Mexico is occupying Texas right now—and her loyal subjects are neither “living in shadows” nor assimilating.
Here we go again. As many of us try to draw from our summer, not anything like pleasure or happiness (no longer possible under the present burden of cares), but just a mild breather from the constant struggle to survive, our “representatives” are once more exploiting our relative inattention to blow up our nation, our society, and our culture. The “conservatives” whom we thought we had posted as reliable sentries in 2010, furthermore, have again McCainified on us in large measure. We had thought Marco Rubio would be the white knight defending the citadel. Now he has slipped outside to carouse with a hooded druidical “gang” making secret calculations from hidden stars, and he tipsily signals us to throw the gates wide open.
We have to fight back their dark magic, these utopian statist Merlins, every single time; they only have to catch us napping once. At least I no longer worry about having to face a death panel for a bottle of pills in a few years. I’m ready to check out right now. Life in this miasma of contagious fraud is exhausting.
Yet something in me invincibly hates and loathes the prospect of villains prospering. It’s not even a matter, really, of securing my son’s future. He’s about to enter a good college with a good scholarship (and no loans, despite FAFSA’s constant pandering and occasional brow-beating). He has a level head on his shoulders (if little more taste in his wisdom than others of his generation), and he speaks pretty good Spanish for a kid of Anglo-Scots descent. The demographics indicate that he stands a better-than-middling chance of graduating to the elite class as people like Rubio draw us ever closer toward high-tech feudalism. Even when elections become indefinitely suspended or are periodic beauty contests between indistinguishable members of the aristocracy (aren’t we already there?), my son will at least be a page in some lord’s castle, not a serf digging ditches on the estate to feed six cognitively crippled waifs.
The problem with that kind of resignation is its moral repugnance. The six waifs are six souls as important to God as my son. What they seem to represent even to Rubio (we already knew about the rest of the Gang and its extended net of gangsters) is a stable underclass upon which to build a political career. Tea-Partiers keep telling us, “We elected them—they work for us!” But the Gangsters have a different take. They’re sick and tired of the way we vote: they want a new electorate.
Rush Limbaugh has finely noted that the underclass has to become permanent for these statist visionaries to be able to engineer their ideal unhampered. The “humanitarian” motive for open borders, therefore, is an utter sham on the part of the cynical and a pitiable imbecility on the part of the naive. (I still cling to the hope that Rubio may be among the latter: in the end, it makes no difference.) Humanitarians take note. The Gangsters don’t want to lift Mexico’s poorest, least educated, most manipulate class out of its misery: they want to import it here to the States with all its foibles so as to enable a host of political highjackings. There’s nothing we can do for these masses in such numbers with virtually no process or timeline provided for their assimilation into the mainstream. There’s a hell of s lot they can do to us.
When I moved back to Texas about a decade ago, I noticed that certain things had changed. Ornaments around the front yard or furniture on the front porch, for instance, would soon disappear if they weren’t nailed down. People would amble about one’s property, ostensibly peering into a yard sale down the block or assessing whether one had any trees to cut down. I’ll never forget hearing a bustle in my garage one afternoon and finding a strange man and a boy nosing around it. The man had no English, but his boy told me he wanted to give me two thousand bucks hard cash, no questions asked, for my old Chevy truck. I declined (it was a good offer… but what would I have done if the vehicle were later involved in a crime and its legal ownership led right back to me?)
My garage door stayed closed after that. I also stopped leaving nice new trash cans near the curb. I suppose there was a certain convenience to being able to set almost anything out by the driveway and have it disappear overnight… but it was also a little unnerving. We never used to live this way.
The Gangsters will tell us that my discussion has turned racist. No, my imperious idiots—the habits I describe have nothing to do with genetic material. They’re all about social conditioning. In Mexico, there is a time-honored rift between haves and have-nots. It is understood that if you leave a bag sitting on a bench unattended for a minute, you want to give away the contents. Poor people would never do such a thing. The act defines you as not poor—as having more than you need. One might even say that the pilferer has a right to his plunder—a moral right, if not a legal one. Old Testament law gives to the poor the right of gleaning after the harvest: Mexican common law gives to the street-wanderer the right of snitching anything not nailed down.
You can observe the same phenomenon in many of the poorer European countries (e.g., Italy) and in most poor societies around the world where a variety of Islam isn’t practiced that separates thieves from their hands. Are we ready to “regularize” tens of millions of such people, the vast majority of them living in communities of their kindred who will never transmit to them that this just isn’t the American way? For the Gangsters will turn this into the new American way, unless you happen to live in one of their gated Mandarin suburbs.
