Hey Dana Jane

Category: Politics

  • I’m Trying to Understand Israel and Palestine

    I’m trying to understand the Israel-Palestine conflict.

    Not understand it enough to pick a team.

    Not understand it enough to repeat whatever slogan happens to be trending.

    Actually understand it.

    Because the more I read, the more I realize how incredibly complicated this is—and how much of the conversation seems to require pretending that half of the history doesn’t exist.

    And honestly?

    I have questions.

    A lot of them.

    First: What does “Free Palestine” actually mean?

    I hear people say “Free Palestine” constantly.

    But free Palestine from what?

    The Israeli occupation of the West Bank?

    The blockade and restrictions surrounding Gaza?

    Israeli settlements?

    Israeli sovereignty over territory Palestinians claim?

    Or does it mean eliminating Israel entirely?

    Because those are very different things.

    And I don’t think it’s unreasonable to ask someone what they actually mean when they say it.

    For many Palestinians and their supporters, “Free Palestine” means Palestinian self-determination—an independent Palestinian state and an end to occupation.

    For others, it means a single state covering the entire area between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea.

    Those are radically different political visions.

    And here’s the question I keep coming back to:

    Can I support the Palestinian people’s right to freedom and self-determination without supporting Hamas?

    Of course I can.

    And can I believe Israelis have a right to live safely without believing every action taken by the Israeli government is justified?

    Of course I can.

    Why do we keep acting like those positions are mutually exclusive?

    But here’s where history gets really uncomfortable.

    I’ve heard people say:

    “That land belongs to the Palestinians.”

    I’ve also heard:

    “That land belongs to Israel because it is the ancestral homeland of the Jewish people.”

    And I keep thinking:

    Does land actually work that way?

    If my ancestors lived somewhere 2,000 years ago, does that give me ownership of that land today?

    Probably not.

    But if my grandparents were born somewhere, lived there their entire lives, built a home there and then were expelled from it, does that mean their descendants have no legitimate claim whatsoever?

    That doesn’t seem right either.

    And that’s one of the things I’m struggling with.

    Because Jews have an undeniable and ancient connection to this land.

    So do Palestinians.

    This isn’t a situation where one group has an ancient connection and the other just showed up recently.

    The modern conflict, however, is much more recent than the ancient histories invoked by both sides.

    The territory was part of the Ottoman Empire, then became the British Mandate for Palestine after World War I. In 1947, the United Nations proposed partitioning the territory into a Jewish state and an Arab state, with Jerusalem under a special international arrangement.

    The Jewish state became Israel.

    The proposed Arab Palestinian state did not.

    War followed.

    And the consequences of that war are still being felt today.

    The Nakba is real.

    During the 1948 war, more than 700,000 Palestinians became refugees. Some fled fighting. Others were expelled from their homes. Palestinian villages were destroyed or depopulated.

    The Palestinian term for this is the Nakba, meaning “catastrophe.”

    I don’t think anyone should minimize what happened.

    Imagine being told that the place your family has lived for generations is no longer your home.

    Imagine becoming a refugee because of a war you didn’t start.

    Imagine your children and grandchildren growing up without ever being allowed to return to the place your family came from.

    That’s not something I can just dismiss.

    But then I have another question.

    What happened to the Jews?

    They didn’t disappear.

    The Jewish people had also experienced centuries of persecution, expulsions and massacres in Europe and elsewhere, culminating in the Holocaust.

    Six million Jews were murdered.

    And after that, the idea of Jews having somewhere they could be safe wasn’t an abstract political theory.

    It was an existential question.

    So I find myself looking at this and thinking:

    How can we acknowledge the catastrophe suffered by Palestinians without pretending Jewish historical trauma didn’t happen?

    And how can we acknowledge Jewish historical trauma without pretending Palestinian displacement didn’t happen?

    Why does acknowledging one seem to require denying the other?

    Then there’s 1967.

    This is another major turning point.

    During the Six-Day War, Israel captured the West Bank, East Jerusalem and Gaza, along with other territory.

    Israel subsequently maintained control over the West Bank, while the political status of Gaza evolved differently after Israel’s 2005 withdrawal of its permanent ground presence and settlements there.

    The West Bank situation is especially important because Israeli settlements have expanded there over decades.

    And this isn’t merely something I have to take someone’s political word for.

    In 2024, the International Court of Justice issued an advisory opinion concluding that Israel’s continued presence in the Palestinian territory occupied since 1967 is unlawful and that its settlement policies and annexation-related practices violate international law and obstruct Palestinian self-determination.

    That’s a pretty significant finding.

    But then I have another question:

    If Israel believes its security requires maintaining control over portions of the West Bank, how does that get reconciled with Palestinian self-determination?

    And on the other side:

    If Palestinians achieve an independent state, what guarantees Israel that another armed group won’t use that territory to attack Israeli civilians?

    Those aren’t stupid questions.

    They’re both legitimate questions.

    And then there’s Hamas.

    This is where I absolutely cannot get on board with pretending that Palestinian suffering somehow makes Hamas’s actions acceptable.

    It doesn’t.

    Hamas-led forces murdered civilians on October 7, 2023.

    They kidnapped people.

    They took hostages.

    They committed atrocities against Israeli civilians.

    Those aren’t legitimate acts of resistance simply because Palestinians have legitimate grievances.

    You don’t get to murder a civilian because you have a legitimate political complaint.

    Period.

    And here’s something else I’ve struggled with:

    Why should an Israeli mother have to explain to her child why someone wants to kill her simply because she’s Israeli?

    Why should a Palestinian mother have to explain to her child why their home was destroyed or why someone they love was killed?

    Why do either of those mothers have to carry the consequences of decisions made by politicians and armed groups?

    But Hamas isn’t Palestine.

    This distinction matters enormously.

    Hamas is not every Palestinian.

    A Palestinian child isn’t Hamas.

    A Palestinian Christian isn’t Hamas.

    A Palestinian who hates Hamas isn’t Hamas.

