Sunday, January 30, 2022

The Real Cost of Slavery

 


I remember when I was first exposed to the sin that is uniquely ascribed to the Southern people- I was a boy in the fourth grade in East Tennessee when our history teacher, a portly, middle-aged spinster from some flyover state in the Midwest, regaled us with tales of that “peculiar institution”: horrific accounts of abuses by cruel slave masters, and on the other hand tales of the brave abolitionists who “risked their lives” to free the slaves out of nothing but the goodness of their own hearts, “heroes” such as Harriet Tubman- a criminal who nearly killed someone for daring to get cold feet in his escape, by the way- and finally the war that erupted so that America’s greatest President Abraham Lincoln could emancipate the Negro race from the cruel South, fighting to keep them bonded and beaten forever.  The fact that the entire month of lessons on slavery and the Civil War were designed to invoke shame and guilt in easily-impressionable nine-year-olds was obvious enough for me to tell, even at that young age.  I was certainly upset that I was being shamed for something that I had no part in, but the more absurd portion of this public-school guilt trip was that many of the children who were being lectured weren’t Southern- their parents had moved to my hometown from the North.  A few were not even White, yet were being treated as if they were George Wallace voters in 1962!

It was at that time that I first learned about propaganda.  Even as a young boy, the tales of slaves being beaten half to death by cruel masters for not picking cotton fast enough didn’t make a lot of sense to me, especially after we’d just read about how expensive slaves were- so much so that four-fifths of the Southern population, on average, owned none, and only one percent more than 200.  What sane man would ruin the equivalent of thousands of dollars in such a manner?  An injured man can’t work at all.  Would you intentionally cripple your mule for not being able to carry enough weight, or kill your cat for not catching enough mice, or, to use a closer example, light your combine harvester on fire for failing to meet a quota?  Of course not, and it’s patently absurd to suggest otherwise.  The image we gasped at in our textbook of a slave that had been whipped so much his back resembled tree roots under soil served much the same purpose as it did two hundred and fifty-some odd years ago, when yellow journalists in some Northern city published it in an abolitionist rag- horrifying the general populace by taking the worst outliers of any institution and equating them with the practice as a whole, just like they do nowadays whenever some nutjob shooting and killing children is used as evidence to conclude that all firearm owners are lunatics who will mass murder if stricter laws are not passed against them.  The propaganda machine has been at it for quite a while.  In America, the prevailing narrative on Southern slavery has reached the level of the absurd, such as with professional “social activist” (race hustler) Marcus Sanders- better known as Tariq Nasheed’s- claims of “Buck Breaking”, events in which he claims white, devout Christian Southern slave owners would hold parties for the purpose of committing group sodomy against male slaves.  It is funny until we take a step back and realize that a not insignificant number of blacks in America genuinely believe abuses of a similar manner that even the most strident abolitionist of the 1850s would find hard to believe happened to their ancestors.

Slavery is today a specific evil ascribed only to the South, even though it has been practiced, and in some cases continues to be practiced, by every single group of people on Earth.  Nor was the South’s form of slavery uniquely horrifying- the slave trade was abolished in the United States well before its colonial European neighbors, the Caribbean sugar plantations made Alabama cotton fields positively appealing by comparison, and Ottoman sex slavery made them look like five-star vacation resorts.  It was not even a practice that was solely unique to the states of the Confederacy- quintessential Yankee state New Jersey had slaves all the way until the end of the War.  But, nonetheless, because Lincoln so shrewdly attached the baggage of slavery to the South for their part in the War Between the States, it has become a blight that will haunt it until the end of time.

I do believe, however, that Southern slavery ended up being a negative for this country and people- but before you get the torches and pitchforks out, I do not believe that there’s anything morally wrong with it.  Today, you will hear arguments that “the Bible condemns slavery”.  This is one that is never made in good faith- a cursory readthrough of the Scriptures will inform you of that.  Just ask someone making this argument to read Leviticus 25:44 and ask him what that means- if he argues that this part of Mosaic Law no longer applies to Christians, just ask him if he believes in supersessionism and watch his head spin as he justifies himself.  Likewise, you will find no condemnation of the practice in the New Testament.  There are some that like to claim that Paul condemned slavery- he did not.  The only line that he ever wrote that could be in any way interpreted to be such can be more easily read as a prohibition on kidnapping.  Paul does not command Philemon to immediately free Onesimus and do penance for his evil- instead, he simply asks that the former forgive the latter and receive him as a brother.  Christ Himself used the metaphor of the slave and master to reflect mankind’s relationship with God- certainly a strange choice if you believe, as liberal theologians do, that God treats slavery as inherently wrong.  The prohibition that the Scriptures does contain is on masters committing abuse of slaves, which lines up neatly with the Bible’s similar commandments to husbands and parents.  A final argument that my fellow Orthodox Christians (such as the modernists at Fordham) will sometimes use the decisions of the Council of Constantinople in 1872 as further proof that the Church condemns slavery.  That decision is nothing of the sort- it is a condemnation of national politics infecting the Church and proves that the Church is above worldly ethnic nationalism.  It has as little to do with slavery as a football game does.  Likewise, although many Church Fathers have offered their opinions on slavery, and some have condemned it, that is their own position as private theologians- the Church as a whole remains silent on this issue.  But that is enough of this topic.

Those who actually acknowledge that slavery existed in other places on earth- such as in the Roman Empire, for instance- may point out that the South’s version (helpfully denoted as “chattel slavery”) is uniquely evil because it was done on the basis of ethnicity instead of debt or war.  Such arguments rarely take into account the Irish laborers in various parts of North America who had their “indentured servitude” contracts bought, sold, or indefinitely extended, or the free blacks who themselves owned slaves, but this is neither here nor there- New World slavery was largely of an ethnic character.  I do actually agree with this insofar as I believe creating a caste system and assigning one group the permanent status of “slave” is a purely pragmatically terrible idea, and it’s responsible for most of the ills that have plagued the South ever since the end of the War.  For certain, Southern slavery was not the only caste system to exist in the world, nor was it the most brutal- for instance, there was no freedom for Dalits in India, Cagots in France or burakumin in Japan- but inevitably, caste systems end, and what results is never a positive for the nation.

What makes slavery stand out among the caste systems of antiquity is that it is temporary by design- it is only a system that is feasible in a pre-industrialized, agrarian society.  The institution would have ended no matter what the results of the War were- it was already growing unprofitable and impractical by the time hostilities kicked off at Fort Sumter, as cotton exports from British colonies such as Egypt flooded the market and technological advances in agricultural harvesting made it an increasing money drain to purchase, feed, and house humans.  Virginia was already seriously considering ending slavery in 1838 due to the increasing unprofitability, before the actions of one Nat Turner put an end to that discussion.  The last country in the world to abolish slavery was Brazil in 1888, and at that time the practice was basically dead anyways, as former slave-owners found that it was much more practical to employ some of the many European immigrants flooding the country to farm, cook, or do whatever slaves could do, as they would happily work much harder for wages that added up, in the long term, to be less than the cost of buying, feeding, and housing a slave.  If the South had won the War, it is likely slavery would not have lasted any longer.

