Figures like Donald Trump, Elon Musk, and Andrew Tate dominate public discourse, reinforcing toxic ideals of masculinity, dominance, and exclusion. Their influence perpetuates power structures that marginalise those who do not conform to traditional definitions of what it means to be a man or to belong. Even Keir Starmer’s leadership, despite signalling a kinder political approach, reveals how entrenched white male leadership remains within Labour, underscoring the limits of progress. The poetic anthology The Whiskey Tree: Untamed Identity interrogates these dynamics, offering a critique of identity, power, and masculinity in a world shaped by privilege. Through their poems, the writers challenge the toxic narratives of power and ask fundamental questions about what it means to be masculine and how we can resist entrenched systems of oppression.
Elon Musk’s public praise of “high T alpha males” as natural leaders reflects the persistent allure of hegemonic masculinity—an ideal that prioritises physical strength, aggression, and control, leaving little room for emotional expression or vulnerability. Musk’s version of masculinity mirrors long-standing cultural norms that promote dominance as a key feature of male identity. In contrast, Anne Walsh Donnelly’s Sheila from The Whiskey Tree offers a powerful alternative, presenting a more fluid and expressive vision of masculinity. The protagonist in Sheila rejects traditional masculine expectations, embracing fashion and self-expression often coded as feminine:
‘He tames his hair with a straightener, paints his nails with blush polish / that smells like turpentine and smears crimson gloop on his lips.‘
Donnelly critiques Musk’s narrow and exclusionary version of masculinity by showing that true masculine identity need not adhere to rigid societal norms. Instead, the poem highlights how self-expression—through fashion, creativity, and vulnerability—can redefine what it means to be masculine. This rejection of hegemonic masculinity challenges the harmful ideals upheld by figures like Musk and instead promotes a more inclusive, fluid understanding of gender identity.
Tim Edwards’ analysis of men’s fashion in The Clothes Maketh the Man provides a lens through which to interpret Sheila. Edwards argues that men’s engagement with fashion has historically been marginalised, with masculinity tied to restraint and practicality, in contrast to femininity, which is often linked to self-expression. Donnelly’s Sheila subverts these outdated notions by celebrating a masculinity that is vibrant, creative, and unafraid to embrace so-called feminine traits. In this way, Donnelly critiques the toxic ideals of masculinity promoted by Musk, offering a new model of male identity that is liberated from traditional constraints.
Donald Trump’s inflammatory claim that Haitian immigrants in Ohio are “eating pets” reflects his ongoing effort to stoke fear and division through xenophobic rhetoric. Trump’s language dehumanises immigrants, reinforcing the idea that white Americans are the rightful heirs to the country’s resources and culture, while others are painted as dangerous outsiders. His version of belonging is rooted in exclusion, stoking fears that national identity must be defended from perceived threats.
Jay Rafferty’s My Country from The Whiskey Tree offers a strikingly different vision of belonging, one that is grounded not in fear and exclusion, but in a deep, personal connection to the land. Rafferty writes:
‘The sky here is a white mirror, fogged over, windoleaning / out the stars.‘
The speaker’s relationship with the landscape reflects a sense of belonging that is intimate and spiritual, not defined by ownership or dominance. This contrasts with Trump’s exclusionary, flag-shagging, nationalism, offering a more reflective, grounded sense of identity that is tied to one’s connection with the environment rather than a need to assert superiority over others.
Mary Earnshaw’s Stolen Belongings takes this critique further, addressing the superficial ways in which people often attempt to claim identity without truly understanding its depth:
‘They want to find their roots, / find where they belong, / find they’re African at heart, / but find they are, if anything, American.‘
Earnshaw’s poem critiques the performative nature of claiming identity based on surface-level connections, much like Trump’s hollow attempts to define belonging through exclusion. Both Rafferty and Earnshaw remind us that true belonging requires more than fear-driven division—it demands genuine connection, depth, and understanding of the land, culture, and people we claim to identify with.
Andrew Tate’s vision of survival, which prioritises dominance and aggression, is a reflection of the hyper-masculine rhetoric that figures like Musk also promote. Tate’s message encourages young men to view survival as a battle for control, in which power is gained through aggression and dominance over others. However, my own poem Theatre from The Whiskey Tree offers a direct challenge to this toxic view of masculinity. Theatre calls for the violent overthrow of patriarchal power structures, demanding not mere resistance within these systems but their complete destruction.
