In early January, my grandson learned he is bad. He didn’t learn this from his family. He learned it at preschool. One of his classmates made the statement, “White people are bad.” My grandson is a very intelligent little boy. That stuck with him although it didn’t really sink in right away that he’s white; a blue-eyed, very light skinned with light brown hair white boy. His brother will be in worse shape when he starts preschool. He has reddish blonde hair to top things off.
Our attitudes at home are that nothing about a person makes anyone badÂ except the actions of the individual. Talk about damage control… and who can we complain to about it? No one because he’s white. We took it up with the school who promised to do something about it , yet, my grandson persists in the notion that “White people are bad.”
I thought about home schooling but when I checked into it, you have to use state approved books which have been diluted to become more politically correct, in addition to isolating my grandchildren from other kids and hindering socialization. The other option is private schooling which neither we nor the kids’ parents can afford because taxes take all our extra money. If I can’t afford health insurance, how am I expected to pay for private schools? When I need a doctor, I have to pay the office visit price. My doctor is an intern because I can’t afford “real” doctor prices. Lab work? Forget it, can’t afford it.
Over last weekend, I went shopping. The worldÂ has becomeÂ a very volatile place. This old girl has a bit of Cherokee and a fewÂ drops from other tribes in her. So, here I am black-haired, brown-eyed, sallow skinned, shopping in an area that has seen such in influx of illegal aliens that it almost feels like an impending explosion.
Imagine going through a store and getting numerous sideways looks. It wasn’t just white people doing this. It was blacks andÂ orientals as well. To say things were tense is an understatement. I was looking at some small appliances and noticed this youngÂ oriental man staring at me with a look of apprehension, so I returned the stare with a smile and made an inane remark. The look of apprehension faded as he clearly heard my deep southern accent. He couldn’t find the plungers and had no idea where to look for them. Unfortunately, this was repeated in many forms as I completed my shopping. I think I’ll do the bulk of my shopping online from now on.
My next door neighbors are Mexicans. For the most part that would be okay with me but they continually throw glass beer bottles into my yard, which consequently break, leaving glass shards for my grandchildren to step on, handle, and get cut upon. I can’t talk to them about it because, being illegal aliens,Â they don’t speak English. Imagine that, I have to learn a new language just to get these guys to stop throwing beer bottles in my yard.Â Neighbors on the other side of them have bigger problems with them because they consistently block their driveway. AllÂ they can get out of them is, “No habla InglÃ©s.” The government’s solution is to print documents in multiple languages. I think I’ll send a letter to the Mayor and ask him to translate this message for me, “Please, stop throwing glass beer bottles in my yard. They will injure my grandchildren.” I mean, if my taxes are paying for those other documents, it can pay for mine, too.