- Messages
- 20,894
- Reaction score
- 8,126
if only they were weren't encouraged into voting against their self interest by manipulation of their fears
You really think the DNC represents the interests of poor Americans?
if only they were weren't encouraged into voting against their self interest by manipulation of their fears
You really think the DNC represents the interests of poor Americans?
You really think the DNC represents the interests of poor Americans?
does anyone
One of the most problematic issues with most discussions revolving around “race” in my opinion are the attempts to disassociate it completely from class. Piss poor Americans of all ethnicities have much more in common than what is often presented.
You really think the DNC represents the interests of poor Americans?
You really think the DNC represents the interests of poor Americans?
does anyone
I don’t.
I will say a wing of the Democratic Party does as far as labor/economic issues are concerned.
The GOP? It’s milk toast neoliberalism or detached from reality libertarianism, with a dash of white nationalism unfortunately.
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet"><p lang="en" dir="ltr">I REALLY dislike the term 'people of colour'.<br><br>It's simultaneously too inclusive and too exclusive to be useful...<br><br>Unless you're a radical who sees the world as 'White People' vs Everybody Else <a href="https://t.co/GFsJIWiz4n">pic.twitter.com/GFsJIWiz4n</a></p>— ZUBY: (@ZubyMusic) <a href="https://twitter.com/ZubyMusic/status/1288087635525853184?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">July 28, 2020</a></blockquote> <script async src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js" charset="utf-8"></script>
What is radical about using a word to define a group of people that don't have white skin? A lot of charts/studies/graphs have cohorts that are "White/Black/Asian/Latino", if you're purely going to look at White vs The Rest - how is that radical?
You should ask him. I sincerely believe he will answer you on Twitter. @ZubyMusic
Ahhh I don't want to open myself up to get flamed by the Right/Left. Both sides would light me up lol
Maybe but he seems like a genuine guy. I follow him on Twitter & he presents himself as a rational, fair guy. There’s likely a respectful way to ask that w/o getting flamed. That said, there’s always going to be some keyboard warrior who wants to take a pot shot regardless. That’s Twitter for ya.
We give words far too much power,...
You really think the DNC represents the interests of poor Americans?
Yeah, honestly not worried about his response. Just don't need "MAGAMAN2020" tweeting at me or "LATINXWITCH" trying to doxx me.
Yes and no.
Words used by people who have real power (cultural, political and or economic) can make a huge impact on society be it positive or negative.
I agree that many debates over "race" and class have devolved into pedantic hair splitting.
I was speaking more to day to days,... but even in a position of power if you let someone else’s words control your emotions it’s opens you up in a bad way imo. We need to have thicker skin is my point.
When I arrived for my first day of school as a first-grader in Huntsville, Alabama, in 1963, my entrance was blocked by the governor. In fact, George Wallace closed all the Huntsville schools that day rather than have a black boy enroll at one. The governor relented a few days later, but only after my family had made another visit to federal court in Birmingham, allowing me—on September 9, 1963—to be the first black child to attend a previously all-white primary or secondary public school in the State of Alabama.
My desegregation experience began with my father’s experiences—conditions he was determined his children would not live under. My father was born in 1931, grew up in Madison County, Alabama, and went to school in the ’30s and ’40s when “separate but equal” (a description that was only half true) was the law of the land. My father walked seven miles to school. School buses ran along parts of his route to school, but black children were not allowed on them. Instead, the buses would kick up dust into the faces of the black children, and white children would sometimes spit out of the windows and throw things at the black children.
My father’s school was surrounded on three sides by the Huntsville City Dump. Given the climate of north Alabama and the lack of air conditioning that often made it necessary to open the windows, one can only imagine the odors the black students had to endure. This was then the only school for black children in Huntsville, and it had very little lab equipment, no gym, no playground equipment, no lunchroom and no library. Black citizens were not allowed to use the public library, even though their taxes, too, helped support the public library—and, for that matter, the school buses.
In high school, my father decided he wanted to become a doctor. He wrote to the University of Alabama to obtain a catalog for their pre-med curriculum. The university obliged, and he later applied there. His application was rejected, even though he was valedictorian of his high school class. The problem may have been that he had checked the “Colored” box indicating his race. But knowing what classes made up a pre-med curriculum, he took them at a local black college and was accepted into medical school after only two years.(cont)
These days, whenever Sonnie Hereford IV ’79 speaks to youngsters about his experience as the first black student to enroll in an Alabama public school, he sees a lot of jaws drop.
