Man As A Mirror

Not finished with flowing on the for me at this moment relevant issue Powerplay, the Other Way, I stumbled over two so much contradictionary as can be examples during further screening.

One is in fact a webpage I have forwarded to Police for further international investigation. Searching for the keywords 'Daddy's girl' I unknowingly entered a video site where one of the descriptions read 'daddy's girl not so innocent'. I will not describe more of this except that it is unbelievable what some men get as ideas and phantasies into their sick brains (and not so seldomly women with same sick brains act as helpers same enjoying the power and control they can act out on others as they have none over themselves) and what they realize violently towards representatives for their hate and anger, where ever it has beein deriving from; physically and psychically much weaker beings. Kids. Teens. Children who will most likely have no further chance for achieving ever a healthy identity as women or men, ever.


The other website is one I found after long time searching on the topic, constructive. There is not much really useful to be found on how it comes to the passive aggressive feature, and what it does as an outcome, especially to women. Many 'fathering' websites glorify the 'special daughter father relation' in a kind of boyish ego adoration game, not taking into account the necessary grow factors for every human being and that we as parents will not help our children at all if we cover up inappropriate dependencies.

Now, what Hugo Schwyzer writes:

'Fathers, like other men, are supposed to be at least somewhat aware that they are being manipulated. I’ve gathered already that if I say “Yes, she’s already got me right where she wants me”, I’ll get indulgent smiles and teasing warnings about what she’s going to be like as a teen. And if I say — as I have said in one way or another several times — “I adore my girl, but she’s not going to get away with murder on my watch”, folks tend to shake their heads in real or mock pity at my stubborn refusal to acknowledge my own obvious frailty in the face of my daughter’s feminine wiles. A great deal of homosocial cameraderie is built and sustained on the theme of genuine or feigned exasperation at the supposed male inability to resist the charms of “hot chicks and pleading little girls.” I’m not particularly offended on my own behalf. I don’t have much invested in proving to the world that I’m not easily manipulated. (And one exhausts oneself trying to prove a negative.) But for the sake of both my family and feminism, I’m not willing to dismiss the “wrapped around her finger” narrative as charmingly harmless. First of all, I’m viscerally disgusted by the ways in which father-daughter relationships get framed in contemporary Western middle-class culture as quasi-romantic in nature [...]

Indeed, countless women have noted that when they hit puberty, their fathers’ attitude towards them shifted radically. Faced with the reality that their daughters were sexual beings — complete with boobs — far too many fathers withdrew both their affection and their adulation. Little girls who have been set up to be “Daddy’s little princess” not infrequently find their fathers to be suddenly remote and/or hyper-critical. Many father-daughter relationships take years to recover, and the impact on young women’s lives — right at the moment that many of them begin to explore their own sexuality — is sometimes devastating. I’m also troubled by the message this version of the myth of male weakness sends to girls. It encourages the noxious idea that men are loveable but easily led, and that “pretending to be weak” or “dressing real cute” are better strategies for young women to use to get what they want than simple forthright candor. In a very real way, it teaches little girls that manipulation is preferable to directness, and that good looks and feminine wiles are the most valuable tools a woman can possess. Above all, there’s a sinister reality that undergirds this whole discourse: if men are easily manipulated, than they can never fully be trusted. If a Dad can’t say no to his daughter, he sends her a message (however subliminal) that men are fundamentally unreliable. Whether in families or in boardrooms or in bed, one basic rule of life is that you can never, ever trust anyone who doesn’t have the strength and the agency with which to tell you “No”.'

[From: “She’s got you wrapped around her finger”: fathers, daughters, and a variation on the myth of male weakness, Published by Hugo Schwyzer on August 25, 2009].

And - whoooosh - here you are with your passive aggressive little Poison Ivys.

I have to deal seriously with this issue at the very moment, as I need to reject being integrated in such a kind of game. I have done with all my means my very, very best to educate my now teen daughter to find her very own way to herself (not my self!), having support, warmth and a helping hand where needed, socialize in a multilaterally healthy way and apart from that deserve all love from a mother that she by being on this earth deserves but not getting entangled in a web of dependencies; and also not entangled into a dependency with me. We know that we will have to leave one day. It is irresponsible to not let children go their very own way, supportedly and with love.

