I’ve previously mentioned my temptation to allow the evils of this world to depress me. How can any of us avoid it, when bad news comes with every click of the mouse, and looking at Drudge Report is like looking into Tolkien’s “orthanc stone”? Day after day brings more misery for our folk.
But I’ve decided we owe it to God to bear up under His judgment as well we can, and not to seek the coward’s way out (which is suicide, whether in one instant swoop, or through long and miserable days of boozing and abuse). In this, those who think like I do, will (metaphorically) shout defiance at the avenging angels and beg them for more (and a little to the left, if they so please). We’ll make a stand so that even the angels in Heaven will praise God for that sturdy folk He wrought out of European soil.
Still – despite my resolve (which isn’t unique among whites)…the liberal jackals drone at us: “Kill yourself!” in their slobbering, putrid cadence…
“You! The man whose white skin shines!
You, with many thoughts divine!
We have your homes and have your stores,
Even your women are yours no more,
You that loveth a zombie God,
And worship the ground on which He trod,
A professor, recently, upon news of his pending retirement, decided to throw caution to the wind, and let the world know of his disdain for the white race by joining in with this cadence. You should kill yourselves, he says. Your people are the bane of creation, have brought nothing but harm, and you should kill yourselves. “If you’re a white male, you’re a cancer, a disease! You don’t deserve to live”.
And his feeling is shared by many in the academic community, and reflected in the sentiments of big-city women, who scoff and turn up their noses at us ignorant rednecks who, upon sad twists of fate, find ourselves having to associate with them. “You’re so stupid!” I’ve had it said of me…more than once.
This arrogant metropolitan attitude finds a voice in numerous Hollywood movies, which are produced by those reared in the mindset all their lives, and who revel in it. But even they can’t deny the folk-lessons often learned when their heroes leave the safety of the city and venture out into the hinterlands, where confrontation with rustic perils, brings them into a better relationship with their friends and family (in the end).
I believe in this “return to nature” theme, so when I’m feeling overwhelmed, I like to drive out into the country to a spot only known to the locals, a beautiful little spot that overlooks the …..River, and where I can enjoy a nice cigar with the good company of my best friend (who lives near the place), while watching the sun go down. The last time I was there, I had this professor’s mocking words in my mind … “kill yourself… kill yourself…”
A special committee for the county, composed of 4-H students, and sturdy churchmen from small, country churches in the area, pooled their funds, and built a wooden boardwalk all along the ….River, complete with benches, and as a crown to their work – a covered picnic area. But as I mentioned above, it’s so far out in the country, only locals know of it, and again, because it’s so far out in the country, it’s only used by the rural white folk – the town negros wouldn’t travel out to it, even if they knew it was there.
When I first visited the place, years ago (when it was newly made), I noticed a few scratches in the wood – from hooligans no doubt (God knows we whites have our share of low-class vandals). After a long stint in the military, and coming to visit the spot years later, I saw the wood had settled into its new role, and the vandals had made themselves at home. As a matter of fact the place was littered with writings, oaths of love, and laments for lost grandmothers.
I can’t call this material “graffiti” though, some of it certainly fits the name. On the whole, rather, it was writing of a different sort…”white-folk” writing, if you get what I mean. There were drawings of lizards, horses, and birds, oaths of young love (complete with hearts), and prayers, asking God to attend family members who had recently passed – these last, written in feminine hand-writing with colored ink that most certainly belonged to young white ladies in the area.
This was the bearing of white hearts in an age of internet communication. It has a genuineness to it that is lacking in a post-texting world. And so I go there, accompanied or alone, to sit among heart-felt white expressions, smoke my cigar (or pipe as the case may be), and watch the sunset.
Only, with this vile professor’s cadence bearing on my mind, I slipped over to a railing and contributed my own work to the collage…an unusually inspiring verse from an Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem I read the night before…
“And he moaned and struggled as well might be,
For the white child wanted his liberty … “
..and we’ll have it.