We here at Relentless pride ourselves on not catering to one side of the political spectrum. So after a couple of pieces making fun of and strawmaning Antifa, we reached out to some comrades (it wasn’t hard – every Antifa chapter has their own Gmail and social media) and offered them an avenue to express themselves in a manner that didn’t involve screaming obscenities into people’s faces.
So the Comrade Chronicles was formed.
This second entry is from a young twenty-something-year-old gender-nonconforming person from Olymipa, Washington, who who didn’t want to disclose anymore information than xher first name. But we assure you that Rainbow is a real person and the following entry is completely legit…
By Comrade Rainbow, Antifa Evergreen
My sleep was distraught and distracted, sweaty and soulless. Plagued by apocalyptic nightmares of Drumpf, the patriarchy’s white privilege so widespread that it even presided over my dreams. I awoke angry and eager, the coals of rebellion still hot and ready to flame again.
My comrades and I had a very important protest planned for the day. One that most brainwashed pawns of the establishment were too scared (or dumb) to even confront. The oppressive STEM fields, hailed as the ultimate truth after centuries of cis white men forcing the rest of us perceive them as such.
First though, I had to get ready. As an intersectional feminist-socialist-non-binary-anarchist, I hated materialism and consumerism in all forms, but there are few things (if anything) more important than self expression. I had grown sick of the pink dye in my hair over the last few days and decided to go blue. But the dye changed more than my hair colour. It changed my whole identity – probably the only thing more important than self expression and intersectional ideology.
Blue hair just didn’t gel with being greygender. Neither did any of the other 54 genders I knew about. I grabbed my new iphone and spent an hour scrolling through tumblr’s updated list of genders. Virgender. Abmigender. Offgender. Nothing that suited this new enigmatic gender of mine. My blue hair (and the rest of me – ideology and all) was simply too unique to fit into any pre-defined category. I felt like David Attenborough (minus all his white male privileges) finding and categorising a new species.
I put my iphone away and found my ipad because Apple apparently think that only children and anorexic super models use the keyboard on their phones. I logged into tumblr and added my new found gender to the list:
Mystery gender: A vague and unique gender for those who just don’t fit into any pre-defined gender. While mysterious gender people are very political, serious, profound and intelligent, they also love silly jokes (as long as they are not dependent on an acceptance of racial stereotyping, pro-rape propaganda or discrimination in any form – Amy Schumer, for example, and definitely not Daniel Tosh).
Next it was time for my weapon, the accessory that was going to show all the pawns of the patriarchy just how mad and serious I was. I chose a racistball (baseball for all you slaves out there) bat and was ready for action.
I met Georgie at the cafeteria. Everyone stared at us, like nerds watching the cool kids, jealous but also afraid. I don’t know if it was because I looked so dangerous with my black attire and bat or because of Georgie’s outfit. Phe was dressed in pher hijab and stood out like a bright flower in a sepia world of conformity.
The way Georgie spoke about Islam, about how peaceful, tolerant and accepting it was, it almost made me want to convert. I had a quick vision of white supremacists being charged by a mob of angry, intersectional, feminist, non-binary and trans Muslim anarchists. How they would freak out! Lol. A part of me did want to convert, as a part of every progressive person must, but I just had more important things than spirituality to contend with. Maybe, if the world were the peaceful place I planned on making it, I could relax within Islam but the thing was I didn’t plan on surviving that long. This war of mine was life or death. Tolerance or science. Progressive or Nazi.
I looked at Georgie. “So, I was on the bus yesterday and this white guy missed it and like started waving his hands about so the bus driver could see him. I just felt so unsafe that I almost had a panic attack right there!”
“Oh my Muhammad!” Georgie was so offended she spat her vegan chocolate out. “Hand gestures!? That’s so racist! I would NEVER use my hands to make anyone feel unsafe. I want to be an ally to marginalised people, you know, if they will have me.”