That is not to say that the War and the abrupt end to Southern slavery didn’t matter, because of course it did.  It made the problems that faced post-slavery states such as Brazil and various Caribbean islands thousands of times worse.  The main downside of caste systems is that they breed resentment.  For groups located toward the bottom of the totem pole, that status, and that anger, becomes part of their founding myth as a people.  This is especially true in ethnic caste systems, and even worse with New World slavery because it, as mentioned above, is guaranteed to end at some point.  Though “equality” is a noble goal, it never works out in practice.  Raising a group at the bottom of the pyramid to the same level as everyone else does not mean that peace and cooperation will follow- you cannot heal a wound that has been festering for centuries with one band-aid.  If a group’s identity is based around being wronged, as lower-caste groups’ identities nearly universally are, all elevating them to the same legal and social status as the group that they believe wronged them will do is provide them with the means to get their vengeance on the group that they perceive, rightly or wrongly, as having been their oppressor.  It is even worse when the lower-caste group is given legal advantages in order to propel them to the same status as higher-caste groups- they will use these advantages not to advance their own group but instead bring down the group that they hate.  We have seen this in the First Reconstruction- groups of newly freed blacks, enabled by corrupt Radical Republican governments, committed murder, rape, robbery, and arson against the men and women who had once been their masters (and many more who had not) on a wide scale, and we saw it again as gangs of blacks set Minneapolis, Portland, Seattle, Washington, and many more cities alight two summers ago.  We have seen it in South Africa, where elderly Boers are being stabbed to death in their homes while the government that Nelson Mandela founded on the principle of equality for all seizes land from whites and bans the old flag for being “hate speech”.  We see it in Japan, where Zainichi Koreans constantly demand more government assistance despite the fact that they receive more than a living wage even though they do not possess Japanese citizenship at all, and routinely profess their support for North Korea.  We see it in India, where Brahmins are reduced to begging on the streets of Calcutta and living underneath tarps while Dravidian tribes and Dalits demand even larger quotas at public universities.  Their anger will never be sated no matter what the government or private citizens do for them, because their enslavement is their very ethnogenesis, and for blacks the Southerner is the Egyptian to their Israelite.  The end of slavery created a ready-made fifth column- a population of malcontents who have every incentive to be malcontented.  Many slimy politicians have taken advantage of the fact that you can still whip American blacks into a violent frenzy today by pointing the finger at someone and accusing them of racism or Confederate sympathy, and that you can keep them voting for policies that are objectively terrible for them by accusing the opponent of the same things.  Even many blacks, such as the great economist Thomas Sowell, have pointed out how self-destructive this mindset is.  Comedian Chris Rock bemoaned the absurdity of blacks treating O.J. Simpson being acquitted for double murder as if it was some sort of triumph for his race.  Rodney King pleaded for “everyone to get along”- it didn’t stop four of his supporters from nearly killing Reginald Denny.  People are not a monolith, but singular voices alone cannot change a culture.

Perhaps the system of slavery that was practiced by the Greeks and Romans would have been better for this country, as it did not discriminate- slavery was an unfortunate condition that anyone could find himself in with enough bad luck, but it was also something that it was possible to earn one’s way out of, instead of being something that you are born in and die in due to your skin color or national origin (Of course, you could also earn your way out of New World slavery, but that detail is often deliberately overlooked).  It certainly would have been more in line with the way that proud Southerners Washington, Jefferson, Madison, and many others modeled the government of the United States off of Athens and Rome.  But it is no use wondering about how things would have been different if the world had taken a slightly different course- the effects of slavery are here with us to stay.  Neither is it useful to fantasize about things such as deporting all the blacks in America on the first ship to Monrovia- nothing would invite the attention of a UN “peacekeeping force” more than that.  Violent fantasies are the territory of lowlifes such as the Bowl Patrol idiots and federal agents.  The opposite solution- attempting to court the black population- is as much of a pipe dream.  It has not worked for Republicans for decades, and it will work even less for Southern Nationalists.  No article or statue or outreach effort will change the fact that our heroes are their boogeymen, and vice versa.

Rather, the solution here is to leave them alone as we wish to be left alone.  Our movement and their group ideology are diametrically opposed- that’s okay.  We don’t have to get along, but we do need to not mess with each other.  Self-determination is the most peaceful way to go.  And it goes without saying that violence that is not in defense of your home, property, or family/community is absolutely unacceptable.  Unprovoked violence against innocents is both morally wrong and the stupidest thing that followers of an ideology could ever do.  The things you do need to do, if you ever encounter a member of the black community attempting to shame or guilt you over slavery, is to gently remind him that you will not apologize for something that you took no part in and he was not victimized by, and that you are proud of your ancestors and will not apologize for their actions, either, and that he would be better served taking those complaints elsewhere.  If he actually has an interest in peaceful coexistence, then the message will be understood.  If not, and he is just using it as an excuse to cause trouble, it’s fair to say that the civilized world is not going to look highly upon him.  The effects of slavery are still with us today- we can’t change that.  What we can change is our mindset toward it, and how we react to it.  I hope you can, as well.

Sunday, July 18, 2021

Why I Don't Play Visual Novels

 

Hi, I’m Kaoru.

You may know me as one of the angriest people on Twitter.  One of the things that earned me this reputation was my public opposition to a little game that was all the rage among Twitter users in late 2020.  It’s called Muv-Luv.  You might know it, too.

Why was I so publicly opposed to this game?  Well, there are two reasons.  One was just simple stubbornness.  There was only so much of seeing this game everywhere and being called a subhuman for not wanting to play it that I could take before I dug in my heels and reaffirmed my desire to never touch the game or any media related to it.

The second reason was that I simply do not play visual novels.  And this is why.

If you’ve been on the internet as long as I have, especially when you are in circles related to Japanese media, you will inevitably run across visual novel fans, whether that is the growing Muv-Luv zoomer fandom, the Tsukihime boomers, the Umineko boomers, the Higurashi boomers, the old-school Fate elitists, you name it.  Their names, avatars, and things they talk about most often instantly betray them.  Usually, they are extremely insular, and their accounts carry faint hints of elitism- it seems that they devote themselves to their favorite visual novels in order to show that they are true weebs, unlike those filthy casuals who only watch anime.  Attempting to converse with one of these people is like attempting to speak a foreign language, as they will talk in references that only make sense to other fans of their favorite game.  I would encounter this frequently with my online friends as they became consumed by the virus known as Muv-Luv.  A typical evening would go something like this.

Kaoru: Hey, evening.

Friend: Hi!

Kaoru: So did you hear about the new-

Friend 2: TWIZZLERS!

Kaoru: What?

Friend 3: TWIZZLERS!  Play Alternative!

Kaoru: I don’t get it.

Friend: Sumika or Meiya?

Kaoru: Who even are these people?

Friend 2: He’s asking you Sumika or Meiya.  It’s not that difficult.

Kaoru: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Friend: It’s Alternative, you pleb!  Sumika or Meiya, pick one now!

(chat devolves into a cacophony as everyone in it screams their reference of choice louder and louder)

At the time that the Muv-Luv craze was sweeping my friend circle, I already had issues with being friends with a group that was incredibly knowledgeable about something that I wasn’t, and feeling both lost and idiotic when they started talking about it.  So you can imagine how it felt when I went from one group that had scholarly debates about the color of Josef Stalin’s bowel movements to another group only to find the discussion centered around nothing but referencing this work of fiction I don’t know anything about.

This was my personal experience with visual novel fans, but it seems like this seems to be a common theme.  Maybe some of you have had similar experiences.  Of course, if you are a Muv-Luv fan, you’re probably extremely pissed that I decided not to read the greatest work of fiction of all time.  But you’ve also probably tuned out by this point.  So I will continue.

Why do visual novels attract these kinds of people, and what’s the issue for my opposition to them?  Well, there are a few reasons.  The most important issue here is the length.  VNDB.com is a site that catalogues and classifies visual novels and allows users to post which ones they’re currently playing and have completed.  One of its statistics is an estimate of the time required to complete a visual novel.  It’s not an exact number or average, but it’s still a useful statistic.  Let’s just take the bane of my existence, Muv-Luv, as an example.  VNDB says that Muv-Luv Extra and Unlimited together take 30-50 hours to play.  Let’s assume that you’re a fast reader, and finish it in exactly 30.  However, we’re not done here.  VNDB says that Muv-Luv Alternative takes over 50 hours to play, so let’s assume you’re still a fast reader, and finish it in 50 hours.  Together, that’s 80 hours of gameplay.  That’s already a pretty big number…but we’re still not done.  Assuming that playing all of this made you a fan, now you want to go back and play the side stories!  The four Muv-Luv Alternative Chronicles VNs take up 30 hours.  Muv-Luv Photonflowers takes 10.  Muv-Luv Photonmelodies takes 30.  You even play the VN versions of Total Eclipse (30 hours) and Schwarzesmarken (10 hours).  In total, you’re looking at 190 hours of gameplay for the entire Muv-Luv franchise.

Now, let’s assume you’re not a NEET, and you’re also like me, where 4 hours is the upper limit of free time you have each day.  Assuming you play every day, playing through just Extra, Unlimited, and Alternative would take you 20 days.  If you decide to play everything, it would take you 47.5 days to complete the entire franchise.  That’s almost 2 months, devoting all your free time just to playing Muv-Luv.  And keep in mind, this is assuming you read as fast as possible- if you read more slowly, or can’t keep focus for 4 hours, then this would likely take even longer.

Now, you’re probably asking yourself why this is so big of a deal- after all, aren’t a lot of games long?  I’m no stranger to games taking a while- it took me 85 or so hours to beat Fire Emblem: Three Houses, and I’m about 40 hours into Persona 4 Golden and barely even at the halfway point.   But the key point here is that these are not games, at least not as you’d understand them.

