If You're Mad At Paula Deen, Meet My Dad
Predator Press
[LOBO]
The only time I can recall dropping an "N-Bomb" was in the heat of a fistfight -one that I lost- when I was about fourteen years old. For reasons never explained a guy sucker-punched me on a bus, and I pounced him. Shocked, adrenaline-feuled, and furious beyond rationale, pow, out it came. All the oxygen seemed to be suddenly sucked out of the vehicle. Time stopped, and that word just hung there, palpable and malignant in the ether. I was so mortified at hearing myself say it I kinda threw the fight, feeling like I deserved to get my ass kicked. And boy did I ever. (Note to self: pick more prudent times to be stricken with guilt.)
Even at the time, it wasn't in my lexicon. My dad and stepmom were (are? more on this later) vehement racists -my dad in particular- so I most certainly was exposed to it. But dad lost custody to my "birth" mother when I was six or so. Mom, in weird contrast, was the first of her migrant family to be actually born in the United States, and as a consequence she was definitely not down with the whole racism thing. In retrospect I don't know how those two crazy kids got together in the first place. A quasi "foreigner" herself, not only did she suffer her own racial discrimination issues, but she was among the first women trying to break into the workforce vis-à-vis "Mad Men." Working for a sexual harassment factory posing as a law firm, she returned us to the cultural squish of Chicago where I was born and raised. There, I made friends with every race and nationality imaginable -hence underlining the horror and deep regret of my action.
The last time I saw my dad's side of the family was maybe ten years ago, and I regret to inform you some of them were just as racist as ever. Dad was a perplexing and textured cat: a former Chicago cop that passionately hates cops, and a white supremacist that had black friends who were aware he was a white supremacist. As a decorated Chicago cop, he fought the Mob until a crime lord threatened his family, i.e. my mom (his first wife) and the toddling bundle of joy aka yours truly. Legend has it he set his badge on the Mob guy's desk and walked away from the force, never looking back. He would also go on to sell his house and go into bankruptcy in the bitter custody battle over me which he would subsequently lose.
I speak of him in a past tense now as I'm not sure he's even alive; he got so fed up with the country he bought a large piece of property on an Arkansas mountain, and a whole chunk of that family side sort of just receded into it. To imagine him in a rocking chair, shotgun cradled in his arm, waiting for a hapless "revenuer" to wander up to his doorstep is not far-fetched; that single visit was anachronistic to the point that it was cartoony. And that I don't share his views shamed him I think. I have on numerous occasions amused myself with the idea of getting a black woman in a police uniform to go there with me and introduce her as my wife. Hellooo, life insurance!
So let's not kid ourselves. That culture, as back-assward as it seems today, is still out there. And Paula Deen's situation, on the face, might not seem that different than mine other than she didn't make the conscious effort to take herself out of it that I did. She is also much (much!) older, so one could argue I had an easier time than she might have.
But the idea of hosting cotillion-like events replicating that whole ugly era is utterly bizarre. I suppose it may have some historic value and tradition, but it borderlines being insensitive if not outright distasteful, thusly magnifying anything she can claim would have been a simple "youthful indiscretion." Why people don't just emulate something more neutral puzzles me. If you're not racist, why look, act, and dress like one for fun? Even if bigotry is sincerely the furthest thing from her mind, wouldn't anyone with a double-digit I.Q. recognize she is asking for trouble? Go get really jazzed up about something else like the Monroe Doctrine instead. "Hooray for the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act!" has a nice ring to it.
Unfortunately, that won't work either. America was arguably founded in 1776 and the Civil Rights movement wasn't until 200 years later. That only leaves 20% of American history to draw from -and if you count a certain compound on a remote Arkansas mountainside, you have 0.
So Paula, please enjoy your "Smurfs 2"-themed wedding. Don't tell any midget Avatar jokes. And sprinkle in frequent "I'm sorrys" to all who participate and attend.
