1918年全年跑狗图来源:方正证券官网 2019-12-06 16:53:35 A-A+


  “Sir, I never thought I’d see the day I’d be working for a colored officer.” These were not words I expected to hear, in 2003, from a senior enlisted soldier. It was winter in Iraq’s Anbar Province, and we were standing in the bay of an abandoned train station, where our unit now lived. As the maintenance officer, I oversaw the bay, where we labored to keep a fleet of vehicles in shape for missions on Iraqi streets. Worn track pads and tires surrounded us. Grease-covered soldiers worked on heaps of metal left inoperable by combat.

  The sergeant was white, and probably in his late 30s, with a tan face darkened by red sandstorms. He possessed a level of discipline and diligence that was forged in years of service. We had served alongside each other for close to two years. We had trained together, deployed together and, over our unit’s wounded and killed soldiers, mourned together. He helped me to mature as an officer, recognizing that I was young and was experiencing combat for the first time. Facing common hardship, we bonded.

  I was 26 at the time, a newly promoted captain who’d gotten used to tough questions and observations from soldiers of all ranks. But when this sergeant rose from his chair, walked in my direction and said those words to me, I had no response. We had never had a conversation that would make me suspect he would express such a sentiment. And since I was not prepared to address its implications and assumptions, I simply walked away from the interaction, carrying with me a new, jarring data point in a lifelong reckoning with racism and the history it papers over, both in the service and the United States at large.

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  I’d been aware of the physical and emotional weight of racism before I ever encountered it firsthand. Both of my parents were raised in a South much different from mine in Fayetteville, N.C. — a pre-civil rights South that I glimpsed at family reunions in Arkansas, after libations loosened the elders’ lips. My father, a retired Army officer, often recalls being dismissed early from school to till a cotton field, while white children stayed behind and furthered their education. When he was a teenager, a group of white men surrounded him as he walked home from work. One man distracted him while another punched him in the face. My mother, a retired educator who grew up about four hours away from my father, has always been more tight-lipped about her upbringing — but whatever she experienced informed my childhood foreboding, my understanding that Fayetteville’s active Ku Klux Klan presence was an imminent risk to me whenever I left the house.

  My parents’ life stories served as a poignant warning about America’s racism toward its black citizens. It was a warning that came before the Fayetteville police pulled me, shirtless, at 16, from my car in the pouring rain. I was handcuffed and detained on suspicion that my girlfriend and I were using crack cocaine, when in fact we were only rounding third base. It was before a West Point classmate said that I should be spending the night in the “5th Regiment” — a nonexistent unit meant to refer to black cadets and, in this case, to imply that I had no place in the Academy’s four student regiments. Before a white woman I dated told me her family wouldn’t accept a black baby. Before this sergeant and I stood face to face in Iraq.

  As grating as his comment was, he had voiced what surely was a common experience for many white soldiers. I was one of only 67 blacks to graduate with my West Point class of 965 cadets; one of no more than three black officers in my first battalion in Korea; and again one of the few black officers in my unit when it deployed to Iraq. Wherever I went, I couldn’t help noticing the Army’s significant deficit of black officers. The sergeant didn’t seem hostile or demeaning. If anything, his voice seemed to waver, as if he were in that moment beginning to realize how racism not only negatively affects people of color but white people as well — how it causes them to buy into false narratives that legitimate institutions have perpetuated to advance white supremacy since our country’s founding.

  In 1925, the Army War College summarized a study of black soldiers in a memo titled “Employment of Negro Man Power in War.” “In the process of evolution the American Negro has not progressed as far as the other sub-species of the human family,” the document states. “As a race he has not developed leadership qualities. His mental inferiority and the inherent weaknesses of his character are factors that must be considered with great care in the preparation of any plan for his employment in war.” Among its conclusions was this: “Negro officers should not be placed over white officers, noncommissioned officers or soldiers.”

  The military that produced this document is the same military in which many black Americans have served and died — an Army that has now had its first black commander in chief and that just hired West Point’s first black superintendent since its founding in 1802. But that memo also distills our country’s conventional wisdom, which has variously justified slavery, Jim Crow, segregation, redlining and the mass incarceration of black Americans.

