A Letter to White America
Dear White America,
You are nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing more and nothing less than a treasure trove of stolen goods.
What have you given the world? Unlike Du Bois, I see no contributions from you — except, maybe, the invention of new forms of theft. Behind your so-called “Christian ideals” is nothing more than a history of hypocrisy.
Your grace is cheap, only offered to enslave others. (The stupider of your kind will not know this history — reading is fundamental. But this is America, where the only source of information is selfies and 140 character posts.)
Your justice is shallow, only created to protect yourself.
Your religion is hollow. What salvation do you offer? The price of admission in America is to give everything away — and then, executive orders will ship you back out.
Your culture is nonexistent. What have you invented on your own? Answer: not a damn thing. This is not up for debate.
Your empathy is a waste of time. Safety pins will not protect you from the fact that you voted for Trump — that you put the most unqualified and idiotic man in charge of the nuclear codes. He may blame judges for terrorism; but when this country goes to shit, blame yourself. It ain’t my fault.
Your God is an idol, made in your own image. Actually, now, this God is made in the image of an orange man who would fuck his own daughter if he could. And just like the calf, the man likes gold and misses the theological forest for the idolatrous tree (you’ll get that later — or maybe you won’t; again, the stupider of your ilk don’t read anyway).
I don’t know of any society in the history of the world that has made theft a virtue, or who made murder and genocide the price of citizenship.
The stupider of your kind will try to defend themselves with a thin cloak of facts. But we all know that facts don’t mean shit anymore; alternative facts are the truth now. So every fact you’ll try and provide will easily be countered by another list of facts. So don’t play these games.
You’re a thief. You’ve turned eastern spirituality into hot yoga shops, making money off of divine connection. Your “land” isn’t even your own; you stole it from people who didn’t even think stealing was a thing.
When you peel back your layers, White America, you’ll find nothing but stolen goods, nothing but a history of theft from others. I know you sleep at night; and I know the bed upon which you sleep is made from the corpses of bodies of color.
But it’s okay, White America. One day, you might find your own creativity, made possible by the little ingenuity you might possess. And one day, you might even be ethical.
But the truth is that neither my people nor I are holding our breath. We’ll love you regardless — not because we actually want to, but because we’re called to do so.
In fact, this letter is a letter of love. But again, since you’ve never read the prophets in your own Old Testament, you won’t realize this either.
With all the love I can muster,
Angry Black Man
P.S. I’m sick and tired of making a distinction between “good” and “bad” white people. If you’re offended by this letter, then it is you — not me — who is the problem. The white people who get it, the white people who are woke, already know who they are.