We’re All Racists Now

Author Linda Brady Traynham

Well, actually, we were all always racists because we can’t help it, back to the Big Bang. It is probable that the Big Bang resulted because the Big Banger couldn’t stand the vacuous Bangee, and that the asteroid wiped out the dinosaurs because it hated dinosaurs or perhaps the earth or maybe both. It is obvious to the meanest intelligence (that demonstrated by those who shriek “Racist!” no matter what the question is, or even if there were no question) that there has always been racism and there will always be racism, that being nothing more than recognition that we’re different.

Racism is part and parcel of Darwinian theory, and surely more potent than cockroaches, long predicted to be the last thing living when the world ends. (I think cockroaches must be mutating again. I haven’t seen a small one in at least forty years, but the four-engine jobs that live in palm and pine trees abound.) Whatt?! You doubt me, you ignorant descendants of pond scum? Theory has it that everything came from something, except the Big Bang, which came from nothing, yes? That from time immemorial, only the strongest survived, thrived and mutated? At least until we got to the last half century when those who throw the most fits get their ways? Can it be other than that time after time bits of DNA were recombined to form new (perhaps slightly less inferior, based upon what scale we can never be certain) life forms?

If we are held to be descended from monkeys, we share their DNA, jawohl? Ja. And whatever the monkeys came from, we share their DNA, and back to the original pond scum which came from whence nobody can guess. I know the provenance of my pond: it was dug on purpose with a bulldozer. That’s right, my cattle pond was made by a caterpiller. The water fell out of the sky, one of those mysterious things which happens from time to time, not covered in the survival of the fittest. The pond scum, now, is authentic, modern, up to the last recombinant pond scum because it has to be, since the pond and the water did not exist in their current form until now. (Everyone still with me?) The scum could not be until it had water to be scum upon, and only hard-headed realists would posit that my own, personal pond scum developed from dear little birdies wading in other people’s cattle ponds, not rinsing and drying their cute little feet, and polluting my brand new pond in defiance of some Greenie EPA law somewhere.

Scum cannot be racist, you suggest, because…because why? It’s alive. It comes in different sizes, shapes, forms, and colors. Because it isn’t sentient, you suggest? How do you know? Are you now or have you or your ancestors ever been pond scum? MY pond scum is the brightest green in the county and surely sneers at lesser colors when it is transported from place to place in the course of birds spreading perch roe, that being how Science tells us our bass lakes become polluted with perch, catfish, and crayfish.

Everywhere we look, the world is a festering mass of perfectly normal racism. How could you face yourself in the mirror if you did not believe that you are among the Big Bang’s finest creations? How could you bear admitting your pathetic, puling progeny are yours if you did not think them superior? Do you think Jeffrey Daumer thought he had problems?

Even perfectly ordinary Wal*Mart “goldfish” seethe with hatred for all other forms of aquatic life, and if you don’t believe it go buy an aquarium, stock it with a selection of colorful (or even drab) “tropical” fish and a variety of plant life, and observe the results. The last moment at which there is any peace and tranquility is when there is nothing but greenery, be it biological or plastic. The first set of fish swims happily in a little school, let us stipulate Neon Tetras, committing genocide on the plants. Aha! Add the second of your little bags of fish, after floating it in the aquarium for ten or fifteen minutes to equalize the temperature. OUT the contents–Hatchet Fish, let’s say–swim, looking for new worlds to conquer (or perhaps merely being claustrophobic) and what, to their horror do they find? Alien life forms, that’s what. Do they swim over and introduce themselves politely? No, they do not. They flee to the very top of the water and stay as far away as possible from those hideous gaudy things. Float another bag, and turn loose some Zebras. Cataclysm! All three sets of fish are aghast. Nobody wants to play nicely or have tailgate parties.

You can put in different types of fish until the things can scarcely move and there never comes a time when even one of those fish is willing to swim with (presumably) smelly strangers. I suppose it is smell because fish do not fabricate mirrors. They only know what their friends look like. Having very small brain pans, fish are unlikely to extrapolate “If my chosen companions look like this, I look like this, too.” Will horrors never cease? What IS that gigantic thing that the gods put in here that just ate one of the ugly first inhabitants? (It is an Angel Fish, and it will do it every day so long as there are any Neons left. Don’t be fooled by what looks like a big smile.)

Do stray cats get along politely? No. My registered French Alpine dairy goats know quite well that they are not pedigreed Nubian dairy goats, and they don’t hang out together. Yeah, they’ll share space at feeding times, but other than that the opinion on both sides is, “They really aren’t our sort, you know.” This is very bad news, because goats are about as gregarious and laid back as it comes. Even very small Nubians know they aren’t French Alpines, and I don’t think it is because Nubians have enormous floppy ears and Alpines have small stand up ears.

Are the cattle any better? Not a bit. The Black Dexters know their kind, and they aren’t having anything to do with that weird golden giant Guernsey, and never mind that they’ve known her for a year. They tolerate the black Jersey because she’s black, but they don’t invite her to baby showers or to take her turn baby sitting. Yes, cows have baby sitters. The heifers–females too young to breed–are instructed, how I have no notion, to stay under sprawling oak trees with the new calves while the mothers eat. They’ve been doing it for sixty years that I know of and the tradition probably goes back to the aurox. No, the teens don’t get paid.

