What's Really Going On in France?

Marine Le Pen is the voice of the pro-nationalist,
conservative movement in France.

"I don't know what the world is coming to," lamented my elderly mom over lunch last week. And then she said something more chilling, motioning toward my dad, "I'm glad we're almost to the end of our lives."  Then she seemed to catch herself, glancing at me sheepishly, and adding some comment about my having many years ahead.

She's right. The Western world is shifting, and it's happening faster all the time. I often wonder if this is the way people felt as WWII approached... that terrible feeling that malevolent ideas are taking hold in too many quarters, that what was always safe and reliable is suddenly in jeopardy. Worse of all, the terrible feeling of foreboding that many of us feel now may have existed then as well; I'm convinced that many in the 1930's felt that something terrible was coming - they could not know its nature or how devastating it would prove to be.

I wonder how many people, as they blithely go about their daily lives, hear that the rise of the immigrant population in Europe and the reports of violence it brings, assume that the outcries come from a few of the ignorant or "racist" and there really isn't much to be alarmed about.  It occurs to me that it is exactly that attitude that your average German took as the Nazis built a regime under their noses. It may be the same assumption that the Austrians and French and Belgians took, a few years before they were invaded and conquered. A conquered population never sees it coming. 

The U.N. Migration Pact - a sort of contract put together by the U.N. with the help of the E.U. which not only calls for more immigration but dictates the way the media and the people will be expected to handle it - is meeting with some resistance - which is heartening, but not nearly enough resistance - which is horrifying. Countries like Poland, Bulgaria, Hungary, Latvia, and the Czech Republic are refusing to sign the agreement, despite threats of financial and economic punishment from the tyrannical E.U.  One must admire the moxie of these former Soviet block nations - the memory of living oppressed under the mantle of communism and its sister socialism is fresh for them. Their freedom was hard-won and only a few decades old. They remember restrictions on their daily lives in terms of freedom of speech, in motility, in physical safety. They remember a media owned by the government and totally under its thumb. They remember a world where the only true information had to be delivered between parties in clandestine whispers. The E.U. would happily see that world return.

Last time the People of France had to riot against the government,
several thousand govt. elites lost their heads. Literally. The French
don't muck around. 

Countries like Sweden, Germany and France are not as wise: they have lived within the luxury of Freedom for far too long, and the people of these nations are standing idly by, watching waves of Muslim immigrants literally and figuratively trash their once-beautiful countries and the corresponding rise in violence and taxes, and just as they did in the 1930s they are pretending the monster isn't there.  Italy, having recently elected a hard-line nationalist leader, seems to be the only hold-out so far - they refused to sign.

In France, riots are portrayed by the French media and beyond as the result of some high taxes. The rest of the world then assumes the French are having some silly tantrum.  But the media is lying: the riots are about something else: tyrannical government control.  For decades, the French government has raised taxes to unsustainable limits, has force-fed the people Islamic immigration, and now means to force-feed them the quasi-myth of global warming and climate change.  When Macron proposed to raise gas taxes by some 30% and more, of the cost of a gallon, he really meant to tax the people out of driving gas-fueled vehicles. Reportedly, the proposal included a goal of taxing one gallon the U.S. equivalent of $49 within ten years. Yes, you are reading that correctly: $49 dollars tax per gallon. Why? Because no one can drive at that price but the very rich. And in keeping with Macron's and the EU's goals of taking power from the people and giving it to the EU, through various national puppet regimes, and forcing enormous overnight changes in energy use - forcing adherence to climate change theory that has not met with scientific scrutiny! - a tax hike like that would have ended life as the French know it. 

Macron backed off on the tax as of late yesterday. It's rather comical, because in doing so, he showed his weakness - he will only push so far before he will cave, and now the People know it.  It was a defeat for Macron far beyond these riots, and it was a defeat for the E.U.  The people were rioting against a government out of control; they are tired of immigration, they are tired of Islamist ideology-fueled murders and terrorist attacks. They are tired of forced compliance with energy change. They are tired of having no say in big issues affecting their lives. These things fueled the riots. And the riots will not end with Macron's capitulation. They will end when the French feel they are regaining control of their lives, and the E.U. will be fighting that every inch of the way.  The monster is not only real, but he is rising.

Marine Le Pen, leader of the nationalist conservative party that nearly took Macron's throne in the last election, has addressed the nation in the past few days (the French must be wishing they had elected her now...).  She spoke vehemently against the Immigration Pact. Interestingly, Le Pen - who is a lawyer by trade - recognized four main points the pact is selling:

1 - The future waves of mostly-Muslim immigration will be openly organized and promoted by the host countries (and the E.U. and U.N. behind the scenes).

