Open Letter to the Last Person of Color (on Medium)
Stupid Musings #63
I’ve got a secret. On my morning run, I pass by this house where a black family lives. I smile and wave — I get such a tinge of pleasure. And, they smile and wave back! In that moment, all is right with the world. Peace and diversity reign like love supreme. Sorry, I’m listening to Coltrane.
That’s why this letter is so verklempting’ly painful to write. Sadly, the great Syrian war is looming — and I must fend for me and mine.
We can’t thrive — simultaneously. I’ve looked at America’s books. The economic pie isn’t big enough for you and me. I’m going to ask you politely — tighten your belt, or (perhaps) emigrate to Liberia. My tax dollars can no longer afford to support you.
Remember, my clan is a friendly yet resolute people. When pushed to the brink, we do whatever it takes — straight for the jugular. Remember Black Wall Street, Rock’n’Roll, the Potato Chip (🙏), Jazz, and untold contributions to medicine, physics, art, culture, technology, and space travel? If you don’t comply, we’ll erase you from the histories. Believe it.
It’s not like I’m mean and/or uninformed—I listen to NPR every day. Enlighten me.
Why do you HATE us so much —Why are you so LAZY — Why are you STEALING our jobs — Pay some freakin’ taxes before you start CUTTING IN MY 🇺🇸 OPPORTUNITY LINE — What’s up with your BROKEN FAMILIES—Why are ALL of you INCARCERATED — Why can’t you pull yourself up from the gutter and CONTRIBUTE, OK?!
Most importantly, what’s up with that crazy violent religion with Jinns(?), hauntingly beautiful dead virgins, and the whole indiscriminate suicide bombing thing? Sidenote — those twirling sufis in that Madonna video…oh oui…that’s my kind of Islam! So mystically exotic.
I'd ask you to do better in school — get jobs — and one day, contribute to America. Unfortunately, that window of opportunity has passed.
Please don’t take offense to my letter. I’m crying as I write it! It’s tough love, really.
In short, America isn’t big enough for you and me. Kindly leave, or we’ll fashion a Papal tiara from your collective rib cage.