Forbidden Thoughts
Page 21
18. If it doesn’t bother you that the truth offends liberals, you’re a racist.
19. If your name is Tom Kratman and you write and in your writing your heroes and heroines tend to be from minorities while your villains are white liberals, you’re still a racist.
20. If you read The Bell Curve, you’re a racist. On the other hand, if you didn’t read it but wrote a scathing review on Amazon anyway you might not be a racist provided you take personal responsibility for 300 years of slavery even if you just arrived from Poland last week.
The Right’s 20 Rules of Racism:
1. Anyone responsible for three hundred years of slavery would have to be a lot older than you and me.
2. There has to be some genetics in “racism’s” DNA, some DNA in its gene pool, or it just isn’t racism.
3. Racism could be eliminated in the United States if we could just eliminate the white liberals who so plainly depend on it so much and do so much to keep it going.
4. Reality isn’t racist: The reality is that there are pond-scummy gallows bait in every group. Some of those will be more of a problem to their own group than to you (see Rule 14, below). Some will be more of a problem to you precisely because you’re not a member of their group. It is wise, not racist, to avoid the latter. In Boston, this may be referred to as the “Evelyn Wagler-George Pratt Rule,” and that’s not code. Odd exception to half of Rule 4: Jesse Jackson would much rather be followed by a white on the streets of DC, at night, than a black.
5. There have been two instances in recent history where the concept of “honorary white” held sway. One was in apartheid South Africa where, for example, Japanese were considered “honorary white.” The other was when, in relation to the Trayvon Martin shooting, the American mainstream media made Hispanic George Zimmerman an “honorary white.” This is not entirely a coincidence, since (see Rule 18) the very liberal American media is as racist in their way as ever the Afrikaner Broederbond was in its.
6. Nobody really thinks whites are as evil as portrayed by white liberals and black demagogues. If they really thought so, they’d be too afraid to ever leave the house, since a) there are a lot more whites, b) those whites are much better armed, c) they’re more likely to be veterans of the Army’s and Marine Corps’ ground-gaining combat arms, and d) they have an historically demonstrated cultural aptitude for mass, organized violence.
7. People who insist you’re speaking in code insist on it because they believe it’s true. They believe it’s true because they really do speak in code and can’t imagine anyone who does not speak in code. It’s not racist to think those people are idiots, nor to note that they’re mostly white. (Exception to rule: When conservatives talk about guns and zombies? Especially in terms of using the former to kill the latter? Yeah; “zombie” is code for “liberals of any color.” See Rule 6, above.)
8. It’s not racist to note that white liberalism managed to do in about thirty years something that three hundred years of slavery could not, seriously damage the black family, generally though not universally, and ruin it completely over wide swaths.
9. Speaking of slavery, the bulk of slave raiding and trading in Africa was black, usually Islamic black (see Rule 16, below), on black. The Arabic word for black and slave is the same, “Abd.” And the first registered slave owner in Virginia was black. Pointing this out to liberals, white and black, is always fun.
10. It’s not racist to wish that our first black president had been Thomas Sowell.
11. The “Some of my best friends” defense against a charge of racism is no defense… unless it happens to be true. Sometimes it’s best expressed to a white liberal as, “You don’t have so much as a day in uniform, do you, dipshit?”
12. The system of education that white liberals have inflicted on inner city blacks is a crime against humanity. No amount of money that they toss at it helps to overcome the elimination of discipline liberalism has caused. It’s neither racist to note this… nor wrong.
13. The various college and university minority “studies” programs, because they give a useless pseudo-education, and at very high cost in both money and time, are racist in their effects.
14. Most black crime is black on black crime. It is racist in its effects to deprive the black community of the social good that comes from executing black criminals that prey on other blacks.
15. It takes a white liberal idiot (Lord, forgive us our redundancies) not to understand the difference between casual sex with a member of another race and marrying and investing one’s entire reproductive effort in a member of another race. See, e.g., http://www.tomkratman.com/yoli.html. Dipshits.
