Confessions of a White Democrat
Posted By Spencer J. Quinn On In North American New Right | Comments Disabled
[1]2,213 words
It really hurts to be white these days.
I can’t talk about that, of course. And if I have to, like when some pushy reporter sticks a microphone in my face or something, then yes, I will talk about it. But I will say the exact opposite of the truth. I will talk about white privilege and white supremacy and how white men are the greatest threat to the world and whatnot. And I will say all of this well, because I went to college and I’ve practiced a lot in front of a mirror. I’m a good talker, you know. You have to be, in my profession.
And you’d think I’d be saying these things — I wouldn’t call them lies as such. No, no. I’d call them gnostic truths. So, I wouldn’t be saying these gnostic truths to save my white skin — as if it even deserves to be saved. It would seem that way, but no. Gnostic truths are in fact the building blocks of enlightenment, and oftentimes the ground gets too wet and soggy for building.
I know what you’re thinking. “Why don’t you build somewhere else?” Yeah, you can’t build somewhere else, Einstein. The whole damn world is a swamp, okay? There is no good place to build! So we build here. And sometimes that means digging until we reach rock bottom or limestone or whatever we can find that is hard enough to support a building. I mean, I’ve never dug a hole deeper than six inches in my entire life, but you see my point. And this isn’t just any building. It’s a freaking humanist cathedral. I mean, I don’t believe in god or the Bible or anything, but I do believe in this. Humanity can accomplish great things. If there’s no heaven or hell, and “above us, only sky,” like the song says, then we might as well do great things, right? Otherwise, we’re just jerking off. So this means we have to keeping digging to lay the foundations for our glorious future.
So we have to go down to go up. Get it? A gnostic truth seems like it takes us further from enlightenment, but really, it gives us the firm footing we need so we can ultimately achieve enlightenment. It’s a nuance that Republicans are too stupid to understand.
The problem, however — and this ties into why it hurts so much to be white these days — is black people. Do you how many times I’ve wanted to hurl a bucket of bile at these people? Every day I have to work with them, and every day I have to pretend to like them and take them seriously and act like I give a shit about their incessant whining. But that’s the job, right? How else are we going to keep abortions and gay marriage legal? How else are we going to establish vax mandates and universal health care? How else are we going to stop global warming and the obesity epidemic and provide gender affirmation surgery for teenagers? How else are we going to drag humanity kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century?
We need black people, you see. We need their votes and we need their support. And to get that, they don’t want only money and sinecures and special protections. They don’t even want equality. No, no. They want us to kiss their asses. They want us to fawn over them and pretend that we are inferior to them! See? Isn’t there a song about how the people who were first are now last when “the times they are a-changin’?” Well, it’s like that.
Anyway, that’s the hardest part, you know? The money, the affirmative action, all the kumbaya stuff that did the trick 30 years ago isn’t doing the trick today. No, blacks want more. A lot more. They want to control you. They want to control everything. And so a white person who is as committed to enlightenment as I am and who is willing to bite down on the pain every time he tells a gnostic truth has to be very careful these days about what he says about blacks — or else that great cathedral may never get built at all. There are so many things I want to say, but I just can’t. It’s a hell of a sacrifice, I tell you what.
You know, sometimes when I am in a morbid mood, I check out what the far Right has to say on social media. I have a couple of pseudonyms that I use, and I just lurk as these losers post racist memes and jokes all day. Oh, they think they’re so clever. Anyone can post crime statistics or IQ charts or photographs of urban decay or videos of blacks doing beastly things. From the way these people behave, you’d think they’ve discovered some universal truth, like the theory of relativity or whatever. As if being red-pilled means a person deserves a medal. Oh, boy.
And I almost envy these cretins. Believe it or not, I do. Almost. They have the freedom that I sometimes wish I had. They can just let loose and have a good laugh about it. Like, recently, Idiot Number 1 posted a most likely doctored chart comparing black-on-white murder to white-on-black murder — and of course the black-on-white chart was a lot bigger. Then Idiot Number 2 said, “Whoa! Whites really need to step up their game!” And all the other idiots starting rolling out the lolz. It was so entertaining.
You know what it reminded me of? In high school, I was a star tennis player. Best kid on the team as a sophomore. And by the time I was a senior, I was ranked among the top ten in the state. And you know what? I really wasn’t all that good. I knew it even back then. I just worked really, really hard at it. It’s what happens when you have an alcoholic pro for a father. There’s a fine line between discipline and sadism, and I’m pretty sure my dad crossed it quite a few times — although the arrogant prick would probably tell you otherwise if you were stupid enough to ask him about it today.
