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Category: Autobiography

Categories
Autobiography

Ben-Hur

clasicos-de-oro-ilustrados-ben-hur

Appalled by the ongoing racial suicide throughout the West, and by the fact that men with honor are practically nonexistent even in the pro-white movement, yesterday I tried to find some refuge in one of my readings as a kid. I revisited my decades-old illustrated books and booklets and picked up exactly the same translated copy of Ben-Hur that I read as a child.

Alas, once you are unplugged from the Matrix you cannot take the bluepill and enjoy another moment of blissful, childhood ignorance again! Yesterday I was immediately confronted by the fact that even on the first pages of this abridged version the author put a Manichean dialogue between Messala and Judah Ben-Hur, where it is clear that the Roman will be the bad guy of the story and the Jew the good guy.

I then searched in the internet for an exposé of the American general who wrote and published the novel in 1880, Lew Wallace. At Stormfront I found Christians blaming the 1959 movie adaptation of Ben-Hur, directed by Jew Willy Wyler, instead of blaming the Christian author himself! After all, Ben-Hur was considered “the most influential Christian book of the nineteenth century” with book sales surpassing Gone with the Wind. Long before the famous adaptation was filmed starring Charlton Heston, in the late 19th century Pope Leo XIII had said that Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ was the first work of fiction to be honored! You can imagine how such an influential work of fiction could have been a contributing factor in the runaway American philo-Semitism of the following century…

My poor white nationalist Christians: Why beholdest thou the mote that is in the Jude’s eye but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?

The fact that there are lots of mentally-blinded Christians in White Nationalism is one of the reasons why I have now completely abandoned it and presently only favor National Socialism.

Categories
Autobiography Sex Women

My Fair Lady

My_fair_lady_poster


As a kid I watched My Fair Lady on the big screen: a film that won eight Academy Awards in 1964. I am in my middle fifties now. One of the advantages of having living more than half a century is that you remember My Fair Lady as if you had watched it a couple of weeks ago. This means that the visual mores of the time are still fresh in my mind as if it was something that (psychologically) happened a fortnight ago. My little sisters treasured their memories too and talked about the movie at home.

My Fair Lady can be watched in YouTube, at least in the country in which I am living for the moment. If you click here, starting with “Pickering, why can’t a woman be more like a man?” (hour 2:28 to 2:32), you will see that “a fortnight ago” men regarded women as totally different creatures.

For people of my age it is like if an esoteric fashion took over society “a fortnight ago” turning the world upside down—something absolutely impossible to transmit to younger people since they didn’t build their psyches in the early 1960s.

That’s why for people like me even most white nationalists are, mixing old film metaphors, body-snatched degenerates. We older folks still have memories of an age when decency and the most obvious facts about the differences between the sexes were widely acknowledged by most.

Nonetheless, even now, during the West’s darkest hour, the new generation can make a difference by failing to renew their Cable services; disconnect the aerial antenna to avoid temptations, purchase old-time movies in DVD form, and spend their relaxing hours watching only the films that their grandparents saw in the luxurious, old-fashioned theaters of yore.

Categories
American Revolutionary War Autobiography Music Racial studies

Mexico: The crypto and the mulatto

Here in Mexico, a couple of days ago, after my family celebrated the Day of Independence, I caught my Catholic father and sister speaking in high terms about Miguel Hidalgo, the Catholic priest that in 1810 started the war of independence; and José María Morelos, the mulatto that continued Hidalgo’s anti-white wars. While father and daughter recognized that Hidalgo and Morelos killed lots of Iberian white civilians and “from 20,000 to 30,000 prisoners of war,” they, nonetheless, regard them as “heroes.” In the Mexican wars of independence from Spain of 1810 to 1821 my father and sister could have been confused with Spaniards and, still, like many other Mexicans who could pass as Mediterraneans, they side the crypto-Jew and the mulatto. Why?

miguel-hidalgo

The 19th century portraits of Hidalgo are fake. All of them used a man of Austrian origin who posed as the father of the independence. Original reports depict Hidalgo with hooked nose. The overwhelming majority of Mexicans ignore that the Catholic priest Hidalgo was probably the son of Jewish conversos. Even the Mexican Jews, no longer cryptos, acknowledge it: “Two genealogical studies of the eighteenth century, the Archivo General de la Nación de Mexico and the Ramo de la Inquisición, suggest that Father Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, the father of Mexican Independence, had a Converso background and that Bartolomé de las Casas, a Bishop who fought to free slaves in Nueva España, also had Jewish ancestors.” In case of my family, they are under the naïve impression that both Hidalgo and Las Casas were of pure Spanish origin.