Georgie scoffed. “Like, there’s just no excuse for white people to use hand gestures. Everyone knows how threatening it is to marginalised people! They’re just doing it on purpose!”
“I know right! And then when I got off the bus and checked the sign at the stop, you’re not going to believe what I saw! Written in plain English: ‘Hail’ bus. Like, they may as well have just drawn a swastika!”
Georgie gasped as if I were telling a scary story around a campfire. Oh, how I wished that was the case…. Unfortunately though, this horror tale is the reality in our Nazi States of America.
“Oh My Muhammad!” Georgie said. “They would never put anything that offensive on a bus stop in the Middle East.”
Some white supremacist overheard our intellectual discussion and thrust his unwanted (and unneeded) mansplaining on us. “I don’t think they have public transport in the Middle East.”
He stood at the edge of the table, a disgusting smile on his hateful face, the grimace of the privileged and powerful. I couldn’t see any Nazi regalia but he wore a Nintendo t shirt, so pretty much the same thing. A righteous fury raged within me. He was my parents telling me to study something “practical” instead of gender studies all over again. Well, this mystery gendered person wasn’t going to let him get away with hate speech! He was just so used to having his way that he thought he could do anything!
I stood up and threw my coke bottle at him. “Saudi Arabia just changed the law to let women drive you fucking Nazi! They’re more progressive than you will ever be!” I was sweating by the time I finished, my heart beating, my chest heaving.
The Nazi just grinned. “It’s good to see you throwing away your coke, you definitely don’t need anymore.”
There was a moment of silence, that moment before the storm, those few seconds between the Enola Gay dropping the A bomb and Hiroshima. My knees buckled and I fell back in my chair, shaking with anxiety, crying with fear and hurt by his violence.
He forced his glare on mine, a threat and show of power. Suddenly, I was face to face with pure white evil. I maintained my resistance and looked through the hate, right into his inner vibes. That was when I saw it…
This brainwashed, arrogant and despicable white creature – this thing – actually believed the old Nazi nursery rhyme: “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.” It was a creature that laughed at the biological need for safe spaces, a creature that didn’t realise how fatal the human voice box could be, a creature capable of thinking that “It’s okay to be white.”
My anxiety compounded, my vision blurred and my victimised ears repressed so much sound that I barely heard Georgie run away and scream: “Oh my Muhammad! Someone call 911! Nazi alert! Nazi alert!”
I turned just in time to see a blurry Georgie collapse on the ground and breakdown. I wanted to get up and hold her, really wanted to – she used enough courage embracing her Muslim identity – but I just couldn’t, my encounter with the white thing had paralyzed my poor progressive body.
The white thing tried to scurry away, a rat too afraid to face the repercussions of its crimes, but the heroic student Equity Council was already there, blocking his retreat like the legendary Red Army closing in on the Wehrmacht.
There was no need to say anything. The cis white male thing’s hate crime was more than evident: a poor innocent Muslim fearing for pher life on the ground and a comrade of the Nazi’s immortal rivals, antifa, too hurt to even stand up.
The trans-person of colour at the head of the Equity Council spat on the white thing’s face and the crowd of student soldiers behind them erupted in a courageous and victorious cheer before grabbing the white thing and dragging it off to the faculty.
I missed the start of the white thing’s trial. I was so distraught from the encounter that I couldn’t even walk and had to wait for another student to bring me a wheelchair. And I was the least harmed from the whole thing. Georgie… She couldn’t even… She could barely breathe! We had to call her an ambulance!
My fellow students cleared a path as a member from the Equity Council wheeled me into the Dean’s office. White people at the back, Asians in the middle and people of colour at the front. The trans person of colour who arrested the white thing and came over to place their hand on my shoulder.
“Thank you.” I said through the tears. “You’re so strong!”
“We can’t fight fascism alone.” They said. “We need to be united, like a bunch of rods bound together. And vicious, as if those rods were bound around an axe.”
