A Sad Case of a Bass

In my chorus, there is a young guy who thinks he’s a gal. He’s a Second Bass.

Last night he came to first rehearsal for the Christmas concert. He was wearing a pleated skirt and wore his hair below shoulder length and dyed bright blue. He had little breasts showing beneath his shirt or sweater, or perhaps the appearance of breasts created by a padded bra.

He made a deliberately, disturbingly pathetic display of himself for public consumption. He is in a desperate, self-destructive state, and a suicidal rage, and his atrocious display is a desperate plea for help.

But nobody is listening. Satan knows that his soul’s cry will, far from attracting help from those who are healthy and strong enough to give it, instead disgust and repel them.

This poor young guy started out as a boy who was mixed up about his sexual identity at the age where every boy and every girl is intended to discover it from grown-ups. No healthy dad and no other healthy man was nearby to help him. And no mom, no grandma, no sunday school teacher to fill in as emergency backup. So he took a wrong turn.

The result so far is that instead of his parents and his family doctor and his teachers helping him to grow up into a man who could make something useful and honorable of his life, they abused and manipulated him physically and psychologically and spiritually and even surgically and medically, I suppose, and formed him into a female impersonator.

For no reason.

This bothers me a lot.