Horses? Surely you jest. We have six, and I ought to know. I do know. First, there is the former male of the lot, who doesn’t believe he is a eunuch, but even if he is he’s certainl he is superior to all of the females. Bonnie Blue Flag is the Feminist in the bunch, and fights Buck constantly. She’s taller, but he’s heavier, so he wins and gets most of the good stuff to eat. Worse, BBF is a registered thoroughbred and the biggest snob the Big Bang ever put on this earth. She knows she is smarter, faster, more beautiful, and better bred than any of those Jukes, Kallikaks, and glue pots I put out here for no reason that makes any sense to Bonnie. That was quite stressful enough, but then her humans had the bad taste to purchse another registered thoroughbred of almost identical age and coloration, and such detestation has not been seen since Cain and Able, except both of them loathe the other. If Cass Sunstein runs out of stupid ways to spend his time he should come offer lawyers to the three of them, what with Buck practicing sexual harassment and Bonnie Blue creating a definitely hostile work environment. I have done my best to explain to them that we can all live in peaceful coexistence and I buy carrots, sweet feed, range cubes and apples in fifty pound bags so there really is plenty for everybody. Hah. That’s what I say. (I didn’t mention it, but with mammals, at least, there is always a Head Whatever it is. Faith is the Head Goat and that’s that. ALL of the treats are hers. Maggie is the Head Cow, and that’s that. Don’t even think about trying to get next to HER human with treats or HER pile of range cubes. Chickens aren’t mammals, being oviporous, so the males just rape the females all day long. How very beautiful nature is.) The only solution is to keep Bonnie in solitary confinement, which she thinks is her own private kingdom.

We are trying an experiment involving a large Quarter Horse, a younger Quarter Horse, and an even younger mostly Quarter Horse. Now, QH are called that because they are extremely fast for a quarter of a mile but run out of speed quickly after that. It annoys Buck (who is a deliberate example of miscegenation, half Morgan and half QH, bred to work longer and harder, good in the snow drifts of Montana when that pack with numbers after their names would be whinnying they wanted their nice, snug stalls.) that the thoroughbred girls blow his doors off consistently. Worse, he can’t even catch them to bite and kick as a way to say, “Me mighty male.” And have Bonnie and Belle any ego problems because neither is fast enough for the track? Gracious no. Blood lines are everything, you know, and they’re sure they go back to the Godolphin Arabian.

Anyway, Irish Brook is gigantic, and 2 1/2 years old, so she has just started basic etiquette and being saddled. We don’t begin to try to ride them until they are three because they can end up with sway backs, a sin so ugly nothing can ever excuse it. Brook grew up with the 9-month-old Tidbit (who doesn’t have a name, yet, but since she is already as big as the 15-month-old, obviously isn’t going to be known as “Pretty Bit.” Besides, horses do have dignity, you know. Perhaps we’ll name her after a good Scotch…Glenlivet, Maker’s Mark, Tullamore Dew…) Brook promptly adopted Skyler’s Choice, who has pretty papers with half the big names in Texas on them–not that Bonnie and Belle are ever going to be impressed. “Really, my dear. One of those nouveau breeds…”

Probably this isn’t a fair test because the “to boot” nameless little gal (who is gorgeous) is clearly at least mostly QH, so probably the only reason they all get along is that they are all the same kind of horse, not propinquity and being too young to understand they must not consort with their inferiors. It will be the same old “us against them,” “you’re my sort of horse,” and “I’m so glad I’m not an Appaloosa.” (I need to track down the seller. Based on conformation, I suspect strongly that Glenlivet–names stick quickly when they’re “right”–IS a purebred. She was given to us with the excuse that we had just bought Irish Brook and a horse trailer, but I suspect the real reason is that she was born with a small umbilical hernia and will have to have minor surgery in a couple of months. I don’t think it is the relatively minor cost–four or five hundred dollars–but that many breeders cannot bear even the most minor imperfection. The other horses don’t care, and at worst Glenlivet will end up with a tiny scar visible only from very odd angles and covered when she is saddled.

If the simpler mammalian forms cannot behave any better than that, why should anyone expect humans to be more than polite (at best) to those who are “different?” Some of us are so vain we consider it beneath our breeding to condescend to our inferiors.

We have so many ways of being “different,” too! Color, creed, religion, cultural oddities, socioeconomic status, intelligence…no, it isn’t ever going to happen, no matter how hard the Statists try by putting toddlers in uniforms in nurseries together. Worse than that, animals don’t appear to have any real grasp of the concept of personal beauty, and there aren’t nearly as many ugly animals as there are humans. Dogs and cats show more flaws than anything other than humans, and it would probably land me in jail if I gave you a perfectly sensible explanation for that involving “Mama was a mutt and the multiple fathers were travelling dogs.” The only hope I can see–short of ignoring the whole mess and just sticking to our corners of the vast celestial aquarium–is that manners can be taught. It doesn’t bother me at all that Statists deplore, abhor, and revile me, because I am clearly their superior and they amuse me. My solution is to smile sweetly when they attempt to insult practically perfect me, primarily because that annoys them thoroughly. How very civilized I am, to be sure.

One of the nicest things about surviving quite a while is that we learn more funny songs. Back in the Fifties Tom Lehrer was a math professor at Harvard turned entertainer, and here is part of one of his works.

The Merry Minuet.

“They’re rioting in Africa
They’re starving in Spain!
There’s hurricanes in Florida!
And Texas needs Rain!

The whole world is festering with unhappy souls:
the French hate the Germans;
the Germans hate the Poles.
Italians hate Yugoslavs!
South Africans hate the Dutch!
And I don’t like anybody very much!

By fortuitous circumstance and what you have made of your lives, I like my readers very much.

Linda Brady Traynham

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