But what about the mulatto Morelos? The 1944 edition of José Vasconcelos’ A Brief History of Mexico that my father read long ago, says (my translation):

For Morelos, for example, to be comparable to Washington, it must be assumed that Washington had decided to recruit blacks and mulattoes to kill the English. Instead, Washington disdained blacks and mulattoes and recruited the English of America, who did not commit the folly of killing their own brothers, uncles, and relatives, only because they were born in England. Quite the contrary, each participant of the American Revolution felt pride for his British ancestry and hoped for the betterment of the English. This should have been the sense of our own emancipation, to transform New Spain into an improved Spain, better than that of the peninsula but with its blood, our blood. The whole later disaster of Mexico is explained by the blind, criminal decision that emerged from the womb of Hidalgo’s mobs and is expressed in the suicidal cry: “Death to the Spaniards!”

So why many Mexicans who physiognomically could pass as southern Italians, Greeks or Spaniards side the mulatto against their blood? Recently, for example, my father’s orchestra composition, La Espada (The Sword), was a success in Mexico City: an homage to the mulatto Morelos (my father has zero black blood by the way).

The music is good—the first ten minutes can be listened in the above clip—, but the libretto is outrageous. The poet Carlos Pellicer (1897-1977) wrote it and my father adapted it for 150 voices and orchestra:

Tú fuiste una espada de Cristo,
que alguna vez, tal vez, tocó el demonio.
Gloria a ti por la tierra repartida.
Perdón a tu crueldad de mármol negro…
Gloria a ti al igualar indios, negros y blancos…
Gloria a ti que empobreciste a los ricos
Y te hiciste comer de los humildes,
Procurador de Cristo en el Magníficat.

My rough translation:

You [Morelos] were a sword of Christ,
once, perhaps, touched by the devil.
Glory to you for distributing the land.
Sorry for your cruelty of black marble…
Glory to you for equating indians, blacks and whites…
Glory to you that made the rich poor
And made the humble eat,
Attorney of Christ in the Magnificat.

When Pellicer said “touched by the devil” he meant the killings of unarmed Iberian whites that the mulatto ordered in cold blood. That’s why Pellicer said “black marble”: Morelos’ appearance was even darker than the Amerind skin! So much that, to avoid being called names, Morelos covered his curly hair—obvious black heritage—with the legendary bandana that adorns his head in every single picture that represents him.

JOSE MARIA MORELOS Y PAVONThe rest of my rough translation of the famed poet needs no explanation. However, as far as I know Catholic Pellicer (whom I met as a child when my family visited him at Tepoztlán) didn’t have black blood either. You can imagine where all of these ethno-suicidal ideas came from: the religion of the inversion of values of these Body-snatched Mexican Pods, my family included.

Categories
Alice Miller Autobiography Child abuse Hojas Susurrantes (book) Pedagogy

Pinocchio, 2

Why I am starting this new series is explained: here.

pinocchiohanged


Mankind sees things in photographic negative about childrearing: it’s all backwards, and only those who have deeply assimilated Alice Miller’s legacy have noticed it. Perhaps the most splendid paradigm, in stories, of what Miller called poisonous pedagogy or adult-child projection is precisely the original story by Carlo Collodi.

Pinocchio is nothing more than the transformation of the pure feelings of a child into adult madness; for example, by going to schools where children’s souls are murdered and the child is socialized so that he finally sacrifices his sanity in search for the affection of parental figures, symbolized by the carpenter and the Blue Fairy.

Let’s see. The heading of Chapter IV states: “The story of Pinocchio and the Talking Cricket, in which one sees that bad children do not like to be corrected by those who know more than they do.”

Head over heels—everything in photographic negative! How I wish that my Whispering Leaves were sold out so that I could, by now, be writing the book I had dreamt since the beginning: pure narrative without using hundreds of pages to introduce the reader to the legacy of Miller, deMause and the critics of psychiatry.

