The Man has existed before anyone could remember; perhaps he has no birthday at all. In his general form, for as long as memory can remember, he has been unchanged. Perhaps more hair now and less hair then. A gray shirt now and a blue shirt then. But in his essence, his life, he is as he ever has been.

He walks every night at the same time. Just as the sun begins to set. From whence he comes and whence he goes, none knows. All that is known is that, like a hand on a sundial being guided by the sun, he finds himself walking along the same road. Steady around the dial. The rhythmic thump of his solid oak cane in harmony with the soft steps of his bare feet halt, every sundown, in front of the same house with the large westward facing window. ‘288 Richmond St.’ The oldest house on Richmond Street. The first house. When the Man halts, he turns; his shadow widening as he turns broadside to face the house. The evening sun makes his shadow loom large enough to almost fully encompass the small front yard of the oldest house on Richmond Street.

From the road he used to be able to hear the heartbeat of the house pouring out of the open westward facing window. But that was before air conditioning became commonplace, and then, before it was efficient enough to replace an open window and an evening breeze. He would hear laughter, crying, stomping feet, or the crackle of the old radio. When the cicadas and whippoorwills were especially gracious, he could hear the sharp swoosh of a crisp deck of cards being shuffled for family game nights. These, and innumerable other sounds, were the heartbeat of the home; sometimes he heard the systolic, other times the diastolic. In either case, the heart was beating. The lifeblood, the essence, was flowing with vigor.

Just how far past this pulse was felt, I do not know. It is at least as old as 288 Richmond Street. Probably older still. In any case, it was older than air conditioning. The Man saw many changes to the old house. He saw indoor plumbing get installed; witnessed the carriage house be converted to a garage when the horse got exchanged for a Ford; and he saw the property get partitioned off until all that was left was the small front yard, which was scarcely large enough to contain his dark shadow as the evening sun warmed it every night.

When he stopped to look at the house, he looked clear through the window where the life-sounds poured out. He saw newlyweds eat their first supper in their new home together, and holiday meals through the years happened around the table that was in view in the right panes of the big, westward facing window. A living room, where the bulk of the living was done, could be seen through the left panes. The center of the house was open: a living room to the left and a dining room to the right; the Man experienced the fulness through the window. Did I mention the window was nearly in the center of the house? Well, it is. Just to the left of the front door which is in the geometrical center; much as a heart is just to the left of the sternum. Old houses are funny that way.

The sunlight poured into the window, the largest of the home. Like moths to a flame the dwellers of 288 Richmond Street would instinctively gravitate near it. Perhaps it can be chalked up to the remnants of a collective memory of a time before electricity; when the light of the sun was more useful to humanity. Maybe it’s something more. Perhaps the warm, orange light of the setting sun shining through a window has an unexplainable power of creating an atmosphere for socialization. In either case, for many years 288 Richmond Street had electric lightbulbs. Yet still the window drew the family to its warmth.

The first family of the home was mostly nondescript and lasted over generations. As time passed, so too did the first family and others took their place in the home; often themselves remaining for generations, other times merely a few years. In either case, it was usually the same: young, happy families that gathered around that window.

Every evening the Man would get a different picture of the family living there. Sometimes they would be gathered around the table to the right; other times they could be seen in any variety of organizations in the living room. Sometimes playing family games on the floor, sometimes wrestling; sometimes the children would be napping, other times one of the parents too. Occasionally there were arguments. Sometimes a child got whooped and his wails poured out of the window. Through it all, the Man stood and watched with his piercing eyes. His shadow before him yet remaining unseen by anyone; unnoticed except, for once in a while when someone might have felt an unusual and coolness amidst the blazing heat of the Georgia sun in summer. Really, they experienced the shadow, they did not see it. They experienced it in a way that transcends mere empirical observation or explanation.

So the years passed by before the shadow of the Man. He felt Richmond Street change from dirt, to gravel, to pavement under his feet. More homes were built around his house. Each with smaller yards and smaller windows. Some of the new homes even seemed to have been built just to keep the sun out. Still, he walked. His oak cane mushroomed more with every strike. Still, he stopped before the window; darkening the ever-shrinking yard with his shadow.

288 Richmond Street was first frontier land inhabited by the Muscogees and the beasts they lived ever at odds with. Then the State where the land is was settled and named ‘Georgia.” Later, the home was built on the land in the Antebellum style. If Theseus’ Ship remained his ship, then the house, even with the alterations done, remained the house. The first house on Richmond Street always was. Crops sprung up around the house and the first family husbanded them faithfully. When they needed to expand, they settled and cleared more land and began to turn the clay to soil and then planted roots in it. The Man walked and stopped then.

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A First Liturgy

Bells ring, ancient notes of Time

Eternal, Now and Evermore.

Panagia looms above on heavenly

Throne. Raised hands, golden thread gleams

In the candle glow.

Words of invocation printed

On a book in hand,

Not yet written in the

Heart of wandering man.

Choir sings hymns;

Unknown words, never heard

Before in decadent world.

Our Father, words read

Before on a page of paper

Through eyes unlearned.

Heaven and earth,

One and the same in the moment,

all hands raise. Eyes to the altar

where the Christ will lay.

The Veil is torn.

Moment divine.

Arms folded o’er heart,

The Body moves in line.

Glory to Thee, our

Christ,

Glory to Thee for

Thy Work is complete.

Out of Heaven we go,

Into the dark, dark world

To return again in

Seven days more.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, consider subscribing or donating here.

In Christ,
John, Son of Dick

Saturday Morning

The cool morning breeze funneled through the thick trees that wound and twisted along the banks guiding the black River. Cane poles lay on the deck of the small rowboat. A Gordian Knot of wriggling and writhing worms lay between the aft and bow of the boat. They were desperately trying to untie themselves and delve below the earth from whence they came in a desperate act of salvation from their impending doom. “Say, how’s ya’ momma bin lately?” The small wiry man sitting near the bow asked, leaning towards the aft and grabbing hold of a worm then running a hook through it.

The burly man replied, sitting near the aft, with his hand in the flowing water to wash the worm juice from his hand, “She’s been worried… I reckon. I don’t talk to her a whole lot these days.”

“Y’all get enough to eat from the farm?”

“More than we had in sixty-five.” The burly man answered as the tip of his cane pole lurched towards the water’s surface in response to a small bass’s bite.

“Aw throw ‘em back. He ain’t eating size.” The wiry man commented when his companion flipped the fish into the boat.

“Naw, he ain’t.” He rejoined, tossing the fish back. “I’ll catch you again when you get bigger.” The fish had disappeared under the surface of the blackwater in an instant. “Anyway,” he continued, “my Uncle’s been bringing us food too; we get by. Mama ain’t been the same though since I’ve been back.”

“No, I imagine she ain’t. I ain’t hardly seen her ‘round town. But who is the same these days as ‘fore? You reckon it’ll ever go back, John?”

“Back to what, George?” John asked, lowering a new worm into the water.

“Oh ya’ know… before the war, I reckon.” The line went taut and George interrupted himself, “oh there’s a good fish,” as he leaned over to lip the bass.”

“That there’s eatin’ size.” John said, looking over his shoulder as George swung a knurled oak stick and smashed the head of the fish; it flailed its last; then was still. The boat was slowly drifting with the gentle current and John said, “Reckon we paddle over to that sunken tree and tie off? There’s gotta be more of them swimmin’ ‘round over there.”

“Sho, that’d be fine.” George replied. The men lowered their cane poles, and, retrieving the waterlogged oars they paddled not more than twenty yards back upstream and towards the bank where the sunken tree protruded just enough to tie a line to.

“Say,” George asked quickly and quietly, “ya’ got a revolver on ya’? I think there’s a gator over yonder.”

John’s eyes narrowed and he looked intently then laughed quickly and said, “Yuh, I do. But I ain’t fixin’ to waste no shot on a damn log.”

“Oh… I reckon it could be a log… my eyes ain’t all that great ya’ know. Anyway, you hear that that Doctor feller got orders to start partitioning off land?”

“Who said so?” John interrupted.

“I just heard it ‘round, I reckon…”

“Well, they already done started with my Uncle’s place. Got damn near half of it.” John solemnly rejoined.

George looked back to where his line reflected on the waters surface and said, “Aw hell, they come for your momma’s place…” a loud crack interrupted him and he lurched forward, nearly capsizing the boat. “The devil you shootin’ at?” George asked loudly, turning and seeing a dark red pool spreading on the surface of the dark brown blackwater.

“Sorry, John said, reaching down and retrieving a large snapping turtle by its tail, “just a turtle. What was you jus’ sayin’?”

“I’s just sayin’ that I heard they was starting from the south and moving north. Your Uncle’s place, that’s just south of y’all, ain’t it?”

“Yessuh. Bout’ three miles down the road I believe.” John said, picking up his cane pole again and resuming the rhythmic lowering and raising of the tip.

“I thought so,” replied George. “Anyway, what I heard’s that twenty-five acres per man and woman, and fifteen per child living on a farm will be secured. The rest, they’s callin’ ‘excess.’ That’ll be taken unless the owners want to pay some fifteen dollars an acre to keep it…”

John turned in exasperation saying, “fifteen dollars! Ain’t no one got that kinda money.”

“Oh, I rightly know it.” George rejoined, rhythmically rising and lowering the worm dangling in the water. “Now, I’m jus’ sayin’ what I done heard… I don’t pledge my honor on this or nothin’ like that… but if they come, don’t say I didn’t warn ya’. But I sho didn’t mean to cause you no fuss…”

“Why don’t we go ask him?” John interrupted.

“Ask who?”

“The Doctor. You said he’s the one…”

“Now John, I said I don’t rightly know…”

“Yeah, okay.”

“But,” George continued without break, “we can certainly ask him. He should be at the Tavern this evening… he usually is.”

“Sure,” John rejoined. “Let’s go to the tavern this evening. Say, round’ seven?”

“That’ll be fine. I’ll meet you there.”

“Alright, it’s settled. Let’s get this turtle on home… say we divide it in half?” John asked, reaching for his oar.

“Sho, that’ll be fine.” George replied, pulling his line up, then untying the thin mooring line, and helping John paddle back up river to the back of John Coker’s family farm. The sun was beginning to crest the trees and settle over the river, igniting amber notes of the dark brown blackwater which cut through South Georgia like a dark, slithering snake.

27 September, 1869

Saturday Afternoon

“That turtle soup smells rightly fine, momma.” John said without the slightest hint of emotion, sitting at the head of the large table. The porous, stained pine held his attention as he traced the grain lines with the tip of his first finger.

“I can’t remember the last time we had turtle soup.” Aunt Rachel said, setting the final two bowls on the table and sitting to John’s right, across from his mother, Martha, and Aunt Lucy.

Martha reached for his grain-tracing hand and squeezed it, “will you bless the food?”

“Yessum.” John answered, retracting his hand and folding it on the table, his arms encompassing the bowl of soup before him. The four bowed their head, one after the other, and John prayed, “Thank you Lord for this meal and for the animal that gave its lifeblood for it. Amen.”

“Amen.” “Amen.” “Amen,” said the women in no differentiable order.

The prayer was emotionless and short. Martha looked at John side-eyed as she lifted her spoon to her mouth and gently blew on it. “How was the river today?”

“Fine.” John replied, followed immediately by an overexaggerated slurping of the soup off the spoon. “The soup is real good.”

“Oh yes, it is.” Parroted the women.

“Who was is that you said you were goin’ fishin’ with? One of the McMiller boys… George?” Martha asked then swallowed another spoonful of white turtle meat.

“Uh huh… I’m sorry but… I’m going to lay down if you’ll excuse me.” John replied, rising then walking quickly to his bedroom and shutting the door.

The women looked confusedly at one another. “He seemed okay this morning…” Rachel said.

“Yes, I hope he’s okay.” Replied Martha, raising her spoon from the place where it froze just above the bowl.

‘We don’t have the money.’ John growled, pacing, thinking audible thoughts.

‘We don’t know if we need it.’ He said again, turning. The arguing dialogist rebutted.

‘Like hell we don’t. George told us hisself.’

‘He said he didn’t know.’

John stopped pacing and laid on his bed; the anxious feeling of imminent dread gripped him and his breathing shallowed. ‘I ain’t gonna let them take not an acre, not an inch of this land… I just ain’t gonna let that happen.’ He closed his eyes and drifted into a lucid state between waking and sleeping and checked his pocket watch each time he jolted back into reality; the frustration mounting with every minute.

27 September, 1869

Saturday Evening

“Momma, I’m headin’ into town. I’ll be back ‘fore supper!” John said then opened the front door.

“Wait! I thought you were sick!” She called, emerging from the kitchen in time to see the door close. ‘This darn boy,’ she audibly thought, looking out the window and watching him cross the yard and disappear into the shadow of the barn. He reappeared some minutes later mounted on a brown mare. Martha turned back to the kitchen as he galloped away towards the main road and into town under the orange glow of the setting sun.

He rode hard northward on the rutted clay road for several miles, then slowed to a trot and scanned the wood line for the trail that cut west through the brush and pines that separated the main strip of town from the road he was on. The mare slowed to a walk then veered right and started down the rarely trodden trail. The woods opened onto the wide, smooth road, lined on the west side by scattered buildings and a train station and some homes on the east side. Saddled horses and teams and wagons were hitched in front of the tavern and down the road for a hundred yards. John halted where the trail opened then dismounted and tied the reins to an old fence post adjacent to the door. He limped across the road, pulled the door open, and stepped into the tobacco smoke looking for Doctor Finlayson. He was sitting two seats down from Uncle James at a large table in the center of the place. “Doctor Finlayson!” John shouted. The doctor raised his eyes and looked for the voice. “Doctor Finlayson!” He repeated, then locked eyes with the Doctor who stood, excused himself, and walked through the thick cloud towards the door where John was still standing.

“John! How’s the ole’ leg?” He asked jovially.

“Fine,” John replied sharply. Doctor Finlayson opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when John demanded to know if what George heard was true.

“I’m sorry, John, but I am sure I do not know what you are talking…”

“No good lying snake.” John rebutted under his breath.

The Doctor took a deep breath and gently asked, “Might this wait till Monday morning? I really…”

“No, it cannot. You have already taken ‘bout half of Uncle James’ land, now shoot straight with me and tell me why the devil you have the right…”

“John,” the Doctor said in a serious tone masking frustration, “your uncle sold me land at a fair price of his own accord. Can we discuss this further on Monday?” He glanced back to his still empty seat, warming drink, and cooling pipe. “Well, good evening… John…” His voice fell as the door closed on the conversation.

John stormed back across the street (passing George), unhitched, mounted, and rode hard for home. ‘He’s lying. That no good dog!’ He muttered and spat. ‘I’ll be damned ‘fore he gets any of our land.’ Then he fell silent with the same ferocity and emotion and rode home without another thought. The rutted road and path to the barn was blur of orange and green haze. He dismounted and walked the mare into her stall and left her there, still saddled, then limped across the yard and up the stairs and across the porch into the house where leftover turtle soup was being brought to the table for supper.

“Oh good, how do you feel?” Martha asked, carrying a loaf of bread behind Aunt Rachel who was holding the soup.

John replied with an inarticulable, indescribable, guttural sound and disappeared down the hall and into his room. He lay in bed with his mud caked boots still on his feet and slept a pitiful, restless sleep.

27 September, 1869

Saturday Night

John lay in bed watching the scene change from pitch black to pale light to pitch black to somewhere in between as the clouds floated in front of the moon and uncaringly passed by; a silent movement that changed the world beneath. A cold sweat clung to him when he stood unsteadily and stepped softly out of the room, then walked through the dining room and into the living room where Martha lay on the daybed. John’s countenance softened for a brief moment as he leaned against the entryway and watched her writhe and grip the day bed, then fall away into peaceful sleep. In an instant a scowl replaced the gentle smile and his eyes unconsciously blazed with the burning, all-consuming fire kindled by the decision to kill a man. He wasn’t sure when he made that decision, when the fire grew from a spark to a blaze; but he knew that it was done, whether he consciously assented or not. Turning, John retrieved a dirty tobacco plug from his pocket, bit a piece off, then walked out the front door silently chewing. He opened the barn door, then whistled and watched the mare’s shapeless head emerge over the stall door, then he disappeared into the shadow and reemerged in the pale moonlight mounted on the softly trotting horse. The tip of the old, rusted knife tucked in his trousers bit into the side of his thigh viciously as he spurred the mare onward down the rutted road heading north just past town, unperturbed by the pain. Lights —several hundred yards off the road to the left— came into view. John stopped in front of them and peered at them, trying to recreate the geography of the scattered farmhouses in his mind. ‘That there’s the Pratt place… the next house…’ John half asked and half asserted to himself, then spurred the horse onward. The night air was stagnant and John’s outer garments were soaked when he dismounted outside of George McMiller’s window. ‘Tick… ting…’ Then George’s head emerged in time to get pelted by a small rock in the cheek.

“Who’s there?” George asked, sleepily peering into the dark outside.

“It’s John, George. Get down here. C’mon.” He answered in a shouting whisper.

The shapeless head disappeared back into the window and then a full body emerged from the back door not more than two minutes later. “What’s this about?” George asked, yawning. “I sho’ hope you ain’t fixin’ to court me…”

“Let’s get ya’ horse.” John answered, turning towards the barn.

