I Cry on the Beach
I cry anywhere I can be alone or where no one can see me, and in places where I never cried before. When I weed our vegetable garden in the warm sun, I think of how much Ricky might love a slice of the juicy watermelon we are growing. And I weep. As I keep my hands busy building things around the house, I pause between power drill spins to sob. When I go out for my jog, I occasionally choke up between breaths. On breaks while working, I stand, stretch, and snivel. On long trips, while I drive and my wife dozes off, I tear up.
Even on the beach where the two of us empty-nesters go to relax and reminisce, I cry. Though the beach is one of God’s uplifting gifts to His servants; a place to swim, body surf, play silly beach games, enjoy cold drinks and fried food, a place that evokes tranquility even on a cold, moonless night or wintry storm, on it I now drop tears whenever my face is out of sight. I grew up on the coast and we were delighted that we could retire near a lovely beach where our children and doted-on grand baby could come visit. I remember lovable, playful Ricky as a child on the beach and how I would launch him high into the air so he could splash into the sea. He would squeal with delight and say, “Daddy do it again.”
No more. That was 28 years ago. True, children outgrow those playful antics between their parents. But it is because they enter adulthood and understand that such are pleasant memories of bygone days. But that is not Ricky’s mindset. He has openly and publicly disowned us as parents in favor of membership in the trans cult. He practices absolute obedience to all of the cult’s dictates, which include alienation from and spite for “non supporting” parents. This cult has appropriated not only Ricky from us, but also the full love and affection of one of his older sisters and our beloved grandchild, our access to whom has been downgraded from action-packed visits to a snail-mail penpal style of communication.
This alienation is solely because we affirmed Ricky’s true and natural destiny to embrace the challenge of manhood. Because we refused to lie to him and endorse his parody of a woman. Because we see his body as the Temple of the Holy Ghost, not to be defiled with blockers, fake body parts and genital amputations. Because we rejected the Current Thing.
We will have no walks or frolics in the ocean or sand with our grand baby. Only cards and letters. Not even the latter from Ricky.
Another reason to cry on the beach.
My tears irrigate seeds of action to impart the gravity and repercussions of this wicked movement—to tell my story as a warning for parents of children in the early phases of this affliction, and to help them fight.
Ricky’s Early Years: All Systems Normal
Ricky was born in the early 90s. His older sisters, were born in the early 80s. His younger brother, Joshua, would be born in 1995. Ricky was a full-term baby. Due to some pre-birth complications, the doctors performed amniocentesis on my wife to screen for birth defects. The DNA results were negative for defects—they also showed that the fetus was male. I still have the original DNA report. I cannot wait to wave this at a judge telling me what pronouns to use. Let the black-robed non-binary tyrant jail me for it. Bring it on.
Ricky was a joy to behold and to raise. I have the countless memories, photos and videos to prove it. In contrast to the girls, Ricky and Joshua loved to rough-house, play soldier, jump on furniture, get dirty, race on their bicycles, and go on camping trips. Also unlike their sisters, they had to be coaxed and threatened to the bathtub and dinner table when it was time. What all the children had in common were a love for the beach, their grandparents, Sunday worship and the long trips making army moves. Not once did any child ever complain about the inconveniences and anxieties that came with the fourteen Army relocations.
Through the years up to tenth grade, Ricky showed a talent for soccer and making and re-making friends at every new Army installation that became our home. His school performance was mediocre—he hurried through homework and seemed okay with being an academic underachiever. He rarely acted up in school. Teachers loved his personality. He had a gentle voice which I suspect was one of the cracks that the hidden online satyrs were to slither into later like slimy lizards.
Before he reached school age, Ricky watched Barney on TV when he wasn’t outside. At age eight he discovered Pokémon, and later Yukio. He spent a lot of time with the cards and games. This interest spread into anime during his pre-teen years. I would not have allowed these types of child entertainment had I known then what I know now.
High School: The Online Obsessions Begin and Dim the Light of Ricky’s Mind
Shortly after I returned from my deployment in 2006, Ricky was spending a lot of time on the computer. He now disliked soccer and going to the movies with friends. We reduced his computer time, but he kept sneaking away to the base Youth Center to go on the computer. He had Meebo, Tumblr, Buzznet and MySpace accounts, which we thought harmless. I suspected that this was where the groomers started working on him and, by the time I found this out for sure in late 2007, Ricky had undergone a complete change in personality. Deep harm had already been done to Ricky’s personality, identity, morals and worldview.
