My laptop cannot detect a hard drive. I do not believe this is a good sign.
And this is why I’m writing from the library, sucking down terrible, dreg-clotted coffee and listening to Local H while cursing all the forces conspiring to annoy the living shit out of me. Hi, I’m Paprika, and welcome to my White Whine.
But whatever. I’m cranky, and like Pepper, I too am frustrated by the notion that I should have to rise above asshattery. So let’s commence with the bitching.
See, I kind of snapped during class last Wednesday, and I don’t remember what I said, but I think it was something along the lines of OH MY GOD DID YOU SERIOUSLY JUST SUGGEST THAT SEGREGATION CAN BE A GOOD THING? DID I ACTUALLY HEAR YOU SAY “WHAT’S WRONG WITH LIVING APART, I MEAN, WE CAN BUILD THEM HOMES”? DID THOSE WORDS ACTUALLY MOVE FROM THE DARKEST, MOST BIGOTED PART OF YOUR BRAIN TO MY ANGRY, ANGRY EARS? ARE PEOPLE REALLY THIS INCREDIBLY THOUGHTLESS? DID YOU JUST WIN BIGOTRY BINGO?
Or something like that. Reputable sources contend that my rant was perfectly within accepted social boundaries. But here’s what I realized—
I don’t care if you’re ignorant. I don’t care if you grew up in a state that’s 89.1% white. I don’t care if you were raised in a glass cabinet in a Swedish furniture store on Baptist Boulevard in the heart of Caucasia—if you cannot see the problems with segregation, you are a racist piece of shit. If you are literally unable to mentally place yourself in the position of the oppressed, you are an asshole. And I don’t have to be nice to you. I don’t have to look at things from your side. Because your side?—has absolutely no merit.
Because what you have just admitted to is an inability to see people of color (or women, or whatever) as human.
And because while I respect your right to have any damn opinion you want, I do not have to respect your opinion.
And you know, I don’t care if saying that makes me sound self-righteous. I really don’t. Because ultimately, my own approval means more to me than yours. I’ve accepted that some people just aren’t going to like me—like springs1, because I don’t care about when she gets her ranch.
The point is, I don’t owe you intellectual nurturing just because I’m female—and if I were male, you’d probably never ask.