Ever pretended you’re a white guy? For a laugh, to see what it’s like? If you’re passable. I have. Do it all the time; to the extent it has become a lifestyle rather than an anthropological study.
It’s wonderful, liberating, uplifting, affirming. So pleasant. Compared with not being – what a drag that is. Fuck, just use your indigenous name to see what Klantown be like for the unAnglosized. So it’s a matter of just do whatever you want essentially if you’re white. Go to Mars, own Africa, have a reason to kill Epstein. It’s all possible for Mr Whiteman. Say whatever you want to whoever you like without any consequences; hardly any anyway, just a smack on the hand at most if it all goes tits up. It’s full access, all hours including back stage. It’s like a dream where you’ve acquired a super power. Like you’ve cast a spell over people, enchanted them. People do things for you. They just give you things. You don’t need it, you don’t want it, but they insist. Not out of fear, but just because… because… because you’re white. You don’t have to take it, they will offer it. Say the most ludicrous, outrageous, offensive series of non sequiturs and be taken seriously at every turn – just keep a straight face, it’s exhilarating. How far can you go? – much further than you can imagine. No effort is required to be accorded merit. None. David Brent as a character could only be a white man. Christopher Luxon, also, could only be a white man. If anyone wrote a character like Christopher Luxon there wouldn’t be a person on the face of the Earth who wouldn’t swear it was a white man.
Sooooo good to be white (said the way Kanye professed his love for Hitler on Alex Jones). Nothing is begrudged, is from pity, is for charity, or a patronising token – it’s given freely, warmly and kindly. If you’re white. Dressing white certainly helps, so there’s no ambiguity about being what they expect you to be. I’ve stood at the side of the street, with a jacket and tie on, and people have stopped their car and wave me across. Don’t see anyone else getting that treatment. Mr Blackman in the dreds and jandals is invisible, whereas the op shop tweed jacket is the new hi-vis if it’s worn by the would-be Mr Whiteman with his conveniently pasty Winter hue. It’s even happened without a tie, just the jacket – the mind sees leather elbow patches even though there aren’t any – that’s enough to convincingly emit threshold whiteness to literally stop traffic. God, there’s so many examples. What’s a queue? I’ll get that for you. No, you sit there, don’t move. Don’t hurry. And that’s all done for you, Sir. Just like that? Yes, just like that. Computer said yes before they typed anything. Never any problems. Different algorithms running in people’s minds, and computers, for Mr Blackman.
This aura of credibility is achieved without having to say a word or exhibit an expression – just breathing and appearing a Pakeha shade of beige on the racial colour pallet is enough to command respect by default. Like Pavlov ringing a bell. Everyone confers it unconsciously to Mr Whiteman, seemingly. Gosh it’s nice. Super. Super nice. And I’m well aware of it, of course. I’ve used these super powers for good, to help others: I’ve swooped in, business shirt tails flapping, to save many a wretched coloured folk from the policeman’s malice armed only with a frown borrowed from Gregory Peck and a plodding legal style à la Geoffrey Palmer. Another brass necked bluff that you can walk away from and think – as you change in the phone booth back into Cheech Marin – that there is justice in Gotham. The Man of Spiel saves the day – again, what a hero. But I’ve misused the force also for evil, for sordid selfish reasons on occasion – some of it I can admit, some of it I regret. Any downside? Any draw-backs from the Koru Club of life? Not really; excepting the problem of playing the big Honky is that total carte blanche conferring of authority becomes a burden when there’s no other big Honkies in the room. Where are the Honkies? Send in the Honkies. (I’m capitalising it to be respectful).
Eyes swivel to the white guy to sort it all out – because everyone figures he must know what to do and has more swing than Tarzan. We all know Mr Whiteman has super powers and there’s no use pretending otherwise. Fix it for us you four eyed white c*nt, what are you good for? Forced to be The Man. Awkward, but far from fatal. Another concession readily conceded is the catastrophic failure of the great white hype. Easily forgiven. You presumably did your best, and that’s better than anything Mr Blackman could ever do, right? It’s axiomatic. It’s terribly difficult to lose. The resulting Caucastic complacency is infectious. Oh Christ the mediocrity! Under-performing without repercussion is a sort of peace of mind you can’t buy – even with all that undeserved salary from the inflated pay grade.
Who would want to be other than Mr Whiteman in the colonial real estate mill of stolen land that is NZ? Much easier to be that chap if you could choose. Easier than being a victim of his proclivities – the other. The predated, the untermenschen. Mr Whiteman only contemplates ever wanting to be Mr Blackman in three scenarios: genitalia, karaoke and university; the rest of the time Mr Whiteman would be quite willing to forfeit the amount of income and wealth disparity between them directly paid to Mr Blackman just to not ever live next to Mr Blackman. No Whiteman would willingly suffer the debilitating fall down the societal ladder that goes with being Blackman, no matter how alluring seems BBC, Ol’ Man River and Med101.
But without the other there can be no super. In a land of supermen they would be just men. The powers relate only to the relative position towards the other. It is mistaken to take these powers for granted as a right, and not view them as a privilege conditional to a colonial situation. The powers, after all, are predicated on projections, more fiction than fact, determined by demographics and institutional propaganda.