Greta Fights Cultural Enrichment

Update: Greta’s spelling has been corrected.


“School strike for the repatriation of foreigners”

Our Swedish correspondent LN tipped me to the photo above*. I had always thought Greta Thunberg — the Nordic Joan of Arc — was an agitator against climate change, but apparently she has become a xenophobe and adopted a new cause: Skolstrejk för hemsändandet av utlänningar, or “School strike for the repatriation of foreigners”.

A shorter slogan: Nej! Ut! = “No! Out!”

*   Yes, the photo of Greta has been digitally altered.
 

We Were Socialists Once… and Young

The Deplorable Wing of the Internet — which is where I usually hang out — has been convulsing itself with mirth for the past couple of days over the shenanigans at the Democratic Socialists of America convention that was held last weekend in Atlanta.

If you watch enough footage from the event, it becomes clear that there is only one commandment in the Socialist catechism: “Thou shalt not trigger a comrade.” All other policies are simply elaborations on, extensions of, and footnotes to this woke mantra. Social justice stuff is what doesn’t trigger them, so that’s what they do. Anything that runs counter to it triggers the comrades to varying degrees, making them hightail it to their safe spaces to recover their composure.

It’s not surprising that the non-canonical use of gendered pronouns was a central preoccupation of the convention. See this Fox News report for more on this important topic.

Below are three videos with highlights and commentary on last weekend’s events in Atlanta. The first includes a selection of brief excerpts that provide an overview of what the policy wonks at the DSA consider really, really important:

The second clip contains an exhortation by a moderator about triggering, and how not to do it. Notice that just before the end he inadvertently uses the word “trump”, and then realizes the gravity of his error. That must have been a Category 5 triggering event for his audience:

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“Bless Her Heart”

This “greatest hit” from Dymphna did not actually appear at Gates of Vienna, but at Dymphna’s other blog, “The Neighborhood of God”. She set up TNoG not long after we started Gates of Vienna because she needed a place to post things that weren’t about the Counterjihad or politics. She sometimes jocularly referred to it as “my real blog”.

The future Baron suggested this selection for the Greatest Hits. It’s one of his favorites.

“Bless Her Heart”

by Dymphna

Originally published on September 6, 2012

Over at the other place I’d been discussing the latest liberal meme, one more artificial — but no less hateful — than usual. I’d mentioned Michelle Malkin’s recent essay at Townhall, “The Condensed Liberal Handbook of Racial Codewords”.

As often happens, my thoughts diverged from the main subject; in this case, the subject being quite ugly accusations against candidate Mitt Romney, claiming he used coded messages in speeches to tell purported insiders — i.e., white people — what was really going on.

I began with a great video from Bob Parks and went on to talk about Ms. Malkin’s essay and those “SEEKRIT” words.

Every single group or culture, or sub-culture within a larger one, has code words. It’s simply human nature. What makes the process poisonous is when one group is falsely accused of publicly using code to say vicious things about another group as though the second group were too stupid to catch on.

The tipping point of paper-thin-skinned black grievance neurosis may have finally been reached. I certainly hope so. By now the accusations of — as Ms. Malkin puts it so well — RAAAAAACISM!- have been done to death. For the most part, average people find the whole rage and pity-pot victimhood simply tedious. It has become like trying to reassure a child who stubbornly hangs on to his giant refusal of reassurance because he needs his anger more than he needs justice or harmony.

At any rate, that essay led me far afield, into pondering the kinds of social dog-whistle talk that exists among all groups. I often found myself in social hot water in New England because I didn’t know the rules — rules that others had long learned by heart.

However, being raised in the South, I knew most of the Byzantine rules and moves of Southern social intercourse — without even knowing I knew them until I moved back here and found myself moving within in a more familiar milieu. A fish back in her own lily-padded pond once more.

In order to truly understand it so that it’s part of your being, you have to have lived immersed in a local culture from before you could think. Being a first-generation American, I missed some of the finer points. On the other hand, being a not-quite-outsider makes one a kind of participant observer; thus you notice more than the born-and-bred folks, the people who ask, “Bless your heart, you’re not from around here, are you?”. When I studied Anthropological Methods in college, I was surprised to discover I’d been living those methods all my life. I called what I did “standing in the doorway”… less academic, perhaps, yet more evocative for born outsiders.

But I want to relate it back to the so-called dog-whistle political talk of that earlier essay, and to make the broader point that group talk always partakes of some dog-whistle undertow. Those currents are meant to carry the stuff at the bottom swiftly along without every little detail having to be brought to the surface for discussion.

