During the 2008 presidential campaign, Sarah suggested that the day before Thanksgiving be designated White Wednesday, during which all Americans would have the day off work to reflect on the huge contributions to our culture of the descendants of Anglo Saxons. The Rev. Al Sharpton and other self-styled civil rights leaders were expectedly apoplectic with indignation.
Black Friday, to which political correctness precludes anyone objecting, therefore seems an appropriate day on which to compose this précis of the common-sense conservative view of American race relations.
I am no racist; no way. In my college dormitory, I lived just down the hall from an African graduate student; if you’d closed your eyes while he was speaking, you could have sworn you were speaking to a member of the British royal family or something. Later I played briefly in a band with a black person. During my rock and roll days, I “dated” two ebony beauties — not, regrettably, simultaneously. In the early 1980s, as I finally worked up the courage to pursue my dream of temporary office work, I processed words with a black woman named Vertis Johnson, who, along with my wife and Rod McDonough, an English solicitor of Irish origin, is one of the three sweetest people it has ever been my privilege to know.
Neither I nor many other common-sense conservatives would want to live in a world in which there are no Denzel Washington, Jamie Foxx, or Morgan Freeman movies, or one lacking the zingy comedic stylings of Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, or Wilma Sykes. Scott Joplin, Paul Robson, and Beyonce are but three who spring immediately to mind when one considers the contributions of blacks to music. Blacks have been disappearing from major league baseball in droves the past several years, and were never really present in ice hockey, but those of us who follow the National Basketball Association and the National Football League are well aware that they continue to play those sports with great panache, if rather more self-aggrandizingly than their white, European, or Samoan teammates, and thanks in large part to the fast-twitch muscle fibers of which they have more than their white teammates. It’s hardly possible to see a television commercial these days in which black people aren’t acting just like you or I.
We common-sense conservatives are not saying, then, that there aren’t talented, bright, or even hard-working black Americans. Rather, what we’re saying is that, on balance, there seem to a lot more Rev. Jeremiah Wrights and LeBron Jameses and welfare mothers in Cadillac Escalades and 50 Centses than the nice kind, in Liz Claiborne or Ralph Lauren. So maybe the best thing for all concerned would be if they all went back to the country their ancestors came from, Africa, where their darker pigmentation wouldn’t be wasted, as it is here, where the sun generally isn’t as bright.
It’s imperative to take into consideration that blacks, in the tradition of the 19th century’s Underground Railroad, operate most of the so-called safe houses in which illegal immigrants hide when they first sneak across our borders with the intention of getting degrading minimum-wage jobs and overloading our welfare system. Send them back to Africa and Jose and Manuel and Maria have nowhere to elude the INS when they get here, no barbecue joints in which to wash dishes the first few months, no hair-braiding salons in which to develop remarkable manual dexterity.
Many people who secretly agree that America would be better off repatriating its persons-of-color will pretend to believe otherwise because of the idea’s prohibitive expense. But look at it this way, the cost of sending 40 million so-called African Americans back to Africa will probably be offset within 18 months by the fortunes we’ll save not having to arrest, prosecute, and then imprison black teenaged crack dealers, or buy their mamas Cadillac Escalades because they claim not to be able to walk, and then howl about calling the NAACP when we say, Oh, of
course you can walk. American youth will save so much money not downloading hip hop singles about bitches and ho’s and what-not that we won’t have to worry anymore about the escalating cost of college tuition. LeBron James and his kind can take their talents to a new African conference in the NBA, and we can continue to enjoy their exploits, as we will the movies of Denzel Washington and the comedic stylings of Chris Rock, on television, without having to worry about his "posse" bringing loaded handguns into restaurants and strip clubs.
I say it with some trepidation, but no shame whatever: America for Americans!
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