Confessions of A Fragile White Person

I am sick of race. Sick of hearing about it, reading about it and talking about it. As far as I'm concerned it's a made-up issue exacerbated and promoted by wicked Democrats to garner votes. But guess what? It turns out that feeling this way is an example of my "white fragility," a term concocted by an academic with "experience in diversity training" who wrote a book about the so-called condition.

It means, according to this white writer whose name I shall not utter, "any defensive instincts or reactions that a white person experiences when questioned about race or made to consider their own race." 

As an example, recently a stranger on Facebook said my blog post about the inanity of "people of color" being acceptable language but saying "colored people" indicates you are a racist was an example of my white fragility. Of course I Googled the term immediately and I plead not guilty. 

Go ahead, ask me about being white -- I won't flinch. But I do admit to other sorts of fragility. The following subjects give me the willies: Morbid obesity, serial murderers, the cost of a day pass at Disney World, transgenderism, cancer in children and physical deformities of any kind (i.e. transgenders). 

Just this morning I shoved almost a whole box of fresh strawberries -- the expensive kind my husband bought at a local farmer's market -- down the garbage disposal because they were all oddly misshapen. Some were downright freakish.

So I guess I am guilty of fragility, just not the white kind.