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Here’s an example from my own experience.

American Southern women (black and white) have a number of expressions that sound for all the world like innocuous fluff. To insiders, though, these phrases convey volumes without ever having to say anything that smells bad. It’s difficult to pick a favorite, but since one in particular has been exposed of late, let use it for the purposes of demonstrating social dog-whistle.

This one was perhaps my favorite of all until some Miz Big Lips had to go blab it to the world just to get a laugh. Some folk are desperate for attention, as I’m sure you’ve noticed: anything for a laugh, including betrayal of your own. Now it has become harder to employ this useful filler while maintaining a straight face or, more importantly, a polite fiction.

I’m talking about this all-purpose expression, used for generations by Southern women to cover a multitude of social emergencies: “bless her heart”.

I’ll give you a hypothetical situation, sans much context. The setting is a kitchen table around which three women are seated. Two of them are talking, the third is simply observing. There is a fourth woman, not present, who is the focus of this snippet of conversation:

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Mark’s Latest Mailbox

In his inimitable style, Mark Steyn looks at where the world is going and why. He sorts it all, beginning with the tradition of seat-warmers.

Enjoy:

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See also his essay on the anniversary (today) of the Grenfell Towers conflagration. His details make it come alive again, especially his observations about the Queen’s visit to the site.

Empathy for the Devil

Yesterday was Empathy Day. Or maybe today is; I’m not sure.

I was going to post a link to the official Empathy Day website, so I did an Internet search. In doing so, I found no fewer than three different official Empathy Day sites, and no fewer than four different dates for this year’s Empathy Day: March 5, March 29, June 11, and June 12. And probably more.

Evidently the Empathy movement has been by schisms rent asunder, so that there are now multiple sects, each claiming to be the one, the true, the only source of Empathy.

Anyway, the tweet below was posted yesterday by an amusing fellow named Zuby:


Hat tip: Power Line

Zuby’s escapade reminded me of a meme pic we posted a few years ago. I constructed it based on an original (smaller) version by someone else; can’t remember who:

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Why Big Brudder Will Never Thrive in America

These guys are “Right Angle” – Bill Whittle of Eject, Eject; Stephen Green, aka Vodka Pundit; and Scott Ott, better known to old bloggers as Scrapple Face. They’ve all been around for a long time.

This tripartite discussion is interesting as anthropology if you’re not from here. On the other hand, it’s got a familiar ring if you are from around here. They’re right: this is where the dinky hall monitor ends up in adulthood and he’s still a dink.

We need a laugh, so enjoy.

Integration Isn’t Working, Time to Go!

In the following video, Rasmus Paludan leads his colleagues in a little song while they burn a Koran. Mr. Paludan is a Danish lawyer, anti-Islam activist, and the founder of the Stram Kurs party, which is expected to earn enough votes to win seats in parliament next month.

Many thanks to Nemo for the translation, and to Vlad Tepes for the subtitling:

Video transcript:

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Old Sobersides

JLH sends the saga of Miz Hillary in verse form. One can only hope that the shade of Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. (father of the Supreme Court justice) is not overly agitated tonight…

Old Sobersides
by JLH

Ay, tear her tatty logo down!
Too long has it made us sigh,
And many a face has had to frown
At what “justice” let go by.
Vince Foster, Seth Rich and others, too —
What is it they may have seen:
Travelgate, Filegate, Whitewater all true,
In the service of the Queen?

Erupting bimbos, Tammy Wynette,
The little woman wasn’t pleased.
Hillary Care was not a good bet.
Nuclear secrets for the Chinese,
And who knew pork bellies could be so swell,
If their futures were bright enough?
And who knew the Russians would pay so well
For that radioactive stuff?

Now, a former first lady has little to do,
When hubby’s not home at night,
Unless public office comes into view…
Get that carpetbag packed up tight!
So she walks the Senate like one who belongs,
And fades right into the crowd:
How to look brave while going along,
And skim off whatever’s allowed.

When Bill said “Two for the price of one”
No one could have guessed the price.
This inexorable couple is just never done.
They are back like undaunted lice.
The only way to stop this first woman’s run:
A black man’s program of hope.
As Highlander says, “There can be only one”
And Hillary runs out of rope.

But all is not lost — to the victor come the spoiled.
Run the Department of State?
So what if you’re looking a little bit soiled —
After Kerry, who needs to be great?
First, our uranium buddies of old
Need a friendly re-start.
The wording is wrong, so we are told —
Google Translate’s not worth a… damn.