Here is a passage of the Collodi tale, poisonous pedagogy in its purest form:

“Woe to boys who refuse to obey their parents and run away from home!” [Chapter IV]

The passage obviously presupposes that the parents (who beat their children or torment them emotionally and ocassionally even rape them) are always right and benign with their children: the opposite of what we saw in the previous entry showing the dark side of Geppetto, a side only noticed by the neighbors who knew him in the story. And what is worse, the domestic abuse is often supported by the abuse at school, so Pinocchio says to the cricket:

“If I stay here the same thing will happen to me which happens to all other boys and girls. They are sent to school, and whether they want to or not, they must study…” [Ibid]

To which the voice of the system, symbolized by the cricket who wants to instill a consciousness of black pedagogy into the child, responds:

“If you do not like going to school, why don’t you at least learn a trade…?” [Ibid]

That is a great insult; not bona fide council as adults often utter these sort of words not out of genuine empathy for the kids.

When I was a child I wanted to be a filmmaker. Kubrick, who dropped out from school, was my idol. Alas, in my late teens my parents put me in a medieval school system and I could not become either (1) a filmmaker or (2) get what they wanted: a college degree either. The mandatory school system was the barrier that destroyed my professional life. Unlike Kubrick, no “Uncle Jacob” appeared in my life to sponsor my filming career since Christian families don’t help their relatives as much as kike families do (cf. MacDonald’s first book of his trilogy).

More recently, this year in fact, I heard my brother angrily telling his child that if my nephew did not want to study at a conventional school, he should seek a trade, and mentioned a supermarket boy (something similar to what the Cricket proposed). My brother’s advice was not directed in an empathic way: it was an obvious act of psychological aggression as no one in his right mind wants to be an errand kid that only earns a few cents.

Going back to my life, if my parents had any empathy with the potential filmmaker I was as a kid, they would have supported my immigration to the US, and instead of spending money at a Mexican school, send me those scarce funds to complete my expenses near Hollywood. But no: the unconscious desire of my mother was to destroy the individualistic mind of her firstborn, as I recount in my Leaves.

Disney’s film is nonsense intended to beautify the crudeness of the Italian text. In Collodi’s original story the cricket’s advice was so insulting that Pinocchio grabbed a hammer of Geppetto’s workshop and threw it toward the damned bug, who “stayed stiff and flat against the wall”: precisely what I did as an adolescent.

Categories
Autobiography Axiology Final solution Heinrich Himmler Helmut Stellrecht Hermann Göring Neanderthalism William Pierce

Follow my yellow brick road

Today is my birthday so I will indulge myself a little in my typical ethnocidal fantasies.

Recently I watched the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz after decades of not seeing it (as a small child), based on the 1900 novel by L. Frank Baum, and the thought occurred to me that each day I realize more that I have little to do with “white nationalism.” I am closer to the historical Himmler; not the fictional Himmler in the effeminate WN literature in denial that he did dispatch millions of der Juden (while the Enemy was committing a Holocaust of Germans).

In my previous entry of today I quote from Faith and Action (1938) by Helmut Stellrecht for the Hitler Youth, and a single line caught my attention very strongly: “He loves the animals that are tortured and tormented in other countries.”

A caricature from Kladderadatsch of September 1933 depicted lab animals, including white rabbits, giving the Nazi salute to Hermann Göring for his order to ban vivisection. My hero Göring prohibited vivisection and said that those who “still think they can continue to treat animals as inanimate property” will be sent to concentration camps.

But the West ganged upon poor Germany right after The Wizard of Oz was premiered and, as Stellrecht implied, in other countries the torture continued.

As you know, I live in Mexico. Every time I learn about how these slightly mesticized Amerinds literally torture the cows in the butchering houses, and continue to perform vivisections on my beloved bunnies and other animals, I cannot but remember Frank Baum’s words. His solution is the only way to put a final, screeching halt to the torture of the animals I love:

With his fall [Sitting Bull] the nobility of the Redskin is extinguished… The Whites, by law of conquest, by justice of civilization, are masters of the American continent, and the best safety of the frontier settlements will be secured by the total annihilation of the few remaining Indians. Why not annihilation? We cannot honestly regret their extermination…

Yes: these are the wise thoughts of the famous author of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz; words that appeared in Saturday Pioneer, December 20, 1890. Just compare Baum’s words with the effeminate, politically-correct pronunciations of the “White” and “Southern” nationalists of today, ready to use Judaic epithets like “sociopaths” and “psychopaths” for any white who dares to think like old Uncle Frank.

