Ahmed and the Clock

Let’s see if we can explain what’s happening here. We all know the story by now, I’m sure, with opinions divided right along predictable lines. Kid builds (or didn’t, there seems to be some question about this) a clock, brings it to school in a briefcase to show his teachers, most of them say good work, one decides it looks like a bomb, hilarity ensues. Lots of media attention, the President tweets about it, people lose their freakin’ minds. As it happens, the kid is muslim, which lends a delicious spice to the proceedings. Lots of lecturing about how we’re all terrible people because we assumed the muslim kid had a bomb just because he’s muslim. Don’t tar everyone with the same brush, yadda yadda yadda.

Maybe I can explain the backstory here. Bear with me.

So you’re walking down a busy street in the city. Lots of people walking your way, lots of people walking the other way. Everyone is wrapped up in whatever errand they’re on, not paying too much attention to anyone else. Every now and then a guy wearing a purple shirt walks past you. You barely notice. Then a guy wearing a purple shirt punches you in the face, yells “Everyone should wear purple shirts!” and disappears up the street.

Stunned, you wonder what the hell that was about, chalk it up to a lone nut, and resume walking. Nine more guys wearing purple shirts walk past you. You barely notice.

The tenth guy wearing a purple shirt punches you in the face, yells “Everyone should wear purple shirts!” and disappears into the crowd. Concerned with your throbbing jaw, it scarcely registers on you that both guys who’ve punched you were wearing purple shirts. But as you resume your walk, you do begin to notice how many purple shirts you see. Most of them walk right past you.

And then the eleventh guy wearing a purple shirt punches you in the face, yells “Everyone should wear purple shirts!” and runs off.

Now you’re paying attention. As you once more resume your walk, you look at every purple shirt you see, wondering if you’re going to get punched in the face. Twelve or fifteen purple-shirted guys walk past without a hint of trouble. You being to relax and think about strange statistical aberrations.

Then the sixteenth guy wearing a purple shirt punches you in the face, yells “Everyone should wear purple shirts!” and runs off.

Now you’re angry. It seems that anyone wearing a purple shirt might punch you in the face. So you’re vigilant. You watch for purple shirts. When you see one, you give that person a wide berth. You begin to notice that every now and then someone wearing a purple shirt punches a random passer-by in the face, yells that everyone should wear purple shirts and runs off. You start to try to warn people to watch out for guys wearing purple shirts. Most dismiss you as a nut yourself. A few berate you for making assumptions about purple shirts. One or two get very angry and tell you they normally wear purple shirts themselves but today is laundry day and their purple shirt is in the dryer.

You start to doubt your premise yourself. Maybe it is just one of those weird things that happens.

Then a guy wearing a purple shirt punches you in the face.

Now you’re mad. You look even more carefully for purple shirts. When a guy wearing one comes your way, you raise your fists, ready to fight. The guy in the purple shirt looks at you like you’re crazy and goes out of his way to avoid you. You watch him go, just in case, and from behind you a guy wearing a purple shirt punches you in the back of the head. He asks you why you hate purple shirts and runs off.

So as you continue up the street, you keep a careful eye out for guys in purple shirts and you ready yourself to react any time you see one.

People call you crazy. They tell you you’re a horrible person with an unhealthy fixation on purple shirts. They point out that people wearing other colors occasionally punch someone in the face. You try to tell them that that happens a lot less often than someone wearing a purple shirt punching someone in the face but they tell you you’re wrong and refuse to listen to you any more.

Now a kid wearing a purple shirt comes down the street, his hands clenched into fists. What are you supposed to do?

I Don't Care

Don't Ask Don't Tell has now joined many other forms of official discrimination on the ash heap of history. About time. Nonsense like that never serves a useful purpose, it simply reveals the ignorance of humanity.

The jettisoning of the policy has resulted in many hours of additional "sensitivity training" for active duty military members. Because it takes many hours of exquisitely worded lawyerspeak to say, in essence, "Don't be an asshole." But it has also led to the birth of the latest "special emphasis group," which is what the government calls a defined minority which needs protection from the rest of the drones. We already have groups for blacks, women, hispanics, asians, native americans, and the handicapped, among others. Now we've got one for gays, lesbians, transgendered, and . . . well, whatever labels the PC crowd has decided to add to that list this week. Because it's important for people to be sorted into these little boxes, so that they know their place . . . er, I mean, can be tracked for signs of possible discriminatory practices.

It also means lots of signs, notices, meetings, and other paraphernalia related to their existence. See, it's not enough that discrimination against the specified "emphasis group" is now officially Frowned Upon, but we must be made aware of their existence. Because, y'know, until now we didn't realize that such people existed. Now it has to be In Your Face that there are gay people in the world, and at your place of employment, and that they too are special and sensitive and deserving of respect and not to be mocked or bullied or . . . other stuff that any rational human being wouldn't do in the first place.

Which leads me to my point: I Don't Care. I don't care what your sexual orientation is. I don't care what your ethnicity is. I don't care what your sex is. I don't care what church you go to, or don't go to. I DON'T CARE. If you're happy with your life, great. More power to you, go forth and conquer, make of it what you can.

But don't bother me with it. Because I Don't Care.

Leave me alone. I'll return the favor. That's all I ask. If your activities interest me, I'll approach you and ask about them. If they don't, I won't. Which also means I expect you not to jump in my face screaming "I'm a Rosicrucian! Isn't it GREAT?!?" Because it may be great for you, but I. Don't. Care.

I just recently filled out a request for information form from my county for possible jury duty selection. One of the sections related to my ethnicity . . . was I white, or black, or hispanic, or a meat popsicle, or whatever. I find this highly offensive. I'm an AMERICAN, and that's the extent of what you need to know in that regard. These irrelevant labels mean nothing, and official recognition of them does more harm than good. If there'd been an option to write in a category, I would have done what I always do in such cases and written in "American." As for the rest, I DON'T CARE.

I don't want much from life, gentle reader. A comfy chair, a means of support, and some fun or interesting activities to occupy my spare time. High on the list is not being bothered by people pushing their particular take on life as the Bestest One Ever. Don't care if it's newly-liberated gays, or Mormons, or the local Democratic Candidate for Wasting My Taxes. I'll engage where I choose to engage. If I don't engage with you, it's not because I don't like you, or hate what you represent, it's because I DON'T CARE.

I have friends who fall into all of these groups, you see. I'm friends with gay people, and women, and black people, and asians, and fill-in-the-blanks. Because I see them as people, not as hyphens. I don't walk out the door in the morning thinking that today I need to make friends with a Martian so that I can check off that box. If I meet a Martian who turns out to be interesting and not annoying, then maybe we'll be friends.

That's how it's supposed to work.