Friday, February 04, 2011

Shane Gets De-Nazified

[The following is an excerpt from H.A. Covington's Northwest independence novel, A Distant Thunder. The novel is the story of Shane Ryan, a typical NVA Volunteer who fought for freedom in the Northwest War of Independence.]

I understood that I was completely on my own, that there was no one on earth who was going to lift a finger to help me. Let me tell you something, that is a terrible, an unspeakable burden for a child of eight to carry. No child should ever be alone like white kids were when the political correctness of Zion ruled this land. I didn’t have a father who was worth a bucket of warm spit, but we had a television, so I knew from watching pro wrestling what I had to do.

One day I went out back to where the tarmac in the parking lot was breaking up. That crumbling infrastructure I mentioned before, crumbling literally in this case. I selected a good heavy chunk of broken-off concrete that I could heft in both hands, I got up on an embankment behind the playground and crept up on Bobby while he leaned against a wall smoking a cigarette, and before he knew it I was on him. I gave him a couple of good whacks with the piece of concrete.

He went down screaming in Spanish, and I went down on top of him and kept on smashing at him clumsily with the concrete, red splattering blood slapping all over me. I was prepared for that from watching the wrestlers when they whupped on one another with chairs and brass knuckles and fire extinguishers. Fernandez was pretty much of a mess when a couple of teachers finally screwed their courage to the sticking point and pulled me off him. One of them asked me why I had done it. It was then I committed an error that made my life what it was to be. I yelled out, “That greaseball spic wanted me to suck his dick, so I smushed his fucking head!”

Whooooa, baby! White trash city for life, here comes Shane Ryan!

From that point on, the bottom fell out. I had done the unforgivable. I had said spic. Well, it could have been worse. I might have said nigger. Mmm…maybe not. I mean, nigger was of course the ultimate forbidden word, a kind of living death if you uttered it, and if you were over thirteen years old and on the grounds of a public school and you said it or you were caught with a copy of Huckleberry Finn then it would be prison under the Dees Act, but nigger is only one forbidden word, whereas I had actually used two, albeit of somewhat lesser value. But the two of them combined? Did a spic and a greaseball put together actually outweigh one nigger in terms of politically incorrect horror? I learned later that whole school board meetings were held about my case, in attempt to resolve just that very knotty spiritual problemo of political incorrectness. Kind of the liberal equivalent of how many lesbians can dance on the head of a pin.

The hell of it was that I was not in fact what they called “prejudiced.” For God’s sake, I was a child! I knew that Mexicans were usually brown-colored, and they spoke a different language, but that was about it. All the Speedy Gonzalez cartoons had been pulled off TV by the time I was born, but we had the Bumblebee Man and the little talking chihuahua and I thought they were funny. When Mom was too drunk to make dinner, as she often was, Taco Bell was one of my favorite meals. I liked the big plate of tostitos with guacamole. At that age it wasn’t a race thing. It was a kid thing. I would have done the same to a white kid who waved his wang in my face and had his gang try to force me down on my knees in front of him.

I’ve often wondered what would have happened if the teachers and school administrators had treated what happened as exactly what the hell it was, a schoolyard squabble between children, and made me and Bobby both write “I will play nice” two hundred times on the blackboard. But kids were very much a political commodity in those days. The grownups acted like I was engaging in some kind of violent insurrection against the established authorities. I wasn’t. Not yet, anyway. All I wanted was for that big greaseball to leave me alone and being eight years old, I could not understand why that was too much to ask.

But it was. I was too young to comprehend that the one wish tyranny can never grant is simply to be left alone. The rule is that no one can stop the merry-go-round and get off. No one must be left outside the circle of misery. All must participate. All must sing hosannahs and all must burn the pinch of incense before the altar of the false gods of Zion.

I was dragged into the principal’s office, my parents were called, I made the front page of the Dundee Advertiser as indubitably the next Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan if we’d had one in Washington, my father lost his current job several months before he would have in the normal course of events through being drunk all the time, and we had several bricks thrown through the windows of our house by dumb-ass white teenagers who only knew that it was now socially acceptable and even encouraged to throw things at us. (Later on when I was with the NVA, we were the ones who told punk kids like that who it was okay to throw stuff at.)

