Mack’s having a soireeup at the cabin tomorrow. I’ve made my famous potato salad, which might be a tad mustardy and a little under onioned, and seven layer bars (or Hello Dollys as the Plimcos call them). I’ve got bendy straws, a vegetable platter, cups, plates, bowls, plastic silverware, and napkins. And a cooler.
I’ve got to clean out the car. But then I’m ready to go. Oh, yeah, after I write down directions to Rachel’s house, because I smoothly printed out the directions to NM’s house twice and the directions to Rachel’s a whole none.
You know, it’s kind of funny, the differences between Carter and me. Shoot, this is a tangent, but this is what I was thinking about while I was cooking.
In general, I don’t consider myself particularly German. I know most of my folks came from Germany, but, with the exception of being from a family full of folks happy to eat cake at the start of a meal (which I think is more Anabaptist than strictly German, but who can blame them? If you have to wait until you’re an adult until you can get baptised, it’s nice to have one thing–chocolate cake–that you get to before everyone else.) and having a penchant for owning dachshunds, we don’t really have any particularly German things about us.
I’m German on both parents’ sides and yet I don’t have a noticeably German last name and neither did my parents.
In general, I don’t really think about being German in any particular way and I don’t especially worry about being identified as German, except for the rare times when white supremacists take that as an indication that I share their love of hatred.
Please don’t think I’m making light of the Holocaust–I’m not trying to–but really, except for being associated with the folks who perpetrated it, there’s nothing particularly uncomfortable about being descended from good German stock.
But the “But” is huge. The one negative thing associated with being German is… well… pretty much the definition of “negative thing.”
When folks call Bush Hitler you can barely hear for all the outrage coming from Bush supporters. And yet, a state legislator picks “Kleinhitler” as a nickname for Carter and all the conservative white boys are “Come on. It’s funny.”
Why is it funny?
It might be funny (depending on one’s taste) if Carter were clearly not racist, but it can be hard to tell how far his nationalist leanings go.
Is it funny then because it’s kind of true? This from the state legislator who tried to join the Black Caucus and believes in aiding in the creation of searchable databases of women who’ve had abortions?
I don’t think it’s a joke.
I think it’s a term of endearment.
I think that state legislator likes Carter and giving him a cute nickname is just his way of showing it.
I don’t understand why Carter’s not insulted and grossed out, but that’s his business.
What really perplexes me, though, is how far people will bend backwards to defend a man who thinks it’s appropriate to call people he likes after a madman who killed ten million people.
I’m not calling for Campfield’s resignation or anything. I’d just like for us to stop acting like he’s just a little farther right than most conservatives, but in general, is a good guy.