This piece was submitted by Jason Anderson. He is the creator of the blog The Cynical Christian, a contributor to The Federalist, and author of the book Zero-Budget Christmas: The Almost Entirely True Story of Our Quest to Do Our Christmas Shopping Without Spending Any Money.
One day, our washing machine exploded. That may seem like hyperbole, and truth be told there was no shrapnel or fireball, but there was a loud bang followed by a cloud of acrid smoke. So there was definitely something explody going on in there somewhere. Since explosions are really not good for my delicates, we decided to go ahead and get a new washer.
We went down to our local big-box home store, which, to protect the identities of everyone in this story, we’ll call “Shmoe’s.” My wife and I had done some cursory research on new washing machines, by which I mean that I asked her what she wanted to buy and she did the research. She asked our friends for recommendations and found out which brands they liked and which brands made them wish they were just beating their clothes on a rock. We learned some things that you learn for specific occasions like this and then immediately forget afterward, like why a stainless steel tub is better, or what “Energy Star Compliant” means. So, we went in with a little knowledge but still with plenty of questions.
Our kids were with us, and it made me think of the times I’d gone with my parents to make big purchases — furniture, cars, and the like. I remember it being exciting, getting something big and new, but I also remember the vague sense of dread, like my dad was going to have to leave an internal organ at the car dealership in exchange, and he and my mom were deciding which one. (“You do have two lungs, after all.”) We’re not as financially close to the bone as my folks were during my childhood, so I hoped my kids weren’t getting that same vibe from us.
They were exceptionally wired, though whether it was because our excess tension was sloughing off onto them or because they’re 4 and 6 years old and being wired is part of their job description, it’s difficult to say.
So, we proceeded down the aisles of Schmoe’s, my wife and I trying to herd the kids in the general direction of the appliances like we were chasing a couple of fumbled footballs. After bouncing through the patio furniture and lawnmowers, we finally got down to the business of examining washing machines with just a little more scrutiny than Westminster Dog Show judges examining Turkish Pointers.
We went around and around the rows of aluminum cubes looking for some differentiating feature that might make us feel better about having to drop hundreds of dollars on one of them. At the same time, one of those indoor forklifts was running back and forth nearby, and our kids were determined to let it crush them to death. While I’m sure that would’ve gotten us a healthy discount on a washer, my wife still wanted us all to leave with the same number limbs we had when we got there. So, my concentration was divided between Energy Star ratings and keeping the kids reeled in.
I wasn’t ready for this
Then I looked up and saw a figure ambling toward us. It was a man; you could tell by the build and the gait. He was wearing a red Schmoe’s vest and clearly coming over to see if we needed help. But as he drew closer, other details began to emerge.
He was an older guy, probably early sixties. He had long, thinning hair, past his shoulders — bottle-red strewn with threads of gray. He had some light makeup; lavender eye shadow, pinkish lips. Under his vest, he wore a flowery blouse. His skinny jean legs ended with a couple of veiny, shaven feet bulging out of ballet flats. His name tag said, “Donna.”
He was as pleasant as he could be. “Can I answer any questions for you folks?” His voice had not one hint of femininity; it was a gravelly, old man voice. But his nails were exquisitely manicured and painted a glossy peach color.
And here’s where my brain, running on two tracks already, began to stutter and fail me. You can focus on only so many things at once, and now the things I wanted to focus on were being overwhelmed by all manner of involuntary questions and concerns.
Is this a man? Could it possibly be a woman with a serious hormone problem? No, it’s definitely a man. Am I making a horrified face? Am I overcompensating by smiling like a maniac? Don’t stare. Don’t act like you’re trying not to stare.
Before I could ask this guy any questions about washing machines, I had to fight off all these distractions. On top of that, I was trying to brace myself for how I was going to handle it when, as was surely going to happen, one of my kids said, “Daddy, is that a man or a woman?” And thus did our simple family outing to buy a washer turn into an expedition to the cutting edge of socio-sexual politics.
Everyday sexual politics
After all the policy debates and academic discussions and courtroom arguments over transgenderism, this is where the ballet flats meet the road. Because expression of alternate sexuality isn’t going to be confined to the isolated campuses of liberal arts schools or rainbow parades in faraway cities. It’s going to be in the store where you buy your groceries or your lumber or your kid’s shoes. Whatever your opinion about it, you’re going to have to decide how you’re going to respond when confronted by it.
Because that’s how a culture changes. It can seem like it’s imposed from above sometimes, but dictates don’t really change culture; they just force it underground and only succeed in doing that as long as dictators can maintain constant pressure. Russian kids always liked rock’n’roll. They just had to pretend like they didn’t.
Instead, culture changes person-to-person, through all the millions of little interactions human beings have with each other every day. What is accepted becomes acceptable; what isn’t, doesn’t. That holds true whether the acceptance is part of a genuine evolution of tastes or values, like America’s march toward racial equality; or if it’s just a temporary madness that everyone goes along with because it seems like everyone else is, like communism or that period in the mid-’90s when it suddenly became ok to wear socks with sandals.
As for that “temporary madness” part, some people who try to force cultural change can be insidious in the way they take advantage of common politeness in a fundamentally nice country like ours. That is the fulcrum upon which the lever of political correctness rests. Nobody goes looking for a chance to hurt someone else’s feelings, and PC concerns increase exponentially the list of reasons to close the mouth of public shame. You can’t tell a person that he looks ridiculous or that he’s making bad life decisions if he’s part of a designated victim group. Besides, who do you think you are, Mr. Hateful White Man Who’s Never Had to Struggle to Find Just the Right Concealer for Your Five O’Clock Shadow?
So, little by little, through our fear of social opprobrium and our aversion to being mean, even things we think are distasteful or wrong we grow to accept, both culturally and personally. Eventually, there are so many people wearing socks with sandals that it becomes exhausting to make fun of them all, so we give up and don’t mention it at all anymore, maybe keeping a little hope deep inside that they’ll all come to their senses one day.
Changing the culture in this new world
As Donna explained the pros and cons of washing machine agitators to us in his husky rasp, most of my thoughts were about how far we were down the road of transgenderism, and the benefits of resistance versus acceptance. I was vexed that he, and Shmoe’s through its clearly trans-friendly dress guidelines, would impose upon us a situation where a simple shopping trip with young children could potentially turn into an age-inappropriate Q&A about the vagaries of human sexuality. But that is where we are. People are aggressively trying to change the culture, and their plan is to press on every interaction, every corner of life until their opponents can find no rest and eventually just give up and accept it.
Since the kids were so caught up in trying to get run over by the forklift, it never became an issue. But if they had asked me if Donna was a man or a woman, I would’ve said, “A man,” and let the chips fall. That was my position then, and it will continue to be so when we find ourselves in that situation again. I have no desire to hurt Donna’s feelings, but I have a greater responsibility to teach my kids that there’s such a thing as reality. Though it’s hard for some people to cope with it, it doesn’t help them to pretend like it’s not true.
Donna knew more than his share about washing machines. He made us feel good about our selection of a Shmaytag, and we parted with smiles and “thank you’s” and went to arrange for delivery. When I’m in Shmoe’s again, I’m not going to go looking for him, but I’m not going to avoid him either. It’s human interactions that change the culture, after all.
This piece was submitted by Jason Anderson. He is the creator of the blog The Cynical Christian, a contributor to The Federalist, and author of the book Zero-Budget Christmas: The Almost Entirely True Story of Our Quest to Do Our Christmas Shopping Without Spending Any Money.