The two different forms of media are passive and active media.  Passive media are books, movies, anime, basically anything where you sit back and watch the action unfold.  In active media, which include tabletop games and video games, you, the player, control the action and what happens.  How the story unfolds is up to you.

What do visual novels count as?  Well…let’s take a look at the gameplay…which is just making an occasional dialogue choice that may cause the story to change.  I suppose that is active.  But most of the time is spent watching to see how the story plays out.  About the only gameplay here is deciding whether you want to click the mouse to move on to the next line of dialogue manually.  That hardly seems like the most interactive experience, does it?  Sometimes there’s not even any dialogue choices at all (these are called kinetic novels).

Some tell me I miss the point, and that I should be comparing visual novels to books instead of games.  Well, let’s consider that, too.

One Piece is, bar none, the most well-known manga in the world.  It’s been running since 1997, which is longer than I’ve been alive.  Currently, it has 99 published volumes.  I read one volume in about 30 minutes, but it may take longer for you.  I’m just going to use this as my baseline.  Let’s assume it takes you 40 minutes to finish, being conservative.

99 segments of 40 minutes equals exactly 66 hours.

You could read 23 years’ worth of one of the most popular manga in the world, one that never took a week off, and still have time to spare, in the time it takes for you just to play the Muv-Luv trilogy.

Or, if you want to compare it to actual print books, War and Peace is one of the longest novels ever written.  If you read at 250 words per minute, an average rate, it will take you about 39 hours to finish this book.  That is LESS time than just Alternative itself.  In the time it takes you to play through Muv-Luv, you can read War and Peace twice.

What if you’re a big fan of movies?  Let’s say that you’re such a fan of Star Wars that you want to watch all of them, even the sequel trilogy and the spinoffs.  I wouldn’t recommend them, because they’re poorly-written, pandering drivel.  To put it shortly, they suck.  But that’s beside the point.  Choosing to watch all of them would take 25 hours and 7 minutes.  That’s less time than just Extra and Unlimited ALONE.  Depending on how fast you read, you would at least be able to watch every Star Wars movie three times in the time it takes you to play Muv-Luv, possibly even four.

Are these works of fiction games, or books?  The fact that they’re sold on game platforms with the $60 price tag to match would suggest a game, but the lack of interactivity would suggest a book.  Regardless, the point here is that these series are massive time investments.  That’s the biggest issue.

This sort of time investment is poison to someone like me.  I like to consume many different kinds of media from many different genres in order to broaden my knowledge and ultimately learn more about the medium in the hopes of maybe becoming part of the creative industry later in my life.  As a child, I read voraciously, reading anything and everything I could get my hands on.  As an adult, I watch, read, and review all sorts of anime and manga.  These series are perfect for my mindset.  It takes 2-4 hours to watch one 11-13 episode cour of anime, something I can easily do every day.  It’s entirely possible for me to watch every anime series every single year and end up none the worse for it.  With manga, even though I do read longer series, I won’t get started with them unless I’ve already watched the anime first and liked it.  It’s a time investment that I can’t get back if I don’t enjoy it.  Doing something like that is quite frankly impossible with visual novels.  With them, considering the length, it would be lucky if I completed 10 or more a year.  And that’s the point I’m trying to make.  To me, visual novels are time sinks that I just can’t feel good about playing.  I’ll feel nothing but guilty about realizing I just spent 80 hours of my time watching text scroll on the screen no matter how good of a story it was.

Why can’t I stomach VNs taking this long, but why am I okay with games doing so?  The difference is, again, in passive and active media.  With a game, I’m more invested in playing it.  I can make my own experience every time I choose to play.  I’m not spending time obsessing over the minutiae of the plot, because I’m busy focusing on the game itself.  When it comes to passive media, I analyze every single bit of it.  That’s the difference between the mindset of a critic, and that of a fan.  When I play video games, I play them as a fan.  When I’m watching anime, reading manga, or reading books, I can’t help but view them as a critic.  It’s just how my brain is wired.

It’s pretty clear that the vast majority of visual novel readers, like the ones I mentioned previously, don’t view their favorite VNs from the mindset of a critic.  All too often I’ve spoke with people who say that Muv-Luv is the first visual novel they played, and it will be the only one they’ll ever play.  Or Higurashi.  Or Clannad.  Or whatever their favorite is, you get the picture.

The sheer commitment it takes just to get through one visual novel enforces this mindset kind of by necessity.  Just take a look at the list of top-rated visual novels on VNDB.


Nostalgia fuel is not exactly something exclusive to visual novels, but it’s something to take note of here.  Out of the top 50 visual novels in this database, 23 of them were made within the last 10 years, and 27 were made before.  This is a pretty reasonable number.  However, when we drop it down to VNs made within the past five years, we see…seven total.  In just three months, that number will drop to three.

What are these five VNs that, even though they were released recently, managed to ascend to greatness?

Utawarerumono: Futari no Hakuoro (2016): the third and final chapter to a series started in 2002.

9 -Nine- Yukiiro Yukihana Yukinoato (2020): the fourth chapter of a series that started in 2017.

Summer Pockets (2018): a stand-alone story that is produced by the famed Key Visual Arts.

Collar x Malice (2016): an original otome game.

Koshotengai no Hashihime (2016): an original BL game.

Kin'iro Loveriche (2017): an original dating sim.

Rance 10 (2018)…yeah, we’re not going to talk about that.

If we further eliminate the series that rely on established franchises to sell, we are left with a total of three completely original VNs made in the last five years that make it onto this list, and in three months there will be just one.

Just looking at the ratings doesn’t give the full story here.  Along with the rating, there’s also a popularity score, which on a scale of 0-100 measures how many users actually played the game.  Muv-Luv Alternative scores a 67.17.  The three games I mentioned score a combined 17.02.

Is this a sign of a decaying industry?  No, it actually makes perfect sense to me, considering what I mentioned about these games above.  They are huge time investments, and not only that, they are also massive money investments.  Why would someone pay $60 and take 40 hours to play a VN he knows nothing about over investing that same amount of time and money into an entry from a franchise he already knows he likes?  The visual novel as a medium almost seems tailor-made to ensure fans have no incentive to branch out beyond their one favorite series, or any ability to do so even if they wanted to. 

The sheer length of visual novels makes them inherently bad options to try to adapt to other forms of media.  Even if one was short, the branching narratives make them even harder to adapt.  You often see this with anime that tries to adapt a VN.  Most of the time, these shows end up being nothing more than 12-episode commercials that don’t even make any sense to those that haven’t already played the games.  This all but ensures that people who don’t already know what the anime is adapting aren’t going to come check it out, and this further makes VNs and the fanbases surrounding them even more insular.  I completely understand not wanting to have your fandom diluted by secondaries that have no respect for the original source material- but there are also many people like me who become fans of the original work because we saw the adaptation first and liked it.  That’s not going to happen when I can count on one hand the anime adaptations of VNs that managed to be coherent let alone good fiction in their own right.  The lack of incoming secondaries means that the VN fanbases will stay consistently small, but they also grow more and more insular, self-referential, and disconnected from both each other and the wider Japanese media world as a whole.

All the problems I have with visual novels can be boiled down to one core issue: the time you have to invest.  This, paradoxically, is how a game genre with one of the lowest barriers to creation ends up being one with one of the highest barriers to fans.  It takes a certain type of person to be able to play a VN, one that can stare at a screen with laser focus for hours on end.  This type of person is also far more likely to obsess over minute details of his favorite series instead of getting into other ones.  I, unfortunately, am not this type of person.  The visual novel industry ends up favoring these fans just by the very nature of the games that I’ve outlined above.  It has proven itself to be a sustainable model.  One thing you’ll notice that I haven’t said is that the insularity of visual novels is a bad thing.  I don’t believe so.  There is nothing worse than a creator catering to the johnny-come-latelys of a fandom that have zero respect for the work itself or the fans that have been there from the beginning.  So to everyone who already does play visual novels: keep doing what you’re doing.  Even if your fanbases are small, even if you’ve only ever played one, even if you devote all your waking hours to playing, keep playing them.  Unfortunately, as I’ve outlined above, I’m just not wired the right way to be able to enjoy visual novels.

And I am content with that.