2 - Through release of welfare benefits, tax-fueled monies, and even displacing the native population from their homes in favor of incoming immigrants, the host countries will submit to being "pillaged".

3 - The establishment and institutionalization of "parallel communites" in the form of diasporas. Let me translate: Muslim neighborhoods and no-go zones will be established using government resources, in which Shariah Law will replace French law. They will use their own courts and own schools, if they choose. They will speak their own languages. They will live on welfare at the governments invitation and they will never be encouraged or expected to assimilate.  Yeah - that's a great idea.

4 - Pro-immigrant propaganda will not only continue but will increase, and any media or person in public speech openly criticizing immigration, the activities of immigrants, or the government's policy on immigrants, will be criminally punished. In other words the news media will damn well report only what the government wants it to.  Anyone remember Pravda?

One has to wonder how soon it will come to pass that even private speech that disagrees with immigration - or the other EU policies - will be illegal. The Nazis did that; they encouraged school children to report their own parents for unacceptable speech.  Our public schools and those of Europe have been indoctrinating children for a while now; such encouragement to the children would be successful.

The Eastern European countries, Italy, and voices like Le Pen's are struggling to stop the coming tide.  The E.U. is hell-bent - by its own public statements - on creating a globalist one-government European society. The E.U. is made up of socialist globalist millionaires, who frankly want what dictators always want - to control everyone. The U.N., largely due to laziness and stupidity on the part of Western countries (they are too busy becoming socialist globalists after all), has evolved to be Muslim controlled. Even its human rights committee is almost entirely made up of Muslim nations that routinely do things like deny women equal rights or even safety and mobility, throw gay off buildings or lynch them publicly, turn a blind eye to beheadings and terrorist activities, and finance the genocides of Christians and Jews.

My mom is right. Something terrible is taking shape. Not enough people have their eyes open. Coming years will test our courage as individuals, our commitment to what is morally right, and our resolve to defeat what is truly evil.

Sorry, Media Pundits . . . Windsor was Already "Woke" - by Lichen Craig

When I was a teen, back in about 1976, I went with a group of kids to the Appalachian mountains of Tennessee to do some charity work: we were helping to repair the backwoods shacks of some of the poorest of America'a poor.  One evening, some of us - a group of upper-Midwestern church-raised teenagers - went to a local service in a small town. It was for me, and many of us, the first exposure to what my grandmother might have been more familiar with and what she would have called "fire-and-brimstone" preaching. It was the dramatic, loud, hyperbole-laden preaching that invites congregation participation. We were not prepared for it.

You have to understand that I was raised in the Congregational denomination. It's dignified, open (the first Christian denomination, in fact, to openly welcome gays - back in the 1970s) and totally without ornamentation. Our interiors are plain, in keeping with our Puritan roots in America; our sermons are straightforward, scholarly, and hopefully humble on the part of the minister (we don't call them "preachers" - they don't preach, they serve). Our services are calm, but not boring, never about grandstanding or entertaining. (Or maybe "boring" is subjective!)

The union of two cultures: American and British

So here I was, a well-mannered, intelligent girl, staring dumbfounded at the man jumping around and screaming in front of the congregation - shrieking about the damnation awaiting us all if we didn't "repent" (I hate that word - it's so accusatory, so devoid of respect for the human spirit, so divorced from the loving God I was taught about). I glanced around at my companions and caught the eye of one young man, who was obviously stifling laughter. He winked at me, sharing the joke, and I nearly lost my composure. I really didn't wish to insult my hosts. I quietly got up and left, barely making it outside the tiny church building, before bursting into laughter.

When I had it out of my system, I went back inside, just as the service was ending. As I'd been taught, I walked up to shake the preacher's hand and thank him for the church's hospitality to our group. He
commented that I hadn't stayed for the end. I must have turned crimson as I carefully explained that I just wasn't used to that style. He laughed... to my relief... and said it was an acquired taste; he joked that I was leaving just before they were going to "bring out the snakes".  He was not offended in the least. There are many ways to send God's message. (He was, by the way . . . a white man. The style isn't unique to the black South - although the media has forced its association nowadays with black culture - it is unique to southern Baptist and charismatic history.)

Bishop Michael Curry at the Royal Wedding a Windsor

Much is being made of the sermon at the royal wedding this past weekend. If you didn't see the wedding, you really should watch a stream of it (check the Royal Family's YouTube channel - your friends and family will never know you did it!), not only because it was truly beautiful in terms of visual richness, history, symbolism and tradition, but because the sermon was truly special. It was very inspiring, from an excellent speaker - Father Michael Curry is the presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church in America (the Episcopal is the American version of the Church of England) and he happens to be black. The style of the sermon was good old-fashioned southern preaching.

