Excerpt from “Caged: the Prison Diaries” by Henry Louis Gates Jr. (Harvard University Press, Cambridge MA, 2010. $39.95 from the Harvard Coop. Signed copies available $69.95)

Chapter Three: In the Belly of the Beast

“…get in that cell, n*****r!” snarled the officer, shoving me cruelly from behind. “Har har! You kin just set in there until you learn yourself some manners, boy!” he sneered. The hand cuffs, shackles and leg irons bit cruelly into my falsely charged flesh.

“May I, with the greatest respect, gently dispute your no doubt affably intended appellation, officer?” I enquired. “While the term ‘boy’ is doubtless intended with a degree of flattery which does ample credit to your innate courtesy and demonstrates a humane consideration for the feelings of others, such a denomination is, in my particular case, perhaps inappropriate since I am a grown man of 58 summers and considerable life experience; hardly the untried stripling your words imply”.

“SHUT UP!” roared the brute, the Bull Conner of Cambridge. He kicked away my walking stick with his gleaming jackboot and I tumbled to the rough, cold floor of the cell. “Doan’ you try to high hat me with your fancy vocabalarry, you living testimonial to affirmative action. Your Harvard tenure don’t mean diddly squat in my jail, no sir. In here I’m the law. I’m the law, see?”

I saw. I saw all too plainly. It was a story as old as the tear-soaked, blood drenched, horror that is the history of black people in America, a narrative of cruelty and injustice within which all my life has passed.

If I had not been born a society steeped in racism, who knows what I might have achieved? Success, fame, wealth and happiness – everything that a white person takes for granted – could have been mine.

As it is, I’ve had to content myself with only my tenured professor’s paltry salary, my two houses, the profits from my book and television deals, the endless round of grant applications, conferences and awards ceremonies, my handmade German tricycle and my white wife – this is only a portion, a tithe, of the price I pay each and every day of my undervalued life for being a black man in America.

Of course it is not only we Children Of Africa who have suffered under the dead weight of the white man’s oppression: gay, bi and transgendered men and women, Native Americans and Inuits, the partially abled, Hispanic people, the Irish, the Italians, the Jews, the Chinese, the Muslim community, the Hmong people, all women, people with hairy backs, those with bad skin or embarrassing medical conditions, the zoo community and anyone else I may have inadvertently omitted, all have their own tales to tell of injustice and I embrace them all as brothers and sisters in our unending struggle , not for equality, but for super equality (all except for those lousy Jews. Man, I hate them fucking Hebes.…)

Professor Gates, American Negro, pushed open the screen door of his holiday home on Martha’s Vineyard’s tree shaded Elm Street and bent down to collect the stack of newspapers that lay on the gleaming deck.

The Times, the Boston Globe, the Washington Post, the WSJ –all together they weighed a ton and the Professor let out a little puff of breath as he lifted the stack of soon-to-be obsolete print media.

“Why can’t that stupid paperboy bring them inside, spread them out, remove all the inserts and ads and stuff and put them all in the recycling pile and then iron the papers nice and smooth, highlight any articles about me, and then bring the papers to me in bed, with a nice cup of tea?” he wondered. “He’d do it if I was white”.

Shaking his head at the injustice of it all, Professor Gates was about to step back inside his five bedroom Colonial when a voice called to him from the street.

“Good morning, Professor! It’s another beautiful day!”

It was Officer Jones, the local cop, cruising slowly by on his way to the Muffin Barn.

“Fuck you, pig” snarled Professor Gates. “You can’t talk to me like that anymore”.

“Okay! Have a good one!” waved Officer Jones.

Professor Gates stepped back inside and heaved a sigh of relief. Whew. He’d survived another dangerous encounter with a rogue cop. It was touch and go there for a minute, he thought, but I guess I handled it pretty well. A black man has to learn how to deal with these racist crackers if he’s going to survive on the mean streets of Harvard Square and the Vineyard.

