He's my boy

Regarding my previous post about sex, race and movies, Frank accepted my data without being able to cross-check it, and said that he had no idea what could be done.
1) You can go to the Internet Movie Data Base and check all-time box office records. Look at the movies that have earned over 100 million.
2) There is nothing that can be “done.” Time will do it: the browning of America, and the progressive death of white males born prior to 1950. I figure when 80% of them are dead, it will be a non-issue. The younger guys have been raised to think and act differently from their parents. They had role models in sports, politics, and entertainment, as well as on their jobs and in their schools, that stretch their little minds JUST enough, I think. Each generation can move only so far.
3) The real reason I point it out is to make it clear why I think that the idea of a “level playing field” or anything like it, is absurd as long as we are human beings. Without taking race into account in social programs, you are absolutely guaranteeing that blacks, cut off from their heritage and outnumbered ten to one, will always underperform. We’d have to be superpeople not to—as a group. You have no obligation to do anything, or change voting patterns. But I politely request that you not make the “what’s wrong with them?”-style comments I hear at Cocktail parties and on talk radio whenever the subject of crime, educational statistics, or whatever arises. What’s wrong with us is that we’re human. If you stab us, we bleed.
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I originally entered Science Fiction fandom because I simply fit in nowhere. And that was one of the strengths of the social dynamic. In Fandom, I found friends, mentors, lovers…support. The Science I was always most interested in was human mental and physical development, what I called “Self Directed Human Evolution.” I concentrated on the question, “what happens over time if you devote yourself obsessively to the concept of balance, and quantify that as body, career, and relationship?” Now I know. The I.D.E.A. concept suggested to me that your intuitive sense for Reality Maps would grow…what I didn’t grasp is the degree you also sensitize yourself to people’s “stories.” It’s inevitable. As you sort your way through your own bullshit around your physical fitness/weight, or your career movement and finances, or about your love/sex life…you start noticing that others use the same excuses. Listening more closely over time, you start grasping that there are similar stories behind similar mental, physical, or spiritual destinations. Hear enough dozens or hundreds of them, and you start being able to second-guess with accuracy.

And then one day the circle completes, and the sphere implodes. You SEE. You walk into a crowd…or a convention…and you don’t see bodies and smell B.O. any more. You see a cluster of abused, ignored, discarded souls. I remember the first time it happened. I was GOH at a convention in Houston, and was teaching Tai Chi in the morning. A girl came to the class, and it was all I could do not to stare. She looked like one extremely obese woman pushed into the middle of a second one. It was horrible. Even worse is that her teeth were rotted out. And yet, despite that, she had the sweetest face, the kindest, softest eyes, the most gentle voice…and I broke.

Right after the class, I got onto the phone with my first wife, Toni, and cried my eyes out. I knew that something horrible, HORRIBLE, had happened to this woman. Something that made it a survival issue to hide her beauty from the world. She dared not let herself be seen. And yet, behind the wall of flesh she was pleading for someone…anyone…to see her. To really see HER. To reach through the barricade and touch her. God, I felt so sorry for her.

And as it often happened in those days, after the second day at the convention, she came to trust me. And she talked to me. About her family. And the little girl she had once been, and how she had been used by those she should have been able to trust. I held her hand while she cried, and we cried together, and I spoke of hope. I have no idea what ever happened to her, but I wish I could kill the men who hurt her.

Since that day, it’s happened more and more often: I see a person or hear a “presenting story” and get an intuitive flash of what is beneath it. Over time, my suspicions are verified. And now it’s to the point where I don’t have to hear anything, or think about it at all. I get a flash. And to this point, my intuition is ALWAYS more accurate than the story people tell me about themselves initially. I trust my intuition.

So it’s getting harder to walk into conventions. I don’t see the flesh, or the faces, or smell the body odor left behind in elevators, or hear the brilliant people speaking of irrelevancies, re-arranging deck chairs while the Titanic sinks. Its like they’re wearing T-Shirts. And with far too many of them, those shirts read: “I was raped by my Uncle.” “My mother told me she wishes she’d gotten an abortion.” “My husband brought another woman into our bed.” “I am grotesquely underemployed.” “I have no dreams or hope…only fantasies.” And on and on.

Not all. I also see people finding love, and genuinely supportive friendships, and acceptance. And there are many, many folk who are weird but healthy, and just love to play. But I see too much, and it hurts if I don’t shield myself. Sunday at Loscon I didn’t, and awoke Monday morning feeling as if I’d been hit by a bus. I’m better now. I have to remember to center myself, or I’ll have to stay away. I have too much to do in the years I have remaining to me. Too many people to help. I can’t let the back-wash make me sick. Happens to too many doctors, therapists, body workers. Miles to go before I sleep.
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I have a friend who leans very far to the Right. He complains about illegal immigration (don’t blame him) and he attributes this to what he calls the Feminizing of America. His own marriage is loveless and sexless, and has been for over a decade. My friend is more Yin than his wife. His son is a fine young…boy…in his twenties, with less Yang energy than the average girl. And my friend complains about how active and aggressive Jason is. That I let him roughhouse with me, and hit me, and bare his teeth at me and jump on me. I tell him that my philosophy about this is similar to letting Nicki curse as a child. I let Nicki use swear words, but ONLY at home. In this way, I gave her an outlet, and simultaneously was teaching her the appropriate and inappropriate times to express behavior. The theory was similar to making a puppy crap only on Newspaper.

Jason is a little Alpha-pup. I won’t neuter him. He is intelligent, energetic, creative, affectionate, and willful. Good for him. He is a boy-child who I want to help grow to be a man. He may not EVER express aggression toward his teachers, schoolmates, playmates, or his mother. But…he can go right ahead and bop me all he wants, as long as he is a “good boy.” I am his playmate and friend when he is good. When he is bad, I am only his father. I am always his father—and love him. But only when he is “good”: when he obeys, is cooperative, obedient, goes potty properly…am I his “friend” or “buddy.” He is starting to understand the difference. He wants me as his buddy. He wants to wrestle and fight me. Hell—he can’t WAIT to be able to kick my ass, and I’ve promised to help him learn to do it. But he has to be a good boy. I will have zero tolerance for aggressive behavior outside those boundaries.

This scares my friend. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t have to. Jason’s my boy, and while I will listen to what anyone says, and debate any opinion, and look at any evidence, ultimately my relationship with him isn’t about my marriage, or family, or friendships with others. It is about my relationship with him. And if it makes others uncomfortable, AS LONG AS MY ACTIONS WITH HIM ARE HEALTHY, that discomfort is just their stuff. He’s my boy. He’s not a girl. If society doesn’t produce a certain percentage of rough, tough, aggressive boys…it will die.

But what is their proper role in society? I have to admit to being old fashioned here. I think that the perfect warrior boy-spirit (the warrior girl-spirit is a bit different, but no less lethal, by the way. See “Mama G.” for reference) is similar to the cultural image of the European Knight. The mighty warrior in gleaming armor with deadly weapons on the fiery steed. But all of that lethal skill was…(flourish of hat)… “at your service, m’lady.”

The masculine only has meaning in service to the feminine. Someone has to fight the wolves at the cave mouth until the mother can deliver her child and stand by her mate’s side. It is inevitable that as a culture grows more comfortable, we would like to forget this uncomfortable reality. It is the “bare wiring” of the basic human dyad. My son will be both powerful and gentle. He’ll be the one other kids come to for help. Any woman will know that he is not only absolutely trustworthy, but will tolerate NO ONE transgressing upon the feminine. This is what I want for him, and I will give it to him, or die trying.

He’s my boy.