Escaping the Racism of Low Expectations

A POST HILL PRESS BOOK

ISBN: 978-1-68261-585-0

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-586-7

Escaping the Racism of Low Expectations

© 2018 by Barbara from Harlem

All Rights Reserved

Cover art by Christian Bentulan

Cover photography by CatKoz Photography (Atlanta, GA)

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Post Hill Press

New York • Nashville

posthillpress.com

Published in the United States of America

I dedicate this to my late sincerely beloved son, David, and to all of my children,

Daron, Leonard, Cathy, and Bebe.

I would also like to dedicate this to all of you who are seeking to join me in escaping the racism of low expectations as fostered and advanced by the onslaught of brainwashing by liberals/leftists who frequently question and forever challenge the greatness of this country.

Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Chapter 1 The Ku Klux Klan

Chapter 2 Thank God for Slavery

Chapter 3 1950s: No Blacks Allowed

Chapter 4 Family Ties

Chapter 5 Back in the Grips of Poverty

Chapter 6 The Marriage, the Miracles, and the Madness

Chapter 7 The Innocent Victims

Chapter 8 My Life as a Liberal by Default at Age 21

Chapter 9 The Birth of Barbara from Harlem

Chapter 10 The Ugly Face of Secular Humanism vs. My Christian Beliefs

Chapter 11 Churchgoing Progressives

Chapter 12 The Masters of the Mind

Chapter 13 Propaganda Dressed Up as Higher Education—Indoctrination vs. Education

Chapter 14 Strategies for Conservative Victories

Conclusion: Simply Amazing

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

About the Author

FOREWORD

Barbara from Harlem has become part of a growing political segment in this country: a black conservative. However, when most black Americans hear this term, they automatically think Uncle Tom or How can you betray us? This is due in large part to the fact that most blacks and whites do not understand the conservative mindset or ideology. My fellow black Americans have been told repeatedly that only Democrats care about the issues and concerns facing the black community. And, as Barbara from Harlem will outline in this book, this is one of the tactics used by the Democratic Party. The fact is, conservatives for the most part are aligned with the Republicans, and liberals for the most part are aligned with the Democrats. Therefore, when liberals demonize Republicans, they are also demonizing conservatives, effectively refusing to discuss matters with their fellow Americans with whom they disagree. The liberals’/leftists’ goal is simply to turn the American public, particularly minorities, against Republicans and conservatives, right from the Saul Alinsky playbook . Alinsky is best known as a radical activist and founder of modern community organizing. As an author, one of his best-known books is Rules for Radicals. His tactics are still used effectively with Americans who are not independent thinkers and are blindly loyal to the Democratic Party.

Barbara from Harlem was indoctrinated, as many blacks were and are, to vote only for Democrats. And she did so for most of her life. However, becoming a conservative was the only way that Barbara could reconcile her strong Christian beliefs with her political and social activism. How, she has asked, can I call myself a Christian and support candidates from the Democratic Party who support abortion on demand, or who support two homosexuals’ getting married? How can I best align my values with how I vote? And as she undertook this journey of self-analysis and self-discovery, she realized that she could not do those things as long as the values and the platform of the Democratic Party continued to move farther and farther away from the principles upon which this country was founded.

Barbara’s desire to gain a deeper relationship with God, combined with her growing concern about the direction in which Democrats have been leading this country, brought her to this moment, where in her words she is escaping the racism of low expectations. This book will open eyes and hearts; it will light that proverbial candle in what has been a dark period in the inner cities of America, in one of which Barbara from Harlem currently resides. She has witnessed that too many of our people feel so disconnected that they would rather engage in the subculture of urban America than seek out the American Dream.

Too many of my fellow black Americans mistakenly believe that America is too racist to succeed. However, former president Barack Obama is Exhibit A on how far this country has progressed on the issue of race. America offers more opportunities to black Americans than any other country on earth. The false narrative of Jim Crow and Mississippi is burning still in existence is deceptive and deceitful. Leftists don’t want black Americans to realize that they are still enslaved, not only by the past but also by the brainwashing of the present, and are stuck in a permanent underclass, believing the government is their savior, because they are victims of this racist country. The damage to the psyche of a large percentage of the black population is almost incalculable. As a result, too many of us fail to realize how blessed we are to have been born in the United States.