Monday, March 1, 2021

The Prodigal

This last Sunday for all those who follow the Byzantine Rite was the Sunday of the Prodigal Son, one of the days intending to prepare the congregation for the incoming Lenten season by means of introspection.  The Sunday revolves around a very famous parable that you have no doubt heard if you have spent time in church at some point in your life, or maybe even if you haven't.  I won't go into detail with a recap of the parable, but I would like to take a look at the ending of it.  In it, the older son grows angry that his father has received his younger brother with such compassion after he returns home.  He complains that he has served his father faithfully for many years and has received nothing in return, while his brother wasted his inheritance with frivolities and is now having a banquet laid out for him.  From an outside standpoint, the older son seems absolutely correct; why should his irresponsible brother be rewarded for his foolishness?  However, he misses the point of this story, which is about redemption of those who have strayed from the righteous path.  The younger son, after having spent his inheritance, has accepted his folly and the consequences that came of it, and returned to his father's house with the intention of begging him to at least be able to work as a servant just to put food on his table.  The older son's indignation at his father's compassionate response reflect his true sins of jealousy and Donatism.  He does not believe his brother has the capability to change and earnestly repent of his sins, even though we know that is not the case.  In the case of this parable, it should be pretty self-apparent who the father and the prodigal son represent: God and the man who lapses away from Him in sin but ultimately repents.  The older son represents the faithful, the body of Christians who have not lost themselves to sin, and his reaction to his brother's repentance shows the faithful what they should not do.  A sinner rejoining the Body of Christ is a time for joy, not a time for condemnation.  Sadly, it seems like many today who call themselves Christians have not taken that lesson to heart.

On the internet, especially among the Orthodox community, you will see a great deal of vitriol hurled at converts from Protestant denominations.  Many of them claim that converts can never be "true Orthodox", whatever that means.  Usually, the people making these statements don't even try to hide the fact that their condemnation of Orthodox converts from western countries comes from their Greek ethnocentrism.  This kind of thinking has actually been condemned by Church authorities as heresy and it's best that those who preach it be ignored- rebuking them is the job of men much more holy than us.  Sadly, there is a much more insidious form of convert opposition within the Church, and one that is espoused not only by a great number of laypeople but even by clergy.  This states that converts are mainly "traditionalist" fetishists who only desire Orthodoxy because of its aesthetics and because it supports their fantasies of turning the world into a reactionary state like Tsarist Russia or the Byzantine Empire.  These people, state the proponents, are using Orthodoxy as window dressing to their politics and are trying to subvert the Church by joining in large numbers to sway it toward more conservative viewpoints.  Putting aside the fact that a massive concerted effort by thousands of people to politically infiltrate a religion that constitutes about 1% of the US Population and has no measurable effect on politics at any level is blatantly absurd, putting politics over Christ is not exactly a solely right-wing issue, and never has been.  Yet it is only "right-wing radicals" that the proponents of this theory point out.

Enter Rev. Stephen De Young, the rector of the Church of the Archangel Gabriel in Lafayette, LA.  In his spare time, he writes a blog on Ancient Faith Ministries, one of the largest Orthodox websites in the world.  I have no issue with the site or the theology it publishes, and I have no doubt that Fr. De Young is a godly man in his personal life.  He certainly does not seem like some bile-spewing leftist radical.  However, over the past week, he was guilty of making some pretty horrendous comments about right-wing converts, which can be viewed below.

His opening to these statements says that if a Protestant chooses to join Orthodoxy just because his denomination has ordained women, then he shouldn't become Orthodox.  This is a strawman of a real problem.  First, a significant liturgical abuse like ordaining women should be a cause for concern among Protestants.  This change almost never happens on its own.  You will never see a church with traditionalist, high church, little o orthodox dogma that just so happens to ordain women as well.  Such a change is just the most visible face of Christological decay.  The ordaining of women was one of the many theological and liturgical reasons that I am no longer Anglican today.  According to Fr. De Young, apparently my concerns about the validity of apostolic succession and the Mass were not a reason for me to convert and I should go back to attending Pride Masses with transgender women priests.

He goes on to state that someone joining Orthodoxy because of "traditionalism", including opposition to ordination of women and homosexuality, is "damaging to the church".  Therefore, out of "love for the Church and compassion for them", those who seek to join Orthodoxy because of its adherence to Biblical teachings about social mores, a.k.a. the foundations of Christianity, should be turned away.  Out of love.  He then goes on to state that he totally doesn't mean they should be turned away when he spent the last few paragraphs talking about how they have no place in the Church!  He even throws in a Russian bot insult.  You can almost see him about to call the converts Nazis and bigots.

The true problem with these comments is like the older son in the parable, they are presumptuous and arrogant.  Fr. De Young holds the converts' pasts against them and states that they're incapable of joining Orthodoxy "the right way" due to their political views, even if they no longer hold them in the present.  Whether or not a convert coming from a radical right-wing background has earnestly repented of his sins is of no importance to Fr. De Young- what he wants them to repent of is their politics.  Many who I personally know, and many more who I don't, have come to Orthodoxy from a far-right background.  Many of us still hold right-wing political views, but we have learned to put Christ and the Cross above all.  We have learned to no longer despise our brethren in Christ, and we have come to understand what He meant when He said "For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter in law against her mother in law” (Matt. 10:35): there is not one earthly human or group or concept, no state or nuclear family or ethnicity that is more important to us than Jesus Christ.  There are those I know and others know who have been saved from likely violent ends in far-right extremism due to His grace.  Yet to Fr. De Young, none of this matters, and because of our past we should have never become Orthodox in the first place.

One wonders if he would have dared to say the same thing about far-left radicals who desire to join the Orthodox Church.  Attacking “far-right” and “white-nationalist” bogeymen offers no penalty.  We see this in the news in secular life, and it looks like it has spread to the Orthodox sphere as well.  It is punching down in the purest sense; attacking left-wing radicals will draw too much criticism, but going after the right is openly encouraged in modern life.  Fr. De Young is not the only clergyman to put his foot in his mouth like this in the past year.  We have seen the OCA’s synod of bishops, when rioters were getting close to burning down churches in Minneapolis, choose to side with Black Lives Matter, an explicitly Marxist organization that was doing the burning, over giving guidance to its parishioners.  I can’t say this reaction is too surprising, as sad as it is.

What should the Parable of the Prodigal Son teach us, and how does it relate to Fr. De Young’s comments?  As members of the Body of Christ, we should rejoice when a sinner comes to Him in repentance, saying “I was lost, but now I am found”.  Fr. De Young, just like the older son, forgets that.  He assumes that those who come to Orthodoxy from a certain background are incapable of any real repentance, and attacks them.  He first assumes insincerity when these people seek Christ, just like the older son assumed of his brother’s repentance.  But is this the way to respond to those who seek Christ?  No!  For this came from the mouth of God the Father Himself: “Have I any pleasure at all that the wicked should die? saith the Lord GOD: and not that he should return from his ways, and live?” (Ez. 18:23).  Fr. De Young places each of these converts’ pasts over their present, and refuses to grant them the benefit of the doubt in their repentance.  So, after having heard already the wrong way to respond to sinners returning to Christ, we should instead entreat each other to behave like the father, running to greet our lost sons who have pledged their hearts to the Lord and renounced their sins.  For that, not turning them away because of their past, shows true love.


Saturday, February 20, 2021

What These Walls Have Seen

   Photo: https://i0.wp.com/101thingshiltonhead.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/Stoney-Baynard-Ruins.jpg?fit=1200%2C699 

On a few square miles in the heart of a gated community in a beach resort town visited by millions every year lies a relic of the past and of the Old South.  Most people that live on the island of Hilton Head, South Carolina have no idea that it exists- even people who live in the very neighborhood will pass by it without even realizing that it is there.  In its current state, it is nothing grand, simply a melancholy set of unremarkable standing stones.  But in the past, it flourished, and even now, it serves as a reminder that though the days of the plantations are long gone, their impact on the history of the South and its people will not be forgotten.

The Stoney-Baynard House was built in 1793 by James Stoney, Jr., son of Revolutionary War hero Captain John Stoney, on a ridge overlooking Calibogue Sound.  “Captain Jack”, as he was known, came into the possession of thousands of acres on the southwest end of the island, and his sons James and John, a merchant who lived in Charleston, sought to establish a large-scale plantation on this land.  Just like many other farms in the wet and humid Atlantic South, the conditions were optimal for growing rice and cotton.  The house was “built local” in the purest sense of the word- it was made of tabby bricks, which used shells and sand from the nearby beaches as the base, and then coated in white stucco for an elegant appearance, and it was positioned toward the sea so that cool breezes could ventilate the house in the oppressive summer months.  Behind it sat the house slaves’ quarters and the kitchen; although those weren’t given the same gleaming finish as the main house, they were still built of exactly the same sturdy tabby brick.

