Re: About black americans..

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Mar 10, 2021, 12:41:29 PMMar 10
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World90" wrote in message news:rj3gg1$bh2$3...@dont-email.me...
>
> Hello..
>
> About black americans..
>
> I invite you to look at the following video, and you will notice that
> black americans can learn and be much more educated..

<snip>

You gotta be fucking kidding. Blacks and their White
liberal lackeys have been howling to Snopes.com about
this essay for years and it has yet to be debunked...
---------------------------------------------------
A White Teacher Speaks Out

Christopher Jackson
August 28, 2016

I recall a bad joke that explains, in crude terms, the relationship between
blacks and whites in America today:

“What do you call a white man surrounded by 20 blacks?”

“Coach.”

“What do you call a white man surrounded by 1,000 blacks?”

“Warden.”

I might add another line to this joke: “What do you call a white man
surrounded by 30 blacks?”

“Teacher.”

Until recently I taught at a predominantly black high school in a
southeastern state. I took the job because I wasn’t knowledgeable about race
at the time, and black schools aren’t picky. The school offered me a job and
suddenly I was in darkest Africa. Except, I wasn’t in Africa; I was in
America.

Blacks outnumbered whites about five to one at this school and there were
hardly any Hispanics. Some of my classes were all-black, or nearly so,
because the gifted and advanced classes siphoned off most of the white
students and I taught regular classes. There were some black teachers but
the majority were white.

Most of the blacks I taught were from the area. They did not tend to travel
very much, and I am sure there are regional differences in the ways in which
blacks speak and act. However, I suspect my experiences were generally
typical, certainly for Southern blacks.

The mainstream press gives a hint of what conditions are like in black
schools, but only a hint. Expressions journalists use like “chaotic” or
“poor learning environment” or “lack of discipline” do not capture what
really happens. There is nothing like the day-to-day experience of teaching
black children and that is what I will try to convey.

Noise

Most whites simply do not know what black people are like in large numbers,
and the first encounter can be a shock. One of the most immediately striking
things about my students was that they were loud. They had little conception
of ordinary white decorum. It was not unusual for five blacks to be
screaming at me at once. Instead of calming down and waiting for a lull in
the din to make their point — something that occurs to even the dimmest
white students — blacks just tried to yell over each other.

It did no good to try to quiet them, and white women were particularly inept
at trying. I sat in on one woman’s class as she begged the children to pipe
down. They just yelled louder so their voices would carry over hers.

Many of my black students would repeat themselves over and over again — just
louder. It was as if they suffered from Tourette syndrome. They seemed to
have no conception of waiting for an appropriate time to say something. They
would get ideas in their heads and simply had to shout them out. I might be
leading a discussion on government and suddenly be interrupted: “We gotta
get more Democrats! Clinton, she good!” The student may seem content with
that outburst but two minutes later, he would suddenly start yelling again:
“Clinton good!”

Anyone who is around young blacks will get a constant diet of rap music.
Blacks often make up their own jingles, and it was not uncommon for 15 black
boys to swagger into a classroom, bouncing their shoulders and jiving back
and forth, rapping 15 different sets of words in the same harsh, rasping
dialect. The words were almost invariably a childish form of boasting: “Who
got dem shine rim, who got dem shine shoe, who got dem shine grill (gold and
silver dental caps)?” The amateur rapper usually ends with a claim — in the
crudest terms imaginable — that all womankind is sexually devoted to him.
For whatever reason, my students would often groan instead of saying a
particular word, as in, “She suck dat aaahhhh (think of a long grinding
groan), she f**k dat aaaahhhh, she lick dat aaaahhh.”

Many rap lyrics are crude but some are simply incomprehensible. Not so long
ago, there was a popular rap called “Tat it up.” I heard the words from
hundreds of black mouths for weeks. Some of the lyrics are:

Tat tat tat it up.
ATL tat it up.
New York tat it up.
Tat tat tat it up.
Rap is one of the most degenerate things to have come out of our country,
and it is tragic that it has infected whites to the extent it has.

Black women love to dance — in a way white people might call gyrating. They
dance in the hall, in the classroom, on the chairs, next to the chairs,
under the chairs, everywhere. Once I took a call on my cell phone and had to
step outside of class. I was away about two minutes but when I got back the
black girls had lined up at the front of the classroom and were convulsing
to the delight of the boys.

