“Radicalized” Teenage Girl With Kitchen Knife Shows Us the REAL Threat to Our Nation… Uh, No

“White teen girl detailed plan for racist attack on black churchgoers in notebook, police say”: that’s literally the title (with only first word capitalized) of the Washington Post article trumpeting a non-event.  Ponder those words.  A white girl scribbled some troubled thoughts about murdering congregants at a black church.  Essentially, this is the content of a “story” that made headlines throughout the Southeast, and upon which WSB-TV Atlanta lavished at least three minutes on the evening of November 19.

Once you know more details, the episode becomes even more… non-eventful.

The “white teen girl” was sixteen years old.  Not eighteen or nineteen: sixteen.  She had apparently amassed a collection of… no, not handguns, not bombs or grenades, not clips for assault rifles: knives.  She collected knives.  So now we have a sixteen-year-old white girl with “knives”, in the plural.  There was no indication that she had trained with the Mossad, or that she possessed a black belt in some ancient Japanese art of firing out blades at a rate of five per second.  As far as we know, she has only two hands.  As far as we know, members of the Bethel AME Church in Gainesville, Georgia, are not exclusively octogenarians or manually challenged female invalids.  And of course, as anyone can be pretty sure of knowing, the Church was a “gun-free” zone, making it a target even for someone with no more than a kitchen knife (the species of blade involved in this case).  Our Gal Gadot wannabe was too respectful of the law, it seems, to equip herself with deadly weapons illegally.  Sometimes the “gun-free” idiocy works.

The WaPo article bestows much quote-space upon one Sergeant Kevin Holbrook, who was most likely the blond, baby-faced young man I saw interviewed on WSB news.  That lad is going far.  He pressed all the right keys to sound just the right notes.  The girl’s notebook contained “manifesto-type” ravings, observed the officer with wisdom beyond his years (and training).  He continued, as WaPo reports faithfully: “There were many writings and drawings, different depictions, and a lot of hateful messages in it….  As far as the details go, they were down to very specific information.”  Turns out that Holbrook is also something of a theologian.  Carnage of innocents was averted, he concludes, “by pure grace”: had the normal Wednesday night Bible study not been canceled, the teen fiend would not have found the compound’s buildings empty when she visited them, a dagger clutched Bluebeard-like in her teeth.

The church’s pastor, interviewed by WSB, confirmed God’s intercession in the canceled Bible study—and confirmed, further, my own inference that no men attend this church and that no women there are capable, say, of lifting a chair or coming at an assailant from behind.  But… might God be whispering to these good people that Bethel AME should host a self-defense class in the near future, if not actually persuade a retired soldier to slip a Glock inside his coat during services?

Now, the pastor and the sergeant weren’t quite on the same page as to motivation.  The former, while admitting that the sixteen-year-old had to be very troubled, wanted her tried as an adult (tried for snooping around the sanctuary with a knife in her belt); the latter was convinced, as he revealed in his WSB interview, that she was “radicalized” by “white supremacist” websites.  Now, if our would-be mass murderess were hypnotized by Internet conditioning, then she can scarcely be held fully responsible for her acts; but if she is actually to be prosecuted as a full adult, then the assumption must be that she had complete possession of herself—more so than one would expect of an ordinary sixteen-year-old.  And in that case, the “radicalizing white-supremacist websites” are utterly irrelevant.

An aside: I wonder how long Sergeant Holbrook has dreamed of using the word “radicalize”?  Doesn’t it sound cool?  But you can’t use it to describe, say… I don’t know: say a jihadist website.  I’m afraid you can’t even use the word “jihadist” any more.  I didn’t write that.

But “white supremacist”, now—you can and should drop that phrase early and often, at least if you hope for a long and ascending career path in law enforcement.  White-supremacist songs… white-supremacist holidays… white-supremacist weather and condiments and ways of pronouncing the word “tergiversation”: it’s everywhere!  The white-supremacist menace is everywhere!

Just be grateful that white supremacists honor gun-free zones.  Can you imagine if….

Meanwhile, the city of Atlanta continues to have daily drive-by shootings, daily convenience-store robberies at gunpoint, daily brawls that go ballistic when someone pulls out a handgun—and the crimes are almost always black on black.  But the city’s African American community shouldn’t allow its collective eye to be diverted from the real problem, which is…

The KKK is back!  White people are coming for you—and with knives this time!

