I had another subject in mind for this week until I read Rachel Alexander’s “How I Massively Triggered the Left on Twitter” (Intellectual Conservative, September 15) http://www.intellectualconservative.com/how-i-massively-triggered-the-left-on-twitter/. I won’t rehash the details: they’re quite sickening—another of countless examples showing that incivility in our decadent society has just about entered the bullying Brownshirt stage (with the thuggery stopping just this side of physical assault… usually).
Let’s put it this way. If X’s political opinions fall well left of center and Y’s are slightly to the right, then X is allowed to call Y a racist. “That’s kind of insane,” Y protests, “inasmuch as my long-time mate was a person whose DNA was almost entirely African.” “So what?” X snaps back. “That’s a well-known racist trick—taking a non-white mate to prove you’re not racist! As if you didn’t know that slaveowners raped their slave girls all the time.” “Um… I don’t think my friend would fit the description of a slave girl,” Y smiles. “No!” X snarls. “More like race-traitor! It’s not hard for whites to find some Sambo or Sallie who will sell out just for the joy of slithering into the plantation manor through the back window!” If Y is still responding to this rabid primate meagerly endowed with the power of speech, the response might be, “But I’m actually not Caucasian myself, for the most part.” Showing long canines, X howls back, “Then why do you carry the white man’s water and mop up his s**t?”
More often then not, the person shooting back this impressive balance of vulgarity and stupidity will himself (or, increasingly, herself) be Caucasian. White icing on the leftist cannabis cake.
Now, what I’m about to add to this “discussion” will get me killed within ten years, probably, when some Stalinist Santa Claws, trawling through the communications of everyone’s life to see who’s been naughty and who’s been nice, will punch tickets for the one-way train. But I’m old enough not to care.
I’ll start with my fellow citizens of African descent. Some of them, I suspect, don’t like themselves very much. Why would they? Their society has never offered any other group so many “advance three squares” cards. College scholarships are bending the limbs, ripe for the picking. Publicly funded organizations are waving black applicants to the front of the line, and many private-sector companies maintain quota systems for purposes of public relations. Lawsuits over racial prejudice (or the threat of such lawsuits) protect sub-par performance like some mythical Ring of Invincibility. Yet still… yet still, there you are, a young black male who emerged from high school hardly reading at seventh-grade level. You couldn’t even land a basketball scholarship, which is how your best friend got into college; but one thing you have indeed been able to do by the age of eighteen is sire three children on three different women… or girls… none of which children you ever see or pay a dime to support.
Or maybe you’re one of the three girls. You’ll have another three or four kids before you’re thirty (and perhaps the same number of abortions). Medicaid gives you a couple of thou a month for each one of them—a really nice haul for unskilled labor. So that’s your job. That’s what your society has decreed you will be and do in this life: a baby-mill, a womb that grinds out little ones with prospects even dimmer than yours.
That would settle me into a permanently pissed-off mood, as well. Imagine the inner conversation—a dialogue with Self that doesn’t take place in words, but must be gnawing around the edges of consciousness all the time:
“Could I have done more with my life? Sure… at least I think so. I think I’ve got something special in me somewhere… but the world will never know, and I’ll never know. I didn’t open the door to that something: I let myself become just another number. Now, it wasn’t all my fault. In fact, loud voices keep filling my ear with talk of ‘systemic racism’—and it does seem like the game was rigged. I couldn’t have throttled all of that potential, all of those vague ambitions, all by myself. The system showered me with stuff and snitched away my real chances at the same time. It paid me off. It bribed me to play the role of someone who’s good for nothing. And the bribe was pretty hefty sometimes (though sometimes it was just a magic trick, and a fat check that became genuine poverty)….
“But I didn’t have to take the bribe. Deep down, I knew that. I don’t like myself for taking the easy way out, for being suckered into the worse option. And I don’t like not liking myself—going around hour after hour, day in and day out, not really liking myself. That makes me even more pissed off. Racism? Reparations? Okay. I’ll take that. I don’t really know what it all means… or I know damn well, rather, that the people peddling it have no idea what it means. I just know that somebody’s getting bled for my misery—and that’s okay with me. Somebody ought to. I’m not that good—but they’re even worse, the ‘somebodies’, because all they did was help me bury whatever was better in me.”
Self-contempt, resentment of the world for feeding that contempt… those are two strong emotions hiding—barely hiding—under the “you’re a racist!” veil of invective. One of the things “racist” now means in mouths that love to launch the word (if it still means anything at all) is that you don’t have a very high estimate of yourself and you hold others responsible for it: the others who keep pitying you for being on the bottom just when you were taking a little pride in getting your life together.