(This channel has featured this excellent deep dive of the snares presented by Tumblr and other teen-oriented microblogs. The author is a recovering trans man:)
In his new-found isolation, Ricky no longer made friends at school and spent all his spare time on the computer. There were no more puppy-love girlfriends, only girl friends with similar antisocial interests. Ricky adopted an androgynous style for his clothes and hair. He stopped wearing cool hoodies and sports t-shirts in favor of tight-fitting clothes. His handsome head, once covered with a short-cropped haircut, now sprout a pixie-style straightened cut. We were concerned, but thought it was just a phase.
Over the next few months though, moodiness and out-of-character sassiness increased. He tore up the family photos he had taped to his bedroom door and walls. Joshua started getting questions from his friends about his brother’s “weird” clothes and mannerisms. Ricky’s voice started to take on a lispy affectation. Suddenly he was polishing his nails. The boy who would not take even a teddy bear to bed as a toddler now walked around the house with a pink Pikachu doll and a Hello Kitty button. Around this time he also ruined a family trip and beat up the little brother whom he one time taught how to skim rocks on a lake.
Ricky’s Same-Age Groomer Then and Now
In late 2007, I installed parental monitoring software on our family computer to see what Ricky was into. The gentleman who only a year before would dance with his mother, listen to soul music, and leap on the trampoline with his brother; was now polluted with online vices. The filthy kilobytes were like worms gnawing on the flesh of his young soul. Here is a sampling of his profile page and the codswallop what he was composing and peering at every day:
Now enter Brad, his online Bobbsey Twin. Today, Brad claims to be “Bradleigh.” Ricky aped Brad, as the pair posted daily entries on these sites in the tradition of shock-phrase contests between two miserable, cynical 16-year-olds severely lacking in intellectual nourishment or spiritual perspective. Family loyalty was stomped to death. Here was Brad’s redacted profile:
Other posts were replete with obscene entries too disgusting to mention here.
Brad continues to influence Ricky to this day. He hosted Ricky at this home for many weeks. He contributed money to his recent “trans journey” body mutilation. His social media profile today makes the old one above look like choir boy material. Imagine a 32-year old man who populates his profile with photos of his half-naked obese self, and tributes to known satanists. An open follower of Anton LaVey. When people call the alphabet cult “satanic,” it is no knee-jerk characterization.
Meanwhile, Ricky had become unrecognizable. When my wife saw her makeup and lingerie showing up in Ricky’s dresser drawer, we took him to a therapist. He did not resist, but pouted in the car all the way to the therapist’s office every trip.
This would become a three-year run of therapist visits that resulted in no progress. Nay, reverse progress. No diagnosis of the obvious Gender Dysphoria and narcissism that was torturing him. Depression and Suicidal Ideation. No parent-friendly ways ahead; only the occasional joint sessions where the psychologist would criticize our “backward” outlooks.
Lay people had little experience with this and little advice to offer. Some meant well, many offered adages, others were cruel. People said things like, “Oh, it’s just a phase, it is kind of cool for the kids to say they are “bi;” and “Oh, my daughter thought she was a lesbian, but she got over it.” Others blamed the situation on us and “offered” to take Ricky in themselves. Another close relative took offense at a comment I made and answered with sailor-shocking profanity. The parish priest scolded us for not forcing Ricky to Sunday services.
Senior Year of High School and After
So antisocial, inward, neurotic and persecutory had Ricky become that the mention of starting his senior year in high school caused him to tremble and beg not to attend. So we brokered an agreement with the high school that allowed him to complete his diploma requirements online. Normally, senior year is what all American teenagers look forward to. It is informal leadership of the school. A time to strengthen friendships and determine a course for the future. A time to enjoy adults from colleges competing for their applications and admission.
But not for Ricky. Senior year was to be dreaded. A choke point on the callow, make-believe, hedonistic virtual road he had constructed for himself and was determined to travel without us. A road where he would be free—not to pursue a responsible career and mainstream adult life, but to shut himself in rooms so he could record himself dancing around in woman’s underwear to the music of Marilyn Manson, Lady Gaga and other ghastly noisemakers. He would write and publish cynical, self-absorbed prose. He would cement his belief that the whole world hated him because he was “gay and black.” (He is half white.) He would give no help to his hosts in chipping in for rent, food upkeep, or even so much as do housework. He would ask us for money occasionally, which we would provide. We did not want him to take on homelessness.
