The radical organizers in my life have taught me many things. I am in their debt forever for showing me a better model of human interaction, a better standard of human conduct. For showing me how to effectively share space.
If you’re opposed to using a consensus model to enter into Commmunity Agreements, you fail the organizing in your community.
I was at a bar tonight listening to two white men wax philosophic about Bernie Sanders. Neither of them would I ever ally with because they’re not community based or community driven people.
A snippet of our conversation should suffice to explain the mood:
“Can we have a discussion based on mutual terms? Community agreements?”
“No! We are drinking on a Tuesday!”
“Okay, so why should we talk?”
“Cuz I’m not a pussy.”
And I replied “I’m not a sexist,” and walked off.
I am blessed that the radicals in my life have taught me to walk away from bad faith conversations. I’m blessed and I’m happy not to feel it necessary to engage bad faith whites in their exercises in oppression.
For the last 13 years I have regularly partaken of marijuana in its various forms, primarily by smoking flowers.
For years prior to that I smoked but I didn’t tell.
Just after high school, I sold marijuana. This is what happens when a highly-demanded-by-teenagers commodity is legally barred from commerce. A black market appears.
It was a drug dealing operation which our clients called Famsinelli. The F stood for Fleek. We made approximately zero dollars over the course of a summer, while smoking marijuana to our hearts’ content.
I bring this up now, in Oregon, where only moments ago I smoked marijuana legally, in my own home, for a specific reason: this is a teachable moment for all of us in the asinine, arbitrary, and insidious nature of our laws.
Once while driving around with Famsinelli, we were pulled over. We had a three foot bong in the back seat and four ounces of illegal marijuana in the car. Every one of us literally said, out loud, “oh fuck,” as the cop approached our car.
The offense for pulling us over? Famsinelli’s car had a taillight out. We were in a car illegally operating without all its lights carrying enough contraband to elicit a search warrant. The cop shined a flashlight in the back window onto the bong, and one of the letters in Famsinelli said “fuck” again aloud because that was it. Summer over. Night over.
College education over. This is my reason for writing this. The Federal financial aid policy which states that if you have been convicted of a drug crime you are ineligible for FAFSA.
Imagine if you will the perfect society. A society whose government is free of all abuse, needless violence, exploitation, and avarice. Does that society exclude anyone who has ever made a mistake? And how do we define a mistake? Is a mistake, once done, never revisited?
The cop didn’t notice the bong, probably because the cop didn’t expect to see a three foot bong in the back of our car.
The driver lied, and to the cop said “I have an appointment to get the light fixed” when in fact he was so high that only moments before he was freaking out and pretending to be a robot. He had no appointment. The sight of flashing lights brought his humanity back quickly and thanks to him, we survived.
The driver was our white gay friend. In the car sat another gay white man, a black man, a Pacific Islander, and an Indian. The cop in western PA who pulled us over could have been quite a racist. But he wasn’t. And it was the most fortunate
I’ve been blessed in my life to be tested in my personal strength in a variety of ways. I’m a Northern Arapaho Indian but my family has always been estranged from our culture, and I grew up without role models to sustain our traditions. I’m queer, and have always lived surrounded by queerphobic people. I grew up in a rural community, with only four visible neighbors, with no car, no transit, in a tiny house that wealthy kids would make fun of because it was so small. We had no religious community. My father was absent for most of my upbringing. For so many reasons I felt isolated, alone, and like I didn’t have any power.
I say I’m blessed, because these challenges gave me the opportunity to become part of other, less traditional communities. I made a community where I lacked one, joining with groups that interest me, timidly at first but with more and more confidence. I met other students, other musicians and fans, other artists, other performers, and I became an activist, and met other activists. I openly discussed my challenges with my fellow students. I wrote and distributed literature at local concerts. I performed poetry. I wrote music. I played in theater and comedy. I chose to organize. I came together with other people who felt disempowered, and we decided what we would want if we had power, and how we wanted to obtain it.
We found time and again that when we chose to express ourselves, people understood our challenges. We could make others laugh, make them think, make them dance. We could inspire others. Now I want to be clear: a lot of the things I wrote and distributed, many of the shows I performed in and jokes I told weren’t great. But they had an impact. At local concerts, we were having a problem with people drinking, fighting, and worse; but through myself and other local writers bringing this up, we came up with community standards for solving these problems without involving the police or endangering others. We changed policies at schools. We won elections. We made systems of power work for us. When we don’t live in isolation, and instead we come together to share our stories, we do have power.
