Fiction

Take Courage, for the Hour Is Late

WASHINGTON’S MONUMENTS, museums and government buildings had changed but little since the Cottrell’s last visit decades ago. The avenues ran as straight and wide as ever and the Smithsonian and National Gallery remained treasure troves. But Norm and Nan Cottrell, two ferociously normie White boomer tourists from the Midwest who hadn’t seen DC in 40 years, knew that the living city, the weekday city, not the dead Sunday city, provided the real clues to the capital’s future. To their shock and bewilderment, they found that the real Washington had gone completely multicolored.

The Cottrells sensed that this massive transformation in flesh and blood was infinitely more meaningful to them than any display of the latest gimcrackery in the Space and Aeronautics building. So they were at least partly prepared for the sidewalk spectacle which awaited them on their second day in town, as they headed from their White House tour into adjacent Lafayette Park.

A deep male voice was bellowing through a bullhorn. “What color are the Swedish babies?” A small group of demonstrators answered, “The babies are Brown.” The bullhorn blasted out, “What color are the Canadian babies?” “The babies are Brown!” was the reply. “What color are the British babies?” “The babies are Brown!”

The words struck the Cottrells as nonsensical. They had just been to Canada and had seen plenty of White babies (along with a lot of Brown ones). Anyhow, what was all of this impassioned roaring about little babies? Usually people lined up in front of the White House to shout slogans which a person could understand: “Stop the Bombs!” “Death to Assad!” “Build the wall!” “Don’t build the wall!”

Consumed by curiosity, the Cottrells ventured closer to a spot where several hundred equally fascinated tourists had surrounded an intrepid band of fifty or so youthful demonstrators. The latter stood neatly in line — many of them waving little flags which were variously black, brown or yellow, but all with a scattering of white dots — and continued to shout about their “Brown babies” as if heaven and earth turned on the subject. “What color are the Dutch babies?” “The babies are Brown!”

It was all so cryptic. Maybe this was some of that left-wing “street theater” which the Cottrells had heard about.

Suddenly the man with the bullhorn had had his fill of babies. “I want to live in an all-Black country,” he yelled. His followers responded in perfect unison. “You have thirty countries to choose from.”

“I want to live in an all-Yellow country.”

“You have twenty countries to choose from.”

“I want to live in an all-Brown country.”

“You have sixty countries to choose from.”

“I want to live in an all-White country.”

“You must go to Iceland.” The demonstrators pretended they were shivering.

“Iceland is not enough.”

“Then we must seal the borders! Seal the borders! Seal the borders!”

The demonstrators kept up the chorus for nearly five minutes. Fifty healthy and synchronized pairs of lungs can be ear-splitting. The Cottrells looked at each other with curious smiles of bafflement. Here were young White people showing the same kind of gusto that TV had taught their kind to save for important things like football games and beer-swilling.

Next, several demonstrators passed through the crowd with flyers, while the chant picked up again.

“Who are the racists? Is there integration in Beijing?”

“Everyone is Yellow!”

“Who are the racists? Is there integration in Bombay?”

“Everyone is Brown!”

“Who are the racists? Is there integration in Nairobi?”

“Everyone is Black!”

“Then who the hell is integrated?” Nan Cottrell caught a winning smile from the “head cheerleader” as he posed this question. He might be steamed up about something — God only knew what but it was clear that he was enjoying himself.

“London is integrated!

“Paris is integrated! New York … Toronto … Berlin … Stockholm … Vancouver ….”

“All of the world’s White people are integrated!”

“So they will die.”

“Most of the world’s Black and Brown and Yellow people are segregated.”

“So they will live.”

“Let the White people live.”

“How can they live?”

“Seal the borders in Canada! Seal the borders in Australia! In Denmark!”

At last something clicked in Norm’s head. It had taken fifteen minutes, but two very simple mental constructions had finally found their way to each other: his discussion with Nan the night before about the change in Washington’s population and the present pageant. How could he have been so dense? Just then a handbill reached him, with a message of such clever simplicity that he was almost distracted from the little geographical skit unfolding before him.

“What do these people mean?” Nan asked. Norm explained, as the chorus continued.

“Sweden is going Brown.”

“No more Ingrid Bergman.”

“America is going Brown.”

“No more Cheryl Tiegs.”

“France is going Brown.”

“No more Catherine Deneuve.”

Now Nan also understood.

“1 billion Chinese.”

“Every one Yellow!”

”700 million Indians.”

“Every one Brown!”

“120 million Japanese.”

“Every one Yellow!”

“80 million Nigerians.”

“Every one Black!”

“70 million Germans.”

“The cities are all going Brown!”

“60 million British.”

“The cities are all going Brown!”

“France … Canada … New Zealand ….”

