Paramount was established by the Dutch Dairymen, who, with their thoroughly Protestant work ethic, drew forth a full yield from the earth. Their cultivation of the land drew more settlers, Portuguese and Irish. These groups all flourished alongside one another.
The Dutch church services were all led in the midland tongue of their fatherland and the Portuguese likewise held services in their own language. The Irish attended English services. The inclinations of each group made them worthy compliments to one another: Where the Dutch were Farmers, the Portuguese were Merchants and Shopkeeps. The Irish tended toward a number of professions—Law Enforcement, Journalism and any number of technical specialties. They lived amongst one another in peace. Their obvious diversity worked in the context of a presupposed unity—a Christian unity, a European unity.
Non-Whites were candidly acknowledged as outsiders—Indian, Mexican or what have you. Even the Japanese, who came in significant numbers, and were decent folk, were well-understood to be a breed apart from our European peoples.
Thus the area was maintained—children and old folks were relatively safe under these conditions.
As a young child I was free to roam the little woodland thickets which marbleized the neighborhood like patchwork. Great expeditions were a regular fare to the imagination of a young boy with room to explore.
But unbeknownst to me there were malevolent forces at work beyond the dragons which I stalked. The 105 freeway had been a public works project for some thirty years. The government had claimed the fictitious right of ‘Eminent Domain’ over miles and miles of privately held property sometime in the fifties. Left to lie fallow was a vast uninterrupted network of land and abandoned houses. These remained until the eighties and became a part of the greater playgrounds of my early childhood. It was here that all the dangers conjured in a boy’s mind for the sake of adventure would begin to cross over into reality.
This conduit running through the land acted as the path of least resistance for the pressurized current of Mexican Immigrants. Many of those abandoned houses, over time, provided haven to the worst elements imaginable. But by the time that it was recognized as a real problem for the community it was too late. The Police considered it a no-go zone if not for the danger, then for the jurisdictional nightmare that such a contiguous trans-city network represented.
As crime began to rise property values fell, allowing for the second wave of invasion to make its inroad. In a span of roughly six years my street had gone from all White to all Mexican, minus my family.
At this point my family opted to send me away to live on my grandparents’ farm in Porterville.
Porterville was regarded as the very last horizon of the Western frontier in the mid to latter half of the nineteenth century. It was settled originally by Irish Cattlemen; later by Dutch and German Farmers. It was a land of rugged folk. They had to be rugged because the Indian tribes of that region remained extremely hostile to the White Man.
Later, the descendants of those rugged Frontiersmen would sign up and die in both the Korean and Vietnam wars by greater proportion per capita than those in any other American town. Of course, this casting of the lives of their sons to the wind decimated the town one generation following another.
I spent my time there mostly in the late eighties and early nineties; it was mostly wooded farmland then and there were only a couple of paved roads in the entire town. It was a wonderland to me where, after chores were done, a child could wile away his days fishing, frogging and hunting crawdads down at Chuck’s hidden lakes or rabbit up in the hills, all of which were regarded as safe pastimes for young boys. It was as if I’d found all the good things of Paramount’s early days transported to this remote corner of the world. Once I’d found them again I was sure that this time they wouldn’t vanish as before.
Really, most people can’t believe it when I tell them that my Grandmother’s best friend, in her mid-sixties, had never ridden in an automobile before 1989. And I knew many people there in their thirties, forties and fifties who had never eaten in a restraunt. It was truly an insular place where many people still traveled by horseback and ate supper by the light of kerosene lamps. Some of the older folks could even recall coming to California in covered wagons.
But as with Paramount, Porterville began to change. No, change isn’t the right word—it began to metamorphosize into something alien and entirely unrecognizable. The American cliché had finally caught up with Porterville as the family farms were either eaten up by corporate entities or forced under by the expansion of conflicting property codes imposed both by county and state which no one could harmonize. Anytime the small Farmer was in conformity to the county codes it put him at variance with state codes and vice versa. Thus, California effectively outlawed their way of life.
