This fucking guy:
It was the first day of school, so Don Brink was behind the wheel of his bus, its yellow paint glistening in the drizzling dawn. Wearing jeans and a John Deere cap, he turned the radio to an oldies station and, with hands callused thick by 50 years of farming, steered the vehicle toward the edge of town.
He stopped in front of familiar farmhouses surrounded by fields of soy and corn, where blond children boarded the bus, chatting in English.
“Morning,” the 71-year-old Vietnam veteran said.
This was the Worthington he knew.
But then Brink headed back into town, past the meatpacking plant that was the area’s main employer and into the neighborhood he called Little Mexico, even though most of its residents were Central American.
This was the Worthington he did not know — the Worthington he resented.
At the corner of Dover Street and Douglas Avenue, a handful of Hispanic children were waiting. At Milton Avenue, there were a few more. And at Omaha Avenue, a dozen students climbed aboard — none of them white.
Brink said nothing.
“I say ‘good morning’ to the kids who’ll respond to me,” he said later. “But this year there are a lot of strange kids I’ve never seen before.”
Imagine being so “economically anxious” that you won’t say hello to little kids when it is your fucking job to drive them?
Someday, when that bitter old fart's children ship him off to a taxpayer-funded facility for incontinent elderly folks, the immigrant and 1st-gen American staff will treat him with far more kindness and compassion than he deserves.
— Betty Cracker 🐊 (@bettycrackerfl) September 23, 2019
Fuck you, Don Brink.