WaPo wraps up powerfully, “The girl’s arrest comes as black churches and other houses of worship around the country have faced a wave of violence and intimidation.”  See, you hadn’t even heard about that!  I’m afraid it’s not quite clear to me whether the adjective “black” is intended to stretch to “other houses of worship”, or if the latter is clever MSM code for “mosque”.  (Of course, to WaPo, all Muslims are dark-skinned, so my interpretive confusion is a non-issue.)  And you certainly shouldn’t be misled into thinking that Christian churches everywhere are under escalating attack from outfits like WaPo to surrender their orthodox views on marriage, on gender, on the value of hard work… that’s not intimidation, it’s the inevitable friction of Neanderthal-meets-Homo Sapiens.  The real story here, once again, is that whites are out to murder blacks.  If you didn’t know that… well, what are news outlets for?

Sergeant Holbrook and his crack team apparently lost no time analyzing the girl’s Internet activity and ferreting out the insidious influence of WS propaganda; but they haven’t yet had the leisure to visit her high school and find out if,  just maybe, she had been routinely beaten up by black girls and decided upon the church attack as her revenge.  Wouldn’t it have been wonderfully Christian if she had stormed through an open church door, knife drawn, and then been talked to tears and surrender by the suffering Christ’s words of peace delivered by a true believer?  Maybe an invitation to sit with the group and pray instead of a call to 911?  We’ll never know if that might have happened—if someone other than Pastor Try-Her-As-An-Adult might have stood up and borne God’s message.

And we’ll never know about that high school situation, either.  Something tells me that the girl would have confessed that part of her motivation right out of the gate—and that our ambitious young investigators would instantly have buried it deep in the “unusable” file.

An Honest Conversation About Race? Here Goes…

I had another subject in mind for this week until I read Rachel Alexander’s “How I Massively Triggered the Left on Twitter” (Intellectual Conservative, September 15) http://www.intellectualconservative.com/how-i-massively-triggered-the-left-on-twitter/.  I won’t rehash the details: they’re quite sickening—another of countless examples showing that incivility in our decadent society has just about entered the bullying Brownshirt stage (with the thuggery stopping just this side of physical assault… usually).

Let’s put it this way.  If X’s political opinions fall well left of center and Y’s are slightly to the right, then X is allowed to call Y a racist.  “That’s kind of insane,” Y protests, “inasmuch as my long-time mate was a person whose DNA was almost entirely African.”  “So what?” X snaps back.  “That’s a well-known racist trick—taking a non-white mate to prove you’re not racist!  As if you didn’t know that slaveowners raped their slave girls all the time.”  “Um… I don’t think my friend would fit the description of a slave girl,” Y smiles.  “No!” X snarls.  “More like race-traitor!  It’s not hard for whites to find some Sambo or Sallie who will sell out just for the joy of slithering into the plantation manor through the back window!”  If Y is still responding to this rabid primate meagerly endowed with the power of speech, the response might be, “But I’m actually not Caucasian myself, for the most part.”  Showing long canines, X howls back, “Then why do you carry the white man’s water and mop up his s**t?”

More often then not, the person shooting back this impressive balance of vulgarity and stupidity will himself (or, increasingly, herself) be Caucasian.  White icing on the leftist cannabis cake.

Now, what I’m about to add to this “discussion” will get me killed within ten years, probably, when some Stalinist Santa Claws, trawling through the communications of everyone’s life to see who’s been naughty and who’s been nice, will punch tickets for the one-way train.  But I’m old enough not to care.

I’ll start with my fellow citizens of African descent.  Some of them, I suspect, don’t like themselves very much.  Why would they?  Their society has never offered any other group so many “advance three squares” cards.  College scholarships are bending the limbs, ripe for the picking.  Publicly funded organizations are waving black applicants to the front of the line, and many private-sector companies maintain quota systems for purposes of public relations.  Lawsuits over racial prejudice (or the threat of such lawsuits) protect sub-par performance like some mythical Ring of Invincibility.  Yet still… yet still, there you are, a young black male who emerged from high school hardly reading at seventh-grade level.  You couldn’t even land a basketball scholarship, which is how your best friend got into college; but one thing you have indeed been able to do by the age of eighteen is sire three children on three different women… or girls… none of which children you ever see or pay a dime to support.

