Pro-White Soundbites for Donald Trump

Presidential debates are stuck on 1992 anachronisms about the economy and on 1980s-era hand-wringing about “inner cities.” White voters go along with those talking points as with ritual incantations to be recited for the sake of good manners. Dead liturgies have their purpose. They keep shut the doors behind which pace the wolves of our survival instincts.

So what can Donald Trump say to connect with things that matter to White Americans? Trump’s goal is to win the election, not to burn out with a swan song. But there may be a time and place he deems fit to push the blade deeper into the Narrative’s bloated gut and communicate that which Suburban_elk captures with eloquent simplicity:

[R]eal concern and real vision, and from the heart, about how white people are suffering for having lost their country, and even more than that, having lost their purpose and their identity; their very soul.

Here are a few of my suggestions for avowing a people that dare not speak its name:

1. Apathy. “I remember when every home in hard-working communities had these pretty flowers in front of it, little American flags lining the street. And these people had pride in their neighbors, in themselves — because they believed that they have a future. And today, they don’t care any more. Why? because they feel that they have lost their country, their public space. Folks, when the people who built America drop out, we are all hurting.”

2. Ethnic Cleansing. “Good people cannot afford to live in their own communities! They watch their aspirations, their work go to ruin when their neighborhoods change character. Their property values are wiped out. I want Americans to have the homes, schools, and families like their grandparents and great-grandparents had.”

3. Despair. “And you know who else is hurting? White Americans. Yes, Whites. Like the families I met in central Florida. They have friends, or even their brothers or sisters, who live with no hope. No appreciation from their leaders. They have watched these beautiful young people fall into methamphetamine addiction. The drug of despair, folks. It never had to be that way. And this is going to change.”

4. Family Formation. “Americans who trace their heritage to Europe do not feel like they can build their own future. I’ve talked with folks in New Jersey, they are afraid to start a family. Or to have a second baby. Schools, affordable neighborhoods for young families are hostile in character. So many young, bright people want to have children but they are choking on their student loans.”

5. Founders’ Posterity. “Listen to me. The only meaningful job of the government is to secure a future for its people and their posterity. It’s right there, in the preamble to our Constitution. That spirit is in the Declaration of Independence and in Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address.”

6. Guns. “Let’s be frank about something: our Founding Fathers had a good reason to articulate your right to bear arms. My opponent wants is to disarm you. It is tyrannical to take away an American’s right to defend his family from anyone who would threaten the peace of his home.”

7. Immigration. “No, it’s not just about the economy. Or security. It’s about Americans watching the country of their great-grandparents turn ugly, day after day, one administration after another. There are those who say that America is already great. They are lying to your face.”

[Can’t you just hear Trump’s drawn-out, emphatic enunciation in that last sentence?]

“You’re seeing your towns become third world. You know what, folks, Americans no longer see friendly faces. They feel like this isn’t their country any more. And they are right. And they don’t like it one bit.”

[There is so much to be said about immigration]

8. Neighborhoods. “The politicians give you their tired clichés like it’s time to bring communities together. Wrong! Maybe we should take a time-out on togetherness. We have a beautiful diverse America but we get on each other’s nerves. All people need their space.”

9. Neoliberalism. “Very powerful people who run our government and our economy have sold your birthright to the world’s low bidders. Whom they invite here to replace you at work — and guess what: they don’t do half the good job you do. They just work more cheaply and put up with the abuses you wouldn’t accept. And they also drown out your voice at the voting booths.”

10. Our Future. “The American people, the posterity of brave men and women who fought in the War of Independence, who risked everything to settle the frontier and help build this great country. They are vilified. They are not protected. They are told to shut up and pay their taxes. They are being pushed aside — and they are still very patient about it.”

“I want to talk about our future. Many Americans don’t feel like they have one. This is a crime, folks: their heritage is being erased, their history twisted into shrill accusations. And they are good, beautiful, hard working, relentless, creative people. Without them, there is no America. With Donald Trump as your president, you will look forward to the future, just like your ancestors did. Together we will make America great again!”


Trump knows. I had a short post in February, titled Reframing Compassion: You Can’t Come Here that pointed to his good instincts. We will no longer surrender this country or its people to the false song of globalism, he said in his foreign policy speech last April. And remember his White Genocide retweet?

