“That was another result, yes,” Scudder said.
He took a breath. “The white police officers suspected the blacks had received their positions through racial preferment, rather than qualifications. It is, after all, much easier to blame someone else for your failings, rather than accept you might be less qualified. This meant that competent black police officers were not seen as competent, while incompetent black police officers were allowed out on the streets without proper training, because anyone who tried to tell them otherwise was promptly labelled a racist. And, as Recruit Douglas states, some of the black officers were seen as traitors by their own communities and came in for worse abuse than the white officers.
“In short, an idea intended to reduce racism had the inevitable effect of making it worse.
“But it got worse when communities were turned against one another. The black communities were historically poor, for all kinds of reasons, so the Social Justice Warriors started to transfer resources into the communities in hopes of helping them. But this tended to cause more problems because they were reluctant to actually reward decent behaviour, while the white taxpayers started to resent it. There was a perception that blacks were getting a free ride. This was very far from true, but people believed it. And, because those communities were black, racism kept spreading.
“Worse, black communities were taught to depend on the government for handouts,” he explained. “Any form of social cohesion was melted away by the influx of government money. In the meantime, white communities viewed the blacks as thugs who would riot, the moment the handouts stopped. Thanks to these mixed perceptions, outright race war seemed a very real threat.”
Martin leaned forward. “Mixed perceptions?”
“Blacks believe that the criminal justice system is biased against them,” Scudder said. “Until 2030, when the American Government brought race-based sentencing into law, black youths were the largest single group in prison. However, whites believed – and still do – that the criminal justice system was actually in favour of black men. A black criminal who happened to be shot during a crime would be ... well, whitewashed by the liberal media and turned into a sweet little angel who wouldn't hurt a fly. It was therefore impossible to actually achieve anything resembling justice as the truth, whatever it was, became lost under a morass of accusations and counter-accusations.
“In effect, no matter the sentence, there would be a very large and angry group that would be dissatisfied with it.”
He smiled, thinly. “And how does this relate to divide and rule? In America, both blacks and whites are victims of the establishment in Washington. Both of them are victims of social policies intended to take control of their lives from them and place it in the hands of people who think they know better. But the Social Justice Warriors are unable to accept people as more than statistics, so their attempts to modify society end in disaster. Both black and white are victims ... but they cannot unite against their oppressors, because of the hatred their masters work to spawn. And it has worked brilliantly.”
Yolanda stuck up her hand. “But it doesn't apply so well to people like me,” she said. “I mean ... mixed-race children.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Scudder agreed. “Those of you who serve as examples of cooperation between the races are a threat to everything they represent. Thus, you tend to be marginalised by both communities, all the more so as racial hatreds deepen.”
“But I don’t get it,” Kathryn said. “How can anyone set out to weaken society so badly?”
“They’re not always doing it deliberately,” Scudder reminded her. “Some of them are in it for the power, but others genuinely want to help people. The problem is that their methods are fatally flawed.”
He shrugged. “One of the basic lessons of bringing up a child is that you must not reward behaviour you hate,” he added. “The child, being unformed, will understand that such behaviour gets a reward, so he will give you more of it. My daughter was very fond of throwing tantrums when she was four years old and it took me months to convince myself not to keep giving her what she wanted. Once I did, the problem slowly solved itself.
“The Social Justice Warriors saw young black women living as single mothers, utterly unable to afford their children, and started offering them benefits. Their intentions were good, because these children were being raised in poverty. Most of them would become gangbangers, drug pushers and other undesirable pieces of crap. But these benefits were structured in a way that it was more economical, for the women, to become single mothers, rather than try to get married or find a job. The more children born out of wedlock they produced, the more money they received.
“None of these people were evil, you have to understand. The mothers wanted to have some money to help bring up their children, while the Social Justice Warriors wanted to help the kids, who were growing up in poverty. But the effects of their interventions were disastrous and largely beyond repair. They destroyed the black family as a social unit.”
Yolanda heard Martin exhale, very slowly.
“My father never married my mother,” he said, slowly. “He left us completely when I was five. Was that why?”
“Probably,” Scudder said. “Your mother’s self-interest would have led to her remaining unmarried, because if she married her support payments would be sharply reduced. But it would have ensured you didn't grow up with a reliable male presence in your life. A single mother would be a poor role model for a growing boy – men and women are not the same, even though there are plenty of people who argue, with the best possible intentions, that all forms of discrimination are inherently wrong. Most children like you fall into bad ways and end up dead on the streets.”
“It’s so twisted,” Yolanda complained, hoping to distract attention away from Martin. He was looking conflicted. “Why do they do it? How can it be an accident?”
