Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Racial Reality

(Artist Unknown)

Reality prevails over propaganda ...


* * * * *


The Education of a Race Realist

By Rafe Aegirson


The great classicist and philosopher Clive Staples (C.S.) Lewis held that each generation, whether it knows it or not, is prone to some special eccentricity. If one day, centuries hence, some remnant of our people is left to reflect upon its racial past, it will surely look back upon this present era as one of the oddest in its history.

I was born in the post-war era and grew up at a time when a culturally white America still bore some resemblance to a nation. Ask someone from that era what they remember of it, and they may tell you about amusement parks, malt shops, and weekly televised ballgames with Diz and Pee Wee; about eerie TV science fiction and network family dramas that brought a household together in the evening. Along with this went civilized schools and a workplace that was not yet plagued by the destructive policies that contaminate it today. It was a simpler and more honest time.




My family lived in the most integrated part of town, so my awakening moments to race came early. Some were benign and even amusing. I still remember making Halloween masks in first grade—this was the fall of ’57—when my black friend Kenny cut into his brown bag from the open end and made a mouth by cutting a circle rather than folding the surface and making a neat wedge-cut as seemed natural to the rest of us. In time, differences would be less benign.

In fact, the pressure was already on to decry “prejudice” and enlighten us about the “human race.” Beneath the skin, it was said, we were all of one substance. I remember a picture in a comic book of three runners (black, white, and yellow) tied at the finish line. “Scientific tests” had established this result.

I couldn’t help but wonder, even then, how tests could have proven something that flew in the face of common experience. We might not have had a theory about race, but we knew what to expect: Vivid differences in every activity. The “colored kids,” on average, were boisterous and extroverted, but they were generally well-liked, despite their sporadic aggression. They were “good at sports” and remarkably quick at 50 or 100 yards. Also, practically every one needed remedial texts and extra help with even the simplest classroom tasks.

Black militancy came in the next few years, and meant bloody noses for a lot of white kids. At 13, I was the target of a murder attempt—it’s odd that it did not occur to me until years later to describe it in that way—by one dark youth who twice, without provocation, pitched rocks nearly the size of a baseball at my head. If his aim had been better, you would not be reading these words.


* * *

By my mid-teens the AM airwaves were thick with Judy Collins, the Young Rascals, and refrains about universal love. Bob Dylan was whining about how many roads “a man” had to walk down before we might “call him a man.” If white guilt was not yet in full bloom, its seeds were being sown.


Bob Dylan 

Through high school and college, during the height of the Vietnam War and the “Civil Rights” movement, I maintained an odd kind of liberalism, even as I resisted the idea that black underachievement was caused only by injustice. Around my senior year in high school, I noticed a tabloid publication on the newsstand, with an article about Arthur Jensen, a scholar who said that blacks and whites might differ in average intelligence. I felt vindicated. What Jensen said fit well with what I had been seeing for some time.

There were many other formative incidents in those years. When I was a senior, the psychology teacher asked me to help a couple of lagging students write an outline for oral presentations. One of them was Stan, a star black athlete whom I had known slightly for about 10 years. I did not see him as a hero the way most of the school did, but I put aside my misgivings and explained what was needed.

I paused after a couple of minutes and looked at him, getting back only a puzzled smile. I tried several more times, until I was putting the problem in the simplest terms that logic and language would allow, and each time got that befuddled look.

It was not Stan’s fault that he was unable to grasp what virtually any white student half his age would have understood. In time, I began to wonder why schools continued to teach subjects like English literature and math to people who did not care about them.

It was not just Kenny, or Stan, or some crazed black throwing rocks. There was a fundamental delusion being foisted on whites about the “equality” of “people of color.”

Over the coming decades came an incessant egalitarian push from the media. Traditional family programming gave way to television comedies trying to expose “prejudice.” Typically, there was a crotchety white man who served as the foil for prattling blacks and agile liberals who one-upped him at every turn.

By now I was revolted by popular media. Why were white characters always incompetent? Why were they the ones who always started racial conflict? I wanted to see a portrayal of the other 90 percent of what went on in the world.


