Let us think about some of these extra-sensitive college kids. The ones who have been protesting.
Let us imagine them as oldies. Fifty years from now.
You know what yesterday’s oldies talked about. The hardships of war and the Great Depression. Living without electricity or running water. On dirt floors. Walking barefoot through the snow to and from school. Uphill both ways. Street riots. Lynchings. Civil rights battles. Rioting in our cities.
Imagine what these kids will sound like fifty years from now.
“You won’t believe the horrible hardships we endured in college. Why one day I heard a bad word. A terrible word. A nasty word. It shocked me. I was numb. I was shattered.
“I went screaming across the campus seeking a safe zone. I was desperate for a safe zone. After all, hearing this bad word made me feel violated. I felt like I had been raped. Words can give you nightmares, you know.
“Well the only safe place I found was a rest room. But can you believe this? It only had doors for males and females. No room for tri-gender multi-racial ambidextrous people like me!
“I felt insulted. I felt abused. And neglected. This was a maxi-mini-aggression. Yes! This violated every gender and racial diversity commandment I had ever learned.”
So what did you do, Granny?
“What did I do? Well, child, these were difficult times. I brought my grievance to the Student Sensitivity Center. The Center argued my case before the campus court of justice. I was so overwhelmed they had to carry me into court on a stretcher. At the court the judge asked what was the stupid word that offended me.
“Stupid. He used the word stupid. That word triggered horrible flashbacks in me. My brother used to call me stupid. So when the judge used that vicious word I knew he was as sexist as my brother. And racist. Because my brother used to get a suntan and I never did. I only turned red. He said I couldn’t get a stupid suntan.”
Wow, Granny. You suffered a genuine racist-sexist mini-aggressive attack?
“Times were tough back then, child. I was also raped. Yes! According to the New York governor’s No is No, Yes is Yes guidelines.
“The governor said a man needed a verbal contract at every stage. May I touch your hand? Yes. Yes? Yes. Okay. I touched your hand. Was that okay? Yes. Yes? Yes. Okay.
“The law called for ongoing consent at every stage. So at the kissing stage I called my mother to get her consent. At the pawing stage I texted my sexual harassment counselor. She tweeted an approval and faxed a document for the guy to sign.
“At the undressing stage I emailed, phoned, faxed, tweeted and twixted my lawyer. She was out on a date and wasn’t available. So the next thing I knew I was pregnant. I loved it but it was definitely rape. And harassment. And racist. And all those things.
“You have no idea, child, how challenging college was in those days. Why one history professor gave me a C. Can you imagine how embarrassed I was? A C? Moi? I was crushed. And he tortured me further. He lectured that Germans started World War II.
“I was thunderstruck! My grandparents were German. By dissing Germans the way he did he violated my happy space. He triggered a million mini-anxieties in me. I couldn’t eat sauerkraut for years after that.
“Those were desperate times. Some politicians said abominable things like ‘Islamic extremist’. And ‘illegal immigrant’. And ‘terrorists’. It is a wonder my ears did not fall off from the suffering they took from those words.”
Gee, Grandma. We didn’t know you had it sooooo bad. Tell us again about how you were forced to celebrate Thanksgiving. You know, that barbaric white supremacy celebration. Of the genocide of the Native Americans by the pilgrims.
From Tom...as in Morgan.