Or maybe you’re one of the three girls.  You’ll have another three or four kids before you’re thirty (and perhaps the same number of abortions).  Medicaid gives you a couple of thou a month for each one of them—a really nice haul for unskilled labor.  So that’s your job.  That’s what your society has decreed you will be and do in this life: a baby-mill, a womb that grinds out little ones with prospects even dimmer than yours.

That would settle me into a permanently pissed-off mood, as well.  Imagine the inner conversation—a dialogue with Self that doesn’t take place in words, but must be gnawing around the edges of consciousness all the time:

“Could I have done more with my life?  Sure… at least I think so.  I think I’ve got something special in me somewhere… but the world will never know, and I’ll never know.  I didn’t open the door to that something: I let myself become just another number.  Now, it wasn’t all my fault.  In fact, loud voices keep filling my ear with talk of ‘systemic racism’—and it does seem like the game was rigged.  I couldn’t have throttled all of that potential, all of those vague ambitions, all by myself.  The system showered me with stuff and snitched away my real chances at the same time.  It paid me off.  It bribed me to play the role of someone who’s good for nothing.  And the bribe was pretty hefty sometimes (though sometimes it was just a magic trick, and a fat check that became genuine poverty)….

“But I didn’t have to take the bribe.  Deep down, I knew that.  I don’t like myself for taking the easy way out, for being suckered into the worse option.  And I don’t like not liking myself—going around hour after hour, day in and day out, not really liking myself.  That makes me even more pissed off.  Racism?  Reparations?  Okay.  I’ll take that.  I don’t really know what it all means… or I know damn well, rather, that the people peddling it have no idea what it means.  I just know that somebody’s getting bled for my misery—and that’s okay with me.  Somebody ought to.  I’m not that good—but they’re even worse, the ‘somebodies’, because all they did was help me bury whatever was better in me.”

Self-contempt, resentment of the world for feeding that contempt… those are two strong emotions hiding—barely hiding—under the “you’re a racist!” veil of invective.  One of the things “racist” now means in mouths that love to launch the word (if it still means anything at all) is that you don’t have a very high estimate of yourself and you hold others responsible for it: the others who keep pitying you for being on the bottom just when you were taking a little pride in getting your life together.

Now let’s take a good look at white folks—at certain white folks.  Would you believe that a lot of white males on the left are afraid of black males?  A not insignificant cause of the South’s secession was the terror that slaves (who represented well over half the population of Mississippi and other pockets of the Deep South) would revolt en masse and slaughter every white.  John Brown tapped into this terror.  The massive and successful slave uprising in Haiti a few decades earlier was also very much on the Southern mind.

In this regard (and in more than one or two others), the leftist male is less Rhett Butler than Robert Barnwell Rhett, Jr.  He’s not a strong man—not morally, not intellectually, and beyond doubt not physically.  Strong black males intimidate him; I think they almost induce a kind of internal panic in him.  What if he says something wrong—what if these powerful and subliminally simmering people go to a sudden boil over some ill-chosen phrase?  I have only to look at a desk full of ESPN “white woke” males surrounding some gargantuan hero of the turf to catch this vibe strongly.  “Wow, B.J.—I mean, wow, man… wow, dog… the way you shredded their defense… you’re my son’s all-time favorite player… and mine, too, of course… what was your reaction when you were unanimous MVP?  Were you ever sorry that you didn’t choose another sport?  I mean, you were so multi-talented in college!”

Somehow, such unctuous accolades never quite smell like true admiration to me.  There’s an acrid odor blended into them—a touch of fear.  Physical fear.  Part of the reason white males become progressives (I’m not calling it a major reason, but I sense a contribution) is that black males physically intimidate them.  Now, men don’t like feeling intimidated, even the least male of them.  Something primal in them—in us—insists upon creating a survival strategy.  The strategy of the white male progressive is to bind the mighty black male in chains of adulation.  “Surely he won’t hit me if he sees that I adore him.  And I do adore him!  He’s so… not me!  Damn him.  But if I give him what he wants, what he understands—all that he’s capable of understanding—and lift him on the pedestal I’ve made for the greatest gladiator of all time, then… then he won’t be able to pound me into powder without losing what he really needs: an abject, sycophantic admirer.  I’ve got him there.  I’m safe.”