I sing loudly like I know the words. I follow the lead of those around me. I’m dripping sweat and condensation forming on my skin. I’m hot. I’m drooling into the towel on my lap. I listen as a medicine man leads us through four rounds of purification and prayer, to be thankful, to lift up those in our families who may be having problems, to heal where we are hurting, to celebrate. We make a tremendous noise that fills the ears and the hearts of maybe twenty five of us, huddled in the mud. The only light is from glowing hot volcanic rock, and let in when, in between each round, the flaps open. We passed a pipe to close.
Two profoundly spiritual experiences today of which I can write immediately. When I put a number to them, it seems cheap. If I were as open to the world as I wish to become, I would realize and proclaim to have had a hundred or a thousand spiritual experiences in the last few hours, but two moments in my day stand out. Neither of them is the mangy rez dog that crept up on me twice while I was flirting with a woman in Portland via text message. But that was also very nice.
We took a touring van around Pine Ridge today, at the invitation of a respected community leader here, Nick Tilson, a young person among the many at this reservation who are bringing traditional approaches to solving the problems their people face: 80% unemployment, median income around $21,000 annually, gangs, suicide. The same problems Indian people all over the country face. The same problems that brought our group of five Native-serving organizations together to talk about economic development, and particularly talk about how we can put more businesses directly into the control of the community members we’re hoping we can benefit. Workers controlling the means of production, put into the much-more-palatable frame of “worker owned cooperatives.” Bringing the idea of Native sovereignty, and self-determination, to the material realm of workplace dynamics, ownership models, legal structures for for-profit and non-profit entities, and so on.
Thanks to a benevolent organization who actually gets it, we’re able to come together and look at the multiple approaches to this work. Some of us are developers, some operate housing, some provide social services and social enterprises and workforce development, some are businesses themselves. One cohort member represents a tribally-owned “trading post,” working to improve the quality of the food they offer, get people more interested in fresh and healthy foods, and find a way to become a co-op where dividends are paid to those who shop there. We are advised and assisted by experts in business, law, community development, and by representatives of the benevolent organization bankrolling this trip.
Nick Tilson took our cohort on a personally-narrated tour of the reservation, showing us “God’s country” (the district where he grew up) and telling us the history of the place. All the while, the sky was dark in the distance. A black cloud hung on the vast horizon. That cloud, in contrast to white and blue skies beyond, held significance. No visit to Pine Ridge would be complete without honoring the dead at Wounded Knee.
As we approached the site of one of the most extremely violent single-event massacres in the history of Native America, which is also the site of perhaps the most significant event in the history of our peoples’ struggle for civil rights, I felt a change in the air. The black cloud that had hung in the distant sky was now on top of us. Our luxurious touring van pulled into the turnaround at the site. Just as Nick told us we might go up on the hill to leave some tobacco and honor those who were buried in the mass grave after the Massacre of Wounded Knee, a tremendous, sudden storm crashed down around us, as though a fire hose aimed directly at the roof of the bus were suddenly activated. Lightning erupted, thunder crashed, hail pelted the windows. The rain was so fierce on west side of the bus that one could see but a faint shadow of the brown church that sits near the mass grave. Through the other window, one could see the sign marking the location. It had originally read “Battle of Wounded Knee,” but at some point, a board painted the same red as the rest of the sign was nailed on top of the word “Battle,” and painted in the same white lettering was the word “Massacre.”
Also visible out the east side windows were two cars, one of which was badly damaged from at least one car accident. The driver’s window was missing, and in its place was a large blue bandana, which blew freely in the whipping, whistling wind. Five kids younger than I sat in the car, probably waiting out the rain while enduring it. A reminder of what “normal” means to some of the people who grow up in this place.
I won’t recount the story of Wounded Knee. I might say “stories,” because two events of import took place here, separated by a century. But truly it cheapens the an ongoing story to attach a number to it. An ongoing story, with two horrific milestones, and that story continues today, as Nick explained.