Many black people, especially black women, are enormously fat. Some are so
fat I had to arrange special seating to accommodate their bulk. I am not
saying there are no fat white students — there are — but it is a matter of
numbers and attitudes. Many black girls simply do not care that they are
fat. There are plenty of white anorexics, but I have never met or heard of a
black anorexic.

“Black women be big Mr. Jackson,” my students would explain.

“Is it okay in the black community to be a little overweight?” I ask.

Two obese black girls in front of my desk begin to dance, “You know dem boys
lak juicy fruit, Mr. Jackson.” “Juicy” is a colorful black expression for
the buttocks.

Blacks are the most directly critical people I have ever met: “Dat shirt
stupid. Yo’ kid a bastard. Yo’ lips big.” Unlike whites, who tread gingerly
around the subject of race, they can be brutally to the point. Once I needed
to send a student to the office to deliver a message. I asked for
volunteers, and suddenly you would think my classroom was a bastion of civic
engagement. Thirty dark hands shot into the air. My students loved to leave
the classroom and slack off, even if just for a few minutes, away from the
eye of white authority. I picked a light-skinned boy to deliver the message.
One very black student was indignant: “You pick da half-breed.” And
immediately other blacks take up the cry, and half a dozen mouths are
screaming, “He half-breed.”

For decades, the country has been lamenting the poor academic performance of
blacks and there is much to lament. There is no question, however, that many
blacks come to school with a serious handicap that is not their fault. At
home they have learned a dialect that is almost a different language. Blacks
not only mispronounce words; their grammar is often wrong. When a black
wants to ask, “Where is the bathroom?” he may actually say “Whar da badroom
be?” Grammatically, this is the equivalent of “Where the bathroom is?” And
this is the way they speak in high school. Students write the way they
speak, so this is the language that shows up in written assignments.

It is true that some whites face a similar handicap. They speak with what I
would call a “country” accent that is hard to reproduce but results in
sentences such as “I’m gonna gemme a Coke.” Some of these country whites had
to learn correct pronunciation and usage. The difference is that most whites
overcome this handicap and learn to speak correctly; many blacks do not.

Most of the blacks I taught simply had no interest in academic subjects. I
taught history, and students would often say they didn’t want to do an
assignment or they didn’t like history because it was all about white
people. Of course, this was “diversity” history, in which every cowboy’s
black cook got a special page on how he contributed to winning the West, but
black children still found it inadequate. So I would throw up my hands and
assign them a project on a real, historical black person. My favorite was
Marcus Garvey. They had never heard of him, and I would tell them to
research him, but they never did. They didn’t care and they didn’t want to
do any work.

Anyone who teaches blacks soon learns that they have a completely different
view of government from whites. Once I decided to fill 25 minutes by having
students write about one thing the government should do to improve America.
I gave this question to three classes totaling about 100 students,
approximately 80 of whom were black. My few white students came back with
generally “conservative” ideas. “We need to cut off people who don’t work,”
was the most common suggestion. Nearly every black gave a variation on the
theme of “We need more government services.”

My students had only the vaguest notion of who pays for government services.
For them, it was like a magical piggy bank that never goes empty. One black
girl was exhorting the class on the need for more social services and I kept
trying to explain that people, real live people, are taxed for the money to
pay for those services. “Yeah, it come from whites,” she finally said. “They
stingy anyway.”

“Many black people make over $50,000 dollars a year and you would also be
taking away from your own people,” I said.

She had an answer to that: “Dey half breed.” The class agreed. I let the
subject drop.

Many black girls are perfectly happy to be welfare queens. On career day,
one girl explained to the class that she was going to have lots of children
and get fat checks from the government. No one in the class seemed to have
any objection to this career choice.

Surprising attitudes can come out in class discussion. We were talking about
the crimes committed in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and I brought up
the rape of a young girl in the bathroom of the Superdome. A majority of my
students believed this was a horrible crime but a few took it lightly. One
black boy spoke up without raising his hand: “Dat no big deal. They thought
they is gonna die so they figured they have some fun. Dey jus’ wanna have a
fun time; you know what I’m sayin’?” A few black heads nodded in agreement.

My department head once asked all the teachers to get a response from all
students to the following question: “Do you think it is okay to break the
law if it will benefit you greatly?” By then, I had been teaching for a
while and was not surprised by answers that left a young, liberal, white
woman colleague aghast. “Yeah” was the favorite answer. As one student
explained, “Get dat green.”

