The Voice of Reason: A V.I.P. Pass to Enlightenment (10 page)

By having the support, endorsement, and gratitude of the millions of Native Americans whose cultures had been shattered and people murdered, mutilated, enslaved, tortured, and forced to pay astonishingly cruel tributes of goods, services, and human sacrifices by the Aztecs and Incans. When Cortez and Pizarro showed up, there was no shortage of Native Americans ready, willing, and able to throw in with the New Guys with the beards and bang-sticks since virtually
anything
was considered better than how they were already being treated. The unremitting horror of their existence under Aztec and Incan rule was argument enough for hope and change. They were eager to join the Spaniards and take up arms against their oppressors—who were from the same place, had a similar culture, and worshiped many of the same deities yet who slaughtered and destroyed them as quickly and brutally as they could. They joined the Spaniards as a form of cultural survival, a form of last-chance self-salvation, brought about by the most unimaginable conditions that had been imposed upon them by fellow Native Americans, not by “Whitey from Across the Water.” Without the support of untold Native Americans, the Spanish expeditions would have been wiped out in weeks.

Think about this for a minute before you get all up in my grille and call me a bigot, a racist, or some other catchall epithet to divert attention from the indisputable historical evidence of domination, conquest, and inhumanity that was proudly left to history by its perpetrators, the Native Americans. It’s not me saying this. I wasn’t there. I didn’t do it, and I didn’t chisel the history of these actions into the walls of temples. But someone did, and he wasn’t from Castile or Madrid or Lisbon or London. He was from … here.

You don’t need beasts or villains skulking into the harbor under the cover of night in a bunch of shipworm-ravaged, secondhand ships to cause a cultural holocaust. In this case, it was already in full swing by the time the Spaniards dropped their anchors, climbed off the boats with their rusty armor and primitive weapons, and started shovin’ people around, looking for gold and makin’ guys kiss a crucifix.

So. If you are Native American, and sulkily imagine yourself the latest link in a chain of victims that begins with the Spanish incursion, keep these things in mind: You may very well be the descendant of a slave
and
a slave owner; one of the oppressed
and
an oppressor; one of the mass murdered
and
a mass murderer. And at this point in time, it’s just a little too far removed and way, way too complicated to continue to use the European contact and its subsequent cultural impacts as a platform to confer modern-day victimhood status and gain some type of advantage. The moment I hear, and people like me hear, the whole “We lived in peace ‘til the White Man came” number, I kinda roll my eyes and reach for my wallet, wondering what it is going to cost me; even though the white men that I descended from were from places like Germany and Scotland and had absolutely
nothing
to do with the Spanish contact. In fact, at that same time, my descendants were getting
their
asses kicked inside-out by whatever local, regional, or national Teutonic version of Moctezuma II or Athahualpa was running the show back then. They endured some pretty terrible tyranny, but I, unlike many others in modern society, am not allowed to claim victimhood based upon my ancestors’ troubles. Am I complaining? Certainly not. I don’t need some manufactured notion of historical aggrievement to succeed. Take it if you feel you need it. But let me share a solid fact: it’s hard to pity and respect someone at the same time. Take your pick, and then live with the choice.

Hey, are you friends with me on Facebook?

You know what, skip Facebook. Facebook sucks.

Social media lures people in by convincing them that it is essential for keeping in touch with their far-flung friends. People don’t stay put the way they used to; we are go-getters and jet-setters who would feel nothing but shrieking loneliness if we couldn’t touch base with our 564 friends and loved ones to remind us of who we really are. Whatever happened to making a good old-fashioned phone call, or writing a letter? I love letters. I even send them on occasion. I like hearing a friend’s voice when he has exciting news, but I also like to be able to hang up the phone when he wants to ramble on about what he is having for lunch or what song he is listening to at that exact moment. I don’t care, and neither does any other unneurotic human being. Social media doesn’t facilitate friendship; it encourages using your friends for ceaseless validation. So, you had lunch? Anyone who gives you a “like” for that is fat (as in, “Holy catfish, Batman! I
LOVE
LUNCH! IN FACT, I’M ON MY THIRD!”). That person needs a gym membership.

Because of both hipster culture and Facebook culture, the human race is starting to resemble a school of hairy piranhas. Bad eye makeup and a few whiny albums used to be the coping mechanisms for the average teen with daddy issues. Now cryptic status updates, complete with the insta self-portrait, are the salve for their wounded egos. I have a violent allergy to self-photos. Get someone else to take your picture so that at least one other person personally witnesses your narcissism. What’s that, all of your friends are on the glowing screen in your lap? I’m so surprised.

I especially hate the Facebook profile information. Most people seem to think that in order to come off as an interesting yet genuine human being, you have to be both open and enigmatic. This smattering of random facts resembles a drunk paint-gun rampage, producing a picture so blurry as to completely obliterate the outlines of anything remotely like a human being.

Don’t believe me, do you? Fine. Here are some facts about me that I guarantee you didn’t know.

There. I bet you feel like you have known me since we were kids, right? You know everything that you need to know about me, don’t you? Yeah, that’s what I thought. You don’t know squat, and you don’t have a very clear picture of me, either.

See, these online profiles can be edited to be whatever you want them to be. Peasants on Facebook are worse, because by being the editor of their identity they have forgotten that they are trivial and anonymous and always will be. It’s the same tactic crazy people use to appear lovable on dating Web sites, when they probably have some psychotic secret stashed in several pieces in their freezer. If they were so lovable, they wouldn’t have to hide behind an online profile in the first place. Facebook fans, online stalker daters, same thing to me.

And why does “Facebook official” matter? I have heard reasonable, intelligent people say, “It isn’t official until it’s on Facebook.” Is Facebook a legal entity that grants marriage licenses and religious ordinations now?

I have been focusing my criticism on Facebook, but it’s not like Mark Zuckerberg is the only guy to blame here. Facebook at least allows for some semblance of dialogue. Twitter, on the other hand, lets every mouthpiece feel like he’s addressing an adoring crowd. It shouldn’t be called Twitter; it should be called Blather. No, you’re not that important, and how dare you think you are. Nobody cares if you got tagged in that photo. None of us care that you’re going to be at such and such a club on such and such a night. Twitter is moronic, and possibly the root of all things stupid and evil.