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1 Comment You Might Wanna Stop Making ... 'Cause It's Actually Kind Of An Insult

Hearing it made him want to explode. Here's what he did instead.

1 Comment You Might Wanna Stop Making ... 'Cause It's Actually Kind Of An Insult

This is "Scooter" Magruder. People have told him on more occasions than one that he "talks white."

But what exactly does that mean?


Magruder remembers a time when "talking white" wasn't even a thing.

"Let's go way back in the day when we were three-fifths humans ... during the slave trade. Before the Bloods and the Crips, gang banging and AKs, nobody talked white or black. They talked slave master and slave."

The founders wrote the three-fifths compromise into the U.S. Constitution in 1787 to determine how slaves would be accounted for with legislative representation. It was decided that each enslaved black person would count as only three-fifths of a person. The clause was repealed in 1865 after the Civil War and the adoption of the 13th Amendment, which abolished slavery.

But "talking white" still wasn't a thing even after slavery was outlawed.

"Things changed after the Civil War, luckily. Now you weren't talking white. You were just being uppity."

He's just waxing poetic there, and I love it. The bald eagle was actually named the national bird of the United States in 1782, almost a century before Jim Crow laws — named after an incredibly racist song-and-dance from the 1820s — were enacted to keep blacks separate and unequal in a post-slavery U.S. But you get the point.

If you haven't already caught on, "talking white" is not a thing.

And to say it to someone is to compare them to caricatures that you've somehow come to believe represent millions of people.

Needless to say, that would be ridiculous. Scholars would call that an ethnocentric viewpoint, which is basically the passing of judgment on other racial or ethnic groups that you see as inferior, perhaps without even realizing it.

"Talking proper isn't white. Talking black isn't ghetto," says Magruder.

BOOM.

Watch Magruder's impassioned delivery below:

Simon & Garfunkel's song "Bridge Over Troubled Water" has been covered by more than 50 different musical artists, from Aretha Franklin to Elvis Presley to Willie Nelson. It's a timeless classic that taps into the universal struggle of feeling down and the comfort of having someone to lift us up. It's beloved for its soothing melody and cathartic lyrics, and after a year of pandemic challenges, it's perhaps more poignant now than ever.

A few years a go, American singer-songwriter Yebba Smith shared a solo a capella version of a part of "Bridge Over Troubled Water," in which she just casually sits and sings it on a bed. It's an impressive rendition on its own, highlighting Yebba's soulful, effortless voice.

But British singer Jacob Collier recently added his own layered harmony tracks to it, taking the performance to a whole other level.

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Images courtesy of John Scully, Walden University, Ingrid Scully
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Since March of 2020, over 29 million Americans have been diagnosed with COVID-19, according to the CDC. Over 540,000 have died in the United States as this unprecedented pandemic has swept the globe. And yet, by the end of 2020, it looked like science was winning: vaccines had been developed.

In celebration of the power of science we spoke to three people: an individual, a medical provider, and a vaccine scientist about how vaccines have impacted them throughout their lives. Here are their answers:

John Scully, 79, resident of Florida

Photo courtesy of John Scully

When John Scully was born, America was in the midst of an epidemic: tens of thousands of children in the United States were falling ill with paralytic poliomyelitis — otherwise known as polio, a disease that attacks the central nervous system and often leaves its victims partially or fully paralyzed.

"As kids, we were all afraid of getting polio," he says, "because if you got polio, you could end up in the dreaded iron lung and we were all terrified of those." Iron lungs were respirators that enclosed most of a person's body; people with severe cases often would end up in these respirators as they fought for their lives.

John remembers going to see matinee showings of cowboy movies on Saturdays and, before the movie, shorts would run. "Usually they showed the news," he says, "but I just remember seeing this one clip warning us about polio and it just showed all these kids in iron lungs." If kids survived the iron lung, they'd often come back to school on crutches, in leg braces, or in wheelchairs.

"We all tried to be really careful in the summer — or, as we called it back then, 'polio season,''" John says. This was because every year around Memorial Day, major outbreaks would begin to emerge and they'd spike sometime around August. People weren't really sure how the disease spread at the time, but many believed it traveled through the water. There was no cure — and every child was susceptible to getting sick with it.

"We couldn't swim in hot weather," he remembers, "and the municipal outdoor pool would close down in August."

Then, in 1954 clinical trials began for Dr. Jonas Salk's vaccine against polio and within a year, his vaccine was announced safe. "I got that vaccine at school," John says. Within two years, U.S. polio cases had dropped 85-95 percent — even before a second vaccine was developed by Dr. Albert Sabin in the 1960s. "I remember how much better things got after the vaccines came out. They changed everything," John says.

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