Minority Report

It’s official.  According to a recently published study by the Census Bureau, there has been a population shift in my area and the influx and increasing birthrate of Blacks, Latinos and Asians into Northern Virginia has made me and people like me a minority.  I am white, Anglo-Saxon (well, Franco-Saxon) and there are now more not-me’s than me’s where I lived.

My first thought, upon learning this, was to apply for a minority loan from the Small Business Administration.  For years now, I have wanted to open a tattoo removal service, as I figure many of the young women with multi-colored Harley-Davidson wings inked on the small of their back just above the butt, well, these ladies might think better than entering middle-age with an increasingly blurry motorcycle advertisement permanently etched in a conspicuous place. While I would never dream of using the term ‘tramp stamp,’ I nevertheless believe there exists a market to eradicate those highly visible errors made in youth and perhaps under the influence of alcohol, drugs, or a long-gone lover or three. But setting up such shop is expensive, far beyond my means. The equipment runs into the tens of thousands, and you need a Registered Nurse on duty. A minority loan would be helpful.

I also gave some consideration to opening a restaurant called New Caucasus and serving food from that region, dishes comprising Circassian pepper, Circassian cheese, Circassian pastry and Circassian chicken, but I know next to nothing about running an eatery. Also, I had some Circassian cheese once and that was a big mistake.

Suddenly becoming a minority has made me thoughtful. I wonder if I should hang out more frequently with members of my ilk and decry the unfairness of the new majority. Trouble is, I don’t really have anything to complain about quite yet. The majority is treating me relatively well. I don’t think I have been discriminated against, but then again I might not see the difference between discrimination and terminal impoliteness. I can say, though, that my native language is endangered.  Actually, my native language is French, but you know what I mean: English has been maltreated and abused during the last few decades, and I fear for its ability to endure changing times when majority expressions try to encroach. Like H.L. Mencken, I think that if English was good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me and anyone else who might want to live here.

I am thinking of establishing a traveling dance troupe, orchestra and art exhibit to tour the nation and make sure my minority heritage is not lost, and I see a real future for a veritable library of works on my threatened culture. Entire cultures have been lost without a trace in the past and I don’t want this to happen to Franco-Saxonism.

Truth is, I’m extremely sensitive about my heritage.