American Upper Class Twits are the Cause of Country's the Immigration Problem

A deservedly famous sketch of the British comedy troupe Monty Python is their scathingly satirical "Upper Class Twit of the Year.' The five Brits had no illusions about the upper crust in their society, they knew they're a bunch of twits.

Americans appear to not have figured that out yet here across the pond. Let me help.

Maybe "twit' is too British. We need to come up with a suitable word to capture the unique qualities of upper class idiocy in America.

I used to live and work in West Virginia. I worked with a sports writer at the Bluefield Daily Telegraph who grew up in McDowell County. He would tell me that some of the people in his hometown looked like the kid on the bridge in the movie "Deliverance.'

The result of inbreeding, he said. The same inbreeding happened with our upper class. Since these elites came across the pond in the 1600's to settle in the New World, they have been inbreeding. That's why our Founding Fathers consistently come off looking better than our upper class today. Every day we see evidence of more than 300 years of inbreeding.

The immigration problem is the latest piece of evidence of how densely stupid rich people are in America. It used to be that rich people could tell who their servants were by the color of their skin or by their accent (i.e. if they had an Irish accent).

It is very important for rich people to know who their servants are, otherwise they might accidentally treat them decently.

The freeing of slaves and the civil rights movement have made life confusing for rich people. Someone with black skin could be college educated and an Irishman could even become president.

Something had to be done. Rich people need to know who to be condescending to and who they can order around. It is their birthright to be waited on hand, foot and mouth (sounds like a disease doesn't it?)

It is much easier for rich people to identify their servants if they don't speak English. If they do speak the language then an accent not learned in an Ivy league prep school is required. The immigration trend in the last thirty years has been to encourage immigration from Mexico, Central and South America.

This has worked out well for rich people. Maybe not so well for the immigrants. Rich people are happy because they don't have to pay the new immigrants much or give them any benefits. Educated American workers have this nasty habit of wanting to get paid a decent wage, not to mention wanting an occasional day off.

Somewhere out there is an appropriate term we here in America can use to describe our upper class twits. Sports team owner? Network TV executive? Oil company CEO? Wall Street broker? U.S. Senator? Ivy League cheerleader?

Those are occupations, won't work. Any suggestions?

Part Three of How I Got to Bluefield: The Answer

I didn't have a good answer in the interview with Tom Colley when he asked me how I felt about some stories I had written that had received national attention about corruption at Virginia Tech.

Those stories were written while I was working for the local paper in Montgomery County, Virginia. Tom Colley was the executive editor of the Daily Telegraph in Bluefield, West Virginia. He had asked if I wanted to work for the Telegraph and I had come up to Bluefield for the interview.

Since this was the first time I had met Tom Colley, I did not know he was good friends with Lew Spence, who was the publisher of the News Messenger when the stories were published.

As publisher of the News Messenger, Lew Spence knew not only about the stories that had been published but also about those that weren't. I kept him informed about everything I had uncovered. At some point in the process, Lew Spence said I needed a top level source to confirm the allegations my other sources were making.

It took awhile, but I eventually was able to contact this high level source. I laid out all that I knew about the criminal activities at Tech involving the administration, municipal governments, law enforcement agencies, church leaders, business leaders, most of the pillars of the community.

After spilling everything, I waited breathlessly for a reply. I was partially hoping the source would tell me my imagination had gotten the better of me. Most of the people involved in the criminal activities were people I had known since childhood. I had gone to high school with their children. I liked most of them. Some of them I admired.

"Son, you don't know the half of it," was the reply from the source.

Chills went up and down my spine. I got lightheaded and after thanking my source, hung up the phone and put my head down on my desk. My youthful arrogance and ignorance had led me to a place where angels feared to tread. I felt like Charles Marlow in Heart of Darkness.

When Tom Colley asked how I felt, how could I tell him this? I had just met him. I didn't know that he already knew Darkness. Mine, his own.

In the darkness of Tom's multi-media home entertainment center sanctuary (Tom was way ahead of his time in this regard), where I spent a lot of time after I was promoted to city editor at the Telegraph, Tom would gently ask me probing questions. I was always unable to respond.

