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I’m Irish. We don’t care. We have shark-bait skin. We’re whiter than “white”. According to Professor Sowell, there were more Irish slaves in colonial North America than there were African slaves. Charles Darwin’s 57 races in his “On the Origin of Species by means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life” had the Irish at the bottom; we were subhuman. While the potato famine was going on from about 1849-1851, the foreign landowners were making millions from bumper harvests, guarded during transport by the British Army so the Irish couldn’t get any. (When some were transported to Canada, they came of the boat, literally naked, and froze to death on the docks, in the middle of a river.) My Irish grandmother, Mrs. Lillian Shields of the Gulf Shores Cafe in Mobile Alabama in the early 1920s, was boycotted by the civic organization, like the Rotary or Lions, the Enkyklios Paideia (”Circle of Children”, a.k.a., the KKK), because she gave the same handouts to black hobos as to white. My 4 adult children, by my late African-American wife of 40 years, identify as Black. I identify as a pasty-faced N-Word. I don’t care a flatulum for CRT.
They can scratch my lily white a##