Many scholars lake to make safe nods to multicultural orthodoxy by implying that human races do not exist.-- Nicholas Wade, Chapter 4, A Troublesome Inheritance: Genes, Race and Human History
There is a documentary on You Tube which summarizes the Lionel Tate case through 2015, now coming to a close with typical confetti glitter surrounding the winter solstice, and spastic has flagged for consideration doing a book on the subject, which supposes I live long enough, and have the clout to get some of the primary players to open up to a relatively battered journalist with her fingernails just above the sewage canals beneath the streets. The good Sheldon Novick once encouraged me to explore the curiously destabilizing aspects to Alice James chronic condition and her brothers' gallantry, which in William's case bordered on incestuous compassion, but my triggers of interest are apparently aroused by the firestorm surrounding a child murderer who seems compellingly inconsequential in his interior aspect, in terms of self-realization and responsibility, and yet electrified intense emotional investment which failed to redeem him regardless of the ideological spectrum involved. Liberal empathy, conservative bluntness, failed to redeem Lionel Tate, the judicial hours spent disputing the facts in evidence failed to rectify the arc his troubled young adulthood, and a movement like black lives matter, what redress can it offer if Tate and his mother can't step up to the plate to address their own negligence, not without facing self-incrimination, in the death of Tiffany Eunick?
Institutional bias had no bearing on the events inside Mrs. Tate's dwelling. That bias only came into perception, if relevant, once the six year old was dead, and who spoke for her? The wings of Tiffany's mother were clipped because the monster wasn't a television manufactured psychopath whose behavior could be so carefully circumscribed by the genius profiler played by Matthew Gubler, just an overweight 12 year old with typical aggressive indicators of dysfunction allegedly tied to maternal indifference, and then it gets buried, superseded because Trayvon Martin gets killed by a paranoid vigilante, or disadvantaged individuals die in police custody, with little weight given to how overwhelmed police forces are, these days, the blue line of last resort. I am nearly positive my district now has a flag on me because I've complained about the terror and the hatred of the elderly I've experienced under the corporate banner of Presbyterian Homes.
Certainly, to pick up on Tony Stiles' point, all governments are so much more powerful than people, but that is everything. Landlords necessarily supersede impoverished tenants, because the concept of property is the lynch pin of capital-- even though we know that however it is zoned, structures on a landscape aren't owned. We exchange them, relative to the value of the location, and create space in the livable atmosphere of storied buildings. In essence I am conceding certain critiques to Marxism, at the same time flipping it. If I owned what I wanted to live in, I'd fight and fend for it, but section 202 housing is a classification designed by default for expendable classes, to treat you like a problem, not to help you climb, but to spit you into a hospice, which had its nascent inclination in the 19th century, in the birth of the sanitarium, and regulation on the federal level, leads to the spiral of dilapidation in more subtle fashion, as surely as shanty towns breed the next pandenic.
Lionel Tate is a footnote of black on black predation in the uproar over police brutality toward perceived civilian threats, black, white, Hispanic, Indian, and he shouldn't be. The familiarity of contempt generates more murder than the use of excessive force at the end of a gun barrel, not that I can drop everything to run with this, as my pet is guilty of capital endangerment.
Showing posts with label lionel tate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lionel tate. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Friday, November 27, 2015
Travesty Optimization
Applying the proportionality test to both negative and positive rights may undermine any margin of appreciation of the [sic] state authorities. This gives rise to the problem of over-determination.-- Dual authors Klatt and Meeter, The Constitutional Structure of Proportionality, p 86
How one views the Lionel Tate case, almost twenty years old, depends on your filter. Dana Canedy doesn't bother to cast doubt on the "wrestling defense," because The New York Times couldn't fathom how the prosecutor filed for premeditation, while it is overtly challenged by Bill Kurtis three years later. And then, true to form for troubled African American men, Tate engages in recidivism. It tempts reactions along the lines of dangerous eugenic fallacies, but ethnicity is not a meaningless term, certainly not in the medical field, and in jurisprudence, experts eradicate bias through pretense. Caste, social station, are irrelevant behind the shield of our systems process. Never mind that, according to accepted norms, if you baby sit a six year old and leave her with your son twice her size and hear cries of distress, you get yourself out of bed and check. Kathleen Grossett-Tate was culpable in the death of Tiffany Eunick, but what do we wind up with? Traumatized liberal attorneys, a besmirched ADA, a judge who couldn't craft an appropriate punishment because his hands were tied by state guidelines, a single mother scarred for life by the loss of her little girl, a governor currently limping along in the primaries who attempted to split the difference in a glaringly ineffectual fashion, and the United States once again exposes its bongo justice, during the Clinton years, to foreign ridicule.
