An Open Letter to Black Rapscallions
Before I lay into young black squabs, let me confess, right off the bat, that I am a white male.
I am Whitey Whitebread from Whiteville.
Yep, I’m a blonde-haired (formerly), blue-eyed, white skinned “creepy ass cracker”.
I believe that’s how Rachel Jeantel would phrase it.
For those who’re confused, unlike me, to whether or not they are white, here’s several signs that you might be white.
Check it out:
If you think Ice T is a delicious, summer-time drink and not a West Coast rapper.
If your treble is turned up higher than your bass in your Toyota Prius.
If you think “booty” is goods or property seized through piracy.
If you think Tupac Shakur is a Jewish holiday.
If you can’t wait to start journaling in your new, faux-leather, alligator-embossed diary.
If you DVR Duck Dynasty.
If you were shocked that Clay Aiken came out as gay.
If you think eating hummus makes you exotic, and thus, hip and sexy.
If you enjoy rollerblading while listening to Tony Robbins.
If you wear a Polo shirt with the collar flipped up.
If you think Lucille Ball was a hoot.
If you have Lawrence Welk CDs.
If you adore songs by Graham Russell and Roger Hitchcock.
If you only eat organic vegetables purchased via a group co-op.
If the only black music you listen to is rare, bootleg tracks by Duke Ellington.
If you enjoy badminton and/or croquet.
If grammar is really, really important to you.
If you play children’s board games with other married couples while sharing a 2009 bottle of Columbia Crest’s best.
If you’re a man and you wear a scarf.
If you weep during a Celine Dion concert.
If you play Farmville on Facebook.
If you’re on Facebook.
If your Volvo’s first preset button on your car stereo directs you to NPR.
If you follow Rich Lowry on Twitter.
If book bargains excite you.
If you think TED Conferences are “so awesome!”
If parts of High School make you despondent.
If you have two trashcans: one for paper and one for plastic.
If you have a Pottery Barn and/or a Williams & Sonoma credit card.
If you legally own a firearm.
If you really like Taylor Swift’s new bangs.
If a $25 sandwich makes you feel healthier, and thus, all the wiser.
If you’re a vegetarian.
If you tie a sweater around your neck in case in gets chilly later on in the evening.
If your kid speaks several languages.
If you apologize for not speaking several languages.
If you have a mini-van with stick figures representing your family.
If living on the water is important to you.
If the Sound of Music is your favorite film.
If you have a Bachelor’s degree in Fine Art.
If you go to New York City just to see their plays.
If you love opera.
If you insist on being referred to by your first, middle and last name.
If you turn to IKEA to bring balance to your life during the autumn months.
If you convert to Shamanism just to piss off your Presbyterian parents.
… then you might be white.
If any of the aforementioned is true about you, then you’re probably a Caucasian, and, being a Caucasian, you’re probably, according to Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson, a racist and thus you, along with me, are disallowed to weigh in on the tricky quandary of the black man. To them… it’s that easy.
Yep, according to slick-haired Al and the nuttier-than-a-squirrel-turd Jesse, we white devils are supposed to do two things when it comes to blacks:
1. shut up and…
2. excuse any untoward, even violent, acts from the black teen.
Be that as it may, and running the risk of being called “a racist”, forgive me but, as a white dude, I’ve gotta speak plainly because the shiznah out here is gettin’ outta control, y’all!
I believe Americans, by and large, of any race, color or creed, except the Islamists, do have sympathy for any person or group who’ve had life deal them a bad hand. Contrary to Al and Jesse, I believed we have evolved greatly!
However, young blacks, you’ve got to work with us a little bit because you’re kind of operating against the storyline the aforementioned and “The Media” are singing about y’all’s being “poor victims”, and thus, making it difficult for us to soulfully commiserate.
Of what, pray tell, do I speak?
Well, my friend, it goes something like this.
For me to care about your predicament, I’d like to hear less and less about…
– Your ghastly grades and riotous behavior in school
– Your ridiculous dropout rates
– Your colossal out of wedlock birthrates
– Your embracing of a musical culture that celebrates the shooting of cops and jizzin’ in a girl’s face
– Your love affair with drugs and alcohol
– Your #hashtag campaigns aimed at white people and cops
– Your flash mobbing and robbing places and people
– Your audacity to blame everybody and their dog for your odious behavior
– Your ginormous, misplaced racial chip on your shoulder
Yes, if you could/would chill on some of that stuff, well… That’d be great.
