Stupid White Men-- and Other Sorry Excuses for the State of the Nation! - Michael Moore [32]
We whites really deserve some kind of genius award for this. We talk the talk of inclusion, we celebrate the birthday of Dr. King, we frown upon racist jokes; thanks to that rat bastard Mark Fuhrnan blowing our cover, we’ve even coined a new term—“the N-word”—to replace the real Nigger McCoy. Trust me, you’ll NEVER catch any of us saying that word out loud—not these days, no-sir-ree-bob! The only time it’s acceptable is when we’re singing along with a rap song—and boy, do we suddenly love to rap!
We never fail to drop a mention of “my friend—he’s black...” We give money to the United Negro College Fund, recognize Black History Month, and make sure we put our lone black employee up at the front reception desk so we can say things like “See—we don’t discriminate! We hire black people.”
Yes, we are a very crafty, cagey race—and damn if we haven’t gotten away with it!
We’re also very adept at learning—and lifting—from black culture. We co-opt it, put it through a white blender, and make it ours. Benny Goodman did it, Elvis did it, Lenny Bruce did it. Motown created a whole new sound, and then was seduced to move to L.A., where it withdrew and made way for the Great White Pop Stars. Eminem admits he owes a lot to Dr. Dre, Tupac, and Public Enemy. The Backstreet Boys and ‘N Sync are indebted to Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, the Temptations, and the Jackson Five.
Blacks invent it, we appropriate it. Comedy, dance, fashion, language—we love the way black people express themselves, whether it’s talking about giving your girlfriend “props” for a tasty dinner, or hanging out with your “peeps,” or trying your darndest to “Be Like Mike.” Of course the operative word there is like, because no matter how many millions he makes, to be Mike would mean spending an awful lot of time pulled over on the New Jersey Turnpike.
Professional sports (other than hockey) has been dominated by African-Americans for the past three decades. We’ve been very generous in turning over all that hard work and training and exertion to young black men, because let’s face it, it’s more fun to sit in your La-Z-Boy eating chips and dip and watching them chase that ball. If we need exercise, we can always work up a sweat calling in to sports talk radio to whine about how “overpaid” those athletes are. Seeing black people end up with so much money just kind of makes us feel ... uneasy.
Where are the rest of the black-skinned people these days, the ones who don’t shoot hoop or wait on us? Working in film and television, I rarely see them. When I leave New York to go to Los Angeles for a few days to work and meet with people in the business, and from the plane I fly out on to the hotel I’m staying at, to my visit at the old talent agency, to the executives I meet, to the drinks I must have with a producer in Santa Monica, and then the dinner I enjoy with friends in West Hollywood—I can go days and never encounter a single African-American unless it’s someone to whom I’m handing a tip. How can that happen? To pass the time, I now play a game with myself, trying to clock how long it will be before I spot a black man or woman who isn’t wearing a uniform or sitting at a receptionist’s desk (they do the Negro-at the-reception-desk trick in L.A., too). During my last three trips to Los Angeles the clock never stopped: the black head count was zero. That I could exist for days at a time in the second largest city in America and encounter only whites, Asians, and Hispanics but no blacks at all—now THAT’s an incredible feat, testimony to the strength of our commitment to be a segregated society. Think of how much energy has to go into something like this, so that I don’t have to be troubled by any black people! How did the white people out there keep the one million black citizens of Los Angeles county hidden from my view? Sheer, unadulterated genius!
I know it’s