Here, I suspect, is where we find much of the motivation behind the “you f——-g racist!” tweets originating from keyboards that no black finger has ever touched.  The “writer” (how debased that word has grown!) hides impenetrably behind an avatar that might as well be Django or Mister T.  In his e-cape of invisibility, he heavily imbibes that “bad ass” ichor which he’s convinced circulates abundantly in African veins… so unlike his white identity, which has never elevated him above a mere ass.  On the Internet, he can sling obscenities like a rapper and intimidate others with his newly (falsely) acquired blackness.  “Racist” from his virtual mouth, from his soiled fingertips, means just this: “Be afraid of me!  I’ll dox you—I’ll get beat you up!  I’ll rape you—I’ll murder you!”  Yep.  That one little word—racist—is a terrorist threat to every minute of whatever time you have left on earth… or that’s what the punk would like it to be.

Naturally, the former kind of verbal assailant—the genuinely black person who allows “racist” to monopolize his or her vocabulary—is a lot more simpatico.  After all, that person is right, in a way.  If you keep throwing money at a black child (or in his direction: most of it will never reach his doorstep) instead of demanding that he pass algebra, you’re telling him that he’s stupid; that he can’t help being stupid, that he’ll always be stupid, but that you’ll keep the subsidies coming so that he doesn’t starve on the streets.  There’s irony, to be sure, in his reserving the “r” word precisely for those who would cut off the unconditional subsidies and require a passing test score… but how else is he supposed to react?  Because now he needs permanent subsidizing—now that you’ve robbed him both of his best opportunity to learn and of his self-respect.

Somehow, I just don’t think that’s the guy—or the girl—who wastes time spewing and slavering e-idiocy in the direction of people like Rachel Alexander.  I can see Maxine Waters doing it, because that’s her gig; and I can see Jemele Hill doing it, because she’s a ball of psychotic rage that will send a death ray through any opening.  But make no mistake: the people who most need black Americans to be victims of “systemic racism” are white leftists—and not even, or not just, because the canard gins up their base (as it does for Waters).  No, these are nameless people with no brilliant future before them.  They, too, are balls of rage.  And they need the avatar, the stereotype—the caricature—of the snubbed, derided, cheated, beaten, and lynched freedman’s muscular son roaring back on a cloud of vengeance to channel all their frustration.

“Racist” means “I’m so pissed off, I’m not taking any blame for it, I know my filthy eiecta scare and disgust you… and, oh, that makes me so happy! That’s the one thing that makes me happy!  Lick my s—t, white man!”

Jemele Hill was never more white than when she decided to take this road.

Four Stages of Pathological Race-Relations—the Last Being Fatal (Part IV)

Earlier, I neglected to christen the first stage of degenerative race relations because I could arrive at nothing better in my auditions than the hideous tag, Rivalry Transfer.  (I hate these noun pairs, so common in current academe, where the leader is forced to become an adjective: “race relations”, of course, is one such.)  I’ll surrender to Rivalry Transfer at last, just because it’s accurate.  Say that two groups are economic rivals; the more socially embedded and (usually) larger group notices some superficial characteristic about the other; then the former group’s deep animosity is transferred to the latter’s surface, and “their slanty eyes” or “their kinky hair” absorbs much casual outrage for the loss of  jobs.

Next we have the defense of the beleaguered minority by established authorities.  I called this phase is paternalistic.  It may also be genuinely racist, as I have argued.  While the “hair-haters” were simple bigots who never put much thought into their response, the paternalists are often fully convinced, after careful consideration, that the “inferior tribe” cannot survive on its own and requires benign steering.

Unfortunately, when one leans on a shoulder in politics, one is apt to find oneself in a choke-hold.  Yesterday’s paternalists, though their condescending motives may have rooted in a warm heart, readily pass the generational baton to manipulators who sustain—or perhaps extend—the sub-class’s misery in order to ensure its support at election time.  A ruinous dependency develops, like a woman’s upon an abusive husband who, however, keeps her well supplied in food and clothes.  This New Subjugation is worse than literal slavery in that the latter offers the possibility of exit, whereas the former is a sealed labyrinth—a dizzying swirl of never-fulfilled promises.

So must this third stage not be the final one?  For where can you proceed from a sealed labyrinth?  Nowhere, from the inside.  The next “advance” is the most deadly in society’s degenerative descent, and it comes from without.  The Subjugationist’s political adversaries have grown ever more vexed at the privileged existence of the “underprivileged”.  Nursed along in dependency by their keepers, they harvest subsidies for food, housing, medical services, and education, and are even regaled with such luxuries as cell phones and televisions… yet (or for that very reason) they never seem to draw any closer to self-sufficiency.  All the while, the mainstream Joe sees his taxes rise as his company is penalized by Equal Opportunity laws, his children nudged from elite colleges or jobs by Affirmative Action… and, to his credit, he understands in his better moments that the paternalist pimp has designed this game, not the pawns shuffled about among select minorities.  Yet those better moments inevitably grow fewer as taxes continue to rise and opportunities to shrink.

