They came armed with cardboard signs, pastel hair dye, and a moral compass that spins like a drunken ballerina. Blocking the campus thoroughfare like toddler traffic cones, these self-anointed revolutionaries at UC Berkeley stood shoulder to shoulder, demanding that everyone else’s schedule be canceled to accommodate their feelings.
Of course, they weren’t building anything. They weren’t solving anything. They were just very, very upset—and everyone was expected to stop and admire their pain.
Any white student, especially those who are not homosexual, who were simply trying to get to class, became hostages to the performance. One poor soul, a white guy wearing a backpack, tried to pass through the crowd.
Big mistake.
He was immediately descended upon by a pint-sized campus crusader, a walking grievance with jazz hands whose end game was…who knows. Did she think she'd topple the patriarchy by shoving a biochemistry major with a midterm in twenty minutes? It wasn’t a protest. It was a tantrum. It wasn’t civil disobedience. It was emotional blackmail in thrift store flannel.
And that’s the great irony, isn’t it? For a generation that demands “safe spaces,” they seem perpetually committed to making public space unsafe. They scream about oppression while wielding unchecked social power. They whine about microaggressions while macrodosing on delusion.
They proudly declare that they’re blocking entrances not because of anything you did, but because of what someone who looks like you may or may not have done centuries ago. In this new social realm, collective punishment is the new justice. It’s racist if you do it, righteous if they do it.
Once the mob got bored of human roadblocks, they migrated to the campus store, where they taped an “eviction notice” to the door—a document so legally meaningless and self-important it could’ve been written by a hallucinogenic ferret. It demanded that the university seize the store from a private vendor and hand it over to queer and trans students of color.