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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Writer’s Jewish Boss On Vacation

Leonard Pitts Jr. Knight-Ridder

This is for that short list of brothers from the Nation of Islam who have called to protest my recent columns describing Louis Farrakhan as a merchant of hate. In particular, this is for the brother who said he understands how it is, me having to kowtow to my Jewish bosses and all.

Apparently, he considers that idea less far-fetched and crazy than the notion I might actually find some of Farrakhan’s words repugnant.

In times past, whenever someone accused me of genuflecting before my “Jewish masters,” I’d fall back upon a practiced defense. I make up my own mind, I’d say, and am fiercely resentful of any suggestion to the contrary. We as black people shame ourselves when we assent to words of bigotry, I’d say. I’d also say some stuff about brotherhood, love … you know, yatta yatta yatta.

Yet these latest calls force a reckoning. These wise brothers see through me like Saran Wrap, so why not speak the truth at last?

I AM a tool of the Jewish conspiracy.

There, I said it.

I never believed there was such a thing until my first day of work. As I sat down to write my column, a shadow fell across my computer. I spun around and found myself facing the two biggest Jews I’d ever seen. I mean, there are mountain ranges smaller than these guys.

Between them stood this beady-eyed little man who regarded me with a benign smile. He said his name was Sol, and he had come to give me my opinions. He handed me a card and, sure enough, it read:

“Sol”

“Jewish Conspiracy”

Angrily, I threw the card down. “I make up my own mind,” I cried, “and am fiercely resentful of … “

I didn’t get to finish. The mountain on the left grabbed me by the throat and lifted me six feet off the floor. The mountain on the right produced a gun the size of Rhode Island and put it against my temple. I said, “Urk.”

Sol waved them off. “Hyman, Irving,” he purred, “there’s no need for violence. Lenny and I, we understand each other. Don’t we, Lenny?”

“Perfectly,” I managed to croak, sounding not unlike Daffy Duck. The mountain on the left threw me down. As I massaged my throat, Sol told me tenderly that from now on, I would clear everything I wrote through “Uncle Solly.” I nodded slowly. He pinched my cheek and walked away.

Life has been hell since then. Every morning, first thing, I have to report to the Office of Media Control. It’s down the hall from the Office of Twisting Brothers’ Arms to Make Them Sell Crack. Across the corridor from the Office of Forcing Brothers to Abandon Their Women and Children. Right next door to the Office of Making Brothers Drop Books and Pick Up Guns.

I go into Uncle Solly’s office, and he tells me what to think. I often see other black media figures gathered there. William Raspberry, Robert L. Steinback, Ellis Cose. We never meet each others’ eyes.

I’ve learned that the Jewish conspiracy goes even deeper, reaches into the very fabric of the nation. You’d be surprised how much of our trauma they’re responsible for.

Remember New Coke?

That was the Jews.

Chevy Chase’s talk show?

Blame the Jews.

Hurricane Andrew?

Another Jewish plot.

They’re everywhere.

Given that, my callers from the Nation might wonder how Uncle Solly ever let this column see print. Perhaps they’ve already narrowed it down to two possible scenarios.

One: This is a put-on, and there is no Jewish conspiracy dictating these words. Since, contrary to popular belief, we do not all think alike, it is entirely possible for black men and women of their own volition to reject Farrakhan’s venom. And, my brothers, it is an insult - yes, a “racist” insult - to suggest otherwise.

Or, two: The Jewish conspiracy has schemes within schemes. In which case this column is just a clever ploy to distract you brothers with brotherhood, make you let your guard down so the Jews can … oh, I don’t know, sneak New Coke into the vending machine down at the mosque.

Option one and option two. You tell “me” which one sounds farfetched and crazy.

L’Chaim.

xxxx