Postcard From The End Of
By Linh Dinh
Countercurrents.org
Invited to give a reading at
I have always been struck by how calm and sane Amish children look. On another occasion in
No subscribers to any global system, the Amish believe that each community should create its own mores and regulate itself. It's fair to say, though, that they have only survived thanks to the forbearance and mercy of the state, for this state can suddenly decide to press gang them into a preemptive war, outlaw their horse and buggies or even ban them from selling unpasteurized milk, the last of which has happened several times recently. If the French can criminalize the burqa, then perhaps Amish suspenders are an intolerable threat to public order? Never underestimate the perversity of the state. Communist governments hounded feminine clothes, shoes, cosmetics and even hairstyles out of existence.
The Amish, then, can be deformed or even snuffed out at any moment, as has happened already to many similar communities worldwide. Should the Amish way of life become contagious, the state will certainly see them as a cancer. Immune to all propaganda, they are also the worst consumers. As the state unravels, however, the independence, resilience, simplicity and sanity of the Amish should serve as a model for the rest of us deranged Americans. There are those who point to the failings of individual Amish as evidence that their wholesome image is a fraud, but domestic violence, incest, drug use and cruelty to animals can be found within any community. The Amish's biggest flaw, I think, is their principled abstention from the use of force in all situations, for that can only lead to their doom and martyrdom.
“Why did you quit?”
“Oh, the stress of it became too much, and I also had some health issues. I like this job driving for the college because it's very flexible. My partner teaches Judaism and Hebrew at the school. She's also a writer.”
“What does she write?”
“Novels and poems. She's only had a few poems translated into English. She writes in Hebrew.”
Melanie and her partner go to
Melanie's dad is also a writer. “One of his books is called Stalking the Antichrists.”
“Wow, that sounds cool. Who are the antichrists?”
“American Presidents.”
“I'm not going to argue with that!” We both laughed. “But which presidents?”
“Mostly recent ones.”
“What about the early ones? What about George Washington?”
“I don't know. The book is over 600 pages and it's kind of a mess. My dad can use an editor.”
“What about his other books?”
“Another is called It Can Happen Here: A Fascist Christian America, and that's 500 pages. He's also written a book called Birding and Mysticism: Enlightenment Through Bird Watching.”
“Wow, your dad sounds like a fascinating guy. I'd love to hang out with him. Is he in
“No,
Later, I'd try to find the man's writing online, and the only piece that turned up was a Daily Kos article, “Ukraine: Why All Options Are Not On The Table.” That's the clearest part, I'm afraid, for the rest is an impenetrable thicket of diaristic jottings and stray thoughts, much of it typed in caps. Never stingy with hostile comments, readers are nearly unanimous in their ridicule of this former naval intelligence officer.
Entering
For its size,
Outside downtown, the fast food joints and strip malls show up and the houses gradually become less quaint. Nondescript apartment blocks edge in. Like other small towns,
The war and liberal art colleges, then, are
Most college students are transients. Wanting to meet more rooted locals, I asked my student hostesses, Mary and Laura, to point me to “an old man's bar, where old guys go to drink away their social security checks.”
“There aren't any, really,” Mary answered, “but Alibis might be the closest to that.” A senior, Mary's writing a thesis on Ezra Pound and J.R.R. Tolkien. Also a senior, Laura is focusing on Edna St. Vincent Millay.
With two hours to kill before my reading, I slipped into Alibis and found it too nice to be a dive bar. It had 14 draft beers, most of them microbrews or imported. A pint of Yuengling, though, was only $2.50, so I ordered that. Not yet happy hours, this spacious pub was practically deserted. The only other patrons were three people who sat to my left, so let's meet them, eh?
Thirty-years-old, Heather's a single mom with a daughter entering puberty. (Before Heather ordered her rum and Coke, the bartender actually carded her, which made her gush, “Thank you!”) Born in Carlisle, she has also lived in
“They all want a year plus experience, but how am I going to get experience if you don't give it to me?”
“So how many applications altogether? Fifty?”
“At least!”
Heather's mom is 57 and has been waitressing since she was 16. “She's the best waitress I've ever met, my mom. She's amazing.”
“Where does she work?”
“Denny's, but she has also worked at Bob's Big Boy for like 15 years, and she was at Eat'n Park. She was the shift manager there. She was the head waitress.”
Heather recounted being fired from her last waitressing job, “I was working at Denny's, and there was this party of 17 people. I worked my ass off and they left me a one dollar and one penny tip.”
“I thought you were going to say a dollar per person, which is bad enough.”
“I can deal with that. That's like 10%. Some people give you 20, some 10, but these people just left me a dollar and a penny!”
“That's unbelievable! Was there any problem?”
“No, I thought I did a great job. I thought I was going to get a great tip. I was so pissed off, I took that money, ran outside to the parking lot, gave it to the lady and said, ‘I think you need this more than I do!'”
“And what did she say?”
“I don't know, because I turned right around and went back inside. They fired me on the spot.”
“I don't know if I could have controlled my temper either. That's really fucked up what they did.”
“Totally!”
“I mean, that extra penny is like an extra fuck you!”
Next to Heather was Steve. Twenty-seven-years-old, he had on a brown shirt and a deep green tie, not his usual togs, because he had just been to court. Nearly three years ago, a second floor window pane landed on Steve's leg as he was walking by. He showed me a long scar on his calf. Though Judge Guido fell asleep at the bench that morning, the jury seemed sympathetic to Steve's plight, he said, and the case was scheduled to be wrapped up the next day. Steve's lawyer had tried to settle out of court with the building's owner but the man refused.
