Top Democrat donor Benjamin Barber compares Americans of negroid persuasion that vote for Trump to Sonderkommandos, which, I just now learned, is the name given to Jewish death camp prisoners who were forced on threat of their own death to aid with the disposal of gas chamber victims during the Holocaust. Saying in the linked video that they are fucked in the head.
Goodness, he sure does know his history.
Comments to the video point out there were a few blacks in the south that sold slaves. This is disputed vehemently online. I searched two glossaries for word for such people either here or in Africa but couldn't find one.
Actually, a better word would be one for a slave that escapes the plantation. Perhaps one that doesn't get very far, like sharecropper.
I befriended such a sharecropper as a young teen. We didn't understand who she was then. All we knew is that we had a great time, and that's all. It's all very shallow, as young teens are. Exceedingly superficial. Here comes an anecdote.
Shady Grove is a suburb cut out within a pecan plantation very near Barksdale AFB, home of gigantic B-52s. This began my affinity for pecans. The trees were played out for the most part. They were all very old trees. Each house had an old pecan tree in the front yard and one in the back yard. That was the arrangement in our particular area. It varied in sections as the houses built within it varied by area. Some houses rather small, others quite large.
In winter, pecan trees are the very image of scary Halloween trees with branches that suddenly switch directions.
The highway cut right through the whole thing. Barksdale Boulevard. On the other side of the highway was the original plantation. Now a real estate firm, I believe, by looking at Google Earth. Very much has changed since then. More of a large farm, a plantation wannabe. Built in the style, an unimaginative red brick block of a house with tall white columns in front and white painted wrought iron patio furniture set around in front, never used. The entire thing was dying. The trees were dying, the stables were were made of hollow ceramic bricks, the likes of which I haven't seen before or since, several bricks eaten through by vermin, the whole place moribund.
My friend, E. Stotko, an AF major's son, and I explored the whole thing, from one end to the the other. Like nobody else in our school had done, becoming more and more brave, ever more brazen, ever more audacious, as we returned through repeated visits getting closer and closer to the big house without ever being challenged, not ever being interrupted, not once. We never even saw any indication of life. Except for the nearby cows, and a single horse. The farm was still active, but in slow motion and we never saw any activity at all. Not once.
Behind the house were seven tiny cabins, each a single room. Made of the same hollow pink ceramic bricks as the much longer, much larger stable. The stable appeared so regal from a distance, but inside we discovered it was actually dilapidated with no hope of being repaired. The stable had some fifteen stalls, but only one live horse in a single stall nearest to the house. We realized when we explored each of the tiny cabins immediately behind the house lined in a row perpendicular to the stables and occupying the space intervening between the back of the red brick house and a very large barn that they were onetime abandoned quarters for slaves. We stopped dead in our tracks, chilled with this realization. Both of us drenched with a dark feeling dread. We couldn't quite grasp the malevolent space we were in. But it didn't halt our exploring each one until we determined which hut was the best. Honestly that was the heaviest realization either of us had experienced to that point in our young capricious silly little lives.
We persisted in our exploring. We were fascinated with the farm equipment rusting and overgrown with weeds. We climbed over everything. We explored the barn as fully as possible. Climbed each level with special interest in rats and snakes. We looked at everything and played with everything we could get our hands on. At that point we were unafraid anymore of being challenged by anyone. At that point we felt impervious. Surely, they wouldn't shoot us, they'd just chase us off, or, given our natural charm and feigned innocence, they'd most likely explain things to us. We were full of naturally occurring questions. We were nothing but questions.
And that's what happened with the share cropper woman on the far side of the property nearest to our own homes.
We crossed the highway and walked a path at the edge of same pecan forest where we lived to a specific pecan tree at the far corner nearest the levee protecting the farmland, and us, from the Red River. We built a rudimentary treehouse way up there, a two-story affair. Climbing the tree was the thing, the treehouse nothing to brag about, and rather boring once up there. We explored the entire area on both sides of the levee getting into as much harmless trouble as possible. Shooting marbles from makeshift mortars of pipe shoved into the sand, using fireworks for explosives, finding condoms washed up on the edge of the river, wading out to sandbars for further exploration, studying cow pies at various stages of hardening, treading the various geography that occurs, learning in our odd childish way. For example, the trees planted specifically in rows were not entirely worthless. They still produced pecans. We discovered we could sell a grocery bag of pecans for fifty cents, and we could collect bags full easily by merely scooping them up. Nobody interfered with us. Not once. Even doing all this on someone else's property.
Along the path to the treehouse about halfway, we encountered a run down dilapidated shack that fascinated us. There were chickens running all over the place. There was no lawn, just a packed dirt area. Depressing, actually, a far cry from our own homes. We could see broken down pens for other animals behind the shack made of scratch wood much like our treehouse and we were tremendously interested in what was back there. We stopped as we walked and laughed at a rooster mating one of the chickens. It is a violent affair. Fascinating to observe. We had incipient interest in sexual activity so we watched and we laughed. We knew enough to know what they were doing.
A very fat black woman emerged from the shack. Busted! Putting on our fake innocence we asked her childishly, putting on our stupid faces, and with feigned stupidity, "What are those chickens doing?"
Honestly, you could just kiss us both for our pure innocence. Bless our little hearts.
The woman said, and neither of us can forget this so long as we live, to our tremendous amusement, she said, "I don't know day's doin' but day's sure is doin' it!"
Oh my God, that was funny to us. We flapped around ourselves laughing our asses off. What a couple of fucking punks! Two little white boy punks. We were the worst. We laughed at evoking such an outrageously funny response from her. We loved her instantly.
We talked to the lady and befriended her. We encountered her repeatedly over several visits while passing by. She allowed us to explore her tiny farm. She told us about her family. What happened to them, where they had gone. She was alone. She didn't mind our company. She tolerated us. She liked us. We were good boys. Overly curious, but good. Eh. Mostly. We hypnotized her chickens and her turkeys by means E. Stotko learned from somewhere else. Certainly not from a book. Books were antithetical to both of us at that time. We studied the pigs in their sty. We explored the area behind her little farm at the edge of the larger plantation property, a tiny farm at the edge of the larger white people's farm. We didn't put the two things together. We didn't realize her farm was derived from the plantation farm by way of slaves being freed but with no place to go. We didn't see her shack as a step up from the slave quarters we explored. We didn't put anything together like that. We were superficial. We were shocked by the utterly alien things we discovered but unable to synthesize what we explored.
The woman invited us into her shack to see for ourselves her interior life. Three rooms in a row. Rudimentary kitchen equipment, blown out rudimentary furnishing. Everything wooden and worn out and old and dented and damaged and unpainted, unwaxed, unpolished. Dusty. Extreme poverty, subsistence living. Her wallpaper all over was newspaper and comic sections. This was the Color Purple except much more depraved. She lived right at the edge of human existence. A single catastrophe would bring down the whole thing. She lived at razor's edge. Anything medical could destroy her life. Even a single storm could utterly destroy her entire ramshackle farm. Still, her dirt poor tiny farm seemed somewhat complete.
So far as politics go, I don't think she had the means to vote. That would involve transportation. She would need someone to help her. And that would involve someone knowing she even existed. And yes, she would vote Democrat. If she voted, she certainly would vote Democrat plantation.
Here is the link to Project Veritas capture of Benjamin Barber remarking blacks who vote Republican, vote Trump, are fucked in the head.