* * *

In time I became an educator and started teaching young people who had been steeped from infancy in this stuff. The absurdity of the classroom played out all over again, as encounters with non-whites reinforced the message of my childhood.

Year in and year out we heard about a tragic “gap” in school achievement, and what might be done to close it. We also heard that marginalized victims are held to a higher standard, both in school and at work. Of course, equal treatment would widen the gap. Give the average black student what he supposedly wants—a fair shake—and he will very likely be gone from the campus in six months. Set a reasonable standard, and he is unable to meet it; extend help, and he is uninterested; fail him, at last, and he is a victim of racism.

The demand for equal opportunity has become a demand for equal results and has led to an erosion of standards. Likewise has come an erosion of personal freedom. For fear of professional ruin, no one in the mainstream today dares to say—as I recall columnist James Kilpatrick saying about Jensen—that the time has come to let go of the sacred dogma of equal aptitude across the races.

Much of traditional discussion about race has emphasized IQ, but IQ is just one aspect of racial difference. There is also a fundamentally different orientation to the world. I believe some groups are, on average, more impulsive and less patient. I think they are also less able to think about reality as it is, rather than how it appears to them. Some groups are more subjective than others.

For example, many blacks ignore the repeated instructions of a police officer. They never stop to think that an officer potentially risks his life when he approaches a suspect of any race on the street.

In “reality” show courtrooms, most blacks are unable to let their opponent have his say, and they pay little attention to the judge. Blacks will often “guarantee” something to gain an advantage or promote a transaction; they feel that their sheer certainty—often unfounded—should be enough to decide the matter. I wonder how many black activists have ever spent six seconds putting themselves in the place of the people they are berating.

Another index of black temperament is strong avoidance of libraries, which are quiet havens set aside for studying. When I heard about an invasion of the Dartmouth College library by Black Lives Matter activists, I wondered whether this might have been the first time some of those black students had set foot in the place.


* * *

For a long time I wondered how things so obvious to me were not obvious to most of the whites I knew. I imagined that race liberals were foolish but essentially innocent in their outlook. I supposed that white liberals and intellectuals were different from the rest of us because they were street-ignorant. Accordingly, I thought that the “we are all alike” message was the best that scholarship had to offer.

This changed about 30 years ago when I saw a television program on white “extremists” near my home town, which mentioned a “white supremacist bookstore” southwest of the city. I managed to track it down and discovered a whole family of unfamiliar authors. I left with an armload of treasures.

I still imagine that a great deal of race liberalism is naiveté. There is no substitute for “face to face” experience with real life. But those books changed my outlook on the race problem, because until then, I had imagined that liberalism was aligned (even if accidentally) with good scholarship. I expected these materials would be less acute than mainstream scholarship.

Imagine my surprise when I read Carleton Putnam’s Race and Reason and found that an American businessman and airline executive had written the most lucid discussion of race I had ever seen in my life. Eventually I discovered John Baker, Lothrop Stoddard, Wilmot Robertson, Carlton Coon, Revilo Oliver, and others. Soon I learned of a new monthly publication called American Renaissance.



But even more important than knowledge, I gained soundness of mind. Many whites lead a schizoid existence. The sources that they trust—the nightly news, school, magazines, movies, even the pulpit—tell them one thing. They ask themselves, “Am I a racist?” They imagine vaguely that God, or science, or ethics, cannot possibly be on the side of racial “inequality.”

These writers showed me that my instincts about race were supported by the best scholarship. Yet this discovery got me wondering: Why weren’t these books in my high school library, or anywhere else that would have been readily available?

Obviously, our society was suppressing the truth about race. It still is. Now that the internet has made it much easier to find heretical views, heretics are “deplatformed” by the giant tech companies that control access to information.

But they can’t run this shell game any longer. Even if AmRen were shut down, other sites would take its place. We now have all the knowledge we need for sane racial polices. What we need is the nerve to put the into practice.