    A Palestinian who wants peace isn’t Hamas.

    And the same principle works in reverse.

    The Israeli government isn’t every Israeli.

    An Israeli child isn’t Netanyahu.

    A Jewish grandmother in Tel Aviv isn’t responsible for every policy of the Israeli government.

    An Israeli who protests against settlement expansion isn’t responsible for it.

    So why are ordinary people constantly being assigned collective guilt for the actions of governments and militant organizations?

    And Israel isn’t innocent either.

    This is where I think conversations get dishonest.

    Israel absolutely has a right to protect its citizens.

    But does having a legitimate security concern give a country unlimited authority?

    No.

    International humanitarian law doesn’t work that way.

    The International Court of Justice has found serious violations relating to Israel’s policies in the occupied Palestinian territories, including settlement activity, annexation-related practices and restrictions affecting Palestinians.

    And there have also been extensive allegations and findings concerning Israeli conduct during the war in Gaza.

    So I have another question:

    If Hamas commits a war crime, does that make an Israeli response automatically lawful?

    No.

    And:

    If Israel commits a violation, does that somehow make Hamas’s attack on Israeli civilians legitimate?

    Also no.

    Why can’t we condemn both?

    This is where “both sides” gets tricky.

    I often hear:

    “Both sides are guilty.”

    I think that can be true.

    But I also think we need to be careful with what we mean.

    “Both sides have committed wrongdoing” does not mean every action is equivalent.

    Hamas is a non-state armed organization.

    Israel is a sovereign state with a powerful military and different legal obligations.

    The scale, circumstances, capabilities and responsibilities are not necessarily identical.

    So I’m not interested in saying:

    “They’re both equally bad.”

    That’s too simplistic.

    I’m interested in saying:

    Civilians on both sides have been harmed. Armed groups and governments have committed serious violations. Historical grievances are real. And none of those facts cancels out another fact.

    But here’s the question I keep getting stuck on:

    Who does the land actually belong to?

    And the more I think about it, the more I think maybe that’s the wrong question.

    Because what does “belong” even mean?

    Does a piece of land belong to the person whose ancestors lived there 2,000 years ago?

    The person whose grandparents lived there?

    The person who currently lives there?

    The government that controls it?

    The person who has a legal deed?

    The people who have historically inhabited the region?

    The people who were displaced from it?

    These aren’t the same thing.

    And maybe that’s the fundamental problem.

    Two peoples have developed national identities and political claims around the same piece of land.

    There isn’t a magic historical deed sitting in a drawer somewhere that says:

    Congratulations. You win Palestine.

    So what does “Free Palestine” mean to me?

    I’m still figuring that out.

    But I know what I don’t think it should mean.

    It shouldn’t mean:

    “Free Palestine by eliminating Israel.”

    And I don’t think Israeli security should mean:

    “Palestinians can remain indefinitely without genuine political freedom.”

    I don’t think Palestinian liberation requires hatred of Jews.

    And I don’t think Jewish safety requires hatred of Palestinians.

    I don’t think supporting Israel’s existence requires supporting every Israeli government policy.

    And I don’t think supporting Palestinian statehood requires supporting Hamas.

    Those distinctions seem incredibly obvious to me.

    So why are they so difficult to make?

    And then I get to the question nobody seems able to answer.

    When does it end?

    How many generations have to inherit the trauma?

    How many children have to grow up knowing the names of people killed before them?

    How many families have to bury sons and daughters?

    How many homes have to be destroyed?

    How many people have to become refugees?

    How many terrorist attacks can a population endure before fear becomes part of its identity?

    How many military operations can another population endure before anger becomes part of its identity?

    At what point do we stop asking:

    “Who started it?”

    and start asking:

    “How do we stop it?”

    Because if the answer is that peace can only happen after one side completely defeats the other, then what exactly are we waiting for?

    Another generation?

    Maybe the hardest question is this:

    What if neither side gets everything it wants?

    What if Israel doesn’t get every piece of territory it considers historically or strategically important?

    What if Palestinians don’t get every piece of territory they consider historically theirs?

    What if refugees don’t get every outcome they want?

    What if Jerusalem requires compromise?

    What if security requires international guarantees?

    What if Palestinian sovereignty requires Hamas to give up armed control?

    What if Israeli settlements require painful political decisions?

    What if peace requires both peoples to accept something they believe is profoundly unfair?

    Because that’s what compromise usually looks like.

    Nobody gets everything.

    I don’t pretend to have solved this.

    I’m not an expert on the Middle East.

    I’m not Palestinian.

    I’m not Israeli.

    And I’m certainly not going to pretend I understand what it’s like to grow up fearing rockets, terrorism, occupation, displacement or war.

    But I do think we’re capable of something better than shouting slogans at each other.

    I can believe Palestinians deserve freedom.

    I can believe Israelis deserve safety.

    I can condemn Hamas.

    I can criticize the Israeli government.

    I can acknowledge the Nakba.

    I can acknowledge the Holocaust.

    I can acknowledge Jewish historical ties to the land.

    I can acknowledge Palestinian historical ties to the land.

    I can believe that civilians on both sides deserve to live.

    And I can still ask uncomfortable questions.

    Actually, I think we need to ask them.

    Because maybe the goal shouldn’t be figuring out which people have the better historical claim to the land.

    Maybe the goal should be figuring out how two peoples who believe that land is home can both have a future there.

    And maybe the first step toward peace isn’t deciding which side we’re supposed to hate.

    Maybe it’s being willing to say:

    “Your suffering is real. Mine doesn’t become less real because yours is real too.”

  • The Influencer Who Wants You to Know She’s One of the Good Ones

    You know the woman.

    She has 450,000 followers and a perfectly lit kitchen.

    She talks about the invisible labor women perform every day. She talks about the mental load. She talks about how mothers are expected to remember the dentist appointments, buy the birthday presents, schedule the physicals, pack the lunches, notice when the toilet paper is running low and somehow know that Tuesday is “wear red for spirit week.”

    And you know what?

