[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 and still be what it is. 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.