When I first encountered the term “anti-racism” I assumed, as I was meant to assume, that it referred to something used to oppose or combat racism -- much the way antibacterial soap is meant to kill bacteria or anti-itch cream is meant to cure itching. It has since become clear that the “anti” in anti-racism functions much more like anti-clockwise or antimatter. If the hands of the clock start spinning anti-clockwise, they still go round the clock. We use “antimatter” to refer to another kind of matter -- made of antiparticles, each of which has a counterpart in ordinary matter. In this sense, the prefix “anti-” means something like “as seen through a perverse mirror.”

It seems to me that prefix of “Anti-racism” -- like that of “anti-fascism” is meant in this sense.

I was in college for the 2004 presidential race. I should have been for the 2000 race, but I was a dropout. Long story. I remember -- remember in the pit of my stomach -- the rancor of that election. I am ashamed that I was caught up in it. I am ashamed that one of my vices is a tendency toward this nourished bitterness. I bite on nearly every hook that is meant to drag me down and away.

When John Kerry was running for president, I remember that a portion of our national political vitriol was directed against Heinz Ketchup. Man, the aughts were weird. Anyhow, I hate the culture wars. Like everyone, I am swept up in them. But I hate them. If I had to pinpoint the exact moment that civilization collapsed, I would be inclined to say that it happened at my uncle's birthday party in July of 2004.

From somewhere in my pile of notes, on one of the myriad pages of semi-waterproof paper I use when an insight strikes me in the shower -- pages that should eventually make their way into my commonplace book, is this fragment:​

Every so often, I do something like this to myself. What on earth did this guy mean? And if he doesn't know, how does anyone else stand a chance? On reflection, I think I understand now what I meant, and I will boast that, if taken seriously, it would upend religious studies, and anything downstream of it -- which is most of the academy. 

                                                 I. 
A dear friend once described the willfully ignorant to me: “It’s as though they had super-powers!” It is strange, indeed to think how one can believe what one knows not to be so. It is somewhat akin to flying. Upon reflection, it is perhaps even more to be desired. For flying is sometimes dangerous, and one must leave the comforts of home. To be able to believe oneself to be flying without leaving the living room -- why, that affords all of the delights of both!