However, there is hope. With Barbara from Harlem’s insight and guidance, Americans of all races and persuasions can escape from the lies of the anti-American leftist movement, and embrace the greatness of this country and all of the opportunities that it offers.

—Bebe Diamond

New York, New York, October 2017

INTRODUCTION

"Now the Lord is that Spirit: and where the Spirit of the Lord is,

there is liberty."

—2 Corinthians 3:17

, King James Version

How did a very ordinary black woman from the streets of Harlem, New York, come to the point in her life of being an outspoken advocate for all Americans who have been trapped in the mindset of the Democratic Party? I am just like you. I’m not a politician. I’m not rich and powerful. I didn’t attend a prestigious university and wasn’t born with a silver spoon anyplace in my home. This book is meant to open hearts and minds as to how and why so many of my fellow black Americans are afraid to escape from the emotional and psychological chains in which we have been placed, so that they will not think for themselves and about what is best for our country.

I am just an average black American, with both American Indian and African roots, who is a product of inner city America. I am one who lives in the reality of cities run by Democrats that usually fail. I see escaping the racism of low expectations as my duty to reveal some truths of the generational cycle of irresponsible behavior and unaccountability of those who buy into the delusional dust being sold by politicians. I see the sadness and defeatism that exist when people are influenced to believe that they are not responsible for their own state of being and to look at government as their daddy.

I see what happens when people are diverted from examining what they can do to make their lives better to escape from this mindset. I know the dire consequences of having leaders that do not require accountability. The intent of this book is to shed light on why, since the 1930s, overwhelming numbers of black people have voted almost exclusively for the Democratic Party. This book will attempt to break the code regarding the stranglehold that Democrats have on the black community. My desire is to share this with the world so that people can know why it is so important to escape from the racism of low expectations and the constant drumbeat of victimhood that brainwashes the uninformed. This book will make you laugh, cry, and think, which is what any book should do.

This ordinary woman has emerged from the mindset of low expectations and no need to try to one who feels honored to have emerged from the cracks of the cement and the tenuous tales of let the government rule your life. I have arrived at a place of high excitement and energy, to do all within my power to help others experience the joy of escaping the racism of low expectations. Moreover, it is my desire and mission to awaken people to what God has endowed His creations with. This knowledge will enable them to grow and light the path for others. Therefore, you are not holding this book by accident; it is by divine intervention, and this is my story.

CHAPTER 1

THE KU KLUX KLAN

Like a yo-yo, my family life from my childhood went between Harlem and Florida. In Florida as a divorced mother of five, I faced the monster called raw and unadulterated white racism in a violent confrontation with an unashamed K.K.K. member. Interestingly, even after years of service to the NAACP, that organization did not come to my rescue or provide assistance, guidance, or support in any manner. This intense incident tested my strength of character and belief in God. My work ethic and the good people of Central Florida were my salvation.

Yes, there are some ugly white racists and, sadly, many black racists roaming the streets of America, but they are in the minority. I am a true victim of racism because I have lived it, felt the physical pain from it, and know its ugliness. Yet in spite of it, I am colorblind when it comes to dealing with and caring for my fellow human beings. America has its challenges, but when you dig deep it is still a beautiful melting pot filled predominantly with good people who support each other.

I know the real painful, life-threatening kind of racism. Let me tell you my story. While living in the Deep South, I had a really ugly, firsthand, and up-close encounter with racism. During the 1970s in Florida, I worked as a corrections officer, which provided financial stability. My family was thriving, and we were comfortable. This was just another step in the direction of my desire to one day follow in the footsteps of my grandfather and become a police officer. I pursued my ultimate dream by first becoming a corrections officer while waiting to join the police force. Working as a corrections officer gave me valuable insight into the American penal system.

I’d had prior experience at the Rikers Island jail in New York, and it was very different. At Rikers, I worked with an isolated population of men based on their sexual orientation to keep them safe. When I worked in Florida’s prison system the difference was simple, I worked only with female inmates, who had a misguided trust in men that I was very familiar with. One of my most poignant observations was that the majority of females were incarcerated because of their association with a male who had enticed them to join in criminal activities. These ill-advised associations inevitably led to their arrest. While it was sad dealing with these young ladies who were in such a predicament, I could somewhat relate to their hurt, mental anguish, and disappointment caused by someone who had their trust and their love. I always reminded my inmates that they were ladies and that there was real hope for them, and tried my best to let them know they could turn their lives in the right direction and achieve success and completeness.

