You have to hand it to Black Hawk and his band of warriors - they sure know how to put up a fight against pretentious white people. In 1832, a Native American warrior known as Black Hawk, and about 1,500 followers, headed east from the Mississippi River, into Northern Illinois and Southern Wisconsin. Their move induced something of a panic amongst the white settlers, some of whom fled their homesteads for the safety of frontier forts.
Now, more than 170 years later, white people are still petrified of Black Hawk and his warriors. As we've seen recently, local school districts like South Wayne may have to change their name and mascot, because white people (let me repeat, WHITE PEOPLE) say so. After a century and a half, this time armed with lawyers and political bureaucracy, angry white people may finally kill the Native American.
That a Native American tactician known as Black Hawk actually walked this land with a group of Warriors is irrelevant in this argument. Am I to believe that the most pressing issue facing planet Earth is whether or not small-town U.S.A. places like South Wayne reference a figure like "Black Hawk" or "Warriors"? Am I in the Twilight Zone, or is this actually happening?
This issue reminds me of Steve. Join me in this parable, because Steve's tragic life perfectly illustrates the absurdity of political correctness. I would not say that Steve is a friend of mine, more of an acquaintance. The truth is, we all know someone like Steve.
How do I adequately describe Steve, in the few words of this column? Steve is the most nondescript human being you will ever meet. He lives an average life, works at an average job, and comes home alone to an average house. His clothes are colorless. Steve drives a hybrid car, is a practicing vegan, and has switched all his light bulbs from incandescent to compact florescent.
Now, don't misunderstand: I have no problem whatsoever with hybrid cars. I don't care what type of light bulbs you use, and as a dairy/beef producer, I am not offended that someone is a militant vegetarian. You are free to make your own choices! Where Steve crosses the line, is that he insists that everyone else follow his example. He was an outspoken proponent of illegalizing incandescent bulbs. He vocally advocates "Meatless Mondays". He thinks that gasoline should be eight bucks a gallon. He is the type of person that attends such community forums as, "Erect Wind Turbines Now! (Just not in my backyard)."
Realize this about Steve: His life is average, to the point of irrelevance. His white-collar office job could be eliminated tonight, and the output of the company would not change one bit. To be honest, Steve could die tomorrow, and it could be several weeks before anyone actually noticed.
Realize something else about Steve: He has never had to actually struggle for anything. He recently acquired his own house, but only because his mother passed away and he could finally move out of the basement. He has never gone hungry, and as an only child, his over doting mother has always provided for him.
The truth is, that no one wants to live a life of mediocrity. Everyone wants to matter, and people like Steve view themselves as the model for everyone else. Everyone should live a pointless, pathetic life, just like Steve.
One day, while driving his silver Prius to work, Steve noticed something he had not seen before. A set of buildings had been erected around an abandoned farmstead. At the center, the focal point was the restored barn. With shiny new red steel siding, it stood out brilliantly along the road. Steve smirked - red is the politically incorrect color of error and mistake. It stands for communism. What fool would paint a barn red? If only the poor saps had summoned Steve for his dazzling insightful advice.
Days wore on, and the evil red barn began to nag at Steve. It was laughing at him. He drove different routes, but always seemed to hit red lights. He turned on the radio to clear his mind. Classic Rock, Rolling Stones: "I see a red door and I want it painted black ..." This communist, politically incorrect red barn was driving Steve insane!
Finally he had enough. Steve drove right up to the set of buildings, being careful not to park in the shadow of the gleaming red barn. Steve marched up to a building marked 'Administration' and knocked. As a man answered, Steve passionately iterated: "I protest the use of the color red on your barn. As the color of communism, error, and mistake, it is offensive to all those who pass by. For the good of the community, I suggest you change this offensive eyesore."
Silence. The man glared at Steve in befuddled amusement. Awkwardness. Steve suddenly realized what a diminutive figure he was, standing several inches shorter than this muscular, tanned gentleman. By contrast, Steve looked gangly, pale, and balding. The door slammed shut in Steve's face, adding insult to injury. Didn't this man know that Steve was only looking out for him?