After high school, he spent the next seven years physically living alternately with his sisters, online perverts, and us. Mentally he was still in the same virtual plasticene wasteland that preached the futility of normal life, the joy of superficial celebrity worship, and celebration of mindless stupidity. He hardly held any jobs and spent most of his time alone in a room or on couches, living his pretend life as a womyn online. Each trip outside the dwelling brought on “panic attacks.” He was continuously emailing us for rent and food money, making empty promises that he would get a job and pay his own bills. It was hard enough work for Ricky to constantly pretend to be something he was not and never could be—a woman. He had no time for reality.
Some Signs of Hope – Only to be Dashed
So it went until he moved to DC in 2017 as a boarder and got a part time job in coffee shops in notorious neighborhoods.
Then Ricky showed some signs of proper adult behavior. We stayed in touch. He travelled to attend Joshua’s college graduation. We exchanged phone calls, cards and presents for special occasions. We met for vacation trips. I took him to the racetrack and showed him the fine art and fun of analyzing horses. He held an assistant manager’s job at a coffee shop and would often call me for advice. He would drop the voice affectation when he talked to me. He prayed with me on the phone. When the COVID lockdowns hit, Ricky lost his job and we sent him care packages and money and a new computer. Government money kept him afloat for rent, but he showed signs of coming through. We were happy with this improvement and bet on hope, not forcing functions. The real Ricky is a treasure locked up deep inside the deviate veneer of acquired alternative gender. We were hoping the Rainbow of God’s Protection was taking its rightful place over the misused rainbow of boastful sinners.
He even shared reminiscences of his childhood which he said proved that we were good parents. Which makes the sudden changes in his attitudes and communications later all the more startling.
Ricky Fires Us When We go Look for Him
In June 2021, we stopped hearing from him. I texted him in vain, except once he responded, “Did someone die or something?” When he skipped the customary phone call to his mother on her July birthday, we started worrying. As he was at that time still on my cell phone account, I pulled phone logs and saw several calls to various DC welfare offices, psychologists and plastic surgeons.
Since this indicated he was still alive, I waited patiently for my chance to talk him out of this.
In September 2021, some in-laws alerted us that they had seen Ricky on a crowdfunding post asking for donations for his “surgical transition.” In his narrative, he said he was a “black trans woman..asking for support from my surgical recovery.” He described his “journey” consisting of years on HRT, which did not “align myself with my body.” His next step would be breast augmentation. He said that due to the high rate of murders of black trans women, it was urgent that he “blend in with society” and any contributions would be life-saving.
He managed to collect roughly $3,000 of his $10,000 goal.
We took a road trip for a health and welfare check on Ricky in November 2021. We drove my truck for a ten-hour trip to the DC area to try to find our son. We stopped at another city on the way to look for our homeless in-law Barnabus. Though we were unsuccessful in finding or contacting either lost sheep, the trip was an education nonetheless. Sadly, Barnabus would die alone and destitute in the cold city streets last January. He and Ricky were close; or at least as close as an alcoholic and a narcissist could get. We were never able to confirm that Ricky received notice of his death.
We went to Ricky’s last known address. The owner said Ricky moved out and did not say where he went. We tried calling Ricky a few times and he did not pick up. Finally, we texted him with our photo in holding this sign:
Ricky, we love you.
And with this text:
We are in front of your old house right now. Please tell us where you are.
He responded with this text:
“turn this phone off I got a new number I moved I do not want contact
Stop trying to find m (sic)
I don’t want to be found”
As we drove away, this VM came up on my phone from Ricky:
“Hello, I’m calling to let you know I don’t want contact with you. I don’t want you to try to contact me anymore. You can turn this phone off. Um I’m filming this interaction just in case..um this is all being documented. Um. Just leave me alone I want to live my life…I’m happy. Um you had your chance to be a good parent to me and the chance is now over with. Um so please just…STOP! Just stop. Please.”
Soon afterward, Joshua called us and told us Ricky had talked to him and said that he still cared about Joshua, but Mom and Dad were “dead” to him and that we were “terrible parents” and he was prepared to “take legal action” against us if we were to try to contact him.
Without a word, we headed out of DC. We were whipped for the moment. At least we communicated to Ricky and his uncle that we were willing to travel anywhere anytime to find them.
So, how could a penniless, unemployed, mentally ill young man like Ricky find the $50,000+ he needed to receive this depraved neutering procedure at taxpayer expense? The DC GRS Policy in force was the answer to this question.