“Where are we fixin’ to go?”

“To see the Doctor, you said you’d come…”

“I did,” George interjected, “you left ‘fore I could get in.”

“No, no. Come with me now. I need your help.”

“Why?” George drawled, unconsciously following John into the barn and helping him saddle the horse. “I don’t reckon we ought to call on him this late…”

“Naw, he’s expecting us.”

“I don’t know ‘bout this ‘ere John.”

“Get on the damn horse and follow me. It ain’t far…”

“I know it ain’t far, but it is late.” George interrupted.

“Just get on the damn horse, George.” John’s voice was wrought with frustration as he mounted.

“Aye, Colonel.” George replied sarcastically, stepping into the stirrup and swinging his leg over the saddle, then followed John to the main road. The pair turned left and trotted north for three miles before the dreary shadows of two brick columns came into view. John veered left between them, followed by George, towards the Doctor’s large white farmhouse set back several hundred yards back from the road.

“What are we doing here?” Geroge asked as John led the pair around the back of the house and halted in a dark shadow near the back porch.

“You wait here… hold these and don’t come in lest you hear I need you.” John dismounted and handed George the reins to his mare.

“Wait! John!” George silently called as John moved further away into the shadow in one swift movement like a ghost: up the porch stairs and into the back door of the house. The knife drawn in his hand and held in front of him as if he were expecting the Doctor to be immediately on the other side of the door. “John! No!” George called, but the door was just closing.

John entered into the kitchen and stood perfectly still, listening, trying to hear over the sound of his heartbeat. He stood and breathed resolvedly, calming himself until the world came into focus, his eyes twitched and darted, groping in the darkness for the faintest movement. All was still. The single voice in his head returned, speaking like a victoriously conquering king who disappears into the halls of his defeated foe and emerges on the balcony to address victors and vanquished alike. ‘Yankee scoundrel.’ ‘Thief.’ ‘Justice.’ ‘Momma.’ ‘Kill.’ With each word an image flashed before his eyes and before his foot landed on the first stair tread, a low growl was emanating from his chest and dark brown spittle was running from the corners of his mouth. The treads creaked sharply, but John didn’t hear them. His vision narrowed and his hand gripped the wooden handle of the knife while he listened to the voice, gave himself over to it. The stairs opened to a hall with three doors on one side and two on the other. John slowly opened the closest door and peered through the crack: empty. Then the next and the next: empty. The fourth door was slightly ajar and he limped towards it and peered through the opening. A woman was laying asleep on her side next to a small child. The clouds unveiled the moonlight, her pale skin shone; her nightgown was untied at the neck and one breast was exposed, a drop of white milk fell onto the bed between her and the child. John turned and limped to the fifth door, ‘this is it,’ the voice said. John opened it silently and stepped inside without hesitation and locked the door behind him. A large man was laying on his back, his chest slowly rising and falling. John heard the sounds of his sleep, but they didn’t reach his mind; he heard no sounds save the quiet voice whispering. ‘Closer, move closer.’ John obeyed and limped around the bed and looked down upon the sleeping Doctor. He looked around the room one last time then clamped his cupped right hand over the Doctor’s mouth and nose. The Doctor’s eyes shot open and his legs bucked wildly and his hands groped for the hand suffocating him; scratching and tearing at the skin. John locked his arm and pressed all of his weight downward, the soft pillow giving under the large head, then, he raised the knife across his body and rested the bent, chipped edge against the soft flesh just under the jawline. In one swift motion, John pulled the knife, driving it deeper as it ripped at the flesh, then the arteries, and finally the windpipe. Blood erupted like a geyser and hit John square in the chest, then spurted and soaked his hand. He released the Doctor’s face and watched while the blood he gurgled on slowly ran from the corners of his mouth. John stood over the Doctor, blood dripping from the knife, while the victim grabbed desperately at the mortal wound. Doctor Finlayson kicked and bucked himself out of the bed and face down onto the floor where he gave his last convulsions before going limp in a pool of blood. John knelt and lowered his head to look at the dead, white face. The eyes, full of fear and surprise stared at him and John seemed to fall into them as he collapsed backward, dropping the knife.

“Joshua?” A woman’s voice called as the door handle shook. “Joshua? Are you okay?” John stood shakily then limped to the door. He unlocked it. pulled it open. then ran through the screaming woman. He charged frantically down the stairs, out the door, and mounted his horse.

“John!” George called as John snatched his reins and rode hard for the back of the Finlayson farm, towards the river. “John, what happened!” George called again, shaking his head and following John who reached the riverbank first and was already in the shallow water: fully dressed, on his hands and knees vomiting when George reached him. “What happened back there?”

“Finlayson’s dead.”

“What?” George shouted, tripping when his foot got stuck in the stirrup. “What happened?” He asked, clambering to his feet and stepping towards the water.

“I don’t know, George.” John replied breathlessly, looking up and sitting back on his knees scrubbing his hands.

“When?.. What… My God, John…” George spun around and paced. “Did you…”

“I don’t know.” John answered. “Just go home George… I’ll go talk to Uncle James tomorrow…”

“I ain’t just gonna leave you here.”

“Yes, you is. Just go on home.

“Are you gon’ be alright?” George asked, stopping and looking down at John.

“I don’t know… just leave me alone.” John said in a tone which first indicated that there was to be no more conversation, then sounded like a warning.

George mounted his horse and rode away, the growling voice of John still reverberating in his mind. ‘Did that dumb sumbitch’ kill the Doctor?’ George muttered as he followed the river back south to the back of his family’s farm. ‘No… he couldn’t have…’ he answered himself. ‘Why? Why would he do it?’ He froze, remembering the river. Then continued on, ‘must be near midnight,’ he muttered, trying to shake the night out of his mind like a vivid nightmare.

28 September, 1869

Sunday, Just Past Midnight

John finished scrubbing his hands then took his sopping wet, blood-soaked plug of tobacco from his coat pocket and bit a piece off. He immediately spit it out when the metallic taste of fresh blood permeated his tongue. He spat, then raised the plug and took another bite; closing his eyes and trying not to vomit, he chewed slowly until the sweet taste of tobacco replaced the blood. ‘Is that cannibalism?’ John muttered. ‘No, I reckon not,’ he answered. Then he tried to think of something else. He put the plug back into his submerged pocket, then crawled on all fours from the water onto the bank, and lay down flat on his back on the white sand. ‘I hate sand,’ he thought, then rolled back onto his hands and knees and crawled further up the bank to the grass and pine needle covered dirt of the wood line. His horse stood still, watching him, ‘she’ll be alright,’ he said yawning. Then he was asleep, waking occasionally to swat mosquitoes and gnats that were buzzing around his blood-soaked coat.

Thank you for reading. You can look forward to reading the rest of the novel when it’s published. When will that be? I don’t know. In the meantime, please consider donating to fund my work by clicking here!

Sincerely,

John, Son of Dick

You can’t say Nigger! Alright. Let’s all say Black; it’s less offensive. You can’t say Black! Alright, let’s say African-American. You can’t say African-American! Why? African-American names a distinction! We are all just American!1

You can’t say faggot! Alright, homosexual seems to be a good, dictionary-correct definition. Why mention a body’s sexual preferences at all!

And we could continue with every “slur” until we arrive at a point where the Overton Window has shifted to the point where naming vice, distinction, or error is a no-no (shame on you, ). Now, the issue here is that language is actually just a social construct. It exists to describe things that we see and experience —an apple is only an apple because it’s called an apple; had it been called a pear, then what we call an apple would be a pear. When taboos rise or fall in our language, they do so at the behest of some power. What is that power? That is the question of the day.

God hates faggots. That’s mean, you can’t say that.

See the problem? Neutrality is a myth. Either our language serves one end, or it serves another. To open your arrogant mouth and say it’s not right to call someone a faggot is to say that you don’t think that the sin of homosexuality ought to be named and exposed. Well, you can expose it… just not in such a mean way. No. That’s not how this works. The whole point is that the shifting of taboos in our language will result in the tone-policing that will prosecute even the Thought Crime of trying to re-construct a word to expose the sin of homosexuality once the language has been purged of all such slurs. And this goes for any and all slurs.2

It is one thing for, what we call, slurs, to fall out of use organically over long periods of time. For example: had the Boomertards not got their despotic little fingers into the dictionary, the word “Nigger” may have organically been replaced by “Black”… if, and only if, niggers earned the right to be called black. However, if you’ll notice, this organic shift here proposed assumes that slurs serve the end of highlighting sin and evil and ostracizing those who participate with the intention of destroying the bad which (ideally) gives way to the good.

Social pressure works. Who puts the pressure on? The tone-policing faggots? Or the slur-slinging good men?

Thank you for reading. Please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber or donating here!

Sincerly,

John, Son of Dick

Three young boys, aged seven, six, and six (though the youngest still by three months), stepped out into the yard on a cool October Sunday. Two of the boys, the eldest and the youngest, were brothers. The third was their cousin. The grass, drying and dying in the fall air poked at their bare, running feet. “Y’all better come in when I call you for dinner!” a woman called from behind the closing screen door. The words lashed the boys’ backs like a horsewhip. They ran faster, shrinking the three-acre gap between themselves and the back fence where the swine, goats, and chickens lived comfortably, often visited by their young masters.

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Religious Zionism and Foreign Policy: It is no question that since WW2, at the very latest, Religious Zionism has been the driving factor of American foreign policy, and as religious sentiment has fallen, Zionism has itself become the religion. This has inevitably led to ‘pointless’ foreign wars, particularly in the Middle East, which have been fought to secure national existence for the state of Israel. But even before that, of course, WW2 comes to mind. Let all of this be granted.

Rap Music and Domestic Policy: It is also no secret that Jewish support is disproportionately represented in the rap music (as well as Hollywood, and porn) industries. Now, we’ve already granted that Jewish influence is used to secure Jewish interests. Let this be granted. But what role does, say, rap music have in our domestic policy? Given the substance of much or most (so I’ve been told) of the music, it actually plays quite an important role. Namely, for one example, in fostering a society of civil unrest and insecurity which fosters the desire for, let’s say, a totalitarian state to monitor the population on account of violent crime. Or (not to sound too much like a Libertarian-tard here), creating feelings of disunity which are fundamentally at odds with nationalism of any kind and turn feelings of distrust between citizen and government on one another. Now, granted that this particular issue extends far back beyond rap music; all the way to the abolition of slavery and the destruction of the social hierarchy, in fact, but that’s outside the scope of this essay.1 We are more concerned with the parallel domestic role that rap music plays to religious Zionism’s foreign policy.

Recently a question was asked to which said: “Are [whites] doing drive by shootings of children’s birthday parties or something?”

A fair question, to be sure. And the short answer is, no: the comparative ‘shootings’ in this case come from a bomber that may or may not even be perceptible to the naked eye and fall indiscriminately (on both whites and non-whites alike). A truly superior form of pointless violence, right?

I received pushback on my response, which was, essentially, the previous answer. And most of the pushback can be boiled down to, “well, the Jews are actually to blame for white atrocities.” Okay, so now why not black atrocities, too? At what point does a people, or a person, have to reckon with their own complicity in an action and wrestle with the personal or communal guilt they or their race bear? And here I enter rap music as a Jewish psyop that is parallel to religious Zionism.

In the case of the latter, there is no negative action which whites can commit that cannot be boiled down to ‘the Jews made us do it.’ Maybe they did use all of their might to make white Europeans (and Americans) wreck the continent of Europe… is their might so great? Woe are we.

Now to the blacks: rap music has been exceptionally effective at brainwashing them the same as religious Zionism has been exceptionally effective at brainwashing us. It is the hymns glorifying gang culture the way that ‘The Lord loveth the gates of Zion more than all the dwellings of Jacob. Glorious things are spoken of thee, O city of God. Selah’2 has brainwashed several generations of whites. Why, now, can we boil one hymn down to the hypnotic charm of Jews but not the other? Why can one largely absolve whites from guilt, but not blacks? Again, if Jews control foreign policy, they control domestic policy to a greater extent and the same standard ought to apply equally.

My point here, lest I be misconstrued, is not to absolve blacks of their sins. It is to blame whites and bring forth the fact that as a race, we are the chief of sinners for all of our people’s living memory. A guilt, a burden, which cannot be justly placed on the Jews and ought not be taken out on any other race. Drive-by shootings serve an eerily similar role in Jewish interests to Zelensky hitting college dorms or Americans killing schoolgirls. It is not enough to just sweep these sins, together with the sins of the World Wars, and others, under the rug with the all-forgiving broom of ‘Zionism.’ But, if we are to sweep them under the rug, why stop there? Why not blame every sin of every people on the Jews? Afterall, Zionism is nearly global.

To make a claim to white superiority on the basis of violence is absurd; unless, of course, you accept that whites are a puppet-people incapable of life. And, really, if we want to play this game of shifting blame: then whites are really to blame for black drive-bys and they are largely absolved from guilt. Let the anti-Jewish Supremacist who will affirm this come forth. No, no. Whites are as pointlessly violent, and when full death tolls are taken into account, far more so than blacks. It is a failing standard due to its arbitrariness: ‘no, whites are doing that at behest of the Jews’ as blacks blast Jewish written and funded brainwashing-tunes while they hang a Glock out of a car window.

Such anti-Jewish supremacists are utopianists in a different package; but only for them. ‘Get rid of Jews and whites would be perfect and could really bear the White Man’s Burden and subjugate all non-whites. Because, of course, Jews are the only barrier to pseudo-utopia for only whites. The sins committed by any others are wholly their own.

Whites were once great because they knew how to ‘take up their cross.’3 Not because Jews didn’t pull their strings. So long as anti-Jewish supremacists fail to reckon with this fact; so long will the white race remain enslaved to sin. If serving Jewish interests is the arbiter for what can and can’t be swept under the rug by the broom of Zionism, then there is a long list of atrocities and sins of lots of peoples that we can and should sweep along with the atrocities and sins of whites. And that, in a nutshell, is the point of this essay. Not to absolve anyone or any people of sin; but to prove that shifting the brunt of the sins and atrocities of whites onto Jews is arbitrary if we won’t allow others to do the same. And on top of the arbitrariness, it’s just plain evil and pointless (as all evil is).

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The evening sun was flooding in through the two big windows that my feet were pointed towards as I lay on the couch for a nap. I must have fallen asleep around five o’ clock, shortly after getting home from work. I assume it was then since the sun was still high enough to not make closing the blinds necessary to keep the glare out of my eyes. It was a hot day in South Georgia; rather expected for the middle of August in the Okefenokee Swamp. The newer air conditioning system has quite the task of keeping our old house cool, and when I glanced at the thermostat on the south wall of our living room, it recorded the inside of the house at a warm eighty-three degrees; though it was set at seventy-four. The outside temperature? One could only assume it was above ninety.

I faintly heard the laughter of children in the room on the opposite side of the wall my napping couch is fixed against, and an audiobook was playing in the kitchen where my wife was fixing supper. The sound of the children grew louder as their footsteps registered on the hardwood floors of the hallway, then dining room until they crossed the threshold separating it from the living room. I say living room in the most accurate sense; it is not merely a sitting room; it is the nucleus of our home where most of the living is done. I knew well what was coming next, and yet it still never fails to be a wholly surreal experience. The first set of hands grabbed my thin Bulldogs hoodie; these were quickly followed by the second while the pitter patter of the small feet of the youngest raced to keep up. By the time he made it to me, the other two had dragged their sweaty bodies onto me and I pushed them down onto my legs while I peeled my back from the couch as the sleep left my eyes with every blink. The little, gritty hands of the one-year-old grabbed me next, and I pulled him up to join us.

“Can we walk to the park tonight?” my oldest pleaded. It was really too hot to make assent to the request enthusiastic, but it was also too hot to make being crawled on enjoyable. “Why not?” I thought to myself as I drew a long breath. “Sure buddy, we can walk to the park,” I finally said as the dog walked up to start licking every arm her head could reach. It isn’t a long walk from the front door of our house to either park; the closer, but smaller one being just about three-minute away at a toddler’s pace, while the bigger park is closer to a ten-minute haul with the kids in a wagon. I checked the time, three-minutes past six is what the clock said. Supper wouldn’t be ready until at least seven, and the sun wouldn’t set until past eight. And in any case, it didn’t much matter; it was a Friday night, we always stay up a bit later on weekends. Supper could be postponed. Especially if it meant tuckering the kids out at the park that they might be a bit more friendly to the sandman.

The boys weren’t quite ready to venture out of the house yet. The youngest had just a diaper on, while the older weren’t wearing any shirts. “Hop off so I can get y’all ready,” I said as I dragged my legs out from under their shifting bodies which seemed to weigh more than it made sense for them too. I stopped at the kitchen doorway to tell my wife that I was “fixin’ to walk them to the park,” before I stepped around the corner into their room to find them some clothes. As I walked back by the kitchen, the light was coming in from the westward facing window and hit her just right to make her dirty blonde, almost brunette hair, and face radiate with a glow that reminded me of the gold that encircles the head of Sarah the Righteous in the Hospitality icon that sits in our dining room. “A fitting image of her,” I think to myself and smile as I ponder on the love and devotion that she has for me, her boys, and the baby in her ever-producing womb before turning away to dress the children. As quickly as I can distribute the shirts to the older boys, they are excitedly pulling them over their heads and walking towards the front door while I struggle with shoving the baby into his clothes. “Goodness, how fast can you possibly grow?” I whisper under my breath with more than a hint of frustration which passes as soon as his head and arms pop through the holes of his shirt.

