You never know nausea till you call up a neo-Nazi. It's an exercise in mastering your own insurgent stomach and the bile rising in your throat."You go, girl," I want to say. "You go." Let me say that Bill's not the brightest bulb in the pack; he thinks I'm a disbarred civil right attorney. A simple search on Google would yield more truth than he's ever printed.
But master it I did, and called Bill White, National Socialist and latent, over-age Hitler Youth. After all, White had had the courtesy to call me up after my previous column about the upcoming white supremacist rally in historic Yorktown, assuring me in a phone message that he and his buddies had ridiculed it and me with much gusto.
He'd also thrown in comments about how much better his car was than mine, how much bigger his house, how much heftier his income - from which I inferred that even racists can afford to be ignorant.
Sorry, I digress. So, Tamara hammers home on poor, poor, pitiful Bill. Ah, poor Bill. To live in a society where minority and majority will soon not mean a thing. To live in a melting pot. To live in a world where we all have rights to speak out, to protect the innocent, to laugh at idiocy.
As I sit here, I'm wondering if Bill's as pure-in-blood as he thinks he is. I wonder how much African or Native American or gypsy blood he has in him. I suspect there are very few - if any -- people in America (at least who can trace their generations back a while) who are pure anything. And, I'm also thinking that if we return this country's land to it's rightful owners, not many of us pale-skinned folks, including Bill, are gonna be left.
Sorry, Bill, you just don't get it.
For the rest of you -- those who do get it -- we hope to see you Saturday at the Rally for Social Justice, an alternative event to the neo-Nazis and counter-protesters, a peaceful & music-filled couple of hours.