The destructive consequences of believing that blacks are the same as whites

Scott M. writes:

A week ago, I was walking late at night in the University District of Seattle, on “fraternity row,” a part of town that still has the tree-lined streets and much of the winsome aesthetic appeal that any neighborhood designed to accommodate college students must have had sixty years ago. However, when those trees were planted (with the futurity of a certain kind of civil order in mind), when the houses were built, and the ornamental stonework was installed, no one would have foreseen the kind of virulent uglification that has been invited into the lives of young people, as a result of a long-standing societal effort to force into being the fantasy that blacks are just like us, and could therefore be safely invited into our lives. (As a member of the baby boom generation, I received such thorough racial egalitarian indoctrination that I was well into middle age before I could hear the words “They are not like us” without cringing. Now I can say those words with a clear conscience.)

As I walked past a house where beautiful but tipsy and tarted-up college women were milling about on the sidewalk and young white men who dressed like boys were orbiting around them stupidly, I passed a dark driveway area and heard the unmistakable sound of a drunk black man (almost certainly an athlete) making unintelligible aggressive vocalizations. As I continued walking, I saw that that the speaker was a hulking black of the most intimidating physical presence imaginable, and that he was waving his arms and fulminating at a diminutive and very attractive brunette who had the obsequious manner of a polite, politically correct white girl humoring a feral black as if she were in some way responsible for any unrest he might be experiencing. In order to assess the scene, and to be sure that she was safe, I looked the black brute in the eye for a couple of seconds.

This was enough to produce a reaction that was uncanny, eerie, and typically black. In spite of his obvious drunkenness, there was an instantaneous and unnatural intensification of focus in his eyes, and he began to threaten me. He had seen that I was concerned for the girl’s safety, and this enraged him, as if he was eager to prove that he was indeed dangerous! But I continued walking, since there were plenty of people in the vicinity, and I had distracted him so that the girl could go somewhere else and leave him to his idiotic histrionics.

In a sane world, it would have been understood that an obviously unintelligent and brutish black did not belong at a social gathering with white college students, and all of the young men would have made it clear that he was not wanted, and would have done this without compunction. The most obvious indication that we no longer live in that kind of world was in evidence in the sonic environment of that social gathering on an April evening in 2012: inhuman rap music consisting of bestial thug-grunts was blaring from the windows of a building designed and built at time when students danced to music played by orchestras, and the popular sheet music of the time was “Bicycle Built for Two,” and John McCormack’s then-new rendition of “She Moved Through the Fair” was on everyone’s gramophone. We have not raised blacks up by indulging them; they can only drag us down.

Posted by Lawrence Auster at April 23, 2012 01:31 PM | Send

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