Most push notifications that pop up on my tablet concern impending catastrophe. But last week, one newsflash made my day. Glory hallelujah, the NHS is closing the Tavistock.
A clatter of tattletales have warned since 2005 that the UK’s only clinic for minors confused about which sex they are – having been encouraged to be confused by British media and their own teachers – was fast-tracking children into often irreversible treatments in the service of ideologically driven ‘gender affirmation’. At last the Cass report has determined that the clinic’s practices are unsafe. The Tavistock will close by the spring, which by my calculation is seven months too late – if not ten years.
A month ago, I noted that the trans craze is ‘anti-natalist’, because no one seems to care whether these doped-up kids will be able to bear children. But the phenomenon is also anti-a-great-deal-else.
Anti-reality. Astonishingly, fanatical activists have brainwashed many otherwise, you would think, intelligent people into reciting like zombies: ‘Trans women are women.’ I can’t be the only one who reflexively translates when reading ‘trans women’: ‘Oh, right. “Men”, then.’ Thus our activist motto decodes: ‘Men are women.’ We might as well recite ‘Lamps are carrots’ or ‘Knitting needles are tractors’. Bearing XY chromosomes, a ‘trans woman’ is male down to each individual cell. However carved up, he cannot give birth or nurse; he doesn’t menstruate or go through menopause. His ‘transition’ is ornamental. Her transition is grammatical.
Presumably, if we’re forced to repeat that biologically moronic mantra enough times, it becomes true. It doesn’t. The very feverishness with which this would-be tautology is crammed down our throats betrays that its proponents know they’re touting a lie: that our sex is in our minds.