Category Archives: Message to the Black Man
Today I’m working and preparing to relocate. So a quickie:
I have officially ODed on Bullshit. Can we please get some old-school Spike Lee or Mario Van Peebles-style films? I’m a little tired of films where we fuck our daughters, or cheat on our wives, or kill our brothers, smoke weed, drink like fishes, dress like women, or otherwise act a stinking fool!
It’s not like Hollywood is putting these Uncle Tom images out. WE make these damned movies… Tyler’s my boy, but have some fucking dignity, Black man—you’ve already made the big time. It’s time to stop remaking the same stupid film over and over… Martin + Jamie = Amos n Andy? I’ll wait for the bootleg. At least it’ll go to a better cause. No wonder people in the poorest sections of the Third World countries come to America and look down on us.
Look what we’ve become… From Malcolm and Martin—to this.
Just look around you. You know what I’m talking about…
Thanks for visiting my blog.
I want to write about this child, who was the youngest ever executed in America. Well, I don’t have time to really write anything, so I’m going to do a cheap cut-and-paste job.
You’ll get my input on part II. In the meantime, #knowyourhistory
Thanks for visiting my blog.
(The following taken from Wikipedia)
Stinney, of Alcolu, South Carolina, was convicted of murdering two young girls after police said he confessed to the murders. But the question of Stinney’s guilt, the validity of his alleged confession and the judicial process leading to his execution has been criticized as “suspicious at best and a miscarriage of justice at worst”, and as an example of the many injustices African-Americans suffered in courtrooms in the Southern United States in the first half of the 20th Century.
Following his arrest, Stinney’s father was fired from his job and his parents and siblings were given the choice of leaving town or being lynched. The family was forced to flee, leaving the 14-year-old child with no support during his 81-day confinement and trial. His trial, including jury selection, lasted just one day. Stinney’s court-appointed attorney was a tax commissioner preparing to run for office. There was no court challenge to the testimony of the three police officers who claimed that Stinney had confessed, although that was the only evidence presented. There were no written records of a confession. Three witnesses were called for the prosecution: the man who discovered the bodies of the two girls and the two doctors who performed the post mortem. No witnesses were called for the defense. The trial before a completely white jury and audience (African-Americans were not allowed entrance) lasted two and a half hours. The jury took ten minutes to deliberate before it returned with a guilty verdict.
Stinney was arrested on suspicion of murdering two white girls, Betty June Binnicker, age 11, and Mary Emma Thames, age 8, in Alcolu, located in Clarendon County, South Carolina, on March 23, 1944. Alcolu was a small, working class, mill town where whites and blacks were separated by railroad tracks. The girls had disappeared while out riding their bicycles looking for flowers. As they passed the Stinney property, they asked young George Stinney and his sister, Katherine, if they knew where to find “maypops“, a type of flower. When the girls did not return, search parties were organized, with hundreds of volunteers. The bodies of the girls were found the next morning in a ditch filled with muddy water. Both had suffered severe head wounds.
Stinney had joined the search party and he related to another that he had talked to the girls on the day of their murder. As he and his sister had been the last persons to admit seeing the girls alive, Stinney was arrested a few hours after their bodies were discovered. Stinney was suspected simply because he mentioned he had seen the girls earlier in the day. 
He was interrogated by several white officers in a locked room with no witnesses aside from the officers; within an hour, a deputy announced that Stinney had confessed to the crime. According to the confession, Stinney wanted to “have sex with” 11 year old Betty June Binnicker and could not do so until her companion, Mary Emma Thames, age 8, was removed from the scene; thus he decided to kill Mary Emma. When he went to kill Mary Emma, both girls “fought back” and he thus decided to kill Betty June, as well, with a 14 inch railroad spike that was found in the same ditch a distance from the bodies. According to the accounts of deputies, Stinney apparently had been successful in killing both at once, causing major blunt trauma to their heads, shattering the skulls of each into at least 4-5 pieces.
“Because there were no Miranda rights in 1944, Stinney was questioned without a lawyer and his parents were not allowed into the room. No written confession exists, only a few handwritten notes of a deputy who was present during the interrogation. …Reports said that the officers had offered the boy ice cream for confessing to the crimes.”
