Ammo Grrrll recounts A DAY OF LIVING WHITE. She writes:
You can’t call me Ishmael, because that is a guy’s name. At least for today. But this is my story. So call me Blanca McPaleface.
I am White, okay? I had suspected as much for quite a while. For example, I had to get into college based on my grades and SATs. To my certain knowledge, I have never twerked on top of a cop car, though that’s always a possibility when the ZTejas Chambord Margaritas and I are in the same room. (We all know the song, “Tequila makes her clothes fall off,” but though I am fully clothed, tequila makes my BRAINS fall out…much like watching The View.)
I am neither “proud” nor “ashamed” of being White since I had absolutely nothing to do with it. Near as I can figure, reverse engineering the circumstances of my birth, two nice married White people must have had procreative sex – though I want no details about it – and less than 7 months later, I made my premature entrance. I would LIKE to say that I’m pretty CERTAIN that that’s how it happened, but “being too certain” and “getting the right answer” are both hideous examples of racist Whiteness.
This Premature Arrival Syndrome would remain a pattern for the rest of my life. Should you ever invite me to a dinner party, just know that if you say it’s at 6:00, there’s a good chance that I will be there at 5:25, just driving around and around your block until my husband tells me it’s now a socially acceptable time to arrive. Without his guidance, sometimes when I have pulled into the driveway, the hostess was still in the shower. Or the roast was still thawing on the counter. (This is a true incident which in this case was not because I arrived too early. It was because the hostess was a ditz. We ate at midnight, no joke, man! Joe does not do well psychologically when he is starving and he never accepted another invitation from this couple again without eating a full meal first! Sometimes two.)
I am as ethnically diverse as the next American mutt. It’s just that none of MY diversity counts for spit. I have ancestors from Ireland, Denmark, Germany, and Holland – kind of the Mother Lode of Whiteness. But – honest to God – we also always heard about a mysterious Native American woman in the mix there somewhere, though I never tried to parlay that into a sweet gig at Harvard.
Neither did I try to confirm it. Though if I could FIND any cheekbones in my chubby cheeks, I’m pretty sure they would be “high,” which I understand is THE defining characteristic of an Indian entitled to be affirmatively acted upon, at least at Harvard. Who knew all Indians had high cheekbones… along with every Finn I have ever known?
Gosh, not only could I have missed out on teaching one class at Harvard for more money than most Americans make in half a decade, but I could be entitled to some casino loot as well. I even have an Indian name picked out – “Stands With A Mic,” since “Stands With A Fist” was already taken in the movie Dances With Wolves.
So we can see from the viral sensation expert in Whiteness that thoroughly professional woman lecturing in the seldom-used workout leotard that I am not just a LITTLE White, but Offensively White, because I show up on time and stuff. I also try to be accurate and “right” whenever possible, unless NOT being accurate turns out to be funnier.
Believing there is such a thing as the “right” answer is very White. But, then, we have come to learn that Black people are NEVER “wrong,” because in whatever way the “facts” diverge from “the truth,” it’s because there’s an entirely new concept now called “lived truth.” “Lived truth” always trumps mere facts – even if those facts are on videotape, such as the Ferguson “hands up, don’t shoot” fantasy, to take but one example.
We have also learned that moving OUT of a neighborhood when Black people move in is incredibly White and racist. But it also turns out that NOT moving out of the neighborhood is “gentrification” and just as racist. Boy, I’m glad that I live in a Dusty Little Village where people of all colors seem to get along and treat each other like human beings instead of Crayolas.
Last Tuesday I celebrated my Whiteness in several controversial ways. First of all, I made my bed, representing the dual Whiteness clues of “planning ahead and obsession with neatness.”
Then I organized my pantry, putting all the cans in reverse order of expiration dates, oldest in the front, newest in the back. It goes without saying that all labels must be squarely facing front. This, I recently learned, is not mere Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It is “pantry porn” and is also racist. A nice-looking pantry, organized, utilitarian, is just a way to shame non-White women who either don’t HAVE a pantry or who just throw things in there willy-nilly.
You might well ask WHY CAN’T people of EVERY color organize groceries in a logical manner? Reasons. Very good reasons. Probably involving Systemic Racism. Or White Supremacy, the scourge of the nation.
On the way to my Yoga Class I picked up a Breakfast Burrito in a rash display of cultural appropriation. Now, true, the nice Mexican lady at the burrito truck seemed HAPPY to have made a sale, but she had not consulted the Diversity Drone at Oberlin College for permission not to be perpetually enraged. She even complimented me on my silver hoop earrings, having failed to get the memo that White Ladies were not allowed to wear such adornments. Later, in certain inverted Yoga positions, I came to regret the decision to get the Burrito, but I digress.
I should also mention here that it’s very revealing to watch the political spokes-cretins in Sanctuary City Chicago bemoan the fact that somebody is sending illegals into Black neighborhoods! And why is that racist? Oh, because it will “dilute the political power of Blacks in those neighborhoods.” Huh! I would imagine those new “migrants” might not be overly anxious to pay reparations to people they have just met whom they had never “oppressed” in their lives. We’ve all heard of “NIMBY” – Not In My Back Yard – in which those righteous leftists are ALL FOR illegal invaders as long as someone else has to feed, clothe, and house them and give them cellphones.
So check your privilege, Black people. There’s a new entitled group in town – migrants! – who could possibly displace even trans folks from the top of the Grievance Totem Pole. All I know is that my kin and I are right at the bottom of that pole, “Beneath the Underdog” as Charles Mingus titled his autobiography. All the vast majority of my relatives ever did, none of whom lived in a slave state, was work hard in backbreaking farm labor, pay taxes, serve in the military, stay in school, establish small businesses, raise many future taxpayers, and vote Republican. Oh, the humanity! And all until fairly recently, all stark White.