The Shaming of the True

Shakespeare and Our Cultural Identity Crisis

Last month, Indiana Republican Ryan Webb, a straight white man, husband and father of six, came out—as a lesbian woman of color. “It is with great relief that I announce to everyone that I identify as a woman and not just any woman but as a woman of color as well,” he declared in an April 12 post. “I guess this would make me gay/lesbian as well, since I am attracted to women.” Webb has clearly taken his cue from Piers Morgan, who himself “came out” on International Woman’s Day as a Black lesbian, to expose what he refers to as “the farce of limitless self-identity.”

Indiana Republican and “lesbian woman of color” Ryan Webb

Now, obviously, Webb and Morgan are both snarky assh*les. They’re mocking what they see as the extreme Left playing fast and loose with the truth as regards sex and gender. I don’t care for their flippancy or their tactics, but, like it or not, they’re pointing out something true. They’re holding the trans rights movement to account for their insistence that an individual’s truth of who and what they are must be honored and given credence and legitimacy, regardless of how that individual presents, or what their biology suggests. By ridiculing the definition of a woman as “anyone who identifies as a woman,” these guys point to something that has to be reckoned with. Taken to its logical conclusion, this paradigm means that anyone can say they’re anything they wish, requiring everyone around them to agree with their identification, even if it defies empirical truth.

This is an essential insecurity at the center of the trans and gender identity movement, because they know that they’re hamstrung by their own definitions: one cannot truly be what they say they are unless everyone agrees. They also know that many folks—even the best meaning, good hearted ones—are using the correct pronouns, playing along to get what they want, even if that amounts to simply keeping the peace. In my opinion, if you choose to identify as a victim, in order to label as oppressor anyone who doesn’t agree with your ideology, you implicitly give to that oppressor the power to shatter your sense of identity. If you demand that others recognize your “truth” under threat of howling them out of the public square, you’ve persuaded no one.

In my last post, I used an old Jewish joke to illustrate this conundrum of the gender identity struggle. This time, I want to go further back in classic literature to my friend and yours, that old dead white guy, Mr. Shakespeare.

Shakespeare’s early comedy The Taming of the Shrew has long been labeled a “problem play,” mainly by modern feminists who find its depiction of a feisty woman being bullied into submission by her feisty husband misogynistic, chauvinistic and just plain unacceptable. I could give you a dissertation on the reasons why this play might be seen in a somewhat less “patriarchal” light, but for now, let’s focus on one scene that illustrates the problem of subjective truth, and pokes fun at it, much in the satiric vein of Mr. Morgan and Mr. Webb—but with better words and more art.

Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor in Zeffirelli’s The Taming of the Shrew, 1967

Having quite literally swept Katherina—the shrew in question—off her feet, the pushy Petruchio, with her father’s assent, forces her into marriage. He whisks her off to his home, where he proceeds to spend their honeymoon depriving Kate of food, sleep and self esteem, in an effort to break her boisterous spirit. All this, by 21st century standards, sounds like enhanced interrogation techniques, but trust me, it’s comedy.

Anyway, Kate’s sister Bianca, back at home in Padua, announces her wedding, and Petruchio agrees they should attend, on condition that Kate behaves herself. They set off, and on the road, Petruchio puts his unruly wife to a test:

Petruchio: Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!

Katherina: The moon? The sun! It is not moonlight now.

Petruchio: I say it is the moon that shines so bright.

Katherina: I know it is the sun that shines so bright.

Petruchio: Now by my mother's son, and that's myself,
It shall be moon, or star, or what I list,
Or ere I journey to your father's house.

Now, this is Katharina’s first outing since being dragged to Petruchio’s house of horrors. She’s earned this trip home, and she wants to keep moving. So:

Katherina: Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,
And be it moon, or sun, or what you please;
And if you please to call it a rush-candle,
Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

Petruchio: I say it is the moon.

Katherina: I know it is the moon.

Petruchio: Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun.

Katherina: Then, God be bless'd, it is the blessed sun;
But sun it is not, when you say it is not;
And the moon changes even as your mind.
What you will have it nam'd, even that it is,
And so it shall be so for Katherine.

Appeased, Petruchio sallies forth, until they encounter an old man on the road. Warmly, Petruchio greets him:

Petruchio: Good-morrow, gentle mistress; where away?
Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,
Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?
Such war of white and red within her cheeks!
What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty
As those two eyes become that heavenly face?
Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee.
Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake.

By now, Kate has figured out how this game is played. Despite the absurdity of the charade, she enthusiastically greets the old man:

Katherina: Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet,
Whither away, or where is thy abode?
Happy the parents of so fair a child;
Happier the man whom favourable stars
Allots thee for his lovely bed-fellow.

Petruchio: Why, how now, Kate, I hope thou art not mad!
This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, withered,
And not a maiden, as thou sayst he is.

Katherina: Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes,
That have been so bedazzled with the sun
That everything I look on seemeth green;
Now I perceive thou art a reverend father.
Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking.

Kate knows what side her bread is buttered on. She’s figured out that if she wants what she wants—literally, if she wants to move forward—she has to play along, and demonstrate her compliance with whatever fanciful version of reality her husband comes up with. This shrew is shrewd.

