Now, this is what I call SARCASM!

By William PLEASANT

In August of 1865, southern Colonel P.H. Anderson of Big Spring, Tennessee wrote to his former slave Jourdan Anderson, requesting that Jourdan return to a new and improved plantation. The good colonel wanted his slave back after he and his Confederate States of America had bitten the dust several months earlier.


Jourdan Anderson had by  then run away from the farm, emancipated by the Union Army, and had moved to Ohio where he found a job that lavishly (in relative scale) supported himself, wife and children. Jourdan's written reply to the finger-licking good colonel was printed in the August 22, 1865 edition of the NEW YORK TRIBUNE. (Cited from The Freedmen's Book)


Below is an excerpted version of the slave's reply to his ex-master's invitation:
(Complete letter here...)

Dayton, Ohio

August 7, 1865

To My Old Master, Colonel P.H. Anderson, Big Spring, Tennessee

Sir:
I got your letter, and was glad to find that you had not forgotten Jourdon, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again, promising to do better for me than anybody else can. I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long before this, for harboring Rebs they found at your house. I suppose they never heard about your going to Colonel Martin's to kill the Union soldier that was left by his company in their stable. Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, and am glad you are still living. It would do me good to go back to the dear old home again, and see Miss Mary and Miss Martha and Allen, Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hope we will meet in the better world, if not in this. I would have gone back to see you all when I was working in the Nashville Hospital, but one of the neighbors told me that Henry intended to shoot me if he ever got a chance...

JOURDAN ANDERSON

I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to give me. I am doing tolerably well here. I get twenty-five dollars a month, with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for Mandy,—the folks call her Mrs. Anderson,—and the children—Milly, Jane, and Grundy—go to school and are learning well. The teacher says Grundy has a head for a preacher. They go to Sunday school, and Mandy and me attend church regularly. We are kindly treated. Sometimes we overhear others saying, "Them colored people were slaves" down in Tennessee. The children feel hurt when they hear such remarks; but I tell them it was no disgrace in Tennessee to belong to Colonel Anderson. Many darkeys would have been proud, as I used to be, to call you master. Now if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better able to decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again...


As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864 from the Provost-Marshal-General of the Department of Nashville. Mandy says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you were disposed to treat us justly and kindly; and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on your justice and friendship in the future. I served you faithfully for thirty-two years, and Mandy twenty years. At twenty-five dollars a month for me, and two dollars a week for Mandy, our earnings would amount to eleven thousand six hundred and eighty dollars ($116,800.00 in current commodity exchange value or current economic power value of $17,200,000.00--Liberator). Add to this the interest for the time our wages have been kept back, and deduct what you paid for our clothing, and three doctor's visits to me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to.

Please send the money by Adams's Express, in care of V. Winters, Esq., Dayton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faithful labors in the past, we can have little faith in your promises in the future. We trust the good Maker has opened your eyes to the wrongs which you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in making us toil for you for generations without recompense. Here I draw my wages every Saturday night; but in Tennessee there was never any pay-day for the negroes any more than for the horses and cows. Surely there will be a day of reckoning for those who defraud the laborer of his hire.


Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.

Can we say more?

--30--

A Kwanzaa greeting and lesson...

Free SMS

Kwanzaa is just a conveniet post-xmas retailing scheme hatched by the FBI snitch Ron Karenga. Hallmark makes Kwanzaa cards. Its revolutionary relevance begins and ends there.

Kwanzaa was invented in 1966 by an erstwhile radical named Ron Karenga (a.k.a. Dr. Maulana Karenga). Karenga was a founder of United Slaves, a violence-talking cultural nationalistic rival to the Black Panthers and a COINTELPRO front for the FBI.

During the 60s, the FBI encouraged the most comically extreme Black cultural nationalist organizations in order to discredit and split the left. The more preposterous the organization, the better. Using that criterion, Karenga's United Slaves stood at the top of the heap.

Despite popular historical notions that conflate all the Black activists of the '60s, the Black Panthers were not racist 'Afro' supremacists. They did not promote armed revolution. But those were the FBI-inspired central planks of Karenga's United Slaves. Karenga's United Slaves were simply dashiki-sporting wannabe fascists, who gleefully gunned down Black Panthers and other Black Leftists while adopting absurd, manufactured "African" names.
J. Edgar Hoover could not have wished for a better crew of brothas.

Comrade William PLEASANT

RED Christmas greetings from CHILE

FELICE NAVIDAD y FUCK DA POLICE!

