Justice For All

People suck.

Yeah, okay, that's not new. But I hopefully have a new reason to present you with tonight.

Discrimination.

It's a nasty thing. Very un-PC. Lots of organizations have been founded to combat this terrible human affliction. But I feel that amidst all the anger, marches and forceful oppression, one often overlooked splinter group has slipped through the cracks of society.

My fellow Caucasians, it's time for us to stand up and be heard.

Now before I lose most of you in disgust, thinking that I've suddenly turned HoF into the latest hatemongering site, I ask you to hear me out before you pass judgment.

I hate. I'll never deny that. But my hatred is as unbiased as it is deep. Nobody is beneath my scorn, and to spend the time and energy focusing on one particular group is ludicrous. I hate everyone with the purity of spirit that can only be forged in the flames of furious anger. I hate white people. I hate black people. I hate red, yellow and purple polka-dotted people. It's a blind hatred, with capacity enough for all. Which isn't to say that I agitate. My hatred usually manifests itself into outward apathy for a person. (Note that "a person" is not the same as "people" ... you probably have to be me to fully understand and appreciate this distinction, but trust me, it's an important one.) I tend to ignore a person until they do something to attract my attention, either negative or positive, and my attitude towards them may change as the scale tips. But mostly, I just like to keep to myself, content in my conviction that People Suck and there's nothing you can do about, so best to just stay away from them whenever possible and ignore them when it isn't.

Sadly, this isn't a courtesy that I find most other races care to extend back to me.

Practically my entire school career was spent as a minority to the minorities. I was in the shiny new "Gifted and Talented" program, which at the time meant little more than sitting in your classroom reading books written for college students and doing calculus all day. As this was a new-fangled thing for Louisiana, we had no special schools, so they pretty much just shoved us into any old school that would have us. In most cases, these were the poorest schools with the worst students, but they were so desperate for anything to draw attention to themselves that our little freak show was perfect.

Of course, all of this was determined by the pencil pushers on the school board and nobody asked our opinion on the matter, which is a shame because I think we would've all unanimously voted to hold class in a much less dangerous environment, like, say a grizzly bear den, or Jeffrey Dahmer's favourite all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant. But no, they instead chose to ship us intellectual elites to the inner city, where the third graders shaved and everybody hated you on sight for one reason and one reason only.

Your skin colour.

We had enough problems as 8-year old brainiacs without being forced to bear the social pressures of our race. We were kids just trying to make the most of a childhood that was feeling all too rushed. And yet, my clearest memory of 4th grade is attempting to calmly explain to the group of black girls who had managed to corner me in the bathroom that I, personally, was not to blame for the enslavement of their African ancestors. (Probably needless to say, they neither believed me nor cared, but I sprinted away unharmed and just held my bladder for ten hours a day for the next five years.)

This event, and others much like it, had an impact on young Jet Wolf. She had not yet learned how to hate, but she had learned how to be bewildered and confused. Even then it seemed to make little sense that these people, so self-righteously angry with me for crimes committed centuries before my birth, were acting on the same irrational point of view that started this mess in the first place. She didn't yet know the meaning of the word "irony", but if she had, she would've found it highly appropriate.

We leave elementary and middle school to briefly visit high school. Still victim of the GT program (which was still itself victim to ill-thought teaching locations), I became friends with two girls, one black and one white. Before you think that this friendship lapses into stereotypical obscurity, I note that the white girl, Chantelle, was in the regular high school classes while Izzy (yes, that is a nickname ... long, irrelevant story) was in GT with me. I had, by this stage, well learned to tune out most of the world around me, but it was with no small amount of anger that I noticed Izzy was often the butt of the other black girls' taunts and insults. They felt, apparently, that she had "sold out her sisters" tremendously by daring to associate with myself and Chantelle. This was never a bias that I had to endure from any other white student, and I was again struck with the ridiculous paradox we were mired in, and more than a little frustrated with it.

Not that Izzy ever cared, mind you. She just went and got herself a nice little white boy to give her detractors something new to talk about. But I digress.

Which brings me to now. As I've indicated already, I try to tune out most of what's around me, as it tends to do little more than frustrate me beyond measure. But today, at work, a fellow employee had left a magazine at the desk I was sitting at, so I flipped through it between calls.

Cue the fan to flame the ember.

The magazine's name is Black Enterprise. It bills itself as "Your ultimate guide to financial empowerment."

I nearly choked on the double standards.

Skimming the magazine, it appears to be exactly what you probably think it is: a commerce magazine geared towards black people. This is not a magazine for just anybody to pick up and read. That much is clear by just flipping to the table of contents and reading some of the article names and captions: "This month on the virtual desktop for African-Americans" (yes, the text was actually in red), "Keep Track of Black Stocks", "Black Wealth Initiative", "Black publicly traded companies have been shaken up in a volatile market" ... And I'm only partway into the magazine.

