If you look around, you can see Debbie Downers—or, as I like to call them, the fun police—everywhere. They’ve banned Happy Meal Toys in San Francisco.
They’ve banned large sodas in New York. In Los Angeles, they recently attempted to ban Frisbee playing on public beaches. In California as a whole, thanks to a law called Proposition 65, they slap vague and alarming warning labels on everything from hotels to cars.
(On a recent trip to Santa Barbara, we decided to splurge on lunch at the Four Seasons, which is a lovely hotel overlooking the beach—and which also, as a large, prominent sign posted next to the hotel’s front doors helpfully informed me, may or may not have traces of hazardous and toxic chemicals buried deep inside its walls. It was very romantic.)
In the world of the fun police, there’s never enough oppression to go around, and there are never enough deadly-serious labels—gay, straight, half-white, half-black, one-quarter Cambodian, three-quarters Asian transgender student-athlete, and on and on—with which to dissect various injustices.
When I was in college, I always found it vaguely amusing to shout “OPPRESSION!” when there was something going on I didn’t like.
Despite the insistence of some of my professors, I was, of course, nowhere near oppressed.
None of my friends, of many races, colors, and creeds, were anywhere near oppressed, either, and even the most delusional among us knew that this was the case.
Despite the insistence of some of my professors, I was, of course, nowhere near oppressed.
None of my friends, of many races, colors, and creeds, were anywhere near oppressed, either, and even the most delusional among us knew that this was the case.
This is probably why none of us grew up to be producers for National Public Radio.
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