“If it wasn’t for The South, I wouldn’t be me,” she said.
My mom and I were sitting outside on the glider after our family’s weekly ritual of Saturday morning breakfast at my parents’ house. Over the course of the recent election we had begun discussing politics more, and the rants I had subjected my family to before I learned to better regulate my power level had prompted them to ask me about things they were seeing on the news. With President Trump now in office, things had settled down a bit, but every so often the world would remind us that nothing was over.
This time I found myself trying to explain The Great Purge to my mother.
Upon learning that people were tearing down Confederate monuments in the state in which her family had resided since well before the Civil War, it was a hard thing to look that woman in the eye and help her understand why there were those who see her and our family as evil incarnate for being White, Christian, and Southern, and why they believe all traces of us must be removed from existence.
She’d fired up. The desecration of the dead and the distortion of a chapter of history in which her people had fought and sacrificed had evoked righteous indignation in her to such an extent that it gave me flashbacks to days of judgement laden with commands from her to “pick a switch” and me praying to God she wouldn’t tell dad of my crimes. Beneath the anger though, as is usually the case, was a wound.
The very world that had shaped her childhood and the lives of almost everyone she’d known and loved until she’d left it as a teenager was (and is) under attack. She had loved God, gone to church, obeyed her parents, married our father, raised us, and loved us since she’d carried us in her womb. She’d prayed for us as men as we’d gone away from her to serve an empire ran by those who are at best indifferent to us and at worst contemptuous of our existence and can’t marginalize and replace us fast enough. She understood intuitively that The Purge of Southern monuments and iconography is a front in a war on our very being, individually and as a people, and leaving that morning, I got the impression her circle of friends and family were about to get an earful.
Let’s chase a rabbit for a moment.
I attended last year’s NPI conference and got legitimately star-struck by F. Roger Devlin. I’d been following his work since the Manosphere, and getting to sit across from him and pick his brain on topics ranging from Kojève to Sam Francis was one of the highlights of the past few years for me. That man is truly a nationalist treasure.
His remarks to attendees naturally focused on women. He discussed the massive influx of Muslims into Norway, that when taken in conjunction with runaway catlady Cultural Marxist brainwashing, has unleashed a Kraken of hypergamy.
Not to mince words, Devlin dealt the shiv (as Heartiste would say):
…that young man may not understand why Norwegian girls prefer immigrant boys, but I do, and I am going to tell you. Sexual behavior is controlled not by the prefrontal cortex which is responsible for rational thought, but by the limbic system, sometimes popularly known as the “reptilian brain.” The female’s instinct is to mate with socially dominant men—and it does not matter how such dominance is achieved. Reptiles are even farther from grasping the concept of a fair fight than Muslims. The limbic system of Norwegian girls is unconcerned that their male peers face overwhelming odds; that the entire political and social regime of their country has been set up as if with the specific intention of disadvantaging them at the expanse of low-IQ thugs from the slums of Karachi. All the girls see is that it is the Norwegian boys who are getting beaten up and the immigrant boys who are doing the beating. Their natural impulse is to mate with the beaters, not the beatees.
Speaking more generally, women are less loyal to the tribe into which they are born than are men, and there are evolutionary reasons for this. In our environment of evolutionary adaptation, our remote ancestors lived in bands of fifty or a hundred persons whose men were frequently fighting one another. To be successful in such fights, men had to practice loyalty to the other men of their own tribe. When they were successful, they took the women of the vanquished tribe for themselves. This did not generally create any problem for the women of the defeated tribe. Women are naturally equipped to form new bonds with such conquerors quickly and easily. Their instinct is to subordinate all other considerations to the successful rearing of children. Loyalty to their defeated menfolk interferes with the fulfillment of this natural imperative, so they have generally not cultivated such loyalty to any great degree. At least, such is a woman’s natural inclination.
However, he then noted something that struck a chord with me and gave me pause in my well-worn musings of at long last turning my back on humanity to live the life of a hillbilly shaman communing with nature in my solitary mountain fastness:
Not all women are entirely reptilian, however, and so there have been historical exceptions to this pattern. For example, all the sources agree that the Yankee soldiers who took part in the military occupation of the American South during reconstruction got absolutely nowhere with the local women. The wives and sisters of men who had been overwhelmingly defeated—crippled and killed in many cases—remained loyal to these men, or to their memory, even at the expense of their own reproductive success. I’m not sure anything else I have read about the Civil War has struck me with greater admiration for the defeated South. Female loyalty to tribe is certainly possible, and I hope we will know how to honor it where it occurs.
How to honor it where it occurs.
Spengler wrote, “…in the religious art of The West, the representation of Motherhood is the noblest of all tasks.” There remains in The South, walking hand-in-hand with motherhood, that remnant of a tradition of women bound to a code. To witness that love and loyalty borne by them is to be humbled by it. It inspires a man to strive to be worthy of it and to labor in its defense rather than wallow in the gutter or quit his post.
How many of the monuments being torn down in the current round of the kulturkampf were purchased with money raised by mothers? Think of all the organizations that have labored over the long years to preserve and cultivate the scraps of our identity yet untouched by perpetual reconstruction, and I guarantee you’ll find them there, quietly fighting in their own way. How many of us here are, on some level, advocating for The South because of mothers; whether the ones who bore us or the ones who bear our children?
As easy as it is to become lost in the darkness of how things are now, it is important to take note of what goodness, grace, and beauty remains, and how they are often fostered by mothers, even in the face of days in which it seems all hope is lost.
We must remember them and honor them always.
Happy Mother’s Day, ladies.