Something troubles me about the reaction of some of Americans to the sermon, and to the occasional black-inspired elements within the wedding. There is a sort of over-emphasis on race-based identity politics that has saturated American society, and it is itself uniquely racist because it assumes an individual's feelings and reactions based upon skin color. Here everyone, from the neighbor down the street to mainstream news anchors, is making comments - from snide, elitist ones to gushing ones - about how bothered the British at the church were about it. Bothered or surprised or annoyed or awed, depending on the view - and wishful thinking - of the speaker.

But here is my take: I don't think they were any of those things. Assuming they were is not only viewing people through the prism of skin color - itself a bigoted attitude - but it assumed these poor cavemen in Britain have never heard a black preacher. They have - trust me on that. They don't care.

Bride's mother Doria Ragland, Prince Charles and wife. 

Now, let me explain here that I have traveled extensively in Europe, since about forty-five years ago. I have in fact lived there. I married a European, I have close friends that are European. I have studied the histories of a few countries - including England - to an extent far surpassing most Americans and many Europeans themselves. From that background, I am about 99% certain that I know how they really reacted, generally speaking: they reacted the way I did all those years ago in Tennessee. And it wasn't about skin color!

This wedding was happening in one of the oldest chapels in England. Over a dozen royal unions have happened in that chapel, over many centuries. Its walls are saturated with European royal history. With hundreds of years of a certain tradition. The casualness, the theatrics, the over-emotionality, that a Southern-style sermon involves, would have struck some of the attendees as, well, a bit uncomfortable. Not because of the ethnic background. But because of the overly-dramatic nature of it within that setting. It's a theatrical performance, in a venue where reverence and understatement is the tradition. I did not notice any "shock" on anyone's faces - as some American news pundits have insisted. (Don't they realize that the queen, in her nineties, always looks that grumpy?) I noticed some suppressed mirth - with which I can totally relate. It's the sort of nervous laughter that comes at an inappropriate moment in reaction to an ironic situation - like when a speaker at a funeral says something untrue or too revealing, or inappropriate. Or...like hearing an over-the-top sermon in a traditionally dignified church.

Don't get me wrong. I liked the sermon - when I thought of it apart from where it was given. I'm not sure that giving it there, at that place, in that situation, was the most respectful thing to do. After all, the bishop was a guest in that chapel, that country, and to that tradition. Not the other way around. I heard someone say that it was so melodramatic that it detracted from the bride and groom. I would tend to agree. It certainly has dominated talk of the ceremony, even days later. Did we really need a veiled  lecture on American civil rights and racial division at a wedding, in a country that ended slavery decades before America did?  I don't think so, but that's me.

The out-of-left-field analyzing by the American Left - and some of the Right as well - has extended to commentary on the black choir, the black cellist (the choir was based in Britain, not the U.S., and Heaven knows all black cellists must come from America! Good grief...) and the implication that those Dark-Ages-befuddled Britons have just never seen anything like it. Nonsense! They have, they do, they don't care. They likely thought the whole thing pleasant and interesting, and were positive about it. News reports all back that up.

Along with the exuberant black gospel choir, the attendees also likely enjoyed the cathedral choir and its selections from white European Christian traditions - with several outstanding boy sopranos (one black) and the traditional hymns - two of the most beautiful and ones many of us grew up singing. I thought to myself as the thundering sound of that choir filled the soaring, echoing space of the beautiful, ancient building during the final hymn, that when such a choir is that good one can't help but believe the sound is as close to the sound of angels as we get on earth. As I had that thought, the camera focused on the bride's face, her joyful face turned upward, her eyes filling with tears as she listened. Apparently, she had enjoyed both choirs.

I don't know why people can't put race, and identity, and assumptions about others, aside. The wedding was about both traditions, two ethnic groups. Why glorify one and diminish the significance of the other? Why glorify one skin tone and diminish the other? In either direction? The reluctance to appreciate either tradition, and favor the validity of one over the other, is in fact ethnocentric, and yes... it is racism.


I heard one news pundit - a black man - gush that the bride was black. No, she isn't. She is - like our
past president - of mixed race heritage. Half her heritage, half her blood, is white. The celebration was a reflection of that, and of both heritages. With his stupid, inaccurate comment he showed his own bigoted mindset. Another pundit - a white man from the South no less - could barely contain his joy as he shrieked, "Windsor is woke!" He said this in front of a British commentator, and I cringed to think how insulting and incredibly ignorant she must have found that comment.

Too bad that so many Americans - so blinded as they are by the desperate rush to seem more virtuous and progressive than the next person - or perhaps so much less white - don't appreciate the two heritages equally. Because once, when I was growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, it was equality we talked about. That was the goal. It wasn't bringing the "dominant" race to its knees - which really is the same hate and ugliness reversed, isn't it?  And the really pathetic thing about it is that now these people make the same mistake that others did about the Native Americans - in overly-romanticizing one culture at the expense of overly-demonizing another, a person really just demonstrates that they have no real understanding of the true history and value of either one.

