A black man, aged perhaps in the mid-30s, came into my store the other day. He went up to the front counter to talk to my boss, introducing himself as a local author who would like to sell several copies of his book on our shelves.
My boss asked what the book was about.
Liberals would have considered me a racist to assume that the black man’s book had something to do with complaining about being black, even though it seems, quite unfortunately, that that’s what most blacks write about.
But then the man explained that his book was about the struggles of being black, the adversity blacks face in today’s America. If it’s racist to be right, then color me racist.
I rolled my eyes. I was disgusted with the topic of the book, but of course I couldn’t express that, such is the overwhelming level of privilege I enjoy. No, this black author is so downtrodden, so discriminated against, that I am required to withhold all criticism of him. He is of a protected class, and if being protected isn’t a struggle, what is?
If I were the manager of the store, I’d have told him, “No, thanks. Your book is trash. Your book contributes to racial tension in this country. Your book encourages black people to resent whites even more than they already do. Maybe you can get a job in the Obama administration doing that, but I don’t want your book in my store.”
My boss, however, laces his coffee with white guilt every morning. He nearly leaped over the counter to tell the man how much he agreed with him and how he’d love to showcase a book right up front about that very subject because it’s so important, and by the way, did I mention I agree with you? It’s a spectacle to behold, watching Democrats soak their pants at any opportunity to let black people know they’re not racists. I more than half-expected my boss to inform the author, “By the way, I voted for Obama twice.”
Now, there is only one type of person who would read the garbage this author was peddling: the type who doesn’t even attempt to lift himself up by the straps of his $200 Air Jordans. And it’s because of authors like this, and because of so-called “black leaders,” that black kids grow into black adults who believe unwaveringly that no matter what they do, life will not be good to them, and that all they can hope for is to bump into some white person nice enough to treat them as an above-equal. “Black leaders” don’t write books of encouragement because they want company down on the lower rungs of society. They want to share their self-inflicted misery with others, creating even more blacks with bad attitudes (and therefore bad lives), so that they can say, “See? Black people have it rough.” It’s a self-fulfilled prophecy.
On second thought, maybe I would allow such a book to be sold and showcased in my store. But on the table, right next to the book, I would place a placard bearing this quote from the great Booker T. Washington, circa 1911:
“There is another class of coloured people who make a business of keeping the troubles, the wrongs, and the hardships of the Negro race before the public. Having learned that they are able to make a living out of their troubles, they have grown into the settled habit of advertising their wrongs—partly because they want sympathy and partly because it pays. Some of these people do not want the Negro to lose his grievances, because they do not want to lose their jobs.”