Her greatest achievement was Ghadaffi’s demise.
Some minor Americans died too.
Parents, wives and children apprised:
There was nothing we could do.
We came, we saw, we made a mess.
Move on; there’s nothing to see.
“What difference now if I should confess —
I’d get off on a guilty plea.”

This time is different, there is no Barack.
We all know that now it’s my turn
No one has the guts to mount an attack…
But I think I “Feel the Bern,”
Doesn’t he know everyone has been paid?
Why is he still around?
This is not how the game is played.
I’ll pound him into the ground.

So what if I fixed some things here and there?
He can whimper all he wants.
So what if he doesn’t think it’s been fair?
Who asked him to leave Vermont?
And now I am off to the race of my life,
And I’m running against a clown!
Dirt and rumor against him are rife,
He’ll likely be run out of town.

Hey! Why am I not way ahead right now!?
Where are these polls coming from?
Who are they talking to, anyhow:
Deplorables, reactionaries, dumb!
I KNEW it — that damned electoral thing —
Now it’s gone and cost me the race!
Who cares what tune the “flyovers” sing?
They’re a colossal waste of space!

I will not be Trumped by that arrogant jerk,
But my hands are not lily-white…
Oops, I mean: Now y’all gots to git to work,
‘cause we gots us a rilly tough fight…
Ze basket of deplorable sink zey have won over us;
We’ll show zem “Si, se puede, señor”…
And we are woman, just hear us cuss!…
And we are gayer than ever before!

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Not Just Another April Fools’ Week

This post was first published on April 1. It was a “sticky” feature for a week; scroll down for more recent items.

Spring Fundraiser 2019, Day Seven

Update from the Baron: Burnout

The theme of this week’s bleg has been the history of Gates of Vienna. My final update, which is somewhat tangential to the main theme, is burnout. Which is a significant concern for those of us who work full-time in this field.

Tip jarBut first the nuts and bolts of what we’ve been doing this week: This is a quarterly week-long begging exercise in which Dymphna and I blather on while asking our readers to drop money in our tip cup (or use this PayPal link). This is how we keep this website alive — we don’t have jobs, no foundation sponsors us, and there are no paid ads on the site. We don’t even get any Russian money, sad to say!

And now a few brief thoughts on burnout.

This is a tough line of work. If you pay close attention to the Great Jihad and related issues, you encounter nasty things that you’d really rather not see or hear about. Add to that the drumbeat of dhimmitude — the constant stream of news reports on the cultural and political submission of the West to Islam — and it gets pretty dispiriting.

To make matters even worse, there’s the vicious opprobrium that awaits anyone whose “Islamophobic” opinions and activities are exposed to public view. We’re fortunate to live out here in the back of beyond where most people are “deplorables” of one sort or another, and hardly anybody even pays attention to this sort of thing. But people who live in big cities, especially on the East or Left Coasts, can really pay a price if their opinions become public knowledge. Their lives can be made a living hell.

All of this is a recipe for burnout. I’ve seen a fair number of Counterjihadists burn out during the past fifteen years. Some of them were actually burned out of the game by flamethrowers directed at them during the Breivik crisis. But most just reached the limit of what they could take — “I really don’t think I want to do this anymore.”

This seems to be especially true of translators. In order to translate articles or videos, they have to pay close attention to the material, and read or listen to it over and over again. If, like most people, they had previously been averting their gaze from all that ugliness, the rush of evil information they take in day after day can really weigh them down. After a while their production starts to tail off, and they gradually retire from translation.

I admire the doughty folks who have stuck to the translation task year after year. They all deserve our gratitude for their persistence.

Vlad and I have been working together for ten years, and we help keep each other from going insane in the face of all the stuff we encounter. When we have to deal with something particularly vile, we get on the phone and discuss all the various aspects of it, which prevents the monstrousness from overwhelming us entirely. I remember how bad it got back during the summer of 2014, when the Islamic State was beheading its way through Syria and North Africa. We had to watch those nightmare-inducing videos all the time. I finally had to quit watching them — “I’ve seen enough, no more for me.” I don’t know how Vlad does it.

Anyway, I haven’t burned out, not yet. I plan to carry on with this work for as long as I possibly can.

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Saturday’s gifts flowed in from:

Stateside: Alaska, Arizona, California, Michigan, and Virginia

Far Abroad: Hungary, Israel, and the UK

Canada: Ontario

The spring fundraiser will be officially over this time tomorrow. I’ll post the wrap-up — including the final list of all the locations — a day or two later.

