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Showing posts from December, 2014

The Creation of the Self - That Which We Already Know

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With this post I return to the writing of That Which We Already Know. Gosh, it’s been over a month since I first began this chapter. Thank you for your patience, but I do hope you appreciated the previous two posts related to race relations. Oh, and Happy New Year!
Chapter 6 (continued) – The Creation of the Self
Please imagine once again that child that you once were. Do you remember running through the woods or through the neighborhood without concern for how fast or how far, without concern for the smoothness or clumsiness of your gate? The universe said run, and so you did. The entirety of your being said run and so it did. There is simply no arguing with the universe or the entirety of your being – not when you’re a child, anyway. Do you remember drawing or finger-painting or coloring without the question ever entering your mind as to whether you were “any good at it” or not, without the question ever entering your mind as to whether it was a worthwhile pursuit or whether you sh…

Why Would Anyone March For That Guy?

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I suppose I grew up rather clueless as to the depths of racial division in this country. That might seem strange given the fact that I grew up in an all-white neighborhood and didn’t even go to school with any non-white kids until late in my high school career. After all, the very existence of such lilywhite bastions would seem to speak pretty strongly of the existence of racial division, right? But perhaps it also points to our ability to both see the results of systemic racism without really seeing it all at the same time. Interestingly, the first step toward racial diversity at our high school didn’t even involve the enrollment of any African-Americans. It was a couple of Vietnamese refugees, so-called “Boat People”, who were the first non-whites to walk through our doors.
Despite growing up in an all-white neighborhood, I don’t recall a single instance of my parents inculcating us kids with any racist ideas. To the contrary, I remember well my mother, a British immigrant, telling…