There is a level of conformity among blacks that whites would find hard to
believe. They like one kind of music: rap. They will vote for one political
party: Democrat. They dance one way, speak one way, are loud the same way,
and fail their exams in the same way. Of course, there are exceptions but
they are rare.

Whites are different. Some like country music, others heavy metal, some
prefer pop, and still others, God forbid, enjoy rap music. They have
different associations, groups, almost ideologies. There are jocks, nerds,
preppies, and hunters. Blacks are all — well — black, and they are quick to
let other blacks know when they deviate from the norm.

One might object that there are important group differences among blacks
that a white man simply cannot detect. I have done my best to find them, but
so far as I can tell, they dress the same, talk the same, think the same.
Certainly, they form rival groups, but the groups are not different in any
discernible way. There simply are no groups of blacks that are as distinctly
different from each other as white “nerds,” “hunters,” or “Goths,” for
example.

How the world looks to blacks

One point on which all blacks agree is that everything is “racis’.” This is
one message of liberalism they have absorbed completely. Did you do your
homework? “Na, homework racis’.” Why did you get an F on the test? “Test
racis’.”

I was trying to teach a unit on British philosophers and the first thing the
students noticed about Bentham, Hobbes, and Locke was “Dey all white! Where
da black philosopher a’?” I tried to explain there were no blacks in
eighteenth-century Britain. You can probably guess what they said to that:
“Dat racis’!”

One student accused me of deliberately failing him on a test because I didn’t
like black people.

“Do you think I really hate black people?”

“Yeah.”

“Have I done anything to make you feel this way? How do you know?”

“You just do.”

“Why do you say that?”

He just smirked, looked out the window, and sucked air through his teeth.
Perhaps this was a regional thing, but the blacks often sucked air through
their teeth as a wordless expression of disdain or hostility.

My students were sometimes unable to see the world except through the lens
of their own blackness. I had a class that was host to a German exchange
student. One day he put on a Power Point presentation with famous German
landmarks as well as his school and family. From time to time during the
presentation, blacks would scream, “Where da black folk?!” The exasperated
German tried several times to explain that there were no black people where
he lived in Germany. The students did not believe him. I told them Germany
is in Europe, where white people are from, and Africa is where black people
are from. They insisted that the German student was racist, and deliberately
refused to associate with blacks.

Blacks are keenly interested in their own racial characteristics. I have
learned, for example, that some blacks have “good hair.” Good hair is black
parlance for black-white hybrid hair. Apparently, it is less kinky, easier
to style, and considered more attractive.

Blacks are also proud of light skin. Imagine two black students shouting
insults across the room. One is dark but slim; the other light and obese.
The dark one begins the exchange: “You fat, Ridario!”

Ridario smiles, doesn’t deign to look at his detractor, shakes his head like
a wobbling top, and says, “You wish you light skinned.”

They could go on like this, repeating the same insults over and over.

My black students had nothing but contempt for Hispanic immigrants. They
would vent their feelings so crudely that our department strongly advised us
never to talk about immigration in class in case the principal or some
outsider might overhear.

Whites were “racis’,” of course, but they thought of us at least as
Americans. Not the Mexicans. Blacks have a certain, not necessarily hostile
understanding of white people. They know how whites act, and it is clear
they believe whites are smart and are good at organizing things. At the same
time, they probably suspect whites are just putting on an act when they talk
about equality, as if it is all a sham that makes it easier for whites to
control blacks. Blacks want a bigger piece of the American pie. I’m
convinced that if it were up to them they would give whites a considerably
smaller piece than whites get now, but they would give us something. They
wouldn’t give Mexicans anything.

What about black boys and white girls? No one is supposed to notice this or
talk about it but it is glaringly obvious: Black boys are obsessed with
white girls. White parents would do well to keep their daughters well away
from black schools. I’ve witnessed the following drama countless times. A
black boy saunters up to a white girl. The cocky black dances around her,
not really in a menacing way. It’s more a shuffle than a threat. As he bobs
and shuffles he asks, “When you gonna go wit’ me?”

There are two kinds of reply. The more confident white girl gets annoyed,
looks away from the black and shouts, “I don’t wanna go out with you!” The
more demure girl will look at her feet and mumble a polite excuse but
ultimately say no. There is only one response from the black boy: “You racis’.”
Many girls — all too many — actually feel guilty because they do not want to
date blacks. Most white girls at my school stayed away from blacks, but a
few, particularly the ones who were addicted to drugs, fell in with them.

