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Systemic Racism Is a Conceit of the Elites
If you’re one of the elite, or feel entitled to be elite without lifting a finger or breaking a sweat–but you’re not elite so obviously someone is keeping you down, oppressing you and rigging the game so that you cannot reach the exalted status to which you aspire, you have the luxury of believing in systemic racism.
If you work, you don’t care who is on your crew, as long as that person can get the job done.
Not 10 minutes ago, I finished reading and then commenting on Gary McVey’s (@garymcvey) outstanding post on Henry Ford and Nazism. Then, a couple minutes before it was time to call The Lovely and Talented Mrs. Mongo, I went outside to finish my drink and fortify myself with some nicotine. When I’m on the road, whether CONUS or overseas, from the time I step foot outside the house for the trip, until the time I shuffle back in with my suitcase and computer bag, everything negative that happens on the home front is my fault. I get it. I got it. I’ve learned how to telephonically roll with the punches. Still, my worst trips are the CONUS trips, because I can’t claim I was in a location where there was no cell coverage or landlines. No cover story for not calling, so suck it up, Cupcake.
To ensure I’m the best Mongo I can be, I ensure I’m in the right frame of mind to make the call and have the conversation and not get impatient about things that I consider irrelevant and make the fatal error of saying something akin to, “Got it, move on.” See, that’s bad marital decision-making. Better to patiently listen and, as/when appropriate make sounds like “Mm-hmm,” “Uh-huh,” and “tsk-tsk.” Also, I don’t have one big superpower, but I have several little ones. One of which is the ability to let my mind wander, during the conversation, over the things I need to do the next day of the trip, the things I need to do upon my return home, how best to echelon the tasks I have coming up.
The mini-superpower is, when I get the inevitable “You’re not listening to me!” I can recite the last five minutes of the conversation verbatim, even though, yeah, I wasn’t listening. Move over, Iron Man.
But as I walked outside, there were members of a crew pitching quarters outside the side door of the La Quinta Inn I’m at.
If you’re the manager of a construction site, and you’ve got a requirement for a surge of skilled, scheduled labor, you often import a crew. Then you put them up at a local, livable but slightly seedy (hey, never lose sight of King Bottom Line) hotel like my beloved Miami La Quinta so that they can lay the pipe, do the wiring, plumb the project.
I’ve noted over the last couple days that such a crew is staying at the (my) La Quinta. I estimate that the crew is between 11 and 14 tradesmen. Working-class men who are there to get the job done.
When I walked outside to get a little pre-phone call nicotine fortification, a slice of that crew was pitching quarters. While I was out there, another five or six exited the building, headed out for chow.
It was, something out of a movie, but whoever made the movie would be accused of stereotyping and inserting obligatory tropes. When I looked at the panorama of working-class dudes that just want to do a job: there’s the tall, lanky black dude with the jeans under his ass but the boxers covering the rest–oh, and he had a magnificent mane of dreads. There’s the Hispanic dude with tats all over his neck. There’s the long, greasy-haired white dude who is kind of short and squatty with those cargo shorts that fall below knee-length and upon whose belt you can see the chain that loops down but rises again to secure his wallet in his pocket. That dude has tats like the Latino dude, except for his tat schemata was gained trespassing somewhere, and instead of shotgunning rock salt at him, the owner shot him with salted ink. Random, no theme, no coherence.
I watched these guys, while some of them moved out for dinner and some stayed pitching quarters. I abjured the offer of joining the quarters pitching by saying, “Gentlemen, I do not partake of games of chance, lest I not be able to make this month’s rent.” Eh, I got a laugh out of it.
But while I finished my bourbon and my unfiltered Camel, with my mind on Henry Ford, antisemitism and Nazism, I realized that there was no racism anywhere near where I stood. There were men, masters of their craft, there to do a job, and I am more than sure they cared about the competence and craftsmanship of their cohort far moreso than each other’s race.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call I gotta make.
———–BREAK———–
So, called The Lovely and Talented Mrs. Mongo, and the call went directly to voicemail, immediately thereupon I got a text saying, “I’m on a call, call you later.”
