My photo, my opinions. Peace.
I was raised in a bubble of white privilege. It was the kind of bubble that espoused love and unity and inclusion...even though my little Midwestern town was 99% Caucasian. But we sincerely believed skin color didn't matter. At least I did...
The post WW era in the U.S. has been a deceptively prosperous and peaceful time for those of us lucky enough to be white, educated, and financially solvent. We bought it when we were told that America was built on the premise that all men were created equal. We ate it up when political correctness forced racism and bigotry below the surface. We reveled in our transcendence and enlightenment. And many of us even got a bit smug, a bit cocky. We felt superior in our facade of equality. It was like the set of a Star Trek franchise. As long as we were cozily tucked into the bubble. As long as we had our big fenced in yards in our demographically desirable neighborhoods.
My first real brush with the cognitive dissonance of it all came my freshman year of college. I was dating an extremely good looking, popular, intelligent guy. He was an honors student. He was captain of the football team. He was on full scholarship. And he was black.
My allegedly liberated mother was distressed about that last fact. My mother who'd marched against the Vietnam war. My mother who'd run a local chapter of N.O.W. out of our house. My mother who'd positioned herself as one of the first and foremost experts on EEOC laws and was appointed to a U.N. delegation addressing international labor equality. My mother who brought me into the city to see Jesse Jackson speak in his church when I was a toddler. My mother who'd somehow managed to suppress her upbringing and go so PC that even I was fooled.
Please don't misunderstand; I am eternally grateful to have been raised not to hate people based on color, creed, ethnicity, or religion. It's one of the things my parents got completely right. But imagine my shock when this fearless crusader took me aside one day and warned me to be careful of my own boyfriend. "They see the world differently. That's all I'm saying," said this pillar of equal rights. They see the world differently.
I rebelled against my mother. I had my reasons. I still contend that most of them were sound. But a huge result of my rebellion was that I no longer resided fully in the bubble. I've spent most of my adult life in large, diverse cities. I've experienced bouts of poverty. And I've exposed myself to realities I wasn't taught in my liberal, suburban schools. I very quickly realized how false and dangerous political correctness was. And I did my best to irradiate that facet of myself. I wanted to understand all sides. I wanted to celebrate differences, not ignore them. I wanted the Utopia I'd been falsely promised while growing up.
Of course I don't need to tell anyone that I've not yet gotten my happy ending. The world is an unmitigated mess. Vitriol and craziness abound. Chaos rules. Facts no longer matter. I can sit in my bubble pontificating why but what's the use?
Tomorrow there will be a white supremacist march in my backyard. I live in one of the most liberal areas in the country. And yet nazis will descend, spreading messages of hate, intolerance, disgust, and divisiveness. I can't stop it. I don't have the nerves to show up and fight it.
Like Tina Fey, I plan to sit home with a cake. I'll take deep breaths. I'll write. I'll play with my cats.
And at the exact moment this demonstration of ugliness is scheduled to commence in Venice Beach, I'll briefly glance westward, turn my eyes towards the sky, and unabashedly yell at the top of my lungs, "Namaste, Mother Fuckers!"