We’ll get started by laying it all out. America is not a racist country. In fact, America is the least racist, most welcoming country on Planet Earth to those who “don’t look like us.” In truth, America has been so welcoming in recent decades, such generalizations no longer even apply. As Tucker Carlson has often pointed out, Americans are unfailingly kind and generous. This applies to all but our so-called elites. To include the mouthpieces from our CIA controlled media outlets, who nightly spew their “anti-racist” venom into our living rooms. Pompous blowhards like Michael Eric Dyson, soft-spoken so-called intellectuals such as Ibram X. Kendi, and white liberal airheads the likes of Robin DiAngelo have made fortunes peddling nonsense. From the Left’s zero-sum viewpoint, progress and fulfilment for one group needs always come at the expense of another. The offending demographic must not only pay up; if there is any justice, it should be made to suffer. The notions of fairness in this case ranging from $Trillions in reparation (it will be fascinating to see who is entitled to what), to making open war on white people. They make a compelling case with their on-air passion—because their bogus ideas and baseless charges are never challenged—by the Anderson Coopers, Nicolle Wallaces, Joy Reids, or Don Lemons of the world. The latter pair who eat, drink, sleep, and breathe race. It must be exhausting. One can foresee the day Mr. Lemon sues Colgate-Palmolive over its racist tooth paste. How many of these establishment shills actually believe their own propaganda? If so, they’re even dumber than we give them credit for. If not, then they’re even more vicious.
Black, white, and in-between, those of us who believe our lying eyes and ears, are bewildered. Where exactly is all this racism we keep hearing about? Larry Elder, God bless him, challenges callers to give him a single instance of where or when they’ve been victimized on account of their race. I’ve yet to hear a caller come up with one. “Aw, you know it’s everywhere, Larry!” Uh-huh. It’s all so silly. And now, in conference rooms, lunchrooms, war rooms, and classrooms, from sea to shining sea, captives, aged 4-80, are being indoctrinated in Critical Race Theory, “white fragility,” and “white rage;” sentenced to a lifetime of self-loathing for crimes they didn’t commit. It is nothing less than a concerted effort by those in power to divide us along racial lines. Thank heaven for Thomas Sowell (the voice of reason, ignored for too many years), the late Walter Williams, Clarence Thomas (the greatest Supreme Court justice of my lifetime), Larry Elder, Candace Owens, fearless Jason Whitlock, Horace Cooper, Johnny-come-lately Leo Terrell, and so many others for their insight, by injecting, of all things, common sense into the conversation. The other side has every right to be embarrassed.
The charge, invariably, is that America is systemically racist. But the numbers simply don’t bear this out. No one denies that there are bad cops out there. I’ve had my own run-ins with rude cops when I’ve done nothing wrong. It happens. I keep both hands firmly planted on the wheel, and answer “Yes, officer,” or “No, officer.” You stand up for yourself afterwards. I’ve dealt with snotty sales people, dismissive and imperious “public servants,” and, as a proud facial liberation activist, more than my share of masked Covidiots. As an admittedly aggressive (but nevertheless superb) driver, I’ve had more loving middle fingers pointed in my direction than I can count. There are certain areas of life that bring out the worst in all of us. But because we inhabit a world suffocating in racial angst to the point of asphyxiation, some, understandably, see every minor slight as racially motivated. Oftentimes the alleged offender is merely your garden variety prick. Sometimes the guy is simply having rough day, or she’s too preoccupied with her own problems to be sensitive to yours. There can be any number of plausible explanations behind perceived microaggressions that have nothing whatsoever to do with one’s race. Those looking to be offended, usually end up thus. FBI statistics show that white police officers are far less likely to use lethal force on black suspects, than on other whites. Look it up. The preponderance of violent crimes committed are black-on-black. Anyone paying attention knows this. The numbers I found interesting related to interracial crimes. Fewer than ten percent of reported crimes were interracial in nature. And of these, 94% were black-on-white. Sorry, Labron. White folk are not out there with their shotguns hunting you down.