Neochristian white nationalism must die. The spirit of William Pierce must live instead. This is why I am posting, and will continue to post in WDH, entries about Nietzsche (let’s transvaluate Christian axiology) and the New Testament as well. As long as, contrary to uncles Frank and Bill, the current generation of “Nationalists” sticks to the old axiology, white Americans will continue to travel on the (red) road to extinction.

follow yellow road

My birthday advice: Start following my yellow brick road if you don’t want to see the U.S. completely turned into the African-American interpretation of The Wizard of Oz.

Categories
Autobiography Mexico City

Preparing for the crash

For those who have already read this entry,
see below my July 31 crossed-out words.



The American dollar will crash soon. The consequences will be dire for other countries insofar as many of them have most of their reserves in dollars.

I have been trying to sell a plot in the state of Morelos in Mexico to be able to get some travel money and emigrate to any racially homogenous place in the First World where the effects of the crash won’t be so ominous. However, it may take some time to find the appropriate customer.

The crash can happen today or in the next month or in 2014 or even later. Whenever it happens, the collapse of the dollar will unfold very rapidly, probably in a week or two.

If the crash surprises me without funds I’ll likely die in this Third World trap. Therefore, I’ll leave to a family member the task of selling the plot at market price—not just a desperate bargain sell but a good sell that allows me to establish properly in a better country.

Therefore, for the moment I have no choice but to accept a job that will allow me to save about $500 dollars per month [Note of 31 July: This job in Latinos Post, online news for mestizos in the US, turned out to be almost a fraud] and thus escape a large metropolis which will become pretty hellish after the American dollar hyperinflates.

At this rate, and perhaps still waiting for the area of real estate to be sold in Mexico by the end of the year, I must arrive to Europe with at least $2000 dollars (the US government is not granting me a visa).

Last month The West’s Darkest Hour (WDH) got 36,413 page loads, of which 21,051 were unique visits. If I manage to survive the crash in one piece, I plan to continue working for WDH from overseas.

Nonetheless, the job that I am about to accept is a full-time job. Presently I am adding an average of more than one entry per day. Unless I get my travel money from other sources (a minimum of $2000 dollars, independently of the one-way ticket that I already got) I will be posting only during my free time. This means that after I accept the job in the next few days I won’t be able to be as active in WDH as I have been since I started blogging in 2009.





P.S. The first one to donate $100 or more to WDH will receive by regular mail a DVD of the entire documentary End of the Road: How Money Became Worthless, which explains beautifully why will the dollar hyperinflate soon:

Categories
Autobiography Demography Mainstream media Mexico City

Nacoland

Or:

For those who still don’t believe
that the dollar will crash

Rarely I read newspapers in Spanish. My contempt for those who mixed their blood, and even for those who have not do it but who see nothing wrong with such mixing, is infinite. So much so that I have not a single friend in the town where I share the air with twenty millions…

However, out of curiosity in the case of Zimmerman’s acquittal, today I read a note on page 16 of the paper edition of the Mexican newspaper Reforma, which reproduced today an article of El País Internacional, “21 Arrested in Protests Against Racism” (my translation) by Yolanda Monge.

george-zimmerman closeup

The nigger who assaulted the mestizo Zimmerman wanted to “be a gangster” in his own words. But Yolanda omitted to say that Zimmerman, whose beaten-up face appears in the photo, was in danger of being killed when the savage was beating his face and banging his skull on the street floor.

Yolanda does not say a word—nothing!— that Zimmerman was being crushed when in self-defense he pulled the trigger.

This voluntary surrender to evil of the Mexican Reforma, the Spanish El País Internacional and those morons who buy, read and swallow such a press is hardly conceivable. After all, lots of them are as mestizos as Zimmerman! But I’d like to limit myself in recounting an autobiographical vignette that could explain the hatred I feel for today’s Mexico City.

♣

As a child I lived a few blocks from where the Reforma edifice would be built. It was a vacant lot and, to get there from my house, I had to walk alongside other huge vacant lots: so huge in fact that children used to fly their kites on those wide and flat spaces.

Now on that same street where my grandmother’s house still exists, the San Lorenzo Street in Colonia Del Valle, they have constructed large masses of soulless buildings, and the whole colony has been flooded with crowds of Neanderthals that sprout from an underground metro station that did not exist when I was a kid. Moreover, the brown scrum that took over my former neighborhood carries with them countless street stalls that bastardize the public view of what had been my peaceful Del Valle.

