I’m Not Afraid of Blacks
I have no trouble criticizing blacks. Why should I? I’m not afraid of them. They are people, people, people. I’m not like Ellen DeGeneres praying for “Twelve Years a Slave" to win the Academy Award.
I am not gay, not like Ellen. I do not feel in opposition to the cultural and historical mainstream. I am a white male, the group everyone is jealous of except ourselves who exult in self-criticism.
I am not phobic. I am not afraid of blacks. I have fought many of them in the ring and I have never noticed that they are black. They are something larger than their color. King wanted to be judged by the content of his character. He wouldn’t have liked Hollywood’s celebration of color. He wouldn’t have given a simplistic film like “Twelve Years a Slave” an Academy Award for being clichéd.
Blacks and whites, boxers, we judge each other by how we take punches. I do not fight with gays. I am not homophobic. I am not afraid. They are just playing a different game. The blacks I know resent comparisons of gays and themselves with the civil rights movement. Blacks are not perverted. They have been selected against unfairly. The good ones. The ones who are pleasantly and industriously black.
Blacks are sometimes my opponents. They can hurt me and I can hurt them. What do I care about the color of the skin when a red glove breaks my nose?
I am Clarabelle. I am a clown. I am tripping over my own shoes. We are in a dance of pain and dominance. We are brothers. We are equals or I am less or more. We are out there, in orbit, punching each other while we circle the wussy liberal ideas of the whites and the resentful flying high braggadocio of the blacks.
We are different but we are one in our rush to prove that we are tougher than tough and looking for camaraderie at the end of the bout. I am a Jew, a Jew, a Jew. But I don’t think that our mistreatment by the Nazis makes it necessary to turn me progressively kind to angry strangers.
I have no reason to befriend all my enemies as a contrast to the Germans who tortured my people. My kindness will not bring back the dead or turn curdled feelings into the milk of human kindness. Liberalism is a failure of courage. It is the inability to hate your enemies, to love your friends. It is the decay of family and the broken back in a mountain of perversion.
Values are the walls you build around too easy acceptance. If I love blacks I cannot see their single mothers and their high crime rate without resenting their failures and saying, “There but for the grace of God go I,” regardless of pigmentation.
The ref raises your hand, raises mine. It doesn’t matter. We are both there for the communion. We see God in a detached retina. We eat his body in our blood not in the ideology of his failed rabbis and priests. I do not know what guilt means. I suppose it is absorbing another person’s antagonism. It is wrong. I don’t feel it. Accepting your enemy is failing your friend.
I walk through the valley of strangers and criticize the faces that don’t agree with me regardless of color. Political correctness is praising the black murderers on death row. Wanting to give them another chance no matter their killing disposition. Failing to find justice for the victims. Failing to do what must be done to save the black race from self-destruction.
Check out on Amazon.com David Lawrence's life story in "The King of White Collar Boxing."