Time passes swiftly for those of us in our seventies. Sometimes we don’t notice the passing of a whole decade… and this was more than a single decade ago:
Woman: ”OJ. Simpson represented something for the black community in that moment, in that trial, particularly because there were two White people who had been killed”
— Taya (@travelingflying) February 2, 2026
Eh, what? pic.twitter.com/zt8VAtLjAe
The murders of Nicole Brown and Ronald Goldman took place in June, 1994. Yes, Simpson was acquitted of them, but a subsequent civil suit held him responsible for the deaths even so. In 2008 he was convicted of armed robbery and kidnapping, and served a prison sentence for them.
Now we have the nonsense above.
I just snagged this:
what is it with third worlder obsession of having a servant https://t.co/qfngwNVbGb
— miritsua (@m1ritsua) February 1, 2026
Immerse yourself in that image for a moment. The question posed by “miritsua” is relevant and staggeringly important. It’s not just Third Worlders who think they deserve servants.
Have a snippet from a novel that should be more widely read:
“It was a world in which there were only two models, slave and master. A master is not the same thing as a free, independent man. A master is himself contaminated by slaveholding. When the slaves were freed, they were only technically free. They're right about that. They continued as spiritual slaves — most of them, not all — right until the Civil Rights Act, until they could vote. Then they started acting like masters.”
If you have only two models for human relations – master or slave – then you will see yourself as one or the other. You’ll have no alternative structure into which to fit yourself.
That is the African experience. It was brought here by imported Negro slaves. It’s been perpetuated by Negroes as well. What else could their ceaseless demands for “reparations” mean?
Thinking yourself a master, but having no slaves, makes you resentful and angry.
In one of my novels, there’s a character who was raised from birth to see herself as a slave. She was conditioned to accept it as her proper place. When she managed to escape her captors, she stumbled by chance into the protection of a very good man. Her conditioning compelled her to take that good man as her master. The limitations it compelled upon her left her no third model. When she was presented with freedom as a third way, she rejected it. It would mean rejecting everything else she’d ever been:
“Miss Celia, I don’t understand!”
The shorter of the visitors cringed. “There’s nothing to understand, Fountain.” She rubbed the backs of Fountain’s hands with her thumbs. “It’s just the way it is. I’m free, Juliette is free, and Trish is free. You’re free too. No masters. No lords. No slaves. Just people, doing whatever they want to do.” Her expression darkened. “Don’t you like the idea that you’re free?”
Fountain glanced furtively at Juliette. The tall girl leaned against the wall with her arms crossed over her breasts. She nodded.
“It’s true, Fountain. Nobody owns anybody here.”
The notion found nowhere to lodge among her lessons.
I was trained to be his. To serve his pleasure. I have no other purpose.
I want to be his.
“I cannot leave my lord,” she murmured. “I will not.”
Celia grimaced. “You might not have to. I mean,” she said, “he might not tell you that you have to go away. But he’s free too, Fountain. Free people don’t own slaves. We settled that a long time ago. Whoever taught you different was...bad. Taught you bad stuff. Probably a lot of it.”
How can this be? Their bodies are like mine. Their beauty is no less than mine. Yet they claim to have no master. They could not possibly be masters themselves, so what else could they do? What else could they be?
The clash between her lessons and this new instruction became insupportable. A high, shrill siren issued from her backbrain, a response instilled in her by years of merciless conditioning designed to deny her any outlet for rebellion. It surged at once to disabling pitch and volume. She ripped her hands free of Celia’s, put them to her ears, and howled in torment.
The others crowded close around her and wrapped her in their arms, probably in an attempt to calm her. It only increased her anguish, but her wriggling failed to free her from them. She endured it as she must.
When the siren in her head and her responding howl ceased and the others’ grip upon her slackened, she shook herself free, rose, said “I must use the bathroom,” and strode out of the room. Once she had closed and locked the bathroom door, she sat upon the toilet lid and waited for her tears to dry.
They do not understand. They cannot understand. I cannot be free. I am his.
I must be his.
The thought that she might be forced to be as they were—to be apart from her lord, without his protection and guidance, even for a brief interval—threatened to break her self-control once again. She forced it away before it could drive a wedge into her slowly returning composure.
She had been a good student, attentive to all she’d been taught and diligent about the practice of her lessons. Her teacher had seldom spoken the mildest word of reproof. It had not been necessary. The pains of the chastisements her teacher could inflict, once they’d been demonstrated upon her flesh, were forever after vivid in her memory.
Yet Fountain possessed interior resources that went well beyond what one might have expected from her history. Her resolve had been the key both to enduring her training and to effecting her escape. She knew the forces at her disposal, even if only dimly. She marshaled them to the unprecedented challenge.
I will not listen to them.
I will not be free.
I will not let them take me from him.
I will not let them take him from me.
With that thought, a curious sort of circuit completed in her brain. It snapped into being with a firmness that spoke of an immutable solidity.
I am his.
I will remain his.
Now and forever.
She rose from the toilet, unlocked the bathroom door, and returned to the bedroom her lord had assigned her, where two earnest young women, well meaning but incapable of understanding her, waited to resume their tortures.
Yes, the story of O.J. Simpson and his crimes is part of that. So is the seething resentment expressed and encouraged by blacks with a public platform. It’s all they know. Therefore, if you are not their master, you must be their slave. They will compel it upon you.
Never forget it.
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