Year: 2015

Allow me to introduce myself:

My name is Michael Nathan Walker. I am the only son of my mother and my biological father, whose identities you don’t need to know.

I have a half-brother who I consider to be my full brother. I always have and I always will. He is genuinely one of the very best people I have ever had the privilege of knowing. We grew up together, and he is my brother.

I have another half-brother and half-sister. I met them a few times when they were little kids. I haven’t seen either of them in a long time; as far as I know they are both doing well.

I was named “Michael” because that is my biological father’s middle name.

I was named “Nathan” because that is my maternal grandfather’s middle name.

Between you, me, and the wall, I think the fact that “MNW” has a certain amount of visual appeal (flip “MNW” over and it says “MNW”) may have played a part in how I was named. My mother is an artist, though she has a day job and would not consider herself to be an “artist.”

(Between you, me, and the wall, considering oneself to be an “artist” almost always ensures that one will never produce anything that could rightly be considered “art.” But that’s only my opinion.)

My last name is “Walker” because that was my biological father’s last name. Such is custom where I live.

I never really knew the man; from all accounts he was a decent fellow.

Which, given the fact that I consider myself to be a fairly decent fellow, I suppose I consider those accounts justified.

He is dead.

To quote one of my favorite authors, who is also dead:

“So it goes.”

I had an older half-sister – I forget her birthdate – who was killed when I was a teenager. She was a real estate agent, and very involved in her church.

A man she knew from church came to her office, wanting to be shown a property in a secluded area. My older half-sister took this man to see the property.

At some point, this man attempted to rape my older half-sister. She resisted.

I barely knew her – I only met her a few times – but I attribute her resistance to…well…something genetic, I guess.

I mean, for all intents and purposes, I, Michael Nathan Walker, am a pacifist, and while I have a certain amount of, how shall I say, appreciation for the whole “turn the other cheek” thing…if and when you slap me, and if and when I turn the other cheek in anticipation of another slap, well…no intimidation intended, but you had better protect yourself.

All I know about the case – “the case,” lol – is what I have been told, and what I have read online.

She resisted, she fought this cretin off. So I was told.

Somehow or other he put her in the trunk of a car.

I do not know if this was his car or her car. I think it was the car they both rode in, when they were going to look at the property in the remote area that this fellow from my older half-sister’s church told her he wanted to look at.

She was a real estate agent, you should remember.

She also wrote various things for her church’s weekly bulletin. Poems, inspirational stuff, et cetera.

She did this anonymously.

Her husband was either a pastor or the son of a pastor. I don’t remember for sure.

I shook her husband’s hand at her funeral. That was the first and only time I met him.

She looked like Elaine from Seinfeld.

If you can believe it.

I remember being at a cafeteria (I forget the name of the place) in Pecanland Mall when I was probably fourteen or so. I had been going there fairly regularly since I was much younger, being that Pecanland Mall is only about an hour and a half away from where I grew up, and being that my maternal grandmother (whose husband’s middle name is “Nathan”) liked to buy her grandchildren things…well, I had been there a few times.

One time I made my mom cry at this mall. I called her a “cheapskate” because she wouldn’t give me any more quarters to play Mortal Kombat II.

I was quoting somebody from some movie I had seen.

And this is the sort of thing that makes me realize that I am probably much more like the fellow whose middle name was “Michael” – remember, he is dead – than I will ever fully understand.

But this one time, I was maybe fourteen, I, my mom, my maternal grandma, my brother, and I were sitting in the buffet-style cafeteria in Pecanland Mall. We had already gone down the line, picked up whatever plates of food we wanted to eat, my grandmother had already paid the cashier at the end of the buffet line, and we all (all four of us) had finished our meals.

We were sitting there in a booth – my brother and I on one side, our mom and grandmother on the other – when almost out of nowhere my older half-sister appeared. She was there with some fellow, who may or may not have been the fellow whose hand I shook at her funeral less than a decade later – and she said hello to my mom and grandma, and I sat there like a dunce unsure of what I was supposed to say, and I and my younger brother agreed that she looked a lot like Elaine from Seinfeld.

We joked about that, off and on, for a good long while.

I remember when I was really little, like less than five, I spent Christmas with the fellow whose middle name is “Michael.”

