As we’ve highlighted examples recently, it’s become quite chi-chi among lettered blacks to pen open Dear White People correspondence. That sidewalk panhandling and racial mean-mugging could be reduced to the comfort of one’s own computer is testament enough to African ingenuity. Even more so when considering the sizable clown claque of obsequious whites drawn to these gaseous missives. Life will pass in perpetual surprise if you think a liberal tongue can’t reach deeper into the crevasse.
Of course one Dear Whitey letter could be substituted for any other, with no disturbance in a reader’s eye-roll. Cups of water are less fungible and more fun than these tedious here what I don’t like you do efforts. Though it’s not merely the predictable patter in plodding prose–you get that at National Review. Rather what serves as this writer’s personal pique is the distended fly-specked belly of nearly all black navel-gazing: solipsism. Almost as if it’s the only concept in the world.
Blacks don’t hold a monopoly on solipsistic meanderings, though they certainly make a market. And this specific genre offers a particularly robust example. Each entry featuring a writer assiduously oblivious to the lives, interests, or aspirations of their intended audience. It’s like hearing a child lecturing to play-doh figures. The latter being mute objects whose value and morality are judged by the extent they serve the speaker’s ends. There’s only one beautiful creature owed deference by the world. And I don’t just mean TaNehisiCoates.
I somehow ran upon another of these open letters and, as it was (conceivably) addressed to me, thought a gesture of equal generosity was merited. Though before barreling toward the exit out of disinterest for the subject matter, readers should remain for the twist–you won’t believe what happens next!
To the white parents of my black sons friends
I’ve been wrestling with talking to you about some things I think you need to know. I’ve wrestled with it because I feel my own sense of shame– shame that I didn’t know or understand these issues before they touched my family. I’ve felt fear that you’ll respond in subtle ways that make it clear you aren’t safe for my child. I’ve been concerned that you won’t believe me and then I’ll feel more angry than if I hadn’t said anything. But my son is getting older and as he transitions from an adorable black boy to a strong black man, I know the assumptions about him will change. And I need your help in keeping him safe.
That’s probably sufficient, I doubt you’ll disagree. But what’s that criminally under deployed term again? Yes, solipsism. Is your olfactory apparatus detecting a whiff? There are eleven Is in that preamble–with additional platoons in the rear. Practically all are attached to unsolicited instructions for how the lives of white parents should be reordered to the preferences of her adorable, strong teen. And if you are interested in exploring her reciprocal obligations to her community…well I guess that’s what open letters are for, bigot. Though before continuing, would you like to see a photo of this bossy black baby-mama?
It’s gratifying to see she’s impartial to her own biological offspring–neither of whom I imagine will ever be called a strong white man by their mirror-gazing mother. Though to the preening white–ummm–parents of African accessories, I’ve been wrestling with talking to you about some things I think you need to know. God or Gaia did not fashion this world as a stage for your exquisite morality. This being a play best produced away from those who must be harangued to heed it. There is a reason you did not choose to raise your Liberian–ummm–son in his native habitat far from the predations of suburban white professionals. It is the same reason your hollow ethics didn’t compel you to decamp to at least an American black ghetto, where the non-racist neighbors would have been regarded with calm composure.
You’re too vacuous to give the matter thought, but no one complains about what cannibals serve them for dinner. It’s the civilized restaurants that absorb all the criticism. So it is with your center-of-the-universe dictation. You didn’t elect to live as an alien in a black community–one just as inclined to beat you senseless on the front lawn as to chin-stroke your bill of particulars. No, you scamper beneath the umbrella of security offered by your own community, and then mewl about its insufficient appreciation of your efforts to undermine it. A man could open a parachute in a skull that empty.
So this is what I’m going to need you to do: write one open letter of apology to the natural children you have neglected in pursuit of accumulating a UN orphanage. Another to the community you peremptorily placed it in. And a third to the–ummm–son you dragged from his people as a virtue signal to your own.
And pen the rest of your letters from Monrovia.