There is something else that is striking about blacks. They seem to have no
sense of romance, of falling in love. What brings men and women together is
sex, pure and simple, and there is a crude openness about this. There are
many degenerate whites, of course, but some of my white students were
capable of real devotion and tenderness, emotions that seemed absent from
blacks — especially the boys.

Black schools are violent and the few whites who are too poor to escape are
caught in the storm. The violence is astonishing, not so much that it
happens, but the atmosphere in which it happens. Blacks can be smiling,
seemingly perfectly content with what they are doing, having a good time,
and then, suddenly start fighting. It’s uncanny. Not long ago, I was walking
through the halls and a group of black boys were walking in front of me. All
of a sudden they started fighting with another group in the hallway.

Blacks are extraordinarily quick to take offense. Once I accidentally
scuffed a black boy’s white sneaker with my shoe. He immediately rubbed his
body up against mine and threatened to attack me. I stepped outside the
class and had a security guard escort the student to the office. It was
unusual for students to threaten teachers physically this way, but among
themselves, they were quick to fight for similar reasons.

The real victims are the unfortunate whites caught in this. They are always
in danger and their educations suffer. White weaklings are particularly
susceptible, but mostly to petty violence. They may be slapped or get a
couple of kicks when they are trying to open a bottom locker. Typically,
blacks save the hard, serious violence for each other.

There was a lot of promiscuous sex among my students and this led to
violence. Black girls were constantly fighting over black boys. It was not
uncommon to see two girls literally ripping each other’s hair out with a
police officer in the middle trying to break up the fight. The black boy
they were fighting over would be standing by with a smile, enjoying the show
he had created. For reasons I cannot explain, boys seldom fought over girls.

Pregnancy was common among the blacks, though many black girls were so fat I
could not tell the difference. I don’t know how many girls got abortions,
but when they had the baby they usually stayed in school and had their own
parents look after the child. The school did not offer daycare.

Aside from the police officers constantly on patrol, a sure sign that you
are in a black school is the coke cage: the chain-link fence that many
majority-black schools use to protect vending machines. The cage surrounds
the machine and even covers its top. Delivery employees have to unlock a
gate on the front of the cage to service the machines. Companies would
prefer not to build cages around vending machines. They are expensive, ugly,
and a bother, but black students smashed the machines so many times it was
cheaper to build a cage than repair the damage. Rumor had it that before the
cages went up blacks would turn the machines upside down in the hope that
the money would fall out.

Protected Vending Machines
Security guards are everywhere in black schools — we had one on every hall.
They also sat in on unruly classes and escorted students to the office. They
were unarmed, but worked closely with the three city police officers who
were constantly on duty.

Rural black schools have to have security too but they are usually safer.
One reason is that the absolute numbers are smaller. A mostly-black school
of 300 students is safer than a mostly-black school of 2,000. Also, students
in rural areas — both black and white — tend to have grown up together and
know each other, at least by sight.

There was a lot of drug-dealing at my school. This was a good way to make a
fair amount of money but it also gave boys power over girls who wanted
drugs. An addicted girl — black or white — became the plaything of anyone
who could get her drugs.

One of my students was a notorious drug dealer. Everyone knew it. He was 19
years old and in eleventh grade. Once he got a score of three out of 100 on
a test. He had been locked up four times since he was 13, and there he was
sitting next to little, white Caroline.

One day, I asked him, “Why do you come to school?”

He wouldn’t answer. He just looked out the window, smiled, and sucked air
through his teeth. His friend Yidarius ventured an explanation: “He get dat
green and get dem females.”

“What is the green?” I asked. “Money or dope?”

“Both,” said Yidarius with a smile.

A very fat black interrupted from across the room: “We get dat lunch,” Mr.
Jackson. “We gotta get dat lunch and brickfuss.” He means the free breakfast
and lunch poor students get every day.

“Nigga, we know’d you be lovin’ brickfuss!” shouts another student.

Some readers may believe that I have drawn a cruel caricature of black
students. After all, according to official figures some 85 percent of them
graduate. It would be instructive to know how many of those scraped by with
barely a C- record. They go from grade to grade and they finally get their
diplomas because there is so much pressure on teachers to push them through.
It saves money to move them along, the school looks good, and the teachers
look good. Many of these children should have been failed, but the system
would crack under their weight if they were all held back.

