The Fantasy Years

IN 1989, THE BERLIN WALL CAME DOWN, taking with it the Great Other for Americans to oppose. The morning after, they, the American people awoke, stretched, drank their coffee, looked over the horizon and asked, “Now what?”

No one thought The Great Other would simply cry uncle and start coping with the realities of a capitalist’s world. After so many skirmishes, after Korea and Vietnam and the countless proxy wars in Angola, Afghanistan, Nicaragua and all of South America, after the secret battles and contests for nations’ souls, victory for the United States, if it could even be counted as victory felt, well, a little anti-climactic.

Months passed into the first President Bush’s term. Into this strange period of peace for America. Across the country voices could be heard. Voices in conversation in roadside coffee shops, in diners, in truck stops. Voices in hospitals, in city halls, in universities. Voices in malls, voices in shopping centers and convenience stores. Rough voices who knew lives of hard work. Voices that knew a life of office work and procedure. Crude voices. Rash voices.

Across the airwaves came the ideas. In truck stops and diners; in cafeterias and loading docks; in community colleges and pizza shops. On radio speakers and over the Formica countertops of restaurants. New voices disturbed the tranquility of America’s victory. Voices animated with complaint. Enlivened with concern. With energy. With outrage for the world they found themselves in. And what did these voices say?

“Do you notice you can’t say the word ‘Negro’ anymore?”
“Oh, no sir.”
“The word ‘Negro’ is a bad word.”
“You can’t say anything about black people.”
“Not anymore.”
“All black people are off limits. That’s political correctness for you. You can’t say anything about Mexicans any more, either.”
“No, you can’t. You can’t say she’s a ‘nice lady.’ Have you noticed?”
“The feminists don’t like it.”
“What kind of country is this where ‘lady’ is a bad word?”
“And you can’t say ‘girl,’ either.”

“And,” said an American voice, unknown to the others, and yet a part of the same conversation consuming the nation, “You can’t call anyone a cripple any more. You notice that? I work with a guy, gets around with crutches.”
“But you can’t call him crippled!”
“Oh, no. You’ve got to say ‘disabled’.”
“Not even that! You’re not even allowed to say that. They want you to say handicapped.”

Elsewhere, more voices in another breakfast place, hundreds of miles north, across the plains surrounding Interstate Highway-35 said, “You can’t call Mexicans Mexicans anymore. Do you know that?”
“What do you call them then?” came the response.
“Now they’re Hispanics. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Hispanics? Nah, they’re Mexicans.”
“No, I heard it on the radio. I heard the clip where this guy was saying not all Spanish speakers are Mexican.”
“They are around here.”
“Well, there are Puerto Ricans, too.”
“I don’t care what people say. I call them Mexicans.”
“I do too. I think it’s ridiculous we have to be so friggin’ sensitive to everyone who comes here. They’re in our country. We should be free to call them what we want.”
“Should be…”
“But I don’t even know if freedom applies to us anymore.”

In another conversation, elsewhere in America, “But who? Who’s saying we can’t say this?”
“The sensitivity police.”
“Who are they?”
“Come on! The professors! The liberal egg heads!”
“Where?”
“Everywhere. On college campuses. Everywhere.”

And on a college campus – just that moment – a young male voice spoke passionately. His voice, a pitch higher than those around him, talked of a more sensitive view of the world. He spoke in hushed sincerity, outrage for injustice contained in the intensity in this voice. In his rush to get a thought out, he referred to a mutual, female friend, thoughtlessly, as “a girl.”
“What do you mean ‘girl’?” came the response from his female friend.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” said the young man.
“We’re women.”
“Women. How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“See? You’re young enough to be a girl.”
“Okay. Boy.”
“Come on.”
“See how it feels?”
“How does it feel? I’m obviously not a boy.”
“Why does that offend you?”
“Because it’s not accurate.”
“Sure it is. How old are you?”
“I’m 21.”
“You’re a boy.”
“Whatever.”
“See? That’s how the whole patriarchal structure works. By using diminutive, demeaning names men can keep women down.”
“I don’t mean it that way.”
“Sure you do. You just don’t know it.”
“If I don’t know it, how can I intend it?…Why are you smiling?”
“Because you can intend it by being part of the male dominated power structure.”
“Your arguments would be more persuasive if you weren’t smirking when you made them.”
“I’m not smirking.”
“Yes, you are. You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying watching you in over your head.”
“And you look like you’re loving it.”
“You’re kind of cute when you’re upset,” the girl said.

At another college, outside in the grassy Quad, one voice retorted to another: “That offends me.”
“I was just asking if your family rode camels,” quickly explained the first.
“And it offends me. You ask me that because my parents are Middle-Eastern.”
“I asked you that because…I dunno.”
“Do your parents farm? This is the Midwest.”
“I just asked the question.”
“For your information, I’m Lebanese. My parents are Lebanese.”
“Isn’t that where they blew up all those Marines?”
“Yes, it is. And now you’re looking at me like I’m some kind of terrorist. You know, you should open your eyes to the world before you judge it.”
“I’m not judging. I’m just asking questions.”
“…Before you ask questions.”
“Whatever dude.”
“You should be more aware. Just because I look different doesn’t mean you understand me.”
“Whatever. I said whatever.”

And in a wood-paneled student union in a Mid-west college, a young woman’s voice prattled glibly, smugly, “I’m anti-racist, anti-sexist, anti-culturalist, anti-ethnocentric. I hold no prejudices and am open to the world.”

No voices answered her. None needed to.
She did all the talking.