Okay. Proofread the post (for me, proofreading is a relative term, I’m more than sure that there are spelling/grammar mistakes aplenty). I was about to hit “send.” Then, I thinks to myself, “Hey, those guys are still out there pitching quarters. I wonder what they would think of the post?” So I went outside and asked them if they’d participate. They thought I was maybe/probably a weirdo, but said yes. I went back to my room, grabbed the MacBook, and then exited and read everything above the BREAK to them.
First, it was a point of pride that they were not tradesmen surging to a job site. They were employees of a conveyor-belt-making company, down in Miami to provide warranty service.
Out of the cast of characters depicted above, the sample was a big black guy, the Hispanic with the neck tattoo, a pure-D country redneck accented dude, and then a clean-cut kid with a beard, maybe on a summer job, dunno. Looked like Spencer Klavan’s kid brother. I told them that because the post was about systemic racism, the black guy would get to comment first.
After the post (all names here are made up) Darryl the black guy said, “well, it sounded like there were a lot of stereotypes in there.”
“Dude, you’re a big-ass black dude and–what kind of cigarette are you smoking?”
“A Kool.”
“Okay, is there a bigger stereotype than that?”
And that kind of kicked off the whole, free-wheeling conversation. Me mostly listening to the warranty servicers and throwing in a question every now and then. I don’t have the time or memory to try to reproduce the whole conversation word-for-word, but I’ll try to convey the gist of the conversation.
Hispanic Neck Tattoo Guy (HNTG) pointing at pure country redneck guy: “Yeah, we’re friends now, but I did not like this guy when I first met him. Now, we’re tight, man. We hang.”
Me: Okay, how come you didn’t like him? ‘Cause he’s white? ‘Cause he sounds so redneck he should be named Cooter (accepting a little bit of operational risk, here)?
Cooter: No, man. See, Juan used to work for the company, then he took a break to do some other stuff, then he came back.
Mongo: Lemme guess, you didn’t work there when he left, but you were there when he came back.
Cooter: You got it. And when he came back, they made him a crew boss, ’cause this guy knows things, man. You don’t let that kind of talent go to waste.
Mongo: Okay.
Cooter: So they pulled a couple guys off my crew to round out his crew, and one day in the cafeteria, I just stopped and talked for a while with my old guys that were on his crew now. And then this dude is hatin’ on me all the time.
Juan: That’s right, I couldn’t stand this guy.
Mongo: Lemme guess, I think I got it ’cause it works like this in the military. Juan, you had the ass ’cause Cooter didn’t go through you before he talked to your guys.
Juan: That’s exactly what it was.
Cooter: So, we went somewhere where we could hash it out privately. I said, “Dude, what’s your (CoC)ing problem? And he told me. And I was like, Holy (CoC), I’d feel the same way. And we been tight ever since.
Cooter: Man, this whole racism thing is just stupid. Some of my best friends are–
Mongo: Stop! You can’t ever start a defense of why you’re not a racist with that. You’re setting yourself up for failure.
Cooter: Yeah, but it’s true.
Mongo: Doesn’t matter.
Then I gave some of my insights on how to respond if one is called a racist. Can’t go into it. Severely non-CoC compliant.
Then I brought up the whole Rush Limbaugh (Peace be upon him) Rushism about how if you love this country you’ll be called a racist, bigot, homophobe. Oh, and what’s that word for when you hate women? Misogynist?
Cooter: Man, who thinks that way? Look, I got a friend from high school that I always thought was a little fruity, y’know, but after a while I figured out he was full-up gay. Now, I ain’t down with gay [insert a bunch of homoerotic jokes here that we made, asserting that he was, in fact, gay]. Nah, man, I don’t abide that stuff. But I tell you what, if I was drivin’ down the street and some dudes were beating him up, because he was gay or any other damn thing, I’d pull over and whoop some ass and take care of that guy. I’m not sure how many people would.
Mongo: Really? You’re not sure? (raise my own hand) Who here would pull over and help out a gay friend if he was getting beat up, whatever the reason?