“Alright y’all, do you want to go to the big or little park?” I ask. “The big!” is the reply from the older two. “We can do that. Y’all go say bye to your mother while I grab the wagon,” it’s folded up in the hall closet. I follow them through the living room to grab it while they go bid their momma farewell. They each get a loving hug and kiss from her and file out of the kitchen to the unfolded wagon and begin to pile in while my wife follows close behind to come give me a kiss bye as I open the door. The wagon just barely fits through the doorway, and the wheels always catch on the threshold. I have to pull it pretty hard to get it out on to the concrete landing outside the front door. The sudden jerk topples two boys over and ignites a short spell of crying from the baby; which is quickly hushed once we finally make the transition from the concrete landing to the grass and the sun shines on us while the fresh, humid breeze surrounds us.

There is more than one route we can take to the big park. The most direct is merely two turns; first, a left out of yard, then a left on the main road which carries us straight to the park. While it is the fastest by a few minutes, it is also the least shaded route and is on the road with the highest traffic. Albeit high traffic for our little neighborhood means that one or two cars may pass us during the whole half-mile walk, but that’s one or two more than may pass us if we took a more secluded route. I let the boys decide usually, though. To turn left out of our yard sets us on the more direct path, to turn right brings us to the several more secluded options. I stop at the end of the driveway and ask, “which way do y’all want to go?” “Um…” says my oldest, putting his hand to his chin in a way that implies this is a serious decision, “that way” he says, pointing right. “Is that left or right” I ask him. “It’s right!” He exclaims proudly. “Good job buddy,” I reply to him as I pull the handle of the wagon and start off up the gentle slope that is the first step of our journey.

I am reminded quickly that it is not only the shade and lack of traffic I like so much about this walk. This is far more aesthetically pleasing than the more direct route. The road is older here. It is even still dirt or stone at some places. The homes are older and almost exclusively Greek Revival or Antebellum in architecture. The tall houses have multiple chimneys; the front of the homes are adorned with beautiful white pillars; the yards are green and lush; and the vines wrap around the fences and climb the gables of some homes as if God Himself placed them there. It feels almost stuck in the past. There aren’t many cars in front of the homes; they are all tucked around back or in garages or old carriage houses. What cars can be seen are classics; an old Land Rover here, a classic Cadillac there, and perhaps a half-ton Ford from the early 70s. Life feels old. The Pine Trees are tall and well rooted; the Southern Live Oaks, Magnolias, and Poplars that line drives up to these homes make one reminiscent of a time when Alexander Stephens may have been seen surveying his sprawling antebellum plantation. Yet, it feels sterile, dull, and lifeless.

As we walk, I stop in front of one of these homes, what a sight to behold. The porch wraps around the home as far as I can see, and presumably it meets in the back to complete its full wrap around. Positioned perfectly, as if for a photo shoot are two sets of shiny wooden rocking chairs on either side of the front door with a small table in between each set. The rocking chairs enamored me as I walked as close as I could to the home before the fence stopped us and stared at them. They were perfectly clean and polished, as if they had never been sat in. The seats were not worn down by years of rough denim rubbing the finish off; the wooden deck beneath them showed no signs that the chair had ever even rolled across it before. “What is the point of a rocking chair, if not to sit in and rock?” I thought to myself. As I was staring, I heard one of my sons ask “Daddy, can we keep going?” I looked down at the wagon and the baby thought we had stopped to get out and was trying to climb out while the other two waited impatiently to continue our walk to the park. It was just up ahead around the corner by this point; had it not been for another one of these beautiful homes blocking its view, we could have seen it. “Yes, sorry bud,” I said as I moved the wagon slightly to signal to the baby that we were moving again and he needed to sit down.

As we turned the final corner the park came into view. It’s a large and well-maintained piece of property, perhaps ten acres of space complete with three different playgrounds, swings, and tennis courts. There was an older couple playing what appeared to be pickleball on one of the courts, but aside from them and us, the place was desolate. It looked nice considering a bad hurricane had devastated the neighborhood and park just a few months before; the gazebo that had originally been there had been crushed by a falling tree along with some of the playground equipment. All of which had been replaced or repaired already. The new gazebo always catches my eye.

Before the storm, it was essentially a pole barn built on an elevated concrete pad with railing all the way around and a sidewalk leading to a set of concrete stairs which stepped onto the concrete and under the shade of the roof. The concrete foundation, sidewalk, and stairs remained as they were; but the pole barn had been crushed and replaced by a rectangular prefabricated gazebo which hung over the square foundation at its ends. This was a strange decision; I always thought so when I saw it. Surely the county could have gotten one that matched the foundation better than this one did; perhaps this was cheaper, I couldn’t say with certainty. The gazebo itself is nice enough, just out of touch with the foundation it was laid on. And here, I thought of the rocking chairs again. But not merely the chairs, they were just proof of the sterility of the neighborhood, the lifeless perfection of the whole place. All of it feels as though it was artificially placed on a foundation not built for it.

Occasionally we go to the local library, and there, they have a section dedicated to the history of the town complete with old newspapers and photographs. It was once teeming with life. Downtown was chock full of local businesses; children were captured riding bikes everywhere a camera was facing; people walked about en masse. “What happened?” I always think to myself when I see these old photographs. The polished rocking chairs happened. The new and improperly sized gazebo on the old foundation happened. The freezing in time, the final desperate grasp at beauty and life happened. What good are the yards, the chairs, the parks, if not for people? These are made for man; man is not made for these. Not just anything can be artificially placed on an old foundation; it looks awkward and out of place. Yards cannot be meticulously upkept if children are not running around in them. Rocking chairs must be polished by the denim of a husband’s jeans and the cotton of his wife’s dresses; cleaning spray and microfiber towels can’t replace the life lived in those chairs. The mulch of playgrounds must be compacted by the running feet of children; no machine or tool can replace the process.

“Daddy! Can you push me on the swing?” My middle son’s voice interrupts my thoughts. No matter how big or extravagant the park is, the boys always spend most of their time on the swings. “Of course, buddy,” I say as I start walking towards them. The two younger boys get the bucket swings, and the oldest climbs onto the belt swing. I push one, then the next, and then the next on repeat as the sun is setting lower into the sky. The constant movement of the swinging keeps the mosquitos and gnats off my boys, but I am not so lucky. I must constantly swat at the pesky bugs buzzing around my ball cap. It is nearly seven-fifty, the sun will be down in less than a half-hour, and my wife is almost certainly ready to eat. “Alright boys, it’s time to get going.” I say as I bring each swing to a halt successively and pull the two youngest out of the buckets. Per usual, they issue minor complaints about having to leave the playground, but they reluctantly obey and we walk back to the wagon.

We take the same route home. Past the homes, pillars, fences, and rocking chairs. Through the windows of the homes we can see the occasional flicker of light coming from the television if it’s positioned just right as to be seen through a window; but that is the extent of signs of life we see. There is no one to wave at, no cars pass us. It is serenely dead; a perfectly preserved capsule of a time that none of us ever knew. How does this happen? Undoubtedly it didn’t happen overnight. This type of death takes years and decades; and arguably, the fact that there are still folks to clean the rocking chairs and set the new gazebo in its place is evidence that all hope may not be lost. Perhaps the grandchildren of these folks will come visit one day, maybe they will stay.

As we draw nearer our home, the contrast is almost startling. It is not as big and extravagant as the ones we passed on our walk. It is quite dull and pitiful in comparison. Yet, there we can already see the balls on the ground of the backyard; toys scattered; chickens and a dog running around; a small garden growing; and cars pulled up out front. It is a place teeming with life. The kind of life which built the relics we walked past. “There is hope,” I think as I pull the wagon back onto the concrete landing and jerk it over the threshold of the front door where my beautiful and fruitful wife waits with hugs and supper ready.

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Sincerely,

John, Son of Dick

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In my last essay I discussed Thomas Jefferson’s unofficial anti-Federalist letter which he sent to James Madison on December 20, 1787;1 he then sent another to Madison in the same vein on March 15, 1789. When the latter was written, Thomas Jefferson was still in France and would not be returning home for another eight months. The date of the first letter roughly coincides with the Constitutional Convention, which began in May of 1787 ended September of the same year, when we account for geographical distance and the time it would have taken for information to pass from America to France in that period. The second letter was certainly in answer to the official proposal of twelve amendments on September 25, 1789, presented by the First Congress of the United States2 to the State Legislatures, which was in and of itself a partial, albeit somewhat empty, victory for the Anti-Federalists. On December 15, 1791, amendments three through twelve were ratified by three-fourths of the State Legislature and were incorporated into the Constitution; but this is getting ahead of ourselves: Thomas Jefferson wrote his approval of the Bill of Rights two years before in 1789 saying “I am much pleased with the prospect that a declaration of rights will be added…”3 In his letter, Thomas Jefferson explains why he approves of the Bill of Rights and answers specific objections; I will allow Jefferson to elaborate.

To begin the letter: Jefferson says to Madison that “In the arguments in favor of a declaration of rights, you omit one which has great weight with me; the legal check which it puts into the hands of the judiciary.” The judicial branch is responsible, perhaps a responsibility more important than any others, for ‘checking’ the Federal Government by the standard of the Constitution. One modern example is the 2015 case of Horne v. the USDA.4 In this case, the USDA illegally required farmers to turn over a certain percent of their crops without just compensation; thus, violating the “takings clause” of the Fifth Amendment which says that “private property [shall not] be taken for public use, without just compensation.” Initially the Hornes were required to pay nearly seven-hundred thousand dollars in fines, to which the Supreme Court ordered that they “should simply be relieved of the obligation to pay the fine and associated civil penalty they were assessed when they resisted the Government’s effort to take their raisins.”5 The Bill of Rights, more than being a declaration of the personal-autonomy of the American, was a limiting of the Government and also, the means by which the judiciary would be able to check the government; in a sense, the Bill of Rights was the rope which the government would hang itself with so long as good men were doing the judging. Jefferson says, “This [judiciary] is a body, which, if rendered independent and kept strictly to their own department, merits great confidence for their learning and integrity.”6 The judiciary was intended, as Jefferson believed, to be above both the people and the government, holding the noose of the Bill of Rights when the government stepped out of line; as Jefferson says, “On characters like these, the ‘civium ardor prava jubentium’7 would make no impression.”8

The first objection is that “the rights in question are reserved, by the manner in which the Federal powers are granted.” Jefferson answers that “A constitutive act may, certainly, be so formed as to need no declaration of rights.” For Jefferson, the only way in which a constitutive act would not need a declaration of rights, is if the act covers “all material points” and “nothing more is wanting.” When Jefferson drafted a constitution to propose to the Virginia legislature in June of 1776 while at the Second Continental Congress he “endeavored to reach all the great objects of public liberty and did not mean to add a declaration of rights.” But, he says, “in a constitutive act which leaves some precious articles unnoticed, and raises implications against others, a declaration of rights becomes necessary by way of supplement. This is the case of our new federal government.” He concludes that the Constitution “forms us into one State, as to certain objects, and gives us a legislature and executive body for these objects. It should, therefore, guard us against their abuses of power, within the field submitted to them.”9

The next objection was that “A positive declaration of some essential rights could not be obtained in the requisite latitude.” This meaning that the Bill of Rights is not comprehensive enough, and so, why accept it in its imperfection? Jefferson astutely says that “Half a loaf of bread is better than no bread. If we cannot secure all our rights, let us secure what we can.” Perfection is the enemy of the good, and Thomas Jefferson was keenly aware of this tendency and found it more advantageous to compromise if it meant securing some rights rather than none.

Thirdly: Jefferson addresses the objection that “The limited powers of the Federal government, and jealousy of the subordinate governments, afford a security which exists in no other.” This objection is, in other words, saying that because the Constitution already limits the powers of the government and provides the States as a bulwark against the overreach of the Federal government, the Bill of Rights is, essentially, unnecessary. To this, Jefferson says that, first, the powers are not limited enough under the same argument that he made to the first objection; and second, he agrees that the “jealousy of the subordinate [State] governments is a precious reliance.” But, he says further, “observe that those governments are only agents. They must have principles furnished them, whereon to found their opposition.” In other words, the State governments are mere agents with no animating principle if there is no Bill of Rights expressly transferring specific powers to the Federal government while retaining all not expressed; the Bill of Rights is the principle by which the State governments can oppose the Federal. Jefferson says, “The declaration of rights will be the text, whereby they will try all the acts of the Federal government.” But further, as the United States Constitution is a contract between State and Federal governments, the Bill of Rights “is necessary to the Federal government also; as by the same text, they may try the opposition of the subordinate governments.” The Bill of Rights, for Jefferson, is the standard by which the State governments judge the actions of the Federal government, and if necessary, oppose it with force; while it is also the standard by which the Federal government judges whether or not State governments are opposing the Federal government justly.

The final objection is that “Experience proves the inefficacy of a bill of rights.” To this, Jefferson says, “True. But though it is not absolutely efficacious under all circumstances, it is of great potency always, and rarely inefficacious.” Again, we see here the admonition that a half-loaf of bread is better than no loaf, and while it is true that the Bill of Rights will not always, in every particular case, achieve its intended goal, it is also true that a “brace will the more often keep up the building which would have fallen, with that brace the less,” a building which is falling will always benefit from a brace, and will never benefit from the lack of one. The collapse of the building is analogous to the “the inconveniences which will… attend the want of [a Bill of Rights].” There are, to be sure, certain inconveniences which also attend the inclusion of a Bill of Rights, namely that “it may cramp government in its useful exertions”; much as bracing in a building may provide obstacles to the man walking through it. But, “the evil of this is short-lived, moderate and reparable.” On the other hand, the “inconveniences of the want of a declaration are permanent, afflicting, and irreparable”; this being analogous to the total collapse of the building without bracing.

These are the objections to the Bill of Rights, and the answers which Thomas Jefferson provided to James Madison. While it was true that the “declaration of rights is, like all other human blessings, alloyed with some inconveniences… the good in this instance, vastly overweighs the evil.” He concludes by saying, “I am much pleased with the prospect that a declaration of rights will be added; and I hope it will be done in that way, which will not endanger the whole frame of government, or any essential part of it.” Imperfect as they were, Thomas Jefferson, one of the great defenders of limited government, was generally pleased with the outcome of two long and arduous years of Federalist v. Anti-Federalist debates.10

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John, Son of Dick

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More central to my purpose here than a denunciation of a strong Federal Government or a defense of States rights, is Thomas Jefferson’s prediction of what would occur if “the principle of rotation in office, and most particularly in the case of the President…”4 be abandoned or even less emphasized. Far from being a tired claim that the President would devolve into some kind of Hamiltonian dictator, Jefferson says, “Reason and experience tells us, that the first magistrate will always be re-elected if he may be re-elected. He is then an officer for life. This once observed, it becomes of so much consequence to certain nations, to have friend or foe at the head of our affairs, that they will interfere with money or arms.”5 In other words, the officeholder of President must be rotated often and without chance for re-election to prevent foreign Nations from being encouraged to interfere in elections; for, as Jefferson says, “No foreign power, nor domestic party, will waste their blood and money to elect a person, who must go out at the end of a short period.”6 Now, contrary to what might be presumed: Jefferson supported first, a seven-year tenure for the office of President, and later, an eight-year term with the option for the people to remove the Executive from office after four-years; in both cases, he maintained that after completion of this term, the former President would be ineligible for reelection.7 This term limit for office ensured that the President would be able to execute his duties and implement his plans, while preventing the stagnation common under perpetual Executives while also disinclining foreign interests to involve themselves in the election of American Presidents.

Now, there are obvious flaws in this system which we could point out; but human nature must always be accounted for in any system, and human nature has an undeniable tendency abuse what political power it can. Thomas Jefferson would have been the first to affirm this eternal truth, as he did when he said of himself, “I may have erred at times. No doubt I have erred. For this is the law of human nature.”8 But, even accepting all of the errors present, I do believe it is, obviously, worth seriously considering how foreign influence is best mitigated in the political life of a Nation.

Perhaps the solution Jefferson presented here was incorrect; but it is undeniable that he spoke with the clairvoyance of a political prophet when he said, “The election of a President of America, some years hence, will be much more interesting to certain nations of Europe, than ever the election of a King of Poland was.”9 Not only has Europe found American elections important, but the whole world has also long since taken an active interest in who holds the authority of the Oval Office. Domestically we have seen decades of turmoil from sects who support Presidents based solely on the nation(s) he supports or is descended from, and we have established systems of bribery which foreign nations use to control the outcome of American elections; none of which would be acceptable by the likes of Jefferson and the Anti-Federalists.

Together with Jefferson we may say, “I do not pretend to decide, what would be the best method of procuring the establishment of the manifold good things in this constitution, and of getting rid of the bad.”10 It suffices for my purpose here to bring forth this little known prophecy of Jefferson, and show that the Anti-Federalists were not merely uncritical opponents of a strong Federal Government out of Libertarian aversion to the smallest whiff of despotism; but rather, they were highly intelligent and forward-thinking men who recognized that, there was, baked into the Constitution of the United States the leaven of despotism and tyranny, but also the leaven which would make the United States into a perpetual warzone where competing foreign interests meet on the field of battle to shed the blood of Native Americans.

