Self segregation naturally evolves when less than 10 percent of the population has dark skin. A private school in the south, say Ravenscroft, founded 1854, incorporates African Americans for the purposes of athletics. Naturally, only the daring among them date uppity white girls, or pimply white boys. Any suggestion of sexual activity, even white on white, is taken way too seriously at this place, which stinks, nay rots from the drunken ghosts of plantations just now knocked down to make room for another mall. This year’s drought, 30 hurricanes, ridiculed folks songs at the coffee shop, earthquakes, tsunami, wars, unbreathable air, go straight past most Ravens, since they’re in the state playoffs, have a dandy set of cheerleaders, and celebrate victories at the taproom, parents in tow. There is only so much oil, then water, then food left for us overpopulated greed mongers, which means, if you’re not ready to huddle with family, or ready to accept the quirks of new friends, or to lay plow to earth, axe to tree, blood to protect it all, your kin won’t be the ones who see past the Mayan calendar or past Nostradamus, or 2050, if you will. If 80-in-October, flooding in New England, and scarcity in general haven’t clued you in, certainly the news won’t tip you off either. “What is it about golf and blow jobs,” the alien asks, on his way back to the Maquiladoras. “What is it about anoncephaly and gender-based dormitories with 60 beds per room?” you reply, pushing back a tear from under the mirror sunglasses and border patrol uniform. “What of a democracy, Bolivian style, if they elect Morales, the Cocoa king? How do you like Hugo Chavez style Venezuela, Mr. Bush? When, when, when-when will it all end , or how, or how soon, or, worst of all, how often?
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