A friend took his family to a regional park in the mountains last year. It was pure Heritage America atmosphere… except for a group of five young Middle Easterners in a car in front of him and his party on a self-operated downhill ride. They were constantly stopping (which is unsafe, against the rules and really obnoxious), holding people up with their selfie sessions and loudly carrying on in their language. Upon getting off the ride, my friend marched right up to them and unloaded with some words.
Everyone does his part. One act of civic courage can start a chain reaction in the minds of silent onlookers.
Reader AnonCon also did his part. In his own words:
As with all good things, it was never going to last.
We have a new priest this year. Our prior priest had been here for almost 10 years and was remarkable for being so apolitical, doubly so for being in this standard left-coast metro.
The new priest comes here after a long stint overseas. One might believe his only contact with the USA was through Netflix and Facecuck. Speaking of physiognomy, he has the most jarring case of Gayface I’ve ever had the misfortune of seeing first-hand in a priest. I don’t get a pedo-vibe, so, I stay cool about it.
Our parish has had bilingual Masses for years. Longer than the last priest was here. No one likes them, but most people are too cowed to speak up and out about it. Besides, it’s been decided at least two levels up. Short of a nationwide financial boycott, it’s not changing.
But that doesn’t mean we have to take it completely like a bunch of passive, agency-less slaves.
And so Thanksgiving Mass this year was the usual bilingual Mulligan Pie. Except that the new priest had to put his own spin on it. His tradition is to pass around a microphone for parishioners to share what they are personally thankful for.
Incredibly to me, the Latin community showed no hesitation, nor shame, in sharing their thanks for “mi familia” and who-knows-what-else in their native Spanish. It’s all BS because I and everyone knows virtually none these people can’t speak English. Bilingual Mass is a psy-op. Propaganda. It’s the old Soviet trick of showing to a people they are powerless. The bolder the lie, the more effective it is.
Well, it was more than this Heritage American could stand.
After the microphone had gone around a time or two, about half of the very few Americans that did decided to share appeared to be displaying PTSD symptoms and AA flashbacks. I feel for them and their pain, but, sheesh, this is a family event. TMI bro. Eventually after a particularly banal share from a mystery meater near the front row the whole congregation spontaneously started clapping like it should all finally be over.
As for myself, I’d had a good 15 minutes to stew and think of what needed said. Not being the public speaking type I was more nervous than you can ever imagine. No, even more than that. Surrounded by interlopers and cucks I was going to stand up and speak truth to poz. And people were clapping like it was finally, safely over. But, as John J. Rambo said, “Nothing is over. Nothing. You can’t just turn it off.” I raised my hand and made eye-contact with the youngster doing microphone duty. Well, what else could he do?
At the risk of having shared too much already, I’ll spare my exact speech. I will say it was nothing anyone over 35 wouldn’t remember from their own youth: thankfulness for our Forefathers: puritans and pioneers that built a country from the ground up starting from nothing; thankfulness for our beautiful church building made possible by the sacrifices of our parents, grandparents, and actually great-grandparents; thankfulness for our religious freedom, etc.
Now here’s the surprising part that made me need to share this with PAWorld, 28Sherman ex-pats, and all fellow travelers. After my little thinly disguised troll, a remarkable wave of peace and pride washed over me. For the first 30 minutes of Mass, I’d been feeling mad and agitated, like I do at every single bilingual Mass I’ve had to endure. But suddenly, I really felt great. It was as surprising as it was amazing. The tension was gone and I’d felt a subtle, but undeniable wave of peace hit me.
It certainly wasn’t a great a speech. I’m not good at speaking extemporaneously and even though I’d had a few minutes to compose my thoughts, it wasn’t enough for me to memorize everything I’d wanted to say. Indeed, I forgot over half of the things I thought of to say. But those few sentences were enough.
After a time sitting there my thoughts drifted to 28Sherman and how he always pushing people to make a difference in the real world, and to PA World and how he is the unabashed pro-Christian, pro-West blogger writing to keep the culture flame alive until the rest of the nation catches up. I felt like I had channeled them and everyone here that wants to restore our heritage.
After Mass as we were making our way through the parking lot an older gentleman who I recognize as a fellow regular, but don’t know anything about, looked my way from a good distance away and held it far longer than normal. It was like he wanted to make sure I was saw him and he knew that I knew he wanted me to see him. Then he simply raised his hand above his head and waived. Nothing dramatic about it, but the message was clear: “you’re not alone, friend.”
My friends, you don’t have to make the perfect speech, you don’t have to convert the shitlib’s and Christiacucks around you. You just have to stand up and let others know that you know from whence our Nation came. Let it be known our history is still appreciated in some corners. No matter their virtue signal, you get to stand tall and proud and say, “you didn’t build that.”