Students are shocked to hear the story of how he was disciplined after he got into a scuffle with a playground bully who’d provoked him by throwing dirt on him and calling him names. And they’re amazed when Hereford relates the stories his father has shared with him about inheriting second-hand football uniforms and books, or attending a segregated school that reeked of the nearby garbage dump.
“When I tell stories about my childhood and my father’s childhood, people find it unfathomable that in the lifetime of that person standing up in front of them, that that’s how things were,” says Hereford, who’s 57. “I tell stories at some of these schools and the children’s mouths hang open. They can’t imagine things were that way. To have me stand there and tell them that is shocking. And that’s gratifying to me because thing have changed so much they can’t imagine that world.”
Hereford never had any doubts about where he would attend college: Notre Dame was the only place he applied. Part of it, he says, was growing up Catholic, and part of it was being exposed to the Fighting Irish at an early age. As a child, he recalls watching a Sunday night Notre Dame football highlights show.
“It was after my bedtime but my dad would let me stay up and watch it,” he says. “Just watching it, I could feel the spirit of ND and I could tell it was a special place.”
In 1974, during his junior year in high school, the NAACP flew Hereford and his father to New York, where they celebrated the 20th anniversary of the Supreme Court’s historic Brown vs. Board of Education decision. At one point, Edwin Newman of the Today show interviewed him. When Newman asked Hereford where he wanted to attend college, he professed his love for Notre Dame. And just a few weeks later, he received a personal note from Rev. Theodore M. Hesburgh, C.S.C., inviting him to apply.
I was a bit too young to remember the events from those links when Hereford's school integrated in '63, but very clearly remember schools being integrated in my town and the rest of the state in '68 when I was an 8-year-old entering the 3rd grade. I know it was different from town to town and in the next town over they had problems and protests and police had to be present on campus, but in my hometown it was a big nothingburger. The first day of school, our teacher said, "Tomorrow the children from the black school are going to start attending class here with us. I expect you to make them feel welcome." That was it. No protests, no police at the schools, no parents protectively ushering their kids into school. Nothing. I don't remember my parents even talking about it or hearing anyone complain. I've talked to black friends I went to school with and they say they don't remember it being much of a big deal either. It was just moving to a new school for them, not some huge social shift. Nobody in our town, black or white, made a big deal of it. It was just a non-event.
Most of the boys already knew each other from around town and playing ball in the parks. There'd never been much, if any, racial tension in my hometown and everyone got along. It was a LOT more like Mayberry than some racist town from a TV movie. Funniest thing I remember from it all was one of the black guys complained to me the 2nd week that they'd all thought the food at the "white" school was going to be a lot better. They thought we ate steak, cheeseburgers and ice cream every day. They were all disappointed to find out our lunch room food was just as bad as theirs had been.
I don't like the idea of segregating everyone into smaller districts. Besides, the Justice Department assumes that the only way for African-Americans to have representation is to elect an African-American, and the same for whites. Obviously, my constituents don't think that's true.
“What I would support is, take a second view at the Voting Rights Act, and see how we can apply it universally to all Americans, every place, and let’s judge people and states based on their performance today and not 40 or 50 years ago,”
His bio linked above.Over the past several days, I have received numerous messages of care and support from friends, neighbors, and acquaintances, each of whom simply wanted to express their concern for how I might be feeling in the wake of the murder of George Floyd. For many, I am perhaps one of the only African-American men in their social or business circles. Others, especially those who know me well, are cognizant of my own personal experiences with racial violence. Their expressions of love and support are rooted in the fact that the circumstances surrounding the deaths of George Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery are strikingly similar to my own accounts of an attack on my father over fifty years ago, one I witnessed as a little boy. What my friends may not know, but surely suspect, is that each report of racial violence at the hands of a police officer or group of men brings to the surface the vivid memories of that terrible night.
