My Three Sons

My three sons have ancestors who killed Native Americans.

One decided to embrace the responsibility for the sins of his ancestors. He swore to protect those who remained.

One decided to embrace the legacy of his ancestors. He swore to maintain the supremacy of his white heritage.

One decided not to care.

My three sons have ancestors who kidnapped Africans from their homeland and enslaved them.

One decided to embrace the responsibility for the sins of his ancestors. He swore to embrace as equals the descendants of those his ancestors enslaved.

One decided to embrace the legacy of his ancestors. He saved their flags, their monuments, and their philosophies.

One decided not to care.

My three sons have ancestors who lived in trees.

One decided to embrace the gift of shared wisdom graced on him by teachers, books, and – in the modern world – the Internet. When he did not know something he needed to know, he looked it up.

One decided he didn’t much like school, and education was for sissies anyway. If he had any questions about life, love or politics, he would turn on the radio in his car, the television in his kitchen, and let those people tell him the answers.

One decided to spend his life stoned, making love, listening to music and ignoring everything else. Lucky bastard.

My three sons will live to see a world united by shared knowledge or shattered by superstitious hatred.

One will embrace whatever comes, accepting change.

One will fight stubbornly against whatever comes, fearing change.

One will barely notice, because of all the dancing and screwing. Plus he’s pretty much always stoned.

My three sons are loved, even the dumbass middle kid. And I hope they all find their way to lots of stoned, happy love and music, and stop worrying so much about what a bunch of assholes their ancestors were. Thanks for reading.

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