Meghan Markle - now offically the Duchess of Sussex - was not the first royal with African blood. (Yes, American pundits, you read that right.) She won't be the last. As was the case centuries back, when a woman with black blood married into the royal family, she is accepted, she is welcomed, and it isn't nearly as big a deal as some Americans would love to trumpet that it is. The British are actually, yes, that enlightened! Because you see, Windsor was already woke.

I am weary of every event becoming a big analysis of race relations - even something as joyous and apolitical as a wedding. I hope that in coming decades the pendulum swings back to the middle: that calm, wonderful place where equality - equal appreciation for all races and ethnicities - is the goal. Only then can the words the bishop offered about love of all people for one another, ever come to mean anything.

Girl at a Funeral by Jamie Horan

In the summer of 1996 when she was about a eighteen months old, Haeley, our second child, stepped through a neighbor’s railing just off the side of his third front step and got herself into a bit of a jam. Summer, her three-year-old big sister, burst into the house, “Dad, Dad, Haeley’s stuck! C’mon, c’mon!  Hurry, dad!” Out we went!

Military funeral of Major Douglas A. Zembiec, 2007. 

I got there amid the normal panic that seems always to accompany these kinds of things, people yelling “bend the bars,”  ”put grease on her ears,”  “call the fire department,” etc.  She stood there on her tippy toes, my neighbor holding her up from behind carefully to avoid hurting her neck. Her head was a bit too big to pass through and was awkwardly turned sideways on the concrete step. I got in front of her, and chuckling a little bit said, “hey dolly, stay still for me.” I reached down, as my neighbor and I gently turned her sideways and moved her back though the way she went in. I lifted her up to calm her and she grabbed me around my neck with all her might. I began laughing softly to put her at ease and before long she was laughing, too. There were many such calamities with Haeley, each starting with a bit of real danger and ending in a belly laugh.

The summer of 2015 found us all together in a limousine. Haeley, in her intrepid way, had the year before entered the United States Naval Academy. As we readied ourselves for the day, she asked if I thought she should wear her uniform to the service. “Well," I said, "Pop was a WWII veteran and in his honor, I think it would be the right thing to do.”

She did not like wearing her uniform off USNA grounds, but as a first-year (Plebe), she was obligated to do so while traveling to and from the academy. She expressed this dislike to me on more than a few occasions. Once, while I was taking her to the train station after a brief stint home, she appeared to be a bit shaken. I asked if she was okay, and she told me she was afraid for us - me and her brother - when she was traveling in uniform. I knew why, of course. She, like all U.S. service personnel, was a target in that uniform and she knew it. On this bright and cloudless day though, I doubt these thoughts were in her mind. Today, we were burying her Pop-Pop.

 It wasn’t until we arrived at the cemetery that I fully realized there would be an honor guard. There was talk of it of course, but the undertaker who’d arranged the service was non-committal; he said that he would try to arrange it, but as it was July 4^th week, he was not certain that those he relied on for that task would be able to make it.

As Pop’s immediate family, we were in the second car, just behind the hearse.  As we pulled up to the

Navy funeral of Commander Charles Keith Springle, 2009.

grave site - the procession of attendees’ cars lining in behind us - I noticed with satisfaction from the opposite window a dozen or so older men in uniform standing at attention, their commander saluting as we came to rest in front of them. I thought immediately of how proud Pop would be that these men, themselves all veterans of foreign war, would assemble to honor his life and the effort he willingly applied to the great cause of mankind, which had compelled so many as boys and forged so many as men. The bright sun shone off of their polished insignia, momentarily blinding any whose eyes were caught by the glare. Proud but not prideful, they assembled silently in two rows behind Pop’s carriage along with several younger pallbearers.  These now very old men had donned their uniforms with an earned pride and deliberation that imparted to me a sense of reverence. I watched as a small detachment of them began to take positions around our car. They opened our doors and stood solemnly as we climbed out.

As I exited the car, looking for small ways to be useful, I noticed my daughter Haeley in the midst of several of the honor guard. One man in particular was talking quietly to her as the others listened intently. Seeing her in her “dress whites” had apparently attracted their attention. It occurred to me that she was part of this world now, and I was happy for her. After watching for a moment  I got moving, helping my mother-in-law to the front of the assembling procession, seeing that my wife and our two other daughters were okay and finally, checking back on “Diddaboy” (our then eight-year-old son, Eman), who was only too happy to be pulled from the busyness surrounding him in the car.

