We like to think of ourselves as having plenty of historical traditions in the South. We may eat black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day. In Texas, we take pictures of our families with the wild blue bonnets in the spring. We hunt and fish. Unfortunately, many of our traditions have been “Americanized.” Many are glued to the TV watching rival college teams on Saturday, or worse the professionals on Sunday, cheering on tribes of men who have nothing to do with who we are or where we come from.
Why is there a “South”? What is this place we call the South? What makes it different from other parts of the United States?
Many years ago, the Alabama writer Clarence Cason wrote that the South was “self-conscious enough and sufficiently insulated to be thought of as a separate province.” Echoing the same theme, W.J. Cash called the South, “not quite a nation within a nation, but the next thing to it.” In his book The American Dilemma, the Swedish sociologist Gunnar Myrdal agreed that the South was “a nation within a nation.” The historian Ulrich B. Phillips once quipped about a ferryman calling the north bank of the Ohio River “the American shore.”
As pessimistic as I am regarding the current zeitgeist’s feeling for Confederate monuments and, sadly enough, graves, I’m still shocked to see leftists gleefully rejoice at acts of iconoclasm. It takes a ruthless and depraved heart to take pleasure at seeing the destruction of memorials, tombs and gravestones. Particularly, when you see what’s etched on them, although I doubt antifa and the Current Year iconoclasts have the agency to read what’s inscribed on them.
You take the back roads to get there. From off 181, it’s a right and then a left, then another right – then, you lose track of the turns. You can be guided by memory, further back into the live oaks, as the pavement turns to chip and seal, before sand that slides off onto the shoulder.
When was the last time you heard someone mention honor? Probably not lately, maybe not ever. Men in the service have likely heard the term mentioned, but civilians and normies? Not hardly – at least, not the true sense of the word. They’re more likely to hear “honoring the contract” rather than, “honoring your family.”
In today’s decaying society, honor is at best considered a curiously quaint, if misunderstood, old-fashioned notion held dear by archaic eccentrics. At worst, if you upheld your honor or spoke freely about honor’s merits – you’d be called a jingoist or crazed reactionary. However, the more probable response would be a head scratch and a puzzled look.
Broadly speaking, honor is alien in our Hollow Empire.