Quoting The Wrong (Left)

…for those who correctly refuse to buy or read his narcissitic books.

There are several quotes from Obama’s books that tell us, in his own words, the challenges and issues he has with his own racism. Knowing that he wrote these books recently doesn’t excuse his thoughts as long in the past.

From “Dreams From My [Completely Absent] Father”:

“I ceased to advertise my mother’s race at the age of 12 or 13, when I began to suspect that by doing so I was ingratiating myself to whites.”

“There was something about him that made me wary, a little too sure of himself, maybe. And white.”

“It remained necessary to prove which side you were on, to show your loyalty to the black masses, to strike out and name names.”

“Yes, I’d seen weakness in other men— Gramps and his disappointments, Lolo and his compromise. But these men had become object lessons for me, men I might love but never emulate, white men and brown men whose fates didn’t speak to my own. It was into my father’s image, the black man, son of Africa, that I’d packed all the attributes I sought in myself, the attributes of Martin and Malcolm [X – racist, black supremacist, antisemite], DuBois [secularist, “talented tenth” elitist, communist] and Mandela.”

While obviously much more pronounced and outwardly manifested when he was younger, from the perspective of a 47 year-old black man, that still has a 20 pound tumor of a chip on his shoulder and anti-white leanings, the following fuller excerpt of one of the quotes above sheds even more light on the severe issues this man has regarding race. It seems with his insecurity he was an even easier target of the extremist brainwashing the liberal college system spreads.

“She was a good-looking woman, Joyce was with her green eyes and honey skin and pouty lips. We lived in the same dorm my freshman year, and all the brothers were after her. One day I asked her if she was going to the Black Students’ Association meeting. She looked at me funny, then started shaking her head like a baby who doesn’t want what it sees on the spoon.

“I’m not black,” Joyce said. “I’m multiracial.” Then she started telling me about her father, who happened to be Italian and was the sweetest man in the world; and her mother, who happened to be part African and part French and part Native American and part something else. “Why should I have to choose between them?” she asked me. Her voice cracked, and I thought she was going to cry. “It’s not white people who are making me choose. Maybe it used to be that way, but now they’re willing to treat me like a person. No — it’s black people who always have to make everything racial. They’re the ones making me choose. They’re the ones who are telling me that I can’t be who I am …”

“They, they, they. That was the problem with people like Joyce. They talked about the richness of their multicultural heritage and it sounded real good, until you noticed that they avoided black people …

“To avoid being mistaken for a sellout, I chose my friends carefully. The more politically active black students. The foreign students. The Chicanos. The Marxist professors and structural feminists and punk-rock performance poets. We smoked cigarettes and wore leather jackets. At night, in the dorms, we discussed neocolonialism, Franz Fanon, Eurocentrism, and patriarchy. When we ground out our cigarettes in the hallway carpet or set our stereos so loud that the walls began to shake, we were resisting bourgeois society’s stifling conventions. We weren’t indifferent or careless or insecure. We were alienated.

“But this strategy alone couldn’t provide the distance I wanted, from Joyce or my past. After all, there were thousands of so-called campus radicals, most of them white and tenured and happily tolerant. No, it remained necessary to prove which side you were on, to show your loyalty to the black masses, to strike out and name names.”

These are not the words of a healer, a uniter. These are not the words of a man who wants to erase race as a consideration for participation in the benefits of society. These are the simple and plain words of a racist. He’s turned against a girl who was trying to rise above race, to just be herself, because he decided to overcompensate for his insecurity and identity crisis by overselling his black-ness.

It’s also telling in her comment about black exclusivity. I’d heard this was the case, but here’s Obama as Black Panther wanna-be trying to paint this girl traitor when he’s the epitome of self-loathing. He shouldn’t have included this truth in the book, it seals his position as a clear divider… as Joyce said – “It’s not white people who are making me choose… No — it’s black people who always have to make everything racial. They’re the ones making me choose. They’re the ones who are telling me that I can’t be who I am…”

Turn Obama’s words around, to imagine a white man saying the same, and no one would hesitate to cry racist. This offended insecure black kid is what the incredibly foolish American people are days away from putting into office.

Like they say about the Devil, the greatest trick he ever did was to convince the world he didn’t exist, the greatest trick of Obama’s career has been to convince more than half of the country that he’s not an extremist and a closet racist against half of his own skin. While Obama’s clearly not the Devil –he isn’t nearly smart or secure enough– his slickster facade and giant sense of entitlement make me feel like he took, and relished, classes from him at college.