Normally I would have been expelled like the kid with the Swiss Army knife, but at that time there was a new solution being tried out in the Washington public schools to deal with hideous racists like me. It was called SOBOR, Social Behavioral and Outlook Reconditioning, and the state of Washington paid millions to a whole set of psychobabble wonks to come up with it. They decided to make me their lab rat, and so I ended up being “de-Nazified.” Swear to God! An eight-year-old!

For the next three days I didn’t go to class. I was escorted everywhere by an adult faculty member like I had some kind of disease, forbidden to speak to any of the other children and they were forbidden to speak to me. I was an official pariah and made to feel it. I was taken off into an isolated room, surrounded by imposing psychobabbling adults, and made to watch a lot of videos about Hitler and the Ku Klux Klan, including all kinds of nasty photos of lynched niggers dangling on trees and skeletal inmates with numbers tattooed on their arms and burned skeletons and big pits full of bodies from alleged Nazi concentration camps.

But the child psychologists the state sent down stopped that after they got what they referred to as “contra-indications.” Fact was that I was enjoying it. I thought all the skeletons and dead bodies and such were neat, a lot more wonderfully gross and horrible than those stupid monsters Scooby-Doo and the gang chased and who always turned out to be villainous white guys wearing costumes. Well, what the hell did those educated idiots expect from a kid raised on American television who by age eight would have already seen fourteen thousand two hundred murders and acts of dismemberment on the boob tube, or whatever the statistic was?

Plus that was my first sight and sound of the Führer Adolf Hitler, and I was completely fascinated. Scattered in with all the rest were a few clips from the Nuremberg rallies. I didn’t speak word one of German, but even in those grainy old films from the 1930s there was something…I knew the Führer was speaking to me, and that he was saying something vitally important, but I had no idea what it was. Leni Riefenstahl, thank you. From the bottom of my heart, kameradin.

Anyway, the psych mooks from Olympia picked up that I wasn’t getting with the program and so they switched to something called “Learning Tolerance,” with videos of all kinds of little children of all races dancing around and throwing plant life at each other and grinning little niglet boys putting flowers in little blonde white girls’ hair and stroking them, and the little white girls going tee hee hee, you get the idea. For some reason I did not understand, I wanted to punch the niglets in the face. They just seemed dirty and horrible, ugly stupid monkeys, and I did not want them to be touching the little white girls. I did not want them to be, period. From somewhere in my gene pool, God knows where, I had inherited healthy racial instincts.

The psychologists were always asking me stupid questions and trying to make me sing songs about red and yellow, black and white, we are precious in His sight. I told them I couldn’t sing. Well, I couldn’t. They kept on and I just got really mulish about the whole thing and said I didn’t want to sing, and then they asked me why I didn’t want to sing and did daddy ever touch my peepee in a bad kind of way and that kind of crap. (The fact that a few years later they were teaching children that very behavior in class is a contradiction I’m sure always escaped them.)

Somehow I was able to convince them that my parents weren’t perverts, just drunks. I made things worse by refusing to get up at an assembly in front of the entire school and apologize to that greasy little blot Fernandez. That really drove them nuts. I didn’t understand it then, but this was in fact the most important part of the “de-Nazification” process—the deliberate, public humiliation of the white male who has dared to question, who has dared to resist. I wouldn’t play the game. I refused to debase myself. I refused to be humiliated, and that scared them pea-green. I think in their own way they had some vague idea of the sleeping giant that was about to awake in the land, and I could sense that they were afraid.

I was well on the way towards becoming an irredeemable case. I had them tearing their hair. Eight-year-olds were supposed to be pushovers.

Finally they brought a Burger King down from Seattle, although of course I didn’t call him that in my mind at the time. I didn’t even know what a Jew was.

On the third day I was taken in to the principal’s office. Mr. Jenkins left, and I found myself facing a plump little man with thick glasses and a big nose and a frizzy reddish beard that looked like pubic hair, and a little blue and white knitted beanie on his head. “Hello, Shane,” he said in a friendly voice. His glasses reflected the florescent lights on the ceiling in an odd way and kind of blanked out his eyes with white light, so it was like I was talking to some kind of funky robot, which I actually thought was pretty funny.

