The Tumultuous Effect of the LGBT Agenda on One Young Mind

Sometimes something as mundane as a visit to a drive-through can leave your head splitting from an overdose of culture shock.  No matter which way you turn these days, you're bound to offend someone about something...but did you ever notice that no one seems to care about offending you?

Jamie had become what I call a "friendly acquaintance" – a seemingly friendly androgynous young boy at the drive-through where I often buy coffee.  One day he'd be a colorfully polished girl with blue eye shadow and a ponytail; the next he was a boy who sparkled with the charisma of a young David Cassidy.

He was in boy mode the first time I met him; we bantered happily and he introduced himself as "Jamie."  I later remarked to an older lady who worked there, roughly my age, that the new guy was "a fine-looking young man."  Suddenly remembering the times we live in, and trying not to be misconstrued as some sort of "Mrs. Robinson" character from The Graduate, I quickly added: "Well, I mean, he's fine-looking if I were 30 years younger."  At this point I realized I sounded like an idiot.  Being friendly and outgoing can have its pitfalls; I'm often so good at digging my own holes that I carry a shovel with me.

That's when the lady replied, "Oh, him.  He's a her.  I realize you can't tell by his name.  We all thought it was a boy, too.  Well, he was born a boy, but I mean...well, the manager had a meeting and told us he was a girl.  This was after we'd all told him what nice eyes he had and that he should be a male model.  Now I don't know what to do."

After our friendly banter, Jamie would wave to me when he was waiting at the bus stop.  Some days he'd walk home, and I'd see him and tell him to be careful because of the ice or the busy highway.  It's a high-traffic area, and I sometimes found myself worrying about him.  

I treated him carefully, mostly because I knew that bouncing between sexes doesn't bode well for one's mental stability.  I don't care how society tries to normalize such things; being a girl one day and a boy the next is not normal and never will be.  I can't stand hearing so-called experts lecture me on "gender fluidity" or the ever changing classifications of the gender system.  Everything I need to know, I learned in kindergarten, thank you, before the world went crazy.

Soon a whole bunch of bad things happened to me in a relatively short time.  I lost my father and my best friend, Katey, my dog (who for 15 years went through every drive-through with me).  Three times I'd been hospitalized, sure that I was going to die; then my mother spent a summer in the hospital, and I never missed a day by her side.  Luckily, she made it home.  Life had not been good for my little family.  

Eventually, I found myself once again driving through the drive-through and coming upon Jamie.  In a strange way, after all the rotten things I'd been through, I was actually happy to find that young, silly Jamie hadn't been run over by a bus.  He had a ponytail, exceptionally clownish orange eye shadow, and other makeup.  I said, "Hey, Jamie!"  He looked away from me, as if he didn't recognize me, but I knew that his memory wasn't that bad.  Somehow I'd hurt the delicate damsel, and my mind was racing to figure out how to fix it.  My eyes flashed across to his nametag, which read "Canaan."

"Oh, I'm sorry.  Your name is Canaan," I said, taking the time to bother contemplating if I was pronouncing it in the manner he preferred.  There are so many things to remember these days, so much tiptoeing.  "Yes," he said, tugging at his shirt and holding up his nametag so I could see it better.  "Well, that reminds me of..." I was going to say "the Bible," but I stopped short because I thought that might be too controversial for him.  Not that I'm embarrassed by the word of God, but I just wanted my coffee without any trouble.  I guess that's how we've all been conditioned to live now – but in retrospect, I won't be altering my conversation for anyone in that manner again.

Floundering now, and digging one of those holes I talked about, I continued: "Well it reminds me of something, but I can't think what.  It's nice.  What does it remind you of?  Why did you pick it?"  There was no one else in line.  There was an awkward silence.  I was suddenly wondering if he picked a name obviously associated with the Bible to make orthodox Christians or Jews feel uncomfortable with his constantly changing sexual identities.  No; I decided that that was too complicated.  (I found out later that Oprah Winfrey, in a bizarre feat only she could accomplish, actually caused a spike in the name's use after she chose it for a son who had died nameless over forty years ago.)

