FSTDT

Jalapenos are trans

Society INSISTS endlessly that the word “jalapeno” is pronounced “hall-uh-peen-yo”, even though all spelling rules and conventions would say that it SHOULD be pronounced “juh-lop-en-oh”. In much the same way, society insists that, not only can my estranged son become a woman, but that he ALREADY IS. This despite CENTURIES of tradition and language demonstrating the opposite - that he is a MAN and MALE and will always be A MAN and was once a BOY. Just the same, “jalapeno” is pronounced “juh-lop-en-oh” when speaking proper english.

However, just like everyone in society, even his own sister, now refers to my son as my daughter (when he is NOT!!). Even when at Wal-Mart when buying their Great Value brand of jalapenos (which do genuinely live up to their name of providing excellent flavor for a low cost, truly a great value), the woke cashiers still fearfully mispronounce it as “hall-uh-peen-yo”, despite speaking English, and not Spanish. This, just like “trans” is a collective societal delusion. It must end. Trans must end. I want my son back. I want my son back from transgenderism. I want my son back from cross-sex hormones. I want my son back from his woke university that groomed him to be trans. I want my son back from anarchism. I want my son back. I miss my son. I have not had one good day since he blocked me, and now even things that I used to love make me sad and angry. Can’t he see what he is doing to me?!

Look at me. I was once a loving father. Now I am reduced to philosophizing about peppers. The trans cult took my son, and the best I can hope for is that one day he will return to me. But I don’t know when. I don’t know if I can make it until then. But I will try. I will be here for my son, even if I need to cope by considering the philosophical implications of jalapenos.

I hope that this story can help other abandoned parents like me consider trans from another angle, and perhaps, for a while, give us an intellectual distraction from our estranged children. I, for one, am praying for ALL of our so-called “trans identifying” children to come back home, to come back to their loving parents.

How do you tell your child that your life is more relaxed when he is out of the house?

My adult son, captured almost eight years ago by trans ideology, still lives at home. He already had mental health issues and this cult has affected his ability to work. He can’t seem to move out. Right or wrong, I do not yet have the strength to force him out (but that’s a topic for another piece).

So, when he goes off on a week-long staycation with the romantic interest he’s hooked up with, another young man captured by the cult, who lives overseas, my house breathes.

I am less stressed not seeing him with his long, unruly hair, the septum piercing, the clothing that leans toward feminine and his effected mannerisms. The relief from not having it in my face every day is palpable.

Also, when my trans-identified son leaves the house, this younger brother, who still lives at home as well, is freed from self-imposed exile in his room or the basement. He’s free to interact with his parents without his brother coming into his view.

My younger son refuses to be in the same room with his “trans” brother. He is so angry and turned off by the effects of hormones and social “transitioning.” He will peek into the family room to see if it’s “safe,” and only then come in to enjoy watching something together.

So, when the text came to my phone informing me my son would be home tonight, when I had mistakenly thought I had another two days of relative peace, my heart sank.

The guilt and self-loathing at that emotion loom large in my heart. This is my child, the one who made me a mother, and yet I am dismayed that he is coming home from what was a quiet week of exhalation.

How do I impart to my child that his very presence causes a tension in the house that we all dread?

I suppose I am one of the “lucky” ones whose child has not decided to estrange himself from his non-affirming family.

But I don’t feel lucky.

I feel on edge, waiting for the door to open and my family to fracture once again.

How do I live with that burden?