My mom was wearing a brown robe when she answered the door, and I had gotten a plastic bowling set that morning from Santa – or my mom and stepdad, whichever you prefer.

I got in this fellow’s car, and I remember it wasn’t running very well. I remember us backing up in the driveway at my mom and stepdad’s house, then turning left

I don’t remember the ride to Monroe, LA, or thereabouts.

I do remember sitting in this sorry excuse for a car, out in front of my older half-sister’s mother’s house, while the fellow whose middle name was “Michael” went to the door.

I remember looking at a fish tank, or an “aquarium” or whatever you want to call it, that was sitting in the kitchen window of my older half-sister’s house.

I remember that she got into the front passenger seat of our father’s sorry excuse for a car, and I remember that she talked to him quite a lot.

All I remember from that trip, other than what I have related, is that I got a toy version of a B-Wing spacecraft from Star Wars – the one that roughly resembles a Christian cross – and that the fellow whose middle name is now my first name was deep into some sort of fairly heated conversation with another fellow when I tried to show it to him.

I and my brother played with that toy for years afterward. Even after the fold-out wings quit folding out.

Even after they broke off entirely.

My older half-sister resisted her would-be assailant.

Or so the police report went.

And he stuffed her into the trunk of whichever car they had been riding in previously, on their trip to the property in the remote location.

And my older half-sister – the one who looked like Elaine from Seinfeld, who wrote inspirational things for her church bulletin anonymously, who – she kicked or otherwise forced the trunk open, and the car was doing about 35 mph down the road, and

and she jumped out, and when she did her head hit the pavement, and when her head hit the pavement

Long story short she died.

And I never really knew her, like on a personal level. And I shook her husband’s hand at her funeral.

Do you want to know more about me?

 

Super!

 

Politically, I am what most pundits and assorted talking heads would call a “leftist.” I don’t resent this at all, but rather than limit myself to whatever idiotic conception you may or may not have of “leftist” is, I will continue to tell you about myself:

I don’t think anyone should be prevented from doing anything that doesn’t harm others. In this sense, I am somewhat of a “libertarian.”

But I find it incredibly hypocritical when people invoke “libertarianism” as an excuse for human rights violations.

Specifically, like when corporations resist regulations that protect workers in the name of “libertarianism.”

As long as your actions are not harming anyone else, I personally do not give a crap what you do.

I believe you – whoever you are – have the right to do whatever the hell you want to do. I believe that sort of freedom should extend to every other human being (and every other sentient animal) on our planet.

I sincerely do. I support your right to be weird. I hope you fly your freak flag every day you remain alive…as long as doing so doesn’t harm anyone else.

In that sense, I am a “libertarian.” But that’s as far as my “libertarianism” goes.

I do not support people who pay scant wages to their employees.

I do not support people who run multimillion-dollar businesses who refuse to pay taxes.

I do not support the hijacking of “libertarianism” by persons who wish to restrict the freedoms of others.

So, yeah.

 

Is anybody still reading?

 

If so, thanks.

 

I will (maybe) continue this later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Don’t hold your breath, tho, plz)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(SRSLY, you needs O2. Breeth it)

I suppose that this post should, technically, be classified under a category called “History” or something, but seeing as how I almost have as many different categories here on my blog as I do blog posts, I will sneak in a little bit of my own personal philosophy (which, of course, consists mainly of philosophies I have borrowed from other people) and post it under “philosophy.” Sounds good to me.

Anyone who knows me at all knows that I am, whenever possible, anti-war. I do not attempt to deny this fact. I believe war should be a last resort, only after all diplomatic avenues have failed, only after economic sanctions have failed, only when there is no other viable option.

Some people mistake this position to mean that I am “anti-soldier” or that I “don’t support the troops.” Again, anyone who knows me at all should know that this interpretation of my position regarding war is utterly false.

I am anti-war because I support the troops. I don’t want to see American service men and women put in harm’s way unless there is no other option.

But this blog post is not being written so that I might brag about how “progressive” or “compassionate” or whatever that I think I am by virtue of my stance regarding war. I am here today to tell a story about a man – a veteran – who had a very positive influence on my life.

His name was John Dollar. He served in the U.S. Navy a few decades before I was ever born.

When I was a kid, from the time I was still in diapers until I was around 13, while my mom and stepdad were at work, I would stay with “Uncle John” and his wife, Kathryn, or as pretty much everyone called her, “Aunt Kat.”

