Escaping the Bunker, or When Your Bubble Turns Toxic

Aside from “White Privilege”, the most obvious example of activists reinforcing the prejudicial structures they condemn is the creation of the category suffix “Cis-” This is used to refer to people who are heterosexual, or “heteronormative”, and is used as dismissively and derisively as any homophobic slur, or as the term “white privilege.” Cisgender people are normies, the beige majority, people too conservative and conformist to have much character of their own. 

Rather than condemning intolerance, and resisting it by being more tolerant, activists have created another category to be intolerant of. They have further segregated society and alienated us from each other. They are colluding in the structures they condemn, out of a desire for revenge, and enthusiastically policing them, using anger, confrontation, and digital lynch mobs to drive everyone into their separate ghettoes.

These ideas have found traction only with the birth of social media. We are so vulnerable to their poison because we have become existentially and socially dependent on social media. If we lose the approval of our online friends, we become profoundly alone and isolated. The internet instruments designed to bring us together, are driving us further apart. 

And it is people with the courage to explore relationships beyond their own tribe or internet pod that are condemned as “Cis.”

We have retreated into our own cells, unable to cope with so much connectivity. We are like survivalists who, having fallen prey to some mass hysteria about the end of the world, have retreated underground with enough supplies to last a generation. Now we cower in the dismal, artificial half-light of our damp bunkers, in rage and fear, and only a very few have realised that the world isn’t a toxic, hostile wasteland, ravaged by packs of cannibalistic savages. And we don’t need the bunker with its miserable approximation of life.

And even fewer have lifted the hatch and emerged into a wide, peaceful, strangely quiet world, after all the manic, paranoid chatter of the bunkers, where they can feel breezes on their skin, hear them in the leaves of trees, hear birdsong, larks, under a high, cool sky.

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