I smiled at him because he looked really dumb with no eyes and the beanie, and he no doubt took that as me being overawed by his magisterial presence. God, kikes are such arrogant bastards! “My name is Jacob Mandelbaum,” he tells me. “You can call me Doctor Jake. Or Rabbi Jake, because I’m also a rabbi. Do you know what a rabbi is, Shane?”

“No, sir,” I said. By this time I had figured out that it was best if I said as little as possible, even though that as well had its perils, because they claimed I was being “unresponsive” and I couldn’t stay in school and Dad wouldn’t get his job back and we would have to go live in a Motel 6 unless I was responsive to the social reconditioning therapy, at which point they totally lost me. It was winter and what did air conditioning have to do with anything? But I’d tried simply explaining what happened with Bobby Fernandez, and that just made them mad, and I’d made a couple of attempts to figure out what they wanted to hear and say that so they would let me go and leave me alone, but it just led to them trying to trip me up with more questions like the stupid ones about Dad allegedly touching my peepee and others even more deranged. I had no idea what was happening to me or why, and so I’d decided I’d best clam up and see if I could get away with giving them some kind of bare minimum, enough to make it all go away. At eight years of age I didn’t think all this out quite in those terms, but close enough.

Doctor-Rabbi Jake told me, “Well, Shane, I am of the Jewish faith, and in my religion a rabbi is kind of like a minister or a priest in a Christian church, but also much more. Among Jewish people a rabbi is a teacher, and he spends most of his life accumulating wisdom.

"You see, long ago in Bible times, God Himself chose the Jewish people as his very best and favorite people on earth, and gave us the task of guiding and inspiring all the rest of the peoples of the earth so that they will be good and do His will. In order for us to accomplish this divine mission, He gave us His word as set down in the holy books, the Torah and the Talmud, and in every generation He gives the Jewish people and all of mankind certain holy men, great rabbis called tzaddiks, which means saints. These men spend their lives studying those holy books so they have answers for all questions and so they have all the knowledge on earth that mankind ever really needs to know.

"The Jewish people are the custodians of that divine knowledge, Shane, and I am proud and happy to say that finally, after many thousands of years, the nations of the earth are beginning to acknowledge that fact. Our great American President and our wonderful American soldiers who are fighting for democracy and freedom in the Middle East are striking down the enemies of God and bringing more and more of earth’s peoples into the Brotherhood of Man, which is the ultimate goal of Judaism. And of course they are also reaping the bounty that God gives to those who do his will, in the form of the petroleum reserves which have been so long abused by the wicked sons of Ishmael, who are only now being taught the wrongness of their false faith and their hateful ways.”

“Ishmael?” I asked. I had a vague impression in my mind of Moby Dick.

“Yes, Shane, Muslims are the sons of Ishmael by our father Abraham, but not righteous children. The Jewish people are the sons of Abraham by his true wife Sarah who bore Isaac, but Muslims were born of Sarah’s handmaiden, a shiksa slave named Hagar, and so all Muslims are the sons of a whore and thereby bound to serve the true children of Abraham, the Jews. Never mind, that’s theology and it’s a bit beyond you now. If you go to a true Christian church your preacher can explain this to you later. But I have more than the knowledge of the word of God, Shane. I’m also very learned in the science of the human mind.”

“You’re a shrink?” I asked. I had heard about shrinks.

“Yes, Shane, I’m a shrink,” said Mandelbaum with a delighted chuckle.

“Are you going to put me in the cackle box?” I demanded. I knew about the cackle box from TV. It had rubber rooms, and people wore white jackets with arms all tied up, and everybody yelled and laughed and cried and screamed until the nurses came and gave you shots that turned you into a zombie and then you ate bugs like Renfield and sat around all day weaving baskets.

“Oh, I don’t think your case is quite so bad as to require institutional treatment, Shane,” replied Doctor-Rabbi Jake with a smile, but I could tell he wasn’t quite sure and I was definitely on my guard. “But you see, I am a doctor of the mind. You did something very bad, something which tells me that everything isn’t right in your mind, Shane, that indeed something is very sick in your mind. I want to make you well. I believe Doctor Anderson and Ms. Winslow-Panetta have explained to you what racism is?”