I wiped a tear from my eye. “So strong and so wise…”
The Dean cleared his throat. “First of all, I want to express how deeply sorry I am that this situation unraveled on campus.”
“Situation?!” I was so furious that I could stand upright again. “That word is almost as insulting as that thing’s racist shirt!”
I spun around and pointed at the white thing in the Nintendo shirt. Now that it knew it could be held accountable for its actions, it stood with slouched shoulders and stared at the ground, meek, slimy, disgusting. It reminded me of a piece of used toilet paper.
The thing opened its mouth. “What’s wrong with Nintendo?”
The question knocked me back into my wheelchair. I leaned over my knees and cradled my head in my hands. “I can’t even…” The tears came again. I hated to cry, to give that Nazi the satisfaction but his hatred was just so harmful. “Why is that thing even still here?”
I watched the Dean look over at that thing. How he did it without grimacing, I will never know. Maybe the Dean was also a white supremacist…
“Do you mind stepping in there?” The Dean nodded to a door beside his desk.
The thing was incredulous. “You want me to stand inside a cupboard?”
I jumped back to my feet. “You better get used to it you fucking Nazi! You’ll be in jail soon enough!” I looked back at the Dean. “You called the cops, right?”
The Dean nodded at the trans person of colour from the Equity Council and they pushed the thing inside the cupboard and leaned on the door. Satisfied, the Dean turned back to me. “I don’t think this is a police matter.”
“What?! My friend is in the hospital! That thing in there is an attempted murderer! And a Nazi! You saw his shirt!”
The Dean took a deep breath and closed his hands in a praying motion.”I saw the shirt, yes. I attended the “How Asian-Americans Contribute to White Supremacy” workshop on our Day of Absence and know how hurtful something like that can be. But I think this is a situation best handled by community policing.”
The Dean paused and looked at the group of students around him. Then, putting his hands palms up and out toward the group, asked: “Don’t you all agree?”
I lurched toward his desk and slammed my fists down. “I knew you were a fucking white supremacist trying to defend that thing in the cupboard! If you ever use hand gestures around me again, I’m gonna punch you, you Nazi!”
The crowd cheered around me. “No Trump! No wall! No USA at all!”
Louder and louder. “No Trump!”
Higher and higher. “No wall!”
Stronger and stronger. “No USA at all!”
Their spirit, their PLUR, their vibes were what kept me standing on my injured legs – which is even more impressive when you realise my breakfast was interrupted by a hate crime and I hadn’t eaten since my morning milkshake. Until a high pitched scream cut through the energy of the room. The chanting died down and cries echoed in its place.
“No. Oh, no. Marx, no.”
The crowd parted so the source of the distress became visible. One of my comrades was on their knees, iphone in hand, tears on cheeks.
“Twitter…” Was all they could say before falling face first onto the Dean’s carpet.
Every comrade reached for one of their devices. Iphones, Ipads, Macbooks. Even in the midst of all that was going on, my creative spirit shone through in the form of a thought: It wasn’t the apple tech support who were geniuses but us enlightened and rebellious students.
I opened my twitter and saw it… The worst thing imaginable… More horrific than the inside of a gas chamber…
Some conservative spokesperson had tweeted that he was going to come to Evergreen State and give a speech!
I didn’t know what to do. I was more hurt and frightened than I thought possible. I fell back in my wheelchair and watched the people around me react to the digital assault. Some screamed at the roof while others cried in little groups but everyone was feeling just as victimised.
There was no difference between the conservative’s tweet and an aerial bombing. We were now in a legit war zone. Official enemies of the state. Victims of the US military-industrial complex. Even more untied with our innocent Muslim comrades in the Middle East.
We were probably the most victimised community in the world. Even more than the Hollywood actresses who only make $10 million to their male counterpart’s $12 million. I literally would have preferred to be anywhere else in the world: Syria, Iraq, Somalia, anywhere!
Really, what are bullets and bombs compared to tweets and free speech?