When women learn to stand on their own two feet, when they are supported and encouraged becoming women and not just fakes of such, they at a point can openly meet a partner they choose for love - not for neediness. This is what I think we owe to our selves and to any respective partner.

Nevertheless, we are yet far away from such ideals and visions. If mankind needs to fall lower in evolutionary level a proven mean is to seriously get humans into existencial and psychological stress and unsolvable environmental conflicts: You can then watch formerly cultured and civilized humans fall into levels of animal and reptile behaviour like flies falling from the wall with a dose of pesticide. Add some more weird role models as our media spread, confuse them with as many contradictious messages as are available, and you get them getting nowhere.


As obviously one of the very few men who obviously have dealt intellectually, emotionally and in practice with this issue, may I refer to one more article of this author:

'And I’ve seen, a time or nine, an unhealthy triangulation occur with dads, moms, and their daughters. While the dangers of physical incest and abuse are real, there’s a kind of emotionally incestuous dynamic I’ve witnessed between fathers and daughters, one in which dads seek from their daughters the validation and affirmation that they feel they are entitled to, but are not receiving from their wives.
Little children adore their parents. Really, it’s a lovely thing to come home each day and be welcomed, as I invariably am, with gales of excited laughter and delight. (I’m the primary care giver for much of the weekend and most late afternoons and evenings; my wife handles the mornings, my mother-in-law and the nanny work splendidly in the gaps.) My daughter’s love is an impressive thing to feel, especially as she’s gotten better recently at wrapping herself around my neck and squeezing me tight. No matter what has transpired during the day, no matter what I’ve said or done (or failed to say or do), Heloise seems to adore me. It’s a wonderful thing, and I eat it up with wonder and gratitude and delight. I’m told that her devotion will only grow more intense; many little girls begin to bond more intensely with their fathers in their second and third years of life, presuming that a dad is around. One looks forward to this.
Of course, spouses aren’t the same as children. My wife loves me, a fact of which I blessedly have no doubt. But she most certainly doesn’t have me a on pedestal, doesn’t think I’m flawless, and doesn’t greet me with shrieks of joy everytime I walk into the house. Eira engages with me as a partner, and she challenges me and pushes me and asks me for things; I do the same for her. In a good marriage, iron sharpens iron, and the more friction in the sharpening process, the greater and more enduring the heat. Anyone who’s met my wife knows that she’s a tall, strong force of nature. (This is a woman who can dress down Israeli soldiers on patrol and make them blush apologetically. If you know the men and women of the IDF, you’ll know how astounding that is.) She loves me and she encourages me as I do her, but she doesn’t conceal her displeasure when she’s unhappy, and she doesn’t come rushing to me like something out of a Marabel Morgan book when I enter the house.
Here’s the thing: I’ve seen men play their daughters against their wives, mistakenly believing that the way in which their daughters see them (as heroic and perfect) is the way that their spouses ought to as well. If a man hasn’t done his “work”, he may find himself looking at his daughter, gazing up at him with adoration, and he may start (resentfully) to contrast his girl’s fierce and uncomplicated devotion with the somewhat less enthusiastic reception he may be getting from his overworked and exhausted wife. In most cases, this doesn’t mean the papa will turn to his daughter sexually, though it surely, tragically, maddeningly does happen more often than we like to think about. But he may find himself relying more and more on the affirmation he gets from his adoring baby girl.'

[From: Princesses, princes, daughters and dads: against emotional incest, Published by Hugo Schwyzer on October 22, 2009]

Hoping I have now not violated internet quotation rules (which is tricky these days - but what this man has to say with these quotes is so emminently of importance that I can't just put the pieces out of the context further). I will certainly myself go on reading through his stuff as it looks sound and interesting enough. Thanks that there are also some reasonable humans existing on this planet and not only totally detached ones, in argumentation and fence-building. My respect, Sir.

There is so much to be found if we just look a little further than our fence.

Lovely regards on a rainy day,
Lyn