In Theatre, the figures of power—like Trump, Musk, and Tate—are depicted as fragile and performative, their authority built on illusion:
‘I must melt wax figures – liberate us from false gods / & rejoice in the fall of kings & queens.‘
The melting of these ‘wax figures’ symbolises the fragility of their power and the necessity of its destruction. The poem calls for chaos and the total dismantling of patriarchal structures, rejecting the idea that power should be concentrated in the hands of the few. Rather than survival through dominance, Theatre envisions a world where power is decentralised, fluid, and no longer tied to masculinity’s rigid, hierarchical structures.
Theatre rejects the idea that we can simply exist within or reform these systems of power. Instead, the poem advocates for their violent collapse, suggesting that only through the dismantling of these toxic structures can we create a world that allows for more inclusive, compassionate expressions of identity and power.
Matthew M.C. Smith’s Little Chimp Blood Lust forces us to confront the deeper implications of how toys, media, and cultural symbols condition children to accept violence and domination as intrinsic to masculinity. The poem critiques the glorification of violence and power, embedded in toys like He-Man, that promote an ideal of masculinity rooted in strength and aggression:
‘it starts with He-Man – Aryan facsimile / on a rotoscope road / under Grayskull towers // HE is primal energy source / hot conduction of power / HE will smite skeleton foe.‘
Smith’s poem asks us to consider the ways in which toys and media normalise brutality for children, encouraging them to view violence as heroic. By linking these childhood images of war and violence to real-world atrocities, such as the Holocaust, Smith shows how easily these ideas can blur into a dangerous worldview:
‘bodies in ovens, / bodies in the field // ragdoll piles / slow bulldozing of pit rows‘
Smith’s critique aligns with Benjamin Zephaniah’s White Comedy, which examines the power of language to perpetuate harmful ideas. Zephaniah writes:
‘I waz whitemailed / By a white witch, / Wid white magic / An white lies.‘
Zephaniah exposes how racial connotations are embedded in everyday expressions, showing how language can subtly reinforce systemic racism. Similarly, Little Chimp Blood Lust highlights how the language and symbols of popular culture condition children to accept violence, war, and toxic masculinity as normal. Both poems urge us to think critically about the narratives we pass on to future generations.
Public figures like Harry Styles, who defy traditional masculine norms, are often criticised for not adhering to these entrenched ideals. Styles, known for his fluid approach to fashion and gender, challenges the same rigid standards that Smith critiques in Little Chimp Blood Lust. The backlash against Styles reflects the ongoing struggle to broaden representations of masculinity in popular culture, raising the question: What kind of future are we building if we continue to promote narrow, violent ideals of manhood to our children?
We need to face the truth: platforms like X, under Musk’s control, have become hubs for the toxic ideals we claim to oppose. As creatives, we should be building new spaces that reject harmful rhetoric, yet many of us stay, hoping we can change the platform’s direction. Deep down, we know we can’t. X amplifies voices like Andrew Tate’s, spreading aggression and hyper-masculinity, while we turn a blind eye.
We avoid Trump’s Truth Social because of its ties to hate speech, but staying on X, which mirrors the same toxicity, makes us complicit. Every tweet, like, and engagement gives these narratives more power. How can we expect progress if we remain on platforms that promote the very voices we oppose?
The poets in The Whiskey Tree: Untamed Identity (Wave 1) challenge the toxic masculinity, exclusion, and rigid identity constructs that figures like Musk, Tate, and Trump perpetuate. Through the exploration of identity, language, and power, these poets offer a vision for a world that embraces complexity, inclusivity, and resistance to oppression.
But to create this world, we must be willing to let go of the platforms and systems that enable the very toxic voices we seek to dismantle. Remaining on platforms like X only strengthens the narratives of division, aggression, and exclusion. If we are serious about transforming the social landscape, we must leave behind the spaces that give legitimacy to these harmful ideologies.
As writers, artists, and thinkers, we have the power to shape new narratives, build new spaces, and lead the way toward a more just and inclusive future. Let’s be brave enough to forge new paths and embrace the potential of our creativity to make a real difference. The time for action is now.
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