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Title: Clinton Advisor, Mickey Kantor Caught on Tape Calling Indiana Voters 'Worthless White N*ggers'
Source: LIVESTEEZ
URL Source: http://livesteez.com/news/news_detail/603
Published: May 2, 2008
Author: LIVESTEEZ
Post Date: 2008-05-02 12:17:58 by aristeides
Keywords: None
Views: 488
Comments: 26

Clinton Advisor, Mickey Kantor Caught on Tape Calling Indiana Voters 'Worthless White N*ggers'

Posted May 2, 2008 Subscribe to our news feed!

Advisor to the Hillary Clinton '08 campaign and Clinton-Gore '92 chairman, Mickey Kantor was caught on tape hurling insults at Indiana voters. In the footage, which must be around 16 years old, Kantor assures his colleagues that a win or loss in the state of Indiana doesn't matter because "those people are shit."

Kantor, flanked by strategist James Carville and advisor George Stephanopoulos, then lowers his voice and asks, "how would you like to be a worthless, white n*gger?"

The video surfaces as guilty-by-association politics is doing it's best to crumble the Obama campaign. Just when the dust from the emergence of Wright's sermon snippets had begun to settle, the pastor appeared on PBS and at an NAACP convention with a new speech about race in America. While some found the speech to be inspiring and insightful, the man's words further inflamed those who accuse Wright of putting forth hate speech.

The NAACP event was followed by an appearance at a National Press Club conference, which was organized by staunch Clinton supporter Barbara Reynolds. The resurgence of Wright coverage forced presidential candidate Barack Obama to finally denounce his former pastor of 20 years.

"When I say I find these comments appalling, I mean it. It contradicts everything I am about and who I am," Obama said, adding that Wright's comments "end up giving comfort to those who prey on hate."

It remains to be seen whether the Clinton camp will take the same hits for this latest Kantor gaffe as did Obama. According to the record, probably not.

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Begin Trace Mode for Comment # 24.

#2. To: all, *Obama Reality Check* (#0)

The video surfaces as guilty-by-association politics is doing it's best to crumble the Obama campaign.

Good Lord the hate whitey line is getting longer and longer. Throw in La Raza, and string up the whitey pinata!!!!

But, the claim that Obama is somehow only guilty by mere association is pure bunk. Sorry. He's being judged on his own words.

A poster at Politico, took the time to pull some excerpts from Obama's books and posted in the comments section of this piece: www.politico.com/new s/stories/0508/10031.html

“To avoid being mistaken for a sellout, I chose my friends carefully. The more politically active black students, the foreign students. The Chicanos. The Marxist professors and structural feminists and punk-rock performance poets.” Barack Hussein Obama, “Dreams From My Father” (emp. added) .

“I FOUND A SOLACE IN NURSING A PERVASIVE SENSE OF GRIEVANCE AND ANIMOSITY AGAINST MY MOTHER'S RACE.” Barack Hussein Obama, “Dreams From My Father” (emp. added, caps. in original) .

"The emotion between the races could never be pure..... the other race would always remain just that: menacing, alien, and apart." Barack Hussein Obama, “Dreams From My Father” (emp. added) .

“That hate hadn’t gone away,” [Obama wrote, blaming] “white people— some cruel, some ignorant, sometimes a single face, sometimes just a faceless image of a system claiming power over our lives.” Barack Hussein Obama, “Dreams From My Father” (emp. added) .

“I had grown accustomed, everywhere, to suspicions between the races.” Barack Hussein Obama, “Dreams From My Father” (emp. added) . “[The globe is a place] where white folks’ greed runs a world in need, apartheid in one hemisphere, apathy in another hemisphere.... That's the world! On which hope sits.” Barack Hussein Obama (quoting Wright), “Dreams From My Father” (emp. added) .

“[Obama vowed that he would] never emulate white men and brown men whose fates didn’t speak to my own. It was into my father’s image, the black man, son of Africa, that I’d packed all the attributes I sought in myself, the attributes of Martin and Malcolm [Malcolm X], DuBois and Mandela.” Barack Hussein Obama, “Dreams From My Father” (emp. added) .

“In Indonesia, I had spent two years at a Muslim school…. I studied the Koran….” Barack Hussein Obama, “Dreams From My Father” (emp. added) .

“We are no longer just a Christian nation,” “We are also a Jewish nation, a Muslim nation, a Buddhist nation, a Hindu nation, and a nation of nonbelievers.” Barack Hussein Obama, “Dreams From My Father” (emp. added) .

“I will stand with the Muslims should the political winds shift in an ugly direction.” Barack Hussein Obama, “The Audacity of Hope” (emp. added) .

“Lolo [Obama's step father] followed a brand of Islam.... I looked to Lolo for guidance.” Barack Hussein Obama, “The Audacity of Hope” (emp. added) .

“The person who made me proudest of all, though, was [half brother] Roy .. He converted to Islam.” Barack Hussein Obama, “Dreams From My Father” (emp. added) .

Peppa  posted on  2008-05-02   12:30:16 ET  Reply   Untrace   Trace   Private Reply  

“Lolo [Obama's step father] followed a brand of Islam.... I looked to Lolo for guidance.” Barack Hussein Obama, “The Audacity of Hope” (emp. added) .

I find the relevant passage in Dreams from My Father.

