Thanks to this website and you readers my family will be spared this crackpot diatribe at Thanksgiving dinner.
The New Right Tranny Violin
The subject of manliness, manhood, masculinity, and what is being called a nation of ‘manginas’ is primarily discussed by thinkers on the New Alternative Right, and mostly in the context of us poor unappreciated drones having been emasculated by feminists.
Let me make one thing clear, in my mind, a female can be a man. Being a man is a social role, heavily supported by biology, but still a social roll. There are two archaeological sites that I know of in which ancient women were buried with warrior status. Also, homosexual men can be very manly. Hell, the samurai and the Spartans were bone-smokers and butt-buddies. Would you want to jump in a time machine with a big knife and go fight those dudes? The keys to manliness are few and simple, and equate to very little of the cultural artifices you probably associate with them, like being loud, or having a cool waxed mustache.
Permit me to dissent from the largely white-identified manliness advocates. What did you expect? I am one of the last black men in Baltimore after all.
Manhood is not a right but a prize that is earned, a prize that cannot be taken, not even by death. It must be surrendered. So, if you ‘manliness advocate nerds’ really want to figure out how to reclaim your manhood that supposedly was seized from you by some feminist academic with the aid of a liberal male politician, the solution is pretty simple: have sex with her, and beat his ass!
Oh, I see. You are only aspiring to conditional manhood and shall avoid any solution that might entail social, financial or physical risk.
Okay, you aren’t an outlaw biker yet. Let’s take an intermediate step and go back to the beginning, where manhood in a social sense—rather than just being a bigger hairier ass—had its genesis. No, not Mesopotamia in 3000 B.C., but Harm City, in A. D. 2009.
Armara and Dee
As The Ghetto Grocer I had two very different black males working under me at the same time.
There was Armara, the 300-pound store detective who apparently left his balls in Ghana, and melted down into an anxiety attack every time a male shoplifter larger than 150 pounds stood up to him. The owner had hired him because he was ‘big, black and intimidating’. He always called me in to handle the hard cases, armored in my Tie of Invincibility and Spectacles of Compliance.
Then there was Dee, a handicapped flyweight. Dee could have lived at home off of SSI for his physical and mental impairments, but decided to be a man instead. Against his mother’s will he convinced me to give him a job, enrolled in college, and moved out on his own. My employer went nuts when I hired him because he was handicapped and would ‘be a drag on the company’.
One day, as I was explaining the difference between non-fat and skim milk to an old lady, Armara stopped a shoplifter in front of the candy—a big crack-smoking white-boy. The guy got angry and Armara started to sweat and seize up and look pleading to me, “Boss, boss!”
As I disengaged from the elderly lady, Dee walked by, “I’ve got this Mister Jimmy.”
We were all stunned, the crack-head included, when tiny Dee in his white button shirt, large bald head, and coke-bottle glasses, stepped up to his side, turned and faced me, and presented his arm like he was the father of the bride ready to head down the aisle, “Sir, Mister Jimmy is busy. Stealing is wrong. Take my arm and come with me.”
The man slid his arm down into Dee’s and walked in a shaking trance into the back room to be processed. Armara was mopping sweat off his brow, such a coward he was not even embarrassed, just relieved that Dee bailed him out.
Armara never has been, and never will be, a man.
Gee and Dee
Gee was not a gangster. He was a good-looking rugged street-thug. His idea of being a man was 1970s throwback, ‘fighting in the street’ and ‘standing up to The Man’. He had been stabbed a couple of times in brawls and had threatened me. I explained to him that there was nothing to be gained by beating me up, which he probably could have handled easily. I offered to mentor him. Gee hated Armara and pitied Dee. Gee had a gorgeous girlfriend who was attending college and he did not want to end up living off of her, so decided to get off the street and into the workforce; to be a man rather than some welfare-sucking ‘baby daddy’. Just as Dee had a code, Gee had a code. The difference was that Gee’s permitted violence, and ‘taking from The Man.’
One night, before he left, Dee informed me, “Mister Jimmy, I saw Gee eating a can of spaghettios without paying. He gave me ‘the look’, you know, not to snitch. But stealing is wrong Mister Jimmy.”
