Mexico City – Page 3 – THE WEST'S DARKEST HOUR

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.

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…

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.

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.

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).

Right, 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.).

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.