Confessions of a reluctant racist

I am a racist, and it’s getting worse. Try as I might, I can no longer deny just what a lousy segment of humanity comes wrapped in white skin, a fact made nearly undeniable since a horde of greed freaks, honkeys, crackers, Nazi nostalgiacs, evangelicals, high school dropouts and privileged plutocrats joined forces to elect Donald J. Trump as their chosen Lord of Misrule and King of Chaos.

Even before Trump, white folks had conducted purges, pogroms, predations, oppressions and an array of other murderous malignancies against every other shade and hue of human being, including the palette of colors they come in themselves, from pinkish to ecru.

It wasn’t just the lack of melanin that made white folks think themselves superior, either. We had better lips than Negroes, better noses than swarthy Jews, better eyes than Asians, and better religious beliefs than anyone, including many of our own blonde or brunette blood brothers and sisters.

Such racism is toxic. Trump’s ignorance and arrogance have made billions of our fellow planetary residents either very angry, very nervous, or both. We’re at risk of finding ourselves a feared and hated minority by the majority of the world’s people who’ve finally had it with us.

White folks are making a racist out of even me, a blue-eyed ol’ boy with a trailer park in his past. White right-wingers have co-opted my flag, redefined patriotism so it’s exclusive to them and done the same with what it means to be a “good Christian.” They’ve ripped off my race, making me ashamed to go out in public for fear I’ll be judged as one of “them.”

You know, an a-hole.

So, though some of my best friends are white, I’m not sure I’d want my daughters to marry one. I grow more wary with each new day’s exposure to Trump, his supporters and other belligerent and angry white folks—from bad cops to Wall Street crooks who are surely no credit to their race.

Or mine.