So this little act he’s been putting on that Race Doesn’t Matter to him is just a cover for his being aware that in the Third Reich (or the United States) Race Is Everything.

As much as we may want to be proud and staunch members of The Rainbow Coalition, we’re flying through a lot of thunderstorms and clear-air turbulence (see issue 15).

One of my favorite phrases is “How white am I?”  I get to use it when I’ve done the Pose Congo or said “Word!” or “True dat.” Sooner or later, all the white people want to be black — black people are funnier, have better music, can dance a whole lot better (they practice, okay? A lot), and make better food with fewer or poorer ingredients.

I’m not the one says “White women can’t cook,” now am I?  In the army, we always prayed for a black mess sergeant.  They do more with less — and THEY DON’T STEAL. A white mess sergeant will take off with the steaks or sneak them to a Colonel they want pull with.

A female mess officer of any color can be vicious in guarding her turf, even from a General.  One snarled at me (as I ran with E-5 tail between my legs after trying to pick up the headquarters coffee):  “The General’s got his own damn’ ration!  Tell him not to send his people down here any damn more!”

And then she called him and reamed him on the phone.  The sergeant major stuck his head in our office door and whispered, “The General’s getting his ass chewed by the mess Colonel!” When we protested she couldn’t do that to a ranking officer, the SMAJ pointed out that “She sure CAN.  It’s her turf.  And he tried to get on it.”

And people ask me why I continue to find stories in the military over all these years. We’re all in our own little barracks.