Us versus them food: a primer in racist food and danger.

Who doesn’t want to eat dangerous foods? Certainly, the world needs more of those. And writers like Tahlia Pritchard, who herself would taste delicious on a skewer. Where are all the cannibals when you need them? Oh, here they are, quoted in Ms. Pritchards white-phobic, racist article.

I think food should be dagerous-where ARE those guys who will spit a loogie into Ms. Pritchard’s next hamburger, or who will stir some pee into her wine? Her white guilt is so crushing, that she might just need that extra push over the cliff, with the rest of the “white” flock.

And this sort of madness over race is kiling our ability to see that such divisions by design keep us from talking about real isues-like how international finanant stories.e importce, the MIC, the DVIC, and those in media keep us squabbing as real journalists like Michael Hastings are picked off in mysterious circumstances right before they writ

Buzzfeed-the online news service that once hosted the excellent investigative journalism, and the well researched, well sourced writing of murdered Hastings, which critiqued the endess wars that are fought for the white female privilege of Tahlia(a Hebrew name) has now become a sort of repository for these types of women whose whiteness seems to burden them-especialy at binge-eating time (brush after each binge, Tahlia!).

Here-have a look at things that make Tahlia nauseous-and maybe, slip a loogie into her next bowl of Pho, because food should be dangerous-to those who divide us:

17 Foods That White People Have Ruined

Stop that.

Posted on November 16, 2016, at 9:02 p.m.

Welcome to Racist Food An’ Danger! A safe space for “white people(1)” to indulge in ethnic consumptions of all kinds.

 

My first “taco” was a butter and cheese slathered flour tortilla, which Charley and Chewie’s mom cooked on a flat burner plugged into a line that tapped into a telephone pole, in kitchen whose walls were covered in black charred soot and strips of cheap yellow brown and champagne pink flowered wall paper, sprinkled with char black furring strips nailed to two-by-fours polking out from between holes in the plaster. The house, as I recall had been “condemned by policia” after it had burned a few years back; and their families came there every year to live off in te woods, where everyone knew where they were, but where no officials ever went unless their was a murder, or worse.

As it happened, I was a wimpy child, and though I had frequently been invited by the bigger boys to take part in plucking and eating feathered fowls, or “eating the pig’s eyes(2),” and jowls, and entrails, or, failing that, throwing the eyeballs onto the roof “por dios,” I was always easily intimidated into the kitchen, where one or another mother labored over flat griddles and boiling pots, with immaculate aprons that matched the wall paper; or seed sacks.

Keep in mind, this was in the era of Cesar Chavez, and women still sometimes wore reused things like table clothes as clothing; and today, most Mexican’s have no idea that my friends and extended temporary families looked like this:

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Mexican Migrants from the era just before my own.

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Workers in the Time of One Cesar Chavez. [photo credit NPR: Memories of a Former Migrant Worker]
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The  house sat off in the little woods at the edge of Lake Zurich Illinois, which was surrounded by strawberry fields and apple trees in the nearby orchards, and surely they picked a host of other crops, which I was then, at four years old, just learning about by reading Richard Scarry and watching America’s first multi-cultural programming, Sesame Street.

And, as it happened years later, it was positioned between the swamp, my route to my first school, the forbidden tree fort, Sue Rendon’s house (she was the local fertility goddess) and all of which was surrounded by the territory of one “Bully Schultz”, an aptly named boy who was “from there.”

 

While Chewie’s families were migrant workers who came north to walk and pick, harvest and crawl on their knees through fields, and climbing the trees of every picking season, I was the lucky kid in their eyes, and a “townie” from a rich family who didn’t have to work the fields. Yup. I was lucky-my dada was a garbage man. Years later, as I picked rocks in th fields of the farmers who are “from there” I didn’t fel so lucky, but my white skin, lobster red, made me so.

Here, have a look at our rich-people’s house, where I lived for a coupe of years (most places I lived were for a couple of years):

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This is the house I lived in for a few years when I was a rich white boy. I remember my dad sawing the head off of a deer in that shed to the left, because mobsters had fire-bombed him. He was going to throw that head through VanDer Mollen’s window. I don’t know if he ever did that, but after he cut the head off thatndeer, the whole shed smelled like congealed death. Then, he became an FBI rat for awhile, wearing a wire, which, may or may not have ben the prudent choice.

Men were seldom seen in Chewie’s house, and when they were, they were  sleeping on couches that had been dragged out of the trash-big over-stuffed couches whose arms smelled like feet-and dirt; that sour smell of foot-dirt that gets tracked in between toes that worked 14 hour days, six or seven days per week, depending on the age and marital status of the male. And the mothers and daughter’s hushed us with finger’s at their lips, invoking the potential fear of death, maybe the wrath of Dios should these men awaken due to our child’s play.

So this was where I grew up for awhile, and where I began to learn that I was lucky, and white. Where I was caught between Bully Schultz and  a smelly swamp, and centered myself some Sundays at the burned out house i the woods. Yet I remember someone pointing to my lucky house one day trying to explain it, my luck-it was one of Charley’s cousin’s, from deep Mexico who was not aware of the rules. He said “you are white like the house.”

Lucky me. In that moment, probably around six years old, I had this flash of awareness-in that momet it was explained to e why my mother always admonished me to keep my sleeves rolled down. She didn’t want me to get burned by the sun, maybe. Or maybe not.

(1)I have never know what white people are, other than a reaction formation between racists of other stripes who brutalize the lower classes of “white culture” with this memetic, in order to gain social advantage. There is a LOT of money to be made exploiting race in America-but WHO is exploiting and cashing in on that? I just have never found it in me to do so. UNTIL NOW!!! As I watch the money roll in to this (free) blog!!!!!

(2) there were always jokes about the pigs eyes. No one that I know actually eats them now, or did then.