug and drag my word chains with me as I haunt the Earth, driven onward into an eternity without reprieve.

I am weary of your vagueness, Freedom – the shapelessness of your lawyer speak and public relations and ritual murders. Freedom fighter one day; terrorist the next. Lies wielded as truths. The formless chimeric dreams you offer from your shadowy depths.

I yearn for the definite – pure form. The honest transcribing of soul to paper. Not Hamlet and his words, words, words, but rather for an end, followed by the original beginning. For true Freedom. For the Word.

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Hungarian Wit: A Few Gems From György Sándor

2/4/2019

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I am still a little under the weather, so I thought I would take a light approach for this post and present some witty sayings from Hungarian comedian and actor György Sándor (born. 1938). Translating anything is a challenge; translating humor is an exceptional challenge.

Regardless, I hope my translations below have done justice to Sándor's wit. Enjoy!

I woke up this morning and realized I was no longer asleep.
The two quintessential signs of old age are memory loss, and . . . I can't remember what the other thing was.
What do babies and instant coffee have in common? Both are easy to make, and both cause sleepless nights.
The three stages of life are childhood, adulthood, and, "hey, you look great considering your age!"
Second marriages represent the victory of optimism over experience.
The national economy is teetering on the edge of a cliff, but rest assured, next year we will take a huge step forward.
Slow train service in Hungary is intentional and purposeful; it's the only way we can give the impression of being a big country.

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Mid-Winter Malaise

2/3/2019

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Though my spirits are high, I have been struck down with what is likely the flu, which has understably made me feel quite lethargic and well, for lack of a more sophisticated word - yucky.

Unfortunately, I am not the only one suffering through a bout of illness at the moment. Mid-winter has been less than kind to my little boy; he caught a throat ailment in mid-January only to develop the chickenpox a few days later. After having spent two weeks at home, he went back to school last week and promptly contracted the flu as well. It goes without saying that my poor wife is at wit's end over all of this.

Nonetheless, we will get through this. A little time, some rest, and warm thoughts of the coming spring should do the trick. Until then, we will muddle along as best we can.

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Ghosts that Do Not Haunt, and the Ghosts that Do

2/2/2019

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“My Uncle András died down at the end of the street,” the seller, a young man his thirties with thinning straw-colored hair informed me. “He was coming home from the store on his bicycle when the stroke hit him. He collapsed there and died on the spot.”

I had asked the seller who the house’s owner had been. I was not expecting a detailed account of how the previous owner had died. Not knowing how to respond, I pursed my lips and nodded solemnly in memory of a man I had never met.

“No one has ever died in this house, you see,” the seller continued in muted earnest.

The declaration surprised me, and it took me a few seconds to realize it had been offered up as a selling point, a feature to make the house seem more attractive – big yard, sturdy walls, spacious rooms, insulated windows, and no deaths within its walls. This was rural Hungary after all; folklore and peasant superstitions were still very much alive here. As the seller guided me into the kitchen, I stangely began to accept what he had revealed to me as a selling point. I had never seen ghosts of any kind and am rather ambivalent about their existence, yet I suddenly found it oddly reassuring to know that the seller's deceased Uncle András would likely not haunt me and family if I chose to buy the house. And I did buy the house. Before I finalized the down payment, I jokingly told my wife about the no-ghost selling point to which she responded with wide, somewhat amused eyes.

We moved in the large Kádár square house – named after the Hungarian communist leader whose social housing scheme had populated the country with these boxy looking buildings that represented the very essence of drab communist utilitarianism – and over the next year we began major renovations in an effort to modernize the place and make it our own. The no-ghost selling point turned out to be valid, for we saw no wispy apparitions or heard no inexplicable noises inside the house after we moved in. Nevertheless, traces of Uncle András were everywhere – in the old furniture the sellers had left behind, and in the walls themselves, which Uncle András, who had been a bricklayer by trade, had raised with his own hands. Though I had never met him, I slowly became familiar with Uncle András and pieced together his character and life through the objects he had left behind.

The framed painting of Jesus above the bed revealed he had been a religious man while the woodshed in the backyard, expertly tacked together with whatever odds and ends of wood he could find, showed he had been both frugal and resourceful. Behind the house Uncle András had built four large pig pens as well as a chicken coop and several rabbit hutches, and whenever I looked at these, I pictured the old man lovingly tending to his animals, fattening them up until the inevitable day came. He struck me as having been a remarkably self-sufficient man who probably rarely went to store for anything. Through my new neighbors I learned András had been a lifelong bachelor, which made me both respect and pity him. I envisioned him retiring into his empty spacious house after a day of work on his little smallholding and wondered what he could have done or thought of on those long winter nights when it seemed the sun would never rise again.

My neighbors spoke of Uncle András endearingly and often; they recalled he had been a generous and joyous man. He was very skilled in making pálinka, which was the primary reason for his apple and pear trees in the yard. A fan of football, he had been a staple at the village soccer matches and had also been, apparently, a boisterous spectator who had often launched memorable, curse-laden diatribes at the referees when they made bad calls. A yellowed certificate and cheap red star medallion I discovered in the attic told me he had been a distinguished worker in his trade, one lauded by the impersonal machinations of the totalitarian state. That he had stored these distinctions carelessly in the dusty attic, tucked into a box full of superfluous knickknacks, subtly revealed what he had really thought of the totalitarian state, and this made me smile.

