White People: What is Your Story?

[whiffleball]

My first encounter with a black person was at age 6 in the Appalachians of Kentucky.  I remember it distinctly.  I was standing in front of my grandfather's house on a dusty river road.  A black boy of about 8 came up to me and said, "How'd you like for me to kill you?" First thing out of his mouth when he laid eyes on me.  What was I to say;  Yes, please kill me now before I use any more of my white privilege?

Even at 6 I knew I had to derail this somehow.  I asked him if he wanted to see the bird's nest I'd found.  He said he would.  Since it was in the trunk of my father's car I told him I'd have to go to the house to get someone to open it.  I didn't leave that house again until the visit was over and we were on our way home.

I hate to admit how long ago this was, probably much longer than anyone else here has been alive.  Even then, a kid of 8, had been instilled with this mentality.

[GOBUCKS]

The details of my life are quite inconsequential.

My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet.

My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.

My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe.

At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it.

Mythsaje has a sockpuppet.