” If you have an example of white privilege, look no further…”
_________________________
A guy fell off a mile-high cliff…a promontory of jagged-edge rocks, dusted off his pants and walked away, smiling wickedly…knowingly. There were no contraptions like a parachute employed by this man to break his fall. He slipped, and screamed his way down, believing he was going to die; aware that there would be no more cold champagne bottles to pop open, and no more egg Benedict to start his day, if he landed on that rock surface that was moving at the speed of light toward him.
He knew he would not have any more bragging rights to float around barflies the next time he visited his favorite hangout, or trell tall tales about his revered prowess at reaching for the red-skirted, blue-eyed blonde woman, grab her crotch, and blow Sasquatch-smelling breath into her mouth…all because he is famous. If he crashed against that one huge rock abutment with a dozen sharp protrusions, he knew that his delightful, pleasure-screaming days would be over; that his God-given power to violate wives of other men, screw daughters of men who served in war zones would desert him…including the cream jetting off his Winnie. All that would be for the birds. That blissful, earth-shaking marsupial tenor squealing would be taken away from him. He will go dumber. Silenced for good measure. His supremacy to grab the blue-skirted, brunette off the golden, spiral staircase, push her against the Jacaranda arty walls, and force her into the men’s bathroom, yank her skirt and undies off, and then what? I will stop there. Don’t read this like you’ve got no imagination. Say it, Joe. ‘Ram Her!’ Say it, Hector. ‘Bang Her!’ In Hades, or Hell, all that will be taken from him.
The fact that he would no longer be screaming with delightful pleasure, lie, cheat, and bamboozle his puck-marked facial features through the soft, falling barricades away, walk up against all forces pushing him the other way to reach Hell, where he was promised to live like the king he always wanted for himself that Mr. Lou Cypher had promised him; the second he walked into Hades, he would know that he had been lied to. He would be grinning still, looking around for the residents to herald his entry with rusty horns and blow-whistles. Trumpets of dissonance would wrap his occluded mind and force him to eat the rust and swallow slowly. Any ordinary man would have stopped, however temporarily, to gauge his slow crawl, his strutting into Hell proper… into Hell’s pavilion. But not this belligerent fool…not this prideful nonentity. This man is not your regular Joe Blow. The name, John Rambo, would have fit had he joined the army for Vietnam when Uncle Sam called on him. But come on! Rambo was badass. John Rambo was at war once, and he was fearless. This man could not have survived the sandpit where John Rambo ate lunch, sheeted, showered, and shaved… in the same Vietnam he bone-spurred his way out of. He knew that the second his back crashed onto that rock, he would be done. But that’s not what happened. Know this; he crashed against the rock alright, but the damned rock was blown to smithereens, because he was packing ordinances behind him, like the documents he freaking stole.
A multi-felon, grenade backpacker won the day again. Twice bamboozled, and he is still waxing strong…even stronger. Sensitive secrets were stolen. Students were defrauded. Names: Fraudster. Rapist. Misogynist. After the fall, he got up and realized that he was still breathing, and that the sky on that day was cobalt blue, and that half of the people he shares the world with were morons. Deplorables. Truly gavel-brained, this bunch. With that, he thanked God for little favors, looked up to gauge the height of the cliff he had fallen from, and declared that he had been chosen by the same God he had never asked forgiveness from, nor had he ever knelt down and prayed to. God, he surmised, had chosen him, to lead the world through these two-pronged battles; Iwo Jima and D-Day. Tough battles. They require a strong, unwavering badass to whither the cool winds he claimed to be a raging storm. As all living humans would react, giving the unfathomable luck he found himself in, he is, right now, laughing his arse off. He will be on that fart-soaked mahogany-framed chair, wondering, how lame, how incredibly stupid a nation could be. And you say he is not the luckiest man ever! Of course, he is. I say, he is. This man has alacrity rewritten, no, fast-forwarded, to fit his decaying, idiosyncratic numbed soul: Not to save it, but to embolden it. It would be easier for God to forgive Lucifer and allow him to reenter Heaven, as if all that spit-in-God’s-eye never happened, than for this man to reenter the house and sit back on that same chair we scrubbed clean. Ask yourselves why this is so. If you have an example of white privilege, look no further: A white man. DONALD J TRUMP is it.
HERE IS A GOOD JOKE TO PROVE THAT BEING WHITE HAS ITS PRIVILEGES.
Three men died and went to Heaven. One white. One black, and the other Mexican. The white man approached the Pearly Gates and asked God. “God. Are you white or are you black?”
GOD. “Who are you? And why should I let you in?”
WHITE GUY: “I gave the world religion…Christianity. I fought big battles in your name, converted enslaved blacks to believe in you.”
GOD: “You are right, my son. Spell, Whiteman.”
The white man did, and God let him into Heaven.
The Mexican approached the Pearly gates and asked God.
“I am here, Lord…can I come in?”
GOD: “Why should I, The Alpha and The Omega, let you in?”
MEXICAN: “The Whiteman stole from me…my land. Tejas! Now, Texas. I have suffered enough. And when I tried to reenter and retake my stolen land, he called me names…and even declared me illegal. My land, Father. My land. The gall of him.”
GOD: “Oh Jesus! He did too. You are right. Okay, spell, Salsa.”
The Mexican spelled it correctly and entered Heaven.
It was the Blackman’s turn. He approached Pearly Gates on wobbly legs. God had an attitude as soon as the brother showed up at His front Gates.
GOD: “Yeah? The hell do you want, bro? No DEI Entries here.”
BLACKMAN: “They did all kinds of terrible things to me, Father.”
GOD: “Who did?”
BLACKMAN: “The Whiteman. He enslaved me. I built all of what you see down there. New York. LA. D.C. even the Whitehouse…all without pay.”
GOD: “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay, spell; Shokolokobangoshay and Tetrahydrocannabinol.”
If we survive Trump, I’ll tell you if the black man got it right.
(The joke was told in its original form by the then President of Texas Southern University, Granville Sawyer, in 1979 prayer breakfast at the student center)
♦ Don Okolo, Professor and filmmaker, is on the Editorial Board of the West African Pilot News. He is the author of many books.
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5 comments
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