That one I had down pat from watching the videos. “It’s when you don’t like people who are different than you,” I recited by rote.

“Mmmm, not exactly, Shane,” said Doctor-Rabbi Jake. “It’s when you hate people who are different from you. Do you know what hate is, Shane?”

“Hate is when you really, really, really don’t like somebody real bad.”

“Mmm, again, close but no cigar. Hate is when you don’t like someone because of what they are. What they may do is irrelevant. Hate is not an emotion, it is a political position, one that can no longer be tolerated in civilized society. It’s not just a psychiatric issue, it’s a criminal issue, and as such it is treatable by legal means.

"Hate is a social disease of the mind, Shane, and it is the duty of my profession to make sure that no one in America suffers from this disease and that everyone in America is all right in their minds, and not thinking bad thoughts. Humanity has just come through a very bad century, Shane, but we learned a lot from it. We learned that all of the world’s problems are caused by hate, specifically hatred by people of your race and gender. White males like you who hate people who are of different colors and religions and sexual orientations are a cancer on the body of society and you have to be excised, even if as in your case you are too young to understand all the reasons for it.

"I know this is a bit much for someone your age to understand, but for many past centuries of history white males like yourself rampaged through the world like marauding ghouls. You did very bad and cruel things to people of color, to indigenous peoples like the Native Americans and the peoples of sub-Saharan Africa, to women of all colors, to gay people, and last but not least, you did terrible and evil things to my own Jewish people. Nowadays we’re much wiser. We understand the evil that hatred has done in the past and the pain and the suffering that it still does, like what happened the other day on your playground between you and Roberto Fernandez. We understand that we have to stop the hate, Shane, stop it by whatever means necessary, and the best way to stop it is to nip it in the bud.

“Now, Shane, your mind is full of hate. You might say that your mind is broken, and I have come all the way down here from Seattle to fix it. I don’t know exactly where you got this horrible sickness of racism from. It could be almost anywhere. Despite all the gains we have made in the past fifty years, American society is still deeply and pervasively racist, and anything and anyone can turn out to be an agent of the infection, sometimes even without knowing it. Somehow or another we have to get inside your mind and we have to get rid of all that horrible hate. We have to cleanse your mind, Shane, and your soul as well. We have to scrub away all that dirty and horrible old hate, and make your mind and your heart and your soul new and shiny and squeaky clean. Now Shane, I want you to tell me why you so atrociously attacked and injured little Roberto on Monday?”

“Because he kept trying to make me suck his dick and I didn’t wanna!” I said for what must have been the two hundredth time.

Mandelbaum scowled. “Shane, do you know what homophobia is? No, of course not. You should know by your age, but you don’t, because you’ve never been taught. Those proto-fascist bigots in the state legislature are still dragging their feet on bringing sexual diversity education into the schools, although I’m pretty sure we’re going to get the votes next session. But what I want to know, Shane, is who exactly told you that an approach for sexual contact from someone of the same gender requires a violent response? In other words, who told you it was all right to hurt another boy who wants to play with you in that way? Was it your father?” Jeez, I thought, there they go on Dad and peepees again. Whuzzup wid dat? (I told you, we all talked and thought like whiggers back then. We got it off rap videos on TV.)

“I just don’t wanna do that,” I said sulkily. “It’s dirty.”

“But why not, Shane?” Mandelbaum pressed me. “What makes you think that? Who told you it was dirty? Was it your parents?”

I was desperately groping around in my mind for something to say that would get off this topic. I didn’t understand why, but somehow I understood within me that it was just wrong to be talking about little boys sucking on one another’s peepees. “The Bible says it’s dirty!” I told him. I had no idea whether or not the Bible actually said that, but I had some vague feeling that this was the case. I knew the Bible didn’t like anything to do with peepees. Don’t ask me where I got that. Not off TV, that’s for sure.

“Ahhhh….” exhaled Doctor-Rabbi Jake with satisfaction. “Now we’re getting somewhere! Do your parents read the Bible to you, Shane?”