That would make us crackers think, “Hey, maybe you are serious about getting out of the craphole you’re in.”
Another difficult thing that makes it hard for us to believe you’re just “poor, helpless victims of the machine” is when teens from your crew gun down an innocent, twenty-two-year-old, white, Aussie student just to spice up the inherent boredom which accompanies the dog-days of summer. That act of uncut evil helps us not.
Indeed, that heinous stunt really makes all this “poor you” crap fly right out our windows.
And lastly, and I hate to be negative, but there was one more incident perpetrated by two black teens that also unraveled the sweet story Sharpton, Jackson and “The Media” would have us believe. It was the beating death of an eighty-eight-year-old, WWII vet in Spokane, Washington. That demonic deed, coupled with the murder of the Aussie student and thousands of other “knock out games”, makes it impossible for anyone with a brain to feel anything towards your personal dilemma except, “Lock-N-Load”.
Yes, the brutal murder of someone’s grandpa and the senseless slaying of someone’s son by blacks do nothing but reinforce what the FBI National Crime Victimization Survey concluded, namely, that young black males are seven times more likely to commit murder than people of other races.
So, if you’d like us to empathize, trust and help you with a hand-up, howzabout you cease and desist with the inhumane behavior, huh?
Until then, we’ll be suspicious of young black teens, traveling in groups, taking an unusual interest in our person or property, especially if they’re dressed like gangbangers and are acting suspiciously.
Call us weird.
Now, for those of you who might deem me a calloused Richy Rich who grew up under a church pew with a silver spoon in his mouth and who’s had nothing but a stroll down Easy Street, allow me to kill that notion right now.
When I was a punk teen and twenty-something, I did drugs, dealt drugs, debased women, burglarized homes and was kicked out of both high school and college for my behavior.
When I was sixteen-years-old, I was arrested on Mother’s Day for stealing water skis and was placed on probation.
I was not an “innocent teen, full of potential”. I was full of something all right, but it wasn’t potential. I was a piece of teenage, criminal crap. I chose to break the law. I chose alcohol and drug use and abuse. I chose to be an idiot and to emulate fools. I chose to disappoint my family, my country and my God. I was hell on two skinny legs and I had no one to blame but myself. No one “forced me” into a life of stupidity. I chose it.
During that near decade of decadence, I’m glad I didn’t die or get killed in that state of inebriation because I would have gone straight to hell. No stop signs. No speed limits.
Yes, call me weird, but I believe in a literal heaven and a literal hell and I would have been on the elevator going down to the bottom floor, to spend eternity between the second, fifth and seventh concentric circles of Dante’s Grill.
During my time of gleefully following el Diablo’s lead, I shot at people and had guns drawn on me.
One summer night back in 1978, my buddies and I were ripping off a boat and were busted red-handed by the home owner who pulled out a pump shotgun, racked a round, but was unable to kill me because the direction in which I ran blocked his sight picture and I was able to get away.
If I would have been shot and killed that evening, it would have sucked, but would have been a just punishment because my life choices put me in a direct path of destruction.
If I would have died of an overdose or from a crime that I had committed, I would hope to God that no one would stand over my casket and blame other people, or culture, or lack of education, or my neighborhood, or some other people-group, because that stuff was all on me. I would hope my life would have become a proverb, a veritable deterrent to aberrant behavior.
Look, young dudes, you can fault a gazillion things in life for why you do what you do and “The Media”, Dippity-Do obsessed reverends, radical activists and Obama himself can run posthumous interference for you, gussying up your sullied past. But that doesn’t change the eternal fact that God is going to hold you personally responsible for your actions, and you cannot bullshit Him.
If I were you, and I was at one time, I’d get on my knees, take responsibility for my sins, quit blaming others and ask God to forgive me, repent and follow Christ instead of culture; and turn that crappy life of mine around before it is too late.
Trust this cracker, you’ll never regret leaving that stupid junk behind; and I can testify that God will do abundantly and beyond all that you could ask or even imagine.
