Why We Say All Men Are Trash.

For those in the back of the class who don’t pay attention: This post is not as some have smugly snorted,  “condemning women for calling men trash.” It is mocking people for preferring to feed their egos instead of trying to be honest and just and fair to those around them.
I don’t write “condemning women for calling men trash.” “Women” have not called men trash. There has been no unanimous consensus meeting of all females in the world that carried the motion.

This is not me seeking a medal or a round of applause for being so magnanimous and holy that being categorised in the same group as rapist trash offends me deeply. No, of course I don’t deserve a medal for just not being a rapist. But I certainly don’t deserve to be called a rapist either.

I reject sexist generalisations not because I think I am a kind person, but because they are stupid, and I am intelligent. The pool of human beings is so various and so diverse and so intricate and complicated and so different that you would have to be an absolute idiot to think that you can discern a person’s capacity to harm you basing only on what direction their genitals go. 

Also I don’t want Chris Brown and Snoop Dogg calling my friends bitches and hoes. And, by the same token, I don’t want anyone else calling my friends trash. Especially as we have learned from feminism, don’t just take the abuse. Speak out and stand your ground. Demand to be treated fairly.


But since we are here, I guess, I should just say I kind of understand why people say men are trash.

Cos it feels good doesn’t it? It satisfies on some deep-seated id-based level, it feels good to just throw an insult grenade into the fray like damn them all!

Just roll the machine gun and spray like allll you niggers is trashssshhh!

That’s why Snoop made so many songs about bitches ain’t being shit or however the grammar is rendered. It’s not that he lacked evidence to the contrary, he just preferred to believe that way. Because it felt better.

And it doesn’t feel better because it is just easier to tar with a big broad brush. It isn’t. It takes more effort to leap over logic, fact and evidence to the absurd conclusion that every female human shares a singular vileness, or every male is dishonest and violent, or every black person is unintelligent, or that every Musoga, Muhima, Muganda, Mugisu is whatever the fuck you bigots believe about us because of our tribe, it takes a lot to believe that when every day you walk past men who are not now, have never, and are never going to rape anyone; women who are not now, have never, and are never going to cheat on their man for money; baganda who are not now, have never, and are never going to whatever. I don’t keep track of those stereotypes. They are boring.

It takes more effort to constantly blind-spot perpetually evident facts.

But you do it because it feels goooood. It feels better, down there, deep down, there where all the darkest parts of us writhe and slither, down there it feels good. To not have to bother about fair, or just, or obligation, or integrity. To just left loose and wild that feeling.

 

And no, it’s not even anger or hatred. It’s so much sweeter. Bigoted people across the spectrum know it, too: the feeling they get from self-portraying as the angered outraged victims of a vast homogeneous evil. The actual factual existent system that hurts them is not enough, you don’t want a flock of bats, you want something dramatic, and romantic, a sweeping epic dramatic evil. A dragon!

Thus we can’t have the task of methodically unraveling a systematically evolved oppression culture. No, we have to be pitted against ravenous breed of slobbering rapist males, each and every one of them after our blood and deserving of death by sword, cos then you can see yourself ninjaring your way through the movie like the star.

It’s not anger. It’s vanity. Feeding vanity feels way way better than feeding anger.

White racist, black racist, male chauvinists, and even you saying I am “trash” like a rapist, you all cling to the feeling, and the only way to hold on to it is to insist on it.

Even in lesser ways, do it. We say taxi conductors are thieves. Statistically, there must be some conductors who are honest, even devout. But we still say it. It feels better. We know not every boda boda drives badly. But we say they all do. And we shiver with the inner delight of that thrill such a statement brings. Because it feels good to just fire away. Me I do it with boda bodas a lot. And Ipsum drivers. And people who don’t spell out words when they text. And people who do fake American accents and then mess up the hard and soft vowels or misplace the Rs. What the fark murn? 

 

So a person suffers a brutal, tragic and gruesome fate at the hands of monster. 

 

Then we have these other people. They hear this story and run to the socials to wave it around gleefully proclaim how righteous they are compared to everyone who is not them. Like vultures, you feed on tragedy to get your rush of dopamine, squealing, “Meeee I am righteous! I condemn the killer! I am good, not a killer like this one. In fact I am better than him. That’s not enough. I am better than everyone who is like him. In fact everyone who has a common genetic structure, fall under my haughty gaze of condemnation for you are all beneath me! You are all trash! Trash! Hahahah! I’m loving this!”

 

Look. How about we keep it to toilet seats and who pays for drinks and who cheats on who, and not do this when people have been murdered? Okay? If you are going to call anyone trash, have the common decency to not be too much of  a self-aggrandizing piece of shit first.