The chants were lengthy, but never tedious. For those still seeking the key, they were an intriguing mystery. For those who suddenly understood, they were becoming a sort of soothing reality-therapy. Blacks, it seemed, were not the only people who needed a Jesse Jackson to lead them in reciting their own kind of misery. Jackson had gotten almost the entire Texas legislature to bawl, “I am … somebody.” But this was not what White Texans really wanted to be intoning at an hour when their state was being swallowed by a Brown tide. Here was something far better.

“No race ever survived without a homeland!”

“Where is our White homeland?”

“Our homeland is America!”

“America will soon be Brown!”

“Our homeland is Canada!”

“Canada will soon be Brown!”

“We are the real minority.”

“Only 1 out of 10.”

“What about young people?”

“Only 1 out of 15.”

“What about children?”

“Only 1 out of 20.”

“What about babies?”

“Only 1 out of 25.”

“What about the year 2050?”

“Only 1 out of 100.”

At this point some demonstrators started screaming, “Save us! Save us!” They were “out of sync” for the first time. Some of the more upper-crust White tourists began to find the carrying-on a bit uncouth. So the follow-up was more reality-therapy:

“What is our problem?”

“We are cowards.”

“What is our problem?”

“We are polite.”

“What is our problem?”

“We are middle-class.”

“What is the solution?

“Courage!”

“What is the solution?”

“White separatism!”

“What is the solution?”

“Seal the borders!”

“What is the alternative?”

“Death !”

“What do the Democrats stand for?”

“White suicide!”

“What do the Republicans stand for?”

“White suicide!”

“What do we stand for?” ”

White survival!”

“How?”

“Guts! ”

“How else?”

“White separatism!”

At this point, the demonstrators burst into the old Vietnam War protest, “Join us! Join us!” Some of the tourists had already been doing exactly that, at least mentally. After all, they were a long way from home; no one knew them here. They grabbed up printed copies of the questions and answers that were being handed out.

The fifty original demonstrators (since swollen to seventy) included some of the politest, and softest-spoken people remaining in the nation’s capital. Their middle-class reticence had been the foremost problem with which their leaders were forced to deal. A few participants had been permitted to start with sunglasses, which they rapidly discarded. Others had been told that they could remain silent until the spirit moved them. Every last one had felt unbearably silly screaming about “Brown babies” and such at the beginning. People had given them such queer stares. But it was a summer Saturday and only out-of-towners were about.

A lot of very careful thinking about White American psychology had gone into the planning of this unique demonstration. Almost a hundred people, aged forty and under, had been initially contacted. Those expressing interest had been assigned numbers and visited personally at home by the chief organizer, who people began to call “Coach.” He had taken pains to explain to them what they would be confronting in their own psyches: a potentially deadly form of self-conscious individualism. It would be just the opposite of every low-key public event attended by White Americans, but it would bear a disconcerting resemblance to the same race’s behavior at any football game or pep rally.

Two weeks before, a practice session in a nearby meadow had tested their equipment and slogans, and helped get their lungs in shape. Rather ominously, only 42 people had shown up. Afterwards, a group of these piled into a car and called upon several of the backsliders. The latter appeared moved by all of the painfully hoarse voices.

When the big day came, everyone knew the rules. The demonstration was to deal solely with “human conservation,” specifically the survival of a great race. If whales and redwoods could command such exclusive treatment, then why not people? Did it really matter for the moment whether millions of “others” had or had not been “done in” by such-and-such a national leader once upon a time? Public opinion on that or any other extraneous issue could little alter the undisputed fact that a great race is dying. So why confuse matters, why needlessly inflame people? Why not let each great issue suffice unto itself? There must be a neutral time and place in which to abandon all ideological encrustations, and forcefully point out that Russia, all the rest of Europe, Australasia, and America are all darkening, and that the trend bodes ill for each.

The flier’s question-and-answer session was skillfully illustrated to address the typical fears and taboos. A Brown man was shown asking, “What about me?” The reply was curt, “Since when do you actually want to live in a world without White people? Are you really wildly eager to live on a planet without us?”

From a second picture came the defensive challenge, “Listen here, my sister just married a Filipino. I think he’s swell, and I don’t want any trouble.”

The response used the same kind of abrupt, inarguable logic, “Just because your sister happens to marry a Filipino, should one of the world’s major races clam up, lie down, and die?”

The Cottrells had seen and heard enough. They understood that here was the kind of transcendant issue which came along once in a lifetime. Nan thought of their friends, the Yamasukis, and felt that this matter would concern them too. And if it didn’t? Well, perhaps they really weren’t the best of friends. Thinking back on his years of ecology activism, Norm Cottrell spoke in amazement, “Why, this is more important than the whales, than any endangered species, than any climate change — this is the issue of the century, and maybe of all time!”

* * *

Source: based on an article in Instauration magazine

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