#notme

If you haven’t been living under a rock these past few days, you’ve undoubtedly encountered the #metoo social media hashtag campaign. Prompted by the allegations of sexual misconduct against Harvey Weinstein, the campaign encourages “women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted” to post on social media to show the rest of the world just how widespread this epidemic is.

Now, let me be clear: sexual assault is certainly a violation of the Non-Aggression Principle, so as a committed pacifist I am most definitely not in favor of it. I have different ideas about the appropriate way to respond to such crimes than most, but that’s not what this post is about. I am bothered by the lumping in of “harassment” with “assault” as though they are equally heinous, and I am annoyed with the unspoken assumption underlying the claims of Hollywood misconduct: namely, that the women involved weren’t responsible for their own actions.

There is a disturbing trend, mostly on the left, of equating speech with violence. I am opposed to violence–moreso than your average leftist, without question–but I do tend to be a stickler for labeling as violence only those things which are actually, you know, violent. Violence requires a rights violation, and contrary to current popular opinion, one does not actually have a right not to hear words or ideas one does not like. The guy who whistles at you on the street or comments on your appearance might be a jerk, but he hasn’t violated your rights, and he hasn’t committed a crime.

Perhaps it is because I take such a strict view on what is actually an actionable offense, but I am hard-pressed to come up with a time when I felt sexually harassed, despite the fact that I’m assured that it happens to all women literally all the time. I can certainly think of things that I’m supposed to call harassment, but I can’t think of any time that I felt offended or unsafe in my dealings with men. Maybe I’ve just been extremely lucky. Maybe better-looking women get more unwanted attention. Or maybe I’m simply capable of understanding that grownups of both sexes can exchange sarcastic comments and innuendo without anyone being a victim. Yes, some people are slimy jerks, but the appropriate response is to remove yourself from the company of those people, not bring down the law on their heads because you don’t like their behavior.

Which brings me to the second, “victim blaming” problem I have with this campaign: it is predicated on the assertion that women are never responsible for the situations they put themselves in or the actions they take. As a competent, intelligent woman, I resent this. If I am not held responsible for my choices, it implies that I am not fully autonomous. If I have the capacity to make decisions I believe to be in my best interest, I cannot be a victim as a result of those decisions.

You may have heard of a little thing called the Nuremberg defense. Autonomous individuals who committed terrible crimes claimed that they were not responsible for their actions because they were following orders. By taking this defense, soldiers allow themselves to be simply tools, rather than rational actors. While I can certainly have some sympathy for those who are forced to make a choice between committing horrendous war crimes or being killed themselves, even Hollywood can’t put so dramatic a spin on the decisions of aspiring actresses. Every woman who voluntarily disrobed for a casting call made a conscious decision to do so. Even if she were only sixteen at the time, that’s well beyond old enough to know what she was doing and why. If she claims she had no choice–and was not actually violently coerced–she is stripping herself of her status as a rational agent, relegating herself to second-class status, and preventing the exact thing that feminists claim to want: for women to be treated as equals.

If every soldier refused to kill, there would be no war. If every actress refused to take off her clothes to get a part, there would be no Harvey Weinstein scandal. Human beings can have equal rights only when they are willing to accept an equal responsibility for their actions. Don’t insult women by saving us from the need to take that responsibility.

It Takes A Village

If there is anything the last twelve weeks have taught me, it is that parenting is hard. Sure, everyone said so, but I didn’t really have any idea what it meant until I did it. Breastfeeding hurt, and it wasn’t until week eight or so that the little one and I finally hit our stride there. Hours spent comforting a screaming baby with no apparent reason to be screaming caused even my inhumanly patient husband to throw up his hands in frustration. Worries over whether the baby is eating enough, pooping enough, exercising enough, hitting his age-appropriate milestones plagued my exhausted brain, cutting into my precious little time for sleep.

Everyone also said it is all worth it, and so far I have to agree. But there is no way that I would have made it this far without help. My husband, of course, has been wonderful, but I don’t mean just him. I have a church family that supplied me with almost everything a new mother could need, as well as much appreciated hints and tips and personal experiences. They’re also quick to jump in and hold the baby when he fusses while mama is in the middle of playing a hymn–in fact, they fight over the opportunity! We are a continent away from our families, but I know I can offer my son a community of people who love him and will shepherd him as he grows. I’m so grateful for all of their help and I fully recognize how much I need it.

