Who speaks for the dead? The victims of black on white violence?
In Baltimore, the answer is “what victims?”
The locals don’t even remember them: In December the Baltimore Sun ran a glowing portrait of Marin Alsop, the symphony conductor who had recently explained to the BBC that riots in Baltimore were necessary because racist white people did not listen to black people.
She doubled down on her remarks to the Sun:
Baltimore’s black community reached a boiling point after decades of police brutality and racial inequality persisted.
“When people don’t respond to each other, yet the conditions continue–how do you finally get someone’s attention? It’s by grabbing them by the shoulders,” she said. “That’s what happened.”
In a story about Alsop, I mentioned the many performers around the country who are victims of black violence, including Peter Marvit of Baltimore. Soon after, I received an email from one of Peter’s friends, John Bosma:
I was a friend of Peter Marvit–a fellow tenor, we sat with each other at the rehearsal he attended 30 minutes before he was attacked on his front porch, shot six times in the head and neck, and died in the arms of his neighbor.
Peter had just moved his family into that black neighborhood – supposedly one of the first white ‘blockbusters’. Nice kept-up row houses fronting the city’s Herring Run Park.
Peter had started–on his own nickel–a program for poor black kids to learn music, dance and the arts. He spent a lot of time and talent on it. We fellow members of the Baltimore Choral Arts Society learned about all this at his memorial service, where these young kids performed for us.
I recently moved to the Pacific Northwest from Baltimore. What partly impelled the move was being beaten up by a black guy who I had grappled with and held down after he was chasing his girlfriend with a baseball bat.
His GF and another woman went nuts, beating me as he and I grappled on the ground with me holding the bat with both arms. To shut them up, I stupidly rolled the bat away and let him get up. He promptly decked me, kicked the hell out of my head (concussion and bleeding). I was very lucky.
He was released on PR 1 hr after being booked. It took me 5-6 court appearances to get him a 3-yr suspended sentence.
I knew the neighborhood where he was shot down. The really vile thing is that his murderer was waiting for him. He was shot right at his front door. Peter had just moved his wife and teenage daughter into this previously all-black neighborhood–nice homes, no visible deterioration or ugliness.
Call it “reverse blockbusting.” Maybe some blacks get really upset about that.
I was sickened by Alsop’s comment about the Baltimore riots and racial justice–police violence against blacks–yada yada. She sounds like she’s lifted straight from the ranks of late-1960s East Coast liberal ‘thug huggers’. One of her choristers is brutally killed–a Johns Hopkins University scientist, in fact–and THAT is the bilge she pumps up for the public on an open-and-shut crime like rioting?
I recall a chat with a typical lib at the private singing/wake for Peter shortly after his death. I was in a quiet rage over his death and angered at the trendy anti-gun fetishism that Baltimore libs exude even after their friends die ghastly deaths at the hands of the city’s gun-toting black thugs.
I told a man–the father of three young daughters–that if I were him, I’d teach all of them to shoot and I’d get carry permits for them. He looked at me in shock and said, “Oh, I could never do that!”
The hyped-up violent black kids in that city also get kid-glove treatment at school. A woman friend from India, with two science degrees and teaching at what is supposed to be one of Baltimore’s top middle schools, tells me her kids call her every filthy name in the book with impunity.
When one boy snarled she should go back to India, she told him that under his argument he should go back to Africa. That cost her a disciplinary inquiry for ‘racism’. She was also hauled in for suspected ‘racism’ when she used the technical term “negate” in her class–and a black girl took it as an epithet and brought her hell-raising mother to school to confront her in the principal’s office.
That’s how racially hair-triggered the schools are. Her students have stolen her phone, stood around laughing and jeering when she fell on a chair and broke her ribs, refusing to help her or get help… her blood pressure has shot up to danger levels but the school refuses to discipline any black students who raise hell in class
At this point, I am SO outraged at the ‘black community’ that I want answers:
..WHY don’t they address–or goddamit!!, feel any sense of shame and responsibility for–the black-on-white violence that may have killed my friend Peter?
..WHY do they hate–hate–hate like no other racial community in North America? Black antisemitism? You can listen to Louis Farrakhan or Al Sharpton.
Anti-Asian? Ditto–oh, and all the 80-hrs/week Korean grocers that they love to rob and who support their families with this stores?
(My mom sold her nice house in Baltimore to a young Korean couple that work their asses off–and risk daily execution–owning and running stores like those.!!!)–Oh, and anti-Hispanic? Yep.
I remember King, I was in a student memorial march and memorial service at my church college when he was killed in April 1968. My all-white college SHUT DOWN when we heard the news. I had white professors crying in class trying to explain what had just happened.
I recall vividly that we played his funeral service over the loudspeaker in the cafeteria where I was on the dishwashing crew–we all lost it when they played his “I’ve been to the mountaintop!’ speech–even now I get gooseflesh and tears…my GOD, what a speaker!
And GODDAMMIT…now I look back and think of this sickening, thug-rap-chanting crowd of young black sadists and Black Lives Matter and the stomach-turning New Black Panther Party devotees’ of white genocide.
And we now ask ourselves, “WHY the HELL did we even bother?” I’m asking, should I get a gun and learn to use it? (yes.)
There is something unspeakably obscene–desecrating–unspeakable in what the “black cause” has turned into since those heroic days in 1968. Those like me who were part of the generation of college kids that went into the South and got killed or beaten up for helping blacks register are now buying guns for self-defense against young white-hating young black thugs who’d kill us for a nickel–or kick the hell out of our heads and mouths, running up $50,000 dental bills, for being white.
All because they wanted to have fun and show their buddies how tough they were kicking a white guy in the head as he’s helpless on the ground. WOW.
Something is very wrong.
Bosma’s point of view is unpersuasive to the staff at the Baltimore Sun, who have never seen a Black Lives Matter protest they couldn’t glorify.
Tricia Bishop, for example, is one of the once-proud Sun’s editorial writers. She says she is safe from the gun-wielding black criminals of Baltimore because of her white privilege:
I know how to stay out of the line of Baltimore’s illegal gunfire; I have the luxury of being white and middle class in a largely segregated city that reserves most of its shootings for poor, black neighborhoods overtaken by “the game.”
To friends of Peter Marvit, that magical thinking must sound familiar–and sickening.
Soon after, fellow Sun staffer Adam Marton recounted his experience with black crime and violence in Baltimore: Thelonious Monk stole his car several years ago. When Monk turned up on a recent list of homicide victims, Marton misted up with fond memories.
“I felt victimized and was worried about my car and car loan, which I was still paying off. But everyone in Baltimore has a crime story, and many are much more catastrophic and scarring than a stolen Nissan Altima.”
Everyone? Of course: and everyone knows racist cops are to blame. At least at the Sun.
When Marton retrieved his car, he found a baby seat–minus the baby–and job applications in it. All this was evidence, said Marton, of a family man desperately trying to get his life together. Sniff, sniff.
Baltimore cops just laughed: they know stolen cars are passed around like potato chips, with payment often coming in rocks of crack cocaine.
Sometimes people leave things behind. Sometimes stolen things, like car seats. Or job applications, which are necessary to extend your time on one welfare program or another.
No matter. “Rest in peace, young man,” Marton sobbed. “I will never forget you.”
Neither will lots of other people: Marton’s adopted pet felon had a record long story of violent crime.
At the exact moment I was writing this article, a large group of black people was killing Robert Ponsi, a 29-year old white waiter on his way home from his job at the James Joyce Pub.
No one has any idea where Ponsi got the idea he could ride a bike at night through a black neighborhood in Baltimore.
So far, no reaction from Alsop.