Obviously, under the present Constitution, Presidential elections which occur every four-years, with a hard limit that no President can serve more than two terms in office. This system, Jefferson very likely would support; and yet, we are plagued with the sickness of foreign influence, nonetheless. The advent of the party system could be found to be the source: Rather than electing one perpetual ruler, a single system of beliefs and policies can be elected perpetually, thus, AIPAC can continue to maintain and expand its ever-extending influence through the Republican Party which simply represents one spirit animating different bodies. Jefferson’s solution to securing peace and prosperity to the Nation is having a population animated by a spirit of virtue and education, and willing to use violence against political leaders. He exhorts us to:

“Compare… whether peace is best preserved by giving energy to the government, or information to the people. This last is most certain, and the most legitimate engine of government. Educate and inform the whole mass of people. Enable them to see that it is their best interest to preserve peace and order, and they will preserve them. And it requires no very high degree of education to convince them of this. They are the only sure reliance for the preservation of our liberty… This reliance cannot deceive us, as long as we remain virtuous; and I think we shall be so, as long as agriculture is our principal object, which will be the case, while there remains vacant lands in any part of America. When we get piled upon one another in large cities, as in Europe, we shall become corrupt as in Europe, and go to eating one another as they do there.”11

The prophecy, as history has proven, was correct. America is an occupied Nation lacking any semblance of sovereignty. “I hold it,” says Jefferson, “that a little rebellion, now and then, is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical.”12 Undoubtedly, if Thomas Jefferson were to stand in our midst today, he would exhort us to educate our children; become rooted in the soil; and rebel, and ensure that when we do, we are successful in rebellion; for the people are the only bulwark against a government which exists contrary to the interests of the people.

The history of the United States since the Constitution was ratified has vindicated the Anti-Federalists in almost every conceivable way; and now, unfortunately, we are left to pick up the pieces of a failed system which has seemingly aimed to bury everything good in the course of its collapse. The politicians don’t even pretend to care about the rights of the people; they don’t hide the bribes they have taken; they don’t even make an effort to portray themselves as virtuous dictators. This isn’t much in way of a practical solution; but considering I am restricting myself to the writings of Thomas Jefferson on the topic, it’s pretty damn good when we consider he gave us this foundation for a grassroots movement in answer to an issue he prophesied over two-hundred years ago while living in Paris with little immediate knowledge of the nuances of the debate happening back in the United States.

Thank you for reading. All of my posts are free, and will continue to be; if you enjoy my content, please consider donating or becoming a paid subscriber! Today is August 8, 2026, tomorrow on the ninth, and I will be live on Charley Horse Radio at 5pm (EST) with , y’all should drop by and say hi.

Thank you for reading,

John, Son of Dick

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There are great defects in that character—peculiar defects of accident; but there is also the sum of many virtues. The people of the South are brave to a fault; they are generous to credulity, polite, hospitable, cherishing many noble virtues which the commercial spirit of the age has elsewhere outgrown; but they have all the peculiar faults of an untraveled people—a people who pass their lives in local neighborhoods, and who, having but little knowledge of how large and various the world is, easily take conceit of their own powers and virtues.

E.A. Pollard

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The South is a “backwards” civilization; it always has been, and Lord willing, the progress will be swiftly retarded, and it always will be. Thomas Jefferson once wrote a letter to his nephew in which he said:

“Young men, who travel, are exposed to all these inconveniences in a higher degree, to others still more serious, and do not acquire that wisdom for which a previous foundation is requisite, by repeated and just observations at home. The glare of pomp and pleasure is analogous to the motion of the blood; it absorbs all their affection and attention, they are torn from it as the only good in this world, and return to their home as a place of exile and condemnation. Their eyes are forever turned back to the object they have lost, and its recollection poisons the residue of their lives. Their first and most delicate passions are hackneyed on unworthy objects here, and they carry home the dregs, insufficient to make themselves or anyone else happy. Add to this, a habit of idleness, an inability to apply themselves to business is acquired, and renders them quite useless to themselves and their country. These observations are founded in experience. There is no place where your pursuit of knowledge will be so little obstructed by foreign objects, as in your own country, nor any, wherein the virtues of the heart will be less exposed to be weakened.”1

Travelling, says Jefferson in a rare instance of brevity, “makes men wiser, but less happy.”

It is an undeniable fact that Antebellum and Postbellum Southerners alike shared an ignorance of the big wide world as a general rule; albeit, the latter did experience what the outside world was like and found it bitter to the last musket ball. Far from isolating themselves to cultivate a feeling of pride, Southerners understood that exposure to the world through travel and learning abstract knowledge was largely useless to them. C.K. Marshall echoed Jefferson in 1855 when he “concluded that it was… impossible for southerners to be safely educated at the North. They cannot come back with proper feelings towards their families and people.”2 What good was it to learn the skills of a “scribbler, reader, and figurer —so necessary to trade and industry—”3 when they were of “small concern to the average Southerner,”4 rather, “he admired more the skills of the hunter, fisher, fighter, and fiddler. These and other leisurely activities were considered by him to be fun and worthwhile, fun to learn and practice, and consistent with honesty and honor.”5

No, this ignorance was intentional. The Southron since, at least, the time of Jefferson instinctively knew that “What outsiders taught, under the guise of enlightenment and knowledge, was merely subservience to alien ways and values.”6 What good was trigonometry to the Southern Yeoman if he forgot that “evening red and morning gray, sets a traveler on his way. But evening gray and morning red, pour[s] down rain upon your head”?7 What benefit was it to the planter, for that matter? What even constitutes knowledge is brought under severe scrutiny when the Yankee mounts his horse after a night spent enjoying the hospitality of the Southern “white trash” to the tune of his backwoods accent reciting that very saying; just for the enlightened Yankee to ignore the warning and find himself and his horse shortly washed away in a flashflood. Watching from his front porch with a hat dry enough to catch fire, we can imagine that the uneducated Southerner might feel himself to be a damn wise man.

The accusation of “backwardness” of the Southerner is the very same that the Tsar Nicholas was condemned with when he and his family were slaughtered in their basement and the same inability to progress was shared by King Louis XVI and his aristocracy during the French Revolution. “Backward,” “uneducated,” and “unenlightened” are the universal cries of the crowd as the guillotine falls or Sherman treads on Georgia. What good is this enlightenment? what good is this all-devouring tree of knowledge? who, or what, can extinguish Prometheus’s fire?

What if Pollard’s criticism of the Southern man was merely the veil of the highest praise? The Southerner knows his Bible, and Jesus Himself often concealed his true meaning through allegory, analogy, parable, and irony; doubtless this intimate knowledge formed the writing of Southern authors since the Colonials first landed in Virginia. But rather than pontificate on Pollard’s true meaning, we need only look to history for proof of his praise —even if unintentional.

Understand, reader, that the “commercial spirit of the age”8 did not “outgrow” the Southern virtues of bravery, generosity, credulity, politeness, hospitality, and other “noble virtues”;9 the spirit of the age —that damnable principality10 whose hand guides the industrialism and commercialism— has killed them. It has taken them and exchanged them for those negative virtues so praised in the capitalistic and competitive world of industry; un-virtues such as “fraud, deception, and bribery”11 have replaced honesty, politeness, and hospitality. The Southerner knew that “Moral deterioration is a progressive process. Just as a worn part of a machine will affect contiguous parts and finally destroy the entire mechanism, so the loss of one moral value must ultimately undermine the sense of morality.”12 If this is progress, may we all be backwards. If this is winning, may we lose with the Grace of General Robert E. Lee.

The question is begged, winning what? what is the prize waiting for us across the finish line? Perhaps a better question is, what race are we running? are we racing for a “perishable” or an “imperishable crown”?13 Yes. That question gets to the heart of the matter. General D.H. Hill, reflecting on the War, said that the South’s “conservatism, her love of the Constitution; her attachment to the old usages of society, her devotion to principles, her faith in Bible truth—all these involved her in a long and bloody war with that Radicalism which seeks to overthrow all that is venerable, respectable, and of good repute.”14 The Yankee can kill the body, but the soul that filled her territory, that he could never touch. Robert Lewis Dabney says that “It is only the atheist who adopts success as a criterion of right. It is not a new thing in the history of men that God appoints to the brave and the true the stern task of contending, and falling, in a righteous quarrel.”15 This pragmatic “criterion of right” guided the North in her path to industrialism, commercialism, and ultimately, filling the void of the alter razed by the puritans with economic prosperity. The Northerner had long since given up the “practice of judging men’s actions by a divine deliverance, or by any code superior to what he himself could frame,”16 and “Southern writers tried as best they could to point out the dangers in this rising tide of empiricism.”17

To be an empiricist, one must reject the backwards un-education of the Southerner who knew that: “in giving up the religious sanctions of his laws and institutions, man hands himself over to the chaos which must always proceed from passion unchecked by higher discipline. To substitute a sentimental optimism and humanitarianism for the old and proved doctrine of man’s natural depravity is to prepare the way for a new fall.”18 The tree of knowledge found rich soil in the North; its fruits were an all-consuming and all-producing industry; a fruit which was eaten by the Northern money men. Men who were eager to spread this fire; and in just a few generations, Cain was once again found with the blood of Abel on his hands; the razed land, brave men, and gentle women and children of the South crying out.

No: If the knowledge lacking in the Southerner is the same upheld as salvation by the Northerner, then I don’t think we will travel, and I don’t think we ought to be learned in the ways of the industrial world; it appears to us that a Southerner “traveling… for education, loses in his knowledge, in his morals, in his health, in his habits, and in his happiness.”19 The Southerner, for all of his “backwardness” knew his land and was intimately tied to it. He knew that “cultivators of the earth are the most virtuous and independent citizens,”20 and he was unwilling to separate himself from his land and all her blessings if it meant knowledge, money, and fame. The Southerner or Celtic visitor to Boston would echo the words of this German visitor to England who questioned “the spiritual state of a country which estimates a man’s value in terms of his income, as witness the expression: he is worth a hundred thousand pounds”;21 this being in stark contrast to the Southerner who “distained people who devoted their lives to the making of money…”22

The Southerner and the Northerner were antagonistic to one another in almost every way. It would be ludicrous for Pollard to judge his own people by the standard set by the Yankee moneyman and educator (who was paid by the former). And whether or not it was a compliment veiled in a critique to make the apologetic palatable to the Yankee is irrelevant since we can never be sure. What we can be sure of is that when tried by the scale of God and reason, the South, still to this very day, is found to fly above the Northerner in spite of all his haste and labor. Marriage is revered, children are born, church pews are full, and some semblance of sanity can be seen in the overall disposition of the people. Yes. It would seem as if the Northern industry has not yet, and cannot ever, kill the soul of the South; and we would be foolish to exchange the virtues that have sustained us for the vice that has made the North rich.

Thank you for reading. Everything I write is published for free, so please consider donating by clicking here if you appreciate my work!

Sincerely,

John, Son of Dick

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Self-love, therefore, is no part of morality. Indeed it is exactly its counterpart. It is the sole antagonist of virtue, leading us constantly by our propensities to self-gratification in violation of our moral duties to others. Accordingly, it is against this enemy that are erected the batteries of moralists and religionists, as the only obstacle to the practice of morality.

Thomas Jefferson, 1814

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There has been a recent uproar condemning monogamous “traditional” marriage as being the fate of the Plebians, and rather, presenting polygamy to varying degrees as the path of the Aristocratic race of men. Genghis Khan, Caeser, and Alexander the Great are upheld as the great men of a time past; and if we hope to rebuild from the ashes the world they had, we must spread the seed of the great men of our era. After all, Plutarch recounts for us the great polygamy from which the ancient Greek and Roman heroes were fruits of. This is not the first time Americans have had such a debate, and as we “know of no other way of judging the future but by the past,”1 we can be sure this debate will continue until Christ returns.

On October 28, 1813, Thomas Jefferson sent a letter to John Adams in reply to a question regarding aristocracy. Adams referenced a passage by Theognis which reads that “Nobility in men is worth as much as it is in horses, asses, or rams; but the meanest blooded puppy in the world, if he gets a little money, is as good a man as the best of them.” John Adams comments further that “Yet birth and wealth together have prevailed over virtue and talents in all ages…” These quotes present us with two forms of Aristocracy: the first natural and good, the second unnatural and viscous.

As regards the natural aristocracy, Thomas Jefferson says “For I agree with you that there is a natural aristocracy among men. The grounds for this are virtue and talents.” And of the unnatural he says, “There is also an artificial aristocracy, founded on wealth and birth, without either virtue or talents.” Jefferson concludes that “The natural aristocracy I consider as the most precious gift of nature, for the instruction, trust, and government of society.” This is in-keeping with Aristotle who says “For that some should rule and others be ruled is a thing not only necessary, but expedient; from the hour of birth, some are marked out for subjection, others for rule… for tame animals have a better nature than wild… Again, the male is by nature superior, and the female inferior; and the one rules, and the other is ruled; this principle, of necessity, extends to all mankind.”2 These proofs, for any reasonable man, ought to be mere superfluity; a brief look around should make it readily apparent that the idea of a natural aristocracy is confirmed.

Being that we are all agreed that a natural aristocracy exists and is inevitable, then, “May we not… say [with Jefferson],3 that that form of government is the best, which provides the most effectually for a pure selection of these natural aristoi into the offices of government?” If we may, then we must, before ever entering into a discussion of politics, admit that the way of life is the best, which provides most effectually for the creation and rearing of these natural aristocrats.

Commenting directly on the aforementioned Theognis passage, Jefferson says, “The whole piece is a moral exhortation… and this passage particularly seems to be a reproof to man, who, while with his domestic animals he is curious to improve the race, by employing always the finest male, pays no attention to the improvement of his own race, but intermarries with the viscous, the ugly, or the old, for considerations of wealth and ambitions.” The moral exhortation, Jefferson says, would be “The selecting the best male for a Harem of well chosen females also, which Theognis seems to recommend from the example of our sheep and asses, would doubtless improve the human, as it does the brute animal, and produce a race of veritable [aristocracy].” Now, Jefferson does not give either assent or dissent to the rightness of this exhortation; he merely expounds the meaning of the passage. However, in a later letter to Thomas Law, I do believe we can infer his dissent from such polygamy when he says: “Accordingly, it is against this enemy [of self-love and immorality more broadly] that are erected the batteries of moralists and religionists…”4 If one was to presume that the Colonial flavor of “moralizing” was substantially different than the moralizing of Southerners today, they would be correct: It was far stricter. But lest this is still found to be too much inference, in 1779 Thomas Jefferson wrote that “Whosoever shall be found guilty of rape, polygamy, or sodomy with man or woman shall be punished, if a man, by castration, if a woman, by cutting through the cartilage of her nose…” This binds us to believe that when Jefferson uses the word “vice” in his letter to John Adams, polygamy is undeniably included in the indictment.

The intention of this essay is not to be an exposition of Jefferson’s letter, and I must apologize to the reader for the space that I have dedicated to doing just that. But I do not believe it was a fruitless endeavor. What, I hope, I accomplished was proving that Jefferson saw an incompatibility between vice and the natural aristocracy; an incompatibility confirmed by Plato’s notion of the Philosopher-King who spends his entire life learning to subjugate the passions of the flesh to the reason of the mind; a virtual pre-figuring of a Hesychast in his conquering the flesh.

In one sense it is undeniably true that the Theognis method of breeding an aristocracy may prove successful in the development of some physical attributes; but I am sure that Nebuchadnezzar looked like an archetypal aristocrat before he was made a beast by his sin. And herein lies the irreconcilable difference between the “moralists and religionists” and the polygamists: we are unwilling to lose our souls to gain even the whole world.5

With that said, the physical world is good, and there an ideal for us to strive for. We don’t desire dysgenic offspring; we don’t even want to rear children doomed for a life of political slavery. We can fully concur with Plato when he says that “The bride and bridegroom should consider that they are to produce for the state the best and fairest specimens of children which they can. Now all men who are associated in any action always succeed when they attend and give their mind to what they are doing, but when they do not give their mind or have no mind, they fail; wherefore let the bridegroom give his mind to the bride and to the begetting of children, and the bride in like manner give her mind to the bridegroom, and particularly at the time when their children are not yet born.”6 But, we also agree with Plato that there is a “bride and bridegroom” in the singular; the monogamous implication is further confirmed by a set of laws regarding divorce. One such law being that “Let the begetting of children and the supervision of those who are begetting them continue ten years and no longer, during the time when marriage is fruitful. But if any continue without children up to this time, let them take counsel with their kindred and with the women holding the office of overseer and be divorced for their mutual benefit.”7 This law is particularly telling by its assuming that the bride and bridegroom only have each other to rely on for the creation of children.

It is most desirable, for both the individual and the common good, to marry and have children with someone who will produce the best offspring; I would even argue that we have a moral obligation to such strict standards. Just as polygamy could, potentially, produce a larger pool of natural aristocrats, so could the method that Plato presents in opposition to Theogin. In this principle and goal, we find common ground.