Dymphna’s Saturday Update:

With historical endeavors, it’s probably a wise thing to start with beginnings, though in this case we just jumped right into the middle. What were we thinking? Maybe it wasn’t thinking but more like enthusiasm — e.g. “Oh, let’s talk about that”. Whatever ‘that’ was… my mind begins to resemble a trackless waste with a few desiccated cacti.

Oh, before I forget again: at the beginning of each fundraiser post I’m supposed to make the plug for donations, please.

Dinero. Shekels. Dollars. [See the Baron for the etymological connections] In other words, money enough to keep us going to the next milestone, which is but a few months away, not counting timeslips. Or times’ lips — whichever touches us first.

Our donors have been a varied bunch. Their living circumstances run the gamut from pensione to mansion, with stops in between. Back when I could function I loved looking up all the places our donors lived. Coon Rapids?? Really? Why haven’t the PC town fathers ditched that one? Traverse City, from whence (I now know) come our cherries in summer. Looking up all those places meant it took me weeks to respond to donors and that would not end well: the B got nervous about the time lag. It still remains the case: give me a new donor to thank and I’m driven to know more about their locality. Betcha don’t know whence come many of the roses (plants) you buy at the nursery, hmm? I know now, or at least my knowledge was current a few years back. And it seems like nearly every American town has a Wikipedia page, no matter how small the hamlet. That’s a good thing.

For most of us, our equilibrium depends upon having a firm sense of place. Or as the nervous airplane passenger said, “the more the firma, the less terror”. [That’s a pun on “terra firma” and no, it can’t be removed.]

Gates of Vienna is now established as a place; a destination for those who read our random News Feed, just for one example. Some correspondents tell us this is where they go with their morning coffee.

For the B and me GoV has become where we live and move and have our being. It’s akin to housing a child who never leaves home, a permanent resident hunkering down in our divers computers, demanding attention. Electric outages and connectivity interruptions are far more freighted than they used to be before the advent of Gates of Vienna.

Many of you already know our beginnings, but I have the freedom of repeating myself at this stage. It’s one of the few privileges of age.

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Loopies and Kooks

During the past week Dymphna and JLH have discussed Diana West’s new book, The Red Thread: A Search for Ideological Drivers Inside the Anti-Trump Conspiracy, which extends the theme of her previous book American Betrayal. I’ll take this opportunity to recycle a graphic I made several years ago. It didn’t draw much attention at the time, because by then the intense controversy over American Betrayal had faded into background muttering. But it was one of my better productions, so here it is again:

This delicious and nutritious breakfast cereal requires some explanatory context.

In the early months (summer and fall of 2013) of the “barroom brawl” prompted by Diana’s book, various indefensibly nasty things* were written by a number of neoconservatives, most of them stars in the David Horowitz constellation.

In one of several vituperative pieces, Conrad Black called her “a right-wing loopy” who had not yet been “house-trained”, and described her book as a “farrago of lies”. In reference to Diana and those who agreed with her, Mr. Black decried the “unutterable myth-making and jejune dementedness, as they hurl the vitriol of the silly and the deranged” (August 16, 2013).

As soon as that little literary delicacy was published, Ronald Radosh sent Diana a triumphant email with the subject line “Conrad Black tears you apart”. To make sure she understood, he enclosed the text of Mr. Black’s essay, with the introduction: “Sorry to upset you once again, Diana, but I’m afraid you’ve lost, big time.”

David Horowitz himself said that she had “organized a kook army”.

Since then Mr. Horowitz and Mr. Radosh have supposedly had a falling-out. I’m not sure about Conrad Black; I haven’t heard much about him recently. However, if I recall correctly, he’s an adamant #NeverTrump guy.

This is just a little taste of the background for the discussion we’ve been having for the last few days.

*   For additional source links to these and other ad-hominem insults, see “An Addled Barroom Brawler”. But it’s been six years; some of them may be stale by now.
 

Hey, Macron, Tais-Toi! Consider Louis XVI…

The Baron and I were discussing this latest unfortunate incident in the Yellow(ed) Vest demonstrations. [They’re getting yellowed with age on those French streets, y’all. That poor woman was a “jolie jeune fille” when these marches started so long ago. Now she’s a discard being lectured by Macron.]

Macron! Of all people!

Rumors are he has a helicopter on standby… when the going gets tough, he evidently plans to get going.

Well, those Yellow Vests used a forklift to open some gates, remember? Emmanuel had better hope one of them doesn’t have an anti-aircraft gun in his sac à dos.

Here’s the late Alan Sherman, a favorite of Americans of a certain age, warning Louis XVI what was gonna happen. Macron should pay careful attention.

Mr. Sherman’s lyrics are below the fold.

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