“No,” I said. Of course my parents didn’t read the Bible to me. They didn’t read anything to me or to themselves. They didn’t do anything except drink and fight and pass out on the floor. It was an incredibly stupid question.

“Shane, you can tell me,” said Doctor-Rabbi Jake soothingly. “I’m your rabbi, remember?”

“Well, my mom has a Bible,” I said, floundering around trying to figure out what he wanted to hear, and it was true. My mother did have one. It was a Gideon Bible that for some reason she had stolen from a hotel room some years before. She used it to prop open the kitchen door for a while, and later on as a coaster for her highball glass.

“Aha!” exclaimed Mandelbaum. “Now, Shane, I want you to think carefully. This Bible that your mother reads to you from, do you know if it’s something called a King James Bible?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said. That much I did know. I’d been alone in the house one rainy day and I’d picked it up off the coffee table, opened the whiskey-stained covers and looked it over. I got bored with it after a while and never tried to read it again, but I did remember the words “King James Translation” in faded gold letters on the black pseudo-leather spine.

“That, to my mind, is conclusive,” said Doctor-Rabbi Jake, sitting back in the principal’s chair in satisfaction. “You see, Shane, the King James Bible is a very old version, and it has some beautiful language in it, coming as it does from the time of Shakespeare…”

“Who?” I asked. It was a funny name. In my mind I saw some guy shaking a spear around in the air.

“Ah, never mind, Shane, he is a dead white European male from very long ago and he is no one you’ll ever need to know about.” ("Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him?") “But because the King James version is so very old, written in the time when only white males were allowed to have any power or influence in the world, it contains a lot of hate, such as the command in Genesis about each species seeking after its own kind. One of the many divine injunctions which was intended only for the Jewish people, which shows the danger of allowing goyim, er, I mean non-Jews to have anything to do with the Bible at all. It’s like giving a child a loaded gun. The King James is especially hateful against gay people because of the gross mistranslations of Leviticus and people in racially mixed relationships, as witness that horrible story in Numbers about Phineas.

"Fortunately we now live in a much more enlightened age when Christian theologians with the input and assistance of Jewish scholars have produced several far more inclusive versions. I think the first step is definitely to have a word with your mother, and persuade her to hand over that King James she is clearly unfitted to possess or use and accept instead a copy of one of the inclusive versions…”

To this day I don’t know what would have happened if Doc-Rabbi Jake had gone to our house and demanded that whiskey-sodden, stained, tattered old Gideon Bible from my mom. She probably would have sold it to him for the price of a bottle of Jim Beam. But then I did it again, and this time I really screwed myself for life. A sudden thought struck me. “Doctor Rabbi Jake, white people aren’t supposed to hate people with dark skins, right?” I asked.

“That’s right, Shane. It is very wrong,” said Mandelbaum primly.

“Then what about Muslims?” I demanded. “Mohammed who used to work down at the Speedy Mart on Harrison Avenue was a Muslim, and when some big kids from Centralia beat on him with tire irons everybody in town chipped in to hire Mr. Stevens as their lawyer and the judge let them off with a fine because they were drunk and they were just defending their country and standing up for Amurrica, and there was this colored girl in sixth grade, her name was Amina, and she had long black hair but she wore this long scarf over it, and somebody said she was a Muslim and a terrorist, and Mrs. Sackett made her stand up in front of the class and she ripped off the scarf and showed her hair to all the boys and they laughed at her, and Mrs. Sackett made Amina stand up and pledge allegiance to the flag and kneel down before a picture of Jesus or she couldn’t come to school any more and the school board said she was just standing up for Amurrica and supporting our troops, and then Amina’s house got set on fire by the Baptists and they moved away. Muslims have colored skins but Mrs. Sackett and Mr. Hansen and Ms. Rawlins and Ms. Gelinsky say they’re bad and Amurrica has to go into their countries and kill them unless they get civilized and make peace with Izrul and give us all their oil to prove they’re civilized now.”

My defending Muslims? No, it wasn’t that. That was something the Burger King could have handled from a child, and I am sure he had a stock set of facile answers on hand for such a sitch. But completely unwittingly, I had freaked him out, and once you can throw a Jew off balance he doesn’t recover well, and usually goes into hysterics. In this case I used a dirty word. A Party word. First time in my life I ever said it, years before I even knew the Party existed, and I had no idea on earth what I was saying. My destiny called, and I didn’t even hear or understand it.

