I honestly couldn’t give a shit, a fuck or anything else about this kid or the case that’s swept that nation, but the reaction by my co-workers has lead me to this short, but forceful post. And bare with me, I’ve been drinking.
Over dinner at a local, upstate NY sports bar, our leftist director that my last post was a unsubtle attack upon brought up the subject of Trayvon Martin. Black kid shot by racist white gun nut, easy right?
Such things are never simple. Never. From Half Sigma and Gucci Little Piggy, I’ve learned that our Hispanic, not white, devil was bloodied and had grass stains on his back, indicating a struggle. That our victim, by some witnesses, was attacking Mr. Zimmermann. Martin was suspended from school. Zimmermann was a financial consultant. Mortgages, if I’m not mistaken. Details that the MSM won’t release. Details the the MSM gloss over for the narrative of white on black racist violence.
As she brings it up, I mention a single detail unmentioned. A test of the ideology and the ignorance of my crew.
“I heard he was suspended from school.”
“Really?” says our director of photography, a half-Kenyan, half-Polish man with dark skin. A brilliant and gentle soul. A very smart man.
The old woman, our director, pipes up quickly. “You can’t say that!”
“I’m just telling the facts avoided by the other media,” I say. I’m just telling the truth avoided, I tell myself.
She rants. She raves. That doesn’t mean anything. That isn’t what matters. White vs black. Not, he was suspended.
“The school won’t release the context,” I say, as I learned from my manosphere comrades.
“That’s irresponsible,” she balks. That’s not right.
I agree, I say in my head. No context, no truth. But I cannot say it. She continues over me, leftism all the way. Our cute, dark skinned waitress asks us if everything is fine. Our pure white director bitches that she interrupted us. So much for our director’s working class feelings.
It goes on and on until we switch to a new subject. I watched the eyes of the DOP, thinking. I watched the eyes of my good friend, the audio tech, thinking. All the while, as the director rants, they think, she doesn’t.
Later, I talk about race and media, and the audio guy, who is more a libertarian/anarchist like myself, takes me to task for my words. Good. I meant it that way. I was going as far left and absurd as I could to test the thoughts of the people I work for. I talked about race war in LA, 2008, when I left it to move to Utah.
I fucking hate this. This day has been hell beyond hells, and now, on my third Guinness, I’m traipsing around in a suit of khaki and red stars so I can get the mentality of these Toronto based revolutionaries and releave some of the pressure of the earlier fights and grudges that plagued us. I just want it to be calm. The cunt can’t stop pretending her nitpicky, upper class, faux worker’s sympathy has any relevancy to us. Its just talk, talk, talk as I chug my beer, wishing I was throwing up outside just to leave the goddamn conversation.
Aside from the DOP, we’re all white, pure white, whiter than Casper in a flour factory, and yet, its the most obvious example of the so-called white privilege that is screaming ignorance from the taps to the table. Racism this and racism that. White this and black that. Ignorance above and ignorance below. I want to grab my fork, meant for my steak, and stab her through the throat.
But, I remember, this means nothing. Its just another killing, right or wrong, and it has nothing, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, to do with me or my job or me getting back home to fuck my girls.
I calm. I drink and I forget. Its all I can do while next to the worst person I’ve ever met.