I sat down with a pint of stout yesterday after finishing the day’s work. I watched a bit of last year’s “Hatfields & McCoys” miniseries and it got me to thinking. All those men in those extended families, men with very clear ideas about honor and right and wrong and retribution and justice and family. Family. Behold an age in which large families are not only anomalies; they are scorned and treated as freakish troublemakers. Behold an age in which young married White couples might have one child, not even replacing themselves in the extended family of their holy race, and yet spending hundreds of dollars on faggoty, useless, yipping dogs on which they dote and over which they fawn. Behold an age in which the parents of White children, murdered by colored animals, publicly extend forgiveness to the beasts who claimed their offsprings’ lives…even when the beasts haven’t asked for such forgiveness. “This isn’t about hate,” the White parents say, peering hopefully and miserably into the arrogant, sneering faces of the demons who robbed them of grandchildren and peace.
But what if the large families began resurfacing? What if some Devil Anse Hatfield presided over a vast house of stubborn, muscular males, males with the blood of Vikings and Celtic chieftans and rawboned explorers coursing through their bodies? What would happen if the sister of such young men was violated or harmed (or even whistled at) by some nonWhite piece of humanoid garbage? Ah, the thought pleases me. And the thought occurs to me that perhaps this is one element of why our enemy wants us to have tiny families: large families, particularly those with lots of brothers, are a natural protection for White girls. How many White teenage boys would fight if they witnessed their sister being harrassed by a neezher? How many White girls would consider such attention to be harrassment?
In his latest post, the author of Cambria Will Not Yield makes this powerful statement:
God prefers mercy to sacrifice. He wants His people to stay together as a people so that faith, hope, and charity, especially charity, does not perish from the earth. The provincial European does not suffer nine-year-old boys to be driven to suicidal despair by Asian tormentors. Nor does the provincial European permit black demigods to kill white people, whom liberal oligarchs have deemed devils, with impunity. Charity demands that we be meek toward the meek, but it also demands that we be fierce in defense of the meek and the helpless. This white holocaust must end even if it means we have to kill every last liberal and every last person of color. The liberals have made this war, not us. We can’t accept their Oriental vision of existence and stand passively by while white people are sacrificed on the altars of the liberals’ colored gods. God did not shed His grace, as the blasphemous song declares, over democratic America; He shed His grace over the European people who loved much. The world saw the face of Jesus Christ through the people who had charity.
I pray the large family returns some day. I pray the sons of such families will carry out such a vision of defending the meek and the helpless. And I will begin to allow hope to lodge in my chest when I see White men of any age attacking every colored fool who addresses him publicly as “white boy.”
Some men do understand duty and family. A young man named Ransom Culhane wrote to me recently, and his letter was so affecting and so potent, I asked him if I could share part of it here. Read and be encouraged. Christ is present in our people, and hope yet lives.
I’m 24 years old and an only child. For the last 6 years or so, I’ve been helping (along with my mother) to take care of my dear grandparents. My grandfather has advanced Alzheimer’s disease and in December 2011 my grandmother could no longer take care of him and with heavy hearts we placed him in a very decent assisted living home with a floor specifically for those with dementia. I have always been close to my grandparents and to see my poor granddad in this shape was difficult as well as seeing the toll it took on my grandmother to be separated from her husband of 60 years. She relied on him for everything and when he got sick, her whole world collapsed.
Now, 2011 was a very rough year for me as my parents almost came to the point of divorce. So the fragile bonds of kinship that were the staple and rock of my childhood were coming apart in front of my eyes. In the midst of this turmoil, though, a shining light cut through the darkness and sadness; a precious gift from our Lord.
The people who inhabit the floor where my grandpa now lives are a pitiful bunch. Those who can, walk around and babble incoherently and many of them lie back in a chair and sleep all day. They have all been reduced to a childlike state for the most part. Now, my grandma and I go and visit my grandpa twice a week. On the first day we visited him, we walked into the main room of the Alzheimer’s floor amongst the people and near us was a younger woman grappling with a small, hunched over, but quite energetic older lady, trying to get her to sit down in a chair. As we walked into the room, this older lady pointed at me and said “I bet he could show us!” I wrote this off as the disorientation of a sick woman and we went to fetch my grandpa. We found him and were settled in at a table and here comes the old woman again, free from her younger captor. She sits down and starts talking to me. I don’t understand what she is saying but I play along. She asks “Did you win today? How’s your brother doing?” to which I respond with incomprehension which she finds humorous (she had to repeat the “how’s your brother doing?” because of the confused look on my face). She then asks to touch the hair of my goatee on my chin which she does and say it “feels good”. We sit there for awhile talking to my grandpa and then this old woman starts patting my leg and says “You’re a good kid” and “I still love you”. When we left I blew the whole incident off as strange yet normal considering the setting.
From then on out, every time we went to see my grandpa this old lady, whom I found out, was named Doris and 88 years old, came running to see me. She always wanted to talk to me and I obliged her. She calls me “Honey” and often says “I love you” and “how did I deserve someone who’s so good to me”. I’ve realized on different days I play several different roles in her reality. Some days she sees me as her grandson (as she did on the first day), others I am her brother, and on yet others she has referred to me as her husband. This can be often awkward but also humorous. One day when she quite obviously saw me as her husband she said out loud “Oh, I could just jump into bed with you”. Whoever I am, she finds me very special and several times while I’m there puckers up her lips to kiss me on the cheek, which I indulge her. She is always talking about her family: children, grandchildren etc, whom I get the feeling seldom come and visit her. She also talks about her mother, how much she misses her father and her various siblings. Her thoughts are disjointed and fragmented, but from what I have been able to piece together, she comes from a large family in Iowa, her father died when she was very young, and she was a loving mother and devoted wife.
I wish I could know her as she was before she was sick, who she was as a person. I’ve gotten to know many of the other folks in the home as well and they all exude a simple, childlike innocence which I find wonderful. Much sadness is invoked, though, when I think of these people, all old and forgotten, shipped away because they are too much for “regular” people to deal with. They all have stories, stories which they can no longer tell, and barely remember, except for occasional fragments. My heart hurts for them, as it does for our European people who have allowed themselves to become captive to a spiritual and cultural form of Dementia, forgetting and abandoning their past and hiding it away like a frail old woman who stumbles around trying in vain to find her way to the bathroom.
Doris is a homely woman, with short ragged hair and sunken, wrinkled features. But in her sweet face, I see great beauty and in her garbled attempts at sincere conversation I find more love than most “normal” and “sane” people are capable of understanding in this disordered modern age. I take public transportation to my university in downtown Denver, Colorado and see the wreckage that our postmodern anti-culture has wrought and in the midst of it all, I feel more at home amongst the sick and lonely old people with dementia. Those who are forgotten reminders of a people; of a time long gone.
May Christ our Lord renew the forgotten reminders of our people, and may He raise up warriors to march beneath His standard.
Rest well, dear friends.