    She’s often absolutely right.

    She says women shouldn’t have to carry everything.

    She says mothers deserve more support.

    She says women shouldn’t have to make themselves smaller to make everyone else comfortable.

    She talks about workplace inequality, the pressure placed on mothers, unrealistic expectations of female perfection and the absurdity of expecting women to simultaneously have successful careers, spotless homes, emotionally regulated children and immaculate eyebrows.

    And I’m nodding along.

    Yes. Exactly.

    And then she gets to politics.

    Suddenly, the woman who just spent ten minutes explaining that women are complex human beings becomes remarkably comfortable reducing roughly half the country to a caricature.

    Republicans are stupid.

    Conservatives are hateful.

    Trump voters are immoral.

    Anyone who disagrees with her worldview is either ignorant, selfish, bigoted, or apparently suffering from some mysterious deficiency of empathy.

    And there it is.

    The contradiction.

    Because apparently the lesson is:

    Don’t stereotype women. Unless they’re conservative.

    Don’t reduce people to political labels.

    Unless the political label is Republican.

    Don’t assume you know someone’s life.

    Unless you can infer their entire character from the candidate they voted for.

    Don’t judge people.

    Unless you’re judging the people who deserve it.

    And somehow, this is presented as compassion.

    The mental load apparently has a political party

    Here’s what fascinates me about this particular brand of influencer.

    She will tell you that women are exhausted because they’ve been conditioned to monitor everyone else’s emotions.

    Then she’ll spend three hours monitoring the moral failures of strangers on Facebook.

    She’ll tell you that women shouldn’t be expected to perform emotional labor for everyone.

    Then she’ll demand that everyone around her demonstrate the correct emotional response to every political event.

    She’ll tell you that women should be allowed to define themselves rather than being defined by other people.

    Then she’ll define millions of people she has never met as selfish, racist, hateful, stupid or dangerous based largely on their politics.

    She’ll criticize the patriarchy for creating rigid hierarchies of human worth.

    Then she’ll create her own hierarchy:

    People who think correctly.

    And everyone else.

    That isn’t feminism.

    That’s tribalism wearing feminist jewelry.

    And this is where the psychology gets interesting

    I’m not interested in diagnosing some random woman on Instagram with narcissistic personality disorder because she made a smug political reel.

    But there are legitimate psychological concepts that help explain this behavior.

    One is moral grandstanding: using moral language partly to establish status, prestige or social standing.

    Researchers studying moral grandstanding have found that status-seeking motivations are associated with greater political and moral conflict, and that prestige-motivated grandstanding is associated with ideological extremity and affective polarization.

    In other words, sometimes the point of a moral statement isn’t merely:

    “I believe this is right.”

    It can also communicate:

    “Look at what kind of person I am for believing this.”

    And social media is practically engineered for this.

    Post something nuanced about the difficulty of balancing motherhood and a career?

    You might get 200 likes.

    Post something about how your political opponents are horrible human beings?

    Now you’re getting comments, shares, applause, outrage and people tagging their friends.

    Research on social media and morality suggests exactly this kind of dynamic: morally and emotionally evocative content is especially good at capturing attention, while social media can amplify outrage, status-seeking and conflict between groups.

    So the platform gradually teaches people something.

    Nuance gets polite applause.
    Outrage gets engagement.

    And engagement feels an awful lot like validation.

    The hero complex

    Then there is the temptation to become the hero of your own content.

    Every story needs a villain.

    The exhausted mother needs an oppressive husband.

    The enlightened woman needs the ignorant woman.

    The feminist needs the misogynist.

    The compassionate person needs the hateful person.

    And the politically enlightened influencer needs the Republican.

    It creates a wonderfully simple story:

    I am fighting injustice.

    And if I’m fighting injustice, then anyone opposing me isn’t simply disagreeing with me.

    They’re part of the injustice.

    That is an extraordinarily comfortable psychological position.

    Because once you have cast yourself as the hero, you don’t have to examine yourself nearly as closely.

    Your anger becomes righteous.

    Your contempt becomes courage.

    Your certainty becomes intelligence.

    Your inability to tolerate disagreement becomes “having boundaries.”

    And your political tribalism becomes “knowing where I stand.”

    But here’s the hypocrisy I can’t get past

    If your feminism teaches that women deserve to be seen as individuals rather than stereotypes, then apply that principle universally.

    If motherhood has taught you that people’s lives are complicated, assume other people’s lives are complicated too.

    If you believe women deserve grace for imperfect choices, perhaps extend some grace to the woman who voted differently than you.

    If you believe people should be judged by their actions rather than assumptions about their identity, don’t assume you know the character of millions of strangers because of their political affiliation.

    And if you genuinely believe empathy is important, don’t make empathy something you reserve exclusively for people who already agree with you.

    Otherwise, what you’re practicing isn’t empathy.

    It’s affiliation.

    And conservatives do this too

    Before anyone starts congratulating themselves, let’s be clear:

    Conservatives have their own version of this.

    The Christian who constantly talks about loving thy neighbor while treating political opponents as enemies.

    The “family values” guy who thinks every liberal mother is destroying America.

    The person who talks endlessly about personal responsibility while making excuses for his own side.

    The person who demands free speech until someone says something he doesn’t like.

    The difference isn’t that one political tribe is uniquely hypocritical.

    The difference is that we are exceptionally good at noticing hypocrisy in our opponents and exceptionally creative at explaining it away in ourselves.

    That’s the real problem.

    Maybe the question isn’t “Are you a good person?”

    Maybe the better question is:

    What do you need other people to believe about you?

    Do you need to be the smartest person in the room?

    The most compassionate?

    The most enlightened?

    The most oppressed?

    The person who “gets it”?

    The person brave enough to say what everyone else is afraid to say?

    The person on the right side of history?

    Because social media gives us an unprecedented opportunity to construct a public version of ourselves and then invite strangers to applaud it.

    And once your politics becomes part of your identity as a good person, changing your mind becomes much harder.

    You’re no longer defending an opinion.

