America's Champions

I was listening to KSYM last night in my car shuttling my kid here and there when they played a NO Saints fight song in Zydeco style. It was a silly song like all sports tunes tend to be, but suddenly I started crying when the sound of a hundred men shouted "Super Dome!"

The realization that something so simple as a NFL team winning the Super Bowl lifted a weight from my heart that has been there since August, 2005. Witnessing the destruction of a major American city by the hands of a giggling, murder-crazed, retarded boy-king was probably the most painful thing I have ever seen. The naked racism of middle America came pouring out in a horrifying display that went practically unchallenged, only to be out-done by the awful wave of hatred for the African-Americans following the tragic diaspora of the cities' throng across the county. The disaster left a bloody stain on the soul of the country that cannot be wiped away. We all know now what the black heart of America is capable of.

Those men's voices gloriously shouting that the Super Dome is home to America's champions effectively ended that edifice's image as a dumping ground of a despised class of our fellow citizens, and the stench of death that clung to its' memory is gone now. After years of struggle the Big Easy got their mojo back. It's working fine, thank you.

No matter what revisionist Republicans try in an effort to rehabilitate Slappy McCokespoon's reputation he will always be remembered in history as the man who lost two of America's greatest cities to disasters of his making, but the lasting fall-out is Black America's harsh reminder that the "silent majority" of white people still hate them and delight in their destruction.

My tears of joy are still mixed with tears of shame.

Go Saints!