I am a native Floridian, I was born and raised in this state. I have traveled to many places all over the world; regardless, this is my home and I was fortunate after my military service to be able to come back to it. However, what I came back to impacted me in such a deep and profound way that I felt the need to share it here with you.
Where I come from used to be very rural, and it still is to a degree, but is becoming increasingly less so. My small city, which is known for its antique shops and historic main street, has been something that has always meant much to me as a native Floridian who grew up in central Florida. The rolling hills and pine forests are a visual representation of my home and how different it is compared to other parts of Florida. In fact, Zephyrhills water is bottled right from the natural springs in the area. When you come out here there is a stark contrast, it’s not uncommon to see lifted trucks driven by rednecks and rural working class Southerners. Citrus groves, tree farms, strawberry fields, phosphate mines, cattle ranches, antique brick buildings and many other images of the Old South dot the landscape in this humble place. When I came back from my time in the military, I expected to come back to my home as I had left it. I was in for a shock that would rattle me to my core and, ultimately, act as the catalyst that led me to fully embrace my Southern identity and shake off the shackles of my own Reconstruction.
The recession had hit our area hard, but when I returned housing developments had popped up as the population in the state boomed and jobs came back to the major cities. Once relatively quiet and peaceful roads now witness an almost nonstop steady stream of traffic which, except for late into the night, never quiet down. You can still hear gunshots echoing from the range not too far from where I live, but, it has to be quiet and when the Yankees are not buzzing around like a hive of bees doing whatever it is they do.
This fills my heart, as I’m sure it does yours, with deep sadness to see the places we call home have the rug ripped from underneath our feet as we become “old news” and our use expires. Yankees, illegals, and welfare negroes now flood our state to the point in which I can barely recognize it sometimes. They level our forests, flatten our lands, fill our swamps, and build their god forsaken suburbs in an effort to flee from the violence and drugs of the larger metropolitan areas. It seems like a Little Havana pops up with each passing decade as the white natives are increasingly pushed out of our homes and lands. More so, once peaceful vibrant towns and cities turn into drug and gang ridden ghettos. This is all further spurred on by the federal government, which settles increasing amounts of foreigners in our once Southern communities, further displacing us and erasing our identity.
In The Elephant In The Room, where I highlight the efforts put forth to further humiliate us in our defeat and reconstruct us, I wrote about what constitutes the identity of a nation. If you are not familiar: it’s the people.
As a non-native what do you think of when you think about Florida? Is it Disney World? The beaches? Miami? Daytona? Nascar? While these things could be said to be Floridian, they are strictly not and the efforts to elevate these examples and others not mentioned is being done craftily, in such a way to further “globalize” our state and destroy our traditional identity.
When I head into town, I can point out the Mexican restaurant and grocery store that is always swarming with non-white Hispanics during picking season. I can take you by the “immigration assistance office” which I’m willing to bet you won’t find in your town. On the other hand, I can take you down the back roads and show you the cattle ranches that remain and point out various things of what is still left of Old Florida.
The point is that we are not your doormat. This is our home. Whenever the holidays, winter, or summer rolls around, we are swarmed with out-of-state license plates and my daily commute easily goes up at least another half an hour. Many who come here take our hospitality for granted, and as they trash our parks, beaches, and clog our roadways, our patience for those who do not hail from our state grows ever thinner. While some might be inclined to slow us down and take our time, don’t forget we have things to do. We have jobs and lives to live.
Want to know why we are hostile to outsiders and tourists? These are such examples. I’m sure you would be as equally displeased if the shoe was on the other foot. Then to further flummox, we are mocked as being backwards or uncouth. How dare you. We are not some paper bag to be used and thrown away when you are done. Just because you want to pretend we don’t exist, or may have forgotten we exist, due to the efforts to rebuild what once were our homes in this hellish Yankee Globalist New World Order. We continue to hold steadfast right underneath your noses because we will not be replaced.
Carpetbaggers move here in droves and curse us as they ruin what is left. Don’t think we’re the same if you fall into that category, just because your drivers licence says you’re a Floridian doesn’t mean you are one. There is more to our home than just a Publix deli sub and Cubans. Where are you when we hold our festivals celebrating traditions of our home? Where are you when the local dirt track is having races? Do you even come out to our car shows or local festivals, or do you just live among us like a parasite bleeding us dry?
We built this state. We keep it running when you are here on vacation or attempt to escape the hellish coldscape you came from. It’s bad enough that we’re God’s waiting room.
If you desire to know why Florida seceded in 1861, it is because of people like us. This is our state, not yours, and when all of this comes to a head, it will be ours again; for our families, our people, our communities, and God. So, go ahead and try to tear down our Confederate Monuments and destroy our cemeteries honoring those who fought for the right of freedom of association and a free Dixie. Our memories and attention spans are much longer than you may believe and we do not forget.
Your annual pass is coming up on its expiration date.
God bless you and God bless Dixie.
When Otto isn’t turning wrenches you can hear the sound of him griping to himself about the state of the modern world echoing off the pine and oak tree’s he emerges from on occasion to harass carpetbaggers and yankee’s.