From American Renaissance (November 10, 2017)

Dear Millennials ... The Future Is Your Problem



At Least My Generation Will Have Our Revenge On The Millennials

By Kurt  Schlichter


With all the awful things happening now – the discord, the anger, the stupidity – at least those of my generation can rest easy knowing that the Millennials are going to suffer after we’re gone. Sure, I’m going to die a lot sooner than them – unless someone invents some sort of expensive life extension potion that I can buy but they can’t because they will still be paying off their degrees in Oppression Studies and Virtue Signaling Arts until the year 2083. But at least I’ll know that we left them a suitably terrible world, since they are a terrible generation.

Millennials are the spawn we deserve – annoying, posturing, and frequently pierced. They are utterly convinced of their own moral superiority, and yet they don’t even believe in morals. Well, that’s not quite true – they just confuse morals with the increasingly bizarre patchwork of taboos and fetishes of the social justice weirdos they use as their moral compasses. When you ask people, “What’s the world’s biggest problem,” and they answer, “The structural paradigm imposed by cisgender Western males,” and you reply, “How about, I dunno, ISIS?” and they answer “Well, who are we to judge their culture?” it’s slappin’ time.

We warned them to stay off our figurative lawns, and now it’s time to figuratively tackle them like Kentucky libertarians.

I was born during the last week of the Baby Boom, making me…older than the Millennials. So I straddle that useless generation and the useless one that followed. It used to be called Generation X, but no one calls it that anymore because it made no lasting impression. Obama was in my generation. We’ll never live that down. In any case, I remember when calculators were newfangled, phones were attached to walls, and Showtime was the bomb.

OK, so we dug this country $20 trillion into debt, we have a world full of enemies and a military that’s collapsing, and we saddled Millennials with Obamacare, a magical system that makes healthcare worse, but at least it costs more. Yet they seem cool with it. Oh, and politically, the country is divided as never before, at least not since Lincoln, who you Millennials think owned slaves because … sheesh, you nitwits think Lincoln owned slaves.

There was a time when liberals and conservatives didn’t segregate themselves into different bubbles and hate at each other. Recently, Time magazine ran an article about some liberal chick who dumped a guy during a date because he voted for Trump. That never would have happened years ago. Instead, they would have finished their encounter, and he would have given her a fake number so he never had to deal with her pinko nagging again.

But we seem to be losing everything that made us great. Back in the day, we crushed uppity Russian empires, no thanks to commie-hugging liberals who told us that the Reds loved their children too. You Millennials know that awful Sting song – your mom used to listen to it in the Volvo while carting you to soccer or whatever other sick, soul-killing enrichment activities she forced you into instead of letting you run free in the streets and woods like we did. But now we cower at the same losers Reagan stripped of their Ural Mountain oysters in fear of them posting some super-persuasive Facebook ads targeted at making autoworkers in Michigan fall out of their deep and abiding love for Hillary.

Yeah, we messed up, but you Millennials reading this on your smartphones, which you can see without glasses or squinting, shouldn’t act so high and mighty. You had a chance to fix all of this and instead you’ve chosen to never move out of your parents’ houses and to just sit around and invent new pronouns for genders that don’t exist. A couple decades down the road, when I’m dead from chronic bitterness and drinking too much expensive cabernet that I buy with the Social Security money you’ll be toiling to pay me, you won’t have families or careers. You’ll be my age and still making coffee for the next generation of ingrates, the children of the immigrants and super-religious Christians who represent the only portion of America still making babies. You’ll come home to your used Mitsubishi love robot named Olive, reheat some Sara Lee avocado toast sticks, and watch Saturday Night Live as it tries to make fun of President Donald Trump, Jr.

But while we’re still here together, with me owning stuff and you struggling to afford your daily kombucha smoothie, we face many shared challenges. There’s that giant debt, and there are those foreign people who want to kill us, and there is the terrifying fact that we are at each others’ throats here at home. We know how this plays out if we don’t fix it – bad for me, but super-bad for you. Maybe we should try and square things away. Maybe we should stop assuming the worst about each other, start thinking about what unites us instead of what divides us, and work together to make a better tomorrow. Maybe.