We Would Recognize Each Other

The wind has changed direction. Commenter quixotic over at Le Château puts the ascendant Zeitgeist into words and I am quoting a fragment of his comment here:

But redpilled thinking cannot be broken. If the fucking internet went out tonight and never returned, I know the men on this site would continue on living by the same principles. They would recognize each other on the street without a word ever spoken. They would be the guy across the bar who sees what you see and knows what will happen next before a fight breaks out. And that TERRIFIES the left.

Because in the end, these are just words. But they represent something greater than words. That something is in our genes, our very existence. We are programmed by nature/God to seek truth and beauty and abhor ugliness. You cannot TRICK me into agreeing that something ugly is beautiful. That something corrupt is innocent. Because that feeling in my gut will always be there to guide me.

We could just end the post right here, but those words spurred me to think about how we recognize and network with each other.

Promoting atomization is how they try to pull the nation-wrecking over on us. As Roosh’s recent try at coordinating a worldwide happy hour meetup has shown, the system will not tolerate Alt-Right’s in-person activities on a visible scale. On the other hand, low-key private meetups among bloggers and commenters are outside of most people’s comfort zone for reasons of anonymity. The model I recommend at this time is to communicate among each other as we’ve been doing, openly on line — and network in real life with regular people who are not involved in Alt-Right discussions. Being atomized is a weakness but its up-side, decentralization, gives us the multi-headed hydra’s power of antifragility.

Below are some thoughts about opportunities we have for communicating with others to build social cohesion among ourselves beyond our normal network of friends and family, many of whom may well be dispersed geographically:

Red-pilled strangers. You’ve had the experience like mine on the subway last week: the cute college girl catches your eye as you stand there in the moving car. Your attention then goes elsewhere until you catch her stealing glances at you. You notice your own reflection in a glass partition and you see what she sees: pure supremacy. If you’re single, it’s game-on, Shitlord. Whatever your individual strengths and weaknesses, she instinctually recognizes you as an awakened White man. It’s in the eyes. Chances are, you will run into someone else like you, another red-pilled stranger. We have a look. Eyes forward, not down. That look of having shaken off the sleepyhead.

Friends and family. I’ve long ago stopped getting into political debates with people I know because it’s pointless, and sometimes unnecessarily alienating. The Red Pill is a bitter one and not everyone can handle its taste at full dose. The way to guide someone in our direction is to recognize that he is in fact looking for a discussion and show that you are open to it. Then ask him questions and listen to his thoughts, holding back when tempted to dispense too much knowledge at once.

Complex dialectic is best saved for fellow red-pilled folks because someone who is new to our thinking will forget the wonkier points later. Short, quippy summations are more effective with newbs because they are memorable and they define the big picture. Example:

A questioning friend: “Why is it bad to let women vote?”
You: “Because men vote for liberty and women vote for tyranny.”
Friend: “How so?”
You: “Women instinctively submit to power. So whichever party appears to be dominant, especially if its rule is heavy-handed and its figurehead is charismatic, women will support that party. Men are less risk-averse, we chafe under overbearing authority, and we take a longer view of things.”

Another example:

Friend: “So why are our governments doing this to us? What’s their motive?”
You: “White men hang tyrants. Muds stab each other over sneakers.”

Talk to your neighbors. Break outside of your comfort zone and talk with them; being introverted is no excuse. Don’t lead off with politics, just talk about the weather, be pleasant, make them want to talk to you next time they see you. Some of your neighbors feel isolated. This could especially be the case if you live in modest circumstances on the raw edge of diversity, such as in a lower-end apartment complex.

Blue collar contractors. I once started a conversation with a man in line at a convenience store. He told me he owns a father-son licensed roofing company, and it so happened that I was researching companies the job. I took his phone number, had him over for an estimate, and hired him to replace my roof. He and his son did an excellent job, including repairing an unanticipated hidden problem that a big-company contractor would not have done without a delay and additional charges.

Working outside of the corporate services provider matrix makes things more honest and they work without the pressure of upselling unnecessary work. Not all self-employed contractors are trustworthy, competent or insured, so do your due diligence and trust your gut. To support our community economically, I always go with White providers of services.

Fellow parents. If you have young children, join activities and make friends with other parents. Looking ahead to your children’s marriage, there is a scarcity of young men who have their act together and young women who are wife-material. It’s good to have inroads to connect your kids with high-value potential partners. Even if they ultimately date and marry via their own social network, your association with good families will have set for them expectations of quality.

Irritating strangers. Impatient with a White dude blocking your way, embarrassed by another who draws snickers from multicultural onlookers? Let go of your irritation. He’s our brother.

