My Racist Record
When I was eight years old, my best friend was Charlie, the son of the superintendent of the building housing my family. When Charlie and I emerged together after playing in the building’s coal bin—no windmills or dams were available—people took us for twins, which was remarkable considering that I had blonde word-shaving curls and Charlie was as black as the Ace of Spades.
During my college and law school years at Columbia in New York City, it was a rare Friday night that did not find me in the audience at the Apollo Theatre, where I was usually the only pink face in the audience. To this day, I listen with the greatest of pleasures to black music, from gospel to the blues. I draw the line at jazz, which I’m indifferent to even when performed by the whitest of artists.
When in charge of hiring new associates for the Wall Street law firm in which I was a partner, it would never have occurred to me or any of my partners to take race into account in making our hiring decisions.
During my dating years, the many blacks that shared my bed were among the very best of my lovers.
I feel very comfortable living now in Brazil, a multi-cultural, multi-ethnic society, where skin color is regarded as irrelevant.
I think Obama has been a very poor president, carries himself well, and looks great in a tan suit. Like a lot of Brazilian women, the First Lady has a big butt, which many men consider an asset.
I think the percentage of blacks that have voted for Obama is a strong indication that many blaks have not been as color blind as I always have been.
I assume absolutely no individual responsibility for any injustices that blacks may have suffered at the hands of others. I regard the concept of reparations as obscene. I neither understand nor endorse the concept of collective responsibility.
(c) 2015 Gordon Osmond