Feminism Cannot Help These Men
Found on Quora today. Anonymized so that some SJW idiot doesnât try to go dox some poor innocent person.
âA friend of mine took me to see Saving Private Ryan when it came out. He was one of those gung-ho military guys that wanted to join the armed forces for all the reasons war films tell you to. He eventually did; I believe he managed to get into special forces for the Air Force, but I lost contact with him years and years ago so I donât really know.
I didnât have a TV so I knew nothing about the film except if was a World War 2 story about a platoon and it starred Tom Hanks. My friend was very excited to see the film and told me it was supposed to be âsuper-hard-core-realistic.
âWhen we got our tickets and went to sit down, the place was moderately packed and there werenât many good seats. The center rows were dominated by a large congregation of old men, all very serious looking; maybe about twenty or so. It looked like they were a group and I got the distinct impression they were war veterans.
My friend and I took seats several rows in front of them, and the movie started.. and its D-Day.
I was thrust into a massive grinder that showed no pity or remorse and I watched men turned into meat and sprayed about the beaches. I felt heavy and stunned and I wanted to look away but couldnât, as I kept hoping to see some sort of redemption that could rationalize all that death and justify the sacrifices made. At the end there wasnât.
Then D-Day was over and there was silence.
Out of curiosity, I turned around to see how the old guys took it, but they were all gone. Snuck out.
So we watched the rest of the film, scene after scene of brutality and misery.. and then it ended.
On the way out, I ducked into the restroom and found out what had happened to all those old guys from before. There they all were - crying.
Some were in the corners hiding their faces, others were in the stalls, some were hugging, others just stood alone. Most were trying to hide it, which made it look even worse.
That scene had drug something up out of those men, something theyâd buried and kept secret for who knows how long, and it was so powerful they couldnât even get out the building before it broke them down. They shouldnât have been there. They should have been somewhere with family and friends, or maybe somewhere private where men can weep without shame. They should have been on a couch, in a living room, like my grandfather, drinking buttermilk and watching the Price is Right.
They should have been anywhere but a filthy public bathroom, in tears, trying to keep out of the way of the young men cycling in and out to take a piss.
It was a worse thing to see than anything that film had shoveled at me.There was nothing I could say or do and so I quietly left.â
Itâs impossible to believe that one is âliterally [sic] fighting for everyoneâs equalityâ when there is no one fighting for these guys. There is no one protecting them from feeling the need to hide their trauma in a cinema bathroom.
These are the male tears feminists so glibly pour into their mugs. And to them I say, go to hell.
