Jon Wong has asked me to write a post about my understanding of libertarianism, and I agreed to do it.* In retrospect, this was maybe foolish: I can’t think of anything interesting to say which hasn’t already been said by others. So rather than write 3000 words that have already been written, I will introduce those already-written words which best represent my understanding of libertarianism.
A Minor Experiment in Gender
While shopping for my mother’s Christmas present last December, I was in one of those seasonal pop-up stores that appear in malls in November and saw Katerina Plotnikova‘s 2017 Enchanted calendar, pictured here:
Reader, I wanted it.
I wanted it, but I felt foolish for wanting it. I wanted it, but I hoped no one would catch me wanting it. I wanted it, but I thought that if someone knew I wanted it they’d think I wanted it out of some sort of sexual deviancy: maybe I have a thing, they’d think, for pubescent girls with animals. I wanted it, but I knew that I wasn’t supposed to want it. This sort of thing was for women, and only certain kinds of women.
Let’s sit a moment with those thoughts I was having. For a man to want this calendar, for a man to exit his clearly defined gender roles so much as to purchase this calendar, would mark something more than the mere gender failure I mentioned in the last post. Only the most preposterous and heinous kind of mentality could explain it: possibly bestiality, probably pedophilia, certainly hebophilia. I don’t think I was wrong to feel that such an attitude exists outside myself, in Fort McMurray or in the Western world broadly. But it’s ridiculous! I wanted a calendar, nothing more, but certain arbitrary rules about taste meant that expressing this want would bring down on my head a set of questions which, although triggered by my violation of a gender norm, far exceeded those gender norms in scope and severity.*
I bought the calendar.
A Warning to My Younger Self
After a very stressful day at work this summer I sat on the bench at the bus stop with my face in my hands, cradling a headache. Then a horn honked and I looked up to see the driver shout “Loser!” from his passing pick-up. I had assumed that he assumed I was homeless and hung over or something of the sort; at any rate, it had been such a long time since anyone had called me a loser that I’d forgotten how one was supposed to feel about it.
A few days later I told one of our summer students, who has chosen the pseudonym Avicenna Nightingale, about it as I happened to be on the same bus as her after work. She suggested he didn’t take me for drunk.
“It was probably because you were waiting for a bus,” she said. She was a local so she probably knew this sort of thing better than I did.
“Yeah, like, ‘Where’s your truck, son?’ Was he driving a souped-up pick-up?”
“Was he wearing a black t-shirt a size too small to show off those guns?”
“Don’t you know only losers take the bus?”
I want to apologize for my unannounced absence. There were a few causes: maintenance issues in my apartment, overtime at work, a slight emotional miasma, and most importantly the slow death of my laptop made it difficult for me to write anything. I’m working on my tablet with external keyboard now, which I don’t find conducive to blogging. However, I will try to get back into the swing of it again.
A bit of personal news: I am now an uncle; the family name will live on; I will have to research how to corrupt the youth. Also, I have a second rabbit, named Eglamore (so I can call him Egg for short, though mostly I call him Mr. Bun or Mr. Fluff). He is a lionhead rabbit, though his mane doesn’t overwhelm his face as it does with some lionheads.