We are at a proverbial impasse. I can sit here all day and pray to the gods of every nation that the liberal activist sees things my way, but he or she or whatever doesn’t believe in the gods, not a single one of them. For such a soul as this, the magic is lost. When the beauty and belief of tradition was ripped from them, those so deeply impoverished in spirit filled the void with fanaticism and their every drop of blood is poisoned, but they don’t see it that way.
Even as they condemn the Christian, they cling to their convictions with a fervor that would impress any medieval saint, and yet they can’t see the parallels. Their eyes have been gouged out by one too many blockbuster films, their ears run through by one too many professors, their tongues ripped out by a babbling, lying media. And still they adore their torturers. They feel the breaking of their souls as progress, the rending of their spirit as equality, the theft of all they once held dear as justice. Yes, any medieval saint would be impressed if not appalled.
I am appalled. I want them to see the beauty of their bold and unapologetic ancestors. I want them to hear the haunting aura of a Latin Mass, the stirring cadence of a Viking saga, the lilting melody of a hymn to Dionysus. I want them to speak out against the rape of history and the brutal hacking and chopping of their own roots; for the family tree, regardless of origin, dies without roots.
When we march for baseless and raceless equality, we are marching towards the death of the diversity we simultaneously praise. Madness! When we scream for sexual liberation and gender equality, we scream for the death of our race as we demean motherhood and smother the innocence of childhood in its cradle. Madness! When we trash the religions and beliefs of our ancestors even as we rant and rave in protest of anything that hints at anti-semitism or Islamaphobia, we hand our identity and freedoms to a handful of string pullers in the Middle East. Madness!
Those pulling our strings from one side of the globe to another do not think black lives matter. They don’t care if you’re the house nigger, the field nigger, or the proud African chief. Just fall in line, they say. Have a riot or two. Loot the neighborhood. Rip society to shreds. Mix with the whites. Mix with the Asians. Lose yourself. Forget who you are. When you do, the string pullers will give you a new identity. Tell me, slave, do you like your new name or will you hold onto your African name even under the whip? If black lives do matter, you’ll hold onto your roots. You’ll remember who you are and where you came from. If black lives matter, the blacks will turn inward and heal their wounds, stop slaughtering each other, stop feeding the prisons. If black lives matter, the blacks will go home and take what is theirs ~ African soil, African faith, African pride. Go home and tend to your roots. You deserve better than another country’s scraps.
Those pulling our strings from one side of the globe to another do not care about your gender du jour. They don’t care what you identify as. The don’t care what bathroom you use or which pronoun you choose, but if they can run small businesses out of town because ma and pa can’t afford extra bathrooms or they don’t want to bake a gay wedding cake? That they care about – funneling everyone’s paltry paychecks into the accounts of a few global corporations while the little guy who can’t afford gender-neutral toilets on top of a forced minimum wage hike is hung out to dry. It doesn’t matter one damn bit if you’re bearded and in a dress, follow the money. You’ll see. We have the same enemy…
*Adapted from Rachel Summers’ newly released novel, The Forgetting. Available now at: