Descending the Ivory Tower

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My uncle is a plumber. To the average American, there is nothing exceptional about his life.

One Christmas, when our extended family still gathered for the holidays, my uncle was late. At the time he was working for a highly-esteemed university in our community.

The reason for his tardiness that particular year? He had been called in to shovel snow off of campus sidewalks.

I remember staring at him in disbelief. “But it’s Christmas.”

“Well,” he explained with an air of resentment, “those professors gotta have clear sidewalks so they can do their work.”

What I didn’t realize then was that this division – between the haves and the have-nots – was bigger than Christmas lunch that year. That it would only grow in the years to come. And that it would forever change our political landscape.

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The Racist in Me

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Deep down, I think we’re all a little racist. It doesn’t matter where we have lived or who we have known – a part of us clings to sameness. Differences, after all, mean discomfort.

If you are white and move to the Deep South, two options present themselves:

Choice #1: Discover your sin and turn away from it.

Choice #2: What sin?

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