Anybody can be an amateur white asshole. But it takes a particular combination of luck and talent to become a professional.

But my parents are immigrants, outsiders, and my mom taught me to judge people by what they do and who they are, rather than by the color of their skin. I’m 8 when we move to Hueytown, Alabama, during the roiling, boiling, festering racial cauldron of the mid-1960s. Men like Bear Bryant and George Wallace set the bar high for White Assholes. I see Governor Wallace being hailed a hero, his picture on the front page of the newspaper as he blocks black students from entering the University of Alabama, proudly proclaiming, “Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.” The mating call of the Alpha White Asshole. My mom despises those men who long nostalgically for the return of slavery.
As soon as I can, I escape this clenched-tight, uber-polite, post-puritanical, repression-twisted world. I seek out radicals, subversives and revolutionaries. Like so many young Caucasoids over the last 50 years, I aspire to be black, without taking on any of the inconveniences. I adapt black language, style and strut. Or try to anyway. Because they are cool. And I am not.
https://narratively.com/confessions-...white-asshole/