Indian professor of postcolonial literature at Cambridge University declares that white lives don't matter.

Cambridge University then came out supporting this woman's free-speech. The thing is, Cambridge University cut ties with Jordan Peterson because of a photo he took in New Zealand with a far-right activist "fan".

Imagine, for a second, that this was a white professor tweeting "I'll say it again. Black lives don't matter".

What would Cambridge do? Would they come out supporting free-speech?

This post isn't criticizing free-speech, but the hypocrisy and double standards espoused by the media, liberal universities and really, society as a whole.

Only a few conservative publications are talking about this incident. Had her race been white and her tweet directed to blacks, it would be 24/7 news for the next 2 weeks proving white people are inherently racist.

But it's 2020, everything is stupid.

ORS 659A.403¹
Discrimination in place of public accommodation prohibited

Except as provided in subsection (2) of this section, all persons within the jurisdiction of this state are entitled to the full and equal accommodations, advantages, facilities and privileges of any place of public accommodation, without any distinction, discrimination or restriction on account of race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, national origin, marital status or age if the individual is of age, as described in this section, or older.

...

It is an unlawful practice for any person to deny full and equal accommodations, advantages, facilities and privileges of any place of public accommodation in violation of this section.

How Hearing an AC/DC song in Africa Ended My Tokenism

Reflections from “The Whitest Black Guy”

...Once the other new passengers and I were settled in and started paying the assistant, the bus slowly took off down the untarred, bumpy road. As it bounced along kicking up a trail of dust in its wake, the driver turned the music back up. It had an infectious beat provided by African drums and a melody that allowed everyone on the bus, except me, to effortlessly harmonize with a timber to their voice that reverberated throughout my entire body when they drew out and held a note. If I were to ever sit next to a person who didn’t at least tap their foot to this kind of music, I’d scoot away for fear their soulless condition might be contagious. With everyone on the bus either clapping or singing along, a festive, heart-enlarging atmosphere was created, and I couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear as I moved along to the music and the swaying of the bouncing bus. It was one of those simple, yet euphoric moments of life you could live in forever.

After about thirty minutes of this perfection, the tape ended. The driver popped it out and quickly found a replacement. On came AC/DC’s She Shook Me All Night Long, a rock classic and arguably the polar opposite of what had just been playing with its focus on guitars and high pitched scratchy voiced singing. I immediately stopped dancing. The smile on my face ran away, and my body stiffened. The contrasting musical style, however, wasn’t at the heart of my new-found rigidness. It was that I didn’t deem the music to be black enough, and I forced all the good vibes out of my body to show everyone how committed I was to my Blackness. But I appeared to be the only one suffering from that belief. Everyone else went right back to enjoying themselves and bobbing their heads to the music, including the elderly woman next to me. These people, whose Black credentials were beyond reproach — not only were they Black, they were African Black — were enjoying the music because they found it enjoyable.

“Racial stereotypes have been so deeply embedded in some Black folk that it causes them to feel they can take on the role of policing other’s Blackness.”

Growing up in America, my racial identity — my Blackness — was something I consciously thought about all the time because it was regularly challenged by both Blacks and whites. The result, I realized all at once on that bus, was that I had internalized other people’s ideas of what it meant and what I must do to be “Black.” I had imposed limits on myself about what I could and couldn’t like or do, and classic rock was high up on the list of things that weren’t “black enough” for me to appreciate. This would be no different than if a boy liked a pink shirt but wouldn’t allow himself to buy it out of fear of how other people would react to him liking a “girl” color..

...
I had, with a lot of help, been living in a barrel of my own making and all I had to do to get out was stop caring what other people thought about me. From that moment, I would fight against allowing any decision in my life to be dictated by other people’s definitions of Blackness or manliness, or any other social construct meant to inhibit me. My only standard for deciding what I liked would be if I liked it, and I could rest assured that I’d still be Black, just like the people on that bus. They didn’t let being Black restrict who they could be, they let who they were expand what it meant to be Black.

Obviously, this epiphany did nothing to reduce the frequency of people challenging my race. Quite the opposite. In the years following my emergence from the cocoon of racial limitations, my colorful wings attracted more attention and more negative comments, but that was okay because my connection to my Blackness had also grown. Learning that being Black wasn’t about a checklist of things I must like and interests I must avoid helped me hone in on the underpinning of the connection I feel with Black Americans and Black Africans.

On the one hand, I came to view being Black as being nothing more than an adjective to describe the color of my skin. On the other, however, it is the bond forged by the shared experiences, mistreatment, and oppression that has resulted from how people who look like me have been and continue to be treated. More importantly, it comes from how we’ve never let it dampen the joy, the music, the laughter that is so deep within us that it was able to travel across the ocean in the most unspeakable of conditions and sustain us through hundreds of years of slavery, colonization, apartheid, segregation, and discrimination.

This bus ride and the remainder of my time in southern Africa allowed me to see there were no restrictions on who I could be as a Black person. It would still be a couple more years, frustratingly, before I was able to come up with a retort that properly shut down people who dared tried to pigeonhole me over race and properly frame the thinking behind such comments: “Oh, I’m sorry. Exactly which one of your racial stereotypes am I not living up to?” is now my locked and loaded reply to comments so steeped in narrow, repressive racial thinking — regardless of who says it.

SEATTLE — A collection of Seattle businesses, property owners and residents sued the city Wednesday over its tolerance of an “occupied” protest zone, saying officials have been complicit in depriving them of their rights to their property.

The plaintiffs - including a tattoo parlor, auto repair shop and property management firm - emphasized in the lawsuit that they were not trying to undermine the anti-police-brutality or Black Lives Matter messaging of the “Capitol Hill Occupied Protest.”

“Rather, this lawsuit is about the constitutional and other legal rights of plaintiffs - businesses, employees, and residents in and around CHOP - which have been overrun by the city of Seattle’s unprecedented decision to abandon and close off an entire city neighborhood, leaving it unchecked by the police, unserved by fire and emergency health services, and inaccessible to the public at large,” the lawsuit said.