And of course, the corporate farms exclusively employed migrant Mexicans. This rapidly flooded the area with Non-Whites. The streets are all paved now, graffiti and garbage are everywhere, more and more of the signs are in Spanish and crime is rampant. The government eventually prohibited any entrance to the lakes because they became a haven for squatters and drug-dealers; and the hills are now paved over with track homes to accommodate all the alien service workers. Porterville is no more. Its complete erasure took no more than a decade.
There’s even talk of tearing down the little Porterville historical and agricultural museum because nobody goes there anymore. The new populace couldn’t care less about the history of the Gringos.
Not even the graveyard escapes the radical expungement of all things European; the oldest grave-markers, some dating as far back as the 1850s, are regularly destroyed by honorless Mexican vandals. They single out the Gringo names of course.
And though the little farming community had sustained two bookstores and a library prior to the Mexican invasion, the many times more dense population there now cannot sustain a single bookstore; moreover, if you care to visit you’ll find that one now has the library to himself most days.
I’ve witnessed in my short years on this earth the complete decimation of the only two places I ever considered home as a child. But neither Paramount nor Porterville are unique in this; this scene has been acted out in town after town across this state for the last quarter century.
And the chaos will continue to advance. It will continue because our brethren have been so thoroughly indoctrinated against their own. They’ve had Critical Theory crammed down their throats for the last fifty years, and against the will of the earlier generations I might add. Expectedly, the ringing of a pavlovian bell makes them salivate. Their nurture has been pitted against their nature. One need not even bother with the question of which inclination will ultimately win out because the presence of this kind of internal conflict is itself a resolution to suicide. Such an elemental conflict in a man is in fact a willingness to war against his own life. It is both masochistic and suicidal.
It is this ingrained reflexive commitment to the incoherence of Social Marxism that leads White Liberals to sneer at our fond recollections of places like Paramount, Porterville, Dallas or Memphis. They are slave to the conviction that White self-preservation is hateful and evil. But as I’ve argued many times before, that just means that they are, even if unconsciously, committed to our destruction. Once this is pointed out to them they are forced to entirely redefine “hate” and “evil” so as to exclude their genocidal ambitions.
So when I relay my eye witness testimonials or even the official statistics of our tragic losses in California and beyond some of my White brothers and sisters sneer with contempt. These are unequivocally our enemies. They long only to see relics like us ushered off to the company of our ancestors whom we love so much.
But more often, I see reflected in the eyes of the majority, a true inner turmoil; though they may have been weaned on the bilge pumps of the modern Multicult, they aren’t without certain filial affections. The problem for them is that the reflexive guilt with which they are stricken is quite visceral. And like the neurotoxin of a rattlesnake bite, that guilt brings the onset of paralysis. This paralysis is a purposeful ambivalence, as if they default to some wishful neutrality in the matter. They do this because all alternatives seem to them as extremes and it’s well known that extremism, i.e. conviction, is a bad thing.
But all is not lost on this group. Many of them can and do come around to clearer thinking but unfortunately, this usually doesn’t occur without personally incurring losses to the Multicult madness. Such lessons are painful ones.
Of course, I, myself have been told by the more aggressive lot that it is “only my personal experiences” which have “distorted” my thinking in these matters but that’s just a tautological ruse because everyone’s experience effects their perception. No one’s perception is perfect, save God’s.
But it is this very egomaniacal tendency of Liberalism to usurp the heavenly throne which leads to a remaking of the world in its own muddled image. The results thereof are rapine and carnage but they still call it progress.
“The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.” (Prov.12:10)
As someone who grew up in a small town in northern Ontario, I share many of those boyhood memories. Most likely, I also share your outrage that our children and grand-children have lost that world.
I’ve just recently come across your blog and am enormously impressed by the depth of insight and commitment displayed in your posts. The piece on Rex according to Lex was particularly moving. The gap between that invocation of traditional wisdom and the depraved sensibility of the Obama cult is truly fearsome.
Thank you for the kind words.
The small town experience has been lost to many of us; the question facing us now is how we will give our children anything like what we had.
Its good to know you Bolingbroke. Don’t be a stranger.