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.
12 comments:
Blacks owned and sold slaves back then.
That's not the point; the point is this is the kind of "We need to protect blacks from themselves" attitude that was used to justify both Jim Crow and slavery, but exists in Lefty America while they call anyone who wants to break free of the plantation an Uncle Tom and any non-POC a racist.
PS The word kommando, as used by the Krauts, simply mean a command (as did the original Boer commandos).
While they tried to pass of the Einstatzgruppen as Death Commandos, and similarity between His Majesty's Special Service Brigades or the Ranger and Raider Battalions is purely psychosomatic.
Great story, well written - I can relate to many parts of that. I saw dwellings like that when I lived on the Mississippi Delta - slave quarters in all but name, people living right on the edge of everything - disaster, the land, sanity - truly a high wire act.
As youths we used to explore old farm houses - sometimes the owner, over in the main, new house, would yell at us, and we would take off. Other times we could not set foot on the property without getting yelled at. One notorious "Castle" had a caretaker who took care so well we couldn't even sneak into the place. The roof had failed and that was the end of that mansion. I understand it's been torn down now, 50 years later, and the land developed.
But a mere quarter mile from that place was the place my father bought as his own castle. It was built in 1790 and rebuilt in 1965 - and I he'ped. Many stories there, but the one relevant to the theme is that in back of this wonderful house was a smaller house - what was it - a summer kitchen? Seems unlikely, it had 2 stories. Check the deed - oh my, back when the house was built it was on 100 acres and that was the house slave's house. Her name was Marie. She was in the deed. Buy the house, buy Marie.
What's the big deal, right? Things like that happened all over the south. Thing is, this was north of Washington DC, almost all the way up to Pennsylvania. A border state. Locals there to this day do all kinds of virtue signalling about "There weren't any slaves here" blah blah blah. Well, Nachkomme eines Hessischen, indeed there were.
The area I lived in was rural and agricultural. Many orchards and plenty of work, in season. One of my classmates showed up every harvest time - his name was Everett and his parents were migrant farm workers and for years they would spend time in our area. Then one year, they didn't come back. Things like that stick with a youngster. Mystery.
Now I live where pecans grow wild - this place is thick with them. Walnuts, too, which I have learned, are in the pecan family - well duh - one look at the leaves and it's obvious, even though the wood could not be more different.
Two hundred years ago there was a famous furniture maker who lived just up the road. His parents were free blacks, and he was freeborn himself. He was a successful business man and at times had 12 workers. The plot gets a bit thick as to whether or not he was a slave owner, but some say he was.
So, do his descendants pay reparations to themselves? Things are never as simple as they might appear on the surface.
You ask good questions Sixty
One of the things that's kind of weird in Detectorists is the German guy claims he wants to search the site where his grandfather crashed during WWII and nobody blinks an eye. If some Saudi guy asked me to help him search the crash site of Flight 93 I be, like, you go straight to fucking hell, shit-head.
Hey! Maybe time heals all wounds, after all!
Judge Smails! Discoursing on the topic of The Negroes again. He should get back to improving his lie - on the golf course. He's looking a little worse for wear and tear but I'd know that obliviously racist mug anywhere.
So Blacks are forced to vote Trump under threat of death? I did not know that.
I do know that there would have been no slave trade across the Atlantic if not for Blacks in Africa selling them at the source. See Blacks are just like every other race: both innocent and guilty.
If given the choice, would most African Americans reverse history and eliminate slavery if it meant they and their families would be living in Africa right now? I expect the answer would vary considerably depending on whether it was hypothetical or not.
What I just wrote above is pretty obvious stuff, but also impossible to say in public by anyone with anything to lose. Why is that subject so hard to face? As with the terrible death from wars, or disease, sometimes terrible things can lead to good fortune or even salvation for others. It's just a fact of life. Acknowledging it does not mean you support the terrible price, it just means that the benefit is there to see. Those two things can both be true. These are the kind of choices we face when we do difficult things like go to war. Some of us are lucky enough to only be around for the benefit, and some only the cost.
Meanwhile Hillary's eating soul food to hold on to the black vote ha ha ha.
There were about 200 black slave owners listed in the 1860 census in South Carolina. Some of them owned family members at a time when it was legally difficult to free slaves in South Carolina--they had to leave the state when freed. Others were just ordinary slave owners who rented them out for profit. One of South Carolina's earliest slave traders was a black man who owned plantations in Africa, South Carolina, and (I think) Barbados. I don't know about other states. I used to be a history teacher in South Carolina.
I forgot to mention the woman's bunny hutches.
As deplorable a tiny farm as that, chickens and birds running all over the place, pooping everywhere, laying eggs everywhere, having to go out and find them, most of the eggs fertilized, the stinking pig sty immediately behind the house, the pigs wallowing in their own shit, the dilapidated bunny hutch with rabbit poo droppings stinking it up, and edible greens growing randomly around the border of the whole place, it was still better than living in one of the tiny cabins behind the red house. The unusual makeshift farm meant independence. Maybe it wasn't quite so deplorable when her husband was around to maintain it. I don't know. I can only imagine. What I saw was the aftereffects of release from slavery. It didn't occur to me the original occupants were actually slaves working the white people's cow farm behind the hut and the pecan plantation in front of it.
And I didn't mention the itty bitty black church near the highway with that portion of the undeveloped pecan orchard behind it. Where we scooped up all the pecans. Those trees were better for pecans than the trees in our yards on our side of the highway. We explored the outside of the church but never went into it. A small congregation still attended the church. Where they came from I haven't a clue. But we did see black people outside, dressed up for church. We explored the headstones at the side of the church. The atmosphere felt heavy like black hallowed ground. We had great interest in reading the headstones and noting the strange outlining of burial areas marked out with paving bricks. to a sort of hollow rectangle. The steps into the church were uneven stacks of concrete slabs that had sunk into the ground. Everything was absolutely dirt poor. Yet still functional. In a limp along kind of way. We imagined what sort of service they held in there. We imagined everybody singing. The sort of thing you see in movies. Like the church in Color Purple except smaller, less people, but still animated. A kind of animation while still kept quiet and unobtrusive tucked in there, ensconced in the pecan trees, but now with a highway built right smack in front of it, right straight through the plantation property. It's weird, while on the other side of the highway, our side, a gigantic new sparkling open, heavily populated Baptist church, doing all the things that the white religionists get up to and with obvious money pouring out its stained glass windows, filling its cavernous spaces. The contrast could not be more sharp.
Thank you Ken in TX for the facts.
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