I just can’t stop thinking of the BBC footage of that older Cambridge dean clasping hands lovingly with Arday as she gazes into his beatific face, her eyes shining, ecstatic, as she says “you’re the best in the world at what you do.”
The death of Jason Arday hit so close to home that I had no words yesterday. But I woke up with words.
To be a prominent antiracist Black scholar is to know you are a target, almost totally surrounded by resentments. You know that at any point, the attacks can come like a lynch mob.
And if you die from all the attacks, the media still calls the attacks on you “accusations” to wash their hands of the blood. Your lynchers announce your death as if they had no role in your lynching.
My latest at The Emancipator.
https://t.co/Ow40DlCVso
Zoning is so clearly unconstitutional that it's really insane that it exists
Your neighbors can effectively get together and vote that the land YOU OWN would look better if it permanently had an open lawn, imposing an easement that prevents you from building
And that's allowed
@JohnSchmoney Jason Arday, wey be former professor for University of Cambridge, dem don find am dead.
Dem find Mr Arday say e no dey respond for one address for Battersea, London, for Friday afternoon, and later dem pronounce am dead for di scene.
When I left the US for my job in Germany, I sold my little row house to an old professor who had been forced out of his position because the racism brigade had canceled him for some trumped-up bizarre reason. I invited him to dinner on one of my last nights in America to show him how the place worked, and he was a broken man – looking over his shoulder, thanking me for everything, timid. I felt just terrible. I made Königsberger Klopse in my open kitchen while he sat at my table and spoke bitterly to me about his experience and how the diversitarians had besieged his classes and harassed him at his office, how he couldn't continue. I saw the tears in his eyes. I feel nothing about Arday's death. I feel absolutely nothing.