A Payday for Neanderthal Descendants? Why Not?

Practically every Caucasian, it seems, has about two percent of the Neanderthal genome.  Current theory has it that Homo Sapiens, having invaded Northern Europe from Africa, interbred with the much less numerous species until, about 30,000 years ago, individuals clearly identifiable as Neanderthal disappeared.

Now, some of us go beyond the two percent.  I’m certain that I do.  No, I don’t have red hair, or a receding chin, or an aquiline nose… but I do have deep-set and fairly large eye sockets, I comfortably possess all of my wisdom teeth, my bones are exceptionally dense, and my hands are strangely broad with short fingers.  I’ve decided on this evidence to bump my Neanderthal percentage up to three or four.

“Why would you want to do that, and in public?” you may ask.  “You’re admitting that you’re a knuckle-dragging caveman—you’re making yourself an object of derision!”  Ah, dear reader, you are making my case for me!  Discrimination!  Vile slander!  I have been the victim of it throughout my life… and I haven’t even understood the basis of it, nor have my persecutors.  None of us fully realized what separated me from them.  It wasn’t my distant, distracted manner; at most, that was a consequence of being viewed as “different”.  The difference was never clarified in any quarter—not until now—but it was perceived subconsciously from every quarter.

And sometimes the contempt leaked out in a conscious, if unexamined, sneer.  Knuckle-dragging, indeed!  Why do we have the mainstream image of the Neanderthal as a simian, stooped-over ruffian who hadn’t enough sense to climb back into his tree?  That particular calumny arose from the misidentification of an arthritic spinal column as belonging to a healthy adult.  Neanderthals walked quite as erectly as the most upright H.S.  Their cranial capacity actually exceeded that of the typical Homo Sapiens.

But you H.S.’s, with your genetically encoded scorn of other species, naturally projected a pejorative interpretation upon the evidence.  And your “Neanderthal sensors” were constantly deployed in their wicked subconscious scan of your environment for any intruder with a more-than-two-percent genome.  You have endless laughs at the expense of redheads or “gingers”.  You deride the gloomy or the daydreaming (tendencies which Swift bestowed upon his ape-like Yahoos).  You crack obscene jokes about people who lack your long, slender fingers.

White racism is vile enough (and we’ve all learned that only Caucasians can be racist, so “white racism” is a redundancy).  But to bully, belittle, and ultimately breed out of existence a species upon whose territory you trespassed uninvited—and trespassed when you left Africa, by the way (just saying…)—falls nothing short of genocidal.  You loathsome people!  You have destroyed, not my life alone, but the lives of all in my tribe.  Oh, you possess a few of our genes… a very few, which you commandeered by raping our maidens after murdering their families.  It was our genetic inheritance that made you resistant to northern contagions; and for this, our thanks is eternally to be the butt of your off-color jokes!

I’m owed reparations—generous reparations.  I have already been somewhat compensated, to be sure, by the geneticist’s gift of explaining to me everything that has ever turned out less than perfect in my life.  It was all the result of persecution!  I no longer have to look back and question if my best-laid schemes were perpetually sabotaged by a character flaw that I couldn’t correct.  But those years of self-doubt were torturous, and simply to be absolved of their swirling accusations is too small an indemnity.  I need something more material.  I’ll take a check.

And even after I deposit the payoff, I’ll ride this nag until she falters and faints beneath me.  Then I’ll skin her hide and hang it on a stick, and I’ll ride that stick around about the wide world.  Universities must have programs in Neanderthal Studies.  Politicians must busy themselves courting the Neanderthal vote.  The calendar must have a Neanderthal Culture day… but schoolchildren must not knit frowns into their smooth brows or wear pads to broaden their shoulders as if to “ape the ape” in solidarity.  Such displays of cultural appropriation hurt our feelings.  The whole “caveman” thing

leaves very painful scars.  I can sense a lawsuit against Geico looming.