Then it happened, a life-altering encounter that could have filled me with hate but didn’t. I met the monster called white racism that resulted in a violent confrontation with an unashamed and full-fledged member of the Ku Klux Klan. On one of my days off, my younger brother and I were at home when my children returned from school. My oldest son, Daron, was very upset. He related to both my younger brother and I that he had been slapped by a white man following an altercation he’d had with the man’s son. I had to stop and listen to what my son was telling me. Daron had never given me any problems and was always very respectful and kind. I thought that maybe for whatever reason, my son had been disrespectful to an elder or there was some other reason that I should investigate in case an apology was required if he had misbehaved. My younger brother and I, along with my five children, jumped into our old blue double-exhaust-system Buick station wagon and proceeded to the boy’s house to speak with his father and to find out the details of what had transpired.

Our sole purpose was to find out what had happened and to see if an apology from my son was warranted. We did not go to cause any disturbance. As we approached the man’s door and knocked, the boy’s father yelled through the door before bursting out, I’m going to kill you two black monkeys. After hearing those remarks, my brother and I started walking toward the car to leave. My back was turned as I continued going toward my car at a faster pace to leave the scene.

We didn’t get very far before he was completely out the door, and as my brother looked back, he witnessed the man going to his truck and pulling out a 9mm Glock. My brother turned and seeing the weapon, tried to disarm him. When I heard the scuffle, I turned and saw the two of them struggling, which put me in a state of shock and disbelief. It wasn’t until I heard the gun go off that the processing of this scene began to register with me. I then heard my brother yell, Sis, he shot me, go get your gun. With that, I started running toward my car, where my gun was in the glove compartment, but not before the man fired and struck me in my left leg.

I felt the burning pain immediately but knew that I had to keep going to save my brother and possibly my children and myself. Even though I was shot and wounded, with blood pouring out of my leg, I managed to make it to my car. I opened my glove compartment and retrieved my firearm before he could shoot my brother again, which he was preparing to do. Within this short interlude, my brother had managed to move out of his direct line of fire by taking cover behind the man’s truck. That didn’t stop our nemesis, who proceeded to go toward my brother to eventually shoot him again. I saw this maneuver, and fortunately I had retrieved my gun and was ready to engage in a battle for our lives—all with my children looking on in fear.

I immediately pulled the trigger, firing my gun and striking him in his back as he leaned in toward my brother. When he realized that I was armed, he turned again in my direction, and I saw the large black 9mm Glock that he was using as he opened fire in my direction. As I looked down the barrel of his gun, I had no place to hide, and I had no choice but to fire back. During this exchange, one of his bullets hit the area where my youngest daughter was seated in the car. That bullet struck the door of my station wagon, but thankfully our old Buick’s tough exterior prevented the bullet from penetrating the door, and she was safe and unharmed. With that he turned toward me and shot me again in my other leg. I returned the fire, striking him in the shoulder blade. I was crouched down behind the man’s truck and ready to fire if necessary. This exchange gave my brother time to come around the truck to where he was out of the line of fire, preventing another gunshot wound.

All of a sudden, my mother drove up, and I immediately started yelling for her to give me the shotgun as I passed my .22-caliber handgun to my brother. I was more comfortable with a shotgun since I used it for hunting when I was with my father in upstate New York. When Mr. K.K.K. heard my screams for a bigger firearm to match his high-powered automatic, our racist attacker decided it was best to stop this fight and surrender his weapon; with his hands in the air he yelled, I give, I give. I told him to place his gun on the truck, which my brother retrieved before the arrival of the sheriff. Somehow, while bleeding profusely from wounds in both legs, I managed to get into my Buick station wagon, then slid under the wheel and told my son Daron how to manipulate the gas and brake pedal as I steered our way to the hospital while bleeding.