Don’t pollute. Do not bring non-Whites to family events or to parks, venues, or events that are implicitly ours. Spaces that we find pleasant are that way because we create and maintain them. It’s our community, our social capital and our place to be who we are.


There is a handful of people I know in real life who read this and related blogs. As interesting as good comment threads are, talking about these ideas in person is exquisitely satisfying. When we have a country of our own, we will all buy each each other a beer.

“The Reeling Wheel of the Seasons”

Human nature makes history cyclical. Technological progress is linear though, and so it would seem that technological advances should override history’s persistent retrograde patterns in favor of linear progress. However, the technological arms race is driven by men and we are subject to our nature, and that makes technology’s entanglement with human affairs a cyclical function as well. This is why Detroit’s production of flying cars is behind schedule.

There are now more cars but less smog in Los Angeles than thirty years ago. The nuclear bomb eliminated conventional wars between large states. Governments today have better technical means of killing their own people than they did 80 years ago, yet due to mass media’s ability to disseminate awful images, you can’t have Cheka committees butchering the European countryside anymore. Instead, civilian pacifications have become Stone Age again, with Somalian visitors groping girls in Stockholm while a caveman’s weapon — a baseball bat and the will to swing it — disperses them.

There are satellites and drones, but drone operators have families in unguarded houses. The state used the television to brainwash its citizens but later citizens used the internet to knock down that totem.

The decadence-drift of the elites: a generation or more after a faction seizes power and secures the collaboration of its mercenary classes, its successors lose faith in their original mission and turn to short-term opportunism. The ruled populations, concurrently, lose faith in the founding mythology that legitimizes the elites’ rule. Martin Trayvon King wut? Today’s liberal voter now clings to that last plank of the Civil Rights revolution, pervs in bathrooms.


In his 1981 – 82 series of Harvard lectures that he published under the title The Witness of Poetry, Czesław Miłosz shares his own reflections on history. His 1980 poem “Bypassing Rue Descartes” appears in that volume, and I include it at the end of this post. He provides autobiographical context for the poem:

In my youth [c. 1930], apprentices of poetry, if they came from the blank spots on the map, had to undergo a short or longer period of training in Paris. That was the case with me […] Arriving in Paris as a young man, I later had many opportunities to wonder at the contrast between the radical changes occurring in myself and in my geographic zone to the east of Germany, on the one hand, and the perfect stability and the continuity in the life of la ville lumière on the other. Half a century later I wrote a poem on that subject, which better explains what I just said than does my prose.

He also ties “Bypassing Rue Descartes” to the current events at the time of writing this:

Though universal ideal long ago lost their appeal for those of us from [Vilnius], Warsaw, or Budapest, this does not mean that they lost their appeal everywhere. The young cannibals who, in the name of inflexible principles, butchered the population of Cambodia had graduated from the Sorbonne and were simply trying to implement the philosophic ideas they had learned. As for ourselves, since we had seen firsthand what one achieves by violating, in the name of doctrine, local mores (that is everything which grows slowly, organically, for centuries), we could only think with horror about the absurdities haunting the human mind, indifferent as it is to the repetitive character of blunders.

A water snake appears at the end of the poem that follows. As Miłosz’s explains in The Witness of Poetry, the water snake was considered holy in his native Lithuania, a pagan belief that persisted in Europe’s last nation to become Christianized. The poem:


“Bypassing Rue Descartes” by Czesław Miłosz

I descended toward the Seine, shy, a traveler,
A young barbarian just come to the capital of the world.

We were many, from Jassy and Koloshvar, Wilno and Bucharest, Saigon and Marrakesh,
Ashamed to remember the customs of our homes,
About which nobody here should ever be told:
The clapping for servants, barefooted girls hurry in,
Dividing food with incantations,
Choral prayers recited by master and household together.

I had left the cloudy provinces behind,
I entered the universal, dazzled and desiring.

Soon enough, many from Jassy and Koloshvar, or Saigon or Marrakesh
Would be killed because they wanted to abolish the customs of their homes.

Soon enough, their peers were seizing power
In order to kill in the name of the universal, beautiful ideas.

Meanwhile the city behaved in accordance with its nature,
Rustling with throaty laughter in the dark,
Baking long breads and pouring wine into clay pitchers,
Buying fish, lemons, and garlic at street markets,
Indifferent as it was to honor and shame and greatness and glory,
Because that had been done already and had transformed itself
Into monuments representing nobody knows whom,
Into arias hardly audible and into turns of speech.

