It is clear in my mind that they don’t really care about us. They do not live in our neighborhoods. Nor attend our houses of worship.
And yet, they covet our green dollars – with an estimated buying power of at least $1 trillion among the collective of black America, according to a 2013 Nielsen report.
I can hear it now: “John Fountain is a racist.” Yeah, whatever. … How? Because I write what I see? Because my heart aches over the perpetual plunder of my people and the erosion of our neighborhoods while economic carpetbaggers fill their coffers and go back home?
What should I feel, say, when I sense, taste, the disdain that people of other ethnic groups have for black folks while at the same time making their living on the backs of black folks?
I also wonder whether we would be allowed to set up liquor and tobacco stores or require the exchange of currency and goods through glass partitions and metal trays. Whether it would be OK for us to refer to middle-age male customers as “bud,” “boss” and “dude” instead of “sir.”
What I wonder most is why we won’t demand more for ourselves
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