Some people don’t even think Wounded Knee should be a historical site, because the atrocities committed there, and deep, historic rifts in the community, are laid bare at that spot. It is maintained as a historical site, at least in part, because it prevents tourists from attempting to encroach on other, more sacred sites, ceremonies, and people. The curious motorist can come, read the (corrected) sign, gawk at the church and ponder the history, and then be on their way back to their home.
I would have gladly visited the site to pay my respects to the ancestors in the ground, even in inclement weather. But the torrential rain was unceasing and Nick and others decided we’d best stay dry. We drove away. Shortly after driving off, the rain stopped.
We’d heard days in advance that we’d be able to participate in a sweat this evening, and I felt honored and blessed to have such an opportunity at this place in my life and in this place in the world. We arrived back at the resort where we’re staying just before five PM. “Resort” is a generous term for this, the only hotel on the rez. Perhaps “last resort” would be more fitting. We were to change into our sweatlodge finest and be ready to leave at six.
I threw on my red floral swim trunks. We were advised to wear athletic shorts, but the trunks dry more quickly. My red workout shirt. My hoodie. I was outside before anyone else I could see. One of my travel companions joined me and got into the rental car. And suddenly another storm descended. I mostly finished my cigarette, my back to the suddenly rising wind, and got in the car.
The wind began kicking up the dirt in the parking lot, Then suddenly, torrential downpour. Then suddenly, hail. Our sweat was delayed about 40 minutes. Eventually Nick (who was leading us to the lodge) said “let’s go play in the mud,” when the rain died down a bit, and we got into his truck for the drive. The rain broke momentarily, and then kicked back up again. We arrived aware that we’d be soaked by the time we got inside, and soaked after we left.
The water was flooding the path to the sweat lodge. It was flooding the area near the lodge. The young men who were helping tend the fire had taken shifts at digging trenches around the lodge to divert pooling water away from the entrance. I walked barefoot in mud and muck.
And in the lodge, yes, I had untold hundreds of spiritual experiences, some listed in my introductory paragraph and others I might never mention to anyone.
It felt as though every time a brush with spirituality approached, all of creation erupted. I don’t ascribe to a philosophical position in which this is definitive and irrefutable proof of the existence of a higher power. I don’t believe that these events were intentional acts directed at me or my group based on my and our experiences. I was simply awed by the power of nature to compel deep-seated feelings of spirit, during two moments that were greatly important to me: to see with my own eyes a place that’s deeply significant to me and my community, and to take up an invitation to sweat on what I consider sacred land, the land where that deeply significant history lives on in the beautiful Oglala Lakota Sioux people.
By the time we left the sweat, the sun was shining again.
Tonight the wind is calm. A rez dog crept up on me and gave me a look like I don’t belong here, a look I returned in kind. He slunk away.
I’m in the back of a NAYA van on the way back to Portland after 2 days and nights in Lincoln City with the 2014-2015 LEAD cohort. LEAD, for those who don’t know, is a leadership development program that’s for Native Americans in the Northwest region to come together, build community, and develop culturally-rooted skills to enable community advancement.
We smudged, prayed, and attended a sweatlodge ceremony at the Siletz Indian Reservation. During group discussions I shared the values Arapaho people teach to children, we agreed on some shared values and ground rules for the cohort, and we revealed some hard truths about our lives. Particularly, we introduced ourselves as equals coming to this project as a group of emerging Indigenous community leaders. I have some insights to share.
I introduced myself in Arapaho, which I will spell here phonetically:
“Hee-no-no aye-en-aye-new” (I am a descendant of the Arapaho)
“Knee-oh-kay” or “Knee-tet-chen” or “Knee-ah-koo-ooh-see-nay” (it is a good morning or it is a good evening or it is a good afternoon)
“Shawn Fleek nah-ee-sit-in-naw” (my name is Shawn Fleek)
My family lost its Native culture. And there is pain that affects us to this day because of this. When you talk to elders, they will tell you that the most important thing you can do when you want to revitalize your culture is to learn the language. There are approximately 3,500 people who speak fluent Arapaho in the world. When the language dies, the culture is not far behind.