  As a black veteran, I find it hard to reconcile my pride in my service with a sense of complicity in upholding my country’s legacy of white supremacy while deployed. I still remember the black and brown faces of Iraqis that I helped to round up, zip-tie and detain using tactics similar to stop and frisk, the use of which some courts in America have found to be unconstitutional. These experiences created a moral chasm with which I continue to grapple.

  I’m now a 41-year-old civilian, father and husband. After completing my time in the service, I went to business school, worked on Wall Street and attended the creative-writing program at Columbia University. In each of these institutions, some form of racism persisted. I recall working on an investment banking deal team and hearing a client’s senior executive suggest that LeBron James spent the windfall from his Miami Heat contract on 20-inch rims. And I remember sitting in Ivy League classrooms where the only other dark face in front of me was my reflection in a wall-mounted flat screen.

  Over the years, I’ve focused on these contradictions — and on seeking deeper, truer historical context when it comes to America’s racism. I’ve attended workshops where white people and people of color work together to develop a common language to understand the effects of the institutionalized white control of power, wealth and opportunity — both historically and in the present day.

  This journey has opened my eyes to the possibility that this sergeant was the first white person who ever tried to have an open and honest conversation about racism with me.

  Last year, I accepted an invitation from a fellow black West Point alumnus to attend the academy’s annual Henry O. Flipper dinner, honoring the institution’s first black graduate and the Army’s first African-American commissioned officer. February snow covered the Hudson Valley, and a cold wind cut across the river. On my way into the mess hall, I ended up walking next to a black captain who had been injured in Iraq. I followed him inside and found myself sitting just a few feet away from then-cadet (now lieutenant) Simone Askew, the first black female student leader of West Point’s 4,400-strong cadet corps, who was seated at the next table. On my plate was the evening’s program with a photograph of Flipper, class of 1877.

  After the dinner, I ducked into the library and took a look around. I went up a level and saw cadets studying. Up another level, I found the rings of my fallen classmates. On the library’s top floor, I stumbled upon a bronze bust of Henry Ossian Flipper in his full-dress uniform. Born into slavery in 1856, Flipper defied racial prejudice and institutional power to survive West Point. He was also a notable public servant after his time in the service — which was cut short by a racially motivated court-martial. During my time at the Academy, I’d been too preoccupied with my own challenges to grasp the magnitude of Flipper’s accomplishment.

  No grand epiphanies stretched across the years as I stared into the contours of his statue. I was as humbled by his work as I was conflicted about my own. Flipper paved my path at West Point, a path that many officers of color still follow — in and for a nation that still seems determined to normalize the ideology of white supremacy and to write off our achievements as statistical anomalies.



  1918年全年跑狗图【每】【年】【到】【了】【世】【界】【赛】【期】【间】,【就】【是】【各】【种】FLAG【满】【天】【飞】【的】【时】【候】,【作】【为】LOL【的】【老】【人】,PDD【的】flag【一】【直】【受】【到】【大】【家】【的】【关】【注】,【从】【最】【早】【的】【输】【了】【比】【赛】【就】【剃】【光】【头】【开】【始】,【大】【家】【对】【于】【这】【个】LOL 【的】【老】【人】【的】flag【还】【是】【很】【关】【注】【的】,【毕】【竟】【立】flag【的】【常】【有】,【但】【是】【真】【的】【言】【出】【必】【行】【的】【毕】【竟】【少】,【而】【就】【在】【最】【近】PDD【直】【播】【时】【又】【对】【于】【决】【赛】FPX【跟】G2【比】【赛】【的】【英】【雄】【立】【下】flag,【表】【示】【决】【赛】【如】【果】【没】【有】【天】【使】,【尼】【玛】PDD【将】【直】【播】【跳】【舞】,【不】【得】【不】【说】【也】【算】【是】【一】【个】【狠】【人】,【毕】【竟】【说】【他】【的】【观】【众】【也】【没】【有】【做】【错】【什】【么】。

