The Black Douglas

To help pass the time today, I watched some kids play soccer. Here in Toronto, that means watching a group of surly gangbangers stand by the gymnasium door, smoking, while their outnumbered gym instructor stands far away with his back to them. A small number of smaller boys actually kick the ball; their larger Crip cousins, smoke, listen to hip hop, and call the girls ho and bitch.

The instructor was careful to keep his back to the youth gang. What he does not see, he does not have to deal with. Things like dress code (no baseball caps, no bandannas, no low slung pants), smoking on school property, and the sexual harassment of female students, are invisible. But that is ok. The gangbangers are, after all, victims of the endemic racism entrenched in racist Canadian society, outraged over the injustice of inadequate social spending, and fully aware of the lingering effects of colonialism. So, maybe the instructor was showing empathy for their suffering by not enforcing the rules of the evil white man. The instructor was an old guy, anyway. With only a few years until retirement, he was saving his energy for the fight for a Black only high school where he would not have to teach.

I confess that I do not understand N-people culture. I grew up hearing stories about the brave ones who fought the oppression of my ancestors. One of the first I heard about, at my mothers lap, was The Black Douglas * . He was a dispossessed Scottish patriot, who, like many other Scots in the centuries long wars against English oppression, lived, fought, and died for freedom for his people. There were others, like William Wallace * , and Robert the Bruce * . My school chums used the war cry A Douglas! A Douglas! when we played soccer.

Unfortunately, The Black Douglas did not know about selling drugs to show his hurt feelings at not being handed freedom from slavery in a timely manner. Nor did he know about the strong symbol that smoking on school property sends to the forces of oppression. Instead, he just killed his tormentors. Modern freedom fighters just kill each other * * . I do not know if The Black Douglas practiced public urination, another modern Toronto way to show outrage * * * , instead, he just took back what was his. I guess that waiting for someone else to give it to him was not on the agenda.

Like all activists, I carry a heavy burden of white guilt. Having the invisible potato peeler of white privilege is like the burden that Frodo had carrying the Ring of Power. I want to help my oppressed fellow Canadians, even if they are illegal immigrants, welfare cheats, woman beaters, or just simply hate me and my country. What can I do? The blood of The Black Douglas runs in my veins, but robbing a cab or giving the unwed mother of my child a black eye does not have the appeal that it does to my oppressed homeboys and Baby mommas.

What should I do? And while you are thinking of an answer, do send me your money. I accept Visa, Mastercard, American Express, and Shortbread cookies.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.