Hey, conservatives, take a good hard look. And yeah, that means you too, Sarah Palin, you queen of xenophobic fevered fantasies.
See that guy in the video? He's not a thug. He's a poet. A black poet. Get used to it and get over yourselves. I have had enough of the ginned-up nonsensical "be afraid of the black guy" meme. I don't want to hear Donald Trump decry accusations of racism with his stupid, idiotic claims that "a black guy won The Apprentice" a couple of seasons back and I don't want to hear Sean Hannity quake in his little itty-bitty boots over the very idea that there's a black poet in the White House who Fox News liked before they didn't.
But Common is the dude in the Gap ad. His mother is a teacher. Shirley Sherrod is a victim of white supremacist terrorism, who lectures black people on seeing their own prejudice. Eric Holder went to Stuyvesant. Michelle Obama's mother was a homemaker. Her parents forfeited a full athletic scholarship to send Michelle Obama's brother to Princeton. They used to watch the Brady Bunch together.
If Common is disturbing, Shirley Sherrod wants to discriminate against white people, MIchelle Obama is obsessed with Whitey, and Barack Obama has a hatred of white people, then the rest of us are in real trouble. When you talk about "nonthreatening" this really is the best we've got.
So much of this sort of stuff just boils down to "We don't like you, and we need to fill dead air by discussing how much we dislike you." But the sight of Fox profiling, then attacking, Common, profiling LL Cool J, and lauding Ted Nugent is a metaphor for a conservatism that has trouble going beyond anti-liberalism.
Also, small man parts. I suggest scared white conservatives start to get used to it and get over themselves by learning this little dance. It will make them feel...assimilated.
Full text of the poem performed at the White House follows.
“I woke up with the sunshine. A sunshine I had never seen. There was light at the end of it. Reminded me to forever dream. I was dreaming I walked into the White House. With love on my sleeve. And love for each and every one of you. Reminding you to believe. These are the words of a believer achiever. Leader of the globe, feed the souls of those in need. I bleed the blood of the struggle. Walking over troubled puddles. The hustle is in my chest. No hustle no progress. Extremities of life in this process. The birth of a son. The death of another. With love I caress both mothers. And told ‘em whose in control is the one that’s above is. I walk where money talks and love stutters. The body language of a nation. Going though changes. The young become dangerous. Spent into anger. Anger gets sent through the chamber. It’s tough when your own look like strangers. We are the sons of gangsters and stone rangers. If he could how would Ernie Barnes paint us? Look at the picture. It’s hard not to blame us. But time forgives in the shy where the young die often. Do they end up in a coffin because we haven’t taught them? Is it what we talkin’, we really ain’t walking. Dudes, hustlers, paid. How much did it cost them? I find myself on the same corner that we lost them. Real talkin’ in their ear like a walkman. My thoughts been around the corner to the world. So when I see them I see my baby girl. The Lord lives among us. The youngest hunger, recover. Means to get it by anyways necessary under pressure. Children feeling lesser with the spill upon the dresser. Killer, willer aggressors. Destiny’s children, survivors, soldiers. In front of buildings their eyes look older. It’s hard to see blessings in a violent culture. Face against rappings. Sirens holsters – that ‘aint the way that Langston Hughes wrote us. So controllers on the shoulders of Moses. And Noah. We go from being precious to Oprah. Cultivated to overcome. Ever since we came over. Seize the day in the way that you can see the determined. The soul that keeps burning. Shorty’s know to keep learning. Lessons in my life are like stripes that we earning. I took Grant’s advice that Christ is returning. Like a thief in the night. I write for beacons of light. For those of us in dark alleys and park valleys. Street hits spark valleys of the conscience. Conquerors of a contest . Even the unseen know that God watches. For one King’s dream he was able to Barack us. One King’s dream he was able to Barack us. One King’s dream he was able to Barack us.”
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