Britches

Sunday Britches:  Does what we're taught during our formative years  travel irreversibly below the surface of our thoughts and actions throughout our life?

Early Britches:  In our countries we're like Gods.  No one dares to publicly question or disagree with any order we give.  Now comes this one of color, chosen head of state of a  super-power country by some unruly mob or some cunning crew.  We  have many of his color in our countries, descendents of those we enslaved, people of no worth.  One tires of seeing them in countries all over the world, living in squallor and illiteracy, always beggers.  We keep them out of sight.  But this one in his childhood was exposed to our religion.  When he met the ruler of that kingdom like mine he bowed so low over that ruler's hand he seemed to be kissing his hand as one kisses the hand of the Pope.  Rumors are that he's got anti-Jewish acquaintances in his background, even some anti-American acquaintances . . . interesting . . . .

Later Britches:  People of his color have been in the countries like mine in this Hemisphere for as long as they've been in his.  But our people have never seen one of his color as a head of state of one of our countries.  Can't even dream of it.  Be a nightmare in one of our countries.  All that divisive racial talk.  Rioting, lootin', burning.  We keep people of  his color out of sight, subdued.  Surely he knows all that.  Wonder what he thinks of us . . . at least every time he sees one of us we're not bouncing a damn basketball on sidewalks and streets, subways and buses, in restaurants and toilets -- and we've got a language.  Some people compare him with politicians throughout underdeveloped countries who have always used the masses to gain office by promising them more beans and rice than competing politicians.  On the scene of foreign policy such politicians never left any mark on the international stage of history unless they had the capacity of a Fidel Castro.

Sunday Britches:  Always surrounded.  Keep coming at you, partial to some color.  A damn color can't die for anybody.  Can't live for anybody . .  . still, variety matters.  People have been jumping in and out of interracial bedrooms for centuries.  Can't handle it, Bubba?  Kill  yourself.  Bullsh_t!  Roll the dice, pay your dues, "Try'em all . . . and back to the barracks fall . . . ."