Aunt Kat and Uncle John (both have now passed on) never had any children of their own. But they loved children, and they were both excellent role models (and play companions) for children. I would venture that nobody who grew up in my small community of Lawson, Arkansas since Aunt Kat and Uncle John settled here will deny this. They took my mom and uncle on trips when they were younger. They also took me and my brother on trips a few times. I have more fond memories of my time with them than I can even count.

But again, that’s not specifically what I am here to write about today. Although I suppose I should mention that in addition to being an excellent role model, playmate, confidante, and any number of such things, Aunt Kat was also an excellent cook.

And I do mean excellent. None of us kids who stayed with her ever went hungry. Never. And long after she was no longer able to keep kids, she continued to cook beans and cornbread, turnip greens, or stew, or her famous spaghetti – there has never been any better spaghetti made by anyone, anywhere – and give most of it away to people in the community. Toward the end of her life, she would stand over a hot stove all day, just to be able to spread a little happiness around the community, even though it was very difficult for her to get in and out of her car by this point. “Kat, you didn’t have to do that!” was said often by my mom (and I am sure by several other people), after Aunt Kat pulled up in our driveway and honked her horn, signaling that we should come out and get the food she had brought us, because it was very hard for her to get out of her car and bring it to us.

And we always expressed that she didn’t have to do that, but we were always glad that she did.

But going back to my childhood, I can remember clearly sitting at the dining table in the kitchen with my brother or any number of kids who stayed with the Dollars over the years, eating delicious, home-cooked meals. And I remember something else food-related that pertains to Uncle John specifically: Uncle John would not eat rice.

Not only would Uncle John not eat rice, Uncle John did not like to be in the same room where rice was being eaten or even cooked. He despised the stuff. As in truly and deeply hated it.

Yes, rice, those little white grains that go with pretty much everything and don’t have a whole lot of flavor by themselves. Uncle John hated rice. I am not exaggerating; the man would not sit in the same room with it. He would get up and go outside.

I didn’t really understand why that was until many years later. I had heard abbreviated versions of the story I am about to relate, but never the full version. Aunt Kat told it to me several years after Uncle John had already passed away.

Before I write anything at all about this story, I want to stress that I am not trying to rile anyone up about anything. What takes place in this story took place during wartime. Specifically when the United States and Japan were not on friendly terms like they are today.

I have been to Japan. I spent about a week there in 2007. I hope to be able to go there again someday. It is an incredibly interesting place, and one week is not nearly enough time to even begin appreciating the place.

So if anyone comes away from this blog post with a negative attitude about Japan, please understand that this was not my intention. I am merely relating a story that was told to me, a story that took place when the United States and Japan were not on friendly terms.

In the interest of full disclosure, I am not even sure what year this story occurred in, or precisely where it took place. I pressed Aunt Kat for details, but she didn’t remember exactly.

My guess is that this story took place some time around the end of World War II, most likely before the end but possibly a little after. I simply don’t know for sure.

I do know that Aunt Kat and Uncle John spent a decent amount of time living in the Philippines, while Uncle John was stationed there. But again, I don’t know exactly how long they were there, or what years they were there.

At any rate, here is the story Aunt Kat told me, with regard to why Uncle John could not stand to be in the same room as rice:

One day, while Uncle John was stationed “overseas” (I am assuming in the Philippines, but as I said, I don’t know for sure) he left the base, intending to see the sights, I suppose. Without realizing it, he wandered into enemy territory, the enemy at the time being Japan. He was captured by Japanese troops and taken to a prison work camp.

At the camp, Uncle John and many other captured soldiers were forced to work insanely long hours – as long as the sun was out, I think – and they were given very little to eat or drink.

All they were given each day, according to Aunt Kat, was a single cup of tea, and what I believe she called a “cord” of rice. She used some term like that I hadn’t heard before; at any rate they were only given a small bowl of rice to eat each day.

And it wasn’t simply the rice, in and of itself, that Uncle John refused to be around later in life. It was what the rice reminded him of.

And it wasn’t merely working out in the hot sun all day with very little food and drink. It was also being forced to do so at gunpoint. It was also watching other men starve to death, collapse from exhaustion, or be shot by guards.