DC GRS Policy: Government Gelding Blueprint
DC policy # OD-001-17, “Gender Reassignment Surgery Policy,” was the law that enabled my son to receive the total castration process from the public kitty. The Department of Health Care Finance administers it.
In this policy, the authors concede that:
There is a “lack of clarity and absence of consensus among (our) sources about which medical and surgical interventions constitute comprehensive and medically necessary treatment for GRS (Gender Reassignment Surgery).”
“Although self-reported outcomes and observational studies have shown improved quality of life for some persons with GD (Gender Dysphoria), the evidence base for long-term GRS outcomes is minimal, largely qualitative and lacks bias protection measures such as randomization and control groups.”
“The systematic review by Murad, et al., reviewed 28 studies that enrolled 1833 participants with GD. Despite this detailed analysis, knowledge gaps about optimal long-term therapy for GD persist.”
“The peer review literature on treatment for GD… highlight the lack of information about the long-term efficacy of surgical interventions, particularly on mental health outcomes. In addition, research to date has not established definitive patient selection criteria for ancillary procedures, services and treatments for GD.”
"[t]he quality and strength of evidence were low due to the mostly observational study designs with no comparison groups, potential confounding and small sample sizes. Many studies that reported positive outcomes were exploratory type studies ( case-series and case-control) with no confirmatory follow up."
“Because of the controversial nature of sex reassignment surgery, (outcome) analysis has been very important. Almost all of the outcome studies in this area have been retrospective. More studies are needed that focus on the outcomes of current assessment and treatment approaches for gender dysphoria."
And the bottom line and kicker:
“DHCF acknowledges the absence of clear clinical, scientific and therapeutic guidance for optimal treatment of GRS. However, despite the limited evidence, DHCF is committed to facilitating access to specific forms of GRS for the Medicaid population.”
Translation: With full knowledge that this cosmetic surgery has no useful track record and may harm more than help the patients, we don’t care. We hereby allow, encourage and fund the indigent population of Washington, DC to undertake experimental, high-risk mutilation to keep the trans activists off our backs.
Outrageous. Authorizing such drastic procedures is nothing other than premeditated medical malpractice and surgical experimentation targeting poverty-stricken, mentally ill racial minorities. (95 % of non-elderly DC Medicaid recipients are “people of color.”) Where are the SJWs on this one? Oh, but your son is an adult, you are saying. Yes, but a mentally incapacitated adult. His emotional age is 15 years tops, as he ceased maturing at that age. Such a person cannot objectively appreciate the second and third order effects of this gelding process, let alone rationally evaluate the tsunami of government-supported pro-trans propaganda.
DC had some help putting together this policy. Along with some “research literature” and “federal and state laws” across the US, they also publicly welcomed and endorsed the National Center for Transgender Equality (NCTE), a radical trans advocacy group, as a chief consultant for this policy.
DC’s Partnership with NCTE, an Ideological Attack Dog
This group dared, in front of Congress and without challenge to its screed-filled statement, to style themselves as “non-partisan.” Some observations about this outfit:
Their executive director is Rodrigo Heng-Lehtinen, a trans man. A she/her to me regardless.
Per influencewatch.org, NCTE receives most of its funds from these hard-left groups: Evelyn & Walter Haas, Jr. Fund; Klarman Family Foundation; MoveonCivic Action (significant Soros footprint); NEO Philanthropy.
The only parental support discussed on NCTE’s webpage is advocacy of affirming parents (grown-up child bearers who have abdicated their natural roles as protectors and moral leaders). They show no interest in parents who actually parent.
They claim that the 26 trans people murdered in 2020 is an “epidemic.” I dug a little into these cases and saw that these people did die through violence. All but two cases are still unresolved, so we cannot label those “murders” because not all violent deaths are murders. Tough to readily determine the facts because it is the multi-gay media reporting it. So I will cover this in depth another time.
They want to ban the word “delusion” when discussing a trans or a trans prospect.
Not sure if the trans cult is recruiting the children? Here is what Ms. Heng tweeted:
NCTE‘s claim that they are “nonpartisan” is hogwash. Look at his Heng’s tweets on your own. Case closed. This type of advocacy has made it a reality for some public schools to display this poster:
Even Newsweek featured an article condemning this. No such condemnations from other mainstream sources, much less from NCTE. Silence is acceptance.
Not word one from this sex-change champion partner about the documented high suicide rate of individuals after “surgery.”