When Tom would realize that this wasn't the night I was going to talk about what was tormenting me, he would get up and put Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition on the reel-to-reel player.

We would both sit there in the darkness, listening, as the music calmed our souls.

After leaving the Telegraph, I had a variety of jobs, ending up in seminary where I met my future wife. By 2006, I was married, living in central New Jersey, and had written a book about ethics, justice and divine justice.

Then on April 16, 2007, my sister called me about the shootings at Virginia Tech. The Darkness, long buried, had exploded. Although horrified, shocked and saddened, I was not surprised.

Then I realized how Tom Colley had protected me from the Darkness those three years I spent in Bluefield. I wanted to thank him in person. I can't do that now. I can only tell others how much it meant to me.

Thank you, Tom. May the Light shine on you and those you love.

How I Got to Bluefield Part Two: The Interview with Tom Colley

Over the phone, Tom Colley said to get to Bluefield "Go to Princeton and take a left."

It's a beautiful drive from Blacksburg to Bluefield. Rolling hills. No other cars. Must be where all those commercials are filmed showing only one car on the road.

I noticed the train tracks. The research I had done on Bluefield before coming up for the interview stated that Bluefield was primarily a railroad town. I like trains, so that was a plus.

The building looked newish. Tom Colley's office was on the second floor. Can't remember if I took the stairs or elevator. Jim Terry, then editorial page editor, was in his office by the elevator, smoking.

I walked into the newsroom. Since this was morning, the composing people weren't there yet. I don't think Frank Sayles, the managing editor, was there yet, either.

Some one sitting in a glass office got up from his desk when I wandered in. He turned out to be very tall. He was also smoking.

"Shoot, I'm gonna have to start smoking again to work here," I thought to myself. I had quit when I was fourteen and really didn't want to start again.

"I'm Tom Colley" he said in that deep voice of his, extending his hand outward (and downward cuz I'm not 6'10). We walked into his office. I was relieved he hadn't offered me a cigarette. The prospect of coughing through an interview frightened me.

That reminds me, Curt Barber lost a contact lens while Tom and I were interviewing him. We hired him, anyway. But that was later, sorry.

In the interview, Tom asked me a question (we were on first name basis already) that I couldn't answer.

"How do you feel about those stories you wrote?"

I knew he talking about the Virginia Tech stories that had gained national attention, not the high school track meets. I didn't have an answer.

"Uh, ... pretty good," I said hesitantly, thinking I had just blown the interview.

Tom deliberately put out his cigarette, squishing it in the ash tray as if to punish it. He cleared his throat, clicked his teeth and pursed his lips in and out like he did when he was going to say something important.

"Wrong answer, young grasshopper," was what I thought he was going to say. But he said nothing. He just looked at me for awhile.

"When can you start?" he finally said.

"Two weeks."

"Why not start tomorrow?"

"I'd like to give the paper two weeks notice."

Tom lit another cigarette. This time, by the way he looked at me, I felt I had given him the right answer.

"OK," he said. We shook hands and I went back to Christiansburg.

The publisher at the Messenger was so mad at me for going someplace else, she told me to pack my things and get out immediately. She didn't want to look at my 'disloyal' face for another minute, much less two weeks.

I was now working for the Bluefield Daily Telegraph and moving to Bluefield.

But I couldn't stop thinking about the question I couldn't answer Tom Colley. I realize now many of the questions Tom asked me were ethical questions. The question I couldn't answer wasn't just an ethical question, it dealt with how I felt about ethics.

I was too young and inexperienced to appreciate the depth of the question, and the mind that asked it. The feelings about what happened to people in the aftermath of those times has haunted me for years.

Getting older helped put those events in a different perspective. I decided I really wanted to talk about these ethical issues with Tom, and our shared experiences (I spent a lot of time in Bluefield getting mad at Tom). I went to the Bluefield Daily Telegraph website to send him an email.

The lead story was Tom's obit. I was stunned. I couldn't believe it. I was mad at myself for not doing something sooner. Now it was too late.

I wanted to go that Denny's across the street, eat crappy food and tell him I understood why he asked me that question in the interview. I wanted to tell him I finally had an answer.

Part Three: The Answer to the Question