This column is a few days late, and I’m giving physical incapacitation as the excuse. See, only moments ago I got over a wild, frenzied, continuous fit of laughter that began last week while reading up on my subject: Spokane, Washington NAACP chapter president Rachel Dolezal. This wasn’t a mere case of me LMAO; it got so out of control the asses of my loved ones started to come off, and by Friday afternoon I was even starting to laugh the asses off of complete strangers. (Dibs on the acronym “LCSAO.”)
Dolezal, who just resigned from the NAACP, also serves on a police department ombudsman commission that oversees field treatment of minorities, and teaches at Eastern Washington University. Her classes, according to Breitbart, include “African-American studies, as well as classes including ‘African and African American Art History, African History, African American Culture, The Black Women’s Struggle, and Intro to Africana Studies.’” In another case of truth being stranger than fiction, one particular lecture of hers, called “Black is Beautiful,” included the “brown paper bag test” (lighter-skinned blacks supposedly getting better treatment than their darker brethren), and discussions on black hair, “nappiness,” and her own experiences with the curly ‘do she keeps on top of her head.
If that’s not enough, Dolezal also wrote the following, as a member of the #BlackLivesMatter movement: “In the famous last words of Eric Garner, ‘I … can’t … breathe,’ there is a metaphor for the asphyxiation we are experiencing as black people in America and in Spokane. The air is thinner for us now; we are not all getting the same amount of oxygen here. So don’t stop us when we reach for the oxygen mask that is hope for justice. Let us say what we need to say, march when we need to march, and hold our kids when we need to feel their hearts beat. Let us be, be with us, and let us breathe.” (Given all the loud, violent rioters getting a free pass in American cities of late, it’s pretty freaking evident nobody’s being asphyxiated from speaking out and marching. Someone should think about pointing that out to Dear Rachel, if they can stomach being within speaking distance of her.)
She has also bemoaned, on tape no less, how the only portraits on American currency are of white men. (I’d bet Susan B. Anthony and Sacagawea would get a little chuckle out of that video.)
Oh, and just a little side note: RACHEL DOLEZAL IS WHITE.
Yes, despite her slightly caramelish complexion (which appears to be from either a spray-on product, lots of sunbathing, or makeup) and her afro-esque hairstyle, the girl may just as well be the offspring of Sinead O’ Connor and Edgar Winter, provided someone roofied Winter. She (Dolezal) is a mix of German, Czech, and Swedish. She’s Sandra Dee pretending to be Ruby Dee. She’s Daughter of Paleface. She’s White Like Me. She is the very model of a lily-white Caucasian doll.
Now, I’m not suggesting that Dolezal is nothing more than a walking talking mockery of civil rights activism. At least a couple of other things are pretty clear:
1) Her life has been one big, long, wretched marathon of victimization. She’s claimed over the years to be a victim of child abuse, spousal abuse, rape, hate crimes, and harassment by bigots. Just about the only thing of which she hasn’t claimed to be a victim is an assassination attempt by Lee Harvey Oswald, but she’s still young.
2) She regards people who ask her to tell the truth about her ethnicity as several levels below her on the evolved life-form table.
I’m not sure exactly when I concluded that second one. It might have been when she said “(t)hat question is not as easy as it seems. There’s a lot of complexities … and I don’t know that everyone would understand that” over the phone to a journalist from the Spokesman-Review (Spokane).
Or perhaps it was when she was being interviewed by Sky News, and said “I don’t give two [naughty word referring to defecation that rhymes with ‘bits’] what you guys think” and “(i)t’s more important for me to clarify that with the black community and with my executive board than it really is to explain it to a community that, quite frankly, don’t really understand the definitions of race and ethnicity” in general reference to people who express skepticism about her.
Y’know, come to think of it, I’m pretty sure it was the “I don’t give two [naughty word referring to defecation that rhymes with ‘bits’] what you guys think” part. Yeah, that’d be the one.
There are other reports on Ms. Dolezal out there which I didn’t bring up (for fear the laughter might erupt again and land me in padded cell), and I certainly recommend Googling them if your last meal is safely digested.
I tell you, things are getting more and more surreal for Generation-X, of which I am a member. It’s not just that there’s a self-described black activist who is in fact so unblack she practically bleeds Liquid Paper. We’ve got our childhood’s original icon of athletic dominance & masculinity thinking he’s a chick. We’ve got Eddie Van Halen’s fat son thinking he’s Michael Anthony. And most surreally of all, we’ve got Hillary Clinton thinking she’s a bricklayer in Akron and Barack Obama thinking he’s an excellent president.
Of course, surreal is nothing new to this Gen X-er; to this day, a major stir in American pop-culture from thirty years ago continues to burn fresh in my brain: former Hollywood leading man Rock Hudson’s announcement he was gay and stricken with AIDS. It was a tragic, seminal event in the world of health & medicine. It was a harsh public statement about Tinseltown phoniness. It was the mass-blindsiding of millions of women who used to fantasize about the star of Pillow Talk mounting them like a racehorse. And who could blame them? You gotta admit, the guy was a seriously sweet piece of meat back in the day.
Believe me, I understood. I remember feeling the same lustful longing the first time I saw Denzel Washington, in an early episode of St. Elsewhere. (I was a black teenaged girl back then.)