  “【但】【是】【我】【说】【真】【的】,【你】【就】【不】【能】【尝】【试】【吃】【一】【下】【这】【些】【东】【西】【吗】,【对】【你】【有】【好】【处】【的】。”【纪】【安】【夏】【说】,“【不】【然】【人】【们】【为】【什】【么】【感】【冒】【了】【喝】【姜】【汤】【呢】?” 【程】【慕】【寒】:“” 【似】【乎】【无】【言】【以】【对】,【觉】【得】【她】【说】【得】【很】【在】【理】,【可】【是】【从】【心】【里】【还】【是】【无】【法】【接】【受】,【毕】【竟】【已】【经】【十】【几】【年】【都】【不】【吃】【那】【种】【味】【道】,【突】【然】【吃】【的】【话】,【一】【定】【很】【难】【受】。 “【算】【了】,【知】【道】【你】【很】【难】【接】【受】

  【万】【道】【剑】【气】【犹】【如】【霞】【光】,【自】【远】【处】【看】【去】,【就】【像】【青】【色】【的】【火】【焰】,【在】【无】【底】【的】【大】【海】【上】【燃】【烧】。【这】【些】【极】【凌】【厉】【的】【剑】【气】【触】【目】【生】【痛】,【如】【鸟】【群】【一】【般】【时】【聚】【时】【散】,【聚】【则】【嘈】【嘈】【切】【切】,【密】【不】【透】【风】,【散】【则】【如】【流】【云】【无】【形】,【混】【不】【受】【力】。 【一】【道】【耀】【眼】【的】【碧】【色】【雷】【光】【明】【灭】【不】【定】,【剑】【气】【一】【聚】,【便】【被】【雷】【光】【劈】【散】,【但】【却】【对】【那】【些】【散】【在】【空】【中】【的】【剑】【气】【无】【能】【为】【力】。 【布】【罗】【利】【暴】【躁】【不】【已】,【他】

  “【找】【死】!” 【将】【领】【冷】【喝】【一】【声】,【挥】【出】【一】【鞭】【子】,【这】【一】【鞭】【子】【的】【力】【量】【要】【比】【刚】【刚】【教】【训】【元】【方】【的】【强】【大】【许】【多】,【很】【明】【显】,【叶】【笑】【的】【话】【更】【加】【刺】【激】。 【这】【股】【力】【量】【估】【计】【是】【想】【要】【将】【叶】【笑】【直】【接】【打】【残】,【尤】【其】【是】【这】【一】【鞭】【子】【还】【是】【冲】【着】【脸】【来】【的】,【这】【让】【叶】【笑】【立】【刻】【有】【一】【种】【叔】【可】【忍】【婶】【婶】【不】【能】【忍】【的】【心】【理】。 【本】【来】【这】【个】【时】【候】,【叶】【笑】【都】【不】【会】【动】【手】,【因】【为】【觉】【得】【自】【己】【需】【要】【在】【关】【键】

  【林】【故】【皱】【了】【皱】【眉】,【看】【了】【一】【眼】【许】【言】【冉】【就】【撇】【过】【头】【去】。 【许】【言】【冉】【冷】【哼】【一】【声】,【径】【直】【走】【到】【人】【群】【中】【央】。 “【别】【吵】【了】!” 【许】【言】【冉】【低】【吼】【一】【声】,【眼】【带】【着】【怒】【意】,【长】【相】【魁】【梧】【又】【做】【出】【一】【副】【凶】【巴】【巴】【的】【样】【子】,【还】【真】【吓】【住】【了】【不】【少】【人】。 【声】【音】【吼】【地】【最】【大】【的】【一】【个】【那】【个】【阿】【姨】【顿】【了】【顿】,【被】【许】【言】【冉】【吓】【得】【瑟】【缩】【了】【一】【下】【又】【扬】【起】【脖】【子】【来】【喊】【道】:“【你】【算】【什】【么】?【凭】【什】【么】【你】1918年全年跑狗图【妈】【妈】【都】【会】【在】【宝】【宝】【睡】【觉】【前】【给】【宝】【宝】【洗】【澡】,【但】【很】【多】【时】【候】【宝】【宝】【是】【不】【喜】【欢】【洗】【澡】【的】,【除】【非】【洗】【澡】【对】【他】【们】【来】【说】【是】【一】【件】【有】【趣】【的】【事】【情】。【但】【是】【大】【多】【数】【宝】【宝】【好】【像】【都】【喜】【欢】【泡】【澡】,【记】【得】【小】【时】【候】,【每】【天】【都】【让】【妈】【妈】【接】【一】【盆】【水】,【自】【己】【能】【在】【里】【面】【玩】【一】【晚】【上】,【在】【放】【上】【几】【个】【玩】【具】,【一】【边】【玩】【水】【一】【边】【玩】【玩】【具】,【简】【直】【再】【幸】【福】【不】【过】【了】。【最】【近】【有】【个】【妈】【妈】【为】【了】【特】【殊】【功】【效】,【给】【宝】【宝】【泡】“【橘】【子】【浴】”,【这】【位】【妈】【妈】【给】【宝】【宝】【的】【洗】【澡】【方】【式】【引】【起】【了】【网】【友】【争】【议】。

