The nationalist’s paradox...
He says, I'm a rightist, and he yells as well.
I’m for everyone in his country, he remarks immediately afterwards.
Defending the local product, he adds with renewed vigor, given the results of recent elections.
Our values and our culture come first of all, he explains with emphasis.
Maybe sheltered by a reassuring keyboard and the convenience of an Ikea armchair, as the table in the kitchen, the bedside ones in the bedroom and all the new shelves that are so nice to put on the pretty little things.
Never books, never.
Ikea is also Swedish, he observes, Nordic, Aryan and blonde like us... and so on.
But they lied, it is pointed out, the meatballs that they have sold until today as a typical dish are Turkish...
He remains banned, with a hanging expression, so his brain, like the laptop hourglass where the user's request imposes a surplus of work.
Thus, according to the dialectical rules of modern right-handedness, it finds courage and doesn’t give up on evidence.
So? He exclaims with decisive boldness.
Then, afterwards, in a totally free and chaotic speech.
The numbers are Arabic.
And my cell phone is Chinese.
As well as my daughter’s toys and lots of stuff at home.
The TV is Korean, all right.
And the car outside is German, I confess.
This morning's coffee comes from Brazil.
And the bananas of the usual, breakfast smoothie are from Senegal.
You think I don’t know?
Do you really think I ignore that the hands who used to clean my house come from Romania, the ones who take care of my mother are Polish and those who remember to pick up my son at school are Indians?
Yes, of course, even those who clean the windshield and supply me with gasoline in the morning.
And what about those that weigh my fruits? Wrong, they’re not Indian, but Egyptian!
However, the ones that made my Nike shoes are Filipino.
They are small hands, do they count as well?
In this case, there are also the tiny and innocent fingers that in Africa take care to dispose of the abnormal quantity of electronic stuff I dislike.
But I insist: so what?
My coat is Spanish.
And the priest I hear at Church is Peruvian, what's strange?
The beer my wife bought for Sunday's game is Belgian.
And my pants are French, I understand, I admit it!
Where are you going, with this?!
The man strives strenuously to remain all in one piece, proud and stubborn as a finger that claims to own a star, just after pointed it on an August night.
So, with shortness of breath and with the last remaining energy, he concludes: I remain a right-wing citizen and I stand proudly to protect my land and its fruits, so that my nation will not be contaminated by foreign invasion…
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