Later, after checking his mailbox, his emails and his answering machine for death threats and feeling disappointed that there weren’t any, Professor Gates donned his gleaming helmet and rode his hand made German tricycle down to Main Street.

As usual, there were white people all over the place. There’s one, there’s another one, there’s a couple of them – that’s one over there. A little shudder of revulsion passed through him. I’m glad I’m not consumed by racial hate and fear like all these honkies he thought. I see the person, not the color. Ask my white wife if you don’t believe me.

To cheer himself up Professor Gates did what all educated liberals like to do for fun; he found a coffee shop and went in to abuse the staff.

“Good morning!” trilled Debbie the waitress.

“Yeah – for you” snarled Professor Gates. “Whitey”.

“Er, okay. What can I get you today?” smiled Debbie.

“Oh, like you care what the black man wants”. Professor Gates shook his head. “You people can never understand what we want or how it feels to be a black man in America”.

“It can’t be worse than serving one” thought Debbie. “So, have you made up your mind, sir? Latte? Espresso? Mocca? Capuccino? Triple Moccalatticino frappe with cinnamon?”

“Oh don’t pretend that a black man has any options, you Caucasian trull! We both know the deck is stacked against him from day one! Now pour me a large coffee – no, not in that mug. A white person might have drunk out of it. Here, I brought my own” said Professor Gates. “Use this”.

“Um, okay. Sorry. Here you go, sir. Cream and sugar?”

“Cream and sugar, cream and sugar” fumed Professor Gates. “That’s typical of how you slavemasters want to cover up the harsh, bitter taste of oppression”.

“Is it too strong? I can make another pot”.

“Too strong! That’s you’re afraid of, isn’t it? Strength and blackness. So you try to dilute the hot, dark natural essence with milk and cream and make it more white! You think it tastes better that way, don’t you? Black isn’t good enough for you. Go on, admit it!”

“Um, yes…anyway, that’s $2.95 please”.

“$2.95? It won’t be the last time a white person rips off a black man” said Professor Gates, eyeing the empty tip jar. “And don’t forget my change”.

“A nickel change, sir. I’ll bring your coffee right over. There’s a nice sunny seat by the window over there”.

“Don’t ghettoize me! Don’t tell me where I can sit! Where is this – South Africa?”

“I just thought you’d be more comfortable…”

“You thought! As always, whitey sits in judgement, preparing to cast my fate. Well, I’m a proud African-American and I’ll sit wherever I want!”

“Okay, fine. Sit wherever you want, then”.

“So now the window seat’s not good enough for the black man, huh? Huh? Well, forget it. I’m parking myself right there in the window and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“But I don’t want to do anything about it”.

“No, your kind never do. Just sweep it all under the rug and pretend everything’s fine in America. Well, let me tell you something, Miss Scarlett, nothing’s changed…”

Debbie the waitress rolled her eyes. It was going to be a long, long shift.

“….dreaming about being arrested at the White House.”

Why?? Does Gates’ get all “tingly” (shades of Chrissy Mathews) when he dreams about the Messiah in the WH? Man crush, … bro’ crush, ….idol worship?

after speaking at the Martha’s Vineyard book festival in Chilmark, Mass

How white is that? What a hypocritical, lying scam artist – just like his friend – the President.

http://www.washingtontimes.com....._headlines

Synopsis: The beer summit was designed to put this topic to rest, because it was not going well for The Moron. Every time the odious professor opened his mouth, America got more pissed off. Note that there were no reporters at the “summit”, no “conversation” happened. There were no “new Ideas”, or any ideas at all. It seemed as if there was a lockdown on all information. So much for a dialogue for us cowards.

Also, Breitbart brings up the his “concern” that the reason Obamy has always resisted publishing his college transcripts is because his whole curriculum was an Ayers/Wright/Graves special.

Leftists often do go out of their way to get arrested in order to make a point…

And so are those people buying his book and seeking his autograph.