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It's
only fitting to begin this piece with a lament:
"Once
I built a railroad, made it run. Made it race against time. Once
I built a railroad, now it's done. Buddy, can you spare a dime?"
Most
of us won't heavily identify with this verse from a depression era
song. Most of us are not male, and not white. Some of us are. The
(obvious, to me) white guy who penned the lines above lamented a
serious dislocation of his relationship with his world.
All
disorienting changes for white guys like me are not necessarily
financial. Not that a major recession won't get my attention, mind
you. It's simply the fact that a similar social status earthquake
of thirty years' duration can accomplish the same degree of angst.
You
may ask, "What is it that makes you a spokesman for the allegedly
aggrieved White Male?" I present my credentials:
* I
am overeducated and underemployed;
* I'm
never confident I know how to address female persons, in various
age- group-related social situations;
* I
am vaguely aware my inherent prejudices are blatantly obvious to
everyone but me, and there is no remedy for the crime;
* I
am outstanding in my self-absorption;
* Neither
Viagra nor Rogain seems overly self indulgent to me, and they are
deemed cheap at twice the price.
If the
above does not present as bona fides to you, then you are, no doubt,
a Martian and in need of spacecraft repairs. So you say, "Okay --
you're not King of the Hill anymore, so what's the big hu-hu?" I'm
glad you asked.
If you
can hear the old saw "It's a Man's world . . . " without immediate
outrage, and/or without snickering, then you should be able to follow
this. If on the other hand, the quotation causes anything but nostalgia,
you should go back to reading your newly arrived issue of GQ or
Elle.
To Wit:
I am
not relevant anymore. I am not a force in society; I am not a special
interest group, and the only ones who seem interested in middle-aged
white guys are the same people who wear sheets and arm bands. Spare
me thy cure!
There
is one big upside to this fallen state. Nobody takes editorial pot
shots at us anymore. We aren't very much a threat, I guess. [insert
embarrassed grin here]
These
sticks and stones fail to break the "Middle-Aged White Guy Spirit"
though, because we know something they don't know. We know--for
instance --how to accept responsibility. It's practically a neurotic
obsession with us because all our fathers held up personal responsibility
as the route to manhood. The occasion for teaching this lesson of
life was usually engendered by grievous misuse of Dad's favorite
power tool, and the resulting fantastic explanation following discovery
of said offense.
Some
time back, a U.S. pilot stood trial for killing Italian skiers during
a training exercise. His excuse? The maps were bad. His equipment
was bad. His training was bad. The dog ate his homework. His father
obviously owned no power tools. He was found innocent of the charges
by a court-martial composed of his fellow officers. How many power
tools do you think their fathers owned?
We "White
Guys" also enjoy pangs of conscience, a WASP work ethic, (an equal
opportunity obsession; no religious or integumental hue requirements)
and a propensity to Pendulous Paunch. Worthy traits all these, except
for the paunch thing. The world will be back for our expertise some
day. You can write that on the wall. It will serve you best if you
write it on the wall above your workbench, close to your favorite
power tool.
Copyright
© 2001 Robert Marcom. All Rights Reserved.
Robert Marcom may or may not be white.
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