Do You Remember Where You Were?

I’m talking about where you were on That Day. The day you first heard about it…and everything changed. It changed for all of us. It was as if the airy thrum of our daily lives suddenly fell silent. And we felt ourselves falling. Falling not just as person, but as a people. Falling from our comfortable normalcy into a place dark and bitter. We fell together; and found no solace in the company. It was as if the piercing of every individual soul was only magnified by our collective pain. And when we finally, agonizingly, collided with the brutal ground of reality, we almost yearned again for the abyss.

Most of us have seen life resume since then. Though not in the way it was. Never again in that way. Something was taken from us on That Day. And our courage now comes in perseverance. In that we find strength. We are strong. We will adapt. We shall overcome.

But do you remember? Remember where you were on that day? The day you learned someone had said “******” on a bus?

That was the backdrop of a beautifully poignant piece about the remarkable resiliency of spirit and underdog grit on display by the Oklahoma University football team and its multimillionaire head coach Bob Stoops. A humble man with no one in his corner but the university administration, every American politician, the leftist faculty, state business community, Race Grievance Inc., and the entire US media. With these alone, he and his plucky team of 280-pound mercenaries were left to fend against a terrified and ostracized 19 year-old white fraternity boy.

This is their story.

Charles Tapper, a junior defensive end for the Oklahoma Sooners, was lounging around his off-campus apartment playing NBA 2K with fellow lineman Charles Walker and cornerback Zack Sanchez on the evening of Sunday, March 8. With a 5:45 a.m. workout scheduled for the next day, the time was quickly approaching for them to head to bed.

Then Tapper, a team captain, got a call.

“Man, where are you guys?” yelled Eric Striker, fellow captain, his gravelly voice at a fever pitch. “Why aren’t y’all flipping out about what’s going on? You haven’t seen what happened with the SAE guys?”

“Nah, what are you talking about?” Tapper asked.

“Man, I’m gonna send you the video!” Striker said. “Y’all need to get over here right now! We can’t just let this slip under the rug.”

And so it began. Not just for NBA2k playing Charles Tapper. But for us all.

A shy, frail Charles Tapper

A shy, frail Charles Tapper recoils from the menace of Hate

The quite long article plunges the reader through an emotional rapids where typically meek and retiring black college athletes (whose ears have obviously never before been singed by such incindiary language as the ****** word) recount the horrors visted upon their should-have-been halcyon college experience at the hands of sometimes insufficiently worshipful fraternities. That the university allowed its most vulnerable defensive ends to be preyed upon by reedy white guys is indictment enough, even without the video archive of That Day. Here are some excerpts, if what remains of your humanity can bear them.

College football coaches, at least those with Stoops’ distinguished resume, are all about control. But the Sooners coach instinctively grasped that in order for his team to move forward, in order to heal and grow as football players and men, things didn’t necessarily need to start or end with him.

He realized that, in this specific instance, he couldn’t micromanage—he needed to cede the play-calling to his players.

School President David Boren launched an immediate investigation and swiftly moved to have the chapter banned from campus. SAE’s national office closed the chapter and suspended its members hours after the video surfaced.

Two of the students who had taken a leadership role in the incident, Levi Pettit and Parker Rice, were expelled.

“I didn’t hear all of the lyrics and the full context of what they were actually saying the first time I saw it,” Tapper said. “But when Striker sent it over, that’s when I realized how ugly it really was.”

“We were all talking about how we could address the situation, how we could get involved and do something,” Tapper said. “We started strategizing, but as the crowd got bigger, we decided we needed to be in a private space. So then we headed over to Striker’s house.”

Striker, a 6’0″, 225-pound All-American linebacker from Seffner, Florida, was having a difficult time controlling his rage.

He’d already sent out an incensed, profanity-laced Snapchat video.

“I was in a meeting watching film when it was sent to me,” Striker said. “When I watched it after the meeting, I was so pissed off that my head and my stomach hurt. My heart dropped.”

After arriving home, he couldn’t stop pacing back and forth. He started calling his teammates, searching for a way to channel his mushrooming fury.

Striker had experienced a litany of microaggressions with OU frat members that he felt were laced with racism since he arrived on campus as a freshman.

“There were a lot of incidents where classmates would invite me to a party at their frat house,” Striker said. “We showed up, and the person who invited us had to actually come to the door and vouch for us to get in. It was not a good vibe at all.”

After a controversial initial reaction, Eric Striker proved to be a driving force behind OU’s healing. As he spoke, you could feel the hurt in his sincerity. At times, he paused thoughtfully, searching for the right words through deep breaths. He orated with a preacher’s cadence, gesturing for emphasis.

I’ve noticed that when whites are irritated by the actions of others, media organs are oddly disinterested in examining the hurt in their sincerity. Despite the fact that, in writing this very blog post for example, we just as often pause thoughtfully several times searching for the right words through deep breaths. Hell I’ve not only gestured for emphasis, but have hurled vases into walls–no one seems to care.

Yet we are encouraged to cringe at the godamned micro-gall of those campus white supremecists who wouldn’t allow a troop of enormous black strangers into their house immediately upon arrival. Bad vibes indeed! It must have been like a firehose into the soul.

Though I am gravely concerned for the welfare of 225-pound All-American Mr. Striker. Given that one viewing of ****** on a bus caused such severe physical symptoms, it worries me that he–or possibly even the OU president or football coach–will happen upon a Hate site called worldstarhiphop.com. I truly hope they do not, for it blossoms with ****** words like mushrooms after the rain. Many even spoken on buses. Please secure your football team before viewing this example.

The piece meanders on with the sort of maudlin sententiousness that is modernity’s exclusive preserve for the whining of those more prone to creating victims than being one. Though for sake of contrast, we can point to an instance when the OU family maintained an air of stoicism so disciplined some cynics might confuse it for indifference.

Just a few months before and a few miles away in Oklahoma there occurred an event nearly as horrible. It involved white female Colleen Hufford and black male Alton Nolen. Succinctly, Nolen marched into their workplace and, laboring with a knife, summarily relieved Hufford of her head. Though because there were no white fraternity boys present to blurt “That fucking ****** just cut off her head!” the reportage was light and no NBA2k games were disturbed.

Which is all for the best since black football players are delicate petals, and their coach wouldn’t want focus diverted from strictly academic pursuits. Just stay the hell off buses, you bigots.

10 thoughts on “Do You Remember Where You Were?

  1. I can probably hold these internal dialogues more efficiently in my own head. Though to continue on observing the now common mindset behind penning 3,000+ word profiles in courage for cosseted black athletes–whose everyday sentence structure begins and ends with ******–to explain the pain they have endured because someone else spoke it in a separate place and time, is the sort of superstitious cultural artifact that an ascending La Raza will laugh out of El Norte.

    • Can’t. Too much collateral damage to infrastructure, since neutron bombs were outlawed when GHW Bush signed the N-Bomb Non-Proliferation Treaty. “Oops,” he later explained.

  2. But yeah, how do these ******s ever expect non-******s to stop thinking of them as ******s, and occasionally calling one of them a ******, when all they ever think about is their skin and race? (And watermelons.)

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