In praise of window locks and border walls

train
The Criminal Special: Central Americans ride the rails through Mexico.

NATIONS NEED border walls because a nation is a family, and families are good things, so nations are good things too, the concept.

Nations, like regular family units, are groups of people connected by race, religion, history, language and culture. Some families are dysfunctional, and some nations are dysfunctional. Those latter are the ones President Trump allegedly labeled “shitholes.”

A bit harsh but correct in some cases.

The dysfunctional families and nations are dysfunctional not so much due to race but to a troubled culture, religion and history. Some cultures are superior to others, sometimes far superior. How do you grade a culture, giving it an A-plus, a C or an F?

Its grade depends on the lifestyle it provides its people. Thus, Haiti gets an F, Bolivia gets a D and Canada, Australia and New Zealand get an A. Due to the problem the United States created for itself centuries ago with the slavery thing and now its blowback, it gets a B on average though some states get an A (Texas), and others get a C-minus (California).

If you’ve got a well-functioning nation (or family), which depends, as we have already established, on race, religion, language, history and culture, you must exercise caution when people from other nations (or families) want to move into the house with you.

Sweden had an A-plus culture for a long time. They were a homogeneous people with a common culture, language, etc. Sweden then decided it would be a swell idea to open its borders to hordes of people from the Middle East, no questions asked.

Sweden is now known as the “Rape Capital of Europe.” This should come as no surprise when you consider they invited into their midst a staggeringly different culture, one that suppresses women and embraces an extremist, macho religion.

Sweden shot itself in the head with an AR-15. In the name of multiculturalism.

If you’ve got a successful nation (or family), caution is in order before unlocking the door to your neighbors. That’s why border walls — and locks on your home windows — are very wise things. When Trump said he would build a wall, he also said it would have a “big beautiful door” for the deserving to enter. That latter part is seldom mentioned.

Mexico is very insulted by Trump’s border wall idea. How dare he? And yet millions of Mexicans have entered the United States illegally, so many that the culture in some parts of the United States seems more like Mexico than the United States.

And to add the proverbial insult to injury, Mexico lets Central Americans enter through its southern border, hoists them atop that famous train where they jump off near the Rio Bravo to swim, hike, tunnel and fence-climb into the United States.

How dare Trump suggest a wall? The man has such gall.

The United States already has many miles of border wall, but it needs lots more and even higher. Maybe a moat with gators. But Mexico needs a wall down south too. Sweden needed one, but it seems too late now. Sweden is a goner. R.I.P.

All nations need border walls if they want to maintain their integrity, and if the nation is a very successful one (great culture), the need for a wall grows exponentially.

* * * *

(Note: It is common knowledge that Jews and Asians are smarter than the rest of us. Do the Asian nations or Israel leave their doors wide open in the name of multiculturalism and diversity? Not on your life, Bub, proving their high IQ.)

Down the Magic Dirt Road

MAGIC DIRT: the idea that geographical location will automatically transform the behavior of an individual or group of people.

This concept comes to us from Theodore Beale who writes under the name of  Vox Day. I’m reading a book of his that’s titled SJWs Always Double Down: Anticipating the Thought Police.

SJW stands for Social Justice Warrior, those ham-fisted, left-wing fanatics who enforce Political Correctness in the timorous world of white people.

But SJWs are not the focus today. Magic Dirt is. I happened upon this phrase and concept of Beale’s this week and, coincidentally, as if by magic, I had been thinking about something very similar lately.

Beale was born in Boston and now, apparently, lives in northern Italy upon his Magic Dirt. I was born in Atlanta and now, totally, live in the high mountains of Middle Mexico upon my Magic Dirt. We apparently both noticed the phenomenon, but he’s the one who stuck a name on it, not me.

Both Beale and I moved from American dirt to Latino dirt. I think that’s important. I believe that one who moves from American dirt to, say, Canadian or Australian dirt would likely not notice a great difference in dirt quality, its odor, consistency and color.

But does one change markedly on moving to another nation? I think it depends. I have, but I’m not sure to what extent, but it’s noticeable to me.

Let’s focus on moving to Mexico. There are no adjoining nations on earth that are so different, so if you really want a change, just fly over the Rio Bravo. I have long described Mexican life as akin to living in Alice’s Wonderland.