Touring the ruins today gives you a good idea of the conditions that James would have found his father’s property in when he first inherited it.  Crabgrass and mosses grow wild and thick, and palmettoes and live oaks bunch together so closely it’s impossible to see the shore that is less than a mile away.  However, in his time the island would have been even more remote than it is now- a bridge from the island to the mainland wasn’t built until 1956.  Just getting workers, whether slave or free, building supplies, and food to the property at all would have been a Herculean task.  And yet the brothers managed to not only do that, but clear the overgrowth of vegetation, build a beautiful house, fertilize the sandy soil, and plant their first crops.  By 1800, Braddock’s Point Plantation, as it was called, was a successful agricultural enterprise. 

Certain grand old houses in the South are sometimes referred to as a feature of the land instead of a residence because they have sat there for so long, but in the case of this house, it was literally built of the land which it now stood on.  The fact that the house was built out of tabby was a necessity rather than a stylistic choice- they made do with what they had.  Southern culture is tied to land- everything revolves around where a man chooses to make his home, because with only a few exceptions it would be where he chose to live out the rest of his days.  In this case, he lived in the exact same land he was in charge of cultivating.

Sadly, as the risky business of agriculture is wont to do, the plantation was an unsuccessful enterprise in the long run.  When John died in 1839, the bank seized the property to pay his debts.  The new owner of the plantation would be William E. Baynard, a planter who used the land to grow the famed Sea Island cotton, a genus with long, silky fibers that made luxurious and expensive textiles and clothing.  Baynard grew rich off this cotton, but the glory days of the plantation would be cut short by war.  The Union occupied Beaufort County in 1861-2, and the house was used as a headquarters.  At the site today, you can see where the soldiers dismantled out-buildings to use the bricks as a base for their tents.  Although the house was spared from the destruction of the Yankees, in 1869 it burned to the ground.  The Baynard family was never able to recover the agricultural operations at the property because of the lack of labor, and the plantation changed hands several times.  By 1949, the fields had disappeared completely under the trees, and the property was sold to a Georgia-based venture that planned to use the land for logging.  But as the island slowly began to develop, the son of one of the executives in this company saw a future for the land to be used residentially instead.

Charles E. Fraser was a smooth-talking son of southeastern Georgia who had recently returned to his home from a sojourn at Yale Law School.  He saw potential in the thousands of acres that his father’s company held on the island­- not for logging but as a planned community.  The Island was fast-growing, as a bridge to the mainland had just been completed; that same year, in 1956, Fraser bought the controlling stake in the logging company and set to work planning the area that would come to be known as Sea Pines Plantation.  Fraser, as a member of one of the Old South’s illustrious families, understood the importance of preserving history, especially Southern history, and more importantly, he understood that at that time a historical site was of huge interest to potential buyers (the more cynical will say that this was the only thing that motivated him, but that is neither here nor there).  Sites such as the ruins of the plantation and the old Gullah graveyard were marketed on brochures to attract residents.  His strategy paid off, and by 1958 the first lots had sold.  One can put this into perspective with what would likely happen today if a land-development company were to buy a large tract of land with an Old Southern plantation house on it to build a neighborhood.  At best, they would bulldoze the old house.  At worst, they would make a big show about how their new community would attract a diverse and progressive group of residents who are not racist and evil like the people who lived in that house, and then bulldoze it.  But the Fifties and Sixties were a different time, one where people actually had some respect for history and their forebears.  And so, the once-wild and untamed land that was formerly Braddock’s Point Plantation once again became prosperous, but in this case, instead of crops, a community had grown on the plantation.

Sea Pines today is still a beautiful community, but there’s just something that seems a little bit missing about it.  In 1956, there were no gated beachfront communities.  Today, they’re everywhere.  The ruins of the house lie in the center of the property, but tucked back behind a line of trees and I doubt that most people who live there have gone to visit it, or even know it exists.  Even though Sea Pines is not marketed as a retirement community, it seems to attract the same kinds of people as every 55+ Stepfordville in Florida does: retirees who blow in from some failing Rust Belt city up north who will spend their remaining years on this earth sitting on the beach, drinking their troubles away, complaining about the weather, complaining about their neighbors, pushing their small dogs around in strollers, playing golf poorly, spending their Social Security checks at the kinds of stores that charge $20 for a hamburger or $30 for a scented candle, not talking to their children, or just sitting on their porch staring into space until they expire.  It’s easy to blame Fraser for this- Sea Pines was, as one of the earliest planned communities in the South, the prototype for every carpetbagger trap and retirement hellhole in the Sun Belt.  But I don’t think it’s fair to place all the blame on Fraser, and I think he would probably be horrified to see what his creation had become.  He built Sea Pines and sold it under the pretense that home buyers would be living among history.  Sadly, just like almost everywhere else, this history and Southern history has been subsumed under the rising tide of a “culture”, if you can even call it that, based on consumerism.

Perhaps it is for the best that the house is located where it is, ignored and a ruin- because of that, no placards will stand beside it pointing out the evil of the owners of the house and of the Southern people, no politician will attempt to have the house demolished, and no black-shirted mob will come to smash the windows and spray-paint the walls.  Still, it's almost as painful for the house to be slowly forgotten about.  Just think, for a second, about the house itself.  Imagine what has grown up around it in the many hundreds of years it has been there, or how time has passed.  Imagine how it became a plantation from nothing, and then a burnt ruin, and then a thriving community.  It has lived through the War of 1812, tens of Presidents, the War Between the States, the bombing of Hiroshima, and a man being sent to the moon.  It's especially ironic that it survived burning only to fall victim to apathy of those around it.

However, it's also a good reminder of how nothing physical will last forever.  We, as sons and daughters of the South and students of history, can preserve homes and monuments and battlefields and all other sorts of sites as long as we can, but eventually they will no longer stand.  It is our job to keep these sites and the people who lived in them alive as memories, and to pass them down to our children, and for them to pass them down to theirs, and so on.  So, even if some place like the Stoney-Baynard House is demolished and buried, it will never die so long as our memories don't, and neither will the South itself.  We owe it to them.

Sources:

https://www.scpictureproject.org/beaufort-county/stoney-baynard-plantation.html

https://www.hiltonheadislandsc.gov/ourisland/history.cfm

Thursday, January 7, 2021

Dixiana's Lament- A Short Story

 It is morning, and the sweet smell of the honeysuckle outside beckons to me as I open my window.  It is like this every spring in this house that I have lived in for the past eighty-four years and one hundred and two days.  The earliest memory I have of this house was in this season too.  The sun was bright and the trees had turned green again from their winter sleep.  I was three, and Momma had thought me old enough to go with my sister Bonnie to the hen-house and get the eggs.  As we get there I notice this rope-thing lying on the ground and I go to put my hand toward it and Bonnie yells and the thing darts from the ground and opens its mouth with a hiss and I see two sharp teeth and I fall over and scream and Momma come a-running from the house with a hoe in her hand and she hit the snake with it and the head flies off, landing at my feet.  I turned my head away from it and sobbed into Momma’s apron as her warm embrace comforted me.  That was the first time I seen a living thing die, and it was so fragile.  One second the snake was snapping at me, the next it was in two pieces, still on the ground.  I wish I had a better first memory, perhaps one to do with the time I was baptized down at Johnson’s Crossroads at the First Presbyterian Church and Momma and Daddy told me all the ladies there cooed all over me and how beautiful a baby I was and I didn’t cry a peep as they poured the water on my head in my snow-white gown.  And afterwards, as the church held the luncheon to celebrate, I clung on to Bonnie and to Aunt Evelyn and Momma got a bit flustered because she thought I was getting too much attention.  At least, that’s what she told me.  But the first thing I remember is the snake.  It’s never gonna leave me, because I saw the end of a life that day.