Anyway, I remember as a senior watching these freshman junior varsity scrubs swat the ball around during practice — and they were actually having fun. Really, they were having fun. It was a shock to me, because I had stopped having fun playing tennis a long time before. I wasn’t supposed to have fun. No; I was supposed to win. That was my job. And that wasn’t just my coach and dad talking. It was everyone: teachers, reporters, priests and rabbis, total strangers on the street. Not to mention all the girls who couldn’t wait to take their clothes off for me. Everyone expected me to win. So, you see, even back then I lived in the real world. I had to get things done. I couldn’t afford to entertain myself like these Right-wing yahoos who think they’re making a spit of difference in their little circle-jerk chatrooms.
[2]You can buy Spencer Quinn’s novel White Like You here [3].
I’d forgive them for not knowing what they do if they weren’t so goddamn annoying.
And why are they so annoying? Because they gleefully break the rules that I have to follow so closely in order to make the world a better place. These Right-wing idiots don’t realize that their freedoms come at a price — and that price is shutting the door on an enlightened world! They want to drag us back to the past, as if slavery and misogyny and homophobia and Christianity and children in factories were good things. I want to cut their balls off. I really do.
But when I step back and think about it, I realize why I feel this way. They make it harder for people like me to follow the rules. With all the fun they are having, they are tempting me not to follow the rules. Like how those JV scrubs were tempting me to stop caring about winning.
But, unlike them, I see the bigger picture. I have to win. And these days, for a white person to win, he has to be damn near perfect. And I tell you, nobody is that.
So yes. Yes, I did use the N-word — several times — in my youth. Well, not youth, technically. I was an Assistant Prosecutor in a children’s court. What was I — 30? That’s nothing. 30 is like ten in grownup years. But that’s not an excuse. I was just wrong, that’s all. Who hasn’t been wrong in their life? I was under the mistaken impression that I could actually make a difference in this world — like, in the here and now, not the future which we can actually plan for. I know. I was stupid.
Look, I was dealing with pregnant mothers on crack. I was dealing with 15-year-old boys who would videotape themselves raping ten-year-old girls. I was dealing with seven-year-olds who play with their father’s guns and shoot up their own homes. I was dealing with teenagers who ambush pedestrians by smashing them in the back of the head with bricks. I was dealing with a mother who beat her nine-year-old daughter so badly with a lead pipe that she went blind in one eye and lost cognitive function.
I called these people niggers, okay? There. I said it. I had the mistaken assumption back then that using the word was actually moral. You heard me, moral. I know, it sounds crazy. But my reasoning went like this: Since “nigger” is such a powerful word, we should use it as often as possible in order to shame black people into not behaving like animals. That way, we will have fewer black victims of black crimes (and fewer white victims as well, but nobody cares about them).
Like I said, it was stupid. I was assuming the ground was solid enough to build my cathedral upon. But it isn’t. It’s a swamp. Everywhere you go, it’s a swamp. People will never care, and they will never change. So now I have to start digging. Again.
In about two minutes, I will go on CNN to apologize to my constituents, to my country, and to the entire world. In two minutes, nearly a fifth of the planet will be watching my face contort with well-rehearsed anguish — hopefully with tears, too, if I can pull it off. I will become a focal point for all of humanity as video clips of my downfall will surely go viral and live forever. It’s too bad they don’t award Oscars to politicians. They really should. Those people in Hollywood are amateurs. They don’t know acting like we know acting. For them it’s all about money and fame; for us, it’s life and death — and there is no second take.
Anyway, I will do as my advisors say. I will admit that I was wrong and that I am no longer worthy to represent my state in the House of Representatives. Then I will graciously resign, and speak about the next chapter of my life, in which powerful people will make use of me in furthering any one of their many causes. My only surprise will be endorsing Jayshon over Shaniqua as my successor. Who knows who will end up succeeding me? But Shaniqua was the real fireball of the office. A cunning, ugly bitch I had to take on in order to please all the right people on all the right committees. Jayshon, on the other hand, is dumb and sloppy, but fairly good-natured in comparison. She will eat him alive.
And I really don’t feel sorry for all my white staffers I couldn’t endorse. Good people, all of them. If I had any time for real affection, I would have made friends with them, which I now rather regret not doing. Regardless, they’re going to end up getting fired if Shaniqua gets her way, as I think she will — and that will be a mercy. Maybe then they will quit politics and actually start enjoying life, like those JV scrubs on the tennis team or those nutty Right-wingers with their racist memes.
And maybe, just maybe, I could join them? Even if just for a moment, maybe I could . . .
My heart flutters and then stops — but just for a moment. Just long enough to remind me that what I was contemplating can never happen. I am a slave to my beautiful cathedral, and I will keep digging in this lonely hell for the spot on which I can place its cornerstone.
I have 30 seconds. I can see the hosts in the video feed. The sound guy is getting my mic just right. The light is a bit brighter than usual, but whatever. I will persevere. I clear my throat, sit up tall, straighten my tie, and look calmly into the camera. It’s time to go out there and win.
Ten seconds now. I will persevere. Five, four, three, two . . .
I think for one last time of my staffers and the freedom they will soon be enjoying. I want to be with them so badly. They say that freedom is sweet, but I find consolation in telling myself I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t know.
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