How did my experiences make me feel about blacks? Ultimately, I lost
sympathy for them. In so many ways they seem to make their own beds. There
they were in an integrationist’s fantasy — in the same classroom with white
students, eating the same lunch, using the same bathrooms, listening to the
same teachers — and yet the blacks fail while the whites pass.

One tragic outcome among whites who have been teaching for too long is that
it can engender something close to hatred. One teacher I knew gave up fast
food — not for health reasons but because where he lived most fast-food
workers were black. He had enough of blacks on the job. This was an extreme
example, but years of frustration can take their toll. Many of my white
colleagues with any experience were well on their way to that state of mind.

There is an unutterable secret among teachers: Almost all realize that
blacks do not respond to traditional white instruction. Does that put the
lie to environmentalism? Not at all. It is what brings about endless,
pointless innovation that is supposed to bring blacks up to the white level.

The solution is more diversity — or put more generally, the solution is
change. Change is an almost holy word in education, and you can fail a
million times as long as you keep changing. That is why liberals keep
revamping the curriculum and the way it is taught. For example, teachers are
told that blacks need hands-on instruction and more group work. Teachers are
told that blacks are more vocal and do not learn through reading and
lectures. The implication is that they have certain traits that lend
themselves to a different kind of teaching.

Whites have learned a certain way for centuries but it just doesn’t work
with blacks. Of course, this implies racial differences but if pressed, most
liberal teachers would say different racial learning styles come from some
indefinable cultural characteristic unique to blacks. Therefore, schools
must change, America must change. But into what? How do you turn quantum
physics into hands-on instruction or group work? No one knows, but we must
keep changing until we find something that works.

Public school has certainly changed since anyone reading this was a student.
I have a friend who teaches elementary school, and she tells me that every
week the students get a new diversity lesson, shipped in fresh from some
bureaucrat’s office in Washington or the state capital. She showed me the
materials for one week: a large poster, about the size of a forty-two inch
flat-screen television. It shows an utterly diverse group — I mean diverse:
handicapped, Muslim, Jewish, effeminate, poor, rich, brown, slightly brown,
yellow, etc. — sitting at a table, smiling gaily, accomplishing some
undefined task. The poster comes with a sheet of questions the teacher is
supposed to ask. One might be: “These kids sure look different, but they
look happy. Can you tell me which one in the picture is an American?”

Some eight-year-old, mired in ignorance, will point to a white child like
himself. “That one.”

The teacher reads from the answer, conveniently printed along with the
question. “No, Billy, all these children are Americans. They are just as
American as you.”

The children get a snack, and the poster goes up on the wall until another
one comes a week later. This is what happens at predominately white,
middle-class, elementary schools everywhere.

Elementary school teachers love All of the Colors of the Race, by
award-winning children’s poet Arnold Adoff. These are some of the lines they
read to the children: “Mama is chocolate . . . Daddy is vanilla . . . Me
(sic) is better . . . It is a new color. It is a new flavor. For love.
Sometimes blackness seems too black for me, and whiteness is too sickly
pale; and I wish every one were golden. Remember: long ago before people
moved and migrated, and mixed and matched . . . there was one people: one
color, one race. The colors are flowing from what was before me to what will
be after. All the colors.”

Teaching as a career

It may come as a surprise after what I have written, but my experiences have
given me a deep appreciation for teaching as a career. It offers a stable,
middle-class life but comes with the capacity to make real differences in
the lives of children. In our modern, atomized world children often have
very little communication with adults — especially, or even, with their
parents — so there is potential for a real transaction between pupil and
teacher, disciple and master.

A rewarding relationship can grow up between an exceptional, interested
student and his teacher. I have stayed in my classroom with a group of
students discussing ideas and playing chess until the janitor kicked us out.
I was the old gentleman, imparting my history, culture, personal loves and
triumphs, defeats and failures to young kinsman. Sometimes I fancied myself
Tyrtaeus, the Spartan poet, who counseled the youth to honor and loyalty. I
never had this kind intimacy with a black student, and I know of no other
white teacher who did.

Teaching can be fun. For a certain kind of person it is exhilarating to map
out battles on chalkboards, and teach heroism. It is rewarding to challenge
liberal prejudices, to leave my mark on these children, but what I aimed for
with my white students I could never achieve with the blacks.