The tables had turned, and Canaan was the one floundering now.  Whatever reason he chose the name, he clearly didn't want to discuss it or even laugh it off, so he decided I wasn't worth speaking to.  

I changed the subject quickly, but it was too late.  Canaan looked visibly angry.  He silently handed me my bank card, averting his eyes.  My loud happy salutation had meant nothing to him...he knew only how to be offended and react rudely.

At first I kind of felt sorry for him, because his mental instability is our fault as a society.  We allowed this to happen.  We said it was all okay, and it wasn't.

For instance, my city – his city – boasts a thriving drag culture that administrators have proudly worked to make "mainstream."  A recent newspaper article reported that drag is the ultimate "anti-establishment" thing to do.  Local groups gushed that it is now embraced by the heterosexual community as an "accepted art form" and that everyone is scrambling for a spot in the Miss Drag 2018 pageant.  Between that and the complicated but super-popular lesbian, gay, transgender, queer, intersexual, and asexual agenda, it's a wonder we don't find our kids wandering naked, dazed and confused, down the middle of our streets.

On any given day, this poor boy doesn't know what sex he is, how to dress in the morning, what his name is.  He's holding down a job that's probably the only static thing in his life.  One day, he might just become so overwhelmed with the chaos that he hangs himself from the highest tree...and society will blame people like me for not coddling him enough instead of blaming the culture that fried his brain.

As I drove off, I realized I was watching a pouty snowflake begin to melt.  I thought of how much energy he must waste thinking of himself every day.  He had been trained to be the center of his own universe, and it was with himself that all his empathy and sympathy lay.

The LGBT agenda is a large entity with wide-ranging implications in religion and politics – but watching its singularly tumultuous effect on the mind of one young man has been truly heartbreaking.

Susan D. Harris can be reached at www.susandharris.com.

Sometimes something as mundane as a visit to a drive-through can leave your head splitting from an overdose of culture shock.  No matter which way you turn these days, you're bound to offend someone about something...but did you ever notice that no one seems to care about offending you?

Jamie had become what I call a "friendly acquaintance" – a seemingly friendly androgynous young boy at the drive-through where I often buy coffee.  One day he'd be a colorfully polished girl with blue eye shadow and a ponytail; the next he was a boy who sparkled with the charisma of a young David Cassidy.

He was in boy mode the first time I met him; we bantered happily and he introduced himself as "Jamie."  I later remarked to an older lady who worked there, roughly my age, that the new guy was "a fine-looking young man."  Suddenly remembering the times we live in, and trying not to be misconstrued as some sort of "Mrs. Robinson" character from The Graduate, I quickly added: "Well, I mean, he's fine-looking if I were 30 years younger."  At this point I realized I sounded like an idiot.  Being friendly and outgoing can have its pitfalls; I'm often so good at digging my own holes that I carry a shovel with me.

That's when the lady replied, "Oh, him.  He's a her.  I realize you can't tell by his name.  We all thought it was a boy, too.  Well, he was born a boy, but I mean...well, the manager had a meeting and told us he was a girl.  This was after we'd all told him what nice eyes he had and that he should be a male model.  Now I don't know what to do."

After our friendly banter, Jamie would wave to me when he was waiting at the bus stop.  Some days he'd walk home, and I'd see him and tell him to be careful because of the ice or the busy highway.  It's a high-traffic area, and I sometimes found myself worrying about him.  

I treated him carefully, mostly because I knew that bouncing between sexes doesn't bode well for one's mental stability.  I don't care how society tries to normalize such things; being a girl one day and a boy the next is not normal and never will be.  I can't stand hearing so-called experts lecture me on "gender fluidity" or the ever changing classifications of the gender system.  Everything I need to know, I learned in kindergarten, thank you, before the world went crazy.