Again I lean on the rough granite of the embankment,
As if I had returned from travels through the underworlds
And suddenly saw in the light the reeling wheel of the seasons
Where empires have fallen and those once living are now dead.

There is no capital of the world, neither here nor anywhere else,
And the abolished customs are restored to their small fame
And now I know that the time of human generations is not like the time of the earth.

As to my heavy sins, I remember one most vividly:
How, one day, walking on a forest path along a stream,
I pushed a rock down onto a water snake coiled in the grass.

And what I have met with in life was the just punishment
Which reaches, sooner of later, the breaker of a taboo.

(translated by Renata Gorczynski and Robert Hass)

Working Class Heroes

David writes:

[T]he world has always treated the mindless quite poorly. This is why it pays to be of the Remnant, and not of the Masses. The Masses are doomed to play their canon-fodder role in human affairs, while members of the Remnant at least have a fighting chance to navigate a better course. At least, that’s how I see it. […]

“What about the poor,” Phil Donahue asked Ayn Rand in his characteristic, bleeding-heart voice. “Don’t be one of them,” she replied simply.

So I dropped my car off at a shop and killed the hour they gave me by walking along an access road that divided the residential homes from the ass-ends of service businesses. The area looks like it did thirty years ago, though now the down-market Chinese carryouts have replaced the video rental stores and the pool hall is long gone.

I had taken the day off from work. Walking along the road, I looked at the activity behind the auto repair garages and fast food restaurants along my way. The back area of a tire shop had a cluster of Hispanic employees standing over a colleague who was wrestling with the tanker bar to pop a truck tire off its rim. Then I walked past the back of a franchise donut shop, where two middle-aged natives of Ganges jabbered in their high-pitched sing-song.

Then finally, I got my country back! it was the mid-day lunch rush and the convenience store I stopped at to buy a sandwich had fleets of work utility vehicles parked in the front. One had a big Trump sticker on its back window. I walked inside, into the bustle of patrons with Celtic temper on their faces, T-shirts with logos of trades subcontractors, blue overalls with sewn-on nametags. Some of the patrons were clustered by the deli counter, others lined up at the cash register.

These are the guys whose dads tinkered with their Camaro engines under a shade tree while I ran track at a high school several zip codes away. They talk with the local accent that radio D.J.s still rib on. Turn it back oewn, wiyya hon? says the chubby woman to her mousy, almost cute coworker as she hands me my sub.

Thinking about David’s comment, I wondered: who are the Remnants and who are Masses, and do we owe anything to each other? Here are two men of my most recent acquaintance:

The Battery Shop Man: We talked about alternator loads as he ran the diagnostics. The electric wire brush scraped his thumb as he cleaned the corrosion off my battery cable connectors; he didn’t care. Blue eyes, face rough beyond his youth. We shook hands at parting and I felt no compulsion afterwards to wash the soot off mine.

The Stockings Man: The wobbling hulk wore compression stockings to help his straining heart squeeze the distal blood upwards. Tent-sized shorts, Ravens football jersey. Extrapolation from familiarity with the type: his television is always on; his son is on Call of Duty and his preschool-aged daughter is out with the black kids outside. I don’t see nothin’ wrong with that, he’d shrug.


So you’re not choking on corn syrup and your children have aspirations. But before you congratulate yourself on passing history’s latest test as others are cut down, be aware of this: no Battery Shop Man, no future. The people of the White working class that’s under siege are carrying you. If they fall, you fall with them because the European head can’t be grafted onto a brown body. A tire garage or a donuts franchise full of brown immigrants will reject the transplant.

Ayn Rand can skim off the cream of other nations, that but that’s never been something we’re built for. We are not a merchant caravan; we require our own roots in the ground. The globalists know this, which is why they have burned and demoralized the White working classes after embracing a new proletariat fifty years ago. They’ve left the educated people mostly alone. The globalists aren’t going for the head — they’re hitting our race in the gut because the White body can always grow a new head, but kill our body, and the head falls too.

“No man is an island,  entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less […];  any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
— John Donne, from Meditation 17 (1624)

Last week Heartiste wrote a landmark post about noblesse oblige. It indicates a three-step approach for a regenerate elite, led by President Donald J. Trump, to lift up our Masses: provide guidance, offer assistance, and extend appreciation.