The icing on the proverbial cake—or, more accurately, the last slap in the face—is the open contempt to which Joe is constantly treated in public media on account of his resentment.  He is a racist, a bigot, a Nazi, a Hitler, without any of the rigor being sought for these unsavory terms that I have tried to give them in my essays.  He would be Satan if the reference were not placed off limits by his defamers’ longstanding habit of mocking his religious tradition.  As he is plundered, then, he is also demeaned.  (I’ll always remember having “little Richard Nixon!” hissed at my heels because, as an undergraduate in Austin, I passed a booth dedicated to the Black Panthers without ponying up a dollar.  At the time, every thread on my body was several years old.)

The cynical manipulators of the New Subjugation view this rising tension with satisfaction, I am convinced, and apply themselves to seeing that the prisoners within their labyrinth perceive it as a further need for protection.  Gun confiscation, for instance, is a prominent item on the agenda, not because a single mother or a septuagenarian retiree wouldn’t welcome an equalizer when climbing a crime-ridden apartment complex’s stairs, but because… because “they” are training to exterminate “you” with their assault rifles—those white Klansmen and neo-Nazis who number in the millions but are craftily staying low for now.  The Subjugationists, in short, keep their constituency in a state of constant paranoia.

Anyone can see that this stage promises to be fatal to society if not somehow amended.  I will call it the Stage of Engineered Conflict.  To be sure, friction occurs at every phase of strained race relations—but now it is being bred deliberately by those who wish to profit from it.

And the profit isn’t paid merely in the coin of elective sinecures—the automatically renewed terms in office enjoyed by the likes of Alcee Hastings (before his utter disgrace), Maxine Waters, and Sheila Jackson Lee.  Perhaps these worthies, themselves risen from the “victim class” to bask in money and power for the rest of their time on this earth, are quite content to see the arrangement stabilized.  The true Subjugationist, however (what one might call the New Kentucky Colonel—an old-style paternalist in his rhetoric, but a visionary with world domination fluttering in his dreams), must surely have a grander endgame.  He is almost always a white male of almost inconceivable wealth: a profiteer of the tech revolution, maybe, whose hunger has long outgrown 20,000-square-foot mansions and Ferrari collections.  He would be God… but the republic stands in his way.  To complete his design for perfecting the human race (notice that the crazed paternalism lingers), he needs an indefinite suspension of elections.  The two- and four-year cycles of silliness that forever hamper his Plan for Progress must somehow be swept away.

How better to do this than to precipitate a race war?  Rioting in the streets, looting on a national scale… the calling out of the National Guard, which is transformed overnight into a National Police Force… the declaration of martial law and indefinite suspension of free elections… now we can stop cutting bait, and begin to fish.

The beauty of the scheme is that both of the openly hostile parties—the “us” and “them”, the Klansmen and the Black Panthers—can only draw the noose tighter around their neck the more they struggle.  The mainstream taxpayer demands relief.  In doing so, he is in effect cutting off the lifeline to the dependent classes.  These classes, of course, see the mainstream’s stinginess as a poorly veiled effort to eradicate them… and the temperature rises.  Since serious budgetary issues are never addressed (for even large sectors of the mainstream have been wooed with paternalist goodies), the nation continues to spiral toward insolvency.  Collapse is inevitable.

And the first to starve in a cold tenement or to be shot down while looting will, of course, be members of the underclass—the unproductive dependents whose votes are no longer needed, stabbed in the back by the Designer who had protected them so artfully for so long.  But their destruction is all in a good cause: to make an omelet, you have to break some eggs.  Or, in that more elegant phrasing of the same sentiment by Lenin’s spiritual forefather, better that one should die than that many should suffer.

May we revise Caiaphas’ profound reflection to read, “Better that many should suffer than that the Superior Being never rise from their ruin”?  Onward, humanity!  Meanwhile, just deposit those rioters in a collective grave: the cemetery’s space is needed, and their individual lives were a public nuisance, anyway.