Back before the advent of intellectual fascism, sorry, I mean political correctness, you didn't want to be a victim. A victim was someone who was robbed by a robber, murdered by a murderer, swindled by a con man, or governed by a Democrat. In each case you could have walked in Central Park at midnight, or bought diamonds over the phone, or cast you ballot for Jimmy Carter, or you could have been totally innocent but in each case you got something that you didn't want and I can't imagine even the most rabid Democratic partisan admitting that he liked the administration of Parson Carter. And therefore in each case being a victim was a bad thing, like getting, oh, say, robbed or killed or watching Parson Carter screw up the hostage rescue and the economy.

Now, in the noughts, being a victim is a good thing, or least a profitable one, because if you're a victim you have access to attention. You can spend a lot of time talking about yourself at high volume, flashing your wounds, and they don't have to be real ones--"recovered memories" come to mind--and if someone suggests that you ought to grow up, suck it up and go down the road, you can sniff and call him "insensitive" and "Republican" and "conservative" and "hard-hearted."

Yep. All that and more. Except the insensitive bit, for I'm sensitive as hell to being manipulated. I'm sensitive when people want to stand under the spotlight of attention, drawing attention to themselves to get that satisfying rush of Other People's Eyes. Pascal said that all the troubles of the world were owing to mankind's inability to sit alone in his room. The world must have the biggest housing shortage in history to judge from the whimpering human curs on every corner, on every television screen.

I recall when people were celebrated for having done something: written a very good book, made a million dollars, when that was unimaginably serious money, fought in a war, pulled people out of a burning building, or founded a hospital or charity. And sometimes we do still see that. But the people who do the brave things, the worthwhile things, the soldiers who save others' lives, who manage acts of unimaginable bravery, are modest about it. It was, they say, what they had to do. You can see that at some level they are uncomfortable with the attention and the plaudits, for they do not believe that kudos is the reason that they did what they did. They did it because it was the right thing to do.

Notice how this is a selfless thing. Compare this to the person who complains in the public spotlight about being dissed because she's female, or brown, or black, or gay (get over it, people), and how somehow this is the central fact in the world. It is not. "Perfect your victim game with Megalomania for Dummies!" (New York: The Nation. 2008).

Mark Steyn in National Review has, as usual, some choice observations. Susan Faludi, a celebrated (a word not in the best odor), feminist spends a good deal of time complaining, oh, hell, censoriously whining, and one might say that it's her stock in trade. She and her sisterhood complain that 1.3% of the plumbers are women, while ignoring the fact that nearly 60% of college graduates are women. In Australia there are resource coordinators for Islamic female genital mutilation and Susan is upset that there is roughly a 1 in 75 chance that when your toilet needs resetting Josephine the plumber will show up instead of Joe with the legendary exposed ass-crack.

To Faludi this is the war and damn those bomb-throwing, attention-grabbing Muslims, who just need a hug, but that's for another day. To me she's so concerned with drawing attention to herself that she's completely climbed up her own behind and yet manages to make a great deal of noise. And considering where her head is, what noise is she making? And considering that she's published in what she is pleased to consider the Quality Press, just what is that noise that they are pleased to publish?

I have seen wounded soldiers and Marines in rehab, working with artificial hands or legs, having left body parts in Iraq, body parts they've lost to help me, and I am very sincere in my thanks and there will never be enough gratitude. One man in Walter Reed had lost a leg and was trying to get back to Iraq to get on with it. He was matter-of-fact about his injury and optimistic about what he could do. What he could do, what he could make of it, what avenues he could take. He was in charge of his own redemption, his own life. Susan Faludi and the other professional victims, among whom I number Jesse Jackson, complain about what they could do if people didn't stop them, when in fact their war has already been won. The maimed soldier's war is not won. Are you getting sick yet?

Here's the second part of the twofer that is grabbing the gusto of being a victim. Faludi, Jackson et al need all that attention, that glisten of publicly shed tears, that protestation of helplessness, those hurt expressions because it gives them power. They assume the role of the stray dog with the hurt paw, which alternates whining with baring its teeth, all for the power and position and money it brings, knowing that human decency can be used to their benefit. It's like the judo expert who uses his opponent's strength against him. It's like some people I've been involved with who cynically manipulated me knowing how I'd jump, and used decency against me. Faludi and Jackson and the rest of that lot have positioned themselves as beggars, beggars that we are afraid of. And afraid to ignore.

When did it become preferable, and profitable, for people to act like pouting shrieking spoiled children instead of mature responsible adults? About the time of political correctness, which is intellectual fascism, which murdered shame and debased pride. Oh. I get it.