My family and I have been living in the house for nearly four years now and during this time our presence has slowly eclipsed Uncle András. Whatever ghosts he left behind have been almost completely exorcised. The house no longer looks like the house we bought. Walls have been painted, the exterior totally renovated, floors redone, spaces remodeled, and soil overturned. The pig sties remain as do the pear and apple trees, but I will likely pull the sties down this summer and cut out the trees, which are all diseased and bear little fruit. A new outbuilding will replace the sties, and new fruit trees shall take place of the old ones. My neighbors rarely mention Uncle András anymore. They have grown accustomed to us – the reality of our present has dissolved the reality of András’s past. When I work around the house I ruminate on the passage of time and the realization that one day I will be like Uncle András; that everything I have worked on and worked for here will be left to others, perhaps strangers, who will remake the property in their own image until every last trace of me disappears.

When I get to thinking about these things, I remember the ghost-free selling point András’s young nephew had declared and find myself suddenly wishing the old man had died within the walls of his house rather than down at the end of the street. If he had died in the house, I surmise he very well might have returned to have a look around, to haunt the place a little in his spare time, and perhaps I could have offered him a chair, poured him a drink, and gotten to know him in a way I never had the chance to in life. But it is obvious Uncle András has found his peace elsewhere, and has let go of the connections he once had to the place he called home.

In any event, I’ll keep a chair free for you, András – should you ever feel the need to stop by and haunt me. I only have store-bought pálinka to offer, but I think you might like it all the same.

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Degenerates! Degenerates! You Will Turn Into Monkeys: APA Maculinity Guidelines and Meat-Eating Males; Oh Boy!

2/1/2019

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I made a point of not reacting to the American Psychology Association’s Guidelines for Psychological Practice for Men and Boys when it came last week or the week before because I have come to realize these types of things are:

a) Expected, given our contemporary milieu
b) Intentionally provocative, given our contemporary milieu
c) Part and parcel of the materialist lifelong learning program being forced on everyone, everywhere
d) Ideologically-driven pseudoscience that is meant to provoke a reaction, which will then be gauged in order to launch the next line of assault (the two steps forward, one step back approach of ensuring the progressive agenda continues progressing).

Thus, I will leave the reacting to the ranters and ravers over at the Manosphere, and other valiant defenders of masculinity like Jordan Peterson who is shocked, absolutely shocked that his “field has been compromised, perhaps fatally.” In all honesty, I cannot conceive what Peterson is so shocked about. I believe he had better start coming to terms with his own notions of “The Sensible Left” and begin understanding that the APA and its most recent set of guidelines pretty much epitomizes “the sensible left.” Its the same Sensible Left he so desperately wants to discover, and with whom he so anxiously wants to break bread.

Predictably, other Sensible Left organizations like PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) wasted no time hooking up their booster cables to the revving engine of the APA masculinity guidelines. A recent post on PETA's website not only endorses the APA’s harangue against "traditional and toxic masculinity", but also goes a step further by declaring meat to be the fuel that drives the toxic masculinity machine. PETA writes:

Imagine having such a fragile sense of self that you’d torment, kill, and eat defenseless individuals just to look “manly.”
It certainly takes a bully to destroy the lives of sensitive, conscious “others” in an effort to validate one’s identity in terms of an archaic ideology dictating what it means to be a man. Bullfighters drunk on machismo stab and slaughter bulls for “sport.” Trophy hunters display dead animal parts on walls in desperate attempts to embody “big bwana” masculinity. A psychologist might say a man needs counseling if he tries to prove his manhood by gunning down a 2-pound bird or killing a struggling fish.

Got that? Going fishing is nothing more than a man’s pathetic attempt to prove his manhood. Counseling is definitely required. What about women who like hunting and fishing? Double dose of counseling required. But don’t misunderstand, the good people of PETA honestly care about men. They really do – especially men’s health.

Men who eat steak, hotdogs, and hamburgers, thinking that it makes them “real men,” are eating themselves to an early grave. As the APA points out, men in general eat fewer fruits and vegetables than women do. American men also consume 57 percent more meat than women do. Yet it’s no secret that meat consumption has been linked to an increased risk of suffering from numerous health problems, including heart disease, obesity, cancer, strokes, and diabetes. Men have a higher risk for every one of these. Did we mention the link between eating meat and erectile dysfunction? So much for proving your “manhood.”

So forget the meat and hook yourself up to some intravenous soy or something, because if you are a carnivore, you can pretty much kiss your heart, blood sugar, and boner good-bye. Maybe PETA should contact Jordan Peterson, who has been on an all meat diet for a while now, and ask about his penis health. On second thought . . .

All kidding aside, I cannot help but laugh at this nonsense, and I hope you are doing the same. Yet, I wonder where it will ultimately lead because, as I mentioned above, this is all part of the lifelong learning mantra, which, for the time being, is focused on destroying definitions of masculinity in the West and replacing it with something else entirely.

So be prepared for more guilt-trip lectures from razor companies, more retooled guidelines from medical and psychological associations, and more revamped definitions from academia because they is all gonna learn you good about what it truly means to be a man today, and if you as much as utter a breath of objection while they are cutting off your penis, you will be accused of masculine fragility, or something of that nature, so suck it up, tough guy!

I will sum up and close this rather unintentional post (I originally wanted to write a little lyrical essay about my car's smashed rear windshield) by presenting Slavoj Zizek’s views concerning veganism and vegetarianism, which ties in nicely to the notion that eating meat fuels toxic masculinity. Oddly enough, it is one of the few topics on which I wholeheartedly agree with Zizek, bless his sensibly left, communist soul.

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