Last year my family had occasion to appreciate just how deeply the new American way—the old Mexican way—has insinuated itself into the city of Dallas. The “communities of their kindred” of which I just wrote are all over that vast monument to urban sprawl. My son belonged to a traveling baseball team, so we made frequent trips to what is known as the Metroplex hereabouts (a black hole of concrete between Forney and Weatherford that includes Fort Worth and may soon swallow up Denton). Our hotels, belonging to regional or national chains, always met reasonably high standards. In their immediate vicinity would usually nestle a nice restaurant or two and perhaps several freshly minted, contemporary office buildings. One hot afternoon, however, as we traveled westerly to locate an unfamiliar ballpark, we discovered ourselves short of bottled water (an absolute necessity) and wheeled off a major thoroughfare into a Family Dollar or Dollar General variety of store. There were few outward signs that we had strayed across an international boundary—just a handful of store fronts in the strip mall that had no English on them; yet the place we entered was not intended for gringo patronage. It wasn’t so much the way people looked at us the way people didn’t look at us: the way they glanced in our direction, blinked, and then averted their eyes. The usual Dollar inventory was on the shelves… except that much of it wasn’t really on the shelves, but sitting around in boxes or falling off the shelves. There were spots where a dust rag or a vacuum cleaner hadn’t passed since the Washington Senators moved to Arlington.
We snatched our water and left. The fellow at the register didn’t say a word, but just looked at us in none-too-pleased surprise. As we continued down the road, I got the distinct impression that we left this pocket-Mexico behind at points, picked it up again, and then re-entered the mainstream—all while driving along a major through-street in a straight line.
Every urban American, I suppose, is familiar with the phenomenon of ethnically flavored neighborhoods. Our cities all have their equivalent of Chinatown or Little Italy. In Dallas, however, something very different is happening. Seemingly random patches of the map are turning Mexican in a manner less reflective of settlement patterns and local traditions than of trench warfare. One side pumps in squadrons and works the flanks until the other side decides to pull out completely and occupy higher ground. Every so often, the side with less hardware but more troops consolidates its possessions… but on any given day, zones of influence hopscotch and crisscross each other. No one in his right mind would call this assimilation. I have walked into shops and cafés in foreign countries where I felt more at home than in that strip mall. I would probably have gotten a better reception in Mexico, for that matter; for there I would have been a visitor and not an intruder.
Later that fall, we attended another baseball-related affair which required an overnight stay. Again we booked at a mainstream hotel chain—and the room offered nothing to complain about. The curious thing about this venue lay just beyond the hotel’s doors. We were at Ground Zero. Immediately to the north was a new stretch of highway apparently leading to the airport (hence the idea for a hotel, no doubt). To the east lay dozens of warehouses that appeared to have been around for quite some time. To the west and south ran another main artery: along it sat several restaurants that we cruised among. We actually entered one… but the Mariachi music was cranked up so loud that my eardrums physically ached—seriously, the loudest music I’ve ever heard in a public place—and I hadn’t seen rickety little steel-frame tables of that make (with cheap plastic checkerboard upholstering one their surface… remember those?) since I was a young kid. We left without seeing a menu, which wasn’t exactly forthcoming. I think they must have known that we wouldn’t stay.
Instead, we ate at a Denny’s right beside the hotel—a chain frequently magnetic to black families (the church-going type) in North Texas for some reason. Yet there was only one family (a black family) in the place on this Friday night. I don’t know how the enterprise stayed afloat. It probably didn’t for very much longer. As new big money was throwing up a major highway to the airport and old big money was emptying out its warehouses, the settled black population was pulling up stakes… and Mexico was picking up the pieces.
I’m sure there’s truth to what has become an old saw about Mexican immigrants doing jobs that others won’t do and living in places where others won’t live. I should like the naive who have been swept up in Gangster rhetoric to ponder just what this means. Our health standards, our safety standards, our educational standards, our standards of civic responsibility, standards involving acceptable levels of noise and clutter and congestion and intrusion… these are not Mexico’s standards. And the net effect of a collision between our warring standards will not be the elevation of Mexico.
The implicit assumption of the “jobs Americans won’t do” refrain, after all, is that an almost sub-human level of labor needs to be done now and that the need will continue indefinitely. Rich people need peons, utopian progressives need abject masses, speculators need hordes to occupy their rat-trap apartment complexes without complaining, and—I shame to say—certain churches need a flood of new membership to fill their coffers and swell their political might. None of these “needful” parties needs current Mexican immigrants to be other than the nineteenth-century blue-collar mob that they are. And each of these parties needs the rest of us to shut up and play dead.
I should like Mr. Rubio to come with me to a sports complex on a Sunday afternoon in Dallas and tell me what he sees. Anglo kids playing baseball on one side, Latino kids playing soccer on the other, the two groups speaking different languages, each of them completely ignoring the other… and black and Asian kids, by the way, nowhere in sight… is this your vision of our future, Mr. Rubio? In my part of the world, at least, Mexican nationals are not living in any shadows: they are throwing an increasingly long shadow over the rest of us. Can you explain to me what you see as the next phase of this peculiar assimilation?