Communist-flavored Haters

Found on Facebook. Photo of communists giving the world the finger. Classy, aren't they? They are suspected of participating in, if not instigating, the destruction of Confederate monuments in North Carolina.

This is the kind of people Kevin Levin and his ilk admire and consider heroes.

Just a reminder of what communism does best....

These are real people, not granite and bronze.

THIS is why the school boys memorialized by Silent Sam and the men that Confederate monuments memorialize were morally and intellectually superior to the communists responsible for the mountains of dead bodies, and the knaves in the top photo ...

Just a reminder why the thugs have to pull down monuments and the commies of the last century had to murder tens of millions. Igor Shafarevich, Soviet mathemetician and dissident, wrote The Socialist Phenomenon (which is available online free). This is a recap of his views written by Tom Bethell:

"...socialism had endured throughout history, usually in the form of one or another Christian heresy. It gives expression to the gnostic urge to rebel — the rebellion of the educated against the constraints imposed by Creation and by God. In earlier periods, when of course the socialist label was not used, it could be identified by its insistent, unvarying emphasis on certain goals: the destruction of private property and of the traditional or 'nuclear' family; and above all, the dismemberment of traditional, or orthodox religion. Throughout history, the phenomenon has been obsessed with material equality, and with the eradication of individual and gender distinctions. It wars incessantly against the normal. A 'striving for self-destruction,' for nothingness, for the “death of mankind,” is the true goal of socialism. Instinctively, without stating it or even seeing it as the conscious goal, the socialist phenomenon seeks the death of the human race."

 Destruction is their ideology. The Raleigh-Durham commies can't play Mass Murder, so they have to settle for destroying monuments, and murdering existing culture.

And to lazy "anti-racists" they're heroes.

(Note, photo of the North Carolina commies has not been authenticated; so sue me.)

Levin's Lazy Anti-Racism

Levin and his self-back-patting followers exude great approval of the "laziest anti-racist campaign" ever. See, you don't have to do anything about the miserable lives of so many black folks in N'waluns, Baltimore, Dallas, Memphis, etc., as long as you applaud the removal of Confederate monuments. You don't even have to acknowledge it. You don't have to write a blog about it... you can write a blog about "memory" that lets you express your hatred of Southern white folks, and that's just as good as helping inner city blacks....


Take 'Em Downers know removing monuments doesn't help anything, and Levin admits that the removal of a monument "has value for those who supported it regardless of these larger issues."

Yeah, those who supported it -- like him. Not necessarily the miserable black folks in monumentless cities.

"What has changed," Levin sez, "is that the parents of a five-year old black girl never have to try to explain why such a man continues to enjoy this honor."

Which means that NOW all those parents have explain -- increasingly --  to the five year old girl is why her brothers died in a hail of bullets on the sidewalk in front of their house...

Thank goodness, that's all they have to do, huh, Levin? 'Cuz it sure could be worse. They might have to explain Robert E. Lee to her....

The Self-deluded Civil War Left

So the statue had barely hit the ground, viciously pulled down by domestic terrorists, when Kevin Levin went into Quick Gloat mode and posted about it on his flog. Of course, we can easily see his obvious motives by a perfunctory look-see at his whole flog ... I mean, he's not coy about it, and it's pretty standard fair for leftist judgmentalness.

But now and then, he betrays his deeper views, his less often revealed motivations. I've written before about my observations of these deeper views and motives, and my conclusions about them.

What he wrote about the terrorist activity at the U of NC again brings these usually soft-pedaled views to the forefront. Sometimes, civil war leftists make it so obvious,  you have to amputate half your brain to not see it....

F'rinstance, he can't get through the first paragraph sticking with the subject -- he has to deviate into Charlottesville and the recent dud of an anniversary march in D.C. This has nothing whatever to do with Silent Sam. In fact, the Unite the Right rally in 2017 had nothing to do with the monuments in Charlottesville; the rallygoers didn't care about those monuments, so the connection is a media concoction -- a hoax -- beginnig to end.

But here's the kicker. Sez Levin:

Silent Sam didn’t feel anything while being toppled over by students nor did he feel anything while the crowd kicked and spit on him. The same could not be said for the African American woman, who Julian Carr referenced in his dedication speech for the statue in 1913.

What Levin mule-headedly ignores is that Silent Sam represents and commemorates UNC students WHO DIED defending the Old North State. They weren't horsewhipped. They DIED. You know, as in DEAD.