The destruction of my house’s surroundings explains part of my desire for payback against Naco City (“naco” is the equivalent of nigger in the United States, although it only refers to slightly intermixed Amerinds).

I have no wish to be cannibalized by the nacos in the near future, when the dollar crashes. But I must say that those who still believe that it won’t collapse have to spend some of their time listening how Schiff debates the non-Austrians (just click on the above link, on the word “gangster”).

Escaping Naco City is the highest priority in my life. If I could escape not only the city but the entire Nacoland I could even indulge myself to learn that those who destroyed my nostalgic referents are starting to starve, after the crash…

Categories
2001: A Space Odyssey (movie) Aryan beauty Autobiography Beauty Child abuse God Hojas Susurrantes (book) Metaphysics of race / sex Philosophy Psychology Stefan Zweig Yearling (novel)

A postscript to my prolegomena

Further to what I said yesterday.

A deeper response to the questions raised by Stubbs would imply reminding my readers that, at the end of his Critique of Practical Reason, Kant said that there are two universes: the empirical universe and the subjective universe. Karl Popper comments that he who doesn’t believe in the second universe would do well to think about his own death—it is so obvious that a whole universe dies when a human being dies!

What I find nauseating in today’s academia is that it is an institution that denies the existence of this second universe. One could imagine what would happen if a student of psychology or psychiatry tried to write a lyric essay about why Nietzsche lost his mind, like the one that Stefan Zweig wrote and I have been excerpting for WDH. (And wait for the next chapters where Zweig’s story reaches its climax…)

A proper response to Stubbs would require an absolute break from the epistemological error, a category error, so ubiquitous in the academia. That is to say, we must approach such questions as if they were questions for our inner worlds.

The best way to respond to Stubbs, following what I have said about psychoclasses, is imagining that few whites have touched the black monolith of the film 2001. Those who have touched it—and here we are talking of the “second” universe that the current paradigm barely acknowledges—know that the most divine creature on Earth, the nymph, must be preserved at all costs.

This is not the sphere of objective science. Since we are talking of the ideals of our souls, let me confess that I became a white nationalist in 2009 when I lived in the Spanish island Gran Canaria, near Africa. The big unemployment that started in 2008 affected me and, without a job and completely broke, I spent a great deal of time in the internet. When I learned that a demographic winter was affecting all of the white population on planet Earth I was watching a Harry Potter film featuring a blondest female teenager. I remember that I told to myself something to the effect that, henceforward, I would defend the race with all of my teeth and claws.

However, to understand this universe I would have to tell the (tragic) story of the nymph Catalina: a pure white rose who happened to live around my home’s corner decades ago, who looked like the girl in that Parrish painting. But I won’t talk about the tragedy (something of it is recounted in Hojas Susurrantes). Suffice it to say that since then my mind has been devoted to her beauty and, by transference, it is now devoted to protect all genotype & phenotype that resembles hers…

Once we are talking from our own emergent universe (emergent compared to the Neanderthals who have not touched the monolith), Stubb’s questions are easily answered if one only dares to speak out what lies within our psyches:

So let me think of some fundamental questions that need to be answered: Why does it matter if the White race exists, if the rest of the humans are happy?

Speaks my inner universe: Because the rest of humans are like Neanderthals compared to Cro-Magnon whites. Here in Mexico I suffer real nightmares imagining the fate of the poor animals if whites go completely extinct (Amerinds are incapable of feeling the empathy I feel for our biological cousins).

Why does it matter if the White race continues to exist if I personally live my life out in comfort?

Speaks my inner universe: Because only pigs think like that. (Remember the first film of the Potter series, when Hagrid used magic to sprout a pig’s tail from Dudley’s fat bottom for gulping down Harry’s birthday cake.) We have a compromise with God’s creation even when a personal God does not exist.

Why should I be concerned with the White race if it only recently evolved from our ape-like ancestors, knowing that change is a part of the universe?

Speaks my inner universe: Because our mission is that we, not others, touch again the black monolith after four million years that one of our ancestors touched it.

Why should I be concerned with the existence of the White race if every White person is mortal, and preserving each one is futile?

Speaks my inner universe: It is a pity that no one has read The Yearling that I had been excerpting recently. I wanted to say something profound in the context of child abuse but that is a subject that does not interest WDH readers. Let me hint to what I thought after reading it.