Finally, allow me, Whitey Whitebread, to address the topic of civil unrest. Now, just because I gave up my hell-raising days doesn’t mean I turned into some sheepish pussy who’ll take abuse; and I do believe there is a place and time to protest and, if necessary, overthrow oppressive governments. But such dire acts must have legit, serious and systemic reasons, and rioting has to be the last straw, after all other options have been exhausted to bring about change, for me to throw down.
For instance, in 2014 and 2015, as I was watched the Ferguson fiascos go down, I kept bouncing back and forth between CNN and MSLSD to see how “The Media” was pitching this massive destruction of personal and private property on behalf of the “innocent” and “gentle giant” Michael Brown. Oh, by the way, Obama’s Department of Justice finally determined Officer Darren Wilson was justified in killing Brown. But I digress …
Anyway, both networks had black ministers on throughout the week that basically justified the riots. Yes, some pooh-poohed the very extreme acts of violence, however several of them didn’t really crap on the “protestors”.
Chief amongst the “ministers” who didn’t seem to care what chaos was created was the Reverend Al Sharpton and his spirit-twin the Reverend Jesse Jackson. I know. Shocker, eh?
As I watched these “men of God” cheerlead this mess, I started thinking to myself, “Self … what Bible do they read? … ‘The Race-Baiters Grievance Edition’? “; because no one who’s ever traipsed through an unadulterated New Testament would think that such mayhem, for such a flimsy — no … farcical — reason is remotely justifiable. That is if, and that’s a big “if”, Jesus is the standard for a person’s behavior.
Indeed, if one read just a smidgen of Jesus’s teachings they would quickly deduce that if Christ were the blueprint for the believer, then the behavior of these looting morons is contemptible and worthy of a true minister’s rebuke and wide spread public condemnation. But, eh… not so much for the likes of the Reverend Sharpton and Jackson, which left me thinking that they must revere something else other than the Jesus of the Gospels, because the Christ of the Scripture wouldn’t back their race-baiting and destructive behavior or anyone that fans those hideous flames.
That said, please allow me to inject at this juncture that Jesus was not above kicking some butt and breaking stuff if need be.
Look, Jesus was no pussy.
For example, one of the first snapshots we have of Jesus in John’s account of his ministry was his turning water into wine and cleansing the temple, two things the teetotalers and the timid would not like being in the sacred text.
Check it out in John 2:13-17:
When it was almost time for the Jewish Passover, Jesus went up to Jerusalem. In the temple courts he found people selling cattle, sheep and doves, and others sitting at tables exchanging money. So he made a whip out of cords, and drove all from the temple courts, both sheep and cattle; he scattered the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. To those who sold doves he said, “Get these out of here! Stop turning my Father’s house into a market!” His disciples remembered that it is written: “Zeal for your house will consume me.”
And here’s Matthew’s account of Jesus’ opening up a can of whup-ass: Matthew 21:12-13:
“And Jesus entered the temple and drove out all who sold and bought in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money-changers and the seats of those who sold pigeons. He said to them, ‘It is written, “My house shall be called a house of prayer,” but you make it a den of robbers.’ ”
Let’s break down the motivations and the extent of Jesus’ gettin’ pissed and razing hell, shall we?
First off, please take note of the offense that got Jesus in a bad mood: Religious hucksters had turned God’s house into a cash cow for religious goobers. In other words, it was a clear-cut, irrefutable offense, with empirical evidence, that got Christ’s dander up. Ponder that nugget before you burn down an innocent couple’s grocery store, por favor.
This lead, as stated, to Jesus’ going postal on the place.
But what I’d like to point out was how Jesus released his rage as an example to us schleps that follow his lead, if and when it comes to dusting up against some true injustice. Are you ready? Well, alrighty then.
Herewith are the various particulars regarding how the Holy One rolled:
1. Jesus made a whip, which screams to moi, that he was patient and methodical and it wasn’t belligerent, out of control, frenzied rage he sported.
2. Jesus only vandalized the stuff of the evil SOBs who were desecrating God’s house. Please note, he didn’t morph into a crazy vandal, smashin’ up Shlomo’s falafel shop.
3. Jesus didn’t steal their stuff after condemning their actions. Hello!
4. Jesus had a clear biblical mandate that God’s house was to be a house of prayer, and that zeal for its purity drove his legit wrath.