The next day, Stinney was charged with first-degree murder. Jones describes the town’s mood as grief, transformed in the span of a few hours into seething anger, with the murders raising racially and politically charged tension. Millworkers threatened to storm the local jail to lynch Stinney, but prior to this, he had been removed to Charleston by law enforcement. Stinney’s father was fired from his job at the local lumber mill and the Stinney family left town during the night in fear for their lives.
This was South Carolina in 1944, with a black male defendant, two young white female victims, and an all white, male jury. Stinney never stood a chance.—Zerlina Maxwell, as quoted by The Grio, NBC news
The trial took place on April 24 at the Clarendon County Courthouse. Jury selection began at 10 a.m., ending just after noon, and the trial commenced at 2:30 p.m. The courthouse was packed with a completely white audience as African-Americans were not allowed entrance. Records indicate 1,000 to 1,500 people crammed the courthouse. Stinney’s court-appointed lawyer was 30-year-old Charles Plowden. “Plowden had political aspirations, and the trial was a high-wire act for him. His dilemma was how to provide enough defense so that he could not be accused of incompetence, but not be so passionate that he would anger the local whites who may one day vote for him. While Plowden was preparing a run for state House that Spring, he was not the only one for which the trial held political implications. As elected officials, Sheriff Gamble, Judge Phillip Henry Stoll, Gov. Olin Dewitt Talmadge Johnston, Coroner Charles Moses Thigpen and State Sen. John Grier Binkins, who were all involved in the case, were also beholden to white voters.”
Plowden did not cross-examine witnesses; his defense was reported to consist solely of the claim that Stinney was too young to be held responsible for the crimes. However the law in South Carolina in 1944 regarded anyone over the age of 14 as an adult. The prosecution merely responded by producing Stinney’s birth certificate which showed him to be fourteen and five months old. Closing arguments concluded at 4:30 p.m., the jury retired just before 5 p.m. and deliberated for 10 minutes, returning a guilty verdict with no recommendation for mercy. Stinney was sentenced to death in the electric chair. When asked about appeals, Plowden replied that there would be no appeal, as the Stinney family had no money to pay for a continuation. When asked about the trial, Lorraine Binnicker Bailey, the sister of Betty June Binnicker, one of the murdered children, stated:
Everybody knew that he done it, even before they had the trial they knew that he done it. But, I don’t think that they had too much of a trial.—Lorraine Binnicker Bailey, sister of victim Betty June Binnicker, as quoted by Jones, Mark R., South Carolina Killers: Crimes of Passion, pg. 41.
Commenting on the 2011 attempt to file a motion to re-open the case, attorney Steve McKenzie said:
Stinney was a convenient target. But how do you exonerate somebody where there is absolutely no evidence one way or the other? There was only a coerced confession. The confession was never written. It was an oral confession testified to two white officers and told to an all white male jury.—South Carolina attorney Steve McKenzie, as quoted by The Grio, NBC news
Local churches, the N.A.A.C.P., and unions pleaded with Governor Olin D. Johnston to stop the execution and commute the sentence to life imprisonment, citing Stinney’s age as a mitigating factor. There was substantial controversy about the pending execution, with one citizen writing to Johnston, stating, “Child execution is only for Hitler.” Still, there were supporters of Stinney’s execution; another letter to Johnston stated: “Sure glad to hear of your decision regarding the nigger Stinney.” Johnston did nothing, thereby allowing the execution to proceed.
The execution of George Stinney was carried out at the South Carolina State Penitentiary in Columbia, on June 16, 1944. At 7:30 p.m., Stinney walked to the execution chamber with a Bible under his arm, which he later used as a booster seat in the electric chair.  Standing 5 foot 1 inch (155 cm) tall and weighing just over 90 pounds (40 kg), he was small for his age, which presented difficulties in securing him to the frame holding the electrodes. Nor did the state’s adult-sized face-mask fit him; as he was hit with the first 2,400 V surge of electricity, the mask covering his face slipped off, “revealing his wide-open, tearful eyes and saliva coming from his mouth”…After two more jolts of electricity, the boy was dead.” Stinney was declared dead within four minutes of the initial electrocution. From the time of the murders until Stinney’s execution, eighty-one days had passed.
South Carolina lawyers Steve McKenzie, Shaun Kent and Ray Chandler are supporting George Frierson in an attempt to obtain a posthumous pardon for Stinney. Frierson is a researcher from Alcolu who came across the case in 2005 while doing black historical research. McKenzie in an interview in 2011 said he has no doubt this case was an injustice. He said that the lack of preserved evidence made clearing Stinney’s name difficult, but he hoped that the affidavits of three new witnesses, one of which could provide an alibi, would be enough to re-open the case.
