Mark Garfield Moore aka Prezidenteeh

(It’s long been a bizarre boast among blacks that, despite their otherwise extensive accomplishments in criminality, at least serial killers are white. Besides not being accurate, that cliché overlooks the inconvenient fact that, according to the FBI, “Serial killings are rare, probably less than one percent of all murders.” Contrast that with the thousands of African Americans doing time for non-serial murder on any given day.)

Even an accused multiple murderer such as Moore is included in the liberal media’s sentimental and self-aggrandizing narrative, the same one they’ve been lovingly polishing since Emmett Till and the Scottsboro Boys. In that mythical saga, black killers are victims and black victims are saints; based upon newspaper coverage alone, one is obliged to conclude that the “black community” has more “honor students” than is statistically likely; individuals wind up “in the wrong place at the wrong time” with alarming frequency; and “cases of mistaken identity” are weirdly epidemic. (Insert your own “they all look alike” joke here.)

For instance, we’re meant to think of Jermaine Smith as a hero: “He died in a hail of bullets at a big weekend barbecue” last month because “he saw the danger coming and hustled several children out of harm’s way.”

However, it sounds like Smith—“an entertainer, some-time contractor and father of a newborn son”—was being targeted and knew it; his presence was what drew gunmen to the “community get-together” at the “public housing complex” in the first place.

Or take the 2005 shooting of Livvette Moore (no relation—at least one hopes—to our accused serial-killing rapper). As the usual miasma of fake moral outrage descended upon Toronto with an audible tsk, I dared to ask, at my blog and elsewhere, what the hell a 26-year-old single mother of four was doing at out 3 AM, never mind in a “Jamaican-themed…after hours club”—one of the city’s numerous illegal speakeasies that are “part of black culture” and which everyone knows are frequented by customers packing heat.

Alas, asking embarrassing questions isn’t a “Canadian value.” So kudos to the Sun’s Joe Warmington for daring to express what thousands of white and Asian Torontonians have been whispering for years: Maybe it’s “Time to Reign [sic] in T.O.’s Caribbean festival.”

Look: The city’s gays are annoying as hell, but they manage to parade half-naked once a year without shooting each other. As Warmington asks about the black equivalent to “Gay Pride”:

How much more will we tolerate from Caribana—or whatever they call it these days—which has become murderous in some years?

He lists the mostly black-on-black/black-on-cop mayhem dating back to 1985, then asks:

Is it time to park this event for a while just as the St. Patrick’s parade was shelved for more than a century after an 1878 shooting resulted in the death of a cop?

Such sensible (if dramatic) solutions don’t stand a chance. Caribana—like Pride—is now title-sponsored by one of the nation’s banks. Crimes that occur during those festivals are brought to you by a major corporation and the City of Toronto itself. They’re just the cost of doing business.

Meanwhile, with Mark Moore’s arrest, the antique narrative machine cranks up again: Activists spout clichés about “racism” and “poverty,” bereaved mothers wail that “this has got to stop,” cops mouth practiced platitudes, and the rest of us pretend not to notice the color of crime.