His fragile manhood crushed, Steve retreated to his car. As he got in, he noticed a sign he had not seen before. There, above the Administration Building: "Welcome to the Monroe Activity Center for the Colorblind."
Now, more than 170 years later, white people are still petrified of Black Hawk and his warriors. As we've seen recently, local school districts like South Wayne may have to change their name and mascot, because white people (let me repeat, WHITE PEOPLE) say so. After a century and a half, this time armed with lawyers and political bureaucracy, angry white people may finally kill the Native American.
That a Native American tactician known as Black Hawk actually walked this land with a group of Warriors is irrelevant in this argument. Am I to believe that the most pressing issue facing planet Earth is whether or not small-town U.S.A. places like South Wayne reference a figure like "Black Hawk" or "Warriors"? Am I in the Twilight Zone, or is this actually happening?
This issue reminds me of Steve. Join me in this parable, because Steve's tragic life perfectly illustrates the absurdity of political correctness. I would not say that Steve is a friend of mine, more of an acquaintance. The truth is, we all know someone like Steve.
How do I adequately describe Steve, in the few words of this column? Steve is the most nondescript human being you will ever meet. He lives an average life, works at an average job, and comes home alone to an average house. His clothes are colorless. Steve drives a hybrid car, is a practicing vegan, and has switched all his light bulbs from incandescent to compact florescent.
Now, don't misunderstand: I have no problem whatsoever with hybrid cars. I don't care what type of light bulbs you use, and as a dairy/beef producer, I am not offended that someone is a militant vegetarian. You are free to make your own choices! Where Steve crosses the line, is that he insists that everyone else follow his example. He was an outspoken proponent of illegalizing incandescent bulbs. He vocally advocates "Meatless Mondays". He thinks that gasoline should be eight bucks a gallon. He is the type of person that attends such community forums as, "Erect Wind Turbines Now! (Just not in my backyard)."
Realize this about Steve: His life is average, to the point of irrelevance. His white-collar office job could be eliminated tonight, and the output of the company would not change one bit. To be honest, Steve could die tomorrow, and it could be several weeks before anyone actually noticed.
Realize something else about Steve: He has never had to actually struggle for anything. He recently acquired his own house, but only because his mother passed away and he could finally move out of the basement. He has never gone hungry, and as an only child, his over doting mother has always provided for him.
The truth is, that no one wants to live a life of mediocrity. Everyone wants to matter, and people like Steve view themselves as the model for everyone else. Everyone should live a pointless, pathetic life, just like Steve.
One day, while driving his silver Prius to work, Steve noticed something he had not seen before. A set of buildings had been erected around an abandoned farmstead. At the center, the focal point was the restored barn. With shiny new red steel siding, it stood out brilliantly along the road. Steve smirked - red is the politically incorrect color of error and mistake. It stands for communism. What fool would paint a barn red? If only the poor saps had summoned Steve for his dazzling insightful advice.
Days wore on, and the evil red barn began to nag at Steve. It was laughing at him. He drove different routes, but always seemed to hit red lights. He turned on the radio to clear his mind. Classic Rock, Rolling Stones: "I see a red door and I want it painted black ..." This communist, politically incorrect red barn was driving Steve insane!
Finally he had enough. Steve drove right up to the set of buildings, being careful not to park in the shadow of the gleaming red barn. Steve marched up to a building marked 'Administration' and knocked. As a man answered, Steve passionately iterated: "I protest the use of the color red on your barn. As the color of communism, error, and mistake, it is offensive to all those who pass by. For the good of the community, I suggest you change this offensive eyesore."
Silence. The man glared at Steve in befuddled amusement. Awkwardness. Steve suddenly realized what a diminutive figure he was, standing several inches shorter than this muscular, tanned gentleman. By contrast, Steve looked gangly, pale, and balding. The door slammed shut in Steve's face, adding insult to injury. Didn't this man know that Steve was only looking out for him?
His fragile manhood crushed, Steve retreated to his car. As he got in, he noticed a sign he had not seen before. There, above the Administration Building: "Welcome to the Monroe Activity Center for the Colorblind."
