Here I am, in a slightly tacky tourist town somewhere in the mountains of Appalachia. The town has always sought to attract the decent, working class. Yes, Whites. These visitors typically have just enough money saved for a four-day family weekend once a year and don’t bring any trouble with them.
Walking from my hotel to find my morning coffee, I walked into a gentle mist. That is what it is like walking into a mountain cloud. Refreshing.
At the neighborhood coffee shop, a Danish couple is in front of me, both six feet tall. I am four inches shorter. Behind me are four young Guatemalans; they are not even five feet tall. The newer, shorter Americans. I wish they were in Guatemala growing us some more coffee.
Some of my fondest memories are of my family staying in this town, while my dad worked nearby. My siblings and I were allowed to roam up and down the strip of shops without constant watchful eyes of grown ups. It was freedom. We were truly amongst our own: 100% White. The little town was “mine.”
I confess, I haven’t let my own children roam so freely. The town has changed. The town fathers have stood aside and allowed in the unassimilable invaders. The sloe-eyed aliens are checking out our White daughters. And, yes, they would do.
Just now, two large cow-shaped women passed. They were in full burka. They took up the entire sidewalk, walking three paces behind their ugly, slovenly husband. They do not belong here.
There are other new faces. There are short mestizos. There is a Muslim family with spoiled, unruly children. And another. And another. There are black families that walk in hostile packs of 13; they are the loudest and the most fragrant. They do not belong here.
There are packs of Paki-Indian men walking four across, like they own the place; maybe they do, for now. Where are their women? Working? There is an old White woman with an old black man, and other vapid-eyed indistinguishables. They do not belong here.
There are a few Hispanic families with three or more children. They are not so offensive: they are decent, quiet, nearly fitting in. I may, at least, see people like them in a church. Too bad they didn’t stay home and make Mexico great.
And then there are the real Asians, Koreans, by my observation. They are well-dressed, respectful, just meekly touristing. They buy the least stuff. They are just here to spend time together and go on long walks. They do not leer at our girls. They come, and go.
My hotel, like many in the area, is still family- and locally-owned …and White-owned. They have a crucifix in the lobby over the fireplace.
My housekeeper is a Russian Orthodox grandmother wearing a crucifix. In Russian, I ask for some towels and thank her. She knows I know. I am happy to leave a tip for her each day.
In contrast, the dot-Indian-owned hotels proclaim “American-owned” and always have a US flag on display. They all have a bottle of water from the dirty Ganges River enshrined in their back office and a “money” vine taking over the lobby. First and last, they are a superstitious people.
For decades, this town has been one that middle class families have packed their middle and high schoolers off to church camp. I don’t think it is safe for that now. There are many single, roving wogs: “businessmen,” (read that Paki-Indians), Muslim bodybuilders, negroes of all ages, and the odd Hispanic workman.
There are things and people, and people doing things, that I don’t want my children to see. There are men I don’t want my daughters to have to fend off. Especially aggressive are the Muslims and blacks. I have seen it from both, and within the first hour of this visit.
The dark men descend upon this sleepy hamlet, where our families are trying to relax amongst our own. These invaders think that our happy, relaxed faces are an invitation to proposition our girls. Thanks, town fathers, with visions of tax plums in your heads.
Our men must toughen up, become fit in body and mind. Stop being nice to outgroups. Stop giving away anything to the wogs.
You had better get this much: these men are watching and waiting for a chance with your daughter. What are you doing about it?
Zula B Law 