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Ron Jackson's Perspective
The Sunday Journal -
Think
Kankakee, Illinois
July 27, 2003
Well, the cat's out
of the bag |
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I've been had. Busted
big time. And it took a 73-year-old white great grandmother to
finally figure me out. I'm just a big charade.
After reading my July 6 column, "Court says non-whites
need help," where I disagreed with the Supreme Court's ruling on
affirmative action, one obviously new but shrewd reader put it all
together.
"You should go back and read about the Rosa Parks
incident...and perhaps you would understand how hard the uphill
battle has been for minorities...you have never been a black man or
a minority, you don't know how hard they struggle to get ahead," she
wrote in an e-mail.
I'd be willing to bet that Justice Clarence Thomas has
been told something similar.
Well, I guess now is a good time to come clean. I
was not born in Hopkins Park, poor, on welfare, the fourth of ten
children. Alcoholism did not run amok in my childhood. I
did not spend three years, 31 days in two really bad foster homes.
My hero is not some wonderful black man who married my biological
mom, welcomed my siblings and me into his home, and was a great
inspiration to me. I didn't attend community college for two
years on the G.I. bill. My bachelor's degree in business is
not from Columbia College in Columbia, MO, and it was not paid for
by my employer. Nope. All lies. Henceforth is my
real story.
I was born the only child to two wonderful white
parents and was raised in upstate New York. My every desire
was delivered to me via silver spoon or platter. I had a
colored nanny during my early childhood and our London-trained
butler taught me to drive my first car, a Porsche. Once I got
a traffic ticket for sideswiping Jesse Jackson's chartered coach,
but my dad knew someone, so there is no record of that.
My parents were distinguished alumni of Columbia
University. In 1963, Dad won the Nobel Peace Prize for
mathematics. Mom was the first female doctor to perform open
heart surgery. I went to Columbia University also. No
admission test was required. I just walked in, gave my name,
and my diploma was mailed to me, with honors, I might add.
So there you have it, folks. Finally the truth.
The distorted opinions you have read in this column about
affirmative action, reparations, civil rights, and other issues
important to minorities came from my privileged upbringing.
The only real connection I have to minorities is through my family's
ownership of a majority stock in Black Entertainment Television.
There you have it. Now when you read that I
disagree that blacks or any minorities are entitled to special
opportunities based solely on their ethnicity, hopefully you will
understand where I am coming from. One tends to see things
differently wearing rose-colored glasses. Being white doesn't
prevent one from knowing what is best for blacks or minorities.
Tarzan was white and he ruled the jungle.
One more confession. My name isn't Ron Jackson.
It's Carlisle Brathwaite. Who knows, maybe the Daily Journal
will publish my real picture, too.
Now, if I was black or a minority, it would probably be
OK to make stupid comments like the one Cubs manager Dusty Baker
made about minorities being able to handle hot weather better than
whites. I doubt he'll get any letters from old white great
grandmothers. |
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