I shared my story. My lust for justice, democracy and dignity, inspired by the Oaxacan Indians of Central America, the Zapatistas, the EZLN. My long standing practice of Buddhism, and particularly the core values I have tattooed on my back; people fear the inevitable. We fear death, we fear life, and we fear change. But these things are inevitable and if you can overcome these fears you can find truth. The Oaxacan talk about “the wind from above” and “the wind from below,” the latter being the breath of the people who cry out for democracy, justice and dignity. The former, the wind from above, is the force that holds indigenous people down, and prevents the cries of democracy, justice and dignity from being realized.
I sought world cultures my entire life and found great beauty in Ancient Greek and Roman mythology, African tribal spirituality, Indian traditional Ayurvedic medicine, Christianity, Buddhism, Islam. And others. The tattoo on my back contains symbols from five such cultures, emblematic of the Four Noble Truths of the Buddha, the Four Jewels. And I believe that my lust for this cultural wealth was because my family was robbed of its culture by the wind from above.
It is not an uncommon experience and I have written at length about how important it is to me to be an Indian and to revitalize my culture. I told my brother I wanted to cover my adorable, brown skinned baby niece in feathers and teach her how to dance. I want to drum, shake rattles, and sing. In the sweatlodge this weekend I saw visions of myself in another thirty years (I am 30) and I liked the man I saw myself becoming.
Other members of the cohort are in similar places. We have struggled with our mixed identities and lack of cultural knowledge and feelings of inadequacy, self-blame for the hand fate dealt us.
I also related to the cohort my origins, how I came to be who I am. As a young kid I went to an urban elementary school that was mostly black. I lived across the street in the project houses. For whatever reason after two years my mom moved us away, to the country, to a school that was mostly white. I went from being the white kid to the not white kid. Seeing these stark contrasts in race relations in extremely racist northwestern Pennsylvania gave me passions for race reconciliation and social justice and politics that persist to this day.
I felt my entire life that I was different. In the sweatlodge, the songs and the prayers are traditional. And the music takes me over and I feel the song in my gut and it erupts from me as if it has been there since birth. I sing every song as though I learned them as a boy. I did not.
There was no Indian community I knew of in my hometown. My Elders were my grandmother, with her dangly earrings, the paintings on the walls, probably by white people, and the collectors plates that depicted tribal people, and the figurines of wolves, and the dreamcatchers, and the Eagle necklace my grandfather gave me. Only on occasion would grandma say “she’s Indian too” about her friend Ginger. And of course there are the less flattering indicators of being Native, the suicide of my uncle, the depression that many of us have battled, the hard smoking and hard drinking and gambling. The flaky earwax. And the skin, for some of us. My grandmother, my suicide dead uncle, me, and my baby niece. Once in a generation we get a kid who looks like an Indian. The gangly limbs and the skin tone.
The sweet and kind Siletz man, Rusty, who ran the sweatlodge ceremony and poured the water on the stones, said quite plainly during the sweat “basically everybody is mixed now.” That’s not a weakness unless we let it be one, that’s not a strength unless we see it as one, it is just a fact. An intentional program of forced assimilation complemented the genocide of the American Indian. The parents and grandparents were killed for centuries before the white man realized we were never going to stop being Indians and just “fit in.” So they changed tactics. Children were kidnapped, put into Boarding Schools, forced to cut their hair, and punished if they danced or sang or prayed or drummed or spoke in the manner of their ancestors. This was less than 80 years ago. This was the US government so scared of our traditions it had to abduct our babies.
The child welfare system, by the way, still does this to our babies.
I have a strong suspicion this happened to someone in my family. Indian culture is strong and resilient and it doesn’t just disappear. My grandmother’s heritage is missing, presumed erased, despite the hundreds of dollars I’ve spent digging on Ancestry dot com. I’m still going to keep digging. But the fact I have to pay for my own blood line, that people from the poorest ethnic group in the US have to pay to access their lineage, weighs on my heart.
I have long credited my grandfather with giving me the ability to write, because he taught me how to program computers, thus teaching me how to type, and perhaps more importantly giving me the ability to compose sentences with great attention to syntax, as computer programmers don’t succeed by using the wrong tense or punctuation. I am typing this. I most often write by typing. Thank you, grandfather.
I also credit my grandmother with giving me the ability to read and to thirst for knowledge. She recognized my intellect and bought me books. My favorite book as a kid was The Indian in the Cupboard series. Having no community, the little plastic Indian was my mentor. He made long houses and rode a little plastic horse. I had no other frame of reference, and I figured the little Indian was what we used to be, and who I was today was who I am now. I saw being a cultural Indian as most white people see it: a figment of history. I called myself Native American, which was the extent of my being Native American.