I counseled, “Dee, I’ll keep an eye on him and catch him myself. I don’t want him to know you snitched. He’s a dangerous dude.”
The little young man blinked and considered me through his thick glasses, “Mister Jimmy, I consider it an insult that he did that in front of me, thinking that I would have no issue with it. I will not be intimidated. What’s right is right. But Mister Jimmy—he’s a good dude, trying to make this work. Please don’t put him out.”
I sent Dee home and had a conversation with Gee, who responded, “So I’m out of a job ‘cause a dat bitch-ass nigga!”
“No Gee, he made me promise not to fire you.”
“Dat fuckin’ retard showin’ pity on me! En I can’ even whoop ‘is ass ‘cause a da way he is!”
These types of conversations with people like Gee devolve into repetitive loops. The long and the short of it was Dee and Gee did not have the same code, did not live by the same rules. But Gee’s code forbade the beating of a smaller handicapped man and therefore permitted a snitching loophole for Dee. In order to make this work and not betray Dee’s trust and salvage Gee from himself and his somewhat obsolete code, I could not resort to the law, or company policy. I resorted to my code and leant Gee the money to pay for the can of food.
Gee still had his superior feeling about himself though, what with his gorgeous girlfriend smiling at him from the register she operated. Then, one day Dee walked in to the store while Gee and I were building displays up front. He had a tall, curvaceous white girl on his arm. She was wearing a dress and smiled at me as Dee introduced us and announced her as his fiancée. They attended school and church together. They had made the trip by bus so she could meet ‘Mister Jimmy’.
As they headed over to the soda machine, appearing like a mixed-race 1950s coke commercial date, Gee was beside himself, “Goddamn! Don’ even tell me dat nigga be packin’ too!”
Dee was a good, good man, with a pious Christian code.
Gee was a bad man with a street code of his own.
When a man abides by a code he can be reasoned with. And, throughout most of our time on earth, I believe that a man was a man—in whatever land he dwelt—because he had a code to live by.
Law on the other hand, is a code enforced through violence from without and above, which invites deception—brings the lie.
The Keys to an Unshakable Masculine Identity in Three Brutal Steps
1. Abiding by a personal code that is more important to you than convenience, comfort, wealth, food, shelter, clothing, companionship and safety. This is baseline manhood. In most traditional societies this was the prerequisite for warrior status. This is wired into the female psycho-biology, and explains why males who focus on doing rather than wooing are found more desirable, and why dudes who live in their mommy’s basement rarely get laid.
2. Complete lack of dependence. If a government, a parent, a mate, etc., is putting a roof over your head and feeding you, if you are not either self-sufficient or head of household, you will find it virtually impossible to adhere to ‘1’. All remarkable warriors throughout history adhere to this principal of immediate personal sovereignty. If mommy pays the bills, even just one, you are a boy!
3. Detachment from goods and gain. The greatest warlords throughout history, such as Alexander, Attila and Genghis Khan, kept little or nothing for themselves, spreading the booty among their captains and men. In virtually all pre-agricultural Native American societies [none of which modern Europeans were able to deal with man-to-man without firearms] the leading men gave all of their excess goods away. This is the key to greatness as a barbarian man; the confidence to give it all away, knowing that you’re man enough to make it, or take it, again.
Barbarism and Civilization
I see civilization as the fall of humanity, which should result in the extinction of men and masculinity, as the more government-compatible ethic of feminine domesticity is increasingly used as the prime puppet string of tyranny. Civilized societies have conquered, corrupted and extinguished pure barbarian societies primarily with the lie; using the barbarian’s code against him, kidnapping at parleys, violating sacred pacts, etc. Ironically, once conquered, the remaining barbarians are coveted as warrior-tools by the civilization that has consumed them. This is the origin of military honor codes, martial arts codes, and such. These serve as a means to preserve the ancient potency of masculine self-rule amidst a denatured society ruled by God Law, and his backstabbing sister Goddess Lie.
Sure I’m nuts. But think, why was William Sherman given the name of the most famous Native American warrior of his parent’s time as his middle name, and why didn’t he just go by William T. Sherman? Have you ever heard the man who ‘made Georgia howl’ called anything but William Tecumseh Sherman, or simply Sherman? If you hear the first name you get the middle name with this guy.