Uncle John was at that camp for quite a while. When I knew him, he was a fairly stocky man – in decent physical shape, but stocky, sort of like I am now – probably around 180 to 200 pounds. I am guessing.

When he was finally released from the prison camp, he weighed around a hundred pounds, I was told.

I don’t know for sure how long he was there. But he was there long enough to see many more young men come in, many of whom he also saw die there.

Uncle John gave the new prisoners advice about things – how to avoid angering the guards, how to ration a single bowl of rice to make it last all day, things like that – but many of them wouldn’t listen. They would gobble all their rice up as soon as it was given to them, and would find themselves starving and without food later in the day, while Uncle John and others still had a bite or two left.

And, of course, many of them simply cracked under pressure, did something to anger a guard, and were shot.

And again, my writing this is to honor Uncle John, not to denigrate Japan or the Japanese people. If you don’t (or can’t) understand the distinction, I would ask that you stop reading before I continue. As acclaimed director Akira Kurosawa once said, in defense of his film “Rhapsody In August,” one that concerns the long-term psychological effects of the atomic bomb being dropped on Nagasaki, “Governments wage wars, not people.” I fully agree with him. If circumstances had been different, if their respective governments had not set them at odds with each other, the men holding the guns in the prison camp and the men being worked to death might have been friends. But I am digressing. At any rate, I am not trying to make anyone dislike Japan or its people, so please don’t assume I am. I am merely relating a bit of history, as it was told to me. Just as Kurosawa was relating a bit of history in his film “Rhapsody In August,” which incidentally is a fantastic film that anyone reading this should watch. It has been called a “propaganda” film by certain American critics; I find that accusation to be beyond absurd.

But moving on, in the prison camp, there was a large, open work area. The prisoners planted crops, or dug ditches, or tended various livestock, or did any number of physically exhausting activities. And let me remind you they were only given a single cup of tea to drink all day.

And let me also remind you that tea contains caffeine, which is a diuretic. Which means it makes you pee. Which means it dehydrates you.

In the middle of the work area was a water fountain. All day, as the prisoners worked in the blazing sun, the fountain spurted water into the air. The water fell into a pool around the fountain, splashing tantalizingly, then was recirculated through the fountain, up into the air, and so on, all day long.

The prisoners were strictly forbidden to drink from this fountain, or even to go anywhere near it. Uncle John saw men who simply could not resist – could not bear the psychological pressure any longer – drop their shovel or rake or whichever tool they had in hand and run toward the fountain.

Uncle John saw these men get shot. Uncle John saw their bodies being dragged away.

Uncle John tried to warn newcomers about things like this. Some listened. Some didn’t.

I had heard abbreviated versions of what I have written several times in my life, mostly from Aunt Kat, while Uncle John was still living. But one day, several years ago, after Uncle John had died, but still several years before Aunt Kat did, she told me the whole story again, along with one other anecdote, one that almost got Uncle John killed.

One of Uncle John’s friends in the camp tended chickens as part of his work load. One day, after they both had been there for quite a while, they devised a plan, one that almost worked, to have roasted chicken for dinner one night, instead of a bite or two of rice.

The friend who tended chickens managed to steal one without being noticed. He stuffed it under his clothing, killed it, and hid it in the outhouse the prisoners used.

Somehow, Uncle John, his friend, and a few other of the men in his bunkhouse (or whatever it was called) were also able to obtain matches, or at any rate some method of starting a fire.

This is a detail I have forgotten. I am kicking myself for not writing all this down nine years ago, when Aunt Kat told me the story.

Anyways, one by one, with the guards’ permission, Uncle John and his friends went to the outhouse. One by one, just a little at a time, they took turns cooking the chicken on the outhouse floor, careful to put the fire out and hide the chicken each time.

Someone from the bunkhouse was always keeping watch, in case a guard got wise to what they were doing. They had an agreed-upon signal, and if a guard started toward the outhouse, someone would give the signal.

Over the course of a night, Uncle John and the other men in on the scheme took their turns roasting the chicken, bit by bit.

Uncle John told Aunt Kat that after the chicken began to almost get done, it was the best-smelling chicken he had ever smelled in his life, despite its close proximity to an open hole full of excrement and urine.

Unfortunately, Uncle John never got to taste that chicken, and neither did any of the other men. Just as the chicken was beginning to almost be edible, a guard noticed the smell, or maybe saw smoke. I think it was smoke.