And so, we return to the heart of the matter: that of morality. Those who I have seen promoting such polygamy appear to have no moral standard whatsoever, and if they do, it is arbitrary. We religionists of course, hold morality to be an objective truth. A truth which is not magically revealed to us in Holy Baptism. Thomas Jefferson says “Some have made the love of God the foundation of morality. This, too, is but a branch of our moral duties, which are generally divided into duties to God and duties to man. If we did a good act merely from the love of God and a belief that it is pleasing to Him, whence arises the morality of the Atheist.” We can, for our present inquiry, exchange “atheist” for “Plato.” This line of reasoning can very quickly pull us off course, but if indulged for a brief moment, may prove fruitful.

Contrary to much popular opinion: morals, ethics, and virtue are not synonymous. Aristotle says that “Every art and every inquiry, and similarly every action and pursuit, is thought to aim at some good…”8 The Good is the moral standard by which all actions are judged, this good being unchangeable. Ethics are how we, as individual people, act in accordance with the goods in particular circumstances.9 Virtue or virtues are the habit(s) we form which condition us to act morally in any particular case. In other words, the virtues are habits which are themselves aimed at the Good and condition us to act morally at all times; the moral status of any particular act at any particular time is the realm of ethics.

For Plato as for Aristotle and the Church Fathers, the Good (or moral standard) was God; and this was unchangeable. Life’s goal is, perhaps, most concisely summed up in Plato’s Allegory of the Cave which is, essentially, a telling of the fall of man and his salvation.10 We can imagine that every rock grabbed which is stable enough to drag our bodies closer to the light is an ethical action; our hand should, after practice, instinctively reach for stable handholds as the habit of the virtues are developed through education. Thomas Jefferson says:

“The want of perfection of the moral sense in some men… is no proof that it is a general characteristic of the species. When it is wanting, we endeavor to supply the defect by education, by appeals to reason and calculation, by presenting to the being so unhappily conformed, other motives to do good and eschew evil, such as the love, or the hatred, or rejection of those among whom he lives… and ultimately the prospects of a future state of retribution for the evil as well as the good done while here. These are the correctives which are supplied by education, and which exercise the function of the moralist, the preacher, and legislator…”11

For us moralists and religionists, we believe that monogamous “traditional” marriage is the best way to supply future generations with an aristocracy capable of leading it. There is a whole slew of pragmatic issues that could be examined, but those would not get to the heart of the issue at hand. Ultimately, we must ask the question “what is Good”? It would appear that when tried by the tribunal of the two great classical political philosophers, and the whole corpus of the Western world since it was Christianized, they have no ultimate Good. And in like manner, they condemn us as moralists for believing that man or woman can be reduced to that of a beast by immorality and likewise be incapable of producing offspring of a contrary nature. Thomas Jefferson again says, “the moral and physical qualities of a man, whether good or evil, are transmissible in a certain degree from father to son,” I propose we emphasize the moral qualities, namely: a disposition that is opposed to the addiction of pleasing the flesh. Those most fit to rule others, must first get their own house in order and rule themselves; who wants a negro that abandoned his baby-mommas and bastard children ruling a nation?

To convince those who prioritize material gain over spiritual that such is disorder, is a topic for another day. All I hope to accomplish here is to prove that the chasm between these sides of the debate is so vast that it cannot be bridged without one side surrendering its soul. Just as they furnish Khan and Ceaser, so we are guided by Emperor St. Constantine and King St. Alfred. Earthly success is hardly a metric that they would enjoy considering if forced to recognize that, for the last two-millennia, the civilization which gave birth to the aristocracy they so admire, would have hung them for promoting polygamy. At its root, this is a spiritual issue, and the immorality they desire is not for the sake of political success, it is done at the behest of the princes and principalities of the world.12

Thank you for reading! All of my posts are free, so if you would like to support, please consider a onetime donation.

Sincerely,

John, Son of Dick

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Over the past few weeks, I unfortunately learned what a BPD chick was, and then discovered that the so-called vitalists think it expedient to domesticate and breed them. But more than mere expediency, they think it to be a net-positive to society. This absurd proposition has been so thoroughly deconstructed in recent days that I would find it too redundant to repeat here.1 Rather than pointing out the abundant issues that are obvious prima facie, I would like to present the motivation for the ad hoc reasoning that these folks use to justify themselves.

What needs justification? you may ask. Well, to put it bluntly, the pitiful existence which these men claim to enjoy. If there is a common thread linking these self-proclaimed thinkers together, it is the lack of endowments which nature hath given them. In other words, they tend to be lacking in physical appearance, and almost always lack the money or personality which could, potentially, make up for it. I don’t mean this to be rude, but they find themselves stuck between a rock of being ugly or fat, or both; and a hard place of lacking the personality or money to compensate. To put it plainly, if they didn’t give dick to the BPD chicks, they would be involuntarily celibate.

Such is the condition they find themselves in, and such is the condition which they must explain their way out of to feel better about themselves. And so, the vitalism of and and a whole slew of others, along with the followers that their cults of personality have created are actually based, and us plebs wouldn’t understand because we are simply too inferior to have a one-night stand with a BPD chick, and too unworthy to spread our seed through polygamy. Us losers wear the ring and drag the ball and chain; how dare we raise our heads to criticize the natural aristocracy of the crazy girl-fucking natural aristocrats in our midst, after all, their seed-spreading will be salvation of the race… or something like that.

Now, the above is a very different analysis of their position than they themselves would accept. To look in the mirror is often too much for them. For the elders amongst them: to look back and see the failure of their lives is too painful, and as we know, misery loves company, so the cult grows. A few guys had bad experiences once or twice with women, and they project that onto the rest of the world and recruit young men with the propaganda which says modern women are awful and the dream of traditional marriage is dead. Unfortunately, it seems to be working to some extent.

I mention the fact that “modern women are awful” to highlight this premise as a foundational one to their ideology. Many of these men do not see BPD chicks as fundamentally bad, and certainly not to be avoided; rather, they see them as a product of their environment who simply need the strong hand of real masculinity to be “fixed.” It is this which allows Derek to say that “it is the very challenge of the BPD girl that makes her appealing.”2 On this framework, the woman becomes a type of wilderness or frontier, and the man becomes the conqueror and tamer of the wild. The previous generations messed them up so bad that the rest of the world has rejected them with their puritanical moralizing; but the aristocratic nature can never be shackled by such arbitrary restrictions. They stand as the Men Among the Ruins.3 Their feet leaving impressions in the ashes of the 1920s trad-wife stereotype which has been razed. What is left standing is the raw and primal BPD girl, ready to be formed by the superior men brave enough to get hard for them.

When all of this is rendered down, what is left is a strange sort of Boy Meets World level of immature drama mixed with the horror of Obsession.

All of this, is, of course, said in the most flowery and traditionalist language that can be vomited up; and the young men primed and rearing to fight modernity roll in it like swine; and yet, here we are, casting our pearls before them. Woe are we.

One consistent criticism of those who criticized this vitalism in the last few days has been that it is boomer-coded moralizing. In the words of Derek, “A lot of this is inherited from Boomers - a need in older men for overwrought displays of control and authority in the confines of gynocentric subjugation”;4 to this, pointedly responded that actually, “The idea that crazy is hot, sexy, and exciting is one of the most Boomer [and] Gen X coded fucking lies… that’s why they exploded their marriages.”5 This vitalist philosophy can be boiled down to the free love of the Boomers, if we remove all the flowery language, that is. So now, we are supposed to fight fire with fire; this brings to mind Einstein’s definition of insanity.

I chose to enter this discourse for precisely this reason. It seems that a lot of the heaviest punches thrown in the past few days have been by guys in their forties and above (save ). The vitalists still see this age range as having some of the benefits of once existing in a “political, social, and cultural horizon that once allowed a decent young man to marry his high-school sweetheart, be the only man in her life, and die as a respected patriarch…”6 Once we get too much beyond that, even the last remnant of that same opportunity “…has unfortunately disappeared. It is dead and will not return in our lifetime. Neither you, nor I, nor your children, and probably not your grandchildren, will live in a different reality. It is harsh, revolting, sad, and brutal.”7 The answer is to accept the new condition, criticize old heads for not understanding,8 and go find the crazy bitch and breed her for the salvation of our aristocratic western race.

Plato Bodybuilder gives us this challenge: “Now, do this: go out on the street and tell me how many women without tattoos you will find. Among the young women in your life with whom you are intimate, ask how many partners they have had. If she says fewer than ten, then you have found the equivalent of a virgin in our time. Do you understand my point?”9 And here, I will point out that there are two places Plato Bodybuilder should go: first, outside, and second, to Church. This is so retarded it scarce deserves a reply; but because it is so influential, I will submit my life as anecdotal evidence.

My Christian name is John; I am twenty-three years old and have been happily married for almost six years. I was married on my eighteenth birthday to the only girl I ever “dated.” We have three sons, and a baby on the way. I turned twenty-one in the home I bought for us, and have, by any metric, been successful in life. Not to be a Boomer, but this shit just ain’t that hard, pull yourselves up by your bootstraps. I was homeschooled and my father was a teacher. I didn’t have a silver spoon in my mouth, in case anyone wants to assume I haven’t earned anything. Now, I don’t say this to brag, Lord knows I don’t deserve any of this. But I say it as proof that when I criticize this nonsense as being the philosophy of dweebs and losers who are incapable of or unwilling to try to do anything meaningful with their lives, I am speaking as someone who has done something meaningful and productive with the short life I have thus far been given.

In a world where Plato Bodybuilder and Derek tell us all that hope is lost, the women are awful, virgins are rare as a flying pig, and we should just roll over and accept it; I can present my life, and the lives of hundreds of people that I personally know, and a multitude more from the internet, who have similar stories that I do. This isn’t actually as rare as the vitalists online need you to believe it is.

The innumerable number of young women living all across the United States that are chaste, gentle, and feminine are out of the vitalists’ league. They wouldn’t touch one with a ten-foot pole unless it was to beat them away. What absolutely will not remedy whatever feminism those gems have left over is a man-whore that sticks his dick in crazy sluts that want to kill him and the offspring that their unfortunate union produces. Masculine Chivalry culture, and not novel vitalism, is what prevented feminism from rearing its head for so long in the West.

The real “challenge”10 is not hooking up with low-quality women who will shove anything inside them, just for the “relationship” to burn down a few painful months later. The real challenge is being a man noble enough to attract one of the multitude of women who stay off social media, out of drama, live chaste lives, and are waiting for a man that does the same to find them, marry them, breed them, and die with them. No amount of flowery and traditionalist language will woo a woman worthy of affection when she finds out you have bastard children with a pile of baby-mommas out there. Sin is easy; virtue is hard. A culture of virtue breeds the true aristocrats who will inherit the earth. So take heed, friends: the vitalists will die along with their philosophy, and our grandchildren will live in the world that we build for them.

Thank you for reading. If you appreciate my work, please consider donating. I do not paywall my posts.

Sincerely,

John, Son of Dick

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See ’s fantastic letter:

The Unsung Substack

An Open Letter to Derek Suszko

Dear Derek Suszko…

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3 months ago · 61 likes · 24 comments · Jason McGinty

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Through and through I am a Cracker, my family’s connection to the State runs deep. Both sides shed blood to explore Florida, to found the State, and subdue the Florida frontier. Both sides fought and died to keep her free in the War of Northern Aggression. Like I said, deep roots are planted in the sand and rich soil of my Native State. On my paternal side, I am kin to Andrew Jackson, the conqueror of Florida and her first territorial governor; and on my maternal side, I am a seventh-generation Cracker. There are some great tales in the archive of my family’s history that can only be classified as Cracker Shit. This is but one.

On January 17th, 1920, the 18th Amendment took effect. This being the banning of manufacturing, sale, and transportation of alcohol in the United States; otherwise known as Prohibition, this period lasted until December of 1933, when the 21st Amendment repealed the 18th, and alcohol flowed legally once again. Everyone had family that had a still, ran shine or beer, or was otherwise involved in opposing this radical and unfortunate Amendment. I am no exception to this, and today I would like to tell the story of Alderman and Weech.

Florida was a particularly pesky State during this era. Its geographical position on the outskirts of the Empire made enforcement of Prohibition laws difficult, and the peninsular nature of the State made illegal importation nearly impossible to prevent; paired with the disposition of Native Floridians who abhorred all things tyrannical, the stage was set for the battle that would take place there between the jovial and freedom loving Floridians and the tyrannical Federal Government still squared up and rearing to throw bell-ringing reconstructive punches. In this battle, the Floridians actually came in prepared; quite literally sowing the ground with whiskey when Confederate officer David Lang “buried casks of whiskey throughout the Florida Panhandle in the case the antiliquor forces achieved power”1 after he came home from fighting tyranny on the battlefields of the Eastern Theatre in the Army of Northern Virginia.2 The fruits of such labor can be found in the likes of Alderman, Weech, the mayor of Miami, and a whole army of innumerable rumrunners, bootleggers, and moonshiners all throughout the State. This resistance became tradition, and up until my grandfather retired from the old Power Plant in Brooksville less than ten years ago, the engineers there had a still and were keeping the tradition alive and well.

James Horace Alderman is a cousin from my paternal line. He was an infamous Rumrunner that smuggled “alcohol into Florida from Cuba and the Bahamas during Prohibition.”3 He was an experienced and seasoned bootlegger that “had already done federal prison time for liquor smuggling, been convicted of aggravated assault, been fined for violating fish and game laws, and was currently out on bond [in 1927] for smuggling undocumented aliens.”4 He was born in 1884 “was born outside Tampa but grew up in the dense mangrove forests and byzantine waterways of the Ten Thousands Islands, off Florida’s southwest coast”5 and there got married and had three daughters. He was a farmer, fisherman, and field guide when he settled permanently in Fort Meyers. During this time, he got involved with smuggling and pirating, and eventually set up shop in Miami where his operations were headquartered out of. It was here he rose to fame and became known as the Gulfstream Pirate.

His associate was Robert Weech: my grandmother’s grandfather. While Alderman was the notorious leader of the operation, Weech played an active role in smuggling, but also worked behind the scenes forming a relationship with the then mayor of Miami, who was a friend to the operation. The liquor was stored, according to my grandmother, in the attic of the Weech home; a home which was no stranger to being raided. The mayor, during these raids, would make sure he was present and would be the one to “check the attic.” Robert Weech was born 1838 in the Bahamas; he was of a Celtic living in the West Indies before immigrating to Florida where he died in 1957.

It was the friendship and business association between these two men which set the stage for the events that occurred on August 7th, 1927.

On this calm Sunday morning, a seventy-five-foot Coast Guard Vessel departed from Coast Guard Base Six in Fort Lauderdale. The crew were all seasoned “Rum-busters,”6 but did not set out with on this mission. Rather, they were merely on a “support mission to transport Secret Service Agent Robert K. Webster to Bimini—an island on the western edge of The Bahamas.”7 It was suspected that rumrunners were counterfeiting silver certificates there and using them to buy the liquor they were smuggling. Just after high noon, “Petty Officer 1st Class Frank Tuten, a boatswain’s mate, sighted a white, open cockpit 30-foot fishing vessel heading on a reciprocal course from Bimini,”8 he knew it was a smuggling vessel. Chief Warrant Officer Sidney C. Sanderlin was the Commanding Officer of the ship and made the decision to detour from their mission in order to snatch a few rumrunners. The Secret Service agent obliged the extracurricular activities with an enthusiasm that would cost him his life.

The crew brought vessel side by side with the pirate’s ship, and Sanderlin jumped aboard all by himself with his gun drawn. Alderman and Weech submitted to the arrest peacefully at first. But as the Coast Guard crew began to make the attempt to transport the prisoners across the gangway, Alderman begged leave to grab some valuables to prevent their being “lost.” Sanderlin assented to the request but failed to make provision for ensuring this was as peaceful as the initial arrest. Alderman went, all alone and uncuffed, back onto his ship where he found a hidden gun the Coast Guardsmen failed to commandeer; an oversight Sanderlin paid dearly for when Alderman whipped around and shot him in the back through the heart with the hidden pistol. Alderman was not only hesitant to go back to prison without a fight, he was lusting after Coastie blood in revenge for, what he believed was, their having murdered, in cold blood, several smugglers in the preceding days.9

Victor Lamby, another of the Coast Guard crew saw the affair and immediately ducked for cover before attempting to descend to the armory and enter the battle. He was shot through the plywood bulkhead and was paralyzed.

During the affair, Weech got his hands on a pistol, likely donated by Sanderlin, and the pirates rounded up the remaining Coast Guardsmen and Webster. Alderman kept them under his watchful eye while he sent Weech to go sever the fuel lines of the Coast Guard vessel, so they could ignite it and burn the ship to the waterline with the captured sailors aboard to give the appearance of an accident and prevent further pursuit of himself and Weech. While Alderman was barking orders to Weech, he got distracted; Webster took the opportunity and charged. He grabbed one of Alderman’s hands, but Alderman produced his second hand, with a second pistol, and introduced a forty-five to Websters heart.

The remaining prisoners pounded on Alderman while Weech was still below deck. They fought viscously for the pistols, paint scrapers, mops: anything which could be wielded to inflict harm on another person. Great numbers prevailed, and Alderman was beaten to a, living, but very bloody and battered pulp.

A Coast Guardsmen remembered Weech in the engine room and with pistol furnished, went to get the scallywag. They entered into a hand-to-hand struggle as they met in the narrow passageway. As their brawl brought them on deck and near the rail, Weech was tossed overboard, and the Coast Guardsman named Robinson, grabbed an oar when Weech’s head bobbed above water and began to beat it back down. His temper was checked by a superior who wanted the men brought back alive. Weech was fished out of the deep blue ocean and was chained to a one-inch gun mount next to his semiconscious partner.

