I’m a white guy, and have been for a considerable time now. I was never asked to be a white guy, but rather had my white-guyness thrust upon me. Sure, everyone knows that being a white guy comes with certain privileges. We make more money than our female counterparts. Up until recently, we were in charge of the country for over two-hundred years. And advertising agencies focus primarily on us.
Why is that? Because being a white guy typically means that you possess four things: 1) pale skin, 2) a penis, 3) money, and 4) the driving desire to spend that money as quickly as possible on things that you “need.” Our “needs” are much different from the rest of society’s needs. We need electronics. You might think that we just want it. Nope. We NEED it. They make us a whole person. They emphasize the aforementioned penis. And advertisers know this. They know that we need bright, shiny objects, so they prey on us. It’s dreadful to be so exploited. But if you aren’t a white man, you won’t feel my pain.
18 to 35 year old white males are the life blood of the economy. If it weren’t for their reckless spending, this great country would’ve gone to hell a long time ago. So you’re welcome.
I’m no longer part of this demographic. At a certain age, you begin to realize, “man, I really don’t need this crap. Why do I need a CD player that holds 100 CD’s when I only own ten, and haven’t bought a CD since I discovered Napster?” But I’m still part of the community. An adjunct professor of white-guyship, and I’m used to being treated as such.
I graduated from law school in 2001. After I passed the bar and got my first job, I started dressing nicer and was a little more well-kempt. And it showed in the respect I was given. I’ve been stopped for speeding so many times, but if you are wearing a tie, you are much less likely to get a ticket. Cashiers are extra nice to me, offering me valuable programs that I’m sure that the stores only offer to white guys. Enter almost any retail business in a suit, and the employees will automatically think you’re from corporate, and you will receive the ass-kissing of a lifetime.
Yes, life was good for little old white me. Until recently.
I was working for a friend of mine until last May, when I discovered it would be much more lucrative to work out of my house and be my own boss. I make a respectable living. It would be crass to state precise figures. Let’s just say that I’m not exactly Bill Gates, but I’m not Bob the Hobo dancing for quarters in front of the bar, either. I’m only Bob the Hobo on weekends for fun.
Since I was my own boss, I decided to do something that I haven’t done since I was a philosophy major in college: I started growing my hair out. It looks a little strange to see a guy in a tie with a pony-tail, sure, but I always liked my long hair, and I decided that I could do it if I wanted to.
But somehow, this mane, this Samsonesque head of hair has somehow demoted me in the eyes of society. I am no longer treated with the level of courtesy and respect that I was previously when I was a clean-shaven, short haired, obviously middle class white guy.
Case in point; this weekend, we went to Mesa so that I could engage in that most white guy of pursuits, bike-riding. We got rooms at the Marriott at a special rate. When I went to check in, I was wearing green shorts, a “life is good” t-shirt, and my favorite hat. It’s one of those distressed ballcaps with a Woody the Woodpecker logo on it. Since I was wearing my hat, my excess hair trailed down the back of my scalp, and I will admit that for all purposes, it looked like I had a mullet.
I told the nice lady behind the counter my name. She asked for picture ID and a credit or debit card. I handed her my License and my debit card. She looked at it skeptically, then pointed to a sign on the counter that read “Debit cards will automatically deduct the amount of the room from your account.”
“Sir,” she said, in a voice dripping with disrespect for my white guy status, “your debit card is going to be automatically charged.” I contemplated my response. Should I immediately start crying, begging her not to run my debit card? Should I throw some more cards on the counter to shut her up? Should I flash my Bar card at her? Instead, I simply smiled and said “well, that’s not going to be a problem.”
The bane of the white guy is the white trash guy. Don’t get me wrong, I love the white trash. I make most of my money from white trash. Without white trash, we wouldn’t have Eminem or Kid Rock, though they’ve also given us Insane Clown Posse. I forgive them that, though.
But this person, this non white-guy, assumed that I was not in the favorable demographic. I daresay that she looked down her nose at me.
It’s becoming increasingly more obvious that I’m losing my white guy status. I’m too old and too hairy. Businesses don’t want me like they once did. I’m like a very masculine, dying flower.
I don’t want your pity.
But I need it.
No comments:
Post a Comment