But this comment of Levin's shows the convoluted thinking that feeds his desperate need for SOMETHING to justify his hatred of Southern white folks. Julian Carr's mistreatment of a black woman reflects on Julian Carr and nobody else. It does not reflect on the UNC students who became soldiers to defend their state from an invasion of barbarians wearing military uniforms. It does not reflect on Southern heritage folks today. But Levin is nothing if he is not a peddler of guilt-by-association (even when it is isn't true).

His current comments also illustrate his apparent belief that black misery existed in inverse proportion to Southern white evil. So, in his determination to paint white Southerners as evil as he possibly can, he paints blacks as miserable as possible. You see this motive all through Levin's writing.

I left a comment, knowing he wouldn't post it. Having my comment show up in the comment thread wasn't why I left it, anyway. I simply wanted him read it, so he would know he isn't fooling some of us. To my surprise, he let it through:

Wow! You went into Quick Gloat mode, didn’t cha? Oh, how you love anti-Confederate lawlessness…. The only person responsible for mistreating the African American woman was the person who did it. Dylann Roof is a crazy person, nothing he did should validate any sane person’s thoughts.

I’ll bet you think this rise of lawlessness indicates a “retreat” of Confederate heritage, don’t you?

Do you know how utterly dishonest your stands and pronouncements look to sane, well-adjusted people?

In a hilarious turn, the first comment following mine was from the repetition-bot Dimmy Jick....the first grader in an old man's body.  I had forgotten just how kneejerk and infantile Dimmy is; he can repeat "racist" "racism" "white supremacy" and all the phony buzzwords without a single neuron firing. Honestly, folks, I cannot figure how how Dimmy got a college degree, served in the military, and got a teaching job.

I won't post Dimmy's comment. If you've ever read one of his comments, you've read them all.

CliosFanBoy wants to know, "if these statues mark “heritage” where are the statues to the southern Union units and the USCTs??" Most monuments were put up by RELATIVES of Confederate soldiers.  If he wants to put some up to somebody else, nobody is stopping him.

Claudia Gibson (Confederate descendant) sez, "I think every Reconstruction era statue should be pulled down." As far as I know, few if any monuments were raised during reconstruction. Claudia further sez, "The point of these statues was to enforce the disenfranchisement of southern African Americans." Not according to the people who put them up, so I wonder how she knows this. Does find out by talking to the dead? Does she hold seances? Throw chicken bones? Claudia finishes, "The speech made at this particular statue’s dedication only enforces that." The speech made at the dedication reflects on the speaker and his beliefs, nobody else's.  What you are seeing here, folks, is the effect of leftist group-think. They are incapable of seeing individual responsibility. What one person does reflects on his whole "group" -- whatever the accuser conceptualizes that to be.

Brad sez, "Sometimes popular action is the only way to redress a problem." Thereby approving of mob violence.... (The statue wasn't the only thing these thugs attacked. Levin didn't mention that.)

Rob Baker shares an episode of anti-Confederate indoctrination he subjected his students to.

Sez Jerry McKenzie, "Silent Sam let a lot of injustice pass without a word." Thereby showcasing his own ignorance of the purpose of war memorials....

Ewan Wardle thinks connections with tyrannical rule has been dissolved. He must have gone to school with Dimmy.

But that's enough. These people do not have the moral high ground. They don't have moral ground at all. Their hatred of the Confederacy, the South and white Southerners is based on lies and self-delusion. It is most unfortunate that in once-free America, these dolts and deluders hold sway in government, the media, education and the popular culture. The country cannot survive their gut-deep dishonesty.

After the Stars Fell

Prologue

Valhalla Farm
Near Mobile, Alabama
November 13, 1833

At the back of the farmhouse, in a room he pretentiously called the library, Morgan Walraven waited for the notes in his journal to dry. He wasn't going to write any more tonight, so he gently swished his quill pen in a small bowl of water and laid it aside to dry.

Several feet away, stretched out on a braided rug near the fireplace, a yellow feist named Jupiter -- Morgan's faithful friend since his teenage years -- was deep in  sleep.

It was so still and quiet, he almost jumped when the clock on the mantle chimed the first of twelve strikes, marking a cold November midnight, like so many others. Nevertheless, tonight there was a ripple of anticipation in the air.

It was always that way on the day -- or night -- that babies came.

None of the babies that had come to Valhalla in the past were his -- they were siblings or nieces or nephews -- but that little surge of anticipation accompanied them all.

This time, though, it was his baby and the ripple was supercharged.

He grew still, straining to hear any sound coming from upstairs. Tedious silence settled over him. He slid his chair back from the desk -- plain but sturdy items, built by his grandfather -- took the base of the lamp in hand and stepped to the settee next to the fireplace, where low flames crackled softly.

