By Jeremy Hunt
My father grew up in Atlanta during the late 60s and 70s surrounded by fellow blacks. From elementary school to Howard University, where he obtained his undergraduate and law degrees—everyone looked like him.
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His childhood room boasted a giant black power fist on the wall in the Pan-African colors of red, black, and green. As a disciple of Louis Farrakhan, he believed deeply in the strength, dignity and self-reliance of his people. He embodied what it meant to be Black and Proud.
His conversion to Christianity and subsequent work as a pastor eventually caused him to discard Farrakhan’s views (thank God!), but he retained his belief that blacks are capable and resilient.
By extension, my siblings and I were raised never to think of ourselves as victims. While we were taught to love our white friends, we didn’t look to them to rescue us or solve our problems. If we encountered racism, we were taught to either address it through proper channels (if necessary), but more commonly—we moved on. Racism was beneath us. That’s why I can’t help but find the black response to Trump’s election a little embarrassing.