    You’re defending yourself.

    That’s why political disagreement can feel so personal.

    If I say your policy is wrong, that’s an argument.

    If you have convinced yourself that your political beliefs are evidence of your compassion, intelligence and moral character, then disagreement can feel like an attack on your identity.

    And suddenly, the person who disagrees with you isn’t merely wrong.

    They’re bad.

    Research on online moral discourse suggests that people routinely overestimate how much outrage and hostility exists between opposing groups, which can make the political world look even more divided and hostile than it actually is.

    So maybe we should be suspicious of anyone—left or right—who seems to require a villain in order to establish their own virtue.

    Especially when that villain is always someone else.

    Because there’s a peculiar kind of arrogance in saying:

    “I don’t judge people.”

    while spending half your feed explaining why the people on the other side are terrible.

    And perhaps the most uncomfortable possibility is this:

    Maybe some of the people shouting loudest about being good aren’t actually trying to make the world better.

    Maybe they’re trying to make themselves feel better about who they are.

    And those aren’t always the same thing.

  • If They Celebrate His Murder, What Would They Say About Mine?

    Today is a hard day.

    One year ago today, Charlie Kirk was murdered while doing something he had spent years doing: standing in front of people who disagreed with him and talking.

    Arguing.

    Challenging.

    Provoking.

    Listening.

    Sometimes getting it wrong. Sometimes getting it right. Sometimes irritating the hell out of people.

    But he showed up.

    And someone decided that disagreement had crossed the line into justification for murder.

    That should horrify every decent person, regardless of political affiliation.

    Yet today, one year later, I am seeing things online that have left me genuinely shaken.

    People mocking Charlie’s death.

    People celebrating it.

    People making jokes about the shooting.

    People posting things that may not explicitly say, “I am glad he was murdered,” but come damn close enough that everyone knows what they mean.

    And I’ve had an uncomfortable realization.

    There are people on my Facebook feed whom I no longer want in my life.

    Not because they are liberal.

    Not because they voted differently than I did.

    Not because they disagree with me about abortion, Donald Trump, immigration, gender, taxes, guns, or any other political issue.

    I can handle disagreement.

    Hell, I expect it.

    I have friends with whom I disagree about enormous things. I love people who don’t vote like I do. I don’t need everyone around me to share my worldview.

    But there is a line between disagreeing with someone’s beliefs and celebrating their destruction because of those beliefs.

    That line matters to me.

    And perhaps the most disturbing part is that Charlie himself seemed to understand something I am still struggling to learn.

    He was remarkably willing to engage people he disagreed with.

    He would sit across from college students who openly despised him and say, essentially, Come talk to me.

    He didn’t require agreement before granting someone humanity.

    I admire that enormously.

    And I’m going to be honest:

    I’m not sure I’m that strong.

    Maybe that is my own uncomfortable confession today.

    I don’t know that I can embrace someone with compassion after watching them celebrate the murder of someone simply because they hated what he believed.

    I can forgive someone for having different political opinions.

    I can understand that reasonable people can reach radically different conclusions.

    I can even laugh at myself when someone makes a good point that challenges my assumptions.

    But if you see a man murdered for his political beliefs and your reaction is good, he deserved it, one less fascist, or some variation of I have no sympathy because I hated him…

    I need some distance from you.

    And I’m not going to apologize for that.

    Because here’s the question I can’t stop thinking about:

    If someone took my life because of my conservative beliefs, what would you say?

    Would you mourn?

    Would you say, What a tragedy. I disagreed with her, but she didn’t deserve that.

    Or would you say:

    Good.

    She got what she deserved.

    One less conservative.

    I’m not going to lose sleep over it.

    Would you celebrate?

    Would you make memes?

    Would you turn my death into a punchline?

    Because if you could do that to Charlie, I have to wonder what you would do if the person being carried away in a body bag was me.

    And that’s where this stops being theoretical.

    Because Charlie wasn’t murdered because he was a murderer.

    He wasn’t killed because he had physically harmed the people who disagreed with him.

    He was killed because someone allegedly decided that his political expression made him worthy of death. Prosecutors have alleged that Robinson targeted Kirk because of his political expression, and the case is now headed toward trial.

    That is terrifying.

    Because once we decide that certain opinions make people less deserving of life, the principle doesn’t stay neatly contained on one side of the political aisle.

    It never does.

    Today it’s Charlie Kirk.

    Tomorrow it’s someone you love.

    And eventually, perhaps, it’s you.

    That’s why I don’t care whether you liked Charlie.

    You didn’t have to.

    You could think he was arrogant.

    You could think he was wrong.

    You could think his politics were dangerous.

    You could think his rhetoric was inflammatory.

    You could despise everything he stood for.

    And still believe he should be alive.

    That’s the bare minimum.

    Actually, it’s more than the bare minimum.

    It is civilization.

    We are supposed to be able to hate an idea without hating the person who holds it.

    We are supposed to be able to argue without annihilating one another.

    We are supposed to believe that the person across the political aisle is still a human being whose life has value.

    And when we lose that?

    We have lost something far more important than an election.

    We’ve lost the ability to coexist.

    So yes, today I am grieving Charlie Kirk.

    I’m grieving the husband who lost his life.

    I’m grieving the father whose children will grow up without him.

    I’m grieving a young man who had an enormous amount of life left to live.

    And I’m grieving something else, too.

    I’m grieving the people I thought understood the difference between political disagreement and moral depravity.

    Some of them apparently don’t.

    And maybe that’s okay.

    Maybe this is what boundaries are for.

    I don’t have to hate them.

    I don’t have to attack them.

    I don’t have to convince them.

    I can love some people from a distance.

    But I don’t have to keep people in my life who make me question whether they believe my life would still have value if they hated my politics enough.

    Charlie spent his life telling people to debate him.

    He invited people to challenge him.

    He believed ideas should be confronted with better ideas.

    And perhaps the best way to honor him isn’t by becoming more hateful ourselves.

    Perhaps it is by refusing to become the thing that killed him.

