Why I Can’t Take Feminists Seriously (More Escapism)

My thirteen-year-old granddaughter is lithe, slim (with curves) and tall for her age. She is also pretty. (I feel free to brag about her because she has hardly more genes in common with me than if I were a bonobo. Another story, obviously that I will tell another time.)

She goes to school in Santa Cruz where we both live. The town is a small but significant laboratory of all “progressive” folly. She even has a new teacher, an apparently male human being who insists on being referred to as “they.”

There is a boy in her class she likes quite a bit but he is unfortunately on the short side. (In case you are curious I, myself, like what I know of the boy, including his looks.)

She says the boy won’t do but she admits that, “I am keeping him under control in case he has a growth spurt.”

I can’t take feminists’ narratives seriously until they factor in what’s hard wired.

About Jacques Delacroix

I write short stories, current events comments, and sociopolitical essays, mostly in English, some in French. There are other people with the same first name and same last name on the Internet. I am the one who put up on Amazon in 2014: "I Used to Be French: an Immature Autobiography" and also: "Les pumas de grande-banlieue." To my knowledge, I am the only Jacques Delacroix with American and English scholarly publications. In a previous life, I was a teacher and a scholar in Organizational Theory and in the Sociology of Economic Development. (Go ahead, Google me!) I live in the People’s Green Socialist Republic of Santa Cruz, California.
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