Contempt: (n) the feeling with which a person regards anything considered mean, vile, or worthless
I listened intently as the gentleman closed his argument by proffering, with a sneer on his lips, “Just because you’re swimming doesn’t mean you’re a fish.”
The point he was trying to make is that no white person could ever understand what it’s really like to be a black person.
There was applause in the room when he spoke the words. I, on the other hand, sat quietly, seething in my soul, feeling nothing but contempt.
I have complete contempt for racism.
My contempt is also full for culturalism—the assertion that certain groups of humans react differently from others due to their location or skin color.
I have great contempt for ancestry.com, which propagates the idea that because my family members from the past were of a certain ilk or style, that this characteristic influences my decisions.
Anything that tries to break us down into a category other than “human” shall always receive my contempt.
I do not care if I am alone in this position—it doesn’t frighten me if people find my thinking to be insensitive to what they would refer to as “the natural divisions among people.”
It is wrong.
If God did not tell us what color Adam was or what preferences Eve had in salsa, I think the message is clear: The human race is, and evermore shall be, one family that just wants to squabble about who’s superior, so that they might receive better seating in the living room.
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