I need me a black woman to rape!

Yeah, apparently if what I learned this weekend is true, I as a white male have a genetic need to rape a black woman. This is because my melanin deficient and physically inferior genes cry out for improvement to my seed. The overpowering need to fortify my inferior genetic make up with the superior traits of the black woman drives me and all white men to force ourselves these chocolate earth mothers. This trait was no more clearly seen than in the systemic rape of slave women in the antebellum south.

Furthermore, it seems that not only is my genetic makeup found lacking, I (and I say "I" as the collective of all white men) am apparently an inferior lover. This inability to please my women resulted in driving them into the strapping arms of the closest available ebony lover. Wide reports of the rape of white women at the hands(?) of black men in the years following the civil war were apparently not as they were presented. Instead of these incidences being as reported they were in fact simple alibis to cover the needs of white women. They longed for the touch of a real lover, one that a white man could never supply and were thrown by their needs into the arms of Mandingo.

This illuminating information was dispensed upon me during this weekends Southern Writers Symposium. This was by no means the only provocative idea extolled. Far from it. The first day of the conference was replete with condemnation of both my sex and race (though as a mix of some 8 different ethnic backgrounds I find it interesting that I am simply "white" for the purposes of this particular breed of racist). No opportunity was wasted to trot out the tired horse of the repressive white devil and beat it just one more time. Angry black women who where heads of their university's literature departments would rail about the white ceiling that kept blacks and especially black women from succeeding, seemingly unaware of their own elevated positions. Session after session I sat and listened as the whole of southern literature was reduced to an expression of racism and how the struggle to escape it continues.

We were then given examples of great writers, writers who were the best at their craft(so long as you distilled down their group far enough for them to come out on top). Ms. Cloe Suchnwhat winner of the best African American writer of short industrial fiction; Mr. Pablo Escansomethingrito, winner of the coveted Latin American transsexual romance non-fiction. Writers who are put into a sort of special Olympics of writing, where the "differently-abled" can compete in a non-confrontational environment of "not-so-goods" get their hug and feel good about their accomplishments. I don't really blame the writers themselves. I suspect often these accolades are just put on them not pursued by them. It's the literary community that creates these facets to show how non-racist they really are. The reality is it it becomes a clarion call for their racially motivated decisions.

Of all the activities of man, the arts are the most free of any racial confines. There is nothing within writing, painting, sculpture, glass blowing or any of a hundred art forms that convey the race or sex of the artist. Leonardo just as easily could of been a one armed midget transsexual, the effect of his art would be no different. Certainly John James Audubon's work isn't altered by the fact that his mother was Haitian nor is it's benefit to North American zoology decreased (or increased for that matter). Tom Wolfe isn't constrained by his own sex or age from writing from the perspective of a college aged girl in his latest book "I am Charolete Simmons".

Instead of embracing one of the most level of playing fields, todays literary academics fire up a ditchwitch and cut the deepest of trenches. They strive to divide the arts, point fingers at the living for the deeds of the dead and take up the mantle of racial favoritism.

The one saving grace to this event was the second day. Two very impressive speakers/writers presented that day. Marshall Chapman a pioneering woman in rock performed and read from her recent book Goodbye, Little Rock and Roller and did so with the honest wit of a woman well acquainted with life. Sheila Kay Adams also spoke... and sang, and read. Sheila is an incredible story teller in the old mountain tradition. She read from her latest book My Old True Love and sang several traditional mountain love songs. I highly recommend her book and it's companion CD.

Well, I've controlled myself about as long as possible. My genes are feeling a bit peckish and there's women out there to oppress. Guess I better be going then....