It was not the first life I watched end, like when I had to kill the rooster when I was 10.  I had fed that rooster from my hand, but it grew time for slaughter, and Daddy thought I was old enough to help.  I held it down as he snapped the poor thing’s neck.  It didn’t struggle at all, because it trusted me to the end and I had betrayed it.  I could never eat chicken after that.  I was there when the men in the green suits and the pointed hats come to our door and tell Momma that Daddy had been killed somewhere far-off like in France and that he ain’t coming back no more and she fell over herself crying and two weeks later his body come and we buried him in the graveyard on the hill surrounded by the live oaks where his daddy was, and his daddy, and even his daddy before him, where the old gray tombstones crumble away, stain brown, and where you can barely read where the words 30th GEORGIA or BELOVED DAUGHTER are written on them, and the Spanish moss hangs so low that it about near touches the ground but it look like it come all the way from heaven.  When Momma passed, Jeb and me and Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Andrew put her in the same ground right by Daddy so that they could be together with Jesus.  She loved Jeb like he was her own son because I know Momma wanted a boy because she was the only girl in her family and was used to boys, but she only had Bonnie n’ me and none else.  She thought Patrick would be the son that she ain’t never had but then he and Bonnie moved to Atlanta where he was fixing to be some big shot in some bank or something and they only come back once a year to see Momma at Christmastime, but me n’ Jeb stayed to take care of her.  I never did like Patrick anyway because he acted like he was too good for Scarsboro.  He would talk about how he had gone to school at Sewanee and he would take Bonnie somewhere where she could wear pearls and drink from crystal glasses and he didn’t even go to church on Sunday but she bought everything he said.  I just knew he was gonna leave her someday but I couldn’t do nothing about it and the day before they got married Bonnie told me that she loved him and that I wouldn’t never understand because I was jealous of her and to mind my own goddamn business before she hit me.  I cried that night.

It was also spring when I could see the magnolia a-blooming four years ago when I woke up and I found Jeb cold in the bed beside me.  He never wanted to be buried in a Chatwood cemetery because he wasn’t no Chatwood; he was a Richardson and he wanted to be buried in the forests where he would go hunting, right by where we buried Red, and Joe, and later Tucker who he would take with him on Saturday mornings and they would stand arrow straight with their noses out and their front legs up where the quail were hiding in the brush and then he would shoot ‘em when they flew out and they would fall down to the ground and later he would gut them and clean them and I would brush them with butter and rub them with spices and cook them and we had many happy dinners that way, Jeb and Cynthia and Beau and me.  I still couldn’t eat the quail because I couldn’t get the image of that chicken out of my head, but everyone else loved them and I was happy to make it for them.  When we buried him the whole church congregation came and Bonnie and Patrick were there but they didn’t say no words to me and they left right afterwards.  Didn’t even stay for lunch.  Beau wasn’t there but it was okay because he was always traveling about for some business thing or another and I knew he would have been there if he could make it and he was still a-thinking ‘bout his daddy wherever in the world he was.  But Cynthia wasn’t there either and I was the saddest about that.  I remember when she was born down in the hospital in Newberryville and the nurses told me she looked just like I did and I was the happiest in the world.  She loved the trees and the flowers that grew in the front yard of the house and before she could even walk she wanted to grab the watering can that Momma had bought for a nickel from the five-and-dime run by Mr. Sexton on Oak Street and pour the fresh water over the tomatoes and the celery and the tulips and everything else I grew in the front yard and later on when she got big enough she picked out her own plants at the store and grew them and she won third prize in the 10-and-under category at the county fair for the strawberries that she grew.  I think we were prouder of her than she was.  We spoiled her; for Christmas she would get all the dolls she wanted, and later the dresses and lipstick, and one year we drove all the way to Atlanta and let her sit in Santa’s lap at Rich’s and that year she got a Talky Tammy doll and Beau got his first baseball bat.  She grew up with Tommy Dalton who lived a quarter-mile down the road and I knew they would be married someday because they got along so well and he always danced with her at Cotillion and we knew the Daltons and it would have been lovely if they ended up as part of our family.  We had scraped and saved to send her to finishing school in Atlanta and then to Emory because Tommy had gone there too and she sent us letters every week and we thought that surely she would announce that he’d proposed but the letters started coming less and less and soon we find the next time that she returns that she brings along with her some Yankee boy who came to Athens from Ohio or Michigan or one of those states where it’s colder’n the Ninth Circle and I tell her straight to her face that she was making a mistake and I only did it because it was best for her because all those damn Yankees had ever done was steal from Forrest County and they shot my great-great-granddaddy at Shiloh and by God they wouldn’t take my daughter from me.  I hated him as soon as I lay eyes on him because I knew when I saw him he was just like Patrick and he would take Cynthia from me just like Patrick had taken Bonnie.  I knew he must have blackmailed her or threatened her or something like that because there was no way my sweet girl could have ever fallen for a rat like that and I told her that but he had blinded her or put a gun to her head or something and she talked back to me and she had never done that before.  I told Jeb to run him out of Newberry County but he just sighed and said to leave her be and I wasn’t gonna change her mind like that.  He was my husband, he had to understand and I cried because even he couldn’t realize it.  The next morning I wake up to find they both left and Cynthia left a note on the table saying that she had come back to tell me that the Yankee had proposed and she was leaving with him to go to where he came from.  I heard Tommy Dalton drank himself to death years ago and they found his body in a river and he didn’t deserve that and neither did Jeb and neither did Beau or I and it was all that damn Yankee’s fault for stealing Cynthia away from me and I’ll never forgive him for as long as I live because she ain’t never come to see me again and it’s probably because he killed her or locked her up in his basement.  I knew he was no good and I just know the good Lord will send him to burn in hell if there is any justice in this world.

It used to be that this house stood alone on this road, first you would pass by the Daltons’ and then go a ways down Briar Creek road and come to this house, and then past that it was a straight shot to Johnson’s Crossroads and the church.  But it seems like this place has grown up in the last few years because now I have all sorts of neighbors and I see them passing by all the time and I wave to them and chat with them.  Now that I’m the only Richardson in this house it’s good to have some company some of the time.  All the women from church and from Cynthia and Beau’s Cotillion passed before me or they grew too frail to leave their houses, but though I am also frail and old thank the Lord I can move and leave my bed.  There’s even a restaurant down the street and it’s close enough to walk and sometimes I even go there and I see my neighbors there frequently.  I chat with them over tea or a biscuit or even a steak sometimes and it’s good food but it’s not close to the type of cooking that Momma would make and I miss it very much.  There are also the maids and the first time I saw them and they came in I was surprised because they were wearing these funny green clothes and I thought they were supposed to wear aprons, but I never been rich enough my whole life to have any maids and Jeb neither so I guess I wouldn’t know what maids wear nowadays.  Beau studied hard and went to Athens and ended up studying law and now he makes so much money working for the government I guess he hired them to help me in my old age and I’m grateful for them because they help me when I’m too tired to leave my bed or when I cough they put this funny thing in my nose and it helps me breathe and when I’m sick they give me medicine.  They even make food in the kitchen for me and bring it, and I keep telling them they don’t have to do none of that and I’ll cook because I been cooking in that kitchen for nigh on seventy years, but I’m afraid my memory is too foggy and I forget where the kitchen is in the house because I ain’t been down there so long and I have to sit down again and let them do it for me.  I’m so grateful that the maids do their job so well.  Beau is always so thoughtful, that boy.  I remember when I first met the maids and I was so pleased that he had sent them and I asked them what they thought of my home and I told them it was sorry it was more shabby than they’d like but my old bones just weren’t up to cleaning anymore, and they all said now Miss Lavinia, this ain’t your home and this is the care home, and I just giggled because I knew Beau had told them to say that, and get this every single one of them maids said that before eventually they stopped and started to talk with me about my home so they was joking.  Beau is such a jokester and he would always make Cynthia so mad when they was kids because she’d find a bug in her sheets or a lizard in her chair and occasionally when he and the Dalton boys were playing in our yard he’d hit her with the football and she’d haul off and sock him and they both got spanked for that, but they were being kids and he’d always have a sense of humor and he was just so pleasant to be around.  Especially since Cynthia left he’s the only one I got.  He ain’t been around for a while because he’s always traveling or somewhere else for his job but I know it’s not his fault and he’ll be back to see me before too long.  Besides, he’s always right here in my heart so I don’t feel lonely.  Once I asked one of the maids when he was next coming to see him and she looked very young and she started to say something about a car accident but one of the older maids pulled her away and when she came back she just done and told me he’d be there very soon.  Beau is a strong boy so I’ve been praying for his health but I knowed he got through whatever problems he had.  He’ll be to see me soon.

