Both Sides: Why we don't fuck with the GOP
- Thread starter donwuan
- Start date
This is also what spur the southern strategy by Republicans when the big flip happen in the 60s.
This man right here was one of the main ones. What interesting about Thurmond though, if you ever talk to any older blacks in his district, whenever they needed something, he got that shit done....So weird he was a blatant racist, but if a black person called his office because the roads needed repair or whatever they case was, he got the job done.....
Strom Thurmond, 1964
Running for President as a Dixiecrat in 1948, Strom Thurmond declared that "all the laws of Washington and all the bayonets of the Army cannot force the Negro into our homes, our schools, our churches and our places of recreation." By 1964, with civil rights marching onward, it was clear that his fellow Democrats disagreed. Thurmond jumped ship, joining the Republican Party that year. The first major Southern pol to cross the aisle during the civil rights era, the South Carolina Senator marked the beginning of the GOP's appeal to white, Southern conservatives, and helped turn a former blue state red.
NEXTCondoleezza Rice, 1982
Even George Wallace, the most racist motherfucker in the world knew that shit was wrong...
Then life returns to the tired eyes. "Won't be long before I'm gone," George Wallace says, half singing the words out. "Won't be long a'tall."
Actually, his heart stopped beating a few months back. They rushed him to the hospital. At the hospital, aides thought the governor's time had come.
Swing low, sweet chariot. Coming for to carry George Wallace home.
But he rallied again, just like in the old days.
He prays these days. There's always a Bible nearby. He prays for redemption. It comes, of course, with a price. Just like in the old days, when he was rising and rising fast, kicking the red dirt of Alabama in the face of blacks. That came with a price. And he had all the coins and dollar bills in his pockets that he'd ever need. No one could tell him then the price was going to be too heavy to bear. He was a rich man.
How was he to know he'd meet the same folks coming down that he met coming up? When he was coming up, of course, he passed right by them - whoosh - trying to get to the State House, to the White House, to glory. Bringing the segregationists along with him. For a while it was a beautiful ride. Then the civil rights revolution blindsided him. And he kept kicking, giving as good as he got.
"I'm not a bad man," George Wallace says. "I never was a hater." He has a habit of saying things twice. Once to himself, once to the world. Listen, world: "I never was a hater."
Two weeks ago George Wallace was invited to the National Black Mayors Conference, held in Tuskegee, 45 miles from here. Many thought he wouldn't come. It's 45 miles, but that's 45 hellish miles for George Wallace. That's miles that rip into the arthritis, the Parkinson's disease. That's 45 miles that jolt every nerve, the ones that suffered when five bullets were fired into his solid body back in 1972. Forty-five miles. In the big beige van. It's a million jarring aches in his body asking his brain why in the world does he have his body out here on these roads. It's George Wallace in the back of the van, his eyes wide like some scared child's. Across the roads of Alabama for 74-year-old George Wallace is just a lot of bumps and curves and stops and starts. It's just a journey of pain.
"Some people thought he wasn't going to make it," says Tuskegee mayor Johnny Ford.
You don't hang back if you're seeking redemption. You go right into the pain. Like someone rushing over hot coals believing that the ordeal will lead to bliss. And there he was, being rolled through the doorways, the old flamethrower himself.
At the meeting, a woman strolled over to him. She bent down. It's a pain for him even to raise his neck. She asked him if he remembered her. He raised his neck, rolled the eyes up to the black lady's face.
"You worked on my advisory council with me for seven years," he told her. He grabbed Sadi Mae Edwards' hand. Grabbed it hard; kissed it gently.
"Those of you of the black race have done much for the state of Alabama and will do more and more and more." Wallace was at the microphone. Trying to keep his eyes focused. The knees hurting, the arms hurting, the sides hurting, the chest hurting, the behind hurting, squirming in the wheelchair, trying to get comfortable, which he never can. "Welcome to Alabama, God bless you, and may your numbers increase."
That was about it. And he hoped it was enough. He was tired, and hurting.