Upon returning to Florida, Alderman and Weech were tried for murder, until Weech testified that he was not in charge and was following orders. The case was severed and they were tried for different crimes. Alderman being convicted for murder, and Weech receiving the slap-on-the-wrist type of punishment that was so common in those days.

On August 17th, 1929, James Horace Alderman was hung on the Coast Guard Base in Fort Lauderdale, Florida; the same base that two years prior, a Coast Guard vessel left port with the simple mission of transporting Robert K. Webster to the Bahamas. Through a series of unfortunate events and mismanagement, they failed in this objective and got their passenger killed, along with their commanding officer in a legendary, yet short, battle which left another Coast Guardsmen paralyzed for life. The extracurricular activity was not a total failure. The rum-busters had managed to capture the Gulfstream Pirate and his trusted associate and put an end to their reign of the seas between the Bahamas and Florida.

James Horace Alderman was the first, and remains the only man ever hung on a Coast Guard Base.

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Sincerely,

John, Son of Dick

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“With equal pleasure I have as often taken notice, that Providence has been pleased to give this one connected country, to one united people; a people descended from the same ancestors, speaking the same language, professing the same religion, attached to the same principles of government, very similar in their manners and customs, and who, by their joint counsels, arms and efforts, fighting side by side throughout a long and bloody war, have nobly established their general Liberty and Independence.”

John Jay

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The Declaration of Independence is one of the most famous documents to ever be written; yet, it too has been one of the most abused and misunderstood texts in history. Our dear Thomas Jefferson, famously, penned the first draft. It is noteworthy that the first draft was not submitted to Congress under the now famous title; rather, he submitted it under the titled, A Declaration by the Representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress Assembled. Congress, on July 19, 1776, changed the title to The Unanimous Declaration of the Thirteen united States of America.1 I make mention of this forgotten title only to highlight how completely our education has failed us in keeping alive the uncorrupted memory of our past.

In addition to the unofficial and colloquial title given to the text, one is hard-pressed to find many Americans who have read any words other than, “We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their creator with certain [inherent and] inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; that to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed…”2 There is, however, much more to the Declaration, as well as context and exposition provided by our Founding Fathers, including Jefferson himself.3

I have chosen to introduce this essay with a brief mention of this important founding document with the overarching goal of this series in mind. I intend to outline what Jefferson’s ideal Virginia, and through her, United States of America, looked like. But, lest we put the cart before the horse, and begin a discussion of his Political Philosophy, foreign policy, or education system; we need to understand who was to inhabit Jefferson’s Virginia Garden.4 Who was a “Virginian,” and who was “American”? Only when those questions are answered can we begin to claw our way out of the dark abyss of the cave, where the failures of the modern American education system have so cruelly chained us.

The Sailor’s Creed contains one of the most concise declarations of the goal of America since Lincoln first entered the Oval Office, the final sentence reads, “I represent the fighting spirit of the Navy and those who have gone before me to defend freedom and democracy around the world.” This is merely an exposition of the words of the Declaration, which proclaim “that all men are created equal…” The imperial conquests of barbarian nations became the practical application of the myth which says that all men are “are endowed by their creator with certain [inherent and] inalienable rights.” If these rights are truly inalienable, it is not just a sin for the United States government to transgress those of her citizens; rather, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”5 Ergo, the freedom inherent in “all men” must be defended if we are to be consistent with our own philosophy. And so, when we read the son of a Founding Father, John Quincy Adams, say, “America goes not abroad in search of monsters to destroy,” we can only conclude that we are better Americans than they were.6

It also follows from this myth that the American government owes an obligation to provide defense of these inalienable rights when a person, or a people’s, own nation fails to do so. Why not bring them here and give them a shot at the American Dream? And now, why not birthright citizenship? This is what Thomas Jefferson would have wanted us to do, right? Or, did Thomas Jefferson perhaps disbelieve that all races were compatible with one another, and we ought to have a Nation(s) to ourselves? Did the Declaration apply universally? Or was it a declaration from one sovereign people to another? Perhaps this is why the official title has been neglected in modern education; it’s easy to turn the document into a universal decree applicable to all of humanity when it was written by enlightenment thinkers to the world; it poses a much larger issue when the very title admits that it was a declaration of the independence of White Americans as a unique people which was addressed to the English government. The title makes clear that it was not intended, by our Fathers to declare the independence of every human being on earth in one fell swoop; it declared the independence of themselves and their posterity, if we had so chosen to follow in their footsteps. This is a definable people group; as our Founding Father, John Jay, says, “a people descended from the same ancestors, speaking the same language, professing the same religion, attached to the same principles of government, very similar in their manners and customs…”7 And now, “The eternal race question ha[s] reared itself.”8

Thomas Jefferson, and the United States as a whole, were never totally against immigration. Rather, than securing our borders entirely, Thomas Jefferson wrote to George Flowers that the United States was:

“…to consecrate a sanctuary for those whom the misrule of Europe may compel to seek happiness in other climes. This refuge, once known, will produce reaction on the happiness even of those who remain there, by warning their taskmasters that when the evils of Egyptian oppression become heavier than those of the abandonment of country, another Canaan is open where their subjects will be received as brothers, and secured against like oppressions by a participation in the right of self-government. If additional motives could be wanting with us to the maintenance of this right, they would be found in the animating consideration that a single good government becomes thus a blessing to the whole earth…”9

While the Founding Fathers did disagree on various details of the United States immigration policy, it can be safely said that they were not against welcoming immigrants entirely, as can clearly be seen in the Alien and Sedition Act of 1798; an act which included the famous 1798 Naturalization Act which restricted immigration to “…all white persons,” who are, “aliens.”10 This act was passed by John Adams’ administration following the Federalist’s victory over Jefferson’s Democratic-Republicans in the 1796 Presidential election; and while Jefferson opposed extending the necessary time of residency to fourteen years before one can be a full-citizen —and after that time is fulfilled, that same could still be denied citizenship— he did not oppose its restrictions based on race.

The context to the previously cited letter to George Flowers is, conveniently, always ignored. This man was an English explorer who spent some time exploring the, then, Western territories of the United States and became acquainted with Jefferson as he traveled back east to return to England. The two men had limited communication afterwards but remained distantly associated. In the same letter, Jefferson says, “I sincerely wish that your proposition to ‘purchase a tract of land in the Illinois on favorable terms, for introducing a colony of English farmers,’ may encounter no difficulties from the established rules of our land department. the general law prescribes an open sale, where all citizens may compete, on an equal footing for any lot of land which attracts their choice.”11 While it is true that the United States was willing to extend the hand of philanthropy and be a sanctuary to a limited amount of immigrants; these immigrants were to be those who suffered the “misrule of Europe.”

In the first place, the immediate context of early America must be taken into account. Many of the forefathers of the Founders fled the tyranny of Europe, and so, the Americans had a certain sympathy for them. But, this immigration policy was not only driven by Christian charity to oppressed Europeans; it served, at least, two pragmatic ends. During the War for Independence in 1781, Thomas Jefferson wrote a Proclamation Concerning Foreigners. He opens it thus:

“Whereas Congress considering that it had been the wise policy of these States to extend the protection of their Laws to all those who should settle among them of whatsoever nation or religion they might be, and to admit them to a participation of the Benefits of Civil and religious freedom, and that the Benevolence of this practice, as well as its salutary effects had rendered it worthy of being continued in future times: That his Britannic Majesty in order to destroy our Freedom and Happiness, had commenced against us, a cruel and unprovoked war, and unable to engage Britons sufficient to execute his sanguinary measures, had applied for aid to Foreign princes, who were in the habit of selling the blood of their people for money, and from them had procured and transported hither, considerable number of Foreigners, if apprised of the practice of these States would chuse to accept of Lands, Liberty, and Safety and a Communion of good laws and Governmennt, in a Country where many of their Friends and relations are already happily settled, rather than continue exposed to the toils and dangers of a long and bloody War, waged against a people guilty of no other Crime, than of refusing to exchange freedom for slavery…”

And he concludes:

“…this my Proclamation, hereby notifying more generally the said Engagement of Congress, and further promising to all such Foreigners, who shall leave the armies of his Britannic Majesty while in this State, and repair forthwith to me at this place, that they shall receive from this Commonwealth a further donation of two Cows and an exemption during the present War, and their continuance in this State, from all taxes, for the support thereof, and from the Militia and Military Service.”

I will make two notes on this. In the first paragraph, Jefferson makes the apparent blanket statement that those of “whatsoever nation or religion” may be granted sanctuary in the Commonwealth of Virginia; but he then qualifies that statement that this generosity is only applied to those who were previously fighting for the British Crown and chose to defect and end their warring against Americans. This immigration and naturalization policy served the pragmatic end of diminishing England’s overall military force. Further, these who are expected to immigrate are those whose “Friends and relations are already happily settled” in Virginia. This is noteworthy because it ipso facto restricts this immigration to those of European descent, seeing as no other races were “settled” in Virginia living as freemen. While it perhaps is not an explicit restriction on immigration based on race; it did practically draw the line at those of European descent.

And the second pragmatic reason for encouraging European immigration to the United States was the rapid territorial growth which was occurring during the first seventy-five years of the existence of the States. Thomas Jefferson, during his presidency alone, doubled the territory; there simply was not enough people to inhabit such vast lands, much less build any infrastructure and defend it were it to be attacked. Texas and Florida, well into the 19th century, featured less than one person per square mile; and many other Southern and Western States were not much more densely populated.12 Had an invading force tried to penetrate these borders west of the Mississippi, America would have had little to no ability to resist on short notice. Immigration of high-functioning and adventurous European peoples proved to be most beneficial to the American population; particularly if they were English. America was, after all, a nation of predominantly English and Celtic stock and maintaining that homogeneity was important to Jefferson. Speaking of even German settlers, he says, “For altho’, as to other foreigners, it is thought better to discorage their settling together, in large masses, wherein, as in our German settlements, they preserve for a long time their own languages, habits and principles of government, & that they should distribute themselves sparsely among the natives for quicker amalgamation, yet English emigrants are without this inconvenience. They differ from us little but in their principles of government; and most of those (merchants excepted) who come here, are sufficiently disposed to adopt ours..”13

While it is true that “Americans” are a defined people group; it is also true that “American” is an ideal which can be attained to by those of the same heritage and race, broadly speaking. In this way, Jefferson finds himself in agreement with Plato. But, the proposition that America or American is an ideal which can be attained to is not foreign to us in the modern age; rather, it is the only definition of American that we are taught. And far from being an ideal only achievable by Whites (or Europeans broadly), we are taught that any and everyone can become American. In small numbers, various European races could be brought together and assimilated under the American system so long as the influx was limited to preserve the uniquely English stock of the Founding Generation and their posterity. This same principle, however, does not apply to every race of man that are scattered on the earth.

Rather, in the Declaration, Jefferson condemns the English Crown on account that “He has [excited domestic insurrection among us, and has] endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers the merciless Indian savages, whose known rules of warfare is undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes, and conditions [of existence].” And again, “[The King of Great Britian is]14 Determined to keep open a market where MEN should be bought and sold, has prostituted his negative for suppressing every legislative attempt to prohibit or to restrain this execrable commerce. And that this assemblage of horrors might want no fact of distinguished die, he is now exciting those very people to rise in arms against us, and to purchase that liberty which he has deprived them, by murdering the people on whom he has also obtruded them…” The abolishing of the slave trade was not merely a moral issue for the Founding Fathers; had the slaves not been imported to the Colonies, it may have never even been mentioned by them; but they recognized the problematic future that lay ahead of them if their population was continually diluted by foreigners. And elsewhere he again says, “The abolition of domestic slavery is the great object of desire in those colonies, where it was unhappily introduced in their infant state. But previous to the enfranchisement of the slaves we have, it is necessary to exclude all further importations from Africa; yet our repeated attempts to effect this by prohibitions, and by imposing duties which might amount to a prohibition, have been hitherto defeated by his majesty’s negative: Thus preferring the immediate advantages of a few African corsairs to the lasting interests of the American states, and to the rights of human nature, deeply wounded by this infamous practice.”15 Whether or not Jefferson believed slavery to be immoral is irrelevant to whether he believed that non-Europeans could successfully be immigrated, naturalized, and assimilated into the European stock of the American people.

To discover his opinion on this matter, one only needs to look at the legislation which was written and accepted by Thomas Jefferson. Let us turn our attention to the 1779 Virginia Bill Concerning Slaves. Section one says, “Be it enacted by the General Assembly, that no persons, shall, henceforth, be slaves within this commonwealth, except such persons as were so on the first day of this present Assembly, and the descendants of the females of them.” However, “Negroes and mullatoes, once emancipated, must “depart this commonwealth within one year thereafter,” if they fail to do so, “they shall be out of the protection of the laws.”16 And in Query XIV of Jefferson’s Magnum Opus, Notes on the State of Virginia, he says, “It will probably be asked, Why not retain and incorporate the blacks into the State, and thus save the expense of supplying by importation of white settlers, the vacancies they will leave?” He answers: “Deep-rooted prejudices entertained by the whites; ten thousand recollections, by the blacks, of the injuries they have sustained; new provocations; the real distinctions which nature has made; and many other circumstances, will divide us into parties, and produce convulsions, which will probably never end but in the extermination of one race or the other.” But that is not all, “To these objections, which are political, may be added others, which are physical and moral.”

As for the physical differences: “The first difference which strikes us is that of color… the difference is fixed in nature and is as real as if its seat and cause were better known to us. And is this difference of no importance? Is it not the foundation of a greater or less share of beauty in the two races?… The circumstance of superior beauty, is thought worthy attention in the propagation of our horses, dogs, and other domestic animals; why not in that of man?”17 As for their mental capacities, “Comparing them by their faculties of memory, reason, and imagination, it appears to me that in memory they are equal to the whites; in reason much inferior, as I think one could scarcely be found capable of tracing and comprehending the investigations of Euclid; and in imagination, they are dull, tasteless, anomalous.” He continues, “It is not their condition [as slaves] then, but nature, which has produced the distinction… I advance it, therefore, as a suspicion only, that the blacks, whether originally a distinct race, or made distinct by time and circumstances, are inferior to the whites in the endowments of both body and mind… This unfortunate difference of color, and perhaps of faculty, is a powerful obstacle to the emancipation of these people… When freed, he is to be removed beyond the reach of mixture [through miscegenation].” I highlight this opinion of Jefferson to prove that this was, in fact, his own personal opinion which is readily available in his private works and letters; he was not merely dictating the opinions of his State and people; he himself held these beliefs.

Why does all of this matter, one may ask? The American system required an exceptional population; exceeding all others in natural endowments which rendered that population capable of the hard life of the frontier, or a rigorous education, and a general way of life which produced a population of high levels of morality never before seen in history that rendered them capable of self-government. If we are to expound the ideal Virginia of Thomas Jefferson, we first must know what kind of population is to call it home. A high-functioning European population, capable of self-government in physical and spiritual matters was absolutely foundational to the success of the American Experiment. Thomas Jefferson grew up watching his forefathers welcome Europeans into America; he watched them form a homogenous population with the ideal of freedom and self-government strengthening their natural compatibility with one another. As America expanded, and territory opened for settlement, the Founding Fathers thought it expedient to welcome their European kindred still suffering the oppression that their own fathers fled from; but never was that same invitation extended to those who would be predisposed to fail to meet the standards. The 1790 Naturalization Act says: “Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America, in Congress assembled, That any Alien being a free white person… making proof to the satisfaction of such Court that he is a person of good character, and taking the oath or affirmation prescribed by law to support the Constitution of the United States… at the time of such naturalization, shall also be considered as citizens of the United States.”18 Such is the population of Jefferson’s Virginia Garden: White Europeans of good repute, bound in common love with the native population, and the native population with them, nature having provided the bond and both being dedicated to the same ideals.

Thank you for reading! All of my posts are free, please consider buying me a drink if you enjoy my work!

Sincerely,

John, Son of Dick

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Justice requires that you inquire into the life both of him who confesses and of him who denies, that by his deeds it may be apparent what kind of man each is.

~ St. Justin the Martyr

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There are two ways by which we judge the men of times long past; men who are not immediately remembered by even the elders of land. Their memory lives in us, their ghosts still haunt our home; yet, no one can recollect ever meeting them. We intimately know them; we judge them and we condemn or vindicate them posthumously; yet we have only interacted with them in folk tales and pages. The testimony of their life and death, and their own writings are the only standards by which we can judge anyone, especially those we have not met. The Honorable Thomas Jefferson of Virginia is no exception to such posthumous judgement; rather, he may just suffer at the hands of his posterity more than any other of our great Founding Fathers. Far from falling into the gentle obscurity that John Adams, James Madison, and John Jay enjoyed; Thomas Jefferson has been the subject of generations of scrutiny, slander, and abuse at the hands of obtuse academics and illiterate apologists of every niche opinion alike. I present this short essay as an introduction to a series of ponderings and reflections I plan to write as I drink from the deep and cool well that is the writings and life of Thomas Jefferson. This essay is not merely a defense of him as a man, but serves also as a prayer to the readers of this publication to refrain from rashness and uncritical prejudice which has so long plagued those who have ventured to pontificate on the most misunderstood1 of our Founding Fathers.