Now I love my new neighbors but when I was sitting out the other day I see a couple dark niggers come a-walking down the road, strutting in the way that they do, and they came close to where I was and I yell at them to git because this is Chatwood property and they ain’t stealing my flowers or anything else the maids take such good care of since I can’t no more.  They stop and stick out their heads like chickens because apparently they never been told to git by no white man or something, and I tell them to git before I go get Jeb’s shotgun and they moves away right down that road while they keep looking at me.  I see more and more niggers passing by and it’s way too many for my liking.  The head maid is named Kim and she is this kindly heavyset young woman who speaks in a drawl the likes of which the white trash that lived down in the shacks out east of Scarsboro would, but she is such a nice woman I don’t mind much.  I tell her that the maids ought to do more about the negroes because sure as Sunday they will be back in the night to dig up the flowers and plants, and steal the cows and the horses, and the maids have worked too hard doing all of that since I can’t no more, and oughtn’t they be worried about it?  She just sighs and says that she n’ the others have it under control.  We never had no problem with negroes when Jeb was around because he’d be out there with his gun and you’d have to be stupid even for a darkie to try to rob when there’s a white man with a gun in the front yard.  And there didn’t use to be one single nigger in Scarsboro because they all lived in that part of Newberryville right until that damned John Kennedy and that damned Johnson, traitor that he was, signed that law and then nigh on every business in Scarsboro closed because the darkies showed up to everything and everywhere.  But they all left eventually because we ran ‘em out and they went up north.  To that I say good riddance.  When those niggers were marching down the main street of Newberryville like they had the God-given right to sit at the lunch counter of O.E. Gibson’s, me n’ Jeb were right there and waving the same Battle-Flag that our granddaddies’ granddaddies fought for because it was us that had built every corner of the South and we would be damned if those nappy-headed vermin took it from us.  But just like the Yankees did in 1865, they forced us to take the niggers into everything and Scarsboro ain’t ever been the same no more and now in the last few years it seems like they come back from whichever state they went to.  I turn on the television sometimes and behind the President I see niggers.  There are niggers in the White House, in the Capitol, everywhere.  This country has gone to the devil and in ’68 when I turned in my ballot for George Wallace I warned Jeb that this was gonna happen but he didn’t listen and voted for that Yankee Nixon and now look where we’re at.

Sometimes in the middle of the night I wake up and I feel for Jeb but he ain’t there and I cry out and Kim comes running and holds my hand until I calm down and remember he’s gone and she tells me Miss Lavinia, it’s okay, he’s in a better place now.  The older I get the more and more I forget and one day I’m scared I’ll forget Jeb, and Cynthia, and Beau, and Momma and Daddy, Bonnie, every one of them.  My Bible sits at my bedside and I tell myself trust in the Lord with all my understanding and he will lead my path.  He led Momma and Daddy to him and sooner or later it will be my turn.  Last night I had the most wonderful dream.  It was the night Jeb proposed to me, the night of the senior prom, when we were eighteen and I was the young and cheerful girl who had just been voted the queen and him the king; he was the tall, gangly, freckled quarterback on the football team who had just beat Forrest Central and when he first asked me out he tripped over his words and blushed scarlet and I burst out laughing because I couldn’t fathom how someone who was so popular at school could be so awkward and it was only three months afterwards and I already knew I would be his for the rest of my life.  We were lying down in the tall grass at the side of Byers Creek, as his parents’ Ford grew cold behind us and the sun set and the stars winked into light one by one.  That night he told me he loved me and he gave me the ring that I wore until the day we were married, but in my dream he didn’t say nothing at all.  We just lay there and watched the sky.  I’m sure he’s a-waiting for me in the next life, and some days I want to see him more than anything else.  But if I die then this house will have nobody else to take care of it.  So I keep telling him to wait for a while more, when I’m content with this life, ready to leave my home behind and meet him again.

I have lived in this house eighty-four years and one hundred and two days.  Tomorrow it will be one hundred and three days.  I hope I’ll dream again tonight.

Saturday, January 2, 2021

The Science is Settled

 When the ancient Athenian statesman Solon visited the great temples of Egypt, he recounted to the priests there tales of Greek mythology, spanning many years from the Flood of Deucalion all the way to the founding of the city he called home.  To this, the most senior of the priests replied: "All you Greeks are children, there is no such thing as an old Greek", and then proceeded to regale Solon with the tale of the great island of Atlantis, which flourished tens of thousands of years ago before it was sunk into the sea.  So goes the story recounted in Plato's Timaeus; regardless of its accuracy, I think we can all appreciate the point that was trying to be made here.  Solon was a highly learned man for his time, and the Greek civilization is certainly one of the most ancient civilizations in the world.  Yet even a scholar such as Solon could not know everything there was to know about the world.  At the time when Agamemnon led the Greek army over the sea against Troy, and even further before that, when Theseus sailed to Crete to fight the Minotaur, or when Hercules performed his labors, or when Jason sought the Golden Fleece, the pyramids of Egypt had already stood for millennia.  Solon, assured of his knowledge and even attempting to boast by telling the priests of the temple the most ancient thing he can think of, is shocked when the priests respond with history the likes of which he is never heard.  The message is clear: one man cannot know everything, and it is the height of folly to act as though he can.  So why, over 2500 years after Plato wrote his dialogue, are the errors of Solon repeated, especially by those so-called "experts"?

I will confess in the interest of full disclosure that I am what would normally be called a "scientist" in modern culture.  I study chemistry, specifically the synthetic organic field.  At the same time, conducting high-level academic research has helped temper my own arrogance and put everything into perspective.  I think Charles Osgood put it most succinctly: "The more we come to know, the more we realize how little we know. The more we understand, the more clear it is that everything we have learned is nothing compared to what we have yet to learn. Behind each locked door we have managed to open are still more doors and more locks, and so on ad infinitum. So science is not an arrival, but a journey. It is not a fixed body of knowledge or growing shelf of facts and theories, but an infinite series of questions. The most brilliant of scientists have been those who have sought not the right answers to give, but the right questions to ask."  To the ordinary citizen whose knowledge of the physical sciences extends no further than the latest Bill Nye special, it might be shocking just how uncertain the field of scientific research actually is.  Scientists with PhDs from the most prestigious universities in the world, at least in my field, spend their entire lives trying to figure out, to use an example from my field, how certain molecules orient themselves during a reaction and why they do so.  Before I first attended university and got started in research, I was certainly guilty of the sin of Solon, but now I understand further, just like Osgood, how little I know.  It is not without reason that the principles of science are called theories, not facts: you cannot shrink yourself to micro-size, or shrink a camera to that size and watch a chemical reaction occur, any more so than you can position yourself in outer space over the course of 200 years and watch Neptune revolve around the sun.  Our "scientific facts" are, in the purest sense of the word, educated guesses based on the things that we can actually observe.  Many of the most groundbreaking discoveries of the last hundred years come with the side effect of disproving the commonly-accepted knowledge.  Science is not a monolith; instead, it changes with new knowledge.  But that concept seems to be alien in this day and age.

It is most ironic that those people who claim to have outgrown God will proceed to worship Science (tm) like a god itself.  It is even more ironic that those same people possess little to no knowledge about the workings of science.  I have to admit my mother was one of those people.  When I was younger I was diagnosed with all sorts of mental health issues.  She was truly trying to look out for me, but her way of doing that was to read all sorts of books and articles where a smiling, white-coated doctor would recommend the latest fad diet.  Needless to say, it never worked.  More than once, I expressed skepticism about how she could be so credulous, and her response was always the same: confusion and disbelief, sometimes ranging into anger and sadness.  How couldn't I understand, she would say in between tears; didn't I know she was doing the best she could for me?  It was what the experts said!  How could I be so ignorant?  The science is settled, she would repeat.  My mental problems never really got better until I was admitted to the care of an excellent psychiatrist who tailored his treatment to my actual symptoms until I was able to function somewhat normally in society again.  And although my relationship with my mother has always been great, she's never apologized for the years of quackery, and I don't think she ever will, because in her mind she never did anything wrong.  After all, the science was settled.  I wonder if that was the same thing that was said to the men participating in the infamous Tuskegee experiments or the schoolchildren subjected to nuclear radiation in the 1950s?