Black folk are forgiving George Wallace across Alabama. At the mayors' meeting things got emotional. There was grinning and back-slapping. The air was jubilant.
"We're all family down here," explains Tuskegee mayor Johnny Ford, who invited Wallace to the gathering. "That's what the North doesn't understand. We're family."
Right now George Wallace is twisting in his chair, in his office, in agony, yanking a desk drawer open, pulling out something covered in red leather. It's an honorary degree from historically black Tuskegee University (formerly Tuskegee Institute). He holds it up, waves it. He received it in 1985. "That'll answer all the questions for you," he says, pushing his hallelujah out to the rest of the world, to the nonbelievers. "If I was a bad man, I'd've never gotten that."
Any time he can grab a black hand, he does; apologize for the past, he does; talk to the Lord, he does. All the sins might not be washed away, but they'll be battled with.
If black folk can forgive George Wallace, cannot the rest of the world?
"Life is a mystery," says Anthony Butler, the mayor of tiny Lisman, Ala. He once marched with King. Now he prays with Wallace.
The governor has an office on the fourth floor of Bartlett Hall, part of the Troy State University-Montgomery campus. It is a decorated office. Photos are everywhere. There are no demons in this office. Nothing to point to the days he was hated.
It was only six words. But they became a part of the American lexicon. They burned a hole in the ground, in the South, on the tabletops of black families in this region.
Segregation now. Segregation tomorrow. Segregation forever.
Demons from the Kennedy Justice Department had him surrounded and he knew it. It was the fall of 1962, the integration effort at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa. He was the governor.
His father had always told him the South had been mistreated. Sam Rayburn, the Texan and speaker of the House, once told him the South was just used to carry water from the well to the house. He told himself he would hold the outsiders back. George Wallace wasn't going to carry water for no one. Least of all outsiders. They had tried to integrate Ole Miss a year earlier. There were bayonets, and blood, and dead bodies.
So he stepped to the schoolhouse door, right there in Tuscaloosa. It was June 11, 1963. Big Nick Katzenbach, of the Kennedy Justice Department, was standing over him with his pedigreed background from up North. When he had been in the ring George Wallace had floored men bigger than Nick Katzenbach - with one punch.
The Kennedys, with their rich Harvard degrees, now face to face with a Clio, Ala., boy, George Wallace, boxer, up from the land itself, his own daddy gone and buried in the Alabama dirt.
The federal government thought George Wallace was breaking laws.
Tuskegee gave him an honorary doctorate of laws. "Very few people have one," he says, the voice rising. "You wouldn't have thought I'd have had that, would you?" He puts on his glasses, rereading the fine print of the degree, the lovely Latin script, holding it up close to his eyes. "If I was a bad man, I wouldn't have gotten that. No way."
"Segregation was wrong," he says now. "But that was then, and I'm happy it's over with. I was afraid. The reason I stood in the schoolhouse door was on account of what happened at Ole Miss."
There is nothing in this office that evokes the memory of the man who preached from the pulpit at Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, a mere block from the Montgomery State House where Wallace served four terms.
Far as he can remember, George Wallace never came face to face with that preacher. And he and Martin Luther King Jr. worked a mere block from each other. "Never said a bad word about Dr. Martin Luther King either. Dr. King did good work for the country."
George Wallace lives on Fitzgerald, just beyond its intersection with Zelda, the roads named after F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, those doomed lovers. Scott met Zelda at a dance here in Montgomery. She died in a mental hospital; he died in Hollywood.
It's a small, modest house. That was long the curse of the Southern politician. There was no Wall Street to return to, no big fancy law firms like in the East. For George Wallace there was Clio, Ala., to return to. He wanted more than that.
He lives alone. Not literally, but there are no other family members living under his roof. Lurleen died in 1968; two other marriages ended in divorce. His four children are grown and scattered.
There's round-the-clock live-in help, to get George Wallace in and out of bed, into the bathtub.
His son, George Jr., is the state treasurer. Many predict he'll someday run for governor. Many also wonder how much of a challenge for young George it might be to drag that history-soaked last name to the top of the hill.
