EBOLA Without Warning

Part Two

On the backpage to the frontpage story the picture of throngs of blacks in Monrovia Liberia swarmed outside the gates of the U.S. Embassy pleading for the United States to send soldiers to save Liberians from the war between Liberia's government troops and rebel forces.  Images of  millions of starving, illiterate blacks in dirty, tattered clothes across the continent of Afrika -- in the 21st century -- intruded; followed by the tribal massacres in Rwanda in the 1990s . . . black men with machetes dripping blood, chopping off the heads, the arms and legs of hundreds of thousands of helpless black men, women, and children.

Today, in 2014, Liberia with EBOLA, in the news again . . . the President sending thousands of troops into Afrika to curtail and abolish the EBOLA disease.  The troops will clash with villagers led by so-called "leaders" who keep them gripped by stoneage superstitions against health workers and modern medicine.  Villagers will actually stone foreigners who risk their life to help them.  In fact, how could theses geniuses sending soldiers into Afrika figure out how to curtail and abolish the EBOLA disease, but have no idea how to rid young "black" thugs of such self-hate that they want to kill  anybody who looks like them?  And aren't they afraid that some of these soldiers will be infected with EBOLA and return to the United States with it?

'Maybe self-hate is a clever way of keeping the population of people of color under control . . .'
'What do you mean "people of color"?'
'Black people.'
'But all people have color.'
'No, white is the absence of color.'
'Others say that "black" is the absence of color.'
'If I come into your paint shop and say I want some of that absence of color paint, what would you give me?'
'If it were my shop, I would give you a quick kick in the butt to get your crazy ass out of my face.'

Visited the Gaslamp Quarter in the East Village of modern downtown San Diego that evening  . . . feeling an admiriation entangled with a disconnection as I walked the blocks of elegant cafes with sidewalk tables . . . cassually dressed white men and women chatting over white plates, sparkling wine glasses in hand in the warm evening.

Aftercwards went up around University and 29th Street to the Claire de Lune Cafe Shop and listened to the poetry and prose of writers taking their turn at life via an open-mike.  Thought intruded:  One day, talk to them about some of these intrusions that come without warning . . . maybe . . . .