I don’t believe (and am too lazy to verify) that I’ve used the term “wetback” ever on this blog.
I’m frankly surprised the term has fallen out of favor, but I suppose this echoes the general sentiment of American “pop” society that has grown to find it difficult to even utter the phrase “illegal alien” without touchy-feely grimacing. The phrase has become become laden with all sorts of un-PC baggage. Illegal immigration is not what it used to be. The only people carrying that anti-immigration torch in a resounding manner today are the “fringe” right-wingers who have eschewed political correctness for the sake of economic and cultural expediency.
Whereas I personally don’t mind opposition to illegal immigration when it’s couched in an economic or quality of life context, I am more resistant when it seeps into racial and HBD territory. Not because I disagree with the general reasoning of such opposition, but because I believe these mindsets spring from emotion and personal enmity which disqualifies reasonable conversation, and when conversation is excised, all that’s left is chaos and a din of overlapping voices. This is stupid. The collective conversation devolves to a polarized ping pong game of people shouting and hating on allegedly uncivilized people. Logic takes a vacation.
Conversely, words don’t bother me. Don Young used the big bad “W” word which ranks as one of the harshest derogatory thing you can call a Mexican of any age, assimilation level, or class. “Wetback” not only disparages the ethnicity, but it offends generational and personal alliances that transcend even the wavering “Mexican” self-description. When you call me a wetback, I laugh, because I was born here and I never worked in the fields or swam across the Rio Grande, but you also insult my ancestral legacy that has nurtured me and sacrificed to allow me to live the life I do now. And this is where the humor ends. If someone calls me a wetback, they discount my humanity. Still, I don’t give a crap what Don Young said.
I believe he should keep his position in the House, and if his constituents re-elect him, good for him. In his district, he can get away with that word. I don’t live there, why is it my business? It’s no skin off his back, and it’s no skin off my wet one. I don’t believe anyone is responsible for our own feelings except ourselves. Are we so delicate, so fragile, that the utterances of another destroy us to the extent we need to censor and banish people for speaking their minds?
I’d rather live in an honest society where the exchange of information and ideas takes precedence over the lamentations of thin-skinned crybabies. I don’t want to live in a society in which a neutered pall of Political Correctness coats us in its unremarkable splendor.
Give me life.