My earliest encounter with race came in the early sixties in my suburban Baltimore neighborhood. I was eight or nine at the time. One of the kids from the neighborhood (not a good friend, honest) made a joke about “colored people.” I guess the civil rights movement was in full swing at the time, but that was not what I was thinking about. I just thought it was mean. From then on, whenever I would encounter a “colored person,” I would feel bad, thinking that someone might make a joke about him. I resolved in my nine-year-old mind to go out of my way to be nice to black people because of all they had been through. It seemed like what Jesus would have me do.
That, in a nutshell, is how 99% of white people approach race. If they think about it at all. Really. We’ve moved past that. But Race, Inc., the provocateurs and profiteers, focus exclusively on the remaining 1% (if it’s even that many). Historically, Blacks have suffered untold indignities. The times may have changed, but no one has forgotten that. The good news is that, in real terms, we are very close to that color-blind society envisioned by civil rights pioneers; with equal treatment under the law, and equal opportunity—if the race hustlers would just lay off. Americans of all colors are too damn busy keeping their heads above water to worry about made-up problems. But our controllers consolidate power by creating division; and there is money to be made by those on every rung of the race industry ladder.
The truth about race: One-on-one, we’re all the same. I’ve never seen it fail. Our shared humanity always overcomes any differences or preconceptions based solely on skin color. It’s only when we let them divide us into tribes, that problems arise. And it’s all by design.
During the early and mid-seventies, when I was in and out of the University of Maryland, I made pretty good money driving a Pepsi truck in Baltimore City. I wish a few handwringing white liberals could have accompanied me as I made my rounds in some of the city’s toughest neighborhoods. They would have been startled to discover that there was no racial divide on Baltimore’s mean streets. The war was between the law abiding, and the lawless. My truck was broken into a number of times. The cost of the stolen merchandise came out of my next paycheck. I never bothered to lock the cab. It would have been some trick to break into the cast iron safe, but that didn’t stop the kids from trying. I would find the twisted wire coat hanger sticking out of the slot. Every storekeeper had his gun and baseball bat behind the counter, ready if needed; the more successful were “safely” ensconced behind bullet-proof glass. I’ll always remember poor Ray, owner of a thriving liquor store on Monroe St. Mon-roe Street, in neighborhood dialect. The poor man was a nervous wreck, terrified of even sticking his head out the door. In West Baltimore, Pepsi outsold Coke ten-to-one, so I was a vital cog in the local economy. The black storekeepers had my back. “If them hoodlums give you any trouble, you come to me!” They (the hoodlums) were the adversary; not the defenseless white Pepsi driver. That sentiment survives to this day, where 80% of Blacks favor an increased police presence in their crime-ridden neighborhoods—in the face of calls by sheltered morons to defund, or better yet, reimagine, law enforcement.
Baltimore being a majority black city, the cast of drivers at Pepsi was almost a perfect 50/50 split, black and white. I would guess we numbered sixty or more. We all did the same job, and we all worked hard. Baltimore had lots of steps; and basements. Anecdotal though it may be, I would venture that this could have been considered a fairly representative sample of the racial climate of the time among working people. If so, America (Baltimore, at least) had already achieved racial harmony by 1975. Statistically relevant case study, or not, you never came across a more happy-go-lucky bunch. Driver meetings were veritable parties—brutal barbs flying in every direction—dissolving into laughter unconstrained. It would take the bosses ten minutes to settle everyone down. And there was never an ounce, the merest trace, of racial animus. To call it one big happy family would sound trite; only here, it applied. They were the happiest working days of my life. (Union meetings were a double-hoot—with potables more potent than Pepsi on tap.)