Membership in an oppressed minority turns out to to be the Sutter’s Mill or the Klondike of our time: it’s a gold strike.  One has to dig, sometimes quite deeply… but there’s gold in them thar genes!

Spiritual Rebirth: The Contemporary Mind’s Arch-Enemy

The scribble I had in mind for today will keep for another week.  I’ve decided to offer something more appropriate to Easter Sunday, 2019.

It is difficult to sense an infusion of new life when one casts one’s eyes about the current scene.  Debate has long been terminated on the subject of abortion.  It is considered gauche, or sexist, or racist, or some such reason-throttling chunk of mud-sling, to observe that most women really needn’t get “notably pregnant” at all against their will.  They may abstain from sex; they may abstain a mere three days each month from sex; they may patronize any one of a dozen cheap, accessible varieties of contraception; or, all of the above having failed, they may at least discharge their loathsome burden in the first trimester.  What we have before us, instead, appears to be a species of woman that has sex at least once a day with no regard for the consequences and despite hating males categorically and on principle.  Briefly, the “debate” shifted this year to whether or not one might actually murder a baby already born… but now the air is once again as thick with slung excrement as Gulliver’s Forest of the Yahoos.  A significant portion of our neighbors refuses to have a civil discussion about the impropriety of infanticide.

Paris is burning… well, part of it has been burning, anyway.  I don’t believe even Adolf Hitler had designated Notre Dame Cathedral for demolition as his occupying troops withdrew—but let us cede the point, for argument’s sake, that the conflagration was accidental.  It remains nonetheless undeniable that the “religion of peace” continues to make huge, heavy strides through Western Christendom.  One must observe, in fairness, that Islam does not condone abortion: it certainly has the diseased relics of “Christendom” beat on that and a few other fronts.  Similarly, one should not attribute directly to Koranic teaching the hideous practice of Female Genital Mutilation, which is morally superior to the Aztec manner of female-body-part excision—but only just.  Yet neither are Islamic leaders outspoken in their condemnation of the ritual sadism to which young girls in their faith are often submitted. In that regard, their “tolerance” has a disturbingly Western/postmodern odor. I read yesterday that nineteen states—approximately two-fifths of our union—permit these degraded, barbaric operations to proceed unmolested by the law.  That’s pretty typical of the Christian caricature which we have become.  Christ didn’t “judge”; therefore, we mustn’t “judge”, either.  Slice away.  God bless you… and how long will racist members of Congress oppose funding FGM through Medicare?  How dare they?  If they were really Christian…

I think I prefer my Yahoo excrement straight in the face rather than kneaded into my bread. To be impassive to atrocity is to be “tolerant”; to be indifferent to the outrage of fundamental decency is to be “Christian”. Nowadays, every word of the English language is apt to have a value diametrically opposed to its original intent.  One can no longer utter the simplest sentence without its leaving the taste of the latrine in one’s mouth.  Our words have been stolen from us, or in some cases (the worst cases) returned after mutilations as nightmarish as the mad scientist’s who grafts wings onto a rabbit.  To write nada or loco is cultural appropriation if your skin isn’t the right color.  (I’ve never been able to determine just what that color is: even the original Spaniards were part Moorish in many cases—and it turns out that Portugal is home to a particularly high concentration of Neanderthal DNA!)  To employ a “gendered” pronoun is to risk professional termination, fines, and perhaps incarceration not just in our ally nations, but in our own topsy-turvy academic world.  To protest against the idiocy of it all is to manifest the deplorable “white privilege”, suspicion of which crime precludes any effort at defense and carries a minimum mandatory sentence of social ostracism for a day.  “The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart goes all decorum,” as a white-privileged patriarch once opined.  Did that bard, prophetically, diagnose our abortion culture, perhaps?  Too many babies… the twenty- and thirty-somethings are unwilling to surrender their diapers to new arrivals that might compete for attention.