With the advent of the deadliest viral pandemic in history (one that has an over 99.5% survival rate, but keep that hate fact to yourself unless you want to be publicly crucified), it seems that this whole country has become my mother, in turn repeating the sin of Solon.  The science is settled, chant the hordes as one of their overlords such as the always execrable Anthony Fauci comes on the television screen to tell us that we should not go to concerts, baseball games, restaurants, or do anything fun until the Deadliest Virus Known To Man is eliminated.  Don't mention his remarks at the start of this pandemic about how you don't need to wear masks and the deadliness of the virus is exaggerated.  Because the science is settled.  Hydroxychloroquine is listed as one of the WHO's essential medicines, used to treat malaria, arthritis, and a host of other conditions.  As soon as President Trump endorsed studies showing that it was effective for the treatment of the novel coronavirus, suddenly the medicine became poison to the greater medical community.  Why?  Because Orange Man is bad, and he can never be right.  The science is settled.  After weeks of New York Governor Andrew Cuomo howling about how having more than 3 guests over at holiday dinners would kill everyone and instituting the strictest lockdown measures in the nation, coronavirus deaths in his state continue to rise, in contrast to Florida, one of the most open states.  Surely, you might think, that makes a case for the ineffectiveness of lockdowns?  Not according to our social betters!  Instead, even more pearl-clutching, outrage, and stricter lockdowns ensued in blue states.  In Quebec, police dragged a family from their home for having too many people over on New Year's Day for dinner.  Anybody expressing skepticism over the effectiveness of the lockdowns is publicly named and shamed.  Cities institute hotlines for citizens to snitch on their neighbors for having Grandma over at Christmas.  In some cases, lockdown skepticism gets people fired.  All that's missing from the shame treatment is forcing skeptics to wear a dunce cap and taping signs that read "PEON" to their backs.  Why go to these lengths?  Because the science is settled.  When one uses data to back up claims that go contrary to coronavirus orthodoxy, they are "fact-checked" or outright told the numbers don't matter.  Research from the first 150 patients in Alaska to receive the Pfizer coronavirus vaccine showed that one patient suffered from a severe allergic reaction and had to be hospitalized (for comparison, the severe anaphylactic reaction rate for proven vaccines such as the TDAP is somewhere in the range of 1 in 4 million).  A nurse fainted away live on TV after receiving the same vaccine.  Other reports suggest that the vaccine could lead to male infertility, and a vaccine developed in Australia caused its trial subjects to test false positive for HIV.  Of course, dissent against the vaccines being developed, just by simply stating that they were rushed out and not properly tested for side effects, will not be tolerated, just the same as dissent against the lockdowns will not be tolerated.  It would be remiss to end this section without mentioning the "protests for racial justice" that shook America in the throes of the harshest lockdowns.  After months of hearing that setting one foot outside our houses would kill whole cities, we were suddenly told that it was not only okay but necessary to march in the streets in close proximity to thousands of others in protest of an apparent racism problem.  I'm glad to know that the coronavirus is intelligent enough to not infect Good People.  Just like God passed over the blood-smeared doors of the Israelites, the virus passes over the raised fists of those looting a Target standing in solidarity to end racism.  After all, the science is settled.

"The science is settled".  I wonder if that was the same thing that Svante Arrhenius was told by his superiors at the Swedish National Institute of Technology.  Arrhenius, if you might recall, was about to be fired from his professor position for proposing the completely radical idea that ions might dissociate in water.  One hundred years later, this is common knowledge that high schoolers are taught.  When Heinrich Schliemann set out to discover the legendary city of Troy, he was told that it was obviously a myth and that he was a fool to try such a thing.  The science was settled.  Looking back on his discovery and how he found not just the city of Troy but one that had been rebuilt nine times, it's safe to say that the science was not settled.  It will never be settled no matter how many arrogant cretins continue to act like their word, or the words of whichever high priest of Science (tm) is trending, is the gospel truth and any dissent against them is heresy.  Even in the face of "The Greatest Pandemic in History" and the greatest consequences for disbelief of the gospel truth of Science (tm) in history, your mind and its power to ask questions is something that can never be taken away from you, no matter how hard someone else can try.  So the next time someone like the always lovely spokes-puppet Greta Thunberg comes on the television crying about how the world will end by 2025 if we do not ban airplanes and meat, just roll your eyes and continue to have faith in your own thoughts.  Why?  Because the science is not settled.

Friday, December 18, 2020

The Autochthon (Who Counts as a Southerner)?

    I wish I had some sort of grand statement to welcome you to the opening of this blog, but as I am not a very grand person, this will have to do.  Thank you for reading.  This blog will serve as a dumping-ground for my thoughts and opinions on various things such as history, theology, science and perhaps media.

    Ethnic origin is a nebulous thing.  It becomes even more so when you take into account regional identities.   I know of two such cases that illustrate how these labels become murky.  One of my close friends is a child of two worlds- one half of his ancestry comes from Virginia Tidewater blue bloods.  Now, you might think that being descended directly from the illustrious families such as the Lees, Jacksons, Jeffersons, and so forth, or at least being descended from those who were in the company of such noble men, might give one as good a claim as anyone to be considered a born-and-bred child of the South.  What is the catch, you ask?  On his other side, he is a first-generation immigrant (admittedly from a people who have a long history in this country).

    Consider another example.  Someone else I know is perhaps the quintessential picture of a New Englander.  His interests include obsessive hockey fandom, his religious attitude can best be described as Neo-Puritan, and he has the distinct air of one of the rabidly independent Vermont hillmen.  If he had lived in the time of H.P. Lovecraft, I suspect they would have been good friends.  Based on this description, he seems to have little in common with myself or anyone born and raised in the Southern states.  The moderate Southern nationalist would say a black Southerner has more in common with me than he does.  The rabid one would say that several types of foreigners also have more in common with me than him.  So why has he been brought up?  On both sides of his family is the same Virginia blood as was described in the first case.

    So what should be the criteria for Southernness?  Going solely by blood seems profoundly stupid; the second man, whose family has not lived south of Chesapeake Bay for over a century, would count as a Southerner, but the first, who grew up in the cradle of the Upland South and still regularly maintains contact with his Virginian family, would not!  But if only geographical location of one's birth is considered, then children of the loathsome Northern transplants who make no secret of their hatred for the Southern states and are open about moving just because the land is cheaper would be considered just as Southern as someone who can trace his ancestry back to Jamestown.  What about someone who participates in the culture of the South and learns its history?  It sounds like a good idea in theory, but how would a subjective like that be measured?  Should we line up every citizen of the Southern states and make them take a test?  No, because that would be profoundly ridiculous (and is likely to exclude far too many people).

    There is no simple answer to the ethnic question: who belongs and who does not.  I am not even sure myself whether Southerner is an ethnicity or a state of being.  It is true that the culture of this part of America differs from the rest of it.  It is also true that there are families that have been here for centuries and generations.  Some can trace their ancestry all the way back to the James River colonies or to the first ships to Georgia.  Others have been here so long that they don't have any idea where their ancestors came from.  The Greeks had a word for this: autochthon, or "earth-people"- it reflected the ancestry of those people in their homeland, so many generations back that it seemed they had sprung from the dirt itself.  Of course, we know that there is really no such location on Earth that one can be autochthonous from, unless you want to count the Garden of Eden.  But I digress.

The autochthones- the very first English, Scottish, and Welsh settlers- made the South their own, and sowed the seeds of all the culture and history we see today.  But they were not the only residents of this region.  Over time, German Moravians would settle in North Carolina and Texas, and Mennonites in Kentucky.  Acadians fleeing Canada would find a new home in Louisiana.  Irish would crowd the docks of Savannah, New Orleans, Mobile, and many other cities looking for opportunity in their new country.  And of course, thousands of black Africans would be imported to work the fields.  In modern times, still more move from all over the world.

E.B. White once said "To foreigners, a Yankee is an American.  To Americans, a Yankee is a Northerner.  To Northerners, a Yankee is an Easterner.  To Easterners, a Yankee is a New Englander.  To New Englanders, a Yankee is a Vermonter.  And in Vermont, a Yankee is somebody who eats pie for breakfast."  I suppose the same principle can be applied to the Southron, the Yankee's old enemy.  The autochthon is the founder of the South, but he is just one of many that make it what it is.

What can you do to be a good Southerner?  Respect tradition and history, love God and your neighbor, and carry yourself with dignity and pride.  Do not hate those who came before you, but learn from their example.  Some may not consider you a Southerner, and they may never do so.  But what being a Southerner really means is up to you as much as it is to them.  Conduct yourself as someone who is worthy of respect, and it will be given to you.

The Real Cost of Slavery

  I remember when I was first exposed to the sin that is uniquely ascribed to the Southern people- I was a boy in the fourth grade in East T...