If we can get the case re-opened, we can go to the judge and say, ‘There wasn’t any reason to convict this child. There was no evidence to present to the jury. There was no transcript. This case needs to be re-opened. This is an injustice that needs to be righted.’ I’m pretty optimistic that if we can get the witnesses we need to come forward, we will be successful in court. We hopefully have a witness that’s going to say — that’s non-family, non-relative witness — who is going to be able to tie all this in and say that they were basically an alibi witness. They were there with Mr. Stinney and this did not occur.—Steve McKenzie
George Frierson stated in interviews that “…there has been a person that has been named as being the culprit, who is now deceased. And it was said by the family that there was a deathbed confession.” Frierson said that the rumored culprit came from a well-known, prominent white family. A member, or members of that family, had served on the initial coroner’s inquest jury which had recommended that Stinney be prosecuted
Yup that’s pretty much how it works. Our Black women seem to be the only ones pulling this shit. Yes, you have a job. Yes, you have your own things. But you are the LEAST likely women to land a husband (hell not even a Black man) and you act like you’re okay with that. Something is terribly wrong, my sisters. Lose that stupid pride and create families. This kind of stuff is killing our people.
If only you understood the dynamics of White dominance versus the Black Family. Going all the way back to slavery, Black families were kept apart, either by design or convenience, but because of the nature of chattel slavery the family was not a sacred institution. It was not respected. The slave master, if he wanted, could come out to the slave quarters and fuck your wife. As a man, you could do nothing about it. If he wanted, he could sell your husband to another plantation. If he had “good genes”–aka, large and strong and smart–he was rented out to other plantations to breed with the women of those plantations. Yes, my sisters, your husband was sent to other plantations (for a fee) to fuck other women. And worse than all of this: If you had strong, healthy children, your children would be sold.
Let me jump in for a second. There exists in the Black community some rules some of our non-Black friends may not understand. If you are Black and southern you know this very well. Black children are kept close to the hip when around White folks. Children in general are inquisitive, they like to explore and learn. They are often mischievous, and Black children are no different. But go to Walmart, and see how violently Black mothers are to keep their kids in line around “company”.
Boy, if you don’t bring your ass over here I am going to beat your fucking ass. GET over here! Don’t touch a damned thing. You better not break nothing, they gone GET you!
You know what I’m talking about. We all have heard it. “They gone get you!” What is that?
Yes, when Black children are not controlled, stoic and anything short of a nuisance, any White man or woman–even those who are not your Master–had a legal right to abuse your child worse than any dog. Thing of the past you say? Do you know what happens to Black kids who are away from their parents when they act up?
This boy was 14 years old. His crime, whistling at an attractive White woman. Ask any of your Black friends, we all know the story.
But some other rules:
- Telling our girls how not to get raped–as well as how to GET raped. Yes, how to “get” raped. By the time a girl is 11 or 12, we are already telling our daughters to hide their breasts and other body parts. And when they come (not “if”, but “when”), don’t fight them; it will only be worse. In some parts of the country, Black mothers don’t let their daughters out of sight.
- Telling boys not to resist, talk back to, or to be overly polite–to police. We are told never to reach for a wallet too quickly without getting permission from a police officer.
- Detaching from children, and not allowing them to be too affectionate with us. It weakens them, we think. Plus, we need to prepare the children we don’t truly own who could possibly be taken from us for when that day comes. If our kids are attached like your children are attached to you, it hurts more when they are sold–or jailed, or killed.
- Telling our sons that in order to be seen as equal, they must be three times better than the White kids. Black boys are extra competitive for this reason, even in modern times. We are so used to being discriminated and discarded, we must guard against it by being extra valuable. On the plantation, the hardest working slaves didn’t get beaten. If a slave was more productive than the rest, a beating takes days, sometimes weeks, to recover. That’s lost production on the farm. Or the job. We can’t stand this nigger acting like that Black law school he attended makes him just as good as we are… But damn, we can’t afford to fire him. This is the reality Black men live with every day.