  【小】【公】【主】【终】【于】【有】【一】【天】【惹】【怒】【了】【秦】【源】,【这】【是】【值】【得】【庆】【贺】【的】【一】【天】,【看】【着】【要】【放】【鞭】【炮】【的】【小】【傻】【喵】,【赵】【晗】【控】【制】【住】【她】【说】:“【放】【一】【会】【罚】【款】【不】【少】【钱】【呢】,【一】【个】【星】【期】【蛋】【糕】【就】【没】【有】【了】。” 【说】【完】,【小】【傻】【喵】【点】【了】【点】【头】,【给】【鞭】【炮】【收】【起】【来】【了】。 【也】【不】【知】【道】【在】【哪】【里】【搞】【出】【来】【的】。 【小】【公】【主】【可】【委】【屈】【了】,【也】【不】【敢】【走】,【生】【怕】【秦】【源】【不】【生】【气】【时】【候】【自】【己】【不】【在】。【而】【秦】【源】【虽】【然】【很】【生】

  【书】【籍】【已】【经】【弄】【到】,【自】【然】【被】【安】【置】【进】【了】【图】【书】【馆】,【在】【黎】【晓】【辉】【决】【定】【回】【侯】【爵】【领】【哭】【惨】【的】【时】【候】,【就】【吩】【咐】【第】【一】【建】【筑】【队】【开】【始】【建】【造】。 【图】【书】【馆】【早】【就】【被】【建】【造】【好】【了】,【不】【仅】【如】【此】,【长】【弓】【手】【的】【转】【职】【建】【筑】【也】【已】【经】【建】【造】【好】【了】,【现】【在】【正】【在】【建】【的】【是】【弩】【手】【的】【转】【职】【建】【筑】。 【现】【在】【有】【了】【这】【批】【资】【源】,【就】【可】【以】【马】【上】【将】【图】【书】【馆】【激】【活】,【以】【及】【转】【职】【长】【弓】【手】【了】。 …… 【唯】【一】【一】

  【那】【些】【寒】【芒】【是】【不】【知】【从】【何】【处】【射】【来】【的】【暗】【器】,【那】【些】【暗】【器】【泛】【着】【冰】【冷】【寒】【光】【的】【同】【时】,【还】【沾】【着】【特】【殊】【的】【液】【体】,【液】【体】【所】【过】【散】【发】【出】【腐】【朽】【的】【气】【息】。 【很】【明】【显】,【那】【些】【暗】【器】【上】【都】【有】【毒】,【一】【旦】【沾】【到】,【恐】【怕】【用】【不】【了】【多】【久】【就】【得】【被】【腐】【蚀】【的】【连】【骨】【头】【都】【不】【剩】。 【东】【方】【初】【一】【脚】【横】【扫】,【立】【刻】【就】【将】【那】【些】【给】【暗】【器】【给】【尽】【数】【震】【开】,【有】【真】【气】【阻】【隔】,【剧】【毒】【根】【本】【沾】【不】【到】【半】【点】。 【而】【之】


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