Let's clear a little something up here. My "reality based" view is not equivalent to yours.
I was the last and accidental child in a family of seven, who came out of the north Texas tenant farms. My daddy was a carpenter, and a good one. My mother was a housewife and mother. She worked from dawn into the night, and none of her children saw "want" in that they missed shoes or coats or good meals.
I went to school in the tempestuous years of the sixties in Dallas, and I have excellent recollections of years under black authority figures aka teachers: Mrs. Bradford, Miss Gibson, Mrs. Woods, Mrs. Waterhouse, Mr. Williams, Miss Eva (she was an art teacher, and asked us to call her that. She taught me about Picasso's blue and rose periods).
In 1966, I was a white Cinderella to a black Prince Charming. It has always disappointed me that the boy couldn't dance. Didn't have a lick of rhythm. We had to forego the waltz.
We rolled and roiled in all that time. I went to Dallas public schools, graduated a year early, and still have better SAT scores than the last three presidential candidates.
I resent being called ignorant, racist and homophobic.
P.S. Taken from Mr. Scott Chaffin: Kids, get off my lawn.