- The use of a whipping as a form of discipline. Yeah, it’s a joke for Black folks–but do you ever wonder why Black people whip their children so much? It’s because it is how we were taught to be disciplined and controlled. But some white folks whup their children, right? The same way Black folks do, right? They do–in southern culture. Imagine where they learned that….
All that to say, that the lessons and ordeals we were forced to live with are still here. It dictates why we are the way we are today. Sure, slavery is over–by generations. But we learn from our parents, and they learned from their parents. And these things have become a part of our culture. Whether you recognize it or not, it exists.
So, when that Black woman says FUCK YOU to her men, I don’t need you, you ain’t shit, I’m better off without you–this is the result of generations of having to do it alone, and much to the delight of her Master–it is a sign that these Black folks are still the inferior people. Hell, this Black bitch (don’t get mad; half of you call yourselves this, and that’s what they called you!) can’t even keep a husband, let alone raise a child properly. Know your history, or you will be doomed to repeat it.
I apologize for the offensive language in this post. But I needed it for you to feel the heat radiating off these lines. Thanks for visiting my blog.
The minister Louis Farrakhan has gotten a bad rap.
You may have heard that he is anti-Semetic, anti-white, blah blah blah. But he is Pro-Black in an unapologetic way. Keep in mind, he came up in a time when this government was assassinating any Black man who was attempting to free Black people from the brutal treatment we suffered at the hands of America. Yes, he carries anger. But not much different from the anger you carry from 9-11. And 9 times out of 10, I guarantee you most likely did not lose any loved ones in 9-11, nor have you personally been attacked by any Islamic terrorist.
I say that because he experienced this brutality first hand and is entitled to feeling how he feels about the way things happen here in America.
Anyway, our MO as a nation is to demonize anyone who is a freedom fighter. We always did it. We even did it to Martin Luther King. Let’s keep things real, can we?
What I want you to do is let Minister Farrakhan out of the prison our media has put him, and loosen your grip on your opinion of him–and hear him speak from his own words.
I love what he says here–he is asking Black people to change how we act, think and behave. And I would like to share it with you. Please take 20 minutes, and listen to his words yourself.
Let me tell you about my morning. Akamo always has an interesting day because people on the street are just so engaging, and I find it so difficult to pass some folks by. So there’s this kid “Davey”….
After my workout this morning, I walked over to the gas station near my gym and was approached by a young man. He was 16 years old and tall, stood about 5′ 9”, and about 130 lbs soaking wet. Good looking, small twisty dreds, and obviously someone’s baby-boy-turned-thug-but-not really: and he was begging. Sir, can you spare 75 cents, he says. No, I cannot. As a practice I tend not to give panhandlers money when they look young and clean enough to work. He obviously gets his hair done somewhere, and that costs money. He is not malnourished, so someone around him can afford to feed him. His clothes are updated and clean, and that takes money. You don’t look desperate or in extreme poverty, so hell no. It took two tries before he realized that I was not going to give him any money. While getting my coffee, the young man approached several more. As he made his rounds, conversation in the store was starting to piss me off. The Fedex guy commented on how he always had some method of gaining income as a high schooler. Indian customer talks about how American kids are lazy and feel entitled–nothing like the hard working and resourceful youth of his poverty-stricken country. A few Mexican brothers laughed and shook their heads, and a white sister corrected the Indian man: It’s the Blacks. They wallow in their tormentous past and blame everyone for what is not much more than pure laziness in their present. Everyone agrees. Who doesn’t get discriminated these days? Even white men who are gay get discriminated… blah blah blah. Boy am I pissed.
And also glad to be mixed up enough to slither in and out of these candid conversations, incognegro.
I begin to be ashamed for my people; there was no malice in this conversation, they were speaking some basic truths that any observer would find, albeit a very wide net they are casting. In comes young man.
Naturally, the conversation is over, and as I wait in line, out the corner of my eye I see the young man stick a candy bar in his pants pocket! That’s the last damned thing our people need after such a conversation–for one of our own to confirm to these people that their latent racist feelings about our people might be true. Knowing how much my coffee is, I jump ahead and throw down $1.25 for my coffee, I grab the second candy bar from the young man and put it back, and stick my hand in the boy’s pocket and take out the other candy bar and throw it back, then snatched the young man by the back of his shirt (thus spilling hot coffee on my wrist) and drag him outside. I tell him to walk with me and I give him a “Daddy” scolding like you would ever hear. First thing I ask him is does he know who he is? Do you know what our people have gone through, so that your Black ass could dress nice, walk into the FRONT of a store and shop, walk down the street knowing that no white men will beat you up and hand you by your neck??
