Feminism Was Women’s Great Enemy — Until Transgenderism Came Along
by Jules Gomes, Church Militant:
I was three years old when man landed on the moon. I can still picture the scene. My parents were glued to the wireless. Our flat in Bombay was abuzz with the elation of the event. My parents made sure I learned the names of the three astronauts — Neil Armstrong, Edwin Aldrin and Michael Collins.
Finally, man had conquered outer space. My father, who thought it was his duty to educate me in Greek mythology, sat me down and told me the story of Icarus, comparing it to the flight of Apollo 11.
Icarus and his father attempt to escape from Crete using wings fashioned from feathers and wax. Icarus’ father, Daedalus, warns him of complacency and hubris. He asks that he fly neither too low nor too high, so the sea’s dampness would not clog his wings nor the sun’s heat melt them.
Icarus ignores his father’s instructions. He flies too close to the sun. The wax in his wings melts. He falls into the sea and drowns.
In Greek mythology, Icarus is the archetype of hubris. In Greek tragedy, hubris is excessive pride toward or defiance of the gods, leading to nemesis.
I have long been fascinated by Icarus, as have writers like Chaucer, Marlowe, Milton, Shakespeare and Joyce; poets like Auden and William Carlos Williams and painters like Pieter Bruegel the Elder.
Around 1558, Bruegel painted the fall of Icarus. Bruegel is better known for his painting of the Tower of Babel — another archetypal symbol of human hubris.
Bruegel’s painting of Icarus is intriguing because it relegates Icarus’ fall to a scarcely noticed event in the background. The painting has a farmer behind his horse tilling the land and a shepherd boy staring at the sky. You look up into the sky thinking that the boy is staring at Icarus flying high, but you see nothing. You actually have to look carefully before you can see Icarus’ legs as he is drowning, in an insignificant corner of the painting.
In 1969, the moon landing caught the world’s attention. In 1969, another event was taking place — an event as hubristic as the flight of Icarus and as catastrophic as the anarchy of Babel — but it caught nobody’s attention. It was as if a modern Bruegel has painted it in a corner and the event was of no more importance than the fall of a sparrow.
In 1969, 12 high priestesses of radical feminism gathered around a large table to celebrate the Last Supper in Greenwich Village. They enacted a Marxist liturgy beginning with a litany of feminism.
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