Here’s what he said:

I never, with my eyes, saw the mistreatment of any black person. Not once. Where we lived was all farmers. The blacks worked for the farmers. I hoed cotton with them. I’m with the blacks, because we’re white trash. We’re going across the field…. They’re singing and happy.

I never heard one of them, one black person, say, ‘I tell you what: These doggone white people’ — not a word!… Pre-entitlement, pre-welfare, you say: Were they happy? They were godly; they were happy; no one was singing the blues.

Here’s why they were happy: in those day in the South, everyone had a place, and everyone knew what their place was. It was a status society, rigid, unfree for all people, black or white, featuring little social mobility up or down.

Blacks were “happy,” because they knew that they could not by their own will and power change their social position. They could relax, because their destiny was not in their own hands.

The marked inferiority of blacks was made evident only in the “civil rights” era, where we all agreed to let blacks have a shot at making their own way in society. It turned out that when given freedom, blacks eagerly voluntarily renounced it to the welfare state, and what freedom they decided to keep, they used mostly for violence and doing evil.

No wonder blacks ended up “unhappy.” Who wouldn’t after first-hand intimate acquaintance with one’s own abject failure?


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