The first sentence comes from a paragraph which begins on page 36. The second sentence comes three paragraphs later on page 38 and is unrelated to the first sentence.

From Dreams from My Father, Three Rivers Press, New York, Revised Edition, 2004, ISBN 1-4000-8277-3, p. 36-38

Lolo had parted my hair with his fingers and silently examined the wound. "It's not bleeding," he said finally, before returning to his chrome.

I thought that had ended the matter. But when he came home from work the next day, he had with him two pairs of boxing gloves. They smelled of new leather, the larger pair black, the smaller pair red, the laces tied together and thrown over his shoulder.

He now finished tying the laces on my gloves an d stepped back to examine his handiwork. My hands dangled at my sides like bulbs at the ends of thin stalks. He shook his head and raised the gloves to cover my face.

"There. Keep your hands up." He adjusted my elbows, then crouched into a stance and started to bob. "You want to keep mov­ing, but always stay low—don't give them a target. How does that feel?" I nodded, copying his movements as best I could. After a few minutes, he stopped and held his palm up in front of my nose.

"Okay," he said. "Let's see your swing."

This I could do. I took a step back, wound up, and delivered my best shot. His hand barely wobbled.

"Not bad," Lolo said. He nodded to himself, his expression unchanged. "Not bad at all. Agh, but look where your hands are now. What did I tell you? Get them up...."

I raised my arms, throwing soft jabs at Lolo's palm, glancing up at him every so often and realizing how familiar his face had become after our two years together, as familiar as the earth on which we stood. It had taken me less than six months to learn Indonesia's lan­guage, its customs, and its legends. I had survived chicken pox, measles, and the sting of my teachers' bamboo switches. The chil­dren of farmers, servants, and low-level bureaucrats had become my best friends, and together we ran the streets morning and night, hus­tling odd jobs, catching crickets, battling swift kites with razor-sharp lines—the loser watched his kite soar off with the wind, and knew

[36]

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that somewhere other children had formed a long wobbly train, their heads toward the sky, waiting for their prize to land. With Lolo, I learned how to eat small green chill peppers raw with dinner (plenty of rice), and, away from the dinner table, I was introduced to dog meat (tough), snake meat (tougher), and roasted grasshopper (crunchy). Like many Indonesians, Lolo followed a brand of Islam that could make room for the remnants of more ancient animist and Hindu faiths. He explained that a man took on the powers of whatever he ate: One day soon, he promised, he would bring home a piece of tiger meat for us to share.

That's how things were, one long adventure, the bounty of a young boy's life. In letters to my grandparents, I would faithfully record many of these events, confident that more civilizing packages of chocolate and peanut butter would surely follow. But not every­thing made its way into my letters; some things I found too difficult to explain. I didn't tell Toot and Gramps about the face of the man who had come to our door one day with a gaping hole where his nose should have been: the whistling sound he made as he asked my mother for food. Nor did I mention the time that one of my friends told me in the middle of recess that his baby brother had died the night before of an evil spirit brought in by the wind—the terror that danced in my friend's eyes for the briefest of moments before he let out a strange laugh and punched my arm and broke off into a breath­less run. There was the empty look on the faces of farmers the year the rains never came, the stoop in their shoulders as they wandered barefoot through their barren, cracked fields, bending over every so often to crumble earth between their fingers; and their desperation the following year when the rains lasted for over a month, swelling the river and fields until the streets gushed with water and swept as high as my waist and families scrambled to rescue their goats and their hens even as chunks of their huts washed away.

The world was violent, I was learning, unpredictable and often

[37]

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cruel. My grandparents knew nothing about such a world, I decided; there was no point in disturbing them with questions they couldn't answer. Sometimes, when my mother came home from work, I would tell her the things I had seen or heard, and she would stroke my fore­head, listening intently, trying her best to explain what she could. I always appreciated the attention—her voice, the touch of her hand, defined all that was secure. But her knowledge of floods and exor­cisms and cockfights left much to be desired. Everything was as new to her as it was to me, and I would leave such conversations feeling that my questions had only given her unnecessary cause for concern.

So it was to Lolo that I turned for guidance and instruction. He didn't talk much, but he was easy to be with. With his family and friends he introduced me as his son, but he never pressed things beyond matter-of-fact advice or pretended that our relationship was more than it was. I appreciated this distance; it implied a manly trust. And his knowledge of the world seemed inexhaustible. Not just how to change a flat tire or open in chess. He knew more elusive things, ways of managing the emotions I felt, ways to explain fate's constant mysteries.

Like how to deal with beggars. They seemed to be everywhere, a gallery of ills—men, women, children, in tattered clothing matted with dirt, some without arms, others without feet, victims of scurvy or polio or leprosy walking on their hands or rolling down the crowded sidewalks in jerry-built carts, their legs twisted behind them like con­tortionists'. At first, I watched my mother give over her money to any­one who stopped at our door or stretched out an arm as we passed on the streets. Later, when it became clear that the tide of pain was end­less, she gave more selectively, learning to calibrate the levels of mis­ery. Lolo thought her moral calculations endearing but silly, and whenever he caught me following her example with the few coins in my possession, he would raise his eyebrows and take me aside.

"How much money do you have?" he would ask.

[38]

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nolu_chan  posted on  2008-05-02   22:30:25 ET  Reply   Untrace   Trace   Private Reply  

        There are no replies to Comment # 24.

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