Ricky Destroys his Temple; Evicts the Holy Ghost with Gusto
Ricky proceeded though all four phases of the gelding process and posted descriptions on social media. The fourth and final phase occurred while we were still in mourning over Barnabus’ death. Ricky included this comment on one of his social media postings: That the person accompanying him to the mutilations was “carrying the weight of mother and father in the way only a cool (person) can.”
Can things get more demoralizing than this?
Yes. Last May, Ricky went to a convention in Texas for the Black Trans Advocacy Coalition. He posted mostly pictures of himself in front of the motel and ladies’ room mirrors. “I’m black and trans, therefore everyone hates me,” was no longer just the callow slogan of a profoundly confused young man, it was now the driving groupthink of an organized, moneyed NGO. The more oppressed one is, the more he will feel entitled to attention. I went on their webpage once and that was enough. Nothing edifying. Massive self-lovefest. Salt in the wound.
I hold DC responsible for providing an experimental procedure to a person incapable of giving true consent. The law holds that the mentally incapacitated are not capable of consenting to medical procedures. Even a layman can see that his mental state is severely sullied with narcissism, paranoia and persecutory complex. Because mental health professionals have become hired hands for the trans industry, and the senior professionals have done nothing to stop it, psychologists and psychiatrists are unworthy of trust and we parents must make the best layman’s diagnoses we can. That’s how I feel about it.
We must be ready to fight while remembering that our enemy is strong and pitiless. They have bottomless funds, heavy MSM support, political favor, and hearts smaller than the Grinch’s. They play rough and laugh at our misery. Yet despite their plentiful earthly assets, they are utterly powerless to summon God to the aid of their Truth-denying enterprise. It is our exclusive recourse to the favors of Grace that is our greatest weapon. Let us deploy our love of Truth and boldly seek justice for these masterminds who have defiled the innocence, sobriety and modesty of our children.
How to do it? First, take care of ourselves so we will be fit to rescue others. Not unlike what they tell you about using oxygen masks on airplanes. Seek counselling, but beware of to whom you go. Most of my care is under the VA, but that institution is so committed to the mental health of the LGBT+, etc that I see more rainbow flags than Old Glory inside the hospitals. VA phycologists are professionally conflicted.
Now, to the fight. Do not allow people to advance false arguments in favor of trans butchering. Write columns. Avoid businesses that display rainbow flags.
What about more active measures? I do not know yet because I am still working through grief. But I have ideas that I will share when I develop them more. Think: Class Actions.
Hopes and Dreams
Each bedtime comes with a trepidation of dreams. Since 2006, I dream frequently about Ricky without the dysphorian affliction. These days, he appears to me, in his early 30s, as the young man he was meant to be. Tall, a little reticent but cheerful. Happy to be back, free from the cult’s stench-filled pit and ready to properly enter the maturing process to manhood. In the faint background, Joshua is leaping for joy that his big brother has returned and is taking him outside to play. When I start thinking that this is too good to be really happening, I wake up. In my profound ignorance and unworthiness, I do not know if this is a sign from God, or a taunt from the Prince of Darkness. So I cry some more.
I keep this painting in the guest room I hope he will visit:
The trans cult has appointed itself the sole authority, judge, jury and executioner, to pronounce good parent or bad parent. The only evidence it considers is whether the parent agrees with a child’s delusional denial of his birth sex. All the good we have done as parents counts for nothing. The sacrifices, caretaking, discipline, tough love, gifts of time, attending school events and sports practices, training, support, working through the tough times—count for nothing. In fact, the stereotypical deadbeat dad or parent who abandoned, abused, or severely neglected the child is received with open arms and praise from the cult as long, as he accepted the child’s delusion as real.
But it will all crumble under them and we will win provided we try hard enough and God assists us. I pray to the Sacred Heat of Jesus, the Immaculate Heart of Mary and those Saints who specialize in hopeless causes, Jude and Rita.
Sand Turtles Cry Out for Justice
My Lord, give me any challenge, any painful, fatal torture required to win my son’s salvation, even if he does not return to us. Bring Ricky back. To You. To us. Forever. Gotta go for a walk on Your beach now. Maybe I will see this sand turtle that Ricky made on the beach when he was ten years old:
Federal and state laws prohibit disturbance of sand turtles. These include prohibitions against “mutilation…molestation...and harassment” of these creatures or their eggs.
I pray that this nation’s rulers and princes will start to value human life as much as they do sand turtles.
Until then, I cry unto You. Amen.