At any rate, the guard noticed that something fishy was going on and started toward the outhouse. The man on watch saw him and gave the signal, and the man in the outhouse tossed the half-roasted chicken into the shit pit.

The guard found nothing out of the ordinary in the outhouse, and nobody was punished.

But nobody got to eat any chicken, either.

And Uncle John swore off rice the moment he was released from that prison camp. And as far as I know, he never touched another grain of rice as long as he lived.

He loved chicken, though.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for serving, if you happen to be a veteran.

(Note: I was unsure, again, whether to post this under “Politics” or “Philosophy.” I posted it under “Philosophy” because it attempts to get at the heart of what “freedom of religion” actually implies. Apologies to anyone who may be offended.  — MNW)

You know how here in the USA, we have “freedom of religion,” and how it says in the first amendment that “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof…” and all?

I mean, people talk about the Constitution and the Bill of Rights all the time, then turn around and try to say this is a “Christian nation” and whatnot, when clearly it isn’t and was never intended to be.

Sure, the various denominations of Christianity make up the majority of the religious people in the USA. There’s no argument about that. But what many of these (I have to believe “well-meaning”) folks don’t realize is that by virtue of the establishment clause in the first amendment, that majority means precisely zilch in terms of how the law applies to citizens of the USA.

You can’t make a non-Christian be a Christian. You can’t force people who don’t share your religious beliefs to adhere to the tenets of your religion.

If you want to adhere to those tenets, great! Good for you! As long as your actions aren’t causing harm to anyone else or breaking any laws, by all means, adhere! Adhere to whichever tenets you want! It’s none of my or anyone else’s business what you do!

You say adhering to the tenets of your religion has had a positive effect on your life? Hey, that’s awesome! I am not being sarcastic at all, honestly, I am glad your life is better now than it was before.

You say you want others to benefit from your religion the way you did? Great! Tell them about it. Tell them how it changed your life for the better. Maybe they’ll follow your example. Maybe it will benefit them, too!

But here’s the thing…maybe it won’t. Maybe what worked for you won’t work for everyone. As a matter of fact, let me go ahead and break it to you: what worked for you is not — repeat: “is not” — going to work for everyone else.

You can suggest they follow your example, but you can’t force them to. And if you try to force them to, you are violating their freedom of religion.

And if they tell you, “Hey! I don’t care about your religion! I have my own religion!” or else “Hey! I don’t care about your religion! I think all religions are stupid!” then guess what?

They are exercising their own right to freedom of religion.
They are not violating your freedom of religion by refusing to participate in your religion. They are exercising their own rights!

But getting back to the point of this blog post — or, I suppose, finally getting around to the point of it — I would like to propose something that I think would be beneficial to the nation (and the world our nation is a part of) as a whole:

I would like to propose a new law. This law states that any politician — from a person running for city council to a Presidential candidate — will be disqualified from whichever political race she or he is running in, if she or he mentions her or his religious affiliation (or lack thereof) in the public sphere.

Hear me out! Don’t get mad at me just yet, I implore you!

I am not saying “all politicians should be prevented from going to the church/temple/mosque/whatever of their choice.” I am not saying that at all. Don’t put words in my mouth!

What I am saying is that if we truly have “freedom of religion” in this country, a person’s religious affiliation (or lack thereof) should have no bearing whatsoever on their prospects as a potential office holder.

It’s none of my business what religion you are. Why should I care what religion any political candidate is?

I shouldn’t care. And guess what? I don’t care! I do not give two rotten farts about what religion any political candidate is. I care about the things they want to do while in office. I care about whether those things will benefit my country and the world my country is a part of. I do not care what religion they are, and I do not care if they don’t have a religion at all.

To tell you the truth, the minute, nay, the second any politician starts talking about her or his religious beliefs (or lack thereof), I stop taking that politician seriously.

And no matter what religion you are or whether you’re an atheist or an agnostic or what, you should stop taking them seriously then, too.

How dare I say such a thing? Because the second a politician starts talking about how pious she or he is (or how they think religious people are bad, or whatever), that is when they begin pandering to you. They are not telling you the truth, they are trying to avoid telling you the truth.

