Matt Forney
Spread the Word!

Kill Your Sons

In the rush of everything, I somehow missed this fantastic post from one of my readers, Suz:

There’s something you should know about my son and his peers.  They’re not gay, they’re not lazy, they’re not stupid, they’re not unambitious, and they’re not weak. They’ve merely figured you out.  They know you don’t give a rat’s ass about them, and you see them as nothing but providers and fantasy sex objects.  They are wise to the game and they’re done playing by your rules.

The enthusiastic response she got from the manosphere (as evidence by the hundred some-odd comments, and the haters) isn’t a bad thing by any measure of the imagination, but it is telling. What does it say about us as a society that a mother declaring that she’s going to side with her son—her child, her flesh and blood—over the women he dates is considered unusual?

I’m reminded of Chris Rock’s “Niggas vs. Black People” routine: “‘I take care of my kids.’ You’re supposed to take care of your kids, you dumb motherfucker!”

No one outside of the manosphere has bothered to ask why mothers, and parents in general, are expected to have more concern for strange floozies than their sons. “Maybe you’re just dating the wrong kinds of girls.” “Maybe it’s your attitude.” “Not all girls are like that.” It even extends to marriage; men going through divorce have watched their own mothers turn against them in a vain attempt to guarantee visits with their grandchildren.

Curiously, it never works the other way. Any father who laid this line of argument down on his daughter would be shut down as an EVIL! MISOGYNISTIC! VICTIM-BLAMER!

Yet mothers have no reservations about blaming the victim, so long as the “victim” is their son.

Eons ago, when I was a teenager, I worked as a “sales associate” for a certain big-box chain with a, shall we say, ghetto clientele. One night, I was working the home & garden department when a gaggle of cackling harridans asked me if a particular brand of scale was on sale.

“I don’t know,” I said. Which was the truth; I didn’t. The store was managed horribly, with our bosses never bothering to tell us anything.

“Of course he doesn’t know,” said one of the harpies. “He’s a man.”

At this, they started giggling. I felt deflated. I knew that if the sexes had been swapped, the customers would have been kindly ejected from the property. “Of course she doesn’t know, she’s a girl!”

Why were those hags so comfortable with cutting me down like that, even though it was clearly against both common decency and store policy?

Our generation came of age where men are second-class citizens. Where our basic humanity is denied. Where our feelings are ignored, our needs are dismissed, our opinions are laughed at. And not even our own mothers will take our side.

They have killed their sons.

People think the manosphere is dying because certain prominent bloggers are moving on. It’s not happening. So long as the world remains broken, so long as men continue to be treated worse than dogs, the manosphere will persist. It will persist because our generation needs a roadmap back to the ways of masculinity. It will persist because it is necessary.

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