5. Jesus didn’t cleanse the temple incognito. He wasn’t anonymous. He wore no weird mask, or a bandana over his face, or a hoodie and shades. People who do that are nutless wonders. If you’re so bold and so ‘in the right’, then, like Jesus, represent… stand up and be counted.
6. Jesus didn’t make a living off grievance-based temple-tossing. He didn’t form a non-profit that went around making life miserable for everyone he thought sucked. Also, he acted alone, without some massive posse; and there are only two examples of his ever engaging in such acts. Please forward this ditty to Al and Jesse.
7. Jesus never said to his disciples let’s “burn this bitch down”. Please note, he also didn’t call them “motherfuckers” as his wrath was bridled and righteous.
And that, my little children, is how Christ threw a holy fit.
Anything else is… well… uh… un-Christlike and must be repented of and condemned; especially by “reverends” who lead the flock of God, of which I bet the majority of the Ferguson protestors go to church. So I’m a-thinkin’ the aforementioned should apply.
Finally, for the slow amongst us who claim Christ as their captain, please note in Jesus’s example of opening up a 64-ounce-can-of-whup-ass that …
– There was no stealing.
– There was no arson.
– There was no stoking of a phony revolt based on lies. Empirical evidence drove Jesus’ riot.
– There was no unnecessary destruction of property.
– There was no inciting to further riots.
– He didn’t do it in defense of some teenaged criminal.
– He didn’t threaten to rape and/or murder his enemies’ women and kids.
– And he wasn’t impulsive in his anger and reduced to animalistic destruction
Jesus is the example on how to deal with egregious wrongs without losing one’s head.
Now, here’s my challenge to my black brethren: I dare black ministers to read the above list in their churches.
Oh, and one more thing: the only religion that allows for the kind of destruction and chaos that we witnessed in Ferguson, Baltimore and other places is Islam and not Christianity. So you might ought to think about either converting to Islam or repenting for missing Christ’s example by a flippin’ mile.
Here’s an addendum I just had to parlay to my pigmentally enhanced brethren.
If I was a black dude, I wouldn’t be sweating getting offed by some pasty-skinned white devil who listens to Cold Play and shops The Gap; or some buzz-cut, “creepy-ass-cracker” cop wearing Aviators.
Why wouldn’t I sweat such Caucasians?
Well… as a 53-year-old “black man”, for me it’s primarily because of these six things:
— I’m not selling narcotics.
— I’m not carrying a switchblade.
— I’m not shaking down store clerks after they catch me stealing fists full of Swisher Sweets.
— I’m not beating the stuffing out of a cop after I dared him to run over me as I defiantly slow-trolled down the middle of the street.
— I’m not looting stores.
— I’m really not breaking any law (aside from an occasional speed limit) or hanging out with anyone doing shady stuff.
Ergo, as a hypothetical brother, I wouldn’t fear a Caucasian at anytime, anywhere, for anything. I’m cool… you see?
However, my teen years, as I mentioned earlier, were a wee bit different story, chock-full of phobias. Righteous phobias, mind you.
As the theoretical black teen and twenty-something, I definitely would fear the police because, back in my day, I was a thug.
Yep, as a hypothetical “black teen” I would dread the white man, or any man for that matter, especially those sporting a badge — and here’s why: I did stupid, lawless, evil and wicked stuff with great regularity, that’s why.
Indeed, my fears would’ve been justified because I dealt drugs, burglarized homes and businesses, vandalized property, treated people like dirt and got into enough trouble for twenty punks.
It took a collision course with Johnny Law and Jesus Christ to wake up my dumb-butt.
Here’s what I’ve learned after over half-a-century of strolling this stone: If I don’t do whacked stuff then, generally speaking, I don’t have to fear people or police… duh.
That said, continuing with the “if I was a black guy I wouldn’t fear the white man” motif, I must say, given the data of late, that if, as a black man, I had to fear anyone for anything at anytime it would be a black person – because the black-on-black crime is way more a threat to a black person than anything a white dude or any cop is currently doling out.
* For context, I’ve spent many years working with ministries in Africa. Both my daughters went to a low- income and predominantly black school. My wife taught for seventeen years in a school that was 99% black. So you can take your “I’m a racist” claim you might try to tag on me and shove it right up your tailpipe. I don’t judge people by the color of their skin. I judge character content and I call crap “crap”, no matter who does it.