His current book sat on a nearby table. Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. He had read it before, once as a boy, and once as a young adult. He put the lamp on the table, sat down and got comfortable, and reached for the book.

Tales of the sea and faraway places appealed to him. It seemed that he had inherited the sometimes bewildering conflict other Walraven men had undergone -- a devotion to the land, to what grew and lived there, but also a fascination with the sea, an allure that drew them as the moon draws the tides, whether they could indulge it or not.

It didn't help that he lived no more than a stone's throw from the upper edge of the brackish estuary of Mobile Bay, which emptied into the Gulf of Mexico, which itself opened onto the Atlantic Ocean ... and the entire world. In daylight, from the house, he had a distant but clear view of a strip of sawgrass marsh and sparkling blue water beyond.

But his world had already been decided. His destiny was the land, the forests, the fertile fields of Valhalla Farm.

He had not read half a page before the text blurred and disappeared and his breathing grew deep and regular -- until something, some noise awakened him. He was surprised to see that an hour had passed. His grogginess left him in an instant when he remembered why he was not in bed and he sat up, listening intently for the sound of Olivia, the midwife, calling to him.

Instead, he heard urgent knocking at the door to the back veranda. Jupiter raised his head and his ears pricked as the soft but frantic voice of Isaac, the farm's foreman, quavered, "Mast' Morgan! Please, come quick! The end of the world comin'!

Morgan strode to the door and opened it to see the terrified faces of Isaac and young Wiley as they motioned him outside.

"The sky falling!" Wiley shrieked, clutching the porch rail and pointing upward. "The stars, they comin' down like rain!"

"It's the tribilation!" Isaac said.

"Y'all quiet down," Morgan said sotto voce. "You'll wake everybody."

He stifled a smile at the silly thought of leaving his family in the arms of Morpheus through the Second Coming. Glancing to the side, he saw Jupiter lay his head back down and fall into instant slumber. How bad could it be if Jupe was sleeping through it?

But as he stepped through the doorway, levity deserted him. The frosty air that wrapped around him didn't register because his attention was caught by something else -- the eerie, almost other-worldly glow that illuminated the countryside, giving him a brief chill unrelated to the temperature.

He walked across the veranda, steadied himself against the bannister rail, and leaned forward to look up beyond the edge of the roof. Evergreen live oaks blocked out the sky but through gaps in the foliage, he could see pinpricks of light. Moving.

"See Mast'?" Wiley had lowered his voice but his tone was as urgent as before.

"Come with me," Morgan murmured. "Let's go out front. We can see better there."

He led the two frightened servants inside, calling softly, "Wiley, shut the door." They hurried down the hallway to the front door, which Morgan swung wide. The trio scurried down the steps to the yard.

The trees here grew along the sides of the lawn, leaving the sky open above it. What Morgan saw when he looked up took his breath away.

Meteors, hundreds of them -- no, thousands of them -- lighting up the countryside far more brightly than a full moon, and falling to earth just as Wiley had said, constantly, like rain. But not like rain, either, since few actually reach the earth. And they were completely silent.

Morgan stared upward, transfixed by sheer awe and a fragment of delight -- both tempered with a sizeable measure of the same fear that rattled Isaac and Wiley.

"Mast', please, you gotta do something!" Wiley pleaded. "Maybe you pray and the Lawd, he hear you and stop this!"

"Y'all think, now. It's not the tribulation -- no earthquakes, the moon hasn't turned to blood, none of the other signs are happening. Of course I'll pray, but it will stop on its own, anyway. The Leonid meteors occur this time every year."

"Nawsuh!" Isaac said adamantly. "I ain't never seen nothing like this."

"Yes, it isn't usually this grand -- not usually this many of them. Well ... never this many of them, so something uncommon is going on. But not the end of the world. Regardless of how many we see, there's no need to worry. They burn up before they reach earth. That's why they're so bright. They're on fire."

"Oh, Lawd!" Wiley wailed. "They ain't stars! They fire! Please, Mast' Morgan, please pray for the Lawd to save us!"

"All right, but calm down. How is everybody in the reserve?"

"Skeered," Wiley said.

"And Milly," Isaac added, "she in ... she in the travail. She skeered the child will die." Distress threaded Isaac's tone; Milly was his wife.

"I forgot about y'all's baby coming." Morgan's forehead buckled with mild chagrin. "I've had another baby on my mind tonight. Here, let's kneel and pray."

He dropped to one knee, his hands on the shoulders of the trembling servants, who knelt with him.

