Where Oppression Is


If racism is invisible, does it still exist?

While walking home last week, I chugged an extra strength 5-Hour Energy. It was a bad idea. The dose of this drink, this abomination of nature, turned my stomach upside down. I didn’t poop my pants, but I thought I did.

The rest of the way home I walked like a girl who just had sex and didn’t want the semen to leak out on her way to the bathroom. It’s like the Farrelly brothers wrote the script for my life that day.

Even worse, from the 15 minutes between the inciting incident and my front door, I interpreted every look somebody gave me as though they were disgusted because, in my mind, they noticed I pooped my pants.

When somebody would walk around me in a hurry, I thought they must’ve been revolted by the very probably poop stain that was on the seat of my pants.

Before, every look from a girl was interpreted as “that guy is hot.” After, ever look was interpreted as, “what a disgusting pervert.”

Before, every smell from the city streets was interpreted as “that must be from a bum.” After, every city smell was interpreted as, “I am a bum.”

Before, my thoughts of megalomania made my walk home enjoyable. After, my thoughts of embarrassment made my walk home a struggle.

When I got home and checked my underwear, l was genuinely surprised to find them clean. The poop was imaginary—the emotions, however, were quite real. Anger, resentment, shame. It was quite a trip for me. Always on edge, always interpreting social cues as negative. It was a burden. I would hate to live my whole life like this.

But what if there was no way to check if the poop was real? I’d have to go through life always with a little bit of imaginary poop in my pants. And the only way of confirming its existence is through interpreting cues from my social environment.

In such a scenario, a successful job interview would be near impossible. Every failure or setback I experienced would be demoralizing, because it’d always be about the poop, something I couldn’t control. I would grow to despise people who didn’t have poop in their pants. I would fluctuate between depression and violence, either laziness or lashing out. There’s no doubt there’d be a disproportionate number of people with poopy pants in jail, or homeless, or who are bipolar. I may even start to dress a little like I’m homeless, because why not? This would become my identity, my life, and the poop wouldn’t even be real.

Of course, some people do live like this, and I’m not talking about guys who drink Old Grand-Dad until they actually do poop their pants.

At the psychology graduate school I attend, an accepted part of the curriculum is that America is set up to dissuade minorities from an education and success. Specifically, whites, through their culture of white supremacy, inadvertently keep minorities down. This isn’t a point of contention, this isn’t up for discussion—it’s accepted doctrine. Every lecture, every roundtable, every conference is like a Southern Poverty Law Center meeting at the echo chamber club.

So where is the oppression? Is it in the heads of minorities, or is it real? Not sure it matters because it has the same effect either way.

It’s true that explicit, government-sanctioned racism would indeed make the oppression real. But this kind of racism has gone the way of the 1950’s, so now to keep to the script, my professors contend that racism has become implicit. This is where it gets tricky. You need to be able to read the minds of white oppressors to find out if they are implicitly racist, which is impossible. Thankfully, this is why God invented agendas—so we can find evidence to support whatever we want.

Enter the microaggression, which is the main evidence for this implicit racism that keeps minorities down. A microaggression is, in short and in full, a backhanded compliment. That’s it. This is what has condemned blacks to live in poverty, commit more violent crimes, and desert their families—this thing that you probably did a half dozen times today with your friends if you’re a fun person. When you call it a microaggression, however, it sounds worse. Leave it up to academics to come up with a new word for something and think it’s a new idea.

For instance, telling a black guy he speaks well is equivalent to saying black people on the whole don’t speak well. This creates a culture in which we continue to perceive the black man as a slang-ridden dolt. Therefore, when he interviews for a job with a white guy, the white guy thinks, “this black guy probably doesn’t speak well,” which negatively influences how the white guy judges the black guy. Whether this is true doesn’t matter as long as it’s perceived as true. Remember, the poop doesn’t have to be real to have an effect. This, combined with microaggressions, have given intellectuals an ideological proof of racism. Now, racism doesn’t even have to be real in order for it to exist. If your unfalsifiability meter just pinged, good for you.

Call me cynical, but I doubt intellectuals are spreading the gospel of implicit racism to help blacks. The premise of the microaggression and its effects is that whites are the only ones who can give blacks power, which is demeaning to blacks. More importantly, minorities do hold positions of power, but instead of studying them and how they overcame an allegedly oppressive system, we study the black criminals, black indigents, and black diseases. Every race-based research project at school revolves around studying this population, as opposed to the Fredrick Douglasses, the Neil deGrasse Tysons, or at least the Jesse Jacksons. We’re like Mother Theresa in tweed jackets—obsession with oppression has made us salivate at its sight.

I’m hardly saying anything new here. Taking responsibility for yourself in the face of obstacles, both real and imaginary, is what all successful people do who weren’t born with their goals already accomplished.

Every guy I’ve known who’s good with girls has something about him that you would think, “oh, there’s no way he could get girls.” Either he’s fat, or short, or bald, or poor, or he hates girls. They have a good reason to be unsuccessful, a reason to be oppressed—they have poop in their pants. Now let’s say you were short, and you truly wanted to get a girlfriend and not stew in self-pity, would you study an involuntary celibate, or would you study the guys who are shorter than most girls, yet somehow manage to be wrapped in them? Since there is no affirmative action for pussy, guys are compelled to do the latter.

Say what you want about academics—they are smart, so they’ll come up with spectacular ways to rationalize what they believe. Though it makes my tuition feel more like a tithe than anything else.