Wes Breazell, the Noun Project
More males than ever before are walking into female locker rooms. All that is required is some strange brew legal voodoo and the words “Abracadabra, open that bathroom door says me”. And as if by magic, he is a she. This is because it is now possible for a male to live out a legally-enforceable form of femaleness through the only body he has – his male one. He is permitted to haunt first himself in his own mind, and then others in public. Spine-chilling.
It is as though our body were a mere skeleton costume that the State has prized us out of to reveal true Man: disembodied yet still upright; a self-defined mind; a brain in a see-thru jar. The witches and wizards of academia gather round cauldrons and pronounce forth their incantations: “Gender re-assignment surgery can make me the woman I am”; “I have always known I was a woman”; “Transgender women are women”. But if men and women can be men or women, how can we know which witch is which? If we are not different, aren’t we…all the same? Buried beneath the heavy soil of law, our understanding of our own human flesh starts to decay and fall away. With lost bodies we become the lost souls of the sexless revolution.
Do you know somebody who found themselves trapped inside the wrong Halloween outfit this past weekend? No? Maybe you know somebody trapped inside the wrong body? No matter. Today we have the technology to help. Or, should I say, the terminology. Victor Frankenstein doctors bodies no more. Frankenstein now doctors language and law. The blackest of cats can become the whitest of cats (or the blackest of rats), just by changing the meaning of a word. Eye of newt is so yesterday.
Language is no longer a clear looking glass but a hall of mirrors, allowing our bodies and faces to distort into shapes previously unimaginable. No longer am I somebody by virtue of being some (male) body. I am now somebody despite my body and because of my mind. My shadow is no longer mine. Rather, the shadow is me. And what phantom name do the craven Gender mavens give to my new, bodiless legal self? Male! It is all done with smoke and mirrors. A male working as a female prostitute, you say? Behold the 21st Century succubus.
But the seemingly all-powerful enablers of the ideology, the Transgenderists, come over all Jekyll-and-Hyde whenever they hear somebody being “mis-pronouned”. A sickening weakness causes Transgenderists to flinch from a correct pronoun like a vampire burned by sunlight, yet a sickening brute force leads to the destruction of businesses and reputations quicker than a bloodcurdling scream can leave a throat. Half Eloi, half Morlock, Transgenderists stalk the land listening out for pre-Gender language: first the Transgenderist creates a victim by claiming that words such as He and Man can pierce a woman’s heart, like so many wooden stakes; then the hapless perpetrator is run through with a lawsuit. Why be afraid of things that go bump in the night when we can instead be afraid to talk? Courageous are those who confront the wrath of these wraiths.
Transgenderists only come out at night, when the world is asleep and our minds are shrouded in a fog of confusion. But let us not be too exercised by dark threats of legal action, for we can place faith and hope in the many gremlins tinkering away inside the twisted heart of the Transgender machine – gremlins such as, say, reality. Reality is prior to language. Things are given a name. The name is not the thing. There is no need to get absorbed in a weird war of words: “Is X a woman?” “Yes she is”. “No, he is not”. We can instead point to that thing which X cannot not be: some body. The body has a name and its name is either Male or Female. If a male wants to describe himself as a werewolf on the basis that the word Werewolf means, say, somebody who owns a car, then he is a werewolf just as long as he owns a car. But that doesn’t prevent him from being a male human. Nobody gets to walk away from his or her own body. Not even on All Souls’ Day. No body.
Another gremlin: the super, natural, physical reality of sexual difference. We are made Male or Female. The male body is neither a trick played on Transgender males nor a treat given to “Cisgender” males. Maleness is a gift. Femaleness is a gift. We can give our gift to the other sex, but we cannot choose which gift we give because we can give only that gift which we are. The sexes are gifts to themselves and each other.
Sexual difference is not the kind of genie we can force back into its bottle. If we are to look anywhere for a silver bullet to break these legal spells, we could do a lot worse than to look in a mirror and re-acquaint ourselves with the reality of being human; being an embodied person made in one of two distinct, complementary flavours which define each other and just so happen to have been named Male and Female. The names are not the bodies. We must re-animate the body in our words and deeds. Until then, the American dream will continue its transition into a living nightmare: first abortion, then sexual difference legally exchanged for gender sameness, followed by the redefinition of legal marriage. It is one long zombie march after another, led by teams of legal vampires sucking the lifeblood out of language and logic and love; where five figures in black can cast a spell on an entire nation.
The ghoulish dark arts practised by the ‘gender confirmation’ surgeon are nothing compared to the hocus-pocus conjured up by lawyers and judges. The West is a civilization possessed. For legal purposes we are still somebody, only we are no longer legally some body. In the eyes of the law, we are all ghosts now.
Daniel Moody is a philosopher from Dorset, England.