Only a few years ago my UNCLE TOM was a supernova on the American political landscape. He was so hot that even some white folks considered inviting him over to their house for dinner. You know, to actually sit and eat, not to buss the table.
The next thing I knew, Uncle Tom and Aunt Jemima weren’t getting along in the big house. It looked like my Uncle Tom would have to go back to doing field work. But something happened on the way out of the big house’s backdoor. I really hope that my Uncle Tom didn’t trip on one of massa’s shotguns or hang himself by accident with one of massa’s Jack Ketch collars.
One thing is for sure. I haven’t heard nor seen neither hide nor hair of my Uncle Tom.