Patrick Ness has a problem.
What’s his problem, you ask? Why, being a white man who must shut the fuck up occasionally. We can all appreciate and sympathize with that, can’t we?
No? Didn’t think so.
Lest you claim I’m making shit up or taking shit out of context, here is Ness’ risible first paragraph.
I had intended to open this polemic with some version of this true story: earlier this summer, I was having dinner with friends and our conversation turned to the role of the veil in Islam, starting with how to explain a burkha to a son raised to believe that men and women are equal, before leading into the veil’s potential as a form of oppression against women.
Imagine this man’s skull. Imagine how very, very thick it must be to make him this terrible, this oblivious, this self-absorbed. Or maybe it’s just a lifetime of insulation, of being mollycoddled, through no merit, charm or intelligence of his own–but through the simple fact that he’s white, male, and a westerner. He’s never been said no to all his life. He’s lived however many years of it a spoiled little shit. His opinions are welcomed, valued, validated in all venues (such as, aha, The Guardian–which I incidentally find difficult to distinguish from The Daily Mail).
Then suddenly he’s told (or imagines that he might be told) that no, his opinions aren’t welcome all the time–that he might consider shutting the fuck up once in a while on issues of which he knows fuck-all about (and there are a great many of those. Like the hijab/burka, for example). That must be so tough. Oh, poor baby. Let me just hug him better with a machine gun.