- Joined
- Jun 14, 2018
Is this a real work written by someone, or was it something you made up as a joke?After doing a bit of digging, I found eyewitness testimony actually proving this correct.
Just as the people of Selma marched some five decades ago to defeat the evil that is white supremacy, I found myself marching to the polls in November of 2016. It was my right to vote. It was my duty to vote. For those who marched and died to have their voices heard, it was time for mine to be heard.
Despite the gains of our people over the past fifty years, the toxic tree that is white supremacy still had its roots planted in Milwaukee. And from its toxic roots grew poisonous mushrooms. They had red caps that said "Make America Great Again" and their spores filled the lungs of those whom could have once been considered decent people. Two of these spores stood in front of me as I waited in line to cast my vote for our first female president. She wasn't a woman of color, but the alternative was the Pied Piper of racism leading his racist rats to drown in the ocean of bigotry.
I finally saw the front door of the polls after an hour of standing and waiting. I remember thinking "Finally! It's going to be my turn and I'm going to do my part to ensure Obama's legacy lives on.
Little did I know this would be as close as I got to casting my vote. For without warning, the polls started swarming with panic. Terrified people of color ran for their lives and I could only assume the worst. Did some crazy white boy run in with a gun? It made sense because none of the white people standing in line were terrified. In fact, they almost seemed happy this was happening. This was especially true for the MAGA hats, whose smiles and eyes burned brighter than any cross in the south.
Little did I know the truth would be far more terrifying. As people of color bolted out the front door, they were followed by a ghastly creature. His skin was whiter than any Klan sheet that was present at a Donald Trump rally. His skin was translucent with a burning Confederate flag hovering over his heart.
It was the ghost of George Wallace.
I knew it was my duty to fight. I knew it was my duty to win. So I marched right up to the ghost of George Wallace and confronted him over his terrible deeds. I told him he would not stand in the way of our inevitable victory.
The ghost of George Wallace reached his hand back and what he did next would haunt me for the rest of my life. With the force of a thousand slave masters' whips, he slapped me and said "SHUT UP SHEEBOON! THE HEIR OF MY LEGACY SHALL SET THIS COUNTRY RIGHT AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU OR YOUR KIND CAN DO ABOUT IT!"
I was left with no choice. I ran for my life as well as my fellow people of color. As I turned to look back, I saw the poisonous mushrooms sprout next to their dead leader. They formed a barrier at the door ensuring that only the whitest of the white people could cast their votes. It was at that moment I came to the heart breaking realization that Dr. King was wrong. He wanted equality. He wanted to coexist with white people. He was Neville Chamberlain when we needed Winston Churchill. If I was to live in an America where I could raise my children without the fear of them succumbing to violence, I knew there was one thing I needed to do. I needed to rip these poisonous mushrooms out of the ground and salt the earth so they could never grow back.
So the next time some white person tries to tell you that there's no such thing as black voter suppression, you tell them my story. You tell them about the day the ghost of George Wallace showed up to the polls of Milwaukee.
I can't even tell anymore.