The Day I Learned that Slavery was Bad - Leftist Nutcrackers

December 18, 2019

  • When I go on dates with leftist women, they say the strangest things. I gotta start writing this stuff down
  • This is the first installment of Leftist Nutcrackers: The Weirdest Dates I’ve Been on with the Craziest Girls on Tinder
  • You learn something new every date: this one educated me that ‘slavery was bad’
  • Question of the Day: Is it better to avoid talking politics on a first date?

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I met a young woman on a dating app and we arranged to meet at a coffee shop near my place. It was late October, the day PG&E was about to shut off the power to prevent wildfires.

As I was waiting inside the cafe, she came in through the main entrance: a tall brunette with red lips, we made eye contact and smiled at each other. Excited because she was much more attractive than her pictures, I walked toward her and held out my arms for a big embrace.

She stepped back, her shoulders stiffened and her eyes grew wide.

Turns out, she was not my date but rather a photojournalist looking for a story about the power shutoff.

That explained the camera she’d been holding.

I apologized several times, she was very kind and said it was okay and actually funny.

That’s when I saw my real date, glaring at me. Petite, with big curly hair and beady eyes, this one was a much closer match to her pictures.

My real date said no to coffee and we decided instead to walk downtown, I would show her the historic bakery, the historic mission, and the historic library. We would talk and get to know each other.

I was delighted to learn she was from out of state. That signalled to me that even if her political beliefs were different from mine, she would not be a psychotic ideologue.

Foiled again by my assumptions. By the time our date ended she was so blinded with rage that she almost walked into a glass door.

Why are politics so important?

Whether to get laid or just to get along with somebody, a good strategy is to don a suit of iridescent feathers and pretend to be something you’re not. That means don’t talk about politics.

Both of us wore our feathers well, until late in the game. The conversation was pleasant and we ended up sitting on a bench by the historic library to enjoy the quiet autumn afternoon and, I hoped, make out.

Instead, we talked about the US Constitution.

It was my fault, really.

I mentioned that the library had resources for people seeking US citizenship, which included free copies of the US Constitution in both Spanish and English. I told her I had taken home a copy for myself.

In an attempt to commit an act of humor, her eyes grew even beadier and she said, “oh great, the constitution. That could be useful for fanning yourself to keep cool.”

In other words, she wanted to talk politics.

Why so catty about the consitution?

To the radical left, the US Constitution is divisive. They want to tear up the founding documents and empower the state to enforce an equitable economic system in which everybody gets minimum wage.

I said I thought the constitution was alright.

She shot back: “if the consitution is so perfect, why did it have to be ammended so many times.”

Then she explained that Justice Antonin Scalia was an originalist. In her version of reality, it seemed, constitutional originalism is debunked by the amendment process.

I don’t think I said much to counter her argument. She seemed agitated, and her voice adopted a condescending lilt. The obvious rebuttal would be that the constitution is designed to be amended, it’s a feature not a flaw, and the amendments themselves can receive the same application of originalism as the articles that preceded the Bill of Rights.

But there’s a lot I don’t know, and maybe she’s a secret constitutional expert. At the same time, it was hard to tell if she knew that Justice Scalia was no longer with us.

I didn’t want to be the one to break it to her.

Even though that would have made her daysuch was her antipathy toward the right.

Three-fifths compromise, zero-fifths racist

Here’s where I thought it safe to blow her mind. Although she didn’t express amazement, it was news to her that the three-fifths compromise was not, in fact, a gratuitous statement of bigotry inserted into an organizational document.

The real story, of course, is that the southern states wanted all of their slaves to be counted to boost their representation in congress. Northern states, who did not have slaves, didn’t think that was fair. So while Southern states wanted 100% of their slaves to be counted, Northern states wanted that number to be 0%. They compromised at three-fifths.

Southern states were pro-slavery. If you were a slave who wanted to be free, it would be in your best interest to be counted as 0%. Not out of self-hatred, but out of political pragmatism.

But for those with no information and a lot of ideology, the line “three fifths of all other Persons” (which of course was changed by the 14th Amendment) means America is racist.

I realize this is not the most romantic way to describe a date, but at this point she became like a rat trapped in a corner, standing on its hind legs. So insistent that America is rotten to the core, she actually tried to explain to me that the context in which black people could be regarded as chattel for purposes of representation, and arguments over how much legislative apportionment they should counted for, is an indication of how wrong America was.

She was literally arguing that slavery was bad.

I insisted that of course slavery was bad and the context in which the three-fifths compromise took place indicated a much deeper problem that would take a century to resolve. We were on the same page except that to her we weren’t because she needed an argument.

So we talked in circles until she was done and satisfied that I hadn’t, in fact, provided a good defense of slavery.

How dare you speak black English

This may have happened before the constitution came up, but while seated at that fateful bench by the library, the conversation turned to language. She revealed that she was Hispanic. Up to that point I hadn’t been clear if she was black or Hispanic or both or neither.

Neither did I care, to be honest: I was more interested in figuring out if I was even attracted to her.

But she told me she grew up in a Spanish speaking household in Texas and to prove it she spoke a few words in perfect Spanish.

I spoke back in deliberately slow and mispronounced gringo-speak. I was being coy about how much Spanish I know because I didn’t want to overplay it.

She didn’t get the joke, and that’s my fault. Maybe it was my imagination but she seemed to show abject disdain for my Spanish because it was less perfect than hers.

To move the convo along, I mentioned that I’d read and enjoyed very much Talking Back, Talking Black by the African American linguist John McWhorter who, in his book, provides fresh ways to explain how black English is indeed a standalone language like Swiss German.

I mused that I might like to study and learn how to speak black English.

“Oh,” said the beady-eyed rat, “don’t you think that learning black English would be appropriating another culture?”

I might have said something about appreciation, not appropriation.

My answer was not appreciated.

I may have said out loud, for I certainly wondered later, why if learning black English was verbotten how come she was dismayed that I spoke so little Spanish. Wouldn’t my gringo-speaks-Spanish routine also be a form of cultural appropriation?

I don’t think I got that far, though. She seemed uninterested in continuing the conversation.

Leftists Hate Speech

They hate conversation, and exchange of ideas. To them, discourse is not a lost art form because it never was an art. They use words to sort people.

I offered to walk her back to her car. The mood was tense but I couldn’t resist asking, “are you one of those liberals who won’t have anything to do with someone who disagrees with you?”

Yes, it was provocative. Yes, it could have been phrased better. Yes, I was in my own way using words to sort her.

But she could have just said no. She could have said she’s not one of those liberals, and that in fact she does like to engage people who have different perspectives.

Instead, she flipped on the outrage switch and asked how dare I say “one of those liberals” and then proceeded to tell me she had no interest in talking to me.

So I had my answer: she was, indeed, one of those liberals.

We hadn’t yet made it to her car. I began to say something unrelated to what we’d been talking about and she hissed at me not to say anything.

It was unreal.

I asked if she was okay and she started walking in the other direction. As if acting out an angry couples argument, she tried to walk into a furniture store. However, the store had closed early because of the power outage.

She grabbed onto the metal handle of the big glass door and began to push and pull. The locked door made a loud clunking sound and her whole body spasmed at the unexpected resistance she was facing. Like a zombie attacking the building, big curly hair flipping forwards and backwards, she kept pushing and pulling. Her petite stature belied the ferocity with which she attacked that door handle.

I figured it was best to leave her to it. I said “goodbye” and continued walking as the city grew darker and darker.

So much for talking about books and foreign languages and the Constitution.

Question of the day:

Is it better to avoid talking politics on a first date?

Answer in the comment section below:


Will Sherman

Posted by Will Sherman