Yes, he was shocked. I had to inform him that yes, I am Black too. First, you beg for money from people who are already looking down their nose at you and everyone who is your color. Then you steal from them? Are you hungry? No, he answers. Of course not. That’s why I was asking you for 75 cents. So no one gave it to you and you decided to steal? Little brother let me tell you something. As a young Black man, you are the SENIOR minority in America. You have been here longer than any Asian or Hispanic. You built this country. You have laws made to protect you and your rights. Your people produced the first minority Senators, the first minority judges, the first minority PRESIDENT, and your sorry ass can’t find a way to legally come up with one fucking dollar???? For a candy bar? Do you realize there were people in that gas station who don’t speak this language as good as you, don’t have as much education than you, don’t have parents who can put a roof over their head and THEY don’t have to fucking steal a $1 candy bar!!!
Don’t you know that the drug addict has a valid reason for begging? But guess what–they rarely do because even the DRUG addict has a hustle to buy himself a fucking candy bar! You mean to tell me a drug addict has more potential to feed himself than you? A YOUNG man! Brother if you knew yourself and what your people went through, you wouldn’t be the lowest rung on the social ladder. You are the lowest rung, and the brand new immigrant, the uneducated Vietnamese, the fresh-across-the-border Mexican, even the trash-can-digging meth addict is higher up the ladder than you. You are smart, you’re good-looking you have a little status–but you can’t find a way to buy yourself a damned candy bar! Do you realize that the man who works behind that counter in that gas station keeps a WEAPON because of all the crap he’s had to deal with? Do you want to be the next Trayvon Martin?
We walked to my karate school, but I had two Caucasian students inside working out and I didn’t want to embarass my people any more than this young brother had already done. But I had to finish with him. Oh, and he had a friend who was waiting on the side walk who ran when I called him over (he called him too). These dudes needed something real because someone had been talking to them about some bullshit. Some real bullshit.
Now, cover your ears.
We had to get the conversation in a way that he would hear me.
Davey, do you like pussy?
Of course, everybody like pussy.
How are you going to get pussy when you can’t even figure out a way to buy her a candy bar without begging like a a fucking slave? What kind of sister would want to get with a nigga who begs like a fucking crack head? Little brother I’m going to be real with you–if you don’t figure out how to step up your game, you will be a loser in ten years who don’t have shit, still living with your momma, don’t have no nice car, don’t have no money in your pocket, paying for $10 blow jobs because your silly ass ain’t enough of a man to get his program going like a real man. Right now, you are the worst kind of loser; you are a loser with potential to have everything you ever wanted. You can acquire anything you want…. a nice car, money, nice clothes, fine ass women. But instead you lower yourself to the lowest rung on the ladder, underneath the immigrants, underneath the drug addicts. Where do you see yourself in two years from now?
He thinks he will be driving a nice car with rims (boy we are a lost ass people when we consider some tacky ass RIMS to equate to “success”). I told him that he will have his own place, halfway done with college, and money in the bank. And a fine ass girlfriend.
How am I going to do that? He says.
My name is Mustafa, I own this gym. Make sure you bring that coward, loser ass homeboy who left you in the dust to get your ass beat down and visit me. I’ll show you how.
We’ll see if he has an ounce of curiosity to find out how he will improve his life, or if I catch his punk ass back at the gas station tomorrow, begging for quarters. Black men, we always talk about making a difference in our community. We always hear Church pastors and fraternities talk shit about reaching out and uplifting our brothers. Well THIS is a blue print on how to make that difference. Each one, teach one.
Thanks for visiting my blog.
I am reminded of something I heard that was a version of something my mother often tried to instill in us:
It isn’t just low-paying, menial work. We call it opportunity.
Oh, how we tend to be ungrateful for what we have. In the Quran, God tells us that there are those who would settle for the crumbs that fall off the Master’s table, than to take a chance on the riches of heaven… When I see and hear my Black brothers put down and ridicule those who don “Lady Liberty” costumes to stand on street corners and dance for minimum wage, I cringe. I cringe for the Black man who is too prideful to “accept” work he deems unworthy of dirtying his hungry hands (are we ever really offered work?). I cringe for the Black men who pass up opportunities for “menial” work in order to “look” for jobs he will possibly never find, too proud to take whatever stepping stones line our path to success. I cringe for the children who must be fed by a government who finds them more valuable behind bars, feeding the extensive-but-lucrative Correctional/Penal system–or running behind a ball, or dancing and singing on a video, or making a fool of himself on some movie screen. I cringe for the Black men who would rather be unemployed than caught picking fruit or vegetables like a Mexican, or dancing on a street corner for Liberty Tax… but making money.