Soon a whole bunch of bad things happened to me in a relatively short time.  I lost my father and my best friend, Katey, my dog (who for 15 years went through every drive-through with me).  Three times I'd been hospitalized, sure that I was going to die; then my mother spent a summer in the hospital, and I never missed a day by her side.  Luckily, she made it home.  Life had not been good for my little family.  

Eventually, I found myself once again driving through the drive-through and coming upon Jamie.  In a strange way, after all the rotten things I'd been through, I was actually happy to find that young, silly Jamie hadn't been run over by a bus.  He had a ponytail, exceptionally clownish orange eye shadow, and other makeup.  I said, "Hey, Jamie!"  He looked away from me, as if he didn't recognize me, but I knew that his memory wasn't that bad.  Somehow I'd hurt the delicate damsel, and my mind was racing to figure out how to fix it.  My eyes flashed across to his nametag, which read "Canaan."

"Oh, I'm sorry.  Your name is Canaan," I said, taking the time to bother contemplating if I was pronouncing it in the manner he preferred.  There are so many things to remember these days, so much tiptoeing.  "Yes," he said, tugging at his shirt and holding up his nametag so I could see it better.  "Well, that reminds me of..." I was going to say "the Bible," but I stopped short because I thought that might be too controversial for him.  Not that I'm embarrassed by the word of God, but I just wanted my coffee without any trouble.  I guess that's how we've all been conditioned to live now – but in retrospect, I won't be altering my conversation for anyone in that manner again.

Floundering now, and digging one of those holes I talked about, I continued: "Well it reminds me of something, but I can't think what.  It's nice.  What does it remind you of?  Why did you pick it?"  There was no one else in line.  There was an awkward silence.  I was suddenly wondering if he picked a name obviously associated with the Bible to make orthodox Christians or Jews feel uncomfortable with his constantly changing sexual identities.  No; I decided that that was too complicated.  (I found out later that Oprah Winfrey, in a bizarre feat only she could accomplish, actually caused a spike in the name's use after she chose it for a son who had died nameless over forty years ago.)

The tables had turned, and Canaan was the one floundering now.  Whatever reason he chose the name, he clearly didn't want to discuss it or even laugh it off, so he decided I wasn't worth speaking to.  

I changed the subject quickly, but it was too late.  Canaan looked visibly angry.  He silently handed me my bank card, averting his eyes.  My loud happy salutation had meant nothing to him...he knew only how to be offended and react rudely.

At first I kind of felt sorry for him, because his mental instability is our fault as a society.  We allowed this to happen.  We said it was all okay, and it wasn't.

For instance, my city – his city – boasts a thriving drag culture that administrators have proudly worked to make "mainstream."  A recent newspaper article reported that drag is the ultimate "anti-establishment" thing to do.  Local groups gushed that it is now embraced by the heterosexual community as an "accepted art form" and that everyone is scrambling for a spot in the Miss Drag 2018 pageant.  Between that and the complicated but super-popular lesbian, gay, transgender, queer, intersexual, and asexual agenda, it's a wonder we don't find our kids wandering naked, dazed and confused, down the middle of our streets.

On any given day, this poor boy doesn't know what sex he is, how to dress in the morning, what his name is.  He's holding down a job that's probably the only static thing in his life.  One day, he might just become so overwhelmed with the chaos that he hangs himself from the highest tree...and society will blame people like me for not coddling him enough instead of blaming the culture that fried his brain.

As I drove off, I realized I was watching a pouty snowflake begin to melt.  I thought of how much energy he must waste thinking of himself every day.  He had been trained to be the center of his own universe, and it was with himself that all his empathy and sympathy lay.

The LGBT agenda is a large entity with wide-ranging implications in religion and politics – but watching its singularly tumultuous effect on the mind of one young man has been truly heartbreaking.

Susan D. Harris can be reached at www.susandharris.com.