Cats with big smiles and no bodies that live in trees.

I’m sure the degree of change, the effect of the Magic Dirt, depends on how you live here and how often you go back where you came from. It also depends on if you know the language. It depends on the people you hang out with. If you marry into a Mexican family, that’s about as tight as a foreigner can get.

You’ve slipped through a barely open door. If you’re not in the Mexican family, you’re an eternal outsider, an intruder. You do get the smiles.

A Mexican’s face is a mask, and so is his smile.

— Octavio Paz.

If one heads back over the northern border regularly. If you are married to another foreigner. If you do not speak Spanish. These and other elements will affect the effect of the Magic Dirt upon your mind, heart and soul.

How do you know the Magic Dirt is below your fingernails?

One good indication is that the wackiness — often sheer lunacy — of Mexican life ceases to annoy you, or at least to a far lesser degree.

If you wake up due to the 6 a.m. explosions on the nearby plaza but go directly and easily back to sleep, that’s Magic Dirt. If people explain an issue by citing something totally illogical, and you nod or shrug, that’s Magic Dirt.

Walking daily over Magic Dirt can be unsettling, or it can start to feel normal. It depends on the individual, one supposes. And time.

The outback

The swept Outback.

AUSTRALIA HAS its Outback, and so do we.

It’s out back of the Hacienda. You get there via the back gate. The principal entrance is a block away on a parallel street. I hardly ever come out this way.

There is an annual exception. I come out in late May to sweep my sidewalk and even a part of the street on my side. Yes, it’s my sidewalk because I paid to have it built two years ago.

Stone and concrete.

For most of our time here, it was a very long strip of extremely high weeds. I finally couldn’t take it anymore, and had the sidewalk installed. Now I have pride of ownership.

Late May is the time for the yearly sweep because in early June the rains begin, and if there’s dirt on the street it becomes mud that stays out there till October.

This is only the second annual sweep, and it’s a first for me because last year I hired my nephew, then 13, the lad once known hereabouts as The Young Vaquero.

Watching him “sweep” was amazing. Imagine you handed a broom to a chimpanzee. The Vaquero had no idea what to do with a broom. No one had never taught him.

No clue about dustpans either.

When he was 9 or 10, we were at a carnival, and I paid so he could shoot a toy rifle at targets. However, he had no more idea how to hold a rifle than how to grip a broom.

He’s 14 now and will want a driver’s license in a few more years. I advise you to stay off the highways. He has a bicycle he never uses. He has a skateboard he never uses. He  received a toy drone for Christmas. It sits in a closet.

He has a computer tablet, and he plays games all day.

I thought of him as I swept the Outback, and I imagine I will always think of him when I sweep out there. I sweep well. I don’t recall anyone teaching me. I assumed it was innate.

I wield a mean floor buffer too, but I learned that in the Air Force. It was not a skill I learned willingly.

The luckiest generation

MY FATHER WAS a member of The Greatest Generation, Americans who suffered through the Great Depression and still had the will to defeat the Nazis and the Japanese during World War II.

shoeThese guys then put Germany and Japan back together before coming home and gearing up the most successful and innovative economy the world has ever known.

I am one of that generation’s offspring. Perhaps you are too. My generation is called the Boomers, but a far more accurate name would be The Luckiest Generation.

We have never known true want. Except for our soldiers in foreign lands on occasion, a necessity, no one has ever shot at us or dropped bombs on us. We’ve never faced famine or refugee camps.

Since we’ve been so lucky, most of us don’t think about the fact that few people across the grim pages of history have had it this good. I’m talking about the “Western World,” which I define as the United States, Canada, Western Europe, and I’ll toss in the Aussies and New Zealanders.

It’s the world of liberal democracy, capitalism and freedom.

The Luckiest Generation should go to bed each night thanking the Goddess for its good fortune. Most do not, and their offspring, the grandchildren of the Greatest Generation, do it even less, if at all. They are Twittering, Facebooking and Instagraming.

The leading edge of my generation, those who timed it just right, like me, is getting long in the tooth, and the odds are that we will go to our cremation urns relatively unscathed.

What incredible good fortune, good karma. We are blessed.