A few minutes passed and the procession began:  Dad’s flag-draped casket led the way up the small hill, followed by the priest and the rest of us. We assembled at the grave, where one white chair was located about eight feet from the center of the sarcophagus.  Mom, now ninety years of age, was then seated in this chair, with her daughter (my wife, Annamarie) and the remainder of our family standing on either side of her. I glanced behind me at the crowd of about fifty people. Some were smiling gently and chatting. I nodded in affirmation at one or two and turned back as the funeral director began to talk, interrupted almost immediately, as though to break the tension, by a noisy crow in a nearby tree. 

During the preparation for the funeral, Annamarie and I had assisted Mom with the selection of the passages that our priest would read.  Now as he did so, we all stood and reflected on those words, Pops’s life, our lives, our impending ends, and our hopefulness for the hereafter. As he finished, I heard the guard commander call the guard to order. They marched in lock step, to a place in front and to the side of us, where they halted, turned, aimed and fired. They fired three volleys, each time crisply returning their rifles to their ready. With the same precision and without pause, the bugler began to play Taps as the echo from the last shots faded.

At his moment I looked down the line to my left to see Haeley, standing crisply at salute along with all the remaining guard. At its finish, her hand fell slowly and deliberately to her side.  I recall being so impressed with how she’d left us as a smart, confident and adventuresome kid, and stood here now as  a thoughtful, diligent and responsible young woman.

The commander then turned and stood at attention at the head of Pop’s casket.  We waited there as five guardsmen approached the casket, marching as they did as young men. Of the five, three moved to one side and the commander assumed a position as the third man on the other.  In perfect unison, they gripped, raised, snapped, creased and folded the flag over the casket, where it made its way to the commander’s hands in that perfect triangular form. I could hear whispers behind me. People were chatting affirmations in small bits trying not to interrupt, but unable to conceal their admiration for this venerable tradition. The crow cawed again and again, but no one seemed to notice.

And then it happened. From the corner of my left eye I noticed Haeley break from the rank and step forward. One slow step - then another - and again! Stop! Pivoting to her right at a crisp ninety degrees, she stood there, perfectly still. In what seemed like a long-rehearsed interplay, the commander, now facing Pop’s casket, snap-turned to his left-face as Haeley, in her blinding white uniform and gloves marched in lock step toward the waiting commander, who himself mirrored her movements exactly. They stepped forward one step - then another - until they stood apart facing each other at the center of the grave.

The chatter had completely stopped. There was no sound. I glanced up at the crow, who seemed to be as stunned by this as any of us. No one moved. We were now a collection of transfixed figures, as though cast there in stone by some unknowable force. Slowly, Haeley extended her gloved hands to receive the flag, which was placed neatly between her palms. She took one step backwards, then turned on her heels and stood squarely in front of her grandmother. Tears the size of nickels fell from her face like heavy rain, yet she stood solid and still in her frame. There was a gasp from somewhere behind me and I heard a woman’s voice whisper “Oh, my Lord!” No one saw this coming. I stood there and, closing my trembling jaw, swallowed hard as I felt my heart rise in my chest.                                                                                                                                                                                                             

Stepping forward and bending slightly at her waist, as still as granite, she knelt before her Mom –Mom, the woman who had been there every day of her life. Patiently, without the slightest adjustment in her body or the faintest quiver in her voice, she extended her hands. It had fallen so quiet, I could hear the pat-pat-pat of Haeley’s tears hitting the flag as she held it. Glancing down and to my left, I saw mom looking up at her granddaughter with wide eyes. She smiled faintly, as though the heartache she’d carried to the graveside had suddenly lifted. She seemed to be floating there, not only unaware in that moment of her grief, but seemingly oblivious to her purpose there.

“Mom-Mom. On behalf of the United States Army and on behalf of a grateful nation, I present to you this flag of the United States of America as a symbol of our gratitude for Pop-Pop’s service to his country. “

Haeley stayed in that position, holding her grandmother’s hands until she steadied. Slowly, she rose to attention, took one step back, turned and marched slowly until in front of her original place, she fell into the rank, lowered her head and wept, shaking from shoulder to knee. I wanted to go to her - to once again pull her though that railing - but this time I could not.

I turned to see if anyone had really absorbed what I had just witnessed. Seemingly everyone was weeping quietly to themselves. Many held their hands on their foreheads or over their mouths; others, like me, stood with watering eyes and beaming smiles. They knew. They knew what I knew: that this was a singular event and they would not see it again.

All of us, I’m sure, experience moments in our lives which impact us in a visceral way. They imprint a mark on our souls, and although the years pass, we recall them in ways more tactile than abstract. Our hearts still skip that beat. We still breathe in the same spotty rhythm we did in those moments. Sometimes these memories remind us of our great regrets, our failures in character or judgment.  Other times, these remembrances return us to our moments of greatest joy, moments that we knew when experiencing them would never leave us. People often say “You can’t take it with you.” No matter where you finish, you leave as you came.  I don’t think that’s true.  When I go, this mark comes with me.

