Anybody knows the rule of a husband. If you go biblically, the husband is the head of a household. My job is to lead my family, my job is to lead my wife. My job is to lead in whatever I do. And if I’m not being the example, then my family crumbles. – Ray Rice, during a July press conference.
Whatever to this stupidity; whatever to this predictable and re-hashed script that seems to replicate itself each time you toss a typical baller athlete and a gambling casino into the blender of cultural dystopia that is called 21st Century America.
I like this story. I like what it says about our collective hypocrisy and cosmetic falsities that drive us to yammer on like a swarm of mother hens, smug in our assurance that we know what is good for everyone.
I like this story. When the light is turned inappropriately down the wrong end of the telescopic shaft, we are greeted with a spectacle that is jarring to our civilized sensibilities.
A man and woman, embroiled in an altercation. The man swats her down, slugs her, she falls, strikes her head, and is knocked out. KO for the brotha!
The lovely thing about this fiasco is not the behavior of the modern-day gridiron gladiator, the adulated mass of muscle who evokes a strange, homoerotic fixation from legions of bedazzled men who are so enthralled with the spectacle that they barely realize the ludicrousness of the game.
That is not the lovely thing. The man, the gladiator, in violently knocking the girl out, does little to amuse.
No. The amusement is in the behavior of the woman, the one being pummeled into unconsciousness. This incident took place on February 15, between her and her fiance. They were engaged at the time of this fight.
Was it a deal breaker? Surely the civilized, simpering man would argue so. Such a man would proclaim that women must never be struck.
But did she, the one whose opinion matters most, think twice about making this man, who had punched her into oblivion, her husband? Of course not. In fact, just 6 weeks later, the two were married.
The popular, comfortable dialogue, unable to reckon the actions of a woman thus, ascribe to her a madness, an insanity born of physical abuse, a schism in her normal socialization, in order to sate their inability to accept that the woman might actually be content and know what she wants, and furthermore, may be quite at peace with her subservient role a man of strength and means. The popular dialogue cannot comprehend that this woman represents an extreme of female nature that betrays all the do-goody cultural castigation that erupts flagrantly in reaction to a man’s actions in times like this.
And this is why I adore this story.
It lays bare the elemental skeleton of the soul of man and woman without the decorous pomp of modern feminized civility and and its shameless corruption of Natural Instinct. At moments like this, the duplicity of those who try to manufacture and engineer an anti-evolutionary society is visible for all to see. The sincerest form of humanity occurs in elevators.