“I should get at least $10,000, I hope. Knock on wood.”
“That's not a whole lot for all the shit you went through.”
“No, sir, but I'll be glad to have it.”
“I mean, the medical bills, the pain, the aggravation. I don't see how you won't get it.”
“Thank you.” Steve smiled and shook my hand, as if for luck. “If I do get it, and you come by tomorrow, I'll buy you lunch!”
“You don't have to do that, but I'll come by just to see how it turns out.”
Steve has toiled and sweated in kitchens, which he didn't like at all, and at the Amazon warehouse. Since it paid $12 an hour, Steve thought it was a pretty good job, and he only quit because he could earn more as a construction worker, so that's what he's doing now, swinging his hammer. Being an Amazon grunt can be so grueling, and it can get so hot inside that warehouse, workers sometimes pass out. When I brought this up, they both said yeah, that's just how it is.
Unlike Heather, Steve has never strayed from
“It's hard, man. You can't just pick up and leave. Usually, you have to know someone somewhere.”
“Yes, sir, and I'll be honest with you, it also comes down to your piss. If you smoke marijuana, you're an evil person in this world. If you smoke marijuana once in your life, you're screwed.”
We all laughed. I said, “I know a guy who sells piss, though. That's a business, man. You should just drive around construction sites and sell piss!”
Heather, “I don't smoke pot. I should sell my piss!”
Sitting with Heather and Steve was
In his late 20's,
“Do they drink during class?”
“No, but many will drink right afterwards.”
I'd imagine the colonels and generals to be decent tippers, at least more so than a white haired man who shows up in Alibis each day to order a double shot of DL Franklin for $5. Knocking it down, he shambles out without leaving a penny. It's unclear why he doesn't just buy a liter for $15 or so and drink it at home. He obviously has very little money. When I was there, he was paying for his vodka fix with quarters, dimes and nickels. It took him longer to count out his change than to swill his liquor.
In small towns across
So we've become a nation of burger flippers, burrito rollers, taco stuffers, cocktail mixers, surly cashiers, personal care assistants, dog walkers, sign-waving statues of liberties and, whether on sidewalks or more discretely, beggars. It sure doesn't sound like a superpower to me but, ah, when you still have the most bellicose military on earth, you can extort plenty of merchandises from your vassal states. Here, just take this shipload of Federal Reserve notes that are freshly excreted, ever so liberally, by Janet Yellen. You want more? There's plenty more where that came from!
To postpone that fearful plunge into that vicious battle royal of the job market, you can also matriculate, check into a coed dormitory and buy yourself a bong. Borrowing from banksters, however, you will be mortgaging just about the rest of your life, and at Dickinson, I met a student, let's call him Tim, who was glad to only be $50,000 in debt by the time he graduates. A friend of his already owes $240,000.
“He should have just bought a house,” I said, “and rent out rooms!”
“I know.” Tim does have a plan, though, to not only be debt free but loaded within a few years. “I'm twenty-two now, but I want to have a $80,000 BMW by the time I'm twenty-five.”
A native of
“I've tried a lot of things. I'm always trying something new. I wanted to be a musician. Now I want to be a professional, you know, weightlifter. There's always something I want to do. I'm always jumping from one thing to another. It's a bit scary. What if I never settle down? I started a clothing brand.”
“What happened with that?”
“It went really well. I made $7,000 in a month. People were really into my hats, and they're still asking me about them, but I stopped to concentrate on my app.”
At
Unlike the Amish, who frown upon personal exaltation, the rest of us are conditioned to bare our teeth, claw and kick ass, for we must destroy all competition, we're convinced, to prevent ourselves from being chewed up then spat out. Fairly or by cheating, we must win at all costs. This mindset has become so engrained, we hardly notice it, but in the annals of human history, no culture has exalted individual achievement as much as the Greco, Roman lineage we've inherited. Yes, others record their great thinkers and artists, but the West remembers even its fastest runners, longest jumpers and best boxers. There is no Indian or Chinese equivalence of Chionis of Sparta, Diagoras of Rhodes, Milo of Croton or Theagenes of Thasos. Sima Qian paid no attention to any muscleman.
This introduction of ruthless competition into all realms of life has allowed the West or, more specifically, the white man to dominate the world for many centuries, and his very disunity in
After so much blood and laughter, however, the white man's hegemony is finally waning, and just as we can discuss peak oil, peak water or peak sand, it's not inappropriate to speak of peak white man. The white man's paling, though, has less to do with his constitutional decline but with the fact that others have learnt how to play the same nasty games he himself has set up.
An early omen of the white man's less than superman status happened right in
Around this time, white
Black, white, brown or yellow, anyone who's dwelling within these Disunited States will be thoroughly nicked up, if not buried alive, from the coming collapse and turmoil, and it's telling that our final chapter started with a double castrations that was broadcast, live, to the entire world, and that one of our bravest dissidents, Bradley Manning, also wishes to have nothing between his legs, and that our present day Jim Thorpe, one Bruce Jenner, also dreams of the day he will finally be emasculated. Don't worry, it's coming.
Linh Dinh is the author of two books of stories, five of poems, and a novel, Love Like Hate. He's tracking our deteriorating socialscape through his frequently updated photo blog, Postcards from the End of America.
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