Every hand went up.
Mongo: See, you’re not alone. They just want to make you think you’re alone.
A lot more, but I won’t go on, except for this.
HNTG: Hey man, my 16-year old kid is smart!
Cooter: Yeah, he’s got a smart kid.
HNTG: Yeah, I tol’ him I had read that there was 37 genders out there, an’ what was all that about? He said, “Dad, there’s two genders, and 35 different ways of being queer.”
I had a great time. Want to continue to write about it, but I really, really have a phone call to make.
Published in General
Uh, doesn’t that require the ability to carry a tune?
I was the same way. I’ve quit a couple’a three, four times. Hopefully for keeps in 2014. But even now… just the other day a woman one car ahead of me in traffic was smoking my favs … Marlboro Reds. The aroma wafted back to me and I was immediately Pavlov’s dog. My mouth was literally watering.
That’s a moment you can enjoy even more, knowing that you are never going to jump into that black hole and light up again.
Point.
Um…MeThree. Coming from the Boss, quarters had to be living space, at least in my mind. I just couldn’t figure out why tents outside a hotel…overbooked?
Did you guys google up pitching quarters?
No, it became clear as the saga continued. Don’t be a butt, speaking of cigarettes.
So, there I was…
My boss at the time mentioned, “Hey, Mongo. Think I’ll be down near your part of the Keys this weekend.”
“Okay.”
There’s a liquor store in…Tavernier?…that has a bottle of Pappy’s.”
I knew that this guy had been looking for a bottle of Pappy’s for years.
(Making a long-ish story short, I ended up saying) “Hey, boss, you don’t have to drive all the way down to the Keys. I’ll swing by, pick it up, and bring it up here to the mainland. I’ll get it, you can pay my back.”
So, bright and early Saturday morning (and liquor stores are open bright and early on Saturday mornings in the Key’s) I went down to Tavernier. I went to the liquor story (couple doors down from Dillon’s Irish Pub) and dropped $499 (less tax) for a bottle of Pappy Van Winkles Bourbon.
$499. For a 750 ml bottle of whiskey.
Okay. I like bourbon, but I wouldn’t spend $499 even if price were no object and I didn’t even have to look at the tag. $499.
As I walked outside, cradling Pappy in the crook of my elbow, I started thinking in a most unhealthy manner. The boss found the add online. What if someone else saw the same ad, and immediately put persistent eyes-on the store, so they could just jack the bottle from whomever walked out the door with the bottle? What if the store owner is in on it, and is placing a call right now to a crew? I had the bottle in the crook of the right arm leaving the left (I’m a southpaw) free. I subtly brushed my left forearm against the butt of the Glock, comfortably nestled against my side in an IWB holster, as I scanned the sidewalk and parking lot. What about if I get in a car accident? Far more likely than getting Pappyjacked. When I got to my vehicle, I pulled a Brazilian jiu-jitsu gi out of the back of the car and carefully folded it around the bottle, then I grabbed a couple of beach towels from the floor of the rear passenger compartment, and swaddled the gi-bound bottle in the towels. Then I carefully belted the lumpen mass into the front passenger seat of the truck. I drove home as carefully as I’ve ever driven, eyes scanning nonstop for road hazards and ambuscades. I got home and carefully stored the bottle in the gun safe, gi and towels and all.
Come Monday, I drove carefully into work, turned over the precious cargo, and heaved a huge sigh of relief.
Search for Pappy’s? Pass.
$499? Were you wearing a mask? Nowadays, it can bring 10x that.
My Pappy story is much less stressful. My lovely bride and I found ourselves in Louisville on our way back from visiting relatives in western KY. She was tired and went to bed after diner. I went to the hotel bar for a cigar and a nightcap. (back when I smoked and you could still smoke inside). I sat at the bar and asked the bartender if she had any Pappy. She said “Of course. In fact, if you’d like to say hello, the young Mr. Van Winkle is at the end of the bar…I’ll introduce you.” I shared one of my Cuban Cohiba’s. Mr Van Winkle (Julien if I recall) bought me 2 fingers of 20 year old Pappy. A very pleasant evening.
