A third-grade teacher at R.I. Meyerholz Elementary School began the lesson on “social identities” during a math class.

But of course. You see, for some primary-school teachers, conveying the basics of arithmetic and fractions isn’t sufficiently sexy or particularly statusful. Marxoid pronouncements on “power and privilege,” however, and sermons on how straight white men are oppressing everyone else, are much more flattering to the ego of a leftist educator.

And after all, those pretentious resentments, the ones you hope to exploit, won’t cultivate themselves. Oh, and apparently, transgenderism and “nonbinary sexuality” are suitable classroom topics for the modern eight-year-old.

What, you didn’t know?

Nor did the parents.

Update, via the comments, where Karen adds,

Today’s word is ‘fraud’.

Given the apparent indifference to parental approval – one might call it subterfuge – you do have to wonder exactly how much class time has been wasted on ‘projects’ of this kind. Or would have been, had parents not discovered what their children were actually being taught instead of mathematics.

And it is, I think, interesting just how often these things occur without the knowledge or consent of the parents whose children are being indoctrinated and psychologically abused, as if such details didn’t matter. As if the children weren’t theirs.

Note too how readily parental umbrage is framed as “divisive.” As if the problem were the parents, not the ideologically possessed educators.

She chose to share, and thereby impress. Pronouns, obviously.

Update, via the comments:

Given Ms Vilkomerson’s ostentatiously woke outpourings elsewhere, I think we can assume that, whether true or fabricated, said tweet was intended to both amuse and be met with approval. A bit of peer-group positioning, The key part being the modish dismissal of “white boys.” (Sort of, “See, I’ve taught my daughter to disdain whiteness and masculinity. How brave I am.”) That said tweet conveys other things, and unintended ironies, seems to have escaped Ms Vilkomerson.

As public boasts go, it’s quite a strange thing. I mean, you can imagine a proud parent announcing that their fourteen-year-old had passed a chemistry exam or reached piano grade three or something. But wanting to announce that your fourteen-year-old has internalised pretentious disdain for white people, and white men in particular, seems… obnoxiously unhinged. That this is apparently something statusful, a basis for applause, or at least in-group belonging, does not make it seem less so.

Via Rafi.

Or, Our Betters Breathe Deeply – Into A Paper Bag: 

Mr Tiedrich tweets about Donald Trump many times, every day. And Ms Vee meditates, you know. 

Update, via the comments:

Jen quips, “They’re going to miss him.”

Well, I suppose that if your peer group is one that requires endless, competitive signalling – via breathless claims of how monstrous and fascistic the current incumbent of the White House is, and how mentally debilitating even thinking about him is, which you nonetheless do, every day, of course – then the prospect of losing that object of hate, and status, must be a cause of… mixed feelings. Though it’s quite odd how the people who imagine themselves our political betters, the ones to whom we should defer, are very often neurotic monomaniacs whose minds seem bizarrely fragile and forever on the verge of coming undone. 

Update 2:

It didn’t go as planned and was a tad embarrassing. || Bee rears. || A brief history of peanut butter. || Goldfish playing football. || Formal wear, I guess. || Indoor weather detected. || When the delightful scenery attacks you. || And who here wouldn’t? (h/t, Julia) || “We hope you are as excited as we are.” || Today’s words are “angry cock energy.” || Assorted background noises. (h/t, Things) || Upmarket scented bubbles. || At last, a Rubik’s Cube movie. || Modernity is a hell of a thing. || The thrill of car park security footage. (h/t, Elephants Gerald) || The joys of public transport, part 276. || Tokyo’s museum of parasites. || A brief history of the violin bow. || Noisy birds. || And finally, activate black polo-neck.

And so, as the novelty wears thin, and we once again daub our doors with lamb’s blood, let us share links and bicker. 

I’ll set the ball rolling with a woke prayer, some emotional scenes, and a reminder that size matters. 

As some of you may be shopping from home a little more than usual, please bear in mind that any Amazon UK shopping done via this link or the search widget top right, or for Amazon US via this link, results in a small fee for your host at no extra cost to you.

It does help to keep this place here.

For those in need of further diversion, the Reheated series is there to be poked at. 

As we gingerly lower our buttocks into the hot bath of ’21, spare a thought for the Guardian’s Afua Hirsch and her statusful associates:

A conversation I had recently with a black woman who wields enormous power in the TV industry sums it up for me. She and I were meeting from our respective bedrooms in the now familiar, strange intimacy of a one-on-one Zoom meeting. She has developed a massive rash all over her boobs.

The cause of this rash? Well, this is the Guardian. And so, 

“It’s years of bullshit – racism, micro-aggressions,” she told me in a matter-of-fact tone. “I have never had any eczema before. My doctor said it’s erupted now because I’ve finally given myself permission to acknowledge the toxic stuff I’ve been putting up with during all these decades of my career.”

Readers are invited to ponder whether a reputable GP, one fit for employment, would actually diagnose racist microaggressions as the most obvious cause of boob eczema. Rather than, say, suggesting a change of bra or detergent. It does sound both improbable and awfully specific, as if tailored to the preoccupations of a tiresome monomaniac. But clearly this is something that Ms Hirsch is quite eager to believe, or at least have us believe, and is presented as damning evidence of both “structural racism” and, simultaneously, the urgent need to pathologise “whiteness.” It’s also, apparently, a reason to denounce a government minister who dares to question whether pretentious victimhood is an optimal life goal.

