A hairless liberal gets inside the right-wing mind
The Misanthrope
By ETHAN CHATAGNIER
In the name of the holy job hunt, I’ve chopped my distinctive long
hair, and like Samson’s strength, my powers of hippieness have seriously
diminished. The instinct to read Anne Coulter came immediately.
Soon after, I was watching the post-Pope coverage and caught myself
thinking, “That Pat Buchanan guy really knows what’s up.”
Snap out of it, Ethan. You’ve still got the fire of young liberalism.
You don’t have to be unkempt to be progressive. It just helps.
And soon, the old me was back. I was ready to step up to the plate once
more and spend the rich man’s money. I took a walk so I could appreciate
some flowers, all the while sending my good vibes to the third world.
Then it hit me, what I was doing. Walking both sides. Playing with two
decks. I could blend in with neatly-kept social conservatives and maybe,
just maybe, poison their ideologies from the inside.
I could visit church groups and sneak in an inconspicuous comment. “Maybe
corporal punishment for minors isn’t humane,” or “ever
think about the benefits of a welfare state?” In retirement homes,
I could let old women pinch my cheeks (now clean-shaven) and tell them
how important it is for the nation to keep changing.
But my conscience did kick in. I knew deep down I had to use this power
fairly. Short hair, after all, is very persuasive. It’s easy to
write off the purple-haired, the nose-pierced, the tattooed young Green
party members. They don’t look like you.
Democrats have got it rough these days. We’ve got Bush still in
the White House, we’ve had our leadership in Congress gutted. To
survive, we have to adapt — cut our hair, wash ourselves —
to walk among conservative hardliners. We’re the Fresno Cong, and
our jungle is Shaw Avenue.
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