My People, You People, No People
Are YOU my people?
But First, Fun With Rage Bait
And just what do YOU mean by “you people”? I’ll tell you what I mean, shortly. But first, I wanna talk about . . . MY people.
My people. Who are they?
I work with a black lady who, every now and then, refers to her people. My first girlfriend was Jewish; she had a people. I used to work at the Vietnamese Association. Everybody over there had a people.
But not me. I’m people-free. You know that guy at work of whom it is said, “He’s a people person!” Well, that’s NOT me. I’m a peopleless person. I’m just me; whatever the heck that is.
I was told, when I was young, that I was special. For a variety of reasons. First of all, I was a Beamer (Even though my last name was Silva, I was raised by Beamers and thus considered one of their people.). And Beamer children got As in school. An occasional B was tolerable. But I’d better sure as heck get more As than Bs. And I’d better NEVER get a C. C-students were average; and Beamers were not average. They were above average. Always!
Their People
For a while, I thought sports people were my people. I played little league football and basketball. And I worked really HARD at basketball, in particular. I was gonna be a pro basketball player, regardless of what anyone else thought. I went to basketball camps every summer. I played in high school. But guess what. I stopped growing at six-foot-one. And I was WHITE!
No, that’s not a racist lament. It’s a joke about my people. White people. White Men Can’t Jump. It’s the name of a movie with Woody Harrelson and Wesley Snipes. And I gotta ask, Why is it okay to say, “White men can’t jump,” but it’s not okay to say, “Black men can’t swim,”?
Wait . . . before everybody jumps on my shit . . . before liberal snowflakes trample each other mounting their high horses . . . before white supremacists claim me as one of their people (“Hey bro, here’s your hood and your tiki torch.”) . . . lemme just say that, THAT WAS A JOKE! It’s what my people do. And by “my people”, I mean comedians. We topple the status quo. And that includes stereotypes.
Those People
I got saved in ‘72. So, for a long time church folk were my people. But then that whole Evangelical Republican Fox News Obama-hatin’ gun-lovin’ thing happened. And it became clear that my people had gone nuts. And so it was with great sorrow and many nightmares of hell that my people became those people.
In college, classical musicians became my people. But they are a stuffy lot. And so I found myself feeling more at home with people given to public demonstrations of their infantile demands. In other words, theatre majors. I even moved in my mid-twenties to the mecca for these kinds of narcissists — New York City — so I could live and breathe and fornicate among my own.
Needless to say, my people eventually became members of Alcoholics Anonymous. Or they went to jail. Or they died. And for a good long while, those were the only people I felt comfortable around; locked up, dead, or just plain ole unable to make sense of reality.
Preferential People
When I went broke in 2010, I thought poor people were gonna become my people. But poor people had no interest in being my people; mainly because I had come from money and blown it. They just couldn’t fathom why a rich boy would be that stupid. And nobody likes hanging out with stupid people.
I will say this about poor people. They take care of their own. And by “their own”, I don’t mean other poor people. I mean their own ethnicity and sexual preference. And by “ethnicity”, I mean black and Hispanic. And by “sexual preference”, I mean gay.
If you’re black, Hispanic, or gay in the food and beverage industry, there’s always shit work to be done for shit pay. And there’s always a car to get 10 people to the job. And there’s always someone in your tribe who has enough authority to give you preferential treatment.
Superior People
I must say at this point that I have nothing against black, Hispanic, or gay people taking care of their own. It’s called tribalism; and it’s the way of the world. I’m just pissed that my teepee somehow got separated from the circle. And that’s nobody’s fault in particular; and everyone’s fault in general.
Nevertheless, if that last section sounded racist to you, then you’re probably what I call a liberal nobody on a high horse. And by “nobody”, I mean that if you were a somebody, you wouldn’t waste your time stepping on me. You’d go after other somebodies.
I’ve had several run-ins lately with you people — and by “you people”, I mean young white liberals — and I’m sick of it! You have nothing to say, and you say it well. There are worthy causes. And fighting other nobodies on Facebook is not one of them.
Besides, I got my own high horse; and her best friends are black, Hispanic, and gay. You should be grateful that you at least have a people. Granted, they’re an arrogant, intolerant lot who haven’t enjoyed a belly laugh since Dick Cheney shot his friend in the face. But at least you have a group of equally humorless and judgmental comrades with which to savor your delusions of moral superiority.
Caring People
So . . . who ARE my people? If you really wanna know, check out our podcast. Meanwhile . . . if, like me, you’re a peopleless person, just know you’re not alone. There are people out there who care about you. Not me, of course. But there’s bound to be someone somewhere who gives a shit. Right?
May all peopleless people find all other peopleless persons before there is a shortage of peopleless to be found.
haha, thanks Basia.