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Feb 6, - Sample Essays and Comments — Three Essays Scoring 5 An example could be the eating patterns of Americans compared with those of Europeans These similarities are the result of human biology, rather than the I love being with new people and learning about what makes them "tick . |1|2|3|4|5|.
Table of contents
- Speak Your Mind Slam
- Letter to My Son
- The Advocate - كتب Google
- See a Problem?
- Cultural Differences And Cultural Diversity
As the evening wears on in the crowded bookstore, people line up at microphones to question, challenge or offer up hosannas to this young scholar, who, in many ways, is just getting started. The walls are bare, and his name has not yet made it outside the door. It joins dozens of other customized centers of racial research. One of the earliest and most notable, the W. The goal is to identify inequalities, identify the policies that create and maintain those inequalities, and propose correctives in six areas: criminal justice, education, economics, health, environment and politics.
Kendi also hopes to create an online library of anti-racist thinking. But when he talks about racism, he is not still puzzling out his ideas. His words are distilled, precise, authoritative. His voice never rises.
Speak Your Mind Slam
He is, temperamentally, an antidote to the heat of the subject matter and the hyperbole of the times. But of course [ Stamped from the Beginning ] shows that the actual foundation of racism is not ignorance and hate, but self-interest, particularly economic and political and cultural. When the policies are challenged because they produce inequalities, racist ideas spring up to justify those policies. Hate flows freely from there. The self-interest: The Portuguese had to justify their pioneering slave trade of African people before the pope. The racist idea: Africans are barbarians. If we remove them from Africa and enslave them, they could be civilized.
Kendi boils racist ideas down to an irreducible core: Any idea that suggests one racial group is superior or inferior to another group in any way is a racist idea, he says, and there are two types. Segregationist ideas contend racial groups are created unequal.
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Assimilationist ideas, as Kendi defines them, argue that both discrimination and problematic black people are to blame for inequalities. Assimilationist ideas are more subtle, seductive and coded.
Letter to My Son
No matter what color you are. Anti-racist ideas hold that racial groups are equal. That the only thing inferior about black people is their opportunities. The Blue Lives Matter the problem is violent black people Black Lives Matter the problem is the criminal justice system, poor training and police bias and All Lives Matter the problem is police and black people arguments are extensions of the same, three-way debate segregationist, anti-racist and assimilationist that Americans have been having since the founding of the country.
This is the jump-off Kendi uses to frame the most roiling issues of the day. But before he could build that frame, he first had to deal with his own racism. Kendi was born Ibram H. He grew up playing basketball and still is an ardent New York Knicks fan. The family moved to Manassas, Virginia, where Kendi attended Stonewall Jackson High School named for the Confederate general and dreamed of a career on the hardwood. The slim, 6-foot-1 former guard says he specialized in the no-look pass. Sweet passing aside, his basketball aspirations were irrevocably dashed his sophomore year when he failed to make the junior varsity team.
He wound up getting a doctorate in African-American studies from Temple University. He began researching Stamped from the Beginning the following year. The highest instances of violent crime correspond with high unemployment and poverty, and that holds true across racial lines, Kendi found. I was in sixth grade. School had just let out, and it was not yet the fighting weather of early spring. What was the exact problem here?
Who could know? The boy with the small eyes reached into his ski jacket and pulled out a gun. I recall it in the slowest motion, as though in a dream. There the boy stood, with the gun brandished, which he slowly untucked, tucked, then untucked once more, and in his small eyes I saw a surging rage that could, in an instant, erase my body. That was That year I felt myself to be drowning in the news reports of murder.
The Advocate - كتب Google
I was aware that these murders very often did not land upon the intended targets but fell upon great-aunts, PTA mothers, overtime uncles, and joyful children—fell upon them random and relentless, like great sheets of rain. I knew this in theory but could not understand it as fact until the boy with the small eyes stood across from me holding my entire body in his small hands.
I remember being amazed that death could so easily rise up from the nothing of a boyish afternoon, billow up like fog. I knew that West Baltimore, where I lived; that the north side of Philadelphia, where my cousins lived; that the South Side of Chicago, where friends of my father lived, comprised a world apart. Somewhere out there beyond the firmament, past the asteroid belt, there were other worlds where children did not regularly fear for their bodies.
I knew this because there was a large television in my living room. In the evenings I would sit before this television bearing witness to the dispatches from this other world. There were little white boys with complete collections of football cards, their only want was a popular girlfriend and their only worry was poison oak. That other world was suburban and endless, organized around pot roasts, blueberry pies, fireworks, ice-cream sundaes, immaculate bathrooms, and small toy trucks that were loosed in wooded backyards with streams and endless lawns.
Comparing these dispatches with the facts of my native world, I came to understand that my country was a galaxy, and this galaxy stretched from the pandemonium of West Baltimore to the happy hunting grounds of Mr. I obsessed over the distance between that other sector of space and my own. I knew that my portion of the American galaxy, where bodies were enslaved by a tenacious gravity, was black and that the other, liberated portion was not.
I knew that some inscrutable energy preserved the breach. I felt, but did not yet understand, the relation between that other world and me.
See a Problem?
And I felt in this a cosmic injustice, a profound cruelty, which infused an abiding, irrepressible desire to unshackle my body and achieve the velocity of escape. Before I could escape, I had to survive, and this could only mean a clash with the streets, by which I mean not just physical blocks, nor simply the people packed into them, but the array of lethal puzzles and strange perils that seem to rise up from the asphalt itself.
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- Letter to My Son.
The streets transform every ordinary day into a series of trick questions, and every incorrect answer risks a beat-down, a shooting, or a pregnancy. No one survives unscathed. When I was your age, fully one-third of my brain was concerned with whom I was walking to school with, our precise number, the manner of our walk, the number of times I smiled, whom or what I smiled at, who offered a pound and who did not—all of which is to say that I practiced the culture of the streets, a culture concerned chiefly with securing the body.
The culture of the streets was essential—there was no alternative. I could not retreat into the church and its mysteries. My parents rejected all dogmas. We spurned the holidays marketed by the people who wanted to be white. We would not stand for their anthems. We would not kneel before their God. The meek were battered in West Baltimore, stomped out at Walbrook Junction, bashed up on Park Heights, and raped in the showers of the city jail. My understanding of the universe was physical, and its moral arc bent toward chaos then concluded in a box.
That was the message of the small-eyed boy, untucking the piece—a child bearing the power to body and banish other children to memory. Fear ruled everything around me, and I knew, as all black people do, that this fear was connected to the world out there, to the unworried boys, to pie and pot roast, to the white fences and green lawns nightly beamed into our television sets. Every February my classmates and I were herded into assemblies for a ritual review of the civil-rights movement. Our teachers urged us toward the example of freedom marchers, Freedom Riders, and Freedom Summers, and it seemed that the month could not pass without a series of films dedicated to the glories of being beaten on camera.
Why are they showing this to us? Why were only our heroes nonviolent? Back then all I could do was measure these freedom-lovers by what I knew. The world, the real one, was civilization secured and ruled by savage means. How could the schools valorize men and women whose values society actively scorned? How could they send us out into the streets of Baltimore, knowing all that they were, and then speak of nonviolence? Some things were clear to me: The violence that undergirded the country, so flagrantly on display during Black History Month, and the intimate violence of the streets were not unrelated.
Cultural Differences And Cultural Diversity
And this violence was not magical, but was of a piece and by design. But what exactly was the design? And why? I must know. I must get out I felt this but I could not explain it. This was two years before the Million Man March.