My Mothers Blood: An Essay In Defiance Of The Dialectical Regime

Whether it's the Woke Left or the Hegelian Right, don't let abusive giants weaponize your empathy through unwarranted, manufactured indignation.

One of the first memories I have of my parents is of my father grabbing my mother by her shoulders and head butting her, breaking her nose and face. I was barely five years old. Through the blood and tears in her eyes, my mother turned looking for something to defend herself. She scrambled around until her hand came across an old wooden chair. In a daze of blood and adrenaline she swung the chair over her 4’11, 96 pound frame at my 6’0, 220 pound father. The chair came down missing every part of him until making a glancing scrape across the front of his shin, just below his knee.

I remember being stunned by the long silence that followed. While it was probably only ten second or so it seemed like 10 minutes. The only sound during that chasm of silence was the blood from my mothers face dripping to the floor. My mother stood defiantly in front of my father as he stumbled backward into the large chair in the living room, as if he had been hit in the head with a Louisville Slugger.

Slowly, almost laboriously, he leaned forward and lifted up his pant leg, inspecting the long, thin scrape that was barely bleeding. Then, he looked up at my mother with tears in his eyes, lifted his leg for her to see and said, “Look what you did.”

My mother collapsed to the floor balling, no longer able to keep her composure, before quickly regaining her strength and picking up my little brother and me, to take us down stairs to safety.

I remember her blood soaked through my HeMan t-shirt and ran down my bare legs.

Every single time the establishment Regime and their trolls on both sides of the isle, claim they are victims of independent truth tellers who dare to question their manipulations, this is what I think of — my mother and father in this moment.

Because like my father in this moment of violence, The dialectical Regime has all the power. All the money. All the connections. All the influence.

Yet anytime these giants of narrative control are confronted with the truth of their actions and the damage they have done to those for which they claim to exist — anytime anyone dares to hit back at them in self defense, ambassadors of the dialectical Regime respond melodramatically, as if they are the victims of some beyond the pale, unprovoked attack on their mythical virtue.

Sorry. That type of manipulation has no effect on me. You see, I’ve seen that before. I know it better than you can possibly imagine. The Regime is no different than an abuser with tears in their eyes demanding empathy from those they have bludgeoned with their corrupt actions, while the blood of those who challenge them drips to the floor in the silence of their manufactured, tragic indignation.

The last time my father tried to lay a hand on my mother in my presence, I laid him flat on his ass. The Regime and their trolls should expect me and those like me to respond in the exact same way.

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