To my mind the moral of the novel is not the moment when the father coerced his son to shoot Flag, but the very last page of Marjorie’s masterpiece. Suddenly Jody woke up at midnight and found himself exclaiming “Flag!” when his pet was already gone.

moment of eternity

The poet Octavio Paz once said that we are mortals, yes: but those “portions of eternity,” as a boy playing with his yearling, are the sense of the universe. The empirical (now I am talking of the external) universe was created precisely to give birth to these simple subjective moments: figments that depict our souls like no other moments in the universe’s horizon of events.

Why should I be concerned with preserving the White race if all White people who live will suffer, some horribly, and none would suffer if they were wiped out?

Speaks my inner universe: The boy suffered horribly when his father obliged him to murder Flag, yes. But the moment of eternity, as depicted in Wyeth’s illustration, had to be lived. It will probably leave a mark if another incarnation of the universe takes place…

Categories
Autobiography Mexico City

p.s.


Slightly edited, the following is one of my comments from the previous thread:

About the 1920 photo I forgot to add that the clothing in the background was the factory’s product: they used to sell that stuff.

casa afrancesada

Above, a very Frenchified house in the early 1920s in Mexico City, certainly the blacksmithing is pre-art nouveau, where some of the family I mention in the previous post appear (plus my grandma from my mother’s side). The men on dark suits are not family members.


Below right, my grand-grandmother María (a friend says I look like her!), who I still met as a small child when she was much older. When she was a girl her hair, still kept by my mother, shows she was blond.

abue maria
mi tia mina

Left, my aunt Mina (María’s daughter), mentioned in the post, in her teens (her daughter Blanquita appears at the top of the previous entry).

boboyo conmigoRight, my cousin Rodolfo, also mentioned in the previous post (his father, the big fan of Hitler), with me lifting my arm as a child (I don’t want to use more recent pics of him or of my late uncle; people might recognize him in San Jose, Ca.).

tias abuelas con tio pepe piano

Above: The interior of the house: Roberto Martínez’s mansion (my grand-grandfather). The picture on the wall was the family’s priest, “Papito.” My Uncle Pepe plays the piano (the guy sitting next to him, Andrés, was not a family member; nor the guy who’s standing, presumably the butler). My grandmother is sitting next to Andrés (this guest also appears in the photo at the top).

The woman sitting between my grandma and my aunt Mina is another guest. My godmother Josefina is the child on the floor (Mina and Josefina were the sisters of my grandma). All people of the photo have passed away: my godmother, the youngest of them, passed in 2005; my grandma, in 2008.

Categories
Autobiography Miscegenation

My grandpa’s slave

Mi-tia-Blanquita

In another thread, Mr. Deutsch asked me today:

“In Mexico, how many racially conscious whites have you met? I’m guessing what keeps race-mixing from being a free-for-all is economic stratification?”

Yes: social class is paramount here.

To answer your question: my Uncle Beto, who died in 1983 and admired Hitler; his son, my cousin Rodolfo who presently is living in San Jose in California; my aunt Mina who died in 2001 (photo above – her late daughter who had close ties with my family); a High School pal with a lightest blond hair from the Colegio Madrid in Mexico City (I guess this guy of Iberian ancestry is still with us), and my friend Miguel Martínez (I can mention his name because there are thousands of “Miguel Martínez” here).

As you can see, only a handful.

The problem with Latin American whites is that we have family, relatives or close friends with mixed blood or that have miscegenated. Once your family (sisters, brothers) / relatives / friends / acquaintances make that step, most of what remained of white solidarity after universal Catholicism and secular liberalism vanishes rapidly. The ethnocidal mess started half a millennium ago, right during the conquest of Mexico.

Within my family and relatives the only taboo would be to marry a black or a mulatto (none of them have done that as far as I know, though a first cousin married a Japanese). But marrying a brunette is perfectly OK. Excepting a white revolution in the First World that infects the white zeitgeist of the Third World, white Mexicans are doomed and beyond repair; mestization, their ultimate destiny.

esclavo de abuelo

In this pic of ca. 1920 Uncle Carlos and Uncle Tóbal are sitting while Antonio Roque, a mulatto, is standing: my grandpa’s slave (my grandfather does not appear in the photo). Antonio was a very faithful slave, and lived with my grandfather, his master, until old age caught him and my grandparents consigned him to an asylum in 1939 (when my dad was fourteen years old).