Fade in on hooded, human-like form huddled in a corner. “I am not a Karen, I’m a human being.!” Cue the angry internet mob…
Gowing up as the boy named Kieran was one thing. But this whole Karen Meme is fucked up. Keep my name out of these mouths.
Facebook, Twitter and TikTok videos of “early-elderly” white women yelling at people for grilling or selling water, or parking their cars or shopping while not being white.
Who knows the real first names of the offenders. They have all been lumped together as a bunch of Karens. Why? Because we all know a Karen who acts like that. More than 40,000 girls were named Karen in 1957. It was the 3rd most popular girls name in 1965.
And the “K” is funnier than a Mary or a Susan.
Now these “Karens” are all pushing 60 or medicare eligibility and pissed off at the world. Left behind by husbands looking for trophy wives. Forced to train the younger men in the office who would become their bosses. They wonder their suburban worlds looking for someone they can oppress.
Yelling at whoever doesn’t look and act like them. Peeing their slim-fitting depends in rage because birthing those ungrateful children years ago ruined their urethras. Taking on the power of confronting the manager or calling the police — who almost always side with the one they see as their customer or taxpayer — the white woman.
Just because my name is a few vowels away, I have always been sucked into the Karen vortex.
I thought it was bad when it was just confusion from my teachers and coaches. I learned not to respond to my name when any potential Karens were in the room. Better to let the girl answer than be called a Karen.
As an adult, I learned to answer to any word that started with a K and ended with an N, because they were probably talking about me. I had weeded nearly all the Karens out of my life. No friends, only one far away family member and no coworkers.
By middle age, I learned not to really care about the gender bending references and constantly being called Miss or Mrs on the phone or at the top of the email. Skip the bullshit salutations, what do you want?
But all the Karens in my generation fucked that up. They bitched, moaned and ranted in racist ways right back into my personal Karen hell. Now I have to be the Karen police and constantly correct people or ignore slight mispronunciations of my fucked up name.
I’m starting to see how all the Johnsons, Dicks and Peters feel. Through no fault of their own, their names make people think they are… a bunch of dicks.
I’m pretty sure somewhere lost to history a slew of Richards, who went by Dick, were real dicks — and it just stuck. I’d blame Dick Cheney, but Dicks were dicks long before Dick Cheney was alive. I know because his first boss was Tricky Dick (Nixon).
Lately, I’d have to say I’d rather be a Richard or a Peter and be confused for a dick, than be a Kieran who gets called a Karen.
Categories: Political Correctness