My lust for knowledge, truth, to overcome fear of the inevitable, my passions for justice and democracy and dignity, for race reconciliation and social justice and politics, are long standing. My desire to foster my sense of cultural identity is relatively new.
Arapaho people teach the children the four kinds of respect: for self, for family, for elders, and for the Earth. Harming yourself makes your family and community weaker. Harming your family hurts your self. Elders are our source of wisdom and tradition, ancient knowledge. If you harm the earth, you harm yourself. Because we are all one with the earth and we must take care of the earth to care for ourselves, families and Elders, who pass this Earth onto us. Other Arapaho tribal values include giving and generosity, bravery, and honesty.
Until I really met and got near to other Native people who hadn’t lost their cultures, who knew their bloodlines and tribes and languages and customs, I thought of Native people, and myself, as a skin color and a title. And there is more, so much more, to the Indian experience. We refuse to be lumped into pan-Indian culture and have our unique identities erased.
My medicine, what heals and sustains me, is language. My grandparents gave me reading and writing, my grandmother gave me my identity as an Indian man. And while I am a writer, a passionate advocate for democracy and justice and dignity and truth and race reconciliation through my words, I also know that without my lineage, I have almost no chance of becoming enrolled in an Arapaho nation. But my cohort agreed as a foundation of our work that no Indian is more Indian than any other, regardless of enrollment or cultural knowledge or blood quantum. Everyone is mixed now. The concept of competing as Indians is a concept of the colonizer, used to turn us against one another. We should instead work together, for the sake of bringing uplift to our people.
If you talk to elders, they’ll tell you that to save the culture you learn the language. So I’m bringing my lust for knowledge and my need for self respect and dignity to bear on learning Arapaho. That’s my biggest takeaway from this weekend, my realization as to what I can do as who I am. It came to me in a flash during the sweat, like all things led by spirit and intended by Creator. That’s going to be my cultural practice that will contribute to the revitalization of Arapaho culture and that I will pass on to my kids intentionally, as a means of Indian survival, resilience and being a persistent presence on Turtle Island. For the seventh generation after me, who will know my name.
“Ho how aye eth to en eth en” (I thank you.)
This was written as a response to Eric Cash, a Portland comedian from California. I like him, but he lashed out at me in a pretty dumb and derisive way today, then refused to engage me meaningfully.
Eric is a guy who claims Native ancestry, but who identifies himself as white and rejects his Indian identity as well as my own Indian identity (because I have fair skin and so does he). He refuses to respond to me in private despite repeated requests, so I posted the following after having adapted it from a long as hell Facebook comment. I save it here because I don’t want to see it lost if deleted or buried on Facebook. Is also like Eric to be able to read it again and again until it sinks in.
Native American kids used to be kidnapped and forced into boarding schools. It was common, and done intentionally to prevent language and religion and culture from continuing, so the government could reclaim the reservations. Tribes were terminated and relocated, Portland being a relocation city that was popular in this area. Generations later, the Native community is the most biracial ethnic group in America. Statistics on ethnicity consistently misrepresent our numbers for this reason. We prefer a system that honors multiple ethnicity as it seeks to expose our true numbers. In Portland Public Schools, 900 students identify as solely Native American. 11,000 identify as Native and at least one other race. That’s not a coincidence, it happened on purpose.
Combine this with the fact that blood quantum, the concept of “I am half this and a quarter that”, did not originate in Indian Country but was imposed upon Indians so that the US government could deny Indians benefits (since they intentionally kidnapped and assimilated so many children). These are key ingredients in the plans enacted on Indians by the colonizer.
And voila, that’s a perfect stew of forced extinction for Indian people. Break up communities, force assimilation, and deny tribal rights because people have been assimilated and don’t have family ties. Genocide and colonization: That’s American history.
It is also the American present.
It has never been up to white people to determine our status, we have long known that, but seemingly some local white folk who spent most of the last two days denying my heritage didn’t get the memo. Our culture lives in songs, foods, dances, art, music, and a wide and growing body of first hand, narrative and scientific literature about the Indian experience. It isn’t reserved for people who meet a colonial standard of racial purity.
