I don’t know Bill Clinton. I’ve never met him. I’ve only seen him speak live once — last night when he gave the opening keynote at Netroots Nation in Pittsburgh. Nonetheless, I do feel like I know good ol’ Bill. He was my president as a child growing up in little Winston-Salem, N.C. He’s a fellow Southerner, a good and respected leader around the world and someone who understands the needs of all Americans.
In 1992, I was six. For whatever reason, I knew I liked Bill Clinton. I saw him on the news when my parents watched at night and, immediately, I knew I should be on this guy’s side. I begged my mother to let me stay up late and watch the election returns. My first grade class in the morning be damned, I was going to watch Bill Clinton become president. I pleaded with my mom at dinner, after my bath and before I climbed into bed. She finally relented.
The following post was written Friday night. Not the best time to be read by most of my readers or the web, but I just had to get it out. To make sure it gets the attention it needs, I’ve promoted it back to the top today. There’s some good conversation over at the Pam’s House Blend cross post.
It seems as though, after Prop. 8, there’s been a whole lot of conversation on the intersections between race and sexuality.
I wonder if we’ve learned anything. Or, maybe we’ve all be foaming at the mouth with absolutely zero listening capacity.
In a recent Bilerico post, “No on ‘Gay is Black,'” I wasn’t surprised to see the conversation very quickly turn into a competition of which group has suffered the most. It’s as if civil rights should be doled out on the basis of the pain inflicted rather than on the basis of what is actually right and wrong inside the legal and moral framework of our Constitution and national ideals.