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I HATE POLITICAL CORRECTNESS. When I waited tables, I didn’t care if a customer called me “babycakes” and told me to “shake a tailfeather” as long as he ponied up a decent tip. For that matter, PULEEZE open my car door for me, and the door to Olive Garden, and the door to the Salvation Army so I can search for old cds of The Judybats.
When groups go looking to be offended, seeking OUT a way to feel victimized, I want to shake them (and bake them) until it rattles their brains. I mean, if Mary J. Blige can’t endorse Crispy Chicken Wraps, then isn’t that taking HER freedom away? Only people who constantly equate African-Americans with fried chicken are going to have a cow about it. If you don’t view things through those lenses, you’re just watching a commercial. Making such a commotion about it only perpetuates the association.
And speaking of that, I really don’t like the term African-American. I hope bolding that wasn’t offensive. The people across the street who moved here from the Ivory Coast–THEY are African-American. And they speak French. The keyboardist at church with red hair and green eyes and pale skin who grew up in South Africa–SHE’S an African-American, although everyone assumes she is Irish. She couldn’t understand why we call people who have never been to Africa “African-Americans.” I mean, we can all trace our heritage back and back and back until we hit Noah’s ark or the Garden of Eden, or wherever you choose to stop. We are all descendants of one, if you’ve got enough paper to draw that family tree. (But only draw it on recycled paper please; you don’t want to increase your carbon footprint).
If you feel your panties getting in a wad at this point, just stop reading and go look at images of sunnyside up eggs in the “Food” section of WordPress. Those always make me happy.
Now I do concede that many ads from the past really were ugly. If you’ve ever seen Bull Durham Smoking Tobacco ads, you understand how the depiction of black people was crazy offensive. Nauseatingly so. So much that I don’t feel comfortable posting any on my blog. And so in going through my stack of vintage greeting cards, I did discover a yes–Hallmark–card from 1936 with a sobbing picaninny. I don’t want to share it, but I feel that I must, to be honest about racism in advertising.
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Hallmark produced it, so they must have had a market for it. Although, out of all the cards I have, this one is the only one left unsigned. So perhaps whoever purchased it, eventually decided against sending it.
In the 80s, I watched a Sam Kinison special, and he was talking about world hunger. It was not politically correct, and that was why it was funny. PC kills humor. It does. Everyone needs to grow some thicker skin and realize we’re all imperfect, and consequently ripe for mocking. (No, I don’t mean bullying.)
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Anyway, his quote went along the lines of: “Hey, we been driving out here every day with your food, for, like, the last thirty or forty years, and we were driving out here today across the desert, and it occurred to us that there wouldn’t BE world hunger, if you people would LIVE WHERE THE FOOD IS! YOU LIVE IN A DESERT! YOU LIVE IN A F–ING DESERT! NOTHING GROWS OUT HERE! NOTHING’S GONNA GROW OUT HERE! YOU SEE THIS? HUH? THIS IS SAND. KNOW WHAT IT’S GONNA BE A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW? IT’S GONNA BE SAND! YOU LIVE IN A F–ING DESERT! GET YOUR STUFF, GET YOUR S#@T, WE’LL MAKE ONE TRIP, WE’LL TAKE YOU TO WHERE THE FOOD IS! WE HAVE DESERTS IN AMERICA — WE JUST DON’T LIVE IN THEM!”
Political correctness is the devil. I shouldn’t have to tippytoe around people, trying to remember what the latest acceptable term is for whatever has been deemed unspeakable. Remember, it’s “handi-capable” now, not handicapped. And BTW, December 25th is Christmas Day. It’s not a happy holiday, and it’s not a season’s greetings. It’s Christmas. You don’t have to be Christian to enjoy the holiday. I don’t have to be Mexican to enjoy Cinco de Mayo. Believe me. But seriously, if you have the time on your hands to get upset about a tree being called a “Christmas tree,” then you have a pretty good life, eh? If you were starving and unemployed and living in a cardboard box in an urban alley, you probably wouldn’t have the luxury of giving a damn about that Douglas Fir.
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