When we finally pulled into the hospital parking lot, sirens blaring on the car of the local sheriff greeted us. He jumped out of his car and rapidly approached me with his weapon drawn and pointed at my head. I can’t remember the exact words I used, but I asked him to please help me get into the hospital before I bled to death. After he realized that I wasn’t a threat, he allowed the medical staff to roll me into the emergency room and I was properly attended to. My brother, the K.K.K. member, and I were all hospitalized at the local hospital, and we all survived. My brother lost a kidney, but no charges were brought against the K.K.K. member. I, however, faced an attempted murder charge, which was dismissed for lack of evidence. So a black woman who was trying to defend herself, her brother, and her children was looked at as a possible murderer—a glimpse into the racism of the early 1970s during a very dark time in our country’s history!

The local chapter of the K.K.K. held a locally televised rally while I was hospitalized. If I recall correctly, their spokesperson said that they were going to teach people who came to their town and caused any problems a lesson. I believed that this was a reference to the shooting incident, and after all, I was from New York so I think it was reasonable to believe they were referring to me. After leaving the hospital, my family and I went to the Christmas parade. It was rather shocking to see members of the K.K.K. unashamedly in full regalia, robes, and hoods with their faces exposed, as they proudly marched in formation down the main street of a little town in DeLand, Florida. Their K.K.K. float was blue and white with the words Peace on Earth! Their theme was peace—I’ll never figure that one out.

I mistakenly thought that after leaving the hospital, it was the end of this unfortunate event, but it was not the end of this saga. Shortly thereafter I began getting life-threatening telephone calls telling me, You’re going to die tonight. Looking back, I can only presume that there were several different K.K.K. members trying to put some sort of fear in my heart for what had transpired. My very dear and close friend Leila, a lifelong resident of Florida, told me that the sheriff’s department was saturated with Klan members. Hearing that, I did not solicit their support in this matter. My Harlem survival mindset took over, and I became well armed, which included my rifle and loaded clips of ammunition. The next phone call I received, I easily and eagerly replied, If you were born of a woman and you bleed, I’m going to make sure you bleed because I’m going to kill you. I was determined to protect my children from people who did not like them because of the color of their skin! It became such a high focus that I prayed a very unorthodox prayer to God, which was, Dear Lord, if I’m going to die, then please let me kill two of them first. Each time I received a threatening call, I just repeated, If you were born of a woman and you bleed, I’m going to make sure you bleed because I’m going to kill you. After a few heated conversations with the anonymous callers and my promise to defend my children and myself with deadly force, the callers cowered and backed off. I presumed the calls were from Klan members who must have figured out at some point that I could and would shoot back if they approached my children or my home. Needless to say, as I was a single woman whose life was being threatened, the right to bear arms was critically important to protect both my family and myself. Just to convey how crazy things were, months later I was involved in an entrepreneurial venture selling beauty supplies and in a bizarre turn of events, it just so happened that one of my main customers was a known K.K.K. member who marched in that parade.

This experience in Central Florida was racism at its lowest, but by no means does it represent the majority of whites’ attitudes toward blacks. I can also state the hard truth that the local chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) did nothing to aid me in this situation. They told me to put the incident in writing; I did, but they did nothing except collect my dues. I was a faithful attendee of the local chapter meetings but did not receive a response from the local or national chapter. I deemed the group ineffective and discontinued any association thereafter. After this incident with the K.K.K. and my rehabilitation from the gunshot wounds, I realized that I could not continue on as a corrections officer, and my dream of being a police officer was no longer possible.

While in Florida, I began working at Bethune-Cookman College (now Bethune-Cookman University) in Daytona Beach and also had a second job working for a local attorney. Each time I went to work at the former, I realized how blessed I was to be on the grounds of a college that had become a reality for a child of former slaves, Mary Jane McLeod Bethune. I vividly remember the school’s motto, Enter to Learn, Depart to Serve, which inspired me to learn more and be of service to my country and my fellow man. I was able to frequently visit Bethune’s home on the campus. The visit takes one back in time and looks at her rich life and friendship with First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt and President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. It has always struck me that this great woman of African heritage was able to purchase a four-room cottage in 1904 to start her school. With very little except her faith in God, five little girls, and one dollar and 50 cents, the Daytona Literary and Industrial Training School for Negro Girls was born. It later became Bethune-Cookman College and is now a university. What is so amazing is that Bethune was a child of former slaves, and this reality did not hold her back or cause her to exhibit