Why did WWII paratroopers scream ‘Geronimo’ when they jumped, if their fathers didn’t think that redskin chief was a better man than the army it took to defeat him and his band of women and children?
Why is the softest generation of emasculated man-whores in human history virtually addicted to combat video games, the NFL and MMA cage combat?
Maybe it’s because all of those baby-soft pussies know it’s true, that they aren’t men any longer, nor do they reside in a world of men, but a cozy house full of women and their children of all ages.
Ho-lee-shit. I polish no apples when I say this is probably the best work of yours I've read to date, J. Sincerely, well done.
Well said Grasshoppa.
It was not me though, but slavish adherence to the Third Brutal Principal.
And, Grasshoppa—never polish apples.
Yes, it is time: seize the ManCard from my hand.
As a female interloper on this site, I enjoyed this article thoroughly until the last line, referring to pussies.
My pussy is strong enough that some high number of testicle sporters would be hard pressed to follow my act (based on what I've seen around me), driven by the motherhood code: as appropriate at every age and stage of childhood, determined by an informed understanding of those stages, put the child's needs at the high end of the list, and do the best for yourself with that goal in mind!
Men's testicularly misinformed "needs" for biemers, boats and other shallow shows of masculinity, potentially compensatory, if they equate to a selfish ignoring of the child's needs, come last. The child will never be a child again, and your whiny, wieny ass can wait till you're bald to sit in that biemer convertible or have the remaining greying hairs on your head blown by the ocean winds (not yours personally, of course).
My pussy woke up at 4:30am and didn't come home till 6:30pm, during a 5-hour round-trip commute to a DC job that afforded me the ability to help family members (read baby and young mother) in need until they were no longer in such dire straights, because my pussy understood that the beginning years of life cannot be recaptured. Yes, I have an ax to grind, and some SOB who didn't get that, robbed me of them beginning with my second child. I gave birth to two now very strong, independent daughters who have what they need to survive as I did, but thrive more than I could. I don't begrudge them that b/c my code dictated that I wholeheartedly prepare them for life without getting stuck on what it cost me, either materially or energetically. I don't whine about what I could have had. It was what it was.
And I admit—I'm much more tired now than their father is, but I have their respect for what I've given, as well as their genuine inability to understand why I'm so crapped out at this stage in my life, when I did so much in theirs.
So, go easy on the pussy pejorative. She doesn't appreciate it with good reason, and different isn't less—just different.
That said, there are awesomely responsible fathers and unbelievably selfish, negligent mothers...
Don't get offended about the shoe not fitting—just hear out the cobbler.
Respectfully,
A dissenter of the strong, female kind
Would I be off base referring to this response as The Pussy Manifesto?
Out of respect for your objection I will in the future, use the term Wussy, as I think it more specifically applies to failed males.
Thanks for the interloping.
I like that. I was thinking about where "wussy" came from. Obviously pussy plus something else... Wimp? Where did wimp come from...? Ah, the W from woman. So it can't be avoided culturally...
How about this, then? All feminists do not want to emasculate men. Emasculated men are in no way exciting to sleep with, and they can be control freaks who are boringly preoccupied with their own penises and stuck on stereotypical gender roles that benefit them.
We just want our strength and autonomy of thinking and acting to be respected, not just as women, but simply as human beings. Humanism plus feminism plus respect for all life (until that life endangers mine or my loved ones).
And with that, I want to acknowledge that power struggles are a complicated thing, not just gender based, but also psyche based—-on old wounds that get jumbled up with gender until you can't sort them out again.
And before you chalk this thought up to female psychobabble, consider the girl or boy who was humiliated or abused by a parent of the opposite sex, who later never let another person of the opposite sex dominate them again. Gender or wound?
Sincerely,
The Interloper
On The Origin of Wussy.
If wimp is based on womb we are in trouble here. Yes, wussy is a combination of wimp and pussy, and was the worst thing boys my age [growing up in the 1970s] could call each other.
I will look into the origin of the term 'wimp' and add a post here, unless some noir scholar beats me to it.