There is a kind of child whose look can melt your heart: some working-class
castaway, in and out of foster homes, often abused, who is nevertheless
almost an angel. Your heart melts for these children, this refuse of the
modern world. Many white students possess a certain innocence; their cheeks
still blush.

Try as I might, I could not get the blacks to care one bit about Beethoven
or Sherman’s march to the sea, or Tyrtaeus, or Oswald Spengler, or even
liberals like John Rawls, or their own history. They cared about nothing I
tried to teach them. When this goes on year after year it chokes the soul
out of a teacher, destroys his pathos, and sends him guiltily searching for
The Bell Curve on the Internet.

Blacks break down the intimacy that can be achieved in the classroom, and
leave you convinced that that intimacy is really a form of kinship. Without
intending to, they destroy what is most beautiful — whether it be your
belief in human equality, your daughter’s innocence, or even the state of
the hallway.

Just last year I read on the bathroom stall the words “F**k Whitey.” Not two
feet away, on the same stall, was a small swastika. The writing on that wall
somehow symbolized the futility of integration. No child should be have to
try to learn in such conditions. It was not racists who created those
conditions and it wasn’t poverty either; it was ignorant, white liberals. It
reminds me of Nietzsche: “I call an animal, a species, an individual
corrupt, when it loses its instincts, when it prefers what is injurious to
it.”

One often hears from egalitarians that it doesn’t matter what color
predominates in a future America so long as we preserve our values, since we
are a “proposition nation.” Even if we were prepared to hand over our
country to aliens who were going to “preserve our values,” it simply cannot
be done with blacks.

The National Council for the Social Studies, the leading authority on social
science education in the United States, urges teachers to inculcate such
values as equality of opportunity, individual property rights, and a
democratic form of government. Even if teachers could inculcate this
milquetoast ideology into whites, liberalism is doomed because so many
non-whites are not receptive to education of any kind beyond the merest
basics. Many of my students were functionally illiterate. It is impossible
to get them to care about such abstractions as property rights or democratic
citizenship. They do not see much further than the fact that you live in a
big house and “we in da pro-jek.” Of course, there are a few loutish whites
who will never think past their next meal and a few sensitive blacks for
whom anything is possible, but no society takes on the characteristics of
its exceptions.

Once I asked my students, “What do you think of the Constitution?”

“It white,” one slouching black rang out. The class began to laugh. And I
caught myself laughing along with them, laughing while Pompeii’s volcano
simmers, while the barbarians swell around the Palatine, while the country I
love, and the job I love, and the community I love become dimmer by the day.

I read a book by an expatriate Rhodesian who visited Zimbabwe not too many
years ago. Traveling with a companion, she stopped at a store along the
highway. A black man materialized next to her car window. “Job, boss, (I)
work good, boss,” he pleaded. “You give job.”

“What happened to your old job?” the expatriate white asked.

The black man replied in the straightforward manner of his race: “We drove
out the whites. No more jobs. You give job.”

At some level, my students understand the same thing. One day I asked the
bored, black faces staring back at me. “What would happen if all the white
people in America disappeared tomorrow?”

“We screwed,” a young, pitch-black boy screamed back. The rest of the blacks
laughed.

I have had children tell me to my face as they struggled with an assignment.
“I cain’t do dis,” Mr. Jackson. “I black.”

The point is that human beings are not always rational. It is in the black
man’s interest to have whites in Zimbabwe but he drives them out and
starves. Most whites do not think black Americans could ever do anything so
irrational. They see blacks on television smiling, fighting evil whites,
embodying white values. But the real black is not on television, and you
pull your purse closer when you see him, and you lock the car doors when he
swaggers by with his pants hanging down almost to his knees.

For those of you with children, better a smaller house in a white district
than a fancy one near a black school. Much better an older car than your
most precious jewels cast into a school where they will be a minority.

I have been in parent-teacher conferences that broke my heart: the child
pleading with his parents to take him out of school; the parents convinced
their child’s fears are groundless. If you love your child, show her you
care — not by giving her fancy vacations or a car, but making her innocent
years safe and happy. Give her the gift of a white school.

Of course, even the whitest schools are riddled with liberalism. There is
only one way to educate your children in a way that does not poison their
minds. If at all possible, home school your children. Educate them yourself.

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