On Monday morning, I pulled into my office parking lot to see something that I thought I would never live to see – a work crew painting over a sprawling George Floyd mural.
It was my Berlin Wall moment, a sign perhaps of the end of an era as criminally insane as the one that gave us the wall in Berlin. I took a photo to capture the work in progress. I’m not sure anyone else did.
In truth, no one ever cared about Floyd, a chronic felon and pathetic druggie. His erasure from my neighborhood wall evoked no protest, not a single peep. The optimist in me sees that as a good sign, the end of a DEI-driven era of racial madness.
The pessimist in me sees the newly blank wall as a clean slate ready for a new mural of a new martyr and maybe, who knows, even a new disease to make the whole thing work. Rinse and repeat.
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