Last week I wanted to
become a cowboy to help save rancher Cliven Bundy’s cattle from the
cattle-rustlin’ federal government.
As my column ran, media
interest was picking up on federal western land grabs. Breitbart had
reported that Texans are concerned about the Bureau of Land
Management’s focus on 90,000 acres along the Texas/Oklahoma border,
a possible federal takeover/ownership of privately held lands that
have been deeded property for generations of Texas landowners. But
then, major distraction:
Nevada’s Bundy,
apparently having found that the media would listen to anything he
had to say, decided to give his opinion on welfare, stating that
“the Negro”… living in nearby public housing… “didn’t have nothing
to do…
“And because they were
basically on government subsidy, so now what do they do? And I’ve
often wondered, are they better off as slaves, picking cotton and
having a family life and doing things, or are they better off under
government subsidy? They didn’t get no more freedom. They got less
freedom.”
Well. Instead of being
seen as a man of a certain generation using the word “Negro” instead
of “African-American,” awkwardly and ungrammatically asking a
rhetorical question, while clearly having a romanticized, “Old
Kentucky home” notion of slavery, Cliven Bundy was immediately
pronounced a racist, not only by the usual race-obsessed Democrats
but by Republicans who had just been supporting his stand-up to the
feds.
Adjectives flew from
all-partisan politician and pundit pie-holes: “appalling,
disgusting, despicable, repugnant.” Apologetic but unrepentant,
Bundy released a statement that brought other-race welfare
recipients into his argument: “The government dole which many people
in America are on, and have been for much of their lives, is
dehumanizing and degrading. It takes away incentive to work and
self-respect. Eventually a person on the dole becomes a ward of the
government, because his only source of income is a dole from the
government. Once the government has you in that position, you are
its slave.”
A discussion worth
having, again, but moving on, the media found a better example of
“appalling and disgusting” in the more visible sports arena, and we
were off to the “race”s again. Curious, I heard the allegedly
private phone conversation between Los Angeles Clippers’ owner
Donald Sterling, an 80-year-old rich guy and his 31-year-old
girlfriend (try not to stereotype), in which he asked her not to
post a photo of herself walking with Magic Johnson on the social
media and somehow made it sound as if he didn’t want her associating
with blacks. It seemed obvious that the old fool is jealous of
Magic, doesn’t want to admit it, so mentioned race instead of
admitting his (probably valid) insecurity. So here it comes again:
“despicable,” “sickening,” etc., followed by sponsors going nuts,
players turning their uniforms inside out, the NAACP giving back his
donations, and then the NBA banishing him from its hallowed court.
What the…? His alleged
mistress, on whom he publicly showered attention and lots of money,
is black; how can he be racist?
I never gave much
thought to race, never saw racial conflict until I moved to Boston
in the ’70s. Soon realized that it’s one of those things that make
no sense and that I might never understand.
Seemed odd to me when I
was first called a racist, because of supporting Proposition 2½: I
knew that, because of City Hall assessment practices at the time,
Roxbury homeowners paid the highest property taxes in the country. I
eventually came to realize that calling someone a racist is a
political weapon, that for some reason benefits Big Government
types, so I became impervious to the intended insult. I even
considered getting business cards that said, “Barbara Anderson,
Racist” to pass out and get the discussion over with up front. But
eventually things seemed to settle down, people of different races
were starting to get along, even marry, and the country was growing
up.
Then Obama became
president and I’ve considered the business cards again, because
anyone who disagrees with anything he does has to be a racist. I’m
tired of it, bored even. Tuning it out as much as possible.
Here is my reality. All
human beings are African-American, having evolved in east Africa,
then some moved out around the world. Skin color changed to adapt to
various climates. The only reason it’s worth mentioning is during
medical analysis, where there might be genetic inclinations to some
diseases, or when you have to pick someone up at the airport (“I’m
tall, black, will be wearing a plaid jacket”), or when you describe
a criminal assault when every detail of appearance is important.
Other than that, who cares?
Long before I read Zane
Grey and wanted to become a cowboy, I wanted to be an Indian. My
cousins and I played “cowboys and Indians,” with cap guns and toy
bows and arrows. One spring, before we all tanned, I convinced them
to let me be the Indian by staining my skin with dandelions.
Unfortunately, from my
parents’ perspective, this happened the week before my First Holy
Communion. I walked with other second-graders down the church aisle
in my beautiful white communion dress and wreath, my bare arms and
face streaked with unnatural color. I was a dandelion-American;
what’s wrong with that?
