Nina Tayloe asks Brown Berry (left), 75, for forgiveness Sunday during a prayer meeting at Clayborn Temple. More than two dozen people gathered outside the church in support of the upcoming dedication of the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. memorial in Washington.
Michael Scott wants to do something about racism.
That does it. I'm going to the MLK statue dedication. I've got to see this. There's no way the ground will be able to hold the hypocrisy. Something's gotta give anyhow. Carpool, anyone? A little Fear and Loathing in DC? Who will be my 300-lb. Samoan? I assure you I'm no Johnny Depp (here at Untethered, where things are right-side up, Johnny Depp is a wispy little mediocrity).
I'm serious. I just feel drawn, as if to a vortex created by the colliding air-masses of white anxiety and black resentment, to the unveiling of that monstrous likeness of Ozymandias and its sneer of cold command.* It's as if we're erecting these monuments to the ascendant multicultural empire, just as the host body that is the productive economy (which it has been inhabiting and attempting to replicate in rainbow-hues a la Invasion of the Bodysnatchers ) is dying. Soon it may have to crawl out into the open to starve in all its ugliness. I expect its defense to grow shriller and more violent the more desperate things get.
Good luck confusing diversity with excellence in the coming penury. Good luck disguising the failure of black America and the cost of placating its malice. The racial triumphalism which replaced the true language of civil rights has become so hollow and undeserved it cannot be disguised any longer. And the moment couldn't be worse for the dedication; to hear the usual platitudes, those melodramatic tones floating the same old bullshit narrative--now? Invoke away, but the fists and feet of our ferocious black children mock your nonsense, Mr. President
*I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".