My Patron Saint, the Blessed Saint John of Damascus, once wrote a Philosophical treatise called, The Fount of Knowledge.2 To Preface this work, St. John says:

“First of all I shall set forth the best contributors of the philosophers of the Greeks, because whatever there is of good has been given to man from above by God, since ‘every best gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights.’ If, however, there is anything contrary to the truth, then it is a dark invention of the deceit of Satan and a fiction of the mind of an evil spirit, as that eminent theologian Gregory once said. In imitation of the method of the bee, I shall make my composition from those things which are conformable with the truth and from our enemies themselves gather the fruit of salvation. But all that is worthless and falsely labeled as knowledge, I shall reject.”3

There is much accusatory slander which has been aimed at Jefferson from all sides. The modern American-Left decries his slave-owning, but founds their radical egalitarianism firmly in his words.4 The modern American-Right decries him as a pseudo-Jacobin, but appreciates his still socially conservative “libertarianism.” While the alt-right denounces him, in union with the Traditional Christians who may not otherwise be “alt-right,” as a nothing more than an enlightenment philosopher forever to be banished with the likes of Locke and Hume into the intellectual equivalent of a Leper colony.5 As will, hopefully, become readily apparent as we dive deeper into Jefferson’s work: He escapes all of these modern boxes. Most condemnations of him are presentist, or anachronistic at best, and outright arrogance from those who have not read a word of his texts at worst.

While it is true that Jefferson edited the New Testament into what is, now, so famously called the Jeffersonian Bible, it is equally true of that text of moral philosophy that, according to Saul Padover, “Apart from Dr. Rush, only two or three other persons, among them John Adams, ever saw it.” The fact that Thomas Jefferson did not ever intend to publish the text, or the multiple letters that he sent in relation to it,6 is substantiated by way of a letter which he wrote to a Mrs. Samuel Harrison Smith7 —it is here, on this letter that I beg pardon to linger on for the remainder of this inquiry. Thomas Jefferson, for what appears to be, the only known time, makes a private and complete exposition of his personal, and self-proclaimed, “Christian” faith.

He first addresses the woman’s concern about his orthodoxy which was motivated by “the rumor supposed to proceed from a letter of mine [Jefferson’s] to Charles Thomson, on the subject of the Christian religion. It is true that in writing to the translator of the Bible and Testament, that subject was mentioned: but equally so that no adherence to any particular mode of Christianity was there expressed; nor any change of opinions suggested.”8 And, emphatic and trustworthy words of the same letter: “I never told my own religion nor scrutinized that of another. I never attempted to make a convert, nor change another’s creed. I have ever judged the religion of others by their lives; and by this test, my dear Madam, I have been satisfied yours must be an excellent one, to have produced a life of such exemplary virtue and correctness, for it is in our lives and not from our words, that our religion must be read. By the same test the world must judge me.”9

It is here, dear reader, that I invoke the words of Saints Justin again, in that text addressed “To the Emperor Titus Ælius Adrianus Antoninus Pius Augustus Cæsar, and to his son Verissimus the Philosopher, and to Lucius the Philosopher, the natural son of Cæsar, and the adopted son of Pius, a lover of learning, and to the sacred Senate, with the whole People of the Romans,”10 in which he says: “Justice requires that you inquire into the life both of him who confesses and of him who denies, that by his deeds it may be apparent what kind of man each is.” What kind of man was Thomas Jefferson, we may justly ask? Certainly, far from a perfect one, as he himself says, “I may have erred at times. No doubt I have erred. For this is the law of human nature.”11 But he was undeniably a man who, however mistaken he may have been, cast his line into the fishin’ hole of eternal truth, and reeled in a keeper on more than one occasion.

St. John of Damascus does not “First of all… set forth the best contributors of the philosophers of the Greeks” because they were more “correct” in their understanding of eternal truths than anyone else. He was chiefly concerned with them on the same grounds that St. Paul was at the Areopagus:12 The Greek thinkers were the foundation of the culture both were interacting with; finding common ground with them meant finding common ground with those born, bred, and reared in the soil nourished by the likes of Pythagoras, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and Plotinus. Of Socrates, St. Justin says:

“…when Socrates endeavored, by true reason and examination, to bring these things to light, and deliver men from the demons, then the demons themselves, by means of men who rejoiced in iniquity, compassed his death, as an atheist and a profane person, on the charge that ‘he was introducing new divinities;’ and in our case they display a similar activity. For not only among the Greeks did reason (Logos) prevail to condemn these things through Socrates, but also among the Barbarians were they condemned by Reason (or the Word, the Logos) Himself, who took shape, and became man, and was called Jesus Christ; and in obedience to Him, we not only deny that they who did such things as these are gods, but assert that they are wicked and impious demons, whose actions will not bear comparison with those even of men desirous of virtue.”13

And of Plato, he says:

“…what we expect and have learned from Christ, and teach. And Plato, in like manner, used to say that Rhadamanthus and Minos would punish the wicked who came before them; and we say that the same thing will be done, but at the hand of Christ, and upon the wicked in the same bodies united again to their spirits which are now to undergo everlasting punishment; and not only, as Plato said, for a period of a thousand years.”14

As much as we, the descendants of the Founding Fathers, may claim Socrates and Plato as our forefathers; they are not the foundation of our society. While it is true that our Fathers were heavily influenced by Greco-Roman philosophy, from Homer to Plato to Epicurus and Seneca to Boethius; our Founders were unique insofar as they are our Founding Fathers. Why must we, the Honeybee’s of our land, refuse to collect the “fruits of salvation” from our own fathers? May we never be so negligent.

Thomas Jefferson concluded his letter thus: “I have left the world in silence, to judge of causes from their effects: and I am consoled in this course, my dear friend, when I perceive the candor with which I am judged by your justice and discernment… The imputations of irreligion having spent their force, they think an imputation of change might now be turned to account as a bolster for their duperies. I shall leave them hereafter to grope in the dark.”15

We could join in the ranks letting loose our arrows at our Fathers; or, we could refuse to draw our bow, and rather, sit at their feet and draw from them what is in accordance with truth, recognizing that the truths they discovered are a gift, and, “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.”16 This is what Thomas Jefferson asks of us, to judge him by his life and death; and it is equally the precedence that Church history and good sense has thus established. Let us never forsake God and Country.

I hope to expound the work of Thomas Jefferson, to reflect on his life and philosophy through the many writings that he has handed down to us, in order to parse out “what kind of man he [was],”17 and to collect every ounce of nectar which was so shamefully neglected by generations passed.

Thank you for reading. Each and every one of my essays are, and will always be free; if you’d like to support, please consider buying me a drink! In true Southern fashion, every essay I write is done so with the encouragement of several glasses of whiskey.

Respectfully,

John, Son of Dick

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We have become accustomed to hearing women make such claims as they are bored, lack purpose, feel unfulfilled with life, and a slew of other similar complaints. There are two responses which have dominated modern society. First is affirmation that such feelings and complaints are justified, and women ought to break free from the tyranny which keeps them in such an oppressed condition. The second comes from the anti-feminist crowd which tends to identify these complaints with feminism itself and says that women who feel or vocalize such are just being feminists who hate their family and homes. The effects of both of these responses are obvious. In the case of the former, women are encouraged to enter the workforce, prioritize themselves and their selfish and disordered desires over being wives and mothers. But, perhaps less immediately obvious, are the effects of the latter which ignores valid complaints of women from a purely reactionary position of men who have been so indoctrinated by and are now so wary of feminism in any and all of its manifestations. We see this radical anti-feminist tendency among the Christian circles which are hyper-critical of feminism. Many women in these cases are left with a feeling of utter hopelessness. Their Christian husbands and churches reprimand any and all complaints and cannot conceive that they may stem from a cause other than the residual effects of feminism still plaguing society.

In our modern world we have two broad paradigms that “conservative” and “liberal” families adopt, respectively. First is the one which has both men and women working, if there are children, they are sent off to daycare or school, this is assuming marriage, much less a “traditional” marriage is even the case. The second is the Nuclear Family. Now, this term is somewhat vague and broad. Most simply it refers to a traditional marriage (i.e. one man and one woman) who have children, and this family unit forms the basis of society. But, in colloquial terms, and the way it has been accepted and used by the anti-feminist crowd, is something more akin to a romanticized 1920s-1970s “traditional” family where the husband is the breadwinner and the wife takes care of the home and kids.

In response to this latter paradigm are the “Proverbs 31” women who argue that women simply staying at home with the kids while their husband is the breadwinner is not the Biblical example of how a family works economically. This “Proverbs 31” movement being itself adopted by both the feminists and anti-feminists alike. On the side of the feminists, they will use it justify that Christian women ought to be working and providing for the family; and on the side of the anti-feminists are those who claim that the “homemaking” is work in itself and the woman who labors in her home is the true Proverbs 31 woman whose work creates the conditions necessary for her husband to be economically productive to a higher degree.1 Then the debate over whether or not Proverbs 31 requires women to be economically productive themselves erupts, and, well, that’s not the point of this essay.

It is my contention that the truth, as is so often the case, evades both of these frameworks. Both the feminists and anti-feminists simply assume industrialism in their worldviews. In other words, the perceived disagreement here is irrelevant, and we must break free from the whole paradigm.

What is the answer then? Well, in our present condition there isn’t a great one. We can’t simply flip a switch and make our society agrarian again; but, we must try to the best of our abilities.

In the agrarian and traditional world, the home was not merely a place where families met at the end of the day. It was the place where the economic and material needs of the family were met, as much as each family’s present conditions allowed. What material goods could not be provided from within the home itself, were acquired by bartering those which could be, or paying for it with money (gold, silver, cash, etc.) which was earned, primarily, through the production of what goods were produced domestically. What this created was a harmony between a family’s needs and production; but, more to the point, it also produced a family which was productive as a whole unit and did not live in the disharmony that the industrial system enforces. The Luddites worked as whole families, and the same was true of the Southern Yeomanry and Planters. It is a distinctive marker of agrarian society that families are not wrenched apart out of necessity (or, greed) of achieving material and economic gain. They were co-laborers working side by side to keep the family fed and flourishing.

The women of these families were, then, economically productive (but this is not to say economic productivity is the ultimate goal), and fulfilled in the sense that they were wives and mothers. But, their role as wives and mothers was different than we conceive of it today. In the modern world, being a wife and mother doesn’t mean anything for the girlboss (if she even has a husband and kids); someone else raises your kids, and you meet your husband in the evening after you are both done working to watch television, I guess. On the “traditional” side, being a wife and mother means keeping the home in good order, making meals, and actively caring for and educating the children (assuming they are not in school). But, it isn’t actually that much work to clean the house and do a few hours of school with the kids.

It should be obvious that the eight-hour school day is a product of the industrial society which exists merely to keep kids out of their parent’s hair, rather than educating them effectively. But, as a homeschooled child myself, I can tell you that I never did school for more than three hours a day when I was young, and never more than, approximately five hours when I was older; it is simply unnecessary and counterproductive to the education of a child. And in the South under the Jeffersonian education model (broadly speaking), school was not in session for even half of the year, most children only went for less than five years to learn the most rudimentary subjects (if they went at all), and it was accomplished using far shorter days than the modern eight-hour model. Not to mention the fact that the schools were generally small and run by local communities. The point here being it is not much work (as far as time is concerned) for a mother to educate her children adequately using a classical model.

But obviously, as most folks that are married with children knows, the womenfolk are exhausted by the end of the day. If all they are doing is tidying up the house, doing a few hours of school, and making breakfast and lunch, why on earth are they so exhausted? In many cases, much more so than their hardworking husbands who almost never envy their situation. Well, St. Jerome once admonished us to “engage in some occupation, that the devil may always find you busy,” and Chaucer said, “Idleness teaches a man to do many evil things.” In such an industrialized home, children are made into idle mess-makers; and the womenfolk’s day is spent following them around (assuming they refuse to let the television babysit them). This is a modern problem unknown to the agrarian home, and no modern solution is possible to remedy it.

In the agrarian home and society, the children were occupied with work. The boys with their father and the daughters with their mother when they were doing their respective chores, and then they also worked all together when jobs required. There was no energy wasted on idleness.

Another most infuriating aspect of the industrial home is the sheer amount of stuff we have; nearly all of which are useless commodities. Why do we have so many dishes in-use all the time instead of breaking out the bulk for gatherings, otherwise using just enough for day-to-day use? Why do kids have so many toys to make exceptional messes with? And the list could go on and on. In the agrarian world, the home was not filled with commodities, it was filled with necessities. Even the enjoyable hobbies that folks engaged in were productive. Womenfolk would gather and lower the quilting frame and make goods and necessities for their families while enjoying one another’s company. And men would hunt and fish for leisure, which had the happy byproduct of food production. There are those who have returned to such a simple and harmonious way of life, it is a method that the Southern Agrarians advocated for in the 1930s, and one which Wendyll Berry and Paul Kingsnorth were and are equally as passionate about.

All of these material goods enslave us to the system and require us to go out of the home to attain them. And while it is true that we are, as a general rule, so deeply entrenched in the system that most of us cannot simply break free immediately; we can begin to make small movements towards it. We can produce great amounts of food on little land; we can still hunt and fish; women can still sew clothes and learn to make leather shoes; we can run small businesses out of our homes as families; children can be tasked with caring for crops, and almost everyone can start raising rabbits for meat and pelt and chickens for eggs. There are realistic ways which we can work towards harmony in our homes that do not require capital to begin. And if you have a community that you can do this with, even better.

The discontentment of women who have noticed this disharmony ought to be a key indicator that something is deeply wrong; Feminism has pointed out the issue but offers a demonic solution. In conclusion, yes, perhaps we should listen to the cries of the womenfolk. We should notice that they feel unfulfilled, that they yearn for a way of life long since gone. There ought not be so many toys that the kids can cover every square inch of the home; there ought not be so many dishes that they pile up; there ought not be so many clothes that it’s impossible to keep up on laundry. These are modern problems unknown to our forefathers, and they would have told us to stop being so greedy and materialistic and focus on what matters. The fact that men go off to provide for all of this nonsense, in addition to buying food becomes irrelevant once you realize there are normal people who chose to break free and have done so to varying degrees. And it is our own stupidity which keeps us trapped, and in defense of the very system that enslaves us we beat down the complaints of the good women with the accusation that they are acting like feminists for not wanting to live in such an inhuman way.

Thank you for reading. None of my work is or ever will be paywalled. Please consider supporting my work by buying me a drink!

Sincerely,

John, Son of Dick

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If we are going to make a reductio ad absurdum argument, then we first need premises, namely: “There exists such a thing as a global white race,” and, “Race transcends any regional or local or religious differences that may divide us currently.” Now, it is helpful to first establish the conclusion that those in favor of such racialism will come to: “The global White race must lay aside regional and local differences to stand in solidarity to expel the barbarian and secure the existence of the race.” This seems logical enough, after all, it isn’t white men raping European women en masse on the Continent; and from an American perspective, it is likely that the same phenomenon will be witnessed here.

But this is just an abstract argument featuring abstract categories. We don’t live, and move, and have our being in the world of the abstract, so we need to give these terms tangible referents that we can interact with.

What is the White Race? Well, this is an easy question. It is anyone with fair skin. Except that Germans and most Western Europeans don’t think Slavs are white; many don’t think Irish are White, and some go as far as to say that Celts generally aren’t; and as of recent English history, it was offensive to misidentify a true Anglo as a Welshman. So no, it is not just anyone with fair skin, as it would seem.

Does Race transcend any local or regional or religious differences within the White Race? Of course it does. Unless, of course, you were a non-conformist living in England during the Civil War; or you were an Anabaptist in Germany during Luther’s revolution; or you are by blood a European but religiously a Jew; or you were a Latin Catholic living in Byzantium; or you were an Orthodox Christian living in Byzantium when the Latins sacked it; or you were a German living under the Third Reich when your wife got raped by Whites (and also Slavs, but they aren’t White); or you were an Anglo living in England during the Battle of Britian; or you were a Rhodesian when your English brethren betrayed you; and the list goes on. No, it turns out that Whites have never allowed racialism to transcend local and regional differences or interests, much less religious.

The White Race should stand in solidarity to expel the Barbarian (as we have so brilliantly done in the past). Sure, let’s do that. Everyone now open up Twitter, and if you don’t have an account, create one. Then go ahead and follow all the other White people, and let’s all start collecting discord handles to start a Group Chat so we can all actually try to organize some consolidated action outside of sharing the same memes in our racialist echo-chambers. From that Group Chat go ahead and try to elect a new Hitler and then figure out where we are going to open imperial operations. I vote the Southern United States, “what was that Brit? You want to start in London because you’re worried about your people? No, we are all White and equally one another’s people and I think the Southern United States is the most strategically viable option.” But it doesn’t stop there, “who let the damn Slav in the group? I don’t give a shit that he has red hair and blue eyes!” And, “no you fucking Frenchie, we aren’t stepping foot in Paris for three and a half years, trust the plan.” Such arguments continue while your communities burn; but your head is too far in the Metaverse to even care.