    We can disagree.

    We can argue.

    We can challenge one another.

    We can even despise each other’s politics.

    But we don’t get to decide that our political opponents are less human.

    And we certainly don’t get to celebrate when they’re dead.

    Because the moment we start cheering for political murder, we aren’t defending our values anymore.

    We’re abandoning them.

  • Part Two: Who Gets to Define Womanhood?

    My last post was about a Rebecca Solnit quote that has been rattling around in my head for months:

    “One of the rights that the powerful often assume is the power to dictate reality.”

    The more I think about it, the more I see another uncomfortable question hiding inside it.

    And this one takes me somewhere I suspect a lot of people would rather I didn’t go.

    What happens when someone enters a category historically defined by the exclusion and oppression of another group—and then assumes the authority to tell that group what its own category means?

    Let’s talk about women.

    Specifically, trans women.

    Before anyone reaches for the outrage button, let me make something very clear: I am not questioning whether every trans person is sincere about their identity. I’m not suggesting every trans woman has the same life experience, social circumstances, privilege, or relationship with power. Some trans people experience profound discrimination and vulnerability, and I’m not interested in pretending otherwise.

    That’s not my argument.

    My argument is about power.

    And Solnit’s quote gives us a fascinating lens through which to examine it.

    What happens to power when you change categories?

    A person who was born male and raised in a society that, rightly or wrongly, often affords males greater physical, social, and institutional authority does not necessarily shed every bit of that history, conditioning, confidence, or socialization simply by changing their identity.

    Why would they?

    We don’t generally believe that social conditioning disappears overnight.

    And yet, in some of the loudest contemporary arguments about sex and gender, I see something that feels strangely familiar.

    A male person enters a female social category—and then, in some cases, tells women what womanhood means.

    Tells women what their boundaries should be.

    Tells women what language they should use.

    Tells women which spaces they should be comfortable sharing.

    Tells women that their discomfort is prejudice.

    Tells women that their understanding of their own sex is outdated, bigoted, or simply wrong.

    And I can’t help thinking:

    Isn’t that exactly the kind of power Solnit was talking about?

    The irony isn’t lost on me.

    For centuries, women were told what we were by men.

    Men defined our roles.

    Men defined our sexuality.

    Men defined our legal rights.

    Men defined our reproductive choices.

    Men defined what was appropriate for women to wear, say, think and do.

    Men told us what our bodies meant.

    Men told us what we were allowed to be.

    And now we’re having a cultural argument in which some women are being told that their understanding of womanhood itself is wrong.

    By whom?

    Increasingly, by people who were not born female.

    That’s a pretty extraordinary historical reversal.

    And I think we’re allowed to examine it.

    Here’s the question that makes this uncomfortable.

    If one of the privileges of the powerful is the assumed authority to define reality for others, what happens when that authority crosses the boundary between sexes?

    Does identifying as a woman automatically erase the socialization that occurred while being raised male?

    Does it erase physical differences?

    Does it erase the experience of having moved through the world with a male body?

    Does it erase whatever confidence, social conditioning, or authority may have developed along the way?

    Of course not.

    But neither does being trans automatically mean someone retains every aspect of male privilege forever.

    Both things can be true.

    A trans woman can experience genuine discrimination and have experienced aspects of male socialization.

    A trans woman can be vulnerable and still possess forms of authority or confidence associated with having been raised male.

    Human beings are complicated.

    That’s precisely why I don’t buy simplistic arguments on either side.

    But here’s where I really want to push the question.

    What happens when someone’s identity becomes an argument for overriding someone else’s boundaries?

    Because women have spent centuries being told that our boundaries are negotiable.

    Our bodies are negotiable.

    Our privacy is negotiable.

    Our discomfort is negotiable.

    Our safety is negotiable.

    And we’re still expected to be accommodating.

    Be compassionate.

    Be understanding.

    Don’t offend anyone.

    Don’t make anyone uncomfortable.

    Don’t ask difficult questions.

    Don’t notice the obvious.

    Don’t say the wrong thing.

    And above all:

    Don’t make the other person feel bad about themselves.

    But here’s something I’ve learned:

    Being compassionate toward someone does not require surrendering your own boundaries.

    And respecting someone’s dignity does not require pretending that sex doesn’t exist.

    So let’s conduct a little thought experiment.

    Imagine the sexes were reversed.

    Imagine women had historically possessed greater physical strength, institutional authority, political power and social dominance.

    Imagine women had spent centuries telling men what their bodies meant.

    Imagine a man said:

    “I don’t want to change clothes in front of someone female.”

    Would we immediately tell him he was hateful?

    Would we tell him that his discomfort was rooted in prejudice?

    Would we tell him that his understanding of male privacy was merely a social construct?

    Would we tell him that his boundaries were invalid because another person’s identity mattered more?

    Would we call him insecure?

    Fragile?

    Bigoted?

    Or would we suddenly understand the concept of sex-based boundaries?

    That’s the thought experiment I want people to sit with.

    Because something interesting happens when the sexes are reversed.

    Suddenly, a lot of people discover principles they weren’t previously willing to extend to women.

    And here’s an even harder question.

    If you believe women should surrender sex-based privacy because gender identity determines access to female spaces…

    Would you be equally comfortable surrendering your own privacy?

    Not theoretically.

    Not philosophically.

    Personally.

    Would you be comfortable changing clothes beside someone whose biological sex you knew was female but whose gender identity was male?

    Would you be comfortable showering beside that person?

    Would you be comfortable with your teenage children doing the same?

    And if your answer is no, ask yourself why.

    Don’t immediately call yourself a bigot.

    Don’t immediately call yourself enlightened.

    Just examine the feeling.

    Maybe you’re discovering something very old and very human:

    Sex matters.

    Especially when bodies are vulnerable and privacy is involved.

    And then there’s language.

    I’m fascinated by the idea that acknowledging someone’s identity can sometimes require another person to surrender their own description of reality.

    I can respect you.

    I can be kind to you.

