The Clown has been a strong advocate of political correctness (PC) since he was but a lad with smaller shoes. He knew, inherently, that calling someone by an insulting name based on their race, country of origin, religion, sexual orientation, body type, socio-economic status, ear or nose size, smell or fashion choices was not acceptable. Plus, he knew that if he did so he could very well get this skinny little white butt thoroughly kicked.
Some are now saying that this devotion to politeness has gone waaaaaaay overboard. The Clown would counter, how is it possible to be too polite? In fact, when it comes to a choice between truth and politeness, politeness wins. An example: When the current main squeeze asks, “Do these yoga pants make my butt look big?”, go with the polite answer.
Of course, the pushback against political correctness is partially responsible for the election of Donald Trump. Many voters had long chaffed under PC restrictions that limited their God-given right to mock the halt, the lame, the brown, the black, the red, the fat, the ugly, the non-Christian, the old, the homeless, progressives, et al. The Donald made anti-PC fashionable, thus doubling many citizens’ acceptable conversation topics.
It is imperative, then, to be even more vigilant regarding PC faux pas. So, I was impressed to learn of one mother in Northern Virginia who alerted her child’s pre-school administration to a looming PC violation. The school planned to celebrate Thanksgiving by having half of the children dress as pilgrims. The other half of the class were to be Wampanoag Indians by wearing brown vests fashioned from paper grocery bags. No one in the administration had stopped to consider the pain and embarrassment that would be foisted onto innocent Wampanoag children, virtually all of whom live in Massachusetts. This mother, with her PC radar on full power, managed to shut down the entire celebration to the disappointment of the children; but, I’m sure, the surviving Wampanoag population of New England breathed a sigh of relief.
According to the New York Times (December 1, 2019), Native Americans, themselves, are not immune from PC violations. This fact would be ironic if it were not so detestable. Non-PC cultural theft cannot be tolerated, regardless of one’s minority status. You may ask, “What’s your proof?” Brace yourself.
The Navajo Indians of the southwest have stolen country music right out from under Willie Nelson’s nose. ‘Egregious’ (a word I learned from my niece, an attorney) is the only way to describe this theft of dearly loved red neck, not red skin, music and culture.
Apparently, thousands of Navajo come together on weekends to dance the Texas two-step to local and regional Navajo bands, playing cover songs from the sacred library of country music hidden beneath the stage at Ryman Auditorium in Nashville. They show up at road house bars and music venues across the 27,000 square miles of the Navajo Nation in Arizona, New Mexico and Utah wearing Wrangler jeans, Lucchese boots and Stetson hats for Chrissake.
Instead of wearing loin cloths and circling a glowing fire pit singing eee-aaa-eee-nah, eee-aaa-eee-nah (which roughly translates to eee-aaa-eee-nah, eee-aaa-eee-nah) all to the incessant thumping of tom-toms, they’re belting out “Up Against the Wall, Red Mother”. Good Lord!
This cultural larceny includes naming children after Wynonna, Garth and other icons of the hillbilly ethos. These Navajo desperadoes are flagrant in their crime of cultural purloinization. They no longer use words like ‘wampum’, ‘white eyes’ or ‘fire water’. These despicable people say ‘dollars’, refer to white people as ‘tourists’ and order ‘Jack Daniels neat’.
And here’s the sh*t-kicker: they claim that when it comes to cowboying, they were long at it while the white cowboys of the American west were still slopping hogs in Ireland, brewing beer in Bavaria or drinking in a pub in Derbyshire.
I tell you, John Wayne is spinning in his crypt.
According to Kristina Jacobsen, an anthropologist at the University of New Mexico, Navajo country music is played ‘tinny and imperfect’ to emulate the country music from the Grand Ole Opry of the 40’s and 50’s. “They’re singing about mama, trucks, ranching and nostalgia.” If there were any justice in the world Buck Owens, Porter Wagoner and Roy Clark would be getting royalties.
Finally–and this is most troubling–in Farmington, New Mexico’s Brentwood Hotel ballroom, the DJ spins hip-hop music for the largely Navajo crowd. So, not being content to steal the sacred country music of the white man (except for Charlie Pride), these inconsiderate Native Americans are now poaching the cultural identities of urban heroes such as 50 Cent, 3X Krazy, Afu-Ra, B-Legit, Bad Azz and Chiddy Bang.
We will know when this cultural theft is complete when some Navajo mother names her baby Bad Azz White Feather.
Observoid of the Day: Tonto’s real name was Jay-Z Silverheels.