Okay, so obviously actual global White action is totally off the table. But surely White Americans can unify? Sure, unless you’re an Ellis Islander. And now, the age-old question rears its ugly head again: “What is a White American?” Well, can you have any Redskin mixed in your blood? Or South American? Or Spanish? Or must you be 100% pure on a genetic test? How many whites are there in America, then, if that’s the case? It may just seem as though the Ellis Islanders have most of the country beat in that retarded game of purity spiraling.

But okay, you found a hundred thousand pure whites in America, and excluded the Ellis Islanders (and the Italians, for obvious reasons). What’s next? Well, now you have to figure out where to go. A quarter of y’all are from the Pacific Northwest and think Eastern Washington is a fantastic option; but another quarter want to stay East of the Mississippi and South of the Mason and Dixon Line, while another quarter are New Englanders who would be willing to move to Maine for pragmatic reasons; and finally come the North and Mid Westerners who see potential in Indiana, maybe the Upper Peninsula, or even the Dakotas and could be convinced to move anywhere in the region. Oh, and only small sub-groups have even met in person, you all still are only meta-friends.

Finally, the day comes, assuming Christ hasn’t returned by then or most of y’all aren’t dead of old age, that you have agreed on a location. Naturally the PNW seems the most viable and your fellow Whites are already working on making Butler’s plan a reality there, so why not go join them? The trek begins, just a few miles for some, and clear across the country for others. Of course, a fair majority of these just turned around when they realized they didn’t have enough gas money or heart to make it all the way there, but we will assume seventy thousand brave White souls made it all the way. Of these, some will leave because they miss their homes and hearths; so maybe sixty thousand remain past a year. Then comes the grueling task of settling this many people. Most of whom probably find apartments until property is acquired and homes built; but they need jobs to pay for their apartments and fund the movement, and they fall into a monotonous pattern of life dreaming about the home they left behind. To top it all off, the whites who had move there previously to live out the Butler dream already have their factions are groups and don’t have resources to share or time or care enough to help the newcomers.

By this point, you’ve probably got fifty thousand folks with you, but these are the hardcore ideologues that are ready to suffer and die for the cause.

Now you’ve got some property, a few homes are built but it’s a slow and expensive process and disagreements are renewed every day about who’s in charge. Factions start to form as those who knew each other before or come from the same region continue to gravitate towards one another. Before you know it, these factions come to blows with one another, probably because petty theft started to occur. And before you know it, the new Hitler y’all elected is beaten to a bloody pulp because he was a Protestant and made a snarky remark to a Catholic and the Papists beat him up for it, or it was the other way around, or maybe he was a Neopagan and all the Christians beat him for blasphemy, the specifics don’t really matter. But okay, okay. All those disputes got settled and somehow you, in all your Napoleonic genius, turned this ragtag group of previously disconnected Whites from a Discord chatgroup into a political entity to be reckoned with. One guy ran for mayor, another for sheriff, another for County Commissioner, etc. etc. Soon, a governor run will be realistic. And to top it all off, there’s only a small one percent minority in your county of non-Whites… Utopia is so close you can smell it.

But hey, now y’all are getting established enough that it might be advantageous to write up a Constitution or some kind of law. There’s some hardcore Jeffersonians in the fray with the Monarchical Traditional Catholics and they are coming to blows over whether to have an autocratic dictator or not; while the Neopagans and the Puritans are on the other side of the house fighting over whether or not to write Sabbath laws into the legislation.

Finally, the ultimate conclusion is reached. This whole thing was fucking ridiculous to begin with, and you all disperse with your respective groups into different regions of the County to function as autonomous cities after the Ancient Greek model; but of course, just having white neighbors is enough for utopia.

Well not only did the lines break on the region that groups came from, but those themselves splinter even more. The Northeastern Presbyterians can’t come to agreement with the New England Puritans on whether or not instruments are allowed in the National Church, and the Catholics form two different towns because one sect wanted to only use the Latin Mass and the other wanted to have it in English. The Greek and Russian Orthodox Christians had a bit of a tussle over whether or not pews would be allowed so now there’s two Orthodox towns. And don’t even look at the Baptists. The Southern Baptists are literally fighting tooth and nail with Joel Webbon’s 1689ers because the former won’t legislate religion or use the Nicene Creed; so in an unexpected turn of events, the Southern Presbyterians, who previously split with the Traditional Christians from the South over iconoclasm, now have a town together with the Reformed Baptists and they’ve agreed to set paedobaptism aside for a time because it’s a tertiary issue. The Anglicans, together with the Lutherans create their own town, but soon split as well. And the Neopagans, well they are so syncretistic that they were all able to unify into one town.

As a general rule, this organization remains somewhat stable for some time, until… to the surprise of no one, a war breaks out between the towns over who is the “best whites.” It started when the Neopagans built a statue to Hitler, claiming he was a Pagan. This infuriated both Catholic towns who put aside their difference of opinion for a time and declared war on the Neopagans. Of course, the rest of the Christians joined in and the Neopagans got mogged.

But then, the Irish Catholics get betrayed by the Presbyterians who allied with the Baptists and the Anglicans to destroy papacy because it’s an anti-white slave religion. The Lutherans did fight in this war, but they only sent a handful of men. They turned their attention on their age old enemies: The Russians. Now, most of these folks aren’t actually Russian, but having joined a Slavic Jurisdiction was enough to strip away their white privileges.

Before the dust even started to settle from this fiasco, the Southern Baptists made a nasty comment about the Nicene Creed and Joel Webbon’s stupid voice sounds over a microphone calling for all Nicene Christians to destroy them. This is, of course done in short order as the Southern Baptists were all too fat to run to their arms and get in line of battle. The only male who made it out of the initial melee was spotted behind a tree when he couldn’t fit his whole body behind it and was sniped in the muffin top, this tree being no less than four feet in diameter. There were, however, some spoils from this war; three infants were taken by the victors. The 1689ers claimed them as they were the children of Baptists and should stay with Baptists, but the Presbyterians suffered the most casualties and felt that they had a claim to them on that account, the Southern and Northern Presbyterians being unified for the moment. A fight between the two groups ensued, and while it started as a tussle between comrades one might expect in a war camp, the fun ended when a spry Presbyterian went and got a baptismal font and a baby was drowned during the scuffle. Both sides claimed the murder was the fault of the other and then had a further disagreement on whether the infant was in heaven; so the Northern Presbyterians went home and the Southern Presbyterians and Reformed Baptists packed up and left town to each go inhabit one of the decimated cities left empty from the war.

The Lutherans and Anglicans remained allies for a time, neither daring to attack the Greeks who had stayed out of the war thus far and built a statue of Plato in the meantime. This statue proved to be an important one for the Greeks, because elites from the remaining groups were having a discussion about whether the Greeks were even white; but when they claimed Plato, the other groups decided they weren’t willing to denounce him as one of their race, so they left them alone. But they never felt right about it.

The story of the region goes on, and many more people die, are raped, taken as war-brides, homes and whole villages razed, and the whole experiment is proven to be an utter failure. As it would seem, there is no such thing as a global white race, and mere skin color does not transcend local, regional, or religious differences; as it would turn out, our little Pacific Northwestern colony learned the lesson of the 20th Century and went out unceremoniously.

The moral of the story is to not uproot your lives and leave your home and actual kin in the ideological pursuit of an abstract “white” race which you don’t know and can’t connect and much less organize unified action with. Your mental capacity is much better spent in your church and home, loving your wife and children and friends and planting seeds that will grow your folk into a people capable of creating real and lasting change.

Thank you for reading.

Your affectionate friend,

John, Son of Dick

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Save a wedding done in a Traditional Christian Church, almost all weddings in America are a dumb and pointless waste of money. A day little girls dream about, and which they ended up stressing over; stress which is caused by how to make the guests happy. Most weddings in America today are spectacles; complete with jokes, pranks, and other shenanigans which serve as a public humiliation ritual of the poor bastard that marries the woman evil enough to turn him into a laughingstock in front of, God knows how many, guests… surely a marriage that starts off like this can’t go wrong right?

But first, in most cases, is it actually a public humiliation ritual of the groom? Surely the woman can be the butt of any joke? The nerve of some people to dream of laughing at a princess in her white dress on her wedding day; a dress which is almost always inappropriately worn anyway. A quick Google search will confirm the unbelievable… the Bride is never the butt of the joke (shocking, I know). Now that you all have shaken off the shock, here’s what Google came up with after being given the same prompt, only changing “bride” and “groom.”

If I didn’t already have two more pictures than I prefer to in essays, I would add the “corporate wants you to find the difference between these two pictures” meme… it is rare one comes across quite as perfect a case as this to whip it out.

But in all seriousness, this is fucking absurd. Nearly everything, save the “Bouquet” swap, is a prank in which the Groom is the butt of the joke and the bride is either an active participant or an observer. It is simply unthinkable to mess with the Bride, after all, she may just throw a hissy fit.

I was unfortunately reminded today that there are people evil and retarded enough to plan the “first look” prank. For those unawares, this prank involves blindfolding the groom, and preparing him to see his beautiful bride for the first time, just to turn around (or be kissed on the cheek or hugged, etc.) and behold one of his groomsmen (usually the best man) standing there in a wedding dress while a photographer laughs and the event is made into memories for the happy couple to look back on.

Now, I did not have such an experience at my wedding; my bride and everyone at the wedding knew better than to do such nonsense. But what groom in their right mind would laugh at such a thing? I, for my part, would probably beat the one donning the dress into a pulp and left the wedding (to the shock of the guests and the dominatrx bride) for several reasons: First, it’s fucking gay and no faggot is a friend of mine; second, fuck you for trying to make a public joke out of me in the name of the spectacle that is the modern “wedding.” But no, we don’t see that kind of reaction very often. More often then not, the Groom laughs it off like it’s normal. In a better world, even just one hundred years ago, it would have been cause for a brawl; closer to two hundred years ago, you may have caught a bullet.

But it gets more extreme, don’t you worry you dickless puppets. Far from just seeing your best man in drag, you may get to put your mouth a cunt hair away from his balls as you grab the garter with your teeth. Who thinks of these things? Only the feminist woman. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.

Feminists want men humiliated. What better way to kick off their marriage than by making sure their boys are put in their proper place?

Now, neither the men or women who participate in these weddings ought to be married or respected, and I suppose we can all laugh at this for the feminist clown show it is; but it makes me mad for the men that go through this. They feel some obligation to not get mad on their wife’s special day. They shouldn’t. The twenty grand the daddy of the bride spent on that wedding should be pissed down the drain by the humiliated groom. Beat the drag queen into a bloody pulp, go home and drink and laugh knowing that the guests showed up for nothing; if the “wedding” was supposed to be a spectacle, what better ending to the show than a surprise no one expected? And maybe, just maybe, you may be lucky enough to have the bride’s dad show up angry for the dishonor done his daughter and family; and maybe you’d get to be the lucky duck who gets to beat the shit out of the man who would raise such feminist scum of a daughter.

Seriously though, pranks have no place in a wedding, it is not a joke or a spectacle made to amuse guests. The fact they are there is proof of a dying civilization where a sacrament has been turned into a dominatrix porno. We should start being honest and put the bride in black leather.

Don’t marry this type of woman.

Sincerely,

John, Son of Dick

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Almost every conversation I have with my four-year old son, without exception, includes a question about whether or not something lives or exists in “our world.” Whether it be various exotic animals, Yankees, cars, or anything else that the mind of a young boy can dream up, I have been asked if it is in “our world.” I don’t remember how I answered the first time he asked such a question; but by the time he began to ask consistently, I started to ponder the beauty of such a question. I recognized the depth of its meaning and realized the lessons that I have to learn from it. In all honesty, I, as most “adults” are, am wholly unfit to answer such a simple question. I don’t live in the world of my son, but perhaps he can teach me to.

The words of Jesus Christ come to mind when his inquisitive little voice sounds across the dinner table; when I hear him, I too hear Jesus say, “Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”1 Perhaps, just as the living faith of a little child sitting on the Lord’s knee is superior to the abstract and dogmatic faith of the child’s parent, so too is the scale in which a child lives and perceives the world superior to the abstract reasoning that gives me the “ability” to explain to my four-year old that, “yes, giraffes live in our world because our world is the whole Earth and included Africa.” C.S. Lewis once said, “Children are not deceived by fairy-tales; they are often and gravely deceived by school-stories.” Perhaps disenchanting the world of little children ought to be feared; maybe letting their world grow to include Africa and Asia and Russia is deceiving them, dehumanizing them, maybe it is beginning of their initiation into the Metaverse that we all know we are trapped in, but struggle to get out of.

I fear that for my children.

Cultivating my boy’s child-sized world has become the goal of the conversations that follow from his questions. Letting him believe that giraffes live in a different world is important to me. But he doesn’t only perceive other countries and continents as different worlds. Anywhere that is not in our town, that he does not routinely visit, that is filled with people he does not know, it all constitutes a different world to him. Our home and hearth is the capital of his little world, and the further we move —both geographically or spiritually— away from it, the less he begins to recognize. Anytime we visit somewhere new and he sees something that we don’t have he asks about it. “Is that in our world,” he says; even if we simply drove forty-five minutes to the next town. Our Church is an hour and a half away from our house, spiritually, it’s a part of his world; his godparents, his priests, his friends, they are all a part of it; but not even when we visit another Orthodox Church is it apart of his world. He is unconcerned with abstract doctrine, he doesn’t care about where something is on a map, all that he knows is what is in his world.

The ability to understand that the Earth is bigger than your home and town is unimportant. One common complaint that Antebellum Northerners had when they visited the South was the lack of education in abstract topics such as math and geography; Yankees would often be astounded to learn that a Georgia Yeoman very well may not know where New York was on a map, often thinking it to be south of Virginia.2 But what the same “uneducated” Georgian did with his land equally astounded him. He knew his soil; he knew what grew and what didn’t; he knew his rivers and how to fish them; he knew how to hunt his woods. He knew his folk and felt at home among them. He knew his customs and traditions that made his State or even County unique from anywhere else. But most importantly, our Southern forefathers recognized the importance of such a human sized world, and they deplored any attempt to subvert it through education.

As with so many other topics, here too are our forefather vindicated. Afterall, what good is it if my son knows that giraffes live on the Earth which he also lives on, which means they live in his world? He can’t see or touch one. The fact they live on the same earth as him has absolutely no bearing on his quality of life aside from hindering it. Eventually he will come to learn that he lives on the earth with the giraffes, but Lord willing, he will still know that they don’t live in his world.

Technology has uprooted us. We communicate with people across the globe and can travel virtually anywhere in less than forty-eight hours for enough money. Our “world” is both smaller and larger than it has ever been, and we have thoroughly disenchanted it. We no longer recognize our homes, we don’t know our traditions, our accents are diluted by immigration and television: globohomo is now. How strange that the deadliest weapon to wage war against the beast are the questions which flows from innocent heart of a four-year old? I suppose no stranger than Satan finding his most terrible foe in the faith that flows from the same innocent heart.

We have been indoctrinated to understand that everyone is the same; but it is quite the contrary. The feeling of curious repulsion a child gets when they see a Somalian or an Ethiopian is good. It is the feeling of one who has not yet learned that those strange people do, and ought to live in their world; and if it was never taught to them, they would never know it. It is the same feeling that a North Dakota child would get if they travelled to Florida and drove down alligator alley. One could imagine a child asking, “are these dragons?” The alligators, without the enlightening and world-expanding intervention of modern education, would always be akin to some pseudo-mythical beast to the North Dakotan; just as moose are and always will be to me as someone who has never seen one in person.

In traditional Christian villages, the size of one’s world generally ended where the ringing of the Church bells could no longer be heard. In our modern era, our world is as large as the earth (and beyond). We introduce it to our children through television; I reckon that in most children’s lives, they have more interaction with the whole earth through that damned screen than they do with the bugs that live in the dirt outside their door. Their world has grown exponentially larger than they are capable of inhabiting as a human; they must become something else; they must be dehumanized. They must be programmed like mere robots who can be parted out and replaced by anyone from anyplace. The machine can feel at home anywhere; it has no traditions, no cultures, no ethnicities and races; it has parts; parts which it gets from all over the world and places them where it needs. We must be trained to stop thinking locally; our world must expand; we must see the humanity everywhere; we must interact with it; become desensitized to differences; recognize that the world is bigger than the community capable of meaningful human interaction. When our children ask if giraffes live in our world, the machine wants us to answer, “yes,” because we all live on one Earth.

The revolution against such dehumanization starts at home. Most of us were raised in an anti-human fashion to greater or lesser extents. The answer to my son’s question, if he were to ask a Boomer or Millennial, would be an unequivocal “yes, of course giraffes live in your world.” But let us change that demonic answer; and more importantly, let us be humble enough to learn from their simple question.

C.S. Lewis says, “Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.” He believed that adults would one day return to the lessons they learned from them, Lewis again said, “Since it is so likely that (children) will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage. Otherwise you are making their destiny not brighter but darker.” In like manner, let us grow wise enough to recognize the wisdom of our children’s little worlds and grow old enough to live there with them; and let us make their destiny brighter by refusing to deceive them by artificially expanding their world at the behest of the machine. Perhaps doing this will just so happen to make us more human again.

In conclusion, allow me to answer my dear boy: “You tell me, son, you are better fit to answer than I. Do giraffes live in our world?”

God bless you Sunny.

In Christ,

John, Son of Dick

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