|I don't really hate ponies ... c'mon look at her - she's adorable!|
There is a function on this blog where you can see where you have the most hits for a particular blog posting. I noticed a very high number of hits for my blog post I Know What Boys Like . Knowing that I only have about three friends who read this blog, I traced it back to an on-line forum for Bronies where they were vociferously commenting on my failings as a writer and as a miserable human being that you can read here.
The comments went from mild, backhanded praise: "you can tell from the sentence construction that this is an intelligent person and there are some interesting ideas buried somewhere in there." (gee thanks bro!) to vituperative: "There is nothing of worth here. It is a stupid conclusion made with sweeping generalizations and a child's view of both history and sociology." I apparently have that very special blend of "bad opinions, ignorance, venom, pseudo-intellectualism and smug." (I got plenty o' smug alright.) The same post concludes with the cheery: "Up yours lit chick ..."
So I guess in these situations my thoughts are: just because something wounds your sensibilities it doesn't mean it's not true nor should not be spoken of. I'm not wounded by these remarks but I am very puzzled. And I am especially puzzled by the vehemence of the attack. I didn't attack your mother or your religion did I? The energy it demonstrates, the anger, the ferocity ... confuses me. I still haven't sorted out in my mind what is at the root of this anger.
I'm trying to think of something that would make me this angry. One might be ... perpetuating stereotypes about the Italo-Canadian community. The other might be a condemnation of bi-racial domestic unions. Obviously, for those who know me and read this blog it's because they make up an important part of my life - it's my ethnic identity and it's my family situation. It affects me personally, you are attacking me personally when you say derogatory things about either of those issues.
But when I ask what is the appeal of a 20 something man and his attachment to a plastic pony and/or cartoon character - am I attacking you? Am I? Or am I trying to wrap my head around this phenomenon which is difficult to grasp for most thinking people. It's not that I consider the attachment wrong - that's not the word I would use ... it's not about right or wrong. It's about understanding why?
One friend said, leave them alone, we all have weird fetishes.Yes, I'll buy that, I know I do. He dared me to reveal one of mine so people could read this and ridicule me. Here we go, game on. Let's keep it G rated.
This might seem mild in comparison. I am obsessed with Virginia Woolf. I have a photo of her above my writing desk (I rebuilt an old photo frame I had and painted it just for this photo). I have a mug with her face on it. When my husband chipped it by accident, I was upset. I've read virtually everything that she's written. I have a special shelf on my book case for all Virginia-related books. I think about her. Alot. Too much. I often wonder what her life was like. How she suffered with her mental illness, what her relationship with her family was like, her romantic relationship with her husband, how she wrote, what she thought of in her last moments ...
But let me go a step further. I don't think that this line of thinking is normal or possibly healthy. I think it's odd and I rarely talk about it, if at all. If someone were to call me on it I don't think I could defend my obsessiveness because I, too, find it extremely odd. And there's weirder stuff than that of course but I ain't gonna talk about it here.
So ... I think you can have an odd obsession but to express anger or surprise that people don't understand it suggests a dissociation from mainstream life.
I guess what I am trying to say is that I don't hate the little ponies ... I just don't get them or the boys that love them. That's my big crime.