So, what happens when you make your identity dependent upon others’ participation and support of the “narrative?” And what happens when you are unable to bully or shame or lecture dissenters into subjugation and compliance? You can’t cancel all of them, right? So, the consequence is that you walk into every situation, and every group of people, handing to all and sundry the power to shatter your fragile self.

If you define your validity as a human in terms of how victimized you are, and accuse anyone not agreeing with your version of the truth as a bigot, it may feel good to scream and cry “harm” and trauma. You may get lots of social media support; plenty of “likes” and “cares” and thoughts and prayers. It may feel soothing to have well-meaning people sticking up for you, and sticking it to the bigots. This is seductive. But let’s get real. There will always be people, like the shrew in Shakespeare’s story, who are playing along for their own benefit. Many folks, especially in the toxic playpen of social media, are simply virtue signaling; trying to look cool, or progressive, or righteous. They’re pretending to support your narrative for the street cred or personal profit. This sounds cynical, but, as they say, the truth hurts. You disempower yourself when you require others to declare your truth to be the truth, because you can never be sure if they mean it or not. Despite Orwellian notions to the contrary, you can’t police thought. And despite the relative success of bullying tactics employed by DEI enforcers, there will always be the proverbial child who points to the Emperor and declares him/her/they naked.

The only way to endure may be to learn to live with dissent. You won’t change everyone’s mind. You must learn to be true to yourself. If that self cuts against the grain, I suggest doing what many of us deviants and social misfits have done for decades: let your freak flag fly. Learn to be strong in your specialness, depending upon no one else’s approval, or agreement, or recognition of your unique identity. In time, you’ll find your place in the world by creating things; things that expand minds and bridge chasms of understanding and tolerance. One way to embark on this journey is to stop demanding that others accept you when they don’t understand you. Help them to understand you as a human being first, by seeking to honor and understand them first.

I can sense some of you bristling at this suggestion, which flies in the face of today’s obsession with power differentials. Why should I, the oppressed, be the one to reach out to the privileged? THEY need to be made to accept ME, on my terms—using my terms and my definitions—and give up some of their power! I hate to break this to you: you can’t bully your way into being understood. Persuasion takes more work, more risk, more time, and more humility. But here’s the good news: humility is not the same as humiliation. Most of the time, folks who you believe hate you simply fear you. They don’t understand. Your truth doesn’t align with their own; and most people—and I wholeheartedly believe this—don’t like lying, even when it gets them something they want. I agree with Anne Frank. I believe most people are really good at heart. If you enter every interaction, every new group of people, believing each person is a potentially oppressive, cruel power monger who seeks to annihilate you—well, you’re bringing a pretty unpleasant energy into the room. Safe spaces exist where cooperation, courtesy, kindness and consideration exist. These cannot be mandated. They cannot be shamed or shrieked into existence—unless you’re okay with a bunch of folks humoring you to save their own ass, or get on with their own agenda. Kate declares the sun to be the moon, and an old man to be a pretty young girl, to signal to Petruchio that she’s playing his game—so they can move forward.

Reality is nothing but a collective hunch. ~Lily Tomlin

I want to be very, very clear about this: I deny no one their story. As Oscar Wilde famously wrote, “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” We all tell ourselves the story of who we are, where we come from, why we are the way we are, and who we want to be perceived as in the world. I believe it’s a kindness to address people in the way they prefer, and to accept them as the person they say they are. Being observant of someone’s pronouns and referring to them using the name they request to be known by—these courtesies should assure that our own self-identifications (or none) are respected, making for a more cooperative and harmonious society. There are all sorts of social rituals and accepted behaviors that societies have adopted over the millennia—handshaking, honorifics like Mr. and Ms. before someone’s name, saying please and thank you, waiting patiently in queues, stopping at red traffic signals—these rituals and observances are what create civilization.

So, yeah—it’s all a game. The Name Game. And, as in any game, there are rules and penalties—participants must abide by the one and accept the other. But who gets to be umpire? Who gets to make the call about what’s true? I believe, despite Rudy Giuliani’s famous declaration that “truth isn’t truth,” or Kellyanne Conway’s insistence upon “alternative facts,” that objective reality, facts, and truth exist—and we all know it. There are things we choose and things we don’t.

As a gay man who came out during the incredible devastation of the AIDS pandemic and the cruelty of the Reagan Administration that sought to silence and demonize gay people, I know all too well the pain when those in power refuse to acknowledge one’s right to their personal truth. We’ve come to accept, for the most part—at least in the U.S.—that being gay is innate, and not a choice. That we are, to quote Lady Gaga, “born this way.” The strides we’ve made in gaining public acceptance in just the past four or five decades are astonishing.

But, fact is, there are still people who believe I’m deviant, evil, and immoral for being gay. I won’t change their minds about that, so I’m vigilant and informed as to what laws and protections exist for my safety against those oppressive forces. Laws and protections are agreements. Collective agreements in a diverse society take time. On the whole, I’m grateful for the progress we’ve made in learning to coexist in our culture. I’ve no doubt that in decades to come, there will be increased understanding of the myriad expressions of gender, and scientists will unlock the secrets of the brain and how it speaks to us about who we are. For now, a bit of patience, humility and compassion from all sides might truly move things along.