At the time this case became one in a series of sensational events the state of Florida just keeps on giving, I was a fledgling journalist. The lesbian ADAPT activist gave me a byline, and the rest is moot, given present earnings capacity. I did not really understand search, and came late to Google, which is why I intuit a vague familiarity, at best, with the trial.
Similarly, during the last days in the life of David Koresh, I was a work incentives advocate due to the wide latitude of a Pew Charitable Trust grant, and Waco was for all intents and purposes a prelude to Xbox, where we begin to lose the ability to differentiate collateral damage. I accepted the concern for the welfare of the children as paramount over and above a radical sect to command adherents as it pleased. Against the stress of case management, it was dramatic entertainment which might have been negotiated better, but hardly a trigger for sedition, sans McVeigh. What created him, what created ISIS, isn't going to fizzle due to drone technology, especially when one's former youthful enthusiasm evaporates because a female feline dashes out in the hallway, gnaws neighbor's trash after you spent the holiday morning chasing cat chow, screaming "Get the fuck in the studio," and Tim opens his door, helping you reign in a spayed foster rescue little bigger than a football. She puked outside Jim's door, the brother with end stage renal disease. I wanted a writing studio exactly like that of Andre Dubus, and instead, I am like a samurai gutting her intestines, familial aspirations imploded, after a middle class life more affluent than this.
My father doesn't want to see me; the sister put him up to it. I don't want him in my unit. He should go back to die at Myrtle Beach, and I envision my own demise in a deportation cell outside of Paris, dreaming of a much more inclusive global conflict than that Niall Ferguson or Jennifer Rubin might see ahead.
How one views the Lionel Tate case, almost twenty years old, depends on your filter. Dana Canedy doesn't bother to cast doubt on the "wrestling defense," because The New York Times couldn't fathom how the prosecutor filed for premeditation, while it is overtly challenged by Bill Kurtis three years later. And then, true to form for troubled African American men, Tate engages in recidivism. It tempts reactions along the lines of dangerous eugenic fallacies, but ethnicity is not a meaningless term, certainly not in the medical field, and in jurisprudence, experts eradicate bias through pretense. Caste, social station, are irrelevant behind the shield of our systems process. Never mind that, according to accepted norms, if you baby sit a six year old and leave her with your son twice her size and hear cries of distress, you get yourself out of bed and check. Kathleen Grossett-Tate was culpable in the death of Tiffany Eunick, but what do we wind up with? Traumatized liberal attorneys, a besmirched ADA, a judge who couldn't craft an appropriate punishment because his hands were tied by state guidelines, a single mother scarred for life by the loss of her little girl, a governor currently limping along in the primaries who attempted to split the difference in a glaringly ineffectual fashion, and the United States once again exposes its bongo justice, during the Clinton years, to foreign ridicule.
At the time this case became one in a series of sensational events the state of Florida just keeps on giving, I was a fledgling journalist. The lesbian ADAPT activist gave me a byline, and the rest is moot, given present earnings capacity. I did not really understand search, and came late to Google, which is why I intuit a vague familiarity, at best, with the trial.
Similarly, during the last days in the life of David Koresh, I was a work incentives advocate due to the wide latitude of a Pew Charitable Trust grant, and Waco was for all intents and purposes a prelude to Xbox, where we begin to lose the ability to differentiate collateral damage. I accepted the concern for the welfare of the children as paramount over and above a radical sect to command adherents as it pleased. Against the stress of case management, it was dramatic entertainment which might have been negotiated better, but hardly a trigger for sedition, sans McVeigh. What created him, what created ISIS, isn't going to fizzle due to drone technology, especially when one's former youthful enthusiasm evaporates because a female feline dashes out in the hallway, gnaws neighbor's trash after you spent the holiday morning chasing cat chow, screaming "Get the fuck in the studio," and Tim opens his door, helping you reign in a spayed foster rescue little bigger than a football. She puked outside Jim's door, the brother with end stage renal disease. I wanted a writing studio exactly like that of Andre Dubus, and instead, I am like a samurai gutting her intestines, familial aspirations imploded, after a middle class life more affluent than this.
My father doesn't want to see me; the sister put him up to it. I don't want him in my unit. He should go back to die at Myrtle Beach, and I envision my own demise in a deportation cell outside of Paris, dreaming of a much more inclusive global conflict than that Niall Ferguson or Jennifer Rubin might see ahead.
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