Alien to American heritage.
It doesn’t matter where I am, or what I’m doing, it’s always there. That sinking feeling.A sense of loss. An understanding inside that there seems to be nothing capable of preventing the noxious, rampant landfill we call a country from bulldozing over us everyday and everywhere. The overwhelming negative changes we’ve all witnessed at work and in our daily lives, the ubiquitous iron hammer of a multiculturalist ideology, the suppression of the fundamental right to speak one’s mind, the endless social engineering by a minority of Leftist group-think fanatics, the irresponsibility of a corrupt and impotent government that works against us, the relentless abuse and ridicule our people endure, the mockery of our history, the bastardization of the English language by moronic celebrities, the rise of junk culture, and well, more. Just more, more, and more. Never ending. Everywhere. And it’s really, really not us. It’s alien.
We all know this. Right?
Many of our beliefs and traditions, that is, the kinds of things that American Patriots have ironically died for, have seemingly been reduced to fodder for pop culture by late night jab artists and the Democrat multimedia hit machine. It’s all a joke now. The past, like everything else that is oh so vieux, is just something to make fun of. To laugh at.
So I avoid alien when I can, but it’s hard. Nearly impossible in fact.
But there are times when I can indulge in the traditional. For example, the family, friends who get it, great books, or in places like the barber shop. It’s true. Somehow the barber shop endures, at least for now. It’s one of the few spaces a person like me can be comfortable. A place where I don’t feel constantly boxed in, a kind of set aside for the beleaguered. Some time ago I found one buried downtown, and was immediately ecstatic. It’s real, a little rough around the edges, and thankfully still politically incorrect. And it’s a simple business, with no hair spray, no shampoo and conditioner, no blow dry, and no Asian massage parlor in the back. The median age of the barbers is about seventy-five, and there are two hair styles to choose from — “short” and “medium.” Perfect. I’m there.
And I’ve been there ever since. The guy who cuts my hair is an Army vet, and proud of it. There are all kinds of things hammered to his wall, such as photos of himself in uniform, gun shell casings, illustrations of semi-automatic weapons, politicalcartoons, pieces of animals, and pictures of his kids, too. I feel safe and relaxed in the barber shop. Peaceful. His kids graduated from a military academy and followed in the footsteps of their father. It’s refreshing to gaze at his life story in frames, but as I stare at the pictures and memorabilia hanging on every square inch of space I get that gut-wrenching knot in my stomach. It’s the Other America. Mine. The one that’s been stolen from me. From us.
After a while he got used to me, and we started talking about stuff. Even though he knew me, he’d still ask how to cut my hair every time I came in. I’d pause and look at the examples of the two hair styles on the wall, rub my chin a bit, and then say “medium.” For an older guy he was quick and accurate with an electric razor. But when he took out the straight blade to shave my neck I would cringe a bit. Once while he was shaving me a blonde female coed came into the barber shop by accident from the local university, and immediately did a one-eighty right back out. It caused him to twitch a bit while gawking.
“You’re lucky I’ve got a steady hand,” he quipped, chuckling.
So we talk sometimes, and one day he was telling me about his older brother, the one who died in WWII. I listen, thinking about what’s in his mind as he speaks. A couple of other guys are sitting opposite, just hanging out and talking about hunting while their wives do shopping or something. Since we all kinda know each other, and the conversation from the barber is about war, I use the opportunity to probe.
“Do you think it will ever break up?”
OK, I got bold for a second. Maybe a little over the top. It’s just a barber shop, not a class in political science. I wouldn’t just walk into any place and start blabbing away like this. Admittedly, these kinds of queries can offend. But they’ve seen me around. I’m not a stranger, and it’s a small Southern town with Southern men who have (very) deep Southern roots. So it’s safe. After all, their ancestors seceded from the Union, remember? So we go back and forth, and the responses are pretty much what I had expected. Everything has “gone to hell,” the President is “a liar,” the economy “sucks.” And then one of the dudes says he doesn’t really know what “our boys fought for.”
However, it was the “break up” part I really wanted to pursue, and what I heard wasn’t really all that surprising. What might have ended in a fist fight a hundred years ago was actually an informative exercise in where a lot of Americans are today in their thinking. People are more receptive than ever to alternatives. Seriously. Really receptive. These men may be on in years, but they have kids who are middle-aged. And they have grandchildren who are just starting out. And where I live, the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.
This isn’t just an Internet phenomenon now. While the idea of a Homeland is perhaps still not a part of the American psyche, the desire for change, real change, is there. It’s percolating everywhere, and a new country for Patriots who want change is going to take hold in the future. It’s inevitable, and that’s where I’ve placed my faith. In a way, these guys have already let go – like me. They’ve lost faith, and their trust in our institutions has long been shattered — like mine has. The System doesn’t work for them anymore, and in their own way they understand this. In their own way they’ve accepted a kind of quiet, painful reality. And that’s the first step — letting go.
Engaging people takes working in steps, a methodology. I do this often when I go to places like the barber shop, and the guys there, I believe, like the subject matter. But of course I leave and walk out onto the sidewalk and, well, I’m slammed right smack in the face. It’s back. The Alien. The Occupation. The Theft. There it is. Up the street I see a young, white social justice hipster on the corner trying to torque up the privilege thing or something with flyers about a Lefty guest speaker coming to campus. Looks like the same dork who spends half an hour ordering an incredibly complex, customized frappé at the coffee shop I sometimes frequent.
OK, so what’s the premise here? Dudes in a barber shop yearning for the good old days?
No. It’s about releasing the bond, an understanding, a mental commitment. To those who have Awakened, good. But to those who still cling to something, to the values you believe continue to exist somewhere from a constitution unit taught to you in civics class, take another look. In fact, take a good look around you. It’s not your heritage. It’s alien. And it’s rotting.
Moving in a new direction takes strength, and it hurts to allow something you cherish to slip away. We know. But it’s not yours anymore. It’s long gone. For the people who think about these things deeply, and carefully, it’s almost a constant pain. But pain can be channeled to something new. An idea. A barrier to stop the bulldozer, to push it aside and move on. A new way of looking at the world. And yes, even a new country. There’s nothing stopping you anymore.
So just let go. Laugh. And then smile at what awaits