Confessions of a cracker

MY GRANDPARENTS were born in the 1890s and late 1880s, about 25 short years after the Civil War ended, and they were Southern to the bone.

They were, as am I, Georgia Crackers, but that’s not as simple a thing as you might think.

It’s popular these days to remove statues of Civil War participants, done with the silly notion they were all evil people, but they were not. Gen. Lee, for instance, opposed slavery, but he joined Confederate forces because he wouldn’t fight his native Virginia.

His dilemma was a 19th Century version of “it’s complicated.”

As a youngster I spent far more time with my maternal grandparents than with my father’s folks due to physical proximity, my mother being an only child, and my father not being overly fond of his own father, a Baptist deacon.

As a result I know nothing about my paternal grandparents’ racial attitudes, though I suspect they were extremely liberal, even from a modern perspective. They took Christian values very much to heart. There was nothing hypocritical about them.

My mother’s parents were another matter. My maternal grandfather died when I was 12, so I had little first-hand experience with him, which I did have, quite a lot, with my maternal grandmother who didn’t die till I was 22.

Of my four grandparents, my favorite by far was my maternal grandmother whose name was Osie Moree Powell. I spent weeks, sometimes months, alone with her on her South Georgia farm during school vacations when I was an adolescent.

There were two double beds in the bedroom. They were situated head to head with a small walk space between, and the two heads were beside an open window where we slept summer nights with an incoming breeze and the sound of crickets.

Confederate_Flag_3650She had two full-time employees for decades. One was the maid, Willie. The other was the handyman, Cap. They lived as man and wife in a house owned by my grandmother. It was down the road a piece.

The house down the road aspired to being a shack. Its unpainted, wooden walls were sieves, and it leaned ominously on brick footings. When I was about 15, my grandmother built them a new house almost directly across the clay road from her own home. She built this simple but sturdy house because she cared about them.

Willie was like part of our family when I was growing up, and my grandmother took care of all her needs. She took care of Cap’s too, which included bailing him out of jail after his frequent weekend benders. Cap was fond of bourbon.

My grandmother owned a Ford sedan. Sometimes, she would need Cap for a chore elsewhere, perhaps in nearby Sylvester, the town. They would get into the Ford, her up front driving, Cap sitting in the back seat, just like in buses in those times.

Driving Miss Daisy but with the roles reversed.

I cannot imagine that she told Cap to sit in the back seat, but he did, and she never indicated that he should do otherwise. It’s just how things were.

Though my grandmother was the sweetest woman imaginable, beloved by all, especially me, she reflected her times. I once asked her how she would view a daughter marrying a black man. She said she’d prefer the daughter be dead, and she meant it.

I grew up in segregated public schools. There were no black classmates though I did not finish high school till 1962, which was after schools were integrated in areas of the South. This was due in part because there simply were no black neighborhoods near me.

I didn’t come into normal contact with blacks till I joined the Air Force at age 18. Before that, my contacts were just with Willie and Cap and the occasional black kids with whom I played near my grandparents’ farm. But that was infrequent.

Moving down one generation to my parents, we find a couple of flaming lefty liberals, especially my father. My mother got that way, I imagine, because of my father. It certainly was not due to the home she grew up in.

My mother, who spoke like Scarlett O’Hara, never voiced one kind word about “the Yankees.” And my father was not very keen on them either.

I wonder how my parents, who were hardcore Democrats of the “civil rights” variety, and union fans, would view the nutty political and racial conflicts of today.

Class acts!

 

IT’S ALWAYS a hoot to watch videos like the above. This one has the lovely Alicia Powe interviewing participants in the recent “Women’s March” in Washington D.C.

What stands out about these events is that the participants are colossally clueless. The Women’s March was particularly notable for two things — aside from cluelessness — Jew Hate and knitted versions of female reproductive organs squatting on their heads.

These are very classy people.

They loathe President Trump but are hard-pressed to state coherently why they feel that way. They just, ya know, do!

* * * *

A few months ago, I opened a Facebook account under my real name in large part to connect with my former colleagues in the newspaper business. I was appalled at what I encountered: rampant Trump hate.

I deleted the Facebook account soon after.

A few weeks ago, I exchanged emails with an old friend from those days. He also was in the news biz. I related that we had elected a screwy president recently in Mexico. His response was that Trump was even worse.

I asked what it was about Trump that he disliked. He responded that he was a (blankety-blank) liar. I asked if he could give me an example of Trump’s lying. I offered some documented examples of Democrat lies.

  1. If you like your doctor, you can keep your doctor.
  2. I did not have sex with (Monica Lewinsky).
  3. Bengazi was caused by a video.

I have not heard back from him.

I imagine he’s still hunting an example of Trump’s lying.

I wonder if he’s knitting female genitalia to put on his head.

Inundation of irony

Screenshot
Mexicans yelling at Central Americans to go back where they came from.

I HAVE LONG preached that promoting multiculturalism is a recipe for mayhem. Examples of this age-old truth are in plain view all over the world and have been since the dawn of mankind.

We ignore it at our peril.

People are tribal. There are many tribes. One of the main ones is the nation-state. Other tribes are that of religion, language and culture. These tribes often overlap. We prefer the company of people like ourselves.

Foggy-headed leftists fight this truth as they dream of one world, no borders, and sing Kumbaya. Oh, Lord, Kumbaya. Everyone will live in harmony.

Though they never, ever have.

Above you see Mexicans in Tijuana who are unhappy, to put it mildly, at the invasion of Central Americans. They want them to beat feet back where they came from. I pray you see the knee-deep irony.

* * * *

I just finished a fascinating book that relates to this topic. Its title is Enoch Was Right: “Rivers of Blood” 50 Years On. That would be the brilliant British parliamentarian Enoch Powell who famously delivered a speech on April 20, 1968, in which he eloquently warned of the danger of uncontrolled immigration from nations that are drastically different from Great Britain.

The Establishment reviled him. Today, dangerous, ethnic ghettos abound in Great Britain full of folks maintaining the ways of their tribes back in Syria, Kenya, Sudan, etc., and Brits are arrested, prosecuted and imprisoned for complaining about it in public.

Let us pause now for another verse of Kumbaya.

Or perhaps not.