This poor starving child (above) must have been hungry and so he murdered an Italian immigrant owner of a pizza joint on Roosevelt Road.
Paula Deen is a lady who puts butter in everything on Television, or rather had done so until she was summarily executed by the Star Chamber of Post-Racial America. The cook and owner of a Savannah Georgia restaurant and star of the Food Network was being nuisance suited by a disgruntled employee and in the civil suit deposition admitted to using the " N " word sometime prior to the Clinton Administration. I guess there is no statute of limitations on the use of six letter words that make one go figure, shout bigger, or squeeze a trigger.
I know who Paula Deen happens to be, but I had not known that she is the root cause of racial injustice, until I tripped over Mary Mitchell's venomous tongue this morning. Mary Mitchell is the racist one-note-samba of the Chicago Sun Times. Mitchell's ideas resonate in the tweedy sections of Hyde Park, Evanston and Oak Park Illinois and clang everywhere else. Mary Mitchell's Metaphor - A Slap in the Face e.g." Decision to Cancel Brooks -Payton Is a Slap in the Face" If the number of such racial buffetings endured by African Americans cited by Ms. Mitchell were unrhetorical this suffering urban demographic would be as slug-nutty as the Cooney Brothers.
I work in the African American community five and sometimes seven days a week and know that not to be the case and that black women, men and children are tough, spirited, generous, aspirational and most of all independent minded. Unless, I am very much mistaken.
Mary Mitchell thinks that " what Deen did or did not say more than 20 years ago isn’t the real problem.
Paula Deen will be Ok.
How about black kids walking to schools outside of their neighborhoods tomorrow morning, or Italian immigrant pizzeria owners, or people who read Mary Mitchell and nod with conviction and full agreement?
They are and will remain screwed and that is no slap in the face.
*Life Magazine | November 29th, 1969
... Sometimes he preaches on the legacy of slavery, and one senses that as he stands up there, his eyes ablaze, arms flailing, neck veins rigid, he is feeling every lash of every old whip. During these sermons Jackson sweats profusely, the only visible symptom of sickle-cell trait, a chronic blood disease that saps his stamina but which he ignores in the drama of the moment. Jackson talks about himself at these meetings. Once he told of his days as a waiter at the Jack Tar Hotel in his home town of Greenville, S.C. Just before leaving the kitchen he would spit into the food of white patrons he hated and then smilingly serve it to them. He did this, he said, "because it gave me psychological gratification." It was something everybody in the audience understood.