The word for our ethnic group in your language is ****** although the older generation will sometimes use the slur **** to insult us, referring to our honey-colored skin and small eyes. But in our language we call ourselves ***** which means “the soulful ones”. We use a special letter to spell this, which is a secret. I’m not allowed to tell you what it looks like or how it sounds.
Our customs are colorful, our new year’s involves dressing as animals and re-enacting the animal’s rescuing human souls from the devil in exchange for being cared for, we consider it is a great sin to disrespect the father’s sister.
We work in banks and rodeos, because in the old country we were employed as horse dancers to celebrate the emperor’s virility day and also performing the intricate number puzzles with which a lesser lord would show obeisance to a greater. Our sacred books although nominally Christian since the fifth century, conflate Jesus with a deity whose name is “the shadow that passes over the face when one is embarassed at unwittingly being in the presence of the sacred” and we devote most our liturgical attention to Joseph. In our poems the position of Joseph, cuckolded by God, is analogous to the position of the human emotion of shame, which originally designed to make us feel ashamed of our genitals, is infused with a higher purpose or mana, and makes us sensitive to higher things.
We believe you white people don’t love your children. Not truly. Not the way we do.
Our sexual imaginativeness is legendary, but what is not understood is the deep melancholy that pervades it, as if we are trying to entertain ourselves with shadows by a dying fire.
When ethnographers tried to study us they mistook our jokes for myths and vice versa.
As you might expect our native dress includes long coats for the men and brass buttons, and our native instrument is a tiny tambourine.