Steve Sailer said... "Could you provide the quote?"
Sure. From Dreams from My Father:
I went to the refrigerator and pulled out two green peppers, setting them on the cutting board. “Well…there was a woman in New York that I loved. She was white. She had dark hair, and specks of green in her eyes. Her voice sounded like a wind chime. We saw each other for almost a year. On the weekends, mostly. Sometimes in her apartment, sometimes in mine. You know how you can fall into your own private world? Just two people, hidden and warm. Your own language. Your own customs. That’s how it was. “Anyway, one weekend she invited me to her family’s country house. The parents were there, and they were very nice, very gracious. It was autumn, beautiful, with woods all around us, and we paddled a canoe across this round, icy lake full of small gold leaves that collected along the shore. The family knew every inch of the land. They knew how the hills had formed, how the glacial drifts had created the lake, the names of the earliest white settlers-their ancestorsand before that, the names of the Indians who’d once hunted the land. The house was very old, her grandfather’s house. He had inherited it from his grandfather. The library was filled with old books and pictures of the grandfather with famous people he had known-presidents, diplomats, industrialists. There was this tremendous gravity to the room. Standing in that room, I realized that our two worlds, my friend’s and mine, were as distant from each other as Kenya is from Germany. And I knew that if we stayed together I’d eventually live in hers. After all, I’d been doing it most of my life. Between the two of us, I was the one who knew how to live as an outsider.” “So what happened.” I shrugged. “I pushed her away. We started to fight. We started thinking about the future, and it pressed in on our warm little world. One night I took her to see a new play by a black playwright. It was a very angry play, but very funny. Typical black American humor. The audience was mostly black, and everybody was laughing and clapping and hollering like they were in church. After the play was over, my friend started talking about why black people were so angry all the time. I said it was a matter of remembering-nobody asks why Jews remember the Holocaust, I think I saidand she said that’s different, and I said it wasn’t, and she said that anger was just a dead end. We had a big fight, right in front of the theater. When we got back to the car she started crying. She couldn’t be black, she said. She would if she could, but she couldn’t. She could only be herself, and wasn’t that enough.” “That’s a sad story, Barack.” “I suppose. Maybe even if she’d been black it still wouldn’t have worked out. I mean, there are several black ladies out there who’ve broken my heart just as good.” I smiled and scraped the cut-up peppers into the pot, and then turned back to Auma. “The thing is,” I said, no longer smiling, “whenever I think back to what my friend said to me, that night outside the theater, it somehow makes me ashamed.” “Do you ever hear from her?” “I got a postcard at Christmas. She’s happy now; she’s met someone. And I have my work.” “Is that enough?” “Sometimes.”
In the Middle Eastern country where I live, Steve Sailer, Gates of Vienna, Hibernia Girl, English Rose and Brussel's Journal cannot be accessed this morning. Vdare and American Renaissance along with David Irving are permanently bloacked. The internet censorship software for this country is composed in the USA.
I am experiencing difficulty viewing the Brussels journal and English Rose through Internet Explorer this morning, however, there is no problem with Firefox, have you tried them?
A Dan Quayle moment in Berlin
7 comments:
There was an interesting article in the Evening Standard "Obama's betrayal of his father's Kenyan village"
You can read it here
http://www.usapopulationmap.com/usa_f.html
Is there a similar map for UK?
Obama dumped girlfriend for whiteness.
Steve Sailer said...
"Could you provide the quote?"
Sure. From Dreams from My Father:
I went to the refrigerator and pulled out two green peppers, setting them on the cutting board. “Well…there was a
woman in New York that I loved. She was white. She had dark hair, and specks of green in her eyes. Her voice
sounded like a wind chime. We saw each other for almost a year. On the weekends, mostly. Sometimes in her
apartment, sometimes in mine. You know how you can fall into your own private world? Just two people, hidden and
warm. Your own language. Your own customs. That’s how it was.
“Anyway, one weekend she invited me to her family’s country house. The parents were there, and they were very
nice, very gracious. It was autumn, beautiful, with woods all around us, and we paddled a canoe across this round, icy
lake full of small gold leaves that collected along the shore. The family knew every inch of the land. They knew how
the hills had formed, how the glacial drifts had created the lake, the names of the earliest white settlers-their ancestorsand
before that, the names of the Indians who’d once hunted the land. The house was very old, her grandfather’s house.
He had inherited it from his grandfather. The library was filled with old books and pictures of the grandfather with
famous people he had known-presidents, diplomats, industrialists. There was this tremendous gravity to the room.
Standing in that room, I realized that our two worlds, my friend’s and mine, were as distant from each other as Kenya is
from Germany. And I knew that if we stayed together I’d eventually live in hers. After all, I’d been doing it most of my
life. Between the two of us, I was the one who knew how to live as an outsider.”
“So what happened.”
I shrugged. “I pushed her away. We started to fight. We started thinking about the future, and it pressed in on our
warm little world. One night I took her to see a new play by a black playwright. It was a very angry play, but very
funny. Typical black American humor. The audience was mostly black, and everybody was laughing and clapping and
hollering like they were in church. After the play was over, my friend started talking about why black people were so
angry all the time. I said it was a matter of remembering-nobody asks why Jews remember the Holocaust, I think I saidand
she said that’s different, and I said it wasn’t, and she said that anger was just a dead end. We had a big fight, right
in front of the theater. When we got back to the car she started crying. She couldn’t be black, she said. She would if she
could, but she couldn’t. She could only be herself, and wasn’t that enough.”
“That’s a sad story, Barack.”
“I suppose. Maybe even if she’d been black it still wouldn’t have worked out. I mean, there are several black ladies
out there who’ve broken my heart just as good.” I smiled and scraped the cut-up peppers into the pot, and then turned
back to Auma. “The thing is,” I said, no longer smiling, “whenever I think back to what my friend said to me, that night
outside the theater, it somehow makes me ashamed.”
“Do you ever hear from her?”
“I got a postcard at Christmas. She’s happy now; she’s met someone. And I have my work.”
“Is that enough?”
“Sometimes.”
7/27/2008
The government of the United Arab Emirates has announced that the last illegal immigrant in the country will be expelled by 1 January 2009.
Voting for Farrakhan appeals to me more than voting for Obama.
Minister Farrakhan
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GHefZ9s9iYE
In the Middle Eastern country where I live, Steve Sailer, Gates of Vienna, Hibernia Girl, English Rose and Brussel's Journal cannot be accessed this morning. Vdare and American Renaissance along with David Irving are permanently bloacked. The internet censorship software for this country is composed in the USA.
I am experiencing difficulty viewing the Brussels journal and English Rose through Internet Explorer this morning, however, there is no problem with Firefox, have you tried them?
Bruce
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