Against my will, I’ve been assigned a team. It’s called BIPOC, which I believe is pronounced bye-pock.
Black, Indigenous, and People of Color.
I’m assuming that white is not considered a color?
And I’m assuming the category is one of struggle?
Sure, I’ve been called Muhammad (wrong religion—I’m atheist), sand n-word (wrong part of the world), and Geronimo (even wronger part of the world), but can I really claim oppression?
Is Sundar Pichai oppressed?
How about Satya Nadella?
And how oppressed are all the doctors I work with?
Or, for that matter, the one I live with?
There’s more.
What happens during the Upstate New York winters, when I embrace four months of no sunshine and write blog posts no one reads? Do I become POP (Person of Pallor)?
What about halfsies?
Does place of birth matter?
Does life experience play into this at all?
Or are we limited to a visual assessment regarding the collective action of hundreds of genes?
Regardless, in the era of hyperindividualism and self-determination, I feel I should have some say in the matter.
Rather than BIPOC, I kindly request that you refer to me in one of the following ways:
- A Ball of Cells (BOC)
- A Ball of Atoms (BOA)
- A Collection of Particles (COP)
- A Morsel of the Universe (MOTU)
- Ashes (A)
Thank you.