16. Islam is not a race. Detesting Islam is not racist. There is nothing in Islam which genetically compels either slightly tanned Palestinians or totally white English reverts to pray toward Mecca five times daily, to self-detonate in crowded squares and movie theaters, to find offense in just about everything, nor even to clitorectomize their women. Flash alert: Lysenko was wrong. Dipshits.
17. When a liberal accuses you of racism, rejoice; it means the dipshit knows he or she is losing.
18. The worst racists are liberals, mostly white ones, who assume that blacks and hispanics are so inferior that only affirmative action in perpetuity would give them a remotely fair chance. (That this also keeps a lot of liberal white social workers and bureaucrats employed is, of course, merely incidental. Ahem. Dipshits.)
19. There was a conservative argument for a kind of affirmative action. Unfortunately, all the money’s already been spent on employing white liberal social workers and bureaucrats, and we’re broke now, so that ship has sailed. Again, blame dipshit white liberals.
20. Screaming “Racism! Raaaacissssm!” on the part of a white liberal, when the matter in question has no DNA in its gene pool, no genetics in its DNA (see Rule 2, above), is the surest proof that said white liberal is genetically defective. And a dipshit. And it’s not racist to point this out.
WORLD ABLAZE
By
Jane Lebak
In a totalitarian regime, can you trust the beggar at your door?
On the second trip to my door to retrieve the rest of my grocery rations, I find a man on my steps staring at the bags full of good things he no doubt has been denied for days, if not weeks. He looks up, rain-soaked hair dripping onto the threadbare shoulders of his coat. I say, “Do you need something to eat?”
He stares uneasily as I lift the remaining bags. “Well, come in,” I say. “Let’s get you a meal.”
Still in silence he follows me into the kitchen. I turn on the kettle. Using the fresh bread, I make him a sandwich thick with ham and cheese, then lay it before him along with mustard and pickles. Before I finish saying, “I have no lettuce,” he’s already set into the sandwich. At the counter I make three more, sealing each in plastic, then open a package of apples and another of carrots. When I look up the man is staring at me, a woman who is at least twenty years older and two skin-shades darker than himself.
He rasps, “I can’t get work because I’m a Christian.” I nod. His gaze hardens. “Have you already called the authorities?”
“I’ve called no one.” I pour some tea to steep, then I bring a worn backpack from the closet and load it with the sandwiches, the fruit and carrots. “I can’t give you more than a few days’ food, but this should keep you for a while.” I find the cast-off backpacks at thrift stores, and each stands ready with a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, socks, and a towel. The man trembles as I hand him the bundle, a hole carefully patched at the top, but at least it won’t draw attention like new gear.
He looks into the bag. “Are you a Christian?”
I return to the counter. “I’m actually a Dominican nun in hiding.”
His eyes widen.
“And I can recognize an informant, so you’ll meet your quota if you want to. But take that anyhow, because you’ll need food until the deposit clears in the bank, assuming the authorities pay you what they claim they will.”
His raspiness wasn’t an act—he sounds ill. “How did you know?”
“You’re not the first.” I set his tea before him along with honey and the skim milk issued by the ration cards. It’s been years since we’ve had cream or butter.
He drinks the tea as quickly as he drank the water. “You could die if I turn you in.” He sounds stunned. “You could have refused me at the door. Why didn’t you?”
“Because you just told me you’re a Christian, and you’re not.” I take a seat at the table. “But someday, when you eat your dinner, you’ll be saying grace.”
In the hospital where I work as a nurse, I count off a rosary on my fingers as I move through the day. Back in the Philippines, my mother’s generation used strings of beads, but if anyone found them on me today in Baton Rouge, I’d forfeit my life. It comforts me to consider that our Blessed Mother would rather I remain alive to pray again than insist on doing things the traditional way. Even my name had to go. I took permanent vows as Therese, named for the saint on whom I was Patterned, but my name tag (and my official ID) says only Reese.
