A few thoughts on race
Gypsum, CO, Colorado
A very long time ago, when I was a 6-year-old, I fell in love with American Indians. I asked my mother if we had any Indian blood in our family. “No!” she said emphatically. My mother was like many WASPs of her time. I did not give up on the idea. She had previously told me that we were related to John Cotton, the first minister of Boston, who came to America around 1640. This means a lot of generations had passed, 15 or 20 at least.
Surely love, or lust, entered into the equation somewhere, and of course it wasn’t recorded because it would have been a huge embarrassment to the uptight folks of that time. You kow, how long did it take to go public with Thomas Jefferson’s story? So I began telling my grammar school friends I was part Indian. Who could deny it?
The point is we all come from hundreds of generations going back to the beginning of humanity. If we all started somewhere in Africa, as some anthropologists believe, we all started out black. Who will ever know?
So before we get upset about a half-black president, we might want think about our own origins. Who knows what naughty little boys and girls are in our past. And frankly, why should we care?
The measure of a person is not his or her race or color. It’s the quality of their character, the ability to tell right from wrong, to develop wisdom from experience and in the case of a president, to lead
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