The Colorful Take – November 22, 2016
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The Colorful Take is The Correspondent’s resident humor segment, written by Joshua Irvine when he hasn’t deluded himself into thinking he can do real journalism. For any parties wondering why The Colorful Take hasn’t been published for the last six months, see the end of the last sentence.
In my never ending pursuit of muckraking justice, I was shocked to discover that some of my fellow classmates of the Hispanic persuasion were subjected to xenophobic commentary in the aftermath of the election of our mighty President-Elect. “My god!” I declared, briefly considering dropping my Cup of Noodles to heighten the imagery before realizing I didn’t really want to have to clean that up. “How could such a thing happen at John Hersey High School – and I not be a victim of such abuse!”
Because, dear reader, I am no ordinary high school junior from suburban Illinois. I am, as all those acquainted with the legend of the dreamy (but taken, thank you very much) man of solid heart and brain and journalist extraordinaire know, a high school junior from suburban Illinois who used to live somewhere else. And not just anywhere else, oh no; this pioneer of First Amendment liberties (and great hair) lived in another country.
That’s right, this pinnacle of all-American goodness penning this column was once a dirty foreigner, scum from another world located a couple hundred miles off of South Carolina. And I was righteously mocked for it when I entered this great nation; not a day did pass that I wasn’t derided for never having savored the sweet taste of a Shamrock Shake or a pumpkin spice latte, or spat upon for having the audacity to spell “center” with the “e” and “r” reversed!
I learned, I did; I got an iPhone, learned the difference between a Slushie and a Slurpee, and finally understood what people meant when they spoke of “The Bro Code” (it was 2013). But when that mighty – no, yuuuuge – man with an apricot visage and an astounding vision swore to deport all illegal immigrants, I thought my time was up. No matter that I was an American citizen born in Atlanta 16 years before – I could feel the sharply manicured hooks of the British Commonwealth sinking into my back, drawing me back to that paradisaical hellhole.
But when I arrived in a cold sweat that dreary Wednesday morning, no derision awaited me beyond the standard. No Trump-flag waving Adonises were present to carry me off to my rightfully deserved doom (and maybe to one of Mike Pence’s conversion therapy sessions). What was this madness, I queried? How could the squads of “Make America Great Again” hat-wearing stormtroopers have missed my name? Was it a sign from God? Some rare favor I’d bestowed on the GOP’s followers in my quest for journalistic truth? Had I finally earned enough prestige to be considered “American” by my peers?
Oh wait, I’m white.
That’s probably it.