The informant hasn’t turned me in. I don’t know if he or any of the other informants ever became Christians, but I do know there have been five, and despite the government’s rewards, none have made that call.
It’s a morning of bedpans and medications, worried patients and belligerent ones as well, sometimes in exactly the same body. Christ breaks the government’s prohibitions to dwell all around me in the antiseptic halls: in the man clasping his dying wife’s hand, in the first-time mother learning to diaper her newborn, and in the clerk navigating the system to obtain approval for a patient’s elective procedure.
In room 2856, I come to my favorite patient. A radiologist waits at the foot of the bed, her head bowed. Although it’s a private room and the door remains closed, I draw the curtains around a middle-aged black man’s bed and bow my head as well. “Good morning, Your Excellency.” And then I present him a fist-sized box with a test-tube full of wine and a wafer I baked in my own kitchen.
John Shaller underwent a back-alley consecration as Bishop five years ago with me and two other covert nuns in attendance. The Church moves around nowadays without any kind of permanency except for the people it inhabits—no buildings, no property. We’ve got a cottage industry changing IDs and moving the newly-created people from city to city. A homeless man showed up one evening and it turned out to be the Archbishop from New Orleans, come to ordain a replacement for Bishop Ruiz after his execution. Bishop Shaller spends days unloading cargo ships, but nights are for a clandestine Mass and as many other sacraments as he can.
In non-theological terms, we refer to this as burning the candle at both ends; he’s been hospitalized with pneumonia. The radiologist in the room is Sister Miriam, aka Miri. Every day I can, I bring bread and wine. Sister Miriam is able to smuggle in a page with the day’s readings. While I check his vital signs and fill out his chart, he says Mass in thirteen minutes. Once finished, the paper folds into squares tiny enough to slip beneath my wristwatch.
Before I go, he says, “Do we have access tonight?”
“Yes, your Excellency.” Then I open the curtains and push his bedside table nearer.
In the evening, I wheel Bishop Shaller to the ultrasound room. The radiologist signs off that he’s here, then escorts in a Chinese woman wearing a nurse’s uniform even though she’s not yet a nurse. Catholic nuns used to run hospitals; nowadays we infest them.
Bishop Shaller sits in his wheelchair, out of breath, while I boot the computer. It takes three successive pass codes, each one telling us, “Password incorrect. Try again” before the ultrasound machine becomes a Pattern machine. I say, “Do we have the Pattern piece?”
Bishop Shaller removes a jewelry box from his bathrobe pocket, and within it I find a single wooden bead.
“Nice.” Wood works so much better than clothing, although anything organic will do. A wooden rosary is as strong a Pattern piece as anyone could ask for. I load the machine, and it begins analyzing.
Sister Miriam sets a cap on our postulant’s head and attaches electrodes to her wrists and ankles.
The postulant looks nervous, so I say, “Whose Pattern did you choose?”
She twists her shirt in her hands. “Saint Faustina of the Divine Mercy.”
“Oh, I like her, even though she was a little snippy with Saint Therese of Lisieux.”
The postulant pauses. “Was St. Therese your Pattern?”
I nod.
Bishop Shaller rises from the chair long enough to give her Communion, bless her, and renew her preliminary vows.
The computer indicates it’s loaded the Pattern, so Sister Miriam begins the process.
Patterning takes half an hour, but it’s a half hour of intensity. When I took my Pattern, I found myself remembering long passages of The Story Of A Soul word for word as they settled into my heart and changed the way I thought. I felt an intense love of the ordinary world surrounding me, the individual moments all given me by God my Father. Later as I came back to the real world as if breaking the surface of the ocean and taking that first breath, I realized just what a treasure God had given us by creating our very lives. Yes, even a Church living in persecution. Yes, even in Masses whispered beside bed pans and Final Vows taken in muddy alleys.