Mandelbaum froze. “Who told you to say America like that?” he hissed. All of a sudden he was no longer friendly robot Doctor-Rabbi Jake.

“Huh?” I asked, not having the slightest idea what the Jew was talking about.

“You said ‘Amurrica’!” said Mandelbaum, his voice trembling and ponderous, accusing, heavy with menace.

“Yeah,” I responded. “Amurrica. That’s our country isn’t it? Why shouldn’t I say Amurrica?”

“There are some very, very bad people who say Amurrica, Shane,” said Mandelbaum, rising from his seat behind the principal’s desk like some towering, threatening mountain of Philadelphia cream cheese. He had completely and totally lost me. We lived in Amurrica, right? At least, that’s what I had always believed. Was everyone around me insane or lying? What the hell was this crazy man mad at me about? “Who told you to say Amurrica?” he almost shouted.

“Everybody,” I said, completely mystified. “Everybody says Amurrica!” And it was true. Everybody who was eight years old did say Amurrica instead of A-MAY-rica or A-MER-ica. Jesus Christ on a raft, you stupid—we were children, you stupid motherfuckers…!

I’m sorry, ma'am, I did it again, I understand that word is a revolting niggerism which is no longer in any way acceptable in polite society, and yet again I must ask your understanding and that you remember my age and where I came from.

Isn’t it strange, though? After all these years, I still hate them, and it’s not because of the many much more horrible things they did. Not for their murder and their tyranny, not because of the poverty and misery and denial of our very humanity. It’s the little, stupid wicked things that ZOG did that still enrages someone like me, after all these years. Browbeating and bullyragging on a child. The banality of evil, I have heard it called. They were real good at hurting children, those pieces of human garbage who ruled when we were the United States. It was their specialty.

Mandelbaum came around the desk and leaned over. His proboscidian visage was right in my face. “Shane, I am going to give you one last chance to tell me the truth. Otherwise I will be forced by my duty to humanity to invoke a new law that our country has been forced to impose in order to deal with this kind of situation. The law of It Takes A Village. You cannot be allowed to remain in this shocking, vicious, racist environment.” Well, he got two out of three right. My home environment was shocking and vicious, but not racist. Just drunk. “Now you will tell me the truth, Shane! Have you ever seen a flag, a wicked and evil flag with three sections, one blue, one white, one green? Have your parents ever shown you such a flag or anything, a picture, a coffee mug, anything with such a flag on it?”

A sudden inspiration hit me. All of a sudden I thought I understood. “You’re from there, aren’t you!” I said, suddenly impressed.

“From where?” asked Mandelbaum, caught off balance.

“The cackle box!” I replied enthusiastically. “I saw this video once where one of the guys in the cackle box was trying to eggscape, and he took off his clothes and got into this place where he was nekkid and a doctor came in a white coat and the guy knocked him out on the head and took his white coat and his stessascope and his car keys and the guy stole the doctor’s car and went to this town and got this girl and told her he was a doctor and then he went to her house and they got nekkid and did stuff and then some other guy came and he knew the first one wasn’t really a doctor and they had a big fight and the one who was pretending to be the doctor stabbed the other guy and the girl ran outside all nekkid with her boobs bouncing and she was yelling help help and the cops came but the guy who was pretending to be the doctor ran off and hid in the woods and then he went to this old house and he found this mast and a ole chain saw and he put the mast on his face and he got some gas from a can and he started up the chain saw and then he goes looking for the girl again to chop her up with the chain saw…”

Doctor Mandelbaum stood up and slapped my face. He looked at me with freezing contempt and anger. “Freud was right. You people are beyond all help. No matter how sincerely one tries, it is impossible to treat a sociopath.” He wheeled and threw open the office door. “Jefferson!” he shouted out, like our principal was his errand boy. “Get this little fascist son of a bitch out of here! Make sure he has no contact with any other students!” The janitor, Mr. Gray, came and took me down to his little office and let me watch an old Judge Judy re-run on his little TV, and he also gave me a soda and a bag of Doritos.

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