In the old days, Dean sang that “you’re nobody ‘til somebody loves you,” but nowadays you’re nobody ‘til somebody hates you. That means (drum roll): you must realize that you are a victim. And having been wronged, somebody has to pay you reparations. (You want to remember that word.)
The LBGT “community” says that they should be allowed to go into any restroom which complies with their most recent genital surgery. Or non-surgical mood. Same-gender couples demand, despite your abhorrence of homosexuality, that your company serve them. Many blacks scream for reparations, as do a few Japanese for WWII internments. Many Native Americans want all non-natives—99.854% of Americans—to leave and give them back their land. All such discontents, grieved at their victimization, demand special treatment, and the ACLU folk and their kin are frenzy-driven to collect for them, knowing that the powers-that-be will wilt before their onslaught.
While contemplating the situation, a stiletto-sharp thought pierced my mind, literally, just yesterday: I, too, am a victim! I have never, ever, before now, once in my entire lifetime, thought of myself as a victim. Despite being born to poor and uneducated parents, losing my dad in an oil-field accident when I was but seven weeks old, living in my early days in a house without electricity or indoor plumbing, and getting through other assorted difficult situations, I always felt extremely privileged to be an American.
But all that, I have learned, is hocus-pocus. Modern America has taught me the liberating truth that I have been severely victimized, all unbeknownst to me. That knowledge has produced in me a sudden rush of power and privilege. I am due reparations.
Thus, I now see things differently. (a) Two of my grandparents were pure Swedes. But what, I ask myself, has America done specifically for Swedishness recently? I’d say such a genetic burden is worth, say, at least a thousand bucks a month. (b) I am approximately one fourth Swiss. Another five-hundred per month. (c) The other fourth? A mixture of Scots-Irish, and three or four English genes. Again the blistering question burns: what, specifically, has America done to repay a good and patriotic American who has had to suffer under the opprobrium such a genetic hodge-podge, which is obviously no fault of mine? I can already feel my emotional load lifting in light of the readiness of my country to step up and do the right thing for me in light of my obvious victimhood.
Ah, but there’s more: I am left-handed! Can you imagine my humiliation while sitting in a first-grade room in an American public school room in which no left-handed desk even existed? The sneers! The jeers! The tears! My horrible hand-writing! (Please, dear reader, consider this brief note to serve as an invitation to join ALL, Inc.—American Left-out Left-Handers—and let’s get together and demand what is ours. For starters, we should demand that all automobile key-slots be placed on the left of the steering wheel, that commode flush-handles be put on the left side of all commodes. Et Cetera ! This has simply gone too far. When will it all become totally unacceptable? Let’s march!)
Is there more? Yes, indeed. A fecundity of possibilities arises before my eyes! I am over six-feet tall. Half a ream of paper would be required to describe the embarrassment which all tall people suffer. Then there are my sized…, well, I have large feet. I am thinking here of a hefty leather subsidy. And then there is my color-blindness. Wow! Now, there’s a big one! I am literally disabled from seeing certain flowers clearly! Is there anybody out there who cares? Where’s the mercy? Who feels my pain? Somebody has to be guilty and America must pay! My time has come! More? Of course! I own only two cars, my swimming pool is smaller than my neighbor’s, my grass has to be mowed at regular intervals, the dog next door barks, a hail-storm came through the other night, and not a single one of my favorite athletic teams won a national championship this year. Again, Et Cetera ! It is all unspeakably unfair, and cannot be tolerated any longer. Reparation Time I say!
That is the good news. There is even better news: I suggest this to you quietly, but ponder a demonstrable fact: Voila— you, too, are a victim! You don’t have to become one; you already are one. You haven’t thought about it? Well do so, and do so now. America owes you and has the cash to pay you. And if there is not a sufficient amount in the national treasury today to do so, well, paper and green ink are cheap. I say, let the presses roll and let us victims—all three hundred and twenty millions of us—be given our due and just reward. Immediately. With apologies!
A puzzling fact, however fleetingly, does occur to me betimes: why did I never hear, from a single member of my scores and scores of forebears, any of them ever having sensing their victimhood. They were universally joyous over the privilege of being Americans. What ignoramuses they were! The whole lot of them but benighted simpletons! I do miss their bucolic joy, and their gritty independence, but me?, I’m a different kind of American: I’m going for the money!
Bill Anderson