The Right bemoans its oppression, as Jonathan Last notes regarding the poor downtrodden suburbs...
So I’m sure that this is undeniably true for some swaths of Republican voters. If you’re living on government assistance in a Kentucky holler that’s been hollowed out by jobs being shipped overseas and the flood of opioids, I get it. I mean, I’d argue that you are misallocating blame, but I get that it feels like you’re living in a sectarian failed state.
What I don’t understand is the people who feel like they’re living in a sectarian failed state while driving Ford F-150 Raptors, or taking their boats out to join a parade, or buying up tens of thousands of dollars of tactical gear.
And the Left is oppressed, too. For instance, being asked to turn down your stereo on an Ivy League campus is racist.
I first arrived on campus for the minority-student orientation. The welcome event had the feel of a block party, Blahzay Blahzay blasting on a boom box. (It was the ’90s.) We spent those first few nights convening in one another’s rooms, gossiping and dancing until late. We were learning to find some comfort in this new place, and with one another.
Then the other students arrived—the white students. The first day of classes was marked by such gloriously WASPy pomp that it made my young, aspirational heart leap. Professors in academic regalia gave speeches about centuries-old traditions and how wonderful and unique we were—“the best class yet.” Kids sang a cappella and paraded with a marching band. I’d spent my high-school years sneaking out at night to drink 40s on the beach and scheming my way into clubs. I understood that what was happening around me wasn’t exactly cool, but it was special. And I was a part of it.
I just hadn’t counted on everything that followed being so quiet. The hush crept up on me at first. I would be hanging out with my friends from orientation when one of our new roommates would start ostentatiously readying themselves for bed at a surprisingly early hour. Hints would be taken, eyes would be rolled, and we’d call it a night. One day, when I accidentally sat down to study in the library’s Absolutely Quiet Room, fellow students Shhh-ed me into shame for putting on my Discman. With rare exceptions—like Saturday nights during rush—silence blanketed the campus.
