My boy’s in high school now, God help him. Came home talking about “decolonizing calculus,” which sounds less like math and more like a ransom note from the teachers union. Kid can’t balance a checkbook or find the square root of nine, but he can crank out a ten-page essay on gender roles in The Little Mermaid. Three lectures on sex and identity, zero on how electricity works. Ain’t that a bitch?
Now don’t get me wrong—I’m not here to torch anyone’s choices. I’ve lived long enough to know dignity don’t always wear fatigues and common sense don’t come standard. Funniest men I ever saw wore dresses and smoked cigars on live TV. You want to call yourself Lacy Caramel and rock a tiara to brunch, be my guest. Hell, I once split a Yoo-hoo with an Elvis impersonator while finalizing my divorce papers in a Waffle House booth. Life gets weird. But let’s not pretend the wiring don’t matter. You can swap the name tag, but biology still holds the red pen when the lights go out. Folks deserve kindness—not fairy tales. Blending gender and biology don’t explain the world—it just makes a mess you can’t fix with therapy or duct tape.
These days, everything’s fluid—history, identity, even facts, if they sting too much. You can plaster the walls with pronouns, but you can’t jailbreak biology. The heart wants what it wants. Gay, straight, unicorn wrangler—don’t matter. Nature still calls the plays. And most days, the human compass is still running diagnostics on the plumbing—like a raccoon trying to hotwire a vending machine.