In the midst of such lunacy, Hope appears to have retreated to the Moon, left vacant by the descent of our dominant ideologies.  What does the dawn of this day in 2019 promise, other than a deeper plunge into disgrace and inhumanity?

I will attempt just a very brief answer.  As I age, I grow more aware that virtually all of our spiritual confusion arises from an intellectual (or pseudo-intellectual) confidence that we understand time.  Specifically, time in all of our constructs is linear: a “timeline”.  The times are suffocatingly depressing because, for those of us with sufficient memory, they so clearly describe a nosedive into arrogance, petulance, self-absorption, self-indulgence, absurdity, and outright stupidity.  The “Darwinian staircase” scaling upward on the shoulders of Homo Erectus, Cro-Magnon, and Homo Sapiens has now reversed its motion as precipitously as an amusement-park slide.

Yet why do we suppose that the image of time forced upon us by our human understanding is ultimately valid?  We should know, thanks to the operation of our same faculties, that we are incapable of fathoming the utter truth of things.  We are compelled by “logic” to believe both in a First Cause and in the dependency of every cause upon a previous cause as its effect.  We are compelled, likewise, to believe that every event contains causative events within it and also that no event could possibly happen if there were not an atomic, irreducible, “buck stops here” micro-event at the bottom of it all.  (Twentieth-century science latched on to the speed of light in order to keep the system from collapsing upon itself—but “C” is a mere conceptual convenience whose truth is under serious question in current physics.)

What, then, if all of our timelines are indeed illusions?  What if “then” is also “now”?  Frankly, I feel crucifixion happening all around me every day.  Why not resurrection, as well?  For the ascent from death is as inescapable as the terrestrial impact of a falling apple—or as the germination of the fallen apple’s seeds: they are all held together by an inviolable metaphysical force in a single expanding time.  Our linear timelines are constantly bombarded from right angles by the pressing reality of this superior, immutable time.  Our “progress” is constantly being knocked off course by inklings that our imagined destination is illusory—that we are “here and now” in an ultimate truth whose focal gravity our silly designs vainly struggle to resist.  What good is a promotion if we buy it with lies and betrayals?  What good is a glistening new palace erected with dollars extorted from the meager savings of our dupes?  We fight and fight against the winds blowing contrary to our “advance”, the wind that bloweth we know not whence.  We detest that interference.  We curse it.  Yet it draws us and draws us back to the simplicity of the child—the dwelling in the “here and now” which we abandoned when we decided to “make something of ourselves”.

Do not, please, misread my remarks in the light of a recent piece I dedicated to “the power of now”.  “Now” is not a renunciation of past and future: it is a reclaiming of the past and future as properly belonging to the Real, the Right, the Good.  As we fight to postpone the reign of goodness over our daily compromises and calculations, we fight ineffectually, futilely.  We may resist rebirth into the light of the true day; but to do so, we shall have to suffocate our soul, willfully and persistently, after it is already drawing breaths on its own.  Souls don’t die in the womb.  Only suicide kills them.

Outrage Over “Cultural Appropriation” Is a Symptom of Degenerative Morality

There’s really nothing more that a sane adult need say about the idiocy of “cultural appropriation”… is there?

My DNA is Scottish (on the Harris side) and Welsh (on the Davis side), with a lot of English (a.k.a. Sasanach) stirred in.  The stirring actually raises the first critical point about the absurdity of equating culture with genetics: all of us are mongrels.  To the extent that Scots were Celts, they were dark (like me); but we often picture a kilted Scot as tall and blond—Scandinavian characteristics imported by the Vikings.  Likewise for the Welsh, and indeed the Irish: as much as red hair is associated with those groups, it is owed to interbreeding with the Norsemen, for the true Celt was, like Cu Chulainn, a “little dark man”.  And who knows what streams had flowed into the Celtic river?  Many northwestern Europeans are up to five percent Neanderthal, meaning that quite a few of us are not even entirely products of a single species.