In December of 1995, I started work for a major food distribution company out of Jessup, Maryland. We serviced both the Baltimore and Washington areas. I had been away from driving for a while, and in the interim, something had happened. There was a discernable racial electricity in the air. Out of 180 or so drivers (again, a pretty good 50/50 racial split) there seemed to be a hard core of about fifteen black drivers who were always angry. I was never sure of what was bugging them. The job was tough, but we all did it. The apparent ringleader of the dissidents was a guy I’ll call Jack. From all appearances, Jack was one mean dude.
We carried more than 20,000 items, and it took a good two weeks of training before a new driver could get the system down. Every day, for those first two weeks, I would ride along with a different driver. Then came the day I was assigned to Jack. I got the distinct impression he was not happy about it. He fixed on me what I interpreted to be a form of death stare. Inasmuch as we were complete strangers, I was unsure of the exact nature of my offense, although I suspected my skin color probably had something to do with it.
We rode down I-95 in silence, headed for DC. I think it was an hour before he said a word. My questions were answered with nods, or shakes of his head. The company handled so many different products, it was daunting for a rookie. I just followed Jack’s lead. By midday, tensions had eased, and by the time we headed in after an eleven-hour day, what could pass for relaxed conversation was on the menu. I even thought I caught a couple of smiles. That night, Jack reported to the bosses that I was going to do just fine. I would stick with the job for almost eleven years while I pursued my screenwriting; long enough to qualify for a pension, anyway. Jack and I never became close friends, but from that day forward would exchange hellos whenever we met.
Several years passed. Another driver, a Middle-Eastern immigrant we’ll call Haji, was promoted to supervisor. Haji seemed like an intelligent enough fellow, and I got along well with him—until he was promoted. He turned out to be every man’s nightmare. (There were no female drivers. The job was too hard.) That guy who, immediately upon his promotion, forgets everything he ever knew about what it’s like to be a driver. He would police the yard at 4:30 every morning (we started early) citing guys for the most trivial of infractions. He wrote me up one morning for climbing out of my tractor without employing the hallowed three points of contact. In short, he became a total dick.
Drivers were paid hourly, and some guys took advantage. Cases handled per hour were posted on the bulletin board, and those near the bottom of the performance chart were subject to surveillance by supervisors gone undercover. One day, Haji had been dispatched to follow Jack on his run down in DC. Jack spotted him right away, and, like any self-respecting Teamster, decided to take action. We were in the days not long after 9/11, and the nation’s capital was on high alert. Jack called 9-1-1 to report that a suspicious looking Middle-Eastern character was shadowing him, and he feared for his life and country. Haji was quickly apprehended and, despite his spirited protests, taken into custody. Needless to say, this did not sit well with the bosses and, with Haji’s release, Jack was given a three-day suspension.
Fast-forward several months, and apparently Jack had not gotten the message; his case per hour numbers having settled near the bottom of the list. Once again (in what could certainly be considered a questionable call by management), Haji was given the assignment. And, true to form, Jack spotted him; and made the call. An indignant Haji was again dragged downtown, but this time with a different outcome. Closer examination of his file uncovered multiple irregularities in his visa paperwork—and upon completion of an investigation by the immigration bureaucracy, and pursuant to the subsequent order by the Department of Homeland Security, Haji was deported.
Alas, Jack’s triumph was short-lived. The bosses failed to see any humor or heroism in his actions, and it was recommended that he take his show on the road. However, this is not the end of the story.
I left the food-service job in September of 2006, and took a job driving for an LTL freight company. One day I was waiting on the dock of a warehouse on Pulaski Highway, Baltimore, and who should back into the door next to me, but Jack; driving now for a rival carrier. It was a happy reunion, with hearty handshakes all around, and me telling him how he did us all proud in taking care of Haji.
I would run into Jack a few more times, on a few more loading docks, before I went Hollywood the following year. And any time we passed each other running up and down Pulaski Highway, we’d honk our horns, and salute.
In the end, the man I had first met more than ten years before, in a less than collegial setting, turned out to be a pretty good guy. With one ballsy sense of humor. And, I guess, he concluded that I wasn’t so bad either.
Our shared humanity had overcome the difference in skin color.
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