You guys have the best stories!
I’d buy you a starter pack of E-cigs or mint chew. Call it an investment in keeping the Mongo around.
My Dad starting smoking in the Navy, then later switched to a pipe before quitting. He never missed cigarettes, but he sometimes misses the pipe tobacco.
And some of them are even true! Mostly. A little bit.
The characteristics you bring to a job are mostly more important than specific skills.
I always believed if you have time to worry about microaggressions you don’t work for a living, and/or haven’t had enough macroaggressions in your life. I doubt that crew you met would be upset by or even recognize a microaggression. There is a reason not to sweat the small stuff.
Your boss knew what he was doing.
https://flaskfinewines.com/collections/bourbon/products/1985-pappy-van-winkle-special-reserve-18-year-old-121-6-proof-single-cask-for-binnys
Let’s face it – it’s a gal thang.
The guy who got famous for casting a musical about the white founding fathers with minority actors is getting dragged for non-representative casting.
And they said Irony was dead.
@cdor, recommend–once your physical therapist green lights it–that you give Indian Clubs a shot. The narrator of the video makes some pretty bold claims about the benefits of swinging clubs. I won’t say all that is accurate, but I will say that (if there’s nothing structurally wrong with the shoulder) the clubs will make your shoulder stronger and healthier. Most importantly, they’ll go a long way toward indemnifying your shoulder from future injuries and impingement.
It looks like the narrator is using two-pound clubs. Just get the one-pounders with an instructional video/cd/whatever. When you first start, you feel like the most uncoordinated person ever born, but it takes very short time to get smooth.
Sorta/kinda related, but funny: On my last trip to Colombia, we had to pre-register for immigration online. The drop down menu had–no kidding–hundreds of options, very specific. However, it didn’t have “military contractor.” It did have “military officer,” but no way I’m getting caught up with that possible tar baby selection. So, after careful examination of the very detailed list with hundreds of options, I went with the one I thought most appropriate: Wild man.
Ain’t that the truth!
And thanks for the link. I’ve already had two rotator cuff surgeries on that shoulder. Believe me, I don’t want any more. They are painful. I’m going to the link right now, but I will wait a few more weeks before trying any swinging.
Yeah, that’s a good thought. But she’s so convincing with that Grrrr at the end. Obviously, I took it for real at first. And still it may be, but I doubt it. :)
And, finally, on the Main Feed.
Good.
“Can’t push a rope” is one of my favorites.
Pitching quarters , I thought you meant they were putting up tents on La Quinta property.
Watched my two grandson’s little league game last week , I think all the kids were white , umpire was a black man. I mentioned to my son-in-law that if the next day you asked the kids about the umpire they would have no memory of his skin color, it would have no meaning for them. Normal people don’t think about race all the time the way the Democrat racial bean counters do.
It is the one that is applicable the most.
Nailed it BossM!! Hit it out of the park. Really enjoyed it too. This is the perspective that most of us see and know but which the media just can’t seem to find. They don’t know or want to know anyone like this. The profession is a tragic shadow of itself; a broken mirror reflection of a high standard few could reach even if they recognized its value. I blame the journalism schools. Is that fair?
And I would bet money that All non-activists Blacks think it’s all nonsense too. It takes a really insulated and/or indoctrinated person to believe something that is a delusion.
All of us had ancestors who were immigrants at one time or another. The Irish were not “white privileged” and never expected to be. Were the Polish immigrants privileged? It’s a scam. An updated version of the Al Sharpton & Jesse Jackson protection racket, but depndent on white liberal guilt. At least, that’s what it looks like.
I remember talking to an engineer about a contraption he had constructed with poles and wire at the stern of his boat, and he said more to himself than to me as he explained his design, of “course lines have no structural rigidity at all”.
Edited: Actually thinking about it, I think he muttered, “Of course wires have no resistance to compression at all.”
They resist compression, but they bend.
That’s some stiff wire.
Added: Actually you can compress twisted wire longitudinally, but you usually effectively destroy it in the process.