Wednesday, February 25, 2015


I haven’t been sent to bed without any supper, I haven’t been restricted to bread and water, I haven’t lost $0.50 of my weekly allowance. No, I’ve lost my White Privileges. The Committee decided this in private, and then, in a demonstration of thorny solidarity, delivered the edict at the round table, their eyes averted, arms folded. “But I’m an adult”, I protested. “Which privileges are we talking about? You’re white”, I added. They went about their day—the application of sunscreen, the resistance to cultural information, the receipt of emails about god’s intent. A man came to the door with a package from a retailer. Before he left, he discovered a second package from a second retailer. The clock neared 4:00 p.m., the air about us darkening to sterile gray. We sat again, this time with a soup babbling on the stove, the burner on simmer. I expressed my sorrow with a number of hand gestures, facial gestures, and catchy phrasings, a genuine attempt to express my aimlessness, and The Committee relented, restoring my White Privileges. We ladled soup; we slurped soup; we dined together in an atmosphere of plenty.

This week’s double issue includes WHO PHONES THE BIG FELLA?

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