What I don’t need, however, are government parasites telling me how to raise my child. I don’t need handouts designed to make me dependent, I don’t need government schools to indoctrinate my son into official allowable opinions, and I don’t need bureaucrats deciding what is best for me and my family. Until he is able to make decisions for himself, there is no one more qualified than myself and his father to choose what is in my son’s best interest.

So yes, it takes a village, but not the way they mean it. My son does not belong to society at large, and he does not exist so that he can serve the “greater good” by bowing to the ruling class. He is not a cog in a machine or cannon fodder for a politician’s ambition. Now I just need to figure out how to raise him to believe that as fervently as I do!

My Baby, My Choice

If you are not familiar with the Charlie Gard case, I encourage you to look it up, but be prepared for a difficult read. In a nutshell, Charlie had a rare genetic disorder which causes brain and muscle damage and almost always ends in death in infancy. Charlie’s parents wanted to try an experimental treatment which had a small chance of saving his life, but his doctors disagreed, so they went to the UK government and got a court order to terminate life support against the parents’ wishes. After months of fighting, exhausting the window in which the experimental treatment could potentially be effective, Charlie’s parents gave up, and Charlie was killed. I’m not going to go into any more detail; I find it too painful, but I’ll send you to my husband’s raw, emotional response to this tragedy.

Charlie Gard died when my baby boy was 6 days old. I read updates on the final days of his parents’ fight as I was recovering from labor and birth, nursing (painfully!) every two hours, and barely sleeping. I was full of postpartum hormones, love for my new baby, and grief for Charlie’s parents. I should not have been surprised, knowing what I do, that the state–that institution supposedly necessary for civilized society–could sentence a helpless baby to death against his parents’ wishes and despite the fact that the treatment offered would not deplete its coffers by one penny, but it was a hard reality to swallow, made all the more poignant by the surge of motherly instinct to never, ever, let such a fate befall my son.

This tragedy was made possible by well-meaning but misguided people who believe that other human beings are not capable of running their own lives; who believe that evil can be justified when it is for the “greater good.” I do not want my son to be one of those people. I do not want him to grow up in a world full of those people. I want him to live in a world where human beings interact with each other only in voluntary ways, and where no one respects those who claim that coercion or violence are ever okay. I want him to live in a world where everyone recoils in disgust at the idea that a small group of powerful people could ever override a parent’s decision to seek medical treatment for a sick child.

I don’t expect to see that world in my lifetime; I don’t expect that my son will either. I certainly can’t change the world on my own, but in the words of Albert Jay Nock, I can present the world with one improved unit, and I intend to raise my son to do the same.

A Mother is Born

I officially became a mother on July 22, 2017 at 8:50am, though as any woman who has experienced pregnancy will attest, I was mothering my unborn child long before that moment. In the instant that my doctor invited me and my husband to meet Miles John (and not Winter Helen, the name we’d chosen for a girl) we transformed from married couple to family; from individuals to parents. Suddenly our world revolved around the tiny–well, not too tiny, at eight pounds, four ounces–human entrusted to our care. Our own needs and desires would take a permanent backseat to the demands of the angelic little tyrant we had decided to bring into our lives.

Leaving the hospital with a new baby is a scary thing. One can be shown how to bathe, feed, change, and swaddle a newborn, told to expect periods of constant crying and given soothing strategies, and made to listen to seventeen different lectures on safe sleeping arrangements, and still feel utterly unprepared for the road ahead.

As it turns out, keeping the baby alive is not all that hard. But as my wrinkly newborn turns into a little boy with a personality all his own, I begin to think of the more challenging aspects of parenthood. How do I raise a son who is kind, compassionate, and fully grounded in good moral principles? How do I teach him about the dangers that exist in a world increasingly hostile to white males? How do I ensure that he respects the autonomy and agency of all human beings, and values voluntary interaction rather than coercion or violence? How do I instill in him a lifelong desire to keep learning and growing?

The Free Baby Project is the story of my journey into parenthood, and my successes, failures, and insights along the way. Join me for the ride! It is certain to be messy, frustrating, and heartbreakingly beautiful!