Discrimination and Prejudice
“Why not?” I thought. “Everybody’s doing it. Maybe there is something to it…”
I climbed up a ladder, dispensing with due care and attention. After all: equality of outcomes is a good thing.
After I fell, to the sound of cracking bones and tearing ligaments, I basked in the glorious sunshine, amid waves of agonizing pain, thinking how wonderful it was, to not be prejudiced against such outcomes. I was glad I had decided not to discriminate against broken bones and enduring discomfort. I felt liberated.
Later that same day, while smearing Arnica cream over my swollen ankle, I marveled at the wonderful vibrancy of color that transformed my formerly mundane white-man’s ankle into a diverse rainbow of multi-hued suffering. This was a definite improvement. A shame, I thought, that my entire body could not be instantly transformed into such a state, but for some things, change must come by degrees. At least I had a broken elbow to add to my diversity. Both were glowing examples of well-rounded puffiness, that made a mockery of outdated ideas about the correct proportions for human body parts.
And now I could not work on my carport. Great! I could play the victim instead. Why bother working, anyway, when my willing wife could coddle me and cater to my every whim? This was fun! I rebuked her when she expressed sympathy. As if to suggest that my condition was deserving of pity. She soon saw her prejudice for what it was, and undertook to no longer discriminate against differing outcomes. And we both were very happy.
A day or two later, we chanced to meet a local Amerind, and engaged him in conversation. Had anyone witnessed us doing this, they could not have failed to be impressed that we white folks were hobnobbing with a representative of a race not our own. Sadly, nobody else was in the vicinity, but there will, I hope, be other opportunities to impress passers-by.
I enquired as to why Indians were no longer called Indians, but now were known as either Natives, or First-Nations. He was a pleasant fellow, and after due consideration, allowed as to how the term “Indian” suggested drunkenness, and so had been retired from current usage.
Which I found somewhat odd.
By changing the name, the drunkenness goes away?
I, for one, had never connected the term “Indian” with drunkenness, but what do I know, anyway? I took him at his word, and enquired as to why the term “Native”, was any better.
After all, we are all natives of somewhere.
But white men do not use that term, he said, to describe themselves, and so it means Indian, now. A little perturbed at his seeing Natives and Whites as in some way different, I kept my counsel, not wishing to mar an otherwise exemplary conversation. While smirking to myself at the irony of the situation: that he probably didn’t even own a Tipi, whereas I did.
But the real test of my new-found Leftism came as I visited my local health-food store, recently taken over by new management. I was shocked to my core, and outraged!
Gone were the Amnesty International signs, along with their graphic illustrations of people undergoing torture and being executed. Gone were the Pro-Palestine slogans, and Eat-The-Rich posters. There was no sign of the Racism-Free-Zone” stickers, and prominently displayed advertising of “Safe Harbor” for victims of racist, homophobic and unfeministic assaults.
For Heaven’s sake! Have you ever tried enjoying a healthy meal without these Leftist condiments?
I pondered all of these things, as I eyed the delicious gluten-free black bean brownies.
I was sorely tempted to forego the delights on offer, but it was the thought of never again being able to knock-back a Vegetable-Everything-Juice, in my righteous conviction to boycott such an establishment, that finally decided me:
I guess I am just not cut out for Leftism.
I simply can not bring myself to loathe anyone who can still think for themselves, make their own decisions, act upon those decisions, and still be able to dish up superbly healthy meals. Any more than I can favor a world of hurt over a reasoned and experienced existence.
Even the Indian got my approval, for being… An Indian. For a rose by any other name…
And so I have returned to my warped little world of neolithic balance.
Neither Left, nor Right, clever, nor stupid, saint nor sinner, good, nor bad.
I may have failed at being a Leftist, but nobody could reasonably accuse me of never having tried.
published at Amerika