For Ms Hirsch, microaggression boob rash “sums it up.”

Via the Lancastrian Oik.

In which we marvel at the mental contortions of our self-imagined betters.

The year began with a display of the Guardian’s famed sense of proportion, with the paper’s Barbara Ellen informing us, emphatically, that, “We’re nearly all vegan now” – we being the general population – before asking with equal confidence, “Who isn’t vegan in some way these days?” The Vegan Society, meanwhile, acknowledged that the demographic in question amounts to barely 1% of the British population. Hungry for more fearless and irrefutable leftwing journalism, we turned to the pages of Salon, where the chronically breathless Mr Chauncey DeVega declared that “The American people” – and not just Salon columnists – “are in a manic state because of Trump’s regime.” 300 million citizens are, we learned, living in fear of Mr Trump’s “fascism,” his allegedly annihilationist tendencies, and of course his “secret police.”

Meanwhile, Slate readers mulled the moral quandaries of progressive life, before being rewarded with somewhat peculiar and potentially disastrous advice, on subjects including sex tapes and prodigious weight gain. And via which, we learned that the best way for an insecure straight woman to find romantic and sexual satisfaction is for her to start dating polyamorists and gay people, on grounds that this will ease both her trust issues and her frequent panic attacks.

In February, we learned, via the Guardian, of the latest must-have status accessory – namely, dinner parties at which one pays $2,500 to be scolded as a racist, an upholder of “white supremacy,” based on nothing, by someone suitably brown and opportunist. Participants – “mostly Democrats” – are told to “own their racism,” however invisible, and are warned against having “unmonitored thoughts.” Elsewhere in the Guardian, we were assured by leader writer Susanna Rustin that a “reordering of society” is in order, to correct the apparently unendurable problem of some people having a standard of living not yet available to every single human being on the planet. “Lives of luxury” – defined by “weekly shopping sprees” – could be “replaced” – “painlessly” – with “artistic expression and creativity,” specifically, dance lessons.

While in Salon, Bay Area progressive Nicole Karlis wrote of the “heartache, tears and stress” brought on by the loss of one’s plastic water bottle. A sentiment echoed by fellow progressives and non-specific activists, who shared their wrenching tales of “water-bottle separation anxiety,” a phenomenon that can apparently induce fits of weeping and feelings of “falling into chaos.”

In March, readers of the Observer were invited to ponder the profound moral question, “Is it ever acceptable for a feminist to hire a cleaner?” Much fretting ensued regarding the acceptable sex and skin colour of the person doing the cleaning, with the paper’s Sally Howard deciding that the most feminist way to empower cleaning ladies – and to avoid the “structural devaluation of women’s work” – is to make said ladies unemployed. The views of Ms Howard’s former cleaners, fired in the name of feminism, were not deemed worthy of inclusion.

From the archives, one of my favourites. Alex Gorosh and Wylie Overstreet’s short film about the Moon – and what can sometimes happen when people stop to look at it. Seemed oddly appropriate. If you haven’t seen it before, enjoy.

As is the custom here, posting will be intermittent over the holidays and readers are advised to subscribe to the blog feed, which will alert you to anything new as and when it materialises. Thanks for another 1.5 million or so visits this year and thousands of comments, many of which prompted discussions that are much more interesting than the actual posts. Which is pretty much the idea. And particular thanks to all those who’ve made PayPal donations to keep this rickety barge above water. It’s much appreciated. Curious newcomers and those with nothing better to do are welcome to rummage through the reheated series in search of entertainment.

To you and yours, this year more than most, a very good one.

From the Socialism 101 Reddit, a question of crushing import:  

Are cashiers working class? I know this sounds like it should be obvious, but think about it. Cashiers do not produce any commodities. Under a non-capitalistic society, nobody would do what they do. In fact, their job is almost more like a cop. They keep commodities away from people and demand that you pay a fee to the bourgeois to access them. And if you refuse, they will use the violence of the state against you by reporting you to the authorities for shoplifting. So how are they, in a Marxist analysis, working class?

Yes, it’s real, or was, until deleted for attracting attention from unclean heathens. And needless to say, earnest rumblings ensued. You do, I think, have to marvel at the thought of someone going through life continually scanning for class enemies, obstructers of the Great Proletarian Revolution, and concluding that checkout assistants have just made the list.

Note the line,

Under a non-capitalistic society, nobody would do what they do.

Note too that the implications of this claim, for all manner of unglamorous but necessary tasks, are somehow not explored.

Consider this an open thread, in which to share links and bicker. 

Test footage from Attack of the Giant Grandma. || At last, a pedestal for your glasses. || One for the ladies. || His black car is blacker than your black car. (h/t, Elephants Gerald) || He does this better than you. || Get woke, go broke. || Today’s word is suboptimal. || The politics of button replacement. || Mountain King makeover. || Kite of note. || Arctic scenes. || Adventures in the fourth dimension. || Opportunity detected. || Something error happen. || How to make a small sword. || Mystery solved. || Interspecies scenes. (h/t, Damian) || Stayin’ Alive. || Effects pedal colour chart. (h/t, Things) || Fiddlesome trees. || Wasps versus drone, flamethrower. || And finally, satisfy your hunger for experimental jazz.