#WhiteAllyWednesday
It’s #WhiteAllyWednesday!
Mangal will be illustrating one white ally story every week!
★ H i l l a r y ★ M c T r u m p e t e r ★
We decided to celebrate the one candidate who we know for sure to be America's next president: Hillary McTrumpeter! The New York millionaire white ally who was always the only actual candidate.
McTrumpeter’s has a love/hate relationship with minorities. S/he says they always had a good relationship with The Blacks(™), but s/he also considers them super-predators that need to be brought to heel. Whether or not s/he actually wants a total and complete lockdown on Muslims entering America isn't a big deal, because s/he’'ll be sure to bomb the hell out of them ‘over there’ anyway, be it in the name of fighting terrorism, be it the name of protecting democracy.
When it comes to the women, s/he is their best friend, and no-one in the world could love and respect them more. If love means assaulting women, be it physically, be it through character assassination, then yes, the feminist candidate has won! Not only is Hillary McTrumpeter a woman’s best friend, s/he is also the best friend of the American people: in fact, nothing could be more American than not paying taxes, setting up a charity for poor countries to use it for political favors, and a 100% USA physique of bleached hair and botox.
We can rest assured that the least (and simultaneously most) pro-Zionist, pro-guns, pro-corporations of the candidates is now president. Congratulations, USA!
Meet Wilhelm Frydenborgsberger!
Wilhelm Frydenborgsberger’s no. 1 pick-up line is ‘Where are you from?’, usually followed by ‘Your English is really good!’. Sometimes he even says this to to the women of color he grew up with, but most often he’s off on an adventure in the third world. He brags to his female friends, female cousins and relatives, female acquaintances, random women on the bus, and fellow Redditors that he only dates ‘exotic women’ — and therefore has great taste in foreign food and cinema! Hahaha!
When the woman of his attention doesn’t walk away or block him, Frydenborgsberger becomes excited... and hungry it seems. He starts to dole out compliments: ‘I just love the color of your skin’, ‘you look absolutely delicious, like chocolate or cinnamon’, ‘you know, that’s a beautiful culture you have there’ (he says this last one staring googly-eyed at the woman’s crotch). Compliments soon become excuses but before that they become gropes, which are angrily pushed away: ‘I couldn’t help it, since I just love the color of your skin!’ (he is secretly pondering how delicious dinner will be). See, Frydenborgsberger sees no difference between expressions of affection and gropes, and sees no difference between finding the most exotic dish and cornering the most exotic woman. He writes on The Red Pill about how all the women of the third world are just *loca* for gringo men, and their playing hard-to-get is just another fiery Latina turn-on.
Frydenborgsberger spends his days as a lost adventurist-poet-traveller-photographer-English teacher-volunteer-aid worker-street food connoisseur (or in most languages, bum) in the third world, and despite monthly deposits from his grandparents, brags about how tough his bohemian life is. When his grandparents buy him a plane ticket to visit them for Christmas, he impresses his redneck family with his few mispronounced Spanish phrases ‘Oy chica, quieres un tic-tac?’. He’s convinced them to vote for Green Party through his long explanations of the anti-globalization movement, and they are proud of having such a quirky open-minded passionate traveller in the family.
This white ally believes his travels make him an honorary brown, and he admits he now feels nervous when there are too many white people at a house party. Probably because there are no brown girls to hit on. When he does find a brown girl, all dressed up in his anti-globalization t-shirt (made in China) underneath his tweed jacket (consciously ironic), he randomly introduces his political activism into the conversation. For example, his time volunteering for the Red Cross in Haiti, where he single-handedly built 7 houses. When the brown girl informs him the entire mission of the Red Cross in Haiti only built 6 houses in 6 years, he expresses outrage at her naive belief in anti-humanitarian propaganda, and refers her to Christopher Hitchens as a therapeutic antidote to her ignorance. But he’ll always add that he thinks she’s really smart, and loves talking to women engaged with politics, which makes him a feminist. When she tries to step away from him, he tries to Gaslight by rewinding back to his favourite compliment …
Hello friends! Since Halloween is just around the corner, we’re giving you our spookiest #WhiteAllyWednesday post yet.
Meet Abigail Paleface!