I mentioned earlier that Christians make up a majority in the USA. The vast majority of politicians that brag about their own Christianity are Republicans.

If you look at the actual policies these Christian-pandering Republicans endorse, you will find that these policies only actually benefit one group of people: the very wealthy.

Tax cuts for wealthy people benefit wealthy people.

Cutting funding for education, welfare, food stamps, health services for the poor, health services for veterans — all things Republicans do consistently — all these things benefit wealthy people.

It lessens the tax burden on them, and it increases profits for private services they control. Government services ALWAYS cost more after they have been privatized. Always.

This does not benefit any group of people except for the very wealthy.

So why do so many poor and working-class people vote Republican?

Do I really need to point it out?

Are you going to get mad at me for pointing it out?

I suppose you’ll just have to get mad at me then. I apologize for upsetting you.

They vote Republican because they think Jesus wants them to. They vote Republican because very wealthy people who have no interest in anything other than being wealthy talk about how much they love Jesus and how much they love the Bible and God told them to do this and God told them to do that.

It’s horseshit! Every word of it! They are lying to you! They are pretending to share your sincerely-held religious beliefs so you will vote for them.

They take money out of your pocket, they take medicine out of your medicine cabinet, they take food off of your table, my fellow working-class Americans, and you keep voting them back into office!

Why?

Because someone told you this country is a “Christian nation.” It isn’t! It never was! And hopefully, it never will be.

Any time any religion gets hold of a government, terrible things happen. That was true at the time our country was being founded — that’s why we have the establishment clause — and it’s true today.

A religious government answers to no one. Why not? They believe their actions are sanctioned by God, or Allah, or Krishna, or Buddha, or whoever. People get oppressed, people get enslaved, people get slaughtered — and if you speak against the government, if you ask the government why this is happening,  you are committing blasphemy!

Trust me, we DO NOT want the USA to turn into that.

So, getting back to my point, we should pass a law banning all political candidates from mentioning their religious affiliation (or lack thereof) in the public sphere.

The same goes after they are elected. The second they mention one religion (or the lack of religion) as being better or worse than another religion (or the lack of religion), at least in the public sphere, they should be booted out of office.

“But wait!” I can hear you saying. “What about their freedom of speech?”

To that, I say that my freedom of religion, as a private citizen, supercedes their freedom of speech as a public figure.

If I am a member of a minority religion, let’s say, and President Nimrod starts telling people his majority religion is best, and my minority religion is bad, by virtue of the fact that he is President, he has lessened my ability to express my religious beliefs freely.

He has, in effect, endorsed a state religion.

I argue that any time any elected official speaks of their religious beliefs (or lack thereof) they are, in effect, endorsing a state religion.

Why do I keep saying “(or lack thereof)”, you might be asking?

Because while atheism is not a “religion,” if an elected official stands up and denigrates religion in the public sphere, she or he has violated the freedom of religion of her or his constituency, also. She or he has designated “atheism” as the official religious stance of her or his constituency, and that puts religious people at a disadvantage.

It’s none of my business what any politician or elected official does or does not believe. And frankly, I do not give two rotten farts what any of them do or don’t believe.

And neither should you.

Thank you for reading.

I suppose I spend more time than most people on social media, discussing various political and philosophical issues. I don’t necessarily see this as a bad thing: in addition to passing the time engaging others in dialogue, I often learn things I would not have learned otherwise. Sometimes these things change my outlook significantly. Sometimes they don’t. And sometimes, well, I just have to log out of Facebook, put my Samsung Galaxy S4 away, and go find something more constructive to do with my time.

Such as writing here on my blog, I suppose. As this is only my third blog post, I hope the reader does not assume that my blog will primarily be extensions of arguments I took part in on Facebook or Twitter or elsewhere. It will most certainly not be. But from time to time it will be, as I am confident blogging opportunities will occasionally make themselves apparent through my interactions on social media.

For the record, I do not intend to divulge the identity of anyone involved in these interactions, but I will give the names of published authors cited by these folks. I do not think ill of anyone I disagree with, and I hope they do not think ill of me, though I suppose they are entitled to if they so choose.

Anyways, the inspiration for this blog post came about as such: a female Facebook friend of mine – incidentally one of the most intelligent and well-educated people on my friends list; she also possesses a sharp wit and a keen sense of humor – made reference to something the late Christopher Hitchens once claimed: that women are not “as funny” as men. I believe he might have actually said women are not funny at all.

