Majorityrights Central > Category: I Bismuth

by I Bismuth

August 27: Today I made a discovery: the tooth is racist.

I was on time and I had the waiting room to myself, so there was no doubt that I was next. The expensive muffled whining, rasping, and sucking, the box of toys in the corner, and the coffee table strewn with celebrity glossies all served to put me in the right mood for the needle.

The plastic buses and helicopters with sound effects seemed at least as interesting as the glossies without them, but I preserved my dignity by seating myself near the coffee table and, like a grown up with a carious upper right second molar, turning over the pages of piffle and marvelling at the interior designs lived in by famous smile-wearers.

Although all of them were unknown to me and did not seem worth getting to know, as the sneers welled up within me, I felt churlish in dismissing these publications and their abysmal accounts of the doings of significant nonentities, given the example worthless lives set to the target population. How better to ruin the ruins of normality?

The covers alone were a joy. With one exception they showed unenriched females being enriched. Defiant embraces of de-Aryanization proclaimed, “Watch our thick and thin lips kiss goodbye to your proud pedigree. The faces of our offspring will humble your Euro-uppishness. We thumb our noses at the Beast of Berchtesgaden. Tomorrow belongs to us.” The one exception was a wedding day photograph of two premier league goalkeepers in morning dress, radiant on their happy day.

The indulging of my new appetite for popular pap was suspended by the opening of the surgery door and the emergence of the patient who preceded me, a dreadlocked fellow British citizen. To my ingratiating grin, which I hoped he would instinctively recognize as that of a benefactor, he responded by scowling right through me and leaving without a hint of gratitude. I felt hurt and made a mental note to smile in the mirror when I got home to see whether I was subject to involuntary twitches of White resistance.

“We’re ready for you now, Mr. Bismuth,” said the nurse.

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by I. Bismuth

August 4: Today we arrived back at Terminal Five after three weeks of ethical holiday-making in a land replete with victimhood. On the drive into central London we were struck by the contrast between the still extensive tracts of unoccupied greenery even between Heathrow and home, and the overpopulated khaki aridity, beyond the tourist pools, of the whole of the country we had left a few hours earlier.

We feel it must be obvious to anyone with a serious commitment to Anti-Racism that the principle by which specific good things, such as houses and medical care, are allocated to individuals and families on the basis of need, is crying out to be extended to whole populations and to more general good things, such as countries. There can be no doubt that the islands off the northwest coast of Europe are in the category of general good things and that populations trapped in sub-standard parts of the world need them, and need them now. We are confident that when the remaining racist objections (always masquerading as common sense) are finally overcome, these populations will, albeit belatedly, be allocated the general good things they need.

August 5: Since our holiday would spare Hilda any cooking, tea-making, bed-making, boiler-repairing, bath-running, silver-polishing, floor-scrubbing, and washing and ironing, we thought she could make herself useful by redecorating the house, and now that we have had a chance to inspect the new Zuber wallpaper and the gleaming woodwork, I must say she has done a job for which any professional would be only too anxious to submit a bill.

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by I. Bismuth

Introduction

When historians yet unborn tell how the ultimate triumph of Anti-Racism came about, what will be their primary sources in that yearned-for future in which the ground has closed over the last woman of Whiteness, her rainbow children giving her a clenched fist salute at the graveside, and in which no man will ever again have to look in the bathroom mirror in the morning and ask himself what he can do today to atone for his pale face?

To the primary sources for the broad political arc of history must be added other primary sources that offer telling details of the daily lives of the long marchers though the institutions who made the politics possible. The future must know that the strugglers against evil were not all superhuman readers of teleprompters and that some of us had to fit in our struggling with our digesting and our re-carpeting, our loving and our laundry. They must know that the life of the race replacer was not all glamour.

As a professor who has presided for twelve years over the Department of Sensitivity Studies at the University of Sunlit Uplands, and as a digesting and a loving person (though not, I confess, much of a re-carpeter or a launderer) I can supply these humanizing little touches. That is why I intend to keep a diary. My contribution to the projects of those historians who are not yet even gleams in their grandfathers’ eyes is to become a primary source myself.

Let me say a few words about my family.

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by I. Bismuth

I had delivered a triumphantly prolix lecture to the International Coven of Sensitivity Consultants, so it was late on a winter’s evening that I returned to the railway station in a nameless provincial city.

My nocturnal walk trainwards took me along a street suddenly silent apart from my own footsteps. Do not imagine that this made me fearful of an encounter with those who are vulnerable to entering the criminal justice system. Fear in that place and at that time would have been crass racism.

But I confess to having been startled by a sudden, dull thud and the squeal of brakes. The sound came from around the corner I was about to turn. As I did so a few seconds later the air was filled with laughter and shouting - a most vibrant sound, a Cushitic tongue I would say, possibly Somalic. There followed a hysterical glissando of first gear getaway. Then I was walking along a street silent once again but for the echo of my own footsteps and the addition of a low moaning a little way ahead of me. It came from a body lying in the middle of the road.