"Heavenly Father, please protect us from this spectacular display of the power and beauty of nature thou hast created. Remove from us the spirit of fear, and keep us in thy holy protection, that we may serve thee all our days. We especially pray thy blessings on the little bairns who are on their way to us, and for their mothers and fathers. In the name of thy son Jesus, amen."

"Amen," echoed the two servants, who were calmer now but still unwilling to look upward.

The prayer had calmed Morgan, too. He stood and said, "You go on back and tell everyone its not the end of the world, and tomorrow will arrive like always. Tell them I told you this happens every year -- it's just never been this intense -- and tell them we prayed and the Lord will watch over us all, especially Milly and her little one."

"Yessuh," Isaac said dubiously. He and Wiley loped across the lawn and around the corner of the house, disappearing in the shadows.

Morgan resumed his riveting contemplation of the heavens. At that moment he heard the faint sound of a baby's cry coming through the open door.  The wondrous phenomenon unfolding above him was instantly forgotten as he streaked up the steps and inside the foyer, and fairly flew up the staircase.

The baby's lusty cries grew louder.

Morgan paused at the door to the bedroom he and Julia shared, met by an object that was surely unmovable.

"You can see them in a little while," Olivia said. "Not right now."

"Is she all right? Is the baby all right?" He tried to look past her but could see only his sister-in-law, Eliza, smoothing the bed covers.

"They fine." Olivia side-stepped to block his view. "We'll get 'em both fixed up for you to see but it'll take a few minutes. You wait."

"Livvy, since you're here, who's with Milly?"

"Betsy taking care of Milly."

"Betsy? She's just a kid."

"She know what she doing. Now you g'wan outta here."

Too keyed up to sit, he ignored the deacon's bench in the upstairs hallway and paced the floor, wondering how long Olivia's little while would last, until he heard her say, "You can come now, Mast' Morgan."

Entering the room lit with a golden glow from a single lamp, he met Eliza headed for the door, carrying a basket full of clothing and rags. He caught a glimpse of bloodstains, which jolted him, but it dissipated with Eliza's happy visage beaming at him. "Congratulations, Morgan. You have a son!"

"A son...."

Julia was reclining on a mound of pillows, looking wan but serene, staring down at the face of the baby in her arms.

At Morgan's approach, she looked up and her peaked face was transformed by a radiant smile. "Oh, look at him, Morgan! Isn't he beautiful?"

Morgan bent to gently stroke the baby's cheek with a forefinger. Dressed in a white batiste gown with delicate tatting around the sleeves, bald, red-faced and scowling, the baby nevertheless was indeed beautiful.

"Yes, he is. And so are you." He kissed her forehead, straightened to look at his son and basked in this moment of joy. "Born as the stars are falling. His life will be charmed."

Julia gave him a quizzical look.

He stroked her hair back from her forehead and said, "I'll tell you later. You get some sleep now."

She nodded before resting her head against the pillows and closing her eyes. Olivia tiptoed to the bed to take the baby from his mother's arms and lay him in his cradle.

As Morgan walked back toward the doorway, he heard other doors opening and urgent whispers in the hallway. Judging by the occasional word that reached him, the spectacular display in the heavens had become so bright, it had awakened his siblings. He stepped into the hall and said, "Y'all go outside and look. You don't get the full effect looking through the windows."

They stared at him, Rachel in mild alarm, Carson and Noah disheveled and bleary-eyed with sleep.

"The full effect of what?" said Rachel. "What's that strange light outside?"

"Falling stars, thousands of them." He shook his head and held up a hand. "No, it's not the tribulation, just a meteors raining down out of the sky. A magnificent sight and maybe a charm, a good omen --" he gave a little laugh "-- on the night of my son's birth!"

"Son? The little one has come?" Rachel cried "Oh, Morgan, how wonderful!" She wheeled around and reached toward him. He returned her quick embrace.

"Y'all go on outside," he repeated. "The babe's asleep. You can see him when he wakes. But we don't know if we will ever again see such a spectacular display in the heavens. Not until the end of time."

The mention of thousands of meteors had knocked the drowsiness off his brothers' faces. They trooped downstairs with Rachel to see this wonder in the sky.

Nobody saw Olivia lurking in the bedroom doorway, or heard her low-voiced, "Charm? Or curse?"

She clasped her hands before her breast and raised her face, eyes closed, and silently beseeched the Deity to protect the little one from whatever evil the stars might portend. "All his days, amen and amen," she ended in whisper.

Copyright © 2018 by Connie Chastain. All rights reserved.

Memes Inspired by Domestic Terrorism at UNC