    I can defend your right to live peacefully.

    I can oppose discrimination against you.

    I can even understand why you experience yourself the way you do.

    But does that mean I have to surrender my understanding of biological sex?

    Does your identity give you the authority to dictate mine?

    Does your discomfort with my words automatically outweigh my discomfort with being required to use them?

    And if the answer is yes…

    Who gets to decide?

    Because that is where we circle right back to Solnit.

    Who gets to dictate reality?

    That’s the question.

    And I don’t think the answer should be:

    Whoever is most offended.

    I don’t think it should be:

    Whoever has the most socially acceptable identity.

    And I certainly don’t think it should be:

    Whoever can successfully make the other person feel guilty for disagreeing.

    Because that’s still power.

    It’s simply a different kind of power.

    If we are serious about dismantling oppressive power structures, we should be willing to examine all power—including power that arrives wrapped in the language of compassion, identity and liberation.

    Otherwise, we’re not dismantling the hierarchy.

    We’re just changing who gets to stand at the top of it.

    And women should be allowed to notice that.

    I don’t want power over anyone.

    That’s the distinction I wish more people understood.

    I don’t want to dictate someone’s private life.

    I don’t want to humiliate anyone.

    I don’t want anyone persecuted because they are transgender.

    I don’t want anyone denied basic human dignity.

    But I also don’t want anyone dictating my reality.

    I don’t want someone else deciding what my sex means.

    I don’t want someone else deciding which boundaries I’m allowed to have.

    I don’t want someone else deciding that my discomfort is automatically illegitimate.

    And I don’t want to be told that my refusal to agree is evidence that I hate someone.

    Disagreement is not dehumanization.

    Boundaries are not hatred.

    Questions are not violence.

    And women are not obligated to disappear inside someone else’s definition of womanhood in order to prove that we’re compassionate people.

    Maybe the most radical thing we can do is apply the same principle to everyone:

    No one gets to dictate reality for everyone else.

    Not men.

    Not women.

    Not trans people.

    Not cis people.

    Not doctors.

    Not bosses.

    Not politicians.

    Not activists.

    Not institutions.

    Nobody.

    You don’t have to agree with me.

    You don’t even have to like what I have to say.

    But you don’t get to tell me what I am allowed to experience.

    You don’t get to tell me which boundaries I’m allowed to have.

    And you don’t get to demand that I surrender my understanding of reality simply because my understanding makes you uncomfortable.

    Because I’ve spent enough of my life being told to be quiet.

    To be agreeable.

    To be polite.

    To accommodate.

    To question myself.

    I’m not doing it anymore.

    I don’t need to control your reality.

    I simply refuse to surrender mine.

    And maybe that’s the real lesson hidden inside Solnit’s quote.

    The opposite of being powerful isn’t being powerless.

    Sometimes it’s simply refusing to hand someone else the pen.

  • Who Gets to Decide What Is Real?

    “One of the rights that the powerful often assume is the power to dictate reality.”
    — Rebecca Solnit, Whose Story Is This? (Goodreads)

    That sentence has been sitting with me.

    Not for an afternoon. Not for a day or two.

    For weeks. Maybe months.

    I keep turning it over in my head because the more I think about it, the more places I see it.

    Childhood. Work. Men. Doctors. Politics. Relationships. Institutions. Authority.

    It is the same thing wearing different clothes.

    The powerful don’t always have to threaten you into silence. Sometimes they simply tell you that your version of reality isn’t reality at all.

    That’s not what happened.

    You’re remembering it wrong.

    You’re too sensitive.

    You’re overreacting.

    That’s just how things are.

    You’re misunderstanding.

    You don’t know what you’re talking about.

    And if you hear it enough, from people with enough authority, you can begin to wonder whether maybe they’re right.

    That is the truly insidious part.

    Power doesn’t always look like a fist.

    Sometimes it looks like a person sitting across from you calmly explaining your own life back to you.

    I have been on the receiving end of that more times than I care to count.

    As a kid, there were things I experienced that other people had their own preferred explanations for. Adults get very good at deciding which version of a family story is acceptable and which version must never be spoken aloud.

    Then there were the terrible bosses I encountered at an insurance company where I once worked.

    There is a particular kind of corporate power that can make you question your own instincts. Someone above you can rewrite an interaction, redefine a problem, minimize something that happened, or make you feel like your discomfort is actually the problem.

    And then there was bartending.

    I learned a lot about power behind a bar.

    Especially male power.

    A drunk man can walk into a room believing that because he bought a beer, he bought a little piece of everyone in it.

    He gets louder.

    He gets meaner.

    He gets handsy.

    He crosses a line.

    And then, somehow, you’re the one who is supposed to manage his feelings about being told he crossed it.

    I’ve watched men behave badly and then watched them construct an entirely different story about what happened.

    And I learned something important:

    Someone’s confidence in their version of events does not make their version true.

    That lesson has followed me into adulthood.

    It followed me into the doctor’s office, too.

    There is something uniquely infuriating about sitting in front of a doctor and describing what is happening inside your own body—only to have someone with a medical degree decide that because they cannot immediately explain it, it must not be happening.

    You know your body.

    You know when something isn’t right.

    You know when you’ve been dismissed.

    And there is a particular arrogance in being told, implicitly or explicitly, that the person experiencing the symptoms has less authority over them than the person reading the chart.

    Expertise matters.

    Doctors know things I don’t.

    But expertise should not require pretending the patient knows nothing.

    There is a difference between saying, “I don’t know yet; let’s investigate,” and saying, “I don’t see it, therefore it isn’t real.”

    The first is medicine.

    The second is power.

    And then there is politics.

    This is where the quote gets especially uncomfortable.

    Because I don’t think the instinct to dictate reality belongs exclusively to one political party.

    Democrats do it.

    Republicans do it.

    Progressives do it.

    Conservatives do it.

    Religious people do it.

    Secular people do it.

    Corporate executives do it.

    Activists do it.

    Institutions do it.

    And ordinary people do it.