“That’s why conspiracy theories are so popular,” Scudder admitted. “We prefer to believe that someone – anyone – is behind what happens to us, rather than accept it was a giant accident, a conflict of good intentions with cold hard reality. The Social Justice Warriors are torn between two different poles; first, that people must be helped, and second, that people are incapable of making their own decisions. They are incapable of accepting that they may be wrong on both counts.”
“Because they see people as numbers, rather than individuals,” Dennis said, slowly.
“Precisely,” Scudder said. “They see people as groups because it’s the only way they can work. But that means racism – genuine racism – on a scale almost beyond imagination. It can be hard, and suggest that all black youths are criminals, or it can be soft and imply that black men and women can never stand on their own. Both of them are utterly absurd.”
He smiled, rather darkly. “You’ll learn how to use your nanotech to alter your appearance over the next few months,” he said. “There are people out there who have green, pink or even orange stripes with polka-dotted circles covering their chests. The Solar Union deals with people as individuals, because it must. No one will judge you as anything other than an individual. We can be hard, we can be cold, but we won’t be accidentally cruel.”
Kathryn cleared her throat. “Accidentally cruel?”
“The vast majority of the human race can accept implants without problems,” Scudder informed her. “About one in a million cannot be safely implanted. If they were to attempt to join the military, they would rapidly find themselves at a serious disadvantage. Do you understand me?”
Yolanda nodded. It had only been a week since she’d received her implants, but she was already becoming dependent on them. And, according to the textbooks she’d downloaded, it would only become worse. There were starship tactical systems that were directly controlled by a person’s implants. Not having implants would reduce her reaction time by an order of magnitude.
“It would be cruel to put such a person in the military, under the delusion he could succeed,” Scudder said,
quietly. “There are few slots open to people who couldn't use implants. Would we be kinder to tell him, up front, that he couldn't join or force him to fail, time and time again?
“But the Social Justice Warriors have inflicted worse on Earth. You will have taken many – many – tests during your schooling, most of them completely useless. None of them, however, will have been designed to measure your potential intelligence. IQ tests, as they were called, have been banned for nearly forty years. It would be unfair, the Social Justice Warriors argue, to allow one child to think of himself as smarter or stupider than the others in his class. But this ensures that children enter classes with a wide range of intellects, which makes sure that hardly anyone learns anything.
“This is equally absurd. There is a place in society for people who can mend bikes, people who can design the next generation of computer programs and even do nothing more than wash cars – and be quite happy doing it. But very few children on Earth will ever be steered into an educational stream that will be suited to them. It would be unfair to offer one child the chance to become a scientist without offering the same chance to every other child.”
He paused. “But, in doing so, they made it impossible for anyone to progress.”
Yolanda remembered her schooling and shivered.
“About the only educational field where merit and ability still hold sway is sports,” Scudder finished, “and even they are under threat. It won’t be long before first prizes are handed out to each and every person who enters a race, just because it wouldn't be fair to have clear winners and losers. But the only real losers are the poor children who have to suffer under such a system.”
He sighed, loudly. “I’ve assigned reading for you,” he added. “Complete it before the next class, if you like. Or don’t. Dismissed.”
Martin got up and strode out of the lecture hall, his long legs taking him out as fast as they could.
After a moment, Yolanda started to follow him.
Chapter Eight
The Spanish Government today proposed a law that would implement key aspects of Islamic Law into the Spanish Constitution. In particular, restrictions on female movements, insurance and many other issues would be signed into law. With Spain’s population currently 70% Muslim, the Spanish Government states that the law is long overdue. However, business leaders have warned that the changes in the law would shatter the remains of the Spanish economy.
-Solar News Network, Year 51
Martin barely noticed where his legs were taking him until he looked up and found himself in the meditation room. It wasn't a well-used compartment; there weren't many religious men and women among the recruits, few of whom had time to sit down and pray when their schedules were so busy. He’d thought the room was nice when he’d first seen it – it was comfortable, yet bare enough to prevent distractions – and yet he hadn't given it a second thought until now.
He stepped inside, closing the hatch behind him, and stared at the blank wall. Anger and frustration bubbled up within him and he took a step forward, then slammed his fist into the bulkhead. Pain exploded along his arm as he hit the metal, without leaving a dent. He howled in agony as alerts flashed up in front of his eyes, then the nanotech went to work, dimming the pain. Before his eyes, the bleeding cuts on his fist started to close up and faded away into his dark skin.
“Damn it,” he swore out loud. “Was that why?”
It would have been easy to accept that someone wanted to do him down. Life in the ghetto was all about being done down, by the gangs, by the social workers, by what passed for a family. He could have understood someone wanting to exploit him, even enslave him, no matter how awful it would have been. But to learn he was the victim of people who meant well ... it was intolerable.
