I spend more time lately protecting my black sons from well-meaning people concerned they might be victims of racism than I do protecting them from actual racism.
I am not afraid that my sons might experience occasions of racism. I am afraid that they might see racism everywhere.
As hurtful as moments of racism might be, a lifetime of imagined victimhood would be ruinous.
But the activists claim that if my sons’ black lives matter, I should purge my fridge of Coon cheese.
When the boys ask for their morning Coco Pops, I should explain that I rose early and burned the box, since the monkey on the front had been mocking them each morning these past few years. And I will apologise for having allowed this to happen to them in their own home.
When my sons arrive home from school and ask why I am emptying my cans of Colonial Beer down the drain, I should explain to them that I had been inadvertently glorifying their oppression every time I drank it.
And later tonight, when the boys ask to watch Summer Heights High, I should explain that we don’t watch it anymore.
When they protest, “But it was funny”, I will sit them down and gently break it to them that the entire time, the joke had been on them.
Because when a white Chris Lilley pretended to be a black Jonah Takalua … well, honestly, I’m not exactly sure what the problem was, but I will do my best to help them understand that an Australian actor pretending to be a Tongan character is a slur on them as Ethiopians because of skin colour.
I contend that because my sons’ black lives matter, I will refuse to see racism everywhere.
It is because I hate the evil of racism that I refuse to minimise it by teaching my sons that Derek Chauvin and a box of breakfast cereal are the same thing.
And it is because I love my sons that I refuse to minimise them by teaching them to think they can’t breathe for the weight of the Coco Pops monkey on their neck.
My sons live in the freest country on earth where they have the opportunity, if they are diligent to develop their unique gifts and talents, to create an incredible life for themselves.
There is not a white supremacist lurking in every pantry. There is not a racist hiding behind every police uniform. There is not a historical grievance creating every challenge they face. And there is not a racial slight that can explain every setback they will experience in life.
I want my children to live free. So I will do all I can to protect them from those virtue-signalling do-gooders who would shackle them in the chains of victimhood.
It is because my sons matter so much that I would respectfully ask the Black Lives Matter crusaders to please, leave them the hell alone.
Illustration: Kelloggs Australia.
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