Some Commie Christmas Reflections 2011...



I have worked like a mad dog for a month on a research project.

I expected to get paid for my labor today. Unfortunately, my

clients skipped town for the holidays. I will get my check, no

doubt, but I must wait until AFTER CHRISTMAS.

"Good grief! B-B-But I have been a good boy. I ate my broccoli and brushed my

teeth every day. Why am I being punished by St. Nicholas? It's not fair..."

I failed. I hate to fail.

Failure today looks like not being able to "celebrate"

Christmas in the appropriate manner. This is depressing to me now.

I missed the retailer-designated target of December 25th.

So, now I must suffer the social indignities that come with

blowing my lines in a kindergarten costume pageant.

Phuck this schitt!

My problem is that I have allowed alien class,

consumer fetishism to drive me to the brink of suicide.

Jingle Bells have made me forget who the hell I am.

I am a revolutionary intellectual!

And the emmen-effen enemy can stick that in its Christmas stocking!


MERRY XMAS, AMERIKKKA!

Comrade William PLEASANT

--30--

Ron Paul, I see you!



B-Movie Reflections 2011

By Comrade Sekou Osei



 America has become just another "B" movie, where people live in fantasy lands,        where all you have to do is disconnect from reality,
                  and just feel good,
      through positive thinking, where you don't need to read
                                   to understand life and living,
                                          where you just need nice pictures and imagery,
                      your life
                      doesn't need an
                      "understanding"
                   to gather a greater clarity.

      Now all the people need is the fake warmth of American exceptional feel good.
                            For
      persons never have achieved much of anything and thus they want you
                            to
                            believe
             that they are exceptional people,
             because of the loquaciousness of their
                            empty altruism.
             Where accommodating selective amnesia is not selling out,
             but getting in your deeper spiritual self.
             For it's the most important thing that can change the world
                            and your conditions, by deeply meditating
                                              in the deepness of your navel
                            and achieving as some would argue "wisdom"
            Where life has become an old useless amusement park,
            where only words have any importance 
                                 as we smile
                                 at the old and peeling paint
                                 as we celebrate the colors
                                 and pretend that they are very
                                     bright
                                         and
                                           inspiring
              As a people without power,
                 we are encouraged against interracial sex 
                     because we were forced here not to work
                         and make profits for white colonial capitalist,
                                         but to give sex.
             Thus we fall in love with a Black Concubine of Corporates Capital, thus
                      we                                        
                      inspire    
                      our children by them.
                      So they say.....
            thus that they only understand our relation to history,
            we have become the prudent adolescents, never to grow up.
   
            Where people understand kingdoms a thousand years ago,
            in reality before Black-was-Black,
            and we don't know or understand yesterday,
            where history is the celebration of non-existent memories
            and not the harsh practice of history for real power.

            Life has become a
                    colorful tea party of an African revolution
                           of the mind, and not much else.....
                                    But, never the "state."  
            Where, time is spent hours with old woman with terrible false teeth
            who smoke cheap cigarettes trying to convince them that they are
            African queens
            in another life, and pretend that we are educating
            them about this
                                   "life."
           For it cannot be accepted that they just don't care, for they celebrated the
           pragmatism of a slave as they pass out tracts like dogmatic Christian Nigerians,
           whose pacifist moral grounding let them celebrate the brutal Black men in uniform,
           in Buffalo soldier platoons.

           Whose art and culture has declined to a point where they can
           only produce
                  "Soap-operas" over-done and over-acted
                    in Black face.
      Where we all become so proud of Black men elected to office, who just carry out
      The role of a corporate harlot, for white people of money,
       i.e., the children of former
                              slaves masters;
                                         "But he be articulate...."
      Where, Ebonee queens in colorful headdresses can only give you a Multi-level
      marketing scam to upward mobility. To be Cliff and Mutha Fukin Clair Hunstable in
      dashiki's with eight middle class kids.
                       Where they explain away the reality,
                               we all just need to be positive
                                                    and
                                                         accommodating,
      because we are polished and articulate, thus an African King of yesteryear.
      Thus, our crowd has only become culturally conscious entertainers,
      hoping to sell the CD.
     
      For the thing that we have come to achieve is our spiritual love
                   of the depth of our navel,
                       and we repeat the wisdom as if it's real, for the powers only give one
                       ticket to a "B" movie.

                               History is on our side, but not time.
--30--

Remember theory? Remember Practice?