Places where I am not welcome

On a night like tonight, when the words are not flowing, it is best to just head out into the darkness and walk along the Danforth. There, in the darkness, are the lights of the merchants and services that cater to the night time crowd. And, because this is Toronto, a white heteronormative, such as myself, is not welcome.

Take the little variety store. The proprietor always seems to be sleepy. His store smells of acetone. But he sells all the usual small stuff you need late at night: aspirin, cans of pop, index cards, paper clips. But I am not welcome here. Every time I have bought something there, every time I have handed this fellow money, he has short changed me. I am a racist, I know. I do not embrace the cultural nuance of giving back less change than the difference between the cash tendered and the price displayed (including applicable federal and provincial taxes). In my culture, short changing is bad. But I am worse for noticing. So, I avoid the experience. I repress the urge to spend money there.

Take the three different Pox-Canadian community service centers that are close by to my home. Each one caters to a different tribe of People of Color. Heck, I did not even know that the plural of People of Color (‘PoC’) is Pox. I am a racist, I know. The people inside look kinda hungry and scared, like people do when they need a job, or want a job so that they can have some of the good things you can get in Toronto, like better food than rat meat and rice, or a pair of shoes, or some cologne so you do not stink. When I walked past, some fat white broad was giving a seminar to the assembled Sub-Tribe-Canadians. She had a flip chart and the title was ‘Reporting Racism’. Just what everybody new to Canada needs to know. I am sure that there are plenty of employers lined up to hire Canadian-skilless-Canadians, who have a manila envelope handy with forms and guidelines to denounce racism. And being a member of the automatically oppressive class (both by skin, and by having a job) I am not welcome there.

Take the local fast food joint. It was starting to rain, so I went in for a burger. Large corporations always welcome me and my money, and they do not short change me, and the staff are not looking for a meal ticket by getting my racist scalp to paste into their activist scrapbook of victimization. But what the hell, there is a posturing gang banger in the line ahead. All the Pox-Canadian girls working the tills are all a twitter over this guy. I am ignored. Gangbanger has a stylish bandanna, a crisp b-ball cap, and a natty hoodie. Only eyeliner and lipstick could improve his look. I can understand why prison inmates like to sodomize such creatures. But, here I am not welcome. I am a racist, I know. The staff are all a-twitter over this stylish Bastard-Canadian, whose sole adult influences were female in his formative years. He needs a purse for his gun. I went elsewhere to eat.

Take all the pretty flags along the street. I do not recognize most of them. I am a racist for not knowing where they all come from. There are not very many Canadian flags, but it is not good to notice that sort of thing. Noticing would make me a double plus racist. I do not feel welcome when they do not have a Canadian flag. Maybe they have been to a Racism Reporting Made Easy seminar at their local Pox-Canadian service center. I could get denounced for not spitting, or something. I am not welcome.

My cousin, who is pregnant, is doing some genealogy work. It turns out one of my ancestors had a two hundred acre farm not far from where I live in Toronto. He cleared the land with his three strapping sons. And if you have actually cleared land, you know it is sweaty work. And you get cuts and bites, so you bleed along with the sweat you drip into the earth. My ancestors mixed their blood and sweat into the earth. Which makes them earth rapists, I know. They killed trees so that Pox-Canadians could have a Pox-Canadian service center to learn about denouncing the people who built it for them. I do not think that this fact would help me be welcome. I am a racist, I know. Somewhere between clearing the land, and now, my ancestors had a plantation and slaves of which there are no records, and now I have to pay taxes in reparations for. My ancestors should not have mixed their blood and sweat with the earth, instead, Toronto should have been left covered with trees. Nobody, up until the most recent Pox-Canadians, and their Pro-Pox-Canadian activists and progressives enablers, are really welcome.

I think nobody would notice if I did not exist. I am not welcome in so many places across the land my ancestors cleared and settled. If a 2.2 kiloton nuclear device was detonated there, would anyone notice if I went missing? Probably not. If a 2.2 kiloton nuclear device was detonated there, and I was not anywhere near by, nobody would notice either. It would just be a ho-hum sort of nuclear detonation. And the good thing is that the trees would come back after only a few decades. Maybe it would be better if Toronto was carpet bombed, so that all the pretty trees that my unwelcome ancestors cleared with blood and sweat, could grow back. Then Bambi would play in the meadows where Jane-Finch once stood. Thumper the Bunny could nibble grass that grows over the scorched concrete rubble. Gaia would smile and Global Warming would stop being an issue.

Yeah, the places where I am not welcome. Best I make myself scarce before anything happens. Nobody is going to notice.


I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.

xpd Mitchieville, DustMyBroom