Today all manner of curiosities, as I once called them, propose that whites pay reparations for slavery. For example, our Democratic presidential candidates. Well, I am joining them. Yes. I am for reparations. It is only just.
Once I lived in moral darkness, and thought reparations was crazy as Aunt Sally, that we kept in the attic because she kept trying to eat the carpet downstairs. I wondered where we got such a daft Congress. I figured saturation mutagenesis, or somebody put brain softener in the water.
I am a poor sinner, but I have reformed. Bring on reparations. I believe that everyone who has been a slave should be paid a vast sum of money, to be paid by those who enslaved him. No exceptions. I do not kid around about reparations.
It was that AOC woman that changed my life, Alexandria Occasionally Cortés. I listened to her and saw that I was a reprobate, probably beyond redemption. I decided then and there to free all my slaves by sundown. I wasn’t sure how many I had. I asked my wife to tot them up, not an exact count but in even dozens.
I further resolved to pay each of then a million dollars, and did so. Not one of my former slaves failed to get this sum. Not one will want for six hundred dollar tennis shoes. My conscience is washed clean in the light of the Lord.
I confess that I once was a conservative thug, but am now a liberal googoo. Yes, praise Heaven! From woofer to tweeter. Whereas once I wanted to bomb every country I had heard of, I now don’t have the sense God give a crab apple, as we used to say in Alabama I have crossed the aisle.
I once thought that liberals were crazy. They seemed desperate to find something to be guilty of, so they could Atone, as publicly as possible, and lord it over the rest of us They want to air out their inner goodness like washed sheets on a clothes line. Since most of them had never really done anything wrong, they had to be guilty of something they hadn’t done. Slavery was a good choice, since none of them could possible have done it.
This opened broad new vistas of unguilt and therefore the satisfactions of penance. Yea, I say unto thee, brothels and cisterns, I have discovered deep wells of sins in which I took no part and for which I can repent: the Rape of the Sabine Women, or the sack of Constantinople in 1204. Oh, the guilt! I will send the Turks a twenty-dollar money order.
In my days of benightedness (can a day be benighted? These are deep waters.) I thought blacks owed whites reparations for burning our cities. Rebuilding them is a great nuisance, and costs money.
But this engenders a problem for my newfound liberalism, which maybe I have not quite figured out. Can you be guilty of something you actually did? You know, like converting a habitable city into a no-go zone? If you can be guilty of something you didn’t, maybe you can’t be guilty of something you did do. You know, conservation of symmetry, or something.
Which brings us to affirmative action. (I’m not sure how, but we seem to be here.) In my former state of racial villainy, I said shocking and reprehensible things. These now gall my very soul. I said—the shame!–that if you were good enough you didn’t need affirmative action, that if you needed it you weren’t good enough, and that if you accepted it you were a parasite. It was unpardonable —true, but unpardonable.
But bear with me. As a newly hatched agent of supernal virtue, I am trying to understand affirmative action. I guess it takes a while. My first thought was that we should democratize it: Everybody should be eligible. This would be more inclusive. It would let everybody get into everywhere ahead of everybody else. Nothing could be more fair.
Still, it confused me. If we are going to hire people became they can’t do a job, should we not favor even more those even less able to do it? That is, should we discriminate in favor of the mildly incompetent at the expense of the hopelessly unable? Hiring by competitive incapacity is the only road to social justice.
We now come, by another logically mysterious leap, to cultural appropriation. This means that if you are white and wear a sombrero to a costume party, you are using Mexican culture without a license. This is very bad, hardly distinguishable from putting a city to the sword. (When Bruce Jenner is in costume, is he committing gendral appropriation? This needs thought.) God help you (if such is permitted under separation of church and state) if you go in blackface as Michael Jackson. It is just like Hitler.
Now, it seems to me that when blacks use writing, or cellphones, or arithmetic, they are committing cultural appropriation of European white culture. This is quite shocking. And they have been doing it for years. Clearly reparations are in order, backdated. I accept cash, checks, or PayPal.
Pondering this injustice, I saw that the only way to reach the luminous pinnacle of the socially correct is to licence white culture, much as we license software. Doing it on a per-use basis would be accountigwise burdensome: so much per hour for listening to Tchaikovsky, so much for each street sign read. This would be so tedious as to warm the cockles of a federal bureaucrat’s heart (whatever a cockle is).
No, I am envisioning it as an unlimited licence. See, people in Black Lives Matter would pay a fixed amount per year for unlimited reading, writing, and arithmetic, with use of buildings, television, and antibiotics thrown in as lagniappe. (Lagniappe is not a woman in Black Lives Matter. So far as I know.)
I am not greedy, and propose setting the license fee for use of our culture at the amount of reparations paid for not having been slaves. This would be a wash, and avoid a massive amount of dat-entry.
See? I’m a googoo but not completely dim. Pretty close, though.
Now, racism. Back when I was a conservative—oh, the anguish!–I thought that racism was an insidious evil gnawing at the very bowels of society, like a hagfish tunneling through the tripes of a tuna. I could see racism, or thought I could, everywhere: in Knockout Game hospitalization of whites, in BLM assaulting white speakers, in whole cities where a white man dare not walk. All of this I thought to be racism.
Now I see that these are cries for help. By troubled youth. A concussion is just their way of pleading for understanding.
I do understand, and so am moving to Mexico.
See? I told you. Ha!
A week or so ago I wrote a column disputing claims of conspiracy theorists and stating that they hold their views with vituperative intensely. Anyone interested, if anyone is, might get a kick out of reading the comments in response to the column. Note that they call names but do not answer the questions raised in the column.
Finally, I get much mail from web louts of growly incomprehension telling me that I am a race traitor and turncoat and other thing that they have trouble spelling because I live in Mexico, which consists of peasants living in stick huts. For civil and thoughtful readers, which is most of them, I occasionally post things containing no stick huts. Here is one.
Mexican kid, sixteen This was years back. He went on to quite a career. Probably lives in a stick hut.