    We all have the capacity to become attached to a story so tightly that admitting the story is incomplete feels like admitting we are wrong.

    Political identity can make this particularly vicious.

    Sometimes the argument isn’t really about facts anymore.

    It’s about allegiance.

    Our people don’t do that.

    Their people always do that.

    My side is defending reality.

    Your side is denying reality.

    And suddenly we’re no longer asking, “What actually happened?”

    We’re asking, “Which version of what happened protects my identity?”

    That’s dangerous.

    Because reality doesn’t owe us ideological loyalty.

    It doesn’t care whether the truth makes Democrats uncomfortable.

    It doesn’t care whether it embarrasses Republicans.

    It doesn’t care whether it ruins someone’s carefully constructed worldview.

    Reality is reality.

    And sometimes the most honest thing a person can say is:

    “I was wrong.”

    Which brings me to women.

    I have spent enough of my life being told—directly and indirectly—that my boundaries, perceptions, discomfort, instincts, and experiences should be negotiable.

    That women should accommodate.

    Women should be understanding.

    Women should be polite.

    Women should not make people uncomfortable.

    Women should explain themselves.

    Women should be quiet when the conversation becomes inconvenient.

    And I’m increasingly uninterested in that bargain.

    I don’t believe respecting another person’s humanity requires me to surrender my own.

    I don’t believe empathy requires pretending biological sex doesn’t exist.

    I don’t believe acknowledging someone else’s identity requires me to deny my own.

    And I don’t believe women should be shamed into surrendering privacy, safety, language, or sex-based boundaries simply because someone else has a different understanding of gender.

    That isn’t hatred.

    It is disagreement.

    And disagreement is not violence.

    Women are allowed to say no.

    We’re allowed to have boundaries.

    We’re allowed to have private spaces.

    We’re allowed to describe our own experiences.

    We’re allowed to disagree with people—including people who insist that their interpretation of womanhood must supersede ours.

    And perhaps most importantly:

    We are allowed to define our own reality.

    Because that is what Solnit’s quote keeps bringing me back to.

    Power doesn’t just determine who gets to make decisions.

    Sometimes power determines whose version of events gets believed.

    Whose pain counts.

    Whose memory counts.

    Whose discomfort matters.

    Whose voice is considered credible.

    Who gets called difficult.

    Who gets called unstable.

    Who gets called hysterical.

    Who gets told they’re imagining things.

    Who gets told to sit down, shut up, calm down, move along, get over it, or stop making everyone uncomfortable.

    And who gets to walk away believing they were right simply because they had more authority.

    I’ve spent enough of my life watching that happen.

    I’m not interested in participating in it anymore.

    I don’t need everyone to agree with me.

    That’s an important distinction.

    I don’t need to dictate your reality.

    But you don’t get to dictate mine.

    You don’t get to tell me what I experienced.

    You don’t get to rewrite my memories.

    You don’t get to define my boundaries.

    You don’t get to tell me what my body is doing.

    You don’t get to demand that I call something acceptable when I don’t believe it is.

    You don’t get to manufacture a version of events and then punish me for refusing to repeat it.

    And you certainly don’t get to silence me simply because my voice makes you uncomfortable.

    I’ve learned something over the years:

    Being silenced and being disagreed with are not the same thing.

    I can tolerate disagreement.

    I can tolerate criticism.

    I can tolerate being wrong.

    What I won’t tolerate anymore is blatant disrespect disguised as authority.

    I have spent too much of my life making myself smaller so other people could remain comfortable with their version of reality.

    I’m done with that.

    You can disagree with me.

    You can challenge me.

    You can tell me I’m wrong.

    But you don’t get to tell me that I didn’t experience what I experienced simply because acknowledging it would inconvenience you.

    I know what I know.

    I know what I’ve lived.

    And I am no longer asking permission to say so.

    I will not be silenced.

    Not because I believe I’m always right.

    But because I have finally learned that someone else’s power does not give them ownership of my reality.

  • Common Sense and Politics: Oil and Water

    I don’t know when it became a crime to think for yourself, but here we are.

    If you don’t march in lockstep with the left, you’re a villain. A heretic. A backward, uneducated, heartless monster. And I’ve had it.

    The media demonizes us. Hollywood ridicules us. Social media silences us. And the loudest voices on the left? They don’t just disagree—they want us shamed, fired, ostracized, and erased. They claim to stand for tolerance, but only if you nod along and repeat their slogans like a trained parrot.

    God forbid you ask a question. God forbid you use common sense—because common sense and politics are like oil and water. They don’t mix. They can’t.

    We’re expected to accept the absurd without hesitation. We’re told crime isn’t a problem while cities burn. We’re told men can get pregnant. We’re told the economy is fine while our grocery bills double. We’re told to trust “the science”—until the science doesn’t fit their narrative, and suddenly we’re deniers.

    It’s all so blatantly hypocritical that I sometimes feel crazy. Like I’m the only one seeing it. But I know I’m not. The left lives by a double standard so glaring it should be blinding, yet they walk around with smug self-righteousness, utterly oblivious to their own contradictions. They scream “democracy!” while silencing dissent. They preach “equity” while crushing the middle class. They demand “accountability” but refuse to acknowledge their own failures.

    And somehow, we’re the problem?

    I’m tired. Tired of being told what to think. Tired of having my values mocked. Tired of being gaslit by people who wouldn’t last five minutes in a world without the very systems and structures they claim to despise.

    You don’t have to agree with me. But you sure as hell don’t get to silence me.

  • Donald Trump is Not Jesus: Why Do Conservatives Worship Him as a Savior?

    Let’s get one thing straight: Donald Trump is not Jesus. I know, shocking, right? Yet somehow, a staggering number of conservatives have elevated him to a near-messianic status. As someone who grew up with a basic understanding of Christianity, this belief both fascinates and shocks me. How does a thrice-married billionaire, who openly bragged about his sins on live TV, become the anointed one for people who claim to follow the teachings of a humble carpenter from Nazareth?

