Should Blacks be paid slavery reparations in the form of homelands?

Many Black activists are agitating for two things.

One, they want reparations for the enslavement of some of their ancestors centuries ago, a small fraction of which is to be paid by the people whose ancestors were the enslavers, and a large fraction of which is to be paid by people like me whose ancestors back then were raiding rival clans in the Scottish Highlands without ever setting eyes on a Black person in their entire poor, nasty, brutish and short lives.

Two, they want to reinstitute racial segregation. They want Black dorm buildings in college, Black classes, Black this and Black that, all because the White man is not to be trusted. Who knows when he’ll break out a noose?

I do not think slavery reparations, standing alone, would do much good in elevating Black achievement. Trillions spent on Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society, three generations of welfare, and 40 years of Black favoritism in job applications and college admissions have done little good for Blacks, and arguably a lot of harm.

And I think segregation, standing alone, is an equally bad idea. If the races are ever to get along and start to trust one another, they need to spend time together.

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I identify as infallible, and I expect you to agree

This has been a very emotional time for me. The time I’m referring to is the seven decades in which I have lived or, rather, until my recent discovery, merely existed.

From the time I was born, I was uncomfortable with the society-imposed notion that I was sometimes wrong. I knew deep down that it was a lie. I knew deeeeep down that I was an infallible trapped in a fallible body. I knew deep down that I’m always right.

It hurt. It hurt to be told by infalli-phobes that I was not infallible. How dare they! Teachers, parents, friends, and aye, even – especially – lovers, told me I was not perfect. They hurt me. That makes them wrong. And evil.  

I was … ohhhhh, it hurts to re-tell this … I was cut from the freshman baseball team when I was about 14. There I was – infallible at ball and all – and the shop teacher/coach – the shop teacher! – cut me. Thinkin’ I should sue his estate, but shop teachers tend to be judgment-proof. No matter. I’m totally over it now.

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