Abbie’s favorite holiday is Halloween because she can use her costume to draw attention to the most pressing political issues of the year. Last Halloween, she was totally the star of the show with her brilliant idea to dress up as a Syrian refugee. You told her it was totally inappropriate and she earnestly seemed to register how and why. She promised to do better. But this year Abbie went back and forth between Sexy Harambe and Sexy Pocahontas for months before finally settling on the latter, mainly because this way, she can have two important discussions with partygoers: cultural appropriation, and how to peacefully resist against the Dakota Access Pipeline. She arrives at your party in full head dress. You shake your head but are too kind to turn her away.
Abbie has learned that some indigenous resisters wear masks to hide their faces and arm themselves for protection. She wants everyone to know that she disapproves of violence and she knows it is not the “Indian way.” She promised not to get political at the party, but three drinks in, she starts ranting about authentic Indianness (she took her fair share of introductory anthropology classes), about her field trips to pow wow’s as a child (though it really was only one pow wow), about how the Indians she knows would never become violent (she went on three dates with a guy she met on Tinder). She starts quoting MLK and Gandhi out of context with a bit of a slur. And when she sees another white girl walk by wearing the same Sexy Pocahontas outfit, she fumes and grabs her by the hair. She screams: “What do you think you’re doing? Playing Indian Princess, bitch???”
You pull Abbie off the girl and away from the crowd that’s gathered. Abbie, you it say gently because you’re worried she might hurt you. Abbie, you’re white. It’s not up to you to lecture anyone on their struggle, or on cultural appropriation.”
She stares you down, splashes her vodka and orange in your face shouts so everyone at the party can hear:
Benjamin Gordon aka, “Keffiyeh Boy”!
You’ve probably noticed Benjy at pro-Palestine rallies for years. It’s kinda hard to miss him really. With his shiny blonde hair and his piercing blue eyes, he’s always carrying the banner up front, never loosening his clutch on the megaphone. His enthusiasm seemed kinda cute back in ‘09. Besides, you thought if white folk only wanna listen to somebody who looks like them, then it wouldn’t do much harm to let Benjy overshadow actual Palestinians in being the ‘face’ of your local solidarity action.
By now we know Benjy leads a double life. In the day he is an ordinary rich white boy who lives in a loft conversion warehouse on the East end of London. But whenever he hears of injustice and US imperialism, he plays the first ten notes of the Internationale on his grand piano and hey presto, he turns into: KEFFIYEH BOY!
During Occupy protests he was wandering about with his keffiyeh and his anonymous mask telling his white friends “you really think it’s a coincidence that all the world’s biggest banks are run by the Jews?” You pulled him aside and told him that you and your homies have been working to separate anti-Zionism from anti-Semitism for years, that anti-colonial movements are stronger without weird conspiracies and KKK style holocaust denial theories.
A year later he had already gathered other white boys who were eagerly retweeting his rants about how the Arab Spring was just a CIA ploy to weaken stable governments in the Middle East. It seems he lost contact with reality. You would occasionally notice him at small rallies, saying misogynist shit like: “Sweden has the highest rape rate in Europe, so what if Julian Assange had a pop or two?”
These days he and his little tribe spend most of their time campaigning for Corbyn. Oh you know, like chanting “no more war” to drown out questions about his support for the Assad regime, things like that. Someone bumped into him at the bus stop the other day. He was arguing that Trump is *actually* the pacifist candidate. When asked to clarify, he just got mad and yelled:
Meet Paul Kowalski,
aka Blundering Plundering Paul
Have you seen Paul? The neighborhood's new anarcho-libertarian. Paul fancies himself a cross between David Graeber and David Crockett: “two Davids, dig it?” as he would say. He loves wearing overalls like Dexy’s Midnight Runners and fashions himself a hardworking bloke, good with his hands. He has dreams about moving to the middle of nowhere and "living off the land” one day, but settler that he is, none of the land belongs to him. And let's be honest even though he fancies himself some kind of hunter gatherer, he couldn't survive without the neighborhood kebabs or chapatis he regularly discovers (“what a steal” right Paul?). He would be in greater trouble without the flat his parents bought him at a discount, (daylight robbery, right Paul?). Living in your hood makes him feel like he's in the wild already!