I will attempt to describe the expression on my face upon reading this: my eyebrows furrowed (not in anger but in incredulity), my bottom lip jutted out and curled up, and my jaw began involuntarily opening and closing, uncurling and recurling my bottom lip as it did so.

I thought back to all the times women (both professional comedians, actors, and women I know personally, not to mention women I know exclusively through social media) have made me laugh, and all I could think of to comment was:

“Women aren’t funny? Is that a joke?”

Someone mentioned that they agreed with the “evolutionary arguments” against women being funny, and due to my lack of vocabulary I can only tell you, the reader, that I only imagined my reaction before to be “incredulity.” If my confused, perplexed, not-believing-what-I-was-reading state of mind upon reading that women are not as funny as men could properly be called “incredulity,” my state of mind after reading that there were “evolutionary arguments” which explained why women are not as funny as men, well, again, my lack of advanced vocabulary demands that I describe my state of mind as either “incredulity in extremis” or “incredulity times ten” or something along those lines.

I commented again, asking if there were really “evolutionary arguments” that claimed to explain why women are not as funny as men, and someone replied “yes.”

As it was getting late, and as I am, in my 35th year on planet Earth, finally attempting to regulate my sleeping and waking patterns somewhat, I made a rather sarcastic comment, logged out, and went to bed, intending fully to continue the conversation in the morning.

My comment was something like this:

“That is hilarious. Heck, maybe it’s true. Men using ‘evolution’ to explain why women aren’t as funny as men…it’s pretty hard to top that!”

I logged back in this morning to find that the “evolutionary argument” regarding why women aren’t as funny as men is basically this:

“Men use humor to attract women. Men have done so for millenia. Therefore women are not as funny as men, because evolution.”

I went back and forth with these gentlemen a little, then finally had to bow out of the argument. They may have seen my exit from the argument as a victory; to that possibility I say “fair enough.” I made the points I am about to make here on my female friend’s Facebook page, and these arguments didn’t convince the people I was arguing with, so maybe they will not convince you, the reader. But anyways, here they are, in slightly expanded fashion:

Being “funny” is not something that is quantifiable. Whether a joke is “funny” or “not funny” is entirely dependent upon whether the person who hears or reads it finds humor in it. For any person who is thinking clearly (sorry for being condescending), the issue begins and ends precisely here.

Christopher Hitchens (God rest, hahahahahhaha)* did not find women to be funny. That is all that is quantifiable about any of this. He apparently debated Tina Fey and perhaps others over this issue, but ultimately the only real issue at hand was that Hitchens did not find women to be funny. Or not “as funny” as men, or whatever.

That anyone chose to “debate” this issue sorta indicates to me that maybe the whole thing was a publicity stunt of some kind. Maybe. I don’t know. What I do know is that attempting to use “Men use humor to attract women” as a reason why Christopher Hitchens or anyone else does not find women to be funny is as inane as me claiming that blue is the best color of all the colors because of the sky.

I would simply have let the issue drop, and not chosen to expound on my views here in my blog, were it not that this sort of illogical thinking is widespread among people who like to pretend that their actions and thoughts are guided entirely by “science” and “reason.” But first, let me explain what I mean with regard to the issue at hand:

Hitchens’ opinion regarding whether women are funny is just that: an opinion. He attempted to justify this opinion by making the observation that since men use humor and have used humor practically forever to attract women, then that means men are funnier than women. I have to believe that his argument went a little deeper than that, but as people who take that argument seriously did not go any deeper than that in trying to convince me it was true, I see no reason to pursue the matter any further. As mentioned before, I might as well tell you blue is the best color and get angry when you disagree. The premise of the argument is based entirely upon subjective opinion. It is unprovable outside the realm of subjective opinion, therefore any argument claiming objectivity is, to put it bluntly, inane.

This sort of thing is prevalent in a field of research I have only recently learned even existed. That field is evolutionary psychology. I am not dismissive of the field altogether; some of the claims made are valid, and like any field of research I support it fully. But I do not support the erroneous and pseudoscientific claims it sometimes makes, specifically regarding feminism.

As a matter of fact, most writings I have personally read on the subject are explicitly designed to do one thing and one thing alone: to discredit feminism and feminist thinkers.

