I mean, the rule was proposed because they want to prevent black people from smoking menthols.
A law/rule aimed at a particular race would meet the definition of racism.
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I mean, the rule was proposed because they want to prevent black people from smoking menthols.
A law/rule aimed at a particular race would meet the definition of racism.
Got it, I stand corrected, I didn't know that.
Yes...they indeed are obsessed with skin color. They're the same people who say that "colorblindness" is racist. They hate it if you just don't care what color anyone's skin is, and instead care about the content of their character.
They want to insist on everyone being obsessed with skin color...which is inherently racist.
I turned 22 in jail.
I was a Correctional Officer II at the Jackson County Department of Corrections from January to August 1980, between college and law school.
It was five miles from my $100 a month off campus UMKC housing to a huge concrete skyscraper built by Pendergast of honky tonks, peep shows, bars, Cadillac dealerships , Gates barbecue, pimps and whores and Crown Center and Union Station. A white boy in a Matador X with a stripe on it stood out like a flare.
Because I had a college degree, they gave me rank and had me instruct about 40 young black kids in the work release center instead of the main jail.
There were a couple or three white kids in work release as well.
I think we all smoked. The white boys smoked Camels or Winstons or Marlboros and each and every black kid smoked Kools. All the black corrections officers smoked Kools. And while you couldn’t drink in the jail, the black kids and guards all drank Colt 45 or Shlitz Malt liquor.
I learned a lot about racial justice.
My mother was a schoolteacher and the pretty girl singer at the 1946 J Bar J Rodeo. My father was a third generation dairy farmer who was President of the school board and Superintendent of the Elders at the Humansville Christian Church. My grandmother was Hickory County’s most famous author who inspired the Beverley Hillbillies. My fiancé was a part time model and daughter of Southwest Missouri’s richest banker who owned a dozen banks, and became a school teacher.
I never met one kid in jail who knew much at all about their father.
Not one had graduated high school.
They weren’t in jail because they smoked Kools or drank malt liquor or loved weed.
They were in jail, because they didn’t have good parents on a farm where you can see Bug Tussle. They were in jail because they weren’t descended from Union cavalrymen. They were in jail because they grew up hard and mean in a horrible place, with their mothers working terrible jobs and none of their teachers in school had been a collection of educated homecoming and rodeo queens and married to prosperous farmers.
I taught every one, all of them, that they were the perfect children of God. I taught them all how to fill out employment applications, to apply for an apartment, to open a bank account, to apply for utilities, and promised them when they gained a job, had an apartment, a bank account and utilities in their name and enrolled in GED classes they would go to their new home instead of to Jefferson City penitentiary.
And they all made it. Not one went to the pen.
I also taught them to stand up when a lady enters the room, to offer her your chair, and never cuss or drink around a lady. To call older men sir and older ladies ma’am, and to never leave home unless shaved and clean and well groomed.
Those kids were the same as me, except their music completely sucked.
By 1980 hillbilly music sucked too, but that’s a matter of opinion.
I was a Correctional Officer II at the Jackson County Department of Corrections from January to August 1980, between college and law school.
It was five miles from my $100 a month off campus UMKC housing to a huge concrete skyscraper built by Pendergast of honky tonks, peep shows, bars, Cadillac dealerships , Gates barbecue, pimps and whores and Crown Center and Union Station. A white boy in a Matador X with a stripe on it stood out like a flare.
Because I had a college degree, they gave me rank and had me instruct about 40 young black kids in the work release center instead of the main jail.
There were a couple or three white kids in work release as well.
I think we all smoked. The white boys smoked Camels or Winstons or Marlboros and each and every black kid smoked Kools. All the black corrections officers smoked Kools. And while you couldn’t drink in the jail, the black kids and guards all drank Colt 45 or Shlitz Malt liquor.
I learned a lot about racial justice.
My mother was a schoolteacher and the pretty girl singer at the 1946 J Bar J Rodeo. My father was a third generation dairy farmer who was President of the school board and Superintendent of the Elders at the Humansville Christian Church. My grandmother was Hickory County’s most famous author who inspired the Beverley Hillbillies. My fiancé was a part time model and daughter of Southwest Missouri’s richest banker who owned a dozen banks, and became a school teacher.
I never met one kid in jail who knew much at all about their father.
Not one had graduated high school.
They weren’t in jail because they smoked Kools or drank malt liquor or loved weed.
They were in jail, because they didn’t have good parents on a farm where you can see Bug Tussle. They were in jail because they weren’t descended from Union cavalrymen. They were in jail because they grew up hard and mean in a horrible place, with their mothers working terrible jobs and none of their teachers in school had been a collection of educated homecoming and rodeo queens and married to prosperous farmers.
I taught every one, all of them, that they were the perfect children of God. I taught them all how to fill out employment applications, to apply for an apartment, to open a bank account, to apply for utilities, and promised them when they gained a job, had an apartment, a bank account and utilities in their name and enrolled in GED classes they would go to their new home instead of to Jefferson City penitentiary.
And they all made it. Not one went to the pen.
I also taught them to stand up when a lady enters the room, to offer her your chair, and never cuss or drink around a lady. To call older men sir and older ladies ma’am, and to never leave home unless shaved and clean and well groomed.
Those kids were the same as me, except their music completely sucked.
By 1980 hillbilly music sucked too, but that’s a matter of opinion.
Yeah it reeks of white savior complex, just as the push for a generational ban reeks of utter contempt for young people.