Those of Us Who Know, Know
While I was taking a walk (maskless) grabbing some fresh air, a young man in a late model pick up truck waved me over. He wanted to know where the nearest Chase Bank was. He shared that was unfamiliar with the town having come up from San Diego for a construction job. I told him I grew up there, too. He also had gone to San Diego High. And what ho! Decades and political correctness later they were still called the Cavemen.
It turns out he also grew up in Logan Heights, the not-the-best ‘hood in San Diego. It was segregated when I was living there with a smattering of white folks. He told me how Logan Heights was improving and Chicano Park was all cleaned up. I told him how a fancy modern house was being built where the “haunted house” with the white people down the street used to be.
My new amigo told me how the schools were getting better and people had good jobs in town. We laughed and almost in unison said, “I thought we were supposed to be oppressed!”
We looked at each other and knew – the people who know, know. The real people are not the smarmy politicians and the media jackals blathering on about how miserable minorities are. They lecture us on how we are must sequester ourselves in our own tribes. The self-appointed tribal leaders will tell us how to think, whom to fear, whom to trust, and for whom to vote.
I hear West Indians are guaranteed to vote for Biden because his running mate has some Caribbean blood in her. Of course, Harris pursues the far leftist policies from which many immigrants escaped. Go figure. And in California, the East Indians are voting for Harris’ Asianness, not the person who becomes an African-American when expedient. All this for someone who spent her formative years in Canada.
And for all you young girls out there, don’t follow in the footsteps of a woman who plotted her political path by being the 30 year-old mistress of the 60 year-old most corrupt politician in California. (AKA Willie Brown nosing).