He thinks attending the neighborhood anti-gentrification meetings absolves him from his fuckeries. But everyone knows that he is just there to push his “Artisanal Nonviolent Revolution” manifesto to the residents. Whenever he stops by he can’t help but mention that three generations ago, his impoverished ancestors from Eastern Europe settled the neighborhood and "built it from scratch". Decades after they made their fortune and abandoned the city for the suburbs, he believes moving back to the neighborhood is simply a matter of "taking back what's his". He talks about this on page 7. The paragraph that starts with: “white, black, brown, green, organge [sic] all united…” you can guess the rest.
A lot of folks are too kind to run him out, and some others even believe his presence is a sign that the neighborhood is coming up.
Next time when you bump into him at his vegan bakesale and tell him: “Paul, gtfo before you attract more #ytppl like a swarm of locusts” he will cry:
Meet Princess Madeline-Molly-Ami-Claire Piddley-Poddington-Puckett.
Well she’s not actually a princess, but she sure pretends to be when she’s out saving black babies in *Africa*.
Indeed, the wealth her family accrued from the slave trade used to make her feel things she never felt and can’t put to words (ahem, guilt and shame, ahem), but she really doesn't like to think about that. For years, she explored anti-capitalist activism, mainstream-western feminist texts (Gloria Steinem is still bae even though she’s problematic hehe!), WOOFing, environmental DA, Adbusters and sustainable beauty products. But no matter how many (white, western) ideologies she consumed, those awful feelings kept coming back :
When her parents died and left her her inheritance, she felt the need to “find herself” and got on a plane to Liberia, where she’d never felt more alive or soulful in her life! It made her really understand that we are all one, and you can be home anywhere in the world. Oh, and she discovered her true calling: photography. It became her second favourite thing after pumpkin latte.
Princess Madeline-Molly-Ami-Claire Piddley-Poddington-Puckett is working on a self-portrait series with the kids she’s teaching to read. She gathers the little Liberian children all around her because the contrast of dark to light tones is absolutely *divine*.
But when someone tells her her project is racist and that this is yet another narrative that centers white benevolence and uses black suffering as backdrop, her face puckers in horror and she says:
Meet Archibald Snowflake III
Archie grew up in a dainty Southern England suburb and watched the struggles of third world peoples from his television. He always thought that people would take his feelings more seriously if he was suffering like the children he sees on TV. One day, Archie had a vision in which he too was able to claim he is oppressed, simply by declaring himself gender fluid (even though he's straight as a board). He soon found out that he can divert conversations in revolutionary spaces by talking about his feelings and quoting long passages from Judith Butler verbatim. He also figured that insisting on a gender neutral pronoun will make him less threatening to women he wants to sleep with. When his unwelcome advances are turned down he gets upset about being misunderstood, and attempts to restart his cycle of abuse with a:
Meet Caleb von Crakkker Barrel,
a.k.a., the Obama tho!
Bro. Caleb von Crakkker Barrel lives in a suburban Pacific Northwest town of the USA where 90% of residents are white and almost none are below the poverty line. He’s 100% progressive and down for the cause, he says. He says black and brown people are more interested in vindictive whining and playing into the ruling class’s divide-and-conquer identity politics than in any *actual* struggle. He says that pissing contests will only result in mutual failure but when you ask him what is mutual about white people and Amerikkkans exploiting and appropriating the labor of POC, or that there was and is nothing mutualistic about 500+ years of colonial atrocities, his face crinkles up he is the sole victim of colonial violence and cries: "b-but but....
Meet Maximus Mayo.
Maximus Mayo shows up at all the meetings and rallies to help us
“organize” and to suggest “truly radical” feminist texts. He goes home feeling self-satisfied and asks an Asian on tinder if her pussy’s as slanted as her almond eyes, and jacks off rather violently. Later that night, he posts pics of FEMEN protests on his muslim comrade's wall.
Maximus Mayo doesn’t think he’s racist because his daddy’s a racist and he is definitely not like his daddy. He thinks we should feel flattered by his attentions, grateful for his “help” with the movement.
When we tell him to fuck off he cries
What’s your favorite white allyism? Message us with your story and maybe we’ll illustrate it next week! ;)