by Lindsay Griffiths
You are enraged and have opted to neglect me, but, Mummy, I am not a racist. The media has just portrayed me as such, to my chagrin and to the delight of the liberal left. I cannot stomach this, and, thus, I must win back your trust, and your trust fund, but mostly your trust.
As you are well aware, your homeschooled boy dreams of Oxford University. I sipped on the teat of your Long Island imitation of British English, which you surely learned from whom I presume is my real father (for I know the man I was raised with, and, though you claim his seed produced me, I am well aware of the gay man he truly is). Well, as an aspiring Brit, I applied to graduate school at Oxford, beacon of beauty, hilltop haven. When my suitemate, Leron, applied for Oxford’s Ertegun House fellowship, straight away I wanted to do the same. But, Mummy! It was a diversity fellowship and you know we are a family of cotton white, Nordic skin. Well, I was undeterred. As Leroy and his girlfriend, Tammy, were in the throes of their wild, primitive passion, I crept into his room, stole away with her makeup, and feigned ignorance about it later (Mummy, have compassion for me as I relate this story; I am not a racist). Unbeknownst to them, I was plotting against this system that dubs whites “not diverse” unless we are dreadfully poor or the sons of immigrants (which I likely am, since the man who you claim is my father is certainly gay and thus did not engage in coitus with you, so I must actually be the son of a Brit). I am phenomenal – president of this and that on Harvard’s campus, a published scholar, and a great philanthropist. It was no great feat for me to release my stellar application into the willful hands of Oxford and Ertegun House and to get an interview. Leon getting an interview also, however, was unanticipated. But I was undeterred, Mummy.
After flying to England, I opened Tammy’s brown cosmetics and began transforming into what Ertegun desired: me, only “diverse.” I covered my skin in an earthy brown (mind you, Mummy, I am not a racist and this was not “black face”). I cut my hair low to hide its Aryan texture, and I made sure to suction my lips with a cup for adequate swelling (as the Internet advised). I went to my interview prepared to stand alone before the judges of my fate and prove that I could dance the primitive paddywack of “my” African ancestors while also being brilliant.
But, Mummy, it was a group interview! Not only did I sit in the presence of Lerone, who quietly fumed in vexation, but Tammy – who was also among the eight of us. They kept silent until the interview was over and confronted me with the aggressive ways of their people. I hastily insisted we speak through peaceful emails instead. We agreed, and later came the email. He accused me of being vile and opportunistic. He claimed he was no uncle named Tom (whoever that is) and would therefore not leave me be. I, having grown fond of my suitemate Leo, endeavored to respond with an explanation of my plan, even attaching Before/After photographs of myself to boast the works of my hands. But, in my frenzy to defend myself, I did not notice that he had CCed many people, and, when I clicked “Reply All,” I was shocked, but not dismayed. All those CCed – Tammy, Leroy’s little black fraternity friends, the interviewers at Ertegun, the Oxford dean of graduate studies, the president of Harvard, that gay man you claim is my father, and you – surely they would understand. But instead, all my aspirations have been dashed to the wayside.
I did not err. It is Leon who made the mistake of affirmative-actioning his way into Oxford and destroying my chances. Sure, I “shamed you,” as you say, but at least I did not expose my imposter father as the gay man that he is (I see the way he doesn’t look at you). This has become too much – you have heard about the expulsion and seen the media coverage, that “pig” of a newswoman oinking out her fallacious report. I simply ask that you consider my true account of these events. In the meantime, I will be staying at our summer home during this chilly spring, waiting for you to return to your senses and rescue your sonny boy in the form of a small fortune and a redeeming press conference.