Author’s Note:  Haeley will graduate from the United States Naval Academy on May 25^th, 2018.

One American Man’s Thoughts on Britain’s "Day For Freedom" - by Jamie Horan

We are excited to welcome guest blogger Jamie Horan! He is insightful, smart, and will give you something to think about. Jamie is an American and a Philadelphia native. He's married with four kids, owns his own business, and finds time to think and write about the important stuff. He started writing as a youth when spending days ditching school and hanging out at the public library. Apparently, it worked for him - he has a fine mind and a gift with a pen. 

Recently, advocates for freedom of expression/speech in the UK, against the government's increasingly censoring "hate speech" laws - a completely subjective phrase - held a rally in London. Although liberal progressive news media called it "dangerous" (The Guardian was most ridiculously alarmist - Heaven knows, when those who don't toe the company line get uppity, world chaos might ensue!) and estimated the crowd from 2,000 to 4,000, many who actually attended put estimates at 10,000 to 60,000.  Speakers were an international assembly of the cream of the anti-globalist crop: Tommy Robinson, Milo Yiannopolis, Lauren Southern, Anne Marie Waters, Raheem Kassam. Although one progressive liberal article cynically pointed out that the speakers, while decrying censorship, stood and said whatever they wanted to - it ignored (or was too ignorant to know) that several of these people have been arrested for just that: speaking. What follows is Jamie Horan's account, and some astute thoughts. - LC

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May 6^th was a hot day in London.  Though I wasn’t there personally, I could see it on the faces of throngs of British Citizens gathering for what they called “A Day For Freedom.” A festive event in many respects, but with an object no less important than the reclamation of the dignity of free expression earned for them by their forebears, and taken from them slowly but ceaselessly over their lifetimes.

"Freedom of Speech" has only one meaning. In the United States it is codified in writing as the first item in the Bill of Rights. Our constitution would not have been ratified without it. Its main operating principle is that our government shall make no law which respects or restricts the following four things: 

• Religion
• Speech
• The Press  
• Peaceable Assembly by people to redress grievances with their government. 

Although she enjoys no such codification**, Great Britain provided the basis and the inspiration for each of these four items. I won’t bore you here with my thoughts on how it did so, but suffice it to say that without Great Britain, we wouldn’t have this language in our founding document.

For some years now, I and I’m sure many like me in the states, have watched the happenings in Europe, and particularly in England, with increasing alarm: the demographic slide into malaise; the lame-brained reactionary social policies foisted upon people by those in power (in many cases unelected);  the dangerously under-thought importation of the labor Europeans and Englanders alike failed to produce at home. We watched as the governments of these nations moved in directions opposite their polity and watched with particular disbelief as the polities bought the big lie, that economic security is more important than individual liberty. As it happens, that’s not  just wrong, but demonstrably and completely wrong. 

But then, in June of 2016, Great Britain gave us hope when she voted to leave the EU. It appeared that

once again, the She was rising to save Europe by example and not rhetoric. Millions of Americans were ecstatic at this outcome. Predictably though, the backlash began before the vote was counted, as those who bought the lie, and those in power who perpetrated the lie, sought by many means to soften or even erase the decision compelling them to throw off the lie. They haven’t finished.

Many very bright and thoughtful people continue to resist this effort by the political elite to mislead the people, and have made their positions known over the years. They did so on major news networks and television shows, in debate halls and on social media, and all too often in direct opposition to mobs of indoctrinated pseudo-intellectual, virtue-signaling imbeciles, themselves holding advanced degrees in stupidity of one type or another. As an outsider I watched these bright people eviscerate these infants on countless occasions, but knew and still know, that change happens on the ground and by the people who live there. You see, a listing ship is never righted by men in conning towers alone, but always it is righted by those on and under her decks. I waited, I watched, I wrote what I could, noticing here and there ground-level groups organizing around one type of flawed approach or another, but who always aimed toward the same objective: the refusal to cede ground on the basic human dignity enshrined in and carried forward by the freedom of expression.

Then it happened. Some young guy from Luton Town, later to be named as Tommy Robinson, decided to take the fight directly where the fight needed to be: not in the clouds where the educated debate the lofty ideals of democracy, tolerance and free speech, but in alleys and on the streets of his little town where the fight for his family’s future was much more visceral.  He was fighting the real fight - the fight to resist the tacit imposition of blasphemy law, a draconian system of control long thought to be dead in the West, and which had risen from the bowels of the massive importation of a poisonous ideology by the above-mentioned infants. I watched as he was castigated and marginalized as a far-right racist extremist, imprisoned, beaten, battered, conned and indulged - but unsurprisingly, not silenced. He’s not glib, or posh, or privileged. He’s just a young man who won’t abide the encroachment on the rights of his children in order to appease a coddled and abhorrently violent subculture in his town.