But I guess that’s kind of up to you though, because as so many of you on Twitter like to point out, I’m going to die a lot sooner than you are. And that kind of makes the future your problem.

From Townhall (November 16, 2017)

Death Of A Counterculture Icon

Charles Manson (1934-2017)

Charles Manson, a Villain in Life & Death, Praised as a Counterculture Hero in 1969, Dead at 83

By Daniel J. Flynn


Charles Manson, the man who struck a violent coda to the era of peace and love, has met his end in a Bakersfield hospital.  He was 83.

Jackson Browne, Neil Young, the Mamas and the Papas, and, of course, the Beach Boys all crossed paths with the diminutive guitarist in the 1960s before Sharon Tate, Gary Hinman, and Shorty Shea did. His followers came to him via Anton Lavey’s Church of Satan, Wavy Gravy’s Hog Farm, the Cal-Berkeley library, and points beyond. He preached a gospel of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll, practicing what he preached by orchestrating orgies, sacramentally distributing LSD as though communion, and prevailing upon Beach Boys drummer Dennis Wilson and later Doris Day’s son Terry Melcher to record his music.

Manson started his family in the Bay Area, where he tripped at a Grateful Dead concert at the Avalon Ballroom and busked in Haight-Ashbury for spare change, before heading south. The conman projected an oracular wiseman to fools. Biographer Ed Sanders notes, “The reality was that he was a glib grubby little man with a guitar scrounging for young girls using mysticism and guru babble.”

More than his naïve female followers fell for it. Even after Manson stood accused of orchestrating the murders of ten human beings in four separate incidents in 1969, some radicals stood by him. Others lionized him.

At their infamous Flint, Michigan, War Party at the end of 1969, the Weathermen hoisted a “Charles Manson Power” banner and spelled out pregnant victim Sharon Tate’s name in bullets. Trust-fund revolutionaries Diana Oughton and Kathy Boudin, the former obliterated by a bomb she hoped to explode at a soldier’s dance and the latter convicted of murder in the 1980s, idolized the Manson Family so much that they nicknamed their Weatherman cadre “The Fork” in homage to the eating utensil shoved into deceased victim Leno LaBianca’s stomach by Patricia Krenwinkel.

The charismatic Bernardine Dohrn, later a friend of Barack and Michelle Obama, feverishly told Weatherman followers: “Dig it: first they killed those pigs, then they ate dinner in the same room with them, then they even shoved a fork into the victim’s stomach. Wild!”

When I asked Weatherman Mark Rudd why his otherwise intelligent friends paid homage to Manson, he told me: “We wanted to be bad.”

Like Dohrn, Rolling Stone later went on to enjoy mainstream respectability despite publishing bizarre views on one of the twentieth century’s most notorious serial killers. Whereas Manson looked every bit the madman on the cover of Life, he appeared as a visionary on the front page of Rolling Stone. Therein, the magazine depicted Manson’s refusal to offer an insanity plea as a principled stand and characterized his criticism of the legal system as “obviously accurate in many ways.” In calling him Charlie, a first-name-basis intimacy later reserved for Madonna, Prince, Bruce, and other singing celebrities, the magazine actively sought to humanize the man who dehumanized so many.

Other underground newspapers went further. The Los Angeles-based Tuesday’s Child proclaimed, “Manson: Man of the Year” on one cover and depicted Manson as Jesus Christ dying on the cross under the tag “Hippie” on another. The Los Angeles Free Press ran a weekly column penned by Manson. The Other, playing off controversial remarks made by the president, headlined an issue “Manson Declares Nixon Guilty.” Upon the release of an album of Manson’s music, several underground newspapers provided advertising for it gratis.

Nearly a half century after the murders, the Manson Family still strikes us as surreal. So, too, does the contemporaneous admiration of the murderer from the radical journalists and leaders.

A Photograph Of Manson Taken Earlier This Year

From Breitbart (November 20, 2017)