The Woke Mob Reminds Me of My Guilt-Tripping Mother

I’m super-triggered, and I feel unsafe.

Mom liked to threaten her children with death; not our death — hers.

“You’ll be sorry when I’m gone!” she’d tell me.

I was 7 or 8, which makes me want to feel sorry for myself a bit — I was only a kid, what the fuck was she thinking? But that 8-year-old version of me was fine; kids are resilient, meaning they know how to stash their trauma away until they’re 30 and can afford therapy.

“I’ll be dead soon and you won’t know what to do with yourself! You’ll probably starve to death and mold over!” Mom would scream at me from the stove while she fried hamburgers for dinner.

Cooking, scrubbing, and yelling were three of Mom’s favorite hobbies. It made sense that she’d predict a post-mortem world without food or cleanliness, but I wonder now if she ever thought about how quiet our house would be without her caterwauling.

Mom’s Dead; Let’s Party!

The possibility of peaceful silence probably didn’t occur to her. In the days immediately after Mom’s body went cold, she assumed our house would host a raucous event celebrating her demise. She had a whole song about it — her favorite song to sing while she dusted every surface we owned was called, Farewell Party.

When the last, breath of life
Is gone from, my body
And my lips, are as cold as the sea
When my friends gather ‘round
For my farewell party
Won’t you, pretend you love me

There will be flowers from those
Who cry, when I’m gone
And leave you in this, world alone
I know you’ll have fun
At my farewell party
I know, you’ll be glad, when I’m gone

YouTube

Mom loved this song. She really thought her whole family would be glad when she died. In addition to her pathological obsession with death, maybe she suffered low self-esteem.

The Woke Mob Has Low Self-Esteem?

The woke mob suffers from the same affliction as my mom: low self-esteem combined with a pathological preoccupation with death.

This is why the mob, by which I mean the radical left where they’re found in their natural habitat on Twitter, demands you cancel figures like J.K. Rowling for sharing controversial opinions about trans folks: the logic goes that disagreement boosts hate speech, which leads directly to the death of those with whom you disagree.

Screenshot from Twitter, the Abyss
Screenshot from Twitter, the Abyss

People with low self-esteem don’t argue well. They don’t believe in themselves enough. Instead, they insist you’re trying to kill them, which is a much easier thing for them to believe.

I used to encounter this as a kid living at home with Mom. For example, she never wanted to let me spend the night at my friend’s house. She had a terrible, unfounded fear that the friend’s house would catch on fire and I’d burn up in the night.

“All they’d find is ashes!” she’d say.

If I pressed the issue, Mom would claim I was killing her.

“Stop it! All you do is pester me to death! I’ll drop dead from a stroke soon, and you won’t be able to pester me no more!”

This is a great tactic! It’s very difficult to keep arguing with someone once they’ve hysterically claimed you’re trying to kill them.

I think if the woke mob really believed in themselves a little more, maybe they’d be more inclined to engage in discussion.

In the meantime, this whole screaming bloody murder at their enemies seems to be working great. In no time, I’m sure everyone will forget J.K.’s stories and her hateful opinions ever existed…

Guilt Trips Don’t Work

I used to be part of the woke mob.

  • I’m a pansexual Melungeon who grew up in Appalachia where half the town wanted to beat me for being “a queer” while the other half whispered about my being a “half-breed.”
  • I think fetuses in utero are parasites and that abortions are for everyone.
  • Once outside the womb, we’re all equal.
  • It’s obvious to me we should do more to address why trans people are being murdered and committing suicide at higher rates.

There is no room for me or my blasphemous views with the neo-nazis. That’s why I stayed in the mob for so long. These crazies were my people, right up until they weren’t.

What tipped me off that it was time to leave was the mob’s predisposition for yelling and emotional manipulation becoming louder than their message. Their verbal abuse and proclamations of guilt rekindled the same low-key fear in my belly as when my mommy used to threaten to die to make me love her more.

Here are some of the mob’s nuanced views on a person who dared to disagree with one of their tenets:

Screenshot from Twitter, the Abyss
Screenshot from Twitter, the Abyss
Screenshot from Twitter, the Abyss
Screenshot from Twitter, the Abyss
Screenshot from Twitter, the Abyss
Screenshot from Twitter, the Abyss

This is not productive. These messages of shame and punishment and calls for disassociation won’t ever lead to a “woke” utopia, where everyone is accepted as equal. These are ego-driven abuse tactics. Why are they being deployed under the guise of love and protection for a vulnerable group?

These close-minded, guilt-inducing messages don’t help a movement — they drive reasonable people away in droves (while attracting those with unexpressed rage.)

At best, this alienates your allies. At worst, it corrupts your movement entirely.

When Mom said things like, “You’ll miss the sound of me singing when I’m dead,” I didn’t do what she wanted, which was weep with remorse for not cleaning my room and declare my love for her. Instead, I threw up a shield of humor. I laughed at her despair.

“I don’t know if I’ll miss your singing when you’re dead — it’s pretty off-key,” I’d tell her.

Eventually, I grew immune to her threats entirely. They meant nothing to me, and my siblings were just as deaf or more. This is not a good thing, but we had no choice. We would’ve drowned in her guilt, so we swam to the shore.

In this same way, the woke mob is cannibalizing the liberal agenda it’s trying to push forward. More people will separate themselves from this vile attitude toward disagreement and disassociation with dissenters. The mob will barely notice since it’s fueled by the rage of its angriest members; when they do, you can be sure they’ll look outside instead of inward for the reason.

Bedroom Slippers and Cancel Culture

“I wish I was dead. I wish to God he’d come take me away!” Mom would scream at the ceiling on days when the household chores weren’t going to her liking.

“I wish he’d come and take you too,” I’d mumble under my breath. The times I was brave enough to talk back louder earned me a smack upside the head with her bedroom slipper.

The woke mob doesn’t have bedroom slippers with which to whack dissenters. They have public shaming rituals. They insist that to debate them on anything is to debate human rights. (Murderer!) They are righteous in their claims, because they’re on the “right” side of history, just like my mother was on the “right” side of God, whom she was certain would welcome her into heaven if only she could leave this awful earthly plane.

Instead of bedroom slippers, the mob has cAnCeL cUlTuRe — a weapon they brandish behind their backs. The mob spells “cancel culture” in a mix of upper and lower case letters (sarcastic case). This is to make it known that anyone who claims cancel culture exists is a moron who should be mocked for their low intelligence and likely bigoted views.

I don’t hold bigoted views. But I do see cancel culture. I do see people losing their livelihoods. I do see us putting each other’s behavior under a microscope.

Should I be mocked? Maybe. I don’t know what side of history I’m going to end up on (and neither do you.)

Should the meager platform I have be taken away lest more people hear my blasphemous words? Why? If I’m so wrong, why not let these ideas be heard and refuted?

If J.K.’s so wrong, (and she may very well be), why call her an ugly bitch? Why boycott a work of art that brings joy and goodness into the world, just because the vessel through which it came holds a different belief system? Is that not bigotry of its own?

I’m going to tell you what I tell my toddlers: use your words. (Just kidding, I don’t have any fucking toddlers.)

Until then, I’ll be waiting around to get smacked by that bedroom slipper or called a TERF or #reported. I’m *really* good at waiting — after 30 years, Mom and her morbid predictions are still alive and well (and reading this blog! Love you, Mom! :)

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Sherry Mayle

Laughter is the best medicine if you don’t have any real medicine.