On a hot summer Friday evening, my little sister asked my parents for strawberries. We lived in a predominantly Orthodox Jewish neighborhood in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and so all of the stores were closed. But my sister wanted strawberries, and my father wanted to get them for her. So, he loaded me, my sister, and my baby brother into the back seat of our car, and drove to another neighborhood to get strawberries. As we returned home, my father noticed that we were being followed by another car. Suddenly, that other car swerved in front of us and stopped, forcing our car to halt at the curb. In an instant, three white men, all in their twenties, jumped out of their car and rushed to ours. They dragged my father out of the car, and began to beat him with tire irons, a crow bar, and a baseball bat. They did this in full view of his three little children. When neighbors came out, the three men jumped back into their car and sped off, leaving my father for dead on the hood of our car. I can still see his hand reaching for me against the windshield covered with his blood.
While my father survived that night, he lived the rest of his life with a surgically reconstructed eye socket, complete with a plate in his face that set off metal detectors. But his were not the only scars that those men left. If it were not for our neighbors, I often wonder whether my little sister, baby brother and I would have survived that night. I often think about my failure to remember the license plate number when asked by the police. And while I can still see the taillights of the car through that bloody windshield, I know that those men will never have to answer for what they did to us. At least not in this life.
It would be one thing if I could have been assured then, or even now, that such a thing could never happen again. My own experience proves that it can.
As an African-American man, I have had the experience of being pulled over by a police officer, with no apparent or expressed reason for the stop. I have been berated and verbally abused, without receiving a ticket or a warning. The most scarring of these events occurred in front of my two little boys, who are now grown, African-American men themselves. The police officer was intent on nothing more than humiliating and emasculating me in front of my small children, hoping to provoke me to respond. At that moment, I remember thinking that the most important thing I could do for my sons was to survive the encounter. Still, I have often thought about what lasting scars may have cut into their psyche by watching what that officer did to me that night. I often wonder what my sons think of me, as a man, and as their protector, knowing that I could not fight back.
Yes, I am alive, and George Floyd is dead. I can breathe; he cannot. But just because a police officer did not murder me or my children does not mean that he did not harm us.
Like many African-American men, my experiences are far too common. While they have never left me, these memories are all too frequently brought back to the surface by watching the videos that have become routine on American televisions and mobile telephones. The callous murders of unarmed men like Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd are real for me. That could have been my father. That could have been me. That could be either one of my sons. And in a very real sense, like many other African-American men, I am George Floyd. Except, I can breathe. And I can do something. I must do something.
While my education and position do not grant me immunity from racial violence, they do place me in a position to do something about it.
I am a lawyer, a law professor, and Dean of one of the nation’s leading law schools. As the Dean of Notre Dame Law School, I have a special allegiance to the legacy of Father Theodore Hesburgh. In addition to his role as the longtime President of the University of Notre Dame, Father Hesburgh was the Chair of the United States Commission on Civil Rights. When his stance for social justice caused President Richard Nixon to demand his resignation from the Commission, Father Hesburgh continued his efforts by founding the Center for Civil Rights at Notre Dame Law School. Early in its existence, the Center broadened its advocacy to International Human Rights. Today, Notre Dame Law School equips lawyers from all around the world with the training and tools they need to fight for human rights. The murder of George Floyd has shown us that we must also cast our gaze closer to home.
It is urgent that we recognize that human rights are under threat all around the world, including here in the United States. This reality must be acknowledged, and addressed. To do so, I want to restore Father Hesburgh’s original vision for Notre Dame Law School by taking three steps. (cont)
Tear Them Down’: BLM Activist Shaun King Calls for Destruction of Jesus Christ Statues, Churches: ‘White Supremacy,’ ‘Oppression,’ ‘Racist Propaganda’
News June 23, 2020
THE DAILY WIRE
Shaun King, the controversial Black Lives Matter activist known for pushing false claims, called for the destruction of Jesus Christ statues and Christian churches for their depiction of the “white” holy family, which King argued are forms of “white supremacy” and “racist propaganda” that promote “oppression.”
“Yes, I think the statues of the white European they claim is Jesus should also come down,” the activist posted via Twitter on Monday. “They are a form of white supremacy. Always have been.”
“In the Bible,” King continued, “when the family of Jesus wanted to hide, and blend in, guess where they went? EGYPT! Not Denmark.”
“Tear them down.”