Now, equating a particular kind of dress or food with a particular culture would be almost as preposterous as equating culture with race.  How many cultures graze upon a form of bread that looks something like a tortilla?  How many wear kilts or bonnets?  I don’t really know—but I know that the answer is, “More than one.”  And again, if we could confine the chili pepper to Central and South American cultures, how could we possibly maintain that so broad a swathe of real estate demarcates a single culture?  And how can we call that culture “Hispanic” or “Latin” when the chili pepper itself is a New World vegetable “appropriated” by Old World invaders who more or less fused with the natives?  And how do we sort out the natives?  Where did the Maya come from?  Why do some Cherokees have blue eyes?

It is also quite dumbfounding to see “offended snowflakes” whimpering over the “appropriation” of a dress’s pattern when they embrace none of the deeper values of the culture they claim to hold dear.  Ask them about gay marriage or sex changes or abortion or the right to self-defense, and you open the spigot to a slurpy spate of sentiments about expressing oneself and exploring one’s identity.  What happened to honoring the ancient culture that was supposed to determine that identity?

Personally, I don’t care if someone directly “insults” my culture.  Big deal.  I grew up seeing images of a winking Scotsman on Safeway’s cans of Scotch Treat frozen orange juice—the message behind the brand being that your stereotypically stingy Scot would smile at these prices.  The imputation of tight-fistedness never bothered me.  Pinching a penny is a smart way to achieve independence.  Non esse cupidum pecunia est, wrote Cicero: “Reducing your needs is an easy way to give yourself a raise.”

And as for “welching” on a deal… well, I never really thought about the word’s origin until our hyper-neuralgic culture of offense brought it up.  I didn’t care before then, and I didn’t care after.  No, the implicit stereotype isn’t very charitable—but I’m a hundred thousand times more offended by the Erectile Dysfunction flyers that show up in my box with graphic illustrations, making me grateful that we no longer have young children in the house.  And the source of my irritation isn’t my “bourgeois Christian culture”: it’s my sense of common decency, and also my moral conviction that sexual appetite shouldn’t be supercharged any more than anger, greed, or the other passions.  Culture can reinforce morality, but only as a subordinate reinforces his commander.

Maybe being a Southerner has insulated me from keen cultural sensitivity.  As a white male who happens to have ancestors galore from Virginia and South Carolina, I was a despicable bigot before I exited the womb.  Nothing I could ever do would change the fact that I was scum in the eyes of the Beautiful People… and so I got on with my life and left them to pose admiringly in their hall of mirrors.

There is one final observation, however, that needs to be made about the current wave of pseudo-cultural consciousness—of tribalism in search of a pretext.  I’ve offered this insight before in other contexts, and it continues to grow upon me: the healthy, vibrant spirit exhales itself—not in ego-assertion, but in self-effacing self-discovery—into the surrounding universe, but the “genius of evil” sucks energy in like a black hole.  The wicked forces behind “cultural consciousness” (and some of this lot are indeed deliberate in their mischief) are seeking to persuade people to sever their ties with the rest of the world.  You are… a woman, an Asian woman, a professional Indian woman who has broken with the patriarchy and found new roots in the Harvard sisterhood and some reformed variety of Buddhism.  You are… a young gay African-American of the male sex but identifying more as female who observes Kwanzaa and eats soul food.  The pathetic stew of garage-sale titbits that such “movements” include in order to achieve a viable caricature of cultural rigor goes beyond my mimicry.  What it all has in common is the aim of reducing the cultic participant to a figure so severely defined that he or she spiritually suffocates.  Music can no longer be enjoyed unless it has a “cultural” connection.  A sublime mountain view becomes loathsome because the Trail of Tears passed somewhere this way (so they say).  The person whose imagination has been snared by such clever devilry is spiritually bound up the way a spider balls a fly into a corner of her web.

It’s evil, this boa-constrictor occupation of minds—and cultural practice is no excuse for wickedness.  Indeed, where culture does not exist to confirm basic moral teachings, it has no reason to exist at all.