Many will tell you the son lacks the father's fire. "Very smart boy, though," the father allows.
The only time the elder George Wallace uprooted himself from the South was during World War II. He flew bombers over Japan. He couldn't wait to get back home, to Alabama. "The land," he says, brought him back. "It's the land. You feel so close to it."
George Wallace's father died when he was 18. The Depression had washed over the land.
On March 21, 1965, about 50,000 marchers set off from Selma on a 50-mile march to Montgomery. It was called the Selma-to-Montgomery march. It was tense. The ones who completed the entire march waltzed around the Montgomery State House in red capes, to indicate they had made the entire journey. They wanted the vote. Wallace wanted them to go away.
In a way the Old South of George Wallace was crumbling, and he was going down with it and trying to rise at the same time. By 1972 he had launched his own go-for-broke odyssey, running for the presidency.
His kind of electricity, on the campaign trail, attracted throngs. He was aggressive, like a cornered boxer trying to break for the clear.
He couldn't see the attack coming. No one could. His aides knew anything could happen out there on the trail. It went with the territory. A busboy out of Milwaukee by the name of Arthur Bremer had tailed Wallace to a rally in Laurel, Md., on May 15, 1972. First one pop, then another.
Five pops in all.
There he lay, sprawled on the ground, as crumpled and bloody as the assassinated Huey Long, that Louisiana populist Wallace had been compared to.
Those bullets killed his big White House dream.
Bremer was asked at his sentencing if he had anything to say. "Oh," he said, "I suppose I have a world of things to say." Then he went quiet as an empty schoolroom. He hasn't uttered a word about it since. He got 53 years in a Maryland prison.
"I'd like to meet him," Wallace says about Bremer, staring outside his office into a day's worth of Alabama sunshine. Face to face, Wallace and Bremer. He thinks it was a conspiracy. "I was getting too strong politically."
Afterward, George Wallace came back to Alabama, to the State House, to the land. A crippled man with broken dreams can lean against the land.
In 1978 George Wallace had served three terms as Alabama governor. Many thought that would close his chapter of Alabama politics. The state got on without him. But he itched to get back in. Who was he if he wasn't rumbling across the state, across Alabama, the only land he's ever truly known?
When blacks heard he was running for governor again in 1983, many froze. There were powerful emotions buried beneath the red dirt of Alabama.
George Wallace faced a challenging runoff from Lt. Gov. George McMillan in the Democratic primary. If George Wallace lost the primary, that would kill his political comeback. And many thought McMillan, liberal, admired by blacks, would beat Wallace.
Then something happened. Blacks began coming to George Wallace. In all those years he never came to them; now they were swimming toward him. It was something akin to a country Baptism, down by the river, under the sunshine. It perplexed Alabama political strategists. Wallace had met with blacks, looked them in the eye, and said: I am sorry.
The same blacks he had once jailed. George Wallace needed every black supporter he could get.
Maybe it was something as simple as forgiveness itself. They really didn't know where George McMillan might go in the State House. They knew where Wallace had been, and thus, there was the sweet opportunity to lift him to higher ground.
The primary runoff came down to 48.8 percent for McMillan; 51.2 percent for George Wallace.
"Wallace carried my county, Choctaw County, and it's 85 percent black," recalls the Lisman mayor, Anthony Butler.
In the general election, Wallace trounced Emory Folmar, his Republican opponent. Folmar himself had tried to out-Wallace George Wallace, at least the old George Wallace.
For George Wallace - being saved by those he had once tormented - it was like being lifted up whole before the world.
And it was as if there wasn't enough time in the day for George Wallace to make amends.
Johnny Ford, the black mayor of Tuskegee, was angry at a state official who was holding back his county's Head Start funding - "money for my children," as Ford puts it. Ford went over the state official's head, to Wallace himself. "The next day my Head Start money was on my desk," says Ford.
A lot of black mayors across Alabama will tell you that George Wallace came through. He did things behind the scenes. He got money into the depressed communities.