But perhaps even more striking are the advertisements. I've made something of a hobby over the years of studying commercials as a beautifully insightful tool into the human psyche -- let's face it, nobody knows better what you're thinking and feeling and how to manipulate this knowledge than a marketer. (Don't believe me? Turn on a TV and watch a commercial. I mean, really watch it. Take note of everything you see ... what the people look like, what they're wearing, what they're saying, the commercial's setting, what channel it's on and during what show at what time of day ... you'll be surprised at what you observe when you start paying attention and realize that everything you're seeing has been perfectly orchestrated and choreographed.) I was amazed by the deliberate, startling lack of every non-black race in absolutely every single advertisement. We're talking from the most seemingly innocuous things like UPS and Dodge Caravans all the way up to credit card companies and merchant bankers. If the ad featured a human, you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that human would be black.

With the blatant headlining and lack of subtlety in the advertising, this magazine fairly shrieks "Not black? Not welcome." I felt like the glaring, hateful eyes of an entire secret society were openly shooting daggers into my back for even daring to turn back the cover with my lilly white hand.

But okay, really, so what? Who cares who has what magazine? If this sort of thing is of genuine help to someone, then honestly, I'm all for it. My problem lies in the fact that my own race is somehow forbidden from the same rights of expression.

Could you imagine it now? Commercial Caucasians or perhaps Today's Whitey with the tagline "Keeping power in the hands of the true master!" Yeah, okay, I'm being intentionally flammatory here, but I do it to illustrate a point. I admit that I haven't gone magazine shopping lately, but I can't think of a single non-underground magazine (ie, something you could find at the library or on the rack at a Circle K) that is directly aimed at white people. Every single magazine that's coming to mind is so non-offensively PC that it's almost enough to make you scream. Sure, perhaps the content doesn't appeal to every race, but that's certainly a far cry from an intentional internal structure designed to alienate absolutely everyone but the target audience.

Again, a more visual way you can test this. One night, tune in an episode of Def Comedy Jam. If you don't hear at least 20 jokes about white people, then it's probably the wrong show; try again. Now watch an episode of The Improv. Note the difference? White people making jokes about black people, dat shit ain't funny. Frankly, I doubt that any comedian basing his act around that wouldn't make it past his audition. But black people making fun of white people? Hot damn, that's so funny the crowd almost riots, punching each other in the face, falling out of chairs and speaking in tongues.

Contrary to how this sounds, I don't want a homogenized species. I think it's for the best that we're all different. Let's face it, if everyone were Caucasian, we'd only be able to Riverdance and every station would be playing country and western. But if one race is allowed to indulge, or indeed, wallow in their diversity, then the same opportunities should be available to all. Wasn't that the crux of the whole sixties movement? What the heck did Rosa Parks keep her ass in the seat for if not so that people -- all people -- could be equal? If a magazine publisher wants to start releasing issues of White People Like Us, they should be allowed to do so without the NAACP banging down their doors.

There comes a point where you've got to say that enough is enough. For as long as I can remember, I've heard black people speaking passionately about equal rights and doing away with discrimination, while at the same time adamantly refusing to take the final step towards equality. I've felt for years that women can never truly be equal to men until they have to face all the dangers as well as the perks . (Women scream about male dominance? Fine, petition for us to get drafted at age 18 like the men, and then we'll talk about equality, but until then, sorry sister -- we ain't equals.) And the same holds true for blacks. If you feel that white people still hold you in a subservient position, then you've got to stop putting yourself in a situation where you continually portray yourself as the victim. How the heck can we ever put slavery behind us if you teach your children from Day One to hate the fairer skinned folk because of it? How can we ever be equal if you continually demand greater allowances to express yourselves and your pride in who you are while hypocritically condemning us for trying to do the same thing?

I think this is perhaps best summed up by a conversation a group of people were having once while I was working at that intellectual mecca, McDonald's. One girl in particular was fiercely adamant about the evils of white people, and how they had been oppressing her and her fellow African-Americans for so long. She wasn't being particularly hateful about it, just extremely fixated on her African-American brothers and sisters and the injustices she perceived. I listened to the debate for a while, with none of the whites making a whole lot of headway at stating their points, and the blacks nodding emphatically at what the girl was saying. But before long, I noticed a flaw in her argument for equality and brought it to her attention.

"How can we ever truly be equal," I asked her, "if you insist on classifying yourself differently and waving that difference proudly in the face of those you claim you want to be equal to? If you truly want equality, then shouldn't we all just be 'Americans'?"

There was no answer, and even now, I'm hard pressed to find a flaw this rare flash of insight. We can't have it both ways, people. Either we're equal, or we're different. Either you relish and embellish your heritage or you quelsh it when we're to be on an even playing field. I'm proud of my British background, but I wouldn't walk into a college's loan office waving the Union Jack around and screaming "'ey, oy wonts in on this 'ere campus, guv! Give us the dosh!" and then wonder why I'm not being treated fairly by the rest of the students who are every bit as poor and deserving of a grant as I am.

Equality -- true equality -- is a wonderful goal to strive for, but I just don't see it coming unless some major changes in attitude take place from all sides of the problem. Until then, what we have is nothing but a shallow farce.

I guess I'll know when we've really made strides towards equality when I'm running through an airport terminal and finally see a copy of Ebony sitting happily on the shelf next to Ivory.