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  • krisjamel
    May 2, 2006
      I am always intrigued by the Vanity of people who think that race is
      the clear cut division between ignorance and knowledge. I find myself
      curious as to what drives this thought process because it certainly is
      not history, nor tolerance or understanding, by process of elimination
      I've found it to be a lack of knowledge. How can he speak of
      something he has no understanding of, something as deep, complex and
      layered as the black psyche. How can he propose to right off an
      entire race's competency based on his limited knowledge of that race.
      What I propose is that we ignore him, but bring attention to the
      people who support him. You can not support a racist and not be a
      racist, there's a conflict of interest. Besides most closet racist
      don't want to be associated with an openly racist person, not good for
      business and public image. He seems like he needs an audience to
      thrive, so take that away. Anyway, here's my contribution to the
      poetry pot luck of black power and black pride. Rock on Mr. Verses,
      thanks for fighting these battles.


      I received a letter today, delivered by a mailman whose hand bore the
      same complexion as this crisp Blanca envelope. Enclosed are pages
      saturated with the words of an oppressor.

      It reads:
      Dear Ms. Guided One

      *(His letters all ways begin this way)
      Yes, I am still alive. I know you don't hear from me as much as you
      use to, but I've just been hanging around. I would bet that you don't
      believe me. How many examples do you need? How about that young
      African boy in New York City or the incident with Eddie Bauer. What
      about the destruction of the twin towers? What about the targeting of
      Arab-Americans that followed? Can you imagine what it will be like
      tomorrow? I hate to bring up the past, but have those people come up
      with a messiah in the wake of Martin's passing? Why am I asking, I
      know the answer. I guess I shouldn't ask of Huey P. of the panthers.
      I'm not trying to rub it in, but you should realize that you can't
      win. You are dying through the insouciance of men. Rest assured my
      friend I am alive and well.


      Racism a.k.a. Ignorance

      As I placed my letter in the drawer where I keep all of his letters, I
      pull out a tablet and my favorite gel pen. I then begin to return the
      ball, so to speak.

      Dear Ignorance,
      I am saddened to hear of your worsening condition. It seems that in
      your old age you believe that you are still thriving. Your days are
      negatively numbered; all living things must die. You may think you're
      as elusive as a chameleon, but you're much easier to view these days.
      Just because people do not speak your language in public doesn't mean
      they don't revert to their familiar lingo in private quarters.
      Therefore you have an infrared beam aimed at your heart, a chrome 45'
      is it's horse. But my guns aren't loaded with death; they're loaded
      with life. My ammo is more extensive than any army's for my bullets
      are books, righteous teachers, homegrown preachers, weathered
      political leaders, and an inspired youth. The perfect sedative for a
      sickness called ignorance, which you suffer from. I also suffer from
      this disease because I keep my friends close and my enemies even
      closer. With that being said, I will place my high caliber pistol
      back in its holster, and bid you a hollowed goodbye missing the
      sentiment of departure.

      With regard,


      P.S. Next time you would like to write me, e-mail me at

      I addressed this letter to everywhere and nowhere, which is generally
      his location depending on who you ask. The postage for this package
      was $6.66, expensive for just a letter but it carried thoughts that
      weighed heavy on my heart. As I relinquished the letter in to the
      world it hit the bottom of the mailbox with a thud. I turned into the
      icy wind of this want to be winter season night and head homeward. I
      notice a middle-aged woman, face reflective of the above crescent
      moon. making her merry way toward me. I offer a hardy "Good evening."
      She suddenly stops fast enough for her loafers to leave skid marks.
      She reaches into her purse, hands me a letter, and then scurries
      across the street. She moved like grade school kids told to stop
      running. She moved as if she suspected she was being followed, chased
      by monsters in her closet. Her imagination. I felt the deepest
      sympathy for her, although I couldn't help smiling. Isn't it funny
      how stupid racism makes people look?
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