Now I am not going to sit here and tell you that every feminist thinker, author, writer, whatever in the world is a genius and all of their arguments are flawless. To assume every person in any field of academic research is above and beyond reproach is, well, stupid.

The basic arguments against feminism by evolutionary psychologists are generally no deeper than Hitchens’ argument that women aren’t funny. I invite the reader to find any that are and point them out to me. I have not seen any. What I have seen is that these arguments primarily are used to justify sexist (and occasionally racist) attitudes using “science.” Again, if anyone can show me examples where this is not the case, I invite them to do so. I am not dismissive of the field entirely, I just haven’t seen much of it that couldn’t be described as I have described it.

If one were to look at the question of whether women are funny, or as funny as men, or whatever, I think it is a bit disingenuous to pretend that “funny” or “not funny” is something that can be objectively determined. As I have already said, humor is subjective. I might think something is funny that you find offensive. Or vice-versa. All the argumentation in the world isn’t going to convince either of us that something is or isn’t funny: we either find it funny or we don’t.

Which brings me to another point I raised on Facebook, though admittedly in a more terse fashion than I am doing here: if we want to determine the psychology of why we find some things funny and other things not funny, we should examine our own psychology. We should ask, “Why didn’t Christopher Hitchens think women are funny?” We should also ask, with regard to psychology, “Why did Christopher Hitchens feel it necessary to justify the fact that he didn’t find women to be funny through pseudoscientific posturing?”

The answers to those questions point to fairly obvious conclusions. To ignore those conclusions, and furthermore to not even ask those questions, is the epitome of unscientific thought. It borders on idolatry and dogma. As do many opinions put forth as “scientific fact.”

I was told that I was incorrect in my assertion that women are actually as funny as men, because millennia of men attracting women through humor proved it. It was in women’s DNA, I was told, the reason that they are not as funny as men.

Which let’s think about that for a second: “Women are not funny because of their DNA.” Let’s take that argument to a logical extension: “It isn’t that I simply don’t find women to be funny, everyone who finds women to be funny is wrong, because it is in women’s DNA to not be funny.”

If you are furrowing your eyebrows and involuntarily working your jaw with incredulity, know that you are not the only one who has done so. This argument is, in a word, inane. It is a perfect example of projection: it allows the person using it to blame their own inhibitions on other people.

To explain what I mean by that, let me point out that yes, there are a great many more male comedians than female ones. This has been the case since “comedians” became a thing, I am willing to bet. And just for the sake of argument, let’s say that there actually might be an “evolutionary” reason for this.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the reason has something to do with the fact that until fairly recently, women were not even considered to be actually people. This is still the case in a considerable part of the world. Women in the USA were not even allowed to vote until 1920.

“Evolutionary psychology,” at least in my very limited reading of it, does not take one irrefutable “evolutionary” fact into account: women, historically, were reduced to second-class citizens by virtue of the fact that men were able to physically dominate them. To say “women aren’t funny because of their DNA” ignores the fact that women were not allowed to speak their minds, much less be comedians that told dirty jokes, until fairly recently. It is my opinion, one I do not anticipate anyone will be able to change argumentatively, that the reason Hitchens didn’t find women funny was because he was uncomfortable with the idea that men and women are — or at least should be treated as — equals. In short, assuming his proclamation that women aren’t funny wasn’t a joke or publicity stunt of some sort, it should be obvious that this is only his opinion, and while that opinion may or may not have been sexist, his attempt to justify it using “science” most certainly was. May his sexist ass rest in peace.

To say that women aren’t funny because of their DNA is projection, plain and simple. It is attempting to justify the fact that you (if you agree with Hitchens) are uncomfortable with women who do not adhere strictly to the gender roles you have assigned to them in your mind. You are (if you agree with Hitchens) blaming your hangups on the people your hangups adversely affect. You are projecting.

I hope I do not drive anyone to fury by pointing this blatantly obvious fact out. But if I do, so be it. This is how people learn things. If you can prove me wrong, please do so.

At any rate, I hope you all have a nice day.

*Yes, as Hitchens was a prominent atheist writer, “God rest” is a joke, one I find immensely funny. However, if you don’t find it as gut-bustingly hilarious as I do, I promise not to attempt to convince you it is funny by using “science.”