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| “So, Les, let me get this straight. If I’m convinced that my true self is Mickey Mouse, then that is the identity everyone must acknowledge – even when its patently obvious to everyone that I am not Mickey Mouse, that’s what they have to call me?” |
LAURIE PAUSED for a moment to take in the raw vista of devastation wrought by the October gales. How many times had he gazed out from the pub deck at that stately line of poplars adjoining the road? The blaze of their autumn glory, their bright green kirtles in spring, even in grey sentinel guise, looming over the empty winter fields, these trees had been beautiful. And now they were gone, snapped-off and cast down by the vandal gusts.
Across the paddocks the whine of chainsaws serenaded their departure. Laurie sighed, he would not live to see their replacements rise above the ridgelines.
“Hell of a storm.” Laurie’s mate Les had also been contemplating the fallen trees. Seated on the pub deck, he held a half-empty glass of ale in his hand. A full one awaited his friend’s arrival at the table.
“Never seen the like of it”, Laurie affirmed, “I suppose you’ll blame global warming?”
“Nah!” Les snorted. “There were destructive gales long before the invention of the steam engine. Sometimes Mother Nature just loses her rag. Shame about the poplars though, they were a tonic for weary souls.”
Laurie lifted his glass: “To the view that was and will be, even though we’re unlikely to see it.”
“You know what, mate? I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. By the time those fallen trees’ replacements grow as tall as their predecessors – always assuming the cocky who owns the land decides to replace them, they will be casting their shadows over a very different world.”
“Here we go!” Laurie chuckled. “Another parade of grim predictions!”
“No, no, you cheeky bugger, I’m serious. Last night I finally got a handle on what’s making the present such a damned uncomfortable place to live in.”
Laurie’s smile faded. “What happened last night?”
“I had an argument with my son-in-law over gender ideology.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Les! Why on earth did you do that? You’ll never change David’s mind, and you’ll only upset Alison – not to mention her Mum!”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, Laurie, bad move, which, to Alison’s obvious relief, Rosemary shut down pretty quickly. But not before David had his say, and I’m actually glad he did. Because it was while he was holding forth that I finally understood where he was coming from, and where all the people we call ‘woke’ are coming from.”
“Which is where?”
“They come from a place where the only thoughts that matter are their own thoughts, which cannot be challenged because they are the thoughts of their true selves which are, by definition, unchallengeable.”
Laurie made a face. “Isn’t that what we used to call solipsism?”
It is, Laurie, but it goes way beyond solipsism. You and I were raised to be tolerant of differences, but not too tolerant. What’s that saying? ‘Your right to swing a punch ends at the tip of my nose.’ In other words, we are good old-fashioned liberals. But wokeness goes way beyond liberalism, way beyond tolerance. What wokeness demands is validation. Agreeing to differ is not good enough, we are expected to agree, full-stop. If your true self tells you that 2+2=5 then society is obligated to affirm your arithmetic. If it refuses, then your true self may suffer serious harm. So, validation isn’t optional, validation is compulsory.”
“So, Les, let me get this straight. If I’m convinced that my true self is Mickey Mouse, then that is the identity everyone must acknowledge – even when its patently obvious to everyone that I am not Mickey Mouse, that’s what they have to call me?”
“That’s it, Laurie. Because nobody has the right to inflict harm upon Mickey by refusing to validate his identity as an imaginary rodent.”
“But that’s barking mad, Les, you can’t run a society according to those rules!”
“Well, you wouldn’t think so, would you? But, apparently, you can. If the validation of people’s true selves can be represented as the most fundamental of human rights, and if society’s most powerful institutions can be persuaded to back that proposition, then your right to say, ‘You’re not a bloody mouse!’ can be cancelled – along with you.”
“Crikey, Les, I’m beginning to understand why living long enough to see a new row of poplars grow to maturity may not be all that validating of your true self.”
This essay was originally published in The Otago Daily Times and The Greymouth Star of Friday, 7 November 2025.
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