Little Homicides

by Regis Boff

I grew up on one of the many hills surrounding the City of Pittsburgh. We were all bigots and racists. Unfortunately being homophobic was not an option because it had not reached us yet.
Every large ethnic or racial group had its hill, the effect of the national game of “musical chairs” America plays with homesteading immigrants.
These wretched masses huddled on the first space found to be empty and followed politely the rules of the dominant culture. These guests never noisily drew attention to themselves. And that was quickly learned or else.
Immigrants remained visitants until they shed their annoying native language, dropping everything except the clumsy accents that trailed them like kite tails for a couple of generations.
Pittsburgh’s uncontaminated little hilltop enclaves stood like bearded goats on these hilltops, each confident that their summit was closer to whatever God was above them.
There were no hills for women, as they were scattered equally amongst the males.
Class envy existed, but there was not much of that. We were all kind of lower class and fighting about so little would have just proven more demoralizing.
I grew up in a time when snobbishness was a greater offense than bigotry.
Nowadays self-admiration is confused with health and intolerances are like little homicides.