There comes a time in every father’s life when he has to step back and let his children start thinking for themselves. You boys are getting older now, and your mother and I won’t always be there to remind you about us and them. Before long, you’ll both be off at college, so I hope you’ve been paying attention to all the things I’ve told you kids about Mexicans, Arabs, and the blacks.
Brian. Michael. It’s time you started making bigoted, hateful judgments about other races for yourselves.
You know we love you very much. We’ve tried our best to raise you to know the difference between right and wrong, good races and bad races. The way our parents raised us. You can roll your eyes now, but some day Mom and Dad won’t be there to protect you from learning anything about other cultures beyond malicious stereotypes. Soon, you’ll have to distrust those sweaty, loudmouthed Italians on your own.
Now, college is going to introduce you to a lot of new people. Some of them you’ll like, and some of them will have a different skin color than you. These biologically inferior folks might try to convince you that your hatred is misguided, that the throbbing, vicious anger boiling in your veins whenever you see anyone not exactly like yourself is the result of your limited exposure to the world and not your God-given right as a member of the master race. But you must have the courage to stick with your baseless, narrow-minded convictions. That’s called being a man.
Before you go to bed at night, always remember that Muslims hate America, and that their only goal in life is to destroy the insular, racially homogenous town you call home.
I tell you, it’s amazing how quickly kids grow up. One day you’re showing them how to pitch rocks at day laborers, and the next thing you know they’re giving you pointers on ridiculing the gay neighbor. Watching you boys mature with the same prejudices that my father instilled in me, well…it just about makes me choke up. I only wish your grandfather could see you hate now, but as you know, he was gutted by some filthy Hindu doctor. May he rest in peace.
The older you get, the more you’ll realize that the world is a big place, and there are all kinds of interesting people and places to feel blind, unjustified rage toward. You’ve got to be prepared. Sure, I’ve taught you a lot about blacks, chinks, queers, and the French. But what about Indians, Eskimos, and Polacks? Do you even know what slur you would use if you were trapped on a bus next to an Algonquin? The answer is “nitchie.” See, this is just the kind of stuff you’ve got to start figuring out for yourself.
If it were up to me, I’d see you boys through it all. But part of being a parent is knowing when to let go. And whenever I see you two eyeing the Gonzalez family suspiciously or locking the car doors when we drive through certain parts of town, I know you’re ready, and my heart just swells up with pride.
“There go the Whitman boys,” they’ll say in Kansas City. “Probably off to scrawl something horribly offensive on a bathroom wall.”
I envy you kids. I really do. When I left home 20 years ago as an impressionable, naïve little youngster, teeming with vitriolic prejudice, I wanted to get out there and make a difference in the world. But things change, and I’ve lost some of the fire I once had. You meet a black guy who doesn’t rob you or a homosexual who loves hunting and you start to question everything you believe in. I’m not saying it’ll happen to you boys—you’re good kids—but just be careful. Be on guard. And I know I’ve told you this a thousand times, but don’t trust the Jews.
Now get out of here before your mother starts crying.