I approached it and saw it was a man in his late twenties with as much blood on display as you would expect in the circumstances.

“Can you move?” I asked.

“I think my legs are broken.”

“This is terrible. What on earth happened?”

“A car came at me.”

My antennae twitched.

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by I. Bismuth

As an academic at the forefront of social and cultural transformation I like to keep abreast of the latest developments in the visual arts, and I am a regular visitor to the Shooting Gallery, an exciting little space not far from the university. It presents a new exhibition of contemporary works every couple of months. I never trouble to find out beforehand what I am going to see, being confident I can rely on the gallery’s board of trustees to keep pushing the boundaries of artistic expression, but always the same boundaries and always in the same direction. That, at any rate, was my fond belief. So last week, when I picked up the catalogue and entered the main room, I was totally unprepared for the experience I was about to undergo.

The first thing with which I was confronted was a full-length standing nude, a female with pearly skin, not an over-eater, not a starveling, and with no obvious abnormalities, amputations or signs of substance abuse. The painting was beautiful. There was proportion, order, balance, harmony, rhythm, and unity, for God’s sake. The model was beautiful, too. There was the blueness of her left eye and there was the blueness her right eye, and, as if that were not enough, there was the blackness of her hair, the same hair, mind you, that reached down to caress the whiteness of her shoulders, damn them. What was going on here? I was in the Shooting Gallery ... the same Shooting Gallery. I could not be seeing what I thought I was seeing.

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by I. Bismuth

They are out there. They are in here. They are all around us. Is there one near me at this very moment? Do I know what is going on behind that face? Or that one? Am I even now within touching distance of an attitude that has no place in a decent society? These are not comfortable questions, but they have to be asked.

They have to be answered too. Over the years I have brought many offenders to justice, and most of them are unremarkable in appearance and speech. They look like you and me and him and her. Most of the time they seem preoccupied with traffic conditions and discounted prices and their health and your health and warm fronts approaching from the south-west. How better to put you off your guard? But underneath — underneath there stirs the beast.

At the university we are used to relying on our trained antennae to monitor our own and others’ attitudes so as to ensure a perfect uniformity of diversity, and sometimes it’s easy to forget that not everyone enjoys our advantages. Out there, millions of attitude-carriers are still having to go for hours and, in the worst cases, whole days without being professionally monitored, a neglect that can allow the inner beast to grow and strengthen. In my own small way, and as a civic duty, I therefore make it my practice, whenever I venture out into the wild, to hunt it down and point the accusing finger.

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A game of skill to prepare you for your new career

by I. Bismuth

Introduction

Are you wondering how much longer you can hog that job that someone else could be doing, someone with better-qualified skin? Are you uncomfortably aware of being less vibrant than your colleagues? Are you feeling increasingly pale as you look around you? In short, are you guilty of working while White?

If you are, there is merely a delay in finding your innocent successor. I am sorry about nothing in this process except the delay. And yet here I am worrying about your future.

Not quite.

I confess that I struggled with my conscience for some time over how to justify lifting a finger to help you and your kind. As members of the guilty race*, you deserve everything you get and nothing you have. But driving me all my life has been a passionate rejection of prejudice of all kinds, and I have concluded that if I wilfully miss a chance to make a little money which I can use in the fight against prejudice merely on the grounds of avoiding doing what is unconscionable, that can only be because conscience itself has become a kind of prejudice and must ,therefore, be passionately rejected.

So I offer this employment advice to you who fully merit your coming termination, on condition that when you have used it to good effect and you start earning again, you send me my fee**, or better still, you send me your address and I’ll come and collect it myself.

The Game

My help comes in the form of the game Nazi Link, a training and development tool.

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How to expose the racists for what they are

By I. Bismuth

Introduction

Here is a little collection of all the answers you will ever need to expose the racists for what they are. I’m sure most of us had imagined that by now exposing racists would be as unnecessary as ducking to avoid low-flying pterodactyls, but sadly we have a long way to go before all citizens are fitted with a complete set of acceptable attitudes. Even in our age of dynamic tolerance, unacceptable attitudes can be heard every day of the week. They can come out of the mouths of work colleagues, relatives, passers by, bus passengers, and persons leaning out of heavy goods vehicles.

Unacceptable attitudes can indeed on occasion be heard coming even from those who have dedicated their lives to Anti-Racism as the ultimate calling. Not even they can be sure that in some secret corner of their psyches they are not harbouring a larval vestige of the greatest evil, a swelling enemy within, awaiting its moment to burst messily through their shirts and ruin their careers.

The demands of Anti-Racism are non-negotiable. They are also without limit in time and space. Anti-Racism must guide society’s every syllable, every fear, every friendship, every seating arrangement, every laugh, every blink, every blush, every breath, every birth, every deglutition. And although this is understood by all decent people, there are amazingly still some true racists out there, not merely Anti-Racists who suffer a momentary lapse of sensitivity and need to be sent on a re-education course, but genuine accepters of the unacceptable, and it is these leftovers from an age that should be bygone who must be our priority cases.

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