The fact that a group of white people on the internet feels so comfortable with denying both my testimony and my lived experience is typical but sad, and it proves that the indoctrination of our public schools, putting Indians in a box of ancient history and non-existence, has worked very well on them. The fair-skinned people in the Native community are no less native, by our standards. Only by those of the racially-motivated white system, a system I reject entirely as illegitimate and murderous.
I will go a step further: I don’t identify with my whiteness any more than a cis man identifies with his X chromosome. Any more than a bird identifies with a dinosaur. I have blood but no reason to have another culture. My grandfather spoke some Russian but that never really resonated enough to want to absorb it. My grandmother who was Swiss never spoke of her background. My German grandfather, source of my last name, was a cold and unenjoyable man, may he rest in peace. The only real and authentic culture I have ever had has been the Native culture my Indian grandma passed on, limited and assimilated as it was. I’m working on the daily to enhance my own understanding, make more connections to Arapaho and all Native people, and learn what was forcefully forgotten about my family. It gives me immense pride. It heals a historic trauma every time I hit a drum.
Native people are not white. We don’t share the white man’s passion for racial purity, we don’t share the linear thinking, we don’t share the colonial values. Those of us who buy into these concepts have colonized minds, and within our community we work to restore pride and identity and fix that problem. I pity any person with Indian ancestry who buys into this horrible trap of lost culture. We are only growing stronger by restoring it. We are fine without the continued attempts of the mainstream to impose its standards on us. Standards that have never helped us.
A person denying my heritage referenced how easy it is to prove lineage, as though a history of intentional erasure and disruption of family history did not take place. I know fully-blooded Indians who have a hard as nails experience trying to get a tribal council to acknowledge their roots and enroll them. Plus, the all-important Dawes Rolls are incomplete, meaning many Indians will never have the necessary proof of Indian ancestry to secure the respect of their tribe. The majority of Indian-descended people alive today can’t prove lineage. Many will never try as their minds are already lost, the Indian within them effectively eradicated, before the blood is fully diluted.
I have a family history that mostly only exists in memories because we aren’t sure of our direct connection to the Rez. We think, we don’t know, but we know in our hearts. This is a likely story in Indian Country. Some of the most respected Elders in my urban Indian community lived through boarding schools, and nearly lost all their culture before finding community with other Natives and beginning to make sense of it all. If I were to allow that history and my part in it to be ignored and forgotten I would be doing an immense disservice to my people, much as my supposedly-Indian but now just white friend is doing to his own, by essentially arguing that assimilation worked on him: his grandfather’s culture is no longer important to him, he is just another white person now. And he is proud that he doesn’t speak up about being Native! Proud the white man eradicated his history. He wants me to pipe down and stop talking about being Indian. But I refuse that assimilation and consider it a shameful display of acquiescence from someone (Eric) so clearly into defending marginalized groups in other contexts. This guy understands the nuance of sex worker defense in modern contexts, makes powerful and challenging arguments on the topic of sex workers that the mainstream would cringe to hear, but he has bought into a white power structure originated concept whole cloth. This is intersectionality on display.
I frankly don’t care if anyone else can or will recognize me as Native. Especially not people who identify themselves as white, an identity that’s awash in the erasure of all cultures, first and foremost those of my ancestors, secondly the culture of anyone lumped in with “white.” I recognize myself, and if Natives are anything we are sovereign. You can pry my Indian identity from my cold red scalp.
Imagine if this kid was a Muslim posting videos about hating Christians. Gitmo would already be force feeding him. Calling this murder spree a one-off by a mentally ill person is a total abdication of cultural, political, social and economic responsibility.
His rich family lawyer says Eliot had “Aspergers” and suddenly imperial sexist patriarchy is no longer on the hook at all. Rich people win again. We now have an acceptable scapegoat from outside the mainstream. It wasn’t that he was a white man who was rich and entitled and a racist sexist. No, he was mentally ill. That’s it.
Deniers of privilege / rape culture / persistent racism either consciously or not deny the systemic forces forever justifying this type of murder. HE WAS JUST CRAZY they insist.
It can’t be all the things that make people privileged. It had to be the one thing that disadvantaged him. That’s the culprit. That’s where to focus blame. “We need better mental health” becomes the consensus. Not “we need less racism and sexism and violence and entitlement.”