The early Wallace took.
The crippled Wallace gives.
"Wallace was never as bad as the press made him out to be," says Butler.
Wallace's assistant press secretary was Frank Mastin Jr. When Wallace fired his white press secretary, many wondered if he would elevate Mastin, who is black. A black mouthpiece for George Wallace? Wallace didn't bat an eye. It happened so quickly many thought it was a cruel joke.
But it was real.
And as long as George Wallace was governor - sometimes sending Mastin into all-white communities where Wallace remained a hero, sending him for the wrong reasons, to hear blacks tell it - Frank Mastin was not going to be mistreated.
Sometimes Frank Mastin would be in the governor's mansion, and he'd look in on Wallace, sitting there in all his pain, in that wheelchair, and he'd hear Wallace on the telephone, trying to get food for some black community, trying to get a grant here, a grant there, checking in on black families he knew. That touched Frank Mastin.
`If someone threatened to hurt George Wallace," says Frank Mastin, "I'd be the first to go get my gun."
by CNB
GEORGE WALLACE SEEKS REDEMPTION; BLACKS FORGIVE.
He has fallen deep into that soldier's stare. Staring out the window, into the Alabama sunshine, as if he's trying to lure someone closer who might be a million miles away.Then life returns to the tired eyes. "Won't be long before I'm gone," George Wallace says, half singing the words out. "Won't be long a'tall."
Actually, his heart stopped beating a few months back. They rushed him to the hospital. At the hospital, aides thought the governor's time had come.
Swing low, sweet chariot. Coming for to carry George Wallace home.
But he rallied again, just like in the old days.
He prays these days. There's always a Bible nearby. He prays for redemption. It comes, of course, with a price. Just like in the old days, when he was rising and rising fast, kicking the red dirt of Alabama in the face of blacks. That came with a price. And he had all the coins and dollar bills in his pockets that he'd ever need. No one could tell him then the price was going to be too heavy to bear. He was a rich man.
How was he to know he'd meet the same folks coming down that he met coming up? When he was coming up, of course, he passed right by them - whoosh - trying to get to the State House, to the White House, to glory. Bringing the segregationists along with him. For a while it was a beautiful ride. Then the civil rights revolution blindsided him. And he kept kicking, giving as good as he got.
"I'm not a bad man," George Wallace says. "I never was a hater." He has a habit of saying things twice. Once to himself, once to the world. Listen, world: "I never was a hater."
Two weeks ago George Wallace was invited to the National Black Mayors Conference, held in Tuskegee, 45 miles from here. Many thought he wouldn't come. It's 45 miles, but that's 45 hellish miles for George Wallace. That's miles that rip into the arthritis, the Parkinson's disease. That's 45 miles that jolt every nerve, the ones that suffered when five bullets were fired into his solid body back in 1972. Forty-five miles. In the big beige van. It's a million jarring aches in his body asking his brain why in the world does he have his body out here on these roads. It's George Wallace in the back of the van, his eyes wide like some scared child's. Across the roads of Alabama for 74-year-old George Wallace is just a lot of bumps and curves and stops and starts. It's just a journey of pain.
"Some people thought he wasn't going to make it," says Tuskegee mayor Johnny Ford.
You don't hang back if you're seeking redemption. You go right into the pain. Like someone rushing over hot coals believing that the ordeal will lead to bliss. And there he was, being rolled through the doorways, the old flamethrower himself.
At the meeting, a woman strolled over to him. She bent down. It's a pain for him even to raise his neck. She asked him if he remembered her. He raised his neck, rolled the eyes up to the black lady's face.
"You worked on my advisory council with me for seven years," he told her. He grabbed Sadi Mae Edwards' hand. Grabbed it hard; kissed it gently.
"Those of you of the black race have done much for the state of Alabama and will do more and more and more." Wallace was at the microphone. Trying to keep his eyes focused. The knees hurting, the arms hurting, the sides hurting, the chest hurting, the behind hurting, squirming in the wheelchair, trying to get comfortable, which he never can. "Welcome to Alabama, God bless you, and may your numbers increase."
