The Collateral Damage of a Movement

David Guttenfelder

In April of 1942, a baby boy was born to a couple in a Midwestern industrial city. The family was what would be referred to today as “white trash.” Poor, uneducated, and with very few prospects for the future. They lived in a tiny house – what would normally be called a “shotgun” house, with a damp, dark, and moldy basement. They were not a religious family. They did not go to church; they lived for the moment and were dreadfully poor. More often than not, lard sandwiches were the primary items on the menu.


The baby boy was the second son for the family, which was a great disappointment for the mother. She already had one son upon whom she lavished attention and affection, and who was the recipient of the few treats and perks the family could afford. She had been hoping for a girl this time and decided she would have one, no matter what.

She forced her second son to wear dresses, called him she/her, and if he balked at being a girl, she would punish and harass him until he yielded and pretended to be a girl, if for no other reason than to escape the misery.

He grew up, played high school football, worked several jobs, and got married. He joined the Army Reserves as a medic to escape going to Vietnam. But the entire time, he was plagued by the fact that he never truly knew who he was. On one hand, he felt like a man. On the other hand, he felt like a girl.  The damage done by years of abuse and forced gender reassignment would plague him until the end of his days.

Also read: FLASHBACK 2019: Ohio Dems Voted to Ensure ONLY Black Babies Would Be Aborted

His job-hopping would continue throughout his adult life. He could never stay in one position very long before being fired, in some cases for inappropriate behavior. And what he did not do on the job, he did at home. He told his son that men who were very close would naturally want to kiss and touch each other’s genitals. He told his son that it was perfectly normal for men who were friends or family to be sexual with one another. And then he would turn around and try to throw a football or baseball with his son, or take his son to the shooting range and mete out fatherly advice. But then he would give his son books filled with photos of scantily clad women and make sure that copies of Playboy were left lying around. But then would feign indignation when he caught his son looking at them and deliver stern lectures on morality in the vein of Jonathan Edwards.


Under the guise of addressing his son’s blackheads, he would force the boy to the floor and dry hump the child until he climaxed. He fancied himself a photographer and forced his son to pose nude for him. He said that there was no film in the camera and that he was only testing out a new lens. Several years later, the son went out to the family station wagon to get something and found the man’s cache of child pornography hidden under the seat. He then understood that there was film in the camera and that his father was not testing out a new lens. To this day, the son does not know where those photos ended up. He does know that this material is traded among pedophiles and that someone, somewhere probably has those images of him.

The man’s wife was an ardent feminist. It was a new thing back in the ’70s, and the man giggled incessantly over every anti-male comment his wife made to earn her respect. It did not work, since she also loved regaling people with her nights out with her friends watching male strippers. Stories at which the man also giggled.

As the man’s son grew older, he was approached by men who wanted to sculpt or paint him in the nude. The man giggled at those stories and thought it was a good idea since he was also trying to curry favor with what he thought was the gay community at the time. And despite his affairs with women, he also came out to his wife and son as gay. So tumultuous was this man’s life that his wife finally told the son that she wished she had never gotten married and given birth. She was that exasperated with the drama.


Someone, somewhere reading this is going to say that it is a work of fiction, a feverish, conservative fantasy. I assure you, it is not.

That man was my father. And he died as he lived. Angry, confused, and a failure in everything he attempted, which was precious little. My grandmother’s attempts to change my father’s gender had catastrophic effects not just on him, but also on her grandson. My father never knew who he was or who he was supposed to be. And he acted out of that confusion. An all-American dad one moment, the polar opposite the next. I didn’t want to follow his example because I experienced firsthand how those choices can make lives miserable and to be honest, I did not want to end up like him.

I have known gay people for literally my entire life. And while, as mentioned above, there were a few who sought to take advantage of me as a minor the majority of them would never have dreamed of doing such a thing, and many were fierce protectors of the safety of children. I have met trans people, although it may be argued that since it is currently in style, there is no way to know who is legitimately trans and who is simply following the trend. And to be frank, I do not care how an adult decides to live their lives. There is enough tension in the world today as it is.

Those who would decry “conversion therapy” to make gay people straight seem to have no problem with trying to make every child trans. But not every child is gay. Not every child is transsexual. Not every child needs to append an alphabet to themselves. And no child needs to be sexualized. The parents, the protesters, the media, and the various groups who want to turn their children gay or transsexual to place themselves on the cutting edge of the culture have no idea of what they could be doing. One day, these things may no longer be in vogue. But by then, the surgeries, propaganda, and hormone blockers will have done their work, and the damage will be done. And that damage may extend far beyond the initial victims.


It occurs to me that as the shootings continue to pile up this year, people should be talking about Second Amendment responsibilities along with Second Amendment rights. The same holds true here. Ideally, the LGBTQ community should want to stand against people who want to use this agenda as a means to fulfill illicit desires. People like Brice Williams, aka Anastasia Diamond, a drag performer and community organizer for LGBTQ+ youth. He is currently facing 25 counts of possession of child pornography in central Pennsylvania.

Listen to this interview with Tayler Hansen, who was at the Dallas drag brunch and listened to a child say that he is not gay, only to have his mother say, “No, he is gay. Don’t let him lie to you.”  (Fast forward to 21:00.)

Or consider this post from a neighborhood group to which I used to belong:

 “This was my son  ***** in ****. Keep a look out parents. My 7-year-old and his friend were playing in our cul-de-sac. At 4:38 when a grey haired man approached them. He said ‘what are you little girls doing?’ they said we are boys and the man laughed and said are you sure. They both felt very uncomfortable and ran inside. The man drove off. Has anyone else had a strange experience like this with a older man in a white SUV? I wanted to share so others could be on the look out as well.”

Some of you may not believe this, but there are gay, lesbian, and even trans men and women of conscience. And these people need to stand up against men like Brice Williams and the above-mentioned neighborhood creeper.


Let a child stay a child for as long as they can. Let them play with Barbies, trucks, dinosaurs, tea sets, and lightsabers for as long as possible. If they are gay or trans, they will discover that in due time. If they are straight, do not try to make them into anything else. Let them be children before all else. The world will come for them soon enough. Please, do not do anything to hasten that moment for you or your ego. No child needs that burden and the world does not need any more stories like mine.


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