My uncle Doug Ford and I have been getting a lot of flak online for my recent appointment as Ontario Minister of Multiculturism and I don’t think it’s fair, not one bit. What people don’t seem to appreciate is that some of my closest friends identify as multicultural so technically I’m really like the most qualified person for this job.
Take, for example, my buddy Reverend Thien Goldstein Ogoye. He’s a Baptist Vietnamese-Jewish-Kenyan who’s both hearing-impaired and also one of the letters in LGBTQ, I forget which one. Or my neighbour Christiana Daenerys Moon, a half-Portuguese, half-Sioux, half-Uzbeki Snake Handler who acts as a mid-wife to senior citizens. Or my adopted cousin Eduardo FitzStalin whose name speaks for itself. You can ask any of them who exemplifies multiculturalism better than me and they’ll tell you I’m the guy. At least you could ask them if they weren’t all simultaneously, coincidentally on vacation and unable to talk on the phone right now.
And don’t get me wrong. I’m not blind (Sorry! Visually-Unexceptional!). I know I’m a White-Appearing Male and that chafes people who think perhaps my position should be occupied by someone who has experienced the challenges of being more multiculture-y. But did you know that I, myself, come from a family with both British AND English roots?! I’m almost exactly like the Afghan Refugees who I once said hi to at a fundraiser and who probably consider me their best friend now. I’m a man at war with my own identity!
In fact, as the white descendant of an entrenched political dynasty, I might be even better at this job than someone who only just got here recently like my First Nations postal worker buddy who I nod to every morning. By filtering the views of someone like my Tuvalu-Dothraki pool cleaner through my white eyes, I can effect change the Canadian way. I mean is no one aware that White is technically a combination of ALL colours?!
You know what, I think it’s time to come clean. I even adopted a brand new cultural identity in order to better relate to people like my Zambian/Gambian/Namibian best friend. I wasn’t born as Michael Ford. No, I started out as poor, oppressed, Michael Stirpe with nothing but the clothes on my back, the shoes on my feet, and multiple high-level political connections. I changed my name to Michael Ford to better acculturate to this great mosaic we call Canada and definitely not to capitalize on the association with my late Unky Rob.
So ask anybody. Ask Chocolate Stanley, my albino Swedish half-muppet butler. Or ask Old Al Ng, my soft-spoken, virulently racist barber. Or how about Aquabat Jellylegs, a guy I definitely didn’t just make up but who would vouch for my multicultural bona fides in a heartbeat. They’ll all tell you that when they picture the poster child, nay, the platonic ideal of multiculturalism, they picture Michael Ford.