That was about it. And he hoped it was enough. He was tired, and hurting.
Black folk are forgiving George Wallace across Alabama. At the mayors' meeting things got emotional. There was grinning and back-slapping. The air was jubilant.
"We're all family down here," explains Tuskegee mayor Johnny Ford, who invited Wallace to the gathering. "That's what the North doesn't understand. We're family."
Right now George Wallace is twisting in his chair, in his office, in agony, yanking a desk drawer open, pulling out something covered in red leather. It's an honorary degree from historically black Tuskegee University (formerly Tuskegee Institute). He holds it up, waves it. He received it in 1985. "That'll answer all the questions for you," he says, pushing his hallelujah out to the rest of the world, to the nonbelievers. "If I was a bad man, I'd've never gotten that."
Any time he can grab a black hand, he does; apologize for the past, he does; talk to the Lord, he does. All the sins might not be washed away, but they'll be battled with.
If black folk can forgive George Wallace, cannot the rest of the world?
"Life is a mystery," says Anthony Butler, the mayor of tiny Lisman, Ala. He once marched with King. Now he prays with Wallace.
The governor has an office on the fourth floor of Bartlett Hall, part of the Troy State University-Montgomery campus. It is a decorated office. Photos are everywhere. There are no demons in this office. Nothing to point to the days he was hated.
It was only six words. But they became a part of the American lexicon. They burned a hole in the ground, in the South, on the tabletops of black families in this region.
Segregation now. Segregation tomorrow. Segregation forever.
Demons from the Kennedy Justice Department had him surrounded and he knew it. It was the fall of 1962, the integration effort at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa. He was the governor.
His father had always told him the South had been mistreated. Sam Rayburn, the Texan and speaker of the House, once told him the South was just used to carry water from the well to the house. He told himself he would hold the outsiders back. George Wallace wasn't going to carry water for no one. Least of all outsiders. They had tried to integrate Ole Miss a year earlier. There were bayonets, and blood, and dead bodies.
So he stepped to the schoolhouse door, right there in Tuscaloosa. It was June 11, 1963. Big Nick Katzenbach, of the Kennedy Justice Department, was standing over him with his pedigreed background from up North. When he had been in the ring George Wallace had floored men bigger than Nick Katzenbach - with one punch.
The Kennedys, with their rich Harvard degrees, now face to face with a Clio, Ala., boy, George Wallace, boxer, up from the land itself, his own daddy gone and buried in the Alabama dirt.
The federal government thought George Wallace was breaking laws.
Tuskegee gave him an honorary doctorate of laws. "Very few people have one," he says, the voice rising. "You wouldn't have thought I'd have had that, would you?" He puts on his glasses, rereading the fine print of the degree, the lovely Latin script, holding it up close to his eyes. "If I was a bad man, I wouldn't have gotten that. No way."
"Segregation was wrong," he says now. "But that was then, and I'm happy it's over with. I was afraid. The reason I stood in the schoolhouse door was on account of what happened at Ole Miss."
There is nothing in this office that evokes the memory of the man who preached from the pulpit at Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, a mere block from the Montgomery State House where Wallace served four terms.
Far as he can remember, George Wallace never came face to face with that preacher. And he and Martin Luther King Jr. worked a mere block from each other. "Never said a bad word about Dr. Martin Luther King either. Dr. King did good work for the country."
George Wallace lives on Fitzgerald, just beyond its intersection with Zelda, the roads named after F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, those doomed lovers. Scott met Zelda at a dance here in Montgomery. She died in a mental hospital; he died in Hollywood.
It's a small, modest house. That was long the curse of the Southern politician. There was no Wall Street to return to, no big fancy law firms like in the East. For George Wallace there was Clio, Ala., to return to. He wanted more than that.
He lives alone. Not literally, but there are no other family members living under his roof. Lurleen died in 1968; two other marriages ended in divorce. His four children are grown and scattered.
