Montana’s last year in elementary school began with a classmate (who hailed all the way back from junior kindergarten) shouting out a few choice racial epithets directed towards Montana and a few other male classmates during a heated moment in a game on the playground. The language imaginary invoked by the child centered on Slaves, Jews, Spics and Gooks.
According to the kid’s rule of the playground a turn deserves a turn, and so the child’s own ethnicity came under the attack respectively by the “slave”, the “spic”, and the “gook” as a member of the “dog-eaters”. The boy stormed off the playground in a huff. The boys continued on with their game never thinking anything more of it. But this child was well schooled by the cult of political correctness and stormed off to the office to take advantage of the ignorance and earnestness of a new principal to cry about the injustice of the “racism” directed towards himself by the “other”.
I would never have learned about it except for my son’s conduct when confronted indirectly by the principal. Certainly, the old principal, an old hand, well-schooled would never have put himself so foolishly in the position that the new principal did. The new principal saw it as his moment to shine and strike a blow for racial equality harmony, and justice for all - in one go. Admirable and well-intentioned, but a trifle misguided.
The entire grade eight-class was subjected to a two hour lecture on the evil of racism. Now Montana can be a rather patient soul, and had the principal just stuck to an hour lecture, all would have been well, but by the end of the second hour with no sign of the man easing-up, Montana reached the end of his tether. He raised his hand and when the principal acknowledged him and gave his permission to speak. Montana stood up and said, “Sir, do you really think it’s appropriate for you as a white man to lecture me as a black male on the evil of racism? Take a look around Sir; you’re the only white person in the room.” And with that he sat down as mayhem and havoc broke out into the classroom.
Montana was sent forthwith to the office. Let us just say the little one-one dialogue face-to-face time in the office between my son and the principal didn’t get go down any easier than the confrontation in the classroom. It probably didn’t help that my son literally towered over the man and the “I am going to have to call your mother card” was played. Montana just smirked and told him it was his call to make.
Let us just say the conversation with the mother of the Last Amazon didn’t go easier on the principal’s psyche or liberal sensitivities and I almost felt sorry for him – almost. I did what I could to patch up the ill-will between the principal and Montana, but when a person’s pride and sensibilities has been injured by their own foolishness; it’s a task really beyond my talents to fully mend. It probably didn’t help that I was powerless to contain my laughter when he first told me what Montana had said.
The rest of the year didn’t get any easier for Montana and the principal. Montana had made an enemy and he learned with it was like to live under the authority of a man who held a grudge and was actively gunning for you. In the end, despite being valedictorian of his class, and winning numerous awards in core academic subjects; he lost out on the scholarship to a private prep school which required the principal’s personal endorsement. No matter, my son will succeed wherever he goes, and he learned a valuable lesson on the innate dangers involved when skinning a progressive of their well-horned sensitivities who possesses any measure of authority over your life.
Why this turn down memory lane? Well, the lynch mob of well-meaning progressives response to this blog posting, puts this memory front and centre in my mind. While the language and imaginary invoked in the original blog post are confrontational and crude, and the judgments contained harsh and hurtful - perhaps, just perhaps, the well-intentional rabble should take a moment to pause and ask themselves; where did the blogger come from? What motivates her to speak thus? Whose shoes does she wear? Does this come from a position of experience and pain? And then, perhaps they should ask themselves - just why it was her family chose to take the road leading out of the Rez before they put the rope around her neck and string up a granddaughter of the tribe.