FEELINGS AND BILL CLINTON

"Shhhh . . . what you are about to read is politically incorrest. Tafadhali, repeat only in whispers."

Nothig Worthwhile Can Be Built On A False Foundation.

Feelings about throwaway socks or throwaway anything -- they come, taking over. We get them about cheap imitations when we can have the real thing. It's like hating cell-phones because every little throwaway dreg of society that we see on the street or at a bus-stop or sitting on a bus or getting off a bus has a cell-phone plastered to his or her ear, as if saying, "Look how important I am. Everywhere I go, someone wants to talk to me." Saw two of these throwaway dregs sitting side by side on a bus talking to each other on cell-phones. Makes you wanna spit.

Or it's the feeling we get when some school drop-out behind the cash register at some fast-food joint blurts -- without even looking at you -- "Thanks, have a nice day, come again -- next." You wanna snap: "Stick it, you dummy!"

You're walking along a dirt street in a shanty town of dilapidated huts of old, soiled white stucco walls and corrugated tin or straw roofs in East Afrika. A black child of five or six years of age in an unbuttoned dirty blue shirt, exposing his swollen belly, stands near the dirt street in front of one of the huts. He hs no trousers on and looks unwashed. You give him a smile and a wave, and he smiles and waves.

You get a feeling about him, a filling of pity that his worthless culture has brought him into this poverty. But you also feel joy that in spite of the weakness of his culture, it will give him a foundation in an Afrikan identity. He won't be just a CARBON COPY, a cheap imitation of the English, or Spanish or French or Portuguese as the "blacks" in the Americas. You doubt that he'll speak English, but didn't the English rule in his country for many years? And wasn't English the language of instruction in the schools of his country?

You stop. "Unasema Kiingereza, kijana?" ("Do you speak English, young man?") you ask in Swahili.

Still smiling he shakes his head.

"Jina lako nani?" ("What's your name?").

With a broader smile he almost shouts, "Bill Clinton."

IT HURTS . . . BRING IT!!!

"Shhhh . . . what you are about to read is politically incorrect. Tafadhali, repeat only in whispers."

Nothing worthwhile can be built on a false foundation.

Obscenities spewed bitterly from her, bombarding my ears like the loud, gruff voice of a man. By the harsh rumble of her voice I knew that she was a CARBON- COPY woman even before out of the corner of my eye I took in her grumpy round face, her heavy lips, and short, straightened hair dyed blond. She sat in the first seat on my left as I came through the door. Usually I boarded buses by the front door, hoping to find a seat far from the back, the area seemingly preferred by loud, vulgar-mouthed denizens. But when the bus had stopped, the back door had been before me.

I had rushed to the seat across the aisle, facing the door I had come through, about five feet from her facing toward the front in a seat by the door. I felt fortunate that I'd only have to listen to her for a couple of blocks. I would've gotten off and walked those two blocks the moment I heard her mouth, but I thought of one of the blocks as tantamount to walking up Mt. Everst, and my post-midddle-aged legs didn't relish the climb.

". . . can't nobody look down on me . . . !" she was blaring. Several Afrikan American women sitting at the front of the bus had turned in their seats twice, sending censuring stares at her. A slim "black" woman sitting across the aisle from her with long rope-like false plaits attached to her hair added giggles and "yeses" to everything the woman was saying. Both seemed to be in their early twenties.

" . . . I know bulldaggers, ho's, and prostitutes, bitches who knows how to git that money right -- and I don't take no fucking bullshit . . . !"

A lone white woman, her chestnut hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, her trim body in a nice-fitting gray suit, sat pressed tightly into the corner of the seat facing toward the front on the other side of the door, her handsome square face ashen and frozen forward as if she were holding her breath and was trying to ward off the woman's filthy mouth by becoming indistinguishable from the gray seat and green wall of the bus.

". . . it ain't lak I ain't got no culture -- I been to school, too -- and got my kids -- all five of 'em in school . . ."

Where did she come from? I asked myself, knowing the answer. I'd asked it before, hearing niggorant people like her on city buses and streets from Miami, Florida to San Francisco. Who or what produced her or any of us? She had culture? Where was it?

She wasn't part of that horde of illiterate Afrikan ancestors who got unsolicited free rides below deck on ships crossing the Atlantic; she wasn't met at the ships by people making her an "offer she couldn' refuse," room 'n' board for picking cotton. True, the people who made the offer were better organized, with gunpowder and intellectual power, but their offer was rejected some 150 years ago in a bloody civil war -- and this is the 21st century. The culture of whites has them walking and working in space! And "blacks" are still whining about having the highest rate of unemployment.

For generations, thousands of "blacks" have been graduating from colleges and universities with business degrees, but where are the "black" businesses to employ these "black" people? They get these degrees, these pieces of paper, to get a "good" job in businesses created by whites; still whining about being less educated than whites -- as if whites were responsible for educating them; whining about poverty and not enough welfare.

Yet, they're always mouthing about "black" culture this, "black" that, "black" culture here, there, and yon. But where is it? Any so-called "culture" that can't eradicate the problems of its people in over 150 years isn't worth a damn!!!

Let History Record It.