Fred Reed nails it.

Notes on the Pussification of America

by Fred Reed

It is time to get women out of the schooling of boys. It is way past time. Women in our feminized classrooms are consigning generations of our sons to years of misery and diminished futures. The evidence is everywhere. Few dare notice it.

The feminization is real. More than seventy-five percent of teachers are women; in New York state, over ninety percent of elementary school teachers are women; in the US, over seventy percent of psychologists are women, with (sez me) the rest being doubtful. This is feminization with fangs.

I have just read Back to Normal: Why Ordinary Childhood Behavior Is Mistaken for ADHD, Bipolar Disorder, and Autism Spectrum Disorder, by psychologist Enrico Gnaulati, who works with children alleged to have psychological problems in school, usually meaning boys. I decline to recommend it because of its psychobabble, its tendency to discover the obvious at great length, and its Genderally Correct pronouns, which will grate on the literate. (I mean constructions resembling “If a student comes in, tell him or her that he or she should put his or her books in his or her locker.”) However, a serious interest in the subject justifies slogging through the prose. (The statistics above are from the book.)

The relevant content is that women are making school hell for boys, that they have turned normal boyish behavior such as enjoyment of roughhousing into psychiatric “personality disorders.” They are doping boys up, forcing them into behavior utterly alien to them, and sending them to psychiatrists if they don’t conform to standards of behavior suited to girls. The result is that boy children hate school and do poorly (despite, as Gnaulati, says, having higher IQs). This is no secret for anyone paying attention, but Gnaulati makes it explicit.

“Women should not be allowed within fifty feet of a school where boys are taught.”

As a galling example he cites one Robert, an adolescent responding badly to classes and therefore suspected by his teacher of having a “personality disorder.” From the book:

She required all forty students in the class to design Valentine’s Day cards for each other. She was emphatic about wanting them personalized. Names had to be spelled correctly and compliments written up genuinely.

Valentines? This was eighth-grade English. Students, who by then once knew grammar cold, should be reading literature or learning to write coherently. In my eighth-grade class, we read Julius Caesar: “I want the men around me to be fat, healthy-looking men who sleep at night.” Valentines? Compliments?

This, the author assures the reader, did not take place in an asylum for the mildly retarded, but in one of the ten best high schools in California. What must the rest be like?

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