Like I do for my do for my dad.
[LOBO]
The only time I can recall dropping an "N-Bomb" was in the heat of a fistfight -one that I lost- when I was about fourteen years old. For reasons never explained a guy sucker-punched me on a bus, and I pounced him. Shocked, adrenaline-feuled, and furious beyond rationale, pow, out it came. All the oxygen seemed to be suddenly sucked out of the vehicle. Time stopped, and that word just hung there, palpable and malignant in the ether. I was so mortified at hearing myself say it I kinda threw the fight, feeling like I deserved to get my ass kicked. And boy did I ever. (Note to self: pick more prudent times to be stricken with guilt.)
Even at the time, it wasn't in my lexicon. My dad and stepmom were (are? more on this later) vehement racists -my dad in particular- so I most certainly was exposed to it. But dad lost custody to my "birth" mother when I was six or so. Mom, in weird contrast, was the first of her migrant family to be actually born in the United States, and as a consequence she was definitely not down with the whole racism thing. In retrospect I don't know how those two crazy kids got together in the first place. A quasi "foreigner" herself, not only did she suffer her own racial discrimination issues, but she was among the first women trying to break into the workforce vis-à-vis "Mad Men." Working for a sexual harassment factory posing as a law firm, she returned us to the cultural squish of Chicago where I was born and raised. There, I made friends with every race and nationality imaginable -hence underlining the horror and deep regret of my action.
The last time I saw my dad's side of the family was maybe ten years ago, and I regret to inform you some of them were just as racist as ever. Dad was a perplexing and textured cat: a former Chicago cop that passionately hates cops, and a white supremacist that had black friends who were aware he was a white supremacist. As a decorated Chicago cop, he fought the Mob until a crime lord threatened his family, i.e. my mom (his first wife) and the toddling bundle of joy aka yours truly. Legend has it he set his badge on the Mob guy's desk and walked away from the force, never looking back. He would also go on to sell his house and go into bankruptcy in the bitter custody battle over me which he would subsequently lose.
I speak of him in a past tense now as I'm not sure he's even alive; he got so fed up with the country he bought a large piece of property on an Arkansas mountain, and a whole chunk of that family side sort of just receded into it. To imagine him in a rocking chair, shotgun cradled in his arm, waiting for a hapless "revenuer" to wander up to his doorstep is not far-fetched; that single visit was anachronistic to the point that it was cartoony. And that I don't share his views shamed him I think. I have on numerous occasions amused myself with the idea of getting a black woman in a police uniform to go there with me and introduce her as my wife. Hellooo, life insurance!
So let's not kid ourselves. That culture, as back-assward as it seems today, is still out there. And Paula Deen's situation, on the face, might not seem that different than mine other than she didn't make the conscious effort to take herself out of it that I did. She is also much (much!) older, so one could argue I had an easier time than she might have.
But the idea of hosting cotillion-like events replicating that whole ugly era is utterly bizarre. I suppose it may have some historic value and tradition, but it borderlines being insensitive if not outright distasteful, thusly magnifying anything she can claim would have been a simple "youthful indiscretion." Why people don't just emulate something more neutral puzzles me. If you're not racist, why look, act, and dress like one for fun? Even if bigotry is sincerely the furthest thing from her mind, wouldn't anyone with a double-digit I.Q. recognize she is asking for trouble? Go get really jazzed up about something else like the Monroe Doctrine instead. "Hooray for the 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act!" has a nice ring to it.
Unfortunately, that won't work either. America was arguably founded in 1776 and the Civil Rights movement wasn't until 200 years later. That only leaves 20% of American history to draw from -and if you count a certain compound on a remote Arkansas mountainside, you have 0.
So Paula, please enjoy your "Smurfs 2"-themed wedding. Don't tell any midget Avatar jokes. And sprinkle in frequent "I'm sorrys" to all who participate and attend.
Like I do for my do for my dad.
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