Trump is just one man, and he’s 70 years old. We can’t hang all of our hopes on Mighty Eagle — the task of saving our hatchlings falls squarely on the shoulders of Red. Even if we — those of us who are awake and are passing the tests — are the Remnants, we’re still navigating the same course as the Masses. We owe them our own noblesse oblige, if for no reason than because we stand or fall together. I think the Remnants’ work begins with helping make it possible for Stockings Man to guide his kids to be more like the Battery Shop Man.

Idle Thoughts on Popular Songs: Synesthesia Outros

What’s the point of starting something if you don’t finish it strong? These songs don’t just tell a story, they bring it on home with senses-scrambling virtuosity:

Morrissey. The title track on his 2014 album “World Peace is None of Your Business” makes him the Edward Snowden of music. And although “I’m not a Man” curses meat and muscle, he is one of the good guys. The song builds up to a grisly outro shrieking in steely flashes of silver, then makes a bright red squirting mess. What kinds of pigs are being put to the knife?

Pink Floyd. I see the outro to “Comfortably Numb” in a rich geometry of green, to burgundy-black and back. It’s a great song, but as a commenter elsewhere put it, it’s a commercial extrapolation of their signature song “Echoes.” There’s a guitar break in “Echoes,” he continues, just before the final verse, that sounds like a sunrise or a sunburst or an explosion of light. I agree, one of David Gilmour’s best moments.

Prince.Purple Rain.” One time while listening half-asleep to its terminal falsetto cries, I saw a man’s spirit ascending over vistas of mountain ranges. The crazy diamond of Minneapolis made whatever he touched shine in violet and pink hues of the visible spectrum, not the least his cover of Radiohead’s “Creep” at Coachella.

The Beatles. Paul McCartney has been the steady Delta to John Lennon’s restless Gamma, and no story of their friendship bears it out better than “Hey Jude.” Lennon rejected his first son Julian in favor of his second son Sean because he fell for his Sean’s mother. McCartney, the stand-up guy, took Julian under his wing and wrote that song to cheer him up, changing “Julian” to “Jude” for reasons of meter. The long na, na, nana na na outro chorus is soft blue and breezy.

Pearl Jam. No, this time I will not be talking about this blog’s most favored hit “Black” and its anguished why why, whyyyy! howl of a dispossessed generation. Rather, I am looking at Vedder’s story of feral motherhood, the song “Alive.” A USO band once visited our outpost in the Far East. A young Lieutenant from our company jumped on stage and a band member handed him an electric guitar. We watched in awe as he and the band’s rhythm guitarist dueled-out a fifteen-minute freestyle version of that song’s outro.

Eric Clapton. It is also this blog’s position that the Baby Boomer sense of identity not be stroked with approving references to the icons of their youth. But the fact is that until we topped them in 1991, their musical achievements were unsurpassed and “Layla” stood among their best. There is a downshift around the 3:00 point, sepia colors of summer nostalgia, seagulls, sand, water and sky.

The Eagles. Don Henley liked to call out the American hubris, most pointedly in the epic ballad “The Last Resort.” And there was a time for that — but that time has passed. We purged the cuckservatives, our last necessary act of inward-aimed aggression. From here on, it’s as star commenter Greg Eliot puts it:

In short, time to close ranks and get on board… the days of “loyal opposition” are gone, and ANY opposition in the quest for a future for White children is not to be cavalierly or treasonously rationalized as independent thought.

There is no more new frontier, we have got to make it here. The steady rhythm of the song’s outro paints broad streaks of orange, the hazy sun sinking in the sea. We know what to do.



Cynicism generally aims in the direction of truth, but it lacks the range to reach it. Cynicism’s overcorrection, the Pollyanna placebo, demoralizes. So instead, we push through the lazily mechanistic and the anodyne cowardly thoughts, to face the sun.

Nothing stops me from turning my back on everything and henceforth surfing lively comment threads while drinking myself to death. It’s comforting, knowing that I can leave it all behind. But that would be an anxious, irremediable slide.

I met a man whose wife contradicts everything he says. It is clear that he had never told her, in private: you need to shut your mouth. The imprisoned modern men forgot that they don’t have to live like this.

The immortals on Olympus were superior to us by every measure, yet they envied mankind for the one thing we have, that they wanted — our capacity to feel. For men and women, it all hangs on a thin string. That makes the dark more terrifying to us, and the cold glass of water more quenching.

I faced the sun over the three-day poolside weekend. The tendrils of joy will live in their hearts for the next eighty years. This didn’t just happen by itself. I don’t have the luxury of letting my attention float away like a balloon.

What do you think about life?