Nothing was more evident of Black Political Sycophancy than an experience I had, during a Presidential primary, going back only a few years.
It was a day of Fall torrents, and the traffic was light, as most voters find any excuse to avoid the burden to voting during the Primaries, and a day of inclement weather more than sufficed in providing just enough of an excuse to stay in and leave it to someone else. Duty-bound, however, I was IN for both a penny AND a pound; so, I braved the threatening road wash-outs and drove to the little rural precinct poll, where I found no cars in the parking lot, save for those belonging to the poll workers.
In a bit of a rush to get it done and get home, I hurried inside, retrieved my registration card from my wallet, and filled out my sign-in document, while being eyed by the skeleton poll crew. They all were elderly Whites—all women, save for the man at the room’s entrance and the other waiting at the exit to hand me the little “I Voted Today” announcement to all who gave a damn that I had done my civic deed.
The place was dead-man quiet—the calm before the harm that I was about to encounter. Armed with my driver’s license I.D. and completed poll papers, I approached Table #1, and, as I did, the two women sitting there slid the color-coded blue ballot—the Democrat ballot—toward me . . .