Now let’s take a good look at white folks—at certain white folks. Would you believe that a lot of white males on the left are afraid of black males? A not insignificant cause of the South’s secession was the terror that slaves (who represented well over half the population of Mississippi and other pockets of the Deep South) would revolt en masse and slaughter every white. John Brown tapped into this terror. The massive and successful slave uprising in Haiti a few decades earlier was also very much on the Southern mind.
In this regard (and in more than one or two others), the leftist male is less Rhett Butler than Robert Barnwell Rhett, Jr. He’s not a strong man—not morally, not intellectually, and beyond doubt not physically. Strong black males intimidate him; I think they almost induce a kind of internal panic in him. What if he says something wrong—what if these powerful and subliminally simmering people go to a sudden boil over some ill-chosen phrase? I have only to look at a desk full of ESPN “white woke” males surrounding some gargantuan hero of the turf to catch this vibe strongly. “Wow, B.J.—I mean, wow, man… wow, dog… the way you shredded their defense… you’re my son’s all-time favorite player… and mine, too, of course… what was your reaction when you were unanimous MVP? Were you ever sorry that you didn’t choose another sport? I mean, you were so multi-talented in college!”
Somehow, such unctuous accolades never quite smell like true admiration to me. There’s an acrid odor blended into them—a touch of fear. Physical fear. Part of the reason white males become progressives (I’m not calling it a major reason, but I sense a contribution) is that black males physically intimidate them. Now, men don’t like feeling intimidated, even the least male of them. Something primal in them—in us—insists upon creating a survival strategy. The strategy of the white male progressive is to bind the mighty black male in chains of adulation. “Surely he won’t hit me if he sees that I adore him. And I do adore him! He’s so… not me! Damn him. But if I give him what he wants, what he understands—all that he’s capable of understanding—and lift him on the pedestal I’ve made for the greatest gladiator of all time, then… then he won’t be able to pound me into powder without losing what he really needs: an abject, sycophantic admirer. I’ve got him there. I’m safe.”
Here, I suspect, is where we find much of the motivation behind the “you f——-g racist!” tweets originating from keyboards that no black finger has ever touched. The “writer” (how debased that word has grown!) hides impenetrably behind an avatar that might as well be Django or Mister T. In his e-cape of invisibility, he heavily imbibes that “bad ass” ichor which he’s convinced circulates abundantly in African veins… so unlike his white identity, which has never elevated him above a mere ass. On the Internet, he can sling obscenities like a rapper and intimidate others with his newly (falsely) acquired blackness. “Racist” from his virtual mouth, from his soiled fingertips, means just this: “Be afraid of me! I’ll dox you—I’ll get beat you up! I’ll rape you—I’ll murder you!” Yep. That one little word—racist—is a terrorist threat to every minute of whatever time you have left on earth… or that’s what the punk would like it to be.
Naturally, the former kind of verbal assailant—the genuinely black person who allows “racist” to monopolize his or her vocabulary—is a lot more simpatico. After all, that person is right, in a way. If you keep throwing money at a black child (or in his direction: most of it will never reach his doorstep) instead of demanding that he pass algebra, you’re telling him that he’s stupid; that he can’t help being stupid, that he’ll always be stupid, but that you’ll keep the subsidies coming so that he doesn’t starve on the streets. There’s irony, to be sure, in his reserving the “r” word precisely for those who would cut off the unconditional subsidies and require a passing test score… but how else is he supposed to react? Because now he needs permanent subsidizing—now that you’ve robbed him both of his best opportunity to learn and of his self-respect.
Somehow, I just don’t think that’s the guy—or the girl—who wastes time spewing and slavering e-idiocy in the direction of people like Rachel Alexander. I can see Maxine Waters doing it, because that’s her gig; and I can see Jemele Hill doing it, because she’s a ball of psychotic rage that will send a death ray through any opening. But make no mistake: the people who most need black Americans to be victims of “systemic racism” are white leftists—and not even, or not just, because the canard gins up their base (as it does for Waters). No, these are nameless people with no brilliant future before them. They, too, are balls of rage. And they need the avatar, the stereotype—the caricature—of the snubbed, derided, cheated, beaten, and lynched freedman’s muscular son roaring back on a cloud of vengeance to channel all their frustration.
“Racist” means “I’m so pissed off, I’m not taking any blame for it, I know my filthy eiecta scare and disgust you… and, oh, that makes me so happy! That’s the one thing that makes me happy! Lick my s—t, white man!”
Jemele Hill was never more white than when she decided to take this road.