Dear Brad, Parker, or Brooks,

I write to you now during the dangerous days you may only know by words left behind for you to inherit, scrawled in secret, kept locked tightly behind the covers of Eminem albums. These are the bad days. The no-additional-40%-off-your-entire-purchase-at-J-Crew days. The can’t-find-your-New-Balances days. The “Time’s Up” days.

Glenn, my son, I cry pure tears while writing this letter to share with you this undying truth: We are, at this moment, a hunted people. Where we were once presidents, boat owners, and lacrosse players — we now stand humbled. We live lives erased, unable to prey on the meek, because now we are the prey. We are forced to kneel for the anthem, watch film adaptations of musicals, refrain from offering shoulder rubs at work, and live in tent cities inside of Bed Bath and Beyond. It reeks of juniper incense at all times, Chet, and you are only allowed rations of summer salads, rice pilaf, and rosé.

Carter, we have seen our gods destroyed, our temples desecrated, our mana cast in the river for the fish, where once we stood so proud! In my time, Jared Leto was the Joker! We owned well-appointed, late model Jeep Wranglers and howled at the blood moon! And now, you cannot open a Buffalo Wild Wings without a 170 percent tax on all inflowing revenue. You are legally obligated to own a Bichon Frisé at all times. There is no longer even a Dr. Pepper flavor with just enough calories for a man.

I struggle to even say the words… Trevor, you must now befriend at least six people whose names end in vowels.

Time grows short, Tobin. I must insist you heed my words and hold them ever closer to your heart. Resist where you can. You are a white man, and though you can no longer identify as such on the U.S Census, write it in with your state-owned colorful pastel highlighter. We will see the light again, my son, and it will appear to us brighter and stronger than before, as if it were a golden Home Depot on a hill.

Remember my words, Devin. And one day — let Weinstein be my witness — we will be white men again.