There's round-the-clock live-in help, to get George Wallace in and out of bed, into the bathtub.
His son, George Jr., is the state treasurer. Many predict he'll someday run for governor. Many also wonder how much of a challenge for young George it might be to drag that history-soaked last name to the top of the hill.
Many will tell you the son lacks the father's fire. "Very smart boy, though," the father allows.
The only time the elder George Wallace uprooted himself from the South was during World War II. He flew bombers over Japan. He couldn't wait to get back home, to Alabama. "The land," he says, brought him back. "It's the land. You feel so close to it."
George Wallace's father died when he was 18. The Depression had washed over the land.
On March 21, 1965, about 50,000 marchers set off from Selma on a 50-mile march to Montgomery. It was called the Selma-to-Montgomery march. It was tense. The ones who completed the entire march waltzed around the Montgomery State House in red capes, to indicate they had made the entire journey. They wanted the vote. Wallace wanted them to go away.
In a way the Old South of George Wallace was crumbling, and he was going down with it and trying to rise at the same time. By 1972 he had launched his own go-for-broke odyssey, running for the presidency.
His kind of electricity, on the campaign trail, attracted throngs. He was aggressive, like a cornered boxer trying to break for the clear.
He couldn't see the attack coming. No one could. His aides knew anything could happen out there on the trail. It went with the territory. A busboy out of Milwaukee by the name of Arthur Bremer had tailed Wallace to a rally in Laurel, Md., on May 15, 1972. First one pop, then another.
Five pops in all.
There he lay, sprawled on the ground, as crumpled and bloody as the assassinated Huey Long, that Louisiana populist Wallace had been compared to.
Those bullets killed his big White House dream.
Bremer was asked at his sentencing if he had anything to say. "Oh," he said, "I suppose I have a world of things to say." Then he went quiet as an empty schoolroom. He hasn't uttered a word about it since. He got 53 years in a Maryland prison.
"I'd like to meet him," Wallace says about Bremer, staring outside his office into a day's worth of Alabama sunshine. Face to face, Wallace and Bremer. He thinks it was a conspiracy. "I was getting too strong politically."
Afterward, George Wallace came back to Alabama, to the State House, to the land. A crippled man with broken dreams can lean against the land.
In 1978 George Wallace had served three terms as Alabama governor. Many thought that would close his chapter of Alabama politics. The state got on without him. But he itched to get back in. Who was he if he wasn't rumbling across the state, across Alabama, the only land he's ever truly known?
When blacks heard he was running for governor again in 1983, many froze. There were powerful emotions buried beneath the red dirt of Alabama.
George Wallace faced a challenging runoff from Lt. Gov. George McMillan in the Democratic primary. If George Wallace lost the primary, that would kill his political comeback. And many thought McMillan, liberal, admired by blacks, would beat Wallace.
Then something happened. Blacks began coming to George Wallace. In all those years he never came to them; now they were swimming toward him. It was something akin to a country Baptism, down by the river, under the sunshine. It perplexed Alabama political strategists. Wallace had met with blacks, looked them in the eye, and said: I am sorry.
The same blacks he had once jailed. George Wallace needed every black supporter he could get.
Maybe it was something as simple as forgiveness itself. They really didn't know where George McMillan might go in the State House. They knew where Wallace had been, and thus, there was the sweet opportunity to lift him to higher ground.
The primary runoff came down to 48.8 percent for McMillan; 51.2 percent for George Wallace.
"Wallace carried my county, Choctaw County, and it's 85 percent black," recalls the Lisman mayor, Anthony Butler.
In the general election, Wallace trounced Emory Folmar, his Republican opponent. Folmar himself had tried to out-Wallace George Wallace, at least the old George Wallace.
For George Wallace - being saved by those he had once tormented - it was like being lifted up whole before the world.
And it was as if there wasn't enough time in the day for George Wallace to make amends.
Johnny Ford, the black mayor of Tuskegee, was angry at a state official who was holding back his county's Head Start funding - "money for my children," as Ford puts it. Ford went over the state official's head, to Wallace himself. "The next day my Head Start money was on my desk," says Ford.