On May 6^th, I saw this young man put together a gathering of what I could see as about 60,000 people. These people would remain standing for hours in the heat right in front of Whitehall, the seat of British government. There were numerous speakers who’ve gained fame in social media circles, and whom I’ve enjoyed for years, but my favorite was the first guy. His name, as I recall was “Inman.”  He wasn’t posh or privileged or glib, either.  He was the guy who fights the battles; the guy who rights the ship. He’s the guy the elected lean to when they’ve got themselves into something they’re not equipped to handle, and wouldn’t know where to start. Further, he’s the guy who knows there is no such thing as “pooled sovereignty.”  He knows that just as a nation, an individual is either sovereign or he is not. He‘s an Englishman, and like Tommy Robinson, a classic bull dog in every respect. 

Standing before him in the crowd were so many like him. They were of all stripes, men and women, old and young, gay and straight, etc. who considered this event important enough to attend in person. What they seemed to me to have in common was the need to physically demonstrate that they’ve just had it -  that they’re done being told by their elected officials, their media, their police, and so on, that their priorities are unimportant; that they and their progeny are no longer needed for the future of Britain, you know the one that they and their forebears built. They’ve had it with this new, less free Britain where their concerns are subordinate to the priorities of a significant, but simple-minded minority who have never built or had to defend anything at all. Had I been able, I would have stood there with them with an American Flag in one hand and a Union Jack in the other.

I tweeted recently that “there are none more dangerous than a free people compelled to silence.” I am bewildered that after alarming events - for many, in living memory - the political class in Britain and elsewhere seem not to know this. The trend in British Government has been toward this incremental silencing, electronic surveillance and other Orwellian methods of censorship for so long now, these simpmletons convinced themselves that it’s all okay. In fact, it’s not. No trade of liberty for security ever does what it is intended to do - namely, protect citizens - and always does what it was not intended to do - harm citizens.

It is astonishing to me that the mere mention of a critical thought of one protected group or another (of which are so many now) can land a British citizen in court or even prison. Worse still is the tendency toward hate crime law, a thought to me as an American so abominable as to be akin to national suicide. So damning a trend has this become that now London is arguably not British. This is not for its cosmopolitan composition, but for the failure of its leadership locally, and its parliament nationally, to stop their casual and incremental abandonment of the rights, will and traditions of British citizens. What this group did on Sunday and will undoubtedly continue to do, was to let their elected officials know that they’re just there to hold a place for them; they are there to move the ball for them - make what is already there better for them, and to my mind they did that. One after another, the Youtube stars and the bulldogs alike let the tepid houses of Parliament and the prime minister know that their Britain still is Great Britain, and they’re not going to see it taken from them. 

For Tommy, I recommend he take the next rally to Buckingham. It is, after all, Her Majesty’s government. For the elected, I recommend what they themselves like to call Active Listening, because although this group numbered in the thousands, they exist in the millions, - and frankly, the elected are running out of time.

**  Although Great Britain previously held law that protected the right to speak out against specific things like religions, this coding was abrogated by its adoption in 1998 of the European Convention's Article 10 into the domestic Human Rights Act, which contains numerous exceptions to free expression - many inherently vulnerable to a changing subjective interpretation. As of 2017, two major news outlets in the UK said that an average of nine persons per day were being arrested for violations of the law through online speech, and that of these five on average were convicted. Big Brother has at last come to Great Britain. 

Tommy Robinson's books can be found at Amazon. 

An Open Love Letter to Men by Lichen Craig

Dear Men,

Recently, a female acquaintance commented that I seem to bowl better in my Thursday night mixed league than in my other three women-only leagues. I told her that year to year, I have the highest average (not to mention the most fun) when I bowl with men. She seemed perplexed, perhaps naturally, so I hastily blurted, "Well, I just enjoy the company of men more, present company accepted, of course!"

Truth is, I bowl better with you guys. I like the no-nonsense approach you have. I like the way you incessantly analyze the ball trajectory against where you stand against the current oil pattern. I like how you exercise your minds until the world makes sense. I like how you keep the cattiness down and gossip to a minimum - it might interest you, but not for two hours like it does the women.  I like the way, when I throw a gutter ball, you look me in the eye and say, "What the hell was that?"  Without smiling. I don't want to be coddled; I want to be expected to get my shit together by the next turn.

