The Double Standard of Black Racism

When I was a child, I assumed racism was something that happened when my parents were children. I assumed it was over, and I lived my life accordingly. Then I moved to a city that was more black than white and soon realized what a naive fool I had been. Racism is alive and well.

I have heard cracker, honkey, white trash, redneck, hillbilly, kill whitey, get whitey, and so on countless more times than I have heard the dreaded “N” word in this not-so-fair city that rose from the ashes of a not-so-civil war. The reminders of that war are everywhere, but the walking historian had better watch his or her step when looking for these markers lest he or she venture into the wrong neighborhood wearing the wrong skin color. It has happened to me and I still have a hard time believing it. Do people really still think this way?

Yes they do, and I wager it is worse now than it was a mere decade ago with the liberal left tripping over itself to pander to each and every so-called minority complaint. It is high time we burst that overgrown bubble of entitled victimhood. Are you ready? Black suffering was no more nor less than anyone else’s on this brutal planet. Thousands upon thousands of whites were kidnapped and sold into slavery while only a fraction of the white population was doing the buying and selling, and they were not the only race involved in the business.[1]

Still, the local “African-Americans” scream for reparations. How do we decide who owes who reparations? Do the descendants of the white slaves receive a check or do they sign a check? While we figure that out, let’s add to the naughty list those coastal African cousins who, for the right price, sold the South its famous cotton pickers; surely they owe someone something. What about the Jews who dominated the slave trade? What about Southern blacks who owned slaves? Yes, they existed. What about folks with mixed heritage ~ and there’s a lot of them ~ do they pay themselves? Yes, this is ridiculous. The very notion of inter-generational guilt is debatable. The sins of the father? No. I will not accept that. Cue the accusations of racism.

Yet, one must wonder: Is it racist to have only called the police on blacks – because they are the only folks who have ever given you just cause? Is it racist to want the neighbors to stop screaming in the middle of the night? Is it racist to want peace and quiet or to turn up your Beethoven just a bit louder than their Beyonce? Is it racist to expect any one demographic to pull its own weight even as they scream about their equality? Is it racist to expect any particular demographic to stop complaining when so many of its loudest voices are yelling from the windows of their luxury cars as they post about being downtrodden and oppressed from their overpriced I-phones? Is it racist to judge anyone and everyone, brutally and honestly, on the content of their character rather than the color of their skin? Is it? If it is, then call me a racist. Clearly the word no longer has any legitimate meaning.

Honest conversation, not name calling, is how we all move forward and I vow to be nothing but honest. Our future is far more important than anyone’s hurt feelings.



[1] For more on white slavery and the euphemism called indentured servitude, see They Were White and They Were Slaves by Michael A. Hoffman, wherein a multitude of primary source material is available.

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