His life had been pathetic. It was something he had been unable to avoid, growing up in filth and yet knowing, all too well, that others had much better lives. The temptation to just abandon everything had been strong, almost impossible to resist – and, in the end, he’d run away rather than fight to improve himself. But had there been any choice? How could he fight someone determined to do good, even though the methods had such disastrous effects?
They could have called me a nigger endlessly and done less harm, he thought bitterly, as he sat down against the wall. The word was forbidden; indeed, anyone who said it, even in jest, would lose their job, their social standing and perhaps even their lives. And yet, casual racism would have been a great deal less harmful than a system designed to hinder by helping. He could have punched a casual racist or proven himself the better man. How did one fight someone who was actually trying to help?
There was a tap at the hatch, which opened before he could prevent it. Yolanda stepped into the room, looking pale. She’d suffered too, Martin realised, even if it had been a different kind of suffering. As someone who couldn't be neatly pigeonholed into a racial category, she would have faced problems from both sides. How could she have survived on her own? But then, there had never been any shortage of mixed-race people. They just tended to move out as soon as they were old enough to leave their families.
Yolanda sat next to him, close enough for him to feel the warmth of her body and yet not quite close enough to suggest they were more than friends. Martin looked at her, then looked over at the blank wall, his feelings a maelstrom he couldn't begin to understand. He wanted to fight, he wanted to hit something, but there was nothing to hit. It was like trying to fight fog and smoke.
“I never really thought about it,” he said. “It never occurred to me that people were trying to help.”
“There’s always someone who thinks they know how to run a person’s life,” Yolanda said, softly. “And they never really understand.”
Martin looked at her. “What happened to you?”
“My mother was Japanese,” Yolanda said. Her voice was flat, emotionless. “She made the mistake of falling in love with a Mexican. This was during the days everyone talked about California decamping to join Mexico and everyone who wasn’t Mexican was trying to flee the state. Mother ... stayed with father, even though she could have taken me with her and left.”
“And then ... father decided he wanted a Mexican girl?” Martin guessed. He’d seen black men – and women – told by their fellows they shouldn't marry outside their race. “Or did something else happen?”
“Mother died when I was seven,” Yolanda said, softly. “I never knew why. One day, she was just ... gone. Father mourned her for as long as was proper, then remarried to a woman from Mexico. She was a friend of his family and she needed a permit to stay or something like that.”
Martin’s eyes narrowed. Given the joke the border had become, it was unlikely that anyone would be ordered back to Mexico by the government. It sounded more like Yolanda’s father had tried to explain his remarriage to his daughter by lying though his teeth. He felt a sudden surge of hatred, mixed with bitter envy. At least Yolanda had had a father. His sisters had never had a strong male presence in their lives.
“She treated me like ... like shit,” Yolanda said. Her tone didn't change. “Nothing I did was ever good enough for her. Father ... either ignored her or told me to suck it up, because she was his wife now and I had to respect her. And then ... and then I got hurt at school.”
Raped, Martin guessed. It was vanishingly rare for a school to cater for more than one race, no matter what the law said. White pupils felt unsafe in schools with a black majority and vice versa. Their parents would move them around so they could be with their own kind, but someone like Yolanda would never fit in anywhere. And she would have been everyone’s target, because she was alone. There would have been few others like her.
And no one would have given a damn about her being raped, he thought, feeling a sudden surge of protectiveness that surprised him. She was just a mixed-race girl whose family didn't give a damn.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It wasn't your fault,” Yolanda said. “I decided I wanted to
go to the Solar Union as soon as I came of age, so I did. And I don’t intend to look back.”
She looked up at Martin. “And you shouldn't either.”
Martin looked down at his fist. The ache was gone.
“I was taught, in school, that I had to resist the evil white man with everything I had or I would wind up enslaved,” he said, slowly. “They kept showing us movies about black men who fought for their rights, who led the great slave uprising that overthrew the Confederate States of America, who struggled to resist the Jim Crow insurgency. We were slaves all along and we never even noticed!”
“You should check the history files,” Yolanda said. “Some of the crap they made me watch at school was full of lies.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “And people believed them?”
“They didn't know any better,” Yolanda said. “None of my half-siblings could read, Martin; they could barely browse the datanet. How could they hope to learn the truth when all they were taught were lies?”
She sighed. “There were days when I was told I should be proud of being Japanese, because the Japanese Empire stood up to the expanding United States,” she said. “And then I looked it up on the datanet. The Japanese were worse than the Americans in almost every category before the Second World War. But somehow they’d become the heroes.”
A Learning Experience 2: Hard Lessons Page 8