For the love of God a commentator on Fox News tried blaming “homosexual tendencies” for this. If that doesn’t open your eyes to the need for a witch hunt, a scapegoat, what will?
He wanted women to act like his property. That was the actual problem. That was what he himself said is the reason he killed the people he did. Yes, he killed some men. But he did it because he wanted women to be his property.
While simultaneously denying his race, sex or class have anything to do with his behavior, the people scrambling to defend this murderer have to put him in a marginal box mentally in order to assign blame. So they call him “nuts” or “crazy” or just take the word of the family lawyer and leave it solely there.
The kid was a racist, enabled by our racist society. A sexist enabled by a sexist society. He treated women like property just like his culture does. He thought murder was a tool to obtain a desired end, just like his culture tells him. He blamed others for his own failings, just like his culture says is acceptable. He thought weapons were a substitute for a personality just like the open-carry-crazed weirdos sitting inside Chipotle, then Carls Jr, then Sonic, desperate to be seen and validated as strong white male defenders of property, and just like their defenders. This kid found solace in the internet where other racist, sexist, entitled, wannabe-women-owners would reinforce his tendencies, confirm he was right, egg him on. He had a myriad of resources provided him to make this happen.
He wanted to be seen as desirable, so he got the car, the hair, the mannerisms. He thought sex was a transaction: my whiteness, money and textbook pickup lines for your submission. He didn’t understand the nuanced interplay of human relations, that sometimes money isn’t enough, that it isn’t about skin color or standards of beauty or politeness. It’s about attraction, love, passion. He was too cold and calculating and obsessive with the minutiae of race and sex and class to ever get sexual contact, and it frustrated him because people like him, rich attractive white men with nice cars, are supposed to get everything handed to them. He said it all himself. There is a record of his pathos for anyone to read and view. His childhood love of lobster. The struggle when his parents took away World of Warcraft. His obsession with the opposite sex refusing to be subservient to him.
This is happening all around us every day: a sick system that reinforces the worldview this kid clearly had fully accepted. Maybe he had a mental illness, likely he did, but if you see that as having had anywhere near the same amount of influence over this than DAILY AND PERSISTENT BIGOTRY ACROSS ALL MEDIA AND ALL SOCIETAL NORMS then you are in denial. He didn’t act alone. He acted in collusion with hundreds of years of Americans just like him.
And the root of this wasn’t him “being horny” either. Society said he deserved sex. He could have paid for sex, but he felt like getting it for free because he was supposedly racially superior. He was so entitled he didn’t even want to spend money on sex. He was one more power-obsessed white man, killing himself and others for domination of that to which he has no real claim. One more rapist rich kid who has it all and still has power and control fantasies because society forever tells him “you deserve more.”
Capitalism makes the gun the final resort of a white man being denied his property rights. Violence is the solution when all your options are exhausted, even if you never attempted anything else because you didn’t feel you should have to.
A white rich man had a real easy time finding a gun for someone who is mentally ill, wouldn’t you say? Do you think for a poor woman of color who was mentally ill that would happen? I suspect she would have been under close watch. If a trans person regularly posted videos claiming they wanted to kill cis people, that person wouldn’t get very far. Not without a pricey lawyer at least. That’s America: freedom for me but not for thee. He could threaten all he wanted because he is supposed to. That’s his class. His caste.
If anything he is guilty for knowing his role in society too well and acting upon it. Rarely do we get such a crystal view of this type of delusion. Not mental illness but sheer delusion. Delusion fueled by systemic oppression, the same delusion that blinds a good deal of whites to white privilege, males to male privilege, etc.
He didn’t only feel entitled to sex. He felt entitled to kill. Because our society enables and encourages white male sexual violence. It’s called rape culture.
So don’t blame his mental illness, and don’t pretend he acted alone. Plenty of mentally ill people have nowhere near the cultural, social, political and economic resources to do something like this. He had resources, he maintains supporters online (and off, though they’re hard to find as they know they need to hide). Only a certain societal caste regularly gets the institutional support necessary to commit mass shootings. It isn’t marginalized people. It’s the people who marginalize others. By definition, they assert their dominance in any way possible. Usually it is just speech. Occasionally, it becomes rape, the theft of sex, and murder, theft of life.