The postulant whimpers, “Talk to me.” She’s pale. “Talk to me.”
It works best if the subject stays quiet, so while Sister Miriam moves the wand over her temples, I say, “You know we discovered Patterning completely by accident? God gave us this gift when someone learned something about violins. A scientist named Selah Merced learned that when you play the same melody repeatedly, the sound physically changes the wood to make the violin more attuned to that particular series of sounds.”
The postulant nods, still frightened, and Miriam asks her to keep still. Saint Faustina spent a lot of time feeling out of her depth too, so that’s probably a good sign. I continue, “Well, someone applied the Selah principle to all wooden items and discovered they picked up patterning from the alpha waves a person’s brain produces during prayer or meditation. And we can reproduce those vibrations and project them onto other organic material.”
Wood is the best for preserving patterns, but wool works too. Fragments of bone are the least effective because they picked up everything the person did, not just prayers. I’ve always wished we could take a Pattern off a fragment of the True Cross.
The postulant whispers, “I’m going away.”
I squeeze her hand. “No, you’re being enhanced. You’re having Saint Faustina’s pattern worked into your standard brainwave pattern so it will be easier for you to achieve her style of spirituality, but you were already a bit like her. You wouldn’t be able to take a pattern very different than yourself.” I watch the screen over Miriam’s shoulder while Miriam runs the wand over all the places of her brain that God might make His home, dialing the intensity in and out to train the most spiritually sensitive areas.
“There are so many different kinds of saints, so many different lights before God. You’ve found one like yourself, and you’re letting her lead your path. Relax. Try to pray.”
At the end of the Pattern, our postulant wipes the gel off her head and neck with a white towel. We lock out the ultrasound machine so it’s ready for performing ultrasounds again. Bishop Shaller hears our postulant’s final vows, and at last her soul matches the name on her ID card: Tina. Miriam brings her upstairs, and Bishop Shaller climbs into his wheelchair, exhausted, so I can return him to his room.
I hand him the bead in the box. “It feels like I’m touching mercy.”
He tucks the box into his robe without a word.
When I return from my shift, the rain-dampened informant skulks on my walkway, a dangerous habit because the peace officers a
re just as likely to arrest him for begging as they are to arrest me for Christianity. With each six-hundred square foot house identical to all the rest, it’s a wonder he was able to find mine at all.
He whispers, “I need to know more.”
I hand him Sister Miriam’s slip of paper with today’s readings and the collect prayer. He pockets it as I say, “Are you hungry?”
He nods. I say, “Leave, and forget your backpack on my front steps. In half an hour, remember it and come back.”
Five minutes later, as I make him more sandwiches, I think about the slip of paper I’ve just handed to an informant. It could be my death. It could be his life. The reading for today: I’ve come to set the world on fire. How I wish it were already burning. It’s burning now. Father against son, brother against sister, neighbor against neighbor. We’re well and truly on fire, and Jesus, you can come back. Except you’re still waiting, waiting to collect one more soul, and then one more, and one more after that, each one a little different from all the ones before, never to be seen again and therefore too precious to leave unfinished. Little treats for you as each of us finds you and reaches for you and our hands grasp yours. You call one more soul, and then it’s so good that you reach for the next.
There’s a rapid banging at the door, followed by the bell ringing twice. My death, indeed. It’s easy to think about arrest and martyrdom while slicing cheese, but my heart pounds, and then again someone beats on my door.
At the entrance I find a grey-uniformed peace officer, and at her side, the informant.
So this is how I surrender my life to You. Please God, forgive the informant.
The drizzle doesn’t bother the peace officer. She gestures to the informant. “He’s been hanging around. Is he bothering you?”
Is he bothering me? Is that all? Not a surrender of my life, but a chance to protect his?
“I work at the hospital, and I have his backpack. I wanted him to come get it.” I hand him the bag. “Thank you.”