He sits alone in the Barker Café eating raspberries and thinking about what it means to be the boy version of Tilda Swinton. It’s a good day to be white but a terrible day to be alive. The barista hands him his matcha latte, he winks at her, doesn’t tip, and says “don’t spend it all in one place.” This guy’s failing all his classes. He takes a sip of the latte and spits it all out. Disgusting, but very áuthentic. A swarm of Advocate compers gather to lap up his spit-up. Little do they know, nobody on his board respects him, and he has absolutely no say in delibs. He pulls out a really long, really thin cigarette and places it gingerly on his lips. His manservant lights the other end, all the way across the room. Every time he turns his head, he smacks fellow English concentrators on the forehead with the cigarillo. Nobody has ever felt emotions as real as his emotions. At least, nobody with nearly as much money. He’s taken sixteen leaves of absence, each to work at a different artisan coffee shop, each one of those coffee shops closing because Starbucks just does it better. He opens his copies of Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, and resumes his project of circling all the vowels. There’s a pattern here. He’s sure of it. He holds up a sign in protest. It reads “STOP THE DEFORESTATION, THE HATE, THE VIOLENCE, THE PREJUDICE, THE ELEPHANTS AND THEIR RACISM” extending over several different signs. He raises his right hand in protest, his cold eyes unbowing to the harsh world he takes on every day. Applause, silent applause, seems to surround him. “Not on my watch,” he whispers, to no one in particular. “Not. On. My. Watch.” He’s in line to use the stalls. Can’t use urinals because he gets pee-shy. A woman emerges from the women’s restroom. She’s Muslim, but deeper down, she’s not, but at the heart of that, she’s every minority at the same time. She opens her mouth, revealing her pulsating vulva, which signals that she is also deaf, mute, forgotten by history, and the Mother of Creation. He gives her a single thumbs up, a nod, and she knows that she is understood. “Thank you,” she whispers from her mouth-pussy, but he’s already disappeared. Suddenly, out of the cracking sunset approaches…. His father! In a $10,000 three-piece Henry Poole single-breasted. The boy walks up to his father, embarrassed. His father is Kennedy O’Millionaire, famous music producer and rainforest colonizer. The boy doesn’t say anything, he just reaches out for his father’s hand and in it finds… an envelope. The boy thanks his father, nervously hugging him in a way that seems to say “I do all of this for you, Dad, I do all of this for you.” The dad fades into a Rolls Royce (rented), in which he is driven to his bigger, more expensive Bentley (stolen). The boy goes to the TD Bank on Massachusetts Avenue. He cashes what his father gave him, a check for $50,000. This is his allowance. This is the burden he must bear. This is what it means to live oppressed.
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