I cringe for the deaths of our uncles and fathers, and leaders, who died during the Civil Rights Movement, just so that it would illegal for a place like Liberty Tax to toss your resume in the trash, just because you’re a Black man. Yeah, a Black man too fucking proud to “take” work to feed yourself and your children. You call it humiliating; my mother called it opportunity. I cringe for the industries who make a fortune off our stupidity as a people: Liquor stores. Check Cashing places. Title loans. Bail Bondsmen. Auto detailing and tire rims. Pawn shops. Everything except tutoring centers and libraries. None of the industries feed our people; they only feed off us. And we make it so.
Our grandparents did whatever was necessary to feed our parents and send them to school. Our parents took low-paying jobs and made it work. To hell with the idea that back then housing prices were lower–our parents weren’t walking around with thousand dollar rims on their cars, living off of credit and trying to dress like celebrities. For some reason, OUR people have this idea that we should look good, whatever our budget. We will lie, cheat and steal–damn near–to buy these houses we can’t afford, to go on vacations we can’t afford, and dress nice along with our children–when we can’t afford it. We are the biggest people to live beyond our means and act like we are something we’re not. The Black man of yesterday, the REAL man, was something of a James Evans, of Good Times. He was a strong, but modest and loving man who tried his best to give his kids a good home. Even when that home was in the projects. He did not dress fancy, but his clothes were clean and well taken care of. He took pride in himself and in his children. He stuck by his woman to keep the family together, even when they failed to see eye-to-eye. He held his hat in his hands when he lost his job, because he would hear nothing of his woman getting on County benefits to feed the family. His wife knew her place (if that phrase pisses you off, then we need to talk a little, because I’m sure you have relationship problems) as his wife. She was tough, but yielding. She made sure the kids were always taken care of and fed, and that her man felt like, well, a man. She did not degrade herself to her husband. But when she disagreed, they hashed it out, and sometimes her man got his way–and sometimes she got her way. Being a strong, domineering man does not mean you don’t listen to your woman.
I mean, come on. The man worked in a car wash. If you found a brother working in a car wash, you wouldn’t know it by the clothes he wears and the car he drives, can I get an “Amen”? And many of you sisters wouldn’t give him the time of day, anyway! Our fathers took whatever kind of work they could find and if it wasn’t enough–most of the time it wasn’t–they had a second, and maybe even third, job to make ends meet. Our Dads dressed up sometimes, but they had no problem going to the mall with a white T-shirt with a gravy stain on it… to buy US designer clothing (that they could barely afford either). Both my mother and father had second jobs, and they were so strong with it, we didn’t realize we were “poor”.
Oh, if we could just understand this concept today.
In my last job, I saw young men who have children they often do not pay child support for. They are being garnished, and I must sign off on garnishments when payroll receives notice. Each time I had to counsel the employee to get their acknowledgement, I speak to them about taking care of the responsibility so that they could avoid more action. I hear the sorriest reasons why these brothers do not pay: “I can’t afford it” is the primary excuse. Ah, but you can afford a nice car, going to the club, weekly visits to the barber, your jewelry, etc. It’s a cop out. When you are looking at suffering and you’re a parent–it’s either the kids, or you. Guess who you chose.
We must do better. We have bills to pay, we have children to feed, we have families to support. We have to do whatever we must do to make that mission a success. If we can do that, and still manage to drive a nice car, purchase nice clothes and floss on Facebook–then do it. There are a plethora of reasons our people are not working: The job market sucks, racism and discrimination, those silly ass tattoos and piercings that you can’t seem to cover for the interview. But if it’s because you feel you can’t do certain jobs, like work fast food or dance for liberty tax, because it’s beneath you, how wrong you area. Look around you, my family. We are at the bottom of the barrel. Nothing is beneath us. Regardless of what kind of work it is, that glass ceiling is a platform you push with the assistance of any job.
Thank you for visiting my blog.