I Hate You Because You Were Born Here, and Because People Who Looked Like You and I Stole This Land From People I Romanticize In My Head

I hate myself and you because of how easy our lives has been compared to those Indigenous Peoples whose ancestors were systematically murdered and smallpoxed just so I could have this privilege of being born in America. It’s not fair, and no amount of my white guilt can make up for what was done to people I’ve in the past I’ve never met and would cross to the other side of the street to avoid. Believe me, I’ve tried.

The fact that I chose to be born here makes me complicit in the genocide of billions. If only I had never been conceived by those jive turkeys we call my ancestors! But instead, here we are—me, a white person who thinks they know everything about people they stole land from but couldn’t even pronounce any of their words correctly. You, probably a white person who benefits in so many undefined but clearly incredible ways by merely existing in this American land your people stole. You probably don’t even think about it. Well, I do. A lot.

I should be in jail. I’m a menace. If my ancestors, whom I never knew but are exactly like me in every way because of the general color of my skin, would have just stayed home and colonized themselves, maybe I’d have some dignity right now. I don’t know where I came from, but it was presumably a shithole since my Great Great Great Grandparents couldn’t stand it. If I lived in that shithole now, I would be morally superior and ethically cleansed. My sins would be washed away.

Instead, I live on top of the blood, sweat, tears, and literal bones of others. And yet, I still want more. Don’t you? We all do. That’s the real problem isn’t it? Our greedy hearts beat out of sync with our antiracist ideologies. The same hearts that drove all of us to steal lands, hurt women, enslave children, and pillage cultures until there was nothing left but broken spirits and empty graves.

The Native Americans we committed Grand Theft Continent against were perfect in every way and right about everything. They were the Golden Children, having appeared here ex nihilo and given this land of plenty by their God herself. At least according to the ideas I made up in my head. I’m not sure, I was only half-listening in History Class tbh.

So, if you ever wonder why I hate you, or when I talk down about you, it’s because of things like this. It’s because I am ashamed to be alive and guilty for being here. Not guilty enough though, obviously, since here I stay. At least I get to write articles like this on OJ WOLFSMASHER DOT COM. It doesn’t help, but it might make you think I’m a good person.

And isn’t that what actually matters?