The concept of Women’s Studies for the benefit of women has always amused me. I don’t need to research what it means to be a woman. I’ve got a pretty good grip on that subject and I’ve always been completely content defining it for myself.
When I was nine my mother brought home two books by an author named Judy Blume. I got the story about girls on the cusp of puberty and my brother got the one for boys. Gee, Mom, thanks. Half an hour after lights out I heard “pssst” and saw my brother at the other end of the hall.
“When you’re done with your book can we swap?”
Fucking right dude. We both powered our way to a trade off by the end of the next day. I’ve always been more keenly interested in what it’s like to be a man for the simple reason that I’m not one. It’s a more natural curiosity.
To grasp what men experience I would actually need lessons. If I’d been offered Men’s Studies as an option I would have camped out all night so I could be the first to sign up. What kind of a racket is this to offer courses on how to be your own gender? Anyone with a strong sense of personality who would choose to specialize in the curriculum of themselves should be tested for narcissism. It’s a matter of having true interest in the world around you or being trapped in the universe of yourself, so let’s drop the ruse.
Women’s Studies is a cult developed by feminism and as such is not a legitimate academic field. Women who can’t pass by a mirror without looking at their reflection soon find themselves in a classroom full of other self absorbed recruits ready to be brainwashed into vile and angry advocates of victimhood.
Let the lessons begin.
Students straggle slowly into the lecture hall milling about long enough to assess each others wardrobes. They show off their designer pumps and waggle their backsides before perching on a seat.
Two hundred dollars of luscious hair is flipped over a shoulder and fluorescent teeth smugly flash in contrast to a spray-on tan. Across the aisle from Barbie Girl, Hippy Nature Chick plops down with her make-up free face and thrift store threads. They smile at each other and both think “Bitch.”
As rumours circulate within idle brains the murmuring of loose lips is silenced by metallic caster wheels scraping against the hardwood floor at the front of the room. The professor arrives and directs her assistants as they roll in a large tarp-covered curiosity. There are strange, frightfully feral sounds coming from under the canvas and the wheels grind to a halt at centre stage. Dramatic entrance accomplished. The curtains quiver. Our master of ceremonies launches into her prologue.
“Today marks a new phase in your life. Never again will you see the world in the same way. Unlike the typical platform of the Patriarchal educational system, this course interactively breaks from tradition by encouraging women to become active knowers instead of passive recipients of knowledge.” Her heels click confidently as she strides from one side of the hidden display to the other. The students shift uncomfortably as a guttural growl emanates from beneath the cover.
“Behold!” With great flourish and bravado the professor whisks away the tarp to reveal a naked, snarling woman in a cage. The students gasp. The she-beast rattles the bars and with ferocious untamed eyes issues a primal roar.
Even Nature Girl is afraid.
“This, my innocent and naive friends, is Woman as the male Patriarchy would have us. Caged and oppressed without a shred of dignity or refinement. If not for the efforts of our Feminist foremothers, all of us would be this degraded thing you see before you.”
Spray tan girl starts to cry.
The professor breaks the teacher/student boundaries, reaching out to solidify the sisterhood. She pats the poor child’s shoulder and acknowledges their shared trauma. Instructions follow to gather in fours and conduct a healing group hug. The wild thing in the cage skitters from side to side and tilts her head with bewilderment.
“Men have put this woman in her cage!” The professor proclaims, drawing attention back to the problem at hand as the class returns to their chairs. Her converts nod, damp eyed and supple from their group touch experience. “Thankfully we, as mirrors for each other, can regain our self-respect and choose a better life.” A hand-mirror is produced from inner lab coat pocket and presented to the now whimpering creature behind the bars. Tears roll silently down cheeks as the she-beast screams at the sight of herself and she retreats to the far corner of her cage to shiver in shame. The professor sighs and beckons reassuringly with an outstretched palm. The creature sidles back to the bars and nuzzles against the loving hand that strokes her mussed-up hair into a semblance of order.
As the cooing and petting proceeds a singular penis burdened student who’d been hiding in a dark corner of the classroom tentatively raises his hand. The tender eyes of the professor turn to ice as she whips her gaze around as a spotlight until it settles on his vile imperfection. His hand trembles mid-air and he clears his throat awkwardly.
“Um, excuse me but, didn’t you…”
He falters at the sights of daggers shooting from her eyes but presses on, “…didn’t you put her in the cage?”
Jaws drop as the entire class turns in his direction. The professor raises a finger in case anyone wasn’t sure where they were supposed to be looking and points it directly at the boy’s forehead in a laser beam of loathing.
“That is exactly what the Patriarchy wants you to believe! Haven’t you taken the prerequisite courses?!” Her lab coat flutters as she strides over to stand towering above the young man’s cowering body. “Let me see your transcripts.”
He pats the empty pockets of his jacket unable to comply and begins to question the line of reasoning that led him to enroll in this course. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
“Just as I suspected. Remove yourself from my classroom this instant!” The professor spins on her heel and dismissively clacks her way back to front stage. The boy quickly fumbles books into his backpack and stumbles his way to the exit. He pauses, trying to make sense of his circumstances.
“But, I mean, how long has she been in that cage? Surely just since this morning.” The words trail from his lips as he realizes his mistake too late.
A hundred rage-filled women pull out their cell phones with a flurry of clicks and whirs. The Twitterverse thrums in anticipation. Digital death drums at his doorstep with each tapping of painted fingernails on touch screen displays. Within seconds his first day of learning about the world of women becomes his last and he slumps away in defeat.
The mood has lifted as the professor restores order to the lecture hall. “This has been an extraordinarily emotional day for us all. Let us spend the rest of the class discussing how to help this poor creature regain her natural environment. Next week I will be giving her a credit card, an IKEA catalogue, and we’ll help her do some online shopping at Macy’s.” The professor beams approvingly at the relieved sighs and uplifted spirits of her new recruits.
End class.
Cults don’t just prey on the weak. They have slick campaigns and convincing literature. They begin with generalizations and constructed scenarios which start within the range of the believable and take you somewhere you’d never have gone had you seen the end goal in advance. Each year of study takes you a heavier footstep down the pink bricked road to radicalization.
Women’s Studies is not a career path. For the same cost as a degree in something that might provide you with an income, they will sell you a point of view. It doesn’t teach you a trade, it indoctrinates you into the feminist world agenda of ensuring it’s own future existence.
You don’t need them, they need you.
These courses do not come at a reduced price for lack of usefulness and the first year of Women’s Studies is designed to ensure you will never question the high fees you are paying to learn nothing.
“The first problem for all of us, men and women, is not to learn, but to unlearn.” ~ Gloria Steinem
Brainwashing works best on an empty mind.