    I’m genuinely perplexed. How do devout Christians—who, I assume, own Bibles—justify putting Trump on such a high pedestal? Is it his policies? His charisma? His tan? What is it about this man that inspires slogans like “Jesus is my Savior, Trump is my President”?

    The Savior Complex
    One explanation lies in the rise of Christian nationalism, which marries American identity with Christian doctrine. Some believers genuinely see Trump as divinely chosen, a flawed but God-ordained leader sent to protect the nation. It’s as if they flipped through the Bible and decided he’s this era’s King David—ignoring the part where David repented.

    But does Trump himself fuel this narrative? Absolutely. He courts it. Whether it’s holding a Bible (upside down, no less) in front of a church or using buzzwords like “religious liberty,” he knows exactly how to speak to a crowd that wants a savior, not just a president.

    The Defender of Values (or at Least Some of Them)
    Here’s where it gets even trickier. Many of Trump’s biggest supporters view him as a warrior fighting against the so-called “war on Christianity.” They see him as the protector of religious freedom, the bulldozer of secularism, and the architect of a morally upright Supreme Court. For some, it’s not about his personal faith—it’s about the results he delivers.

    But isn’t there a line? At what point do principles outweigh politics? If the ends always justify the means, what does that say about the values being protected?

    Cult of Personality Meets the Cross
    It’s impossible to ignore the cult of personality surrounding Trump. He embodies their frustrations, fears, and aspirations in a way that feels deeply personal. He’s not just a politician; he’s their champion, their fighter, their chosen one. And in an age where social media amplifies every word, gesture, and soundbite, it’s easy for a leader to transcend politics and become something much bigger.

    But bigger than Jesus? Really?

    Let’s Think About This
    I’m not here to question anyone’s faith. But I do wonder: How did we get here? How did a religion that preaches humility and compassion become so intertwined with a political figure who, by all accounts, thrives on pride and division? And more importantly, what happens when the “savior” fails to deliver?

    Donald Trump is not Jesus. He’s not even John the Baptist. And maybe it’s time for some self-reflection: Are we worshiping the message, or are we worshiping the man?

    Because last I checked, there’s only room for one savior in Christianity—and he’s not running for president.

  • The Narcissist-in-Chief: A Nation’s Reflection in the Oval Office

    Every four years, we, the American people, engage in a curious ritual: we elect a president. It’s supposed to be the highest office in the land, a symbol of leadership, integrity, and service. But if we’re being brutally honest, isn’t it really just a contest to see who has the most polished version of their own reflection staring back at them in the mirror?

    Let’s call it what it is: an exercise in collective narcissism. We choose leaders who don’t just represent us—they embody the parts of ourselves we’re either too proud of or too ashamed to admit exist. And yes, presidents are narcissists. All of them. It’s practically a requirement of the job. Who else would willingly take on the pressure of running an entire nation, standing under constant scrutiny, and delivering speeches with the cadence of a savior?

    The “Me, But Bigger” Syndrome

    Take John F. Kennedy, for example. Charming, polished, and endlessly charismatic, he gave America exactly what it wanted to see in itself at the time: youth, vitality, and boundless ambition. But let’s not forget, JFK loved the spotlight just as much as the nation loved him in it. He wasn’t just a leader—he was a mirror reflecting an America that was ready to take the world stage with confidence and swagger.

    Or how about Ronald Reagan? The actor turned president. Reagan’s “shining city on a hill” rhetoric wasn’t just about national pride—it was about making everyone feel like the protagonist of a blockbuster movie where America always saves the day. We didn’t just vote for Reagan; we voted for a Hollywood version of ourselves.

    Then there’s Donald Trump. Love him or hate him, Trump’s presidency was like a national therapy session—except instead of confronting our issues, we projected them onto a man who mastered the art of shameless self-promotion. His slogan, “Make America Great Again,” wasn’t just about nostalgia; it was a reflection of our collective fear of being left behind in a world that’s moving too fast.

    Narcissism is a Feature, Not a Bug

    Let’s be real: you can’t get elected president without a healthy dose of self-obsession. The very act of campaigning—standing on a stage, waving to crowds, and saying, “I alone can fix it”—requires a level of confidence that most of us would need several years of therapy to even attempt. The same traits that we find grating in politicians—arrogance, an insatiable need for attention, and a knack for spinning reality—are exactly what make them electable.

    Barack Obama, with his soaring speeches and rockstar persona, made Americans feel like they were part of something bigger. But let’s not kid ourselves: you don’t run for president because you’re humble. Obama’s carefully cultivated image as the “cool dad” of politics wasn’t an accident. It was a masterclass in appealing to a nation that wanted to see itself as progressive, hopeful, and yes, a little bit cooler than the rest of the world.

    Why We Elect Our Own Egos

    The truth is, we elect the candidate who best reflects our collective ego at the time. In moments of crisis, we choose leaders who project strength and decisiveness—qualities we wish we had. In times of prosperity, we lean toward charm and vision, because hey, who doesn’t love a little inspiration when things are going well?

    But the darker side of this is that we also elect candidates who mirror our flaws. When we’re divided as a nation, we choose divisive leaders. When we’re insecure, we choose leaders who promise to restore our sense of importance. And when we’re looking for someone to blame, we choose leaders who are experts at pointing fingers.

    So, What Does This Say About Us?

    If every president is a narcissist, and every election is a reflection of ourselves, then maybe it’s time to stop pointing fingers at the politicians and start taking a good, hard look in the mirror. Why do we need leaders who thrive on applause? Why do we gravitate toward candidates who make promises that no one person could possibly keep?

    Maybe the problem isn’t just the narcissists running for office. Maybe the problem is the narcissists voting for them.

    So the next time you’re watching a debate or scrolling through campaign ads, ask yourself: Do I like this candidate because they’ll make a good leader—or because they make me feel good about myself?

    Because in the end, the president isn’t just the leader of the free world. They’re the ultimate reflection of who we are as a nation. And sometimes, the mirror doesn’t lie.