3 Tasks. Every White man alive today has three tasks before him: Wake up. Get his house in order. Do what he can.
Aspirational. A boy does not want to be told that it’s OK to be a slacker. A girl does not want to be told that it’s OK to dress like a stripper.
Display. Memes featuring White female beauty must be at most balanced with images of White men and when shown, they ought to highlight women’s maternal or domestic virtues. The men represent the race.
Fatherhood. Many of the older generations had failed to bond with their sons and daughters. Traditionally, culture and community picked up the slack on child-raising where fathers were too busy working. Everyone had his place and everyone had the kid’s back and each gave him a piece of his mind where needed. But when modernity disperses people, faith in the fake institutions that displaced community looks like complacency, complacency looks like abandonment, and abandonment begets retaliation. Kids today are very alone. The woke younger fathers know what their job is.
Friendship. This is hypothetical. Let’s say that a developer, in a public-private partnership, has secured the green light to cut the trees and erect multifamily housing near your home. You wish to deliver a message about polluting. Your mind is made up, the plan has been rehearsed to perfection, but you need another person’s assistance. Someone who has no responsibility toward others, likes action, and hates the Beast as much as you do. Do you have a friend who can help you?
History. I subscribe to some amount of historic determinism, in that we are bound to repeat our mistakes. Wisdom is of limited use because the young don’t learn from the old, while the old forget the urgency of youth. So maybe the reason to study history is to know who you are. Self-knowledge braces against erosion.
Immigrants. You shouldn’t feel sorry for the good ones when they have to go back. They too will put a knife in your back at first opportunity. They are friendly so long as you give but not take, and as long as you keep quiet about your natural rights. Try pulling the food bowl away from a stray dog.
Judgment. One day the boy will be 45 years old and he will judge his parents. The mother: was she kind and loving? The father: did he prepare me and tell me the truth?
Mind Over Matter. While running, imagine a hand pushing back at your chest. Then imagine a rope pulling you. Go back and forth between the two. Feels real, doesn’t it?
Pathological Altruism. That phrase glosses over centuries of extreme cruelty. Look up Jesse Washington to recall how we settle accounts with a rapist. Muh Scandinavian winters is incomplete anthropology applied to our forced playing of host to unwanted guests. A consultant who once traveled to Zimbabwe spoke effusively of the “warmth and kindness” of the native people. And he was right — gracious hospitality is normal when the host feels secure in his own land. Those same Africans are animals in Paris.
The Nordics also value prudence. To survive the winter, they tempered their altruism with censure on free-loading. It’s not pathological altruism that makes us so put-upon. As things stand today, the hosts are noticing the mess.
Progress. There is no such thing.
Unclean. “Cat” wasn’t always like this. But now she is a cheerleader for a child’s so-called gender reassignment surgery and is friends with the butcheress. A room full of people, festive mood. There are occasions when the material plane and something else intersect.
Cat and “Renee” talk about religion, with the former making an emphatic case for atheism (she wasn’t always like this) and the latter politely making an argument in support of faith. With that second glass of wine, Cat’s voice takes on an imploring note and she tells a story about a priest who was frank regarding the destination of souls. The Church, in her view, failed in its primary responsibility, which is to comfort the grieving. Renee’s husband interjects “That’s not the primary job of the Church.”
Cat’s eyes bug out, her mouth forms a silent wow just wow. But before the man can finish his sentence, which was probably that the job of the Church is to tell the truth for the purpose of saving souls, a boy — who up to that moment had been absorbed in play with other children — shouts across the room at Cat: “Are you deaf or what!?”
Silence. He’s a kid who thinks before he speaks and this was out of character. Every adult in the room sits awkwardly. His father then takes him by the hand and gently tells him to apologize to his aunt. He does, looking at her warily the entire time. She accepts the apology graciously, and reaches to give him a hug. He recoils so she can’t touch him.
The Will To Live. Like trees that adjust their angle of growth to stay upright when soil underneath them shifts, so do we create homogeneous micro-habitats in own own lives. Sometimes I am in awe of ordinary people’s effortless securing of clean space, no matter the vector of the new assault. With open eyes you see it everywhere and the wellsprings of life therein. “Children should always be better-off than their parents,” hiss the blind through their perfect fake teeth. Yeah, but what if the very existence of those who follow is a victory dance in its own right?
This longest night is our trial. Some lose their minds and throw themselves into the abyss. Others trust the invisible laws that guide us toward the sun, with or without the forebrain’s consent. It’s not morning yet, whispers the boy who woke up from a nightmare.