And for Mr. Obama:
It’s 0430 in the morning, and I should be asleep, like most of America. Instead, I’m losing sleep over border security and the future of the American people.
Like the weather, there isn’t anything I can do to change the future. America will have its first Black President, which may be an overdue phenomenon. I just wish it was someone with the spine for killing bad guys. I suppose I’m a New Age, Renaissance white guy; I’m a son of The Old South who rejects a lot of my “racial upbringing”. I don’t support interracial marriages, because they don’t work, statistically. I don’t support the “thugism” of rap music, either. The color factor is not a factor; it is people behaving badly.
I grew up in the old South of segregation. I saw the “separate but equal” bathrooms, classrooms, and cloakrooms. I was slapped by my grandmother for drinking out of a “Colored Only” water fountain at age six; that was my first clue.
Mother Mamie [Grandma] had a sharecropper. We called him “Do-jah”. His Christian name was probably “Dozier”. I never learned his first name. He served in War I, and brought home some medals for doing so. He was what was thought of in the 1950s South as “a good Negro.” He smiled a lot, he was always subservient, and he seemed to regard every day of life as a blessing. He knew a lot more than Mother Mamie or I put together, but he didn’t “let on”.
(When I passed through the fire of mortal combat some years later, I realized the transcendent nature of accepting every day as a treasure, no matter what the circumstance. A black guy saved my life in Nam; end of story. There is no racism in foxholes. We fight and die for our friends.)
The sharecropper system pre-dated the War of Northern Aggression as a solution to the institution of slavery. We were trying; the war didn’t happen because of slavery. The Emancipation Proclamation was a political ploy that only partially worked.
I grew up in a South where racial divisions were commonplace. I saw the KKK marching down Peachtree Street in Atlanta. I heard the word “nigger” in casual conversation to the point that it seemed like a friendly metaphor. Before I understood the word “impeachment”, I heard growling that “they should impeach Earl Warren”.
I stood on the square in Washington, Georgia, and had my picture snapped in front of our first president’s statue upon a horse. I am intimately familiar with the home of Robert Toombs, the vice-president of the Confederacy. I know the legend of the lost Confederate [gold] treasury; it may yet be buried on my grandparents’ farm.
I know what Michelle and Barack Obama have been through. I am not black, and thus may be clueless. According to the politically correct doctrine du jour, I am not allowed to comment.
Screw PC. The month of my birth is designated Black History Month. Okay, fine. The next post will define me as what my Old South friends called “a nigger lover.”
Barack Obama does not get my vote. I am a son of The Old South, but don’t try to play me.
Like the weather, there isn’t anything I can do to change the future. America will have its first Black President, which may be an overdue phenomenon. I just wish it was someone with the spine for killing bad guys. I suppose I’m a New Age, Renaissance white guy; I’m a son of The Old South who rejects a lot of my “racial upbringing”. I don’t support interracial marriages, because they don’t work, statistically. I don’t support the “thugism” of rap music, either. The color factor is not a factor; it is people behaving badly.
I grew up in the old South of segregation. I saw the “separate but equal” bathrooms, classrooms, and cloakrooms. I was slapped by my grandmother for drinking out of a “Colored Only” water fountain at age six; that was my first clue.
Mother Mamie [Grandma] had a sharecropper. We called him “Do-jah”. His Christian name was probably “Dozier”. I never learned his first name. He served in War I, and brought home some medals for doing so. He was what was thought of in the 1950s South as “a good Negro.” He smiled a lot, he was always subservient, and he seemed to regard every day of life as a blessing. He knew a lot more than Mother Mamie or I put together, but he didn’t “let on”.
(When I passed through the fire of mortal combat some years later, I realized the transcendent nature of accepting every day as a treasure, no matter what the circumstance. A black guy saved my life in Nam; end of story. There is no racism in foxholes. We fight and die for our friends.)
The sharecropper system pre-dated the War of Northern Aggression as a solution to the institution of slavery. We were trying; the war didn’t happen because of slavery. The Emancipation Proclamation was a political ploy that only partially worked.
I grew up in a South where racial divisions were commonplace. I saw the KKK marching down Peachtree Street in Atlanta. I heard the word “nigger” in casual conversation to the point that it seemed like a friendly metaphor. Before I understood the word “impeachment”, I heard growling that “they should impeach Earl Warren”.
I stood on the square in Washington, Georgia, and had my picture snapped in front of our first president’s statue upon a horse. I am intimately familiar with the home of Robert Toombs, the vice-president of the Confederacy. I know the legend of the lost Confederate [gold] treasury; it may yet be buried on my grandparents’ farm.
I know what Michelle and Barack Obama have been through. I am not black, and thus may be clueless. According to the politically correct doctrine du jour, I am not allowed to comment.
Screw PC. The month of my birth is designated Black History Month. Okay, fine. The next post will define me as what my Old South friends called “a nigger lover.”
Barack Obama does not get my vote. I am a son of The Old South, but don’t try to play me.
posted by Robert at 1:35 PM
2 Comments:
Being of somewhat mixed blood (I'm ¼ Cherokee) myself, I have no philosophical problem with voting for another "American Melting Pot" hybrid...but not this one.
As you correctly point out, he doesn't reflect my views, which should be the only criteria for deciding on a candidate, IMO...
Obama won't get my vote either, and the reasons are mounting. I hate to say it, but I think I'd prefer Hillary (or fingernails on blackboard) to Obama.
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