The world does make better sense around you men. When it's ugly, you know exactly why. Sometimes, you're the cause of the ugliness, but if you don't own up, you do manage to make each other pay in the end. I like the way you confront each other. Women smile to your face while plotting your future pain just because they don't like the color you wore yesterday. But a man? He'll make you miserable right on the spot, without apology (at least not immediately - that would be pointless), and he'll have a damn good reason to do it. A reason that is, well, reasonable.

Men are rarely intellectually lazy. They can't afford to be, because they have to earn a complete living. The least educated knows his way around an engine, crop fertilizers, a meth lab. Men take real joy out of verbal sparring - some annoyingly have never learned to combine that urge with self-control. But all that jousting forces them to use their brains, constantly. They don't give each other an inch, or a break. Just a good hard contest.

Men value things like integrity and honor and courage. Check out some novels written by women - they also present some higher ideas - often love, sacrifice - but it will be those written by men which contain sweeping and profound truths about the human condition.  Men ponder these things - with regularity. Men tend to contemplate and comprehend patterns of the universe, realities of war, subtleties of affection, hope, loss . . .

Men spend a lot of effort and time shielding their loved ones from difficulty. I see this a lot - and it often goes unnoticed. Their female companions take it for granted. Women whose fathers, boyfriends, brothers, husbands all protected them, rarely note the ways in which they are shielded from too much hardship. Those of us who have had little such care or protection in our own lives, though, notice it all the time, everywhere, with so many men.

Women often have some shield to hide behind, some safety net to catch them. Most men don't. So you have to be brave - there isn't another choice. And you are brave, so often, and often in quiet ways. Every once in a while, one of you will do something spectacularly and idiotically cowardly - being men, you always go big - but when that happens, your fellow men call you out on it loudly. You don't get to pretend it didn't matter. It will always matter if you behave as a coward, when you're a man. For that reason, you must be terrified when fear comes. Women fear other things, men fear themselves most. That's what I would guess.

Men don't pussyfoot around. They insult you, they tell you off, they acquire disgusting habits. With men, you get exactly what you see in front of you. There isn't a lot of secrecy, manipulation, backbiting. It's all laid out on the table. When I was 30 years old, I informed a doctor that I liked to be given the respect of being told the truth up front. So he looked me in the face and told me, two days before emergency surgery, that I would be wise to "put your affairs in order this weekend", because my life as I knew it might be over. Or simply over, actually.  I trusted him from that moment. Here was a person who put sentiment aside and prepared me for reality to hit. My mom on the other hand told me, "I know everything will be all right, honey."  I wanted to scream, "NO YOU DON'T."  I did not trust her advice, believe me. Even today, when a female friend coos, "It'll be all right."  I feel little but rising disgust at her disingenuousness - but I know that's a learned trait in females.

I like the way you smell. I love your cologne, and your skin. I love the stubble on your chin. I love the ease with which you swing an ax - and the joy you have in doing it.  I love the way you set a fencepost straight and then pound it in. I love the way you hold fast to the rope and squint up at the rearing horse above you, knowing your brain will keep you from being trampled. I love the way you love that suicide bike you refuse to sell. I like the way you snap the briefcase closed and swing it off the desk. I love the way you smile at your daughter across the table. I love the way you throw a baseball. I love the way you smooth your hair back and turn your face up into the shower after an exhausting day. I love the way you plan surprises, and how you worry about whether your wife, or kids, or grandkids will have to pay too much tax on your holdings when you die before them.

Oh, I know some of you cheat, many lie, too many of you walk around thinking your dick is bigger than it actually is - both figuratively and literally. I know some of you are inexplicably and unforgivably selfish to the core. I married one of those once, and that difficult twenty years was enough to last a lifetime - believe me. But I know I might have been very lucky had I chosen a different one of you.

In today's world, too many of you are being maligned. You're blamed for that which isn't your doing. You're shamed for carrying testosterone. Your natural instincts are treated as threats to be suppressed. Today we refuse to acknowledge that your hunger for progress built empires, your beautiful curiosity and need to conquer brought technological innovation, your soaring spirits brought the biggest piece of the world's great literature, art and music; your tendency to protect what you love fought and won wars for peace we take for granted now. How many of you willingly ran toward a sword, a spear, a fire, a gun, a bomb, for something you understood was far greater than your one life?

Yes, over a beer, or a bowling alley, I do love your company. I love the candor, the stumbling lack of finesse, the mental gymnastics, the uniquely male insight on the world, the instinct to protect. I know that so many of you are bombarded daily with reminders that you as a gender have somehow failed your species. I'm here to tell you that's hooey.

You're wonderful and glorious and beautiful to look at. You're strong. You're good for the world. And ultimately - no matter what you're made to feel - you are necessary. What you were on the day you were born, and what you have grown into, will always be exactly what you are supposed to be. In this woman's book, that's pretty damn good.