A lot of black mayors across Alabama will tell you that George Wallace came through. He did things behind the scenes. He got money into the depressed communities.
The early Wallace took.
The crippled Wallace gives.
"Wallace was never as bad as the press made him out to be," says Butler.
Wallace's assistant press secretary was Frank Mastin Jr. When Wallace fired his white press secretary, many wondered if he would elevate Mastin, who is black. A black mouthpiece for George Wallace? Wallace didn't bat an eye. It happened so quickly many thought it was a cruel joke.
But it was real.
And as long as George Wallace was governor - sometimes sending Mastin into all-white communities where Wallace remained a hero, sending him for the wrong reasons, to hear blacks tell it - Frank Mastin was not going to be mistreated.
Sometimes Frank Mastin would be in the governor's mansion, and he'd look in on Wallace, sitting there in all his pain, in that wheelchair, and he'd hear Wallace on the telephone, trying to get food for some black community, trying to get a grant here, a grant there, checking in on black families he knew. That touched Frank Mastin.
`If someone threatened to hurt George Wallace," says Frank Mastin, "I'd be the first to go get my gun."
by CNB
Basically. The white power structure is based on control and oppression. Losing that control terrifies them, because they have been so cruel and manipulative with their power that they can't imagine a world where that same level of abuse won't be levied back to them if someone else takes control.
And the sad irony is that, for most minorities, all we want is a fair shake. We could give a shit about getting payback for the past or even the present. We just want to be left alone and have a chance to thrive, just like everybody else. But hate builds a strong foundation.
Trump fed the fire but what really set the firewood these races white people was Obama winning twice. That’s when some of them realize their power is slipping.
They took too long. A waste of fucking time at this point. The Saudi's and Biden are buddy buddy now. The Saudis's paid/played both sides and have obviously won.
No shit but try telling these dumb ass sand cac worshipping dumb fucks and they call you a genocide lover. Of course a bunch of terrorists don’t care
I dont think that how its reported how it played out. OPEC lost profits trying to restrict oil. I don’t know what they have won when in the end they made the US the top producer in Oil.
Yep and Obama is sort of the same thing when he was in the office.
BREAKING: Donald Trump gets devastating news as it's revealed that the New Jersey attorney general's office is considering stripping away the liquor licenses for three of his golf courses because he's a convicted felon.
And it gets even better...
A spokeswoman for the New Jersey Division of Alcoholic Beverage Control, which falls under the purview of the attorney general's office, stated that they are "reviewing the impact of President Trump’s conviction on the above referenced licenses, and declines further comment at this time."
The division's handbook explicitly states that anyone convicted of a crime "involving moral turpitude" is ineligible to hold a liquor license. Since Trump has been convicted of 34 felonies, he neatly falls within those parameters.
One of the factors that goes into the consideration is whether or not an individual has a "reputable character and would be expected to operate the licensed business in a reputable manner."
Obviously, Trump is not reputable nor can he be expected to behave in a reputable manner.
No one is above the law. Strip his licenses.
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But...but...but...the racial wealth gap
[quote/]Pay in America is becoming more equal along race, age, and education lines as well. The wage gap between Black and white Americans has shrunk to its lowest point since at least the 1980s. Pay for workers younger than 25 has increased twice as fast as older workers’ pay. And the so-called college wage premium—the pay gap between those with and without a college degree—has shrunk to its lowest measure in 15 years. (The gender pay gap has also narrowed slightly, but far less than the others.)
You stay with the cooning and stupidity, huh?
Black wealth is increasing, but so is the racial wealth gap
Black wealth is increasing, but so is the racial wealth gap | Brookings
www.brookings.edu
House Republicans Hold Merrick Garland In Contempt Of Congress
Garland refused to give Republicans audio of Joe Biden's special counsel interview, saying the transcript should be enough.
They showed up for George Floyd. Black Lives Matter then waisted millions of dollars. People then decided that local races were not that important and went to sleep.